It was optional with you before;
it's a sheer necessity now. You've _got_ to go."
Again Lidgerwood took time to reflect, tramping the floor, with his head
down and his hands in the pockets of the correct coat. In the end he
yielded, as the vice-president's subjects commonly did.
"I'll go, if you still insist upon it," was the slowly spoken decision.
"There will doubtless be plenty of trouble, and I shall probably show
the yellow streak--for the last time, perhaps. It's the kind of an
outfit to kill a coward for the pure pleasure of it, if I'm not
mistaken."
"Well," said the man in the swing-chair, calmly, "maybe you need a
little killing, Howard. Had you ever thought of that?"
A gray look came into Lidgerwood's face.
"Maybe I do."
A little silence supervened. Then Ford plunged into detail.
"Now that you are fairly committed, sit down and let me give you an idea
of what you'll find at Angels in the way of a head-quarters outfit. Draw
up here and we'll go over the lay-out together."
A busy hour had elapsed, and the gong of the station dining-room below
was adding its raucous clamor to the drumming thunder of the incoming
train from Green Butte, when the vice-president concluded his outline
sketch of the Red Butte Western conditions.
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