“Tell me what you have been doing, Mr. Harrington,” said Joe, after a moment’s pause; “all the papers are full of you.”
“Yes, I have been rather in the passive mood during the last week. I have been standing up to be shot at.”
“Without shooting back? What are they so angry about?”
“The truth,” said John, calmly. “They do not like to hear it.”
“What is truth–in this instance?”
“Apparently something so unpleasant that the mere mention of it has roused the bile of every penny-a-liner in the Republican press. I undertook to demonstrate that one of the fifteen millions of the ’ablest men in the country,’ whom you are always hearing about, is a swindler. He is, but he does not like to be told so.”
“I suppose not,” said Joe. “I wonder if any one likes unpleasant truths. But what do you mean to do now? Are you going to fight it out? I hope so!”
“Of course, in good time. One can hardly retire from such a position as mine; they would make an end of me in a week and quarrel over my bones. But the real fight will be fought by and by, when the elections come on.”
“How exciting it must all be,” said Joe. “I wish I were a man!”
“And an American?” asked John, smiling. “How are the mighty fallen! You were laughing at us and our politics the day before yesterday, and now you are wishing you were one of us yourself. I think you must be naturally fond of fighting”–