“But they call you a demagogue. How does that accusation affect you?”
The Governor smiled, as if he considered it a good joke.
“Well, that amuses me,” said he. “They don’t do that around here
any more. They’ve worn it out, I guess. No, it doesn’t disturb me a
particle. I always go on the principle that lies never hurt anybody.”
Governor Pingree was a man of powerful physique and dignity of bearing.
But he was delightfully oblivious to his own importance, and was
entirely devoid of ostentation in everything that he did or said. His
disposition was buoyant, his manner that of frank simplicity, and he
was prodigal in his generosity and sympathy for those in need. In his
private business, the welfare of his employees was always balanced in
the scale with his own.
In the camps of war he was known as “Father Pingree,” and when the boys
returned to Detroit he was the first to greet them. But no one ever saw
him in an open carriage behind the band; he was always away off in a
corner of the station, where the ambulances were waiting, giving a word
of encouragement to this poor fellow and patting that one on the back.
He worked for forty hours at a time, without a thought of sleep, to
keep up a cheerful welcome, though many a time he was seen to turn away
just long enough to brush the tears from his eyes.