was not without pathos, and Harley at once took him into the
next car and introduced him to Grayson, who received him with the
natural cordiality that never deserted him. Plover, the little man said
was his name--William Plover, of Kalapoosa, Choctaw County. He regarded
Grayson with awe, and, after the hand-shake, did not speak. Indeed, he
seemed to wish no more, and made himself still smaller in a corner,
where he listened attentively to everything that Grayson said.

He also stood in the front row at each stopping-place, his eyes fixed on
Grayson's face while the latter made his speech. The candidate,
by-and-by, began to notice him there. It is often a habit with those who
have to speak much in public to fix the eye on some especially
interested auditor and talk to him directly. It assists in a sort of
concentration, and gives the orator a willing target.

Grayson now spoke straight to Plover, and Harley watched how the little
man's emotions, as shown in his face, reflected in every part the
orator's address. There was actual fire in his eyes, whenever Grayson
mentioned that ogre, Wall Street, and tears rose when the speaker
depicted the bad condition of the Western farmer.

"Wouldn't I like to go on to Washington with Jimmy Grayson when he takes
charge of the government!" exclaimed Plover to Harley when this speech
was finished--"not to take a hand myself, but jest to see him make
things hum! Won't he make them fat fellers in Wall Street squeal! He'll
have the Robber Barons squirmin' on the griddle pretty quick, an'
wheat'll go straight to a dollar a bushel, sure! I can see it now!"

His exultation and delight lasted all the morning; but in the afternoon
the depressed, crushed feeling which Harley had noticed at first in his
look seemed to get control.

Although his interest in Grayson's speeches and his devout admiration
did not decrease, Plover's melancholy grew, and Harley by-and-by learned
the cause of it from another man, somewhat similar in aspect, but larger
of figure and stronger of face.

"To tell you the truth, mister," said the man, with the easy freedom of
the West, "Billy Plover--and my cousin he is, twice removed--my name's
Sandidge--is runnin' away."

"Running away?" exclaimed Harley, in surprise. "Where's he running to,
and what's he running from?"

"Where he's runnin' to, I don't know--California, or Washington, or
Oregon, I guess. But I know mighty well what he's runnin' away from;
it's hi