"Then our sympathies and desires are common. Now, if I could feel sure that I ought to run again in the interest of reform—"
"You've done so much already," Mr. O'Meagher hastily put in, "you've sacrificed so heavily that I don't think it would be fair to ask it of you."
"N-no," said the Mayor, dubiously, "I suppose it wouldn't, now, would it?"
"Of course not."
"And yet I don't like to run away from the call, so to speak, of duty."
"Don't be worried about that."
"But I am worried, O'Meagher. I can't help it. By every mail I am receiving hundreds of letters from the best citizens of New-York, urging me to let my name be used. Deputations wait on me constantly with the same request, and, as you know, they are going to hold a mass-meeting to-morrow night, and they threaten to nominate me, whether or no. What can I do? I tell them I don't want to run, that my private business has already suffered by neglect, but they answer imploring me not to desert the cause of reform just when it needs me most. It is very embarrassing."
"Very," said Mr. O'Meagher. "It's astonishing how thoughtless people are. But they wouldn't be so hard on you if they knew how you were fixed."
"That's just it. They don't know, and I don't want to appear selfish."
Mr. O'Meagher coughed, not because he needed to cough, but for want of something better to do.