“Peter,” he said slowly, “what you reckon Winthrop Chase, Senior, would up and do if he was licked for Mayor?” Gergue considered for a moment, then seriously judged: “He’d up and lay him an egg.” Amos nodded. “And eggs will be worth fifty cents a dozen, right here in Hardiston, inside a month. It might pay to have him lay one, Pete.” “You’ll need a political Lay-or-Bust for that, Amos.” “I’ve got one, Peter.” Gergue stared slowly at Amos, his eyes ponderously inquisitive. At length he asked: “What brand?” Amos leaned toward him quickly. “Almost any good man could beat Chase, couldn’t he, Pete?” “He might have--starting at the first go off. He couldn’t now.” “Chase ain’t rightly popular.” “No--he puts on too many airs.” “Hardiston’d like to see a joke on him--now wouldn’t it?” “Sure. A man always can laugh at a joke on the other fellow. Special if it’s on old Chase.” “Pete--I kind of like Congress.” Gergue nodded. “Don’t blame you a speck.” “I want to keep a-going back there.” “Fair enough.” “But you say, yourself, that Chase don’t agree with me on that.” “He says so too.” Amos tapped Gergue’s knee. “Pete, wouldn’t a good, smashing joke on Chase put him out of the running for a spell?” Gergue considered. “I’ll say this, Amos,” he announced at length. “A joke on a man is all right, if it don’t go too far. If you go too far, you’ll make ’em sorry for Chase, and then there’ll be no stopping ’em. Politics sure does love a martyr. But--short o’ that--a joke’s good medicine.” Caretall sat up quickly. “That’s fine,” he said soberly. “That’s fine,” he repeated. And he fell silent, and after a little said, half aloud and for the third time, “Peter, that’s fine.” Peter’s pipe smoked out, and he, too, emptied the ashes and preserved the last charred bits of tobacco as Amos had done. Then he rose, reached slowly for his hat. “I’ll go along, Amos,” he announced. The Congressman lumbered up out of his chair, his broad countenance beaming. “Fair enough, Peter. But, Pete--I want to ask you something.” Gergue shifted his hat to his left hand; his right went to the back of his neck. “What is it?” “Take a man like young Wint, Peter. Suppose he was give a job--sudden--that was right up to him. Responsibility, power, something to do that had to be done. Nobody to boss him but himself. Him and his heart. What would that do to a man like Wint, Pete?” Gergue scratched his head--hard. He thought--hard. Amos said softly: “Don’t hurry, Pete. Think it over.” Gergue nodded; and presently he said: “Man just like Wint--that’s what you mean?” “Say--Wint himself.” “It’d depend on the man.” “Say it’s Wint.” “Depend on whether he had any backbone--any stuff in him.” “Has Wint got it?” Gergue shook his head. “Ain’t sure.” “Say he has.” “Then--this job you mentioned would straighten him out--likely.” “Say he hadn’t.” “‘Twouldn’t hurt him none.”