West turned quickly. This time he betrayed a suggestion of genuine feeling. “But, my dear man, what can they say?”
“They can say what all Washington is saying,” Briggs replied, fiercely. “They can say I’ve taken money to push that bill through the House. They can queer my re-election.”
West drew out a silver-ornamented cigar-case and offered it to Briggs. “You have a very bald way of expressing yourself sometimes. Have one?”
Briggs lifted his hand in refusal, with a suggestion of disgust and impatience. West deliberately lighted his cigar, puffed it, and then looked closely at the burning end. “Taking money,” he repeated, as if addressing the cigar—“that’s a very disagreeable expression! It isn’t,” he added, with a laugh, “it isn’t professional.” He waited as if expecting to receive a reply from Briggs. Then he asked, with a lift of his eyebrows: “Besides, why shouldn’t you?”
“Why shouldn’t I what?”
“Why shouldn’t you take money for the work you’ve done? You earned it.”
Briggs rose from his seat. His face clouded. “Then why should I lie about it every time the subject is mentioned? Why should I try to bamboozle that decent young fellow who was in this room a moment ago? He believes in me. He believes that I’m an honest man, a statesman, a patriot. He believes that I think of nothing, care for nothing, work for nothing, but the welfare of the people who elected me.”
West smiled. “He must be an awful ass!” he remarked, quietly.
In spite of his disgust Briggs gave a short laugh. “He—oh, well!” He turned away as if the sight of West had become suddenly obnoxious. “Have you ever believed in anyone in your life, West?” he asked, keeping his face averted.
“Oh, yes,” West replied. “In you, for example. I believed in you the first time I saw you. I knew you were going to get there.”