It must be remembered that these are Mr. Tooting’s words, and Mr. Crewe evidently treated them as the product of that gentleman’s vivid imagination.  Translated, they meant that the Honourable Adam B. Hunt has no chance for the nomination, but that the crafty Messrs. Botcher and Bascom are inducing him to think that he has—­by making a supreme effort.  The supreme effort is represented by six thousand dollars.

“Are you going to lie down under that?” Mr. Tooting demanded, forgetting himself in his zeal for reform and Mr. Crewe.  But Mr. Tooting, in some alarm, perceived the eye of his chief growing virtuous and glassy.

“I guess I know when I’m strung, as you call it, Mr. Tooting,” he replied severely.  “This cigar bill alone is enough to support a large family for several months.”

And with this merited reproof he turned on his heel and went back to his admirers without, leaving Mr. Tooting aghast, but still resourceful.  Ten minutes later that gentleman was engaged in a private conversation with his colleague, the Honourable Timothy Wading.

“He’s up on his hind legs at last,” said Mr. Tooting; “it looks as if he was catching on.”

Mr. Wading evidently grasped these mysterious words, for he looked grave.

“He thinks he’s got the nomination cinched, don’t he?”

“That’s the worst of it,” cried Mr. Tooting.

“I’ll see what I can do,” said the Honourable Tim.  “He’s always talking about thorough, let him do it thorough.”  And Mr. Watling winked.

“Thorough,” repeated Mr. Tooting, delightedly.

“That’s it—­Colonel,” said Mr. Watling.  “Have you ordered your uniform yet, Ham?”

Mr. Tooting plainly appreciated this joke, for he grinned.

“I guess you won’t starve if you don’t get that commissionership, Tim,” he retorted.

“And I guess,” returned Mr. Watling, “that you won’t go naked if you don’t have a uniform.”

Victoria’s surmise was true.  At ten o’clock at night, two days before the convention, a tall figure had appeared in the empty rotunda of the Pelican, startling the clerk out of a doze.  He rubbed his eyes and stared, recognized Hilary Vane, and yet failed to recognize him.  It was an extraordinary occasion indeed which would cause Mr. McAvoy to lose his aplomb; to neglect to seize the pen and dip it, with a flourish, into the ink, and extend its handle towards the important guest; to omit a few fitting words of welcome.  It was Hilary who got the pen first, and wrote his name in silence, and by this time Mr. McAvoy had recovered his presence of mind sufficiently to wield the blotter.

“We didn’t expect you to-night, Mr. Vane,” he said, in a voice that sounded strange to him, “but we’ve kept Number Seven, as usual.  Front!”

“The old man’s seen his day, I guess,” Mr. McAvoy remarked, as he studied the register with a lone reporter.  “This Crewe must have got in on ’em hard, from what they tell me, and Adam Hunt has his dander up.”