“Aeroplanes—” Potter said, quickly.
But the big man interrupted: “Now, now, keep off me. I know about your aeroplanes. You don’t have to convert me.... How’s it coming, if it’s allowed to ask?”
“Delays and delays. The steel-mills are delayed by the mines; the machine-works are delayed by the steel-mills; the whole of them are messed up by labor shortage, and when they get a machine ready for delivery the railroads catch it in an embargo or run it on a side-track and forget it. But we’re making progress. Maybe by November we’ll get down to brass tacks. If we can only get the necessary machinery for quantity production installed.... I don’t think we’re as bad off as the people who will assemble the ’planes. They’re up against it for spruce and linen.”
“If there’s ever anything I can do—I’ve offered my entire plant to the government, but can’t get any satisfaction. Meantime I’m manufacturing army trucks day and night.”
“If only that herd—” Potter began, angrily.
“They’ll come along, Waite. You’ll see. They’ve traveled quite a distance since April sixth.”
Potter got into his car and drove away. He was seething. His mind was in a tumult, for the noon’s events had excited him, and for months he had been under a strain which was beginning to wear the insulation off his nerves. He lived in a fever; drove himself and everybody else feverishly. At last the energy which had made his youth fertile for the sensational press was finding an outlet, and the burning urge of his restless soul was compelling him to a headlong pace that permitted no rest, no conservation of powers. He was a man driven.
This noon he felt breathless, confused. It was as though something opaque kept flicking back and forth across his eyes, clouding his vision. He could not concentrate; felt he could not bear to step into a room, shut the door, and sit down to a desk. He knew he would be useless, that he would accomplish nothing, so he headed on out Woodward Avenue, not turning east at the Boulevard. He wanted to get away from human beings, to be alone and to quiet himself. The calm of the country drew him, and he longed, without realizing his longing, for the soothing hand of open places and sweet air. He even thought of playing golf—a round of golf would settle him down, and he could make up for it by added hours of work that night.
He passed through Highland Park at a speed which excited the interest of traffic officers. When he left Royal Oak he stepped on the gas pedal with a fierce, breathless enjoyment of the excitement of high speed. Beyond Birmingham, once a distant village, now a suburb of Detroit, he turned westward over the road that led to the Bloomfield Hills Country Club. There he parked his car and, without caddy or companion, strode out upon the links, playing savagely, rapidly.
Only here and there was a player. Potter encountered no one until he was well away from the clubhouse. Then ahead of him he saw a man and girl, with a second man in chauffeur’s livery carrying the caddy bags. He did not glance at them, but played feverishly on until he overtook them sitting on a bench beside the tee.... It was Hildegarde von Essen, Cantor, and Philip, the von Essens’ chauffeur.