Esther accompanied her uncle to the “rally” on Tuesday evening. The Town Hall was packed, and again there was the same stir and whispering when they passed up the aisle between the lines of crowded settees. Men were in the majority, of course, but there were many women there also, and some girls. The men looked at Foster Townsend, but the feminine element centered its interest upon his niece, and Esther wondered if they noticed the new brooch which she was wearing. It was a present from her Uncle Foster, who had bought it from the local jeweler and watchmaker that afternoon. That brooch had been on display in the shop window almost a year—since before the previous Christmas, in fact—and the price upon the card above it was twenty dollars. She had seen it often and her admiration of its beauty was coupled with a vague resentment at the extravagance of its cost. Now it was hers—her very own.
The Honorable Mooney’s speech was, it seemed to her, a noble effort. She had never before heard quite as many big words said so loudly or with such accompaniment of gesture. And she noticed that the orator appeared to be looking in their direction almost constantly as he said them. When it was over he hurried from the platform and pushed his way to their side.
“Well, Cap’n Townsend,” he panted, eagerly, “I guess you’ll have to own that I kept my word. Came out strong enough for the cranberry bill this time, didn’t I?... How did it sound to you?”
The crowd about them had stopped to listen. There was a hush. Mr. Mooney’s hand was extended, but Townsend did not remove his from his trousers’ pockets.
“Sounded a good deal as if you had decided to be a bad influence,” he observed. “Yes, you came out—to-night. How you come out on election day is—well, I guess that depends on how sure you can make us that you’ll stay out—after you get in again.”
There was a roar of delighted laughter from the group surrounding them. Mr. Mooney did not laugh. He looked troubled.
The horse trot at the Circle was to take place on Thursday afternoon. All masculine Harniss knew of it by this time. Backers of the Baker horse had visited Harniss during the past few days, had expressed unbounded confidence in the fast-traveling Rattler, and had been quite willing to support their confidence financially. There were perhaps a hundred men and boys gathered about the starting-point when Foster Townsend and Esther drove up in the dog-cart. Esther, looking out over the crowd, felt troubled and out of place. So far as she could see she was the only member of the gentler sex present. Horse racing, although patronized by Harniss’s leading citizen, was not approved by the majority of its best people, particularly the church-going element. At the Ostable County Fair and Cattle Show they hung over the fence and cheered or groaned, their wives and daughters with them, but that was different—all set standards relaxed on Cattle Show days. An affair of this kind was a trifle too much of a sporting proposition, it savored too closely of card playing and gambling; so, although some—including Captain Benjamin Snow—attended, they did not bring their families. If it was any one but Cap’n Foster, people said, he would not be allowed to do such things.
The racers, harnessed to the light sulkies—“gigs” they were called in that locality—were trotting easily about the track. Mr. Gifford was driving Claribel, of course, and Seth Emmons held the reins for the Baker horse. Varunas saw the Townsend span make its showy approach along the road and he alighted from the sulky and came to meet its owner and his companion. Varunas was dressed for the occasion, not in the yellow and black satin which he donned for the ceremonious Cattle Show races, but he was wearing the little satin cap pulled down to his ears and his trousers were fastened tightly about his bowed legs with leather straps. He was swollen with importance and grinning with prospective triumph.
“She’s fine, Cap’n Foster,” he whispered. “Never handled her when she was in better shape. If she don’t peel more’n one extry ten-dollar bill off’n Sam Baker’s roll to-day then I’ll eat her, and I won’t ask for no pepper sass and gravy, neither. Oh, say,” he added; “Cap’n Ben Snow’s goin’ to be judge—says you asked him to—and he wants to talk to you a minute. He’s right over yonder. Shall I go fetch him?”
Townsend climbed down from the seat of the dog-cart. “I’ll go to him,” he said. “Esther, suppose you stay where you are. You can see better up there than you can anywhere else. I’ll be back pretty soon. Here, Josiah,” turning to one of the youthful bystanders, “keep an eye on the team, will you?”