Slowly, so slowly that he
did not recognize the precise moment at which the tide of depression and
wretchedness reached its lowest ebb and turned to sweep him back to a
firmer footing, Blount found himself emerging from the bitter waters.
Gantry, the Gantry whom he had been calling hard names, setting him down
as at best a lovable but wholly unprincipled time-server, had pointed a
possible way to retrieval, heroically effacing himself that the way
might be unobstructed. With the warm blood leaping again, Blount
straightened himself in his chair. He would go to his father, not as a
son begging a boon, but as a man demanding his rights. The machine had
seen fit to throw down the challenge by burglarizing his office and
robbing him. Very good; there were five days remaining in which to
strike back. He would lift the challenge, and if his reasonable demand
should be refused, he would drop the railroad crusade and break into the
wider field of bossism and machine-made majorities, ploughing and
turning it up to the light as he could.
The fiery resolution had scarcely been taken when he heard the door of
Collins's outer room open and close, and a moment later the good-looking
young stenographer came in, bringing a breath of the crisp autumn
evening with him.
"I didn't know you were back, Mr. Blount!" he exclaimed.
Pages:
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263