“No, but we feel that the old war-horses are entitled to run to pasture with their shoes off,” coaxed the chairman.
“It seems to me more like tying me up to a stanchion in a stall. I ain't ungrateful, gents. I know this younger element doesn't believe in setting hens in politics any more. It's the incubator nowadays—wholesale job of it. But, by dadder! my settings have always cracked the shells, twelve to the dozen! Then you don't want me, eh?”
“That job in the state land-office—we thought it would just about fit you,” suggested the chairman.
“I'd just as soon be sent to state prison—solitary confinement. The state hasn't got any land any more. It has all been peddled out to the grabbers. I've messed and mingled with men all my life. Nobody ever comes into the land-office. You ain't afraid of me to that extent, be you?”
“What do you want?” asked the governor.
“Settled, is it, you don't want me in politics?”
“There isn't anything for you to do,” declared his Excellency, and he showed a little impatience, though his smile did not fade.
“Well, then make me state liberian,” said old Dan, with an air of resignation.
There was deep and horrified silence.
“I'm developing literary instinks,” explained Breed. “I've got a son who owns a printing-office, and my granddaughter can take down anything in shorthand and write it off. I'm going to write a book. She'll take it down and he'll print it.”