“It's this way!” Mr. Orne started, briskly, with upraised forefinger; but he shook his head and put down his hand. He turned away. “I forgot. You ordered plain facts.” “You hold on!” Britt thundered. “How do you dare to tell me that you can go out and in fifteen minutes come back with information of that sort?” Mr. Orne glanced reproachfully from his detractor to the clock; he had not the same reasons as Mr. Britt had for finding the hours of the day fleeting. “Mr. Britt, a man doesn't need to make a hoss of himself and eat a whole head of cabbage by way of sampling it.” Britt winced at the random simile. “It's the same way with me in sampling politics, being an expert. Your case, to start with, had me gy-poogled and--” “English language, I tell you!” Britt emphasized his stand as a stickler by a tremendous thump of his fist on the desk. Orne jabbed his finger back and forth from his breast to the direction of Britt, with the motions of the “eeny, meeny” game. “I was mistook. You was mistook. I figgered on your money. So did you. I figgered you'd go strong in politics like you had in _finance_. So did you.” Mr. Orne put his hand up sidewise and sliced the air. “Nothing doing in politics, Mr. Britt! You can cash in on straight capital, but there ain't a cent in the dollar for you when you try to collect in what you 'ain't ever invested. A man don't have to be so blamed popular after he is well settled in politics; but you've got to have some real human-nature assets to get a start with. You've got to depend on given votes--not the boughten ones.” “Orne, you're rasping me mighty hard.” “You demanded facts--not hair-oil talk.” “Then the facts are--” Britt hesitated. “Facts is that, by the usual arrangement in the legislative class of towns, Egypt had the choice this year. You won't get a vote in Egypt.” “But the men who come in here--” Again Britt halted in a sentence. “The men who come in here and sit down at that desk and pick up a pen to sign a note have fixed on their grins before they open your door. But the men who get into a voting booth alone with God and a lead pencil, they'll jab down on to that ballot a cross for t'other candidate that'll look like a dent in a tin dipper. Somebody else might lie to you about the situation, Mr. Britt. I've done consid'able lying in politics, too. But when I'm hired by a man to deliver goods--and same has been paid for--my word can be depended on.” Britt turned around and looked into the depths of his desk, staring vacantly. His rounded shoulders suggested grief. Orne settled his wallet more firmly, pressing on the outside of the buffalo coat. His face again sagged with sympathy. “Mr. Britt, it's only like what most of us do in this life--take smiles without testing 'em with acid--take words-current for what they seem to be worth, and then we do test 'em out and--”