The stereopticons flashed on the white circles the figures of returns, when there were any, pictures and slurs when there were no figures,--a picture of a cage full of riotous monkeys on _The Chronicle_ circle, underwritten, “The Council,”--a picture of an elderly lady with a poke bonnet and lifted hands of reprehension, on the _Press_ circle, underwritten, “Independent Reform.” “Auction of the City of Port Argent!” flashed _The Chronicle_. “Office of M. Wood. Cash on Delivery of Goods.” “All citizens must go to Sunday School or be fined,” from _The Press_. “6th Ward. Rep. Plurality, 300.” “1st Ward. Ind. Ref. Plurality, 28.” Whish! a rocket from the windows of _The Western Advocate_. And the crowd roared and shuffled. The last of _The Press_ windows to the left belonged to a little room off the press-room, containing a desk, a board table, and several chairs. The desk seemed only to be used as an object at which to throw articles, in order that, they might roll to the floor. There were crude piles of newspapers on it and about it, hats, a section of a stove pipe, and a backgammon board. The table looked as if it sometimes might be used to write on. The room was supposed to be the editor's, but no one in Port Argent believed Charlie Carroll ever stayed in the same place long enough to pre-empt it. He edited _The Press_ from all over the city, and wrote the editorials wherever he stopped to catch breath. _The Press_ editorials were sometimes single sentences, sometimes a paragraph. More than a paragraph was supposed to mean that Carroll had ridden on a street car, and relieved the tedium of his long imprisonment. A number of men stood at the window or stood grouped back, and watched the canvas across the street. The only light came through the door from the press-room. Carroll put his curly head through the door, shouted something and vanished. _The Press_ stereopticon withdrew a view of Yosmite Valley and threw on the canvas: “Recount in the 1st Ward announced.” _The Chronicle_ cleared its canvas promptly and flung across the street: “Fraud!” Only two men sat still by the window of the darkened room. The rest rushed out. The street was in an uproar, hats crushed over heads, fists shaken in the air to the instructive comment of the moon. “How foolish, oh, mendicants! How do men make for themselves troubles, as though one should stir quiet waters with his hand, saying, 'It is a storm. The gods have afflicted me.'” “How foolish!” said one of the men at the darkened window. “Those boys are terribly anxious to carry that Ward, and no point in it, Dick!” “Suppose I'd been out canvassing for Reform, Wood? Think you'd have lost?” Wood peered curiously at Hennion in the half-lit dusk. “Like enough! Well--want anything in particular? I admit the bill, if it ain't too big.” “I don't want anything.” Wood tilted his chair and was silent a moment.