after endless rapping, is a blank. Cheers, recriminations,
exultation, disgust of decent citizens, attempts by twenty men to get the
eye of the president (which is too watery to see any of them), and rushes
for the platform to suggest remedies or ask what is going to be done
about such palpable fraud. What can be done? Call the roll! How in blazes
can you call the roll when you don't know who's here? Messrs. Jane,
Botcher, Bascom, and Fleming are not disturbed, and improve their time.
Watling and Tooting rush to the bridal suite, and rush back again to
demand justice. General Doby mingles his tears with theirs, and somebody
calls him a jellyfish. He does not resent it. Friction makes the air
hotter and hotter--Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego would scarce enter
into this furnace,--and General Doby has a large damp spot on his back as
he pounds and pounds and pounds until we are off again on the third
ballot. No dinner, and three-thirty P.M.! Two delegates have fainted, but
the essential parts of them--the credentials--are left behind.

Four-forty, whispering again, and the gavel drops.

The Honourable Giles Henderson of Kingston has . . 412
The Honourable Humphrey Crewe of Leith has . . . 325
The Honourable Adam B. Hunt of Edmundton has. . . 250
And there is no choice on the third ballot!

Thirteen delegates are actually missing this time. Scour the town! And
now even the newspaper adjectives describing the scene have given out. A
persistent and terrifying rumour goes the rounds, where's Tom Gaylord?
Somebody said he was in the hall a moment ago, on a Ripton credential. If
so, he's gone out again--gone out to consult the dark horse, who is in
town, somewhere. Another ominous sign: Mr. Redbrook, Mr. Widgeon of Hull,
and the other rural delegates who have been voting for the People's
Champion, and who have not been observed in friendly conversation with
anybody at all, now have their heads together. Mr. Billings goes
sauntering by, but cannot hear what they are saying. Something must be
done, and right away, and the knowing metropolitan reporters are winking
at each other and declaring darkly that a sensation is about to turn up.

Where is Hilary Vane? Doesn't he realize the danger? Or--traitorous
thought!--doesn't he care? To see his son nominated would be a singular
revenge for the indignities which are said to have been heaped upon him.
Does Hilary Vane, the strong man of the State, merely sit at the
key