“I can’t do anything, can I?” he asked.
“I’m afraid not,” whispered Winthrop. “Go back to the car and don’t leave Beatrice. I’ll attend to this.”
“That’s what I thought,” whispered Peabody eagerly. “I thought she and I had better keep out of it.”
“Right!” exclaimed Winthrop. “Go back and get Beatrice away.”
Peabody looked his relief, but still hesitated.
“I can’t do anything, as you say,” he stammered, “and it’s sure to get in the ‘extras,’ and they’ll be out in time to lose us thousands of votes, and though no one is to blame, they’re sure to blame me. I don’t care about myself,” he added eagerly, “but the very morning of election—half the city has not voted yet—the Ticket——”
“Damn the Ticket!” exclaimed Winthrop. “The man’s dead!”
Peabody, burying his face still deeper in his collar, backed into the crowd. In the present and past campaigns, from carts and automobiles he had made many speeches in Harlem, and on the West Side lithographs of his stern, resolute features hung in every delicatessen shop, and that he might be recognized was extremely likely.
He whispered to Miss Forbes what he had said, and what Winthrop had said.
“But you don’t mean to leave him,” remarked Miss Forbes.