“No, he don’t. And he won’t either. We don’t want him.”
“Then as long as you people can’t keep open Sundays anyway,” observed Mr. Mix carelessly, “maybe you’d find it to your advantage to support the Mix amendment when it gets up to the Council. It’ll kill off any such unfair competition as this.”
The manager shrugged his shoulders. “If it wasn’t for your damn League we’d all be makin’ money.”
“I’m sorry we don’t all see this thing in the same light. But as long as the rest of you are out of it––”
“Oh, I can see that.... And you and me 224 both understand a little about politics, I should imagine.” He grinned wryly. “Never thought I’d link up with any reform outfit––but why don’t you mail me a copy of your amendment, and I’ll see how the boys take it.”
Mr. Mix agreed to mail a copy as soon as the final draft was completed, and he was as good as his word. On the same evening, he read the masterpiece to Mirabelle with finished emphasis.
“It’s perfect,” she said, her eyes snapping. “It’s perfect! Of course, I wish you’d have made it cover more ground, but just as a Sunday law, it’s perfect. When are we going to offer it to the Council?”
“Mirabelle,” said Mr. Mix, “we’ve got to do some missionary work first. And before you can do missionary work, whether it’s for religion or politics or reform, you’ve got to have a fund.”
“Fund? Fund? To get an ordinance passed? Why don’t you walk in and hand it to ’em?”
He shook his head. “I was in politics a good 225 many years. We’ve got to get out printed matter, we’ve got to spend something for advertising, we’ve got to––approach some of the Councillors the right way.”