"Hot shot, grape, canister and shrapnel, sir! Horses in lather, guns on

the wheel and bayonets set. We'll bivouac in the camp of the enemy on the

night of the election! We'll--"

"I don't believe you will want to lie down in the lair of the blind tiger

as soon as that, Major," laugher Phoebe.

"Phoebe," answered the major, "politics makes strange bed-fellows. Mike

O'Rourke, the boss of the democratic Irish, was around this morning

hunting for David Kildare with the entire green grocer's vote in his

pocket. He spoke of the boy as his own son."

"Good for old Mike!" laughed David. "It's not every boy who can boast an

intimate friendship with his corner grocer from childhood up. It means a

certain kind of---self-denial in the matter of apples and other

temptations. I used to go to the point of an occasional errand for him.

Those were the days, Phoebe, when you sat on the front steps and played

hollyhock dolls. Wish I'd kidnapped you then--when I could!"

"It would have saved us both lots of time--and trouble," answered Phoebe

daringly from the protection of the major's presence.

"David, sir," said the major who had been busy settling himself in his

chair and lighting his pipe during this exchange of pleasantries between

David and Phoebe, to the like of which he was thoroughly accustomed,

"this is going to be a fight to the ditches. I believe the whisky

ring that controls this city to be the worst machine south of Mason and

Dixon's. State-wide prohibition voted six months ago and every saloon in

the town going full tilt night and day! They own the city council, the

board of public works and the mayor, but none of that compares in

seriousness to the debauching of our criminal courts. The grand jury is

helpless if the judge dismisses every true bill they return--and Taylor

does it every time if it is a whisky law indictment or pertaining

thereto, and most of the bills are at least distantly pertaining. So

there you have us bound and helpless--a disgrace to the nation, sir, and

a reproach to good government!"

"Yes, Major, they've got us tied up some--but they forgot to gag us,"

answered David with a smile. "Your editorial in the _Gray Picket_,

calling on me to run for criminal court judge, has been copied in every

paper in the state and some of the large northern sheets. I am willing to

make the try, Major. I've practised down there more than you'd think and

it's rotten from the cellar steps to the lightning-rod. Big black buck is

sent up for rioting down at Hein's Bucket of Blood dive--stand aside and

forget about it--while some poor old kink is sent out to the pen for

running into a flock of sleepy hens in the dark, 'unbenkownst' entirely.

I defended six poor pick-ups last week myself, and I guess Taylor saw

my blood was on the boil at the way he's running things. I'm ready to

take a hand with him, but it will take some pretty busy doing around to

beat the booze gang. Am I the man--do you feel sure?"




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