ated declarations of political creed. But his
selection was a foregone conclusion. His youth, his absurd beauty, his
fire and eloquence, his unswerving definiteness of aim, his magic that
had inspired so many with a belief in him and had made him the
Fortunate Youth, captivated the imagination of the essentially
unimaginative. Before a committee of wits and poets, Paul perhaps would
not have had a dog's chance. But he appealed to the hard-headed
merchants and professional men who chose him very much as the hero of
melodrama appeals to a pit and gallery audience. He symbolized to them
hope and force and predestined triumph. One or two at first sniffed
suspiciously at his lofty ideals; but as there was no mistaking his
political soundness, they let the ideals pass, as a natural and
evanescent aroma.

So, in his thirtieth year, Paul was nominated as Unionist candidate for
the Borough of Hickney Heath, and he saw himself on the actual
threshold of the great things to which he was born. He wrote a little
note to Jane telling her the news. He also wrote to Barney Bill: "You
dear old Tory--did you ever dream that ragamuffin little Paul was going
to represent you in Parliament? Get out the dear old 'bus and paint it
blue, with 'Paul Savelli forever' in gold letters, and, instead of
chairs and mats, hang it with literature, telling what a wonderful
fellow P. S. is. And go through the streets of Hickney Heath with it,
and say if you like: 'I knew him when' he was a nipper--that high.' And
if you like to be mysterious and romantic you can say: 'I, Barney Bill,
gave him his first chance,' as you did, my dear old friend, and Paul's
not the man to forget it. Oh, Barney, it's too wonderful"--his heart
went out to the old man. "If I get in I will tell you something that
will knock you flat. It will be the realization of all the silly
rubbish I talked in the old brickfield at Bludston. But, dear old
friend, it was you and the open road that first set me on the patriotic
lay, and there's not a voter in Hickney Heath who can vote as you
can--for his own private and particular trained candidate."

Jane, for reasons unconjectured, did not reply. But from Barney Bill,
who, it must be remembered, had leanings toward literature, he received
a postcard with the following inscription: "Paul, Hif I can help you
konker the Beastes of Effesus I will. Bill."

And then began the furious existence of an electioneering campaign. His
side had a clear