“Still anybody's fight, Mr. Rogers.” The young lawyer's voice fell a note to take on a frankly confidential tone, an accent of friendliness that missed the fatal buttonholing familiarity of the professional politician. “If we can hold our fellows together we'll win. But the Transcontinental is bidding high for votes--and there's always a quitter somewhere.” “Does Frome stand any chance?” “It will be Hardy or Frome. The least break in our ranks will be the signal for a stampede to P. C. The Republicans will support him when they get the signal. It's all a question of our fellows standing pat.” “From what I can learn it won't be your fault if Hardy isn't elected. I congratulate you on the best record ever made by a member in his first term.” “Oh, we all do our best,” James answered lightly. “But I'm grateful for your good opinion. I hope I deserve it.” James could afford to be modest about his achievements so long as Jeff was shouting his praises through the columns of the _World_ to a hundred thousand readers of that paper. What the shipbuilder had said pleased him mightily. For Clinton Rogers was one of the few substantial moneyed men of Verden who had joined the reform movement. Not a single member of the Verden Club, with the exception of Rogers, was lined up with those making the fight for direct legislation. Even those who had no financial interest in the Transcontinental or the public utility corporations supported that side from principle. James himself had thought a long time before casting in his lot with the insurgents led by his cousin. He had made tentative approaches both to Frome and to Edward B. Merrill. Both of these gentlemen had been friendly enough, but James had made up his mind they undervalued his worth. The way to convince them of this was to take the field against them. He smiled now as he swung along the avenue. Both Frome and Merrill--yes, and Big Tim too, for that matter!--knew by this time whether they had made a mistake in sizing him up as a raw college boy with his eye teeth not cut. A passing electric containing two young women brought his gloved hand to his hat. The long slant eyes of the lady on the farther side swept him indolently. In answer to her murmured suggestion the girl who was driving brought the machine round in a half circle which ended at the edge of the curb in front of Farnum. The lawyer's hat came off again with easy grace. The slim young driver leaned back against the cushions and merely smiled a greeting, tacitly yielding command of the situation to her cousin, an opulent young widow adorned demurely with that artistic touch of mourning that suggests a grief not inconsolable. “Good morning, Miss Frome--Mrs. Van Tyle,” James distributed impartially before turning to the latter lady. “Isn't this a day to be alive in? Who says it always rains in Verden?” “I do--or nearly always. At least it finds no difficulty in giving a good imitation,” returned the young woman addressed.