Billy Shevlin, who had also acted (unsuspectedly as unofficially) as advance agent of Clive Standish’s tour, had in three respects excelled the authorized agent: In the first place, he had been as successful as the other had been a failure. In the second, he had not turned back. Third, and last, he was not in the very least discouraged. Nor had he need to be. Yet even to him Grafton presented the first serious problem. And to it he devoted much of his time and more of his cleverness. At last he formed a plan and saw that his plan was good. Clive reached Grafton at noon of the day he was scheduled to speak. This was the second largest city in the Mountain State. Here, next to Granite, must the chief battle of the campaign be waged. On the effect of his speech here hung a great percentage of Clive’s hopes for the coming State convention. As Grafton went, so would big Matawan County, whose centre it was. And Grafton, wavering in fealty to Conover, might yet be won to the Standish ranks by the right sort of speech. So with the glow of approaching struggle upon him Clive awaited the night. All he asked was a fair hearing. This, presumably, was for once to be accorded him. At the hotel on his arrival he found Karl Ansel waiting. The big, lean New Englander was in a state of white-hot wrath. “You got my telegram and the notice of the caucuses, I suppose!” he growled as Clive met him. “No. I ordered all mail forwarded here, and telegrams, too. I broke away from my route Saturday, when I found I couldn’t get a hall at Smithfield. I cancelled my date there and went over to Deene, leaving word for everything to be sent on to Grafton. Then, yesterday——” “Never mind that. We’re done! Beat! Tricked!” “What do you mean?” “The county conventions—the caucuses! In every—nearly every one of the eight counties Conover worked some blackguardism. To some he sent telegrams that you backed out. In others his chairmen tried the ‘back door’ act. And I wrote you how they’d ‘snapped’ the dates and caught us unready. Then——” Clive recalled the anonymous letter which later events had driven from his memory. If only he had been able to lower himself to his opponent’s level and take advantage of it—of the treachery in the Conover ranks! If—— But Ansel was still pouring out the flood of his ill-temper. “Whipsawed us, right and left,” he declared. “Beat us at every point as easy as taking candy from a baby. What are _we_ doing in politics? We’re a lot of silly amateurs against——” “We’re a lot of honest men against a gang of crooks. And in the long run we’ll win. We——” “The long run, eh? Well, the run has begun, and they’ve got us on it. We’re beat!” “Poor old Ansel,” laughed Clive, “how many times during the past fortnight have I heard you say that? And every time you pick yourself up again and go on with the fight. Just as you’ll do now.” “Not on your life! I—oh, well, I suppose I will, if it comes to that! But it’s a burning, blazing shame.”