Jimmie spat. “It’s a beastly business, Dad, to let a good man die to keep a secret that may kill thousands of other men. Or—not even to try to save him. That’s what I did.
You see, since Willie was in there I had to stay out. He was burning the papers. And I’m the only other one who knew the idea. Not now, though. It’s gone to Washington. We were crazy to take on so much responsibility—even for a few weeks.”
“In other words,” his father said softly, “you refused to try to save him—in order to save an idea.”
Jimmie didn’t answer. He did not even look at his father.
Mr. Bailey coughed several times. He blew his nose. “So that’s what Biff meant by ‘insides’! Good God!”
Jimmie’s voice was as cold as the gray afternoon. “I think there is no need saying I would rather have gone up on the roof. I have been in a lot of fires. I’m not—too—afraid of them. As it turned out—and I’ve thought this over a thousand times—I’d never have made it. And I know, if I had, Willie would never have forgiven me for risking it.”
“He was a tough old duck,” Mr. Bailey agreed. “I presume you know he made me the head of his plant?”
Jimmie turned incredulously. “You!”
His father grinned over his chewed cigar. “Does it shock you? I’m a darned good business man, Jimmie! His will puts me in full charge of the business end. A committee of his chemist friends is to pick the technical head—unless you’ll be it. The part about you is a codicil.”
“You got another cigar?” Jimmie asked. Mr. Bailey produced one and offered it as if it were an important gift—solemnly, silently.