“Got you licked to a frazzle. What price Tamerlanistan now?”
Mr. Warburton told himself that, in the tug-of-war about the Tamerlanistan “concessions,” he had lost out on two counts: the princess' decision and his rival's shrewdness, and—he added in his thoughts—perhaps the former was only a cloak for the latter; perhaps Aziza Nurmahal and the Cockney were working hand-in-hand.
And it was then that his congenital pettiness came into the focus. He would fight Mr. Preserved Higgins to the last trench. Doubtless, his own chance to make enormous investments in Tamerlanistan and to reap correspondingly large profits was gone. But at least he might be able to make success, if not impossible, then harder for the other, and there, in Mr. Warburton's philosophy of life and business—interchangeable terms—was a point gained. Too, it was in this that he differed fundamentally from the real builder, the real pioneer, who works and constructs and massively clouts together for the glory, the zest, the bully splendor of the thing, and not for his personal, despicable glory and profit.
He was like a small boy who has eaten his fill, and who, rather than push his plate across the table to his younger brother, decides to finish his ice cream to the last, painful spoonful.
Yes. At least he would be on the spot ready to watch his chance for mischief; and so he had made sure at once, over the telephone, that Mr. Preserved
