r
by newspaper courtesy, and that, to be specific, by his own newspaper.
He had come up from New York that day to deliver his already famous
speech. He was one of the many possibilities in the political arena
for the governorship. And as he was a multimillionaire, he was sure of
a great crowd. As an Englishman loves a lord, so does the American
love a millionaire. Rudolph's newspaper was the only one in the
metropolis that patted him on the back regularly each morning. He was
the laboring man's friend; he was the arch enemy of the monopolies
(not yet called trusts); and so forth and so on. For all that some
laughed at him, he was an able politician, and was perfectly honest in
all his political transactions, which is something of a paradox. So he
came up to Herculaneum to convert the doubting. The laboring party
greeted him en masse, and stormed the hall for choice seats.

The hall was a low, rambling structure, bad for the voice, but capable
of seating a few thousands. The curbs glared with green and red fire,
and a band blared out the songs of freedom. The crowds surged back and
forth, grumbling and laughing and shouting. And the near-by saloons
did a land-office business. It was a great night for the man who had
nothing to do. All at once there was loud hurrahing. An open hack
drove up to the entrance, and the great Jeffersonian stood up, bowing,
bowing. The green light on one side and the red on the other gave to
his face a Gargantuan aspect rather than that of a Quixote, to whom he
was more often likened than to any other character in fiction. The
police cleared a pathway for the great man, and he hurried up the
steps. Another cheer, and another blast from the band. Great is
popularity, whose handmaiden is oblivion.

"They'll be doing all this to you some day," John declared, as he and
Warrington elbowed through the crowd, the dog between their legs.

"That's him!" cried a voice.

"Who?"

"The fellow that writes; Henderson's man."

"Salt licks for him!" came in derision.

"He'll give Donnelly a run for the money."

"Not in a thousand years!"

All this amused Warrington.

"How d' y' do, Mr. Warrington?"

A hand touched the prospective candidate on the arm. Warrington saw
Osborne's rubicund nose.

"So you're out, too, Mr. Osborne?"

"I never let meetings go by, Richard. Good evening, Mr. Bennington. A
man with ten millions doesn't look any different from ordinary
mortals, does he? But he is differen