“There's a wonderful man, Mr. Ames; a splendid type of the American business man! You should go through his factory; you should see the hundreds of busy operators. You would understand then what Mr. Carveth means to Marysville. Marysville,” added the secretary, “is pledged to Mr. Carveth.” “I dare say.” But Ames was not impressed by the loyalty of Marysville. “You don't think much of his chances?” ventured McPherson. “What I think of them wouldn't be fit to print,” said Ames candidly. “Dick Pogue's rather a hot proposition for your man to stack up against, and back of Pogue is J. C. Smith.” Ames slipped off the edge of the bed and took a turn about the room. “You must admit, Mr. Ames, that nobody has any confidence in either General Pogue or Mr. Smith,” said McPherson. “They can get along without it,” said Ames with calm cynicism. “I shouldn't like to think that any public man could go far without the trust of his fellow citizens,” observed McPherson. “With those ideas you should keep clear of politics. You and Mr. Carveth may as well retire to the classic regions of Susansville.” “Marysville,” corrected McPherson mildly. “Marysville, then,” said Ames. He paused by the corner of McPherson's desk. “Well, the occasion will be interesting as a souvenir of public life, eh, McPherson?” and he smiled down pityingly on the top of the secretary's slightly bald head, for McPherson was looking into the pictured face of a young girl whose photograph, framed in red plush, decorated his desk. Ames extended his hand and possessed himself of the photograph, which he proceeded to examine. “Your sister?” he asked, after a moment's silence. “Miss Carveth,” said W. C. B. McPherson, but his voice had lost much of its agreeable quality. “I beg your pardon,” said Ames, flushing as he hastily returned the photograph to its place on the desk. McPherson quitted his chair. “I think we had better go down-stairs,” he observed stiffly. They found Carveth waiting for them in the office. “I been lookin' over the paper,” he told Ames, as they seated themselves at the breakfast table. He turned to his secretary. “I can't see that we occupy so darn much space, Willie. The world seems unaware of the fact that Jeremiah Carveth and W. C. B. McPherson are willing to act as a kind providence in shaping the destiny of a freeborn people. I'm getting a sickenin' consciousness that there's tall timber growing for me.” He laughed in McPherson's face, which had gone from white to red. “Cheer up, Willie, cheer up. It's good to be alive, and the rest is dividends. You mayn't land me in office, but what's the odds? Crisp and bright, Willie, crisp and bright!” he urged with kindly concern. But the thought of defeat was a bitter thing to McPherson, and presently he excused himself and quitted the table.