"Mr. Killen spent an hour last night with Big Tim at the Pacific
Hotel."
"Sneaked in by the side entrance and took the elevator to the
seventh floor. The deal was arranged in Room 743," added Rawson.
"You spied on me," burst from Killen's lips.
"Sure thing. And we caught you with the goods," sneered the red-
faced politician.
"I'll not stand it. I'll not support a man that won't trust me."
"You won't, eh?" Rawson was across the floor in two jumps,
worrying his victim as a terrier does a rat. "Forget it. You were
elected to support R. K. Hardy, sewed up with a pledge tight and
fast. We're not in the primer class, Killen. Don't get a notion
you're going to do as you damn please. You'll--vote--for--R.--K.--
Hardy. Get that?"
"I refuse to be moved by threats, and I decline to discuss the
matter further," retorted Killen with a pitiable attempt at
dignity.
Rawson laughed with insulting menace. "That's a good one. I've
sold out, but it's none of your business what I got. That what you
mean?"
"You surely must recognize our right to an explanation, Killen,"
Jeff said gently.
"No, sir, I don't," flushed the little man with sullen bravado.
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