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Mr. Pullwool spoke at length, and to Fastburg ears eloquently. Fastburg must be the sole capital; it had every claim, historical, geographical, and commercial, to that distinction; it ought, could, would, and should be the sole capital; that was about the substance of his exordium.

“But, gentlemen, it will cost,” he went on. “There is an unscrupulous and furious opposition to the measure. The other side–those fellows from Slowburg and vicinity–are putting their hands into their britches-pockets. You must put your hands into yours. The thing will be worth millions to Fastburg. But it will cost thousands. Are you ready to fork over? Are you ready?”

“What’s the figure?” asked one of the councilmen. “What do you estimate?”

“Gentlemen, I shall astonish some of you,” answered Mr. Pullwool, cunningly. It was well put; it was as much as to say, “I shall astonish the green ones; of course the really strong heads among you won’t be in the least bothered.” “I estimate,” he continued, “that the city treasury will have to put up a good round sum, say a hundred thousand dollars, be it more or less.”

A murmur of surprise, of chagrin, and of something like indignation ran along the line of official mustaches. “Nonsense,” “The dickens,” “Can’t be done,” “We can’t think of it,” broke out several councilmen, in a distinctly unparliamentary manner.

“Gentlemen, one moment,” pleaded Pullwool, passing his greasy smile around the company, as though it were some kind of refreshment. “Look at the whole job; it’s a big job. We must have lawyers; we must have newspapers in all parts of the State; we must have writers to work up the historical claims of the city; we must have fellows to buttonhole honorable members; we must have fees for honorable members themselves. How can you do it for less?”

Then he showed a schedule; so much to this wire-puller and that and the other; so much apiece to so many able editors; so much for eminent legal counsel; finally, a trifle for himself. And one hundred thousand dollars or thereabouts was what the schedule footed up, turn it whichever way you would.

Of course this common council of Fastburg did not dare to vote such a sum for such a purpose. Mr. Pullwool had not expected that it would; all that he had hoped for was the half of it; but that half he got.

“Did they do it?” breathlessly inquired Tom Dicker of him, when he returned to the hotel.

“They done it,” calmly, yet triumphantly, responded Mr. Pullwool.

“Thunder!” exclaimed the amazed Dicker. “You are the most extraordinary man! You must have the very Devil in you!”

Instead of being startled by this alarming supposition, Mr. Pullwool looked gratified. People thus possessed generally do look gratified when the possession is alluded to.

But the inspired lobbyist did not pass his time in wearing an aspect of satisfaction. When there was money to get and to spend he could run his fat off almost as fast as if he were pouring it into candle-moulds. The ring–the famous capital ring of Fastburg–must be seen to, its fingers greased, and its energy quickened. Before he rolled his apple-dumpling of a figure into bed that night he had interviewed Smith and Brown the editors, Jones and Robinson the lawyers, Smooth and Slow the literary characters, various lobbyists, and various lawgivers.

“Work, gentlemen, and capitalize Fastburg and get your dividends,” was his inspiring message to one and all. He promised Smith and Brown ten dollars for every editorial, and five dollars for every humbugging telegram, and two dollars for every telling item. Jones and Robinson were to have five hundred dollars apiece for concurrent legal statements of the claim of the city; Smooth and Slow, as being merely authors and so not accustomed to obtain much for their labor, got a hundred dollars between them for working up the case historically. To the lobbyists and members Pullwool was munificent; it seemed as if those gentlemen could not be paid enough for their “influence;” as if they alone had that kind of time which is money. Only, while dealing liberally with them, the inspired one did not forget himself. A thousand for Mr. Sly; yes, Mr. Sly was to receipt for a thousand; but he must let half of it stick to the Pullwool fingers. The same arrangement was made with Mr. Green and Mr. Sharp and Mr. Bummer and Mr. Pickpurse and Mr. Buncombe. It was a game of snacks, half to you and half to me; and sometimes it was more than snacks,–a thousand for you two and a thousand for me too.