When she had finished there was still no applause. They had learned that it was unseemly to make a demonstration at church, when deeply moved by a sermon, and they had heard something to-day that had lifted them as high under her sway as they had sunken low under Wiggin's. The formal part of the exercises was over, and they proceeded to spread out the contents of their baskets. Wiggin, after his successful ascent, had fallen with something like a thud. He saw Mrs. Parsons helped from the platform by her proudly flushing husband and instantly surrounded by people anxious to offer congratulations. Wiggin shuddered for he stood quite alone. Those who were in sympathy with him seemed afraid to openly signify it. Even Dan Willis lurked back under the trees, his face flushed with liquor and inward rage. Pole Baker, however, was more thoughtful of the candidate's comfort. With a queer twinkle of amusement in his eyes, and polishing, with the dexterity of a carver of cherry-stones, his little stick, he approached the candidate. “Say, Wiggin,” he drawled out, “I want to ax you a question.” “All right, Baker, what is it?” the candidate asked, absent-mindedly. “Don't you remember tellin' me,” Pole began, “that you never had in all yore life met a man that made better an' truer predictions about things to come than I did?” “Yes, I think so, Baker--yes, I remember now,” answered Wiggin. “You do seem to have a head that way. Some men have more than others, a sort of foresight or intuition.” Pole chuckled. “You remember I said Teddy Rusefelt would whip the socks off of Parker. I'm a Democrat an' always will be, but I kin see things that are goin' to be agin me as plain as them I'm prayin' for. Well, you remember I was called a traitor jest beca'se I told what was comin', but I hit the nail on the head, didn't I?” “Yes, you did,” admitted the downcast candidate. “An' I was right about the majority Towns would git for the State senate, Mayhew for solicitor, an' Tim Bloodgood for the last legislature.” “Yes, you were, I remember that,” said Wiggin. “I hit it on the Governor's race to a gnat's heel, too, didn't I?” Pole pursued, his keen eyes fixed on those of the man before him. “Yes, you did,” admitted Wiggin; “you really seem to have remarkable foresight.” “Well, then,” said Baker, “I've got a prediction to make about your race agin Carson Dwight.” “Oh, you have!” exclaimed Wiggin, now all attention. “Yes, and this time I'd bet my two arms and the first joint of my right leg agin a pinch o' snuff that Carson'll beat you worse than a man was ever whipped in his life.” “You think so, Baker?” Wiggin was trying to sneer. “I don't think anything about it; I _know_ it,” said Pole. Wiggin stared at the ground a moment aimlessly, then he said, doggedly, and yet with an evident desire for information at any sort of fountain-head: “What makes you think I'm beat, Baker?”