“What’s it on?” she asked.
“Business,” said Rufe. “Shipping—grain—iron—packing-houses. Everybody’s panting for business since the War.”
“Sounds American.”
“Epic of the Great Lakes, Pan. Never knew what I was about, till now——”
She was thinking of Amritsar—of the first Amritsar mail recently in from Richard Cobden, posted at Pondicherry, French India—of hathis and her new mahout—of British bulletins, native documents, and Dicky’s own straight story of April 10th and 13th. It had been difficult for Pidge not to become too excited by all this. For the first time Dicky’s work had carried her off her feet. That had been days ago, and she had not altogether trusted her fiercely fresh enthusiasm, but it didn’t subside, and at the present minute, the epic of the Great Lakes sounded to her like a forlorn side show. Moreover, Dicky’s Amritsar story, about to be printed in The Public Square, took away most of the disappointment in that Carver’s novel hadn’t proved a powerful stimulus to circulation.
“Its capital is Chicago,” Rufe further divulged about his book. “Funny how you have to get away from there to see that big town. All the years I lived in Chi—never got next to her, as I have since I came to New York.... Yes, it’s booming along. Haven’t been really right until just now, since I was gassed.”
“I’m glad, Rufe.”
“It’s got a mahatma in it,” Rufe chuckled.
“A what?”
“What’s the matter with you, Pan?”