“What’s the use of arguing?” said Standish pleasantly. “If the League was rash enough to choose me to represent it, then the League must put up with my peculiarities. And I don’t intend to rise to the Capitol on any mud piles. If you can show me how Conover’s early frauds and his general crookedness affect the issues of the campaign, then I’ll give you leave to publish his whole biography. But till then let’s run clean, shan’t we?” “‘_Clean?_’” echoed Ansel aghast. “I’ve been in this business a matter of twenty-five years, and I never yet heard of a victory won by drawing-room methods. But have your own way. I suppose you know, though, that they’ll rake up every lie and slur against you they can get their hands on?” “I suppose so. But _that_ won’t affect the general issue either. You don’t seem to realize, Ansel, that this isn’t the ordinary routine campaign. It’s an effort to throw off Boss rule and to free a State. Politics and personalities don’t enter into it at all. I’d as soon have run on the Republican as the Democratic ticket if it weren’t that the Republican Party in this State is virtually dead. The Democratic nominee for governor in the Mountain State is practically the governor-elect. That is why I——” “Excuse me, Mr. Standish,” said a clerk, entering from the outer office, “Mr. Conover would like a word with you.” The committee stared at one another, unbelieving. “H’m!” remarked Ansel, breaking the silence of surprise, “I guess the campaign’s on in earnest, all right. Shall you see him?” “Yes. Show him in, please, Gardner.” “He says, sir, he wants to speak with you alone,” added the clerk. “Tell him the League’s committee are in session, and that he must say whatever he has to say to me in their presence.” The clerk retired and reappeared a few moments later, ushering in—Gerald Conover. A grunt of disappointment from Ansel was the first sound that greeted the long youth as he paused irresolute just inside the committee-room door. “Good morning, Gerald,” said Standish, rising to greet the unexpected visitor; “we thought it was your father who——” “No. And he didn’t send me here, either,” blurted out Gerald. His pasty face was still twitching, and his usually immaculate collar awry from the recent paternal interview. “I came here on my own account,” he went on, with the peevish wrath of a child. “I came here to tell you I swing over a hundred votes. Maybe a hundred more. My father says so himself. And I’ve come to join your League.” A gasp of amazement ran around the table. Then, with a crow of delight, Ansel sprang up. “Great!” he shouted. “His _son_! It’s good for more votes than you know, Standish! Why, man, it’s a bonanza! When even a man’s own son can’t——” Standish cut him short. “Are you drunk, Gerald?” he asked. “No, I’m not!” vociferated the lad. “I’m dead cold sober, and I’m doing this with my eyes open. I want to join your League, and I’ll work like a dog for your election.”