I went tiptoeing into the hall and peeped over the banisters while Ella opened the door.  I heard a voice which I recognized as that of Perry Blackwood’s father asking for Mr. Paret; and then to my astonishment, I saw filing after him into the parlour some ten or twelve persons.  With the exception of Mr. Ogilvy, who belonged to one of our old families, and Mr. Watling, a lawyer who had married the youngest of Gene Hollister’s aunts, the visitors entered stealthily, after the manner of burglars; some of these were heavy-jowled, and all had an air of mystery that raised my curiosity and excitement to the highest pitch.  I caught hold of Ella as she came up the stairs, but she tore herself free, and announced to my father that Mr. Josiah Blackwood and other gentlemen had asked to see him.  My father seemed puzzled as he went downstairs....  A long interval elapsed, during which I did not make even a pretence of looking at my arithmetic.  At times the low hum of voices rose to what was almost an uproar, and on occasions I distinguished a marked Irish brogue.

“I wonder what they want?” said my mother, nervously.

At last we heard the front door shut behind them, and my father came upstairs, his usually serene face wearing a disturbed expression.

“Who in the world was it, Mr. Paret?” asked my mother.

My father sat down in the arm-chair.  He was clearly making an effort for self-control.

“Blackwood and Ogilvy and Watling and some city politicians,” he exclaimed.

“Politicians!” she repeated.  “What did they want?  That is, if it’s anything you can tell me,” she added apologetically.

“They wished me to be the Republican candidate for the mayor of this city.”

This tremendous news took me off my feet.  My father mayor!

“Of course you didn’t consider it, Mr. Paret,” my mother was saying.

“Consider it!” he echoed reprovingly.  “I can’t imagine what Ogilvy and Watling and Josiah Blackwood were thinking of!  They are out of their heads.  I as much as told them so.”

This was more than I could bear, for I had already pictured myself telling the news to envious schoolmates.

“Oh, father, why didn’t you take it?” I cried.

By this time, when he turned to me, he had regained his usual expression.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Hugh,” he said.  “Accept a political office!  That sort of thing is left to politicians.”

The tone in which he spoke warned me that a continuation of the conversation would be unwise, and my mother also understood that the discussion was closed.  He went back to his desk, and began writing again as though nothing had happened.

As for me, I was left in a palpitating state of excitement which my father’s self-control or sang-froid only served to irritate and enhance, and my head was fairly spinning as, covertly, I watched his pen steadily covering the paper.