“Military machinery, sir—one man down, the next man forward. And whom do you think they have selected, Mabel?” “How should I know, papa?” “Guess.” “I cannot. Some of the rejected at the last dissolution.” “No; guess again. A friend of yours.” “A friend of mine?” somewhat surprised. “A particular friend, who telegraphs me to say that he will arrive here to-morrow,” with a knowing smile. I guessed the name. My heart told it me with a pang of envy. “Not Wynwood Melton?” she said. “The very man!” _I_ knew it. “I’m so glad!” she cried, clapping her dainty hands together. “It will be great fun to have him in the house! What capital imitations he will give us of Gladstone, Disraeli, Bright, and Whalley! And what stories! Mr. Fitzgerald,” she added with considerable earnestness, “you must vote for him.” I think I was about to pledge myself to do so, forgetful of the dire consequences of such a proceeding on my part, when her father interrupted: “He cannot, my dear. Mr. Fitzgerald is one of us—a liberal.” “I am a liberal,” she laughed. “I presume he will have a walk-over,” said Mr. Hawthorne. “Who will have a walk-over?” asked Father O’Dowd, who had entered unperceived. “My friend, Mr. Wynwood Melton.” “For a seat in Parliament?” “Yes.” “Is there a vacancy?” “Yes.” “In an Irish constituency?” “You have not heard the news, then?” “Not a word; and I may exclaim with Horace, _Est brevitate opus, ut currat sententia_.” “Well, reverend sir, your county member, Mr. Bromly de Ruthven, is dead.” “Dead!” “Dead, sir. And Mr. Wynwood Melton is to have a walk-over.” “Is he?” asked Father Dowd with a quiet smile. “Who says so?” “Well, I suppose so. He is young, clever, rich, and, better than all, the nominee of the Carlton Club, which means, of course, the De Ruthven interest.” The priest gave a short laugh. “Mr. Wynwood Melton will _not_ have a walk-over; _I_ promise you that. Neither will he win the election; _I_ promise you that, too.” “Is there another candidate in the field?” “There _will_ be, please God.” “Are you at liberty to name him?” “I shall name him _now_, as I mean to carry the county for him; and,” taking me by the shoulder, “a very good figure he will cut in St. Stephen’s.” My heart gave one beat backward. Of name and fame I thought nothing. To defeat Wynwood Melton I would give half my life. Here was a chance—one of those marvellous chances which the whirl of the wheel turns out occasionally to fit into the exact moment. It was a high stake, but I would play for it. It was my solitary hope for an advantage over the man whom Mabel Hawthorne loved. Yes, I would stand the hazard of the die. “Mr. Fitzgerald dislikes politics,” observed Mabel. “You may bring a horse to the water, but you can’t make him drink,” added her father. “Besides, he will not be ungallant enough to oppose my nominee,” she laughed.