The governor smiled.
“This ain’t flattery,” said Handy, seating himself in a leather chair. “You’re not only all I’ve said, you’re a devil of a good fellow to boot.”
Handy spoke seldom. He never wrote letters, but sent word, according to an ancient maxim uttered by one of the political fathers. But when he did speak, he spoke bluntly, in the same tone in which he would have called a man a liar. The governor raised his hand to stay Handy’s compliments.
“Yes, John,” he persisted. “You’re a hell of a good fellow, but,” he added, “you’re a damn poor politician.”
There was the faintest shadow of a smile on the governor’s face. Handy closed his eyes until they were the merest slits. He puffed his cigar back to life.
His head was wrapped in scarfs of smoke.
“When does the grand jury sit?” he inquired, after a time.
“Not till the December term.”
“We can have a special one impaneled. I’ll have Donnelly call it.”
Donnelly was a judge of dignity and erudition, and Handy spoke of him as if he were his hired man, which he was.