Fabius Waite paid not the minutest attention to them, but read calmly, appraisingly, from beginning to end what the paper told of the sinking of the Lusitania. When he was done he folded the paper neatly and laid it on his desk.
“There were munitions,” said the Senator, “and people were warned by advertisements in the paper to keep off that boat.”
“What’s the difference?” Potter demanded. “Are we going to let them murder our citizens like this—and put up such an excuse as that?”
“Citizens had no business on the boat,” said the stranger. “They brought it on themselves.”
“There’s got to be war,” said Potter, his eyes traveling uncertainly from Senator to business man—to his father, where they remained. “There’s no other way. What else can be done about such a thing?”
“For one thing,” said Fabius Waite, coolly, “we can stop jabbering and think about it.... You especially, Potter. If you must wag your tongue, go back to the Pontchartrain bar and wag it for the benefit of the gang of loafers you train with.... Senator, what suggests itself to you?”
“I must get to Washington. The Senate doesn’t want war, I can vouch for that.... But the people.... Perhaps the President can hold them.”
“I gather from your words that he’ll be willing to try?”
“He’s the last man in the country to want war.... There’ll be no war. Those German dunder-heads! Do they want to pull the whole world down about their ears?”
“They’re fools,” said the stranger.