“Isn't that Mr. Putter, who keeps a livery-stable here?” inquired Mr. Crewe, about nine o'clock—our candidate having a piercing eye of his own. Mr. Putter's coat, being brushed back, has revealed six cigars.
“Why, yes—yes,” says Mr. Watling.
“Is he a delegate?” Mr. Crewe demanded.
“Why, I guess he must be,” says Mr. Watling.
But Mr. Putter is not a delegate.
“You've stood up and made a grand fight, Mr. Crewe,” says another gentleman, a little later, with a bland, smooth shaven face and strong teeth to clinch Mr. Crewe's cigars. “I wish I was fixed so as I could vote for you.”
Mr. Crewe looks at him narrowly.
“You look very much like a travelling man from New York, who tried to sell me farm machinery,” he answers.
“Where are you from?”
“You ain't exactly what they call a tyro, are you?” says the bland-faced man; “but I guess you've missed the mark this shot. Well, so long.”