“Well, then,” said Garwood, hitching his chair closer as if instantly to seize his advantage, “that warrants me in asking you whether or not you can give me your support?”
Pusey lowered his eyes and turned his face away. He began plucking at the few withered hairs on his chin.
“What do you say?” Garwood pressed him.
“Well,” Pusey hemmed, “I am hardly able to determine so important a matter as that instantly, Mr. Garwood. Complications might arise which would not render it expedient for me to—”
Garwood did not wait for Pusey to unwind one of the long sentences he loved so well, but broke in:
“See here, Pusey, let’s be frank about this thing. You and I may not have been friends in the past, but—”
“I’ve always treated you fairly since I ran a party organ, haven’t I?” Pusey interpolated.
“Yes, I think you have, Pusey, and I thank you for it. I’ve appreciated it. I was, in a way, glad to see you get hold of the Citizen, for I knew you could make a newspaper of it; you’ve got the ability.” Pusey glowed, and Garwood continued:
“But I’ve come to see you in your capacity of delegate to a convention before which I am a candidate. I don’t want to take up any more of your time than is necessary, but it has occurred to me that if we had a little confidential chat, we might understand each other better, that’s all. I haven’t come to beg any favors, or any thing of that sort, but merely to see where we stand, what we could expect of each other.”
“Well, I’m glad you called, Mr. Garwood. I am of course honored”—the editor gave an absurd nod of his head in Garwood’s direction by way of a bow.