rebellious curiosity
that he caught himself listening intently.

The speech was political, the speaker a college man. What he said was
immaterial--not a listener but had heard the same arguments a dozen
times before; it was the man himself that held them.

What the farmers in that dingy little room saw was a smooth-faced
young man, with blue eyes set far apart and light hair that exposed
the temples far back; they heard a soft voice which made them forget
for a time that they were very tired--forget all else but that he was
speaking.

Landers saw further: not a single man, but a type; the concrete
illustration of a vague ideal he had long known. He realized as
the others did not, that the speaker was merely practising on
them--training, as the man himself would have said. When Landers
was critically conscious, he was not deceived; yet, with this
knowledge, at times he forgot and moved along with the speaker,
unconsciously.

It was all deliriously intoxicating to the farmer--this first
understanding glimpse of things he had before merely dreamed
of--and he waited exultantly for those brief moments when he felt,
sympathetically with the speaker, the keen joy of mastery in
perfect art; that joy beside which no other of earth can compare, the
compelling magnetism which carries another's mind irresistibly
along with one's own.

The speaker finished and sat down wearily, and almost simultaneously
the hairy faces left the windows. The shuffling of feet and the murmur
of rough voices once more sounded through the room; again the odor of
vile tobacco filled the air. Several of the older men gathered around
the speaker, in turn holding his hand in a relentless grip while they
struggled bravely for words to express the broadest of compliments.
Young boys stood wide-eyed under their fathers' arms and looked at the
college man steadily, like young calves.

The reaction was on the slender young speaker, and though the
experience was new, he shook hands wearily. In spite of himself a
shade of disgust crept into his face. He was not bidding for these
farmers' votes, and the big sweaty men were foully odorous. He worked
his way steadily out into the open air.

Landers, in response to a motive he made no attempt to explain even to
himself, walked over and touched the chairman on the shoulder.

"'Evening, Ross," he greeted perfunctorily. "Pretty good talk, wasn't
it?" Without waiting for a reply he went on, "Suppose you're not