The candidate smiled faintly.  “Yes,” he answered.  “Beer.”

“Exactly; and when he gave you the beer, that MacHenty man whispered in your ear, ‘Drink that; it’ll go better wid the byes.’”

“He did,” said Thaddeus, meekly.

“And yet you talk about this appeal to a reasonable balance of power!  Really, Teddy, you are becoming demoralized.  Politics, as I see it, is an appeal to thirst, and nothing else.”

“‘You never miss the voter till the keg runs dry,’” sang the candidate, with a more or less successful attempt at gayety.  “But never mind, Bess.  I’ve had enough, and if I’m beaten this time I’ll never do it again.  So don’t worry; and, after all, this is only a municipal election.  The difference between a grand inspiring massive war for principle and a street riot.  The supreme court of arbitration, the people, can be relied on to do the right thing in the end.  They are sane.  They are honest.  They are not all thirsty, and in this as in all contests the blatant attract the most attention.  The barker at the door of the side show to the circus makes more noise than the eight-headed boy that makes the mare go.”

“You’re a trifle mixed in your metaphors, Teddy,” said Mrs. Perkins.

“Well who wouldn’t be, after a three weeks’ appeal to an arid waste of voters?”

“A waste of arid voters,” amended Mrs. Perkins.

“The amendment is accepted,” laughed Thaddeus.  And at that moment a telephone call from headquarters summoned him abroad.

“Good-night, Bess,” he said, kissing his wife affectionately.  “This is the last night.”

“Good-night, Teddy; I hope it is.  And next time when they ask you to run—­”

“You shall be the balance of power, and decide the question for me,” said the candidate, as, with sorrow in his heart, he left his home to seek out what he called “the branch office of Hades,” political headquarters, where were gathered some fifty persons, most of whom began life in other countries, under different skies, and to whom the national anthem “America” meant less and aroused fewer sentiments worth having than that attractive two-step “St. Patrick’s Day in the Morning,” and who were yet sufficiently powerful with the various “balances” of the town to hold its political destinies in their itching palms.

* * * * *

Two months after this discussion the late Honorable Thaddeus Perkins, ex-candidate, and Mayor of Dumfries Corners only by courtesy of those who honor defeated candidates with titles for which they have striven unsuccessfully, was strolling through the country along the line of the Croton Aqueduct, trying to disentangle, with the aid of the fresh sweet air of an early summer afternoon, an idea for a sonnet from the mazes of his brain.  Stopping for a moment to look down upon the glorious Hudson stretching its shimmering length like a bimetallic serpent to the north and south, he suddenly became conscious of a pair of very sharp eyes resting upon him, which a closer inspection showed belonged to a laborer of seemingly diminutive stature, who was engaged in carrying earth in a wheelbarrow from one dirt-pile to another.  As Thaddeus caught his eye the laborer assumed towering proportions.  He rose up quite two feet higher in the air and bowed.