inefficiency in the Sheriff’s office and want a man that can handle the job, vote for Curly Minifee.
“Curly Minifee is a simple, straight-forward man, folks, and he gives you a simple, straight-forward platform:
PUT MINIFEE IN OFFICE AND PUT THE CROOKS IN JAIL
Signed: (Minifee for Sheriff Committee.)”
It sure seemed like he was dead set on getting to be Sheriff. Must cost a lot of money, I thought, to hire an airplane to go around dropping these papers out. I grabbed them up and started running toward the house. Pop and Uncle Sagamore might like to read ’em too.
FIVE
B UT THEY ALREADY HAD some. When I come tearing around the house, Murph’s convertible was parked under the oak tree in the front yard. He must have drove up while I was down in the cornfield. Pop and Uncle Sagamore was standing by the car reading a bunch of the sheets I reckon he’d brought out from town. They all looked real serious.
“Hey, I’ve got some too,” I says. “Mine fell out of the airplane.”
Nobody paid any attention. “From what I can find out,” Murph says, “he was already thinking about running, even before it happened. That just clinched it.”
“You think he might win?” Pop asked.
Murph lit a cigarette. “No use kidding ourselves. He’s got better than an even-money chance right now, and it’s still ten days to the election. The newspaper’s behind him, and the Merchant’s Association, and the League of Women Voters. The whole county’ll be knee-deep in these circulars before sundown, and he’s already sold his filling station and bought a sound truck.”
“Hmmm,” Uncle Sagamore says. He pursed up his lips and sailed out some tobacco juice. It landed ka-splott about ten feet away, and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “He sounds like a reg’lar go-getter.”
Murph nodded. “He is. And he’s no dope; they say he’s slippery as an eel. You kind of caught him off guard there before, because he didn’t recognize you.”
Just then we heard music. We all looked up the hill, and here come a panel truck in through the gate at the sand road. It looked like a one-car parade. It was painted red and white, and had big signs fastened to the sides and two loudspeakers on top. It drove on down and stopped just above where we was. The two signs on this side was wood frames and white cloth with big red letters painted on them.
MINIFEE FOR SHERIFF!!
PUT MINIFEE IN OFFICE AND PUT THECROOKS IN JAIL!!
We all stared. The music stopped and the man opened the door and got out. It was Curly. He was bareheaded and had on a white suit and a red string tie. The breast pocket of his coat was stuffed with cigars, and he had that big, cocky grin on his face.
“Howdy, men,” he says, real friendly. “Have a cigar.”
He grabbed a handful out of the box on the seat, but just then Sig Freed seemed to notice him for the first time. He’d been lying there in the shade of the oak tree kind of grinning at everybody, but all of a sudden he let out a real mad bark and shot right under the convertible and headed for Curly. He didn’t try to bite, but his back hair was bristled up and he went on barking like he was calling Curly every name a dog could think of. It sure was odd; he was usually pretty friendly with folks. Uncle Sagamore pursed up his lips, and him and Pop looked at each other.
Curly just grinned. “Well, looks like I done lost the weenie-dog vote right off the bat,” he says.
I grabbed Sig Freed and calmed him down a little, but he kept watching Curly and muttering about it. Curly passed out cigars to Pop and Murph and Uncle Sagamore, and leaned his arm on the windshield of the convertible.
“Men,” he says, confidential-like, “the first thing a candidate runnin’ for office has to do is line up the backin’ of the real upstandin’ citizens of the community, so that’s the reason I’ve come right to you to start off my campaign—” He stopped then and looked at Pop. “By the way,
“Curly Minifee is a simple, straight-forward man, folks, and he gives you a simple, straight-forward platform:
PUT MINIFEE IN OFFICE AND PUT THE CROOKS IN JAIL
Signed: (Minifee for Sheriff Committee.)”
It sure seemed like he was dead set on getting to be Sheriff. Must cost a lot of money, I thought, to hire an airplane to go around dropping these papers out. I grabbed them up and started running toward the house. Pop and Uncle Sagamore might like to read ’em too.
FIVE
B UT THEY ALREADY HAD some. When I come tearing around the house, Murph’s convertible was parked under the oak tree in the front yard. He must have drove up while I was down in the cornfield. Pop and Uncle Sagamore was standing by the car reading a bunch of the sheets I reckon he’d brought out from town. They all looked real serious.
“Hey, I’ve got some too,” I says. “Mine fell out of the airplane.”
Nobody paid any attention. “From what I can find out,” Murph says, “he was already thinking about running, even before it happened. That just clinched it.”
“You think he might win?” Pop asked.
Murph lit a cigarette. “No use kidding ourselves. He’s got better than an even-money chance right now, and it’s still ten days to the election. The newspaper’s behind him, and the Merchant’s Association, and the League of Women Voters. The whole county’ll be knee-deep in these circulars before sundown, and he’s already sold his filling station and bought a sound truck.”
“Hmmm,” Uncle Sagamore says. He pursed up his lips and sailed out some tobacco juice. It landed ka-splott about ten feet away, and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “He sounds like a reg’lar go-getter.”
Murph nodded. “He is. And he’s no dope; they say he’s slippery as an eel. You kind of caught him off guard there before, because he didn’t recognize you.”
Just then we heard music. We all looked up the hill, and here come a panel truck in through the gate at the sand road. It looked like a one-car parade. It was painted red and white, and had big signs fastened to the sides and two loudspeakers on top. It drove on down and stopped just above where we was. The two signs on this side was wood frames and white cloth with big red letters painted on them.
MINIFEE FOR SHERIFF!!
PUT MINIFEE IN OFFICE AND PUT THECROOKS IN JAIL!!
We all stared. The music stopped and the man opened the door and got out. It was Curly. He was bareheaded and had on a white suit and a red string tie. The breast pocket of his coat was stuffed with cigars, and he had that big, cocky grin on his face.
“Howdy, men,” he says, real friendly. “Have a cigar.”
He grabbed a handful out of the box on the seat, but just then Sig Freed seemed to notice him for the first time. He’d been lying there in the shade of the oak tree kind of grinning at everybody, but all of a sudden he let out a real mad bark and shot right under the convertible and headed for Curly. He didn’t try to bite, but his back hair was bristled up and he went on barking like he was calling Curly every name a dog could think of. It sure was odd; he was usually pretty friendly with folks. Uncle Sagamore pursed up his lips, and him and Pop looked at each other.
Curly just grinned. “Well, looks like I done lost the weenie-dog vote right off the bat,” he says.
I grabbed Sig Freed and calmed him down a little, but he kept watching Curly and muttering about it. Curly passed out cigars to Pop and Murph and Uncle Sagamore, and leaned his arm on the windshield of the convertible.
“Men,” he says, confidential-like, “the first thing a candidate runnin’ for office has to do is line up the backin’ of the real upstandin’ citizens of the community, so that’s the reason I’ve come right to you to start off my campaign—” He stopped then and looked at Pop. “By the way,
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