Page 235 - nostromo-a-tale-of-the-seaboard

‘Radical, I should think,’ the engineer-in-chief observed
from the doorway.
‘Is that the right name?’ Charles Gould said, from the
middle of the room.
‘I mean, going to the roots, you know,’ the engineer ex-
plained, with an air of enjoyment.
‘Why, yes,’ Charles pronounced, slowly. ‘The Gould Con-
cession has struck such deep roots in this country, in this
province, in that gorge of the mountains, that nothing but
dynamite shall be allowed to dislodge it from there. It’s my
choice. It’s my last card to play.’
The engineer-in-chief whistled low. ‘A pretty game,’ he
said, with a shade of discretion. ‘And have you told Holroyd
of that extraordinary trump card you hold in your hand?’
‘Card only when it’s played; when it falls at the end of the
game. Till then you may call it a—a—‘
‘Weapon,’ suggested the railway man.
‘No. You may call it rather an argument,’ corrected
Charles Gould, gently. ‘And that’s how I’ve presented it to
Mr. Holroyd.’
‘And what did he say to it?’ asked the engineer, with un-
disguised interest.
‘He’—Charles Gould spoke after a slight pause—‘he said
something about holding on like grim death and putting
our trust in God. I should imagine he must have been rather
startled. But then’—pursued the Administrador of the San
Tome mine—‘but then, he is very far away, you know, and,
as they say in this country, God is very high above.’
The engineer’s appreciative laugh died away down the

Nostromo: A Tale of the Seaboard