“Not taking sides?”
“No.”
Kite explained: “Amos and I worked together to elect you, you know.”
Wint eyed him blandly. “Well, I’m much obliged. But I don’t see what that has to do—”
“You owe us some gratitude.”
“I’m grateful.”
“There’s a moral obligation.”
Wint grinned. “Kite, I’m afraid you’re an Indian giver. I’m afraid you elected me, thinking you could use me. But I didn’t ask to be elected, so I don’t see—”
Hopelessness was settling down on V. R. Kite; hopelessness, and the desperate energy of a cornered rat. There was no shame in him, and no scruple. Also, there was very little wisdom in the buzzard-like man. He was to prove this before their eyes.
“Wint,” he said, “Amos and I are practical men. You’re practical, too, aren’t you? There’s no place for dreams in this world, Wint. It’s a hard world. You understand that.”