as they were beginning to be called. Near him stood the sheriff and the
deputy-sheriff; around him pressed committee-men, heelers with tallies,
vociferous well-wishers, and prophets of victory, and a few, a very few,
personal and private friends. On the other hand, strongly gathering and
impatiently awaiting their candidate, his foes gloomed upon him.
Everywhere was a buzzing of voices: farmers and townspeople voting
loudly, the sheriff as loudly recording each vote, the clerk humming
over his book, the crowd making excited comment. There was no
ballot-voting; it was a _viva voce_ matter, and each man knew his
fellow's creed.

Lewis Rand sat at ease, a tall and personable man, with the head of a
victor, and a face that had the charm of strength. The eye was keen and
dark, the jaw square, the thick brown hair cut short, as was the
Republican fashion. His dress was plain but good, worn with a certain
sober effect, an "it pleases me," that rendered silk and fine ruffles
superfluous. He was listening to a wide-girthed tavern-keeper and old
soldier of the Revolution's loud declaration that Lewis Rand was the
coming man, and that he was for Lewis Rand. The old county wanted no
English-thinking young Federalist in Richmond. "Too many Federalists
there a'ready! Mr. Lewis Rand, Mr. Sheriff!"

The Republicans applauded. The custom of the time required that the man
voted for should thank the man who voted, and that aloud and aptly, with
no slurring acknowledgment of service. Lewis Rand, a born speaker and
familiar with his audience, was at no loss. "I thank you, Mr. Fagg! May
your shadow never grow less! The old county--Mr. Jefferson's county,
gentlemen--may be trusted to hold its own, in Richmond or in Washington,
in Heaven or in Hell! Mr. Fagg, I will drink your health in punch of the
Eagle's brewing! Your very obliged friend and servant!"