He would also have a final statement to deliver at the convention in the same manner, assuming the privilege of a regularly elected delegate and a leading candidate for head of the ticket.
“How’s that?” Neenan gloated. “Barney tells me you are going to swing back with a big show of doing the sporting thing by agreeing to the same program yourself. So we’ve got our wish, and little Jimmie’s come for his pay.”
“How’s that?”
“Wasn’t I to get one grand if I arranged it so that Hammond would consent to a radio campaign?”
Forsythe was frankly puzzled for a moment, then saw a light.
“Look here, you young thug, do you mean you deliberately wrecked Hammond’s car? Suppose you’d killed him! Good Lord, did you think I meant anything like that? We talked about persuading.”
Neenan grinned.
“We’re practical politicians, ain’t we? There’s different kinds of persuadin’. Mind, I’m not confessin’ anything, but I leave it to your judgment if that looks just like an accident. There wasn’t a chance in the world of his being killed, with a guy hidden in the back of the car to stop him if he got to goin’ too fast with his wheel loosened up.
“Wasn’t it funny he wasn’t marred up, nothing wrong but a little tap on the head and a couple of broken legs that laid him up proper without any permanent hurt? He never guessed that he got that biff on the bean from a blackjack from behind him, and that his legs was broken nice and quiet by hand afterwards.”
“You cold-blooded devil!” Forsythe began, but checked himself on second thought. After all he couldn’t afford to antagonize this crafty little man.