On the morning of the day on which the bill was to come to a vote Scattergood appeared unostentatiously in the capital, but word of his presence flashed from tongue to tongue with miraculous speed.  Word of it came to President Castle, who pocketed his pride for excellent business reasons, and sent up his card to Scattergood’s room.

“Guess I kin see him a minute,” said Scattergood, and the president ascended with thoughts in his heart which Scattergood was well able to lead.

“Baines,” said Castle, without preface, “what do you want?”

“Nothin’ you’ve got, I calc’late,” said Scattergood, serenely.

“You’re back of this infernal bill.  The railroads can’t permit it to pass.  It won’t pass.”

“Then what you wastin’ your time on me for?” Scattergood asked.

“If we let you build your infernal little railroad will you drop out of this?”

“Hain’t in it to speak of.”

“Will you take your hands off—­if we give you your railroad and guarantee train service?”

“Can’t seem to see my way clear.”

“What do you gain by passing this bill?  You’re nothing ahead.  It won’t give you your railroad.  It won’t give you anything.”

“Calc’late you’re right.”

“Listen to reason, man.  You want something.  What is it?”

“Me?...  Um!...  I’m a plain kind of a man, Mr. President, with a plain kind of a wife.  Hain’t never met Mandy, have you?  Wa-al, her and me is perty contented with life.  We got a good hardware store ...”

“Rot!  What do you want?”

Scattergood leaned forward, his round face, with its bulging cheeks, as expressionless as some particularly big and ruddy apple.

“If you’re achin’ to do favors for me, Mr. President you kin drop in along about supper time.  Right now can’t think of a thing you kin do for me.  But I’ll try ...  I’ll spend the afternoon thinkin’ over all the things you might be able to do, and I’ll try to pick one of ’em out....  I got to see a hardware salesman now.  Afternoon Mr. President.”

“Baines,” said Castle, losing his temper for the first time in a dozen years, “we’ll smash you for this.  We’ll drive you out of the state.  Well—­”

“Don’t slam the door,” said Scattergood, placidly; “it might disturb the other folks in the hotel.”

That afternoon the galleries of the House were jammed.  Below, in their seats, the legislators sat uncomfortably.  There was a tenseness in the air which made men’s skin tingle.  The Transient Car bill was about to come to a vote.  Everything had been done by both sides that could be done.  There could be no more outside interference; no more money influence.  It was all over.  Now the matter was in the hands of those uneasy men, who, even now, might hold steadfast to their principles or to the money that had bought them or to the power that had compelled them—­or who might, for reasons secret to their several souls, change sides with astonishing suddenness, upsetting all calculations.  Such things have been done....  But, even without the happening of the unexpected, no man could say how the votes would fall.  Neither side had obtained a sure majority.