A portion of the article ran as follows:

The women had opened coffee-rooms for the day close by all the important voting booths, and wives and daughters of the most prominent men in town served the steaming beverage by turns throughout the election hours free to all who might come. Moreover, they saw to it that no voter who mustered under the City Reform Club banner, was neglected. It would be too much to assume that the liquor stands were outdone, but at least the "Progressive Workers" were the means of sending many men home sober that day, and of rescuing a few of the tempted ones.

The leaders of the different parties were here, there and everywhere, looking after the interests of their respective candidates, talking, persuading, urging or buying the dilatory or vacillating vote. And the women found, early in the day, that in order to compete with the opposition, they must stay close to the polls.

"What shall we do? How divide our forces?" they asked.

Bailey Armstrong had just dropped into the coffee-room in the principal ward.

"Well, something, and at once," he said. "Sam Watts is everywhere, guiding his committees and buying up votes. Morgan and Jack Allingham, too, are getting down to business."

"Then Mr. Allingham is able to be out?" inquired Gertrude, at Bailey's side.

"He is out, able or unable," returned Bailey. "And they are leaving no stone unturned to get votes. I guess you'll have to come and turn a few cobblestones yourself—"

"Yes, Gertrude," said Mrs. Bateman, "you'll have to. I'll go the rounds with you."

"Mrs. Stillman and I will go over to ward seven," said Mrs. Jewett. "Mrs. Mason and Mrs. Turner to ward three, and Mrs. Wentworth and Grace Tolman to ward two. And we'll get out some others. You couldn't go, could you, Miss Snow?"

"I am writing up the woman's part of today's battle," returned Mary Snow. "I shall go to every ward, and will help what I can,—but I cannot neglect my paper. The Atlas is going to give us all the space we can fill tonight."

"The Atlas has been good to us all through," said Gertrude. "We have one paper—and a decent one—we can depend upon."

It was arranged that the women should divide themselves into committees of two at each voting booth, these couples to shift every hour or two, so that Gertrude Van Deusen might be seen at every booth.

"One would think I had been on view long enough so that every man, woman and child should be familiar with my features by this time," she laughed, remembering her constant appearance on the platform during the campaign. "Yet they are saying in some of the lower wards, that the voters have never laid eyes on me. Well, they shall have the chance."

Had it not been that the love of battle and of conquest had been born and bred in the old Senator's daughter, Gertrude would have sickened already of politics and politicians and the mass of feeble humanity that was like clay in the hands of the potter. For in spite of the real interest of the more intelligent citizens, there were the usual hangers-on and heelers,—men who had no civic sense, no idea of public duty, no moral stamina; men who sold their votes openly and as a matter of course.

"What'll you women give me?" asked one of these derelicts of Mrs. Bateman. "Burke's crowd has given me two dollars. If you'll make it three, I'll vote for your candidate."

"We are not buying votes, sir," replied the Judge's wife. "We have no respect for a man who will sell his vote. But we will give you, in return for yours, the satisfaction of feeling that you are a man among men; that you are doing the right and honorable thing, and that you are helping to establish an honest government here in Roma. Isn't your manhood worth more than two or even three dollars to you?"

"Well," returned the man after a speechless moment, "I'll be dinged if it isn't! I am going to vote for you, anyhow." Which he proceeded to do, although in somewhat maudlin fashion.

At ward three, Miss Van Deusen came face to face with John Allingham. It was an awkward moment for both. Gertrude flushed, but she carried her head high, and said "Good morning," with so much cordiality that Allingham felt more awkward than ever.

All night he had slept but fitfully, and in his wakeful hours had regretted with self-denunciation, that his name was to be voted upon that day. In his waking dreams he had thought once of withdrawing his candidacy, even at the polls. When he slept, he was riding once more, through the beautiful night—not alone, locked into the cab—but with Gertrude Van Deusen beside him, talking in her sweet musical voice, of things far removed from Roma and its dirty politics. The mobile face, the starry eyes, the delicate perfume that enwrapped her, lingered with him, and when he waked, it was difficult to cast the memory aside and to gather his wits for the fight which he must make against her that day, for an office he did not want;—but on the other hand, more than ever did he want her not to have it. That beautiful and gracious young woman he told himself, endowed with rare graces of mind and soul,—she must not be allowed to soil herself with the political machinery at City Hall. She had been misguided, led into this candidacy by those other women, strong-minded suffragists. Was it not his duty to get out and work for her defeat?

And so he arose and dressed, and although hotly opposed by his women-folk, who thought he should stay in bed and be carefully nursed for a week, he went forth, his face adorned with surgeon's plaster and his heart full of mixed motives, to the fray.

"You are none the worse for your ride?" he said to her. "You are sure you were not hurt?"

"No, not a bit," laughed Gertrude. "There isn't even the odor of liniment about me. But you,—your hurts must pain you? You were badly used up last night. Ought you to be out?" And then she blushed, remembering he was out to defeat her.

"Oh, I am well again," he returned, "only these bits of plaster make me out worse than I am. As soon as this election is over I'm going to find out who was at the bottom of that devilish plot."

"You'll never find out," said Bailey Armstrong, coming up at that moment. "It was some of Burke's dirty work, but they've covered their tracks mighty well. I've been making inquiries this morning. There isn't an electric cab in this city."

"Then they came over from Bonborough—or Plattsville," said Allingham. "There are plenty of them there."

"Yes, many," returned Armstrong. "But we shall never learn the truth. The trick was done so well that the perpetrators know how to cover their tracks."

But a bevy of voters coming in, the conversation ended and Gertrude did not see her opponent again that day.

At six o'clock that evening, she lay on the couch in her own room, weary with the day's experiences. For all she had considered herself well posted in political methods, this day had been a revelation to her.

"Well, Jessica," she told her cousin, "I suppose we shall know before we go to bed how I stand. But at this moment, after all I've seen today and realizing the state our city affairs are in, I will own to you in confidence that I hope—honestly and earnestly,—that I am defeated. John Allingham may have the mayor's chair and welcome. I've seen enough of it already, and I tell you I am sick at heart."

"And what if it is Barnaby Burke who comes off victorious?" asked her cousin.

"Well, I am not sufficiently discouraged to be willing to have that happen," said Gertrude. "Still—between you and me,—I don't 'want the job,' as I heard one man express it today. But, even if I lose the election, it will always be a comfort to me to remember how the working-people came out for me,—as well as to know just who, among my father's old friends, can be reckoned as mine. And now, I want a little nap before dinner."

Down at the headquarters of the City Reform Club Judge Bateman and his colleagues awaited the result of the count. With them were many of the "Progressive Workers," eager for news. The Union Club, the hotels and Burke's headquarters were crowded, while John Allingham and his trusted lieutenants were gathered at the Municipal League rooms. Returns came in slowly and the crowds on the street clamored for news faster than the bulletins could be given out.

At ten o'clock John Allingham was obliged to retreat and go home, physically worn out. The accident of the previous evening, combined with the excitement of the day, had proved too much for him. He was already in bed when the final returns reached him by telephone. Then he shut and locked his door, refusing to speak to another soul that night,—not even to his mother when she came up to see if he had taken the doctor's medicine.

Gertrude Van Deusen, too, remained in her room alone. Face to face with the decisive moment of victory or defeat, she could not see anyone. She was too tired to care much whether she had won or lost, although she recalled now, as a hopeful augury, that she had never yet been defeated for any office for which she had run in the various women's societies to which she belonged.

"Let John Allingham have the place, if he can get it," she was saying to herself for the fiftieth time, as the mantel clock chimed out the half-past ten. "I am swept under by a queer psychological wave of repulsion. I hope I shall lose."

But she was aroused just then by the sound of women's voices on the stairs,—laughing and chattering,—and she felt the note of triumph ringing through her brain as they came up to her door.

"Hurrah for Roma's Woman Mayor!" cried the first one to enter. "Here's to Her Honor the Mayor."

At the same moment John Allingham and Barnaby Burke were saying to themselves with a choice of words befitting their habitual language:

"Defeated! and by a Woman!"

And Burke added:

"I wonder now, just what happened in that cab last night. That was a mistake."

The story of the kidnaping spread through the city like wildfire, and surmounted in interest even the result of the election. As usual in such cases, the facts were exaggerated and speculation ran rife as to the principals in the plot. Some people (the more sensible) thought the Burke forces had planned and executed the whole coup, but others believed that it originated with Sam Watt's party and that Armstrong, getting wind of the carrying away of Gertrude Van Deusen, speedily turned the tables on Allingham by hiring another cab and seizing upon him as he was leaving his house alone, to walk down town to the public debate. It leaked out, too, that there were two men with the cab which carried John Allingham, lest,—the people said,—he should try to break the plate glass front and jump from his moving prison. But that the plot was a well-matured one was proven by the fact that outside locks had been placed on the doors to both cabs, so that they could not be forced open from the inside.

No definite clue, however, could be obtained to the perpetrators of the kidnaping scheme, although both sufferers from it had put private detectives at work upon the affair. But, like many startling public events, the midnight ride of the two candidates was a "nine days' wonder" and then the public interest centered around the newly elected mayor.

Gertrude had need not only of public sympathy, but of all the courage and clear-sightedness which she had inherited. This she realized more fully than ever, when the excitement of campaigning was over. If she had chosen to spend her time and strength and money on automobiles or fine clothes, people would have passed upon her choice as the natural thing, and envied her way of living; but now that she had elected to work hard and to give herself freely to fighting for principle and establishing good government in her city, her friends of different tastes whispered among themselves, "How strange!" "How unwomanly!" "How unnatural for a woman!"

"The only motives many people can understand," said Gertrude one day to her cousin, "are the ones by which they themselves are actuated. And not always then. My rich friends may not be able to understand, but the plain people will; the ones who are capable of conviction and of sacrifices for conviction will."

"All the same, Gertie," retorted her cousin, "this world is not made up of Savonarolas nor other burn-at-the-stake folks. You are in a bad scrape and I wish you had had sense enough to say no when those women dragged you forth," which only went to prove the axiom that one's relatives are privileged of speech.

But the new mayor paid no attention to her cousin and went on calmly planning for the future of Roma, visiting its various institutions and getting as thorough an insight into its public administration as possible before taking her place in the mayor's chair. She visited the schools, the hospitals, the police stations, the jail. She was overwhelmed with the magnitude of what she had undertaken, but already dreamed of a new and beautiful development of the city. She consulted with the leading business men,—judges, lawyers, and the clergy. She began to evolve ideas of her own and thanked Heaven every night that she had been endowed with courage and will-power sufficient to keep her from turning back from her municipal plough in a panic,—courage enough to keep her head high and her aim straight in the path that lay in front of her. She began to draw near the people, to feel a personal interest in them, to realize the great brotherhood of humanity, and to wonder how best she might hope to apply the highest social ideals to the everyday life of her city. Did any man ever take possession of the mayoral chair with purer hopes or more worthy ambitions?

In the meantime every mail brought her letters more or less congratulatory in tone. Some predicted a glorious career ahead for her; some half concealed their disbelief in her ability to fulfill the duties she was to assume; some openly warned her of the perils of weakness and demagogue government, or advised her against the institution of radical reforms.

Socially, she was more in demand than before. Dinners and receptions demanded her presence as chief guest, while her newly acquired gift of speech-making was called into requisition on all sorts of occasions. But the finest social affair of all was the dinner given in her honor by the "Progressive Workers," on the night before her inauguration. To this were invited all the notable men and women of Roma, the mayors of the neighboring cities and the governor of the State, who really attended, supported by a galaxy of uniformed officers which lent brilliancy by their glittering stars and bars, if not by their wit and intellect.

Gertrude, arrayed in her finest Paris gown,—a white embroidered crepon with garniture of exquisite lace,—received the guests at six o'clock, in line with the governor and the mayors of six other cities, together with Mrs. Bateman as president of the "P. W.'s", and Judge Bateman of the City Reform Club. John Allingham had been invited, too, to stand in line, as the head of the Municipal League, but until the last moment no answer was received from him.

Gertrude had not seen him since election day. He had been ill after the election was all over, and unable to go out for a fortnight; and although he had been strongly tempted to write a note of congratulation to the new mayor, he was kept back by pride—which in this case, it must be admitted, was another name for obstinacy. For this reason, he did not decide whether or no to attend the new mayor's reception until Bailey Armstrong descended upon him in the League rooms, two days before the date.

"Why don't you answer your bid for the reception to Miss Van Deusen, Jack?" he asked bluntly, as he seated himself in the chair nearest the chairman's private desk. "Can't you lay aside your prejudice long enough for that?"

"Well, what do you think?" replied Jack. "The League refused to endorse her, you know."

"Under you, yes," retorted Bailey with the frankness of an old friend. "But isn't it about time the League came around and did the square thing? You're putting the League in a bad light, Jack; really you are. I thought you had more sense. And, I tell you, Miss Van Deusen is going to give this town a waking up, such as will make you want to enlist under her banner—quick. Come, be decent, now."

"If you think it will be best for the League," began Allingham.

"Yes. It'll be better for the League—and best for you," said Bailey. "Hurry up now and write your acceptance, and then come."

It was late when he arrived, and the rooms were closely crowded with guests, so that he was hurried past the receiving party and left in his place in the line. He had just a formal greeting for Gertrude and at the dinner was seated where he could only note her beauty and brilliancy from afar. But the effect was John Allingham's first eye-opener in the development of the modern woman. Brought up as he had been, by a narrow jealous mother, kept close at his books, living at home, even during his college days, he had never before come under the direct influence of the women who are becoming an educative, progressive power in the world of today; and he began to wonder for the first time in his life, if a woman might not be a strong force in public reforms and still retain her refinement of spirit and her home-loving, home-keeping qualities.

He recalled how lovely Gertrude Van Deusen used to look as a girl of eighteen, when he had seen her at public gatherings with her distinguished father. But here tonight, she was even more beautiful; her expression was sweeter and more confident; the fine lines of her figure suggested power, and also repose. She had the same rich color, the same lovely curves, the same joyous health; but she had, too, a wiser and a far finer face.

"And yet," he told himself, "all my study and travel and observation tells me a woman's natural position in society is in a safely guarded home; and the evil consequences of meddling with this position must show themselves, sooner or later. Humanity is of one general quality everywhere,—and that not so high as she apparently believes. Changes in social ideals are more or less dangerous and indicate decadence, often, rather than advance. Yet the atmosphere tonight is charged with joyous triumph. Let us see what she is going to say."

For amidst deafening applause, the new mayor had begun to speak to the assemblage around her.

"I am not going to announce any definite line of policy," she was saying, "because, as yet, I have none. I shall take up the work as it comes to me and shall not forget that I am after all only the city's chiefest servant. But, there are many thoughts which I would share with you. There are many things I would have you be thinking over, that we may see alike, perhaps, in the future when our work develops,—for it is yours as much as mine, this work of making a better city. Instead of accepting a written code of first principles in municipal ethics (and why not municipal ethics as well as moral and medical ethics?) let us learn to trace and connect, explain and apply, so as to make our accepted truths into a working principle. Every trade, every profession, has a basis of ethical knowledge; all conduct, public or private, has its ethics. Get the people to study the science of conduct, the development of the ideal into everyday life, and our public morality will rise and spread every year. We have separated too much those two closely allied things, religion and ethics. Let's try to bring them together right here in Roma. We can't reform the city in a year,—but we can begin. No religion is alive until—unless it works. We want no 'varnish religion,' as somebody called it; we want no ethics that won't strike in and uplift humanity as high as is humanly possible. God is still busy in Roma. It is our business, as private citizens, as well as public officials, to take right hold and help. Let us all set ourselves to studying the ethics of city government. What have been our especial hindrances, and why? What can be done to improve matters, and how? What are our first and most crying needs, and who are our best men and women to help them? We are set here together to help on the good work. I'd rather see the people of Roma loving each other in dollars and cents' and reaching out to help, realizing the immeasurable happiness of living by giving themselves in service, than anything else in the world. We can all demonstrate the highest social relation, our highest duty to God, by doing things. Will you help?"

There were tears in the eyes of the other women present when she sat down,—and a corresponding feeling in the hearts of many men, for she had stirred to the depths many a heart that only needed the path of duty pointed out, to desire to walk therein.

As for John Allingham, he sat spellbound. A woman,—a young woman to talk like this? to dream of applying the doctrines of ethics to city politics? And in the City Hall of Roma? And yet,—why not?

When the exercises were over and the goodnights were being said, he went over to where she stood, shaking hands again with the departing guests and joyously receiving pledge after pledge of help from those whose assistance she most eagerly desired. He had to wait for some moments before his chance came. But finally he held out his hand and said with more cordiality than he had thought possible:

"I want to congratulate Roma upon its woman-mayor. I want to thank you for what you said tonight; and please count on me, from now on, to help in every possible way."

He was still young enough to thrill at the tone of her voice and the light in her eyes as she thanked him, and said, "I shall remember."

The new mayor's inauguration into office was an event which will go down in the history of Roma as witnessing the greatest crowd of citizens of both sexes in City Hall which that temple of the money-changers ever saw. Both the friends and the enemies of the new administration were out in full force, and Gertrude Van Deusen's speech, accepting her new responsibilities, found ready response in many a heart which was thrilled by her words for the first time that day. The women of Roma turned out en masse and the old City Hall was not spacious enough to shelter all that came.

But it was when she took actual possession of the handsomely appointed office of the mayor, that she realized fully she was face to face with the greatest problem of her life. For now she had access to the inner temple of the mysteries of city government. She had already provided against the sex-awkwardness of her situation by installing as private secretary, Mary Snow, of the Atlas.

"Don't tell me no," she had urged when she offered Mary the position. "I must have a broad-minded, capable woman there who has had experience and knowledge of affairs. I know of nothing that could give a woman this kind of insight into public matters, like newspaper work of the kind you have done."

"But there are other newspaper women," began Mary—

"Yes, I know there are," replied Gertrude Van Deusen. "But a woman must have personal character and dignity and personal honor to fill this position, as well as the aforesaid experience."

And Mary Snow had accepted the place, to the joy of all other newspaper workers; for the gatherer of news is always rejoiced to find a newspaper man or woman ready to serve them when they are sent out for information by their chiefs. As the new mayor believed in publicity she soon had the sworn support of most of the newspaper men who came near City Hall. Her stenographer, too, was an attractive young woman and the feminine element soon became evident in all that part of the building devoted to the mayor's use. Flowers bloomed in the windows, an early and thorough house cleaning took place, and the cuspidors which had been conspicuous at every turn were banished,—all but the occasional one which must be left for the stranded politician who could not wait until he got out of doors. Signs were placed in various parts of the building, calling attention to the new waste-baskets, and prohibiting smoking and expectoration.

From time immemorial, City Hall had been a loafing place for seedy politicians, active and retired, who passed their time plotting for the next campaign in the free seats provided by the City Fathers. One morning these individuals found no chairs,—absolutely none except those used by the officials and clerical force. They called the janitor and expostulated volubly, but all to no effect.

"She's banished 'em, boys," he said. "It would be as much as my place is worth to bring 'em back. The boys say she ain't agoin' to have no heelers 'round here, nohow."

With this they had to be content—after they had grumbled long enough—to go away and hunt up new quarters. For once, there was a City Hall with clean corridors, no tobacco smoke, and no loafers.

From the moment of her entrance into office, office-seekers and office-holders beset Gertrude Van Deusen until she began to doubt if there would be time left for the pursuance of any other duty in life than to appease them. She learned, quickly enough, to shunt these off on her private secretary; but while she did not propose to discharge good men, she found that there must be good counsellors at hand for her own safety. At the end of her first week she called for the resignation of the city solicitor, McAdoo, who was rather glad than otherwise to "cut loose from petticoat government," as he expressed it. His place she filled at once by giving Bailey Armstrong the position.

The Common Council was made up of eighteen men, about half of whom were new to the position, so that it remained to be seen how far they could be depended upon to support any radical reform instituted by the new mayor; but as Geoffrey Mason and Albert Turner had finally consented to run on "the woman ticket" and had been elected, she felt that she might count on their influence, at least, and hoped to win over others. There were perhaps half a dozen, besides, on the "woman ticket"—every one of whom were men who would have declined to serve with any other mayor; but having pledged their word to "see her through" and been elected, they fulfilled their pledge now, like the staunch, good citizens they were. With this backing she felt that she might hope to carry out the work she had undertaken.

There were many things to harass her, however, chief among them being that the board of aldermen were strongly against her, men of the old regime mostly, ready to fight against any radical reforms and to begin work already to defeat her most cherished plans.

"She's in for two years, worse luck," said one of them. "But we'll tie her hands so she can't do too much mischief. A mayor's only a mayor, after all," with which significant utterance he winked solemnly to the reporter who was interviewing him for the Screamer.

But the new mayor went serenely on with her new duties, and if she knew all these things, gave no sign; apparently, the machinery of municipal government was running on well-oiled wheels until even the most ardent of her supporters began to wonder when she was "going to get busy."

But she was busy. The new mayor had a constructive imagination and did not fear big ideas. She dreamed already of a warfare against privilege—the privileges of the franchise corporations, the privileges of unjust taxation, and ultimately the privilege of private monopoly. Graft must be stamped out of the city administration, and a high order of men elected to the bench. Some big things must be accomplished in the city.

She had arrived at the conclusion that to most people the municipality is an industrial accident, its government rather a matter of police, fire and health administration, some public schools and a police court, a street and water department; that they wanted just enough of these things, and at the lowest possible cost, to enable men to go about their daily business.

"That," she said to herself, "is the average man's conception of the uses of a municipality. Some day we shall look back upon such an idea of a city as we now look back upon the straggling tepees of an Indian village. The city of tomorrow will be a people's city, doing countless things, all for the welfare of the people."

"And you expect to put that idea into practice here?" asked Mary Snow somewhat incredulously, as they sat at lunch together after a morning of hard work. "You expect Roma to stand for all that!"

"Her Honor" smiled back across the table. "Yes," she said, "I expect to start things in that direction, and to create such a public interest that my successor will be chosen especially to carry on the work that I mean to begin. I know of one city which already views these things as a necessary part of a good city's administration. It is not content with doing as few things as possible; it does as many things as possible for its people. Its public bath-houses give hundreds of thousands of baths every year. They are equipped with gymnasiums, where public instructors teach the children. Thousands of families are entertained free of cost by the baseball games played upon the public diamonds scattered all over the city. A number of city leagues have been organized, composed of clerks and workingmen. In the winter, skating carnivals are held and two score artificial skating ponds are maintained. The children are invited to the parks for May-day and romping-day festivals. All of these things not only enlarge the life of the people, but also identify them with the city in a way that was not dreamed of a few years ago. By following these lines, Roma may be a people's city, a city that serves, that brings happiness to thousands whose life is otherwise encompassed with the dreary drudgery of toil."

"If you could bring such an ideal state of things to pass," said Mary Snow, "Roma would call you blessed among women. And you would never be allowed to stop being mayor."

"Well," returned Gertrude, "the best way to fight the saloon is to offer a substitute greater in interest. In my ideal city not only will there be plenty of free baseball diamonds, but also golf links and tennis courts, to invite thousands of people into the city's pleasure resorts. A dozen playgrounds will be laid out in the congested districts. Here trained men will teach the children of the poor how to play. These children will be taken from the street. They will be saved from the reformatory. They will be given good bodies to live in. In this way the work of the police department will be diminished, for one playground is the equivalent of several patrolmen. And it does not cost one-quarter as much. Who knows but our Roma of tomorrow will do these things on a grander scale than any of our cities have yet attempted? It will rival the saloon and bring opportunities for recreation and happiness within easy access of the poorest man's home."

But Mary Snow did not answer. She had caught Bailey Armstrong's smile as he passed down the room, and even the ideal city faded into insignificance as a warm thrill called the color into her cheeks, and made Gertrude say as she glanced up at her:

"How pretty you look, Mary. I wouldn't suppose you were a day over eighteen."

"Now we can talk business," said the man, drawing his chair up closer. "See here, my name is McAlister. I've the contract for laying out the avenue from Hayden Park to the Boulevard."

"And you are doing the work?" asked Gertrude.

"Yes, I'm doing the work all right," returned McAlister. "But this smart Alec you have in the law department may make trouble—and expense for the city," he added.

"Just how, Mr. McAlister?" asked Gertrude so smoothly as to cause the big contractor to take fresh courage.

"Well, you know when a lawyer is put into a public position—city solicitor or district attorney, or whatever—the first thing he does is to look for something that he can rip up the back."

"And what is the matter with your contract?" Her tones were dulcet now.

"Nothing at all. My contract is all right," replied the man. "But Armstrong is putting up a bluff and threatens to have it overhauled."

"But why?" persisted the mayor.

"Now look here, your Honor," urged the man confidentially. "Your father was a politician. He knew all the tricks of the trade. He made his pile all right, one way or another."

"Mr. McAlister!" Gertrude's voice had a new note.

"O, hold yourself close, now," said he. "No harm meant. Senator Van Deusen was as fine a man as Roma ever produced. And if I didn't vote for you—it wasn't because I wouldn't do anything for his daughter. But now,—well, let's make it a mutual thing. You protect me and my interests and I'll stick by you, and where I go, there go several hundred other good voters."

"The scoundrel!" said Gertrude to her inmost soul. But she did not change countenance.

"Well, I will look into the matter," she replied. "If your contract is all right—and you say it is—the city will certainly stand by you. Of course I could not promise anything more definite than that now. But I will look into the matter and advise Mr. Armstrong."

"O, don't take your time to look up a contract a year old," said McAlister. "It won't be worth your while. Take my word,—the word of one who worked night and day for your father,—and just call Armstrong off. He'll find enough in the bridge department to keep him busy, if he must stir things up anywhere."

"I will speak to Mr. Armstrong," said Gertrude, rising and pushing the electric button as a signal for the others to return. There was nothing for McAlister to do but depart, wondering just how much he had gained by the interview.

"If she goes to looking into old contracts—" he muttered as he went down the stairs—and then whistled sharply.

When he was well out of sight, Gertrude sent for Bailey Armstrong.

"What are you doing to one McAlister?" she asked. "A street contractor, I believe he is."

"Nothing, as yet. Why?" asked the city attorney.

"Well, he's just left me," replied the mayor. "Says you are going to 'rip his contract up the back,'—to quote him literally."

"Aha!" said Bailey. "Then he's afraid, is he? I've done nothing as yet, but I heard something the other day that caused me to suspect trouble in that direction. See here, Gertie, just how far do you want me to go in this 'ripping-up-the-back' business? I'm positive if we once begin we'll find graft on every side of us. Then trouble will begin, you know,—trouble for you, I mean."

"Never mind me," she answered. "What am I here for if it is not to purify city government? I don't expect to make friends in the process; but if I can serve the city—and thereby my state and my country, why,—" She stopped and looked fearlessly at Armstrong.

"Then I shall go ahead—looking into the matter of contracts and appropriations?" he asked.

"Certainly," she replied. "No matter whom it hits, investigate every department of the administration."

"Bravo!" said he. "You're a chip of the old block all right." Gertrude remembered with a twinge of apprehension what McAlister had said about her father's "pile." "But you must be prepared for war—underhanded, tricky, politicians' war," added Bailey.

A week later he appeared again at her office and asked for a private interview.

"Gertrude," he began, "it's as I feared about McAlister. He has an infamous contract—or, rather, a whole set of them—and he is fleecing the city with every yard of pavement he puts down."

"That doesn't surprise me," replied the Mayor. "It's the scared bird that flutters."

"He has a separate contract for every 300 square yards of pavement he lays," said Armstrong. "Instead of accepting the terms of the lowest bidder, the board of aldermen let him these contracts. It is a wrong system from the start. We ought to have a competitive system and award our contracts to the lowest bidder who will do good work. Instead of that, there seems to have been some sort of chicanery by which McAlister was given all these little contracts,—on every one of which he makes a big profit,—while the other bidders were not even considered."

"Who has the giving out of contracts, anyway? Oughtn't there to be a regular system about it?"

"There should be a law about it," said Bailey. "But I find nothing in the city charter. And I find that contracts have been given out by aldermen, councilmen or mayor, just as happened to suit their notions best."

"Suppose you go to work, Bailey, and draft me a bill providing that every piece of work to be done for the city shall be open to all bidders. We must have some definite plans of considering and acting on these bids—so that none of the officials can give out contracts without such action and vote as the whole council and the mayor think best. Better make it obligatory that the bids be opened in the presence of all who may wish to be present and in the presence of, or by, the mayor. That would be something I'd like to establish in my term—something to be remembered."

"Not only that," said Armstrong, "but no contract should be considered binding on the city without the mayor's signature of approval."

"Go ahead and draw it up," said the Mayor. "And then we'll have a meeting of the Common Council and get it adopted."

But while it was easy enough to draw up and elaborate the bill, it was not so simple a matter to get it passed. A meeting was called and every one of the Common Council came. Then Gertrude began to count her strength, and to find that a man's pocketbook is next to his heart in more senses than one.

It was a stormy meeting—this first one over which the woman-mayor presided. Mason and Turner and several others of the new members of the city council worked ably to get the proposed amendment to the charter through; but every alderman and a majority of the Council were against it. The debate was hot and turbulent. Several times the mayor had to bring down her gavel sharply, and call to order men much older and better versed in parliamentary tactics than herself. And when it was all over, the assembly had voted to lay the whole matter on the table!

"It all comes to just this, I am afraid," said Gertrude to Armstrong and Mary Snow when it was all over and they were back in the mayor's office. "They all fear exposure of one kind or another. How much do you suppose they want to conceal?"

"There is nothing hid which cannot be found out," retorted Bailey, "and by the great horn spoon, I'll find it out."

"They may wish they had voted 'yes' before they get through with this," said Mary Snow. "For they must know that you have access to every sort of record in the city, if you choose."

"And I choose," responded Miss Van Deusen. "I'll go through every contract, now we're started. That reminds me, Bailey, McAlister hinted that you could find plenty to do in the bridge department, if you must 'rip things up the back'. I would look into that, too, if I were you."

"Yes—and this new franchise the street railway is so nearly concluding," he answered. "O, we'll be enough for them yet. When are you going to appoint a new street commissioner? Perhaps that might precipitate things a little."

"Tomorrow, then, I'll ask for Thalberg's resignation," was the reply. "How would John Allingham do for that place? I've been thinking it might be a good thing all around."

"Splendid," cried Bailey. "He'd like it, too. He likes a good fight—always did."

"Would he, do you think? Under a woman-mayor?" she added.

"I think so. It's different now you are elected, you know. Ever notice how much easier it is to support an innovation after it is well started than before?"

"Then come, Minnie," she said, turning to the stenographer. "Take this to Mr. Thalberg;" and she proceeded to dictate a letter advising him that his resignation, taking effect immediately, would be acceptable to the mayor.

Then she dictated another as follows:

Mr. John Allingham,
Municipal League Rooms; City.

Dear Mr. Allingham:

Will you do me the favor to call at this office Thursday, the seventeenth, at ten a. m., and oblige,

Gertrude Van Deusen,
Mayor of Roma.

Which, when Allingham opened and read it late that afternoon, caused him to give vent to a long, low whistle, and to read it over the second time.

But he wrote, immediately, accepting the appointment; and a dozen times that night he asked himself what she could want of him—and just how much he would be willing to help the woman-mayor.

Then, looking out across the moonlit city from his tower window, he recalled that other night when they rode together in the open country beneath the shining moon—when she was not the candidate, the mayor-elect, the modern strenuous woman—but just a sweet and gracious spirit with a melodious voice and a presence that thrilled him. Then he told himself, "Yes, anything—anything she wants."

And Gertrude, in the silence of her own room, was saying to herself, "Will he come, I wonder? Would I, if I were in his place? If I were a man who had been brought up to believe as he does about women; and then a modern suffragist who had won out over me, had sent for me,—to ask me to come and help—would I go? Oh, how do I know?"