He could not arouse the people. Zaanan himself might have stirred them, but no stranger could. Especially no stranger could stir them to fight for Zaanan when Zaanan himself acknowledged defeat.
Some there were who fought shoulder to shoulder with Jim. Dolf Springer did what was in him, and when he saw the futility of it his watery eyes grew more watery still. Dolf was faithful; Zaanan was his great man. His faith in the goodness of God was shaken.
Moran did not abate his exertions. He himself, his agents, his hirelings, traversed the township, the county. Ceaselessly they worked, and tirelessly, efficiently. Their faces wore no looks of discouragement; their bearing was jaunty. Any man with half a political eye could see the victory was theirs. On the eve of the caucus Jim grudgingly admitted it, too.
That night—the hour was not quite nine—the young man who was Grierson’s assistant in the bookkeeping realm—his name was Newell—rushed up to Jim on the hotel piazza. Obviously he was in a state of high excitement.
“Mr. Ashe! Mr. Ashe!” he panted.
Jim drew him aside.
“What is it, Newell?” he asked.
“Crab Creek Trestle, Mr. Ashe. They’re going to burn it to-night, so you can’t get any more logs.”
“How do you know? Who told you?”
“I don’t know the man—tall, carried a gun under his arm.”