The landscape beyond the car windows had changed its characteristic aspect. The fields had grown smaller, the goldenrod and immortelles waved over heaps of stones in the fence-rows, while the russets and reds and browns had given place to the somber green of pine and hemlock. And now the train drew up at a tiny ornate station. The three men climbed into the coach that was waiting for them and were soon toiling up a winding road, from which they presently emerged upon the single street of a sleepy village. Beyond the village and crowning the mountain's summit they could distinguish the long stone and timber fagade of The Pines in the shadow of the sinking sun.
Ames dined with the candidate and his secretary; afterward he interviewed Mr. Carveth. His story off his hands, he was lounging about the office with only the night clerk for company, when suddenly McPherson appeared; he was in his shirt-sleeves, while his feet were thrust into worsted bed-slippers; in his hand he carried a pitcher. It was evident he did not see the two men in the corner by the news-stand, for after glancing about to get his bearings he disappeared down the corridor leading to the dining-room. A moment later they heard him rattle a locked door, then again the patter of his slippered feet sounded on the tessellated pavement, and he reappeared in the lobby. Ames heard him say “Dang it!” but rather in disappointment than in anger; and then the clerk emitted a shrill cackle of mirth, and McPherson, being thus made aware of the presence of the two men, faced them.
“Excuse me,” he said. “But will you kindly tell me where I'll find the pump?”
Gray shadows invaded the darkness of the pines that clothed the slopes of Little Mountain, and through the open, eastward looking window of his room the morning sun shone in upon the News man. Perhaps he missed the clang of the trolley's gong, the early milk wagon's clatter on the paved street; perhaps it was the silence, scarce disturbed by the song of birds and the murmur of the wind in the pines, that roused him; but Bentley Ames emerged from his slumber and without changing his position, looked from his window into the red eye of the sun. He dressed and slipping out into the hall, tapped on McPherson's door.
“Come in,” called the secretary, and Ames entered the room. McPherson was seated at his table, writing. “Oh, Mr. Ames—” he said. He seemed both pleased and embarrassed.
“Don't get up;” and Ames, establishing himself on the edge of McPherson's bed, began to roll a cigarette. “Suppose you tell me how Mr. Carveth broke into politics,” he suggested.
McPherson's face lighted instantly with enthusiasm.
“There's a wonderful man, Mr. Ames; a splendid type of the American business man! You should go through his factory; you should see the hundreds of busy operators. You would understand then what Mr. Carveth means to Marysville. Marysville,” added the secretary, “is pledged to Mr. Carveth.”
“I dare say.” But Ames was not impressed by the loyalty of Marysville.
“You don't think much of his chances?” ventured McPherson.