at pavement deal in John Street?"

John Street possessed but three or four houses. The paving would be a
ten-thousand-dollar job. As a witty political speaker once said, they
paved Herculaneum in the concrete and in the abstract.

"It will go through Monday night, smooth as butter."

"Canvassed the boys?"

"More than three-fourths vote. Sure."

"I'm depending upon you."

"Will you turn down Donnelly at the convention?"

"I tell you he's got to run again. I'll bring him to order, after a
little heart-to-heart talk. He's the only man in sight."

"Why not play the same game as Henderson?"

"I've thought it all out. There's no one but Donnelly. Pick up
anything you can about Warrington."

"All right. By the way, the boys want to know if you think we can pull
off those ten-round bouts this winter."

"I'm going down to the capital to see."

Martin telephoned for his team, and twenty minutes later he was
driving countryward. McQuade dictated a few letters, one of which he
directed to be sent by messenger. Then he left the office and called
upon the editor of the Times. This conference lasted an hour. McQuade
was chief owner of the Times.

Warrington was greatly surprised when, at three-thirty, a message was
brought to him requesting him briefly and politely to do Mr. McQuade
the honor to call on him between four and five that afternoon. He had
met McQuade at the Chamber of Commerce dinner. The introduction had
been most formal. What the deuce did McQuade wish to see him about?
Should he go? A natural aversion to the man said no; but policy urged
him as well as curiosity. He went to the telephone and called up
McQuade's office. Mr. McQuade was not in, but would return at four.
Ah! It was the typewriter who spoke. Would she kindly notify Mr.
McQuade on his return that Mr. Warrington would be at his office at
four-thirty? She would. Thanks.

Warrington smoked uneasily. He had no desire to meet McQuade. Their
ways were widely separated and reached nothing in common. But he
readily recognized the fact that McQuade was not a man such as one
might heedlessly antagonize. What could the politician want of the
literary man? McQuade dabbled in racing horses; perhaps he had a horse
to sell. In that event, they would meet on common ground. But his
belief in this possibility was only half-hearted. He filled his
pockets with cigars, whistled for the dog, and departed. Both of the
Bennington houses were closed; the two fam