oticed a certain
coldness on the part of the audience, a sense of aloofness, as if Jimmy
Grayson were not one of them, but a stranger in the town whom they must
treat decently, although they might not approve of him or his ways. And
Harley did not have to seek the cause, for there at a corner of the
stage sat a dominating presence, the Honorable Herbert Henry Heathcote,
his neck encircled by a very high collar, his trousers turned up at the
bottom, and his white spats gleaming through the darkness. More eyes
were upon him than upon the candidate, but Mr. Heathcote was not
daunted. His own gaze, as it swept the audience, was at times
disapproving and at other times condescending.

About the middle of the speech the night, as usual, grew chilly, and Mr.
Heathcote's "man," stepping upon the stage, assisted him on with a light
overcoat. A gasp went up from the crowd, and the candidate, stopping,
looked back and saw the cause. Again that shadow came over his face, but
in a moment he recovered himself and went on as if there had been no
interruption. When the speech was finished Mr. Heathcote stood a moment
by the table at which Harley was still writing, and said:

"I think you and your associates should leave out of your report that
part about our foreign relations. However well received in the West, I
doubt whether it would have a very good effect in the East."

"But he said it," exclaimed Harley, looking up in surprise.

"Quite true, but there should be a certain reserve on the part of the
press. These expressions have about them a trace of rawness, perhaps
inseparable from a man like our nominee, who is the product of Western
conditions. I trust that I shall be able to correct this unfortunate
tendency."

Harley was burning with anger, but the long practice of self-control
enabled him to hide it. He did not reply, but resumed his work. Mr.
Heathcote spoke to him again, but Harley, his head bent over his pad,
went on with his writing. Nor did any of the other correspondents speak.
The committeeman, astonished and indignant, left the stage, and,
followed by his "man," returned to the hotel between two silent files of
spectators.

"Experience number one," was the only comment of the correspondents, and
it came from Barton.

When Harley went into the hotel he saw Jimmy Grayson leaning against the
clerk's desk as if he were waiting for something. He glanced at Harley,
and there was a tinge of reproach in his look. Harl