Garwood had come home in response to a telegram from Rankin, a telegram which had concentrated such an urgency into its economically chosen ten words that he had traveled many miles since daylight over country roads and by rail to reach Grand Prairie at night. Now, just as the twilight was darkening and the lights were beginning to show in the stores along Main Street, he turned into the Lawrence Block and climbed to his office. The office was dark; young Enright, who was reading law under him, had gone into the country to make one of the political speeches he was proud of having been asked to deliver that fall; the typewriter had closed her desk and gone, and her little clock was ticking lonesomely beside her little vase of flowers. But in his private room, Garwood found Rankin sitting with his feet on the window-sill looking abstractedly down into the street where the lights from the store-windows wriggled in many lines across the canal of mud. Garwood took off his hat, lashed it back and forth to get the water off, and slapped it down on the top of his desk. And then he said, in a voice that was rough and hoarse: "Well, what's the matter? Everything's gone to hell, I suppose--heh?" "No, it's all right. I just want a talk with you," said Rankin. "Have a good meetin' last night?" "Oh, first-rate; made a poor speech, though. Truth is, I'm about done up. Thank God it'll be over in another week, whichever way it goes. Don't know that I care"--his sentence was broken by a cough that shook him. Rankin turned and tried to distinguish his features. "Look'e here, Jerry," said the big fellow, "you've got a cold--you'll best go down and have Chris mix you a hot tod." "Oh, I'm all right," said Garwood, scraping his throat. "Go on with your tale of woe." "Well," began Rankin with evident reluctance, "I hate to tell you, but the truth is, we've got to have some money, an' I don't know where it's comin' from. I've spent all we had, an' more, too, an' I've held up everybody here in town till I've squeezed 'em dry. They don't like to give to us anyway; most of 'em has already contributed to the county fund, an' they think that's enough. I can't use all the county funds fer you; the candidates is kickin' already; they say I've been neglectin' 'em fer you, an' it won't do to git 'em sore on us--'taint hardly square nohow. Damned if I like it. We've got along so fur, but now we're up to the limit." "Wouldn't the Hutchinsons give?" "Well, they put all theirn in the county fund, so's to elect Sanford; they say anyhow a congressman can't help 'em; they're lookin' fer the treas'rer only--all they care fer is the bank." "That's the way with those bankers," said Garwood. "Hogs, all of them. That's what we get for giving them Sanford. If we'd nominated a fellow of our own for treasurer we might have forced him to lay down on them."