“They make me sick,” returned the reporter vigorously.
“That’s bad. Why?”
“Because of the cheap skates and dumheads I run into whenever I get a legislative job.”
“On behalf of myself and my colleagues, I thank you.”
Jeremy Robson blushed. “Well, you know I don’t mean you, Senator.”
“Possibly some of my associates are shrewder than you give them credit for being. But the State Legislature is n’t politics. It’s only the sieve through which politics pass. If you’re not interested in politics, the newspaper business is n’t your line.”
“I did n’t say I was n’t interested in politics.”
“True enough. You did n’t.” Embree shot one of his reckoning glances at the young fellow. “Well, if you can prove yourself—if you can fight as well as you write and write as hard as you fight—you’re going to be worth keeping an eye on. And I’m going to keep an eye on you for my own reasons.”
“I’ll remember that,” said the reporter, rising, “when I come to try my hand at editorial writing.”
“Sit down. Unless you’ve got some engagement.” Jeremy shook his head. “I want to talk to you a little more.” Another of those pauses, which gave the effect of being filled with considered thinking. “About myself,” finished the Honorable Martin Embree.