“And I was just going to say,” the elder man continued, “that while I do not agree with you, and while I would not vote for you—at least, I do not think I would—I was just going to say that if you need any money yourself, to meet any of the—ah—legitimate expenses of your campaign, why, just call on me.”
The boy grasped his father’s hand, and when he could speak, he said:
“Thank you, father, thank you, but not now—it isn’t worth it—but I’ll see what’s the matter with these Indians, anyway.”
George went to his offices, over the People’s National Bank and waited an hour in the rear room, a dark and dingy room, with the dust of a country law office deep on everything, and one ray of sunlight scrambling in through the heavy shutters from the alley. Then one after another, up the worn and splintered stairs with tin signs of insurance agents and notaries public on every step, five men clambered. They were grinning when they entered the room, grinning and standing about awkwardly, all save Hank Defrees, who was solemn and imponderable, chewing his tobacco as gravely as if he were making an appearance in court.
“Well,” said George, standing in the middle of the floor, “anything happened?”
The men all looked at one another, hesitating to speak, but finally Scotty Gordon said:
“Happened! Well, I guess yes.”
“What?” queried George.
“Well,” he began, “now I done it, and last night old Bill Williams hunted me up in Jake Fogarty’s saloon, and, well, he offered me fifty dollars to use if I wanted it.”
“Say,” Jerry Sullivan broke in—“Captain Bishop offered me seventy-five.”