“You’ll get it back many times over. It’s a little fund we’re raising, me and Pete O’Reilly and Fred Orpan. We can’t talk about it except to a few.”
“What is it, Verne?”
“Well, we’re getting ready for the Republican convention, and by Jees, it’s not going to be any god-damn snivelling long-faced college professor! We’re going to get a round-faced man, like you and me, Jim! I’m going on to Chicago and pick him out.”
“You got anybody in mind?”
“I’m negotiating with a fellow from Ohio, Barney Brockway, that runs the party there. He wants us to take their Senator Harding; big chap with a fine presence, good orator and all that, and can be trusted—he’s been governor there, and does what he’s told. Brockway thinks he can put him over with two or three million, and he’ll pledge us the secretary of the interior.”
“I see,” said Dad—not having to ask what that meant.
“I’ve got my eye on a tract—been watching it the last ten years, and it’s a wonder. Excelsior Pete put down two test wells, and then they capped them and hushed it up; there was a government report that mentioned it, but they had it suppressed and you can’t get a copy anywhere—but I had one stolen for me. There’s about forty thousand acres, all oil.”
“But how can you get it away from Excelsior?”
“The government has taken the whole district—supposed to be an oil reserve for the navy. But what the hell use will it be to the navy, with no developments? The damn fools think you can drill wells and build pipe-lines and storage tanks while Congress is voting a declaration of war. Let us get in there and get out the oil, and we’ll sell the navy all they want.”
That was Dad’s doctrine, so there was nothing to discuss. He laughed, and said, “You’d better be on the safe side, Verne, and get the attorney-general as well as the secretary of the interior.”