Peter smiled quietly. “I haven’t had time to see many men. But—I’m not single. Bohlmann says the brewers will back me, Hummel says he’ll be guided by me, and the President won’t interfere.” “You might as well give up,” continued the previous questioner. “The Sixth is a sure thirty-five hundred to the bad, and between Stirling’s friends, and the Hummel crowd, and Bohlmann’s people, you’ll lose twenty-five thousand in the rest of the city, besides the Democrats you’ll frighten off by the Labor party. You can’t put it less than thirty-five thousand, to say nothing of the hole in the campaign fund.” The beauty about a practical politician is that votes count for more than his own wishes. Number One said: “Well, that’s ended. You’ve smashed our slate. What have you got in its place?” “Porter?” suggested Peter. “No,” said three voices. “We can’t stand any more of him,” said Number One. “He’s an honest, square man,” said Peter. “Can’t help that. One dose of a man who’s got as little gumption as he, is all we can stand. He may have education, but I’ll be hanged if he has intellect. Why don’t you ask us to choose a college professor, and have done with it.” “Come, Stirling,” said the previous questioner, “the thing’s been messed so that we’ve got to go into convention with just the right man to rally the delegates. There’s only one man we can do it with, and you know it.” Peter rose, and dropped his cigar-stump into the ash-receiver. “I don’t see anything else,” he said, gloomily. “Do any of you?” A moment’s silence, and then Number One said: “No.” “Well,” said Peter, “I’ll take the nomination if necessary, but keep it back for a time, till we see if something better can’t be hit upon.” “No danger,” said Number One, holding out his hand, gleefully. “There’s more ways of killing a pig than choking it with butter,” said Number Three, laughing and doing the same. “It’s a pity Costell isn’t here,” added the previous questioner. “After you’re not yielding to him, he’d never believe we had forced you to take it.” And that was what actually took place at that very-much-talked-about dinner. Peter went downstairs with a very serious look on his face. At the door, the keeper of it said: “There are six reporters in the strangers’ room, Mr. Stirling, who wish to see you.” A man who had just come in said: “I’m sorry for you, Peter.” Peter smiled quietly. “Tell them our wishes are not mutual.” Then he turned to the newcomer. “It’s all right,” he said, “so far as the party is concerned, Hummel. But I’m to foot the bill to do it.” “The devil! You don’t mean—?” Peter nodded his head. “I’ll give twenty-five thousand to the fund,” said Hummel, gleefully. “See if I don’t.” “Excuse me, Mr. Stirling,” said a man who had just come in.