The next morning Mrs. Pomfret, who was merely “driving by” with her daughter Alice and Beatrice Chillingham, spied Mr. Crewe walking about among the young trees he was growing near the road, and occasionally tapping them with his stout stick.  She poked her coachman in the back and cried:—­“Humphrey, you’re such an important man now that I despair of ever seeing you again.  What was the matter last night?”

“A politician from Newcastle,” answered Mr. Crewe, continuing to tap the trees, and without so much as a glance at Alice.

“Well, if you’re as important as this before you’re elected, I can’t think what it will be afterwards,” Mrs. Pomfret lamented.  “Poor dear Humphrey is so conscientious.  When can you come, Humphrey?”

“Don’t know,” said Mr. Crewe; “I’ll try to come tonight, but I may be stopped again.  Here’s Waters now.”

The three people in Mrs. Pomfret’s victoria were considerably impressed to see the dignified Waters hurrying down the slope from the house towards them.  Mr. Crewe continued to tap the trees, but drew a little nearer the carriage.

“If you please, sir,” said Waters, “there’s a telephone call for you from Newcastle.  It’s urgent, sir.”

“Who is it?”

“They won’t give their names, sir.”

“All right,” said Mr. Crewe, and with a grin which spoke volumes for the manner in which he was harassed he started towards the house—­in no great hurry, however.  Reaching the instrument, and saying “Hello” in his usually gracious manner, he was greeted by a voice with a decided Hibernian-American accent.

“Am I talkin’ to Mr. Crewe?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Humphrey Crewe?”

“Yes—­yes, of course you are.  Who are you?”

“I’m the president of the Paradise Benevolent and Military Association, Mr. Crewe.  Boys that work in the mills, you know,” continued the voice, caressingly.  “Sure you’ve heard of us.  We’re five hundred strong, and all of us good Republicans as the president.  We’re to have our annual fall outing the first of October in Finney Grove, and we’d like to have you come down.”

“The first of October?” said Mr. Crewe.  “I’ll consult my engagement book.”

“We’d like to have a good picture of you in our programme, Mr. Crewe.  We hope you’ll oblige us.  You’re such an important figure in State politics now you’d ought to have a full page.”

There was a short silence.

“What does it cost?” Mr. Crewe demanded.

“Sure,” said the caressing voice of the president, “whatever you like.”

“I’ll send you a check for five dollars, and a picture,” said Mr. Crewe.

The answer to this was a hearty laugh, which the telephone reproduced admirably.  The voice now lost a little of its caressing note and partook of a harder quality.

“You’re a splendid humorist, Mr. Crewe.  Five dollars wouldn’t pay for the plate and the paper.  A gentleman like you could give us twenty-five, and never know it was gone.  You won’t be wanting to stop in the Legislature, Mr. Crewe, and we remember our friends in Newcastle.”