"You wouldn't think he was listenin', would you, Will?" Mr. Bixby
remarked.

"Listening?"

"Ears are sharp as a dog's. Callate he kin hear as far as the governor's
table, and he don't look as if he knows anything. One way he built up his
power--listenin' when they're talkin' sly out there in the rotunda.
They're almighty surprised when they l'arn he knows what they're up to.
Guess you understand how to go along by quiet and listen when they're
talkin' sly."

"I never did such a thing in my life," cried William Wetherell,
indignantly aghast.

But Mr. Bixby winked.

"So long, Will," he said, "see you in Number 7."

Never, since the days of Pompadour and Du Barry, until modern American
politics were invented, has a state been ruled from such a place as
Number 7 in the Pelican House--familiarly known as the Throne Room. In
this historic cabinet there were five chairs, a marble-topped table, a
pitcher of iced water, a bureau, a box of cigars and a Bible, a
chandelier with all the gas jets burning, and a bed, whereon sat such
dignitaries as obtained an audience,--railroad presidents, governors and
ex-governors and prospective governors, the Speaker, the President of the
Senate, Bijah Bixby, Peleg Hartington, mighty chiefs from the North
Country, and lieutenants from other parts of the state. These sat on the