They drank and left. They found Garwood’s old offices deserted, for Enright had dutifully gone over to the court house in order to be seen among the other lawyers who really had business there, little enough though it was. And when they had tossed up the windows to let some air into the musty rooms, and Rankin had leaned dangerously out on the dusty window-ledge to lower the ragged awnings, they seated themselves as of old, in the worn chairs.
“Well now,” Garwood said, in tones that were almost a command, “tell me about it. How in hell did it ever happen?”
Rankin shifted uneasily. He grew a shade redder.
“Well, to tell you the truth, Jer—” he was about to say “Jerry,” but he found it hard now to call his congressman “Jerry,” so he avoided names; “to tell you the truth,” he repeated, “I never dreamed it of ’em. I never dreamed ’at there was an’thin’ in the talk ag’inst you. I couldn’t believe ’at any one could have it in fer you!” He looked up at Garwood with a trust and affection that were moving, though they did not move Garwood, who sat with his face averted, looking out of the window.
“But, you see,” Rankin went on, “there was that row out at Ball’s Corners, ol’ man Barker was sore ’bout the post-office—”
“I never promised it to him!” Garwood interrupted.
“Well, he thought you did, leastways he said you did; an’ then there was some farmers out in Briggs to’nship who claimed the seed you sent ’em wouldn’t grow—”
Garwood looked at Rankin in stupefaction.
“An’ then,” Rankin went on, “they said you didn’t answer the’r letters ’bout it when they wrote an’ told you.”
“Well, Crawford did, didn’t he?” Garwood said. Crawford was his private secretary.