But he was uncomfortably conscious of that great unseen radio audience in a hundred thousand homes already settled before their “speakers,” listening eagerly to the preliminary gossip of the announcer as the faithful gathered around the tables. He knew that a wrong note struck at this dinner might start a thunderstorm up-State over which he would have no control. Forsythe was worrying, too, under his suave exterior. “Suppose somebody did break loose tonight,” he remarked, leaning insinuatingly toward the boss’s secretary. “Couldn’t an accident happen to the radio temporarily?” “Oh, nothing raw like that!” Barney deprecated with outpushed palm. “They’d smell something rotten to the end of the State. No, I got a better way.” He glanced at a smaller table adjoining the low platform on which the speakers’ table stood. It was surrounded by a group of dashing and determined-appearing young men. At the end of this table, facing them, sat a dark youth, even more rat-visaged than the red-headed Barney. He winked knowingly at the latter. “Who’s that young gunman?” Forsythe asked a little distastefully. “That’s Jim Neenan,” Barney told him. “He’s a vaudeville actor and a friend of the organization. Jim and his little pals will kind of unofficially supervise what goes over the radio. Watch ’em if anything breaks.” And something did break. It held off so long that less acute observers of political nature than Boss Quaid were beginning to breathe freely. The harmless preliminary speakers had received polite applause. Boss Quaid, after a glowing tribute from the toastmaster, had risen, bobbed his head, grunted, and sat down to the tune of a thunderous ovation and orchestral strains of “He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.” Then Forsythe, the favored son and real speaker of the evening, had risen and said nothing dangerous, in burning, glittering language and at considerable length. But while his favorite was talking, the roving little eyes of the boss had settled on the keen, quizzical face of a big, shaggy man at the other end of the table. The man’s high, thoughtful brow corrugated as the would-be candidate went on with his mellifluous platitudes. The pleasant blue eyes, bent intently on the speaker, turned to gray steel. Quaid nudged Barney. “Watch out for Hammond,” he whispered. When Forsythe sat down, Hammond sat bolt upright in his chair and stared hard at the toastmaster. It was not on the cards to have any more speeches. Forsythe’s address had been planned as the climax of the evening. A half dozen lay figures and uncertain quantities remained at the speaker’s table who would be called on as a matter of form. All were supposed to know better than to do more than rise and bow. While the prolonged applause for Forsythe was still ringing, the newspaper men gathered up their notes and departed, leaving the Associated Press man to let them know if anything unexpected broke loose at the last minute, not amply covered by the radio.