KENYON came to town to remind his Antioch friends and supporters that presently he would be needing their votes.

He was Ryder's guest for a week, and the Herald recorded his movements with painstaking accuracy and with what its editor secretly considered metropolitan enterprise. The great man had his official headquarters at the Herald office, a ramshackle two-story building on the west side of the square. Here he was at home to the local politicians, and to such of the general public as wished to meet him. The former smoked his cigars and talked incessantly of primaries, nominations, and majorities—topics on which they appeared to be profoundly versed. Their distinguishing mark was their capacity for strong drink, which was far in excess of that of the ordinary citizen who took only a casual interest in politics. The Herald's back door opened into an alley, and was directly opposite that of the Red Star saloon. At stated intervals Mr. Kenyon and Mr. Ryder, followed by the faithful, trailed through this back door and across the alley, where they cheerfully exposed themselves to such of the gilded allurements of vice as the Red Star had to offer.

The men of Antioch eschewed front doors as giving undue publicity to the state of their thirst, a point on which they must have been very sensitive, for though a number of saloons flourished in the town, only a few of the most reckless and emancipated spirits were ever seen to enter them.

Kenyon was a sloppily dressed man of forty-five or thereabouts, who preserved an air of rustic shrewdness. He was angular-faced and smooth-shaven, and wore his hair rather long in a tangled mop. He was generally described in the party papers as “The Picturesque Statesman from Old Hanover.” He had served one term in Congress; prior to that, by way of apprenticeship, he had done a great deal of hard work and dirty work for his party. His fortunes had been built on the fortunes of a bigger and an abler man, who, after a fight which was already famous in the history of the State for its bitterness, had been elected Governor, and Kenyon, having picked the winner, had gone to his reward. Just now he had a shrewd idea that the Governor was anxious to unload him, and that the party leaders were sharpening their knives for him. Their change of heart grew out of the fact that he had “dared to assert his independence,” as he said, and had “played the sneak and broken his promises,” as they said, in a little transaction which had been left to him to put through.

Personally Ryder counted him an unmitigated scamp, but the man's breezy vulgarity, his nerve, and his infinite capacity to jolly tickled his fancy.

He had so far freed himself of his habitual indifference that he was displaying an unheard-of energy in promoting Kenyon's interest. Of course he expected to derive certain very substantial benefits from the alliance. The Congressman had made him endless promises, and Ryder saw, or thought he saw, his way clear to leave Antioch in the near future. For two days he had been saying, “Mr. Brown, shake hands with Congressman Kenyon,” or, “Mr. Jones, I want you to know Congressman Kenyon, the man we must keep at Washington.”

He had marvelled at the speed with which the statesman got down to first names. He had also shown a positive instinct as to whom he should invite to make the trip across the alley to the Red Star, and whom not. Mr. Kenyon said, modestly, when Griff commented on this, that his methods were modern—they were certainly vulgar.

“I guess I'm going to give 'em a run for their money, Ryder. I can see I'm doing good work here. There's nothing like being on the ground yourself.”

It was characteristic of him that he should ignore the work Ryder had done in his behalf.

“You are an inspiration, Sam. The people know their leader,” said the editor, genially, but with a touch of sarcasm that was lost on Kenyon, who took himself quite seriously.

“Yes, sir, they'd 'a' done me dirt,” feelingly, “but I am on my own range now, and ready to pull off my coat and fight for what's due me.”

They were seated before the open door which looked out upon the square. Kenyon was chewing nervously at the end of an unlit cigar, which he held between his fingers. “When the nomination is made I guess the other fellow will discover I 'ain't been letting the grass grow in my path.” He spat out over the door-sill into the street. “What's that you were just telling me about the Huckleberry?”

“This new manager of Cornish's is going to make the road pay, and he's going to do it from the pockets of the employÉs,” said Ryder, with a disgruntled air, for the memory of his interview with Dan still rankled.

“That ain't bad, either. You know the Governor's pretty close to Cornish. The general was a big contributor to his campaign fund.”

Ryder hitched his chair nearer his companion's.

“If there's a cut in wages at the shops—and I suppose that will be the next move—there's bound to be a lot of bad feeling.”

“Well, don't forget we are for the people.” remarked the Congressman, and he winked slyly.

Ryder smiled cynically.

“I sha'n't. I have it in for the manager, anyhow.”

“What's wrong with him?”

“Oh, nothing, but a whole lot,” answered Griff, with apparent indifference.

At this juncture Dr. Emory crossed the square from the post-office and paused in front of the Herald building.

“How's Dr. Emory?” said Kenyon, by way of greeting.

Ryder had risen.

“Won't you come in and sit down, doctor?” he inquired.

“No, no. Keep your seat, Griff. I merely strolled over to say how d'ye do?”

Kenyon shot past the doctor a discolored stream. That gentleman moved uneasily to one side.

“Don't move,” said the statesman, affably. “Plenty of room between you and the casing.”

He left his chair and stood facing the doctor, and unpleasantly close. “Say, our young friend here's turned what I intended to be a vacation into a very busy time. He's got me down for speeches and all sorts of things, and it will be a wonder if I go home to Hanover sober. I won't if he can help it, that's dead sure. Won't you come in and have something?—just a little appetizer before supper?”

“No, I thank you.”

“A cigar, then?” fumbling in his vest-pocket with fingers that were just the least bit unsteady.

“No, I must hurry along.”

“We hope to get up again before Mr. Kenyon leaves town,” said Ryder, wishing to head the statesman off. He was all right with such men as Cap Roberts and the Hon. Jeb Burrows, but he had failed signally to take the doctor's measure. The latter turned away.

“I hope you will, Griff,” he said, kindly, his voice dwelling with the least perceptible insistence on the last pronoun.

“Remember me to the wife and daughter,” called out Kenyon, as the physician moved up the street with an unusual alacrity.

It was late in the afternoon, and the men from the car-shops were beginning to straggle past, going in the direction of their various homes. Presently Roger Oakley strode heavily by, with his tin dinner-pail on his arm. Otherwise there was nothing, either in his dress or appearance, to indicate that he was one of the hands. As he still lived at the hotel with Dan, he felt it necessary to exercise a certain care in the matter of dress. As he came into view the Congressman swept him with a casual scrutiny; then, as the old man plodded on up the street with deliberate step, Kenyon rose from his chair and stood in the doorway gazing after him.

“What's the matter, Sam?” asked Ryder, struck by his friend's manner.

“Who was that old man who just went past?”

“That? Oh, that's the manager's father. Why?”

“Well, he looks most awfully like some one else, that's all,” and he appeared to lose interest.

“No, he's old man Oakley. He works in the shops.”

“Oakley?”

“Yes, that's his name. Why?” curiously.

“How long has he been here, anyhow?”

“A month perhaps, maybe longer. Do you know him?”

“I've seen him before. A cousin of mine, John Kenyon, is warden of a prison back in Massachusetts. It runs in the blood to hold office. I visited him last winter, and while I was there a fire broke out in the hospital ward, and that old man had a hand in saving the lives of two or three of the patients. The beggars came within an ace of losing their lives. I saw afterwards by the papers that the Governor had pardoned him.”

Ryder jumped up with sudden alacrity.

“Do you remember the convict's full name?” Kenyon meditated a moment; then he said:

“Roger Oakley.”

The editor turned to the files of the Herald.

“I'll just look back and see if it's the same name. I've probably got it here among the personals, if I can only find it. What was he imprisoned for?” he added.

“He was serving a life sentence for murder, I think, John told me, but I won't be sure.”

“The devil, you say!” ejaculated Ryder. “Yes, Roger Oakley, the name's the same.”

“I knew I couldn't be mistaken. I got a pretty good memory for names and faces. Curious, ain't it, that he should turn up here?”

Ryder smiled queerly as he dropped the Herald files back into the rack.

“His son is manager for Cornish here. He's the fellow I was telling you about.”

Kenyon smiled, too.

“I guess you won't have any more trouble with him. You've got him where you can hit him, and hit him hard whenever you like.”