personal and local in its application, and thereby it became evident that
the new proprietor of the "Herald" was a theorist who believed, in
general, that a politician's honor should not be merely of that middling
healthy species known as "honor amongst politicians"; and, in particular,
that Rodney McCune should not receive the nomination of his party for
Congress. Now, Mr. McCune was the undoubted dictator of the district, and
his followers laughed at the stranger's fantastic onset.

But the editor was not content with the word of print; he hired a horse
and rode about the country, and (to his own surprise) he proved to be an
adaptable young man who enjoyed exercise with a pitchfork to the farmer's
profit while the farmer talked. He talked little himself, but after
listening an hour or so, he would drop a word from the saddle as he left;
and then, by some surprising wizardry, the farmer, thinking over the
interview, decided there was some sense in what that young fellow said,
and grew curious to see what the young fellow had further to say in the
"Herald."

Politics is the one subject that goes to the vitals of every rural
American; and a Hoosier will talk politics after he is dead.

Everybody read the campaign editorials, and found them interesting,
although there was no one who did not perceive the utter absurdity of a
young stranger's dropping into Carlow and involving himself in a party
fight against the boss of the district. It was entirely a party fight;
for, by grace of the last gerrymander, the nomination carried with it the
certainty of election. A week before the convention there came a
provincial earthquake; the news passed from man to man in awe-struck
whispers--McCune had withdrawn his name, making the hollowest of excuses
to his cohorts. Nothing was known of the real reason for his disordered