Entering the office, Mr. Sandford tried to assume a cheerful look. He looked over the list of failures, in the "Independent," with something of the interest which a patient in a hospital would feel when overhearing the report from the dead-house. Was there no one of the bald or grizzly-haired gentlemen who smiled so benignly whom he could ask for aid? Not one; he knew their circumstances; they had no money at command; all their property was locked up in investments. He thought of the many chairmen and directors in benevolent associations with whom he was connected. No,—they were either men of moderate means, or had some son or nephew or brother in business whose credit they must uphold. How gladly would he barter all his parchment testimonials for one good "promise to pay"! He groaned almost audibly, and wondered how he could pass the time till the close of bank-hours. The suspense was a torture as keen as the calamity itself.
A visitor entered; it was Plotman. He came with a cheerful, even exulting, look.
"Good news, Sandford!"
"News!" exclaimed Sandford, impetuously. "What news? How much?"
In his absent state he forgot that Plotman was not aware of his thoughts, and associated good news only with an accommodation to serve his present need. But his fluttering expectations were dashed to the ground with the reply.
"'How much,' did you say? A clean majority over all. Your name stands at the head of the ticket."
"I am obliged to you," replied Sandford, sadly, "but I don't think I can accept the nomination."
"Well, that is rather strong," said Plotman. "You'd best keep your modesty for the papers; it's thrown away on me."
"I really can't bother with politics."
"Why in the Devil, then, did you lay your corns to get the place, and make me all this trouble for nothing?"