“Files, I wasn't intending to make a formal announcement till my political manager, Ossian Orne, gets back with reports from the field. Not but what I expect that when it is known that I'm willing to accept political honor it will be given to me. But when I sit in the next legislature of this state as Representative Britt of Egypt, I propose to represent a town that ain't slurred at home or abroad. Hereafter, mind your tongue and advise others to do the same.” He stamped out. Landlord Files was left standing with an open mouth from which no speech issued. “Emperor, or only a plain king?” inquired the bagman. “You being a stranger, I can let out some of my feelings,” returned Mr. Files. “Emperor, you say? He might just as well try to be one as to run for the legislature.” The drummer showed interest. “That's what getting to be a widderer can do to some men,” confided the landlord. He placed a smutty hand on the table and leaned down. “That legislature thing ain't the half of it, mister! He hasn't blacked his whiskers and bought that false mane simply so as to get into politics. He's trying to court the prettiest girl in this town.” “Aha!” said the drummer. “The old story! Cleopatra, queen of Egypt, is doing the job over again with the local Mark Antony!” “Mebbe,” admitted Mr. Files, his fishy gaze revealing that he had no personal knowledge of the parties mentioned. “It's the old story, all right. Widdereritis, and a bad run of it.” The bagman had a scarfpin in the shape of a horse shoe. His comment was in line with his taste in adornment. “Files, old scout, if a colt is put to harness so early that he can't get his natural fling in the fields, he'll have it at the other end of his life, when he's let run to pasture, spavin or no spavin. Why don't Egypt hold off and let Uncle What's-his-name enjoy his new hair and hopes?” “He has known how to collect in the money that's due him,” stated Mr. Files, “compound interest and all! He was only getting back his investments. But he has never put out any of the kind of capital that earns liking or respect or love. He has woke up to what he has been missing. He's trying to collect what he has never invested. And he can't do it, mister! No, sir, he can't!” The drummer was a young man. He asked a natural question. “Isn't the girl willing to be an old man's darling?” “You might go over to Britt's bank and ask her,” suggested Mr. Files, crisply. “She's bookkeeper there. But you'd better not let that young fellow that's cashier overhear you.” “So that's it? Say, events in Egypt in the near future may make some of the mummies here sit up and take notice!” “Shouldn't wonder a mite,” agreed Mr. Files, beginning to gather up the dishes. CHAPTER II FIRST COLLECTIONS That morning Mr. Britt did not dawdle in the hotel office with his cigar. He knew perfectly well that he merely had been making a pretense of enjoying that sybaritism, putting on his new clubman airs along with his dye and his toupee.