“Who is it?”
“Jeremy Robson.”
“Jer—Andy was right, sure!” gasped the other. “The town has gone crazy and I’ve gone with it.”
“On a platform of Centralia for the War,” continued the other. “Now put your lower jaw back on its hinges and I’ll explain how this is n’t as crazy from our point of view as you’d think. You’ll be elected—for we’ll lick ‘Smiling Mart’—only for the unfinished term. The war will last that long, and while the war lasts internal polides don’t matter. After the war—why, we’ll have a newspaper of our own to lick you with when you come up for reelection.”
“I’ll give you a good run both ways,” promised Jeremy. And the two men soberly shook hands upon it.
“What a scheme; the woman’s boycott!” said Jeremy presently. “I might have known that was your fine Italian hand.”
“It was n’t.”
“No? Who did work it out?”
“A much cleverer politician than I ever thought of being.”
“There ain’t no sich animule,” denied Jeremy. “Show it to me.”