Nothing could be less
suited to his present humour than the society which awaited him in
his rooms. He groaned in spirit as he sat down at his writing-table
and looked about him. Dozens of office-seekers were besieging the
house; men whose patriotic services in the last election called
loudly for recognition from a grateful country.
They brought their applications to the Senator with an entreaty that
he would endorse and take charge of them. Several members and
senators who felt that Ratcliffe had no reason for existence except
to fight their battle for patronage, were lounging about his room,
reading newspapers, or beguiling their time with tobacco in
various forms; at long intervals making dull remarks, as though
they were more weary than their constituents of the atmosphere
that surrounds the grandest government the sun ever shone upon.
Several newspaper correspondents, eager to barter their news for
Ratcliffe's hints or suggestions, appeared from time to time on the
scene, and, dropping into a chair by Ratcliffe's desk, whispered
with him in mysterious tones.
Thus the Senator worked on, hour after hour, mechanically doing
what was required of him, signing papers without reading them,
answering remarks without hearing them, hardly looking up from
his desk, and appearing immersed in labour. This was his
protection against curiosity and garrulity.
The pretence of work was the curtain he drew between himself and
the world.
Behind this curtain his mental operations went on, undisturbed by
what was about him, while he heard all that was said, and said
little or nothing himself.
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