Those whom he passed on his way out made no attempt to stop him, did not urge him to remain. That convention seemed to be doing very well without calling upon Colonel Symonds Dodd for help or suggestions. XXX A GIRL'S IMPULSE Herald unofficial, _avant courier_, Mr. Daniel Breed squeezed himself through the pack of people while they were still cheering the name of the Honorable Archer Converse. “Giving candy to youngsters and good news to grown folks never made anybody specially unpopular,” Mr. Breed assured himself with politician's sagacity. Therefore, he jog-trotted down to the Converse law-offices and shot himself into the presence of the estimable gentleman who had remained aloof from the distracting business of a convention. “He's done it,” proclaimed Mr. Breed, making his sentences short and his message to the point because he was out of breath. “Who has done what?” demanded Mr. Converse, with equal crispness. “Farr. You're nominated for governor. Acclamation! He's a wiz with his tongue.” Mr. Breed pursed his little mouth and “sipped” with gusto. “Some talker! Don't ever tell me that good talk doesn't win when the right man makes it at the right time.” Mr. Converse rose and stood--a rigid statue of consternation and protest. “Do you mean to come in here and tell me that I have been nominated by that state convention? Without my sanction? Without my consent?” “Sure thing! Easy work! Played all the tricks. Made believe he was green. Poked rights and lefts to Harwood's jaw. Had himself paged as a murderer--at least, I reckon it was his own get-up. It cinched the thing, anyway. He understands human nature.” But Mr. Converse did not in the least understand this talk. “Look here, Breed, you haven't gone crazy yourself, along with the rest, have you?” “Nobody's crazy. People have simply woke up.” “I'll be eternally condemned if I--” “That's right! You will be if you don't button up your coat and go over to the hall along with that notification committee that's probably on the way, give the folks your best bow, and say you'll take the job. We're some little team when we get started.” “You're an infernal steer team, and you have dragged me into a mess of trouble,” declared Mr. Converse, with venom. “Glad you're in,” retorted the imperturbable Breed. “A man needs more or less trouble so as to round himself out; I've been having some troubles of my own. Whatever job you give me after you're elected, don't put me back with them stuffed animals. Harwood made his mistake right there!” “It has begun already, has it?” asked Converse, indignantly. “Office-seekers at it?” “Sure thing!” responded Mr. Breed, amiably. “When you cool down you'll remember that I got to you first with the good news.” Five minutes later the Honorable Archer Converse, muttering, but more calm, was marching toward the convention hall in the company of a proud committee of notification.