“Guess there wahn’t a mite of trouble about the river towns,” he said, “I had ’em in my pocket.  Will, let’s amble round to the theatre.  We ought to git in two acts.”

William Wetherell went.  There is no need to go into the psychology of the matter.  It may have been numbness; it may have been temporary insanity caused by the excitement of the battle he had witnessed, for his brain was in a whirl; or Mr. Bixby may have hypnotized him.  As they walked through the silent streets toward the Opera House, he listened perforce to Mr. Bixby’s comments upon some of the innumerable details which Jethro had planned and quietly carried out while sitting, in the window of the Throne Room.  A great light dawned on William Wetherell, but too late.

Jethro’s trusted lieutenants (of whom, needless to say, Mr. Bixby was one) had been commanded to notify such of their supporters whose fidelity and secrecy could be absolutely depended upon to attend the Woodchuck Session; and, further to guard against surprise, this order had not gone out until the last minute (hence Mr. Amos Cuthbert’s conduct).  The seats of these members at the theatre had been filled by accommodating townspeople and visitors.  Forestalling a possible vote on the morrow to recall and reconsider, there remained some sixty members whose loyalty was unquestioned, but whose reputation for discretion was not of the best.  So much for the parliamentary side of the affair, which was a revelation of generalship and organization to William Wetherell.  By the time he had grasped it they were come in view of the lights of Fosters Opera House, and they perceived, among a sprinkling of idlers, a conspicuous and meditative gentleman leaning against a pillar.  He was ludicrously tall and ludicrously thin, his hands were in his trousers pockets, and the skirts of his Sunday broadcloth coat hung down behind him awry.  One long foot was crossed over the other and rested on the point of the toe, and his head was tilted to one side.  He had, on the whole, the appearance of a rather mournful stork.  Mr. Bixby approached him gravely, seized him by the lower shoulder, and tilted him down until it was possible to speak into his ear.  The gentleman apparently did not resent this, although he seemed in imminent danger of being upset.

“How be you, Peleg?  Er—­you know Will?”

“No,” said the gentleman.

Mr. Bixby seized Mr. Wetherell under the elbow, and addressed himself to the storekeeper’s ear.

“Will, I want you to shake hands with Senator Peleg Hartington, of Brampton.  This is Will Wetherell, Peleg,—­from Coniston—­you understand.”

The senator took one hand from his pocket.

“How be you?” he said.  Mr. Bixby was once more pulling down on his shoulder.

“H-haow was it here?” he demanded.

“Almighty funny,” answered Senator Hartington, sadly, and waved at the lobby.  “There wahn’t standin’ room in the place.”