You've got 'em running around in circles and
uttering loud and plaintive cries, especially Jim Rankin, who had--or
thought he had--a lead-pipe cinch on the job. Dortscher is tickled half
to death. He knew he wasn't going to be allowed to succeed himself, and
he hates Rankin worse than poison."
Blount was balancing the spoon on the edge of his coffee-cup and
scowling abstractedly. It was the first little discord in the filial
harmony--this evidence that the powers were at work; almost a breach of
confidence. There was no avoiding the distasteful conclusion. Without
consulting his wishes, without waiting for his decision, his father had
publicly committed him--taken "snap judgment" upon him was the way he
phrased it.
"Dick, will you believe me if I say that I haven't authorized any such
talk as this you've been hearing?" he asked, looking up quickly.
This time Gantry's smile was a grin of complete intelligence.
"Oh, that's the way of it, eh? The Honorable Senator took it out of
your hands, did he? You'll understand that I'm not casting any
aspersions when I say that it's exactly like him. If he has slated you,
you are booked to run; and if he runs you, you'll be elected. Those are
two of the things that practically speak right out and say themselves
here in the old Sage-brush State."
Blount was indignant--justly indignant, he persuaded himself.
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