The voting was heavy throughout the day. Crowds lingered round the polls, which, in greater part, were in the rear of shops, in barns and sheds. There was a good deal of repeating in some of the districts, and a dozen arrests had been made. Neither party was free from this taint of dishonest politics. But no one could prophesy what the final results of the day would be.

Night came. It is the greatest spectacular night the American knows.

The noisy, good-natured crowds in the streets, the jostling, snail-moving crowds; the illuminated canvas-sheets in front of the newspaper offices; the blare of tin horns, the cries, the yells, the hoots and hurrahs; the petty street fights; the stalled surface cars; the swearing cabbies; the newsboys hawking their latest extras, men carrying execrable posters of roosters. Hurrah! hurrah! A flash goes over the canvas.

In the 4th District Donnelly 608 Warrington. 302

A roar that rose and died suddenly, and a wailing of tin horns.

In Seven Districts Warrington 1,262 Donnelly 1,196

Roars. It was, going to be close. Between times local advertisers used the sheets, or there were pictures of presidents past and present, crowned heads (always greeted with jeers), funny pictures, or returns from other states.

In Nine Districts Donnelly 1,821 Warrington 1,800

The crowds surged and billowed, and there was pandemonium.

The newspaper offices were having a busy time. This period proves the man; he is a newspaper man or he is not. There was a continuous coming and going of messengers, bringing in returns. The reporters and editors were in their shirt-sleeves, most of them collarless. Figures, figures, thousands of figures to sift and resift. A fire-bell rings.

No one looks up save the fire reporter, and he is up and away at once.

Filtering through the various noises is the maddening rattle of the telegraph instruments. Great drifts of waste-paper litter the floors.

A sandwich man serves coffee and cigars, and there is an occasional bottle of beer. Everybody is writing, writing.

McQuade and his cohorts haunted the city room of the Times. Things did not look well at all. There were twelve more districts to hear from.

Donnelly seemed to be the coolest man in that office.

Warrington started home at nine. Up to this time he had been indifferent, but it was impossible not to catch the spirit of this night. Win or lose, however, he wanted to be alone. So he went home, lighted the fire in his working-room, called his dog, and sat there dreaming.

Down town the clamor was increasing. The great throngs round the bulletins were gathering in force. Bonfires were flaring on corners.

In 15 Districts Warrington 9,782 Donnelly 9,036

Close, terribly close. But those districts upon which the fight really depended had not yet turned up. The big labor vote had not been accounted for.

The Call had notified its readers that when the returns were all in and the battle decided, it would blow a whistle. If Warrington was elected, five blasts; if Donnelly, ten.

So Warrington waited, sunk in his chair, his legs sprawled, his chin on his breast, and his eyes drawing phantoms in the burning wood fire.

... It was cruel that Patty could not know; and yet to leave John with the belief that his sister knew nothing was a kindness, and only John could convince Patty; and it was even a greater kindness to leave Patty with the belief that John knew nothing. So there he stood; friendship on the one side and love on the other. He recalled all the charming ways Patty had, the color of her hair, the light music of her laughter, the dancing shadows in her eyes, the transparent skin, the springy step, and the vigor and life that were hers. And he had lost her, not through any direct fault, but because he was known to have been dissipated at one time; a shadow that would always be crossing and recrossing his path. So long as he lived he would carry that letter of hers, with its frank, girlish admiration.

So, he mused, those dissipations of his, which, after all, had touched him but lightly--these had, like chickens, come home to roost! And how these chickens had multiplied and grown! On the way home it seemed that everybody had striven to fatten them up a bit and add surrept.i.tiously a chicken or two of his own. Oh, these meddlers, these idle tongues! None of them would set to work to wrong anybody, to wreck anybody's life. They would shrink in horror from the thought, let alone the deed. Yet, they must talk, they must exchange the day's news, they must have news that no one else had; and this compet.i.tion is the cause of half the misery on earth. What if they exaggerate a little here and a little there? No harm is meant. Human nature, having found its speech, must have something to talk about; that which it has neither seen nor heard, it invents.

Who had written that letter to Patty? Some woman; man had not yet acquired such finished cruelty. He could not understand its purpose, well as he understood women. Who could possibly hate Patty, honest and loyal as the day is long? McQuade's letters had their existence in revenge. Patty had wronged no one; McQuade had.

"Well, Jove, old man, you and I may have to pack up on the morrow. If we are licked, you and I'll go to j.a.pan. That's a country we've always been wanting to see."

Jove lifted his head, somewhat scarred, and gazed up at his master with steadfast love in his red-brown eyes. A dog is better than a horse, a horse is better than a cat, a cat is better than nothing. ...

Warrington sat up quickly, drawing in his legs. A whistle! He caught his breath and counted. One--two--three--four--five--SIX! ...

Donnelly! He counted no more. Donnelly had won.

His valet found him asleep in the chair the next morning, before a dead fire. It was cold in the room. The valet touched him, but Warrington did not move. It was only when he was roughly shaken that he opened his eyes. A single glance explained the situation. He jumped to his feet, rubbing his eyes.

"Will you have the morning papers, sir?"

"What's the use?" Warrington shrugged indifferently.

"The majority was only six hundred and eighty-two, sir."

"Then we had them mightily scared for a time. Odd that the 'phone did not wake me up."

"I took it off the hook, sir, at midnight. I knew it would disturb you."

"Go down town and bring me up the sailing-lists and a few cabin-plans for ships bound for j.a.pan. I intend to start for that country just as soon as I can dispose of the horses."

"Shall you need me, sir?"

"I couldn't get along without you, James."

"Thank you, sir. Breakfast is served, sir, if you wish it."

The telephone rang. The valet raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

"I'll answer it," said Warrington. "Who is it? Jordan? Oh! You can say that I put up the best fight I knew how. ... No. Say nothing about the influence of the strike. Let it stand as it is. ... My plans? You may say that I shall sail in a few days for j.a.pan. ... Oh, yes! This is my home. I shall return in the spring. Change of scene, that's all.

Good-by."

The defeated candidate ate a respectable breakfast, after which he put his affairs in order. Trunks were brought down from the store-room, and cases and steamer-rolls. Warrington always traveled comfortably.

He left the packing in charge of the valet.

A ten-o'clock edition of the Telegraph was being hawked outside, but Warrington had seen all he wanted of newspapers. By noon he had found a purchaser for his stable. The old housekeeper and her husband were to remain in care of the house. They were the only beings that loved him, now that the aunt was gone. Heigh-ho!

He declined lunch. He answered no more calls on the telephone. When Senator Henderson called the interview was pleasant but short.

"We'll try you again," said the senator genially.

"I'll think it over," replied Warrington.

"You'll win next time; you'll be stronger two years hence. You made a great fight. Bennington lost the fight for you. If he hadn't been your friend--"

"I had rather have John Bennington my friend than be president,"

laughing.

"There were six thousand-odd labor votes against you, and yet Donnelly's majority was only six hundred and eighty-two. Hope you'll enjoy your trip to j.a.pan. But McQuade's back again!" discouraged.

"Senator, if he acts nasty in any way, go to him personally and tell him that upon application at the bank you will open my deposit box.

He'll understand; he'll be as docile as a lamb. And thank all the boys for their good work. I appreciate the honor that has been done me. To have been a candidate is something."