“But you haven’t told your part of the story yet,” Sam pointed out.
“’Tain’t a whole lot. It merely bears out your notion that Zorn is gunnin’ for you. But what’s his reason?”
“I don’t know,” Sam confessed. “We’ve been more or less on the outs, but there was no trouble to justify such a grudge as he must have.”
Lon nodded. “My notion, too—from what I’d picked up by scoutin’ round. And I have been seein’ and hearin’ all there was to hear and see, Sam.”
“What’s your theory, then?”
“Theory’s too strong a word—make it guess.
“Well, my guess is that if I was goin’ to prescribe for your case, I’d dose you for politics—school politics. And if that guess is right, I don’t wonder you’re worried. It’s your fust attack, and a feller with his fust touch o’ politics is a good deal like a chap gettin’ acquainted with the hives—he feels as if he was in trouble all over.”
Sam grinned again. “You talk as if you’d had experience, Lon.”
“Umph! Guess I had! Run for third selectman once.”
“And they beat you?”