“When we go into politics,” said old Anthony in his jibing voice, “the ordinary amenities have to go.  When you are elected, Howard, I shall live somewhere else.”

Willy Cameron smiled.

“I don’t think you will be put to that inconvenience, Mr. Cardew.”

“What’s that?” Old Anthony’s voice was incredulous.  Here, in his own house, this whipper-snapper—­

“I am sure Mr. Howard Cardew realizes he cannot be elected.”

The small ragged vein on Anthony’s forehead was the storm signal for the family.  Howard glanced at him, and said urbanely: 

“Will you have a cigar, Mr. Cameron?  Or a liqueur?”

“Nothing, thank you.  If I can have a few minutes’ talk with you—­”

“If you mean that as a request for me to go out, I will remind you that I am heavily interested in this matter myself,” said old Anthony.  “I have put in a great deal of money.  If you people are going to drop out, I want to hear it.  You’ve played the devil with us already, with your independent candidate who can’t talk English.”

Willy Cameron kept his temper.

“No,” he said, slowly.  “It wasn’t a question of Mr. Hendricks withdrawing.  It was a question of Mr. Cardew getting out.”

Sheer astonishment held old Anthony speechless.

“It’s like this,” Willy Cameron said.  “Your son knows it.  Even if we drop out he won’t get it.  Justly or unjustly—­and I mean that —­nobody with the name of Cardew can be elected to any high office in this city.  There’s no reflection on anybody in my saying that.  I am telling you a fact.”

Howard had listened attentively and without anger.  “For a long time, Mr. Cameron,” he said, “I have been urging men of—­of position in the city, to go into politics.  We have needed to get away from the professional politician.  I went in, without much hope of election, to—­well, you can say to blaze a trail.  It is not being elected that counts with me, so much as to show my willingness to serve.”

Old Anthony recovered his voice.

“The Cardews made this town, sir,” he barked.  “Willingness to serve, piffle!  We need a business man to run the city, and by God, we’ll get it!”

“You’ll get an anarchist,” said Willy Cameron, slightly flushed.

“If you want my opinion, young man, this is a trick, a political trick.  And how do we know that your Vigilance Committee isn’t a trick, too?  You try to tell us that there is an organized movement here to do heaven knows what, and by sheer terror you build up a machine which appeals to the public imagination.  You don’t say anything about votes, but you see that they vote for your man.  Isn’t that true?”

“Yes.  If they can keep an anarchist out of office.  Akers is an anarchist.  He calls himself something else, but that’s what it amounts to.  And those bombs last night were not imaginary.”