“Be careful,” said he. “This won't look well in print.”
That was just so plumb foolish that I began to laugh at him; and when I got to laughing I couldn't keep up being angry. It was ridiculous, his childishness and suspiciousness. Right there was where I made my mistake.
“All right,” says I to Bob Crowder, giving way to the impulse. “He's the candidate. Tell him.”
“Do you mean it?” asks Bob, surprised.
“Yes. Tell him the whole thing.”
So Bob did, helped by Genz, who was more or less sulky, of course; and is wasn't long till I saw how stupid I'd been. Knowles went straight up in the air.
“I knew it was a dirty business, politics,” he said, jumping out of his chair, “but I didn't realize it before. And I'd like to know,” he went on, turning to me, “how you learn to sit there so calmly and listen to such iniquities. How do you dull your conscience so that you can do it? And what course do you propose to follow in the matter of this confession?”
“Me?” I answered. “Why, I'm going to send supper in to our fellows, and the box'll never see that closet. The man upstairs may get a little tired. I reckon the laugh's on Gorgett; it's his scheme and—”
Farwell interrupted me; his face was outrageously red. “What! You actually mean you hadn't intended to expose this infamy?”
“Steady,” I said. I was getting a little hot, too, and talked more than I ought. “Mr. Genz here has our pledge that he's not given away, or he'd never have—”