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 knows a lot about managing public affairs. My father says that in another year or so he'll be in the State Legislature, young as he is. Last fall he made political speeches all over the State. He's just the man to help us."

"He may be too busy," Praska suggested doubtfully. "He may not have the time for a campaign like this."

"Do your years at Northfield mean anything to you?" Bristow demanded sharply.

"Yes," Praska answered simply.

"Then if Carlos Dix is the man you say he is, the four years he spent at Northfield mean something to him. Somebody ought to go to him."

"I'll go," said Praska.

At five o'clock the next afternoon the elevator of the Union Trust Building dropped him off at the seventh floor. Carlos Dix's office was down at the end of a corridor—the type of office that would naturally be rented by a man whose future was bright but whose present demanded economy. A girl, sitting at a typewriter desk, disappeared into an inner room after Praska had given her his name. A moment later Carlos Dix came out.

"Hello, Praska," he said with a cordial handclasp. "Come in." He led the way into his private office and motioned the boy to a chair. "Just give me a minute to pick up these papers." With