But nothing happened. A week dragged past; a week in which it was reasonably clear that Wint was losing ground to Routt. Wint himself saw this as quickly as any man, and it troubled him. He asked Peter Gergue for advice—Amos was still out of town—and Peter told him to get up on his hind legs and rear and tear, but Wint shook his head. “I can’t do that. It isn’t in me. The whole thing makes me sick.”
“You’ve naturally got to do it,” Gergue assured him. “Routt’s telling ’em to vote for him; and he’s telling them the same thing, over and over, till they know their lesson like a parrot. That’s advertising, Wint. Keep a-telling them the same thing till they know what they’re to do. You got to. Might as well come to it first as last.”
“I can’t ask a man to vote for me.”
“Why not?”
Wint grinned, and flushed, and gave it up. And Gergue told him again that he would have to make a noise if he wanted to be heard in Hardiston; and he left Wint to think it over.
B. B. Beecham, a day or two later, gave Wint the same advice, but to more purpose. Wint had dropped in at the Journal office casually enough, and talked with two or three others who were there before him, till they drifted away and left him with B. B. Wint asked:
“Well, how do things look to you, B. B.?”
B. B. looked doubtful. “You’re not making a very strong campaign,” he said.
Wint nodded. “I know it. It goes against the grain.”
The editor was surprised. “Is that so? Just how do you mean?”