Mr. Hamilton Tooting (Colonel Hamilton Tooting that is to be—­it being an open secret that he is destined for the staff) is standing hatless on the sidewalk ready to receive the great man.  The crowd in the rotunda makes a lane, and Mr. Crewe, glancing neither to the right nor left, walks upstairs; and scarce is he installed in the bridal suite, surrounded by his faithful workers for reform, than that amazing reception begins.  Mr. Hamilton Tooting, looking the very soul of hospitality, stands by the doorway with an open box of cigars in his left hand, pressing them upon the visitors with his right.  Reform, contrary to the preconceived opinion of many, is not made of icicles, nor answers with a stone a request for bread.  As the hours run on, the visitors grow more and more numerous, and after supper the room is packed to suffocation, and a long line is waiting in the corridor, marshalled and kept in good humour by able lieutenants; while Mr. Crewe is dimly to be perceived through clouds of incense burning in his honour—­and incidentally at his expense—­with a welcoming smile and an appropriate word for each caller, whose waistcoat pockets, when they emerge, resemble cartridge-belts of cigars.

More cigars were hastily sent for, and more.  There are to be but a thousand delegates to the convention, and at least two thousand men have already passed through the room—­and those who don’t smoke have friends.  It is well that Mr. Crewe has stuck to his conservative habit of not squeezing hands too hard.

“Isn’t that Mr. Putter, who keeps a livery-stable here?” inquired Mr. Crewe, about nine o’clock—­our candidate having a piercing eye of his own.  Mr. Putter’s coat, being brushed back, has revealed six cigars.

“Why, yes—­yes,” says Mr. Watling.

“Is he a delegate?” Mr. Crewe demanded.

“Why, I guess he must be,” says Mr. Watling.

But Mr. Putter is not a delegate.

“You’ve stood up and made a grand fight, Mr. Crewe,” says another gentleman, a little later, with a bland, smooth shaven face and strong teeth to clinch Mr. Crewe’s cigars.  “I wish I was fixed so as I could vote for you.”

Mr. Crewe looks at him narrowly.

“You look very much like a travelling man from New York, who tried to sell me farm machinery,” he answers.

“Where are you from?”

“You ain’t exactly what they call a tyro, are you?” says the bland-faced man; “but I guess you’ve missed the mark this shot.  Well, so long.”

“Hold on!” says Mr. Crewe, “Watling will talk to you.”

And, as the gentleman follows Mr. Wailing through the press, a pamphlet drops from his pocket to the floor.  It is marked ’Catalogue of the Raines Farm Implement Company.’  Mr. Watling picks it up and hands it to the gentleman, who winks again.

“Tim,” he says, “where can we sit down?  How much are you getting out of this?  Brush and Jake Botcher are bidding high down-stairs, and the quotation on delegates has gone up ten points in ten minutes.  It’s mighty good of you to remember old friends, Tim, even if they’re not delegates.”