“Well, well, well!” gurgled Caleb. “To think how that wicked old Curtis fox has imposed on my trust in human nature! He’s got us, eh?”
“It looks so, I’m afraid.”
“Looks so to him, too. It’ll keep on looking so till I shove him into court and make him swear on the witness stand that no contract ever existed. Then it’ll be time enough to produce the certified copy I had made just after I got his request to send the original to his hotel. Poor old Curtis! Please write him a very blustering, scared, appealing kind of letter. Next?”
“O’Flaherty’s sent another begging note, about that claim of his against the road. It begins: ‘Dear Mr. Conover: As you know, I’ve seen better days’——”
“Tell him I can’t be held accountable for the weather. And—say, Miss Lanier, let all the rest of this routine go over for to-day. I’ve a bigger game on, and I’ve got to hustle. That Governorship business——”
“Yes?”
“That was the foolest thing I ever did. It seemed to me at the minute a grand idea as a wind-up for my crazy speech. But I guess I’ll have to pay my way all right before I’m done with last evening. The free list’s suspended as far’s I’m concerned.”
“You mean there’s some doubt of your getting the nomination?” she asked, a sudden hope making her big eyes lustrous.
“Doubt? Doubt? Say, I thought you knew me better than that. Why, the nomination’s right in front of me on a silver salver and trimmed with blue ribbons. And the election, too, for that matter.”
“Then”—the hope dying—“why do you speak as you did just now?”