"Well, anyways, after that I went out to try an' do somethin', but about all I could do was to hire 'bout half a dozen hobos who were goin' through from Chicago, and I was takin' them down to Enright so's he could vote 'em at all the prim'ries, you know, and I happened to look up--and there I see Bailey." "What was he doing, did you say?" asked Garwood with the morbid fascination the recital of some painful fact has for the one it most concerns. "Oh, he was just moseyin' along the street with Rankin, you know that slow, splay-footed, knock-kneed way he has of walking, don't you? Oh--there's no doubt it's him!" Garwood slowly swallowed his drink, and had just turned to speak again, when Pusey entered. "Did you know Bailey's here?" he demanded. Pusey walked straight to the desk, and he had lifted the bottle before he replied: "Yes." "When did you hear?" Garwood asked. "Just now. I repaired here instantly to apprise you." "You did!" said Garwood. "Well, where in hell are you going to repair to next to do something about it? Where did _you_ see him?" "I saw him at the Cassell House, and Rankin--" "Yes--Rankin," said Garwood. He ceased to give attention to Pusey, since the climax of his tale was already too fully known, but repeated Rankin's name in a reminiscent tone not unlikely to inspire pleasure in the breast of Rankin's successor, as if one should sigh for a first wife in the presence of the second. "Jim Rankin," he repeated, "that's the worst of it." "You miss Rankin, heh?" piped Pusey, squinting at the drink he was pouring. Garwood turned on him then, and shouted angrily: "Yes, damn you, I do! If he were here now he'd have a suggestion; he'd have some resources. What have _you_ to offer?" Pusey lifted the glass and even turned deliberately to hold it more in range with the window, so that the light could stream through it and bring out the rich, warm colors of the liquor. And then, carefully tilting the drink into his gullet, he put the glass down, sucked his mustache into his mouth to get the last lingering taste of the whisky, and said: "Buy him." "Who?" said Garwood. "Rankin." Garwood took an impetuous step toward Pusey, and then halting suddenly he stared at him in utter amazement. Hale turned on the little editor a look no less startled, but quickly glanced around at Garwood to see what he would do. The anger that had flushed Garwood's face slowly died out of it, and his lips began to curl into a mordant smile that slowly took on in turn the qualities of contempt and pity. "Pusey," he said, not at all in the tone that Hale had expected to hear break from him, "Pusey," he said, "don't be foolish." "Foolish?" repeated Pusey seriously. "Is it so foolish, think you?" "Damnably foolish," Garwood replied. "Pardon me," Pusey said, "you evidently misunderstood me." "Misunderstood you? Didn't you suggest buying Jim Rankin? You evidently don't know men."