Wint said coldly: “Just what are you talking about, Kite? You wanted to see me. Well, here I am. What have you got to say? I’ll give you about thirty seconds more.”
“Thirty seconds?” Kite echoed. “You’ll give me all the time I want. I tell you, you’re done.”
“What have you got to say?”
“Go out there, and.... No, first write out for me a notice of your withdrawal from the mayoralty fight. Then go out there and turn Lutcher loose. If you do these two things, they’ll save you, for a while. And nothing else in the world can save you.”
Wint—there could be no question of this—was frightened. He was afraid of the certainty in Kite’s manner, afraid of the mystery behind the other’s confidence. But it is braver to appear brave when you are frightened than when there is no fright in you; and Wint, frightened though he might be, was yet brave. He rose.
“Time’s up, Kite,” he said.
Kite exclaimed: “Don’t be a fool. I don’t want to ruin you. Save yourself, boy.”
Wint opened the door and stepped out into the other room.
That was Thursday morning, five days before election. A fair, fine day of the sort you will see in Hardiston in the fall. The sun was warm, the air was crisp and dry. It was a day when simply living was pleasant; when to draw breath was a joy. Ordinarily, Wint would have drunk this day to the full. But there was abroad in Hardiston a whispered word; men looked at him curiously as he passed them. No one seemed to know exactly what was coming; yet they looked upon Wint as one looks upon a man about to die. Kite had said nothing. From the fire-engine house he had gone direct to his Bazaar and stayed there. One or two of his lieutenants visited him there during the morning.
Kite said nothing; no one had any definite word. Yet Hardiston was whispering its guesses. Somehow the rumor had gone abroad that Wint was done, that Kite was about to strike. There was a lively and an eager anticipation. It is always easy to anticipate the misfortunes of others; and there will always be those to rejoice in the imminent downfall of one who has held himself high. Wint had enemies enough; even some of those whom he had counted his friends looked askance at him this day.