“Why, this election business.  Tell us about it,” said Patsy.

“Some other time, girls,” answered the boy, red and distressed.  “It—­it wouldn’t interest you a bit.”

“Why not?” asked Louise, softly.

“Because it doesn’t interest me,” he replied.

“Are you so sure of election?” inquired Beth.

“I’m sure of defeat, if you must know,” he declared, scowling at the recollection of his predicament.

“You haven’t been cowardly enough to give up?” asked Patricia, boldly.

“What do you mean by that, Patsy Doyle?” he asked, the scowl deepening.

“Just what I say, Ken.  A brave man doesn’t know when he’s beaten, much less beforehand.”

He looked at her fixedly.

“I’m not brave, my dear,” he replied, more gently than they had expected.  “The people here don’t understand me, nor I them.  I’m laughed at and reviled, a subject for contemptuous jeers, and—­and it hurts me.  I don’t like to be beaten.  I’d fight to the last gasp, if I had any show to win.  But these conditions, which I foolishly but honestly brought about myself, have defeated me so far in advance that I have absolutely no hope to redeem myself.  That’s all.  Don’t speak of it again, girls.  Play me that nocturne that I like, Beth.”

“We’ve got to speak of this, Kenneth, and speak of it often.  For we girls have come down here to electioneer, and for no other reason on earth,” declared Patsy.

“What!  You electioneer?”—­a slight smile curled his lips.

“Exactly.  We’re here to brace up and get to work.”

“And to win,” added Beth, quietly.

“And to put you in the Legislature where you belong,” declared Louise.

Kenneth turned to Mr. Merrick.

“Talk to them, Uncle John,” he begged.

“I have,” said the little man, smiling, “and they’ve convinced me that they mean business.  It’s all up with you, my boy, as a private citizen.  You’re as good as elected.”

Ken’s eyes filled.

“You’re all very kind, sir,” he said, “as you were bound to be.  And—­and I appreciate it all—­very much.  But Mr. Watson will tell you that the case is hopeless, and there’s nothing to be done.”

“How about it, Watson?” inquired Uncle John, turning to the lawyer.

“I’ll explain the proposition, sir, so you will all understand it,” he replied, and drew his chair into the circle.  “To begin with, Kenneth visited the glen one day, to make a sketch, and found his old table-rock covered with an advertising sign.”

“How preposterous!” exclaimed Louise.

“There were three of these huge signs in different parts of the glen, and they ruined its natural beauty.  Kenneth managed to buy up the spaces and then he scrubbed away the signs.  By that time he had come to detest the unsightly advertisements that confronted him every time he rode out, and he began a war of extermination against them.”