He was still lingering over this prospect when the servant came to tell him that some gentlemen were waiting for him, and he found in the sitting-room half-a-dozen of his favourite students. One of the Seniors, named Cartrell, a young man of strong figure, and keen, bold face, remarked, as he shook hands, that they had come to accompany him--” Elections are sometimes rough, and we know the ropes.” Roberts thanked them warmly, and they set off. The Committee Rooms of the Democratic party were situated near the Court House, in what had been once the centre, but was now the edge of the town. The little troop had to pass through the negro quarter--small frame-houses, peppered over grassless, bare lots, the broken-down fences protesting against unsociable isolation. The Rooms, from the outside, reminded one of a hive of angry bees. In and out of the door men were hurrying, and a crowd swarmed on the side-walk talking in a loud, excited hum. As soon as the Professor was recognized, a silence of astonishment fell upon the throng. With stares of curiosity they drew aside to let him enter. Slightly surprised by the reception, the Professor passed into the chief room. At a table in the middle a man was speaking in a harsh, loud voice--one Simpson, a popular orator, who had held aloof from the meetings of the party. He was saying: “It's a put-up game between them, but the question is, who's to go on the ticket in--” As Simpson's eyes met those of Roberts he stopped speaking. “Good morning, gentlemen. Please continue, Mr. Simpson; I hope I'm not interrupting you.” The Professor did not like Mr. Simpson. The atrabilious face, the bitter, thin lips, and grey eyes veined with yellow, reminded him indefinably of a wild beast. Mr. Simpson seemed to take the courteous words as a challenge. Drawing his wiry figure up he said, with insult in voice and manner: “Perhaps you've come to nominate a Mayor; we'd all like to know your choice.” “I don't understand you.” The Professor's tone was frank, his sincerity evident, but Simpson went on: “Don't ye? Perhaps Hutchin's has sent you to say, as he's sick it'd be well to run Robinson on both tickets--eh?” “I don't know what you mean. I expected to meet Mr. Hutchings here. Is he ill?” “He'll get well soon, I reckon; but after taking a perscription from Gulmore, he's mighty bad and can't leave the house.” “What do you mean?” “I mean that Hutchin's has withdrawn his candidature as Mayor. I mean that the 'Herald' has the announcin' of it. I mean it's a put-up job between him and Gulmore to ruin the Democratic party in this town. I mean--” As the Professor drew back in amazement, young Cartrell stepped in front of him and addressed Simpson: “What proof have you of what you say?” “Proof! Proof enough. Does an honest man resign a candidature on the morning of an election, and give the other side the news before his own party?”