Well, there was some mud-flinging in the campaign, and Mr. McCarthy was blamed for the sins of Bulger, and came to his honors by-and-by with tempered enthusiasm and increased humility. A certain newspaper had opposed him with cruel vindictiveness. It told of his humble origin, and called him “Pegleg McCarthy” and “the son of a washwoman” and “a man of vaulting and unwarranted ambitions.” These were the poisoned arrows of a rude time, and they scarred the soul of McCarthy and helped to make him a fighter. Meanwhile I sat one evening in the shop with Pearl and Barker. “Mack is a great boy,” said my old friend. “Sat here until midnight the other evening; said he hated politics, and wished he was out of it. I called Barker up, and give him a talkin' to right then and there.” “How about the talented young lady?” I inquired. “I don't believe he'll marry her. He ain't so green as he used to be--” He was interrupted by a rap at the basement door. I opened it, and four masked men crowded over its threshold. I grappled with their leader, for the truth had flashed upon me--they were after Pearl, “the machine man.” I fought like a tiger, and stopped them for a second there by the doorway, and then they stopped me. One of them threw a piece of iron and struck me in the face with it; but I had saved my friend, with the help of Mr. Barker, who had seized one by the seat of his trousers. I came to in a dash of spray. A man had fallen across my legs and another lay near me. I saw a shaft of water strike a third and lift him off his feet and hurl him through the open doorway. He went like a leaf in the wind. A dash of spray put out the lamp. I scrambled to my feet, and stood to my ankles in water. I could hear the turbine purring like a great cat. In a second Pearl's electric lamp, that hung from the ceiling, began to glow. He stood by the pen-stock with a big iron nozzle in his hand. Two men lay near me. The water had struck like a sand-bag, and knocked the breath out of them. They had come to, and begun making for the open door on their hands and knees. “Good-night, boys,” said the Pearl, pleasantly; “call again.” He closed the door and bolted it, and took his pistol from a closet and turned off the light. “Come on,” he whispered, “we've got to make for a doctor.” At precisely that moment I began to feel the pain in my nose and the warmth of my own blood on its way to the floor. We hurried up a stairway, and through the long hall, and out of the front door. “Thanks, old boy,” Pearl said, warmly, as he took my arm in his, “you have won further promotion for meritorious conduct. I make you my hero as well as my friend.” “I did little,” was my answer; “but I should like to know what it was that you did to them.”