“When was Bailey over there?” Garwood demanded.
“Oh, he’s been over off an’ on for a month.”
“Then why in hell didn’t you write me!” said Garwood, turning angrily in his chair. His eyes blazed at Hale a moment, and then he tossed his head and looked away in utter disgust.
Hale had thrown him a glance that in its turn had some of the anger that was beginning to show in his reddening face, and he replied:
“Well, I didn’t know it, that’s why. You can’t get on to Zeph Bailey; he wades in the water, he does.”
Hale breathed hard, and no one had an answer ready. They all knew Bailey’s mysterious habits, and Hale’s explanation was sufficient to acquit him in the forum of their minds. Hale sensed instantly a new and defensive quality in the atmosphere; a current of sympathy seemed to set in toward him, and he kept on, feeling his advantage.
“Why didn’t any of the rest of you wise guys get on to him when he come over and started to fix things right here in Polk County?”
And they had no answer for that. Garwood, sweeping the circle with a glance, and fearing a division in his own ranks, forced a smile of conciliation, and said:
“Oh, well, if Bailey’s a candidate, we’ll have to fight him, that’s all. It’s only one more, anyway, and——”
But the menace of Bailey’s candidacy had cast upon his spirits a shadow too dense to be lightened by mere words, and his sentence died with the confident air he had been able for a moment to command. Hale, however, had been mollified, and took Garwood’s manner from him, as he straightened up to say: