“You see, Governor,” began Freckles, as if anxious to set right a great wrong which had been done him, “the car is acting bad. The engineer said only this morning it needed a going over. When it took that awful shoot, I lost control of it. Maybe I'm to be discharged for losing control of it, but not”—Freckles sniffled pathetically—-“but not for anything like what he says I done. Why Governor,” he went on, ramming his knuckles into his eyes, “I ain't got nothing against him! What'd I take him to the attic for?”
“Of course not for money,” sneered Mr. Ludlow.
The Governor turned on him sharply. “When you can bring any proof of that, I'll be ready to hear it. Until you can, you'd better leave it out of the question.”
“Strange it should have happened this very afternoon,” put in the eminent lobbyist.
The Governor looked at him with open countenance. “You were especially interested in something this afternoon? I thought you told me you had no vital interest here this session.”
There was nothing to be said. Mr. Ludlow said nothing.
“Now, William,” pursued the Governor, fearful in his heart that this would be Freckles' undoing, “why did you close the door of the shaft before you started down?”
“Well, you see, sir,” began Freckles, still tremulously, “I'm so used to closin' doors. Closin' doors has become a kind of second nature with me. I've been told about it so many times. And up there, though I thought I was losin' my life, still I didn't neglect my duty.”
The Governor put his hand to his mouth and coughed.
“And why,” he went on, more secure now, for a boy who could get out of that could get out of anything, “why was it you didn't make some immediate effort to get Mr. Ludlow down? Why didn't you notify someone, or do something about it?”