cil, was Labor's nominee
for Mayor.

Frank met McCarthy now and then. He posed as "a plain, blunt man," but
back of the forthright handgrip, the bluff directness of manner, Frank
scented a massive and wily self-interest. He respected the man for his
power, his crude but undeniable executive talents.

The two opponents for the Mayoralty were keenly contrasted. Taylor was
quiet, suavely cultured, widely read but rather passive. Some said he
lacked initiative.

Frank MacGowan was Langdon's foeman in the struggle for the district
attorneyship. Little could be said for or against him. A lawyer of good
reputation who had made his way upward by merit and push, he had done
nothing big. He was charged with no wrong.

The "dark horse" was Daniel Ryan.

Ryan was a young Irishman, that fine type of political leader who
approximates what has sometimes been called a practical idealist. He had
set out to reform the Republican Party and achieved a certain measure of
success, for he had beaten the Herrin or Railroad forces at the
Republican Convention. Ryan was avowedly pro-prosecution. It was
believed that he would deliver his party's nomination to Taylor
and Langdon.

But he astonished San Francisco voters by becoming a candidate for
mayor.

* * * * *

Aleta had returned from Camp Curry. There was a certain quiet in her
eyes, a greater self-control, a better facing of Life's problems. They
spoke of Kant and his philosophy. "The Nightmare is less turbulent,"
she said.

One evening at her apartment Frank met a young woman named France, a
fragile, fine-haired, dreamy sort of girl, and he was not surprised to
learn that she wrote poetry.

"Norah's been working as a telephone operator," explained Aleta. "She's
written a story about it--the working girl's wrongs.... Oh, not the
ordinary wail-and-whine," she added hastily. "It's real meat. I've read
it. The Saturday Magazine's considering it."

Miss France smiled deprecatingly. "I have high hopes," she said. "I need
the money."

"It will give you prestige, too," Frank told her, but she shook her
head.

"Norah hasn't signed her name to it," Aleta disapproved. "Just because a
friend, a well known writer in Carmel, has fixed it up for her
a little."

"It doesn't seem like mine," the girl remarked. Aleta rose. "This is
election night," she said; "let's go down and watch the returns."

They did this, standing on the fringe of a crowd that thron