if not wanting in consistent adherence to veracity.  “I had a hard time to keep from hitting him,” said West afterwards, “but I knew that would be the worst thing I could possibly do.”  “Maybe so,” sighed Mr. Fyne, apparently not with full conviction.  Winter went too far in moving that the president’s continuance in office was prejudicial to the welfare of Blaines College, and was defeated 9 to 3.  Nevertheless, West always looked back at this meeting as one of the most unpleasant incidents in his life.  He flung out of it humiliated, angry, and thoroughly sick at heart.

West saw himself as a persecuted patriot, who had laid a costly oblation on the altar of public spirit only to see the base crowd jostle forward and spit upon it.  He was poor in this world’s goods.  It had cost him five thousand a year to accept the presidency of Blaines College.  And this was how they rewarded him.  To him, as he sat long in his office brooding upon the darkness of life, there came a visitor, a tall, angular, twinkling-eyed, slow-speaking individual who perpetually chewed an unlighted cigar.  He was Plonny Neal, no other, the reputed great chieftain of city politics.  Once the Post, in an article inspired by West, had referred to Plonny as “this notorious grafter.”  Plonny could hardly have considered this courteous; but he was a man who never remembered a grudge, until ready to pay it back with compound interest.  West’s adolescent passion for the immediate reform of politics had long since softened, and nowadays when the whirligig of affairs threw the two men together, as it did not infrequently, they met on the easiest and friendliest terms.  West liked Plonny, as everybody did, and of Plonny’s sincere liking for him he never had the slightest doubt.

In fact, Mr. Neal’s present call was to report that the manner in which a lady brushes a midge from her summering brow was no simpler than the wiping of James E. Winter off the board of Blaines College.

That topic being disposed of, West introduced another.

“Noticed the way the Chronicle is jumping on me with all four feet, Plonny?” he asked, with rather a forced laugh.  “Why can’t those fellows forget it and leave me alone?”

By a slow facial manoeuvre, Mr. Neal contrived to make his cigar look out upon the world with contemptuousness unbearable.

“Why, nobody pays no attention to them fellers’ wind, Mr. West.  You could buy them off for a hundred dollars, ten dollars down, and have them praising you three times a week for two hundred dollars, twenty-five dollars down.  I only take the paper,” said Mr. Neal, “because their Sunday is mighty convenient f’r packin’ furniture f’r shipment.”

The Chronicle was the only paper Mr. Neal ever thought of reading, and this was how he stabbed it in the back.

“I don’t want to butt in, Mr. West,” said he, rising, “and you can stop me if I am, but as a friend of yours—­why are you botherin’ yourself at all with this here kid’s-size proposition?”