With this sententious remark, a long speech for Boss Quaid, the big fellow, who had just taken the end seat at the speakers’ table, glared at the microphone opposite the toastmaster’s seat halfway down the long alley of snowy linen. His pale little eyes betrayed secret anxiety through their slits of fat. “Why, it’s this way, Mr. Forsythe,” broke in the rat-faced little man at the boss’s left. “Take this dinner tonight, for instance. In the old days when we pulled a keynote dinner like this, that was to set the pace for the campaign, we could pretty much keep it bottled up. We had the newspaper boys fixed, and if anybody made the wrong turn, or started puttin’ tacks on the pike, maybe we cou…
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