Hammock.
The Traction Engine pulled the Juggernaut over the Popular Idol.

They lit on him spraddled out. They gave him the Doo-Doo.

When the Battle had ended, he was a mile from the cheerful Bivouac,
lying stark in the Moonlight.

He was supposed to be eliminated. The only further recognition
accorded him would be at the Autopsy.

Next day he was back in his usual Haunts, with an immaculate Bow Tie
and a prop Smile, shaking hands with all who had so recently harpooned
him. As a Come-Back he was certainly the resilient Kid.

Those who had marveled at his sole-leather Organ of Speech, now had to
admire his sheet metal Sensibilities, nor could they deny that he
possessed all the attributes of a sound and durable Candidate.

He had learned his Primer lesson in Politics. As soon as he saw that
he could not throw the Combination, he joined it.

He came into the Corral and lay down in the Dust and allowed them to
brand him as a Regular.

Sylvester became the White Slave of the Central Committee, knowing that
eventually true Patriotism would have to be recognized and recompensed.
When he came to bat the second time he had the Permanent Chairman and
the Tellers and all the Rough-Necks plugging for him, consequently it
was a Pipe.

But it was a case of Reverse English on Election Day, for the venal
Opposition rode into power on a Tidal Wave.

After the Tide had receded, Sylvester was found asleep among the Clams
and Sea-Weed, apparently so far gone that a Pulmotor would be no help.

Three days later, however, he was on hand, with chaste Neckwear and a
jaunty Front, to make a Presentation Speech to the Chief of the Fire
Department.

Talk about your Rubber Cores! The harder they run him down the higher
he bounced back.

Those who had been marked by Fate to be his Constits began to see that
Sylvester was something invincible and not to be denied.

What though his Detractors called him a Four-Flush and a False Alarm,
alleging that a true analysis of his Mentality would be just about as
profitable as dissecting a Bass Drum?

The more they knocked, the more oleo-margarine became his beaming
Countenance, for he knew that Calumny avails naught against a White Tie
in the Hot-Bed of cut-and-dried Orthodoxy.

He played the social String from the W. C. T. U. to the Elks and was a
blood-brother of the Tin Horn and the acidulated Elder with the scant
Skilligans.

In order to keep the High-Binders and the Epworth Le