"That's what put Napoleon over—the knowledge that every man in his army knew he would win; and, damn it, he had to win! Same with me, Mac. You've made Consolidated airtight, you've left me nothing to fear at my back. I can look squarely ahead and can meet anything that comes. With the faith and will-power of sixteen thousand people at my back, what can beat me? Nothing! Nothing! It's not self-confidence; it's confidence in the power behind me, the power instilled into me! Can't you see that?"
Macgowan shifted his pose restlessly, before he came to his feet, jabbing at Armstrong with his cigar, an oath of admiration breaking on his lips. He seemed swept away, enthused beyond words, almost.
"Reese—oh, what's the use!" He made a despairing gesture. "I'm proud to have a share in your vision, proud to take orders from you. Now, if Findlater starts any fuss, you want him soft-pedaled. Is that it?"
Armstrong relaxed, nodding, a bit self-conscious and ashamed of his outburst.
"Yes. That's what you and Jimmy Wren have the voting trust for!"
"Oh! That reminds me—"
Macgowan was picking up his coat and hat and stick. He turned and came back to the desk, looking thoughtfully down at Armstrong.
"I nearly forgot something. About Wren."
Armstrong glanced up inquiringly. Wren was not only his right-hand man in the Armstrong Company, but was secretary of Consolidated. Although not so young in years, Jimmy Wren possessed that eternal buoyancy, that youthfulness of spirit, which older men envy. His imagination and impulsiveness added to his ability; he was all or nothing.
"What about Jimmy?"