He pulled his chair to the table, spread some papers there, and commanded attention by tapping his eyeglasses on the sheets.

“Here’s the programme for the routine:  Called to order at ten-thirty by chairman of State Committee.  Call read by secretary.  On motion of Davis Bolton, of Hollis, proceed to effect temporary organization—­Senator Walker Pownal, chairman—­and so forth.  On motion of Parker Blake, of Jay, ten minutes’ recess declared for county delegations to choose vice-president, member of State Committee, and member of the Committee on Resolutions.”

As he read on, Harlan opened his eyes as well as his ears.  The convention of the morrow had been blocked out to the last detail.  Every motion that was to be made, every step that was to be taken, had its man assigned to it—­and that man had already been notified and tagged.  Fifteen hundred men, assembled presumably as free and independent agents to take counsel for the good of the party, were here bound to the narrowest routine, with programme cut and dried to such an extent that one who dared to lift his voice to interrupt would be considered an interloper.  And he knew that even then, from what Presson had said, the little band of the select were formulating the resolutions that the committee would take in hand as delivered—­accepting that platform as the dictum of the party, and free speech on the convention floor denied.

“Now,” said the chairman, at the close, “let’s fill in the rest, and finish this thing now.  Spinney’s name will be presented by Watson, of his county, and seconded by three other counties.  I’m limiting the seconding speeches to three.  And you know the men Everett has picked out!  Of course, I’ve left the—­the big matter in your own hands, Thelismer.”  Presson glanced over his glasses at General Waymouth with a significant smile.  “Have you decided?  Are you going to let both the other candidates be put in nomination before you spring the trap?”

“Sure!” snapped Thornton.  “I want that convention to realize how little good can be said of either of them.  By the time that gets through those fifteen hundred skulls, they’ll be in a state of mind to appreciate the man of the hour!”

General Waymouth was leaning back in his deep chair, his head on the rest, his eyes upturned to the ceiling, fingers tapping the chair’s arm.  He was offering no comment.

“Vard,” said the Duke, “we’ve got to let a few more into the case now.  Overnight is short notice, at that, for a man to get his nominating speech ready.  But we’re safe.  It won’t be the speech that will take that convention off its feet.  It’ll be your name—­and the fact that you’re willing to stand.  Who’ve you got in mind?”

“No one,” replied the General, briefly.

“Any choice?”

“No.”

“You’re willing to leave it to me?”

“I am.”