“N-name's Lovejoy,” said Jethro. “Lovejoy!” ejaculated the storekeeper, thinking of what Mr. Merrill had told him of the opponents of the Truro Franchise Bill. “President of the 'Northwestern' Railroad?” Jethro gave his friend a shrewd look. “G-gettin' posted--hain't you, Will?” he said. “Is she going to marry that old man?” asked Cynthia. Jethro smiled a little. “G-guess not,” said he, “g-guess not, if the old man can help it. Nobody's married him yet, and hain't likely to.” Jethro was unusually silent on the way back to the hotel, but he did not seem to be worried or displeased. He only broke his silence once, in fact, when Cynthia called his attention to a large poster of some bloodhounds on a fence, announcing the fact in red letters that “Uncle Tom's Cabin” would be given by a certain travelling company at the Opera House the next evening. “L-like to go, Cynthy?” “Oh, Uncle Jethro, do you think we can go?” “Never b'en to a show--hev you--never b'en to a show?” “Never in my life,” said Cynthia. “We'll all go,” said Jethro, and he repeated it once or twice as they came to Main Street, seemingly greatly tickled at the prospect. And there was the Truro Franchise Bill hanging over him, with only a week left of the session, and Lovejoy's and Duncan's men sitting so tight in their seats! William Wetherell could not understand it. CHAPTER XIV Half an hour later, when Mr. Wetherell knocked timidly at Number 7,--drawn thither by an irresistible curiosity,--the door was opened by a portly person who wore a shining silk hat and ample gold watch chain. The gentleman had, in fact, just arrived; but he seemed perfectly at home as he laid down his hat on the marble-topped bureau, mopped his face, took a glass of iced water at a gulp, chose a cigar, and sank down gradually on the bed. Mr. Wetherell recognized him instantly as the father of the celebrated Cassandra. “Well, Jethro,” said the gentleman, “I've got to come into the Throne Room once a day anyhow, just to make sure you don't forget me--eh?” “A-Alvy,” said Jethro, “I want you to shake hands with a particular friend of mine, Mr. Will Wetherell of Coniston. Er--Will, the Honorable Alvy Hopkins of Gosport.” Mr. Hopkins rose from the bed as gradually as he had sunk down upon it, and seized Mr. Wetherell's hand impressively. His own was very moist. “Heard you was in town, Mr. Wetherell,” he said heartily. “If Jethro calls you a particular friend, it means something, I guess. It means something to me, anyhow.” “Will hain't a politician,” said Jethro. “Er--Alvy?” “Hello!” said Mr. Hopkins. “Er--Will don't talk.” “If Jethro had been real tactful,” said the Honorable Alvy, sinking down again, “he'd have introduced me as the next governor of the state. Everybody knows I want to be governor, everybody knows I've got twenty thousand dollars in the bank to pay for that privilege. Everybody knows I'm going to be governor if Jethro says so.”