His answer was almost mechanical.
"Thank God!" Uncle Martin collapsed in one of the office chairs. "Mind—if sit here minute—get my breath."
George did not reply, for he had not heard. He was gazing steadily at Mr. Doolittle; some great, but as yet shapeless, force was surging up dazingly within him. But he somehow held himself in control.
"Well, Doolittle," he demanded, "you said you came to ask something."
Mr. Doolittle's manner was still propitiatingly bland. "I'll mention something else first, George, if you don't mind. You just remarked I'd find your answer in the Sentinel. There must 'a' been some little slip-up somewhere. So I guess I better mention first that the Sentinel has arranged to stand ready to get out an extra."
"An extra! What for?"
"Principally, George, I reckon to print those answers you just spoke of."
George still kept that mounting something under his control. "Answers to what?"
"Why, George," the other replied softly, persuasively. "I guess we'd better have a little chat—as man to man—about politics. Meaning no offense, George, stalling is all right in politics—but this time you've carried this stalling act a little too far. As the result of your tactics, George, why here's all this disorder in our streets—and the afternoon before election. If you'd only really tried to stop these messing women——"
"I didn't try to stop them by kidnapping them!" burst from George—and Uncle Martin, his breath recovered, now sat up, clutching his homespun cap.