Half an hour later, when Mr. Wetherell knocked timidly at Number 7,—drawn thither by an irresistible curiosity,—the door was opened by a portly person who wore a shining silk hat and ample gold watch chain. The gentleman had, in fact, just arrived; but he seemed perfectly at home as he laid down his hat on the marble-topped bureau, mopped his face, took a glass of iced water at a gulp, chose a cigar, and sank down gradually on the bed. Mr. Wetherell recognized him instantly as the father of the celebrated Cassandra.
“Well, Jethro,” said the gentleman, “I've got to come into the Throne Room once a day anyhow, just to make sure you don't forget me—eh?”
“A-Alvy,” said Jethro, “I want you to shake hands with a particular friend of mine, Mr. Will Wetherell of Coniston. Er—Will, the Honorable Alvy Hopkins of Gosport.”
Mr. Hopkins rose from the bed as gradually as he had sunk down upon it, and seized Mr. Wetherell's hand impressively. His own was very moist.
“Heard you was in town, Mr. Wetherell,” he said heartily. “If Jethro calls you a particular friend, it means something, I guess. It means something to me, anyhow.”
“Will hain't a politician,” said Jethro. “Er—Alvy?”
“Hello!” said Mr. Hopkins.
“Er—Will don't talk.”
“If Jethro had been real tactful,” said the Honorable Alvy, sinking down again, “he'd have introduced me as the next governor of the state. Everybody knows I want to be governor, everybody knows I've got twenty thousand dollars in the bank to pay for that privilege. Everybody knows I'm going to be governor if Jethro says so.”
William Wetherell was a little taken aback at this ingenuous statement of the gentleman from Gosport. He looked out of the window through the foliage of the park, and his eye was caught by the monument there in front of the State House, and he thought of the inscription on the base of it, “The People's Government.” The Honorable Alva had not mentioned the people—undoubtedly.