Down at the Gray Picket they found some of David’s ardent supporters still fresh and enthusiastic though they had been making a night of it.  Soon waves of excitement were rising and falling all over the city and the streets were thronged with men from out through the county.

At an early hour heavy wagons moved with the measured tread of blind tigers and deposited blind tiger kittens, done up in innocent and deceptive looking crates, at numbers of discreet alley covers near the polls.  At the machine headquarters rotund and blooming gentlemen grouped and dissolved and grouped again, during which process wads of greenbacks unrolled and flashed with insolent carelessness.  The situation 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.

He shouted with glee when he read the skit—­he was taking his high dive in life.

“RUN, DAVE, RUN—­TIGER’S LOOSE—­NIT!” was another witticism and a crooked pole bore aloft these words, “JUDGE DAVID KILDARE SOAKS OLD BOOZE THE FIRST ROUND!”

They lined up in front of the headquarters and gave a shrill cheer that made up in enthusiasm for what it lacked in volume.  They took a few words of banter from the candidate in lieu of a speech and paraded off around the city, spending much time in front of the camp of the opposition and indulging in as much of derisive vituperation as they dared.