r that?" Mr. Tooting demanded, forgetting
himself in his zeal for reform and Mr. Crewe. But Mr. Tooting, in some
alarm, perceived the eye of his chief growing virtuous and glassy.

"I guess I know when I'm strung, as you call it, Mr. Tooting," he replied
severely. "This cigar bill alone is enough to support a large family for
several months."

And with this merited reproof he turned on his heel and went back to his
admirers without, leaving Mr. Tooting aghast, but still resourceful. Ten
minutes later that gentleman was engaged in a private conversation with
his colleague, the Honourable Timothy Wading.

"He's up on his hind legs at last," said Mr. Tooting; "it looks as if he
was catching on."

Mr. Wading evidently grasped these mysterious words, for he looked grave.

"He thinks he's got the nomination cinched, don't he?"

"That's the worst of it," cried Mr. Tooting.

"I'll see what I can do," said the Honourable Tim. "He's always talking
about thorough, let him do it thorough." And Mr. Watling winked.

"Thorough," repeated Mr. Tooting, delightedly.

"That's it--Colonel," said Mr. Watling. "Have you ordered your uniform
yet, Ham?"

Mr. Tooting plainly appreciated this joke, for he grinned.

"I guess you won't starve if you don't get that commissionership, Tim,"
he retorted.

"And I guess," returned Mr. Watling, "that you won't go naked if you
don't have a uniform."

Victoria's surmise was true. At ten o'clock at night, two days before the
convention, a tall figure had appeared in the empty rotunda of the
Pelican, startling the clerk out of a doze. He rubbed his eyes and
stared, recognized Hilary Vane, and yet failed to recognize him. It was
an extraordinary occasion indeed which would cause Mr. McAvoy to lose his
aplomb; to neglect to seize the pen and dip it, with a flourish, into the
ink, and extend its handle towards the important guest; to omit a few
fitting words of welcome. It was Hilary who got the pen first, and wrote
his name in silence, and by this time Mr. McAvoy had recovered his
presence of mind sufficiently to wield the blotter.

"We didn't expect you to-night, Mr. Vane," he said, in a voice that
sounded strange to him, "but we've kept Number Seven, as usual. Front!"

"The old man's seen his day, I guess," Mr. McAvoy remarked, as he studied
the register with a lone reporter. "This Crewe must have got in on 'em
hard, from what they tell me, and Adam Hunt has his dander up."

The next morni