"Mr. Heathcote's man—his valet, do you understand—arrives to-night. He is to have a place in the car, and to travel with us, in order that he may wait on his master."
"King" Plummer uttered an oath.
"The West can stand a good many things, but it won't stand that," he exclaimed. "A national committeeman of our party travelling with his valet on the train with Jimmy Grayson! It'll cost us at least six states. We ain't women!"
There succeeded a gloomy silence that lasted until Heathcote himself appeared upon the porch, fresh, dapper, and patronizing.
"I hope you enjoyed your dinner, Mr. Heathcote," said Harley, ever ready to be a peacemaker.
"Thank you, Mr. Hardy—ah, Harley; it did very well for the frontier—one does not expect much here, you know."
Harley glanced uneasily at the men in the chairs, but Mr. Heathcote went on, condescendingly:
"I am now going for an interview with Mr. Grayson in his room. We shall be there at least an hour, and we wish to be quite alone, as I have many things of importance to say."
No one spoke, but twenty pairs of eyes followed the committeeman as he disappeared in the hotel on his way to Jimmy Grayson's room. Then Alvord, the town judge, a man of gigantic stature, rose to his feet and said, in a mimicking, feminine voice:
"Gentlemen, I am going to the bar, and I shall be there at least an hour; I wish to be quite alone, as I shall have many important things to drink."