"So...."
"Yeh; gotta vote thirty-five ah fo'ty nigga's, 'n', 'f youah 'quainted wi' ouh fo'kes, you c'n 'preciate what I'm up ag'inst."
"Indeed...."
"Yeh; nigga's o'nry y' know; and lie lak dogs; but I'm 'n' ole han' at the bus'ness, cause that's my line. Yeh. Been votin' nigga's in this precinct now fo' mor'n thi'ty yeahs, so you'n see I autta know what I'm 'bout."
"I'd bet on that."
Jackson chuckled again. "The fust and wo'st difficulty is the dinge's ig'nance". Drawing a sample ballot from somewhere, he displayed and explained it at some length. "Now we gotta pu'ty faih line up on this ticket this trip—'co'se the's a lotta suckers on it that I'd lak t' see scratched; but we cain' affo'd to take the risk, 'cause it's lak this. Nigga's so ig'nant 'n' pig headed they'd sho spile it all 'f we tried to have them do any scratching. So the only sho thing is to instruct them t' vote straight. Get me, Steve?"
Wyeth, listening carefully, nodded, and for a moment, a picture of the titanic struggle of a half century before, rose before him; its cause, its moral and more; it's sacrifice. Jackson was speaking again.
"Now we sho gotta win out this time; this 'lection has got to put in ouh candidates; 'cause 'f we don't—and this is between me 'n' you 'n' that can a beah—things sho go'n break bad wi' me! But 'f things slide through O.K.—'n my candidates walk in, it means a cole hund'd fo' muh; think of it," he repeated, "a cole hund'd, Ah!" And, smacking his lips after a long draught of beer, he emitted an exclamation to emphasize what it would mean to him, that wouldn't look very nice in print.
"What do these others get if your candidates are elected?" asked Wyeth, when Jackson paused.
"Aw, them suckers gets theahs wether my men's 'lected a' not. That's always my goal. 'f I could get them t' vote so much ah' nothin' I could make a who' lot mo'; but we gotta fo'k out two dollahs a piece, win or lose—and, a co'se, plenty of liquah; but we don' give a damn 'bout that, as the saloon men furnish that, gratis."