Sylvester was the type of Lawyer intensely admired but seldom employed, save by Criminals entirely bereft of Means. In addition to his Board, the young Barrister actually required a pouch of Fine Cut and a clean White Tie every week, so he was impelled by stern Necessity to endeavor to hook up with a Salary. Because Sylvester had administered personal Massage to every Voter within five Miles of his office, he thought he could leap into the Arena and claim an immediate Laurel Wreath by the mere charm and vigor of his Personality. He ignored the Whispering Ikes who met in the dim Back Room, with Cotton plugged in the Key Hole. The Convention met, and when it came time to nominate a Candidate for State's Attorney, all of Sylvester's tried and true Friends among the Masses were at home working in the Garden or spread out in the Hammock. The Traction Engine pulled the Juggernaut over the Popular Idol. They lit on him spraddled out. They gave him the Doo-Doo. When the Battle had ended, he was a mile from the cheerful Bivouac, lying stark in the Moonlight. He was supposed to be eliminated. The only further recognition accorded him would be at the Autopsy. Next day he was back in his usual Haunts, with an immaculate Bow Tie and a prop Smile, shaking hands with all who had so recently harpooned him. As a Come-Back he was certainly the resilient Kid. Those who had marveled at his sole-leather Organ of Speech, now had to admire his sheet metal Sensibilities, nor could they deny that he possessed all the attributes of a sound and durable Candidate. He had learned his Primer lesson in Politics. As soon as he saw that he could not throw the Combination, he joined it. He came into the Corral and lay down in the Dust and allowed them to brand him as a Regular. Sylvester became the White Slave of the Central Committee, knowing that eventually true Patriotism would have to be recognized and recompensed. When he came to bat the second time he had the Permanent Chairman and the Tellers and all the Rough-Necks plugging for him, consequently it was a Pipe. But it was a case of Reverse English on Election Day, for the venal Opposition rode into power on a Tidal Wave. After the Tide had receded, Sylvester was found asleep among the Clams and Sea-Weed, apparently so far gone that a Pulmotor would be no help. Three days later, however, he was on hand, with chaste Neckwear and a jaunty Front, to make a Presentation Speech to the Chief of the Fire Department. Talk about your Rubber Cores! The harder they trun him down the higher he bounced back. Those who had been marked by Fate to be his Constits began to see that Sylvester was something inevitable and not to be denied. What though his Detractors called him a Four-Flush and a False Alarm, alleging that a true analysis of his Mentality would be just about as profitable as dissecting a Bass Drum?