“And what's the Clarion?”
“Semi-weekly,” said the secretary pleasantly.
The secretary wrote telegrams to the Clarion until he wearied of that pastime; then he began to tear pages out of his copy of Emerson. Incidentally he and Ames had passed to a state of siege. It became necessary to spike the office door fast to the jamb to keep out James Cartwright Smith, who, supported by a bell boy and the night watchman from The Pines, had established himself in the narrow hall, where he kept the air thick with threats and curses.
Six o'clock came and McPherson was still flashing the Concord sage's wisdom into Marysville. Mr. Smith was still on the stairs, but the boss no longer swore nor threatened; his tone was one of entreaty, his words abject. Two hours later and he was offering McPherson any sum he chose to name for five minutes' use of the wire. At ten o'clock he was heard to descend the stairs and pass up the road in the direction of The Pines; whereupon Ames knocked the spikes out of the jamb and opened the office door on a sleeping world; then he turned to McPherson.
“I suppose you are going to hold on to your end of the wire until the convention adjourns?” he observed. The secretary nodded and flipped a fresh page of Emerson across the table.
“Wait a bit, boss,” said the operator. “I got to take off a message for you.”
The message was from the leader of the Carveth delegation. As McPherson slowly absorbed its meaning a smile of intense satisfaction overspread his features. He passed it on to Ames, who read: “Carveth nominated. Hip—hip—hurrah!”
“This means a great deal to me, Mr. Ames,” said McPherson softly. “Indeed, it means everything.” Quite unconsciously he had slipped his hand into the breast pocket of his coat, and Ames caught sight of the plush frame that held Miss Carveth's picture.