“On one condition,” I replied, soberly.
“What’s that?”
“Your promise to remain, and be my right-hand man—secretary of war.”
Whereupon, Robbins whistled.
“Just as you say, Mr. President. If you can stand it, I don’t see why I shouldn’t. And won’t we have fun reforming abuses and bringing about wonderful changes in this country?”
You see Robbins must have been possessed of the same philanthropical spirit that moved me—the mule-drawn street car, the dingy lamps on the corners, the slow delivery of messages, and the chaotic condition of the “army,” had all appealed irresistibly to his progressive nature; what he yearned to see, believing destiny had wrought this miracle in my behalf, was a city lighted by electricity, palatial cars driven by the same power, telephone wires reaching in every direction, messenger boys darting over asphalt streets on wheels, and a model little army, well dressed, armed with the latest weapons, and capable of crushing any incipient rebellion.
“Then we’ll call it settled, Mr. Secretary; only I reserve the right and privilege of resigning at any time I wish. I have a wife, you know, and she may desire to return to New York, when the novelty of seeing me president has worn off, and I would not let her go alone.”
“That’s right. Now, let’s show ourselves to the boys—they’ll expect a speech, I reckon.”
“They’ll get all they want,” I declared.
So Robbins led me outside.