“I guess I can look after that,” said George, crossing and uncrossing his long legs and smoothing out a tail of his shiny black frock upon his knee. “You allow to do some speaking?” “I’m going to hire a horse and buggy and move about some.” “That’s good. You may stir up a little law business.” “Maybe so.” “Done any orating?” “Oh, I’ve heard a lot of speeches, and I’ve made a few.” “Then you know the kind of stuff to hand out to the people.” “I guess so,” said Helm. Branagan was obviously relieved when Helm departed--the conference was held in Pat’s saloon which was the “hang-out” for the politicians and other disreputables of the town. The first class really included the last, for there was not a disreputable who was not actively engaged in “practical” politics. Helm negotiated with the livery-man round the corner from Mrs. Beaver’s boarding-house, got a buggy and a sound horse for two months at two dollars and a half a day, he to feed the horse, keep the buggy in repair and do his own driving. The morning of the second day after he secured the nomination, he opened his campaign. Two days later--or rather, three nights later--so far into the third night that it was near the dawn of the third day--a stalled automobile shot the powerful beams from its acetylene lamps into the woods near Bixby Cross Roads, about twenty miles to the northeast of Harrison. The light fell upon a buggy, with the horse taken from the shafts and hitched to a nearby tree. “Hi, there--I say!” came in a man’s voice from the darkness of the auto. This was followed a moment later by, “Well, I’ll be jiggered!” in the same voice, accompanied by the subdued laughter of two women, on the rear seat of the auto. The cause of the exclamation was the apparition of a head above the side of the bed of the buggy, and behind the seat--the head of a man. “Why, he’s curled up in his buggy to sleep,” said one of the women in a low voice. But the night was still and the voice had the carrying quality; so George Helm heard distinctly. As he was as shy as any man is apt to be who feels that he is not attractive to women, the sound of a woman’s voice--a young woman’s voice--threw him into a panic. He was acutely conscious of the fact that the frock suit neatly folded was under the buggy seat, and that he had nothing on over his underclothes but the lap robe. In his alarm he cried out, “Don’t come any nearer. What do you want to know?” “We’ve punctured a tire,” said the man. “And we’ve lost our way. Will you come and help me?” “Turn those lights the other way,” said Helm. There was a chuckle from the direction of the auto, a sound of suppressed female laughter. The sound rose, swelled until the two women and their man and presently George Helm were all four laughing uproariously. The lights turned in another direction. “Thanks,” said Helm. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”