“That place is a regular nest of reformers, from the mayor down,” commented Bourke. “And besides, Standish won a lot of votes by his grand-stand scrap in the op’ra house there last month. It looks bad.” “Most reform places do after they’ve tried a dose of their own medicine for awhile,” answered Caleb. “But we’ve spent enough good dough there to square the whole noble army of martyrs. I guess Grafton’s O. K.” “Boss,” said Billy Shevlin, “you’re the only man in this whole shootin’ match what ain’t all hectic over this fight. An’ you’re the one man who’s _It_ or out in th’ woolly white snow accordin’ to th’ way that genial beast of prey th’ free an’ independent an’ otherwise bought-up voters jumps. Ain’t you worried none?” “What good’d that do? No use paying twice, if there’s anything to worry about. And if there ain’t, what’s the use of wasting a lot of good anxiety? Start my phonograph going.” “Phonograph?” hotly protested Staatz. “At a time like this, when everything hangs on the next half hour and——” “Well,” drawled Caleb, and if his words were light, his steady eyes fixed the district leader’s vexed gaze as a wasp might pierce an angry, blundering bumblebee, “I don’t believe the voters of the Mountain State’ll rise in arms to any extent and demand a new election and a new Boss just because they hear I wanted a little music. I like the phonograph. It’s the only musical instrument I ever had time to learn to play. And it’s the only one that’ll play over the pieces I like as often as I want to hear ’em, and won’t make me listen to a lot of opera war-whoops in Dutch and Dago. But, say, Staatz, I’m not forcing other folks to listen to it. If you’re not stuck on the way I amuse myself, there ain’t nobody exactly imploring you to stay on here.” Staatz, his red face redder than its wont, and his great gray mustache abristle at the Railroader’s tone and look, nevertheless mumbled some apology. But Caleb did not hear him out. He broke in on the words with a curt nod, then said to Shevlin: “Start it up, Billy. Any old tune’ll do. There’s none there but the kind I like. Might try——” Again the footman came in. This time not with coffee, but with a card. “I thought I told Gaines I wasn’t to be broke in on this evening,” began Conover, glowering at the intruder. “Say I can’t see anyone. I’m busy, and——” He had taken the card as he spoke. Now, as he read it, his order trailed off into perplexed silence, even as Billy Shevlin, his face one big grin at Staatz’s discomfiture, started the phonograph on the classic strains of “Everybody Works but Father.” “Turn off that measly racket!” roared Caleb. “Ain’t you got any better sense than to go fooling with toys a time like this? I’ll be back in a few minutes, boys. My New York lawyer wants me for something.” He left the study and hurried downstairs to where, in the hall, a man stood awaiting him.