"I've come about the O.A.D. matter. Atwater, don't you think we might lose more than we stand to gain?"
Atwater concealed his satisfaction. Since his talk with Armstrong, he had been remeasuring with more care that young man's character, and had come to the conclusion that he was entering upon a much stiffer campaign than he had anticipated. Atwater's dealings were, and for years had been, with men of large fortune—industrial "kings," great bankers, huge investors. Such men are as timid as a hen with a brood. They will fight fiercely—if they must—for their brood of millions. But they would rather run than fight, and much rather go clucking and strutting along peacefully with their brood securely about them. To manage such men, after one has shown he knows where the worms are and how they may be got, all that is necessary is inflexible, tyrannical firmness. Their minds, their hearts, their all, is centered in the brood; personal emotions, they have none—that is, none that need be taken into account. Atwater ruled, autocratic, undisputed. Who would dare quarrel with such a liberal provider of the best worms?
But Armstrong's personality presented another proposition. Here was a man with no fortune, not even enough to have roused into a fierce passion the universal craving for wealth. He had a will, a brain, courage—and nothing to lose. And he, still comparatively poor, had succeeded in lifting himself to a position of not merely nominal but actual power. The misgivings of Atwater had been growing steadily. The price of pulling down this man might too easily be far, far beyond its profits. "We shall have to come together for a finish fight sooner or later—if I live," reasoned Atwater. "But this is not the best time I could have chosen. He isn't deeply enough involved. He isn't helpless enough. I'm breaking my rule never to fight until I'm ready and the other fellow isn't."
Instead of answering Trafford's pointed and anxious question, Atwater was humming softly. "I can't get that movement out of my head," he broke off to explain. "I'm very fond of Grieg—aren't you?"
"I know about music only in the most general way. My wife——"
"You let your women attend to the family culture, eh?" interrupted Atwater. "You originally suggested this war on Fosdick and Armstrong. By the way, you heard the news this afternoon? Armstrong has thrown out the whole executive staff of the O.A.D.—at one swoop—and has put in his own crowd."
Trafford leaped in the great leather chair in which his small body was all but swallowed up. "Impossible!" he cried. "Why, such a thing would be illegal."
"Undoubtedly. But—how many years would it be before a court can pass on it—pass on it finally? Meanwhile, Armstrong is in possession."
"That completely alters the situation," said Trafford, in dismay. "Atwater, it would be folly—madness!—for us to go on, if we could make a treaty with Armstrong."
"I don't agree with you," said Atwater, with perfect assurance now that he saw that Trafford would not call his bluff by acquiescing. "Trafford, I'm surprised; you're losing your nerve."