“Barney’s right,” the boss echoed the chuckle.
Barney Fogarty, the big fellow’s secretary, was as loquacious by nature and profession as his chief was silent. But his speech was the thought of Quaid, O. K.’d by the big fellow’s guttural “Barney’s right.”
“I take it I better be careful what I say tonight,” the elegant Forsythe murmured with mock anxiety, as if his utterances were to be his own spontaneous outbursts.
“If you want the boss to get you nominated for Governor, you had,” Barney laughed. “As long as you’re cagy about the State power proposition, it doesn’t matter a whoop what else you say. It’s some dark horse popping up here tonight that we’re afraid of. Every yahoo in the State will know it as soon as we do.”
“Barney’s right,” Boss Quaid sighed again. “People hear too damn much these days.”
Boss Quaid’s domain had for twenty years been practically a one-party State, dominated by the machine which Quaid till lately held tight in his fat hand. But lately he had felt his power slipping a little with this ominous growth of modern publicity. Walls had developed too many ears.
Now on the eve of the county conventions he was not quite sure he would get enough hand-picked delegates to dominate the coming State convention which would nominate a Governor this year. The question of State control of water power on which the boss saw fit to hedge was threatening internal disruption.
To-morrow was county convention day. He was hoping that Forsythe’s speech at this dinner tonight would swing sentiment in enough doubtful counties to give him a majority of pledged delegates when the State convention opened.
But he was uncomfortably conscious of that great unseen radio audience in a hundred thousand homes already settled before their “speakers,” listening eagerly to the preliminary gossip of the announcer as the faithful gathered around the tables.
He knew that a wrong note struck at this dinner might start a thunderstorm up-State over which he would have no control.