"Boggsie's dig girl cousin." She was the silent spirit
of the whole Boggs campaign. Mason, in telling the story of it
afterward, said:

"Pellams and I were there when the polls opened. That girl was on hand,
too, with a gang of Palo Alto girls all ready to start things for
Boggsie. Well, you ought to have seen her. Heaven help us and our
masculine schemes if they get women suffrage and the Brown lives. At
ten-thirty in the first rush she steered a whole Education class, worked
them beautifully past Castleton's hungry heelers, right up to the
ballot-box. _She_ wasn't working combinations; it cut no ice with her
how they voted for managers, and treasurers and editors, so long as they
were solid for Lorenzo Boggs.

[Illustration: ... THEN A LULL DURING CLASS.]

"I numbered them off as they voted, and I could see that things were
going darkly and suspiciously for our friend the Lobster. 'What do you
think of it?' says Pellams. He was getting excited. 'We didn't know our
power, did we? Look at the votes he's rolling up. Say, we're corkers and
never knew it!' A few classes from the respectable part of the Quad,
where they do Political Science, came drifting along then with votes for
Castleton, and it went Castleton for awhile; then a lull during
class, followed by a scattering vote for Boggs. It was about an even
thing during eleven-thirty break, with Castleton still ahead. The frat
votes fell in bunches in the biggest rush at noon; I could catch old
Boggsie's name marked on most of them, but Castleton was full fifty to
the good then. I bolted lunch with Pellams at his house and came back to
the Quad. Things were beginning to happen. People I never heard of, the
kind of bird that floats in and out on the train and probably doesn't
know there is a Student-Body with troubles of its own; digs, crawling
out into the light, blinking away at the line; Laboratory fiends in
squads, actually losing twenty minutes of precious credit,--the darndest
crowd of resurrected stiffs the Quad ever saw, strung out from the
registrar's office to the polls, every last one of them squeezing a
ballot properly marked ahead, all looking as if it were a conferring of
degrees, serious as hell, you know, and the eye of the Brown girl or of
one of her crowd fastened on each of them. Poor Castleton, he was a
goner! His heelers got up against this line of sphinxes and fell back,
done up. It was two o'clock and after; still the vote rolled up. At
two-thir