“I believe the fifteen millions profit is to be squeezed out of the city—out of the people,” he said slowly.
“I wouldn’t use such an unpleasant word as ‘squeeze’ about money that I was to control,” returned his uncle dryly. “Remember, this is where I step out and you step in. ‘The king is dead; long live the king!’”
Drexel gazed steadily at the carpet.
“You seem to take your coronation very coolly,” grumbled his uncle. “But in two weeks you’ll be back in Chicago, in the midst of the deal. You’ll be excited enough then!”
Drexel still looked down. His thoughts had gone to Sonya—to Sonya and the others, giving their all to the people’s cause. He raised his eyes.
“And what about the people?” he slowly asked.
“The people?” queried his uncle. “What people?”
“The city—the stock-holders—the tax-payers—the passengers—all the people we’re going to get the fifteen millions out of.”
“Now what the devil’s the matter with the boy!” exploded the old man.
“I haven’t been doing any thinking, and I’m not going to do any moralizing now—but somehow that deal looks different to me from what it used to.” He was silent a moment. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, uncle, but you’ll have to count me out.”