“Ahaha! Libra Ogostine, you believe I can make a write weet a pen-a-paper? I don' know that-a _how_. Some-a-time you _see_ that gran' palazzo where I leef. Eesa greata-great sooraprise!” In the gran' palazzo, it was as much as he could do to keep clean his own grim little bunk in the corner. His comrades, sullen, hopeless, came at evening from ten hours' desperate shovelling, and exhibited no ambition for water or brooms, but sat hunched and silent, or morosely muttering and coughing, in the dark room with its sodden earthen floor, stained walls, and one smoky lamp. To this uncomfortable chamber repaired, one March evening, Mr. Frank Pixley, Republican precinct committee-man, nor was its dinginess an unharmonious setting for that political brilliant. He was a pock-pitted, damp-looking, soiled little fungus of a man, who had attained to his office because, in the dirtiest precinct of the wickedest ward in the city, he had, through the operation of a befitting ingenuity, forced a recognition of his leadership. From such an office, manned by a Pixley, there leads an upward ramification of wires, invisible to all except manipulators, which extends to higher surfaces. Usually the Pixley is a deep-sea puppet, wholly controlled by the dingily gilded wires that run down to him; but there are times when the Pixley gives forth initial impulses of his own, such as may alter the upper surface; for, in a system of this character, every twitch is felt throughout the whole ramification. “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. “Aha_ha_, 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?”