“Oh, say, Potter—”
“Think it over. The day’ll come when this country will need thousands upon thousands of aeroplanes—all of a sudden. When it comes it’ll be sudden, and we’ll be caught. We won’t have an army, we won’t have equipment—and we won’t have aeroplanes, which will be harder to get than anything else. That’s going to be my business. Getting ready for the aeroplane end of it. And I want you fellows to help.”
“You’ve been laying around too much, Potter. You’ve been sick, that’s what’s the matter with you.”
Potter shrugged his shoulders. “Think about it, anyhow, will you, Fred? Great heavens! you’ve got brains.”
“Much ’bliged,” said Fred. “Cantor, let’s be wiggling on. We’re exciting the invalid. See you again soon, old man,” La Mothe said.
Cantor stood up and extended his hand. “When you’re around again,” he said, “I’m going to bother you. You interest me—about the aeroplanes.... And I want to see your plant. Making munitions, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” said Potter, “glad to show you around.” He paused, and his eyes darkened. He fixed them on Cantor and said, suddenly, “You weren’t fishing up at the Flats about the time I was hurt, were you—back in the marsh?”
“Flats? No. What are the Flats, Mr. Waite?” Little points of white appeared at the comers of his jaw. Potter noticed them.
“It’s nothing. I guess you got mixed up in a dream of mine.”
“Dreams are queer,” said Cantor, flatly.