On the front of the dingy little stage were a table and chairs for the officers, and a series of desks for the reporters of the local and New York newspapers. Across the back hung a ragged drop curtain showing a garden scene in poisonous greens and inflammatory reds. Stuck askew on the proscenium arch were crudely-drawn portraits of Jefferson and Andrew Jackson. Between these alleged likenesses of Democracy’s sponsors, Billy Shevlin had, by inspiration and acclaim, caused a huge crayon picture of Caleb Conover himself to be hung. This monstrous trio of ill-assorted portrait parodies were the first thing that struck the eye as one entered the main door at the front end of the hall. On seeing them, grim old Karl Ansel had cast about him until he located Shevlin and a group of the Railroader’s other lieutenants. “Say, Billy,” he drawled in tones that penetrated the farthest corners of the auditorium, “what did you want to show your ignorance of the Scriptures for by hanging Conover’s picture in the middle with Jackson and Jefferson on the outside? You’ve got things reversed. In the original it was the Just Man who hung between two thieves. You ought to have put your mug and Conover’s up there with Clive Standish in the centre, if you wanted to carry out the right idea.” And Shevlin, in no wise comprehending, looked for the first time with somewhat less pride on his artistic work, and waxed puzzled at the roar of laughter that swept over the massed delegates. “Them pictures set the Boss back fifteen dollars apiece,” he began, in self-justification, “an’——” “And like most of the crowd here,” finished Ansel, “they were sold to Conover before the convention began.” There was the usual noise and tramping of feet and clamoring of brass bands, the customary rabble of uniformed campaign clubs with their gaudy banners and pompous drum-majors about the hall and in it, for an hour before the time that had been set for the calling of the convention. Here, there and everywhere circulated the busy lieutenants of Boss Conover. Their master, with a little coterie of chosen lieutenants moved early into his headquarters in one of the rooms at the rear of the stage, where he sat like some wise old spider in the heart of his web, sending out warnings, advice and admonitions to his under-strappers. Although Conover was leaving no ravelled ends loose in his marvellously perfect machine, he took his wonted precautions more through force of habit and for discipline’s sake than through any necessity. He felt calmly confident of the result. He had looked upon his work and he had seen that it was good. Even had Standish been the choice of a majority of the people in all eight counties of the State, it would have availed him little, for through the routine tricks whereof the Railroader was past master, his young opponent was at the last able to control the votes of but two counties—Matawan and Wills.