Better still, Roodle was in a bind over the beer tax. He had vocally supported a lower beer tax for many years (as a brewer interested in selling as many pints as possible), but now he found himself on the wrong side of his party, and rather than alienate the aid he received from London he had switched positions. Crook felt this hypocrisy was important, if only to show how weak willed Roodle would be if elected.

At the committee meeting there was a great deal of detailed talk about Lenox’s schedule for the next several days; by this time he was faint with fatigue, however-Hilary was still impressively spry, but he was younger-and only half heard the plan for a series of speeches, a debate, a meeting with county officials, and visits to several dances, balls, and livestock auctions. The idea was to make Lenox as visible as possible to compensate for the short time he had in which to present his platform. Through all of this conversation Crook was a gentle but forceful guide. His authority was obvious.

At last Lenox was allowed to go to sleep. In his plain, quite clean room, which had a small warm grate near the bed, he drifted off into a grateful rest, so tired that he only for a passing moment worried about McConnell and Toto.

In the morning, to Lenox’s surprise, his coffee appeared via a familiar bearer; it was Graham.

“Thank goodness you’re here, Graham.”

“I arrived late last night, sir.”

“You’re not exhausted, I hope?”

“I slept very well, sir. May I ask how things have progressed here?”

“Very well, I think, though I’m pulled in five different directions at once.”

“Such is the nature of campaign life, sir, or so I have heard.”

“Indeed it is, Graham.” Lenox took a sip of coffee and instantly felt livelier. “Well, I’m prepared for the battle.”

“Excellent, sir.”

“I say, though, was there any news about those two gentlemen-about Pierce and Carruthers?”