He went to his bedroom, packed his bag, and took his way to the station.  There he found a dense crowd of delegates and “well-wishers,” both surrounding and filling the special train which was to carry New York’s contribution to the collected party wisdom, about to concentrate at Saratoga.

Peter felt like a stranger in the crowd, but on mingling in it he quickly found himself a marked man.  He was seized upon by one of the diners of the evening before, and soon found himself forming part of a group, which constantly changed its components, but continued to talk convention affairs steadily.  Nor did the starting of the train, with cheers, brass bands, flags, and other enthusing elements, make more than a temporary break.  From the time the special started, till it rolled into Saratoga, six hours later, there was one long series of political debates and confabs.  Peter listened much, and learned much, for the talk was very straight and plain.  He had chats with Costell and Green.  His two fellow-delegates from “de sixt” sought him and discussed intentions.  He liked Schlurger, a simple, guileless German, who wanted only to do what his constituents wished him to do, both in convention and Assembly.  Of Kennedy he was not so sure.  Kennedy had sneered a little at Peter’s talk about the “best man,” and about “helping the ward,” and had only found that Peter’s ideas had value after he had been visited by various of the saloon-keepers, seen the vast torchlight meeting, and heard the cheers at Peter’s arguments.  Still, Peter was by no means sure that Kennedy was not a square man, and concluded he was right in not condemning him, when, passing through one of the cars, he overheard the following: 

“What kind of man is that Stirling, who’s raised such ——­ in the sixth?”

“I don’t know him, but Kennedy told me, before he’d swung round, that he was a darned good sort of a cuss.”

This was flattery, Peter understood, however questionable the form might seem, and he was pleased.  Very few of us do not enjoy a real compliment.  What makes a compliment uncomfortable is either a suspicion that the maker doesn’t mean it, or a knowledge that it is not merited.

Peter went at once to his room on reaching the hotel in Saratoga, intending to make up the sleep of which his long “think” the night before had robbed him.  But scarcely had the colored gentleman bowed himself out, after the usual “can I git de gentleman a pitcher of ice water” (which translated means:  “has de gentleman any superfluous change?”) when a knock came at the door.  Peter opened it, to find a man outside.

“Is this Mr. Stirling’s room?” inquired the individual.

“Yes.”

“Can I see him?”

“Come in.”  Peter moved his bag off one of his chairs, and his hat and overcoat off the other.

“Mr. Stirling,” said the stranger as he sat down, “I am Senator Maguire, and am, as perhaps you know, one of Porter’s managers.”