Besides, Mr. Moore loved a fight "for the fight's sake," as the expression is. He had backed Lem Parraday in applying for a liquor license, to benefit his own pocket. It had to be a good reason indeed, to change Mr. Moore's attitude on the liquor selling question.
The hotel barroom held great attractions for many of Cross Moore's supporters, although Mr. Moore himself seldom stepped into that part of the hotel. The politician did not trust Lem Parraday to represent him, for Lem was "no wiser than the law allows," to quote his neighbors. But Joe Bodley, the young barkeeper, imported from the city, was just the sort of fellow Cross Moore could use.
And about this time Joe Bodley was in a position where his fingers "itched for the feel of money." Not other people's money, but his own. He had scraped together all he had saved, and drawn ahead on his wages, to make up the hundred dollars paid Hopewell Drugg for the violin, and——
"Seems ter me that old fiddle is what they call a sticker, ain't it, 'stead of a Straddlevarious?" chuckled Walky Dexter, referring to the instrument hanging on the wall behind Joe's head.
"Oh, I'll get my money back on it," Bodley replied, with studied carelessness. "Maybe I'll raffle it off."
"Not here in Polktown ye won't," said the expressman. "Yeou might as well try ter raffle off a white elephant."
"Pshaw! of course not. But a fine fiddle like that—a real Cremona—will bring a pretty penny in the city. There, Walky, roll that barrel right into this corner behind the bar. I'll have to put a spigot in it soon. Might's well do it now. 'Tis the real Simon-pure article, Walky. Have a snifter?"
"On the haouse?" queried Walky, briskly.
"Sure. It's a tin roof," laughed Bodley.
"Much obleeged ter ye," said Walky. "As yer so pressin'—don't mind if
I do. A glass of sars'p'rilla'll do me."