“After listening many times to the testimony of expert alienists in court trials I have come to the conclusion that all the folks in the world are crazy, son, or else nobody is ever crazy.  I don’t think I’ll express any opinion on the Prophet.  I might find myself qualifying as an alienist expert.  I’d hate to!”

After that mild rebuff Vaniman gave all his mind to the game—­for when the Squire played euchre he wanted to attend strictly to the business in hand.  And in the span of time between dusk and supper the two were rarely interrupted.

But on this afternoon they were out of luck.

Men came tramping up the screaking outside stairs that conducted to the office; the Squire had a room over Ward’s general store.

The men were led into the office by Isaac Jones—­“Gid-dap Ike,” he was named—­the driver of the mail stage between Egypt and the railroad at Levant.

For a moment Squire Hexter looked really alarmed.  There were half a dozen men in the party and he was not accustomed to irruptions of numbers.  Then his greeting smile linked his whisker tufts.  Mr. Jones and his party pulled off their hats and by their demeanor of awkward dignity stood convicted as being members of a delegation formally presenting themselves.

“Hullo, boys!  Have chairs.  Excuse the momentary hesitation.  I was afraid you had come after me with a soaped rope.”

“I reckon we won’t set,” stated Mr. Jones.  “And we’ll be straight and to the point, seeing that a game is on.  Squire Hexter, me and these gents represent the voters of Egypt.  We ask you to accept the nomination to the legislature from this town for next session.  So say I.”

“So say we all!” chorused the other men.

The Squire set the thumb and forefinger of each hand into a whisker fluff and twisted a couple of spills, squinting at them.  “The compliment is esteemed, boys.  But the previousness is perplexing.  This is February, and the primaries are not till June.”

“Squire Hexter, it ain’t too early to show a man in this town where he gets off.  That man is Tasper Britt.  He has had ten dollars’ worth of telling to-day by ‘Sniffer’ Orne.  But telling ain’t showing.  What do you say?”

The Squire gave Jones a whimsical wink and indicated the attentive Vaniman with a jab of the thumb.  “S-s-sh!  Look out, or the rate of interest will go up.”

Jones and his associates scowled at the cashier, and Vaniman understood with added bitterness the extent of his vicarious atonement as Britt’s mouthpiece at the wicket of the bank.

“The interest-payers of this town have been well dreened.  But the voters—­the voters, understand, still have assets.  The voters have got to the point where they ain’t afraid of Tasper Britt.  The cashier of his bank can so report to him, if the said cashier so chooses—­and, as cashier, probably will.”

“The cashier will attend strictly and exclusively to his bank duties, and to nothing else,” declared Vaniman, with heat.