"I took Mr. S.'s hand, thanked him for his suggestions, with an effort swallowed my prejudices against the old Chieftain, and resolved to work as became my new idea of my position.
"By the way, the recollection of that effort to swallow makes my throat dry, and it's a long time between drinks."
Another round at the bottle, and Tom resumed.
"'Well, work I did, like a beaver; there wasn't a miner in my neighborhood that I didn't treat, and a miner's baby that I didn't kiss, and often their wives, as some unprincipled scoundrel one day told Mrs. Hudson, to the great injury of my ears and shins for almost a week, and the upshot of the business was, that my township turned a political somerset. Friends of Simon's, in disguise, went to Harrisburg, were successful, and I was not among the last to congratulate him.
"'Mr. Hudson,' said the Prince of politicians, 'how can I repay you for your services?'
"Like a fool, as my wife always told me I was, I made no suggestion, but let the remark pass with the tameness of a sheep—merely muttering that it was a pleasure to serve him. Simon went to Washington—made no striking hits on the floor, but was great on committees.
"Another idea entered my noddle, this clip without the aid of Mr. S. My penmanship came into play. Days and nights of most laborious work produced a full length portrait of Simon, that at the distance of ten feet could not be distinguished from a fine engraving. I seized my opportunity, found Simon in cozy quarters opposite Willard's, and presented it in person. He was delighted—his daughter was delighted—a full-faced heavily bearded Congressman present was delighted, and after repeated assurances of 'thine to serve,' on the part of the Senator, I crossed to my hotel—not Willard's—hadn't as yet sufficient elevation of person and depth of purse for that,—but an humbler one in a back street. Next day I saw my handiwork in the Rotunda—the admiration of all but a black long-haired puppy, an M. C. and F. F. V., as I afterwards learned, who said to a lady at his elbow who had admired it, 'Practice makes some of the poor clerks at the North tolerably good pensmen.' I could have kicked him, but thought it might interfere with the little matter in hand.
"'Tom,' said the senatorial star of my hopes one day, when my purse had become as lean as a June shad, 'Tom, there is a place of $800 a year, I have in view. A Senator is interfering, but I think it can be managed. You must have patience, these things take time. I will write to you as early as any definite result is attained.'
"Relying on Simon's management, which in his own