Mr. Converse rose and stood—a rigid statue of consternation and protest. “Do you mean to come in here and tell me that I have been nominated by that state convention? Without my sanction? Without my consent?”
“Sure thing! Easy work! Played all the tricks. Made believe he was green. Poked rights and lefts to Harwood's jaw. Had himself paged as a murderer—at least, I reckon it was his own get-up. It cinched the thing, anyway. He understands human nature.”
But Mr. Converse did not in the least understand this talk. “Look here, Breed, you haven't gone crazy yourself, along with the rest, have you?”
“Nobody's crazy. People have simply woke up.”
“I'll be eternally condemned if I—”
“That's right! You will be if you don't button up your coat and go over to the hall along with that notification committee that's probably on the way, give the folks your best bow, and say you'll take the job. We're some little team when we get started.”
“You're an infernal steer team, and you have dragged me into a mess of trouble,” declared Mr. Converse, with venom.
“Glad you're in,” retorted the imperturbable Breed. “A man needs more or less trouble so as to round himself out; I've been having some troubles of my own. Whatever job you give me after you're elected, don't put me back with them stuffed animals. Harwood made his mistake right there!”
“It has begun already, has it?” asked Converse, indignantly. “Office-seekers at it?”
“Sure thing!” responded Mr. Breed, amiably. “When you cool down you'll remember that I got to you first with the good news.”