The Chicken Hill correspondent of the Millford "Mercury" described the meeting in the school as follows:

"The Chicken Hill School was the scene of a happy gathering on Friday afternoon last, when the neighbors and friends gathered to welcome home Pearl Watson, who has just completed a successful First Class Teacher's Normal course in Winnipeg. Pearl is a great favorite, and certainly disappointed no one, for she gave an address on present day questions which will not soon be forgotten. Pearl is an out and out believer in temperance and woman suffrage, and before she was through, she had every one with her—as one man put it, he'd like to see the woman vote, if for nothing else than to get Pearl Watson into parliament, for there would sure be hides on the barn door if she ever got there, and a rustling of dry bones."

"After Pearl's address, the ladies of the district served refreshments, and a good time was spent. Pearl's arm must have ached, shaking hands, and if she could be spoiled with praise, she would be spoiled for sure, but Pearl is not that kind. It is rumored that she will be offered the Purple Springs school, and if she accepts, we congratulate Purple Springs."

When George Steadman read the Chicken Hills news, his face became a yellowish gray color—much like the hue of badly laundried clothes. His skin prickled, as if with an electric current, for hot rage ate into his soul. His name was not even mentioned. He wasn't there at all—and he was the member for Millford. Of all the silly rot—well, he'd see about it.

On Monday morning, with the offending sheet in his hand, Mr. Steadman made his way to the "Mercury" office, a dingy, little flat-roofed building, plastered with old circus posters outside, and filled with every sort of junk inside. At an unpainted desk piled high with papers, sat the editor. His hair stood up like a freshly laundried, dustless mop; his shirt was dirty; his pipe hung listlessly in his mouth—upside down, and a three days' crop of black beard peppered his face. He looked like a man who in early youth had slept on newspapers and drank ink, and who now would put his feet on the table if there had been room, but there was scarcely room for them on the floor, for it was under the table that he kept his exchanges. There were shelves around the walls, but they were filled with rubber boots, guns, baskets of letters, a few books, miscellaneous articles of clothing and some empty tobacco jars.

So on account of the congested condition on and under the table, Mr. Driggs was forced to sit in an uncomfortable position, with his legs and those of the table artistically entwined.

Mr. Steadman began, without replying to the editor's friendly greeting:

"Who writes this balderdash from our district," he asked harshly.

"Professional secret," replied Mr. Driggs, speaking through his shut teeth, for he did not wish to dislodge his pipe; the last time he let it out of his mouth he had had no end of a time finding it. "Never give away names of contributors, not etiquette."

"I don't care a hang for your etiquette—I want to know. The member for Millford was not in a trifling mood.

"Sorry," said Mr. Driggs, holding his pipe still closer.

"See here, Driggs," said Mr. Steadman haughtily, "do you know who you're talking to—I have it in my power to throw you a good deal of business one way'n another—I've thrown you a good deal of business. There's an election coming on—there will be bills, cards, streamers, what not; good money in printing for the Government—do you savvy?"

"I savvy," said Mr. Driggs cheerfully.

"Well then"—George Steadman was sure now he was going to get the information—"who writes this this stuff from Chicken Hill?"

"I don't know," said the editor calmly, "honest, I don't. This was a new one—strange writing—and all that. I called up Pearl Watson to see if there had been a meeting, and she verified it, but didn't tell me anything. She said you presided. Then I ran the item—I thought it was very good—what's wrong with it? It seemed like real good country correspondence to me—with that bucolic freshness which we expect to find in country contributors, perhaps not the literary polish found in Stoddarts' lectures, but rattling good stuff just the same."

"See here Driggs," the other man interrupted, "listen to me. There's an election coming on—you've always been with us—I don't know what you think—and it don't matter. This girl Watson is against us—and she's as smart as they make them, and has plenty of nerve. Now I don't want to see that girl's name in the paper again. A few more spreads like this—and every district in the country will want her. She don't know her place—she's got nerve enough to speak anywhere. She spits out things, hardly knowing what she means—she's dangerous, I tell you. If the other side got hold of her and primed her what to say, she could do us a lot of harm—here, for mind you, she's got a way with her. We don't want any trouble. There's a little talk of runnin' Doc. Clay, but I believe he's got more sense than to try it. The last man that ran against me lost his deposit. But, understand, Driggs, no mention of this girl, cut out her name."

Then Mr. Driggs slowly took his pipe from his mouth, and laid it carefully on the lowest pile of papers. It's position did not entirely suit him, and he moved it to another resting place. But the effect was not pleasing even then—so he placed it in his pocket, taking a red handkerchief from his other pocket, and laying it carefully over the elusive pipe, to anchor it—if that were possible.

"Mr. Steadman," he said, in his gentlest manner, "sit down."

Removing an armful of sale bills from the other chair, he shoved it over to his visitor, who ignored the invitation.

"You must not attempt to muzzel the press, or take away our blood-bought liberties. Blood-bought liberties is good! It's a serious matter to come to a natural born, heaven inspired Editor, and tell him to curb his news instinct. Pearl Watson is a particular friend of mine. Pearl's sayings and doings are of interest to me as a citizen, therefore, I reason they are of interest to all citizens. She is a young lady of great charm, who does honor to our little town. I stand absolutely for home boosting. Shop at home—shop early—sell your hammer and buy a horn—my motto! Pearl Watson—one of the best ads we have—I'm for her."

"All right," said Mr. Steadman harshly, "you defy me then, and when you defy me, you defy the Government of the Province, the arm of the Government reaches far—Driggs, and you know that before you are done, I'll put you out of business before two weeks have gone by. You owe every one—you owe the paper people—you owe on your printing press. Your creditors are all friends of the Government. All I have to do is to say the word and they'll close you out. The Government will put a man in here who has sense enough to do as he is told."

Mr. Driggs' faced showed more concern than he had exhibited before. There were certain bills he owed—forgotten to be sure in normal times—but now they came up blinking to the light, rudely disinterred by Mr. Steadman's hard words. They had grown, too, since their last appearance, both in size and numbers—and for a moment a shade of annoyance went over his face. Details of business always did annoy him!

But an inner voice cautioned him to be discreet. There was always a way around a difficulty. Mr. Driggs believed in the switch system which prevails in our railroading. When two trains run towards each other on a track one must go off on a switch, to avoid a collision. It does not take long and when the other train has gone roaring past, the switched train can back up and get on the track and go serenely on—he resolved to be tactful.

"Mr. Steadman," he said, "I am surprised at all this. Pearl is only a slip of a girl. What harm can she do you? You are absolutely solid in this neighborhood. The government has this country by the throat—the old machine works perfectly. What are you afraid of?"

"We're not afraid—what have we to be afraid of? We have only sixteen opposition members in the House—and they're poor fish. We're solid enough—only we don't want trouble. The women are getting all stirred up and full of big notions. We can hold them down all right—for they can't get the vote until we give it to them—that's the beauty of it. The Old Man certainly talked plain when they came there askin' for the vote. He just laid them out. But I can see this girl has been at their meetings—and women are queer. My women, even, thought there was a lot of truth in what the Watson girl said. So there was—but we're not dealing with truth just now—politics is not a matter of truth. We want to get this election over without trouble. We want no grief over this, mind you—everything quiet—and sure. So you got your orders right now. Take them or leave them. But you know where your bread is buttered, I guess."

Mr. Steadman went out of the office, shutting the door with a strong hand. The editor buried his face in his hands and gently massaged his temples with his long-ink-stained fingers, and to all appearance, his soul was grieved within him. It seemed as though his proud spirit was chafing at the bonds which the iniquitous patronage system had laid on him.

For brief period he sat thus, but when he raised his head, which he did suddenly, there was a gleam in his eye and a smile on his face which spread and widened until it burst into a laugh which threatened to dislodge the contents of the table. He threw himself back in his swing chair and piled both feet on the table, even if there was no room for them—if ever there had come a time in his history when he was in the mood to put his feet on the table, that time was now.

He addressed his remarks to his late guests:

"You fragrant old he-goat, you will give orders to me, will you—you are sure some diplomat—you poor old moth-eaten gander, with your cow-like duplicity."

Mr. Driggs could not find the figure of speech which just suited the case, but he was still trying.

"You poor old wall-eyed ostrich, with your head in the sand, thinking no one can see you, you forget that there is a portion of your anatomy admirably placed—indeed in my mind's eye I can see the sign upon it. It reads 'Kick me.' It is an invitation I will not decline. He thinks he can wipe our good friend Pearlie off the map by having her name dropped from the Millford 'Mercury,' forgetting that there are other ways of reaching the public eye. There are other publications, perhaps not in the class with the Millford 'Mercury,' but worthy little sheets too.

"There is the 'Evening Echo,' struggling along with a circulation of a quarter of a million—it will answer our purpose admirably. I will write the lead today while the lamp of inspiration burns, and I will hear Pearl speak, and then oh, beloved, I will roll up my sleeves and spit on my hands and do a sketch of the New Woman—Pearlie, my child—this way lies fame."