being an emotional person,
he continues to pick apples until he is summarily hailed. Then he goes
leisurely towards the Leviathan.

"Are you Mr. Jenney?"

"Callate to be," says Mr. Jenney, pleasantly.

"I'm Humphrey Crewe."

"How be you?" says Mr. Jenney, his eyes wandering over the Leviathan.

"How are the apples this year?" asks Mr. Crewe, graciously.

"Fair to middlin'," says Mr. Jenney.

"Have you ever tasted my Pippins?" says Mr. Crewe. "A little science in
cultivation helps along. I'm going to send you a United States government
pamphlet on the fruit we can raise here."

Mr. Jenney makes an awkward pause by keeping silent on the subject of the
pamphlet until he shall see it.

"Do you take much interest in politics?"

"Not a great deal," answers Mr. Jenney.

"That's the trouble with Americans," Mr. Crewe declares, "they don't care
who represents 'em, or whether their government's good or bad."

"Guess that's so," replies Mr. Jenney, politely.

"That sort of thing's got to stop," declares Mr. Crewe; "I'm a candidate
for the Republican nomination for representative."

"I want to know!" ejaculates Mr. Jenney, pulling his beard. One would
never suspect that this has been one of Mr. Jenney's chief topics of
late.

"I'll see that the interests of this town are cared for."

"Let's see," says Mr. Jenney, "there's five hundred in the House, ain't
there?"

"It's a ridiculous number," says Mr. Crewe, with truth.

"Gives everybody a chance to go," says Mr. Jenney. "I was thar in '78,
and enjoyed it some."

"Who are you for?" demanded Mr. Crewe, combating the tendency of the
conversation to slip into a pocket.

"Little early yet, hain't it? Hain't made up my mind. Who's the
candidates?" asks Mr. Jenney, continuing to stroke his beard.

"I don't know," says Mr. Crewe, "but I do know I've done something for
this town, and I hope you'll take it into consideration. Come and see me
when you go to the village. I'll give you a good cigar, and that
pamphlet, and we'll talk matters over."

"Never would have thought to see one of them things in my orchard," says
Mr. Jenney. "How much do they cost? Much as a locomotive, don't they?"

It would not be exact to say that, after some weeks of this sort of
campaigning, Mr. Crewe was discouraged, for such writhe vitality with
which nature had charged him that he did not know the meaning of the
word. He was merely puzzled, as a June-bug is puzzled when it bumps up
ag