"Precious little you know about either," retorted Blair.
"You're a poor man," said Moore, abruptly. The announcement struck the senator as superfluous. He nodded.
"I am familiar with the fact."
The Honorable William resolved to strike. He had never thought to speak to Charlie, but if Mrs. Latimer could not bring him to the point he would have to do it himself. One more member must be secured, and Blair was the only possible man. The other legislators who had not already succumbed seemed impregnable.
Moore became impatient as he remembered how easy it had seemed at first to secure enough votes to elect his chief.
"Charlie," he began, clearing his throat, "we want you in this fight we are making, and we want you hard. We are going to win. We are going to get the votes; if we don't get them one way, we're going to get them another."
"So I've understood."
The host felt on unstable ground at the noncommittal answer, but he boldly pushed ahead. No time to fear quicksands—the end of the session was too near! He dwelt on the good that Burroughs could do the State if he went to Congress, and finally repeated:
"Bob's going to be elected. He's gaining votes every day. But we need to get the thing over with, and—it will be to your financial interest to work with us." Moore played nervously with his teaspoon.
Senator Blair watched his smoke rings fade, and made no response. Both men were silent for a time. Moore occupied himself by placing, with infinite exactness, three cubes of sugar on his spoon and pouring brandy over them. When the liquor was fired the blue flame lighted his face weirdly. So might Mephistopheles have looked when tempting Faust. He was thinking that Blair had always been a failure, and always would be—slow, methodical, too dull to see his best interests. He was a plodder, content with moderate means, when infinite opportunities in Montana waited a man's grasp—if he was sharp enough.