“That’s what I call a grand su’gestion,” said Judge Ernest, shaking his head approvingly.
But Bassett shook his head the other way. “No,” he said, “that won’t do, we want some system in this thing. It ought to be changed into dollar bills and then given to the central committeemen to use in their wards election day. Of course we won’t need so much in the strong Republican wards—we’ll put it out in Lighttown and down in Gooseville among the niggers, and some of it across the tracks among the boys in the shops—that’s where it’ll tell.”
But the ring stubbornly opposed the idea of letting that pile of money go out of its hands. They put only young men on the city committee, and the honor and importance were enough for them. They would be wanting office next.
The old squire voiced the protest.
“’Pears to me,” he whined, “that as I’m runnin’, I’d ought to have a leetle of it fer my own expenses on ’lection day. I’ve been givin’ of my services to the party now fer nigh on to twenty year, not countin’ my term in the army, and it’s expensive, ’specially with that young Halliday carryin’ on the way he is—”
“No one never made up a fund for none of us, Hod Goddard,” chorused the old fellows.
“Yes, and there’s others on the ticket besides you,” interrupted Bassett. “Let each candidate spend his own money if he wants to. You hain’t paid your assessment yet, anyhow.”
“But I’m the head o’ the ticket,” stammered the squire, his red face deepening to purple.
The booming of the town clock in the court-house tower startled the ring, and the county officials glanced at their big silver watches. They were already half an hour late for their dinners.
“And my wife told me to fetch home some meat,” said Bassett, forgetting all else as he seized his hat.