“Several.  Susie Carrie Snow came with more Civic Improvements, rather short as to skirts and skimpy as to hats.  They have fully decided that I am going to feed Mayor Potts out of my hand as Taylor does, and they want my influence to put up two more drinking fountains and three brass plates to mark the homes of the founders of the city, in return for their precious support.  I promised; and they fell on my neck.  That is, if you don’t mind?” David edged a tentative inch or two nearer Phoebe who had rested her elbows on the table and her head on her hands as she looked up at him.

“I don’t,” she answered with a cruel smile.  Then she asked, with an unconcerned glance over the top of his head, “Did you hear from the United Charities?”

“Well, yes, some,” returned David with an open countenance, no suspicion of a trap in even the flicker of an eyelash.  “They sent Mrs. Cherry.  Blooming more every day isn’t she, don’t you think?  She didn’t fall on my neck worth a cent though I had braced myself for the shock.  She managed to convey the fact that the whole organization is for me just the same.  It’s some pumpkins to be a candidate.  I’m for all there is in it—­if at all.”

“You aren’t hesitating, David?” asked Phoebe as she rose and stood straight and tall beside him, her eyes on a level with his as he sat on the table.  “Ah, David, you can if you will—­will you?  I know what it means to you,” and Phoebe laid one hand on his shoulder as she looked him straight in the eyes, “for it will be work, work and fight like mad to put out the fire.  You will have to fight honest—­and they won’t.  But, David”—­a little catch in her voice betrayed her as she entreated.

“Yes, dear,” answered David as he laid his hand over the one on his shoulder and pressed it closer, “I sent in the announcement of my candidacy to the afternoon papers just as I came around here to see the major—­and you.  The fight is on and it is going to be harder than you realize, for there is so little time.  Are you for me, girl?”

“If I fall on your neck it will make seven this morning.  Aren’t you satisfied?” And Phoebe drew her hand away from his, allowing, however, a regretful squeeze as he let it go.

“No, six if you would do it,” answered David disconsolately, “I told you that Mrs. Cherry failed me.”

“Yes,” answered Phoebe as she lowered her eyes, “I know you told me.”  David Kildare was keen of wit but it takes a most extraordinary wisdom to fathom such a woman as Phoebe chose to be—­out of business hours.

“Isn’t it time for you to go to dress for the parade?” she asked quickly with apparent anxiety.

“No,” answered David as he filled his tooled leather case from the major’s jar of choice Seven Oaks heart-leaf—­he had seen Phoebe’s white fingers roll it to the proper fineness just the night before, “I’m all ready!  Did you think I was going to wear a lace collar and a sash?  Everything is in order and I only have to be there at two to start them off.  Everybody is placed on the platform and everybody is satisfied.  The unveiling will be at three-thirty.  You are going out with Mrs. Matilda early, aren’t you?  I want you to see me come prancing up at the head of the mounted police.  Won’t you be proud of me?”