"To folks that don't need none?" ast Billy. "Aw, I don't like to." (Billy's awful white, Billy is.) "It won't do 'em no good." "Wal," I says, "it won't do 'em no _harm._" Billy said he'd see. "You could let it out that somebody in town's been cured by the stuff," I suggests. "Only make them railroad fellers buy more." "That's so. Wal, I guess the best thing fer me to do is to hunt up people with a misery and tell 'em they'd better buy--and vote my way." Billy throwed back his haid and haw-hawed. "You're a _dickens_ of a feller!" he says. "When you want to have you' own way, I never seen _any_-body that could think up more gol-darned things." "And," I _con_tinues, "if that Root-ee just had a lot of forty-rod mixed in it, it 'd be easier'n all git out to talk fellers into takin' it. If they'd try _one_ bottle, they'd shore take _another._" "Now, Cupid," says Billy, like he was goin' to scolt me. "'R if ole man Baker 'd take the stuff and git his hearin' back." "No show. Nothin' but sproutin' a new ear'd help Baker." Next person I seen was that Doc Simpson. He was a-settin' on Silverstein's porch, teeterin' hisself in a chair. "Billy," I says, "I'm goin' over to put that critter up to buyin'. He's got money and he cain't do better'n spend it." Wal, a-course, Simpson was turrible uppy when I first spoke to him. Said he didn't want nothin' t' say to me--not a _word_. (He had sev'ral risin's on his face yet.) "Wal, Doc," I says, "I know you think I didn't treat you square, _but_--has you city fellers any idear how mad you make us folks in the country when you go a-shootin' 'round in them gasoline rigs of yourn? Why, I think if you'll give this question some little study, you'll see it has got two sides." "Yas," says the Doc, "it _has_. But that ain't why you treated _me_ like you did. No, I ain't green enough to think _that._" "You ain't green at _all,_" I says. "And I'm shore sorry you feel the way you do. 'Cause I hoped mebbe you'd fergit our little trouble and bury the hatchet--long as we're both workin' fer the same thing." "What thing, I'd like t' know?" "Why, gittin' Miss Macie Sewell elected the prettiest gal." Fer a bit he didn't say nothin'. Then he made some _re_mark about a gal's name bein' "handed 'round town," and that a votin' contest was "vulgar." Wal, he put it so slick that I didn't just git the hang of what he was drivin' at. Just the same, I felt he was layin' it on to me, somehow. And if I'd 'a' been _shore_ of it, I'd 'a' put some _more_ risin's on to his face. Wisht now I had--on gen'ral principles. 'Cause, thinkin' back, I know _just_ what he done. If he didn't, why was him and that Root-ee Judge talkin' t'gether so long at the door of Silverstein's Hall--talkin' like they was thick, and laughin', and ev'ry oncet in a while lookin' over at me?