"Well, Phon, when you vote as you drink—voting the Democratic ticket—you'll vote for a popocratic tax on corporations that will make your woollen-mill look sick. And that's only one thing!"
"I know what I will do," insisted the rebel.
The Duke took him by his two shoulders.
"So do I," he returned. "You'll have a bath, a shave, four hot towels, and a big bromo-seltzer—all in the morning, and you'll go into the State Convention and stick by the party, just as you always have done. But as for to-night—why, Phon, I wouldn't be surprised to see you pledge yourself to Arba Spinney."
He gayly shoved the man to one side and went on.
"Well, even Fog-horn is getting more votes corralled than you old blind mules realize!" shouted the other after him. "This party is sick! You're going to find it out, too!"
"Sick it is, but I reckon here's the doctor," muttered the old man, hurrying toward the top of the stairs.
General Waymouth had appeared there, Harlan close behind him.
The Duke forestalled those who hastened to greet the veteran. Taking his arm, he marched him promptly across the corridor and into the rear room of State Committee headquarters. He locked the door behind them after Harlan had entered.
"I don't think we're exactly ready for that public reception yet," he observed with a chuckle, turning from the door. He glanced at the General, anxious and keen in his scrutiny.