Helm might have explained that he happened to be one of those people who are born with intensely acute senses—eyes that see, ears that hear, nerves of touch, taste and smell that respond where the ordinary nerve remains inert. But he contented himself with a good-natured laugh and a cheerful, “Where’s the cigar? And what do you want, Pat?”
Branagan drew the cigar from his well-filled waistcoat pocket. “How’d you like to go to the State Legislature next winter, as Senator from down yonder?” he said.
Helm lit the quarter cigar from his “five-center,” strode along in silence beside his shorter and stouter companion. He finally said:
“So you and Reichman have fallen out?”
“Personally, we’re friends,” replied the Democratic boss with an air of virtue earnest enough, but so grotesque that it did not even seem hypocritical. “But in politics we are and always have been enemies.”
Helm’s deep-set gray eyes gazed shrewdly at the heavy red face of the boss. “And,” he went on, as if Branagan had not spoken, “you want to use me as a club for bringing him to terms.”
“Who’s been handing you out that line of dope?” said Branagan noisily.
Helm ignored this blustering bluff as unworthy of reply. He said: “When do you want your answer?”
“I ain’t offered you no nomination,” protested Branagan angrily. “I just put out a suggestion.”
“Oh—you want to make terms?—want to pledge me?—want to see if you can control me?” Helm shook his head and smiled. “Nothing doing, Pat,” he said.