At seven o’clock the reporters came, and Doctor Foerder, as they put it, issued a bulletin.
“He’s alive,” the doctor said, “pulse 120 to 124, respiration 22 to 26, temperature 98. His remarkable nerve alone sustains him. He’s making the most magnificent fight I ever saw in all my life—have you heard anything from the convention?”
“They’re all over but the one in the First District,” one of the reporters said, while they scribbled down the physician’s figures. “It all depends now upon what that does. It’s the worst fight ever known in Chicago. They say Warren has spent twenty-five thousand to-day.”
“Does it look as if he could be elected there—in the First, you know?”
The reporters smiled and winked one at another.
The colonel lay like one asleep, until far along in the evening. Once or twice he opened his eyes and looked an inquiry into the doctor’s eyes, but Foerder could only shake his head. And once or twice he muttered something about Baldwin, and was troubled that they could not understand. Then he sank into a state of coma, and the news for which all were waiting would not come.
Doctor Foerder was for ever glancing at his watch and asking Lambert how he thought the First District convention would turn out. Lambert had no idea.
“I hope we’ll win,” Foerder would say. Finally he sent Lambert down for news. Lambert hurried back. They had taken forty-six ballots, he said, and the vote was tied. At ten o’clock Doctor Foerder examined the colonel again, examined his eyes, his finger-nails, drummed on his chest, listened to his heart.
“You’re magnificent!” he could not refrain from whispering, but his patient did not answer or look, or even smile this time. He was growing very weak. His breathing was faint, he inhaled the air through livid lips. He did not arouse from his stupor.
Doctor Foerder got very impatient. “We can’t wait much longer,” he said.