“Well, Jethro,” said the gentleman, “I’ve got to come into the Throne Room once a day anyhow, just to make sure you don’t forget me—­eh?”

“A-Alvy,” said Jethro, “I want you to shake hands with a particular friend of mine, Mr. Will Wetherell of Coniston.  Er—­Will, the Honorable Alvy Hopkins of Gosport.”

Mr. Hopkins rose from the bed as gradually as he had sunk down upon it, and seized Mr. Wetherell’s hand impressively.  His own was very moist.

“Heard you was in town, Mr. Wetherell,” he said heartily.  “If Jethro calls you a particular friend, it means something, I guess.  It means something to me, anyhow.”

“Will hain’t a politician,” said Jethro.  “Er—­Alvy?”

“Hello!” said Mr. Hopkins.

“Er—­Will don’t talk.”

“If Jethro had been real tactful,” said the Honorable Alvy, sinking down again, “he’d have introduced me as the next governor of the state.  Everybody knows I want to be governor, everybody knows I’ve got twenty thousand dollars in the bank to pay for that privilege.  Everybody knows I’m going to be governor if Jethro says so.”

William Wetherell was a little taken aback at this ingenuous statement of the gentleman from Gosport.  He looked out of the window through the foliage of the park, and his eye was caught by the monument there in front of the State House, and he thought of the inscription on the base of it, “The People’s Government.”  The Honorable Alva had not mentioned the people—­undoubtedly.

“Yes, Mr. Wetherell, twenty thousand dollars.”  He sighed.  “Time was when a man could be governor for ten.  Those were the good old days—­eh, Jethro?”

“A-Alvy, ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin’s’ comin’ to town tomorrow—­to-morrow.”

“You don’t tell me,” said the Honorable Alva, acquiescing cheerfully in the change of subject.  “We’ll go.  Pleased to have you, too, Mr. Wetherell.”

“Alvy,” said Jethro, again, “‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin’ comes to town to-morrow.”

Mr. Hopkins stopped fanning himself, and glanced at Jethro questioningly.

“A-Alvy, that give you an idea?” said Jethro, mildly.

Mr. Wetherell looked blank:  it gave him no idea whatsoever, except of little Eva and the bloodhounds.  For a few moments the Honorable Alva appeared to be groping, too, and then his face began to crease into a smile of comprehension.

“By Godfrey, Jethro, but you are smart.” he exclaimed, with involuntary tribute; “you mean buy up the theatre?”

“C-callate you’ll find it’s bought up.”

“You mean pay for it?” said Mr. Hopkins.

“You’ve guessed it, Alvy, you’ve guessed it.”

Mr. Hopkins gazed at him in admiration, leaned out of the perpendicular, and promptly drew from his trousers’ pocket a roll of stupendous proportions.  Wetting his thumb, he began to push aside the top bills.

“How much is it?” he demanded.

But Jethro put up his hand.