broken his
contract on grounds which the sordid law would not see or recognize and
the average court think absurd, and that the _Telegraph_ might legally
refuse to pay him at all. He hoped the _Telegraph_ would do this! But it
did not; on the contrary, he received the next day a check for his
month's work. He held it up for Edith's inspection.

"Of course, I'll have to send it back," he said.

"Certainly."

"Do you think me quixotic?"

"Well, we're poor enough as it is--let's have some luxuries; let's be
quixotic until after election, at least."

"Sure," said Neil; "just what I was thinking. I'm going to do a cartoon
every day for the _Post_ until election day, and I'm not going to take a
cent. I don't want to crowd Banks out, you know, and I want to do my
part for Clayton and the cause, and do it, just once, for the pure love
of the thing."

Those last days of the campaign were, indeed, luxuries to Kittrell and
to Edith, days of work and fun and excitement. All day Kittrell worked
on his cartoons, and in the evening they went to Clayton's meetings. The
experience was a revelation to them both--the crowds, the waiting for
the singing of the automobile's siren, the wild cheers that greeted
Clayton, and then his speech, his appeals to the best there was in men.
He had never made such speeches, and long afterward Edith could hear
those cheers and see the faces of those working-men aglow with the hope,
the passion, the fervent religion of democracy. And those days came to
their glad climax that night when they met at the office of the _Post_
to receive the returns, in an atmosphere quivering with excitement, with
messenger boys and reporters coming and going, and in the street outside
an immense crowd, swaying and rocking between the walls on either side,
with screams and shouts and mad huzzas, and the wild blowing of
horns--all the hideous, happy noise an American election-night crowd can
make.

Late in the evening Clayton had made his way, somehow unnoticed, through
the crowd, and entered the office. He was happy in the great triumph he
would not accept as personal, claiming it always for the cause; but as
he dropped into the chair Hardy pushed toward him, they all saw how
weary he was.

Just at that moment the roar in the street below swelled to a mighty
crescendo, and Hardy cried:

"Look!"

They ran to the window. The boys up-stairs who were manipulating the
stereopticon, had thrown on the screen an enormo