Ned M'Grane was reading the paper as Denis Monaghan came into the forge, with a hearty, "God save all here."

"God save you kindly, Denis," said Ned, "an' keep you from ever aspirin' to be a candidate at an election."

"What's your raison for sayin' such a thing as that, Ned?"

"Well, Denis, I was just turnin' over in me mind all the lies that does be scattered around an' all the trickery an' deceit an' humbug that comes into the world durin' election times, an' I was just sayin' to meself, 'I hope an' pray, Ned M'Grane, that neither you nor any of your friends or relations or dacint neighbours 'll ever be tempted be the divil to go up as candidate for election, either as a Poor Law Guardian, District Councillor, County Councillor, Mimber o' Parliament, or anythin' else that has to be voted for, because as sure as ever you do you'll have to turn on the tap o' the keg where every man keeps his store o' lies in case the truth ever fails him, an' let it flow like the Falls o' Niagara after a flood.' An' that's the raison, Denis, I put that tail on to 'God save you kindly,' because I don't want to see an old friend like yourself ever fallin' as low as that."

"I don't think there's much fear o' me, Ned."

"You never can tell, Denis; you never can tell. I seen sensibler men than Denis Monaghan—because, as you are well aware, you have a streak o' th' amadÁn in you, the same as meself—an' you'd think they'd never set the few brains they had trottin' an' twistin' about election honours, as they're called, an' then some fine day or another when th' Ould Boy finds it too hot to be at home an' takes to prowlin' an' meandrin' about the world he comes along an' shouts in a whisper into me honest man's brain box that it'd be a grand thing for him to have his name in the papers an' on big strips o' paper as wide as a quilt on every old wall an' gate post, an' to be elected as a councillor or a guardian an' be able to gabble round a table every week an' have people lookin' up to him an' thinkin' him a great fella, an' expectin' him to make the country a plot out o' the Garden of Eden, the same as is promised in every election address, and so me poor man, bein' maybe not on his guard, an' a bit seedy or sick or somethin' finds th' Ould Boy's palaver sweeter than the screechin' o' three hungry pigs, an' with his teeth waterin' he makes up his mind to go forward as a candidate. An' that's how the whole thing happens, Denis.

"You know yourself the blathers an' the humbugs dacint men make o' themselves when they set out on the road to a Council seat or to be a chip o' the Board o' Guardians or an M.P., or anythin' else that has to be voted for, an' you know all the lies an' tomfoolery that's pelted about like clods at such a time. One fella says that he'll cut the taxes across in the middle, the same as if you got a splash-hook at them, an' another fella promises to mend all the broken backed bridges in the barony, an' another is goin' to get a pound a week an' a two story house an' a farm o' land for every labourin' man that he's fond of, an' another is goin' to revive th' old ancient language of Ireland, although he doesn't know a word of it himself, an' another playboy 'll make it his business to see that every child gets a vote as soon as he's in short clothes an' weaned off the bottle, an' they go on romancin' out o' them an' makin' up lies that'd lift the skin off your head, let alone the hair, if you started to consider an' ponder over them, and there you have quiet, honest next-door neighbours callin' each other names an' tryin' to clip th' ears off each other with their ash poles for sake o' puttin' one or th' other o' the tricks I was talkin' about at the head o' the list on the day the election is on. An' when they get in the bridges may mend themselves an' the houses for the labourers may grow like mushrooms or daisies, an' the fairies may bring back th' old ancient language an' the women may go about breakin' the world up into little bits lookin' for votes, but the boyo that was goin' to do everythin' takes a sudden fit of forgettin' an' never gets over it until the next election whistles to say it's comin'. Every time I see an election, Denis, I can't help thinkin' that there's a terrible lot o' knaves an' goms in the world still, in spite o' the free libraries an' everythin'.

"Did I ever tell you about the election that was over in the West—I think it was in Galway—a few years ago? It showed that there was one sensible man left in the world. There was a lot o' fellas up for election an' 'twas goin' to be a close fight, as close as a circus tumbler's shirt. One boyo hit on a plan of advertisin' himself, so he got up a big competition, as he called it, an' offered a ham to be won be the man that could give the best raison why he was to vote for this candidate above all th' others. Well, there was a terrible hub-bub an' hullabuloo over it, an' the night came to decide about the ham, an' every man for five miles around was packed into the town hall, an' everyone o' them wantin' to get his lie in first, an' the teeth waterin' with everyone o' them an' they lookin' up at the ham that was hangin' over the platform. An' when th' examination started every mother's son o' them had a raison as long as your arm, an' some o' them wrote down on paper—one fella said it was because he knew the country 'd be the better of it, an' another because he had a longin' after truth an' honesty, an' another because his conscience said it was the right thing to do, and so on, till it came to a little man that was that tight squeezed against the door at the far end o' the hall that his tongue was out, an' his face red, an' he twistin' like an eel in a cleeve. When it came to his turn: 'Well, me friend,' says the candidate, 'what's your raison for sayin' I ought to be elected?' 'Because I want that ham,' the little man squeaked out of him, an' it's all he was able to say on account o' bein' jammed so tight. But he got the ham."