“Sneaked in by the side entrance and took the elevator to the seventh floor. The deal was arranged in Room 743,” added Rawson.
“You spied on me,” burst from Killen's lips.
“Sure thing. And we caught you with the goods,” sneered the red-faced politician.
“I'll not stand it. I'll not support a man that won't trust me.”
“You won't, eh?” Rawson was across the floor in two jumps, worrying his victim as a terrier does a rat. “Forget it. You were elected to support R. K. Hardy, sewed up with a pledge tight and fast. We're not in the primer class, Killen. Don't get a notion you're going to do as you damn please. You'll—vote—for—R.—K.—Hardy. Get that?”
“I refuse to be moved by threats, and I decline to discuss the matter further,” retorted Killen with a pitiable attempt at dignity.
Rawson laughed with insulting menace. “That's a good one. I've sold out, but it's none of your business what I got. That what you mean?”
“You surely must recognize our right to an explanation, Killen,” Jeff said gently.
“No, sir, I don't,” flushed the little man with sullen bravado. “I ain't got a thing against you, but Rawson goes too far.”
“I think he does,” Jeff agreed. “Killen is all right. Gentlemen, suppose you let him and me talk it over alone. We can reach an agreement that is satisfactory.”