Then, dropping a heavy hand upon the arm of his chair: "This thing has
got to be settled here and now, Blount. If you put your son in as public
prosecutor, you can have but one object in view--you mean to squeeze us
till the blood runs. We are willing to discount that object before the
fact!"
"So you have said before, a number of times and in a whole heap of
different ways. It's getting sort of monotonous, don't you think?"
"I sha'n't say it many more times, David; you are pushing me too far and
too hard."
"All right; what will you say, then?"
"Just this: if you won't meet me half-way--if you insist upon a
fight--I'll fight you with any weapons I can get hold of!"
Once more the quiet smile played about the outer angles of the
hereditary Blount eyes.
"You've said that in other campaigns, Hardwick; in the end you've always
been like the 'possum that offered to come down out of the tree if the
man wouldn't shoot."
"I'll hand you another proverb to go with that one," snapped the man in
the arm-chair: "The pitcher that goes once too often to the well is sure
to be broken. You've got a joint in your armor now, Blount. You've
always been able to snap your fingers at public opinion before this; can
you afford to do it now?"
"Oh, I don't know; I reckon I'll have to grin and bear it if you want to
buy up a few newspapers and set them to blacklisting me, as you usually
do," was the half-quizzical reply.
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