I tried to be companionable and easy. I returned his salutation, somewhat too effusively, it may be, and asked him about his business, and then wanted to know, in a general way, how be stood on the Congressional issue. He hardened in a moment.
"I don't know why I should support Harlson," he said.
"Isn't he honest?" I asked.
"Oh, yes, I suppose so," he grunted; "but he's not my kind."
"Is the other man?" I asked.
Even the burly animal before me flushed. The other man was but a tricky politician of the creeping sort, a caterer to all prejudices, and a flatterer and favorer. This everybody knew. But he had become a part of the machine, was shrewd, and, with the machine behind him, was a power.
"I've nothing to say about that; but Harlson's not my kind. He's like one of those stag-hounds. He has nothing to do with the other dogs."
"He's fought some of the other dogs," I suggested.
The man grunted, again: "He's not my kind." And I left the place. I had little hope of the Ninth Ward.