"Got your young feller all picked out, Plonny?" queried the Mayor elect,
Mr. Bangor, with a wink around the room.
Plonny denied that he had any candidate. Under pressure, however, he
admitted having his eye on a certain youth, a "dark horse" who was
little known at present, but who, in his humble judgment, was a coming
man. Plonny said that this man was very young just now, but would be
plenty old enough before they would have need of him.
Mr. Bangor once more winked at the six. "Why, Plonny, I thought you were
rooting for Charles Gardenia West."
"Then there's two of ye," said Plonny, dryly, "he being the other one."
He removed his unlighted cigar, and spat loudly into a tall brass
cuspidor, which he had taken the precaution to place for just such
emergencies.
"Meachy," said Plonny, slowly, "I wouldn't give the job of dog-catcher
to a man you couldn't trust to stand by his friends."
XXVIII
_How Words can be like Blows, and Blue Eyes stab deep; how Queed
sits by a Bedside and reviews his Life; and how a Thought leaps at
him and will not down.
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