Conrad Sprague had once been considered a clever man; when admitted to the bar he was one of those youths of whom it is said, “He has a bright future”; and, like many such, Sprague had mistaken the promise for the fulfilment, and had been content to use the superficial acquirements which had given him a place in the debating society of the Ohio college he had attended, before going out to Illinois to “locate,” as the phrase was, without strengthening them by newer studies. While waiting for a law practice, he had gone into politics, originally for the purpose of securing an acquaintance that would help him in his profession, and ultimately, when his political duties interfered so constantly with his legal duties that he could not attend to such practice as came to him, as a means of livelihood in itself. Thus his law office became in time but a background for his career in politics. He had been successful at first; he had gone to the Legislature and once to Congress. Now, in his defeat, with only the remnant of his loosely organized following left to him, he was undergoing the spiritual fermentation which disappointment works in weak natures, and gave promise of souring altogether.
Sprague did not rise when Rankin entered, nor even remove his feet from his desk. But he did lay his paper in his long lap, then slowly taking the black-rimmed eye-glasses from his nose, and dangling them at the end of their tangled and knotted cord, he said:
“Howdy, Jim; where’d you come from?”
“Just landed in,” replied Rankin, pulling up a cane-seated chair and dropping his heavy body into it.
“Come on business?”
“Yes, I did,” said Rankin, rocking back and forth, “damned important business.”
“That so?”
“Yes, that’s so.”
Sprague, moved by the snapping tone, twisted his body and looked squarely at Rankin. He made a movement of his legs as if he would take his feet down.
“Yes, that’s it,” Rankin went on, “and you’re the man I come to see.”