starch out of women and shows 'em their place quicker than that."

"But we can't stay drunk. We got to go home some time or other and have
it out with 'em after we are sober and penitent," put in still another
victim philosophically.

At this moment Tim Cates rode into the edge of the crowd, his mouth
stretched in a broad grin, and his goatee working like a white peg in
his chin.

"Boys," he shouted, rolling out of his saddle, "you'd as well give it up
and take your medicine. I met a man coming from the Sugar Valley just
now, and he 'lowed that out of a hundred and fifty votes down there this
morning there wan't but three cast ag'in suffrage for women, and one of
them was challenged. Susan Walton's got a man stationed at every
precinct, with a list of the names of the men in that district that
ain't registered nor paid their poll tax, ready to drop 'em if they try
to vote!"

"Tim, step up to the store and telephone to Dry Pond and Calico Valley
and see how the election is going."

Cates stepped briskly. He was one of these meddlesome persons who would
sell his birthright to gratify his curiosity. Presently he returned,
cupped his hands over his mouth, and trumpeted the news.

"Dry Pond, forty-two ballots cast, forty-two for suffrage, nary one
anti!" This joke was greeted with a groan.

"Calico Valley, seventy-four ballots cast, sixty-eight for suffrage, six
anti-suffrage! Fellow at Dry Pond says the women are beating their
feather beds for miles around, and the men air scared to death. He
says----"

A tall, well-dressed man, past fifty years of age, joined the group.
This was John Fairfield, the only gentleman farmer in the community, and
one of the few men whose wife was not implicated in the Woman's
Movement. She was an invalid, nearly blind. Fairfield had been the
understudy of Prim in controlling the political affairs of the
community. He was very popular.

"Mr. Fairfield, how are you going to vote?" some one yelled.

"Yes, tell us what you're going to do!"

"A speech. Give us a speech!" came from a dozen husky throats.

"'We air po' wanderin' sheep to-day, away on the mountains wild and
bar'!' Put yo' crook around our necks, John, an' lead us home with our
tails behind us, so as our Bo Peeps'll know us when we come an' gladden
us with their soft black eyes! Ain't that the way the poetry runs?"
snickered a drunken wag, dropping on the post-office steps and gazing up
with a befuddled air at Fairfield