Bourke managed to pull the remnants of the convention back into some sort of shape. The delegates went through the form of nominating Conover. A quantity of hand-made enthusiasm burst forth; and then, without a speech from the successful nominee, the great occasion wound up in a roar of cheers, shouts and blaring music. “There wasn’t any stereopticon stunts done while I was out of the room, was there?” asked Billy Shevlin as, at the close of the proceedings, he and Bourke repaired to Conover’s den behind the stage. “’Course not,” answered the chairman. “Why?” “Oh, nothin’,” said Billy, “only I heard one of them N’ York reporters sayin’ something about ‘handwritin’ on the wall.’ Maybe it’s a new joke that ain’t reached Granite yet.” “No,” remarked the Railroader, as he joined his lieutenants, “it hasn’t reached Granite, and what’s more it ain’t going to. The only handwriting on these walls will take the form of a double cross. And it’ll be opposite Standish’s name.” CHAPTER XI CALEB CONOVER MAKES TERMS “Well,” remarked Caleb Conover, Railroader, with a Gargantuan sigh of relief as he flung himself into the great desk chair in his study, and lighted one of his eternal black cigars, “_that’s_ over!” “It sure is!” chuckled Billy Shevlin, who, alone of the cheering throng that had escorted the gubernatorial nominee home from the convention, had been permitted to enter the sanctum. “But, Boss, I wisht that Standish feller hadn’t stampeded the herd like he did. It’ll cut holes in your ‘landslide’ scheme.” “What can the crank do?” grinned Caleb. “Not a paper in Granite’ll report his speech. And we’ll work the same game up-State we did during his tour. If worst comes to worst, there’s always a quiet, orderly way of losing sight of him at the polls. No, son, Standish’s yawps don’t bother me any more. I’ve got him about where I want him, I guess. Here’s the cash for the rooters. And here’s something for the boys to-night, too. Whoop it up all you like, so long as you keep on the other side of the railroad tracks. That’ll be all. Come around by eight to-morrow. And say, Billy!” he called after his departing henchman, “see if you can find Miss Lanier downstairs anywhere. I want to speak to her.” The Railroader leaned farther back in the depths of the soft chair, drawing in great draughts of strong tobacco-reek and expelling it in duplex clouds through his thick nostrils. It was good to rest. As far as his iron frame and cold nerves could feel such a weakness, reaction from the long strain of the day was upon him. In Conover’s case it took the form of lazy comfort; of enjoyment in his rank cigar, in the sensuous delight of relaxing every tense muscle and of sprawling idly, happily before his coal fire. The grim lines of the mouth relaxed, the keen eyes took on a pleasanter light.