Gallagher went to his court, and found a man waiting for him there.

“He’s either very simple or very deep,” said Gallagher.  “He did nothing but ask questions; and try my best I could not get him to show his hand, nor commit himself.  It will be bad if there’s a split in a solid delegation!”

“I hope it will be a lesson to you to have things better arranged.”

“Blunkers would have it that way, and he’s not the kind of man to offend.  We all thought he would win.”

“Oh, let them have their fights,” said the man crossly; “but it’s your business to see that the right men are put up, so that it doesn’t make any difference which side wins.”

“Well,” said Gallagher, “I’ve done all I could to put things straight.  I’ve made peace, and got Moriarty on our side, and I’ve talked to this Stirling, and made out a strong case for Catlin, without seeming to care which man gets the nomination.”

“Is there any way of putting pressure on him?”

“Not that I can find out.  He’s a young lawyer, who has no business.”

“Then he’s a man we don’t need to conciliate, if he won’t behave?”

“No.  I can’t say that.  He’s made himself very popular round here by that case and by being friendly to people.  I don’t think, if he’s going into politics, that it will do to fight him.”

“He’s such a green hand that we ought to be able to down him.”

“He’s new, but he’s a pretty cool, knowing chap, I think.  I had one experience with him, which showed me that any man who picked him up for a fool would drop him quick.”  Then he told how Dennis’s fine had been remitted.

In the next few weeks Peter met a good many men who wanted to talk politics with him.  Gallagher brought some; Dennis others; his fellow-ward delegates, more.  But Peter could not be induced to commit himself.  He would talk candidates and principles endlessly, but without expressing his own mind.  Twice he was asked point blank, “Who’s your man?” but he promptly answered that he had not yet decided.  He had always read a Democratic paper, but now he read two, and a Republican organ as well.  His other reading lessened markedly, and the time gained was spent in talking with men in the “district.”  He even went into the saloons and listened to the discussions.

“I don’t drink,” he had to explain several times, “because my mother doesn’t like it.”  For some reason this explanation seemed to be perfectly satisfactory.  One man alone sneered at him.  “Does she feed yer still on milk, sonny?” he asked.  “No,” said Peter, “but everything I have comes from her, and that’s the kind of a mother a fellow wants to please; don’t you think so?” The sneerer hesitated, and finally said he “guessed it was.”  So Peter was made one of them, and smoked and listened.  He said very little, but that little was sound, good sense, and, if he did not talk, he made others do so; and, after the men had argued over something, they often looked at Peter, rather than at their opponents, to see if he seemed to approve of their opinions.