The Boss was speaking of Tuscarora and the Demijohn. Out of painful experience he had come to believe that the truest privacy is the privacy of the crowd, and indeed the mounting chaff and chatter of the lunch hour insured isolation most complete. He was speaking of Tuscarora and the Demijohn, and it had begun over the salad, apropos of Bowers. "His political usefulness is at an end," said the leader. "There was nothing tangible to be got from him at our last conference, and I determined to send for you." Shelby essayed a middle course between expectation and regret. "He says it's his last campaign, poor old chap." "Yes," concurred the Boss, without sentiment; "we talked it over. It was our opinion that the organization requires younger blood--in fine, your own." "Mine?" The query was perfunctory. "You logically succeed--on a condition." "A condition?" "Your election to Congress." After a moment Shelby said:-- "It's an incentive to work." "It's the least you've to work for, if you will permit me to say so." "I don't understand." The Boss was silent while the servant changed the course. Then he searched the younger man's eyes. "Let me point out what your election may mean," he went on. "It has been an unusual contest. Mr. Graves's candidacy has interested an audience which is fairly national in its scope. If victor, you will take your seat a marked man, equipped with a prestige uncommon to newcomers in Washington. You will have defeated a celebrity, and you will stand accredited one of the party leaders of your state." Shelby's eyes widened. "One of the leaders?" "I mean that I like you." While the waiter brought the finger bowls the significance of the simple words burned into Shelby's brain. The two men lit cigars and waited; Shelby's was gnawed to shapelessness. Left to themselves again, the Boss said softly:-- "Two years from this fall the governorship should go to your section." Shelby's color mantled and ebbed, leaving him white. "Our choice,"--the Boss's purring note sank--"our choice, if my poor opinion should carry weight with the convention, our choice will be you." Before Shelby could force a broken word of acknowledgment from his dry throat the Boss had plunged into a keen analysis of the situation in the Demijohn. Local statistics, finances, patronage, men's names, habits, and characteristics, the minutest details, were at his finger-tips, and the conclusion of the whole matter drove home like a sledge. "Your election hangs on money; on your election hangs your future." "I've spent every cent," returned Shelby, with slow distinctness. "Yes; I know," was the quiet rejoinder. "I have hoped that the State Committee would do something. The circumstances are, as you say, unusual." The Boss leaned across the table with a smile.