The Conover machine, having greased the wheels and oiled the cogs, did not propose to lose any time in running its Juggernaut over the young reformer who had dared to brave an entrenched and ruthless organization. Amid a hullabaloo Bourke called the conference to order, ending his formula with the equally perfunctory request: “All gents kindly r’frain from smokin’!” At the word a hundred matches were struck, in scattered volley, from all corners of the place. For nothing else so inflames the desire to smoke as does its unenforceable prohibition. Thus, amid clouds of malodorous campaign tobacco smoke, was the sacrifice to the Machine consummated. The Committee on Resolutions offered a perfunctory platform filled with the customary hackneyed phrases, lauding the deeds of Democracy and denouncing the Republican party. As the Republicans had never won a victory in the Mountain State since 1864, these platitudes were provocative of vast yawns and of shuffling of feet as the delegates impatiently awaited the call to the slaughter. The six Standish men on the Platform Committee had prepared a minority report, but on the advice of Ansel they did not present it. The Committee on Organization, by a vote of eighteen to six, offered a report nominating Bourke, temporary chairman, to succeed himself as permanent chairman. Then, while the Conover claque hooted joyously and the Standish men sat by in helpless silence, the finishing stroke was delivered. Two reports were offered from the Committee on Credentials, one of the minority, signed by the six members from Wills and Matawan, recommending the seating of the contesting Standish delegates from the other six counties; the other, signed by the eighteen Conover members of the committee, recommending that the delegates holding credentials be allowed to retain their seats. The majority report was jammed through, while Shevlin’s noble army of brazen-lunged shouters cheered, screeched and blew tin horns. In his den behind the stage Caleb Conover’s mouth corners twisted in a grim smile of satisfaction as the babel of noise reached him. From some mysterious source Shevlin had produced a half-dozen bottles of champagne, and there, in the room of the successful candidate, corks were drawn and success was pledged to “the Mountain State’s next and greatest Governor,” with Caleb’s time-honored slogan, “To hell with reform!” as a rider. In another room, directly across the stage, a very different scene was in action. Karl Ansel had left his seat in the Wills County delegation, turning over the floor leadership of the forlorn Standish hope to Judge Shelp, of Matawan; and had gone direct to Standish’s quarters. The room had been empty when he entered, but before he had waited thirty seconds, the door was flung open and Clive hurried in.