"I wonder," Blake said thoughtfully, "whether it is a cure; we have both seen men who made some effort to save themselves go down. Though I'm a long way from being a philanthropist, I hate this waste of good material. Perhaps it's partly an economic objection, because I used to get savage in India when any of the Tommies' lives were thrown away by careless handling."
"It was your soldiers' business to be made use of, wasn't it?"
"Yes; but there's a difference between that and the other thing. It's the needless waste of life and talent that annoys me. On the frontier, we spent men freely, so to speak, because we tried to get something in return—a rebel hill fort seized, a raid turned back. If Benson had killed himself in breaking a horse, or by an accident with a harvesting machine, one couldn't complain; but to see him do so with whisky is another matter."
Harding nodded. Blake was not given to serious conversation; indeed, he was rather casual, as a rule; but Harding was shrewd, and he saw beneath the surface a love of order and a constructive ability.
"I guess you're right; but your speaking of India, reminds me of something I want to mention. I've been thinking over what Clarke said to you. His game's obvious, and it might have been a profitable one. He wanted you to help him in squeezing Colonel Challoner."
"He knows now that he applied to the wrong man."
"Suppose the fellow goes to work without you? It looks as if he'd learned enough to make him dangerous."
"He can do nothing. Let him trump up any plausible theory he likes; it won't stand for a moment after I deny it."
"True," agreed Harding gravely. "But if you were out of the way, he'd have a free hand. As you wouldn't join him, you're a serious obstacle."
Blake laughed.