“That’s what you’ve got to expect in politics,” said Rankin. “But if that ’as all we might take care of it. The situation has taken a curious turn this last week.”
“How’s that?” asked Garwood, who had suffered from a candidate’s myopia, and could not note the numerous turns a situation takes during a campaign.
“Well, it’s this way. The committees is all kickin’ because your assessments hasn’t been paid. I’ve been tryin’ to make a poor man’s campaign fer you, an’ I’ve succeeded pretty well so fur, if I do say it myself. But the boys needs money everywhere; they want to finish up the’r poll, and over in Moultrie, where we had to deal with the Sprague kickers, a little money has just got to be used, that’s all.”
“I thought you’d fixed Sprague?”
“Well, I made him come down, o’ course, but I wouldn’t trust the dirty whelp out o’ my sight on’y when I could see him, as the old widow woman said of her grandson, an’ I think we ought to pay the assessment over there anyway.”
“How much is it?” asked Garwood, with the pain an unrendered bill can give one.
“Two hundred,” said Rankin. “The boys over there say—shall I tell you what they say?”
“Yes; go on, I can stand anything nowadays.”
“Well, they say that now you’re goin’ to marry ol’ man Harkness’s daughter, you’d ought to get him to put up fer you.”
Garwood, in his hoarse voice, swore an oath.