“Bring in every telegram,” he repeated. Outside, in the hallway, the judge waylaid the doctor.
“Ain't he goin' to pull through?”
“One chance in a thousand,” was the curt answer.
About three o'clock the judge got a telegram that made him swear fearfully, and thereafter they came fast. The Pope would use no money. The judge wired the Pope's manager warily offering a thousand of his own. The answer came—“Too late.” At five o'clock they were running neck and neck. Ten minutes before the polls closed old Bill Maddox rounded up twenty more votes and victory was his. And all the while the judge was making reports to the Pope:
“Runnin' easy.”
“It's a cinch.”
“Ole Bill fighting tooth and toe-nail but you got him, Jim.”
“Countin' the votes now.”
“Air ye shore, Jim, you want to leave all that money fer ole Bill's brats?—he's a hound.”
“Ole Bill comin' up a little, Jim.”