How are you going to stop it?  Mr. Watling climbs up on the platform and shakes his fist in General Doby’s face, and General Doby tearfully appeals for an honest ballot—­to the winds.

In the meantime the Honourable Elisha Jane, spurred on by desperation and thoughts of a ‘dolce far niente’ gone forever; has sought and cornered Mr. Bascom.

“For God’s sake, Brush,” cries the Honourable Elisha, “hasn’t this thing gone far enough?  A little of it is all right—­the boys understand that; but have you thought what it means to you and me if these blanked reformers get in,—­if a feller like Austen Vane is nominated?”

That cold, hard glitter which we have seen was in Mr. Bascom’s eyes.

“You fellers have got the colic,” was the remark of the arch-rebel.  “Do you think old Hilary doesn’t know what he’s about?”

“It looks that way to me,” said Mr. Jane.

“It looks that way to Doby too, I guess,” said Mr. Bascom, with a glance of contempt at the general; “he’s lost about fifteen pounds to-day.  Did Hilary send you down here?” he demanded.

“No,” Mr. Jane confessed.

“Then go back and chase yourself around the platform some more,” was Mr. Bascom’s unfeeling advice, “and don’t have a fit here.  All the brains in this hall are in Hilary’s room.  When he’s ready to talk business with me in behalf of the Honourable Giles Henderson, I guess he’ll do so.”

But fear had entered the heart of the Honourable Elisha, and there was a sickly feeling in the region of his stomach which even the strong medicine administered by the Honourable Brush failed to alleviate.  He perceived Senator Whitredge, returned from the Pelican.  But the advice —­if any—­the president of the Northeastern has given the senator is not forthcoming in practice.  Mr. Flint, any more than Ulysses himself, cannot recall the tempests when his own followers have slit the bags—­and in sight of Ithaca!  Another conference at the back of the stage, out of which emerges State Senator Nat Billings and gets the ear of General Doby.

“Let ’em yell,” says Mr. Billings—­as though the general, by raising one adipose hand, could quell the storm.  Eyes are straining, scouts are watching at the back of the hall and in the street, for the first glimpse of the dreaded figure of Mr. Thomas Gaylord.  “Let ’em yell;” counsels Mr. Billings, “and if they do nominate anybody nobody’ll hear ’em.  And send word to Putnam County to come along on their fifth ballot.”

It is Mr. Billings himself who sends word to Putnam County, in the name of the convention’s chairman.  Before the messenger can reach Putnam County another arrives on the stage, with wide pupils, “Tom Gaylord is coming!” This momentous news, Marconi-like, penetrates the storm, and is already on the floor.  Mr. Widgeon and Mr. Redbrook are pushing their way towards the door.  The conference, emboldened by terror, marches in a body into the little room, and surrounds the calmly insane Lieutenant-general of the forces; it would be ill-natured to say that visions of lost railroad commissionerships, lost consulships, lost postmasterships, —­yes, of lost senatorships, were in these loyal heads at this crucial time.