The experience of withstanding vulgar attacks was new to the triumvirate. (McGibbon referred to them always as the 'Old Cinch.') The Gleaner had come out for annexation to Chicago. It demanded an audit of Charlie Waterhouse's town accounts by a new, politically disinterested group. It accused the bank of withholding proper support from men of whom old Boice disapproved. It demanded a share of the village printing.
The 'Old Cinch' were taking these attacks in silence, as beneath their notice. They took pains, however, in casual mention of the new force in town, to refer to him always as a 'Democrat.' This damned him with many. He called himself an 'Independent.' Which amused Charlie Waterhouse greatly. Everybody knew that a man who wasn't a decent Republican had to be a Democrat. In the nature of things.
And they were waiting for his money and his energy to give out. Giving him, as Charlie Waterhouse jovially put it, the rope to hang himself with.
Bill Schwartz took McGibbon's spectacles, tucked the towel around his scrawny neck, lathered chin and cheeks, and seizing his head firmly in a strong right hand turned it sidewise on the head-rest.
McGibbon lay there a moment, studying the yellowish-white whiskers that waved upward above the towels in the next chair. Bill stropped his razor.
'How are you, Mr Boice?' McGibbon observed, quite cheerfully.
Mr Boice made a sound, raised his head an inch. Heinie promptly pushed it down.
'Quite a story you had last week about the musicale at Mrs Arthur V. Henderson's.'
Mr Boice lay motionless. What was up! Distinctly odd that either journal should be mentioned between them. Bad taste. He made another sound.
'Who wrote it?'