“I know all that, Mr Rolfe,” Macgregor answered, with impatience; “but I must, an’ I will, see Mr Statham! I’m coming to London to-morrow to see him.”
“My dear sir,” laughed Rolfe, “it’s utterly useless! Why, Mr Statham has peers of the realm calling to see him, and he sends out word that he’s not at home.”
“Eh! ’E’s a big mon, I ken; but when ’e knows ma’ bizniss e’ll verra soon see me,” replied the bearded old fellow, in confidence.
“But is your business of such a very private character?” asked Rolfe.
“Aye, it is.”
“About the projected strike—eh? Well, I can tell you at once what his attitude is towards the men, without you going up to London. He told me a few days ago to say that if there was any trouble, he’d close down the works entirely for six months, or a year, if need be. He won’t stand any nonsense.”
“An’ starve the poor bairns—eh?” mentioned the old engineer, who had grown white in the service of the firm. “Ay, when it was Cowan and Drummond they wouldna’ ha’ done that! I remember the strike in ’82, an’ how they conciliated the men. But it was na’ aboot the strike at all I was wanting to see Mr Statham. It was aboot himself.”
“Himself! What does he concern you? You’ve never met him. He’s never been in Glasgow in his life.”
“Whether I’ve met ’im or no is my own affair, Mr Rolfe,” replied the old fellow, sticking his hairy fist into his jacket pocket. “I want to see ’im now, an’ at once. I shall go to the London office an’ wait till ’e comes.”
“And when he comes he’ll be far too busy to see you,” the secretary declared. “So, my dear man, don’t spend money unnecessarily in going up to London, I beg of you.”