“You wouldn’t think he was listenin’, would you, Will?” Mr. Bixby remarked.

“Listening?”

“Ears are sharp as a dog’s.  Callate he kin hear as far as the governor’s table, and he don’t look as if he knows anything.  One way he built up his power—­listenin’ when they’re talkin’ sly out there in the rotunda.  They’re almighty surprised when they l’arn he knows what they’re up to.  Guess you understand how to go along by quiet and listen when they’re talkin’ sly.”

“I never did such a thing in my life,” cried William Wetherell, indignantly aghast.

But Mr. Bixby winked.

“So long, Will,” he said, “see you in Number 7.”

Never, since the days of Pompadour and Du Barry, until modern American politics were invented, has a state been ruled from such a place as Number 7 in the Pelican House—­familiarly known as the Throne Room.  In this historic cabinet there were five chairs, a marble-topped table, a pitcher of iced water, a bureau, a box of cigars and a Bible, a chandelier with all the gas jets burning, and a bed, whereon sat such dignitaries as obtained an audience,—­railroad presidents, governors and ex-governors and prospective governors, the Speaker, the President of the Senate, Bijah Bixby, Peleg Hartington, mighty chiefs from the North Country, and lieutenants from other parts of the state.  These sat on the bed by preference.  Jethro sat in a chair by the window, and never took any part in the discussions that raged, but listened.  Generally there was some one seated beside him who talked persistently in his ear; as at present, for instance, Mr. Chauncey Weed, Chairman of the Committee on Corporations of the House, who took the additional precaution of putting his hand to his mouth when he spoke.

Mr. Stephen Merrill was in the Throne Room that evening, and confidentially explained to the bewildered William Wetherell the exact situation in the Truro Franchise fight.  Inasmuch as it has become our duty to describe this celebrated conflict,—­in a popular and engaging manner, if possible,—­we shall have to do so through Mr. Wetherell’s eyes, and on his responsibility.  The biographies of some of the gentlemen concerned have since been published, and for some unaccountable reason contain no mention of the Truro franchise.

“All Gaul,” said Mr. Merrill—­he was speaking to a literary man—­“all Gaul is divided into five railroads.  I am one, the Grand Gulf and Northern, the impecunious one.  That is the reason I’m so nice to everybody, Mr. Wetherell.  The other day a conductor on my road had a shock of paralysis when a man paid his fare.  Then there’s Batch, president of the ‘Down East’ road, as we call it.  Batch and I are out of this fight,—­we don’t care whether Isaac D. Worthington gets his franchise or not, or I wouldn’t be telling you this.  The two railroads which don’t want him to get it, because the Truro would eventually become a competitor with them, are the Central and the Northwestern.  Alexander Duncan is president of the Central.”