His opponent in his own party was Protest walking on two legs and thundering anathema through a mat of mustaches that made him a marked figure in any throng. His enemies called him "Fog-horn" Spinney; his admirers considered him a silver-tongued orator. As a professional organizer of leagues, clubs, orders, and societies he knew by their first names men enough to elect him if he could be nominated. And Arba Spinney's methods may be known from the fact that once he got enough votes to make him a State Senator by asking his auditors at each rally to feel of the lumps in the corners of their ready-made vests. A man who is fingering the sheddings of shoddy feels like voting for the candidate who declares that he will make a sheep a respectable member of society once more.
As "a logical candidate," David Everett, ending his four years as a member of the Governor's executive council, was the refinement of political grooming. And he was "safe." A well-organized political machine has no use for any other sort!
Arba Spinney, vociferous, rank outsider, apostrophizing the "tramp of the cowhide boots," reckless in his denunciation of every man who held office, promising everything that would catch a vote, urging overturn for the sake of overturn and a new deal, marked the other extreme. For the mass, Change, labelled Reform, seems wholly desirable. Political sagacity saw trouble ahead. And no one in the State was politically more sagacious than Thelismer Thornton, who had seen men come and seen men go, and knew all their moods and fancies.
On the morning that the State chairman hurried out of Fort Canibas he discussed the matter of the rival candidates with the old man—that is to say, he talked and Thornton listened. And the more the chairman talked, the more his own declarations convinced him.
"Why, the old bull fiddle can't fool the convention, Thelismer. He's running around the State now, and they're listening to him like they'd listen to a steam calliope, but what he says don't amount to anything for an argument. It's the pledged delegates that count."
The old man drew a fat, black wallet from his hip pocket, and leisurely extracted a packet of newspaper clippings.
"I've been watching the lists of delegates as they've been chosen, Luke.
But I fail to see where you're getting pledged delegations."
"They don't need to be pledged, not the men our town committees are picking."
"Your town committees may be picking the men for delegates, but it is the caucus that does the pledging. And the delegates are being sent out without labels. You don't dare to insist on the pledges—now, do you?"
"You know as well as I do, Thelismer, there's no need of shaking the red rag this year. We're making a different play. We've been having our newspapers drum hard on the tune: 'Leave it out to the people.' It'll be Everett all right in the convention, but we don't want to seem to be prying open their jaws and jamming him down their throats."