“Coming from a gentleman in Sir Munt’s position those words mean a great deal. He knows very well that the graft is on his own side. The U. P. is so slick nowadays that it is beginning to give the Old Man cold feet. There’s such a thing as being too clever in this world, Mr. Endor, and strictly between you and me, sir, the over cleverness of the other side is the only chance we’ve got.” At this point Mr. Ambrose Furley paused dramatically to readjust the cord of his eyeglasses round his left ear. It was an infallible sign on his part of constructive thought. “Do you know, sir,” he said after a long moment of silence, “what I should do if I were you? It may be a little _infra dignitatem_, but I should take the earliest opportunity of stepping across the Market Place to the Mayor’s Parlor and having a little heart-to-heart talk with Sir Munt. It may be _infra dignitatem_, as I say, but if you put the case against the U. P. only half as well as you put it in Parliament the other day, you’ll lose nothing by it. Sir Munt is a patriot, an imperialist, a protectionist, and all that, but when it comes to a showdown he’s a man who knows how many beans make five.” The Agent’s argument found prompt favor in the sight of John Endor. It came to him, in fact, rather in the light of an inspiration. A shrewd race these Blackhamptonians! There and then he decided to have an interview with the famous and admired Sir Josiah Munt. XXXV “Sir Munt,” for the nth time Mayor of Blackhampton,[A] was in his parlor at the City Hall, gazing into the heavens. A contraption rather like a monstrous aluminum fish shining in the October air hung above Market Square. At regular intervals of a minute or so there came fluttering down from the huge object in the sky a rain of leaflets. These varied in color and they fell upon the heads of the citizens. At last, yet not without effort of will, Sir Munt set a term to his entrancement. He went across to his writing table and pressed the bell once. A small imp in a very tight suit of buttons promptly answered the summons. “Niblo,” said the Chief Magistrate, “step into the square and collect some of that dé-bris. Bring one of each color, my boy.” Preternaturally sharp in all circumstances, Niblo fully understood what was required. He made his exit with a duck. Sir Munt turned thoughtfully to the room’s second occupant. Its second occupant was no less a personage than his stenographer, Miss Evans. An intelligent, demure, stylishly attractive young lady, she was seated before a typewriter carefully transcribing from her private notes a sheaf of letters recently dictated to her by the Mayor. “Miss Evans,” said his worship, “if you’ve written that letter to Sir Stuyvescent Milgrim let me see it.”