But the campaign of 1920 in this hide-bound Democratic stronghold possessed strange, new elements; the under-dog bounced up with surprising animation and showed his teeth, prepared at last to fight for the bone that so long had been denied him. In the first place, the administration at Washington was standing with its back to the wall; it was almost certain to be swept out of power by the resistless force of public opinion. Faint-hearted Republican politicians lost in the depths of Democratic jungles saw light ahead and, rubbing their eyes, started toward it, realizing it was no longer Will-o’-the-wisp or Jack-o’-lantern that led them on. Their eyes glittered, their fingers itched, and they became very strong in the legs. If Harding and Coolidge were to be swept in by the avalanche, why shouldn’t they hang on behind and be sucked into office by the same gigantic wave? In the second place, the Democrats of Applegate County, fat and sluggish after years of plenty, had overslept a little in their security. Too late they awoke to the fact that they had four or five weak spots in their county ticket, and while there was small danger of the normal plurality being wiped out at the coming election they were in very grave danger of having it reduced to a humiliating extent. Mr. Horace Gooch, of Hopkinsville, heretofore a miserly aspirant for legislative honors but persistently denied the distinction for which he was loath to pay, “came across” so handsomely—and so desperately—that the bosses foolishly permitted him to be nominated for the State Senate. The people did not want him; but that made little or no difference to the party leaders; the people had to take him whether they liked him or not. Mr. Gooch’s astonishing contribution to the campaign fund was not to be “passed up” merely because the people didn’t approve of him. It is not good politics to allow the people a voice in such matters. Old Gooch would run behind the rest of the ticket, to be sure, but he would “squeeze through” safely, and that was all that was necessary. The report that young Oliver Baxter, of Rumley, was being urged to make the race against his uncle caused no uneasiness among the bosses. It was not until after the young man was nominated and actually in the field, that misgivings beset the bosses. Young Baxter was popular in the southern section of the county, he was a war hero, and he was an upstanding figure in a community where the voters were as likely as not to “jump the traces.” And when the emboldened Republican press of the county began to speak of their candidate as a “shark,” there was active and acute dismay. They sent for Mr. Gooch and suggested that it wouldn’t be a bad idea for him to withdraw from the race—on account of his age, or his health. “But I’m not an old man,” protested Mr. Gooch irascibly, “and I’ve never been sick a day in my life. I’m sixty-four. You wouldn’t call that old, would you?”