"
The crowd applauded that sentiment generously.
Thornton did not lose his amiability--his tolerant yet irritating
good-humor.
"Speaking of wheel-horses, Arba--a man up my way started out to buy a
horse the other day. He found a black one that suited--but the man who
owned that horse was mighty honest, as most of my constituents are. 'You
don't want him,' he told the man. 'He's too blamed slow.' 'That doesn't
hurt him a bit for me,' said the buyer. 'I want him to mate another
black horse to haul my hearse. I'm an undertaker!' 'Then you certainly
don't want him,' insisted the fellow. 'The _living_ can _wait_, but the
_dead_ have got to be _buried_.'"
The Duke had made his way out of the crowd before the laughter ceased.
"Apply it to suit, Arba!" he called over his shoulder.
Arm in arm with his grandson, the Duke traversed the lobby and went up
the broad stairs to the State Committee headquarters--double parlors on
the floor above. The men who were sitting in the main parlor saluted the
old man in the offhand manner of intimates.
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