flattered by the friendliness with which Sylvester Moon, dirtiest and
most skilled of motor mechanics, came out to serve him. "Mornin', Mr.
Babbitt!" said Moon, and Babbitt felt himself a person of importance,
one whose name even busy garagemen remembered--not one of these
cheap-sports flying around in flivvers. He admired the ingenuity of the
automatic dial, clicking off gallon by gallon; admired the smartness
of the sign: "A fill in time saves getting stuck--gas to-day 31 cents";
admired the rhythmic gurgle of the gasoline as it flowed into the tank,
and the mechanical regularity with which Moon turned the handle.

"How much we takin' to-day?" asked Moon, in a manner which combined the
independence of the great specialist, the friendliness of a familiar
gossip, and respect for a man of weight in the community, like George F.
Babbitt.

"Fill 'er up."

"Who you rootin' for for Republican candidate, Mr. Babbitt?"

"It's too early to make any predictions yet. After all, there's still
a good month and two weeks--no, three weeks--must be almost three
weeks--well, there's more than six weeks in all before the Republican
convention, and I feel a fellow ought to keep an open mind and give
all the candidates a show--look 'em all over and size 'em up, and then
decide carefully."

"That's a fact, Mr. Babbitt."

"But I'll tell you--and my stand on this is just the same as it was four
years ago, and eight years ago, and it'll be my stand four years from