“Don’t you believe there’s any chance of our catching up, then?”
“Looks pretty black,” he admitted. “They’ve got us eight down and nine to go, but if this amendment holds off we’ve still got eight weeks left to think up some wild scheme.”
She squeezed his arm. “I’m not afraid of the future, no matter what happens. We can take care of ourselves.”
“Sure we can,” he said, easily. “Maybe I could get a job keeping the books for the League!... Seriously, though, I’ve had two or three different propositions put up to me over at the Club ... but Lord! how I hate to be licked! Well––let’s train our gigantic intellects on the job, and finish out the heat, anyway.”
She went back to her hated housekeeping, and Henry went back to his hated theater, and for another week they labored and pinched and saved, each in a specific purpose, and each in desperate support of the other’s loyalty and sacrifice.
He brought her, then, the morning edition of the Herald, and pointed out a telegraphic item 259 on the first page. “They must think it’s a sure thing,” he said, “and the devil of it is that I guess they’re pretty nearly right.”
Anna glanced at the headlines, and gasped. “Mix elected second vice-president of the national organization––and pledges twenty-five thousand dollars to the national campaign fund! Oh!... I wish I could say what I think!”
“If a hearty oath would relieve you, don’t mind me,” said Henry. His chin was squarer than usual, and his eyes were harder. “You can see what happened, can’t you? Aunt Mirabelle railroaded him through––and the pompous old fool looks the part––and she let him promise money she expects to get in August. And I’ll bet it hurt him just as much to promise it as it does me to have him!”
She threw the paper to the floor. “Henry, can’t we do something? We’re only a few hundred dollars short! Can’t we make up just that little bit?”