“The fool women!” exclaimed Desbrough in disgust. “Why, George, you’ve got a _face_.” “I’m afraid so,” said George with a rueful grin, passing his hand over the newly emerged visage. “Afraid so!” cried Desbrough. “Let me tell you, old man, a face--a real face--is about the rarest thing in the world. Most so-called faces are nothing but front sides of heads.” Desbrough looked at the “face” narrowly, searchingly. “Helm, I believe you are a great man.” George laughed delightedly and derisively--as a sensible man does at a compliment. “Oh, shucks!” said he. “Anyhow,” said Desbrough, “if you’d have produced that face a day earlier, you’d never have got the nomination. A man with a face never gets anything from the powers-that-be, without a fight, until he has put himself squarely on record as being with them. Even then they’re always a little afraid of him.” Desbrough nodded thoughtfully. “And they may well be, damn ’em,” he added. “Well--I’ve got the nomination,” said Helm. “I wonder what you’ll do with it,” said his friend. “_I’m_ wondering what it’ll do with _me_,” replied Helm. Desbrough glanced at him curiously. George went on to explain. “Yesterday,” said he, “I was a boy of twenty-five”---- “Is that all you are!” cried Desbrough. “Why, even without the whiskers I’d have said thirty-five.” “Oh, I’m one of those chaps who are born old,” laughed Helm. “I had lines and even wrinkles when I was eighteen. I’ll look younger at forty than I do now. Mother used to say I reminded her of her father--that he was homely enough to stop a clock when he was young and kept getting handsomer as he got older.” “I know the kind,” said Bill Desbrough, “and it’s the best kind to be.” “As I was saying,” proceeded George, “yesterday I was a boy. As soon as those fellows nominated me--they were laughing--they thought it was a fine old joke--but, Bill, a queer sort of a something happened inside me. A kind of shock, like a man jumping out of a sound sleep to find the house afire.” Desbrough was interestedly watching the face of his friend. Its expression was indeed strange--the look of power--sad, stern, inexorable--the look of the men whose wills and passions hurl them on and on to the conquest of the world. Suddenly it changed, softened. The human lines round the mobile, handsome mouth appeared. The gray eyes twinkled and danced. “So you see, Bill,” said he, “the nomination didn’t lose any time in beginning to do things to me.” “And the whiskers?” “Oh, they had to go,” said George simply. “The fight was on, and a fellow naturally throws away all the foolishness before he jumps in.” “So you’re going to make a fight?” “Of course,” said George. “What else is there to do?” “But you can’t win.” “You mean I can’t lose. I’ve got nothing _to_ lose.”