Then in the long days that followed so hunted was he by his love of her that that one hour of peace in the Sunday morning was all he dared give himself with her.  And in her gentle trustfulness it was not hard to make his excuses, for the Monday morning brought the strenuosity in the career of David Kildare to a state of absolute acuteness.

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the hand that rocks the cradle rules the world why not the hand that flips the batter-cake rock the ballot-box—­cradle out of date?  That’s a little mixed but pertinent.  I’m for letting them have the try.  They’re only crying because they think we don’t want ’em to have it—­maybe they’ll go back to the cradle and rock all the better for being free citizens!”

“And not a cussed one of those three old lady cats has ever shown a kitten!” exploded Cap from behind his pile of papers.

“Anyway, the worst is over now—­must be!” answered David as he began to read over some bulletins and telegrams.  But he had troubles yet to come.  In the next two hours he had a conference with the head of the chamber of commerce which heated his blood to the boiling-point and brought forth an ultimatum, delivered in no uncertain terms but with such perfect courtesy and clean-sightedness that the gentleman departed in haste to look into certain matters which he now suspected to have been cooked to lead him astray.