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It was a merry dinner party that graced the table during dinner that evening, and the boy forgot his troubles and was as jolly and sociable as he had ever been in his life.

But when they were all assembled in the long living room where they grouped themselves around the fireplace, a sudden change took place in the demeanor of the young ladies. Patsy, the delegated leader, looked gravely at the boy and asked:

“How goes the campaign, Ken?”

“Wh—what campaign?” he stammered, to gain time.

“Why, this election business. Tell us about it,” said Patsy.

“Some other time, girls,” answered the boy, red and distressed. “It—it wouldn’t interest you a bit.”

“Why not?” asked Louise, softly.

“Because it doesn’t interest me,” he replied.

“Are you so sure of election?” inquired Beth.

“I’m sure of defeat, if you must know,” he declared, scowling at the recollection of his predicament.

“You haven’t been cowardly enough to give up?” asked Patricia, boldly.

“What do you mean by that, Patsy Doyle?” he asked, the scowl deepening.