"Yes, John," he persisted. "You're a hell of a good fellow, but," he added, "you're a damn poor politician."
There was the faintest shadow of a smile on the governor's face. Handy closed his eyes until they were the merest slits. He puffed his cigar back to life.
His head was wrapped in scarfs of smoke.
"When does the grand jury sit?" he inquired, after a time.
"Not till the December term."
"We can have a special one impaneled. I'll have Donnelly call it."
Donnelly was a judge of dignity and erudition, and Handy spoke of him as if he were his hired man, which he was.
"The boys'll be glad to get Tom back in the nineteenth. O'Rourke says—"
"Look here, Handy," said the governor, whirling about in his chair, and speaking as sharply as a precinct captain at a primary. "I want none of Tom Whalen's work in the nineteenth—not while I'm running for governor. But then," he added gravely, "he's only going back to the nineteenth to die."
