He could think of but one way to forestall Mr. Wimpelmeyer, and that was by digging down into his own pocket and paying in cash every single cent that the electorate of Tinkletown owed "the dad-burned Shylark!" He even went so far as to ascertain—almost to a dollar—just how much it would take to save the honour of Tinkletown, finding, after an investigation, that $276.82 would square up everything, and leave Henry high and dry with nothing but the German vote to depend upon. There were exactly twenty-two eligible voters in town with German names, and seven of them professed to be Swiss the instant the United States went into the war.
Mr. Crow was making profound calculation on the back of an envelope when Alf Reesling, the town drunkard, came scuttling excitedly around the corner from the Banner office.
"Gee whiz!" gasped Alf, "I been lookin' all over fer you, Anderson."
"Say, can't you see I'm busy? Now, I got to begin all over ag'in. Move on, now—"
"Have you heard the latest?" gulped Alf, grabbing him by the arm.
"What ails you, Alf? Wait a minute! No, by gosh, it's more like onions. For a second I thought you'd—"
"I'm as sober as ever," interrupted Alf hotly.
"That's what you been sayin' fer twenty years," said Anderson.
"Well, ain't I?"
"I don't know what you do when I'm not watchin' you."