It was too much for a young, impetuous innocent opposite. “You dare not mention a name. You lie.” Sam hoped the Council would absolve him of causing a scene. “Prove your words,” cried the rash gentleman. “I suggest,” said Sam blandly, “that we avoid unpleasantness. I have made a statement and I am asked to prove it. If a deputation of three will go with me and Mr. Alderman Verity to his office, the title-deeds of Simpson’s Buildings will be found in the place I have indicated.” It was the sort of drama which appealed more to the readers of the evening papers than to the Council. Mr. Mayor, in the chair, was speechless in embarrassed distress. Sam had the calm of imperishable rock in wind-tossed surf. In the midst of a breathless excitement, Mr. Alderman Verity was seen to totter to his feet. “I own the property,” he said, collapsed into his seat and graced that seat no more. Impossible even for a Conservative paper to uphold Verity, impossible to do more than to suggest that Sam’s manners were deplorable: while his own papers made a hero of him, found his manners a model of consideration and his triumph as graceful as it was complete. All Sam cared to know was that he was on the crest of a wave of popularity and a general election was at hand. Night after night he spoke, and the tritest platitudes, with Sam’s smile behind them, shone like new-found truth. He was _persona gratissima_ before he opened his mouth: it gave him confidence, and confidence is half the speaker’s battle. He coined some of those ugly, smart, journal-easy catch-words which help to win elections, and are quoted in the papers and blossom on the placards. And, with it all, he became what he had prematurely called himself, an orator. He had the satisfaction of watching audiences sit through the boredom of Gatenby that they might hear Branstone, and of being himself the “star” speaker at outlying meetings. Gatenby was returned by a record majority and it was Bran-stone for whom the mob yelled outside the Town Hall. The election was an early one, and Sam was called to speak in other constituencies. He had wires, not only from agents in quite distant divisions, but actually from Headquarters. He was in touch with the Whips! Less than a year after he had lied to Wattercouch, the lie turned true. He was in touch with the Whips, a wanted speaker, a man of reputation, a name to be applauded when it was announced on a platform, for all the world like people applaud when the number of a star performer goes up on the announcement board of a music-hall. He was not of the Great Unwanted, but of the few who were wanted.