"Lamps," said Thaddeus, clutching like a drowning man at the one emolument of the coveted office. Mrs. Perkins gazed at her husband anxiously. The answer was so unexpected and seemingly so absurd that she for a moment feared he had lost his mind. The notion that two years' service in so important an office as that of Mayor of Dumfries Corners received as its sole reward nothing but lamps was to her mind impossible. "Is--is there anything the matter with you, dear?" she asked, placing her hand on his brow. "You don't seem feverish." "Feverish?" snapped the leader of his party. "Who said anything about my being feverish?" "Nobody, Teddy dear; but what you said about lamps made me think--made me think your mind was wandering a trifle." "Oh--that!" laughed Perkins. "No, indeed--it's true. They always give the Mayor a pair of lamps. Some of them are very swell, too. You know those wrought-iron standards that Mr. Berkeley has in front of his place?" "The ones at the driveway entrance, on the bowlders?" "Yes." "They're beauties. I've always admired those lamps very much." "Well--they are the rewards of Mr. Berkeley's political virtue. I paid for them, and so did all the rest of the tax-payers. They are his Mayor's lamps, and if I'm elected I'll have a pair just like them, if I want them like that." "Oh, I do hope you'll get in, Teddy," said the little woman, anxiously, after a reflective pause. "They'd look stunning on our gate-posts." "I don't think I shall have them there," said Thaddeus. "Jiggers has the right idea, seems to me--he's put 'em on the newel-posts of his front porch steps." "I don't suppose they'd give us the money and let us buy one handsome cloisonné lamp from Tiffany's, would they?" Mrs. Perkins asked. "A cloisonné lamp on a gate-post?" laughed Perkins. "Of course not," rejoined the lady. "You know I didn't mean any such thing. I saw a perfectly beautiful lamp in Tiffany's last Wednesday, and it would go so well in the parlor--" "That wouldn't be possible, my dear," said Thaddeus, still smiling. "You don't quite catch the idea of those lamps. They're sort of like the red, white, and blue lights in a drug-store window in intention. They are put up to show the public that that is where a political prescription for the body politic may be compounded. The public is responsible for the bills, and the public expects to use what little light can be extracted from them." "Then all this generosity on the public's part is--" "Merely that of the Indian who gives and takes back," said Thaddeus. "And they must be out-of-doors?" asked Mrs. Perkins. "If I set the cloisonné lamp in the window, it wouldn't do?" "No," said Thaddeus. "They must be out-of-doors." "Well, I hope the nasty old public will stay there too, and not come traipsing all over my house," snapped Mrs. Perkins, indignantly. And then for a little time the discussion of the Mayor's lamps stopped.