The two men were standing side by side on the front stoop in a stream of arc light from the street lamp.
"I want your vote," said Miles, "for old sake's sake."
"I dassen't go into politics regular, Ed."
"I don't ask you to."
"But I might slip up to the ward meeting one night, just doing my duty as a citizen."
"You're a good fellow, Jim." There was a trace of huskiness in the big fellow's bass voice and Jim felt himself again moved by his old loyalty to his leader. The two shook hands warmly, fervently, with the facile emotions of politicians.
"One thing about me—I never quit on my friends when they need me." There was a perceptible huskiness in Jim's voice also.
"I know it damn well," said the big fellow, throwing his arm about the other's shoulder, "because you're a thoroughbred." He thrust his hand into his side pocket and brought forth several dozen large glazed white cards bearing the legend, "For President Fortieth Ward Club, Carl Schroeder," with an oval half-tone of the fat-faced candidate.
"I don't know's I've got time to make any canvass, Ed," said Jim, slipping the cards back and forth through his fingers. "So you're running Carl, eh?"
The big fellow boomed a laugh. "You didn't know it—Reuben come to town. Sure we're running Carl, and he said only this morning if he could get you with him he'd walk in."