“I was invited to speak at the dinner, and I did,” he told the reporters. “That’s all. I’ll swear to you I made the whole speech right there. I’m sorry if the gentlemen at the dinner couldn’t hear it, but I have the statement of my radio audience about a thousand to one against theirs.”
That’s all they got out of him, and the twinkle in his eye indicated that he was enjoying himself immensely.
But the speech was on record. That was the important and practical fact.
Events pressed too fast to waste further time over a puzzle as to how it got there. Early reports from the counties decided Quaid to hold off his own statement for another day till he could count noses of instructed delegates.
It was a worried group who met with him in his office the day after the county conventions. Forsythe, under his air of debonair indifference, was decidedly anxious for fear his sponsor might decide to drop him for the new entrant.
“Give ’em the dope, Barney,” the boss ordered.
“Well, we figure just about forty per cent of the delegates pledged or sure for Forsythe, and just about the same number for Hammond. That leaves about twenty per cent waiting to be shown.”
“And that kind hates a dude,” Quaid remarked, looking hard at Forsythe.
“Meaning that’s what I am?” he asked.
“No! No!” Barney assured him. “He means that’s what they might figure if you go to talk to ’em personally. They’re shy of city men. You’re a polished gentleman. Hammond’s sort of rough and ready. Other things equal, they’d be for him if they got a look at you both. And it’s a cinch Hammond’ll go around and talk to ’em. I expect Mr. Quaid would like to keep you both out of sight of those birds. For once he’d like a straight radio campaign.”