“I guess we won’t be doing that to-night, Mr. Peck,” Manning said quietly.
The old politician stood shaking with rage and erupting profanity. But presently this subsided, and he stood, as did the others, gazing down at Blake. Blake sat in his chair, silent, motionless, with scarcely a breath, his eyes fixed on the headline. His look was as ghastly as a dead man’s, a look of utter ruin, of ruin so terrible and complete that his dazed mind could hardly comprehend it.
There was a space of profound silence in the room. But after a time Blind Charlie’s face grew malignantly, revengefully jocose.
“Well, Blake,” said he, “I guess this won’t hurt me much after all. I guess I haven’t much reputation to lose. But as for you, who started this business—you the pure, moral, high-minded reformer——”
He interrupted himself by raising a hand.
“Listen!”
Faintly, from the direction of the Square, came the dim roar of cheering, and then the outburst of the band. Blind Charlie, with a cynical laugh, clapped a hand upon Blake’s shoulder.
“Don’t you hear ’em, Blake? Brace up! The people still are for you!”
Blake did not reply. The old man bent down, his face now wholly hard.
“And anyhow, Blake, I’m getting this satisfaction out of the business. I’ve had it in for you for a dozen years, and now you’re going to get it good and plenty! Good night and to hell with you!”