s the hours run on, the visitors grow more and more numerous, and
after supper the room is packed to suffocation, and a long line is
waiting in the corridor, marshalled and kept in good humour by able
lieutenants; while Mr. Crewe is dimly to be perceived through clouds of
incense burning in his honour--and incidentally at his expense--with a
welcoming smile and an appropriate word for each caller, whose waistcoat
pockets, when they emerge, resemble cartridge-belts of cigars.

More cigars were hastily sent for, and more. There are to be but a
thousand delegates to the convention, and at least two thousand men have
already passed through the room--and those who don't smoke have friends.
It is well that Mr. Crewe has stuck to his conservative habit of not
squeezing hands too hard.

"Isn't that Mr. Putter, who keeps a livery-stable here?" inquired Mr.
Crewe, about nine o'clock--our candidate having a piercing eye of his
own. Mr. Putter's coat, being brushed back, has revealed six cigars.

"Why, yes--yes," says Mr. Watling.

"Is he a delegate?" Mr. Crewe demanded.

"Why, I guess he must be," says Mr. Watling.

But Mr. Putter is not a delegate.

"You've stood up and made a grand fight, Mr. Crewe," says another
gentleman, a little later, with a bland, smooth shaven face and strong
teeth to clinch Mr. Crewe's cigars. "I wish I was fixed so as I could
vote for you."

Mr. Crewe looks at him narrowly.

"You look very much like a travelling man from New York, who tried to
sell me farm machinery," he answers.

"Where are you from?"

"You ain't exactly what they call a tyro, are you?" says the bland-faced
man; "but I guess you've missed the mark this shot. Well, so long."

"Hold on!" says Mr. Crewe, "Watling will talk to you."

And, as the gentleman follows Mr. Wailing through the press, a pamphlet
drops from his pocket to the floor. It is marked 'Catalogue of the Raines
Farm Implement Company.' Mr. Watling picks it up and hands it to the
gentleman, who winks again.

"Tim," he says, "where can we sit down? How much are you getting out of
this? Brush and Jake Botcher are bidding high down-stairs, and the
quotation on delegates has gone up ten points in ten minutes. It's mighty
good of you to remember old friends, Tim, even if they're not delegates."

Meanwhile Mr. Crewe is graciously receiving others who are crowding to
him.

"How are you, Mr. Giddings? How are the cows? I carry some stock that'll
make you sit up--