Sprague dropped his feet to the floor, swung his chair half around on one of its legs, and as it came down he brought it into a position directly facing Rankin. He looked at his caller almost angrily for an instant, but adopting the more peaceful tone in which he would have addressed a new client, he said:
“Well, what can I do for you?”
“I’ll tell you,” said Rankin, “since that’s what I come fer. You can get out and do something to help land Garwood.”
Sprague puckered his lips, turned his head away and whistled reflectively. The whistle was a series of low, tuneless notes, and was irritating to Rankin, who, though a fat man, developed nerves at times.
“Well, Jim,” said Sprague at last, “you know that I haven’t been taking any active interest in this campaign.”
“No, that’s just the trouble,” said Rankin, “you haven’t. But some o’ your fellers has, an’ I want you to call ’em off.”
Sprague stopped whistling and looked at Rankin.
“Of course, Jim,” he said, “what some of my friends may be doing I don’t know. They seem to think, some of them, that they have cause for dissatisfaction in the way I was treated at the Clinton convention.”
“Oh, come off, now,” said Rankin. “You know that won’t go ’ith me, Con. You know how much chance you ever had at the Clinton convention, and you know jus’ what I told you there in the Gleason House that night before we met. So don’t try to come any o’ that old gag on me, ’cause I won’t stand fer it.”
“Well—” Sprague began, in a voice that indicated a want of conviction on his part, lifting his brows to add to the effect of the tone. He ended by spitting at his convenient cuspidor.