“Would you mind tellin' me whut pay a member of the House of Legislatur' gits a day?”
The Hon. Sam looked surprised.
“I think about two dollars and a half.”
“An' his meals?”
“No!” laughed Mr. Budd.
“Well, look-ee here, stranger. I'm a pore man an' I've got a mortgage on my farm. That money don't mean nothin' to you—but if you'll draw out now an' I win, I'll tell ye whut I'll do.” He paused as though to make sure that the sacrifice was possible. “I'll just give ye half of that two dollars and a half a day, as shore as you're a-settin' on that hoss, and you won't hav' to hit a durn lick to earn it.”
I had not the heart to smile—nor did the Hon. Samuel—so artless and simple was the man and so pathetic his appeal.
“You see—you'll divide my vote, an' ef we both run, ole Josh Barton'll git it shore. Ef you git out o' the way, I can lick him easy.”
Mr. Budd's answer was kind, instructive, and uplifted.
“My friend,” said he, “I'm sorry, but I cannot possibly accede to your request for the following reasons: First, it would not be fair to my constituents; secondly, it would hardly be seeming to barter the noble gift of the people to which we both aspire; thirdly, you might lose with me out of the way; and fourthly, I'm going to win whether you are in the way or not.”