“I haven’t come across you, Murchison, but you’ve had my sympathy, I needn’t say, all this time. A man can’t go into politics with gloves on, there’s no doubt about that. Though mind you, I never for a moment believed that you let yourself in personally. I mean, I’ve held you all through, above the faintest suspicion.”
“Have you?” said Lorne. “Well, I suppose I ought to be grateful.”
“Oh, I have—I assure you! But give me a disputed election for the revelation of a rotten state of things—eh?”
“It does show up pretty low, doesn’t it?”
“However, upon my word, I don’t know whether it’s any better in England. At bottom we’ve got a lower class to deal with, you know. I’m beginning to have a great respect for the electorate of this country, Murchison—not necessarily the methods, but the rank and file of the people. They know what they want, and they’re going to have it.”
“Yes,” said Lorne, “I guess they are.”
“And that brings me to my news, old man. I’ve given the matter a lot of time and a lot of consideration, and I’ve decided that I can’t do better than drive in a stake for myself in this new country of yours.”
“It isn’t so very new,” Lorne told him, in rather dull response, “but I expect that’s a pretty good line to take. Why, yes—first rate.”
“As to the line,” Hesketh went on, weightily, leading the way through an encumbering group of farmers at a corner, “I’ve selected that, too. Traction-engines. Milburn has never built them yet, but he says the opportunity is ripe—”
“Milburn!” Lorne wheeled sharply.