Wilkinson chuckled.
"Might send a wireless...."
"You'd get a most remarkable answer, Peter." Morehead was now striding up and down, nervous, energetic strides they were, for he had shaken off his tendency to enjoyment. "I say," he went on, "I haven't heard you mention a word about the political situation so far; you're usually pretty enthusiastic."
"How can a man be enthusiastic about politics when he's got the sword of Damocles over his head."
"You're going to open fire on Gilchrist, aren't you?"
"Sure."
"That's politics," said Morehead, "and now that we're on the subject, I want you to do me a favour. Wilkinson, I want my man put up for governor this year, and I want your backing, you understand—your influence, your money, all to back my man. Can I count on you, Peter?"
Wilkinson thought a moment before answering.
"Who is your man?"
"Um," smiled Morehead, "I don't know that—yet."