“Why, cuss me if it isn’t Billy!  Mr. Paret, I want you to shake hands with Mr. Donovan, the floor leader of the ‘opposition,’ sir.  Mr. Donovan has had the habit of coming up here for a friendly chat ever since he first came down to the legislature.  How long is it, Billy?”

“I guess it’s nigh on to fifteen years, Colonel.”

“Fifteen years!” echoed the Colonel, “and he’s so good a Democrat it hasn’t changed his politics a particle.”

Mr. Donovan grinned in appreciation of this thrust, helped himself liberally from the bottle on the mantel, and took a seat on the bed.  We had a “friendly chat.”

Thus I made the acquaintance also of the Hon. Joseph Mecklin, Speaker of the House, who unbent in the most flattering way on learning my identity.

“Mr. Paret’s here on that little matter, representing Watling, Fowndes and Ripon,” the Colonel explained.  And it appeared that Mr. Mecklin knew all about the “little matter,” and that the mention of the firm of Watling, Fowndes and Ripon had a magical effect in these parts.  The President of the Senate, the Hon. Lafe Giddings, went so far as to say that he hoped before long to see Mr. Watling in Washington.  By no means the least among our callers was the Hon. Fitch Truesdale, editor of the St. Helen’s Messenger, whose editorials were of the trite effectiveness that is taken widely for wisdom, and were assiduously copied every week by other state papers and labeled “Mr. Truesdale’s Common Sense.”  At countless firesides in our state he was known as the spokesman of the plain man, who was blissfully ignorant of the fact that Mr. Truesdale was owned body and carcass by Mr. Cyrus Ridden, the principal manufacturer of St. Helen’s and a director in several subsidiary lines of the Railroad.  In the legislature, the Hon. Fitch’s function was that of the moderate counsellor and bellwether for new members, hence nothing could have been more fitting than the choice of that gentleman for the honour of moving, on the morrow, that Bill No. 709 ought to pass.

Mr. Truesdale reluctantly consented to accept a small “loan” that would help to pay the mortgage on his new press....

When the last of the gathering had departed, about one o’clock in the morning, I had added considerably to my experience, gained a pretty accurate idea of who was who in the legislature and politics of the state, and established relationships—­as the Colonel reminded me—­likely to prove valuable in the future.  It seemed only gracious to congratulate him on his management of the affair,—­so far.  He appeared pleased, and squeezed my hand.

“Well, sir, it did require a little delicacy of touch.  And if I do say it myself, it hasn’t been botched,” he admitted.  “There ain’t an outsider, as far as I can learn, who has caught on to the nigger in the wood-pile.  That’s the great thing, to keep ’em ignorant as long as possible.  You understand.  They yell bloody murder when they do find out, but generally it’s too late, if a bill’s been handled right.”