ered study and old tradition should appear to Emmet merely the
bulwarks of class privilege and social tyranny.

The fact that Leigh was a stranger in Warwick must have given his guest
a peculiar sense of freedom. One has only to recall the confidences
which men that meet casually on the train will sometimes repose in each
other, to realise how this can be. Under such circumstances, each
tells his story to unprejudiced ears, without fear that it will one day
be turned to his disadvantage. Nor was this the first time in Leigh's
life when he had been surprised to find himself the recipient of
another's secrets. The conversation finally became almost a monologue,
or, more specifically, a statement of grievances.

"I would n't mind, if the campaign were being conducted on the square,"
said Emmet, now thoroughly aroused; "but it is n't. It's hard work to
talk against money, and they 've got barrels of it. They 're putting
it now where it will do the most good. A thousand dollars to this
saloon-keeper and another thousand to that, to keep their heelers away
from the polls on election day, may do the trick for them, no matter
what I say or do or am. And it's college-bred men, professional men,
who are doing it. The whole of the wealthy and educated element of
Warwick is leagued against me, and bound to beat me by fair means or
foul."

"Corruption in politics is common enough everywhere, I 'm afraid,"
Leigh remarked.

"It's worse here," Emmet declared bitterly; "and here it's a question
of class against class as well. Warwick is said to be the wealthiest
city of its size in the country, and the offices have been handed
around in a certain set ever since the Declaration of Independence.
The labour unions are uncommonly strong, too, and if they would only
hang together, they could have things their own way. I can depend upon
the support of my own crowd, but there are always mutual jealousies to
be reckoned with between the various unions. Besides, the labouring
man will talk boldly enough at times about equality, but he still has a
sneaking admiration for the fellow that lives in a big house, and a
corresponding distrust of one of his own kind. Let me give you an
illustration of it. The other day, Judge Swigart's manager, Anthony
Cobbens, was swaggering around the barn down here, talking with some of
the men about his horses and dogs, and poking a little fun at me on the
side. Such things have their effect. I h