Mr. Pixley's small eyes lowered furtively. He glanced once toward the
door, stroked his stubby chin, and answered softly: "Don't you be too
sure of that, young feller. Them banks is fightin' each other ag'in!"

"Bank? Fight? W'at eesa that?" inquired the merchant, with an entirely
blank mind.

"There's one thing it _ain't_," replied the other, in the same
confidential tone. "It ain't no two-by-four campaign. All I got to say
to you boys is: 'Foller yer leader'--and you'll wear pearl
collar-buttons!"

"Vote a Republican," interjected Leo Vesschi gutturally.

The furtiveness of Mr. Pixley increased.

"Well--mebbe," he responded, very deliberately. "I reckon I better
put you boys next, right now's well's any other time. Ain't nothin'
ever gained by not bein' open 'n' above-board; that's my motto, and I
ack up to it. You kin ast 'em, jest ast the boys, and you'll hear it
from each-an-dall: 'Frank Pixley's _square_!' That's what they'll
tell ye. Now see here, this is the way it is. I ain't worryin' much
about who goes to the legislature, or who's county-commissioners, nor
none o' _that. Why_ ain't I worryin'? Because it's picayune. It's
peanut politics. It ain't where the money is. No, sir, this campaign
is on the treasurership. Taylor P. Singleton is runnin' fer treasurer
on the Republican ticket, and Gil. Maxim on the Democratic. But that
ain't where the fight is." Mr. Pixley spat contemptuously. "Pah!
whichever of 'em gits it won't no more'n draw his salary. It's the
banks. If Singleton wins out, the Washington National gits the use of