There were steps at the door, and Paisley hurried out. “Only you!” he exclaimed, with such frank vexation that the doctor laughed loudly. “Come in, man, come in,” Paisley continued, leading him strongly by the arm, sitting him down, and giving him a cigar. “Here’s a pretty how de do!”
“More Indians!” inquired Dr. Tuck.
“Bother! they’re nothing. It’s Senators—Councillors—whatever the Territorial devils call themselves.”
“Gone on the war-path?” the doctor said, quite ignorant how nearly he had touched the Council.
“Precisely, man. War-path. Here’s the Governor writing me they’ll be scalping him in the State-House at twelve o’clock. It’s past 11.30. They’ll be whetting knives about now.” And the captain roared.
“I know you haven’t gone crazy,” said the doctor, “but who has?”
“The lot of them. Ballard’s a good man, and—what’s his name?—the little Secretary. The balance are just mad dogs—mad dogs. Look here: ‘Dear Captain’—that’s Ballard to me. I just got it—‘I find myself unexpectedly hampered this morning. The South shows signs of being too solid. Unless I am supported, my plan for bringing our Legislature to terms will have to be postponed. Hewley and I are more likely to be brought to terms ourselves—a bad precedent to establish in Idaho. Noon is the hour for drawing salaries. Ask me to supper as quick as you can, and act on my reply.’ I’ve asked him,” continued Paisley, “but I haven’t told Mrs. Paisley to cook anything extra yet.” The captain paused to roar again, shaking Tuck’s shoulder for sympathy. Then he explained the situation in Idaho to the justly bewildered doctor. Ballard had confided many of his difficulties lately to Paisley.
“He means you’re to send troops?” Tuck inquired.
“What else should the poor man mean?”
“Are you sure it’s constitutional?”