was and had been desperate and this last stand must be brought through
for the whisky interest, come high as it would.

And so through the morning, delegations kept dropping in to David's
headquarters to keep up the spirits of the candidate and incidentally to
have their own raised. There were ugly rumors coming from the polls. The
police were machine instruments and the back door of every saloon in the
city was wide open, while a repeating vote was plainly indicated by
crowds of floaters who drifted from ward to ward. The faces of the bosses
were discreetly radiant.

"Lord, David," groaned Cap Cantrell, "they're turning loose kegs of
boodle and barrels of booze--we'll never beat 'em in the world! They've
got this city tied up and thrown to the dogs! What's the use of--"

"David," exclaimed the major excitedly, "we're in for a rally, and look
at them!"

Down the street they came, the news kiddies, a hundred strong, led by
Phoebe's freckle-faced red-headed devil whose mouth stretched from ear to
ear with a grin. They carried huge poster banners and their inscriptions
were in a language of their own, emblazoned in ink-pot script.

"I LOVE MY DAVE--BUT JUMP!" meant much to them but failed to elucidate
the fact that they were referring to the gift of a flatboat, canvased for
a swimming booth which David had had moored at the foot of the bridge
during the dog days of the previous summer so that they might have a
joyous dip in the river between editions. He had gone down himself
occasionally for a frolic with them and "Jump!" had been the signal
for the push-off of any timid diver.