CHAPTER XVI
Between the fall of darkness Sunday night and the breaking of dawn on Monday industrious persons had beautified Diversity by nailing to tree, fence, and barn half-tone productions of a photograph of Peleg Goodwin, wherein Peleg was shown wearing a collar of the Daniel Webster type and an expression like a slightly soured Signer of the Declaration. Peleg’s beard was neatly trimmed; there was a part in his bushy hair. Somehow it did not impress one as authentic, but as a bit of trick photography. It excited some argument. People were disinclined to believe it really was Peleg, but some more glorious being who chanced to resemble Peleg somewhat.
“That there Peleg!” snorted Dolf Springer. “You couldn’t pound Peleg’s face into no such noble expression with a sledge. That there’s Peleg’s twin brother that died and went to heaven ’fore Peleg got him into bad habits.”
“If that’s Peleg,” said old man Ruggles in a voice like a wheezy tin whistle, “then these here blue jeans is broadcloth weddin’-pants.”
“I don’t see but what it resembles him close,” said a supporter of Goodwin’s.
“That,” said Dolf, “is prob’ly ’cause somebody’s give you a dollar to think that way.”
“My vote hain’t for sale,” shouted the virtuous citizen.
“Neither does a mortgage draw int’rest,” said Dolf.
Jim drove on, chuckling. One thing was apparent—somebody was spending money to defeat Zaanan Frame. It was not all going for printing, either, Jim felt certain. How would Zaanan meet this attack? Had he money to spend in a campaign? A worry lest the old fellow had passed his fighting-day oppressed Jim. He stopped at Zaanan’s office.
“I see the campaign has opened,” he said.