When the breakfast was over and, with long-stemmed pipes alight, the two friends foregathered in front of a blazing fire—for the drizzling autumn day was chill—Westover again demanded to know "what all this thing means."
"You must have seen some of the placards?"
"Some of them? It seems to me that all the woods have been papered with them. But what does it mean?"
"Oh, that's obvious enough. It means that a goodly number of your neighbors and friends have nominated you for Senator, moved thereto by a conviction that the intelligence and character of the district deserve a better representative than William Wilberforce Webb."
Farnsworth was careful not to suggest Judy Peters's initiative or interest in the matter. That was a secret between him and her.
The mention of Webb's name as that of his opponent, started Westover out of his chair, and as he stood upon the hearth he said, in tones that were kept in subjection by sheer force of a resolute will:
"Oh, then it is Webb I'm running against. That puts a new face on the affair. I like that. Against him I'll make a whirlwind campaign. But how on earth did that fellow manage to secure a nomination by so respectable a party as the Whigs?"
"Chiefly by general neglect. He worked for the nomination and all the rest of us let it go to him by default. That's the substance of the story."
"Well," answered Westover, "the news that he is my opponent gives me a new and eager interest in the campaign. We'll get up squirrel stews and barbecues, late as the season is, and militia musters and every other kind of thing that draws men together, and I'll make my little, red hot speech at all of them. Is there anything in sight?"
"Nothing available, so far as your presence is concerned. This is Court day, of course, and I'm going to make a speech—"