Meanwhile Mr. Crewe is graciously receiving others who are crowding to him.

“How are you, Mr. Giddings?  How are the cows?  I carry some stock that’ll make you sit up—­I believe I told you when I was down your way.  Of course, mine cost a little money, but that’s one of my hobbies.  Come and see ’em some day.  There’s a good hotel in Ripton, and I’ll have you met there and drive you back.”

Thus, with a genial and kindly remark to each, he passes from one to the other, and when the members of the press come to him for his estimate of the outcome on the morrow, he treats them with the same courtly consideration.

“Estimate!” cries Mr. Crewe.  “Where have your eyes been to-night, my friends?  Have you seen the people coming into these headquarters?  Have you seen ’em pouring into any other headquarters?  All the State and federal office-holders in the country couldn’t stop me now.  Estimate!  I’ll be nominated on the first ballot.”

They wrote it down.

“Thank you, Mr. Crewe,” they said; “that’s the kind of talk we like to hear.”

“And don’t forget,” said Mr. Crewe, “to mention this reception in the accounts.”

Mr. Tooting, who makes it a point from time to time to reconnoitre, saunters halfway down-stairs and surveys the crowded rotunda from the landing.  Through the blue medium produced by the burning of many cigars (mostly Mr. Crewe’s) he takes note of the burly form of Mr. Thomas Gaylord beside that of Mr. Redbrook and other rural figures; he takes note of a quiet corner with a ring of chairs surrounded by scouts and outposts, although it requires a trained eye such as Mr. Tooting’s to recognize them as such—­for they wear no uniforms.  They are, in truth, minor captains of the feudal system, and their present duties consist (as Mr. Tooting sees clearly) in preventing the innocent and inquisitive from unprofitable speech with the Honourable Jacob Botcher, who sits in the inner angle conversing cordially with those who are singled out for this honour.  Still other scouts conduct some of the gentlemen who have talked with Mr. Botcher up the stairs to a mysterious room on the second floor.  Mr. Tooting discovers that the room is occupied by the Honourable Brush Bascom; Mr. Tooting learns with indignation that certain of these guests of Mr. Bascom’s are delegates pledged to Mr. Crewe, whereupon he rushes back to the bridal suite to report to his chief.  The cigars are giving out again, and the rush has slackened, and he detaches the People’s Champion from the line and draws him to the inner room.

“Brush Bascom’s conducting a bourse on the second floor and is running the price up right along,” cried the honest and indignant Mr. Tooting.  He’s stringin’ Adam Hunt all right.  They say he’s got Adam to cough up six thousand extra since five o’clock, but the question is—­ain’t he stringin’ us?  He paid six hundred for a block of ten not quarter of an hour ago—­and nine of ’em were our delegates.”