“Mr. Peck,” was the answer.
“What! You don’t mean ‘Blind Charlie’?”
“Yes. I called up to see if you could come over to the hotel for a little talk about politics.”
“If you want to talk to me you know where to find me! Good-by!”
“Wait! Wait! What time will you be in?”
“The paper goes to press at two-thirty. Any time after then.”
“I’ll drop around before three.”
Four hours later Bruce was glancing through that afternoon’s paper, damp from the press, when there entered his office a stout, half-bald man of sixty-five, with loose, wrinkled, pouchy skin, drooping nose, and a mouth—stained faintly brown at its corners—whose cunning was not entirely masked by a good-natured smile. One eye had a shrewd and beady brightness; the gray film over the other announced it without sight. This was “Blind Charlie” Peck, the king of Calloway County politics until Blake had hurled him from his throne.
Bruce greeted the fallen monarch curtly and asked him to sit down. Bruce did not resume his seat, but half leaned against his desk and eyed Blind Charlie with open disfavour.
The old man settled himself and smiled his good-natured smile at the editor.