her side, has higher ideals, of course, and isn't so red in the
face. But she is hostile too. No viperess shall tread on the school
system if she can help it! She keeps her lieutenants hustling, and now
and then she looks over the crowd of captive men on the enemy's side and
issues a command. Then some woman talks to her husband, and he gets red
and mad and wags his arms. But in the end he goes over and talks to a
man on the other side. And then that conversation spreads like a prairie
fire, and the men knot up into a cluster, and hard words are used, and a
lot more friendships go into the back shop for repairs.

Five o'clock is coming fast. Mrs. Payley looks over her list. Young Ad
Summers has refused to budge from his shop. Miss Ri Hawkes blushes a
little and then goes away to a telephone. Pretty soon Ad appears. He's
panting, into the bargain. He gets in line, votes, and Ri walks away
with him. There is a sigh of relief from the Payley cohorts now because
old man Thompson is coming. He is over ninety and hates like thunder to
go out and vote, but he can't help himself. He has lived in a wheeled
chair for ten years and has to go wherever his granddaughter wheels him.
He passes in, muttering.

Only five minutes more. The excitement is intense. Hurrah! Some one has
gotten the telegraph operator's goat. He's coming on the run. That
probably means he'll go to the next dancing-club party. Judge Hicks
appears, four women around him. He is mad, but they are triumphant and
they look scornfully at me, saying "chump" with their eyes. He votes.
There is a commotion at the corner because Gibb Ogle has attempted in a
mild way to be corrupted. He wants to know why he can't sleep in the
South School basement. The women are indignant, and appoint two husbands
to deal with him. Gibb votes. Bang! The polls are closed. It's all over
but the counting.

We'd like to go back to work, but the suspense is too great. Not that we
have any suspense, but our wives have; and if we are worthy of the name
of men, we must help them endure it, even if we ourselves are not
interested in the schools. So we hang around and fume over the
jungle-fingered judges who take as much time as if they were enumerating
the fleas of Africa. Finally a cheer comes from the front of the crowd.
The women beside us gasp anxiously. Which side cheered? Hurrah! There's
Mrs. Payley waving her handkerchief. We win.

After that, we men can go. The schools have been saved b