So far as the men of honest mind who were gathered together that day were concerned, this challenge seemed abundantly satisfying. Many who had entertained doubts because of the candidate's absence, abandoned their doubts and frankly declared their purpose to support Westover at the election. As for Webb and his friends, they found themselves sorely embarrassed. Their opportunity had lain in Westover's unexplained absence. His appearance now, and his frank and manly challenge, robbed them of their weapons and their ammunition. They dared not say aught that might be construed into an accusation, and if any of them insinuated aught to Westover's discredit he was sure of a peremptory challenge to say just what he meant. It was obvious to Webb and his supporters that something must be done to meet and neutralize the effect of Boyd Westover's presence and defiance. They still had "regularity" behind them. Webb was the regularly nominated candidate of the Whig party, strongly dominant in that region, and presumably he would receive the regular party vote. Then, too, as he explained to his partisans, most of the Democrats, who would of course support their own party candidate, were men friendly to Westover, whose votes were so many subtracted from the support that would otherwise be his. "I regard Sam Butler's candidacy as a thing altogether in my interest," he said confidently, "and then," he jubilantly added, "I have satisfactory assurance that the whole mountain vote will be mine, and so I regard my election as a foregone conclusion, a triumphant assurance of a future that holds human affairs securely within its grasp." That was a phrase dear to Webb's soul. He had spent half a night in concocting it and committing it to memory. "You know I've been up in the mountains, and I've been royally entertained by Her Majesty the Queen." "Has she definitely promised you the mountain vote?" asked one who had a passion for exactitude. "Practically, yes. You know Judy Peters talks in parables and never commits herself; but a wink is as good as a nod to a blind horse, and her parting words to me left nothing of assurance to be desired. Now what I want to say is this: My election is secure, but I want my constituency to include as large a proportion of the planters, men of my own class, as possible, and so I have accepted Sam Butler's challenge to meet him and divide time at the Barbecue he's going to give over at Fighting Creek, the day after to-morrow. I suppose Westover will be there by Sam's invitation, and between Sam and me he won't be left a leg to stand on." "Well, may be so," muttered Foggy, whose experience in politics had bred chronic scepticism in his mind; "but Boyd Westover has been talkin' right out in meetin' to-day, an' besides--" "What is it, Foggy?" "Well, Jack Towns is here, you know, an' if he happens to make a speech over there he'll tangle you up like a fish-line after you've caught an eel on it."