“No, but we feel that the old war-horses are entitled to run to pasture with their shoes off,” coaxed the chairman.

“It seems to me more like tying me up to a stanchion in a stall.  I ain’t ungrateful, gents.  I know this younger element doesn’t believe in setting hens in politics any more.  It’s the incubator nowadays—­wholesale job of it.  But, by dadder! my settings have always cracked the shells, twelve to the dozen!  Then you don’t want me, eh?”

“That job in the state land-office—­we thought it would just about fit you,” suggested the chairman.

“I’d just as soon be sent to state prison—­solitary confinement.  The state hasn’t got any land any more.  It has all been peddled out to the grabbers.  I’ve messed and mingled with men all my life.  Nobody ever comes into the land-office.  You ain’t afraid of me to that extent, be you?”

“What do you want?” asked the governor.

“Settled, is it, you don’t want me in politics?”

“There isn’t anything for you to do,” declared his Excellency, and he showed a little impatience, though his smile did not fade.

“Well, then make me state liberian,” said old Dan, with an air of resignation.

There was deep and horrified silence.

“I’m developing literary instinks,” explained Breed.  “I’ve got a son who owns a printing-office, and my granddaughter can take down anything in shorthand and write it off.  I’m going to write a book.  She’ll take it down and he’ll print it.”

“I can’t appoint you state librarian,” said the governor, getting control of his emotions.  “It’s already tied up, that appointment.  Keep it under your hat, but I have selected Reverend Doctor Fletcher, of Cornish, and have notified him.”

“Giving a plum like that to a parson who never controlled but one vote, and that’s his own—­and then voted the way the deacon told him to?  I reckon it’s about as you say—­there are new times in politics.  All right!  I’ll go and climb a sumach-bush.  You needn’t bother about any job for me, gents.  I’ll settle down to my literary work.”

“What is the book?” asked the chairman.

“I have your word for it that the old days in politics have all gone by,” said Breed.  “All the old things dead and buried!  Very well.  That’s going to make my book valuable and interesting.  No harm in putting it out in these times.  I shall entitle it ’Breed’s Handbook of Political Deviltry.’  I shall tell the story of how it was done when politics was really politics.”

“Going to tell all you know?” inquired the governor.

“Of course.  Truth, and not poetry, will be my motto.  And just for a test of how popular it will be, I’d like to ask you gents how many of you will subscribe for a volume?”

“I think this committee will take the whole edition,” said the chairman, dryly.

“Look here, Dan,” blurted the attorney-general, “you must be joking.”