Niles was shouting without, and men were cheering his harangue.

"There used to be some sensible politics in this State," went on the
disgusted chairman. "But it's got so now that a State committee is
called on to consult a lot of cranks before drawing up the convention
platform. Even a fellow in the legislature can't do what he wants to for
the boys; cranks howling at him from home all the time. Candidates
pumped for ante-election pledges, petitions rammed in ahead of every
roll-call, lobby committees from the farmers' associations tramping
around the State House in their cowhide boots, and a good government
angel peeking in at every committee-room keyhole! Jeemsrollickins! Jim
Blaine, himself, couldn't play the game these days."

If Thornton listened, he gave no sign. He had his elbows on the
window-sill and was glowering on his constituents. They seemed
determined to keep up the hateful serenade. It was hard for the old man
to understand. But he did understand human nature--how dependence breeds
resentment, how favors bestowed hatch sullen ingratitude, how jealousy
turns and rends as soon as Democracy hisses, "At him!"

There was a dingy wall map beside him between the windows. A red line
surrounded a section of it: two towns, a dozen plantations, and a score
of unorganized townships--a thousand square miles of territory that
composed his political barony. And on that section double red lines
marked off half a million acres of timber-land, mountain, plain, and
lake that Thelismer Thornton owned.

Chairman Presson, walking off his indignation, came and stood in front
of the map.