One thing was decided upon. The strange gold piece was to be sent to a curator of Field Museum, who was a friend of Marion. He would be able to tell them the origin of the piece, and its value.
“That one coin may be of considerable value,” said Marion. “There are coins worth hundreds of dollars.”
“Yes, and it may be worth just exactly its weight in gold,” laughed Florence. “But send it along. It will do no harm.”
That night the bit of gold went North in the registered mail pouch, and the girls, forgetting their disappointment as quickly as possible, set about two important tasks that lay just before them; the winning of the school election and preparation for Florence’s trial.
It was five days later. It was evening, but there was no sunset. Dull, gray clouds had hung low on the mountains all day. Dull clouds of disappointment and defeat hung heavily on Florence’s spirits. She had taken a long, long walk up Laurel Branch. Her hopes that this walk would revive her drooping spirits had proven vain. Each leaden mile had found her head drooping more and more.
“It’s lost!” she murmured as she marched stolidly on.
It was true; at least Ransom Turner had assured her it was. The school election was lost. Each side had begun work early. The canvass had been taken; the line-up, in so far as anyone could tell, was completed, and at the present Black Blevens and his choice for teacher, Al Finely, were eight votes ahead.
“Eight votes!” she had said to Ransom. “How can we overcome that?”
“Hit can’t be done,” Ransom had said. “Hit’s a fact. That Black Blevens is the election fightenest man I most ever seed. We’re jest as good as licked right now.”
“And yet,” Florence said to herself as, undecided whether to pause for rest or to wander aimlessly on, she paused beside a great flat rock, “it does seem that there is a way to win if only we knew it.”