Mr. Pixley's small eyes lowered furtively. He glanced once toward the door, stroked his stubby chin, and answered softly: “Don't you be too sure of that, young feller. Them banks is fightin' each other ag'in!” “Bank? Fight? W'at eesa that?” inquired the merchant, with an entirely blank mind. “There's one thing it _ain't_,” replied the other, in the same confidential tone. “It ain't no two-by-four campaign. All I got to say to you boys is: 'Foller yer leader'--and you'll wear pearl collar-buttons!” “Vote a Republican,” interjected Leo Vesschi gutturally. The furtiveness of Mr. Pixley increased. “Well--mebbe,” he responded, very deliberately. “I reckon I better put you boys next, right now's well's any other time. Ain't nothin' ever gained by not bein' open 'n' above-board; that's my motto, and I ack up to it. You kin ast 'em, jest ast the boys, and you'll hear it from each-an-dall: 'Frank Pixley's _square_!' That's what they'll tell ye. Now see here, this is the way it is. I ain't worryin' much about who goes to the legislature, or who's county-commissioners, nor none o' _that. Why_ ain't I worryin'? Because it's picayune. It's peanut politics. It ain't where the money is. No, sir, this campaign is on the treasurership. Taylor P. Singleton is runnin' fer treasurer on the Republican ticket, and Gil. Maxim on the Democratic. But that ain't where the fight is.” Mr. Pixley spat contemptuously. “Pah! whichever of 'em gits it won't no more'n draw his salary. It's the banks. If Singleton wins out, the Washington National gits the use of the county's money fer the term; if Maxim's elected, Florenheim's bank gits it. Florenheim laid down the cash fer Maxim's nomination, and the Washington National fixed it fer Singleton. And it's big money, don't you git no wrong idea about _that_!” “Vote a Republican,” said Toby politely. A look of pain appeared upon the brow of the committee-man. “I reckon I ain't hardly made myself clear,” he observed, somewhat plaintively. “Now here, you listen: I reckon it would be kind of resky to trust you boys to scratch the ticket--it's a mixed up business, anyway--” “Vote a straight!” cried Pietro, nodding his head, cheerfully. “_Yess!_ I teach Leo; yess, teach all these”--he waved his hands to indicate the melancholy listeners--“teach them all. Stamp in a circle by that eagle. Vote a Republican!” “What I was goin' to say,” went on the official, exhibiting tokens of impatience and perturbation, “was that if we _should_ make any switch this year, I guess you boys would have to switch straight.” “'Tis true!” was the hearty response. “Vote a straight Republican. Republican eternall!” Pixley wiped his forehead with a dirty handkerchief, and scratched his head. “See here,” he said, after a pause, to Toby. “I've got to go down to Collins's saloon, and I'd like to have you come along. Feel like going?” “Certumalee,” answered Toby with alacrity, reaching for his hat.