“Thanks. But is it going to be self-supporting—I mean in the matter of motive power. Would it run if you and I and Murdoch were wiped out?”
“Everything must have a head.”
“Democracy must find its own head—must grow it out of the materials supplied. If it doesn’t do that it’s a failure, and the Big Idea will end in being the Big Fizzle. That’s why I’m leaving it so severely alone—I want to see which way it’s headed.”
“I could suggest another reason,” said Linder, pointedly.
“Another reason for what?”
“For your leaving it so severely alone.”
“What are you driving at?” demanded Grant, somewhat petulantly. “You are in a taciturn mood to-day, Linder.”
“Perhaps I am, Grant, and if so it comes from wondering how a man with as much brains as you have can be such a damned fool upon occasion.”
“Drop the riddles, Linder. Let me have it in the face.”
“It’s just like this, Grant, old boy,” said Linder, getting up and putting his hand on his friend’s shoulder, “I feel that I still have an interest in the chap who saved all of me except what this empty sleeve stands for, and it’s that interest which makes me speak about something which you may say is none of my business. I was out here Monday night to see you, and you were not at home. I came out again Wednesday, and you were not at home. I came last night and you were not at home, and had not come back at midnight. Your horses were in the barn; you were not far away.”