“Come in, you loafer.”
“How’s State Senator-elect Helm to-day?” inquired Bill, lounging in, his hands in his pockets, his pipe hanging from the corner of his mouth. “How does it feel to be famous?”
“To be less obscure,” corrected George. He had a passion—and a genius—for accuracy.
“To be famous,” insisted Desbrough.
“Do you know who is State Senator for the district adjoining this—on either side?—or to the north or south?”
Bill Desbrough’s laugh was confession.
“There are fifty State Senators in this State alone,” continued George. “There are forty-eight States in the Union. Fifty times forty-eight——”
“Why are you trying to make yourself out so small?”
“Or—to look at it another way, I belong to the Democratic boss of Harrison—Pat Branagan, saloon-keeper. He belongs to the Republican boss, Al Reichman. Al belongs to Senator Harvey Sayler, the State boss. Sayler belongs to the big monopolistic combines that center in Wall Street. They belong to a dozen big plutocrats who belong to about three of their number. And those three belong to their money—do what it says, say and think what it tells ’em to.”
“I hope you’re happy now,” said Bill. “You’ve made yourself out to be about equal to a patch on the ragged pant-leg of some cotton-picking coon working for the sub-lessee of a mortgaged farm in a poor corner of Arkansas.”