"Help!" exclaimed David, taking possession of the wrist and circling it
with his thumb and forefinger. "Let me send for a crate of eggs and a
case of the malt-milk! You poor starved peach-bud you, _why won't_ you
marry me and let me feed you? I'm going--"

"But you and the major both recommended 'lovers' troubles' to me, David,"
Phoebe hazarded.

"I only recommended _my_ own special brand, remember," retorted David. "I
won't have you ill! I'm going to see that you do as I say about your--"

"David Kildare," remarked the major from the door into the hall, "if you
use that tone to the grand jury they will shut up every saloon in Hell's
Half Acre. Hail the judge! My boy, my boy, I knew you'd line up when the
time came--and the line!"

"Can I count on the full artillery of the _Gray Picket_ brigade, Major?"
demanded David with delight in his eyes as he returned the major's
vigorous hand-shake.

"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