“Well,” said the other, “of course, whichever way you go, you want to follow your precinct committee-man—that's me.”
“Yess! Vote a Republican.”
Pixley looked about the room, his little red eyes peering out cannily from under his crooked brows at each of the sulky figures in the damp shadows.
“You boys all vote the way Pete says?” he asked.
“Vote same Pietro,” answered Vesschi. “Allaways.”
“Allaways a Republican,” added Pietro sparkingly, with abundant gesture. “'Tis a greata-great countra. Republican here same a Republican at home—eena Etallee. Republican eternall! All good Republican eena thees house! Hoor-r-ra!”
“Well,” said Pixley, with a furtiveness half habit, as he rose to go, “of course, you want to keep your eye on your committee-man, and kind of foller along with him, whatever he does. That's me.” He placed a dingy bottle on the keg. “I jest dropped in to see how you boys were gittin' along—mighty tidy little place you got here.” He changed the stub of his burnt-out cigar to the other side of his mouth, shifting his eyes in the opposite direction, as he continued benevolently: “I thought I'd look in and leave this bottle o' gin fer ye, with my compliments. I'll be around ag'in some evenin', and I reckon before 'lection day comes there may be somep'n doin'—I might have better fer ye than a bottle. Keep your eye on me, boys, an' foller the leader. That's the idea. So long!”
“Vote a Republican!” Pietro shouted after him gaily.
Pixley turned.
“Jest foller yer leader,” he rejoined. “That's the way to learn politics, boys.”