It seemed queer that the precincts furthest away should be first to respond, but so it was. Jefferson County returns began to come in rapidly, and were received in dismal silence. Hopkins gained four here, seven there, and twenty-two in another precinct.
"It looks," said Kenneth, quietly, "like a landslide for Hopkins, and I wonder how our Committee was so badly informed."
"You see," said Uncle John, "voters won't usually tell the truth about how they've decided to vote. Lots of them tell both sides they're going to vote their way. And people change their minds at the last minute, too. You can't do much more than average the thing by means of a canvass."
By nine o'clock, complete returns from the part of Jefferson County included in the Eighth District showed a net gain of one hundred and eight for Hopkins—a lead that it seemed impossible to overcome. Washington County was not so bad. Incomplete returns indicated a slight gain for Hopkins, but not more than a dozen votes altogether.
"Everything now depends upon Dupree and Fairview," announced Kenneth, "but I can't get any connection with them yet. We won in Elmwood, anyhow, and Hopkins isn't ahead more than a hundred and sixty as the thing stands now. Cheer up, girls. A defeat won't hurt us much, for we've all made a good fight. Better get to bed and sleep, for you're tired out. We'll know all about everything in the morning."
But they would not move. Disappointment unnerved them more than victory would have done. They resolved to wait until the last returns were in.
"Telephone, sir," said Tom Gates.
Kenneth picked up the receiver.
"Here's Dupree," he said. "Our majority over Hopkins is two hundred and eleven. Let's see, that's a gain of seventy-four votes, my dears."
"Hooray!" cried Patsy, delightedly. "I don't care a rap now, what happens. Old Hopkins won't have much to crow over if—"