to the Serenity, and said,
"Mr. Adams, I was looking for you."

Grant signed the boy's book, read the telegram, and stood dumbly gazing
at the fire, as he held the sheet in his hand.

The fire popped and snapped and the little blaze grew stronger when a
log dropped in two. A customer came in--picked up a magazine--called,
"Charge it, please," then went out. The door slammed. Another customer
came and went. Miss Calvin stepped back to Mr. Brotherton. The bell of
the cash register tinkled. Then Grant Adams turned, looked at the
minister absently for a moment, and handed him the sheet. It read:

"I have pledged in writing five more votes than are needed to
make you the caucus nominee and give you a majority on the joint
ballot to-night for United States Senator. Come up first train."

It was signed "James Nesbit." The preacher dropped his hand still
holding the yellow sheet, and looked into the fire.

"Well?" asked Grant.

"You say," returned John Dexter, and added: "It would be a great
opportunity--give you the greatest forum for your cause in
Christendom--give you more power than any other labor advocate ever held
in the world before."

He said all this tentatively and as one asking a question. Grant did not
reply. He sat pounding his leg with his claw, abstractedly.

"You needn't be a mere theorist in the Senate. You could get labor laws
enacted that would put forward the cause of labor. Grant, really, it
looks as though this was your life's chance."

Grant reached for the telegram and read it again. The telegram
fluttering in his hands dropped to the floor. He reached for it--picked
it up, folded it on his claw carefully, and put it away. Then he turned
to the preacher and said harshly:

"There's nothing in it. To begin: you say I'll have more power than any
other labor leader in the world. I tell you, labor leaders don't need
personal power. We don't need labor laws--that is, primarily. What we
need is sentiment--a public love of the under dog that will make our
present laws intolerable. It isn't power for me, it isn't clean politics
for the State, it isn't labor laws that's my job. My job, dearly
beloved," he hooked the minister's hand and tossed it gently, "my job,
oh, thou of little faith," he cried, as a flaming torch of emotion
seemed to brush his face and kindle the fanatic glow in his countenance
while his voice lifted, "is to stay right down here in the Wahoo Valley,
pile up money in th