Out of a cloud of dust emerges an automobile, which halts, with protesting brakes, in front of a neat farmhouse, guarded by great maples.  Persistent knocking by a chauffeur at last brings a woman to the door.  Mrs. Jenney has a pleasant face and an ample figure.

“Mr. Jenney live here?” cries Mr. Crewe from the driver’s seat.

“Yes,” says Mrs. Jenney, smiling.

“Tell him I want to see him.”

“Guess you’ll find him in the apple orchard.”

“Where’s that?”

The chauffeur takes down the bars, Mr. Jenney pricks up his ears, and presently—­to his amazement—­perceives a Leviathan approaching him, careening over the ruts of his wood road.  Not being an emotional person, he continues to pick apples until he is summarily hailed.  Then he goes leisurely towards the Leviathan.

“Are you Mr. Jenney?”

“Callate to be,” says Mr. Jenney, pleasantly.

“I’m Humphrey Crewe.”

“How be you?” says Mr. Jenney, his eyes wandering over the Leviathan.

“How are the apples this year?” asks Mr. Crewe, graciously.

“Fair to middlin’,” says Mr. Jenney.

“Have you ever tasted my Pippins?” says Mr. Crewe.  “A little science in cultivation helps along.  I’m going to send you a United States government pamphlet on the fruit we can raise here.”

Mr. Jenney makes an awkward pause by keeping silent on the subject of the pamphlet until he shall see it.

“Do you take much interest in politics?”

“Not a great deal,” answers Mr. Jenney.

“That’s the trouble with Americans,” Mr. Crewe declares, “they don’t care who represents ’em, or whether their government’s good or bad.”

“Guess that’s so,” replies Mr. Jenney, politely.

“That sort of thing’s got to stop,” declares Mr. Crewe; “I’m a candidate for the Republican nomination for representative.”

“I want to know!” ejaculates Mr. Jenney, pulling his beard.  One would never suspect that this has been one of Mr. Jenney’s chief topics of late.

“I’ll see that the interests of this town are cared for.”

“Let’s see,” says Mr. Jenney, “there’s five hundred in the House, ain’t there?”

“It’s a ridiculous number,” says Mr. Crewe, with truth.

“Gives everybody a chance to go,” says Mr. Jenney.  “I was thar in ’78, and enjoyed it some.”

“Who are you for?” demanded Mr. Crewe, combating the tendency of the conversation to slip into a pocket.

“Little early yet, hain’t it?  Hain’t made up my mind.  Who’s the candidates?” asks Mr. Jenney, continuing to stroke his beard.

“I don’t know,” says Mr. Crewe, “but I do know I’ve done something for this town, and I hope you’ll take it into consideration.  Come and see me when you go to the village.  I’ll give you a good cigar, and that pamphlet, and we’ll talk matters over.”

“Never would have thought to see one of them things in my orchard,” says Mr. Jenney.  “How much do they cost?  Much as a locomotive, don’t they?”