An united dominant party could have met the issues boldly and frankly without fear as to results.

But General Waymouth promptly discovered that he had a loyal army with rebel officers.  He was soldier enough to understand the peril.  He had more faith in the inherent, unorganized honesty of “The People” than Thelismer Thornton had.  But, with just as shrewd political knowledge as the Duke, he held with him that the “The People” amount to mighty little as a force in politics unless well and loyally officered.

A campaign will not run itself.  Left to run itself, the issues are not brought out to stir up the voting spirit.  “The People” have to be poked into the fighting mood—­their ears have to be scruffed—­they need speakers, literature, marshals, inciters—­hurrah of partisanship.  It was the off year for the national campaign.  No money came into the State from the Big Fellows.

The State Committee was looked to by the county and town committees to start the ball rolling and guarantee the purse to push it.  “The People” were, as usual, too busy getting daily bread to be spontaneous in political movements.

General Waymouth sat in the old brick house in Burnside village, and did the best he could during the long hot days of July and the sultry first fortnight of August.  Harlan Thornton worked with him.  The library resounded with the click of typewriters, and men came and men went.  But there was no up-and-moving spirit to the campaign.

An old man writing letters—­even such an old man as General Varden Waymouth was in the estimation of his State—­is a small voice in the wilderness of politics.

The Democrats had vociferous orators.  Those orators had for text State extravagance, unjust taxation, and all the other charges “the unders” may bring against the reigning rulers.  They were not answered on the stump.  Even the Republican newspapers were listless and halfhearted.

At last came Thelismer Thornton.  It was one afternoon in middle August, barely three weeks before the day of the State election in September.  It was his first visit to the brick house in Burnside.  He had been sojourning at the State capitol.  Men had told Harlan, from time to time, that he was spending his days sitting on the broad veranda of Luke Presson’s hotel, apparently enjoying the summer with the same leisurely ease that the State chairman was displaying.  Men were sometimes inquisitive when they mentioned this matter to Harlan.  They did not presume to ask questions of the General.  But the young man had nothing to say.  It must be confessed that he did not know anything about it.

He obeyed the instructions the General gave him and toiled as best he knew, but that the main campaign was hanging fire he did not realize.  For the General, who knew politics, did not complain to him.  The veteran was a little whiter, a bit more dignified, and directed the movements of his modest force of office assistants with a curtness he had not shown at first; but no other sign betrayed that he knew his State Committee had “lain down on him.”