the thought stayed him.  Sixty odd weekly newspapers, filled with arguments from the Book, attacked him all at once; and if by chance he should have missed the best part of this flattering personal attention, the editorials which contained the most spice were copied at the end of the week into the columns of his erstwhile friend, the State Tribune, now the organ of that mysterious personality, the Honourable Adam B. Hunt.  ‘Et tu, Brute!’

Moreover, Mr. Peter Pardriff had something of his own to say.  Some gentlemen of prominence (not among the twenty signers of the new Declaration of Independence) had been interviewed by the Tribune reporter on the subject of Mr. Crewe’s candidacy.  Here are some of the answers, duly tabulated.

“Negligible.”—­Congressman Fairplay.

“One less vote for the Honourable Adam B. Hunt.”—­The Honourable Jacob Botcher.

“A monumental farce.”—­Ex-Governor Broadbent.

“Who is Mr. Crewe?”—­Senator Whitredge. (Ah ha!  Senator, this want shall be supplied, at least.)

“I have been very busy.  I do not know what candidates are in the field.”—­Mr. Augustus P. Flint, president of the Northeastern Railroads.  (The unkindest cut of all!)

“I have heard that a Mr. Crewe is a candidate, but I do not know much about him.  They tell me he is a summer resident at Leith.”—­The Honourable Hilary Vane.

“A millionaire’s freak—­not to be taken seriously.—­State Senator Nathaniel Billings.”

The State Tribune itself seemed to be especially interested in the past careers of the twenty signers.  Who composed this dauntless band, whose members had arisen with remarkable unanimity and martyr’s zeal in such widely scattered parts of the State?  Had each been simultaneously inspired with the same high thought, and—­more amazing still—­with the idea of the same peerless leader?  The Tribune modestly ventured the theory that Mr. Crewe had appeared to each of the twenty in a dream, with a flaming sword pointing to the steam of the dragon’s breath.  Or, perhaps, a star had led each of the twenty to Leith. (This likening of Mr. H—­n T—­g to a star caused much merriment among that gentleman’s former friends and acquaintances.) The Tribune could not account for this phenomenon by any natural laws, and was forced to believe that the thing was a miracle—­in which case it behooved the Northeastern Railroads to read the handwriting on the wall.  Unless—­unless the twenty did not exist!  Unless the whole thing were a joke!  The Tribune remembered a time when a signed statement, purporting to come from a certain Mrs. Amanda P. Pillow, of 22 Blair Street, Newcastle, had appeared, to the effect that three bottles of Rand’s Peach Nectar had cured her of dropsy.  On investigation there was no Blair Street, and Mrs. Amanda P. Pillow was as yet unborn.  The one sure thing about the statement was that Rand’s Peach Nectar could be had, in large or small quantities, as desired.  And the Tribune was prepared to state; on its own authority, that a Mr. Humphrey Crewe did exist, and might reluctantly consent to take the nomination for the governorship.  In industry and zeal he was said to resemble the celebrated and lamented Mr. Rand, of the Peach Nectar.