“After all,” Della Street pointed out, “you can’t blame him. He’s doing the best he can.”
Mason shook his head. “Jackson’s a rotten fighter. He’s tagging along, taking what Rooney hands out. That’s not the way to get anywhere. A good scrapper keeps the other man on the defensive, trumps the first ace he plays, and after that never lets him get a chance to lead with the others.”
“I’m afraid,” she told him, tucking her shorthand notebook back in her purse, “that you’re simply spoiling for a fight.”
“I am,” he admitted, “but with bigger game than Rooney.”
“It’s too bad you didn’t know the president was in Honolulu.”
Mason said, “ That’s a thought. However, he’ll undoubtedly tell Rooney to go ahead and make any promises necessary to get the twenty thousand. Rooney is probably an officious nincompoop who wanted to put Jackson in his place— How’s the romance going, Della?”
“Well,” Della said, “outwardly it seems to be pretty much of a draw. He divides his time about evenly between Celinda Dail and Belle Newberry, but if you ask me, I think he has a lot better time with Belle than with Celinda. Celinda’s more of a duty. She’s in his social set. They have a lot of friends in common, and, above all, he doesn’t want to appear to be dropping Celinda simply because he met some girl for whom he cares more.”
“You’re biased,” Mason told her.
“Probably I am,” she admitted.
“How does Celinda Dail treat you, Della?”