“But in a different way, Breed. There are the new ideas, and new men can operate more efficiently. They won't attract attention.”
“Old Maid Orne down in my town came into church late and crawled up the aisle on her hands and knees so as not to attract attention. And she broke up the meeting!”
“We've got to fall in with the new ways, Dan,” said the attorney-general. “These are touchy times. We must be careful of the party.”
“I 'ain't never disgraced it, have I?”
“Uncle Dan, we want you to take a good, comfortable position and settle down,” affirmed Governor Alonzo Harwood, an unctuous, rubicund gentleman who had been listening, smiling his everlasting smile.
“I prefer to hold myself in readiness for a call to the field,” squalled Breed. “I'm better'n three of these young snydingles. They don't know how to organize!”
“There isn't much chance for organizing,” said a Congressman, placatingly. “The primaries take care of themselves pretty well.”
“Yes,” sneered old Dan, “a fellow thinks well of himself, or else his neighbors tell him he can save the nation, and he puts a piece in the paper saying how good he is and sets pictures of himself up in store winders like a cussed play-actor, keeps a cash account, and thinks that's politics. I don't care if there ain't ever no more caucuses. This thing ain't going to last. I want to keep in the field. I'll see chances to heave trigs into the spokes of these hallelujah chariots they're rolling to political glory in!”
The mighty ones exchanged glances—deprecating glances—apprehensive glances.
“You don't think I'm dangerous, do you, after I've been in politics as long as I have?”