To the candidate the three days were as ten years crowded into as many
hours. Down at his headquarters in the _Gray Picket_ rooms he stood firm
and met wave after wave of fluctuating excitement that surged around him
with his head up, a ring in his laugh and an almost superhuman tact.

As late as Wednesday noon there appeared before him three excited
Anti-Saloon League matrons with plans to put committees of ladies at all
the polls to hand out lemonade and entreaties--perhaps threats--to the
voters as they exercised their civic function. They had planned banners
with "Shall The Saloon Have My Boy?" in large letters thereon inscribed
and they were morally certain that without the carrying out of their plan
the day would be lost. It took David Kildare one hour and a quarter to
persuade them that it would be better to have a temperance rally at the
theater on Wednesday night at which each of the three should make most
convincing speeches to the assembled women of the city, thereby
furnishing arguments to their sisters with which to start the men to the
polls next day.

He promised to come and make a short opening speech and they left him
with their plans changed but their enthusiasm augmented. David sank into
a chair and mopped his shining brow. The major had been witness to the
encounter from the editorial desk and Cap Cantrell was bent double with
laughter behind a pile of papers he was searching for data for Andrew.

"I'm all in, Major," said David faintly. "Just pick up the pieces in a
basket."

"David, sir," said the major, "your conduct of that onslaught was
masterly! If the hand that rocks the cradle rules the world why not the
hand that flips the batter-cake rock the ballot-box--cradle out of date?