“Sir,” he said, “you may be assured that I shall never forget your generosity, even though it is couched in such unusual language. You shall never regret it. I understand you have a wish to adorn the best society and——”
“No,” grunted Conover, “not the Best, only the Highest. And it’s no concern of yours, either way. Good-by!”
As the titled couple withdrew, Anice Lanier came in.
“Mr. Shevlin, Mr. Bourke and most of the others you sent for have come,” she reported. “Shall I send them up?”
“Yes,” said Conover dully, “send ’em along. It’ll be good to talk to real human beings again. Say, Miss Lanier”—as the girl started to obey his order—“did you ever write out that measly interview of mine for the Star, endorsing those new views of Roosevelt’s on race-suicide, and saying something about a childless home being a curse to——”
“Yes. I was just going to mail it. Shall——?”
“Well, don’t! Tear it up. There’s no sense in a man being funny at his own expense.”
CHAPTER IV
IN TWO CAMPS
In the headquarters of the Civic League sat Clive Standish. With him were the committee chosen to conduct his campaign. Karl Ansel, a lean, hard-headed New England giant, their chairman, and incidentally, campaign manager, was going laboriously over a list of counties, towns and villages, corroborating certain notes he made from time to time, by referring to a big colored map of the Mountain State.
“I’ve checked off the places that are directly under the thumb of the C. G. & X.,” Ansel was explaining as the rest of the group leaned over to watch the course of his pencil along the map. “I’m afraid they are as hopelessly in Conover’s grip as Granite itself. It’s in the rural districts, and in the towns that aren’t dependent on the main line, that we must find our strength. It’s an uphill fight at best, with——”