Big Tim gazed with palpable admiration at the cleancut figure, at the square cleft chin in the strong handsome face. It was his opinion this young man would go far, and that every step of the way would be in the interests of James K. Farnum. Shrewdly he guessed that the way to pierce that impassive front was through an appeal to vanity and to selfinterest.
James waited, alert and expressionless, but O'Brien, having made his apology, puffed in silence.
“I think you suggested some business that brought you,” James reminded him.
“You've got in you the makings of a big man. Nothing on the coast to touch youse, Mr. Farnum. And I didn't see it. I was sore on your name. That was what was bitin' me. It's sure on Big Tim this time.”
None of the triumph that flooded Farnum reached the surface.
“I think I don't quite understand,” he said quietly.
“I'm eatin' humble pie because youse slipped wan over on me. You're the best campaign speaker in the state, bar none, boy as you are.”
James could not keep his gratified smile down. “This heart-felt testimonial comes free, I take it,” he pretended to mock.
“Come off with youse,” O'Brien flung back good humoredly. “I'm not here to hand you booquets, but to talk business. Here's the nub of it, me boy. You need me, and I need you.”
“I don't quite see how I need you, Mr. O'Brien.”