“Just as I was leaving I met a messenger-boy with these returns. I opened the envelope.”
Douglas Briggs started. Farley’s cheerful and businesslike voice had given him a sensation of alarm.
“Oh, is that you, Farley?” he said. “All right,” he went on, vaguely. Then he glanced at the yellow paper in Farley’s hand. “What does it say?”
“The returns that we received over the wire from the Ninth District were wrong. They got mixed down at the Gazette office.”
“How was that?” Briggs’s voice showed that he was still bewildered.
“The majority of 235 was not for you.”
The full significance of the remark slowly made its way into Douglas Briggs’s mind. “Ah!” He shrugged his shoulders. “That’s a bad sign, isn’t it?”
“Very bad. I knew they’d been spending money up there.”
Briggs sat back in his chair. He had recovered himself now. “Well, they would have spent more than we could; so, perhaps, it’s just as well that we didn’t spend any.”
Farley looked thoughtful. “I think I’ll let those fellows rip,” he said, slowly. “I’ll stay here and watch out for developments.”