aimed. "Sol
Gridley was a-goin' to, but he went to New York on the noon train. I
guess it's a pleasure trip," Mr. Tooting hinted darkly.

"Why," said Mr. Crewe, "he's the fellow--"

"Exactly," Mr. Tooting replied, "and he did get a lot of 'em, travelling
about. But Sol has got to work on the quiet, you understand. He feels he
can't come out right away."

"And how about Amos Ricketts? Where's he?"

"Amos," said Mr. Tooting, regretfully, "was taken very sudden about five
o'clock. One of his spells come on, and he sent me word to the Ripton
House. He had his speech all made up, and it was a good one, too. He
was going to tell folks pretty straight how the railroad beat him for
mayor."

Mr. Crewe made a gesture of disgust.

"I'll introduce myself," he said. "They all know me, anyhow."

"Say," said Mr. Tooting, laying a hand on his candidate's arm. "You
couldn't do any better. I've bin for that all along."

"Hold on," said Mr. Crewe, listening, "a lot of people are coming in
now."

What Mr. Crewe had heard, however, was the arrival of the Ladies'
Auxiliary,--five and thirty strong, from Leith. But stay! Who are these
coming? More ladies--ladies in groups of two and three and five! ladies
of Ripton whose husbands, for some unexplained reason, have stayed at
home; and Mr. Tooting, as he watched them with mingled feelings, became
a woman's suffragist on the spot. He dived into the private office once
more, where he found Mr. Crewe seated with his legs crossed, calmly
reading a last winter's playbill. (Note for a more complete biography.)

"Well, Tooting," he said, "I thought they'd begin to come."

"They're mostly women," Mr. Tooting informed him.

"Women!"

"Hold on!" said Mr. Tooting, who had the true showman's instinct. "Can't
you see that folks are curious? They're afraid to come 'emselves, and
they're sendin' their wives and daughters. If you get the women tonight,
they'll go home and club the men into line."

Eight strokes boomed out from the tower of the neighbouring town hall,
and an expectant flutter spread over the audience,--a flatter which
disseminated faint odours of sachet and other mysterious substances in
which feminine apparel is said to the laid away. The stage was empty,
save for a table which held a pitcher of water and a glass.

"It's a pretty good imitation of a matinee," Hastings Weare remarked.
"I wonder whom the front seats are reserved for. Say, Victoria, there's
your friend Mr. Vane