It is morning,—­a hot morning, as so many recall,—­and the partisans of the three leaders are early astir, and at seven-thirty Mr. Tooting discovers something going on briskly which he terms “dealing in futures.”  My vote is yours as long as you are in the race, but after that I have something negotiable.  The Honourable Adam Hunt strolls into the rotunda after an early breakfast, with a toothpick in his mouth, and is pointed out by the sophisticated to new arrivals as the man who spent seven thousand dollars over night, much of which is said to have stuck in the pockets of two feudal chiefs who could be named.  Is it possible that there is a split in the feudal system at last? that the two feudal chiefs (who could be named) are rebels against highest authority?  A smile from the sophisticated one.  This duke and baron have merely stopped to pluck a bird; it matters not whether or not the bird is an erstwhile friend—­he has been outlawed by highest authority, and is fair game.  The bird (with the toothpick in his mouth) creates a smile from other chiefs of the system in good standing who are not too busy to look at him.  They have ceased all attempts to buttonhole him, for he is unapproachable.

The other bird, the rebel of Leith, who has never been in the feudal system at all, they have stopped laughing at.  It is he who has brought the Empire to its most precarious state.

And now, while strangers from near and far throng into town, drawn by the sensational struggle which is to culminate in battle to-day, Mr. Crewe is marshalling his forces.  All the delegates who can be collected, and who wear the button with the likeness and superscription of Humphrey Crewe, are drawn up beside the monument in the park, where the Ripton Band is stationed; and presently they are seen by cheering crowds marching to martial music towards the convention hall, where they collect in a body, with signs and streamers in praise of the People’s Champion well to the front and centre.  This is generally regarded as a piece of consummate general ship on the part of their leader.  They are applauded from the galleries,—­already packed,—­especially from one conspicuous end where sit that company of ladies (now so famed) whose efforts have so materially aided the cause of the People’s Champion.  Gay streamers vie with gayer gowns, and morning papers on the morrow will have something to say about the fashionable element and the special car which brought them from Leith.

“My, but it is hot!”

The hall is filled now, with the thousand delegates, or their representatives who are fortunate enough to possess their credentials.  Something of this matter later.  General Doby, chairman of the convention, an impressive but mournful figure, could not call a roll if he wanted to.  Not that he will want to!  Impossible to tell, by the convenient laws of the State, whether the duly elected delegates of Hull or Mercer or Truro are here or not, since their credentials