Colonel Sommerton, though notably eccentric, could be depended upon for outright dealing in general; still Phyllis had a pretty substantial belief that in politics success lay largely on the side of the trickster. For many years the Colonel had been in the Legislature. No man had been able to beat him for the nomination. She had often heard him tell how he laid out his antagonists by taking excellent and popular short turns on them, and it was plain to her mind now that he was weaving a snare for Tom Bannister. She thought of Tom's running for office against her father as something prodigiously strange. Certainly it was a bold and daring piece of youthful audacity for him to be guilty of. He, a young sprig of the law, with his brown mustache not yet grown, setting himself up to beat Colonel Mobley Sommerton! Phyllis blushed whenever she thought of it; but the Colonel had never once mentioned Tom's candidacy to her. The convention was approaching, and day by day signs of popular interest in it increased as the time shortened. Colonel Sommerton was preparing a speech for the occasion. The manuscript of it lay on the desk in his library. About this time--it was near September 1st and the watermelons and cantaloupes were in their glory--the Colonel was called away to a distant town for a few days. In his absence Tom Bannister chanced to visit Sommerton Place. Of course Phyllis was not expecting him; indeed, she told him that he ought not to have come; but Tom thought differently in a very persuasive way. The melons were good, the library delightfully cool, and conversation caught the fragrance of innocent albeit stolen pleasure. Tom Bannister was unquestionably a handsome young fellow, carrying a hearty, whole-souled expression in his open, almost rosy face. His large brown eyes, curly brown hair, silken young mustache, and firmly set mouth and chin well matched his stalwart, symmetrical form. He was not only handsome, he was brilliant in a way, and his memory was something prodigious. Unquestionably he would rise rapidly. “I am going to beat your father for the nomination,” he remarked, midmost the discussion of their melons, speaking in a tone of the most absolute confidence. “Tom,” she exclaimed, “you mustn't do it!” “Why, I'd like to know?” She looked at him as if she felt a sudden fright. His eyes fell before her intense, searching gaze. “It would be dreadful,” she presently managed to say. “Papa couldn't bear it.” “It will ruin me forever if I let him beat me. I shall have to go away from here.” It was now his turn to become intense. “I don't see what makes men think so much of office,” she complained, evasively. “I've heard papa say that there was absolutely no profit in going to the Legislature.” Then, becoming insistent, she exclaimed, “Withdraw, Tom; please do, for my sake!”