The 13th District: A Story of a CandidateWhitlock, Brand
General
The 13th District: A Story of a Candidate
Whitlock, Brand
Didactic fiction; Elections -- Fiction; Political campaigns -- Fiction; Political fiction; Social problems -- Fiction
Rankin measured off the sickening distance on his left arm, with his
right hand at the elbow.
"An' turn 'em round," and Rankin twisted his fist savagely. In
illustrating the vengeful deed he had allowed some of his excitement
to master him, and he rose now and stood hanging over Sprague with a
menace in the droop of his shoulders and the stretch of his neck.
"Now you know the business that brought me here, Con Sprague," Rankin
went on. "I come over to tell this to Wilson, but I thought it 'uld be
fair to tell you first. I'm goin' over to tell him, an' then I'm goin'
back home. Now, if your brother-'n-law wants to go to the Legislature,
just you get out an' make a few speeches fer Garwood, an' declare
y'urself, an' you an' him put y'ur fellers over here to work, an'
you do it in two days. I'll watch you an' if you don't do it, I'll
say 'plunk,'"--Rankin used the word which the Illinois politicians,
doubtless in their distrust of anything British, have substituted
for the Englishman's "plump"--"an' the boys'll plunk--an' fer the
first time in our history we'll send a minority representative to
Springfield, an' it won't be your brother-'n-law, either."
Sprague's face blackened. He knew that dangerous possibility in
cumulative voting, but he said nothing.
"I don't ask you fer any answer," said Rankin. "But I've served notice
on you. You can do just as you damn please."
And then Rankin went away. He made his call on Wilson, By night he was
back in Grand Prairie.
XV
In the early twilight of a Saturday afternoon late in October Garwood
walked up Kaskaskia Street from the station in a cold, sullen rain,
conscious of but one sensation--he was glad that only one more week
of the campaign remained. He walked with long, deliberate strides,
indifferent to the rain, which had beaten down his wide hat brim and
trickled off it, before and behind, in little streams. His face,
under those drooping eaves, was long and serious; it brightened,
automatically, only when he met some pedestrian to whom in his capacity
as a candidate, he involuntarily spoke a greeting.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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