inviting me to their houses and opening their hearts.  Thus, when we came to Elkington, Mr. Mecklin reposed in the Commercial House, on the noisy main street.  Fortunately for him, the clanging of trolley cars never interfered with his slumbers.  I slept in a wide chamber in the mansion of Mr. Ezra Hutchins.  There were many Hutchinses in Elkington,—­brothers and cousins and uncles and great-uncles,—­and all were connected with the woollen mills.  But there is always one supreme Hutchins, and Ezra was he:  tall, self-contained, elderly, but well preserved through frugal living, essentially American and typical of his class, when he entered the lobby of the Commercial House that afternoon the babel of political discussion was suddenly hushed; politicians, traveling salesmen and the members of the local committee made a lane for him; to him, the Hon. Joseph and I were introduced.  Mr. Hutchins knew what he wanted.  He was cordial to Mr. Mecklin, but he took me.  We entered a most respectable surrey with tassels, driven by a raw-boned coachman in a black overcoat, drawn by two sleek horses.

“How is this thing going, Paret?” he asked.

I gave him Mr. Grunewald’s estimated majority.

“What do you think?” he demanded, a shrewd, humorous look in his blue eyes.

“Well, I think we’ll carry the state.  I haven’t had Grunewald’s experience in estimating.”

Ezra Hutchins smiled appreciatively.

“What does Watling think?”

“He doesn’t seem to be worrying much.”

“Ever been in Elkington before?”

I said I hadn’t.

“Well, a drive will do you good.”

It was about four o’clock on a mild October afternoon.  The little town, of fifteen thousand inhabitants or so, had a wonderful setting in the widening valley of the Scopanong, whose swiftly running waters furnished the power for the mills.  We drove to these through a gateway over which the words “No Admittance” were conspicuously painted, past long brick buildings that bordered the canals; and in the windows I caught sight of drab figures of men and women bending over the machines.  Half of the buildings, as Mr. Hutchins pointed out, were closed,—­mute witnesses of tariff-tinkering madness.  Even more eloquent of democratic folly was that part of the town through which we presently passed, streets lined with rows of dreary houses where the workers lived.  Children were playing on the sidewalks, but theirs seemed a listless play; listless, too, were the men and women who sat on the steps,—­listless, and somewhat sullen, as they watched us passing.  Ezra Hutchins seemed to read my thought.

“Since the unions got in here I’ve had nothing but trouble,” he said.  “I’ve tried to do my duty by my people, God knows.  But they won’t see which side their bread’s buttered on.  They oppose me at every step, they vote against their own interests.  Some years ago they put up a job on us, and sent a scatter-brained radical to the legislature.”