Excuse me," says the political boss.
"Mr. Lockwin, can you spare a moment? Hello, Jessie! no, papa will not
be home to-night. Tell mamma, will you?"

A curly head is saddened. Lockwin thanks the shepherdess, and follows
his boss.

"The train goes East at 4:45. Don't lose a moment. Lucky I found you."

The newspaper press is in possession of a sensation. On Monday morning
we quote: "A plot has been revealed which might have resulted in the
loss of the First district, and possibly of Congress, just at the
moment the re-apportionment bill was to be passed. Notice of contest
has been served on Congressman Lockwin as a blind for subsequent
operations, and yesterday the newly elected member left hurriedly for
Washington to consult with the attorney general. It is evident that
the federal authorities will inquire into the high-handed outrages
which swelled the votes of Corkey and the other unsuccessful candidates
on election day.

"The time is coming," concludes the article, "when lynch law will be
dealt out to the repeaters who haunt the tough precincts at each
election day."

The prominent citizens say among themselves: "We ought to do something
pretty soon, or these ward politicians will be governing the nation!"

CHAPTER XII

IN GEORGIAN BAY

Corkey is at Owen Sound. The political bee is buzzing in his bonnet.
Collector of the port--this office seems small to a man who really
polled more votes than Lockwin. The notion has taken hold of Corkey
that, by some hook or crook, Lockwin will get out and Corkey will get
in.

When he thinks of this, Corkey rises and walks about his chair, sitting
down again.

This is a gambler's habit.

There follows this incantation an incident which flatters his ambition.
Having changed his tobacco from the right to the left side of his
mouth, he strangles badly. It takes him just five minutes to get a
free breath. This is always a good sign. Thereupon the darkest of
negro lads, with six fingers, a lick, left-handed and cross-eyed,
enters the barroom of the hotel.

"Here!" cries Corkey. "What's your name?" The boy stammers in his
speech.

"N-n-n-noah!" he replies.

"Why not?" inquires Corkey. "You bet your sweet life you tell me what
your name is!"

"N-n-n-noah!"

"Why not? Tell me that!"

"M-m-my name is N-n-noah!" exclaims the boy.

"Ho! ho!" laughs Corkey. "Let's see them fingers! Got any more in
your pockets?"

"N-n-n-noah," answers the bo