Justin threw down the paper. Newsboys were yelling in the street. He left the room, thinking to get another paper. As he made his way toward the hotel office a smiling little man tapped him on the shoulder. He saw Fogg advancing with one of the offensive newspapers in his hands, and scarcely noticing the little man he turned about, seeking a way of escape, and found himself in another room. The little man closed the door behind Justin; and the men before him, rising from their chairs, began to cheer.
This was a caucus of the opposition, and Justin discovered that he was being hailed as an ally, and was expected to say something. He would declare himself to them, he resolved suddenly, even though these men might not like what he said, or the manner of its saying, any better than those others. He would tell them that he did not belong to any faction, and should vote only as his conscience led him. Then, if he must stand alone, he would do so.
He hardly knew what he said, yet it was well said. Clayton’s training had given him command of language, and his honest indignant feelings and ingenuous nature gave him force and candor. As he spoke the caucus broke into frantic cheering. Men stood in their chairs and yelled like wild Indians, or maniacs. Here Justin was not an Iscariot or an Arnold, but a “patriot” and a “savior.” This caucus represented the irrigationists, and Justin’s declaration that he would vote only as his conscience dictated assured them that he was not to be controlled by the ranchmen, and that the reports they had received from Paradise Valley concerning him were true.
Escaping from these men Justin returned to his room, to which Fogg came soon, though Justin was in no mood to receive him. Fogg closed the door softly and dropped somewhat heavily into a chair. His fat face looked worried.
“You don’t doubt that I’m your friend, Justin?” he said, cautiously.
“I don’t know that I’ve any right to doubt it; you’ve always been my friend, heretofore.”
“And I’m your friend now—the best friend you’ve got in this city.”
“The only one, I suppose,” said Justin, tipping his chair against the wall and looking at Fogg keenly. “I’m a stranger here.”
“So I’ve come to talk this matter over with you. I don’t need to go into details—you know how you were elected, by a queer combination of opposing interests. The cowboys who voted for you did it because they like you and dislike Ben Davison, and not because they want you to oppose the ranch interests in the legislature. If they considered the matter at all, which is doubtful, they thought they could trust you not to do anything here that would be to their injury. Likely you think you owe your election to the farmers, but you don’t; they supported you, but it was the cowboy vote which elected you.”
“I have never questioned that fact,” said Justin.