was chequered and his exact financial equivalent uncertain, but he had tremendously the air of a man of affairs; as the phrase went, he was full of politics, the plain repository of deep things.  He had a shrewd eye, a double chin, and a bluff, crisp, jovial manner of talking as he lay back in an armchair with his legs crossed and played with his watch chain, an important way of nodding assent, a weighty shake of denial.  Voting on purely party lines, the town had later rewarded his invincible expectation by electing him Mayor, and then provided itself with unlimited entertainment by putting in a Liberal majority on his council, the reports of the weekly sittings being constantly considered as good as a cake walk.  South Fox, as people said, was not a healthy locality for Conservatives.  Yet Walter Winter wore a look of remarkable hardiness.  He had also tremendously the air of a dark horse, the result both of natural selection and careful cultivation.  Even his political enemies took it kindly when he “got in” for Mayor, and offered him amused congratulations.  He made a personal claim on their cordiality, which was not the least of his political resources.  Nature had fitted him to public uses; the impression overflowed the ranks of his own supporters and softened asperity among his opponents.  Illustration lies, at this moment close to us.  They had not been in the same room a quarter of an hour before he was in deep and affectionate converse with Lorne Murchison, whose party we know, and whose political weight was increasing, as this influence often does, with a rapidity out of proportion with his professional and general significance.

“It’s a pity now,” said Mr Winter, with genial interest, “you can’t get that Ormiston defence into your own hands.  Very useful thing for you.”

The younger man shifted a little uncomfortably in his seat.  It is one thing to entertain a private vision and another to see it materialized on other lips.

“Oh I’d like it well enough,” he said, “but it’s out of the question, of course.  I’m too small potatoes.”

“There’s a lot of feeling for old Ormiston.  Folks out there on the Reserve don’t know how to show it enough.”

“They’ve shown it a great deal too much.  We don’t want to win on ‘feeling,’ or have it said either.  And we were as near as possible having to take the case to the Hamilton Assizes.”

“I guess you were—­I guess you were.”  Mr Winter’s suddenly increased gravity expressed his appreciation of the danger.  “I saw Lister of the Bank the day they heard from Toronto—­rule refused.  Never saw a man more put out.  Seems they considered the thing as good as settled.  General opinion was it would go to Hamilton, sure.  Well I don’t know how you pulled it off, but it was a smart piece of work, sir.”

Lorne encountered Mr Winter’s frank smile with an expression of crude and rather stolid discomfort.  It had a base of indignation, corrected by a concession to the common idea that most events, with an issue pendent, were the result of a smart piece of work:  a kind of awkward shrug was in it.  He had no desire to be unpleasant to Walter Winter—­on the contrary.  Nevertheless, an uncompromising line came on each side of his mouth with his reply.