"Exactly," nodded Quarren. "Get your people, then keep 'em interested and unsuspecting while you inject 'em full of thinks."
Westguard smoked and pondered; but presently his lips became stern and compressed.
"I don't intend to trifle with my convictions or make any truce or any compromise with 'em," he announced. "I'm afraid that this last story of mine ran away with me."
"It sure did, old Ironsides. Heaven protected her own this time. And in 'The Real Thing' you have ridden farther out among the people with your Bible and your Sword than you ever have penetrated by brandishing both from the immemorial but immobile battlements of righteousness. Truth is a citadel, old fellow; but its garrison should be raiders, not defenders. And they should ride far afield to carry its message. For few journey to that far citadel; you must go to them. And does it make any difference what vehicle you employ in the cause of Truth—so that the message arrives somewhere before your vehicle breaks down of its own heaviness? Novel or poem, sermon or holy writ—it's all one, Karl, so that they get there with their burden."
Westguard sat silent a moment, then thumped the table, emphatically.
"If I had your wasted talents," he said, "I could write anything!"
"Rot!"
"As you please. You use your ability rottenly—that's true enough."
"My ability," mimicked Quarren.
"Yes, your many, many talents, Rix. God knows why He gave them to you; I don't—for you use them ignobly, when you do not utterly neglect them——"