“Oh, course, I don’t say as to that. Jerry’s a good fellow, all right enough. I ain’t sayin’, between ourselves, what he done at Springfield—it’s none o’ my business, you know.”
“I presume not.”
“You ought to know as much about it as me, anyway, Judge. You’re a corp’ration lawyer—you’ve been to Springfield yourself, I reckon.”
The lawyer winced, and the natural ruddiness of his healthy skin showed under his white beard a deeper hue.
“I have only been there to appear in the Supreme or the Appellate Court, Mr. McFarlane; I have no concern with any legislative lobbying my clients may do, if they do any.”
“Oh, sure—’scuse me, Judge—that’s done by the Chicago lawyers, of course; I didn’t stop to think.” McFarlane had almost settled himself in his chair, but at this contretemps he leaned forward again, and then, wishing to give the action the effect of interest rather than of embarrassment, he hastened on:
“But that ain’t all, by a long shot. You know Sprague—Con Sprague?”
“The present incumbent? Of course.”
“Well, you know, Jerry beat him for renomination, or Jim Rankin did it fer ’im. Garwood had promised Sprague to hold the Polk County delegation fer ’im, he says, and, well, Rankin turned a trick at the Clinton convention that euchred Sprague out of the nomination. Course, Jim turned round and tried to square it by throwin’ the legislative nomination to Sprague’s brother-in-law, Hank Wilson; but still, Sprague’s sore.”
“He is?”