“English language, I tell you!” Britt emphasized his stand as a stickler by a tremendous thump of his fist on the desk.

Orne jabbed his finger back and forth from his breast to the direction of Britt, with the motions of the “eeny, meeny” game.  “I was mistook.  You was mistook.  I figgered on your money.  So did you.  I figgered you’d go strong in politics like you had in finance.  So did you.”  Mr. Orne put his hand up sidewise and sliced the air.  “Nothing doing in politics, Mr. Britt!  You can cash in on straight capital, but there ain’t a cent in the dollar for you when you try to collect in what you ’ain’t ever invested.  A man don’t have to be so blamed popular after he is well settled in politics; but you’ve got to have some real human-nature assets to get a start with.  You’ve got to depend on given votes—­not the boughten ones.”

“Orne, you’re rasping me mighty hard.”

“You demanded facts—­not hair-oil talk.”

“Then the facts are—­” Britt hesitated.

“Facts is that, by the usual arrangement in the legislative class of towns, Egypt had the choice this year.  You won’t get a vote in Egypt.”

“But the men who come in here—­” Again Britt halted in a sentence.

“The men who come in here and sit down at that desk and pick up a pen to sign a note have fixed on their grins before they open your door.  But the men who get into a voting booth alone with God and a lead pencil, they’ll jab down on to that ballot a cross for t’other candidate that’ll look like a dent in a tin dipper.  Somebody else might lie to you about the situation, Mr. Britt.  I’ve done consid’able lying in politics, too.  But when I’m hired by a man to deliver goods—­and same has been paid for—­my word can be depended on.”

Britt turned around and looked into the depths of his desk, staring vacantly.  His rounded shoulders suggested grief.  Orne settled his wallet more firmly, pressing on the outside of the buffalo coat.  His face again sagged with sympathy.  “Mr. Britt, it’s only like what most of us do in this life—­take smiles without testing ’em with acid—­take words-current for what they seem to be worth, and then we do test ’em out and—­”

Britt whirled and broke on this fatuous preachment with an oath.  Mr. Orne thriftily withheld further sympathy; it was plainly wasted.

“Orne, I hope it’s about due to revise the New Testament again.  I want to send in some footnotes for that page where Judas Iscariot is mentioned.  I want a full roster of his descendants to appear; I’ll furnish the voting list of this town.  Get out of here and pass that word.”

But a yelp from the candidate halted the departing Orne at the door.  “Seeing that you have my ten dollars and are full of political information, perhaps you’ll throw in free of charge who it is this town is going to send to the legislature!”

“Only one thing has been decided on so far,” returned the politician.  “And, having no desire to rub it in, I’ll let you draw your own conclusions.”  Mr. Orne had the door open; he dodged out and slammed the door shut.