and political world with curiosity.

"I'm glad, Kit," was all that he said. "You know that."

Then he forgot everything in the cartoon, and he showed his instant
recognition of its significance by snatching out his watch, pushing a
button, and saying to Garland, who came to the door in his shirtsleeves:

"Tell Nic to hold the first edition for a five-column first-page
cartoon. And send this up right away."

They had a last look at it before it went, and after gazing a moment in
silence Hardy said:

"It's the greatest thing you ever did, Kit, and it comes at the
psychological moment. It'll elect him."

"Oh, he was elected anyhow."

Hardy shook his head, and in the movement Kittrell saw how the strain of
the campaign had told on him. "No, he wasn't; the way they've been
hammering him is something fierce; and the _Telegraph_--well, your
cartoons and all, you know."

"But my cartoons in the _Telegraph_ were rotten. Any work that's not
sincere, not intellectually honest----"

Hardy interrupted him:

"Yes; but, Kit, you're so good that your rotten is better than 'most
anybody's best." He smiled, and Kittrell blushed and looked away.

Hardy was right. The "Kit" cartoon, back in the _Post_, created its
sensation, and after it appeared the political reporters said it had
started a landslide to Clayton; that the betting was 4 to 1 and no
takers, and that it was all over but the shouting.

That night, as they were at dinner, the telephone rang, and in a minute
Neil knew by Edith's excited and delighted reiteration of "yes," "yes,"
who had called up. And he then heard her say:

"Indeed I will; I'll come every night and sit in the front seat."

When Kittrell displaced Edith at the telephone, he heard the voice of
John Clayton, lower in register and somewhat husky after four weeks'
speaking, but more musical than ever in Kittrell's ears when it said:

"I just told the little woman, Neil, that I didn't know how to say it,
so I wanted her to thank you for me. It was beautiful in you, and I wish
I were worthy of it; it was simply your own good soul expressing
itself."

And it was the last delight to Kittrell to hear that voice and to know
that all was well.

But one question remained unsettled. Kittrell had been on the
_Telegraph_ a month, and his contract differed from that ordinarily made
by the members of a newspaper staff in that he was paid by the year,
though in monthly instalments. Kittrell knew that he had