Mr. Jones led the way to a large private room in the rear of the saloon.
“Mr. Jones, sir, you don’t know me,” said the fellow, “but when you lived in old Tuolumne, I war also in that part of Californey—in the adjinin’ county. Mr. Jones, I’m the ‘Taranterler of Calaveras;’ I’m a war-hoss of the hills and a fighter from h—l!”
“I don’t dispute your word, sir,” said J. P., “but how does your being ‘war-horse of the hills’ concern me?”
“I’m here to tell you. Here, now, you are goin’ into this here contest, and it’s liable to be a very lively one. About ’lection day it’ll be all-fired hot. Now what you’ll need will be a good fighter; a feller to stand up, knock down, and drag out for you; a man what can go to the polls and knock down right an’ left—wade through everything!”
Mr. Jones said he had not thought it would be necessary to have such a man at the polls on election day.
“Oh, but it will!” cried the man of muscle. “You see you don’t know about them things. I’ll manage it all for you.”[you.”]
“So you want me to hire you as my fighter?”
“Jest so!”
“What would be your price from now till after election? You see as I’ve never yet had occasion to hire a fighter, I don’t[don’t] know much about the value of such service.”[service.”]
“Well, I couldn’t undertake the job short of $1,000; there’ll be lots of work to do.”