“I ain’t detracting from what you got for us.  But while you was dipping with your right hand for us, you was dipping with your left hand for yourself and them that trained with you,” retorted Davis.

“And I wasn’t to take any ordinary, human, business precautions about looking out for myself in any way, then?”

“You wasn’t supposed to be representing yourself down there.”

“For one hundred and fifty dollars every two years, and my mileage, I was to give up all my own business and my interests, and play statesman, pure and holy, for you up here?  Refuse to help those men down there who helped me when I wanted something, and go down in the rotunda twice a day and thumb my nose at the portraits of the fathers of the State because they played politics in their time?  That what you wanted me to do?”

“I’ve only got this to say,” retorted Mr. Davis, afraid to argue:  “You’re proposing to jam your grandson down our throats, now that you’ve made your pile and got tired.  You’re going to have a man from this district that will do what you say and keep on flimflamming the people.  I and them with me say no, and we’ll show you as much in the caucus to-day.”

“For the sake of having your own stubborn way—­like most of the others that are howling about ‘The People’ in this State just now—­you are ready to tip over this district’s apple-cart, are you?  Is that what you are trying to do?  You take what I have given you, legislation and money that I’ve paid for labor in this section, and then propose to kick my pride in the tenderest place?  I’ll show you, Davis!”

“Well, show!  We ain’t a mite scared.”

For some moments the throng in the town hall had shown waning interest in this discussion.  There seemed to be matters outside that distracted the attention of those near the windows.

“There’s a fire up Jo Quacca way!” called some one.  The windows of town hall were high and uncurtained.  All could see.  Smoke, ominous and yellow, ballooned in huge volumes across the blue sky of the June day.

“There ain’t no bonfire in that, gents,” declared a man.  “That fire has got a start, and if it’s in that slash from that logging operation, it ain’t going to be put out with no pint dipperful.”

There was sudden hush in the big room.  All men were gazing at the mounting masses that rolled into the heavens and blossomed bodefully over the wooded hills.  Fat clouds of the smoke hung high and motionless.  From the earth went up to them whirls and spirals and billowing discharges like smoke from noiseless artillery.

A man had climbed upon a window-sill of the hall in order to see more clearly.

“I tell you, boys,” he shouted, “that’s a racin’ fire, and it’s in that Jo Quacca slash!  I, for one, have got a stand of buildin’s in front of that fire.”

He jumped down and started for the door.  Several men followed him.

The chairman of the town committee began to shake a paper above his head.