ocation,--to shake hands genially
with new friends, who are led up by old friends with two fingers on the
elbow. The old friends crack jokes and whisper in the ear of the
governor-to-be, who presently goes upstairs, accompanied by the
Honourable Hilary Vane, to the bridal suite, which is reserved for him,
and which has fire-proof carpet on the floor. The Honourable Hilary has a
room next door, connecting with the new governor's by folding doors, but
this fact is not generally known to country members. Only old timers,
like Bijah Bixby and Job Braden, know that the Honourable Hilary's room
corresponds to one which in the old Pelican was called the Throne Room,
Number Seven, where Jethro Bass sat in the old days and watched
unceasingly the groups in the street from the window.

But Jethro Bass has been dead these twenty years, and his lieutenants
shorn of power. An empire has arisen out of the ashes of the ancient
kingdoms. Bijah and Job are old, all-powerful still in Clovelly and
Leith--influential still in their own estimations; still kicking up their
heels behind, still stuttering and whispering into ears, still "going
along by when they are talking sly." But there are no guerrillas now, no
condottieri who can be hired: the empire has a paid and standing army, as
an empire should. The North Country chiefs, so powerful in the clan
warfare of bygone days, are generals now,--chiefs of staff. The
captain-general, with a minute piece of Honey Dew under his tongue, sits
in Number Seven. A new Number Seven,--with electric lights and a bathroom
and a brass bed. Tempora mutantur. There is an empire and a feudal
system, did one but know it. The clans are part of the empire, and each
chief is responsible for his clan--did one but know it. One doesn't know
it.

The Honourable Brush Bascom, Duke of Putnam, member of the House, has
arrived unostentatiously--as is his custom--and is seated in his own
headquarters, number ten (with a bathroom). Number nine belongs from year
to year to Mr. Manning, division superintendent of that part of the
Northeastern which was the old Central,--a thin gentleman with
side-whiskers. He loves life in the capital so much that he takes his
vacations there in the winter,--during the sessions of the Legislature,
--presumably because it is gay. There are other rooms, higher up, of
important men, to be sure, but to enter which it is not so much of an
honour. The Honourable Bill Fleming, postmaster of Bramp