ominous sign: Mr. Redbrook, Mr. Widgeon of Hull,
and the other rural delegates who have been voting for the People's
Champion, and who have not been observed in friendly conversation with
anybody at all, now have their heads together. Mr. Billings goes
sauntering by, but cannot hear what they are saying. Something must be
done, and right away, and the knowing metropolitan reporters are winking
at each other and declaring darkly that a sensation is about to turn up.

Where is Hilary Vane? Doesn't he realize the danger? Or--traitorous
thought!--doesn't he care? To see his son nominated would be a singular
revenge for the indignities which are said to have been heaped upon him.
Does Hilary Vane, the strong man of the State, merely sit at the
keyboard, powerless, while the tempest itself shakes from the organ a new
and terrible music? Nearly, six hours he has sat at the basswood table,
while senators, congressmen, feudal chiefs, and even Chairman Doby
himself flit in and out, whisper in his ear, set papers before him, and
figures and problems, and telegrams from highest authority. He merely
nods his head, says a word now and then, or holds his peace. Does he know
what he's about? If they had not heard things concerning his health,--and
other things,--they would still feel safe. He seems the only calm man to
be found in the hall--but is the calm aberration?

A conference in the corner of the platform, while the fourth ballot is
progressing, is held between Senators Whitredge and Greene, Mr. Ridout
and Mr. Manning. So far the Honourable Hilary has apparently done nothing
but let the storm take its course; a wing-footed messenger has returned
who has seen Mr. Thomas Gaylord walking rapidly up Maple Street, and
Austen Vane (most astute and reprehensible of politicians) is said to be
at the Widow Peasley's, quietly awaiting the call. The name of Austen
Vane--another messenger says--is running like wildfire through the hall,
from row to row. Mr. Crewe has no chance--so rumour goes. A reformer (to
pervert the saying of a celebrated contemporary humorist) must fight
Marquis of Queensberry to win; and the People's Champion, it is averred,
has not. Shrewd country delegates who had listened to the Champion's
speeches and had come to the capital prepared to vote for purity, had
been observing the movements since yesterday, of Mr. Tooting and Mr.
Wading with no inconsiderable interest. Now was the psychological moment
for Austen Vane, b