“He made me what I am.”
“And I will make you ten times what you are. With Ridgway you have no chance to be anything but a subordinate. He is the Mesa Ore-producing Company, and you are merely a cipher. I offer your individuality a chance. I believe in you, and know you to be a strong man.” No ironic smile touched Harley’s face at this statement. “You need a chance, and I offer it to you. For your own sake take it.”
Every grievance Eaton had ever felt against his chief came trooping to his mind. He was domineering. He did ride rough-shod over his allies’ opinions and follow the course he had himself mapped out. All the glory of the victory he absorbed as his due. In the popular opinion, Eaton was as a farthing-candle to a great electric search-light in comparison with Ridgway.
“He trusts me,” the tempted man urged weakly. He was slipping, and he knew it, even while he assured himself he would never betray his chief.
“He would sell you out to-morrow if it paid him. And what is he but a robber? Every dollar of his holdings is stolen from me. I ask only restitution of you—and I propose to buy at twice, nay at three times, the value of your stolen property. You owe that freebooter no loyalty.”
“I can’t do it. I can’t do it.”
“You shall do it.” Harley dominated him as bullying schoolmaster does a cringing boy under the lash.
“I can’t do it,” the young man repeated, all his weak will flung into the denial.
“Would you choose ruin?”
“Perhaps. I don’t know,” he faltered miserable.