The editor was surprised. “Is that so? Just how do you mean?” “Oh, I hate to ask a man to vote for me. I hate to ask favors.” B. B. smiled. “Who are you going to vote for, on the eighth?” “Why, Routt, of course. I can’t vote for myself.” The editor looked blandly interested, and commented: “Well, if that’s the case, of course you can’t ask any one else to vote for you?” “Why not?” Wint was puzzled. “You know yourself better than they do. If you can’t vote for yourself--” “Oh, it isn’t.... Why, you naturally vote for the other fellow?” “This isn’t a class election at college, you know,” B. B. reminded him. “It’s more serious. Not play. You want to remember that. But if you don’t think enough of yourself to vote for yourself....” Wint laughed. “All right,” he said. “I’ll vote for myself. You’ve persuaded me.” B. B. nodded. “Who do you think will make the best mayor; you, or Routt?” he asked. “I don’t....” Wint flushed. “Why, I....” “Routt?” “No, by God!” Wint exclaimed angrily. “I’ve done a good job; and I’ll do another. He’d open the town up. Let things go.” “Do you want to be Mayor? For your own sake?” “Why, yes.” “Like the job so well?” “No, not particularly. But I want--well, it would show that people think I’ve made good.” “If you’re going to make a better Mayor than Routt, your election is best for the town, isn’t it?” “I suppose so.” “Then it’s best for every man in Hardiston, isn’t it?” “In a way.” B. B. tilted back in his chair and lifted his hand in a gesture of confirmation. “That’s what I was getting at. The fact of the matter is, when you ask a man to vote for you, you’re not asking him to do you a favor. You’re asking him to do himself a favor. I don’t suppose you ever thought of that.” Wint grinned. “Well, no.” “It’s true?” “I guess it is.” B. B. leaned forward. “Then go out and say so. Start something. Keep telling them to elect you; tell them louder and longer and oftener than Routt does, and they will.” This was so like what Gergue had said that Wint told B. B. so; and the editor nodded and said Gergue was a wise man. “But I can’t do it,” Wint protested. “I don’t know how. I’ll never make a speaker.” B. B. considered that for a while: and then he said: “You know, printed advertising was invented by the first tongue-tied man.” “I don’t get it,” Wint confessed. “He had something to sell, but he couldn’t tell people about it, so he put an ad in the papers; and after that, every one got the habit.” “You mean I ought to advertise?”