"Bertie, dear," the doctor said, not unkindly, "did any one ever tell you that you talk too easy?"
"Sure they did," said Bertie honestly, "but Mrs. Crocks likes me to talk."
"O well," the doctor smiled, "you and Mrs. Crocks are not really dangerous—but Bertie, remember this, silence does not often get any one into trouble, and if you are ever in doubt about whether to tell things or not—don't tell them! It's the best way—now, will you try to remember?"
"Yes, sir," said Bertie pleasantly.
All of which Bertie carefully hid in his heart, but his object in so doing was not to attain the scriptural sequence—"that he sin not with his mouth," It was that he might rehearse it accurately to Mrs. Crocks!
The doctor had forgotten all about the committee who were going to wait on him that evening to receive his decision regarding the coming election. His mind had been too full of his own affairs. But promptly at eight o'clock, his office bell rang, and the gentlemen came in.
It seemed years to the doctor since he had seen them. Life had so changed for him in the interval. The committee had come back with greater enthusiasm than ever. Corroborative evidence had been pouring in; the doctor was the only man who could defeat the present member.
"Doctor, it is sure up to you," said the President, a stocky man, whose face had a patchy beard resembling a buffalo-robe on which the moths had played their funny tricks, "and I'll tell you why. The women are beginning to raise hell all over the country. They have societies now, and they're holding debates, and getting up plays—and all that. They have the Government scared. My stars, I remember the time women didn't bother no more about politics than a yellow dog does about religion. But that good day is gone. They're up and comin' now, and comin' with a whoop. Now, that's why we want you,—at least it's one reason—the women like you—you have a way with them—you listen to them—and feel sorry over their aches and pains—cure them—if you can—but the big thing is—you feel sorry. Now, if you will run, the women will try to make their men vote for you—I don't think any one of the women will go against you. The men here are mostly for the Government, and this year they have the bridge at Purple Springs for a bait. It's goin' on for sure—work for every one—that votes right. The Government has been in so long, you've just had to be on their side to hold your job—they have their fingers on everything. You know our candidate has lost his deposit for three elections—but there's a chance this year—if you'll run."
Then the field organizer took up the argument. He was a young man sent out from the city office to rally the faithful and if possible see that the best candidates were selected. He was a shop-worn young man, without illusions. He knew life from every angle, and it was a dull affair in his eyes.
"Politics is a game of wits," he said; "the smartest one wins, and gets in and divides the slush money. The other side howl—because they didn't get any. We're sore now because we haven't had a look-in for fourteen years—we're thirsty and dry—and we long for the water-brooks—which is, government jobs. There's just one distinction between the parties," he said, "one is in and one is out! That's all. Both parties have the same platform too, there is only one principle involved, that is the principle of re-election. But it really seems as if our time is coming."