The superintendent was evidently carrying the crowd with him, and he paused a moment before launching his bombshell. Should he launch it, he asked himself, or should he let well enough alone? There would be no strike, everything had been quietly smoothed over. Nixon had carried out his agreement. Was it not wiser to stop now and let affairs take their course? Then the remembrance of Allan West’s flushed and indignant face rose before him and he nerved himself to go on.
“So I was interested to hear Mr. Nixon’s opinions,” he said, slowly, “and I thought you might be interested in knowing how Mr. Nixon arrived at them.”
At the words, Nixon turned livid and half-started from his chair, but Mr. Schofield heard the movement and turned toward him sternly.
“Sit down,” he said, curtly, and the two men who had come in with him moved closer to Nixon’s chair. “This representative of yours,” he continued, impressively, “came to me this morning. I told him we had decided not to reinstate Bassett. He said that in that case, there would be a strike—a general strike—that would cost us thousands of dollars. He hinted that the stock-yards would be set afire and other damage done to the company’s property. But in the end, he agreed to report against Bassett and prevent a strike, in consideration of the payment to him of the sum of one thousand dollars.”
The room woke up at the words as though a cyclone had suddenly broken loose. Nixon was on his feet, shaking his great fist at the speaker, who was himself trembling with excitement.
“I paid him the money,” shouted Mr. Schofield, in a voice which dominated even that tumult, “and he delivered the goods!”
The words fanned the flames anew, for a moment, and then a sudden silence fell upon the crowd, as Bassett sprang to the platform.
“If this thing’s true,” he shouted, his face as white as Nixon’s, “we want proofs. I’ve stood here an’ heard myself called a drunkard an’ liar, but I don’t care. I want proof.”
“And you shall have proof,” retorted Mr. Schofield, “if you’ll be quiet a minute. That’s right—don’t let him get away,” he added, as Nixon tried to slip from the platform and was promptly collared by the two strangers.
“Who are you?” demanded the prisoner, white with rage. “Leggo me or I’ll knock you down!”