No need of balloonists to see what the enemy is about, when we have a Mr. Tooting.
“They're stung!” he cried, as he ran rapidly through the bundle of papers—Mr. Crewe having subscribed, with characteristic generosity, to the entire press of the State. “Flint gave 'em out all this stuff about the railroad bein' a sacred institution. You've got 'em on the run right now, Mr. Crewe. You'll notice that, Democrats and Republicans, they've dropped everybody else, that they've all been sicked on to you. They're scared.”
“I came to that conclusion some time ago,” replied Mr. Crewe, who was sorting over his letters.
“And look there!” exclaimed Mr. Tooting, tearing out a paragraph, “there's the best campaign material we've had yet. Say, I'll bet Flint taken that doddering idiot's pass away for writing that.”
Mr. Crewe took the extract, and read:—
“A summer resident of Leith, who is said to be a millionaire
many times over, and who had a somewhat farcical career as a
legislator last winter, has announced himself as a candidate
for the Republican nomination on a platform attacking the
Northeastern Railroads. Mr. Humphrey Crewe declares that the
Northeastern Railroads govern us. What if they do? Every
sober-minded citizen, will agree that they give us a pretty
good government. More power to them.”
Mr. Crewe permitted himself to smile.
“They are playing into our hands, sure enough. What?”
This is an example of the spirit in which the ridicule and abuse was met.
It was Senator Whitredge—only, last autumn so pleased to meet Mr. Crewe at Mr. Flint's—who asked the hypocritical question, “Who is Humphrey Crewe?” A biography (in pamphlet form, illustrated,—send your name and address) is being prepared by the invaluable Mr. Tooting, who only sleeps six hours these days. We shall see it presently, when it emerges from that busy hive at Wedderburn.