“That's the trouble with Americans,” Mr. Crewe declares, “they don't care who represents 'em, or whether their government's good or bad.” “Guess that's so,” replies Mr. Jenney, politely. “That sort of thing's got to stop,” declares Mr. Crewe; “I'm a candidate for the Republican nomination for representative.” “I want to know!” ejaculates Mr. Jenney, pulling his beard. One would never suspect that this has been one of Mr. Jenney's chief topics of late. “I'll see that the interests of this town are cared for.” “Let's see,” says Mr. Jenney, “there's five hundred in the House, ain't there?” “It's a ridiculous number,” says Mr. Crewe, with truth. “Gives everybody a chance to go,” says Mr. Jenney. “I was thar in '78, and enjoyed it some.” “Who are you for?” demanded Mr. Crewe, combating the tendency of the conversation to slip into a pocket. “Little early yet, hain't it? Hain't made up my mind. Who's the candidates?” asks Mr. Jenney, continuing to stroke his beard. “I don't know,” says Mr. Crewe, “but I do know I've done something for this town, and I hope you'll take it into consideration. Come and see me when you go to the village. I'll give you a good cigar, and that pamphlet, and we'll talk matters over.” “Never would have thought to see one of them things in my orchard,” says Mr. Jenney. “How much do they cost? Much as a locomotive, don't they?” It would not be exact to say that, after some weeks of this sort of campaigning, Mr. Crewe was discouraged, for such writhe vitality with which nature had charged him that he did not know the meaning of the word. He was merely puzzled, as a June-bug is puzzled when it bumps up against a wire window-screen. He had pledged to him his own gardener, Mrs. Pomfret's, the hired men of three of his neighbours, a few modest souls who habitually took off their hats to him, and Mr. Ball, of the village, who sold groceries to Wedderburn and was a general handy man for the summer people. Mr. Ball was an agitator by temperament and a promoter by preference. If you were a summer resident of importance and needed anything from a sewing-machine to a Holstein heifer, Mr. Ball, the grocer, would accommodate you. When Mrs. Pomfret's cook became inebriate and refractory, Mr. Ball was sent for, and enticed her to the station and on board of a train; when the Chillinghams' tank overflowed, Mr. Ball found the proper valve and saved the house from being washed away. And it was he who, after Mrs. Pomfret, took the keenest interest in Mr. Crewe's campaign. At length came one day when Mr. Crewe pulled up in front of the grocery store and called, as his custom was, loudly for Mr. Ball. The fact that Mr. Ball was waiting on customers made no difference, and presently that gentleman appeared, rubbing his hands together. “How do you do, Mr. Crewe?” he said, “automobile going all right?”