“Well,” he said to another man, who was leaning with a relaxation of all his muscles against the little strip of counter, which contained a modest assortment of hair-oils and shaving-brushes and soaps which nobody was ever seen to buy—­“well, John has lost ten pounds since the election, Tappan.”

Tappan ran a milk-route between Banbridge and Ardmoor, a little farming-place six miles out.  Tappan was an Ardmoor man.  His milk-wagon stood in front of the “Tonsorial Parlor.”  He had a drink of beer at Frank Steinbach’s saloon next door, and now was waiting for his Sunday shave before going home.  His milk-peddling was over for the day.  He was a hard-working-man, and had been on the road since four o’clock.  He had a heavy look about his eyes, and he greeted Amidon’s facetiousness with a weary and surly hitch.

“Has he?” he replied, indifferently.

But a very young, very small man, sitting in one of the “Parlor” arm-chairs, laughed like a child, with intense enjoyment.  “Yep,” he said, “I’ve noticed that.  As much as ten pounds has went since election, sure.”

“Shet up,” replied Flynn, carefully scraping his patron’s face.  He said “Shet up” with an expression of foolish pride.  The postmaster of Banbridge, who was sitting somewhat aloof and held himself with a constraint of exclusiveness (he was new to his office and had not yet lost the taste of its dignity), laughed.

“Let me see, how many votes did you have this year, John?” he asked, condescendingly.

“Five,” replied John, with open exultation.

“Now, John, why didn’t you get more than that, I’d like to know?”

Flynn laughed knowingly.  “Oh,” he said, “it’s the old story—­not money enough.”

“But a lot promised they’d vote for you, didn’t they, John?” persisted the postmaster, Sigsbee Ray, with a wink of humorous confidence at the others.

“Yep, but damme, who expects anybody to keep an election promise if he ain’t paid for it?  I ain’t unreasonable.  What’s elections for?  You wait.”

“Haven’t you given up yet, John?”

“Well, I guess not.  You wait.”

“Say, John,” interposed Amidon, “how much did you pay them five what voted for you this year, hey?”

Flynn looked up from Rosenstein’s belathered face with a burst of simple triumph.  “I didn’t pay any of them a penny,” said he.  “There is damn fools everywhere, and you wait,” said he, “an’ see ef there ain’t more come to light next time.  I’ll fetch it yet, along of the fools, an’ ef I can raise a leetle money, an’ I begin to see my way clear to that.”

“How’s that?” John was asked by the small young man.

“I’m layin’ low ’bout that,” replied John, mysteriously.

“Now, John,” said the postmaster, “you wouldn’t lay low if there was a good chance to make some money, and not give us poor devils a chance?”

The postmaster spoke consciously.  He expected what came, the buzz of remonstrance at his classing himself in his new office with poor devils.