“Ach!” he cried.  “It is so, I have seen it in ‘Alice in Wonderland.’” Here the puzzled expression returned to his face, “But they are birds, are they not?”

Men whose minds are on serious things are impatient of levity, and Mr. Crewe looked at the baron: 

“No,” he said, “they are not birds.”

This reply was the signal for more laughter.

“A thousand pardons,” exclaimed the baron.  “It is I who am so ignorant.  You will excuse me—­yes?”

Mr. Crewe was mollified.  The baron was a foreigner, he had been the object of laughter, and Mr. Crewe’s chivalrous spirit resented it.

“What we call a caucus in the towns of this State,” he said, “is a meeting of citizens of one party to determine who their candidates shall be.  A caucus is a primary.  There is a very loose primary law in this State, purposely kept loose by the politicians of the Northeastern Railroads, in order that they may play such tricks on decent men as they have been playing on me.”

At this mention of the Northeastern Railroads the lady on Mr. Crewe’s right, and some other guests, gave startled glances at Victoria.  They observed with surprise that she seemed quite unmoved.

“I’ll tell you one or two of the things those railroad lobbyists have done,” said Mr. Crewe, his indignation rising with the subject, and still addressing the baron.  “They are afraid to let the people into the caucuses, because they know I’ll get the delegates.  Nearly everywhere I speak to the people, I get the delegates.  The railroad politicians send word to the town rings to hold snap caucuses’ when they hear I’m coming into a town to speak, and the local politicians give out notices only a day before, and only to the voters they want in the caucus.  In Hull the other day, out of a population of two thousand, twenty men elected four delegates for the railroad candidate.”

“It is corruption!” cried the baron, who had no idea who Victoria was, and a very slim notion of what Mr. Crewe was talking about.

“Corruption!” said Mr. Crewe.  “What can you expect when a railroad owns a State?  The other day in Britain, where they elect fourteen delegates, the editor of a weekly newspaper printed false ballots with two of my men at the top and one at the bottom, and eleven railroad men in the middle.  Fortunately some person with sense discovered the fraud before it was too late.”

“You don’t tell me!” said the baron.

“And every State and federal office-holder has been distributing passes for the last three weeks.”

“Pass?” repeated the baron.  “You mean they fight with the fist—­so?  To distribute a pass—­so,” and the baron struck out at an imaginary enemy.  “It is the American language.  I have read it in the prize-fight.  I am told to read the prize-fight and the base-ball game.”

Mr. Crewe thought it obviously useless to continue this conversation.

“The railroad,” said the baron, “he is the modern Machiavelli.”