Kite threw up his hands. “Nothing. Too late. But I....”
The Congressman interrupted drawlingly: “Now if it was young Wint that was going to be Mayor—you wouldn’t have to worry.”
Kite laughed shortly. “I guess not. But—he’s not.”
“He wouldn’t be likely to make the town so awful dry.”
“Not unless he drank it dry.”
“We-ell, he couldn’t do that.”
Kite grinned. “I’d chance it.”
They were silent for a moment; then Amos said slowly: “Funny—what a difference one letter makes. ‘Jr.’ instead of ‘Sr.’ Eh?”
Kite nodded slowly; and Amos was silent again, and so for a time the two men sat, thinking. Kite stared at the fire, his face working. Amos watched the fire, but most of all he watched Kite. He studied the little man, his head tilted on one side, his eyes narrowed. And Kite remained oblivious of this scrutiny. In the end, Amos spoke:
“Kite—how many votes you figure will be cast at this election?”