“Why—­I—­er—­no, of course not,” the visitor stammered.  “I am in politics for my party’s sake, just like everybody else,” and Sanders grinned suggestively at his questioner.

“Have you anything further to say?” asked Langdon, in a tone hinting that he would like to be rid of his caller.

“Well, since you are so very new in this game, Senator, I’ll talk right out in meetin’, as they call it.  I came to ask about an appointment an’ to tip you off on a couple o’ propositions.  I want Jim Hagley taken care of—­you’ve heard of Jim—­was clerk o’ Fenimore County.  A $2,000 a year job’ll do for him; $500 o’ that he gives to the organization.”

“You’re the organization, aren’t you?” queried Langdon.

“Why, yes.  Are you just gettin’ wise?” cried Sanders.  “Haven’t I got fellers, voters, voters, voters, d—­n it, hangin’ on to me that needs to be taken care of!  An’ so I make the fellers that work help those that don’t.  Why, Langdon, what’n h—­l are you kickin’ an’ questioning’ about?  Didn’t you get my twelve votes in the Legislature?  Did you have a chance for Senator without ’em?  Answer me that, will you?  Why, with ‘em you only had two more than needed to elect, an’ the opposition crowd was solid for Wilson,” cried the angry boss, pounding the long table before which Langdon sat.

“I’ll answer you almighty quick,” retorted the now thoroughly aroused Senator-elect, rising and shaking his clenched fist at Sanders.  “Those twelve votes you say were yours—­yours?”

“Yes, mine.  Them noble legislators that cast ’em was an’ is mine, mine.  I tell you, jest like I had ’em in my pocket, an’ that’s where I mostly carry ’em, so as they won’t go strayin’ aroun’ careless like.”

“You didn’t have to vote those men for me.  I told you at the Capitol that I would not make you or anybody else any promises.  You voted them for me of your own accord.  That’s my answer.”

At this point the gentlemen of the county present when Sanders entered and who had no desire to witness further the unpleasant episode, rose to leave, in spite of the urgent request of Colonel Langdon that they remain.  The only one reluctant to go was Deacon Amos Smallwood, who, coming to the plantation to seek employment for his son, had not been denied of his desire to join the assemblage of his neighbors.

Last to move toward the door, he stopped in front of Sanders, stretched his five feet three inches of stature on tiptoe, and shook a withered fist in the boss’ firmly set, determined face.

“Infamous!” shrieked the deacon.  “You’re a monster!  You’re unrighteous!  You should have belonged to the political machine of Cataline or Pontius Pilate!”

“Never heard tell o’ them,” muttered Sanders, deeply puzzled.  “Guess they was never in Mississippi in my time.”

His accompanying gesture of perplexity caused the deacon to hasten his exit.  Tripping over the leg of a chair, he fell headlong into the arms of the watchful Jackson, who received the deacon’s blessing for “uplifting the righteous in the hour of their fall.”