"Pretty raw deal," said the Chairman, "the Convention
wishing HIM on us." He pointed with his thumb over his
shoulder to indicate the departed Candidate.
"What's wrong with him?" I asked.
Mr. Frog shook his head again.
"No PUNCH," he said.
"None at all," agreed all the battle horses.
"I'll tell you," said the Campaign secretary, Mr. Bughouse,
a voluble man, with wandering eyes--"the trouble is he
has no magnetism, no personal magnetism."
"I see," I said.
"Now, you take this man, Shortis, that the Liberals have
got hold of," continued Mr. Bughouse, "he's full of
MAGNETISM. He appeals."
All the other Committee men nodded.
"That's so," they murmured, "magnetism, Our man hasn't
a darned ounce of it."
"I met Shortis the other night in the street," went on
Mr. Bughouse, "and he said, 'Come on up to my room in
the hotel.' 'Oh,' I said, 'I can't very well.' 'Nonsense,'
he said, 'You're on the other side but what does that
matter?' Well, we went up to his room, and there he had
whiskey, and gin, and lager,--everything. 'Now,' he says,
'name your drink--what is it?' There he was, right in
his room, breaking the law without caring a darn about
it.
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