“You can’t leave here yet, Mr. Spinney—­not until General Waymouth finishes his business with you.”

The General had viewed Mr. Spinney’s headlong arrival with astonishment.  He stepped forward to the centre of the room.  There was a note in his voice that quelled the man as much as had Harlan’s resolute demeanor at the door.

“Spinney, it will be better for you if you listen.”

The candidate turned to face him, apprehensive and defiant at the same time.  The panels of the door against which Harlan leaned were jarred by beating fists.  Harlan heard the voice of his grandfather outside, calling to him impatiently.  A moment more, and Chairman Presson added a more wrathful admonition to open.

“Mr. Thornton, will you kindly inform those people at the door that this is my room, and that I command them to withdraw?” directed General Waymouth.

Harlan flung the door open and filled the space with the bulk of his body.  Both parties stood revealed to each other, the young man dividing them, and disdaining intrenchments.

“What kind of a crazy-headed, lumber-jack performance are you perpetrating here?” demanded the elder Thornton.  “You’re not handling Canucks to-day, you young hyena!”

“This is a scandal—­a disgrace to this convention!” thundered Presson.  He started to come in, but Harlan barred the doorway with body and arms.

“Do you want any of these gentlemen inside, General?” he asked.

“Neither Mr. Presson, nor Mr. Thornton, nor any of the rest,” declared Waymouth.  “And I want that disturbance at my door stopped.”

“You hear that!” cried the defender of the pass.  “Now, Mr. Presson, if you intend to disgrace this convention by a riot, it’s up to you to start it.”  And then the choler and the hot blood of his youth spoke.  He did not pick his words.  His opinion of them was seething within him.  He talked as he would talk to a lumber-crew.  “I’m keeping this door, and I’m man enough for all the pot-bellied politicians you can crowd into this corridor.  And if there’s any more hammering here, I’ll step out and show you.”

He slammed the door, locked it, and set his shoulders against the panels.

“Luke, keep away,” counselled Thelismer.  “The boy is just plain lumber-jack at the present moment, and he’s a hard man in a scrap.  We can’t afford to have a scene.”

“They’re going to turn wrongside-out that wad of cotton batting with two ounces of brains wrapped in it!” raved the State chairman.  But the Duke pulled the politician away, whispering in his ear.

Spinney faced the General, blinking, doubtful, sullen.

The old soldier knew how to attack.  He flung his accusation with fierce directness.  “Spinney, you have sold out.  You’re a traitor.  And you’re a thief as well, for you’ve sold what didn’t belong to you.  You solicited honest men, in the name of reform, to put their cause into your hands.  It was a trust.  You’ve sold it.”