nd to the theatre. We
ought to git in two acts."

William Wetherell went. There is no need to go into the psychology
of the matter. It may have been numbness; it may have been temporary
insanity caused by the excitement of the battle he had witnessed, for
his brain was in a whirl; or Mr. Bixby may have hypnotized him. As they
walked through the silent streets toward the Opera House, he listened
perforce to Mr. Bixby's comments upon some of the innumerable details
which Jethro had planned and quietly carried out while sitting, in the
window of the Throne Room. A great light dawned on William Wetherell,
but too late.

Jethro's trusted lieutenants (of whom, needless to say, Mr. Bixby
was one) had been commanded to notify such of their supporters whose
fidelity and secrecy could be absolutely depended upon to attend the
Woodchuck Session; and, further to guard against surprise, this order
had not gone out until the last minute (hence Mr. Amos Cuthbert's
conduct). The seats of these members at the theatre had been filled by
accommodating townspeople and visitors. Forestalling a possible vote on
the morrow to recall and reconsider, there remained some sixty members
whose loyalty was unquestioned, but whose reputation for discretion was
not of the best. So much for the parliamentary side of the affair, which
was a revelation of generalship and organization to William Wetherell.
By the time he had grasped it they were come in view of the lights of
Fosters Opera House, and they perceived, among a sprinkling of idlers,
a conspicuous and meditative gentleman leaning against a pillar. He was
ludicrously tall and ludicrously thin, his hands were in his trousers
pockets, and the skirts of his Sunday broadcloth coat hung down behind
him awry. One long foot was crossed over the other and rested on the
point of the toe, and his head was tilted to one side. He had, on the
whole, the appearance of a rather mournful stork. Mr. Bixby approached
him gravely, seized him by the lower shoulder, and tilted him down until
it was possible to speak into his ear. The gentleman apparently did not
resent this, although he seemed in imminent danger of being upset.

"How be you, Peleg? Er--you know Will?"

"No," said the gentleman.

Mr. Bixby seized Mr. Wetherell under the elbow, and addressed himself to
the storekeeper's ear.

"Will, I want you to shake hands with Senator Peleg Hartington,
of Brampton. This is Will Wetherell, Peleg,--from Conist