“You've misunderstood,” protested Lyman, white and trembling. “You've misunderstood. You've expected too much. Next year,—next year,—soon now, the Commission will take up the—the Commission will consider the San Joaquin rate. We've done our best, that is all.”
“Have you, sir?” demanded Magnus.
The Governor's head was in a whirl; a sensation, almost of faintness, had seized upon him. Was it possible? Was it possible?
“Have you done your best?” For a second he compelled Lyman's eye. The glances of father and son met, and, in spite of his best efforts, Lyman's eyes wavered. He began to protest once more, explaining the matter over again from the beginning. But Magnus did not listen. In that brief lapse of time he was convinced that the terrible thing had happened, that the unbelievable had come to pass. It was in the air. Between father and son, in some subtle fashion, the truth that was a lie stood suddenly revealed. But even then Magnus would not receive it. Lyman do this! His son, his eldest son, descend to this! Once more and for the last time he turned to him and in his voice there was that ring that compelled silence.
“Lyman,” he said, “I adjure you—I—I demand of you as you are my son and an honourable man, explain yourself. What is there behind all this? It is no longer as Chairman of the Committee I speak to you, you a member of the Railroad Commission. It is your father who speaks, and I address you as my son. Do you understand the gravity of this crisis; do you realise the responsibility of your position; do you not see the importance of this moment? Explain yourself.”
“There is nothing to explain.”
“You have not reduced rates in the San Joaquin? You have not reduced rates between Bonneville and tidewater?”
“I repeat, sir, what I said before. An average ten per cent. cut——”
“Lyman, answer me, yes or no. Have you reduced the Bonneville rate?”
“It could not be done so soon. Give us time. We——”