“I don't know. It depends upon how much the voters find out about him before the convention.”
Tom sat down rather heavily.
“You could have been governor,” he complained reproachfully, “by raising your hand. You've got more ability than any man in the State, and you sit here gazin' at that mountain and lettin' a darned fool millionaire walk in ahead of you.”
Austen rose and crossed over to Mr. Gaylord's chair, and, his hands still in his pockets, looked down thoughtfully into that gentleman's square and rugged face.
“Tom,” he said, “there's no use discussing this delusion of yours, which seems to be the only flaw in an otherwise sane character. We must try to keep it from the world.”
Tom laughed in spite of himself.
“I'm hanged if I understand you,” he declared, “but I never did. You think Crewe and Tooting may carry off the governorship, and you don't seem to care.”
“I do care,” said Austen, briefly. He went to the window and stood for a moment with his back to his friend, staring across at Sawanec. Tom had learned by long experience to respect these moods, although they were to him inexplicable. At length Austen turned.
“Tom,” he said, “can you come in to-morrow about this time? If you can't, I'll go to your office if you will let me know when you'll be in. There's a matter of business I want to talk to you about.”
Tom pulled out his watch.