Jimmie bowed again. If they wanted to play spy, let them. The next words, however, alarmed Jimmie. “Things like your factory.”
Jimmie stood. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you much about that, Mr. Murton. We’re under secret orders—as you doubtless know.”
Everyone pivoted to look at the young man. Chairs creaked. Mr. Murton said, “Exactly. Nevertheless, we happen to know that you are manufacturing large quantities of poison gas in your factory.”
“Oh? You do?”
“Naturally, we don’t ask you to admit this. We know it. We also know that some of this—er—material goes to England. Via the Great Lakes and Canada. We have traced it.”
“Very enterprising,” Jimmie said unsympathetically.
Mr. Murton cleared his throat. “Mr. Bailey!” He was addressing the son. “We do not like the manufacture of poison gas anywhere.” There was a loud babble of agreement.
“And we will not tolerate it—in Muskogewan!”
Jimmie sucked in his cheeks and thought a moment. “Look,” he said presently.
“You gotta have poison gas! Plenty. In storage. On hand. Ready to use. And you gotta have soldiers and aviators trained to use it. Here’s why. If you’re all set—with plenty of it—your enemy will never try it on you. If you’re not, your enemy is bound to pour it on you. Make myself clear?”