“He won’t represent this town again, that’s sure,” exclaimed George.  “You didn’t see in the papers that he was nominated,—­did you, Paret?”

“But if the mill people wanted him, George, how could it be prevented?” his wife demanded.

George winked at me.

“There are more ways of skinning a cat than one,” he said cryptically.

“Well, it’s time to go to the meeting, I guess,” remarked Ezra, rising.  Once more he looked at his watch.

We were packed into several family carriages and started off.  In front of the hall the inevitable red fire was burning, its quivering light reflected on the faces of the crowd that blocked the street.  They stood silent, strangely apathetic as we pushed through them to the curb, and the red fire went out suddenly as we descended.  My temporary sense of depression, however, deserted me as we entered the hall, which was well lighted and filled with people, who clapped when the Hon. Joseph and I, accompanied by Mr. Doddridge and the Hon. Henry Clay Mellish from Pottstown, with the local chairman, walked out on the stage.  A glance over the audience sufficed to ascertain that that portion of the population whose dinner pails we longed to fill was evidently not present in large numbers.  But the farmers had driven in from the hills, while the merchants and storekeepers of Elkington had turned out loyally.

The chairman, in introducing me, proclaimed me as a coming man, and declared that I had already achieved, in the campaign, considerable notoriety.  As I spoke, I was pleasantly aware of Maude Hutchins leaning forward a little across the rail of the right-hand stage box—­for the town hall was half opera-house; her attitude was one of semi-absorbed admiration; and the thought that I had made an impression on her stimulated me.  I spoke with more aplomb.  Somewhat to my surprise, I found myself making occasional, unexpected witticisms that drew laughter and applause.  Suddenly, from the back of the hall, a voice called out:—­“How about House Bill 709?”

There was a silence, then a stirring and craning of necks.  It was my first experience of heckling, and for the moment I was taken aback.  I thought of Krebs.  He had, indeed, been in my mind since I had risen to my feet, and I had scanned the faces before me in search of his.  But it was not his voice.

“Well, what about Bill 709?” I demanded.

“You ought to know something about it, I guess,” the voice responded.

“Put him out!” came from various portions of the hall.

Inwardly, I was shaken.  Not—­in orthodox language from any “conviction of sin.”  Yet it was my first intimation that my part in the legislation referred to was known to any save a select few.  I blamed Krebs, and a hot anger arose within me against him.  After all, what could they prove?

“No, don’t put him out,” I said.  “Let him come up here to the platform.  I’ll yield to him.  And I’m entirely willing to discuss with him and defend any measures passed in the legislature of this state by a Republican majority.  Perhaps,” I added, “the gentleman has a copy of the law in his pocket, that I may know what he is talking about, and answer him intelligently.”