Ogilvie squirmed. “Oh, but the flood,”—his pallid skin showed a flexibility that almost suggested animation. “That alters everything.”
“The flood? Why, I think we can fix that.”
“I may go?”
“No, I did not say you might go. I agree with you that the papers belong here, where we may have easy access to them instead of having to go to Los Angeles every time we want to have a question of history or authority answered.”
The man whose woozling had come to nothing cleared his throat. “This office is not safe—”
“I said I’d fix that.”
“I’d like to write to Los Angeles, telling them about the flood. The wires are down—”
“You don’t need authority from Los Angeles. I’ll fix you up. You know that rise, east of the town? Back of the school? I’ll have a tent rigged up there—”
“The wind,” objected the accountant.
“The wind won’t hurt the papers. I’ll send up a safe and a bed.”