“Make him what?” said Charlie, who was really too stupid this morning: but then it wasn’t fair to tackle him before twelve; he always thought so much better after twelve.
“Look here,” said Charlbury, folding his arms on the table, squaring his jaws and planting two gimlets of eyes into Terrard’s own. “Don’t you know that Petre means Rotors in the States?” Charlie nodded. He saw light. “Well, what you’ve got to do is to put Petre up to doing something on this side. Put him up to a British scheme in Rotors on his own. Put him up to having his name in it anyhow, and then you’ll hear Trefusis sing! That’s when the Anthem will rise! They’ll have to make it a combine; they couldn’t stand against him! He can carry us all on his back. He can swallow us and not know he’s had breakfast! Now, have you got it?”
Yes, Charlie Terrard had got it now. “They would have to get new capital or reconstruct or something,” he began slowly.
“Oh, leave that to them,” shouted Charlbury, “leave that to them, for God’s sake! They know their way about! All they want to know is that Petre’s up against ’em, and they won’t be up against Petre long. They’ll be arm in arm with the enemy before he fires.”
“It wants thinking about,” said Charlie Terrard.
“It does,” said Charlbury grimly, “I’ll do the thinking.”
And he proceeded to do so. And as he unwound the tale his young partner stared and marveled and at last grew wise in one more chapter of the wisdom of this world.
First came a few words on Trefusis’s false security, his certitude that nothing could come in to touch his monopoly.
Then came suggestions for a few more meetings—they, Blake and Blake, would find the few hundreds for that—no need to worry Petre. He might kick at details.
Then came talk of letters in the Press, write-ups; indignation growing—only, not overdone. Enough to frighten Trefusis; not enough to queer B.A.R.’s.