The month was now September. The rugged mountains still guarded their secret, and Roderick was beginning to fear that the quest for his father’s mine was indeed going to be a vain one. But there came an interlude to his range-riding and gold-dreaming. The state conventions were approaching. Even love became a minor matter to politics. The air was surcharged with electricity.
CHAPTER XXV.—RUNNING FOR STATE SENATOR
AT BREAKFAST table one morning Roderick noticed in the Encampment Herald a featured article about the forthcoming Republican convention.
“Oh, yes,” replied Grant, when Roderick called his attention to it, “this convention trouble has been brewing for some time. Personally, as you know, I am a Republican, even though my paper, the Dillon Doublejack, is a dyed-in-the-wool Democratic organ.”
“What trouble,” asked Roderick, “can there possibly be about a county convention?”
“It’s a senatorial convention,” explained Grant. “There is an old saying,” he went on, “that every dog has his day. But unfortunately politically speaking there are more dogs than days, and when two or three contestants try to get in on the same day, why, somebody is going to get bitten. There is only one state senatorial job from this district but there may be half-a-dozen fellows who feel called upon to offer themselves upon the political altar of their country.”
“Have noticed a good many fellows down from the hills recently,” replied Roderick.
“Well, that’s politics,” said Grant. “They take a lay off from their work in the hills—come down here to fill up on free political whiskey furnished by the various candidates. Oh, take it from me,” said Grant, looking wise and shaking his head, “these delegates are a booze-fighting bunch for fair.”