Part 34 (2/2)

She gave a single stretch of her cramped muscles as she rose. ”I know you--you're Betty Sheridan's brother--thanks,” she said briskly. ”What time is it?”

Pudge drew out his most esteemed possession, a watch which kept perfect time--except when it refused to keep any time at all.

”Three o'clock,” he announced.

”Then our last demonstration is under way, and when I tell my story--”

E. Eliot interrupted herself. ”Come on--let's catch the trolley!”

With Pudge panting after her, she hurried downstairs, unbolted the door, and, running lightly on the b.a.l.l.s of her feet, sped in the direction of the street car line.

CHAPTER XIV. BY LEROY SCOTT

In the meantime, concern and suspense and irruptive wrath had their chief abode in the inner room of Remington and Evans. George had received a request, through Penny Evans, from the chief of police to remain in his office, where he could be reached instantly if information concerning Genevieve were received, and where his help could instantly be secured were it required; and Penny had enlarged that request to the magnitude of a command and had stood by to see that it was obeyed, and himself to give a.s.sistance.

George had recognized the sense of the order, but he rebelled at the enforced inactivity. Where was Genevieve?--why wasn't he out doing something for her? He strode about the office, fuming, sick with the suspense and inaction of his role.

But Genevieve was not his unbroken concern. He was still afire with the high resentment which a few hours earlier had made him go striding into the office of the _Sentinel_. Fragments of his statement to the editor leaped into his mind; and as he strode up and down he repeated phrases silently, but with fierce emphasis of the soul.

Now and again he paused at his window and looked down into Main Street.

Below him was a crowd that was growing in size and disorder: the last afternoon of any campaign in Whitewater was exciting enough; much more so were the final hours of this campaign that marked the first entrance of women into politics in Whitewater on a scale and with an organized energy that might affect the outcome of the morrow's voting.

Across the way, Mrs. Herrington, the fighting blood of five generations of patriots roused in her, had reinstated the Voiceless Speech within the plate-gla.s.s window broken by the stones of that morning and was herself operating it; and, armed with banners, groups of women from the Woman's Club, the Munic.i.p.al League and the Suffrage Society were marching up and down the street sidewalks. It was their final demonstration, their last chance to a.s.sert the demands of good citizens.h.i.+p--and it had attracted hundreds of curious men, vote-owners, belonging to what, in such periods of political struggle, are referred to on platforms as ”our better element.”

Also drifting into Main Street were groups of voters of less prepossessing aspect--Noonan's men, George recognized them to be. These jeered and jostled the marching women and hooted the remarks of the Voiceless Speech--but the women, disregarding insults and attacks, went on with their silent campaigning. The feeling was high--and George could see, as Noonan's men kept drifting into Main Street, that feeling was growing higher.

Looking down, George felt an angered exultation. Well, his statement in the _Sentinel_, due upon the street almost any moment, would answer all these and give them something to think about!--a statement which would make an even greater stir than the declaration which he had issued those many weeks ago, when, fresh from his honeymoon, he had begun his campaign for the district attorneys.h.i.+p.--[Ill.u.s.tration: Across the way, Mrs. Herrington, the fighting blood of five generations of patriots roused in her, had reinstated the Voiceless Speech.] These people below certainly had a jolt coming to them!

George's impatient and glowering meditations--the hour was then near four--were broken in upon by several interruptions, which came on him in quick succession, as though detonated by brief-interval time-fuses. The first was the entrance of that straw-haired misspeller of his letters who had succeeded Betty Sheridan as guardian of the outer office.

”Mr. Doolittle is here,” she announced. ”He says he wants to see you.”

”You tell Mr. Doolittle _I_ don't want to see _him_!” commanded the irritated George.

But Mr. Benjamin Doolittle was already seeing his candidate. As political boss of his party, he had little regard for such a formality as being announced to any person on whom he might call--so he had walked through the open door.

”Well, what d'you want, Doolittle?” George demanded aggressively.

Mr. Doolittle's face wore that look of bland solicitude, that un.o.btrusive partners.h.i.+p in the misfortune of others, which had made him such an admirable and prosperous officiant at the last rites of residents of Whitewater.

”I just wanted to ask you, George--” he was beginning in his soft, lily-of-the-valley voice, when the telephone on George's desk started ringing. George turned and reached for it, to find that Penny had already picked up the instrument.

”I'll answer it, George.... h.e.l.lo... Mr. Remington is here, but is busy; I'll speak for him--I'm Mr. Evans.... What--it's you! Where are you?...

Stay where you are; I'll come right over for you in my car.”

”Who was that?” demanded George.

”Genevieve,” Penny said rapidly, seizing his hat, ”and I'm going----”

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