"There was no exaggeration in this case," the Judge said.
"Just wanted to hear you say it. With your own silver tongue."
"Well, you've heard it," the Judge said, standing straight in the middle of the floor, "an in that case, at your leisure–" the Judge's face was the color of calf's liver again, even if the word did come out cold and spaced–"if you have finished your drink–"
"Why, thanks, Judge," the Boss said, sweet as chess pie, "I reckon I will take another spot." And he heaved himself in the direction of the bottle.
He did his work, and said, "Thanks."
When he was back in the leather chair with the fresh load in the glass, he said, "Yeah, Judge, I've heard you say it, but I just wanted to hear you say something else. Are you sure you took it to the Lord in prayer? Huh?"
"I have settled the matter in my own mind," the Judge said.
"Well, if I recollect right–" the Boss ruminatively turned the glass in his hands–"back in town, when we had our little talk, you sort of felt my boy Masters was all right."
"I made no commitment," the Judge said sharply. "I didn't make any commitment except to my conscience,"
"You been messing in politics a long time, Judge," the Boss said, easy, "and–" he took a drag from the glass–"so has your conscience."
"I beg your pardon," the Judge snapped.
"Nuts," the Boss said, and grinned. "But what got you off Masters?"
"Certain features of his career came to my attention."
"Somebody dug up some dirt for you, huh?"
"If you choose to call it that," the Judge said.
"Dirt's a funny thing," t he Boss said. "Come to think of it, there ain't a thing but dirt on this green God's globe except what's under water, and that's dir too. It's dirt makes the grass grow. A diamond ain't a thing in the world but a piece of dirt that got awful hot. And God-a-Mighty picked up a handful of dirt and blew on it and made you and me and George Washington and mankind blessed in faculty and apprehension. It all depends on what you do with the dirt. That right?
"That doesn't alter the fact," the Judge said from way up there where his head was, above the rays of the desk lamp, "that Masters doesn't strike me as a responsible man."
"He better be responsible," the Boss said, "or I'll break his God-damned neck!"
"That's the trouble, Masters would be responsible to you."
"It's a fact," the Boss admitted ruefully, lifting his face under the light, and shaking his face in fatalistic sadness. "Masters'd be responsible to me. I can't help it. But Callahan–now take Callahan–it sort of seems to me he's gonna be responsible to you and Alta Power and God knows who else before he's through. And what's the difference? Huh?"
"Well–"
"Well, hell!" The Boss popped straight up in the chair with that inner explosiveness he had when, all of a sudden, he would snatch a fly out of the air or whip his head at you and his eyes would snap open. He popped up and his heels dug into the red carpet. Some of the liquor sloshed out of his glass onto his Palm Beach pants. "Well, I'll tell you the difference, Judge! I can deliver Masters and you can't deliver Callahan. And that's a big difference."
"I'll have to take my chance," the Judge said from way up there.
"Chance?" And the Boss laughed. "Judge," he said, and quit laughing, "you haven't got but one chance. You been guessing right in this state going on forty years. You been sitting back here in this room and nigger boys been single-footing in here bringing you toddies and you been guessing right. You been sitting back here and grinning to yourself while the rest of 'em were out sweating on the stump and snapping their suspenders, and when you wanted anything you just reached out and took it. Oh, if you had a little time off from duck hunting and corporation law you might do a hitch as Attorney General. So you did. Or play at being a judge. You been a judge a long time. How it would feel not to be a judge any more?"
"No man," Judge Irwin said, and stood up there straight in the middle of the floor, "has ever been able to intimidate me."
"Well, I never tried," the Boss said, "yet. And I'm not trying now. I'm going to give you a chance. You say somebody gave you some dirt on Masters? Well, just suppose I gave you some dirt on Callahan?–Oh, don't interrupt! Keep your shirt on!"–and he held up his hand. "I haven't been doing any digging, but I might, and if I went out in the barn lot and stuck my shovel in and brought you in some of the sweet-smelling and put it under the nose of your conscience, then do you know what your conscience would tell you to do? It would tell you to withdraw your endorsement of Callahan. And the newspaper boys would be over here thicker'n bluebottle flies on dead dog, and you could tell 'em all about you and your conscience. You wouldn't even have to back Masters. You and your conscience could just go off arm in arm and have a fine time telling each other how much you think of each other."
"I have endorsed Callahan," the Judge said. He didn't flicker.
"I maybe could give you the dirt," the Boss said speculatively. "Callahan's been playing around for a long time, and he who touches pitch shall be defiled, and little boys just will walk barefoot in the cow pasture." He looked up at Judge Irwin's face, squinting, studying it, cocking his own head to one side.
The grandfather's clock in the corner of the room, I suddenly realized, wasn't getting any younger. It would drop out a _tick__, and the _tick__ would land inside my head like a rock dropped in a well, and the ripples would circle out and stop, and the _tick__ would sink down the dark. For a piece of time which was no long or short, and might not even be time, there wouldn't be anything. Then the _tock__ would drop down the well, and the ripples would circle out and finish.
The Boss quit studying Judge Irwin's face, which didn't show anything. He let himself sink in the chair, shrugged his shoulders, and lifted the glass up for a drink. Then he said, "Suit yourself, Judge. But you know, there is another way to play it. Maybe somebody might give Callahan a little shovelful on somebody else and Callahan might grow a conscience all of a sudden and repudiate his endorser. You know, when this conscience business starts, ain't no telling where it'll stop, and when you start the digging–"
"I'll thank you, sir–" Judge Irwin took a step toward the big chair, and his face wasn't the color of calf's liver now–it was long past that and streaked white back from the base of the jutting nose–"I'll thank you, sir, to get out of that chair and get out of this house!"
The Boss didn't lift his head off the leather. He looked up at the Judge, sweet and trusting, and then cocked his eyes over to me. "Jack," he said, "you were sure right. The Judge don't scare easy."
"Get out," the judge said, not loud this time.
"Those old bones don't move fast," the Boss murmured sadly, "but now I have tried to do my bounden duty, let me go." Then he drained his glass, set it on the floor beside the chair, and rose. He stood in front of the Judge, looking up at him, squinting again, cocking his head to one side again, like a farmer getting ready to buy a horse.
I set my glass on the shelf of the bookcase behind me. I discovered that I hadn't touched it, not since the first sip. _Well, to hell with it__, I thought, and let it stand. Some nigger boy would get it in the morning.
Then, as though he had decided against buying the horse, the Boss shook his head and passed around the Judge, as though the Judge weren't a man at all, or even a horse, as though he were the corner of a house or a tree, and headed for the hall door, putting his feet down slow and easy on the red carpet. No hurry.
For a second or two the Judge didn't even move his head; then he swung round and watched the Boss going toward the door, and his eyes glittered up there in the shadow above the lamp.