When he had gone, she went to her own room. Her heart was beating wildly. “I never spoke so to him before,” she wailed in her heart. “I never spoke so to him before!” And then she flung herself full length across her bed, and burst into the tears that had long been flooding her heart to the very brim.
XXIV
GARWOOD came out the little door in the oaken partition that walled the private office of the postmaster at Grand Prairie, buttoned his long overcoat carefully about him, and drew on his gloves. He had been basking for half an hour in the loyal gratitude of the newly successful office-seeker, fur he had just left Pusey sitting rather uncomfortably at the well-ordered desk to which he had succeeded, whereon there were as yet no dirty paste pot, no enormous scissors, and no cockroaches fleeing from the wrath to come.
What qualms Emily had raised in Garwood’s breast the night before had been wholly soothed by the adroit little editor who now was become the artful little postmaster, and in the outlining of Pusey’s convincing plans for a strong and resistless machine, not only in Polk County, but in the entire district, Garwood felt the sweetness of a new security steal over him. He passed down by the long rows of lock-boxes, their little red numbers showing smartly on their little brass doors, and turned toward the wall to avoid the crowd that pressed up to the stamp window to have their Christmas packages weighed and mailed. Suddenly he saw Rankin.
The big fellow was coming on breathing heavily, with his overcoat flapping wide and his hands thrust deep in its outer pockets. His slouch hat was back on his brow, which was beaded with perspiration, and the drizzle of the holiday rain clung to his ruddy mustache. Garwood’s heart leaped into his throat when he saw him and he felt his lips draw tense with nervousness, but he made one mighty effort, and had himself under control before Rankin raised his eyes to recognize him. In an instant they were face to face. Garwood smiled and held out his hand.
“Jim, my boy,” he cried cheerily, “how are you? I’m glad to—”
Rankin halted, his hands still plunged deep in the pockets of his overcoat. His face grew redder, if possible, while Garwood’s became very white. Rankin looked Garwood all over, from his carefully dented hat to his boots, still showing the shine he had had put on them at the Cassell House, though their soles were now caked with the rich Illinois mud the farmers had dragged into town on their wagon wheels. He looked him all over carefully, and then, with a contemptuous little laugh:
“Well—I’ll—be—damned!” he said slowly.
Garwood withdrew the hand he had outstretched and held there so awkwardly, but he fancied there might be hope for him in Rankin’s words, which would have served him as well to express his abundant good nature in other exigencies, as they did to show his anger and surprise in this.