t of
Edmundton has . . . 256

Total, one thousand and eleven out of a thousand! Two delegates abstained
from voting, and proclaimed the fact, but were heard only a few feet
away. Other delegates, whose flesh and blood could stand the atmosphere
no longer, were known to have left the hall! Aha! the secret is out, if
anybody could hear it. At the end of every ballot several individuals
emerge and mix with the crowd in the street. Astute men sometimes make
mistakes, and the following conversation occurs between one of the
individuals in question and Mr. Crewe's chauffeur.

Individual: "Do you want to come in and see the convention and
vote?"

Chauffeur: "I am Frenchman."

Individual: "That doesn't cut any ice. I'll make out the ballot,
and all you'll have to do is to drop it in the box."
Chauffeur: "All right; I vote for Meester Crewe."

Sudden disappearance of the individual.

Nor is this all. The Duke of Putnam, for example, knows how many
credentials there are in his county--say, seventy-six. He counts the men
present and voting, and his result is sixty-one. Fifteen are absent,
getting food or--something else. Fifteen vote over again. But, as the
human brain is prone to error, and there are men in the street, the Duke
miscalculates; the Earl of Haines miscalculates, too. Result--eleven over
a thousand votes, and some nine hundred men in the hall!

How are you going to stop it? Mr. Watling climbs up on the platform and
shakes his fist in General Doby's face, and General Doby tearfully
appeals for an honest ballot--to the winds.

In the meantime the Honourable Elisha Jane, spurred on by desperation and
thoughts of a 'dolce far niente' gone forever; has sought and cornered
Mr. Bascom.

"For God's sake, Brush," cries the Honourable Elisha, "hasn't this thing
gone far enough? A little of it is all right--the boys understand that;
but have you thought what it means to you and me if these blanked
reformers get in,--if a feller like Austen Vane is nominated?"

That cold, hard glitter which we have seen was in Mr. Bascom's eyes.

"You fellers have got the colic," was the remark of the arch-rebel. "Do
you think old Hilary doesn't know what he's about?"

"It looks that way to me," said Mr. Jane.

"It looks that way to Doby too, I guess," said Mr. Bascom, with a glance
of contempt at the general; "he's lost about fifteen pounds to-day. Did
Hilary send you down here?" he demanded.

"No," Mr. Jane