“If it doesn’t,” said Fabius, “then I quit the country and take out citizen’s papers in Timbuctoo. If we lay down under this the country isn’t fit to live in.... You bet it means war.”
Potter’s unspoken thought was, “Thank God for Zimmerman.” Many other thoughtful men were thanking God for Zimmerman that day, for as the day grew older it became apparent that the alarm-clock had done its work. The country was awake, dazed but furious. And if one part of the country might be said to be more furious than another, it was the Middle West—for, a thing hitherto unbelievable—it saw itself threatened by invasion.
“Then,” Potter said, “you’re willing to get your shoulder behind the President?”
“With every man and every machine and every dollar,” said Fabius.
“If you want to help, Dad—if you want to do the biggest thing there is to do—make aeroplanes.”
“Eh?”
“You know what I’ve been doing. You know how important the War Department realizes the aeroplane to be.... And we’ve got to have thousands of them.... The authorities are slow and they muddle, but events will force them to do something.... No plant in the world can so quickly and readily be converted to the manufacture of aeroplane engines as yours.... And I believe I have the motor....”
“Son, if the government backs what you say, my plant is yours. Aeroplanes—we’ll show ’em how to make aeroplanes.... You get busy. Find out what they want. Get definite orders, and we’ll take care of ’em if it costs me five million dollars to do it.”
“Do you feel like these fellows, Dad, who say all we can do in this war, anyhow, is to dig up money and manufacture munitions?”
Fabius Waite struck his left palm with his right fist.