Kite smiled bitterly. “No, Amos. Be patient.”
Chase was watching Wint, still with that desperate hope in his eyes. They were all watching Wint; but Wint was looking at the floor, following with his eyes the pattern in the rug. This was the end. He had just about decided that. There was in him no more will to fight. He had been a good Mayor. If they didn’t want to re-elect him—that was their affair. He would do no more. He had a sick sense of betrayal. His lips twisted in a bitter little smile.
Kite addressed him directly. “So, young man, we want your withdrawal from the mayoralty race. And this whole matter will end right here.”
Wint still did not lift his head. His father thought the boy was shamed; and his heart was torn. Kite asked sharply: “Come! What do you say?”
Wint looked at Kite, then, for the first time; looked at him with a slow, steady, incurious gaze that made Kite twist in his chair. And he repeated, in a low voice:
“You want me to withdraw?”
“Exactly. Now.”
Wint shook his head gently. “No,” he said, “I won’t withdraw.”
Kite threw up one clenched fist in a furious gesture. “By God, if you don’t you’ll be run out of town!”
“I’m in the fight,” said Wint steadily. He spoke so low they could scarce hear him. “I’m in the fight. I’ll stay.”