Kite looked up, considered. “A thousand or twelve hundred, I suppose.”
Amos bestirred his great bulk and drew from a pocket a handful of letters. He chose one, replaced the others. From another pocket he routed a stubby pencil, moistened the lead, and set down Kite’s figures on the envelope. “I think that’s too many,” he commented.
“Maybe,” Kite agreed. “What does it matter?”
“How many wet votes can you swing against Chase as it stands?”
Kite frowned. “I can’t do much with Hollow to work with. Maybe four hundred.”
“Suppose you had a good man to work with?”
“He ought to get close to five hundred out of twelve.”
“Everybody so much in love with Chase as that?”
Kite shook his head. “They don’t like him. Nobody does. He thinks he owns the town.”
“Does he own it?”