“A threat? Oh, dear, no; I’m simply telling you what I heard—I want you to know what kind of trouble it is you’re walkin’ into. Of course, I stopped right away and told those fellers we union men wouldn’t stand for nothing like that.” “Yes,” commented Mr. Schofield, “I’ve got a picture of you stopping. Your righteous indignation is plainly apparent.” “Well, anyway,” said Nixon, grinning, “there’s no telling what’ll happen if you decide to let this strike go on.” “I didn’t say that we had decided to do that,” said Mr. Schofield, quietly. “I only said that we wouldn’t reinstate Bassett,” and he looked Nixon straight in the eye. That individual sustained the gaze for a moment, his colour deepening a little; then he arose and made a deliberate circuit of the room, assuring himself that all the doors were tightly closed, and also glancing into the closet where the superintendent hung his hat and overcoat. The inspection finished, he returned to his chair, and produced two big black cigars, handing one to his companion and lighting the other. “Thanks,” said Mr. Schofield, taking the cigar with a little effort. He lighted it, took a puff or two, and then looked critically at its fat, black contour. “Good cigar,” he commented. Nixon laughed complacently. “Yes, I’m kind o’ pertick’ler about my tobacco,” he said. “These is a private stock—I get ’em from a friend of mine. I’ll send you over a couple of boxes.” “They’re better cigars than I can afford to smoke,” remarked the superintendent. “The job of special delegate must pay pretty well.” Nixon laughed again. “Oh, so, so,” he said, and tilting his chair back, rammed his hands deep in his trousers’ pockets. “How long have you held it?” “Three years—an’ there’s never been a breath of complaint against me. If any man stands square with the brotherhood, it’s me,” and again Nixon grinned sardonically. Mr. Schofield’s last trace of uncertainty had vanished. He knew his ground now and could advance more surely. “No,” he went on, slowly, “we won’t reinstate Bassett, and at the same time we’re going to avoid a strike, if we can. I think you remarked the other day that there would be no strike unless you called it.” “There won’t,” said Nixon, briefly. “What will happen, then?” “I’ll make a report adverse to Bassett and he’ll be kicked out of the brotherhood?” “Won’t he make a howl?” “Let him. What good will it do? My report goes.” Mr. Schofield nodded, as he watched the cigar smoke float slowly upward. “I see,” he commented, and there was a moment’s silence. “Suppose,” he went on, at last, “that you were convinced that it was your duty to make such a report, what assurance would we have that you would really make it?” “You’d have to take my word,” said Nixon. “You could count on me making the report, all right, if I was properly convinced.” “And I suppose,” continued Mr. Schofield, “that you would have to be—ah—convinced in advance.”