General Waymouth sat in the old brick house in Burnside village, and did the best he could during the long hot days of July and the sultry first fortnight of August. Harlan Thornton worked with him. The library resounded with the click of typewriters, and men came and men went. But there was no up-and-moving spirit to the campaign. An old man writing letters--even such an old man as General Varden Waymouth was in the estimation of his State--is a small voice in the wilderness of politics. The Democrats had vociferous orators. Those orators had for text State extravagance, unjust taxation, and all the other charges "the unders" may bring against the reigning rulers. They were not answered on the stump. Even the Republican newspapers were listless and halfhearted. At last came Thelismer Thornton. It was one afternoon in middle August, barely three weeks before the day of the State election in September. It was his first visit to the brick house in Burnside. He had been sojourning at the State capitol. Men had told Harlan, from time to time, that he was spending his days sitting on the broad veranda of Luke Presson's hotel, apparently enjoying the summer with the same leisurely ease that the State chairman was displaying. Men were sometimes inquisitive when they mentioned this matter to Harlan. They did not presume to ask questions of the General. But the young man had nothing to say. It must be confessed that he did not know anything about it. He obeyed the instructions the General gave him and toiled as best he knew, but that the main campaign was hanging fire he did not realize. For the General, who knew politics, did not complain to him. The veteran was a little whiter, a bit more dignified, and directed the movements of his modest force of office assistants with a curtness he had not shown at first; but no other sign betrayed that he knew his State Committee had "lain down on him." The Duke sauntered up the walk, whipping off his hat and swinging it in his hand as soon as he arrived under the trees of the old garden. He came into the house without knocking. The front door was swung inward, and only a screen door, on the latch, closed the portal. "I'm making myself at home as usual, Vard," he said, walking to the General and stroking his shoulder as the veteran leaned over his table above his figures. "I've been waiting for an invitation to come up here. But I didn't dare to wait any longer. It's getting too near election." General Waymouth looked up at his old friend, studying his face. He found only the bland cordiality of the ancient days. "I've been waiting, myself, Thelismer," he returned. "And I'll add that I don't intend to wait much longer. I'm not referring to you, now. I refer to Presson and his gang. I presume you are still close to them. Will you inform them that I don't intend to wait much longer?"