“To improve upon the past is the business of every honest man in my opinion,” declared Trenchard. “That’s what we’re here for; and that’s what I’ve done, I believe, thanks to a lot of clever people here who have helped me to do it and share what credit there may be. But I don’t claim credit, Ned. It’s common duty for every man with brains in his head to help push the craft along.”
“And keep its head above water,” added the listener.
Matthew Trenchard eyed him doubtfully and lighted another cigarette.
“Yes,” he admitted rather reluctantly. “You’re right. Hand-made paper’s battling for its life in one sense—like a good many other hand-made things. But the machine hasn’t caught us yet and it will be a devil of a long time before it does, I hope.”
“It’s for us not to let it,” said Jordan—a sentiment the paper master approved.
“I’m fair,” he said, “and I’m not going to pretend the machine isn’t turning out some properly wonderful papers; and I’m not going to say it isn’t doing far better things than ever I thought it would do. I don’t laugh at it as my grandfather did, or shake my head at it as my father used. I recognise our craft is going down hill. But we ain’t at the bottom by a long way; and when we get there, we’ll go game and die like gentlemen.”
They talked awhile longer; then the dusk came down, Kellock departed and Trenchard, turning on an electric light, resumed his writing.