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“Hello, boys,” the committee-man called out with automatic geniality, as he descended the broken steps. “How are ye? All here? That’s good; that’s the stuff! Good work!”

Only Toby replied with more than an indifferent grunt; but he ran forward, carrying an empty beer keg which he placed as a seat for the guest.

“Ahaha, Meesa Peeslay! Make a parade? Torchlight? Bandaplay–ta ra, la la la? Firework? Fzzz! Boum! Eh?”

The politician responded to Toby’s extravagantly friendly laughter with some mechanical cachinnations which, like an obliging salesman, he turned on and off with no effort. “Not by a dern sight!” he answered. “The campaign ain’t begun yet.”

“Champagne?” inquired Tobigli politely.

“Campaign, campaign,” explained Pixley. “Not much champagne in yours!” he chuckled beneath his breath. “Blame lucky to git Chicago bowl!”

“What is that, that campaign?”

“Why–why, it’s the campaign. Workin’ up public sentiment; gittin’ you boys in line, ‘lect-ioneerin’–fixin’ it right.”

Tobigli shook his head. “Campaign?” he repeated.

“Why–Gee, you know! Free beer, cigars, speakin’, handshaking, paradin’–“

“Ahaha!” The merchant sprang to his feet with a shout. “Yes! Hoor-r-ra! Vote a Republican! Dam-a Democrat!”

“That’s it,” replied the committee-man somewhat languidly. “You see, this is a Republican precinct, and it turns the ward–“

“Allaways a Republican!” vociferated Pietro. “That eesa right?”

“Well,” said the other, “of course, whichever way you go, you want to follow your precinct committee-man–that’s me.”

“Yess! Vote a Republican.”

Pixley looked about the room, his little red eyes peering out cannily from under his crooked brows at each of the sulky figures in the damp shadows.

“You boys all vote the way Pete says?” he asked.

“Vote same Pietro,” answered Vesschi. “Allaways.”

“Allaways a Republican,” added Pietro sparkingly, with abundant gesture. “‘Tis a greata-great countra. Republican here same a Republican at home–eena Etallee. Republican eternall! All good Republican eena thees house! Hoor-r-ra!”

“Well,” said Pixley, with a furtiveness half habit, as he rose to go, “of course, you want to keep your eye on your committee-man, and kind of foller along with him, whatever he does. That’s me.” He placed a dingy bottle on the keg. “I jest dropped in to see how you boys were gittin’ along–mighty tidy little place you got here.” He changed the stub of his burnt-out cigar to the other side of his mouth, shifting his eyes in the opposite direction, as he continued benevolently: “I thought I’d look in and leave this bottle o’ gin fer ye, with my compliments. I’ll be around ag’in some evenin’, and I reckon before ‘lection day comes there may be somep’n doin’–I might have better fer ye than a bottle. Keep your eye on me, boys, an’ foller the leader. That’s the idea. So long!”

“Vote a Republican!” Pietro shouted after him gaily.

Pixley turned.

“Jest foller yer leader,” he rejoined. “That’s the way to learn politics, boys.”

Now as the rough spring wore on into the happier season, with the days like spiced warm wine, when people on the street are no longer driven by the weather but are won by it to loiter; now, indeed, did commerce at Toby’s new stand so mightily thrive that, when summer came, Bertha was troubled as to the safety of Toby’s profits.

“You yoost put your money by der builtun-loan ‘sociation, Toby,” she advised gently. “Dey safe ut fer you.”

“T’ree hunder’ fifta dolla–no!” answered her betrothed. “I keep in de pock’!” He showed her where the bills were pinned into his corduroy waistcoat pocket. “See! Eesa yau! Onna my heart, libra Ogostine!”

“Toby, uf you ain’d dake ut by der builtun-loan, blease put ut in der bink?”

“I keep!” he repeated, shaking his head seriously. “In t’ree-four mont’ eesa five-hunder-dolla. Nobody but me eesa tross weet that money.”

Nor could Bertha persuade him. It was their happiness he watched over. Who to guard it as he, the dingy, precious parcel of bills? He pictured for himself a swampy forest through which he was laying a pathway to Bertha, and each of the soiled green notes that he pinned in his waistcoat was a strip of firm ground he had made, over which he advanced a few steps nearer her. And Bertha was very happy, even forgetting, for a while, to be afraid of the smallpox, which had thrown out little flags, like auction signs, here and there about the city.