ckled again: "I'm a-goin' to give it back to 'em. Churches,
schools, libraries, hospitals, good roads--any durned thing in the world
that will do 'em any good. It's all in my will. An', judge," he added with
a little embarrassment, "I've sort o' fixed it so that when you want to
help out a widder or a orphan in Happy Valley you can do it without always
diggin' down into yo' own jeans."

"Shucks, don't you worry about me or the folks in Happy Valley--you done
enough fer them lettin' 'em alone; an' that durned ole Bill Maddox, he's
a fightin' you right now afore yo' face an' behind yo' back. He's the
meanest----"

"Makes no difference. His children ain't to blame an' thar's Sally Ann."
The Pope yawned and his brow wrinkled with pain. "I better take a little
more sleep, judge." A doctor came in and felt the Pope's pulse and the
judge left the room worried by the physician's face and his whispered
direction to the nurse to summon another doctor.

An hour later the Pope called him back, and his voice was weak:

"Bring in every telegram, judge."

"You mustn't bother," interposed the doctor firmly, and the Pope's mouth
set and the old dominant gleam came into his eyes.

"Bring in every telegram," he repeated. Outside, in the hallway, the
judge waylaid the doctor.

"Ain't he goin' to pull through?"

"One chance in a thousand," was the curt answer.

About three o'clock the judge got a telegram that made him swear
fearfully, and thereafter they came fast. The Pope would use no
money. The judge wired the Pope's manager warily offering a
thousand of his own. The answer came--"Too late." At five o'clock
they were running neck and neck. Ten minutes before the polls closed
old Bill Maddox rounded up twenty more votes and victory was his.
And all the while the judge was making reports to the Pope:

"Runnin' easy."

"It's a cinch."

"Ole Bill fighting tooth and toe-nail but you got him, Jim."

"Countin' the votes now."

"Air ye shore, Jim, you want to leave all that money fer ole Bill's
brats?--he's a hound."

"Ole Bill comin' up a little, Jim."

And then came that last telegram, reporting defeat, and with it
crushed in his hand the judge made his last report:

"All over. You've got 'em, Jim. Hooray! Can't you hear 'em yell?"
The Pope's white mouth smiled and his eyelids flickered, but his
eyes stayed closed.

"Jim, I wouldn't give _all_ that money to old Bill's brats--just
some fer Sally Ann."

"All of it for