The clerk retired and reappeared a few moments later, ushering in—Gerald Conover.
A grunt of disappointment from Ansel was the first sound that greeted the long youth as he paused irresolute just inside the committee-room door.
“Good morning, Gerald,” said Standish, rising to greet the unexpected visitor; “we thought it was your father who——”
“No. And he didn’t send me here, either,” blurted out Gerald. His pasty face was still twitching, and his usually immaculate collar awry from the recent paternal interview.
“I came here on my own account,” he went on, with the peevish wrath of a child. “I came here to tell you I swing over a hundred votes. Maybe a hundred more. My father says so himself. And I’ve come to join your League.”
A gasp of amazement ran around the table. Then, with a crow of delight, Ansel sprang up.
“Great!” he shouted. “His son! It’s good for more votes than you know, Standish! Why, man, it’s a bonanza! When even a man’s own son can’t——”
Standish cut him short.
“Are you drunk, Gerald?” he asked.
“No, I’m not!” vociferated the lad. “I’m dead cold sober, and I’m doing this with my eyes open. I want to join your League, and I’ll work like a dog for your election.”