"No; nothing will cool me off, and after you hear what I have got to say, you may be a little warm yourself!" "Well, go ahead and tell me what is on your mind." "It's just this," cried Conway, explosively. "These fellows are going around the town trying to injure you. They're putting all sorts of false constructions on your failure to get your bill through today." "Well, that's no more than I expected;--it's a penalty a man has to pay for being in public life." "But you don't know what they're saying." "No," agreed the other, placidly, "and I am not very anxious to hear." "But," said the journalist, "you've got to listen to me." "I am listening." Conway fumbled in his pockets and finally pulled out copies of the evening papers. He opened one of them hurriedly and turning to an inside page, began reading some of the gossip that had been printed concerning Carlton and his bill. The writer said that the whole business had been, as he phrased it, "a grandstand play." He said that it was the belief of men who were on the inside of the Committee that the bill had been purposely sidetracked. He added that Carlton was credited with knowing all about it and that in all probability the bill would never be heard of again. As he finished reading, Conway exclaimed: "What do you think of _that_?" "Not much," was the even reply. Felix Conway looked at his friend in hopeless amazement. He wondered if anything would arouse him. Then he opened the second paper and began to read from that. The insinuations of the second writer were worse than the first. He practically charged Carlton with having destroyed the bill himself, because he knew that it would be impossible to pass it at the pending session of Congress. He said that it was apparently better to lose the bill than to go home and admit to the people of Cleverly that he had been unable to pass it. Conway threw both papers on the table with a gesture of anger. "Now," he exclaimed, dramatically, "What do you think of _that_?" Carlton smiled as the young man indignantly asked the question. He spoke very quietly. "I think even less of that than I did of the first comment." Conway seemed dazed. "Why, you're the queerest man I ever met. Of course, you must strike back at these fellows. You don't propose to let these insinuations stand, do you?" The Congressman leaned over and put his hand on the correspondent's shoulder, and, speaking in a tone that a father might use to his son, said: "My boy, I don't propose to do a thing." "Don't propose to do a thing?" echoed the other. "No, I do not. If a lifetime of honesty and faithful service is not a sufficient answer to these false and malicious reports, then nothing I can say at this time would have any effect with the people of Cleverly." Conway looked at him with genuine admiration.