“Peleg’s a handsome critter, hain’t he?” Zaanan said.
“Moran’s going to dump a lot of money and a lot of dirty politics in here,” Jim said. “What are you going to do about it?”
“Me? Not much, I calc’late. I hain’t what you’d call a political campaigner. Don’t go in for no hip-hurrah just ’round election-time. Keep reasonable busy the whole twelve months.”
“Aren’t you going to do anything to offset Moran’s money?”
“Dun’no’s I be,” said Zaanan, placidly.
“They’ll beat you in the caucus as sure as you’re a foot high,” Jim said, anxiously. “They’ve got to do it there. I don’t believe they could worry you in an election.”
“Caucuses is uncertain,” said Zaanan. “Delegates and sheep is close related. Can’t never tell when or where they’ll run.”
“Do you need money?” Jim asked, a shade diffidently. “I thought if you did—”
“Young feller, if I had a million dollars I wouldn’t spend a cent. If folks elect me to office it’ll be ’cause they want me, and not ’cause they’re paid to vote for me. But I calc’late I’m obleeged to you. It was a right friendly offer.”
“Is there anything I can do?”