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Farwell shifted a little in his chair, but he didn’t speak, and Gorgett went on:

“I suppose you think it’s mighty hard that your private character should be used against you in a political question by a man you call a public corruptionist. But I’m in a position where I can’t take any chances against an antagonist that won’t play the game my way. I had to find your vulnerable point to defend myself, and, in finding it, I find that there’s no need to defend myself any longer, because it makes all your weapons ineffective. I believe the trouble with you, Mr. Knowles, is that you’ve never realized that politicians are human beings. But we are: we breathe and laugh and like to do right, like other folks. And, like most men, you’ve thought you were different from other men, and you aren’t. So, here you are. I believe you said you’d had a hard night?”

Knowles looked up at last, his lips working for a while before he could speak. “I’ll resign now–if you’ll–if you’ll let me off,” he said.

Gorgett shook his head. “I’ve got the election in my hand,” he answered, “though you fellows don’t know it. You’ve got nothing to offer me, and you couldn’t buy me if you had.”

At that, Knowles just sank into himself with a little, faint cry, in a kind of heap. There wasn’t anything but anguish and despair to him. Big tears were sliding down his cheeks.

I didn’t say anything. Gorgett sat looking at him for a good while; and then his fat chin began to tremble a little and I saw his eyes shining in the shadow under his old hat-brim.

He got up and went over to Farwell with slow steps and put his hand gently on his shoulder.

“Go on home to your wife,” he said, in a low voice that was the saddest I ever heard. “I don’t bear you any ill-will in the world. Nobody’s going to give you away.”