"But who would blow up anything of yours?"
"I don't say anybody'd do it, of course," Glass protested hastily. "Only, you see, men that'd blow up a dam are—I mean, if I bought land off of the company and started in to use water and farm, they might blame me. I wouldn't want to get my neighbours down on me, Mr. Dunne."
"Does that mean you think that some of your prospective neighbours blew up the dam?"
"No, no," Glass disclaimed, in a flurry. "I don't know who did it, of course. I'm not saying anybody did. Only somebody must of. That's just common sense. You'll admit that yourself."
"Why, yes, that's a pretty safe conclusion," Casey agreed. "I don't think you need worry about that, though. The only point is whether the company will be able to keep an agreement to supply you with water. I can't tell you whether they will or not. If you buy you take a chance. If you bought from me, you'd take almost the same chance."
"I don't know what to do," said Glass, picking nervously at his white-metal watch chain. "It's hard to tell—there's so many things to be considered. I can't afford to lose money. This irrigation's new to me. I never saw it working. Would you mind if I came out to your farm and sort of looked around? I could learn a lot that way. Maybe if you had time, you could explain what I didn't understand? But, then, I wouldn't want to trouble you."
But Casey Dunne was already tired of Glass, of his timidity, his indecision, his self-effacement, his continual air of apology for existence.
"Come any time," he said. "Glad to see you. Sorry I can't do any more for you; but you'll have to decide for yourself."
"Yes, I know," Glass agreed dismally. "I'll look around first. I'm obliged to you. You—you're sure you won't have a drink? No. Well, I guess I'll go in and write a letter to my wife. I write to her twice a week. I'll see you later, maybe."
Casey nodded, glad to be rid of him. He put his feet on the rail and proceeded to go through his correspondence, which, though bulky, was not especially important.