Epistles from Pap: Letters from the man known as 'The Will Rogers of Indiana'

by Andrew Everett Durham

RICHARD FAIRFAX—A BULL STORY WITHOUT PEER

July 20, 1936
Mr. B.C. Byers
Macatawa, Mich.

My dear Mr. Byers: I haven't been in Indianapolis since I started the two little girls up into Maine to a girls camp, so unless I succeed in cooking up something, this letter will be a fizzle for news.

In May I bought a 16-months old Hereford bull, Hugh Fairfax by name, at the McCray Sale at Kentland. Since that time I bought a McCray-bred Fairfax Hereford bull from a Mr. Dillman at Waveland, and also traded an old Woodford Hereford bull to the Indiana State Farm for another McCray-bred Fairfax Hereford. So you see I am slightly in the bull business.

For your information, you knowing nothing about anything except railroading and good looking women, Mr. Warren T. McCray got his big start in Herefords after he acquired Perfection Fairfax, a Hereford bull that afterwards won the International Championship, and was acknowledged generally to be the greatest sire of his day. He started the "Fairfax" fashion.

In getting the pedigrees of these last two bulls straightened out, I made four trips to Kentland. The trip prior to the last one found the ex-Governor in a petulant frame of mind. He called me "Senator" very formally, was easily irritated and gave this and that as an excuse for the delay. The truth is, I think, that his herd books have been kept in about the same condition as Joe C— kept his desk in the Senate Chamber.

But my last trip was different. When I got there the old boy was in his office selling a Hereford to some young fellow from the north part of the state—I hope Lake County, because anybody from Lake County needs a trimming. I stayed outside and eventually they came out.

"Why, hello, Mr. Andy," said Warren T. "How are you this fine day?"

It was hotter than Tom B— ever got in a poker game.

I knew the old fellow had had a good breakfast, and that he had no doubt spliced me up a pair of pedigrees of some sort or other. I just sort of imagine that when a herd book gets slightly mixed up, or time has elapsed and a given bull's heredity sort of lost in the hazy past, that those fellows quietly sit down and whittle out a pedigree that sounds about right. . .

Let me tell you a bull story about as he related it to me last
Friday. This is Warren T. speaking:

"About 1902 or 1903, I wanted to branch out bigger, buy more land and become a Hereford leader for sure. . . Mr. — was showing Herefords in Indianapolis. He had by far the best bull I had seen or heard of. His name was Perfection Fairfax, and he had a pedigree that read like the Lees of Virginia. . . The only way his owner would part with him would be to sell his whole herd of 37 cows too—for $17,000 cash. I brought him home to Kentland. He won the International Championship and we both became famous in the Hereford world. The Fairfax strain took the country by storm. His sons and daughters were sensations. He lived until he was past 17 years old, and was a virile breeder to the day of his death."

"Look up yonder on the knoll past the machine shop and the big barn. See that cement column up there? The boys here at the farm erected that monument, and old Perfection Fairfax lies right under it. He died in 1918. Old Perfection made breeders millions of dollars. Look up there on the wall to my right. See that oil painting? That is Perfection Fairfax. I had a famous artist paint that. See that long picture over there on the wall east of old Perfection? That is a picture of 32 of his sons I sold at one time to one breeder down in the Argentine. We had that picture taken the day they left the farm. They made me some money."

"What is the highest price, Governor, that you ever got for a bull?" I asked.

"The highest price I ever got was $25,000."

"Holy Nellie," said I. "Isn't that the highest price anybody ever got?"

"No," he said. "Do you want me to tell you about that? . . .It's a pretty long story but interesting. Along about 1915 Perfection Fairfax was getting old, and I decided I'd go out again and buy the best young Hereford bull on Earth. As I traveled and asked, I kept hearing about a Richard Fairfax, one of old Perfection's calves—a calf I had raised, and still owned his mother. He had been sold at one of my sales and wound up in Dakota—and it was always the same tale that he was not for sale at any price, whatsoever. Absolutely."

"I made up my mind I'd just take his owner off his feet the first shot. I'd paralyze him with an offer he'd not refuse. I didn't want to take a long wild goose chase for nothing away up there in Dakota. If he wasn't for sale at any price I'd soon know it. So I wrote a short letter to his owner. I wrote, 'I know there is no use sending bird shot after big game. If I come up and look at Richard Fairfax and like him, and find him to be everything I've heard about him, will you take $25,000 cash for him?' I figured that would bring him to his milk."

"Very much to my surprise a prompt letter informed me that my offer did not interest his owner in the least. Richard Fairfax was not for sale at any price."

"So I looked elsewhere and forgot Richard. That was along, say in November. The following February, Johnny —, from Minnesota, came down to see me. He was a young breeder who had great faith in me and my judgment of Herefords, and had bought quite a bit of my stuff. Johnny was to stay all night and go home next morning on the 7 o'clock train. I noticed Johnny was listless as he looked over my herd, and I knew something was wrong—he wasn't there to buy."

"After supper we went into the library and talked Herefords and everything else from the weather to politics. Finally I looked at my watch and said: 'Johnny, I'm getting sleepy. You leave in the morning at 7, and it's 1 o'clock now. Let's go to bed.'"

"Warren," he said. "I've got something pretty big on my mind. I want your advice. It's Richard Fairfax. I know all about your offer. I know the whole story. But I'm about to pay $50,000 cash for him, and what I want to know is if you think I am crazy trying to buy him at $50,000?"

"Well, Johnny! You're the greatest Hereford booster I ever heard of. You sure are! I don't want to discourage you, and God knows I don't want to throw cold water on the Hereford business, but now that you've asked me, all I can say is that I quit at $25,000. That's a terrible risk. Why, the bull might lie down and die tomorrow. $50,000 is a pile of money in Government Bonds, but it's an ocean full of money tied up in a Hereford bull."

"Well, don't throw up your hands until I get through, Warren. I've been thinking about this thing for a long time and been getting ready for it. I can get him insured for a maximum of $25,000—everybody says Richard is the best young bull in the country, and remember he's out of your grand old Perfection. I've been quietly buying up all his sons and daughters I can lay my hands on. I own 65 daughters and 20-odd sons, so I'd be pretty well fixed for a June sale of sons and daughters of a $50,000 bull. I figure that the advertising a $50,000 buy would give is a big thing. The more I think, the bigger it gets: the highest price the world has ever known for a bull. No other price has even approached that figure. Every big newspaper from New York on west will carry it on the front page, and a picture of Richard and me along with the story. I'll get more free advertising out of that than I would with 50 years of paid advertisements in all the Live Stock Journals published. And I'll see to it that 'Bred by Warren T. McCray, Kentland, Indiana' goes under Richard's picture. You are going to have a sale in May. You bred Richard Fairfax. About everything you own is close kin to him. How would a $50,000 bull that you calved help your May sale?"

"Well, Johnny, I see the enormous possibilities. Still, $50,000 is SOME bull money."

"I'm not through yet, my good friend in need," Johnny said. "And here is where I have to have your cooperation if the deal goes. I only have $20,000 cash to put in Richard now. I figure that in an ordinarily good sale of Richard's sons and daughters, they would probably average $500 apiece. If I pay $50,000 for their sire and get the advertising I think I'll get, the 80-odd head really ought to double that amount—I'm trying to be conservative—But I can't go to my bankers and say, 'Gentlemen, I'm paying $50,000 cash for a bull, I have $20,000 and want to borrow the balance from you.' They would say I was plumb crazy, try to get a guardian for me and collect all I owe them, right now. You know bankers. There is no place in the wide world I can borrow that sort of money, except from you. You know that."

"Johnny, let's go to bed. I'll let you have an answer before the train goes."

Mr. McCray said he thought until 6 o'clock, then got up and got a hurried breakfast into Johnny and took him to the station. When the train got within about two miles of town, he said, "Johnny, go to Dakota and look Richard over. Examine him as you never examined a bull before. Find all about him—whether he has been exposed to any diseases; have three vets go over him piece by piece—Then go off and think for 24 hours. If you decide to buy, send me a telegram saying, 'The Republicans will win easily next election.' Buy him, get the $25,000 insurance, render up a short prayer and draw on me for $30,000—and the draft will be honored."

Within a week or 10 days, McCray told me, he got the prearranged telegram, then advertised his May sale as he never had before. He played up the $50,000 Richard Fairfax sale to the limit. The free advertising the sale got was far beyond his wildest thoughts. Virtually all the big papers carried it both here and abroad. Miss Busch, his secretary when he was Governor, and who was in Paris at the time, sent him a front page of one of the large Paris papers carrying the picture of Richard and Johnny.

McCray sold 120 head in his May sale. They averaged $3,636—the world's record for sales. He sold a full brother of Richard for $23,000 and a half-brother for $7,500. He figured the brother and half-brother didn't stand him out over $500, so if Johnny never was able to pay a cent of the $30,000 loan, he was still even, to say nothing of the additional prices the remaining 118 head brought.

Let the old ex-Governor close:

"In June, I went to Johnny's sale. Instead of $1,000, they averaged $1,750. Next day I came back with a $30,000 draft, plus interest."

How is that for a bull story?
Good luck to you,
"Bull" Durham

THE PLAIN WOODEN CHAIR

"Old Settlers Day" address delivered at an annual celebration, undated.

Mr. Chairman, Revered Old Settlers and Visitors:

. . . Primitive man lived in trees, where he rushed to safety at the approach of danger. Directly, he learned to use a club and climbed down from the trees and fought his way to caves for shelter. From these caves he would sally forth . . . Eventually, men began to congregate and to band together, first as a family, then a tribe or clan and later as a nation, and in so doing they put in practice that great fundamental truth on which is based all progress: "In Union there is strength," exemplified in modern times by the bundle of sticks, so well known to some of us. . .

Our early Pioneers in Putnam County followed the rules of conduct prescribed by their predecessors in frontier life in Kentucky, Virginia and Ohio, and followed the lines of least travel resistance, generally along watercourses—by way of Eel River, up Big Walnut and Deer Creeks—and thus throughout the County. Once located, and having few and distant neighbors, and with communication more or less difficult, a barn-raising, log- rolling, quilting bee or spelling match was an event of some moment and not of such common experience as to be ignored.

As time wore on, roads were established; settlements became thicker; mercantile trade followed barter, and money began to circulate and to be offered and accepted in payment; wagons and buggies replaced saddles and saddle bags; railroads were built; newspapers and postal service became more numerous and easier; the telegraph and later the telephone annihilated distance; churches and school houses sprung up; the regular preacher took the place of the circuit rider; factory-made shoes drove out the "pair of fine boots"; power looms and hole-proof socks (in name only) routed knitting needles; and so on, until now Sears-Roebuck is trying to rout everybody and everything.

All these and many, many, more advances have been inaugurated within the memories of many of you here today. Those among the oldest of you have had the extreme good fortune of living within the period of the last 75 years or more, when greater progress along scientific lines has been made than was achieved in the 4,000 years preceding your time. Think of it my friends! . . . What great good fortune has been yours!

What progress the future has in store I cannot know. Time only can tell, and time goes on, while you and I dwell here for comparatively only a day. And yet, if I were required to hazard my judgment, I should be compelled to admit I firmly believe you have seen more beneficial progress than will fall to the lot of any individual to be born in the future. . .

To you Old Settlers this day has been set apart by the folks of this community for your enjoyment and retrospection, and for our education and benefit. . . And when those of us here on the programme have finished, we want to hear you, by word of mouth, recall those early experiences that will forever be lost unless you impart them, that we, in turn, may hand them down to the generations yet to come. They will soon be most valued traditions. Books, paper, diaries and records have a most useful place, but some of the things of greatest human interest are not set down in the books or records—those little touches of color and everyday heart interest, those daily privations and abstinences—they never break into chronicle, and yet furnish a large part of our romantic history.

I have at home a chair—a plain, hand-made wooden chair with a wooden seat, with rectangular and cross red stripes, and on one panel in the back is a hand-painted bouquet of flowers in colors— all showing the hand of a careful, neat and skilled workman. Underneath the seat is a faded and torn paper label on which is printed "Black and Sons, Chair Makers, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania."

Just a plain straightback wooden chair. A more elaborate one could probably be bought now for $2. And yet, my grandfather brought that chair to my grandmother for her parlor on horseback from Philadelphia to Russellville, in this County, some 80-odd years ago, piled high on top of a big horseback load of goods. Think of the effort it took! Think of the space it took away from profitable calico! Think of the many, many times on that thousand-mile horseback ride that grandfather looked back and felt to see if it were coming along with the balance of the load. Think of the many times it slipped to one side or the other and had to be retied. Think of the many nights it had to be unloaded, and the many mornings it had to be tied back on again. And lastly, my good folks, think of the joy it gave that little old woman up at Russellville—how she showed it to the neighbors; the care that was subsequently given it; the wonderful pleasure it gave her; and the proud feeling it secretly gave him. . . It was she who told their children the story of that little chair.

That, my friends, is the kind of heart throb we are gradually learning to ignore in these days of financial struggles. There are those among you, who by denying yourselves, have given your wives, sons and daughters saddle horses, pianos, automobiles and even farms—and at great sacrifice—and there are also those among you who have given your families their first iron stove, a candle mold, calico dresses, and perhaps a little straightback wooden chair.

Therefore, today let us go back. Let us forget the things to which we have applied ourselves too assiduously, the things that modern conditions have forced us to adopt and strive for. For the day, at least, let us turn back to the days when you were young and this community was young: To the days when you courted and were courted in the chinked log house before the stone fireplace; back to the time when catnip, tansy and peppers hung from the rafters; back to the days of the smoke-house with its pungent tang of hickory bark and corn cobs; when tomatoes were grown for ornament and thought to be poisonous. Let us again go down to the spring house and get a bucket of water to set under the gourd on the kitchen table. Let's stir up the fire in the fireplace, hang the pot on the crane or test the heat in the Dutch oven; carry the ashes out and put them in the hopper. Let's you and I and all of us go up and see how the dried apples are holding out, and then look the hams over to see if they have any worms in them. Let us hie back to the days when all debts fell due at Christmas time; when mortgages were useless and practically unknown, and when every man's word was his bond. Let's eat a dinner of bacon, corn bread, milk and honey, and other wholesome things of those days, on the back porch or in the summer kitchen, while the younger girls shoo the flies off the table and the chickens off the porch. And then tonight, after supper, let's gather around the candle on the table, with Mother in the little chair knitting and mending with her hands, and rocking the cradle with her foot, while Father takes down the family Bible and piously reads a verse. Then, on our knees, and with heads bowed, let us hear that hallowed voice of Father, from whose nerveless grasp have long since dropped the working tools of life, rise in fervent prayer to Almighty God to protect us and keep us all safe from harm.

GRANDPAP'S BOURBON COUNTY BILL
By Everett A. Mahrug

Pap took a pen name—his own rearranged in a "sort-of backwards" fashion—to tell a story based on an ill-fated attempt by his grandfather, Jacob Durham, to form a new county, with Russellville as the county seat. According to family lore, Jacob intended to place the court house on a parcel of land he owned in the center of town, surrounded by other property he owned, including a store. Years later, Frank Durham gained sole title to the "courthouse" property and deeded it to the town.

Grandpap, Jacob Mahrug, had come from Kentucky in an "early day", and located his new domicile equidistant from four surrounding county-seat towns. He laid out a new town and named it "Mahrug."

In the center of his town plat he carelessly left a large
"Square."

As a boy back in Kentucky, Grandpap learned the blacksmith's trade, and followed that vocation for a while. . . At his new place of residence he started a general store, the first store in Mahrug. Both he and it prospered. He sold lots in this coming town. The town grew. He bought and cleared, and sold and rebought farm lands roundabout. He became a "Squire," and administered justice without fear, but probably with some favor. He journeyed on horseback to Cincinnati and Philadelphia to buy goods, transporting them overland by wagon from the closest navigable point in the chain of rivers. His store came to be the trading point and social center for miles around. He extended "store credit" anywhere and everywhere, and it was universally understood that Christmas Day was pay day. . .

In this environment, Grandpap started his family of four boys and one girl. . . He had the first carriage and the first piano in the county, even though Darter was the county seat and center of culture and population.

His mother back in Kentucky signifying her desire to visit him in his new home, he sent the carriage, the two older boys and three "hands" back to bring her to Mahrug in State. The trip took over two months, and she had to wait until the next summer to find weather and roads suitable to make the return home. Back in Kentucky, she advertised him and the new country so extensively that two of her neighbors bought enough land of Grandpap that Fall to make back to him all the expenses of her pilgrimage, and then some.

In somewhat less than due time, considering his status as an immigrant from another State, Grandpap got elected as a Democratic member of the House, in the State Legislature. Early in the first Session, he introduced a bill to substantially increase the Governor's salary. . . By a mere coincidence, it was referred to the Fees and Salary Committee, of which Grandpap was a member. It was unanimously reported favorably to the House by the Committee at its first meeting after introduction. Passing the House and Senate intact, it was reluctantly signed by the Governor, and became law.

At the next roll call, Grandpap introduced another bill which came to be known as the "Bourbon County Bill." Its purpose was aimed to accommodate the people around Mahrug with a nearer court house and closer county seat. Without trace of partiality, it would simply carve a new county out of the four existing contiguous counties to Mahrug, make Mahrug the county seat thereof, and give the new county the name of "Bourbon", (a name most likely suggested by scenes from Grandpap's nativity). True, it did provide for the bonding of the territory comprising the new county to procure funds to acquire land for and construct the court house, jail and other county buildings, and "other necessary expenses," but these things were naturally incident to the formation of any new county.

Through another coincidence, the Bourbon County Bill was referred to the County and Township Business Committee, of which Grandpap was Chairman. It was promptly reported favorably to the House by the Committee. After some delay and a little explaining, it passed the House by a very substantial majority and went to the Senate for its action thereon. . . The Senate's County and Township Business Committee in turn named a subcommittee to "examine thoroughly into its merits" The subcommittee was composed of two experienced and dependable members of the Majority party and a Whig member who had a bill pending for a separate judicial court for one of his counties. . .

Within the next two or three days, Grandpap's Bourbon County Bill, in some mysterious way began to take on the ear marks of an "Administration measure." Therefore, it was not lightly to be cast aside. The subcommittee, in their earnest desire that justice and fairness be done, sought first hand and unbiased information and facts, wherever they could be found. . . and was soon ready to report. However to make assurance doubly sure, it was deemed advisable to finish its labors by interviewing the Governor. . .

The Executive Chamber's heavily-upholstered, plush furniture and cushions were done in deep red. The windows were heavily curtained in the same color. Prismatic glass pendants featured the oilburning lamp chandelier, with three circles of 8, 16 and 24-lamp capacity, the whole suspended from a liberally-adorned ceiling ornament by a gilt rod of considerable tensile strength. The walls were patriotically hung with pictures of former Chief Executives in immense velvet-lined gilt frames of a uniform character, arranged chronologically. The majority portrayed a pioneer soul of stern and earnest demeanor. Some had struck a Daniel Webster pose, thus straining and disguising themselves. Others had cherubic countenances, and were men such as slept o'nights. All wore magnificent whiskers. . .

The Governor's Secretary announced the Senate County and Township
Business Subcommittee, and discreetly retired from the Chamber.

His Excellency, that stalwart adherent to Jeffersonian principles, slowly arose from his desk and greeted the subcommittee with outstretched hands. Following the usual formalities, they got down to business, and the subcommittee chairman asked the Governor his opinion on the Bourbon County Bill.

"Uh—m! Well, first let us see what your investigation disclosed.
What have you found out?"

"We find they're pretty much for it. I've talked to a good many, and so have these other gentlemen here, and about all we talk to, or see, want it. . ."

"Yes, I know! But is it geographically sound?" the Governor queried.

"Why-y, yes! They've never had an earthquake anywhere's around there that I . . . ."

"No. No!", interrupted His Excellency. "I mean do you find the country around there needing a court house at that particular place? Geographically speaking?"

"Oh—h, that way! Yes, I think it does. Mahrug is over 20 miles from the nearest court house. And as luck would have it, there's a 'Square' already laid out there in town, ready and waiting . . ."

"And what do you learn, Senator?" The Governor turned to the other Majority member of the subcommittee.

"I find they're all for it down there. Mahrug is over 20 miles from Darter, the county seat. Three big creeks separate them from it. You can't ford them in high water. And one or the other of them is nearly always high. They're all mud roads and hard enough to get over in dry weather, and when it's wet or raining you have to take to the sides. Nine months in the year you can't get over them, only on a horse."

He paused. The Governor was leaning forward in his chair, beaming at him.

"Go on, Senator!" the Governor urged. "You are stating some very salient and important facts. Those are what I want to hear if I am to be of any assistance. Facts that go to the very heart of the question! Go right ahead!"

The Senator was both pleased and encouraged. He wanted the Governor's good opinion. He desired to "stand in" with him. He had a little bill up himself that his County Chairman was interested in getting passed. And if it got past the Senate and House he wanted the Governor's signature without any quibbling. Governors sometimes vetoed bills. He had heard it said if you knew a Governor rather intimately, there wasn't so much danger of a veto. Governors were that way.

He cleared his throat and proceeded. "There is considerable litigation over around Mahrug, from what they say, from horse stealing on down. An apple jack still house down on Muskrat Creek causes considerable trouble. Most of it is only hand and club fighting amongst the boys and men there in the neighborhood, but there's coming to be more cutting and shooting lately. The authorities down at Darter are so far away they don't pay much attention to it, or just don't care."

"They are coming in from Kentucky and other places, and land trading is pretty brisk and on the boom, and every time they make a trade they've got to go to the county seat to get the deeds made. . . My investigation shows me the people down there want a court house, they need it, they ought to have it, and I say give it to them."

"That was a . . . most enlightening and instructive dissertation on the very meat of the question," said the Governor. "And you Senator?" He swung around a trifle to face the Minority member. "Well," he began in a hesitating way, "Some say they need it and some say they don't. . . Some of the boys on our side say there's politics . . . ."

"We can't help what some of them say," interrupted the Governor with a slight frown of annoyance. "What do you say."

". . .As I started to say, our Floor Leader is dead set against it. The counties they're cutting this new county out of are kicking like bay steers," (He noticed the Governor learning forward) "but the people in the new county want it, no doubt about that a-tall . . . ."

"There you are!" triumphantly exclaimed the Governor. "That's it exactly! The people in the new county want it just like the people in one of your counties want a separate court. And the people in the counties it is being taken away from don't want it, just like the people of your other counties, from which this new court district would be carved, don't want your one county to have it. Don't you see these two bills are alike? One is about one thing and the other is about another, but the principle is the same in both?"

A dawning sense of the similarity of the two bills swept the otherwise expressionless face of the Minority member. The whole thing unrolled like a scroll. He resumed, "As I was saying, the people, down there want it. The community needs to be developed, and those people want a court house of their own. They need it. That's why I made up my mind so strong when we first started out to help them get it. We're not up here for politics. The people don't send us here for that. They sent us here to do the right thing by them. I'm for the bill! Don't forget that! I'm strong for the bill. I've done a lot of talking over on our side. They can't bring politics in this thing while I'm around . . . ."

His Excellency arose majestically. He fondled his beard, adjusted his waistcoat, cleared his throat and began, . . . "This conference has been a mental stimulus for me. Your unerring logic has been a revelation. Your arguments have convinced me beyond the shadow of a doubt of the absolute merits of the bill. . . I glory in your decision to push, er, I mean pass, this bill. It must pass. You and I shall see to it. . . I am particularly pleased with the fearless and unwavering stand on the bill your Minority member has taken. As he has so well said, we are here not as partisans, but solely as the representatives of the people. God forbid that politics should ever enter Legislative Halls, or the Executive Chambers during my Administration! . . ."

His Excellency excused himself momentarily, and returned with a decanter and four ample glasses. Filling them generously, he handed one to each of the conferees, raised his own and said, "Let us drink in the old bourbon to the success of the new Bourbon."

The toast was enthusiastically drunk without the aid of water or other pollutive non-essential. . .

Following the findings and advice of the subcommittee, a general Committee Report recommending passage soon followed, and was adopted by the full Senate, over a very scattered chorus of "No" votes from the Whigs.

The bill had successfully hurdled its first major Senate hazard. There still remained plenty of time for trouble. Second reading was in the offing. It was then that bills were open for amendments, which could, in one minute, absolutely undo almost a whole Session's hard thought and planning. Just such an amendment as the dour Minority Floor Leader had prepared. . .

The Bourbon County Bill was put in the direct and personal charge of Senator Winker. . . He was a "steering committee" of one. . . He thought and planned. He cogitated and mused. The Majority Whip was a promising young fellow, a good mixer, and the Minority Floor Leader had taken a liking to him for some reason. The two had a habit of disappearing somewhere about the Spencer Tavern at night.

Senator Winker was cognizant of his Whip's ability, and somewhat familiar with his habits and associates. He sought him out and had words with him. . . The Senator, having laid his plans and fortified himself accordingly, determined to hazard the Bourbon County Bill for second reading the next time that order of business came around.

According to rules, the members called various House Bills assigned to them during an alphabetical roll call of the membership. . .

With his ear to the roll call, then approaching the S's, the Majority Whip strolled casually past the Minority Floor Leader's desk, and with a knowing wink, whispered to him, "Come out in the corridor a minute. Four of your friends from over in the House want to see you."

The Minority Floor Leader knew instinctively who they were and what they wanted. He followed his young Judas into the long corridor to face the four gentlemen he had expected to see. The conference was merely to pledge a mutual presence at, and arrange the minor details incident to, a friendly poker game in Room 232 of the Spencer Tavern at 8 o'clock that evening.

The whole thing took less than ten minutes, but the timing, with reference to the specific thing to be accomplished, was perfect. When the two gamesters returned to the Senate Chamber, the Bourbon County Bill had passed second reading without amendment, or offer of amendment, and the Senate was on another order of business.

Thus, was the second major leg of the Bourbon County Bill's flight negotiated safely. . .

The bill had been posted for third reading for more than two weeks. The Session was nearing its close. Senator Winker had purposely passed several calls wherein he could have had the bill handed down for passage. The times had appeared inopportune. He wanted to give the Governor and Administration authorities ample time to work on the recalcitrants. The bill was known to have stubborn opposition, and the Democrats a bare working majority. Speaking generally, the Senate had shown itself in a surly mood lately. Several sharp clashes among the Majority members had accentuated that mood. They were not functioning smoothly. A wild idea to license the sale of intoxicants had just been fought out —and strange to relate, passed—leaving some serious political scars in its wake. There was no personal liberty left any more. The mere thought of a fool legislature trying to legislate what a Sovereign People could eat and drink was showing what the State was coming to. Many spoke of the "Oregon Country," where they still had a little liberty left. And as always happens under such circumstances, the Minority were all the closer knit and serene.

It was not their fight. They were not in the saddle. As a result of all this, several near-Administration measures had been killed summarily, and apparently for no particularly good reason. Just another quirk the legislature had about it.

Eventually there were signs of a change. The Legislative atmosphere cleared. The Solons became more tractable. . . The time was ripe.

The bill was called. The roll began. Something was wrong! Senators here and there, who had been counted on to vote affirmatively were voting "no." The Minority member with the separate court bill voted, "Aye." The rest of the Minority seemed to be voting "no" solidly. Senator Winker glanced at the Minority Floor Leader. He wore an inscrutable look. No, on second glance, it was—sinister. Why? The Senator looked roundabout for the answer. It slowly dawned there were several Democratic seats vacant.

He rushed the Whip out to find and bring in the absentee brethren. Some came. Others could not be found. They might be in hiding. A tally was showing a considerably greater number of "no" votes than "ayes". . .

A motion to "excuse the absentees" prevailed. . .

Grandpap's Bourbon County Bill was killed, by one vote. . . Senator Winker plumbed the depths. Back of it all, he could not forget the fact, he had nine good Majority votes unaccounted-for in the tabulation—somewhere in the Legislative wilderness. . .

Next day the separate court bill met a similar fate—only more directly. The Minority helped do that.

The death of the Bourbon County Bill was a crushing blow to Mahrug's future and Grandpap's dream. But it did one thing. It fixed, once and for all, his and our family politics, if by any chance our politics needed any stabilization. It is true that Uncle Ben turned to be a Republican during the Civil War. But that was to preserve the Union, and incidentally a considerable amount of U.S. Bonds he had acquired at most attractive discounts. Thereafter Pap and Uncle Ben studiously avoided all mention of politics until the first Cleveland campaign. By that time all of Uncle Ben's evidences of Federal indebtedness had been retired at par and accrued interest, and he was free to return to his first political love. . .