"You make a poor raconteur, Mr. Dunne."
"Really, that's all there was to it," he replied. "'We fit and they fit; and they ran and we ran'—or at least I did till I tripped."
Mrs. Wade rose.
"After you have had your cigar we will continue our conversation, if you care to," said Clyde.
"Just what I was going to ask. I hope Wade's cigars are small."
When the ladies had gone, Harrison Wade drew his chair beside Dunne's.
"I've been thinking over that matter of yours, Casey, and the more I think it over the less I like it. That charter, backed by Airline money and influence, will be a hard thing to get over. I hate to discourage you, but the best advice I can give to you and your neighbours is to put a fair price on your holdings, and offer them to the railway en bloc."
"But we don't want to sell, Wade. Couldn't you get an injunction or something, and tie up their operations?"
"No, I'm afraid not. You can't bring an action until you have something to found it on—that is to say, some wrong to complain of—some actual interference with your rights to water. And you can't get an injunction unless you can show that your rights are beyond question. It's a toss-up whether that charter takes precedence or not. I'm speaking frankly to you. With an ordinary client I'd throw a professional front of profound knowledge, but as it is I own up that it's a complicated question, depending almost entirely on the court. And courts are just as uncertain as other human institutions."
Casey Dunne frowned through the spreading fog of cigar smoke. "I'm quite aware of it, Wade. But here it is: We don't want to sell. Even if they gave us a fair present price, we would be losers, for land out there is going to double in value in the next couple of years. And what they intend to do is simply to freeze us out and force us to sell at dry-land prices. Therefore, we've got to fight. Go ahead and try for an injunction. If that is refused, bring an action as soon as you can. And meanwhile we'll hang on to our water somehow."