ng their way
towards the door. The conference, emboldened by terror, marches in a body
into the little room, and surrounds the calmly insane Lieutenant-general
of the forces; it would be ill-natured to say that visions of lost
railroad commissionerships, lost consulships, lost postmasterships,
--yes, of lost senatorships, were in these loyal heads at this crucial
time.

It was all very well (so said the first spokesman) to pluck a few
feathers from a bird so bountifully endowed as the Honourable Adam, but
were not two gentlemen who should be nameless carrying the joke a little
too far? Mr. Vane unquestionably realized what he was doing, but--was it
not almost time to call in the two gentlemen and--and come to some
understanding?

"Gentlemen," said the Honourable Hilary, apparently unmoved, "I have not
seen Mr. Bascom or Mr. Botcher since the sixteenth day of August, and I
do not intend to."

Some clearing of throats followed this ominous declaration,--and a
painful silence. The thing must be said and who would say it? Senator
Whitredge was the hero.

Mr. Thomas Gaylord has just entered the convention hall, and is said to
be about to nominate--a dark horse. The moment was favourable, the
convention demoralized, and at least one hundred delegates had left the
hall. (How about the last ballot, Senator, which showed 1011?)

The Honourable Hilary rose abruptly, closed the door to shut out the
noise, and turned and looked Mr. Whitredge in the eye.

"Who is the dark horse?" he demanded.

The members of the conference coughed again, looked at each other, and
there was a silence. For some inexplicable reason, nobody cared to
mention the name of Austen Vane.

The Honourable Hilary pointed at the basswood table.

"Senator," he said, "I understand you have been telephoning Mr. Flint.
Have you got orders to sit down there?"

"My dear sir," said the Senator, "you misunderstand me."

"Have you got orders to sit down there?" Mr. Vane repeated.

"No," answered the Senator, "Mr. Flint's confidence in you--"

The Honourable Hilary sat down again, and at that instant the door was
suddenly flung open by Postmaster Bill Fleeting of Brampton, his genial
face aflame with excitement and streaming with perspiration. Forgotten,
in this moment, is senatorial courtesy and respect for the powers of the
feudal system.

"Say, boys," he cried, "Putnam County's voting, and there's be'n no
nomination and ain't likely to be. Jim Scudder,