ile the
fight is on, and I'll explain things."

The explanation was intricate and long. What did not matter he forgot,
but the picturesque things, which touched his own life afterwards very
closely, he kept in mind. Trotting about with the journalist they
encountered one day a cleric of distinguished appearance.

"Take a good look at him. He's the man that steers Livingstone."

"I thought it was John Everard."

"John doesn't even steer himself," said Grahame savagely. "But take a
view of the bishop."

Arthur saw a face whose fine features were shaded by melancholy, tinged
with jaundice, gloomy in expression; the mouth drooped at the corners,
and the eyes were heavy; one could hardly picture that face lighted by
humor or fancy.

"We refuse to discuss certain things in political circles here," Grahame
continued. "One of them is the muddle made of politics every little
while by dragging in religion. The bishop, Bishop Bradford is his name,
never loses a chance to make a mud pie. The independent ticket is his
pie this year. He secured Livingstone to bake it, for he's no baker
himself. He believes in God, but still more does he believe that the
Catholics of this city should be kept in the backyard of society. If
they eat his pie, their only ambition will be to live in an American
backyard. No word of this ever finds its way into the journals, but it
is the secret element in New York politics."

"I thought everything got into the newspapers," Arthur complained.
"Blamed if I can get hold of the thing."

"You're right, everything goes into the sewers, but not in a formal way.
What's the reason for the independent ticket? Printed: revolt against a
domineering boss. Private: to shake the Irish in politics. Do you see?
Now, here is a campaign going on. It began last week. It ends in
November. But the other campaign has neither beginning nor end. I'll
give you object-lessons. There's where the fun comes in."

The first object-lesson brought Arthur to the gospel-hall managed by a
gentleman whom he had not seen or thought of since the pleasant
celebration of St. Patrick's day. Rev. Mr. McMeeter, evangelist of the
expansive countenance, was warming up his gathering of sinners that
night with a twofold theme: hell for sinners, and the same, embroidered
intensely, for Rome.

"He handles it as Laocoon did the serpents," whispered Grahame.

In a very clerical costume, on a small platform, the earnest man
writhed, twisted, an