He was essentially a man of
action, but his action was the bullet of his mind; he had to be quiet
physically when he was really thinking. Then he was as one in a dream
where all physical motion was mechanical, and his body was acting
automatically. His concentration, and therefore his abstraction, was
phenomenal. Jowett's reminiscences at a time so critical did not disturb
him--did not, indeed, seem to be irrelevant. It was as though Felix
Marchand was being passed in review before him in a series of aspects. He
nodded encouragement to Jowett to go on.
"It's because Marchand hates you, Chief. The bump he got when you dropped
him on the ground that day at Carillon hurts still. It's a chronic
inflammation. Closing them railway offices at Manitou, and dislodging the
officials give him his first good chance. The feud between the towns is
worse now than it's ever been. Make no mistake. There's a whole lot of
toughs in Manitou. Then there's religion, and there's race, and there's a
want-to-stand-still and leave-me-alone-feeling. They don't want to get
on. They don't want progress. They want to throw the slops out of the top
windows into the street; they want their cesspools at the front door;
they think that everybody's got to have smallpox some time or another,
and the sooner they have it the better; they want to be bribed; and they
think that if a vote's worth having it's worth paying for--and yet
there's a bridge between these two towns! A bridge--why, they're as far
apart as the Yukon and Patagonia.
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