“Just so,” said William Cheyney; “solidly right, too; that’s purgatory enough for most of ’em,” he added, under his breath, as he took the long turn on the veranda. Colonel Royall did not hear him; his head was bare, and the light breeze stirred his white hair; it had turned suddenly, twenty years before. “It would be against all precedent for any of the family to favor a Yarnall,” he remarked slowly. “Jacob won’t,” said the doctor shortly, a dry smile crinkling the wrinkles around his kindly, shrewd old eyes. “Nor would you, in Jacob’s place,” countered the colonel, tapping the floor with his stick. A negro appeared promptly at the door. “Two juleps, Kingdom,” he ordered. Dr. Cheyney ceased his promenade and sat down. “This State’s got to be cleaned up, David,” he said maliciously; “we’ve got too much machine. I’m all for Trench.” “I’m not sure I know what ails us,” objected the colonel humorously; “we’re either bewitched or hypnotized. In a fortnight we’ve set up Caleb Trench, and I reckon he’s more talked of than the volcano in the West Indies.” “He will be later,” said the doctor; “there’s a man for you!” “They say he began by getting hold of the backwoodsmen; they go down to his shop and discuss politics once a week; he organized them into a club and made them take a pledge to vote for Yarnall.” “All rot,” said William Cheyney fiercely; “do you think the man’s a damned rogue? He’s talked straight politics to ’em, and he’s showed up some of the machine methods. By the way, David, he’s set his face against Jacob Eaton’s get-rich-quick games. I don’t believe in ’em myself; when that young bounder, Macdougall, came at me about them the other day in the bank, I told him I kept all my money tied up in a stocking. I reckon he thinks I do,” twinkled the doctor, “because I’ve nothing in their bank. David, I hope you’re not favoring Jacob’s schemes too heavily?” Colonel Royall looked perplexed. Kingdom-Come had just brought out a tray with two tinkling glasses of iced mint julep, and he watched the white-headed negro set them out deftly on the little portable basket tea-table of Diana’s. “How are you feeling, Kingdom?” Dr. Cheyney asked genially, eying the juleps. “Right po’ly, Doctah,” Kingdom replied, showing his ivories, “but I manages ter keep my color.” “Eh?” said the doctor, startled. Kingdom-Come beamed. “But I’se got er mis’ry in my chest, an’ I reckon I’se got vertigo an’ congestion ob de brain; I hez dese er dizzy turns, suh.” “Take some castor oil, Kingdom,” said the doctor, placidly stirring his julep, “and put a mustard plaster on your stomach.” “Yass, suh, thank yo’,” said Kingdom, a little weakly. “I’se done took two doses ob oil this week, an’ I’se been rubbin’ myse’f wid some ob dis yer kittycurah.” “Good Lord!” said Dr. Cheyney, “take a pint of whiskey and go to bed.”