to sign a note have fixed on their grins before they open your door. But
the men who get into a voting booth alone with God and a lead pencil,
they'll jab down on to that ballot a cross for t'other candidate that'll
look like a dent in a tin dipper. Somebody else might lie to you about
the situation, Mr. Britt. I've done consid'able lying in politics, too.
But when I'm hired by a man to deliver goods--and same has been paid
for--my word can be depended on."

Britt turned around and looked into the depths of his desk, staring
vacantly. His rounded shoulders suggested grief. Orne settled his wallet
more firmly, pressing on the outside of the buffalo coat. His face again
sagged with sympathy. "Mr. Britt, it's only like what most of us do in
this life--take smiles without testing 'em with acid--take words-current
for what they seem to be worth, and then we do test 'em out and--"

Britt whirled and broke on this fatuous preachment with an oath. Mr.
Orne thriftily withheld further sympathy; it was plainly wasted.

"Orne, I hope it's about due to revise the New Testament again. I
want to send in some footnotes for that page where Judas Iscariot is
mentioned. I want a full roster of his descendants to appear; I'll
furnish the voting list of this town. Get out of here and pass that
word."

But a yelp from the candidate halted the departing Orne at the
door. "Seeing that you have my ten dollars and are full of political
information, perhaps you'll throw in free of charge who it is this town
is going to send to the legislature!"

"Only one thing has been decided on so far," returned the politician.