o us first
of all!" She searched vainly for her glasses--her big blue eyes were
astigmatic--and finally, with an impatient "You read it to them all,"
thrust the message into Volney Sprague's reluctant fingers.

He unfolded and read the paper, in lively quandary whether her choice
were as haphazard as it seemed:--

"Nominated on first ballot. Home ten-thirty. Coming directly to club.
It stands first.

"C. R. SHELBY."

"Isn't that simply dear of him?" demanded Mrs. Hilliard. "_We_ come
first. He remembers us in his hour of triumph. It shows the true
nature of the man."

"It does indeed," grumbled Sprague, shifting within pinching distance
of Bernard Graves, whom he had seen grinning in the background during
the reading. "It's a barefaced bid for votes."

Mrs. Hilliard's enthusiasm demanded a vent.

"He'll be here in five minutes," she exclaimed, peering at the hall
clock. "The message was delayed somehow, and his train is due now. We
must devise a reception. We owe it to him. He thought of us. We must
think of him. What shall we do? Think, think, you clever people!"

"That preposterous woman means to turn this into a ratification
meeting," groaned the editor under his breath. "I must get out."

His hostess was of another mind, however, and barred retreat when he
attempted to make his excuses.

"You shan't desert us," she declared roguishly. "You can't," she
immediately added, at the sound of carriage wheels on the gravel of the
drive. "He's here! The hall, the hall! Into the hall!" And into the
hall Mrs. Hilliard masterfully bundled the Culture Club of New Babylon,
grouping it theatrically around the newel-post and up the winding stair.

"Gad," muttered Sprague, struggling to efface himself, "knock me in the
head."

Bernard Graves gleefully struck an attitude behind a friendly palm, and
Mrs. Hilliard threw wide the door.

"Welcome to your own people," she cried, and Shelby, closely followed
by Bowers, crossed the threshold into the light. Then big Joe
Hilliard, whom the unwonted commotion had attracted from the billiard
room, led a boisterous cheer, which the candidate received with
modestly bowed head. He flushed, and wrestled with his diffidence like
a schoolboy, as the house grew still and they waited for him to speak.

"I--I don't claim the credit, friends," he stammered. "It's your
victory."

CHAPTER III

Midway in the following forenoon Shelby sat in his law office