“The game is up,” I whispered to Strong, who, as my principal supporter, had been admitted with me to the hall.
He ground his teeth and I noticed in the gaslight that his face was ghastly pale and his lips were blue.
“You had better go out,” I said, “you are overtaxing that dilated heart of yours. Go home and take a sleeping draught.”
“Damn you, no,” he answered fiercely in my ear, “those papers come from the Little Martha ward, where I thought there wasn’t a wrong ’un in the crowd. If they’ve sold me, I’ll be even with them, as sure as my name is Strong.”
“Come,” I said with a laugh, “a good Radical shouldn’t talk like that.” For me the bitterness was over, and, knowing the worst, I could afford to laugh.
The official opened the last packet and began to count aloud.
The first vote was for “Therne,” but bad, for the elector had written his name upon the paper. Then in succession came nine for “Colford.” Now all interest in the result had died away, and a hum of talk arose from those present in the room, a whispered murmur of congratulations and condolences. No wonder, seeing that to win I must put to my credit thirty-two of the forty remaining papers, which seemed a thing impossible.
The counter went on counting aloud and dealing down the papers as he counted. One, two, three, four, and straight on up to ten for Therne, when he paused to examine a paper, then “One for Colford.” Then, in rapid successful, “Five, ten, fifteen for Therne.”
Now the hum of conversation died away, for it was felt that this was becoming interesting. Of course it was practically impossible that I should win, for there were but fourteen papers left, and to do so I must secure eleven of them!
“Sixteen for Therne,” went on the counter, “seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty.”