met
above the prominent nose. The whole face seemed drawn in bold charcoal
strokes, uncompromising of line and feature--a portrayal of force.

Then the resonant voice broke silence, and though it came calmly and
moderately pitched, it went out clarion-clear over the crowd like the
note of a fox horn.

"Some one out there shouted--'Next governor of hell!'" he began without
preamble. "I grant you that if any region needs improved government it
is hell, and if there is a state on this earth where a man might hope to
qualify himself for that task, it is this state. Let me try that first,
my friend. I believe in myself, but I am only human."

He launched forthright into arraignment of his enemies with sledge-blows
of denunciation untempered by any concession to time, place or
condition, and though scowls grew vindictively black about him, he knew
that he was holding his audience.

He was a Vulcan forging thunders with words and destructive batteries of
bolts with phrases, and Boone Wellver--trembling with excitement as a
pointer puppy trembles with the young eagerness of the covey-scent in
his nostrils--seemed to be in the presence of a miracle; the miracle of
eloquence.

"My God," breathed the less impressionable Asa Gregory under his breath,
"but thet feller hes a master gift fer lyin'!"

At the end, with one clenched fist raised high, the speaker thundered
out his final words of defiance: "The fight is on, and I believe in
fighting. I ask no quarter and I fear no foe!"

Again he paused, and again save for the valiant enthusiasm on the
platform at his back, he met with no response except a grim and negative
silence.

But this disconcerting stillness was abruptly ripped asunder by a pistol
shot and a commotion of confused voices, rising where figures began to
eddy and mill at the outskirts. The reception committee closed hastily
and protectingly about the candidate, whose challenge seemed to have
been accepted by some irresponsible gun-fighter, but he thrust them back
with a face of unaltered and stony calmness. Though he had finished, he
continued to stand at the front with hands idly resting on the platform
rail as if meaning to demonstrate his contempt for anything like
retreat.

While he still tarried there a tall figure elbowed its way through the
crowd until it stood near. It was the figure of Asa Gregory, and,
raising a hand for recognition, it called out in a full-chested voice:
"Thet shot war fired by