aker Sutton seemed in danger of suffocation by his friends. His
enemies, for the moment, could get nowhere near him. On this scene Mr.
Bijah Bixby gazed with pardonable pleasure.

"Guess there wahn't a mite of trouble about the river towns," he said, "I
had 'em in my pocket. Will, let's amble round to the theatre. We ought to
git in two acts."

William Wetherell went. There is no need to go into the psychology of the
matter. It may have been numbness; it may have been temporary insanity
caused by the excitement of the battle he had witnessed, for his brain
was in a whirl; or Mr. Bixby may have hypnotized him. As they walked
through the silent streets toward the Opera House, he listened perforce
to Mr. Bixby's comments upon some of the innumerable details which Jethro
had planned and quietly carried out while sitting, in the window of the
Throne Room. A great light dawned on William Wetherell, but too late.

Jethro's trusted lieutenants (of whom, needless to say, Mr. Bixby was
one) had been commanded to notify such of their supporters whose fidelity
and secrecy could be absolutely depended upon to attend the Woodchuck
Session; and, further to guard against surprise, this order had not gone
out until the last minute (hence Mr. Amos Cuthbert's conduct). The seats
of these members at the theatre had been filled by accommodating
townspeople and visitors. Forestalling a possible vote on the morrow to
recall and reconsider, there remained some sixty members whose loyalty
was unquestioned, but whose reputation for discretion was not of the
best. So much for the parliamentary side of the affair, which was a
revelation of generalship and organization to William Wetherell. By the
time he had grasped it they were come in view of the lights of Fosters
Opera House, and they perceived, among a sprinkling of idlers, a
conspicuous and meditative gentleman leaning against a pillar. He was
ludicrously tall and ludicrously thin, his hands were in his trousers
pockets, and the skirts of his Sunday broadcloth coat hung down behind
him awry. One long foot was crossed over the other and rested on the
point of the toe, and his head was tilted to one side. He had, on the
whole, the appearance of a rather mournful stork. Mr. Bixby approached
him gravely, seized him by the lower shoulder, and tilted him down until
it was possible to speak into his ear. The gentleman apparently did not
resent this, although he seemed in imminent danger of being up