The sound of voices, some jovial, some argumentative, was borne to
him through the open transom. People were beginning to gather in the
corridors, and he could hear the usual disputes about tickets of
admission to the inaugural.

His secretary came in just then with some letters. "Could you see
Whitefield now?" he asked. "He's waiting out here for you."

The old man looked up wearily. "Oh, put him off, Charlie. Tell him
you can talk to him about whatever it is he wants to know."

The secretary had his hand on the knob, when the Governor added,
"And, Charlie, keep everybody out, if you can. I'm--I've got a few
private matters to go over."

The younger man nodded and opened the door. He half closed it behind
him, and then turned to say, "Except Francis. You'll want to see him
if he comes in, won't you?"

He frowned and moved impatiently as he answered, curtly: "Oh, yes."

Francis! Of course it never occurred to any of them that he could
close the door on Francis. He drummed nervously on his desk, then
suddenly reached down and, opening one of the drawers, tossed back a
few things and drew out a newspaper. He unfolded this and spread it
out on the desk. Running across the page was the big black line,
"Real Governors of Some Western States," and just below, the first
of the series, and played up as the most glaring example of nominal
and real in governorship, was a sketch of Harvey Francis.