“Certainly not!” The Squire snapped back his retort briskly. He was serious. “I agree with you that this poor old town needs help and a hearing. But when I go to the State House I propose to wear out shoe leather instead of pants cloth. If you must rasp Britt, go get a real file!”
“Who in the blazes can we get?” demanded Jones, helplessly.
The Squire laid down the hand of cards which he had just picked up, thus signaling the end of the interview, impatiently motioning to Vaniman to play; then the notary narrowed his eyes and pondered.
The silence was broken by more screaking of the outside stairs.
Prophet Elias stalked into the office. He carried limp, damp sheets across a forearm—papers that had been well wet down in order to take impressions from the Washington press. The men in the room waited for one of his sonorous promulgations of biblical truth. But he said no word, and his silence was more impressive because it was unwonted. He marched straight to the Squire and gave him one of the sheets. Then the Prophet turned and strode toward the door. Jones put out his hand, asking for one of the papers. Elias shook his head. “Yon scribe has a voice. Let him read aloud. I have but few papers—they must be spent thriftily.” He passed on and went out.
“One of the city newspapers ought to hire him for a newsboy,” remarked Mr. Jones, acridly. “He could scare up a big circulation.”
The only light in the dim room was afforded by the big lamp at the Squire's elbow. He spread the sheet on the table in the lamp's circle of radiance. “Boys, The Hornet is out and it looks as if it has a barb in its stinger,” he stated, and then paused while he fixed his spectacles upon his nose.
Vaniman, sitting close by, felt that a glance at a public sheet was not invading privacy.
A smutted heading in wood type was smeared across the top of the page. It counseled:
VOTE FOR BRITT. GIVE PHARAOH HIS KINGLY CROWN