“Rev. George Dayne of the Charities,” said Plonny at once.  “You mentioned wire-pulling just now.  Lemme tell you that in the Rev. George you got the champeen wire-puller of the lot, the king politician of them all—­the only one in this town, I do believe, could have thrown a bag as neat over your head, Mr. West.”

“Why, Plonny!  Much learning has made you mad!  I know Dayne like a book, and he’s as straightforward a fellow as ever lived.”

Mr. Neal let his eyes fall to the table-top and indulged in a slow smile, which he appeared to be struggling courteously, but without hope, to suppress.

“O’ course you got a right to your opinion, Mr. West.”

A brief silence ensued, during which a tiny imp of memory whispered into West’s ear that Miss Weyland herself had commented on the Rev. Mr. Dayne’s marvelous gifts as a lobbyist.

“I’m a older man than you,” resumed Neal, with precarious smilelessness, “and mebbe I’ve seen more of practical poltix.  It would be a strange thing, you might say, if at my time of life, I didn’t know a politician when I passed him in the road.  Still, don’t you take my word for it.  I’m only repeating what others say when I tell you that Parson Dayne wants to be Governor of this State some day.  That surprises you a little, hey?  You was kind of thinking that ‘Rev.’ changed the nature of a man, and that ambition never thought of keeping open f’r business under a high-cut vest, now wasn’t you?  Well, I’ve seen funny things in my time.  I’d say that the parson wants this reformatory some f’r the good of the State, and mostly f’r the good of Mr. Dayne.  Give it to him, with the power of appointing employees—­add this to what he’s already got—­and in a year he’ll have the prettiest little private machine ever you did see.  I don’t ask you to believe me.  All I ask is f’r you to stick a pin in what I say, and see ’f it don’t come true.”

West mused, impressed against his will.  “You’re wrong, Plonny, in my opinion, and if you were ten times right, what of it?  You seem to think that the Post is advocating this reformatory because Dayne has asked for it.  The Post is doing nothing of the sort.  It is advocating the reformatory because it has studied this question to the bottom for itself, because it knows—­”

“Right!  Good f’r you!” exclaimed Mr. Neal, much gratified.  “That’s just what I tell the boys when they say you’re playin’ poltix with the little dominie.  And that,” said he, briskly, “is just why I’m for the reformatory, in spite of Rev. Dayne’s little games.”

“You’re for it!  You said just now that you were opposed to it.”

“Not to the reformatory, Mr. West.  Not at all.  I’m only opposed to spending a hundred thousand dollars for it in a poverty year.”

“Oh!  You want the reformatory, but you don’t want it now.  That’s where you stand, is it?”

“Yes, and everybody else that understands just what the situation is.  I believe in this reformatory—­the Post converted me, that’s a fact—­and if you’ll only let her stand two years, take my word for it, she’ll go through with a whoop.  But if you’re going to hurry the thing—­”