“‘Voters of Westville, do your votes belong to you, or do they belong to Charlie Peck?’
“That’s my answer, Peck. It all goes in big, black type in a box in the centre of the first page of this afternoon’s paper. We’ll see whether the party will stand for your methods.” At this instant the grimy young servitor of the press appeared. “Here, boy. Rush that right down.”
“Hold on!” cried Peck in consternation. “You’re not going to print that thing?”
“Unless the end of the world happens along just about now, that’ll be on the street in half an hour.” Bruce stepped to the door and opened it wide. “And, now, clear out! You and your votes can go plum to hell!”
“Damn you! But that piece will do you no good. I’ll deny it!”
“Deny it—for God’s sake do! Then everybody will know I’m telling the truth. And let me warn you, Charlie Peck—I’m going to find out what your game is! I’m going to show you up! I’m going to wipe you clear off the political map!”
Blind Charlie swore at him again as he passed out of the door.
“We’re not through with each other yet—remember that!”
“You bet we’re not!” Bruce shouted after him. “And when we are, there’ll not be enough of you left to know what’s happened!”