sat down before his desk. The clock now pointed to thirteen minutes
of twelve; they would be asking for him upstairs. There were some
scraps of paper on his desk and he threw them into the waste-basket,
murmuring: "I can at least give him a clean desk."

He pushed his chair back sharply. A clean desk! The phrase opened to
deeper meanings.... Why not clean it up in earnest? Why not give him
a square deal--a real chance? Why not _sign the contracts_?

Again he looked at the clock--not yet ten minutes of twelve. For ten
minutes more he was Governor of the State! Ten minutes of real
governorship! Might it not make up a little, both to his own soul
and to the world, for the years he had weakly served as another
man's puppet? The consciousness that he could do it, that it was not
within the power of any man to stop him, was intoxicating. Why not
break the chains now at the last, and just before the end taste the
joy of freedom?

He took up his pen and reached for the inkwell. With trembling,
excited fingers he unfolded the contracts. He dipped his pen into
the ink; he even brought it down on the paper; and then the tension
broke. He sank back in his chair, a frightened, broken old man.

"Oh, no," he whispered; "no, not now. It's--" his head went lower
and lower until at last it rested on the desk--"too late."

When he raised his head and grew more steady, it was only to see the
soundness of his conclusion. He had not the right now in the final
hour to buy for himself a little of glory. It would only be a form
of self-indulgence. They would call it, and perhaps rightly, hush