The chairman knew his man.  He trotted down the steps and got into his car.

“When you get ready to let me know how you’re running this campaign, you’ll find me at headquarters,” he said, wrathfully, by way of farewell.  Then he departed, with the news of how Thelismer Thornton was still boss of the northern principality—­but that Thelismer Thornton, Nestor of State politicians, had calmly arrogated to himself the sole handling of the biggest question in State politics, the chairman kept to himself.  He was in too desperate straits to rebel at that time.  Furthermore, he knew that Thelismer Thornton in the years past had served as kedge for many a political craft that a lee shore threatened.  He was measurably contented, after reflection, to have the old man take the thing into his own hands in that masterful fashion.

The Duke pulled his chair to the end of the porch, where he could look across to the far hills beyond the river.  He lighted one of his long cigars, put his feet on the rail, and began to smoke, squinting thoughtfully, pondering deeply.

To all practical intents and purposes he was holding there on the porch of “The Barracks” the next State convention of the Republican party.  The birds were busy about the old blockhouse opposite, coming and going.  He seemed to be studying their movements through his half-open eyes, as though they were prospective delegates.  And at last a grim smile of satisfaction fixed itself upon his face.

His grandson found him in this amiable mood when he came with the losers by the Jo Quacca fire.  Each man submitted his list rather defiantly.  They sat down and scowled while Harlan told what he had discovered in his investigation of the circumstances.

“I have not tried to beat them down,” he concluded.  “I even reminded them of a few items they had overlooked.  What happened yesterday was enough to make almost any man forget things.”

He was inclined to be a little defiant, toe fighting the battles of the property owners, even though his own pocket must suffer by the settlement.

But the Duke preserved his unruffled demeanor.  He slowly made some figures on the bottoms of the papers and passed the sheets to his grandson.

“Fill in the checks and bring them out here and I’ll sign ’em,” he directed.  And as Harlan bent over him, he whispered:  “You’re playing good politics now, boy.  Stand up for the under dog.  I see you’re remembering that you’re a candidate.”

“I’m only doing what’s right,” protested the young man.

“When you can be right and still play politics, you’re getting ahead fast,” murmured the Duke.  “Fill in the checks!”

“But you’ve increased their own appraisal!  You’re giving them more than they’ve asked for!” Harlan was careless of the presence of the three farmers.