"Oh, Eugene!" cried Elizabeth, "don't take that attitude again! But bring it up to me when you come to begin our readings in Pippa Passes!"
"Ah! Now you are joking! Good-by, Bess. Unless I'm run over between now and eight-thirty, you may look for me. By-by!"
Not quite so fortunate, this last five minutes of conversation. But all unaware of that fact, Brassfield went back into the private office, and found Conlon awaiting him. Brassfield opened a drawer and drew out a roll of drawings and typewritten specifications.
"Now as to this contract, Conlon——" he began.
"Ixcuse me, Misther Brassfield," interrupted Conlon, "but the contract may wait: some things won't. What's the matther with Edgington?"
"Edgington? The matter? What do you mean?"
Conlon leaned over the shelf of the roll-top desk, and pressed upon a paper-weight with his knobby thumb.
"Thin ye don't know," said he impressively, "that he's out pluggin' up a dale to bate you an' nominate McCorkle!"
Brassfield faced him smilingly.
"Oh, that notion of Edgington's!" said he. "That amounts to nothing! If you and my other strong friends stay by me, there's nothing to fear. I'm glad you know of that little whim of Edgington's. But about this contract. Now, I usually look after these things myself, and do them by days' work. But if I am forced to take this office of mayor, I sha'n't be able to do this—won't have the time; and I'll want you to do it. Perhaps I'd better give you a check on account now—say on the terms of the Rogers' job? All right, there's five hundred. That settles the contract. Now with that off our minds, let's talk of the political situation. You can see that, being forced into this, I don't want to be skinned. Now, what can you do, Conlon?"