Election night found various groups in various places.
In the back room of the Eagle Pharmacy was gathered
once again the neighborhood forum, a wildly excited
forum, which ever and anon pounded Mr. Hendricks on
the back, and drank round after round of soda water
and pop. Doctor Smalley, coming in rather late
found them all there, calling Mr. Hendricks “Mr.
Mayor” or “Your Honor,” reciting
election anecdotes, and prophesying the end of the
Reds. Only Willy Cameron, sitting on a table
near the window, was silent.
Mr. Hendricks, called upon for a speech, rose with
his soda water glass in his hand.
“I’ve got a toast for you, boys,”
he said. “You’ve been talking all
evening about my winning this election. Well,
I’ve been elected, but I didn’t win it.
It was the plain people of this town who elected
me, and they did it because my young friend on the
table yonder told them to.” He raised
his glass. “Cameron!” he said.
“Cameron! Cameron!” shouted the
crowd. “Speech! Cameron!”
But Willy shook his head.
“I haven’t any voice left,” he said,
“and you’ve heard me say all I know a
dozen times. The plain truth is that Mr. Hendricks
got the election because he was the best man, and
enough people knew it. That’s all.”
To Mr. Hendricks the night was one of splendid solemnity.
He felt at once very strong and very weak, very proud
and very humble. He would do his best, and if
honesty meant anything, the people would have it,
but he knew that honesty was not enough. The
city needed a strong man; he hoped that the Good Man
who made cities as He made men, both evil and good,
would lend him a hand with things. As prayer
in his mind was indissolubly connected with church,
he made up his mind to go to church the next Sunday
and get matters straightened out.
At the same time another group was meeting at the
Benedict.
Louis Akers had gone home early. By five o’clock
he knew that the chances were against him, but he
felt a real lethargy as to the outcome. He had
fought, and fought hard, but it was only the surface
mind of him that struggled. Only the surface
mind of him hated, and had ambitions, dreamed revenge.
Underneath that surface mind was a sore that ate
like a cancer, and that sore was his desertion by
Lily Cardew. For once in his life he suffered,
who had always inflicted pain.
At six o’clock Doyle had called him on the telephone
and told him that Woslosky was dead, but the death
of the Pole had been discounted in advance, and already
his place had been filled by a Russian agent, who
had taken the first syllable of his name and called
himself Ross. Louis Akers heard the news apathetically,
and went back to his chair again.
