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Authors: Charlotte MacLeod
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it had been for all the others at which Sam had beaten the pants off opponents whose names Shandy couldn’t even remember.
Where did Bertram G. Claude hail from, anyway? He’d manifested himself in Hoddersville about eight years ago, started shooting his mouth off to anybody who could be prevailed upon to listen, and managed to glad-hand himself into the State House on the strength of some expensive dentistry, a fine taste in neckties, and a voice that would have made his fortune as a television revivalist.
Once in office, Claude had committed every iniquity in Shandy’s glossary, voting straight down the line in favor of big money against the independent farmer, the small businessman, against the old, the small, the weak, the sick, against anybody who hadn’t a hefty wad to contribute to a rising man’s next campaign. Claude’s record on open-land preservation, on toxic-waste control, on clean air, clean water, clean anything proved that as far as he was concerned, politics was indeed a dirty game.
Even Professor Daniel Stott of the Animal Husbandry Department, a man not easily aroused to wrath, had waxed hot in defense of the genus Sus when somebody had been so injudicious as to call Claude a swine. In Stott’s considered opinion, the district would have been far better advised to elect a sensible, well-disposed right-thinking sow or boar to the seat Claude now occupied. The local Plowmen’s Political Action Committee was said to be taking Stott’s recommendation under advisement.
And this was the oaf who was clamoring to address the student body at Balaclava. In a way, Shandy thought it mightn’t be a bad idea. For one thing, there was the doctrine of free speech to consider. Claude was as entitled to spout his slimy rhetoric as anybody else. What they really ought to do was set up a debate with Sam Peters and invite the public. It would be interesting to see what happened.
Claude would make mincemeat of Peters, that was what would happen. He’d flash that come-hither smile and toss his curls and finger his fancy tie and talk a lot of garbage that people who couldn’t listen and think at the same time would swallow hook, line, and sinker. On election day, there’d be good old Sam flat on his unhandsome face and Bertie packing his bags for Washington. Sam’s best and maybe his only hope was for the college to come out swinging on his side as they’d always done before. And how could they, with that silo ready to explode in their faces?
Shandy was trying to recall precisely how the Silo Supporters’ idea had got started in the first place. The college had needed the silo, no question about that. There’d been money enough in the coffers at the time to build a new one, and the plans were already drawn up. The builders were ready to roll when, for some reason not even the bankers could explain, farmers around Balaclava County began having a hard time borrowing money. Families that had been managing nicely found themselves caught in a squeeze with sound credit but no cash to finance their spring plantings. Naturally they appealed to the college’s Endowment Fund, and naturally they got the help they needed.
Shelling out so much so unexpectedly left the college pinched for cash, too. Svenson and the Board of Trustees had decided it would be foolhardy to embark on any new major expenditure until after the fall harvest when, God and the elements willing, the farmers would be solvent again and the loans paid back. By then, however, it would be too late to build the silo in time for it to house that year’s crop of ensilage. That raised the question of how the flaming hell they were going to winter over their newly augmented herds and flocks without putting the college in hock.
Everybody in Balaclava County knew what was happening. Those who hadn’t been required to nick Svenson for a loan knew somebody who had, and those who’d been hoping to get short-term jobs working on the building of the new silo
Where did Bertram G. Claude hail from, anyway? He’d manifested himself in Hoddersville about eight years ago, started shooting his mouth off to anybody who could be prevailed upon to listen, and managed to glad-hand himself into the State House on the strength of some expensive dentistry, a fine taste in neckties, and a voice that would have made his fortune as a television revivalist.
Once in office, Claude had committed every iniquity in Shandy’s glossary, voting straight down the line in favor of big money against the independent farmer, the small businessman, against the old, the small, the weak, the sick, against anybody who hadn’t a hefty wad to contribute to a rising man’s next campaign. Claude’s record on open-land preservation, on toxic-waste control, on clean air, clean water, clean anything proved that as far as he was concerned, politics was indeed a dirty game.
Even Professor Daniel Stott of the Animal Husbandry Department, a man not easily aroused to wrath, had waxed hot in defense of the genus Sus when somebody had been so injudicious as to call Claude a swine. In Stott’s considered opinion, the district would have been far better advised to elect a sensible, well-disposed right-thinking sow or boar to the seat Claude now occupied. The local Plowmen’s Political Action Committee was said to be taking Stott’s recommendation under advisement.
And this was the oaf who was clamoring to address the student body at Balaclava. In a way, Shandy thought it mightn’t be a bad idea. For one thing, there was the doctrine of free speech to consider. Claude was as entitled to spout his slimy rhetoric as anybody else. What they really ought to do was set up a debate with Sam Peters and invite the public. It would be interesting to see what happened.
Claude would make mincemeat of Peters, that was what would happen. He’d flash that come-hither smile and toss his curls and finger his fancy tie and talk a lot of garbage that people who couldn’t listen and think at the same time would swallow hook, line, and sinker. On election day, there’d be good old Sam flat on his unhandsome face and Bertie packing his bags for Washington. Sam’s best and maybe his only hope was for the college to come out swinging on his side as they’d always done before. And how could they, with that silo ready to explode in their faces?
Shandy was trying to recall precisely how the Silo Supporters’ idea had got started in the first place. The college had needed the silo, no question about that. There’d been money enough in the coffers at the time to build a new one, and the plans were already drawn up. The builders were ready to roll when, for some reason not even the bankers could explain, farmers around Balaclava County began having a hard time borrowing money. Families that had been managing nicely found themselves caught in a squeeze with sound credit but no cash to finance their spring plantings. Naturally they appealed to the college’s Endowment Fund, and naturally they got the help they needed.
Shelling out so much so unexpectedly left the college pinched for cash, too. Svenson and the Board of Trustees had decided it would be foolhardy to embark on any new major expenditure until after the fall harvest when, God and the elements willing, the farmers would be solvent again and the loans paid back. By then, however, it would be too late to build the silo in time for it to house that year’s crop of ensilage. That raised the question of how the flaming hell they were going to winter over their newly augmented herds and flocks without putting the college in hock.
Everybody in Balaclava County knew what was happening. Those who hadn’t been required to nick Svenson for a loan knew somebody who had, and those who’d been hoping to get short-term jobs working on the building of the new silo
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