“Yes,” says Wiggins.
“And f-f oiks gen’ally think you’re for Bowman, don’t they?”.
“Yes.”
“And so his side’s restin’ easier in their minds?”
“Some,” says Wiggins.
“Well, then,” says Mark, “s’posin’ I was to p-print a story in my paper sayin’ that the row between you and Brown was made up, and that you and Brown had met and hobnobbed and that you’d agreed, for some reason or another, to wait till the convention and, when the f-fight got good and hot, to make the d-delegates you control vote, not for Bowman, but for Whittaker? Folks ’u’d be int’rested in that story, eh?”
“Say, kid,” says Wiggins, jumping up onto his feet, “who sent you here?”
“Nobody,” says Mark. “We just come after the p-printin’.”
“What you say is bosh,” says Wiggins.
“It’s so,” says Mark, “and we know it’s so, and you know it’s so. What,” says he, “if you was overheard t-talkin’ up in the court-room awhile ago?”