I wouldn't have to fidgit to get even with you. But take your
standpoint, Excellency. There's iniquitous limits to you. For
instance, you can't put up an Executive Edict by yourself.
Consequence is, there's no glory in it for you. But you can put up a
Proclamation, runnin' like this: 'Five hundred dollars reward for
capture and return of one Sadler, that committed humiliatin' assault
on one Hillary, and sp'iled the stomachs and b'iled the skins of
patriotic municipal guardsmen, which shameful person is more'n six
feet of iniquity, and his features homely beyond belief, complexion
dilapidated, and conscience dyspeptic.' Of course, Excellency, there
couldn't anybody give you points on a Proclamation. I ain't doin'
that, but I was supposin' it was printed in the national colours,
with a spectacular reward precedin' a festival of language. Printed,
posted, and scattered over Ferdinand Street and the British
Consulate, what happens? British majesty pacified, Ferdinand Street
solid for a Mayor that puts that value on Pete Hillary, Transport
Company don't object. Everybody happy, except me. Don't mind me. I go
my lonesome way."

Sadler turned away, depressed, and looked at the chain gang in the
Plaza. The Mayor's eyes glistened. Dorcas pulled his beard, and he
says:

"There'd be more in it for you, Excellency, that's a fact."

The Mayor came over and patted Sadler on the shoulder, and his voice
showed emotion.

"My friend, be not sad. To be sacrificed to public policy is noble."