Chapter I

Peter Knight flung himself into the decrepit arm-chair beside the center-table and growled:

"Isn‘t that just my luck? And me a Democrat for twenty years. There‘s nothing in politics, Jimmy."

His son James smiled crookedly, with a languid tolerance bespeaking amusement and contempt. James prided himself upon his forbearance, and it was rarely indeed that he betrayed more than a hint of the superiority which he felt toward his parent.

"Politics is all right, provided you‘re a good picker," he said, with all the assurance of twenty-two, "but you fell off the wrong side of the fence, and you‘re sore."

"Of course I am. Wouldn‘t anybody be sore?"

"These country towns always go in for the reform stuff, every so often. If you‘d listen to me and--"

His father interrupted harshly: "Now, cut that out. I don‘t want to go to New York, and I won‘t." Peter Knight tried to look forceful, but the expression did not fit his weak, complacent feature

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