"Then who is the man?" asked the Commissioner.
Blake took out a cigar, bit the end off, and struck a match. It was out of place; but it was a sign of his independence. He had long since given up plug and fine-cut and taken to fat Havanas, which he smoked audibly, in plethoric wheezes. Good living had left his body stout and his breathing slightly asthmatic. He sat looking down at his massive knees; his oblique study of Copeland, apparently, had yielded him scant satisfaction. Copeland, in fact, was making paper fans out of the official note-paper in front of him.
"What 's the matter with Washington and Wilkie?" inquired Blake, attentively regarding, his cigar.
"They 're just where we are—at a standstill," acknowledged the Commissioner.
"And that 's where we 'll stay!" heavily contended the Second Deputy.
The entire situation was an insidiously flattering one to Blake. Every one else had
