They were followed by another picturesque visitation.  A dignified old colored man brought twenty pathetic little pickaninnies from the orphans’ home, to which, the men at headquarters learned for the first time, David Kildare had given the modest building that sheltered the waifs.  Decidedly, murder will out, and there come times when the left and right hands of a man are forced into confession to each other about their most secret actions.  A political campaign is apt to bring such a situation into the lives of the aspiring candidates.  The little coons set up a musical wail that passed for a cheer and marched away munching the contents of a huge box of candy that Polly had sent down to headquarters the night before, such being her idea of a flagon with which to stay the courage of the contestants.

And through it all, the consultation of the leaders, the falling hopes of the poll scouts, the gradual depression that crept over the spirits of the major and Cap and the rest of his near supports, David was a solid tower of strength.

Then during the day the tension became tight and tighter, for how the fight was going exactly no one could tell and it seemed well-nigh impossible to stop the vote steal that was going on all over the city, protected by the organized government.  Defeat seemed inevitable.

So at six o’clock the disgusted Cap picked up his hat and started home and to the astonishment of the whole headquarters David Kildare calmly rose and followed him without a word to the others, who failed to realize that he had deserted until he was entirely gone.  Billy Bob looked dashed with amazement, Hobson sat down limply in the deserted chair, Tom whistled—­but the major looked at them with a quizzical smile which was for a second reflected in Andrew Sevier’s face.

Phoebe sat in Milly’s little nursery in the failing winter light which was augmented by the glow from the fire of coals.

Little Billy Bob stood at her side within the circle of her arm, his head against her shoulder and his eyes wide with a delicious horror as he gazed upon a calico book whose pages were brilliant with the tragedy of the three bears, which she was reading very slowly and with many explanatory annotations.  Crimie balanced himself against her knee and beat with a spoon against the back of the book and whooped up the situation in every bubbly way possible to his lack of classified vocabulary.  Milly and Mammy Betty were absorbed in the domestic regions so Phoebe had them all to herself—­all four, for the twins lay cuddled asleep in their crib near by.

And though Phoebe had herself well in hand, her mind would wander occasionally from the history of the bruins to which Mistake patiently recalled her by a clamor for, “More, Phoebe, more.”

In a hurried response to one of his goads she failed to hear a step in the hall for which she had been telling herself that she had not been listening for two hours or more, and David Kildare stood in the doorway, the firelight full on his face.