“Jerry, I’ve come to have it out.”
Garwood unfolded the letter he had just taken from its envelope. His face reddened as he bent over to read it, and he did not turn around.
“Have what out, Jim?” he asked, quietly.
“Why,” Rankin went on, “this misunderstanding.”
“What misunderstanding? I don’t know what you mean. Explain yourself.” Garwood kept on tearing open his letters.
“Oh, well,” Rankin continued, “you know it hain’t all like it used to be, that’s all. I don’t know how to say it—I just feel it, but it’s there, an’, damn it, I don’t like it.”
Rankin paused, and then when Garwood did not reply, he went on:
“I reckon it’s ’cause o’ my fallin’ down in the county convention here ’t home, an’ that’s all right; I don’t blame you fer feelin’ sore. Course, it come out all right over at Pekin—I don’t know how it was done, an’ I don’t know as I want to know—I know I didn’t have nothin’ to do ’ith it, an’ I don’t claim none o’ the credit, ner want it. I ’as glad you won out, glad as you was. I’d ’a’ give my right arm clean up to the shoulder to’ve brought it ’bout fer you myself. I didn’t do nothin’, I know. I felt kind o’ paralyzed all the time over there, after losin’ the delegation here, an’ I seemed to myself jus’ to be standin’ roun’ like any other dub that ’as on the outside. I didn’t feel in it, somehow, an’ I don’t feel in it now, that’s what’s the matter. I’ve al’ays been with you, Jerry, an’ you know it, an’ I’m with you now, but they’re tellin’ strange stories ’roun’, an’ I don’t like ’em, an’—I jus’ want to know where I stand ’ith you, that’s all.”
Garwood wheeled about in his swivel chair. He looked at Rankin a moment and then he smiled. And when he had smiled, he leaned comfortably back in his chair and placed the tips of his fingers together over his white waistcoat, and then he spoke at last, in his softest voice:
“What is it, Jim, that worries you—the post-office?”