Page:Arthur Stringer - Gun Runner.djvu/79

 "Well, what's your job worth?" was the older man's undisturbed query. In fact, there was an undertone of contempt in his guttural question.

"Oh, it's not what the job's worth," protested McKinnon. "It's the putting outside business before the business I'm paid to do. It's the acting against regulations and getting the company officers down on me. It's the doing of something I'm not here to do."

"But this is merely a matter between us two, man to man. The company doesn't have anything to do with this."

"They own this junk," broke out the operator, with a wave of the hand that designated the apparatus about him. "And they about own me, too, as long as I'm on their pay-roll."

"Of course they do," the other soothed tranquilly. "But you're here, and they're in New York, and you've got the running of this apparatus until we dock at Puerto Locombia."

The operator sat looking at the other man in silence.

"Why, you told me yourself, a few minutes ago, that your machinery doesn't always work right. And you say you haven't a tape, or anything that registers the messages as they come to you. Isn't that right?"

The operator nodded.