“Job Braden!” exclaimed Mr. Crewe, “Job Braden!  What’s all this mystery about Job Braden?  Somebody whispers that name in my ear every day.  If you mean that smooth-faced cuss that stutters and lives on Braden’s Hill, I called on him, but he was out.  If you see him, tell him to come up to Wedderburn, and I’ll talk with him.”

Mr. Ball made a gesture to indicate a feeling divided between respect for Mr. Crewe and despair at the hardihood of such a proposition.

“Lord bless you, sir, Job wouldn’t go.”

“Wouldn’t go?”

“He never pays visits,—­folks go to him.”

“He’d come to see me, wouldn’t he?”

“I—­I’m afraid riot, Mr. Crewe.  Job holds his comb rather high.”

“Do you mean to say this two-for-a-cent town has a boss?”

“Silas Grantley was born here,” said Mr. Ball—­for even the worm will turn.  “This town’s got a noble history.”

“I don’t care anything about Silas Grantley.  What I want to know is, how this rascal manages to make anything out of the political pickings of a town like Leith.”

“Well, Job ain’t exactly a rascal, Mr. Crewe.  He’s got a good many of them hill farmers in a position of—­of gratitude.  Enough to control the Republican caucus.”

“Do you mean he buys their votes?” demanded Mr. Crewe.

“It’s like this,” explained Mr. Ball, “if one of ’em falls behind in his grocery bill, for example, he can always get money from Job.  Job takes a mortgage, but he don’t often close down on ’m.  And Job has been collectin’ credentials in Avalon County for upward of forty years.”

“Collecting credentials?”

“Yes.  Gets a man nominated to State and county conventions that can’t go, and goes himself with a bunch of credentials.  He’s in a position to negotiate.  He was in all them railrud fights with Jethro Bass, and now he does business with Hilary Vane or Brush Bascom when anything especial’s goin’ on.  You’d ought to see him, Mr. Crewe.”

“I guess I won’t waste my time with any picayune boss if the United Northeastern Railroads has any hand in this matter,” declared Mr. Crewe.  “Wind her up.”

This latter remark was addressed to a long-suffering chauffeur who looked like a Sicilian brigand.

“I didn’t exactly like to suggest it,” said Mr. Ball, rubbing his hands and raising his voice above the whir of the machine, “but of course I knew Mr. Flint was an intimate friend.  A word to him from you—­”

But by this Mr. Crewe had got in his second speed and was sweeping around a corner lined with farmers’ teams, whose animals were behaving like circus horses.  On his own driveway, where he arrived in incredibly brief time, he met his stenographer, farm superintendent, secretary, housekeeper, and general utility man, Mr. Raikes.  Mr. Raikes was elderly, and showed signs of needing a vacation.

“Telephone Mr. Flint, Raikes, and tell him I would like an appointment at his earliest convenience, on important business.”