"Well, I say yes," said Rankin. "Man alive! They'll skin us; give 'em time. Anyway Friday night I wired Sam McKimmon and Jim O'Malley and Joe Hale to meet me Saturday at Lincoln. I went over and there they were. I told 'em where we was at, an' what Sprague 'as doin'. They agreed 'ith me that we'd ought to get a move on, an' we decided quick--convention fer a week from to-morrow at Pekin--Joe insisted on that. I wired Heffron an' Schmidt an' Carman las' night. It's fixed now. What do you think of it?" "Well, I don't know; if I had had--" "Well, you'll say it's the thing when I show you this. Look'e here." He drew a crumpled telegram from his pocket, struck it open with the back of his fingers, and handed it to Garwood. "Look at that!" Garwood read it. It was a telegram from George Schmidt, the committee-man from Moultrie County, voicing an indignant protest. "It's all right, I reckon. Heh?" Rankin smiled triumphantly. "Maybe ol' Con hain't mad!" For the first time Garwood was reassured. If Sprague was mad, it must be all right, proceeding on the common assumption that anything which harasses the enemy is a point gained. "I don't know but you're right," he said, relentingly. "Ain't I?" said Rankin, smiling more complacently and triumphantly than ever. "Reckon they won't ketch your Uncle James nappin' more'n onct, even if the weather is hot." And as if he had just reminded himself of the heat he stripped off his coat, hung it over the back of his chair and pulled his shirt sleeves far up his hairy arms for greater comfort. "Why did you select Pekin?" Garwood asked, presently. "'Cause it's fartherest from Sullivan fer one thing, an' then Joe Hale wanted to get it fer his home town. He was a little skeery at first. I had to fix him--promised him you'd have him appointed postmaster. You'll have to do it." Garwood scowled the scowl that comes when the vexed question of patronage is mooted, but said: "I'll take care of him." "Yes," Rankin went on, "you'll have to. He says he can land a delegation from Tazewell all right. Their county convention's Thursday. There's thirty votes to start on. O'Malley says Logan's all right, too. They'll have a mass convention called fer Saturday. That'll be twenty-four more--fifty-four." Rankin leaned over to Garwood's desk and began to make figures on an old envelope. "Fifty-four," he repeated. "Mac thinks he can fetch up his county; that's eighteen more--seventy-two in all. With our twenty-two here that'll make--le's see, two'n' two's four--seven an' two's nine--ninety-four. An' you're nominated, ol' man." And Rankin, dropping his pencil, slapped Garwood on the knee, though an instant later he regretted having taken what once would not have been a liberty, for he had a sudden intuition that a new divinity now hedged his congressman. But he speedily covered his slight confusion by proceeding: