“You mustn’t leave them in the lurch. It’s natural you should feel hard against them, but they-they’ve been fooled. It’s not their fault.”
“Somehow, Jim, I don’t feel as able to undertake things as I did once.” Zaanan’s voice was weary, old. “Looks to me like it would be wastin’ time to stir things up now. Calc’late I’m done for, Jim.”
“All your friends haven’t left you. But they need you to lead them. They don’t know what to do.”
“There hain’t nothin’ to do, Jim, against Moran and all his money.”
“But won’t you come out and try? Go down fighting, anyhow.”
“Hain’t no occasion for it, Jim. Better save up what strength I’ve got left. No use wastin’ it in vain efforts.”
A surge of sympathy for the old man welled up in Jim. Sitting there in the latter end of his days, deserted by friends, abandoned by those for whom he had striven for a score of years, he could not be contemplated unmoved. In his discouragement he was pitiful indeed.
“Judge,” Jim said, impulsively, “I wish I could drop everything and jump into this thing for you. I can’t do that, but I can do something. Until caucus day I’m going to give every possible minute to this election, whether you help or not.”
“Much obleeged,” said Zaanan, without enthusiasm. “What’s your special int’rest in this thing, eh? Seems to me like you was consid’able wrought up over it.”
Jim hesitated.