“I’ve been doing this sort of work eight years,” the man reported, “but this time I’m clean stumped. I can’t make any headway. The papers, the city authorities, the opera-house-and-hall-proprietors and the police are all under Conover’s thumb. It’s got so that as soon as I reach a town I can find out right away who is and who isn’t in the ‘Machine’s’ pay. Where the papers aren’t muzzled—and there are precious few such places—the halls are closed to us, and either the mayor or the police will stop the meeting. Where the papers are working for Conover, we can get all the halls we want, because the Boss knows the news of your speech can’t circulate except by word of mouth.
“Oh, they’ve got us whipsawed in grand shape! I’m wondering what’ll happen at Grafton Monday night. That’s the biggest city next to Granite, and there’s always been more or less of a kick there against Conover rule. They’ve got a square man for mayor, and one of their three newspapers is strong for you. I was able to get the opera house, too. It’s your big chance of the campaign, and your last chance on this tour. The rest of the towns on your route I can’t do anything with. I’m waiting to see what dirty game Conover will play at Grafton, now that he can’t work his usual tricks there. He’ll be sure to try something.”
Billy Shevlin, who had also acted (unsuspectedly as unofficially) as advance agent of Clive Standish’s tour, had in three respects excelled the authorized agent: In the first place, he had been as successful as the other had been a failure. In the second, he had not turned back. Third, and last, he was not in the very least discouraged. Nor had he need to be.
Yet even to him Grafton presented the first serious problem. And to it he devoted much of his time and more of his cleverness. At last he formed a plan and saw that his plan was good.
Clive reached Grafton at noon of the day he was scheduled to speak. This was the second largest city in the Mountain State. Here, next to Granite, must the chief battle of the campaign be waged. On the effect of his speech here hung a great percentage of Clive’s hopes for the coming State convention. As Grafton went, so would big Matawan County, whose centre it was. And Grafton, wavering in fealty to Conover, might yet be won to the Standish ranks by the right sort of speech. So with the glow of approaching struggle upon him Clive awaited the night. All he asked was a fair hearing. This, presumably, was for once to be accorded him.
At the hotel on his arrival he found Karl Ansel waiting. The big, lean New Englander was in a state of white-hot wrath.
“You got my telegram and the notice of the caucuses, I suppose!” he growled as Clive met him.
“No. I ordered all mail forwarded here, and telegrams, too. I broke away from my route Saturday, when I found I couldn’t get a hall at Smithfield. I cancelled my date there and went over to Deene, leaving word for everything to be sent on to Grafton. Then, yesterday——”
“Never mind that. We’re done! Beat! Tricked!”
“What do you mean?”