It was not long, however, before he was discharged, largely because of partisan influence anxious to drive him out of that region.  It was said that this move of seeking a job in so simple a way was a bit of “grand standing”—­insincere—­that he didn’t need to do it, and that he was trying to pile up political capital against the future.  A little later a local grocery man of his social faith offered him a position as clerk, and for some odd reason—­humanitarian and sectarian, possibly—­he accepted this.  At any rate, here he labored for a little while.  Again many said he was attempting to make political capital out of this simple life in order to further his political interests later, and this possibly, even probably, was true.  All men have methods of fighting for that which they believe.  So here he worked for a time, while a large number of agencies pro and con continued to denounce or praise him, to ridicule or extol his so-called Jeffersonian simplicity.  It was at this time that I encountered him—­a tall, spare, capable and interesting individual, who willingly took me into his confidence and explained all that had hitherto befallen him.  He was most interesting, really, a figure to commemorate in this fashion.

In one of the rooms of his very humble home—­a kind of office or den, in a small house such as any clerk or working-man might occupy—­was a collection of clippings, laudatory, inquiring, and abusive, which would have done credit to a candidate for the highest office in the land.  One would have judged by the scrap-books and envelopes stuffed to overflowing with long newspaper articles and editorials that had been cut from papers all over the country from Florida to Oregon, that his every movement at this time and earlier was all-essential to the people.  Plainly, he had been watched, spied upon, and ignored by one class, while being hailed, praised and invited by another.  Magazine editors had called upon him for contributions, journalists from the large cities had sought him out to obtain his actual views, citizens’ leagues in various parts of the nation had invited him to come and speak, and yet he was still a very young man in years, not over-intelligent politically or philosophically, the ex-mayor of a small city, and the representative of no great organization of any sort.

In his retirement he was now comforted, if one can be so comforted, by these memories, still fresh in his mind and by the hope possibly for his own future, as well as by a droll humor with which he was wont to select the sharpest and most willful slur upon his unimpeachable conduct as an offering to public curiosity.

“Do you really want to know what people think of me?” he said to me on one occasion.  “Well, here’s something.  Read this.”  And then he would hand me a bunch of the bitterest attacks possible, attacks which pictured him as a sly and treacherous enemy of the people—­or worse yet a bounding anarchistic ignoramus.  Personally I could not help admiring his stoic mood.  It was superior to that of his detractors.  Apparent falsehoods did not anger him.  Evident misunderstandings could not, seemingly, disturb him.