"
A quaint smile was playing under the drooping mustaches of that veteran
politician the Honorable Senator Sage-Brush.
"I reckon we do need a few men like that, Evan; need 'em mighty bad.
Think you could fill the bill as one of them if you had a right good
chance?"
The potential hewer of political chips which should lie as they might
fall smiled at what seemed to be merely an expression of parental
favoritism.
"I'm not likely to get the chance very soon," he returned. "Just at
present, you know, I am still a legal resident of the good old
Commonwealth of Massachusetts, and a member of its bar--eligible to
office there, and nowhere else."
"You'd be a citizen of this State by the time you could get elected to
an office in it," suggested the senator gravely.
"I know; the required term of residence here is ridiculously short. But
you are forgetting that I am as completely unknown in the sage-brush
hills as you are well known. I couldn't get a nomination for the office
of pound-keeper."
David Blount was chuckling softly as he threw up the brim of the big
sombrero he was wearing.
"Sounds right funny to hear you talking that way, son," he commented.
"Mighty near everybody this side of the Bad Lands will tell you that the
slate hangs up behind the door at Wartrace Hall; and I don't know but
what some people would say that old Sage-Brush Dave himself does most of
the writing on it.
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