"Sure," said the men carelessly. The tellers nodded.
Foley began the telling of a yarn, and was straightway the center of the group of voters. In the meantime Jake locked the box and started to carry it to its appointed place on a table at one end of the platform, to reach which he had to pass through the narrow space between the wall and the chair-backs of the other tellers. As he brushed through this alley, Tom, whose eyes had not left him, saw the ballot-box turn so that its slot was toward the wall, and glimpsed a quick motion of Jake's hand from a pocket toward the slot—a motion wholly of the wrist. He sprang after the chief teller and seized his hand.
"You don't work that game!" he cried.
Foley's story snapped off. His hearers pivoted to face the disturbance.
Jake turned about. "What game?"
"Open your hand!" Tom demanded.
Jake elevated his big fist, then opened it. It held nothing. He laughed derisively, and set the box down in its place. A jeering shout rose from Foley's crowd.
For an instant Tom was taken aback. Then he stepped quickly to the table and gave the box a light shake. He triumphantly raised it on high and shook it violently. From it there came an unmistakable rattle.
"This's how Foley'd win!" he cried to the crowd.
Jake, his derision suddenly changed to fury, would have struck Tom in another instant, for all his wits were in his fists; but the incisive voice of Foley sounded out: "A clever trick, Keating."