The night before the primaries a crowd, foul with the reek of tobacco, alcohol and perspiration, was shuffling about in the hall and anterooms of the colonel’s headquarters. The crowd was noisy, profane and confident. But inside, the steering committee was assembled, and it was very sober. Garwood, at the littered table, had been scratching his head over political equations. Conventions had been held in all the thirty-six outside districts, and sixty-nine candidates had been nominated, fifty-five representatives and fourteen senators. Of these they could depend upon twenty-nine. It requires fifty-two to control a legislative caucus, when the party has a bare majority on joint ballot, so they would have to nominate at least twenty-three of their candidates in Cook County to get a caucus majority, assuming the ultimate election of them all. Fifty-seven candidates were to be selected in Cook County on the morrow. Of them, they should name at least thirty-five to be entirely safe. In other words, they must carry Cook County. “Is that countin’ hold-over senators?” asked Mosely, when Garwood was done. “Yes, counting the hold-overs--Warren claims fourteen out of the seventeen.” “Josh Badger never’ll vote for him,” said Mosely. “He gives us Josh,” Garwood replied. “Bates and Halliday are uncertain.” “Not so damned uncertain,” said Mosely. “They’re only waitin’ to be seen.” “Warren’ll get them easy enough,” said Harkness. “Yes, they’re cheap,” Mosely assented, spitting across the room at an iron cuspidor. “’Bout eight dollars apiece, I’d guess ’em off at,” he added, with a poor man’s contempt for low prices. “Well, that only makes it worse,” replied Garwood. “But leave them out entirely. With sixty-two votes Warren can control the caucus--” “Providin’ al’ays, however,” suggested Mosely, in statutory language. “Oh, course,” assented Garwood, petulant from the heat and the situation, “they won’t all be elected. That’s why he’ll work like hell to carry Cook. He lies when he says he doesn’t give a damn how she goes to-morrow.” “He always does that,” said the colonel, from his bed. Carroll, to whom political calculations savored always of the mystery of higher mathematics, said: “Seems to me you could figure it better than that.” “Well, you try it,” said Garwood, dropping his pencil and tilting back in his chair. There was not much hope, and the soberness deepened. After a while there was a knock on the door, and a shaven head was thrust in. “Them lit’ry guys is out here,” said the shaven head. “Any figur’s to give out?” “Figur’s?” cried Mosely. “We’ve got th’ official vote!” And Garwood, taking his papers from the table, went out and said to the reporters: