Harwood was unfeignedly surprised at this.  The editor of the “Fraser County Democrat” had probably never dined at the Bassetts’ in his own town, or at least Dan assumed as much; and since he had gained an insight into Bassett’s affairs he was aware that the physical property of the “Fraser County Democrat” was mortgaged to Morton Bassett for quite all it was worth.  It was hardly possible that Thatcher was cultivating Pettit’s acquaintance for sheer joy of his society.  As the ponderous editor lumbered across the lobby to where they sat, Dan and Allen rose to receive his noisily cordial salutations.  On his visits to the capital, arrayed in a tremendous frock coat and with a flapping slouch hat crowning his big iron-gray head, he was a prodigious figure.

“Boys,” he said, dropping an arm round each of the young men, “the Democratic Party is the hope of mankind.  Free her of the wicked bosses, boil the corruption out of her, and the grand old Hoosier Democracy will appear once more upon the mountain tops as the bringer of glad tidings.  What’s the answer, my lads, to Uncle Ike’s philosophy?”

“Between campaigns we’re all reformers,” said Harwood guardedly.  “I feel it working in my own system.”

“Between campaigns,” replied the Honorable Isaac Pettit impressively, “we’re all a contemptible lot of cowards, that’s what’s the matter with us.  Was Thomas Jefferson engaged in manipulating legislatures?  Did he obstruct the will of the people?  Not by a long shot he did not!  And that grand old patriot, Andrew Jackson, wasn’t he satisfied to take his licker or let it alone without being like a heathen in his blindness, bowing down to wood and stone carved into saloons and distilleries?”

“It’s said by virtuous Republicans that our party is only a tail to the liquor interests.  If you’re going back to the Sage of Monticello, how do you think he would answer that?”

“Bless you, my dear boy; it’s not the saloons we try to protect; it’s the plain people, who are entitled to the widest and broadest liberty.  If you screw the lid down on people too tight you’ll smother ’em.  I’m not a drinkin’ man; I go to church and in my newspaper I preach the felicities of sobriety and domestic peace.  But it’s not for me to dictate to my brother what he shall eat or wear.  No, sir!  And look here, don’t you try to read me out of the Democratic Party, young man.  At heart our party’s as sweet and strong as corn; yea, as the young corn that leapeth to the rains of June.  It’s the bosses that’s keepin’ us down.”

“Your reference to corn throws us back on the distilleries,” suggested Harwood, laughing.