“Well, I suppose, John,” Hiram said, turning a serious face to his brother, “that you've thought the matter all over, and are sure you are right?”
The Governor threw back his head with a scoffing laugh.
“I guess it didn't require much thought on my part,” he answered carelessly.
“I don't see how you figure that out,” contended Hiram warmly. “You're Governor of the State, and your own boss, ain't you?”
It was the first time in all his life that anyone had squarely confronted John Berriman with the question whether or not he was his own boss, and for some reason it went deep into his soul, and rankled there.
“Now see here, Hiram,” he said at length, “there's no use of your putting on airs and pretending you don't understand this thing. You know well enough it was all fixed before I went in.” The other man looked at him in bewilderment, and the Governor continued brusquely: “The party knew the Senator was going to die, and so the Governor pulled out and I went in just so the thing could be done decently when the time came.”
The old farmer was scratching his head.
“That's it, eh? They got wind the Senator was goin' to die, and so the Governor told that lie about having to go South just so he could step into the dead man's shoes, eh?”
“That's the situation—if you want to put it that way.”
“And now you're going to appoint the Governor?”