“So that’s what you’re going to see young Baxter about, is it? You’re going to threaten him with an investigation if he doesn’t withdraw from the race, eh? Well, what are you going to do if he up and tells you to go to hell?”
Mr. Gooch winced.
“It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been told to go to hell,” he said, with a wintry smile. “However, it is not my intention to threaten my nephew, Mr. Smith. Nothing is farther from my thoughts. I’m simply going to let him understand that I am not satisfied with things as they are. I don’t mind telling you that I’ve already made a few inquiries and—well, there is something peculiar about the whole business, that’s all I’ve got to say. It won’t hurt my nephew to know that I’m interested, will it?” he wound up, a sly, crafty twinkle in his eye.
“You take a tip from me, Mr. Gooch,” said the chairman, somewhat forcibly. “Let sleeping dogs lie. If you go to making any cracks about this young feller that you can’t prove, he’ll wipe the earth up with you next November. I’ve been in politics a long time and I know something about the human race. You are banking on the big Democratic majority we usually have in this county. I want to tell you right here and now that if you start any ugly talk about young Baxter and can’t back it up with facts, there won’t be a decent Democrat in the county that’ll vote for you. And I guess we’re far enough south to be able to say that most of us are decent.”
Mr. Gooch arose. “You said a while ago that he would stump this county from end to end, calling me everything he can lay his tongue to. Well, all I’ve got to say to you, Mr. Smith, is that he sha’n’t have it all his own way.”
“There’s just this difference, Mr. Gooch. The voters will believe what he says about you, and they won’t believe a blamed word you say about him.”
“Good day, Mr. Smith!”
“Good day, Mr. Gooch.”
Two days later, Horace Gooch stopped his ancient automobile in front of the Baxter Block in Rumley and inquired of a man in the doorway:
“Is young Oliver Baxter here?”