n-eater, and get him to vote, and then I am going to call up Fleming,
who would otherwise vote against us, and tell him that if he doesn't
support our ticket, our grocery account will go elsewhere. I hate to do
that like the mischief. It isn't considered ethical in national
elections. But somehow we can't stop and discuss these fine points at
3.15 P.M. with our loving but excited wives. They don't seem to allow
it.

I get into my coat, pretty cross, and go down-stairs. Homeburg is
frantically awake. Down the street scores of patriots are marching to
the polls. They are not marching in lock-step, but most of them are
under guard just the same. Mrs. Chet Frazier, pale but determined, is
towing Chet out of his store. Mrs. Wimble Horn is hurrying down the
street with an umbrella in one hand and Wimble in the other. From the
post-office comes Postmaster Flint emitting loud wails. It is against
the law to leave the post-office unoccupied, but he can thresh that out
with his wife at home after he has voted. Attorney Briggs was going to
Chicago this afternoon, but I notice he is coming back from the depot.
Mrs. Briggs is bringing him. If I know anything about rage, Attorney
Briggs is ready to masticate barbed wire. His arms are making a blue
haze as they revolve. But he's coming back to vote. He can go to Chicago
to-morrow, but the nation must be saved before five o'clock.

I do my errands, losing one friend at Fleming's and considerable dignity
at the judge's, because the judge is an old widower and mighty
outspoken. Then I hurry back and go to the polls arm in arm with my
loving wife. We have to wait our turn outside the engine house. From
all corners of town the votes roll in, most of them under convoy. It's
a weird mixture--the men sullen and sheepish, the women inspired and
terrible. Even the candidates, most of whom are men, are embarrassed.
They are peddling tickets frantically, and whenever they falter and show
signs of running, their wives hiss something into their ears and brace
them up again.

The two hostile forces are eying each other with horrid looks. Mrs.
Arbingle is quiet but deadly. I never saw so much hostility coated over
one face as there is on hers. She is in her glory. This time she is
going to unmask the hosts of corruption, including those who will not
call on her, cave in the school ring, boot out the incompetents, and see
justice done to her son at last. Mrs. Wert Payley, who generally leads
the ot