“Aw, that’s all a pipe-dream of Burns’. I’m running it in the morning, but it’s nothing; it’s a shine. They’re big fools to print it at all. But it’s their last card; they’re desperate. They won’t stop at anything, or at any crime, except those requiring courage. Burns is in there with Benson now; so is Salton, and old man Glenn, and the rest of the bunco family. They’re framing it up. When I saw old Glenn go in, with his white side whiskers, I knew the widow and the orphan were in danger again, and that he was going bravely to the front for ’em. Say, that young Banks is comin’, isn’t he? That’s a peach, that cartoon of his to-night.” Kittrell went on down the hall to the art-room to wait until Benson should be free. But it was not long until he was sent for, and as he entered the managing editor’s room he was instantly sensible of the somber atmosphere of a grave and solemn council of war. Benson introduced him to Glenn, the banker, to Salton, the party boss, and to Burns, the president of the street-car company; and as Kittrell sat down he looked about him, and could scarcely repress a smile as he recalled Manning’s estimate of Glenn. The old man sat there, as solemn and unctuous as ever he had in his pew at church. Benson, red of face, was more plainly perturbed, but Salton was as reserved, as immobile, as inscrutable as ever, his narrow, pointed face, with its vulpine expression, being perhaps paler than usual. Benson had on his desk before him the cartoon Kittrell had finished that day. “Mr. Kittrell,” Benson began, “we’ve been talking over the political situation, and I was showing these gentlemen this cartoon. It isn’t, I fear, in your best style; it lacks the force, the argument, we’d like just at this time. That isn’t the _Telegraph_ Clayton, Mr. Kittrell.” He pointed with the amber stem of his pipe. “Not at all. Clayton is a strong, smart, unscrupulous, dangerous man! We’ve reached a crisis in this campaign; if we can’t turn things in the next three days, we’re lost, that’s all; we might as well face it. To-morrow we make an important revelation concerning the character of Clayton, and we want to follow it up the morning after by a cartoon that will be a stunner, a clencher. We have discussed it here among ourselves, and this is our idea.” Benson drew a crude, bald outline, indicating the cartoon they wished Kittrell to draw. The idea was so coarse, so brutal, so revolting, that Kittrell stood aghast, and, as he stood, he was aware of Salton’s little eyes fixed on him. Benson waited; they all waited. “Well,” said Benson, “what do you think of it?” Kittrell paused an instant, and then said: “I won’t draw it; that’s what I think of it.” Benson flushed angrily and looked up at him. “We are paying you a very large salary, Mr. Kittrell, and your work, if you will pardon me, has not been up to what we were led to expect.” “You are quite right, Mr. Benson, but I can’t draw that cartoon.”