"Well," went on the lobbyist, "I'll hev Langd'n watched by a careful picked man, a nigger that won't talk. He'll pick a row with the Colonel on some street, say, w'en he's comin' from his home after lunch. The coon kin bump into Langd'n an' call him names. Then w'en ole fireworks sails into 'im, yellin' about what 'e'd do in Mississippi, the coon pulls a gun on the Colonel an' fires a couple o' shots random. Cops come up, an' our pertickeler copper'll lug Langd'n away as a witness, refusin' to believe 'e's a Senator. I kin arrange to hev him kept in the cooler a couple o' hours without gettin' any word out, or I'll hev 'im entered up as drunk an' disorderly. He'll look drunk, he'll be so mad."
"But the negro—how could you get a man to undergo arrest on such a serious charge, attempted murder!" exclaimed Stevens.
"There, there," said Steinert, patronizingly; "coons has more genteel home life in jail than they does out. An' don't forget the District of Columbia is governed by folks that ain't residents of it, only durin' the session. Th' politicians don't leave their frien's in the cooler very long. Say, Senator Stevens, are you kiddin' me? Is it any different down in your—"
The Mississippian choked and spluttered over a gulp of unusually hot coffee, and Peabody again decided Steinert to be on the wrong tack.
"That proceeding would attract too much attention from the newspapers," he added.
"Well, I thought you wanted to win," grunted Steinert. "I've been offerin' you good stuff, too—new stuff. None of yer druggin' with chloroform or ticklin' with blackjacks. Why, I've gone from fine-esse to common sense. But, come to think of it, how about some woman? I c'n get one to introduce to—"
"This is the wrong kind of a man," interrupted Peabody.
"Unless you got the right kind of a woman," went on Steinert.
Senator Stevens choked some more.
"The boss of the Senate" sank down in his chair, crossed one knee over the other and drummed his fingers lightly on the table. He gazed thoughtfully at Stevens.