Of the three men they found there it was plain that one was being
pushed doggedly to bay. He was small and insignificant, with weak
blinking eyes. Standing with his back to the wall, he moistened
his lips with the tip of his tongue.
"Who says it?" he whined shrilly. "Who says I sold out?"
An apoplectic, bull-necked ruffian stood directly in front of him
and sawed the air violently with a fat forefinger.
"I ain't sayin' it, Killen--I'm askin' if you have. What I say is
that you'd better make your will before you vote for Frome. Make
'em pay fat, for by thunder! you'll be political junk, Mr. Sam
Killen."
Killen, sweating agony, turned appealingly to Jeff. "I haven't
said I was going to vote for Frome. Mr. Rawson's got no right to
bulldoze me and I'm not going to stand it."
"The hell you ain't," roared Rawson, shaking his fist at the
unhappy legislator. "I guess you'll stand the gaff till you
explain."
"Just a moment, Bob," interrupted Jeff. "Let's get at the facts.
Don't convict the prisoner till the evidence is in."
Rawson hobbled his wrath for the moment. "That's all right, Jeff.
You ask Hardy. I'm giving you straight goods."
The keen-eyed, smooth-shaven man in a gray business suit who had
been listening silently to the gathering storm contributed
information briefly and impartially.
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