“Which way are you walking?” asked Miss De Voe.

“I have been tramping merely for exercise,” said Peter, “and stopped here to try the spring, on my way to the United States.”

“It is hardly worth while, but if you will get into our carriage, we will drop you there.  Or if you can spare the time, we will drive to our cottage, and then send you back to the hotel.”

“Thank you,” said Peter, “but I shall only crowd you, I fear.”

“No.  There is plenty of room.”

“Will the convention be interesting to watch, Mr. Stirling?” asked one of the girls, as soon as they were seated.

“I don’t know,” Peter told her.  “It is my first experience at it.  There is pretty strong feeling, and that of course makes it interesting to the delegates, but I am not sure that it would be so to others.”

“Will there be speeches, and cheers, and all that sort of thing?”

“Yes.”

“Cousin Anneke, won’t you take us?  It will be such fun!”

“Are spectators admitted, Mr. Stirling?”

“I believe so.  I heard something about tickets last night.  If you care to go, I’ll see if I can get you some?”

“Oh, please,” cried both girls.

“If you can do so, Mr. Stirling, we should like to see the interesting part,” said Miss De Voe.

“I’ll try.”

“Send word back by Oliver.”  The carriage had drawn up at the cottage, and farewells were made.

As soon as Peter reached the hotel, he went to the New York City delegation room, and saw Costell.  He easily secured admissions, and pencilling on a card, “At headquarters they tell me that the nominations will begin at the afternoon session, about two o’clock,” he sent them back by the carriage.  Then bearding the terrors of the colored “monarch of all he surveys,” who guards the dining-room of every well-ordered Saratoga hotel, he satisfied as large an appetite as he remembered in a long time.

The morning proceedings in the convention were purely formal.  The election of the chairman, the roll-call, the naming of the committees, and other routine matter was gotten through with, but the real interest centred in the undertone of political talk, going on with little regard to the business in hand.  After the committees were named, an unknown man came up to Peter, and introduced himself by a name which Peter at once recognized as that of one of the committee on the platform.

“Mr. Costell thinks you might like to see this, and can perhaps suggest a change,” explained Mr. Talcott, laying several sheets of manuscript on Peter’s desk and indicating with his finger a certain paragraph.

Peter read it twice before saying anything.  “I think I can better it,” he said.  “If you can give me time I’m very slow about such things.”

“All right.  Get it in shape as quickly as possible, and send it to the committee-room.”