suspicion. "Say," said Holman, pointing with a long forefinger, "ain't that old Ike Bemis down there—Bemis, of Tazewell? Yes? Well, now, just call a page-boy, won't you? And have him tell Bemis an old friend wants to see him."
Bemis was, in his way, a phenomenon unparalleled in politics; he had been in the house before Holman and had held on, minority member from his district, the Republican and Democratic machines working harmoniously together, for a quarter of a century. And as he came up the aisle in response to Holman's message he seemed to Holman to have changed little; only his hair from iron gray had grown white, and his face was not so clear or ruddy or healthy as he had known it. He was dressed as he used to be in the gray clothes that made him look so like a prosperous farmer, and the hand he held out to Holman was, by some mystery, rough and horny, as if it had worked indeed.
"Why, bless the Lord!" he cried, "if it ain't Jim Holman!"
He shook Holman's hand with genuine pleasure and, putting his arm across Holman's shoulders, led him away to a divan under the gallery.
