There was one clever man there who was quick to see his opportunity, and seize it for his newspaper.

“And are you going to help Mr. Crewe in his campaign, Mrs. Pomfret?”

“Most assuredly,” answered Mrs. Pomfret.  “Women in this country could do so much if they only would.  You know,” she added, in her most winning manner, “you know that a woman can often get a vote when a man can’t.”

“And you, and—­other ladies will go around to the public meetings?”

“Why not, my friend; if Mr. Crewe has no objection? and I can conceive of none.”

“You would have an organization of society ladies to help Mr. Crewe?”

“That’s rather a crude way of putting it,” answered Mrs. Pomfret, with her glasses raised judicially.  “Women in what you call I society are, I am glad to say, taking an increasing interest in politics.  They are beginning to realize that it is a duty.”

“Thank you,” said the reporter; “and now would you mind if I took a photograph of you in your carriage.”

“Oh, mother,” protested Alice, “you won’t let him do that!”

“Be quiet, Alice.  Lady Aylestone and the duchess are photographed in every conceivable pose for political purposes.  Wymans, just drive around to the other side of the circle.”

The article appeared next day, and gave, as may be imagined, a tremendous impetus to Mr. Crewe’s cause.  “A new era in American politics!” “Society to take a hand in the gubernatorial campaign of Millionaire Humphrey Crewe!” “Noted social leader, Mrs. Patterson Pomfret, declares it a duty, and saga that English women have the right idea.”  And a photograph of Mrs. Patterson Pomfret herself, in her victoria, occupied a generous portion of the front page.

“What’s all this rubbish about Mrs. Pomfret?” was Mr. Crewe’s grateful comment when he saw it.  “I spent two valuable hours with that reporter givin’ him material and statistics, and I can’t find that he’s used a word of it.”

“Never you mind about that,” Mr. Tooting replied.  “The more advertising you get, the better, and this shows that the right people are behind you.  Mrs. Pomfret’s a smart woman, all right.  She knows her job.  And here’s more advertising,” he continued, shoving another sheet across the desk, “a fine likeness of you in caricature labelled, ’Ajax defying the Lightning.’  Who’s Ajax?  There was an Italian, a street contractor, with that name—­or something like it—­in Newcastle a couple of years ago—­in the eighth ward.”

In these days, when false rumours fly apace to the injury of innocent men, it is well to get at the truth, if possible.  It is not true that Mr. Paul Pardriff, of the ‘Ripton Record,’ has been to Wedderburn.  Mr. Pardriff was getting into a buggy to go—­somewhere—­when he chanced to meet the Honourable Brush Bascom, and the buggy was sent back to the livery-stable.  Mr. Tooting had been to see Mr. Pardriff before the world-quaking announcement of June 7th, and had found