It certainly looked as if George Helm were dead and done for in that community. But Patrick Branagan was a sensible man. Vain men concern themselves about likes and dislikes; sensible men, about advantages and disadvantages. It came to pass in that winter, while George Helm was teaching school up the State, and saving money for another attempt as a lawyer, Branagan and Reichman fell out about the division of the graft. Branagan was a slow thinker, but it gradually penetrated to him that in George Helm he had a threat wherewith he could, or, rather, should, extort for himself a larger share of the spoils. Helm, making a single-handed campaign against both machines—for the Branagan machine had repudiated him—had carried the district, had been kept out of office only by the most barefaced frauds in Harrison and the three large towns. So Branagan told Reichman that unless his share—in the vice money, in the “campaign contributions” and in the contracts—were raised to an equality with Reichman’s own share, he would bring Helm back. Reichman laughed, Branagan insisted. Reichman grew insulting. Branagan presented an ultimatum. Reichman answered by cutting Branagan’s third to a fourth.
In May Branagan went up to Mrs. Beaver’s boarding-house. Yes, Mr. Helm had left his address. “And,” said Mrs. Beaver, “he sends me regular his rent for the room he had.”
“What does he do that for?” said Branagan.
“I don’t know,” replied Mrs. Beaver. “He was mighty queer in lots of ways. No, I can’t nohow work it out why he sends me the two dollars a week—and him so poor he had to do his own washing and mending—and wore celluloid.”
But Branagan knew, on second thought. So the young damn fool did intend to come back—had kept his legal residence in Harrison. Though this news was altogether satisfactory to Branagan’s plans, it gave him a qualm. What a stubborn, dangerous chap this boy was! However—his fear of Helm was vague and remote, his need of him clear and near. He took the midnight express for the north and was at George Helm’s boarding-house on the lake front at Saskaween as George, with breakfast finished and his cigar lighted, was starting out for a stroll.
“I’ll go along,” said Pat. “Throw away that cigar and let me give you a good one.”
“If it’s like the one you’re smoking,” said George, “it’s not good. But it’s better than my five-center.”
“I pay a quarter apiece for my cigars,” said Branagan. “And I think I know a good cigar.”
“You think it’s good because Len Melcher charges you a quarter for it,” replied Helm.
“What do you know about good cigars, anyhow?” said Branagan, ruffled that this poor school teacher should presume to be critical.