“If that’s Peleg,” said old man Ruggles in a voice like a wheezy tin whistle, “then these here blue jeans is broadcloth weddin’-pants.” “I don’t see but what it resembles him close,” said a supporter of Goodwin’s. “That,” said Dolf, “is prob’ly ’cause somebody’s give you a dollar to think that way.” “My vote hain’t for sale,” shouted the virtuous citizen. “Neither does a mortgage draw int’rest,” said Dolf. Jim drove on, chuckling. One thing was apparent—somebody was spending money to defeat Zaanan Frame. It was not all going for printing, either, Jim felt certain. How would Zaanan meet this attack? Had he money to spend in a campaign? A worry lest the old fellow had passed his fighting-day oppressed Jim. He stopped at Zaanan’s office. “I see the campaign has opened,” he said. “Peleg’s a handsome critter, hain’t he?” Zaanan said. “Moran’s going to dump a lot of money and a lot of dirty politics in here,” Jim said. “What are you going to do about it?” “Me? Not much, I calc’late. I hain’t what you’d call a political campaigner. Don’t go in for no hip-hurrah just ’round election-time. Keep reasonable busy the whole twelve months.” “Aren’t you going to do anything to offset Moran’s money?” “Dun’no’s I be,” said Zaanan, placidly. “They’ll beat you in the caucus as sure as you’re a foot high,” Jim said, anxiously. “They’ve got to do it there. I don’t believe they could worry you in an election.” “Caucuses is uncertain,” said Zaanan. “Delegates and sheep is close related. Can’t never tell when or where they’ll run.” “Do you need money?” Jim asked, a shade diffidently. “I thought if you did—” “Young feller, if I had a million dollars I wouldn’t spend a cent. If folks elect me to office it’ll be ’cause they want me, and not ’cause they’re paid to vote for me. But I calc’late I’m obleeged to you. It was a right friendly offer.” “Is there anything I can do?” “Yes,” said Zaanan, with a chuckle; “go ’long and tend to your own business. Git your own neck out of the noose ’fore you reach out to help me over a fence. G’-by, Jim.” When Jim got to the mill he found Grierson ready with his weekly report. The old bookkeeper had put in a happy Sunday preparing it. From morning till night he had scratched and crackled in figures and computations—a regular debauch. “She’s coming. She’s coming now,” Grierson said, his face wrinkling dryly as if the skin were ledger paper. “Shows sixty-five boxes to the machine.” “But shipments are less than ever,” Jim said as he glanced over the sheet. “Cars,” said Grierson, shortly. “Goods are in the warehouse, but the railroad won’t set in cars to ship them out.” Moran’s railroad would not set in cars. This was not altogether unexpected. The railroad could hamper him, delay him—and escape under the plea of a car shortage. Crops were moving. The excuse would hold good. Jim knew he was powerless against this new aggression.