“He wasn’t much use to you in your row with Runyon, was he? If you’d followed his advice then, you’d have been to the bad altogether.”
“He meant well; he was afraid I’d get hurt,” announced Sam; and then, to cut short this discussion of Mulcahy’s virtues, he asked, “Then you won’t vote for him?”
“Vote for him? Never. I’d rather vote for myself! I’m more or less of a fool, but I have a little principle, and there are some things I’m too good or too proud to do. There’s nothing Mulcahy wouldn’t do, if he could make anything by it, and was sure nobody saw him. Don’t be surprised if you find me electioneering against him.”
Sam went back to his room disgusted. The causes of his disgust were so complex, that he couldn’t possibly disentangle them. He imagined the chief one to be his failure to accomplish his object with Kendrick, and the latter’s colossal prejudice against Mulcahy. In fact, he was beginning to feel the difficulty of defending his friend from insinuations against him, and to be annoyed that it was necessary to do so. He found Peck standing before the grate with hands clasped behind him, and a black frown on his face.
“I hear you’ve been turning this place into a prize ring,” began Duncan. “Hereafter when you have these little affairs with your friends I wish you’d hold ’em somewhere else.”
“I shan’t have any more. I didn’t want this one. I tried as hard as I could to keep out of it.”
“You didn’t have to hold it here, did you?”
“Perhaps not. I didn’t know where else to go. I thought you wouldn’t be here.”
“I wish I had been. I’d have stopped it mighty quick. Runyon and Brandy Brantwein and Mulcahy and you! That combination would ruin any room’s reputation!”
“Mulcahy wasn’t here!” said Sam, sullenly.