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 sent to him ran through Praska's mind—"licked to a frazzle." A wry smile twisted his lips even as he bowed and took a step past the girl.

But she stopped him with a quick little gesture, half imperative, half entreating.

"George," she said, "I've been doing some campaign work for Lee Merritt, but I've seen some things to-day that have changed my mind. You never met my Uncle Bob, did you? He's captain of a steamer that runs to South America. He says that no boat can sail a true course without a strong hand on the tiller. You can count on my support when the Northfield Congress open the polls to-morrow."