And then: "It's no use, David. We've beat you at your
own game. We're going to roll up a majority next Tuesday that will wipe
you and your broken-down machine out of existence. Don't you believe
it?"
"Not yet--not quite yet" was the mild rejoinder.
"Well, you'd better believe it, because it's the truth. You are down and
out. I had you beat, David, that night last summer when you gave me your
'de-fi' and I came back by taking your son away from you. The young
gentleman you were going to spring on us for your next attorney-general
has done more than any other one man in the campaign to help our lame
dog over the stile."
"Yes," said the big man, sunning his back at the fire, "that is one of
the things we're going to flail out right here and now, Hardwick; about
the boy and what he's been doing. You told him to go out and preach the
good, clean gospel of the square deal, didn't you?"
It was at this point that the listener in the musicians' gallery, a prey
to tumultuous emotions which were making the freshly healing wound in
his head throb like a trip-hammer, lost all of his compunctions and drew
closer to the fretwork screen.
"He didn't need any special instructions," was the vice-president's
rejoinder, and his tone chimed in with the hard-bitted smile. "Now that
it is all over, I don't mind telling you that he mapped the thing out
for himself, and all we had to do was to sit tight and give him plenty
of rope.
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