Mr. Vane was silent.

“Suppose Crewe goes into the convention with enough delegates to lock it up, so that none of the three has a majority?”

“I guess he’ll do that,” said Mr. Vane.  He fumbled in his pocket, and drew out a typewritten list.  It must be explained that the caucuses, or primaries, had been held in the various towns of the State at odd dates, and that the delegates pledged for the different candidates had been published in the newspapers from time to time—­although very much in accordance with the desires of their individual newspapers.  Mr. Crewe’s delegates necessarily had been announced by what is known as political advertising.  Mr. Flint took the Honourable Hilary’s list, ran his eye over it, and whistled.

“You mean he claims three hundred and fifty out of the thousand.”

“No,” said Hilary, “he claims six hundred.  He’ll have three hundred and fifty.”

In spite of the ‘Book of Arguments,’ Mr. Crewe was to have three hundred!  It was incredible, preposterous.  Mr. Flint looked at his counsel once more, and wondered whether he could be mentally failing.

“Fairplay only gives him two hundred.”

“Fairplay only gave him ten, in the beginning,” said Hilary.

“You come here two days before the convention and tell me Crewe has three hundred and fifty!” Mr. Flint exclaimed, as though Hilary Vane were personally responsible for Mr. Crewe’s delegates.  A very different tone from that of other times, when conventions were mere ratifications of Imperial decrees.  “Do you realize what it means if we lose control?  Thousands and thousands of dollars in improvements—­rolling stock, better service, new bridges, and eliminations of grade crossings.  And they’ll raise our tax rate to the average, which means thousands more.  A new railroad commission that we can’t talk to, and lower dividends—­lower dividends, do you understand?  That means trouble with the directors, the stockholders, and calls for explanations.  And what explanations can I make which can be printed in a public report?”

“You were always pretty good at ’em, Flint,” said Hilary.

This remark, as was perhaps natural, did not improve the temper of the president of the Northeastern.

“If you think I like this political business any better than you do, you’re mightily mistaken,” he replied.  “And now I want to hear what plan you’ve got for the convention.  Suppose there’s a deadlock, as you say there will be, how are you going to handle it?  Can you get a deal through between Giles Henderson and Adam Hunt?  With all my other work, I’ve had to go into this myself.  Hunt hasn’t got a chance.  Bascom and Botcher are egging him on and making him believe he has.  When Hunt gets into the convention and begins to fall off, you’ve got to talk to him, Vane.  And his delegates have all got to be seen at the Pelican the night before and understand that they’re to swing to Henderson after two ballots.  You’ve got to keep your hand on the throttle in the convention, you understand.  And I don’t need to impress upon you how grave are the consequences if this man Crewe gets in, with public sentiment behind him and a reactionary Lower House.  You’ve got to keep your hand on the throttle.”