Britt yanked a big wallet from his breast pocket, plucked out a bill, and shoved it at Orne. The latter set the bill carefully into a big wallet of his own, “sunk” the calfskin, and buttoned up his buffalo coat. “It does beat blazes,” stated “Sniffer” Orne, “what a messed up state all politics is in since this prim'ry business has put the blinko onto caucuses and conventions. Caucuses was sensible, Mr. Britt. Needn't tell me! Voters liked to have the wear and tear off 'em. Now a voter gets into that booth and has to caucus by himself, and he's either so puffed up by importance that he thinks he's the whole party or else--” Mr. Britt's patience was ground between the millstones of anger and indigestion. He smacked the flat of his hand on his desk. “When I want a stump speech out of you, Orne, I'll drop you a postcard and give you thirty days' notice so that you can get up a good one. You have made a short day of it, as I said, but you needn't feel called on to fill it up with a lecture.” Mr. Britt continued on pompously and revealed that he placed his own favorable construction on the emissary's early return from the field. “You didn't have to go very far, hey, to find out how I stand for that nomination?” “I went far enough so that you can depend on what I tell you.” “Go ahead and tell, then.” Mr. Orne slowly fished a quill toothpick from the pocket of his overcoat, set the end of the quill in his mouth, and “sipped” the air sibilantly, gazing over Britt's head with professional gravity. “Of course, you're the doctor in this case and are paying the money, and if you don't want any soothing facts, like I was intending to throw in free of charge and for good measure, showing how the best of politicians--” There were ominous sounds from the direction of Britt. Orne checked his discourse, but he did not look at the candidate. “But no matter,” said the agent. “That may be neither here nor there. You're the doctor, I say! When I first came in here I thought you had been disobeying my orders and had dabbled into the thing. Your face looked like you was posted.” “I'm paying for the goods, not for gobbling, you infernal old turkey! Come out with the facts!” “Facts is that the whole thing is completely gooly-washed up,” stated Mr. Orne, with an oracle's decisiveness. But that declaration in Mr. Orne's political terminology did not convey much information to the candidate. Britt, thoroughly incensed by what seemed to be evasion, leaped up, twitched the toothpick from Orne's lips, and flung it away. “I've paid for the English language, and I want it straight and in short words, and not trigged by a toothpick.” “All right! You're licked before you start.” It was a bit too straight from the shoulder--that piece of news! Britt blinked as if he had received a blow between the eyes. He sat down and stared at Orne, elbows on the arms of the chair, hands limply hanging from lax wrists.