As Senator Sporty Jones stood on the Sawyerville platform and watched No. 14 vanishing round a curve, his rage against the Superintendent cooled somewhat and hardened into a determination to make somebody pay. The more he thought of it the clearer it grew that the “somebody” should be a bigger man than McDowell, though Sporty meant to get even with him, too, some day. He knew, as did every one who had read the newspapers, the broad outlines of the fight between Weeks and Porter for the road. As he thought it over, the problem seemed to grow more complicated. The Senator hated the two men about equally and had a long score against each of them; for though both were lobbyists on a large scale, neither of them had thought him worth conciliating. He was afraid lest in trying to hurt one he might help the other. He was capable of quick, clear thinking, and as he ran over in his mind what he knew of the fight, he saw that what encouraged these men so openly to resort to violence was a judicial deadlock. There was just one force which could profitably be appealed to now, the State Executive. He walked slowly down the rickety wooden steps and across the road; then, after looking about irresolutely, he turned toward the weather-beaten little hotel. Before he had gone far the deposed station agent overtook him. He was smoking a cigarette with short, nervous puffs, and he fell in step with the Senator, evidently relieved at having a chance to talk. “What did you think of that?” he asked. “Pretty sudden, wasn't it?” The Senator grunted a savage assent, and the agent went on:-- “Well, all I say is, these fellows needn't think they've got any cinch until Jim Weeks has had his innings. He's going to have it, too. This kind of a scrap is right in his line.” The Senator seemed to be listening, and the agent was encouraged to try his hand at prophesying what would happen when Jim Weeks should come down the line. When they reached the hotel both men paused, and the Senator said affably,-- “Come in and have something.” “All right, if you mean ginger ale,” laughed the agent. “It's a temperance house, with a gold cure on the side.” The disgust of Senator Sporty Jones was expressed with such blasphemous force that the agent was moved to add,-- “You can get anything you want down in the next block.” “All right,” grunted the Senator. “Wait a minute, though; I want to telephone.” “There ain't a telephone in town,” said the agent. “The line goes up the other side of the river to Tillman. I don't believe you can find a 'phone nearer than Truesdale.” “How far's that?” asked the Senator, after an expressive pause. “'Bout fifteen miles by the river road. You have to go round by way of Oakwood. It's going to rain, too,” he added, glancing at the clouded sky. The look of annoyance on the Senator's face settled into one of determination, and the agent began to fear lest the invitation to “have something” had slipped from the great man's mind.