There, in the morning, Rankin worked on while Garwood slept. He thought several times, scratching his head in dilemma, of awaking his leader, but he forbore and let him sleep. At last he finished, and then lay down himself, without undressing, to get what rest he could.
He slept lightly for a time, then awoke. The sun, already sickeningly hot, was pouring through the open window, he was bathed in perspiration, the heat was insufferable.
Garwood roused. While he was washing and shaving, he said:
“Will Bailey preside?”
“Yes—we put it through after a fight.”
“He’ll do.”
“Yes,” answered Rankin, spluttering in the water he lifted to his face in the bowl of his two palms, “he’s got nerve.”
He groped for a towel.
“Did you write the resolutions?” he asked Garwood.
“Not yet,” said the congressman; “I must do that.”