About the most dangerous character on this earth is a real man who has nothing to lose. When the powers-that-be discover such an one, and are convinced that he is indeed a real man and not a cunning bluff at it, they hasten to give him something to lose. They don’t feel safe until he has wife and children, or wealth, or position--something that will fill one arm and make the other cautious. The three counties constituting that judicial district will not in many a year forget the first Helm campaign. In its second week Judge Powers canceled his speaking dates, giving out that he regarded it as undignified for a judge to descend in the ermine to the political arena and scramble and tussle for votes. The truth was that George Helm had driven him to cover because he dared not face the facts of his judicial record as the young candidate proclaimed it throughout those counties, on the highways, in the by-ways no less, in town, in village, in country. The day he began campaigning George counted his cash, found that in all the world he had three hundred and forty-seven dollars and fifty-six cents. He had been calculating that this money would keep him housed and fed and officed for about a year longer, assuming that he continued to be absolutely without clients. Then--he would teach school and toss hay and stack sacks at the threshing machine until he had put by the money for another two years’ try. To go into the campaign meant to use up his resources in two months--for he could not hope to get any help from the Democratic machine. Its “contributions” from the various corporations would be used in paying the leaders and their henchmen for refraining from “doing anything disturbing.” “Sorry, Mr. Helm,” said Pat Branagan, the local Democratic boss, “but we can’t spare you a cent for your campaign.” “So I calculated,” said Helm. Branagan had changed toward Helm the instant he saw him without a beard. Branagan had not risen to be boss without learning a thing or two about human nature and human faces. “There’s no hope for you,” proceeded he. “And anyhow I think a judicial candidate ought to be dignified.” “Oh, I don’t see any objection to his showing himself to the people,” said George, “and letting them judge whether he’s honest and sensible, and letting them hear what his notion of justice is--whether he’s for rich man’s reading of the law or for honest man’s reading of it.” Branagan puffed thoughtfully at his cigar. If he had been looking at Helm, he might have seen a covert twinkle in those expressive gray eyes. But he was not looking at Helm; he didn’t like to look at him. “Yes, I suppose so, Mr. Helm,” he said. He had called Helm George--George, with a humorous grin--until Bob Williams, the colored barber, performed that magic feat. “But there won’t be no money for meetings. Meetings means hall rent and posters and processions, and them little knickknacks costs.”