for him; to him, the Hon. Joseph and I were
introduced. Mr. Hutchins knew what he wanted. He was cordial to Mr.
Mecklin, but he took me. We entered a most respectable surrey with
tassels, driven by a raw-boned coachman in a black overcoat, drawn by two
sleek horses.

"How is this thing going, Paret?" he asked.

I gave him Mr. Grunewald's estimated majority.

"What do you think?" he demanded, a shrewd, humorous look in his blue
eyes.

"Well, I think we'll carry the state. I haven't had Grunewald's
experience in estimating."

Ezra Hutchins smiled appreciatively.

"What does Watling think?"

"He doesn't seem to be worrying much."

"Ever been in Elkington before?"

I said I hadn't.

"Well, a drive will do you good."

It was about four o'clock on a mild October afternoon. The little town,
of fifteen thousand inhabitants or so, had a wonderful setting in the
widening valley of the Scopanong, whose swiftly running waters furnished
the power for the mills. We drove to these through a gateway over which
the words "No Admittance" were conspicuously painted, past long brick
buildings that bordered the canals; and in the windows I caught sight of
drab figures of men and women bending over the machines. Half of the
buildings, as Mr. Hutchins pointed out, were closed,--mute witnesses of
tariff-tinkering madness. Even more eloquent of democratic folly was that
part of the town through which we presently passed, streets lined with
rows of dreary houses where the workers lived. Children were playing on
the sidewalks, but theirs seemed a listless play; listless, too, were the
men and women who sat on the steps,--listless, and somewhat sullen, as
they watched us passing. Ezra Hutchins seemed to read my thought.

"Since the unions got in here I've had nothing but trouble," he said.
"I've tried to do my duty by my people, God knows. But they won't see
which side their bread's buttered on. They oppose me at every step, they
vote against their own interests. Some years ago they put up a job on us,
and sent a scatter-brained radical to the legislature."

"Krebs."

"Do you know him?"

"Slightly. He was in my class at Harvard.... Is he still here?" I asked,
after a pause.

"Oh, yes. But he hasn't gone to the legislature this time, we've seen to
that. His father was a respectable old German who had a little shop and
made eye-glasses. The son is an example of too much education. He's a
notoriety seeker. Oh, he's clever, in a