at
the Southern Hotel which no one knew he had. "Simpson has under, rather
than over, five hundred delegates," was his first item of good news. "It
takes six hundred and fifty to nominate. As his sort of boom always
musters its greatest strength on the first ballot, I'm putting my money
two to one against him."

"And Scarborough?" I asked, wondering at my indifference to this
foreshadowing of triumph.

"My men talk him to every incoming delegation. It's well known that he
don't want the nomination and has forbidden his friends to vote for him
and has pledged them to work against him. Then, too, the bosses and the
boys don't like him--to put it mildly. But I think we're making every
one feel he's the only man they can put up, with a chance to beat
Burbank."

[Illustration: "THAT," I REPLIED TO MRS. SANDYS, "IS SENATOR SCARBOROUGH
OF INDIANA" p. 226]

My wife and our friends and I dined at the Southern that night. As we
were about to leave, the streets began to fill. And presently through
the close-packed masses came at a walk an open carriage--the
storm-center of a roar that almost drowned the music of the four or five
bands. The electric lights made the scene bright as day.

"Who is he?" asked the woman at my side--Mrs. Sandys.

She was looking at _the_ man in that carriage--there were four, but
there was no mistaking him. He was seated, was giving not the slightest
heed to the cheering throngs. His soft black hat was pulled well down
over his brows; his handsome profile was stern, his face pale. If that
crowd had been hurling curses at him and preparing to tear him limb from
limb he would not have looked different. He was smooth-shaven, which
made him seem younger than I knew him to be. And over him was the
glamour of the world-that-ought-to-be in which he lived and had the
power to compel others to live as long as they were under the spell of
his personality.

"That," I replied to Mrs. Sandys, "is Senator Scarborough of Indiana."

"What's he so stern about?"

"I'm sure I don't know--perhaps to hide his joy," said I.

But I did know, and my remark was the impulsive fling of envy. He had
found out, several weeks before, what a strong undercurrent was running
toward him. He was faced by a dilemma--if he did not go to the
convention, it would be said that he had stayed away deliberately, and
he would be nominated; if he went, to try to prevent his nomination, the
enthusiasm of his admirers and followers would