“You think so?” he said, restoring the paper to his vest pocket and twinkling his grey eyes.
“Yes,” I persisted.
“Well, the fellow that got this up and handed it around here wants to head the republican county ticket this fall. I think I’ve got him, with this. I don’t mean that he shall.”
“Do you mean he’s a bad character?” I smiled.
“Oh, no, not that exactly. He’s not a bad fellow, but he’s not a good leader. He’s got too big a head. He can’t win and he oughtn’t to be nominated, and I don’t mean that he shall be, if I can prevent it.”
He was chewing tobacco as he talked, quite as a farmer at a fence corner, and now he expectorated solemnly, defiantly, conclusively.
IN CARMEL
Franklin’s Home Town
“You don’t like him personally, then?” I queried, curious as to the reason for this procedure.
“Oh, I like him well enough. He ain’t no good as a leader, though—not to my way of thinking.”