“The county conventions—the caucuses! In every—nearly every one of the eight counties Conover worked some blackguardism. To some he sent telegrams that you backed out. In others his chairmen tried the ‘back door’ act. And I wrote you how they’d ‘snapped’ the dates and caught us unready. Then——”
Clive recalled the anonymous letter which later events had driven from his memory. If only he had been able to lower himself to his opponent’s level and take advantage of it—of the treachery in the Conover ranks! If——
But Ansel was still pouring out the flood of his ill-temper.
“Whipsawed us, right and left,” he declared. “Beat us at every point as easy as taking candy from a baby. What are we doing in politics? We’re a lot of silly amateurs against——”
“We’re a lot of honest men against a gang of crooks. And in the long run we’ll win. We——”
“The long run, eh? Well, the run has begun, and they’ve got us on it. We’re beat!”
“Poor old Ansel,” laughed Clive, “how many times during the past fortnight have I heard you say that? And every time you pick yourself up again and go on with the fight. Just as you’ll do now.”
“Not on your life! I—oh, well, I suppose I will, if it comes to that! But it’s a burning, blazing shame.”
“If it wasn’t for just such ‘burning, blazing shames,’ there’d be no need for our campaign. It’s to crush such ‘shames’ that we’re working. Cheer up! I’ve great hopes for to-night’s meeting.”
Tersely he described his trip, the drawbacks he had encountered, and the better chances that seemed to attend the Grafton rally, Ansel interspersing the tale with a volley of queries and expletives.