“Hey?”
“Grandin was telling me about it last night. His father’s one of the big guns in the Civic League, you know. It seems the League’s planning to spring Clive Standish on the convention.”
“Clive Standish? That kid? For governor? Lord!”
“Good joke, isn’t it? I——”
“Joke? No!” shouted Caleb. “It’s just the thing I wouldn’t have had happen for a fortune. He’s poor, but he belongs to the oldest family in the State, and his blood so blue you could use it to starch clothes with. Just the sort of a visionary young fool a lot of cranks will gather around. He’ll yell so loud about the ‘people’s sacred rights’ and ‘ring rule’ and all that rot, that they’ll hear him clear over in the other States. And when they do, the out-of-State papers will all get to hammering me again. And the very crowd I’m trying to score with, by running for Governor, will vote for him to a man. He’s one of them.”
“So you think he has a chance of winning?” asked Anice.
“Not a ghost of a chance. He’ll die in the convention—if he ever reaches that far. But it will stir up just the opposition I’ve been telling you I was afraid of. Well, if it meant work before, it means a twenty-five-hour-a-day hustle now. I wish you’d telephone Shevlin and the others, please, Miss Lanier. Tell ’em to be here in an hour.”
As the girl left the room, Caleb swung about to face his son. The glow of coming battle was in his face.
“Now’s your chance, Jerry!” he began, hot with an enthusiasm that failed to find the faintest reflection in the sallow countenance before him. “Now’s your chance to get back at the old man for a few of the things he’s done for you.”
“I—I don’t catch your meaning,” muttered Gerald, uncomfortably.