Bowers received and passed silently to
Shelby demands for a forecast from other county chairmen in the
district; from leaders prominent in the state; from great metropolitan
newspapers which were tabulating the congressional elections of the
nation and studying the complexion of the future House.

"Claim the district, of course," directed Shelby. "Say we're
deliberate, but true blue."

The drumming humble-bee [Transcriber's note: bumble-bee?] voice of the
crowd below the windows watching Volney Sprague's bulletin suddenly
lifted in a lion roar. Elation in that quarter was ominous, and Shelby
drew a curtain. It appeared that a minor revolt against the Boss in
New York City, with which the Tuscarora independents had felt
themselves peculiarly in sympathy, had made good its claim for
recognition. Shelby turned from the window with a laugh.

"Merely a little extra diplomacy for Old Silky," he said. "Within a
twelvemonth each reformer will have a foreign mission."

A tactless friend embraced the occasion to wonder where the Boss would
banish Bernard Graves should he chance to win; but even idle
speculation on such a possibility was so distasteful to the company
that the blunderer only retrieved his mistake by toasting Confusion to
Fusion anew.

The returns from the laggard Demijohn presently thickened, and Shelby
left his seat to pace the floor, while Bowers, with an unlighted cigar
between his teeth, and looking very like Grant indeed, figured,
discarded, and figured again as successive reports modified his
calculations.

"Never saw its equal--never!" he grunted. "Here's our own town hanging
fire till almost the last like some jay village in the Adirondacks.
We've always prided ourselves on being prompt." He caught a flying
sheet from the operator and groaned: "We _are_ the last! By the Great
Horn Spoon!" For Shelby's ear alone he muttered: "The last, Ross; New
Babylon's the last, and the die by which you lose or win. Figure it
yourself."

Shelby ran through his senior's calculations and nodded without speech.
No one spoke now. Not a wine-glass tinkled. The room sensed a crisis.
By telephone, special messenger, and the instrument at the table the
belated story of New Babylon's vote pieced itself together under
Bowers's pencil. The candidate hovered above him, intent on every
stroke.

"Good God!" he whispered suddenly; "it hangs on the Flats!"

"Yes; it's the last precinct. They sent word that the