“If it wasn’t for just such ‘burning, blazing shames,’ there’d be no need for our campaign. It’s to crush such ‘shames’ that we’re working. Cheer up! I’ve great hopes for to-night’s meeting.” Tersely he described his trip, the drawbacks he had encountered, and the better chances that seemed to attend the Grafton rally, Ansel interspersing the tale with a volley of queries and expletives. “I’d heard of this press-muzzling,” said he as Standish ended, “and I have one way of blocking it. I’ve arranged for your speeches and ‘ads.’ and advance notices to be printed in the biggest paper in the next State, and scattered all through the Mountain State as campaign documents. I don’t think even Conover can block that move.” “Splendid!” cried Standish. “Old man, you’re a genius!” “No, I’m not,” contradicted Ansel, rather ruefully, “but someone else is. I don’t know who.” “I don’t understand.” “Why, the idea was sent to me three days ago, anonymously. Typewritten on foolscap. No signature. What d’you think of that?” “Anonymously?” “Yes. I wonder why. The idea’s so good, one would think the originator’d claim it. Unless——” “Unless it came from the Conover camp?” “Just what occurred to _me_. Anyhow, I’ve adopted the suggestion. I suppose _you’d_ have refused to accept anonymous help, eh?” “Every man to his own folly. It’s done now.” “It sure is. And with a few more such tips, Conover would be ‘done,’ too. He’s carried matters high-handedly for years, but now maybe someone he’s ridden rough-shod over has turned on him.” The great night had come. Clive and Ansel, arriving at the Opera House, found that gaudy, gayly-lighted auditorium full to the doors. On the stage sat the mayor, the proprietor of one of the papers, a half-dozen clergymen and a score of civic dignitaries. The boxes were filled with well-dressed women. Evening suits blended with the less conspicuous costumes of the spectators who stretched from stage to entrance, from orchestra to roof. A band below the stage played popular and national airs. The news of Clive’s eccentric pre-convention tour, of his eloquence, his clean manliness and the obstacles he had overcome, had drawn hundreds through sheer curiosity. More had come because they were weary of Conover’s rule and eagerly desired to learn what his young antagonist had to offer them in place of bossism. Skilled, by experience, in reading the sentiment of crowds, Clive, as he stepped onto the stage, felt instinctively that the main body of the house was kindly disposed toward him. Not only was this proven by the spontaneous applause that heralded his appearance, but by a ripple—a rustle—of interest that rose on every hand. The sound nerved him. He considered once more how much hung on to-night’s success or failure, and the advance augury was as music to his ears.