Sunshine Sketches of a Little Town by Stephen Leacock (the false prince TXT) 📕

his trunk, the bus driver fifty cents to drive him up to the Main Street, and he went into Callahan’s tobacco store and bought two ten-cent cigars and took them across the street and gave them to Mallory Tompkins of the Times-Herald as a present from the Prime Minister.

All that afternoon, Bagshaw went up and down the Main Street of Mariposa, and you could see, if you knew the signs of it, that there was politics in the air. He bought nails and putty and glass in the hardware store, and harness in the harness shop, and drugs in the drug store and toys in the toy shop, and all the things like that that are needed for a big campaign.

Then when he had done all this he went over with McGinnis the Liberal organizer and Mallory Tompkins, the Times-Herald man, and Gingham (the great Independent-Liberal undertaker) to the back parlour in the Mariposa House.

You could tell from the way John Henry Bagshaw closed the door before he sat down that he was in a pretty serious frame of mind.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “the election is a certainty. We’re going to have a big fight on our hands and we’ve got to get ready for it.”

“Is it going to be on the tariff?” asked Tompkins.

“Yes, gentlemen, I’m afraid it is. The whole thing is going to turn on the tariff question. I wish it were otherwise. I think it madness, but they’re bent on it, and we got to fight it on that line. Why they can’t fight it merely on the question of graft,” continued the old war horse, rising from his seat and walking up and down, “Heaven only knows. I warned them. I appealed to them. I said, fight the thing on graft and we can win easy. Take this constituency⁠—why not have fought the thing out on whether I spent too much money on the town wharf or the post office? What better issues could a man want? Let them claim that I am crooked and let me claim that I’m not. Surely that was good enough without dragging in the tariff. But now, gentlemen, tell me about things in the constituency. Is there any talk yet of who is to run?”

Mallory Tompkins lighted up the second of his Prime Minister’s cigars and then answered for the group:

“Everybody says that Edward Drone is going to run.”

“Ah!” said the old war horse, and there was joy upon his face, “is he? At last! That’s good, that’s good⁠—now what platform will he run on?”

“Independent.”

“Excellent,” said Mr. Bagshaw. “Independent, that’s fine. On a programme of what?”

“Just simple honesty and public morality.”

“Come now,” said the member, “that’s splendid: that will help enormously. Honesty and public morality! The very thing! If Drone runs and makes a good showing, we win for a certainty. Tompkins, you must lose no time over this. Can’t you manage to get some articles in the other papers hinting that at the last election we bribed all the voters in the county, and that we gave out enough contracts to simply pervert the whole constituency. Imply that we poured the public money into this county in bucketsful and that we are bound to do it again. Let Drone have plenty of material of this sort and he’ll draw off every honest unbiased vote in the Conservative party.

“My only fear is,” continued the old war horse, losing some of his animation, “that Drone won’t run after all. He’s said it so often before and never has. He hasn’t got the money. But we must see to that. Gingham, you know his brother well; you must work it so that we pay Drone’s deposit and his campaign expenses. But how like Drone it is to come out at this time!”

It was indeed very like Edward Drone to attempt so misguided a thing as to come out an Independent candidate in Missinaba County on a platform of public honesty. It was just the sort of thing that anyone in Mariposa would expect from him.

Edward Drone was the Rural Dean’s younger brother⁠—young Mr. Drone, they used to call him, years ago, to distinguish him from the rector. He was a somewhat weaker copy of his elder brother, with a simple, inefficient face and kind blue eyes. Edward Drone was, and always had been, a failure. In training he had been, once upon a time, an engineer and built dams that broke and bridges that fell down and wharves that floated away in the spring floods. He had been a manufacturer and failed, had been a contractor and failed, and now lived a meagre life as a sort of surveyor or land expert on goodness knows what.

In his political ideas Edward Drone was and, as everybody in Mariposa knew, always had been crazy. He used to come up to the autumn exercises at the high school and make speeches about the ancient Romans and Titus Manlius and Quintus Curtius at the same time when John Henry Bagshaw used to make a speech about the Maple Leaf and ask for an extra half holiday. Drone used to tell the boys about the lessons to be learned from the lives of the truly great, and Bagshaw used to talk to them about the lessons learned from the lives of the extremely rich. Drone used to say that his heart filled whenever he thought of the splendid patriotism of the ancient Romans, and Bagshaw said that whenever he looked out over this wide Dominion his heart overflowed.

Even the youngest boy in the school could tell that Drone was foolish. Not even the school teachers would have voted for him.

“What about the Conservatives?” asked Bagshaw presently; “is there any talk yet as to who they’ll bring out?” Gingham and Mallory Tompkins looked at one another. They were almost afraid to speak.

“Hadn’t you heard?” said Gingham; “they’ve got their man already.”

“Who is it?” said Bagshaw quickly.

“They’re going to put up Josh Smith.”

“Great Heaven!” said Bagshaw, jumping to his