"Well, but——"
"You don't have to know anything about this. We'll handle it. You'll be pertected to the limit; don't you worry," sneered Noonan.
"But you can't get away with this old-fashioned stuff nowadays, Doolittle," protested Remington.
"Can't we? You jest leave it to your Uncle Benjamin. You don't know nothing about this. See?"
"I know it's a dirty, low, underhanded——"
"George," remarked Mr. Doolittle, slowly hoisting his big body on to its short legs, "in politics we don't call a spade a spade. We call it 'a agricultural implument.'"
With this sage remark Mr. Doolittle took his departure, followed by the other prominent citizens.
George sat where they left him, head in hands, for several moments. Then he sprang up and rushed to the door to call them back.
He would not stand it—he would not win at that price. He had conceded everything they had demanded of him up to this point, but here he drew the line. Ever since that one independent fling of his about suffrage they had treated him like a naughty child. What did they think he was—a rubber doll? He would telephone Doolittle that he would rather give up his candidacy. Here he paused.
Suppose he did withdraw, nobody would understand. The town would think the women had frightened him off. He couldn't come out now and denounce the machine methods of his party. Every eye in Whitewater was focused on him; his friends were working for him; the district attorneyship was the next step in his career; Geneviève expected him to win—no, he must go through with it! But after he got into office, then he would show them! He would take orders from no one. He sat down again and moodily surveyed the future.