Presson understood better, but could not forgive the bullheadedness that
seemed to be wrecking their political plans. His own political training
had taught him the benefits of compromise. He was angry at this old man
who proposed to go down fighting among the fallen props of a lifetime of
power. And even though Presson now understood better some of the motives
that prompted the Duke to force young Harlan out into the world, his
political sensibilities were more acute than his sympathy.

Therefore the beleaguered lord of Canibas was left to fight it out
alone.

He stood at the end of the porch and listened to the menacing sounds of
the village.

He glared down the long street and grunted, "Grinding their knives,
eh?"

Evidently the centrifugal motion of the political machine down there was
violent enough to throw off one lively spark. A man came up the road at
a brisk gait, stamped across the yard, and went direct to the Duke, who
waited for him at the far end of the porch. He did not glance at Presson
or at Harlan Thornton.

"Did you ever _see_ anything like it, did you ever _hear_ anything like
it, Honor'ble?" the new arrival demanded with heat. "They're goin' to
make a caucus out of it--a _caucus_!"

The man had a lower jaw edged with a roll of black whisker, a jaw that
protruded like a bulldog's. With the familiarity of the long-time