"Well, she fixed that, too, after I cut loose from him—you understand? I guess Miss Garrison and Mr. Harwood are pretty good friends."
"Oh!" ejaculated Ramsay. "So there's that, is there?"
"I hope so; they're all white and speak the same language. This is on the dead. I'm only talking to you because you're an old friend."
An occasional roar from within testified to Mr. Pettit's continued enjoyment of his own jokes.
"You know," Rose continued, "I learned a good deal those winters I spent at the State House, when I was stenog to certain senate committees. I see where you stand now, all right, Colonel. I always knew you didn't belong in that bunch of lobbyists that was always gum-shoeing through the marble halls of the State House. Thatcher sends somebody around to look me up every little while to see if he can't coax something out of me,—something he can use, you know."
"Thatcher oughtn't to do that. If you want me to, I'll pull him off."
"No; I guess I can take care of myself. He"—Rose indicated the inner office with a slight movement of the head, "he never tries to pump me. He ain't that kind of a fighter. But everybody that's anywhere near the inside knows that Thatcher carries a sharp knife. He's going to shed some pink ink before he gets through. Are you on?"
They exchanged a glance.
"Something that isn't nice?"
Rose nodded.