"I'm just figuring up the number of years you'd have to serve——"
"But I'm not goin' to the Senate," protested the politician.
"No, but I am," retorted the prosecutor. "Four times six are twenty-four; besides the amount of fines you'll have to pay. Take the first on the list, Broderick. You'll get seven years on that, and seven thousand dollars fine. Put that down."
"I'll put nothin' down—I never was a hand at figures."
"Then I'll do it. Twenty indictments for corrupting voters—I've got the goods on that; twenty years and twenty thousand dollars fines. Hold on a minute, we won't add up just yet. There's your interest in Cradlebaugh's; there's the hospital; there's your pool-rooms; log-rolling with police-headquarters—Why, say, Broderick," he exclaimed suddenly, gasping with surprise, "it will cost you in the neighbourhood of one hundred thousand cash in fines!"
"You don't say!" sarcastically returned the chairman.
"And," continued Murgatroyd, suavely, "about one hundred and thirty-five years to serve in sentences."
"I'm booked for a ripe old age," returned Broderick, still with sarcasm in his voice.
"So that eliminates you from the Senate," facetiously continued the prosecutor; "you'll go up for the rest of your unnatural life." He paused and shot at Broderick a glance that went home—one that meant business.
Broderick squirmed.