“Certainly,” assented Standish, “I’ve learned all I wanted to. You serve your masters well. I hope they pay you as adequately.” He turned to the door. Before he reached it a thin youth with ink-smears on his fingers swung in. “Hard luck!” exclaimed the newcomer. “That Standish meeting’s raised a lot of interest downtown. Pity we can’t run anything on it! It’d make a dandy first-page spread.” “Shut up!” bellowed Gerrett. “You young——” “Don’t scold him,” counselled Standish, walking out. “He didn’t make any break. We’re all three in the secret.” The next few days witnessed practical repetitions of the foregoing experiences. In almost every town the local newspapers not only refused to report a line of Standish’s speeches, but would not accept his advertisements. Nor, in most places, could he find a job office willing to print handbills for him. His agent had nearly everywhere been able to engage a hall; but as no adequate preliminary notice of the meeting had been published, audiences were pitiably slim. In one or two towns, where the papers did not belong to the “Machine,” it was discovered that every hall, lodge-room or other available meeting-place had been engaged in advance by some mysterious competitor. Clive, at such settlements, was forced to speak in open air. Even then the police at one town dispersed the gathering under excuse of fearing a riot; at two others the mayor refused a license to hold an outdoor meeting, and at a fourth, a gang of toughs, at long range, pelted the audience with stones and elderly eggs, the police refusing to interfere. At length Clive’s advance agent returned to the candidate in abject despair. “I’ve been doing this sort of work eight years,” the man reported, “but this time I’m clean stumped. I can’t make any headway. The papers, the city authorities, the opera-house-and-hall-proprietors and the police are all under Conover’s thumb. It’s got so that as soon as I reach a town I can find out right away who is and who isn’t in the ‘Machine’s’ pay. Where the papers aren’t muzzled—and there are precious few such places—the halls are closed to us, and either the mayor or the police will stop the meeting. Where the papers are working for Conover, we can get all the halls we want, because the Boss knows the news of your speech can’t circulate except by word of mouth. “Oh, they’ve got us whipsawed in grand shape! I’m wondering what’ll happen at Grafton Monday night. That’s the biggest city next to Granite, and there’s always been more or less of a kick there against Conover rule. They’ve got a square man for mayor, and one of their three newspapers is strong for you. I was able to get the opera house, too. It’s your big chance of the campaign, and your last chance on this tour. The rest of the towns on your route I can’t do anything with. I’m waiting to see what dirty game Conover will play at Grafton, now that he can’t work his usual tricks there. He’ll be sure to try something.”