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“The Hon. Sam done his duty, and he done it damn well.”

The issue at stake was the site of the new Court-House–two localities claiming the right undisputed, because they were the only two places in the county where there was enough level land for the Court-House to stand on. Let no man think this a trivial issue. There had been a similar one over on the Virginia side once, and the opposing factions agreed to decide the question by the ancient wager of battle, fist and skull–two hundred men on each side–and the women of the county with difficulty prevented the fight. Just now, Mr. Budd was on his way to “The Pocket”–the voting place of one faction–where he had never been, where the hostility against him was most bitter, and, that day, he knew he was “up against” Waterloo, the crossing of the Rubicon, holding the pass at Thermopylae, or any other historical crisis in the history of man. I was saddling the mules when the cackling of geese in the creek announced the coming of the Hon. Samuel Budd, coming with his chin on his breast-deep in thought. Still his eyes beamed cheerily, he lifted his slouched hat gallantly to the Blight and the little sister, and he would wait for us to jog along with him. I told him of our troubles, meanwhile. The Wild Dog had restored our mules and the Hon. Sam beamed:

“He’s a wonder–where is he?”

“He never waited–even for thanks.”

Again the Hon. Sam beamed:

“Ah! just like him. He’s gone ahead to help me.”

“Well, how did he happen to be here?” I asked.

“He’s everywhere,” said the Hon. Sam.

“How did he know the mules were ours?”

“Easy. That boy knows everything.”

“Well, why did he bring them back and then leave so mysteriously?”

The Hon. Sam silently pointed a finger at the laughing Blight ahead, and I looked incredulous.

“Just the same, that’s another reason I told you to warn Marston. He’s already got it in his head that Marston is his rival.”

“Pshaw!” I said–for it was too ridiculous.

“All right,” said the Hon. Sam placidly.

“Then why doesn’t he want to see her?” “How do you know he ain’t watchin’ her now, for all we know? Mark me,” he added, “you won’t see him at the speakin’, but I’ll bet fruit cake agin gingerbread he’ll be somewhere around.”

So we went on, the two girls leading the way and the Hon. Sam now telling his political troubles to me. Half a mile down the road, a solitary horseman stood waiting, and Mr. Budd gave a low whistle.

“One o’ my rivals,” he said, from the corner of his mouth.

“Mornin’,” said the horseman; “lemme see you a minute.”

He made a movement to draw aside, but the Hon. Samuel made a counter-gesture of dissent.

“This gentleman is a friend of mine,” he said firmly, but with great courtesy, “and he can hear what you have to say to me.”

The mountaineer rubbed one huge hand over his stubbly chin, threw one of his long legs over the pommel of his saddle, and dangled a heavy cowhide shoe to and fro.

“Would you mind tellin’ me whut pay a member of the House of Legislatur’ gits a day?”

The Hon. Sam looked surprised.

“I think about two dollars and a half.”

“An’ his meals?”

“No!” laughed Mr. Budd.

“Well, look-ee here, stranger. I’m a pore man an’ I’ve got a mortgage on my farm. That money don’t mean nothin’ to you–but if you’ll draw out now an’ I win, I’ll tell ye whut I’ll do.” He paused as though to make sure that the sacrifice was possible. “I’ll just give ye half of that two dollars and a half a day, as shore as you’re a-settin’ on that hoss, and you won’t hav’ to hit a durn lick to earn it.”

I had not the heart to smile–nor did the Hon. Samuel–so artless and simple was the man and so pathetic his appeal.

“You see–you’ll divide my vote, an’ ef we both run, ole Josh Barton’ll git it shore. Ef you git out o’ the way, I can lick him easy.”