“In what way?”
“For instance, if they said I couldn’t ride a moke at a village steeplechase, I’d at once publish the fact that, with a jack-knife, I’d killed two pumas that were after me. Both things would be lies, but the one would neutralize the other. If I said I could ride a moke, nobody would see it, and if it were seen it wouldn’t make any impression; but to say I killed two mountain-lions with a jack-knife on the edge of a precipice, with the sun standing still to look at it, is as good as the original lie and better; and I score. My reputation increases.”
Nathan Rockwell’s equilibrium was restored. “You’re certainly a wonder,” he declared. “That’s why you’ve succeeded.”
“Have I succeeded?”
“Thirty-three-and what you are!”
“What am I?”
“Pretty well master here.”
“Rockwell, that’d do me a lot of harm if it was published. Don’t say it again. This is a democratic country. They’d kick at my being called master of anything, and I’d have to tell a lie to counteract it.”
“But it’s the truth, and it hasn’t to be overtaken.”
A grim look came into Ingolby’s face. “I’d like to be master-boss of life and death, holder of the sword and balances, the Sultan, here just for one week. I’d change some things. I’d gag some people that are doing terrible harm. It’s a real bad business. The scratch-your-face period is over, and we’re in the cut-your-throat epoch.”