The hair at his temples was
almost white, but heavy and coarse. An iron-gray wisp straggled over his
brow, where he had run a hand through it, apparently; his eyes were
gray, keen, with a light in them that hinted of a cold composure equal
to that which gleamed in Lawler's. The long, hooked nose, though, gave
the eyes an appearance of craftiness, and the slightly downward droop at
the corners of his mouth suggested cynicism.
He smiled, veiling an ironic flash in his eyes by drooping the lids, as
he spoke to his visitor.
"Hello, Lawler," he said, smiling faintly, "take a chair." He waved a
hand toward one, on the side of the desk opposite him. "It's been a long
time since you struck town, hasn't it--since the last state
convention--eh?"
There was a hint of laughter in his voice, a suggestion of mockery in
the unspoken inference that he remembered the defeat of Lawler's
candidate.
Lawler smiled. "Well, you did beat us, that's a fact, Hatfield. There's
no use denying that. But we took our medicine, Hatfield."
"You had to," grinned the other. "Whenever the people of a state----"
"Hatfield," interrupted Lawler, gravely, "it seems to me that the people
of this state are always taking medicine--political medicine. That's
what I have come to talk with you about.
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