Jethro did not answer that, but still remained sunk in his chair. To all appearances he might have been asleep.
“W-worth somethin' to the farmers and merchants to get that road through—w-worth somethin', ain't it?”
Wetherell held his breath. For a moment Mr. Worthington sat very still, his face drawn, and then he wet his lips and rose slowly.
“We may as well end this conversation, Mr. Bass,” he said, and though he tried to speak firmly his voice shook, “it seems to be useless. Good night.”
He picked up his hat and walked slowly toward the door, but Jethro did not move or speak. Mr. Worthington reached the door opened it, and the night breeze started the lamp to smoking. Wetherell got up and turned it down, and the first citizen was still standing in the doorway. His back was toward them, but the fingers of his left hand—working convulsively caught Wetherell's eye and held it; save for the ticking of the clock and the chirping of the crickets in the grass, there was silence. Then Mr. Worthington closed the door softly, hesitated, turned, and came back and stood before Jethro.
“Mr. Bass,” he said, “we've got to have that franchise.”
William Wetherell glanced at the countryman who, without moving in his chair, without raising his voice, had brought the first citizen of Brampton to his knees. The thing frightened the storekeeper, revolted him, and yet its drama held him fascinated. By some subtle process which he had actually beheld, but could not fathom, this cold Mr. Worthington, this bank president who had given him sage advice, this preacher of political purity, had been reduced to a frenzied supplicant. He stood bending over Jethro.
“What's your price? Name it, for God's sake.”
“B-better wait till you get the bill—hadn't you? b-better wait till you get the bill.”
“Will you put the franchise through?”