They went on for quite a while, talking technical details. Lanny was used to such talk, and managed to learn something. In this case he learned that an elderly businessman who got his church doctrine and polity from eighteen hundred years ago, and his chin whiskers and chandeliers from at least a hundred years ago, would change a bomb-sight or the formula for a steel alloy the moment his research men showed him evidence of an improvement.
At last the grandfather said: “All right. I have to get back to work.”
“You're carrying too much of a load, Father,” ventured Robbie. “You ought to leave some of these decisions to us young fellows.”
“We'll be over the peak before long. I'll hold up this vanadium deal for a day, and you run up to New York. Good-by, young man” — this to Lanny — “and see that you come to my Bible class.”
“Surely, Grandfather,” replied the youth. But already the elder's eyes were turning toward that pile of papers on his desk.
The other two went out and got into the car, and Robbie started to drive. Lanny waited for him to speak; then he discovered that the vibration of the seat was not from the engine, but was his father shaking with laughter.
“Did I do the right thing, Robbie?”
“Grand, kid, perfectly grand!” Robbie shook some more, and then asked: “Whatever put it into your head to talk?”
“Did I say too much?”
“It was elegant conversation — but what made you think of it?” “Well, I'll tell you. I just decided that people aren't kind enough to each other.” The father thought that over. “Maybe it was worth trying,” he admitted.