Once upon a time, out in the Rubber Boot Reservation, the Stork came staggering up to a Frame Dwelling with a hefty Infant. The arrival was under the Zodiacal Sign of Taurus, the Bull. Every Omen was propitious. When the Gallery was admitted, on the third day, the gaping Spectators observed that the Youngun had an open Countenance, somewhat like a Channel Cat, a full head of Hair bushing at the nape of the neck, and a hypnotic Eye; so they knew he was destined for the Service of the Public.  
Even while he was in the custody of the Old Women of the Township, he began reaching for everything he saw and testing his Voice. He claimed his Rations frequently and with insistence.
 
While he was demonstrating an elastic Capacity, the head Prophetess called attention to his aggressive Style and predicted a political Career.
 
It was a cinch Horoscope, for the Begetters were a successful
Auctioneer and a Poetess of local repute.
The Child was christened Sylvester, in anticipation of his Future
Greatness.
Several years later, when he rebelled against going to the Barber Shop and began to speak Pieces on the slightest provocation, the Parents rejoiced over these budding symptoms of Statesmanship and bought him a Drum.
 
At school he was a Dummy in Mathematics and a Lummox when it came to Spelling Down, but every Friday afternoon he was out in the lead, wearing Bells.
 
Before he acquired a Vocabulary or accumulated Data, he got by on his Nerve. In later years he never forgot that Facts are non-essential if the Vocal Cords are in tune.
 
When the Pupils tacked the old standby, "Resolved, that Education is better than Riches," he could tremolo on the Affirmative one week and then reverberate for the Negative one week later, never doubting his own Sincerity at any stage of the Game.
 
The grinding classmates who had secured the mark of A in Geometry and
Rhetoric were not in the running on Commencement Day.
Our Hero got his Diploma on a Fluke, but when he appeared on the
Rostrum between an Oleander and the Members of the Board, with Goose-
Goose on the Aureole, the new Store Suit garnished with a leaf of
Geranium and a yellow Rose-Bud, and the Gates Ajar Collar lashed fast
with his future Trade-Mark: viz., a White Bow Tie—he had all the
Book Worms crushed under his Heel.
He pulled out the stop marked "Vox Humana" and begged his Hearers to lift the sword of Justice and with it smite the Deluge of Organized Wealth which was crouched and ready to spring upon the Common People. In pleading the cause of Labor, he spoke as an expert, for once he had strung a Clothes-Line for his Mother.
 
He got the biggest Hand of any one at the Exercises. After denouncing the predaceous Interests he relapsed into an attitude of Meditation, with the Chin on the starched Front, very much like a Steel Engraving of Daniel Webster.
 
The enthralled Townsmen, seeing him thus, with the Right Hand buried in the Sack Suit and the raven Mop projecting in the rear, allowed that there was nothing to it. He was a Genius and billed through for the Legislature.
 
Some Boys have to go to College to get a Shellac Finish, but Sylvester already had the Dark Clothes and the Corrugated Brow and a voice like a Tuba, so, to complete his Equipment, he merely had to sit tilted back in a Law Office for a few months and then borrow Money to get a Hat such as John A. Logan used to wear.
 
All who saw him move from Group to Group along the Hitch Rack on Saturday afternoon, shaking hands with the Rustics and applying the Ointment, remarked that Ves was a young man of Rare Promise and could not be held back from the Pay-Roll for any considerable length of Time. He was one of the original 787 Boy Orators of the Timothy Hay Section of the Imperial Middle West.
 
At every hotel Banquet, whether by the Alumni of the Shorthand College or under the auspices of the Piano Movers' Pleasure Club, he was right up at the Head Table with his Hair rumpled, ready to exchange a Monologue for a few warm Oysters and a cut of withered Chicken.
 
On Memorial Day it was Sylvester who choked up while laying his
Benediction on the Cumrads of the G. A. R..
On Labor Day he unbuttoned his Vest all the way down, held a trembling
Fist clear above the leonine Mat, and demanded a living Wage for every
Toiler.
Consequently he acquired repute as a Staunch Friend of the Agriculturist, the Steam Fitter, the Old Soldier, the Department Store Employee, and others accustomed to voting in Shoals. In order to mature himself and be seasoned for onerous Responsibilities, he waited until he was 22 years of age before attempting to gain a frontage at the Trough.
 
It was highly important that he should serve the Suvrin People in some Capacity involving Compensation. It was fairly important to him and it was vitally important to a certain Woman of gambling Disposition, who operated a Boarding-House.
 
Sylvester was the type of Lawyer intensely admired but seldom employed, save by Criminals entirely bereft of Means.
 
In addition to his Board, the young Barrister actually required a pouch of Fine Cut and a clean White Tie every week, so he was impelled by stern Necessity to endeavor to hook up with a Salary.
 
Because Sylvester had administered personal Massage to every Voter within five Miles of his office, he thought he could leap into the Arena and claim an immediate Laurel Wreath by the mere charm and vigor of his Personality.
 
He ignored the Whispering Ikes who met in the dim Back Room, with
Cotton plugged in the Key Hole.
The Convention met, and when it came time to nominate a Candidate for
State's Attorney, all of Sylvester's tried and true Friends among the
Masses were at home working in the Garden and spread out in the 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,............