“I know he’s out for Mayor. That’s all right. I’ve no string on the job. I want to be re-elected, just as a sort of a—testimonial that I’ve made good. And I intend to be re-elected. But at the same time, any one has a right to run against me.”
“Nobody denies that,” his father exclaimed. “But no one has a right to hark back a year for mud to throw at you.”
Wint said: “Pshaw, there’s always mud-throwing in politics.”
Chase challenged: “Do you mean to say you think Routt has a right to do as he is doing?”
“Well, just what is he doing?” Wint asked good-naturedly.
“What is he doing? He’s saying you’re a common drunkard; that you always have been; that you are still, in secret.”
Wint flushed with slow anger. “Well,” he said, “if any one believes that, they’re welcome to.”
“But damn it, son, you’re not!” Chase exclaimed; and there was such a fierce rush of pride in his father’s voice that Wint was startled, and he was suddenly very happy about nothing; and he said:
“I’m glad you know it, anyway, dad.”
“Damn it!” Chase repeated. “Don’t you suppose I can see? Don’t you suppose I have a right to be proud of my own son, when he does something to be proud of? Your mother and I have.... Well, Wint, we’re—we’re a good deal happier than we were a year ago.”