"Leyman and all of his crowd!"

"And yet," the Governor could not resist, "in another hour this same
fool will be Governor of the State. The fool seems to have won."

Francis rose, impatiently. "For the moment. It won't be lasting. In
any profession, fools and amateurs may win single victories. They
can't keep it up. They don't know _how_. Oh, no," he insisted,
cheerfully, "Leyman will never be re-elected. Fact is, I'm counting
on this contract business we've saved up for him getting in good
work." He was moving toward the door. "Well," he concluded, with a
curious little laugh, "see you upstairs."

The Governor looked at the clock. It pointed now to twenty-five
minutes past eleven. The last hour was going fast. In a very short
time he must join the party in the anteroom of the House. But
weariness had come over him. He leaned back in his chair and closed
his eyes.

He was close upon seventy, and to-day looked even older than his
years. It was not a vicious face, but it was not a strong one.
People who wanted to say nice things of the Governor called him
pleasant or genial or kindly. Even the men in the appointive offices
did not venture to say he had much force.

He felt it to-day as he never had before. He had left no mark; he
had done nothing, stood for nothing. Never once had his personality
made itself felt. He had signed the documents; Harvey Francis had
always "suggested"--the term was that man's own--the course to be
pursued. And the "suggestions" had ever dictated the policy that