"If you've got something on him, maybe we ought to talk it over. I wouldn't mind seeing Bush win, myself. If what you've got is any good, what's the matter with putting it up to him?"
He looked at me, at the sidewalk, fumbled in his vest pocket for another toothpick, put it in his mouth, and mumbled:
"Who are you?"
I gave him a name, something like Hunter or Hunt or Huntington, and asked him his. He said his name was MacSwain, Bob MacSwain, and I could ask anybody in town if it wasn't right.
I said I believed him and asked:
"What do you say? Will we put the squeeze to Bush?"
Little hard lights came into his eyes and died.
"No," he gulped. "I ain't that kind of fellow. I never―"
"You never did anything but let people gyp you. You don't have to go up against him, MacSwain. Give me the dope, and I'll make the play―if it's any good."
He thought that over, licking his lips, letting the toothpick fall down to stick on his coat front.
"You wouldn't let on about me having any part in it?" he asked. "I belong here, and I wouldn't stand a chance if it got out. And you won't turn him up? You'll just use it to make him fight?"
"Right."
He took my hand excitedly and demanded:
