“Logically it wants to, but old Louis won’t sell. Anyhow, he wouldn’t.” Zaanan emphasized the last word significantly. Jim looked across the table into the old man’s twinkling eyes, shrewd, kindly eyes belonging to a man who had learned humankind by scores of years of meeting with them in their adversities. Zaanan said no more, but rolled up his map.
“I take it,” said Jim, “that you’ve shown me a fact. One of the kind I was looking for.”
“Folks says Opportunity knocks on a feller’s door,” said Zaanan. “Maybe so, but more times it goes sneakin’ past his house quiet in the dark. And sometimes it’s hard to catch as a greased pig.”
“Much obliged,” Jim said. “Where will I find Le Bar?”
“Stiddy, now. Stiddy. Before you pick up that animile be sure it’s a cat and not a skunk. You’re one of them pouncin’ kind of young men. This here’s a time to study first and jump afterward.”
Then an unusual thing happened. Dolf Springer burst in without knocking. He was excited, greatly excited, or he never would have ventured, for Zaanan’s office was sacred.
“Judge,” he panted, “what d’you think? They’ve up and done it. Didn’t b’lieve they’d dast, but they did dast. They’ve up and announced Peleg Goodwin to run ag’in you for justice of the peace.”
Zaanan eyed his henchman. “Git a breath, Dolf. Git a breath. Like’s not you’ll suffocate. Hum! Peleg, eh?” He turned to Jim. “Seem like old times,” he said; “hain’t had no opposition for the nomination in more ’n twenty year. Peleg Goodwin, deacon by perfession.”
“I told you,” said Jim.
Zaanan peered at him briefly and grunted.