nvention? How charge after
charge was made during the long, hot day and into the night; how the
delegates were carried out limp and speechless and starved and wet
through, and carried in to vote again,--will all be told in time. But
let us begin at the beginning, which is the day before.

But look! it is afternoon, and the candidates are arriving at the
Pelican. The Honourable Adam B. Hunt is the first, and walks up the hill
from the station escorted by such prominent figures as the Honourables
Brush Bascom and Jacob Botcher, and surrounded by enthusiastic
supporters who wear buttons with the image of their leader--goatee and
all--and the singularly prophetic superscription, 'To the Last Ditch!'
Only veterans and experts like Mr. Bascom and Mr. Botcher can recognize
the last ditch when they see it.

Another stir in the street--occasioned by the appearance of the
Honourable Giles Henderson,--of the blameless life. Utter a syllable
against him if you can! These words should be inscribed on his buttons
if he had any--but he has none. They seem to be, unuttered, on the
tongues of the gentlemen who escort the Honourable Giles, United States
Senator Greene and the Honourable Elisha Jane, who has obtained leave
of absence from his consular post to attend the convention,--and
incidentally to help prepare for it.

But who and what is this? The warlike blast of a siren horn is heard,
the crowd in the lobby rushes to the doors, people up-stairs fly to the
windows, and the Honourable Adam B. Hunt leans out and nearly falls out,
but is rescued by Division Superintendent Manning of the Northeastern
Railroads, who has stepped in from Number Seven to give a little private
tug of a persuasive nature to the Honourable Adam's coat-tails. A red
Leviathan comes screaming down Main Street with a white trail of dust
behind it, smothering the occupants of vehicles which have barely
succeeded in getting out of the way, and makes a spectacular finish
before the Pelican by sliding the last fifty feet on locked rear wheels.

A group in the street raises a cheer. It is the People's Champion! Dust
coat, gauntlets, goggles, cannot hide him; and if they did, some one
would recognize that voice, familiar now and endeared to many, and so
suited to command:--"Get that baggage off, and don't waste any time!
Jump out, Watling--that handle turns the other way. Well, Tooting, are
the headquarters ready? What was the matter that I couldn't get you on
the