“Yes, and you’ll do me an everlastin’ favor, ma’am, if you’ll keep it secret from him for a week or two. He’s awfully touchy. It might spoil everything if he got wind of it.” “Is she a blonde or a brunette?” This was his chance. “It’s purty hard to tell these days,” he said, fastening his gaze on her hair in a most disconcerting manner. She laughed outright, joyously, frankly. Oliver, coming out of the house at this juncture, paused in amazement at the top of the steps. “See here, Uncle Joe, you quit your flirting,” he cried. “Next thing you know you’ll have a breach of promise suit on your hands.” “Don’t get fresh!” exclaimed Mr. Sikes in some exasperation. Then, to cover his confusion: “What’s the news from your pa, Oliver? What’s he say in them telegrams?” “They’re not from father, Uncle Joe,” said the young man, softening. “Jump in behind there. I’ll run you uptown before the storm.” “I’m not going uptown,” said Mr. Sikes obstinately. “I’m stayin’ here for supper with Serepta. I just remembered it,” he went on, with a guilty, apologetic look at Mrs. Flame. “Oh, before I forget it, Oliver, is there anything serious in them telegrams?” “Yes, sir! It certainly begins to look serious. I had six at the store this morning, and a dozen telephone calls besides. That’s one reason why I took the afternoon off. Nearly every man on the County Central Committee has telephoned or telegraphed me to-day. The pressure is getting pretty strong, Uncle Joe, and I’m beginning to weaken.” “Pressure? Weaken? What the devil are you talking about now?” demanded Mr. Sikes, placing one foot on the running-board and grasping the door-handle. “They want me to make the race for State Senator against Uncle Horace,” said Oliver. “Hop in! I’m going to start.” Then, as the old man scrambled hurriedly into the car, he added: “And I’ve about reached the conclusion to go out and skin Uncle Horace alive.” “My God!” gasped Mr. Sikes, leaning forward and gripping the back of the front seat with both hands. “You—you don’t mean to tell me you’re going to run for office, Oliver October Baxter!” “Hang onto your hat, Uncle Joe! I’m going to let her out a little,” sang out Oliver, and “let her out” he did as the car swept out of the driveway into the street. Mr. Sikes was standing up in the tonneau, grasping the forward seat with one hand, and his hat with the other. He leaned over and shouted in Oliver’s ear. “You can’t do it! You mustn’t do it! It’s against my wishes, and your pa’s, and—why, how many times have I told you what the gypsy said about—Say! Slow down a little, confound you! Have you told Serepty Grimes about this fool notion of yours?” “I have. And she’s tickled to death. She says to go ahead and skin him alive. That’s the kind of a hairpin she is!” Mr. Sikes clung rigidly to the back of the seat for a couple of hundred yards, speechless with a combination of concern and exasperation. Then he sank down into the side chair and bellowed: