“It isn’t for my interest,” answered the General.  “I make more by staying out.”

“How many members are there for Belch?” continued Abel.

The General did not quite like the question, nor the tone in which it was asked.  His fat nose glistened for a moment, while his mouth twisted into a smile, and he answered,

“They’re only for Belch as far as Belch is for them—­”

“Or as far as Belch makes them think he is,” answered Abel, smiling.

The General smiled too, for he found the game going against him.

“We were speaking of your speech,” said he.  “Now, Newt, the thing’s in your own hands.  You’ve a future before you.  With the drill of the party, and with your talents, you ought to do any thing.”

“Too many rivals,” said Abel, curtly.

“My dear fellow, what are the odds?  They can’t do any thing outside the party, or without the drill.  Make it their interest not to be ambitious, and they’re quiet enough.  Here’s William Condor—­lovely, lovely William.  He loves the people so dearly that he does nothing for them at twenty thousand dollars a year.  Tell him that you will secure him his place, and he’s your humble servant.  Of course he is.  Now I am more familiar with the details of these things, and I’m always at your service.  Before you go, there will be a caucus of the friends of the grant, which you must attend, and make a speech.”

“Another speech?” said Abel.

“My dear fellow, you are now a speech-maker by profession.  Now that you are in Congress, you will never be free from the oratorical liability.  Wherever two or three are gathered together, and you are one of them, you’ll have to return thanks, and wave the glorious flag of our country.  And you’ll have to begin very soon.”

CHAPTER LXVII.

WIRES.

General Belch was right.  Abel had to begin very soon.  The committee met and called the meetings.  The members of the committee, each in his own district, consulted with various people, whom they found generally at corner groceries.  They were large, coarse-featured, hulking men, and were all named Jim, or Tom, or Ned.

“What’ll you have, Jim?”

“Well, Sir, it’s so early in the day, that I can’t go any thing stronger than brandy.”

“Two cocktails—­stiff,” was the word of the gentleman to the bar-keeper.

The companions took their glasses, and sat down behind a heavy screen.

“Well, Sir, what’s the word?  I see there’s going to be more meetin’s.”

“Yes, Jim.  Bodley has resigned.”

“Who’s the man, Mr. Slugby?” asked Jim, as if to bring matters to a point.

“Mr. Abel Newt has been mentioned,” replied the gentleman with the diamond ring, which he had slipped into his waistcoat pocket before the interview.

Jim cocked his eye at his glass, which was nearly empty.