“Well, Mr. Bruce, this is mighty dry weather we’re having.”
“Yes. What do you want?”
“Well—well—” said the old man, a little taken aback, “you certainly do jump into the middle of things.”
“I’ve found that the quickest way to get there,” retorted Bruce. “You know there’s no use in you and me wasting any words. You know well enough what I think of you.”
“I ought to,” returned Blind Charlie, dryly, but with good humour. “You’ve said it often enough.”
“Well, that there may be no mistake about it, I’ll say it once more. You’re a good-natured, good-hearted, cunning, unprincipled, hardened old rascal of a politician. Now if you don’t want to say what you came here to say, the same route that brings you in here takes you out.”
“Come, come,” said the old man, soothingly. “I think you have said a lot of harder things than were strictly necessary—especially since we both belong to the same party.”
“That’s one reason I’ve said them. You’ve been running the party most of your life—you’re still running it—and see what you’ve made of it. Every decent member is ashamed of it! It stinks all through the state!”
Blind Charlie’s face did not lose its smile of imperturbable good nature. It was a tradition of Calloway County that he had never lost his temper.
“You’re a very young man, Mr. Bruce,” said the old politician, “and young blood loves strong language. But suppose we get away from personalities, and get away from the party’s past and talk about its present and its future.”