“That is one of the things that moved me to accept father’s proposition when he turned things over to me. I could do my small part here. I could at least see that my bottom-heapers got a fair trade from me, who was their top-heaper. And I guess that’s why I’m interested in this election. You’ve kept things spread out so the bottom was not smashed by the top. Moran wants to take your place so he can crush the bottom as he wants to.” “Um! No pers’nal spite?” Jim flushed. “I hate Moran.” “Not astonished to hear it. Now, abandonin’ the election for a minute and takin’ up your affairs: I bought me a couple shares in the Diversity Hardwood Company t’other day. Had the chance. Thought maybe you’d be wantin’ to take ’em off my hands. Figgered you might find a use for ’em. Think you kin, eh? Annual meetin’ of that corporation comes day follerin’ caucus. Better git them shares properly transferred on the company’s books right off. Here they be.” “But—” began Jim. “Hain’t I said them shares might come in handy? Paid two hundred dollars for ’em. Gimme check.” Zaanan’s methods were now more or less familiar to Jim. He knew the justice would not have bought this stock for him without some good reason. He scented some plan that Zaanan was working out. “All right, Judge.” “Git that transfer made right off.” “Without fail,” said Jim. “G’-by, Jim.” “Good afternoon, Judge. But I wish you—” “G’-by, Jim,” repeated Zaanan, with a convincing tone of finality. From that day for the week that remained before the caucus Jim talked, argued, pleaded with the voters of Diversity. He even essayed public speaking; hired the local opera-house for the purpose, and there publicly denounced Peleg Goodwin as Moran’s cat’s-paw; publicly excoriated Moran. But he came to perceive his was a hopeless task. He could not arouse the people. Zaanan himself might have stirred them, but no stranger could. Especially no stranger could stir them to fight for Zaanan when Zaanan himself acknowledged defeat. Some there were who fought shoulder to shoulder with Jim. Dolf Springer did what was in him, and when he saw the futility of it his watery eyes grew more watery still. Dolf was faithful; Zaanan was his great man. His faith in the goodness of God was shaken. Moran did not abate his exertions. He himself, his agents, his hirelings, traversed the township, the county. Ceaselessly they worked, and tirelessly, efficiently. Their faces wore no looks of discouragement; their bearing was jaunty. Any man with half a political eye could see the victory was theirs. On the eve of the caucus Jim grudgingly admitted it, too. That night—the hour was not quite nine—the young man who was Grierson’s assistant in the bookkeeping realm—his name was Newell—rushed up to Jim on the hotel piazza. Obviously he was in a state of high excitement. “Mr. Ashe! Mr. Ashe!” he panted. Jim drew him aside. “What is it, Newell?” he asked.