his wife Mrs. Grayson driving.
Harley looked up in surprise at their calm, cheerful faces. How could
they assume such an air with the combat at its height?

"I'm sorry you and Sylvia were not with us," said Mr. Grayson; "Mrs.
Grayson has been taking me to see the changes in the country since I
went campaigning. There are a half-dozen new residences in the suburb
out yonder, and they've built a new foot-bridge, too, over the river.
Oh, our city is looking up!"

They drove on cheerfully, and Harley went back to town. All the
arrangements for the night were made; the two great telegraph companies
would handle their despatches in equal proportion, and would send
bulletins of the count, as fast as they came, to the candidate.
Headquarters would do the same, and there would be no lack of news.

Harley rejoined his comrades at the hotel, but stayed with them only a
little while, because he, of course, was to dine with Sylvia and the
Graysons. All the others had been invited, but they did not wish to
overwhelm the candidate on this day of all days, and none except "King"
Plummer would go.

"Lucky fellow," said Hobart, as Harley walked away.

"But not luckier than he deserves," said Blaisdell.

After dinner Hobart looked at his watch, then shut it, and with a quick
motion thrust it into his pocket.

"The polls have closed in three-fourths of the states," he said, "and
probably somebody is elected. I wonder who it is?"

Nobody replied, but on their way to Jimmy Grayson's house they passed
through the party headquarters. The rooms were so crowded that they
could scarcely move, but they managed to approach the blackboard, and
they saw written upon it:

"Goodnight, Crayon, and others claim decisive defeat of Grayson. Assert
that he will not get one-third the vote of the electoral college."

"What nonsense!" exclaimed Hobart, who felt a thrill of anger. "Why,
they have not begun the count of the vote anywhere!"

They left the rooms and went into the street. The November twilight was
coming earlier than ever under the shadow of the thickening clouds, and
already lights were beginning to shine from many windows. Uniformed
messenger-boys were passing.

"The wires will soon be talking," said Churchill.

The candidate's house was not inferior to any in the number of its
lights. In the cold, dark twilight it reared a cheerful front, and the
candidate himself, when he received them, was steady and calm.

"Some of our friend