They counted the money out on the table—exactly four hundred and ninety dollars, the first campaign fund Macochee had ever known. Then they laughed and laughed and laughed.
When Halliday had laid his plans for the morrow’s battle before his companions, he leaned back in his chair and said, turning to the Reverend Rice Murrell:
“I don’t suppose, Bishop, that you approve of the use of money in politics, do you?”
“No, suh,” the old preacher replied, with a smart gravity, “an’ somepin’ done tol’ me, yist’day, when the jedge come to see me, that it ’as jus’ providential that this much o’ that filthy lucah ’as removed from corruptin’ ouah ’lections by bein’ placed in mah han’s.” His rolling eyes bulged and he dribbled at the mouth as he fingered the pile of bills.
“Well,” said George, “don’t put too big a roof on the church, and remember—Gooseville’s going to vote to-morrow.”
“Oh, nevah you feah ’bout Gooseville, mah brothah—she’ll be votin’ early an’ of’en to-morrah, an’ she’ll vote right.”
George Halliday was mayor of Macochee but one term. That is a trick that has been played once in every town in this free republic—but it can never be played twice.
A SECRET OF STATE
OVER at the executive mansion, Governor Chatham and his private secretary were at dinner when the telegram came. The governor took the yellow envelope from the butler’s tray and tore it open. When he had read the message he passed it over without a word to Gilman. The private secretary’s eyes widened as he read it, and he exclaimed:
“Jim Lockhart dead!”