et this stipulation signed. If the man
isn't in his office, try the county clerk's."

Bowers pulled with clock-work precision at his cigar, while the boy
uncoiled his long legs from his chair, and with furtive little pats at
his necktie and fiery shock, made ready to go out. Shelby stumbled
upon the waste-paper basket as the door slammed at his clerk's heels,
and with vicious satisfaction he kicked it to the room's far end.

The caller's eyes twinkled.

"The Widow Weatherwax been administering spiritual balm?" he asked.

"I could wring her neck," Shelby averred.

"Her will again?"

"Of course."

"You'll have it as long as you practise law. I did. It goes with the
office. Remunerative as ever?"

"Talk about 'benefit of clergy,'" exploded the younger man; "that
mediaeval bonanza isn't to be mentioned in the same week with the
ministerial half-rates, donations, and hold-ups we moderns put up with.
This pulpit pounder's shrew pays me no more than she pays the doctor,
the grocer, the butcher, and the rest. What a ukase I could issue if I
were Czar of these United States."

"Cousin Phoebe's 'sofy,' beloved Nephew Jason's unsalable dishes, and
Brother Henry's pickle-caster still extant?"

"Yes, yes," groaned Shelby.

"And little Ann Eliza's sheets and pillow-slips, I dare say. It's
astonishing how they endure."

"It's astonishing how I endure."

"You must--at any rate, till the Tuesday after the first Monday in
November. Did the pious gossip tell you any pleasant personal news?"

"She has heard talk that the Micks are sore and that Doc Crandall has
had an attack of virtue."

"You needn't lose sleep over the handful of Irish in our camp; they
know who butters their parsnips. And I'll take care of the doctor.
He's an innocuous mugwump. She didn't mention Volney Sprague?"

"Sprague," said Shelby, wearily; "what is that man up to now?"

Bowers rose, paced the room, and returned, big with news.

"The _Whig_ has bolted," he announced.

CHAPTER IV

Shelby's amaze spent its force in an oath. In a moment he asked,
calmly:--

"What does he say?"

"Not much; mainly that the manner of your nomination debars his
printing your name at the head of his editorial page."

"Endorses the rest of our party ticket, doesn't he?"

"Yes; it's a personal bolt."

Shelby ruminated earnestly.

"It's only a one-horse country daily," he declared finally. "The
_Whig_! You'd think Henry Clay still above gr