“So that’s the game, is it?” he said. His tone was low, for he was calculating carefully the part he had to play.
The little man was revolving his straw hat on the head of his stick, and he wore a grin about his moist mouth. Garwood had mastered his anger, but Pusey had to wait some time before he spoke. Presently he did so.
“I’ll tell you, Pusey,” he said, “you know Jim Rankin is running my campaign, and I have promised him not to take any steps without consulting him. We’ve had all sorts of callers here, white and black, cranks, mind readers, palmists, faith curists and men with votes in their vest pockets, and I’ve adopted the rule of turning over to him every one who comes. I’ll speak to him about your case, and you may call around to-morrow and see him.”
When Pusey had gone, Garwood burst upon Rankin, his face white with anger.
“The damned little blackmailing—”
“What’n hell’s the matter?” asked Rankin, letting his feet fall from the desk.
Garwood, digging his clenched fists into his trousers’ pockets, paced the floor, swearing angrily.
“Free Pusey’s been here,” he said.
“What’d he want?”
“Stuff.”