“And it seems to me, Bill,” said he, “that the best available plan is a lecture tour—through the towns, villages, crossroads hamlets of the whole State.”
“Talking politics? Nobody’ll listen to politics except round election time. That’s why robbing the people’s the easiest and the favorite way to make money.”
“Everything’s politics,” said Helm. “Religion’s politics, and education’s politics, and farming and mining and factories and doctors and storekeeping—everything! What’s politics but settling how the proceeds of everybody’s labor are to be distributed—whether the man who works is to get what he works for or somebody else is to get it? And that question means everything that affects any human being, morally, mentally, physically. I’m going to talk politics, but they’ll not know it.”
“Where do I come in?”
“You’re to be my manager—arrange the dates and so on. It’s got to be arranged while I’m busy in the Legislature, in January and February. I’ll do what I can there to make myself talked about. You’ll correspond with culture clubs and literary circles and churches that want debts raised and public schools and trade schools with lecture courses.”
Desbrough looked willing but helpless. “Is there much chance to lecture in this State?” said he. “I thought that sort of thing had died out.”
“If it had, we’d raise it from the dead,” said Helm. “But it hasn’t.”
He took from the drawer of his table a bundle of papers. He waved them triumphantly at his friend, saying:
“Here it is, Bill—all down in black and white. A hundred and eighty-six chances to lecture—if it’s worked right.”
Desbrough, the lazy man, groaned. “Why didn’t you pick out somebody else, damn you!” he cried.