He wondered at himself sometimes.  He hardly understood the zeal that now animated him, so sudden a convert.  But the zest of youth was in him; the spirit of the toil of the big woods, of the race with drought when the drives are going down, the everlasting struggle with nature’s forces, the rivalry between man and man where accomplishment that bulks large in the eyes of men is the only accomplishment that counts—­all these spurred him to make good, now that he had begun.  In the open arena of life his training had been that of man to man, and the best man taking the prize.  And his reading during the long evenings had been more in the way of education in public matters than he had realized.  As for ideals, he had followed the masterful men who preached a gospel that appealed to him, living the life of the open, battling for the weak against the selfishly strong—­so it seemed to the one who studied their achievements on the printed page.  With his own opportunity now thrust upon him, Harlan Thornton determined to make candor his code, honesty his system.  He entertained no false ideas of his personal importance.  But his lack of experience did not daunt him.  He simply made up his mind that he would go forward, keeping soul and heart open, as well as eyes and ears.  He believed that the square deal could not be hidden from those who entered public life in that manner.

He did not discuss all this with his grandfather.  If he had, Thelismer Thornton would have been vastly interested.  He might have been amused.  Probably he would have been more amused than interested, for hot youth and glowing ideals have humorous phases for the man who has lived among men for more than eighty years.

But that he had unloosed a bottle imp in his own family would not have occurred to the old man, even after he had listened, for he still had the cynical belief that circumstances must control, interest convert, and personal profit kill the most glowing ardor in reform.

Lacking the gift of divination, Thelismer Thornton watched the rapid development of this bottle imp with much complacency.  “Whispering” Urban Cobb brought him reports from the field.  Talleyrand Sylvester was trying to place bets on Harlan Thornton, but there were no takers.  It was even stated that Enoch Dudley was finding it hard work to secure pledges enough to warrant his running as an independent candidate.

Harlan Thornton, looking in from the outside, had found politics, as managed for him, an abhorrent mess.  Now, plunged in, he was embracing his opportunity, and finding good in the contest.

On the other hand, Harlan Thornton, making his own plea and his own pledges as a candidate, was embraced by the voters.  He was not a mere legatee forced on them by a boss—­he was speaking for himself, and the sincerity of the young man made itself felt.

At the end of the appointed two days he knew that his prospects were safe.  One of the other towns in the district and three of the plantations had endorsed his name in caucus.  If Thelismer Thornton had been responsible for his candidacy, so was his own personality responsible for this clearing away of difficulties.  He felt his self-respect returning.  That cruel wound to his pride was healing.