"Well, there isn't much doubt about that, I imagine."
"Don't know--don't know. Seen some dead-sure things go wrong in my time."
"What's going to defeat him?" I asked pleasantly.
"I don't say anything," Mr. Jason replied. "But I've known funny things
to happen--never does to be dead sure."
"Oh, well, we're as sure as it's humanly possible to be," I declared. The
eyes continued to fascinate me, they had a peculiar, disquieting effect.
Now they died down, and it was as if the man's very presence had gone
out, as though I had been left alone; and I found it exceedingly
difficult, under the circumstances, to continue to address him. Suddenly
he flared up again.
"Watling send you over here?" he demanded.
"No. As a matter of fact, he's out of town. Some of Mr. Watling's
friends, Mr. Grunewald and Mr. Dickinson, Mr. Gorse and others, suggested
that I see you, Mr. Jason."
There came a grunt from the bed.
"Mr. Watling has always valued your friendship and support," I said.
"What makes him think he ain't going to get it?"
"He hasn't a doubt of it," I went on diplomatically. "But we felt--and I
felt personally, that we ought to be in touch with you, to work along
with you, to keep informed how things are going in the city."
"What things?"
"Well--there are one or two representatives, friends of yours, who
haven't come out for Mr. Watling. We aren't worrying, we know you'll do
the right thing, but we feel that it would have a good deal of influence
in some other parts of the state if they declared themselves. And then
you know as well as I do that this isn't a year when any of us can afford
to recognize too closely party lines; the Democratic administration has
brought on a panic, the business men in that party are down on it, and it
ought to be rebuked. And we feel, too, that some of the city's Democrats
ought to be loyal to Mr. Watling,--not that we expect them to vote for
him in caucus, but when it comes to the joint ballot--"
"Who?" demanded Mr. Jason.
"Senator Dowse and Jim Maher, for instance," I suggested.
"Jim voted for Bill 709 all right--didn't he?" said Mr. Jason abruptly.
"That's just it," I put in boldly. "We'd like to induce him to come in
with us this time. But we feel that--the inducement would better come
through you."
I thought Mr. Jason smiled. By this time I had grown accustomed to the
darkness, the face and figure of the man in the bed had become
discernible. Power, I remember thinking, chooses odd houses for itself.
Here was no overbearing, full-blooded ward ruffian brimming with
vitality, but a thin, sallow little man in a cotton night-shirt, with
iron-grey hair and a wiry moustache; he might have been an overworked
clerk behind a dry-goods counter; and yet somehow, now that I had talked
to him, I realized that he never could have been. Those extraordinary
eyes of his, when they were functioning, marked his individuality as
unique. It were almost too dramatic to say that he required darkness to
make his effect, but so it seemed. I should never forget him. He had in
truth been well named the Spider.
"Of course we haven't tried to get in touch with them. We are leaving
them to you," I added.
"Paret," he said suddenly, "I don't care a damn about Grunewald--never
did. I'd turn him down for ten cents. But you can tell Theodore Watling
for me, and Dickinson, that I guess the 'inducement' can be fixed."
I felt a certain relief that the interview had come to an end, that the
moment had arrived for amenities. To my surprise, Mr. Jason anticipated
me.
"I've been interested in you, Mr. Paret," he observed. "Know who you are,
of course, knew you were in Watling's office. Then some of the boys spoke
about you when you were down at the legislature on that Ribblevale
matter. Guess you had more to do with that bill than came out in the
newspapers--eh?"