indifferently.

But a very young, very small man, sitting in one of the "Parlor"
arm-chairs, laughed like a child, with intense enjoyment. "Yep," he
said, "I've noticed that. As much as ten pounds has went since
election, sure."

"Shet up," replied Flynn, carefully scraping his patron's face. He
said "Shet up" with an expression of foolish pride. The postmaster of
Banbridge, who was sitting somewhat aloof and held himself with a
constraint of exclusiveness (he was new to his office and had not yet
lost the taste of its dignity), laughed.

"Let me see, how many votes did you have this year, John?" he asked,
condescendingly.

"Five," replied John, with open exultation.

"Now, John, why didn't you get more than that, I'd like to know?"

Flynn laughed knowingly. "Oh," he said, "it's the old story--not
money enough."

"But a lot promised they'd vote for you, didn't they, John?"
persisted the postmaster, Sigsbee Ray, with a wink of humorous
confidence at the others.

"Yep, but damme, who expects anybody to keep an election promise if
he ain't paid for it? I ain't unreasonable. What's elections for? You
wait."

"Haven't you given up yet, John?"

"Well, I guess not. You wait."

"Say, John," interposed Amidon, "how much did you pay them five what
voted for you this year, hey?"

Flynn looked up from Rosenstein's belathered face with a burst of
simple triumph. "I didn't pay any of them a penny," said he. "There
is damn fools everywhere, and you wait," said he, "an' see ef there
ain't more come to light next time. I'll fetch it yet, along of the
fools, an' ef I can raise a leetle money, an' I begin to see my way
clear to that."

"How's that?" John was asked by the small young man.

"I'm layin' low 'bout that," replied John, mysteriously.

"Now, John," said the postmaster, "you wouldn't lay low if there was
a good chance to make some money, and not give us poor devils a
chance?"

The postmaster spoke consciously. He expected what came, the buzz of
remonstrance at his classing himself in his new office with poor
devils.

"You'd better talk about poor devils," growled the milkman, Tappan.
"You'd better talk. Huh! here you be, don't hev to git to work till
eight o'clock, an' quittin' at eight nights, and fifteen hundred a
year. You'd better talk, Mr. Ray. If you was a man gittin' up at
three of a winter's mornin', and settin' out with a milk-route at
four, an' makin' 'bout half a penny a quart, an' cussed at th