mpaign manager and press agent, later.
Inglesby's getting ready to march on to Washington. You watch him do
it!"

"Never!" said Laurence, and set his mouth.

"No?" The Butterfly Man lifted his eyebrows. "Well, what are you going
to do about it? Fight him with your pretty little _Clarion_? It's not
big enough, though you could make it a handy sort of brick to paste
him in the eye with, if you aim straight and pitch hard enough. Go up
against him yourself? You're not strong enough, either, young man,
whatever you may be later on. You can prod him into firing some poor
kids from his mills--but you can't make him feed 'em after he's fired
'em, can you? And you can't keep him from becoming Senator Inglesby
either, unless," he paused impressively, "you can match him even with
a man his money and pull can't beat. Now think."

The young man bit his lip and frowned. The Butterfly Man watched him
quizzically through his glasses.

"Don't take it so hard," he grinned. "And don't let the whole
salvation of South Carolina hang too heavy on your shoulders. Leave
_something_ to God Almighty--He managed to pull the cocky little brute
through worse and tougher situations than Inglesby! Also, He ran the
rest of the world for a few years before you and I got here to help
Him with it."

"You're a cocky brute yourself," said Laurence, critically.

"I can afford to be, because I can open my hand this minute and show
you the button. Why, the very man you need is right in your reach! If
you could get _him_ to put up his name against Inglesby's, the Big Un
wouldn't be in it."

Laurence stared. The Butterfly Man stared back at him.

"Look here," said he slowly. "You remember my nest, and what that
bluejay did for it? And what you said? Well, I've looked about a bit,
and I've seen the bluejay at work.... Oh, hell, I can't talk about
this thing, but I've watched the putty-faced, hollow-chested,
empty-bellied kids--that don't even have guts enough left to laugh....
Somebody ought to sock it to that brute, on account of those kids. He
ought to be headed off ... make him feel he's to be shoo'd outside!
And I think I know the one man that can shoo him." He paused again,
with his head sunk forward. This was so new a John Flint to me that I
had no words. I was too lost in sheer wonder.

"The man I mean hates politics. I've been told he has said openly it's
not a gentleman's game any more. You've got to make him see it can be
made one. You've