“No, I’m used to being knocked about—the steps and the pavement are no worse than other people—they’re like politicianers—you can’t put any trust in ’em. But,” continued Brush, drawing a roll of crumbled paper from the crown of his still more crumpled hat, “see here now, you’re a clever fellow, and I’ll get you to sign my recommendation. Here’s a splendid character for me all ready wrote down, so it won’t give you any trouble, only to put your name to it.” “But what office does it recommend you for? what kind of recommendation is it?” “It’s a circular recommend—a slap at anything that’s going.” “Firing into the flock, I suppose!” “That’s it exactly, good character, fit for any fat post either under the city government, the state government, or the gineral government. Now jist put your fist to it,” added Peter, in his most persuasive tones, as he smoothed the paper over his knee, spread it upon the step, and produced a bit of lead pencil which he first moistened with his lips, and then offered to his interlocutor. “Excuse me,” was the laughing response; “it’s too dark, I can’t see either to read or write. But what made you a politicianer? Haven’t you got a trade.” “Trade! yes,” replied Brush, contemptuously; “but what’s a trade, when a feller’s got a soul! I love my country, and I want an office—I don’t care what, so it’s fat and easy. I’ve a genus for governing—for telling people what to do, and looking at ’em do it. I want to take care of my country, and I want my country to take care of me. Head work is the trade I’m made for—talking—that’s my line—talking in the streets, talking in the bar rooms, talking in the oyster cellars. Talking is the grease for the waggon wheels of the body politic and the body corpulent, and nothing will go on well till I’ve got my say in the matter; for I can talk all day, and most of the night, only stopping to wet my whistle. But parties is all alike—all ungrateful; no respect for genus—no respect for me. I’ve tried both sides, got nothing, and I’ve a great mind to knock off and call it half a day. I would, if my genus didn’t make me talk, and think, and sleep so much I can’t find time to work.” “Well,” said the stranger, “you must find time to go away. You’re too noisy. How would you like to go before the Mayor?” “No, I’d rather not. Stop—now I think of it, I’ve asked him before; but perhaps if you’d speak a good word, he’d give me the first vacancy. Introduce me properly, and say that I want something to do shocking—no, not something to do—I want something to get; my genus won’t let me work. I’d like to have a fat salary, and to be general superintendent of things in general and nothing in particular, so I could walk about the streets, and see what is going on. Now, put my best leg foremost—say how I can make speeches, and how I can hurray at elections.”