“I rise to a point of order!” shouted a delegate, obeying a nod from the stage. “The business in hand is the nomination of a governor.”
“That is my business,” stated Farr, calmly.
With political scent sharpened by his apprehension, Colonel Dodd narrowed his eyes, sat straight in his chair, and desperately endeavored to fathom the intentions of this rank outsider.
In spite of his bluster to the state committee he was worried. He had not felt comfortable since his conference with Judge Ambrose Warren. He did not like the “feel” of political conditions. There was some indefinable slipperiness about matters.
He could not bring himself to consider the impossible idea that the convention would bolt—would run amuck, no matter who addressed it—no matter what contingency arose. But to have the convention even tolerate this brazen interloper troubled his sense of mastery; the convention had been too ready to permit the stranger to speak. It wasn't politics as the colonel had been accustomed to play the game. And this—this man from nowhere—it was preposterous!
He snapped his head around and found his nephew close behind him.
“You young whelp,” gritted Colonel Dodd, visiting his anger on the nearest object, “where's your political loyalty? This isn't any time to drive bargains. If you can stop that fellow hustle and do it.”
“It's another man's secret, I tell you. I've got to buy it.”
“I'll make it a thousand.”
Young Dodd's face was white, but he knew how desperate his case was and how vitally necessary it was to play his cards as he held them.