CHAPTER XLV

Election night found various groups in various places.  In the back room of the Eagle Pharmacy was gathered once again the neighborhood forum, a wildly excited forum, which ever and anon pounded Mr. Hendricks on the back, and drank round after round of soda water and pop.  Doctor Smalley, coming in rather late found them all there, calling Mr. Hendricks “Mr. Mayor” or “Your Honor,” reciting election anecdotes, and prophesying the end of the Reds.  Only Willy Cameron, sitting on a table near the window, was silent.

Mr. Hendricks, called upon for a speech, rose with his soda water glass in his hand.

“I’ve got a toast for you, boys,” he said.  “You’ve been talking all evening about my winning this election.  Well, I’ve been elected, but I didn’t win it.  It was the plain people of this town who elected me, and they did it because my young friend on the table yonder told them to.”  He raised his glass.  “Cameron!” he said.

“Cameron!  Cameron!” shouted the crowd.  “Speech!  Cameron!”

But Willy shook his head.

“I haven’t any voice left,” he said, “and you’ve heard me say all I know a dozen times.  The plain truth is that Mr. Hendricks got the election because he was the best man, and enough people knew it.  That’s all.”

To Mr. Hendricks the night was one of splendid solemnity.  He felt at once very strong and very weak, very proud and very humble.  He would do his best, and if honesty meant anything, the people would have it, but he knew that honesty was not enough.  The city needed a strong man; he hoped that the Good Man who made cities as He made men, both evil and good, would lend him a hand with things.  As prayer in his mind was indissolubly connected with church, he made up his mind to go to church the next Sunday and get matters straightened out.

At the same time another group was meeting at the Benedict.

Louis Akers had gone home early.  By five o’clock he knew that the chances were against him, but he felt a real lethargy as to the outcome.  He had fought, and fought hard, but it was only the surface mind of him that struggled.  Only the surface mind of him hated, and had ambitions, dreamed revenge.  Underneath that surface mind was a sore that ate like a cancer, and that sore was his desertion by Lily Cardew.  For once in his life he suffered, who had always inflicted pain.

At six o’clock Doyle had called him on the telephone and told him that Woslosky was dead, but the death of the Pole had been discounted in advance, and already his place had been filled by a Russian agent, who had taken the first syllable of his name and called himself Ross.  Louis Akers heard the news apathetically, and went back to his chair again.