“Oh, I hate to ask a man to vote for me. I hate to ask favors.”
B. B. smiled. “Who are you going to vote for, on the eighth?”
“Why, Routt, of course. I can’t vote for myself.”
The editor looked blandly interested, and commented: “Well, if that’s the case, of course you can’t ask any one else to vote for you?”
“Why not?” Wint was puzzled.
“You know yourself better than they do. If you can’t vote for yourself—”
“Oh, it isn’t.... Why, you naturally vote for the other fellow?”
“This isn’t a class election at college, you know,” B. B. reminded him. “It’s more serious. Not play. You want to remember that. But if you don’t think enough of yourself to vote for yourself....”
Wint laughed. “All right,” he said. “I’ll vote for myself. You’ve persuaded me.”
B. B. nodded. “Who do you think will make the best mayor; you, or Routt?” he asked.