As near as he could come to
anyone, he had come to John Grier. There had been differences between
them, but he, Tarboe, fought for his own idea, and, in nine cases out of
ten, had conquered. John Grier had even treated Tarboe's solutions as
though they were his own. He had a weird faith in the young giant. He saw
now Tarboe's eyes fixed on his fingers, and he released his grip.
"That's the thing between him and me, Tarboe," he said, nodding towards
the virile bronze. "Think of my son doing that when he could do all
this!" He swept his arm in a great circle which included the horizon
beyond the doors and the windows. "It beats me, and because it beats me,
and because he defies me, I've made up my mind what to do."
"Don't do anything you'd be sorry for, boss. He ain't a fool because he's
not what you are." He nodded towards the statue. "You think that's
pottering. I think it's good stuff. It will last, perhaps, when what you
and I do is forgotten."
There was something big and moving in Tarboe. He was a contradiction. A
lover of life, he was also reckless in how he got what he wanted. If it
could not be got by the straight means, then it must be by the crooked,
and that was where he and Grier lay down together, as it were.
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