At that hour there was no surface hint of the factional spirit that divided the gathering which had flocked from the ends of the State. Jealousy, spite, apprehension, rivalry were hidden under the gayety of men meeting after long separation. The political kinship of party men dominated all else in those early hours. It was a reunion. Food nestled comfortably under the waistbands. Tobacco--cigars exchanged, lights borrowed from glowing tips--loaned its solace. Bickerings were in abeyance. Men were sizing up. Men were trying out each other. Courtesy invites confidences. The candidates had not "taken their corners." The suites that they had selected for headquarters were now occupied only by the lieutenants who were arranging the boxes of cigars and stacking the literature ready for distribution. The Hon. David Everett, serene in the consciousness of approval by his party machine, held preliminary court in one corner of the spacious office lobby. The State chairman was with him--his executioner skilfully disguised. Thelismer Thornton forged through the crowd in that direction. He paid his respects publicly and heartily. In that hour when congratulations sugared the surface of conditions, after he had pump-handled men until his arm ached, Everett forgot that he ever had entertained doubts. "There's nothing to this!" he had been assuring the State chairman over and over, catching opportunity for asides. "They're all coming into line. The sight of you and Thornton backing me has reminded them all that they can't afford to rip the party open. There's nothing to it!" Presson agreed amiably. But studying his men, searching for insincerity, he saw what Everett closed his eyes to. He exchanged a significant glance with the Duke as the latter turned to resume his promenade. Above the continual, distracting babble one sonorous voice rose insistently. Laughter and applause broke in upon it occasionally. There was a din in that corner of the lobby that attracted many of the curiosity-seekers in that direction. "There's Fog-horn Spinney holding forth," Thornton informed Harlan, ironically. "Come along. We mustn't slight any of the candidates." They made way for him. Men grinned up into his face as he passed. They scented possible entertainment when the big boss met the demagogue. Many of the men wore badges--long strips of ribbon with this legend printed thereon, running lengthwise of the ribbon: HONEST ARBA