are you?" says the bland-faced
man; "but I guess you've missed the mark this shot. Well, so long."

"Hold on!" says Mr. Crewe, "Watling will talk to you."

And, as the gentleman follows Mr. Wailing through the press, a pamphlet
drops from his pocket to the floor. It is marked 'Catalogue of the
Raines Farm Implement Company.' Mr. Watling picks it up and hands it to
the gentleman, who winks again.

"Tim," he says, "where can we sit down? How much are you getting out
of this? Brush and Jake Botcher are bidding high down-stairs, and the
quotation on delegates has gone up ten points in ten minutes. It's
mighty good of you to remember old friends, Tim, even if they're not
delegates."

Meanwhile Mr. Crewe is graciously receiving others who are crowding to
him.

"How are you, Mr. Giddings? How are the cows? I carry some stock that'll
make you sit up--I believe I told you when I was down your way. Of
course, mine cost a little money, but that's one of my hobbies. Come and
see 'em some day. There's a good hotel in Ripton, and I'll have you met
there and drive you back."

Thus, with a genial and kindly remark to each, he passes from one to the
other, and when the members of the press come to him for his estimate
of the outcome on the morrow, he treats them with the same courtly
consideration.

"Estimate!" cries Mr. Crewe. "Where have your eyes been to-night, my
friends? Have you seen the people coming into these headquarters? Have
you seen 'em pouring into any other headquarters? All the State and
federal office-holders in the country couldn't stop me now. Estimate!
I'll be nominated on the first ballot."

They wrote it down.

"Thank you, Mr. Crewe," they said; "that's the kind of talk we like to
hear."

"And don't forget," said Mr. Crewe, "to mention this reception in the
accounts."

Mr. Tooting, who makes it a point from time to time to reconnoitre,
saunters halfway down-stairs and surveys the crowded rotunda from the
landing. Through the blue medium produced by the burning of many cigars
(mostly Mr. Crewe's) he takes note of the burly form of Mr. Thomas
Gaylord beside that of Mr. Redbrook and other rural figures; he takes
note of a quiet corner with a ring of chairs surrounded by scouts and
outposts, although it requires a trained eye such as Mr. Tooting's to
recognize them as such--for they wear no uniforms. They are, in truth,
minor captains of the feudal system, and their present duties consist
(as Mr. Tootin