f he was troubled, he
always hid it and turned a calm eye to every issue; but this evening
there was something new and extraordinary about Jimmy Grayson; he was
ashamed and apologetic obviously so, and Harley felt a thrill of pity
that a man so intensely proud under all his democracy, or perhaps
because of it, should be forced into a position in which he must be,
seemingly at least, untrue to himself.

The candidate hesitated and glanced at the correspondents, his comrades
of many a long day, as if he expected them to ask him questions, but no
one spoke. The sinking sun dropped behind the mountains, and the
following shadow also lay across Jimmy Grayson's face. He was the
nominee of a great party for President of the United States, but there
was a heart in him, and these young men, who had gone with him through
good times and bad times, through weary days and weary nights, were to
him like the staff that has followed a general over many battle-fields.
He glanced again at the correspondents, but, as they continued to stare
resolutely at the dark mountains, he turned and walked abruptly into the
hotel.

"Boys," exclaimed Barton, "it's tough!"

"Yes, damned tough," said Hobart.

"King" Plummer, who was with them, maintained a stony silence.

An hour later the valet of the Honorable Herbert Henry Heathcote, a
smooth, trim young Englishman, arrived in Red Cloud, and never before in
his vassal life had he been a person of so much importance. The news had
been spread in Red Cloud that a rare specimen was coming, a kind
hitherto unknown in those regions. When John--that was his
name--alighted from the train in the dusk of a vast, desolate Western
night, a crowd of tanned, tall men was packed closely about him,
watching every movement that he made. Harley saw him glance fearfully at
the dark throng, but no one said a word. As he moved towards the hotel,
a valise in either hand, the way opened before him, but the crowd,
arranging itself in a solid mass behind him, followed, still silent,
until he reached the shelter of the building and the protecting wing of
his master. Then it dispersed in an orderly manner, but the only subject
of conversation in Red Cloud was the Honorable Herbert Henry Heathcote
and his "man," especially the "man."

At the appointed hour the candidate spoke from a stage in the public
square, and it would not be fair to say that his address fell flat; but
for the first time in the long campaign Harley n