preoccupations in life: politics and his forelock. The forelock was a stubborn tangled lock of hair always falling over his forehead, and so obstinate that he spent half the day raising his left hand to his forehead in an automatic movement to push back the rebellious lock. It is needless to say what the politics consisted of.
Forelock and politics, both combined, took up all of his time so that Biriba found no spare moment in which to work his farm, which finally, gnawed by the mortgage-bug, fell into the hands of a wily Italian.
Then he started a bar that failed. While he pushed back his forelock, the customers stole the tips from him; and during the political talks, the men of his party drank cooling drinks and ate fish-cakes in celebration of the future victory while they spouted sarcastic remarks against those in power.
Besides brushing back his forelock, Biriba had the habit of saying, "Yes, sir," used as a comma, semicolon, colon and period in reply to all the nonsensical remarks of his companions; and sometimes, through habit, when the customer ceased talking and began to eat, Biriba would utter a series of "Yes, Sirs," in accompaniment to the chewing of the stolen cake.
At the time of the other man's fall and the ascent of his own faction, he was reduced to the conspicuous position of an electoral pawn.
He worked like a nigger at the election. The bosses gave him the hardest jobs: to hunt out country voters hidden away in mountain fastnesses, to do commerce with their consciences, to bargain prices of votes, exchange
