“I see by the paper this evening that your Uncle Horace has announced himself as a candidate for State senator,” said Mr. Sage, who was enjoying his customary half-hour on the porch with them. “Well, I know one vote he will not get,” said Oliver, “even if he is my uncle.” “I know of another,” said the minister dryly. “The nomination is equivalent to an election,” said Oliver. “There hasn’t been a Republican elected in this county since the Civil War, they say. If the old boy can buy the nomination he won’t have to spend a dollar getting elected.” “It is not my habit to speak unkindly of my fellow man,” said Mr. Sage, “but I find it quite a pleasure to say that I look upon Horace Gooch as the meanest white man in all—er—I was on the point of saying Christendom, but I will say Hopkinsville instead.” “Why, Daddy, I am really beginning to take quite a fancy to you,” cried Jane delightedly. “Only last week you said he ought to be tarred and feathered for turning those two old women out of their house over at Pleasant Ridge.” “But he didn’t turn them out,” said Oliver quickly. “Somebody came along at the last minute and lent them the money to redeem their little house and farm. They’re as safe as bugs in a rug and as happy as clams.” “You don’t really mean it, Oliver?” cried Mr. Sage. “That is good news—splendid news. It seemed such a heartless perversion of the law that those poor, frail, old women—both over seventy, by the way—should lose their all simply because they had to let their property go at tax sale. Horace Gooch has become rich off of just such delinquent tax-payers as these unfortunate old women. I am not saying it is illegitimate business—but he has acquired quite a lot of good real estate in this way. I rejoice to hear that some one has come to the rescue of Mrs. Bannester and her sister. I suppose they had to give their benefactor a mortgage on the property, however,—and that may ultimately afford some one else a chance to squeeze them out of their own.” “I understand it was a loan for something like twenty years, without interest,” said Oliver. “Bless my soul! Practically a gift, in that case. It is unlikely that they will live to be ninety.” “I wonder how Uncle Horace felt when they popped up the other day, just as he thought he had the tax deed in his hand, and redeemed the property,” mused Oliver, chuckling. “I’ll bet it hurt like sin. Even a shark can suffer pain if you stick him in the right place. He had his heart set on that property, Uncle Herbert. The Interurban line is figuring on putting up an amusement park out that way, and I happen to know they’ve had an eye on the Bannester place, with its big oak trees and a wonderful place for an artificial lake. He could have cleaned up a lot of money on it.” “I hate that old man,” cried Jane. “My dear child, you must not—”