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Updated: June 22, 2025
He pondered for some time, with Wimperley's remarks about dividends keeping up an irritating onslaught. He was aware in a strange but quite unmistakable way that this decision now to be made was in a quite positive sense more momentous than appeared on the surface. He hung over it, balancing the advantages of a new mill against a definite saving.
"Wimp says good night " it announced with metallic finality. He got up and stood staring at the thing for a moment, his face heavy with anger, the group in Wimperley's office vividly before him. He could see the cold features of Birch, sharpened by the tenseness of the hour into a visage bloodless and inflexible, with thin tight lips and narrow expressionless eyes.
Birch looked puzzled. "I didn't know a road ran north from here." "It doesn't yet but it's something we'll have to consider very soon to bring in pulp wood." "Oh!" Wimperley's voice was a trifle indignant. "It's another matter to discuss when you feel like it," went on Clark imperturbably. "The road won't cost us anything." "Won't it? Then it will be the first thing we have touched of its kind."
If I don't, Marsham will." "Look here, this isn't a one man job." Wimperley's voice had barely regained its steadiness. "This message settles, as I take it, our views of Clark. God knows we don't question anything but his suitability for his position at the present stage of affairs. He's got to be told the inevitable and we've all got to go up. There's no other way out of it.
The group became universally reflective, and for a little while no one spoke. Stoughton threw away his cigar, rested his chin on his hand and stared at the model of the pulp mill on Wimperley's desk. Wimperley's eyes wandered to the big map and again he saw Clark's finger sliding over its glazed surface.
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