ces. Another hour and a quarter, with the temperature steadily
rising and the carbon dioxide increasing--and the second ballot is
announced.

The Honourable Giles Henderson of Kingston has . . 440
The Honourable Humphrey Crewe of Leith has . . . . 336
The Honourable Adam B. Hunt of Edmundton has . . . 255

And there are three votes besides improperly made out!

What the newspapers call indescribable excitement ensues. The three votes
improperly made out are said to be trip passes accidentally dropped into
the box by the supporters of the Honourable Elisha Jane. And add up the
sum total of the votes! Thirty-one votes more than there are credentials
in the hall! Mystery of mysteries how can it be? The ballot, announces
General Doby, after endless rapping, is a blank. Cheers, recriminations,
exultation, disgust of decent citizens, attempts by twenty men to get the
eye of the president (which is too watery to see any of them), and rushes
for the platform to suggest remedies or ask what is going to be done
about such palpable fraud. What can be done? Call the roll! How in blazes
can you call the roll when you don't know who's here? Messrs. Jane,
Botcher, Bascom, and Fleming are not disturbed, and improve their time.
Watling and Tooting rush to the bridal suite, and rush back again to
demand justice. General Doby mingles his tears with theirs, and somebody
calls him a jellyfish. He does not resent it. Friction makes the air
hotter and hotter--Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego would scarce enter
into this furnace,--and General Doby has a large damp spot on his back as
he pounds and pounds and pounds until we are off again on the third
ballot. No dinner, and three-thirty P.M.! Two delegates have fainted, but
the essential parts of them--the credentials--are left behind.

Four-forty, whispering again, and the gavel drops.

The Honourable Giles Henderson of Kingston has . . 412
The Honourable Humphrey Crewe of Leith has . . . 325
The Honourable Adam B. Hunt of Edmundton has. . . 250
And there is no choice on the third ballot!

Thirteen delegates are actually missing this time. Scour the town! And
now even the newspaper adjectives describing the scene have given out. A
persistent and terrifying rumour goes the rounds, where's Tom Gaylord?
Somebody said he was in the hall a moment ago, on a Ripton credential. If
so, he's gone out again--gone out to consult the dark horse, who is in
town, somewhere. Another