Angus was distinctly relieved when he got John Thomas off his hands—­he felt he had had a merciful deliverance.

On the way to town, roused by the night air, John Thomas became communicative.

“Them lads in the automobile, they wanted me pretty bad, you bet,” he chuckled, with the conscious pride of the much-sought-after; “but gosh, Angus fixed them.  He just slammed down the cellar door on me, and says he, ’Not a word out of you, Jack; you’ve as good a right to vote the way you want to as anybody, and you’ll get it, too, you bet.’”

The reformed Liberal knitted his brows.  What was this simple child of nature driving at?

John Thomas rambled on:  “Tom Brown can’t fool people with brains, you bet you—­Angus’s woman explained it all to me.  She says to me, ’Don’t let nobody run you, Jack—­and vote for Hastings.  You’re all right, Jack—­and remember Hastings is the man.  Never mind why—­don’t bother your head—­you don’t have to—­but vote for Hastings.’  Says she, ’Don’t let on to Milt, or any of his folks, or Grandpa, but vote the way you want to, and that’s for Hastings!’”

When they arrived in town the reformed Liberal took John Thomas at once to the Conservative Hotel, and put him in a room, and told him to go to bed, which John cheerfully did.  Then he went for the Secretary, who was also in bed.  “I’ve got John Thomas,” he announced, “but he says he’s a Grit and is going to vote for Hastings.  I can’t put a dint in him—­he thinks I’m a Grit, too.  He’s only got one idea, but it’s a solid one, and that is ‘Vote for Hastings.’”

The Secretary yawned sleepily.  “I’ll not go near him.  It’s me for sleep.  You can go and see if any of the other fellows want a job.  They’re all down at a ball at the station.  Get one of those wakeful spirits to reason with John.”

The conspirator made his way stealthily to the station, from whence there issued the sound of music and dancing.  Not wishing to alarm the Grits, many of whom were joining in the festivities, and who would have been quick to suspect that something was on foot, if they saw him prowling around, he crept up to the window and waited until one of the faithful came near.  Gently tapping on the glass, he got the attention of the editor, the very man he wanted, and, in pantomime, gave him to understand that his presence was requested.  The editor, pleading a terrific headache, said good-night, or rather good-morning, to his hostess, and withdrew.  From his fellow-worker who waited in the shadow of the trees outside, he learned that John Thomas had been secured in the body but not in spirit.

The newspaper man readily agreed to labor with the erring brother and hoped to be able to deliver his soul alive.

Once again was John Thomas roused from his slumbers, and not by a familiar voice this time, but by an unknown vision in evening dress.

The editor was a convincing man in his way, whether upon the subject of reciprocity or apostolic succession, but John was plainly bored from the beginning, and though he offered no resistance, his repeated “I know that!” “That’s what I said!” were more disconcerting than the most vigorous opposition.  At daylight the editor left John, and he really had the headache that he had feigned a few hours before.