The historic Grafton Opera House riot was a thing of the past.
An hour later Clive Standish sat alone in his hotel room. Ansel had just said good night to him and left him to his own miserable reflections.
Now that the excitement was over, he had time to realize what a ghastly failure, from a campaign standpoint, his Grafton meeting had been. It was the climax of his long, unbroken series of failures. He was beaten, and he could no longer force himself to think otherwise.
Heart and mind and pride were as sore as the aching, bruised face and body from which he had so recently washed the stains of battle.
At other towns he had scored nothing worse than failure. Here at Grafton Conover had gained yet another point. The Railroader had made the people look on his young opponent as a cheap trickster. The very class Clive was working to rescue from Boss misrule would brand him as a charlatan.
Yes, he was beaten. How could a man hope by clean methods to stand against such powers as Caleb Conover possessed, and did not scruple to use? The fight had been hard. And now it was over. He had done his best. No one could have done more. And he had failed.
The reaction from the violent physical and mental strain of the riot was upon Standish. Hope, vitality, even self-trust were at their very ebb.
A knock sounded at the door.
“Come in,” he called wearily, supposing Ansel was coming back for something he had left.
“Thanks, I will,” replied Billy Shevlin, sidling into the room and closing the door behind him.