Moran, apparently soothed by this concession to his temper, and a bit ashamed of himself, watched him for some moments in silence. When at last he spoke, his tone was more conciliatory.
"Have you heard from Washington?" he asked.
"I got a telegram this morning, saying that the matter is under advisement."
"Under advisement!" Moran snorted, in disgust. "That means that they'll get the cavalry here in time to fire a volley over our graves—ashes to ashes and dust to dust. What are you going to do about it?"
Rexhill blew a huge mouthful of fragrant smoke into the air.
"Frankly, Race, I don't think you're in a proper mood to talk."
"You're right." Something in Moran's voice suggested the explosion of a fire-arm, and the Senator looked at him curiously. "I'm through talking. We've both of us talked too damn much, and that's a fact."
"I'll be obliged to you," the Senator remarked, "if you'll remember that you draw a salary from me and that you owe me a certain amount of respect."
Moran laughed raucously.