ands of figures to sift and resift. A fire-bell rings.
No one looks up save the fire reporter, and he is up and away at once.
Filtering through the various noises is the maddening rattle of the
telegraph instruments. Great drifts of waste-paper litter the floors.
A sandwich man serves coffee and cigars, and there is an occasional
bottle of beer. Everybody is writing, writing.

McQuade and his cohorts haunted the city room of the Times. Things did
not look well at all. There were twelve more districts to hear from.
Donnelly seemed to be the coolest man in that office.

Warrington started home at nine. Up to this time he had been
indifferent, but it was impossible not to catch the spirit of this
night. Win or lose, however, he wanted to be alone. So he went home,
lighted the fire in his working-room, called his dog, and sat there
dreaming.

Down town the clamor was increasing. The great throngs round the
bulletins were gathering in force. Bonfires were flaring on corners.

In 15 Districts
Warrington 9,782
Donnelly 9,036

Close, terribly close. But those districts upon which the fight really
depended had not yet turned up. The big labor vote had not been
accounted for.

The Call had notified its readers that when the returns were all in
and the battle decided, it would blow a whistle. If Warrington was
elected, five blasts; if Donnelly, ten.

So Warrington waited, sunk in his chair, his legs sprawled, his chin
on his breast, and his eyes drawing phantoms in the burning wood fire.
... It was cruel that Patty could not know; and yet to leave John with
the belief that his sister knew nothing was a kindness, and only John
could convince Patty; and it was even a greater kindness to leave
Patty with the belief that John knew nothing. So there he stood;
friendship on the one side and love on the other. He recalled all the
charming ways Patty had, the color of her hair, the light music of her
laughter, the dancing shadows in her eyes, the transparent skin, the
springy step, and the vigor and life that were hers. And he had lost
her, not through any direct fault, but because he was known to have
been dissipated at one time; a shadow that would always be crossing
and recrossing his path. So long as he lived he would carry that
letter of hers, with its frank, girlish admiration.

So, he mused, those dissipations of his, which, after all, had touched
him but lightly--these had, like chickens, come ho