ittle, her lips parted, her hands clasped, as if he still spoke to her.

As Tillotson's sponsor rose Jane straightened up, smiled at Tommy, and
again set herself to listen.

The unctuous voice of the speaker was a contrast to O-liver's crisp
tones. There were other contrasts not so apparent. This man was in the
game for what he could get out of it. He wanted Tillotson to win because
Tillotson's winning would strengthen his own position politically. He
meant indeed that Tillotson should win. He was not particular as to
methods.

He said the usual things: Tinkersfield was no Sunday school; and they
weren't slaves to have their liberty taken from them by a lot of
impractical reformers. And Lee was that kind. What had he ever done to
prove that he'd make good? They knew Tillotson. They didn't know Lee.
Who was Lee anyhow?

He flung the interrogation at them. "What do you know about Lee?"

The pebble that he threw had widening circles. People began to ask
themselves what, after all, they knew of O-liver. From somewhere in the
darkness went up the words of an evil chant:

What's the matter with O-liver, O-liver,
White-livered O-liver?
Ask Jane, Sandwich Jane,
O-liver, white liver,
Jane, Jane, Jane.

Jane felt her heart stand still. Back of her she heard Tommy swearing:
"It's all their damned wickedness!" She saw O-liver start from his chair
and sink back, helpless against the insidiousness of this attack.

The speaker went on. It would seem, he said, from what he could learn,
that Tillotson's honorable opponent was sailing under false colors. He
was a married man. He had deserted his wife. He sat among them as a
saint, when he was really a sinner.

"A sinner, gentlemen." The speaker paused for the effect, then proceeded
with his argument. Of course they were all sinners, but they weren't
hypocrites. Tillotson wasn't a hypocrite. He was a good fellow. He
didn't want Tinkersfield to be a Sunday school. He wanted it to be a
town. You know--a town that every fellow would want to hit on
Saturday night.

There were those in the crowd who began to feel that a weak spot had
been found in O-liver's armor. Secrecy! They didn't like it. There were
signs of wavering among some who had squared their shoulders. After all,
they didn't want to make a Sunday school of Tinkersfield. They wondered,
too, if there wasn't some truth in the things that were being hinted by
that low chant in the darkness:

Ask