Rankin shrank from the thought.
“Yes, you must—now listen to me—I demand it. I want no mistakes made. I want you all to work harmoniously this fall, and a little ill-feeling right here in our camp may beat us. We’ve got a fight on our hands; I’m half afraid of those Sprague fellows. They’ll have their knives out, and we’ve got to hold together; above all we’ve got to keep Pusey in line, for the Sprague fellows here don’t feel any too good about his having come over to me, and Pusey has a following. More than that, he’s got a newspaper, and he can make it tell. We’ve got to keep in with him, and I want you to patch up a truce with him. You must, do you hear?” Garwood gave Rankin’s knee a shake. “Do you hear?”
“Well, if you say so, Jerry,” he consented presently, “it’ll have to be. Whatever you say goes, o’ course, but the truce’ll be a damned sight more out’ard than in’ard ’ith me, I tell you that.”
“No, you mustn’t feel that way, Jim; you mustn’t.”
“Well, my God, Jerry!” Rankin exclaimed, “it ’as fer your sake that I got to hatin’ him like I do, though I never did like the little whelp. Gosh! It did gall me to have to sit in a convention beside him an’ hear him announce the vote fer Polk County! I never thought I’d live to see the day when little Free Pusey could get on a Polk delegation, I didn’t!”
And he shook his head as one who bewails the evil times on which he has fallen.
“Well, for my sake, then, make up with him. I don’t cherish any ill-will towards him, Jim.” Garwood said this with a swelling air of magnanimity as if he had attained to heights of charity known only to the early Christian martyrs.
“You never was a good hater, Jerry,” said Rankin, as though it were a virtue to be as consistent and steadfast in hatreds as in friendships.