“That’s all right,” the lawyer responded, “but Moneida doesn’t look altogether pleasant, you know.  We may have good grounds for supposing that the court will find you clear of that business; but Ormiston, so far as I can make out, was playing the fool down there for a week before polling-day, and there are three or four Yellow Dogs and Red Feathers only too anxious to pay back a grudge on him.  We’ll have to fight again, there’s no doubt about that.  The only question is whether we’ll ruin Ormiston first or not.  Have you seen Bingham?”

“I know what Bingham thinks,” said Lorne, impatiently.  “The Squire’s position is a different consideration.  I don’t see how I can—­However, I’ll go across to the committee room now and talk it over.”

It is doubtful whether young Murchison knew all that Bingham thought; Bingham so seldom told it all.  There were matters in the back of Bingham’s mind that prompted him to urge the course that Cruickshank had been empowered by the opposing counsel to suggest—­party considerations that it would serve no useful purpose to talk over with Murchison.  Bingham put it darkly when he said he had quite as much hay on his fork as he cared to tackle already, implying that the defence of indiscretions in Moneida was quite an unnecessary addition.  Contingencies seemed probable, arising out of the Moneida charges that might affect the central organization of the party in South Fox to an extent wholly out of proportion with the mere necessity of a second election.  Bingham talked it over with Horace Williams, and both of them with Farquharson; they were all there to urge the desirability of “sawing off” upon Lorne when he found them at headquarters.  Their most potent argument was, of course, the Squire and the immediate dismissal that awaited him under the law if undue influence were proved against him.  Other considerations found the newly elected member for South Fox obstinate and troublesome, but to that he was bound to listen, and before that he finally withdrew his objections.  The election would come on again, as happened commonly enough.  Bingham could point to the opening, in a few days, of a big flour-milling industry across the river, which would help; operations on the Drill Hall and the Post-Office would be hurried on at once, and the local party organization would be thoroughly overhauled.  Bingham had good reason for believing that they could entirely regain their lost ground, and at the same time dissipate the dangerous impression that South Fox was being undermined.  Their candidate gave a reluctant ear to it all, and in the end agreed to everything.

So that Chief Joseph Fry—­the White Clam Shell of his own lost fires—­was never allowed the chance of making good the election losses of that year, as he had confidently expected to do when the charge came on; nor was it given to any of the Yellow Dogs and Red Feathers of Mr Cruickshank’s citation to boast at the tribal dog-feasts of the future, of the occasion on which they had bested “de boss.”  Neither was any further part in public affairs, except by way of jocular reference, assigned to Finnigan’s cat.  The proceedings of the court abruptly terminated, the judges reported the desirability of a second contest, and the public accepted with a wink.  The wink in any form was hateful to Lorne Murchison, but he had not to encounter it long.