Sharkey, 53.
Harlson picked up the filled-out blank, glanced at it, and threw it down again.
"It's some mistake," he said; "that precinct is one of the stiffest the other way. Wait until we get more of them."
We waited, but not for long. The returns came fluttering in like pigeons now. The second read:
Harlson, 33.
Sharkey, 30.
There dawned a light upon me; but I said no word. I was interested in watching Harlson's face. He was a trifle pale, despite his usual self-control, and was noting the figures carefully. Added precincts repeated the same story. Harlson would take up a return, glance at it, compare it with another, and then examine a dozen of them together, for once in his life he was taken unawares, and was at sea. He left the table at length, lit a cigar, and came over to where I stood, leaning against the wall.
"What does it mean, Alf? If those figures don't lie, the Ninth Ward has swung as vigorously for us as it ever did against us. With an even vote in the ward the chances were about even. Now, unless I'm dreaming, we own the district."
"We do."
"But how is it? What does it all mean?"