"You need not reply by letter. To-morrow's issue answers for you. Until I

have received a copy, I withhold my judgment.

"JOHN HARKLESS."

The morrow's issue--that fateful print on which depended John Harkless's

opinion of H. Fisbee's integrity--contained an editorial addressed to the

delegates of the convention, warning them to act for the vital interest of

the community, and declaring that the opportunity to be given them in the

present convention was a rare one, a singular piece of good fortune

indeed; they were to have the chance to vote for a man who had won the

love and respect of every person in the district--one who had suffered for

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his championship of righteousness--one whom even his few political enemies

confessed they held in personal affection and esteem--one who had been the

inspiration of a new era--one whose life had been helpfulness, whose hand

had reached out to every struggler and unfortunate--a man who had met and

faced danger for the sake of others--one who lived under a threat for

years, and who had been almost overborne in the fulfilment of that threat,

but who would live to see the sun shine on his triumph, the tribute the

convention would bring him as a gift from a community that loved him. His

name needed not to be told; it was on every lip that morning, and in every

heart.

Tom was eagerly watching his companion as he read. Harkless fell back on

the pillows with a drawn face, and for a moment he laid his thin hand over

his eyes in a gesture of intense pain.

"What is it?" Meredith said quickly.

"Give me the pad, please."

"What is it, boy?"

The other's teeth snapped together.

"What is it?" he cried. "What is it? It's treachery, and the worst I ever

knew. Not a word of the accusation I demanded--lying praises instead!

Read that editorial--there, there!" He struck the page with the back of

his hand, and threw the paper to Meredith. "Read that miserable lie! 'One

who has won the love and respect of every person in the district!'--'One

who has suffered for his championship of righteousness!' Righteousness!

Save the mark!"

"What does it mean?"

"Mean! It means McCune--Rod McCune, 'who has lived under a threat for

years'--my threat! I swore I would print him out of Indiana if he ever

raised his head again, and he knew I could. 'Almost overborne in the

fulfilment of that threat!' Almost! It's a black scheme, and I see it

now. This man came to Plattville and went on the 'Herald' for nothing in

the world but this. It's McCune's hand all along. He daren't name him even

now, the coward! The trick lies between McCune and young Fisbee--the old

man is innocent. Give me the pad. Not almost overborne. There are three

good days to work in, and, by the gods of Perdition, if Rod McCune sees

Congress it will be in his next incarnation!"




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