“Certainly. Why not? All we’ve got to do is keep our heads level and mind our own business. Nobody can get to us, and we couldn’t get to anybody. You can’t go to war in this country unless the people want war—and you never saw a people who want war less.”
“They’re educated not to want war,” Potter said, with an access of shrewdness. “Business is educating them, and I shouldn’t be surprised if Germany was helping the education along. The Germans seem to be pretty well organized in a publicity way over here.”
“Well, don’t let the possibility of war bother you. It won’t come.”
“I’m afraid, Dad,” Potter said, “that it will come. If it comes, what shape are we in to fight? Do you realize that we would have to have twenty thousand aeroplanes? That’s one item, but one of the most important. Twenty thousand! An army of millions—and the aeroplane is as vital to the army as the commissariat. That’s fact. You can’t dodge it. And we’ve got to get ready. Not to build an army of men alone. That is simple compared to the other things.... Where would we get twenty thousand aeroplanes if they were necessary suddenly?”
“We wouldn’t,” said Fabius, and he laughed indulgently. “When you’re well, you’ll get these notions out of your head. It’s just your condition, son. It’ll work off.”
“No, Dad. It’s here to stay.... We’ve got about fifty ’planes to-day. Bulgaria’s got more.... Do you care much if this country keeps on?”
“Why, sure! I’m an American. It’s my country, but I guess nobody’s going to monkey with us.” It was the old, absurd notion of military invincibility.
“We’re going to get a mighty unpleasant waking up.... We’ve got to get ready. If we’re ready there’s less likelihood of trouble than if we aren’t. Burglars don’t break into a house when a policeman is standing in front and a bulldog is barking inside.... It’s insurance. But we won’t get ready. Not all of us.” He paused, and something in the level determination that shone from Potter’s eyes impressed his father.
“But one of us will be ready,” Potter said, “and that’s me. I’m going to be ready for the day when the country needs that twenty thousand ’planes. I’m going to know how to build them, and I’m going to know where and how they can be built. Dad, the day’s coming when the main business of the Waite Motor Car Company will be the building of aeroplane engines.”
“Fiddlesticks!” said Fabius Waite, and there could be no doubt of his sincerity. Fabius Waite considered himself a good American. He was a good American, but, like millions of other able, sincere, honest, country-loving men in those summer days of the year 1915; those days which were seeing Italy’s entrance to the war, which were witnessing Mackensen’s war-machine crushing the Russians out of Galicia, capturing Przemysl and then Lemberg; wondering if Calais and the Channel ports could be held;—like those other millions Fabius Waite was asleep. Potter’s voice was of one crying in the wilderness. All ears were shut against him.