Part 72

“We are going to steal a little of the kid-gloved chaps' thunder,” explained the chairman. “They have been howling about machine politics and interlocking interests and air-tight methods until the people are growling about the close corporation they say we've got. So we're going to show 'em a thing or two. Nothing like frankness and open house.”

“Gor-ram it, you ain't even square with me--after I have worked politics with you for twenty-five years!” He marched up to the table and rapped his hard little knuckles on it. “It's this way, gents,” he said, “and I'll be short and sweet. What's the matter with politics when a man like I've always been gets pi-oogled out of the councils?”

“We don't need workers like you any more,” stated the chairman.

“But there's politics to play, just the same.”

“But in a different way, Breed. There are the new ideas, and new men can operate more efficiently. They won't attract attention.”

“Old Maid Orne down in my town came into church late and crawled up the aisle on her hands and knees so as not to attract attention. And she broke up the meeting!”

“We've got to fall in with the new ways, Dan,” said the attorney-general. “These are touchy times. We must be careful of the party.”

“I 'ain't never disgraced it, have I?”

“Uncle Dan, we want you to take a good, comfortable position and settle down,” affirmed Governor Alonzo Harwood, an unctuous, rubicund gentleman who had been listening, smiling his everlasting smile.

“I prefer to hold myself in readiness for a call to the field,” squalled Breed. “I'm better'n three of these young snydingles. They don't know how to organize!”

“There isn't much chance for organizing,” said a Congressman, placatingly. “The primaries take care of themselves pretty well.”

“Yes,” sneered old Dan, “a fellow thinks well of himself, or else his neighbors tell him he can save the nation, and he puts a piece in the paper saying how good he is and sets pictures of himself up in store winders like a cussed play-actor, keeps a cash account, and thinks that's politics. I don't care if there ain't ever no more caucuses. This thing ain't going to last. I want to keep in the field. I'll see chances to heave trigs into the spokes of these hallelujah chariots they're rolling to political glory in!”

The mighty ones exchanged glances--deprecating glances--apprehensive glances.

“You don't think I'm dangerous, do you, after I've been in politics as long as I have?”

“No, but we feel that the old war-horses are entitled to run to pasture with their shoes off,” coaxed the chairman.

“It seems to me more like tying me up to a stanchion in a stall. I ain't ungrateful, gents. I know this younger element doesn't believe in setting hens in politics any more. It's the incubator nowadays--wholesale job of it. But, by dadder! my settings have always cracked the shells, twelve to the dozen! Then you don't want me, eh?”

“That job in the state land-office--we thought it would just about fit you,” suggested the chairman.

“I'd just as soon be sent to state prison--solitary confinement. The state hasn't got any land any more. It has all been peddled out to the grabbers. I've messed and mingled with men all my life. Nobody ever comes into the land-office. You ain't afraid of me to that extent, be you?”

“What do you want?” asked the governor.

“Settled, is it, you don't want me in politics?”

“There isn't anything for you to do,” declared his Excellency, and he showed a little impatience, though his smile did not fade.

“Well, then make me state liberian,” said old Dan, with an air of resignation.

There was deep and horrified silence.

“I'm developing literary instinks,” explained Breed. “I've got a son who owns a printing-office, and my granddaughter can take down anything in shorthand and write it off. I'm going to write a book. She'll take it down and he'll print it.”

“I can't appoint you state librarian,” said the governor, getting control of his emotions. “It's already tied up, that appointment. Keep it under your hat, but I have selected Reverend Doctor Fletcher, of Cornish, and have notified him.”

“Giving a plum like that to a parson who never controlled but one vote, and that's his own--and then voted the way the deacon told him to? I reckon it's about as you say--there are new times in politics. All right! I'll go and climb a sumach-bush. You needn't bother about any job for me, gents. I'll settle down to my literary work.”

“What is the book?” asked the chairman.

“I have your word for it that the old days in politics have all gone by,” said Breed. “All the old things dead and buried! Very well. That's going to make my book valuable and interesting. No harm in putting it out in these times. I shall entitle it 'Breed's Handbook of Political Deviltry.' I shall tell the story of how it was done when politics was really politics.”