When they were in their room again she put the boy to bed, for there was no fire and no coal to make one. Then she wrapped herself in a shabby shawl and sat huddled up over the empty stove. Down in the alley she heard the voice of the day before singing: "Oh, darkies, how my heart grows weary, Far from the old folks at home." And she burst into tears. A MESS OF POTTAGE It was because the Democratic candidate for Governor was such an energetic man that he had been able to stir Little Africa, which was a Republican stronghold, from centre to circumference. He was a man who believed in carrying the war into the enemy's country. Instead of giving them a chance to attack him, he went directly into their camp, leaving discontent and disaffection among their allies. He believed in his principles. He had faith in his policy for the government of the State, and, more than all, he had a convincing way of making others see as he saw. No other Democrat had ever thought it necessary to assail the stronghold of Little Africa. He had merely put it into his forecast as "solidly against," sent a little money to be distributed desultorily in the district, and then left it to go its way, never doubting what that way would be. The opposing candidates never felt that the place was worthy of consideration, for as the Chairman of the Central Committee said, holding up his hand with the fingers close together: "What's the use of wasting any speakers down there? We've got 'em just like that." It was all very different with Mr. Lane. "Gentlemen," he said to the campaign managers, "that black district must not be ignored. Those people go one way because they are never invited to go another." "Oh, I tell you now, Lane," said his closest friend, "it'll be a waste of material to send anybody down there. They simply go like a flock of sheep, and nothing is going to turn them." "What's the matter with the bellwether?" said Lane sententiously. "That's just exactly what _is_ the matter. Their bellwether is an old deacon named Isham Swift, and you couldn't turn him with a forty-horsepower crank." "There's nothing like trying." "There are many things very similar to failing, but none so bad." "I'm willing to take the risk." "Well, all right; but whom will you send? We can't waste a good man." "I'll go myself." "What, you?" "Yes, I." "Why, you'd be the laughing-stock of the State." "All right; put me down for that office if I never reach the gubernatorial chair." "Say, Lane, what was the name of that Spanish fellow who went out to fight windmills, and all that sort of thing?" "Never mind, Widner; you may be a good political hustler, but you're dead bad on your classics," said Lane laughingly. So they put him down for a speech in Little Africa, because he himself desired it.