{Illustration: “MY FRIENDS, THEY SAY PATRIOTISM IS DEAD IN THIS LAND. THEY SAY WE ARE EATEN UP WITH LOVE OF HONEY, TAINTED WITH A YELLOW STREAK THAT MAKES US AFRAID TO FIGHT. IT’S A LIE! I AM SIXTY YEARS OLD, BUT I’LL FIGHT IN THE TRENCHES WITH MY FOUR SONS BESIDE ME. AND YOU MEN WILL DO THE SAME. AM I RIGHT?"}
He listened, frowning.
“Huh! That sounds like Elihu Root.”
“It was,” I admitted.
For hours as we rushed along, my distinguished companion sat silent and I did not venture to break in upon his meditations, although there were questions that I longed to ask him. I wondered if it was Widding’s sudden death in the Richmond prison that had saddened him.
It was not until late that afternoon, when we were far back in the Blue Ridge Mountains, that Mr. Edison’s face cleared and he spoke with some freedom of his plans for helping the military situation.
“There’s one thing that troubles me,” he reflected as we finished an excellent meal at the Allegheny Hotel in Staunton, Virginia. “I wonder if—let’s see! You have met the Crown Prince, you interviewed him, didn’t you?”
“Twice,” said I.
“Is he intelligent—really intelligent? A big open-minded man or—is he only a prince?”
“He’s more than a prince,” I said, “he’s brilliant, but—I don’t know how open-minded he is.”