ame
governor, certain material benefits would as inevitably ensue as the day
follows the night. The list of the material benefits, for which there
was a crying need, bore a strong resemblance to a summary of the worthy
measures upon which Mr. Crewe had spent so much time and labour in the
last Legislature.

Austen laid down the paper, leaned back in his chair, and thrust his
hands in his pockets, and with a little vertical pucker in his forehead,
regarded his friend.

"What do you think of that?" Tom demanded. "Now, what do you think of
it?"

"I think," said Austen, "that he'll scare the life out of the
Northeastern before he gets through with them."

"What!" exclaimed Tom, incredulously. He had always been willing to
accept Austen's judgment on men and affairs, but this was pretty stiff.
"What makes you think so?"

"Well, people don't know Mr. Crewe, for one thing. And they are
beginning to have a glimmer of light upon the Railroad."

"Do you mean to say he has a chance for the nomination?"

"I don't know. It depends upon how much the voters find out about him
before the convention."

Tom sat down rather heavily.

"You could have been governor," he complained reproachfully, "by raising
your hand. You've got more ability than any man in the State, and you
sit here gazin' at that mountain and lettin' a darned fool millionaire
walk in ahead of you."

Austen rose and crossed over to Mr. Gaylord's chair, and, his hands
still in his pockets, looked down thoughtfully into that gentleman's
square and rugged face.

"Tom," he said, "there's no use discussing this delusion of yours, which
seems to be the only flaw in an otherwise sane character. We must try to
keep it from the world."

Tom laughed in spite of himself.

"I'm hanged if I understand you," he declared, "but I never did. You
think Crewe and Tooting may carry off the governorship, and you don't
seem to care."

"I do care," said Austen, briefly. He went to the window and stood for
a moment with his back to his friend, staring across at Sawanec. Tom had
learned by long experience to respect these moods, although they were to
him inexplicable. At length Austen turned.

"Tom," he said, "can you come in to-morrow about this time? If you
can't, I'll go to your office if you will let me know when you'll be in.
There's a matter of business I want to talk to you about."

Tom pulled out his watch.

"I've got to catch a train for Mercer," he replied, "but