As the annual election approached he heard rumors of barb disaffection, of threatened barb revolt. Vance, his barb lieutenant, reassured him.
"Always a few kickers," said Vance, "and they make a lot of noise. But they won't draw off twenty votes." Pierson made himself easy—there was no danger of one of those hard-fought contests which in past years had developed at Battle Field many of Indiana's adroit political leaders.
On election night he felt important and powerful as he sat in the front row among the arrogant Sigma Alphas, at the head of his forces massed in the left side of the hall. He had insisted on Scarborough's occupying a seat just behind him. He tilted back in his arm-chair and said, in an undertone: "You're voting with us?"
Scarborough shook his head. "Can't do it. I'm pledged to Adee."
Pierson looked amused. "Who's he? And who's putting him up?"
"I'm nominating him," replied Scarborough, "as the barb candidate."
"Take my advice don't do it, old man," said Pierson in a friendly, somewhat patronizing tone.
"You'll only get our fellows down on you—them and all the fraternity men. And—well, your candidate'll have a dozen votes or so, at most—and there'll be a laugh."
"Yes—I suppose there will be a laugh," said Scarborough, his eyes twinkling.
"Don't do it," urged Pierson. "Be practical."