“That’s too bad. Where are you living?”
“The Weaver House,” said Wint defiantly. But his defiance was misplaced. Congressman Caretall nodded approvingly.
“That’s fine,” he said. “Old Mother Moody sets a right good table, when she’s a mind to. I wish I c’d live down there myself. It’s a good plan.” He looked at Wint and winked slyly. “Always a good plan to play to the workingman,” he explained. “Good idea of yours, Wint. Living down there. Get the workingmen and the railroad men and all to sympathizing with you. They’ll play you for a martyr, and back you strong. You’ll make a good politician, Wint. I c’n see that.”
Wint shook his head. “It’s not politics,” he said. “I—don’t intend to stay there. Just till I get settled uptown. Somewhere.”
Amos studied him. “Pshaw, now! That’s too bad. It’d been a good play, Wint.”
Wint laughed. “I’ll play the game some other way.”
The Congressman nodded. He remained silent for a moment, then said thoughtfully, “I was thinking.... You and me has got to do a lot of talking, planning. I wish you could come and stay with me till your paw comes ’round.”
Wint shook his head. “Thanks,” he said, smiling. “That’s good of you. But I’ll—” He hesitated; for through the window he had seen, across the street, Jack Routt and Joan together. They were talking briskly; and Joan was laughing at something Routt had said. Wint stared at them, with slowly burning eyes; and before he could continue Gergue nudged him in the side and told the Congressman smilingly:
“That ’uz a bad break, Amos. He can’t come live with you.”
Wint looked at him. “Why not?” he asked; and Amos said to Gergue: