“Run in and take another drink, sonny,” advised Breed, giving slow cant of his head to denote the baize door through which Dodd had emerged. “What you have had up to date seems to be making you optimistic—and there's nothing like being optimistic in politics. I'm always optimistic—but naturally so. Don't need torching!”
“Look here, Breed, we've got enough dope on that ex-hobo who is doing your errand-boy work—we know enough about him to kill your whole sorehead proposition. But I don't believe my uncle will even use it. No need of it.”
“Probably not,” said Mr. Breed, without resentment. “And I wouldn't if I were he.”
“We won't descend to it. Now that we have got rid of a lot of old battle-axes of politicians—and I'm calling no names—we can conduct a campaign with dignity.”
“So do! So do! And it will save a lot of trouble, son; that's why the newspapers wouldn't print that stuff about Mr. Farr after your uncle got it ready. Libel cases make a lot of trouble.”
Dodd grew red and scowled. “Look here, Breed, you're licked before the start, and as a good politician you know you are. My uncle wants you to drop in and see him. He told me to tell you so. This is no official order, you understand. Just drop in informally, and he'll probably have something interesting to say to you.”
“I'm terribly rushed up—shall be till after convention,” averred Mr. Breed, piercing the end of a cigar with a peg he had whittled from a match.
“What's the good of your being a fool any longer?”
“Always have been, so I've found out from that state committee who never told a lie—and it's comfortable to keep on being one,” he said, with great serenity.
“You don't think for a minute that you are going to get control of the next legislature, do you?”