More cigars were hastily sent for, and more. There are to be but a thousand delegates to the convention, and at least two thousand men have already passed through the room—and those who don't smoke have friends. It is well that Mr. Crewe has stuck to his conservative habit of not squeezing hands too hard.
"Isn't that Mr. Putter, who keeps a livery-stable here?" inquired Mr. Crewe, about nine o'clock—our candidate having a piercing eye of his own. Mr. Putter's coat, being brushed back, has revealed six cigars.
"Why, yes—yes," says Mr. Watling.
"Is he a delegate?" Mr. Crewe demanded.
"Why, I guess he must be," says Mr. Watling.
But Mr. Putter is not a delegate.
"You've stood up and made a grand fight, Mr. Crewe," says another gentleman, a little later, with a bland, smooth shaven face and strong teeth to clinch Mr. Crewe's cigars. "I wish I was fixed so as I could vote for you."
Mr. Crewe looks at him narrowly.
"You look very much like a travelling man from New York, who tried to sell me farm machinery," he answers.
"Where are you from?"