Wint met V. R. Kite one day, and the little man spoke to him so affably that Wint asked: “Well, how are things, Mr. Kite?” “Excellent. First class, young man.” “I suppose you’ll vote for me for Mayor?” Wint asked, grinning good-naturedly; and Kite chuckled and said he guessed not. “Routt’s more my style,” he said. “Don’t waste your vote on a loser,” Wint told him; but Kite said Routt might be a loser and might not. He left Wint with an unpleasant feeling that there had been a secretly triumphant note in the little old buzzard’s voice. Jim Radabaugh met James T. Hollow at the Post Office one morning, and said cheerfully: “Well, James T., how’s it happen you’re not out for Mayor again?” “I try to do what is right,” Hollow said earnestly. “But I really don’t know what to do, Mr. Marshal. I have thought of coming out, but Congressman Caretall gives me very little encouragement.” “Don’t encourage you, eh?” “No. In fact, I might say he discouraged--” “Well, now,” said Radabaugh, “maybe you’d best just lie low.” Hollow looked doubtful and said he didn’t know. Thus all Hardiston talked, each man after his fashion. Ed Skinner of the _Sun_ maintained a strict neutrality. He was closely allied with Wint’s father; and the elder Chase held his hand. B. B. Beecham seldom let the _Journal_ take an active part in local politics, except on broad party lines. And Wint--since he had the patronage of Amos Caretall--was of the same party as Routt, who had been Amos’s ally. He carried the announcement cards of both men and let it go at that. But he went so far as to say to Wint, and to those who dropped in at the _Journal_ office, that Routt’s methods were not likely to be profitable. “It never pays to open up old sores,” he said. “And it’s never a good plan to say anything that will unjustly hurt another man’s feelings. He may be in a position to resent it, some day.” Sam O’Brien, the restaurant man, told Wint that Routt would never get his vote. “I like nerve,” he said, “and you’ve got it. You’ve made me laugh sometimes, Wint. Lord, I’ve thought you’d be the death of me. But you’ve took your nerve in your hands. You’ve got me, boy. More power to your elbow.” The first two weeks of October slid swiftly by. Wint heard Routt was planning for a rally or two; and he began to make his own arrangements to a similar end. But in mid-October, word came to him which put the mayoralty race out of his mind. The word came through Ote Runns, that hopeless drunkard whose cheerful services were in such demand by Hardiston housewives at rug-beating time. Wint met Ote one evening, on his way home, and Ote was bibulously cheerful. He greeted Wint hilariously; and told him in triumphant tones that Hardiston was itself again. Wint, with a suspicion of what was coming, asked Ote what he meant; and Ote chortled: “‘S a good ol’ town. Good ol’ wet town! Plenny o’ booze now.”