The early voting here was light. Jim Thomas and Ed Howe were the principal election officers; and they sat with their chairs tilted back and their feet on the railing around a red-hot little iron stove while the trickle of voters came and went. Jim Thomas chewed tobacco, and Ed smoked. He smoked a pipe; and he whittled his tobacco from a black plug, thus identifying himself with the Caretall factions. Aside from the stove and their two chairs, the room contained only the voting paraphernalia. Three booths against the wall, with cloth curtains to divide them; two flat tables, each containing a list of the registered voters; and the ballot box itself, on the floor near the door where each voter deposited his ballot as he departed. At seven o’clock--the little stove, by this time, had raised the temperature of the room to a stifling mark--Jim Thomas spat in a box of sawdust and grinned at Ed Howe. “Slow, Ed,” he said. Ed puffed hard. He had a weakness of one eye, a weakness which allowed the lid to droop so that he seemed to be perpetually winking. He turned this winking eye to Jim. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess Caretall is due to get his.” “You reckon?” Ed inquired listlessly. “I reckon.” Ed grunted and smoked harder than ever. At half past seven, the elder Chase himself dropped in. “Good morning, boys,” he called from the door. “Splendid day, now isn’t it?” “Fine,” said Jim Thomas. Chase produced cigars; he dispensed them graciously. Only Ed Howe refused the proffered smoke. “Oh, come, Ed,” Chase insisted. “Don’t be afraid of hurting my feelings.” “Never smoke ’em,” said Ed shortly. “Want to vote once or twice?” Jim Thomas asked, grinning. Chase chuckled. “I’ve cast my vote. Second ballot in my precinct, Jim.” “Better chuck in a few more,” Jim advised. “Hollow’s running strong.” He said this seriously, but every one knew it was a joke. Even Ed Howe grinned. Chase presently departed, still amiable and gracious. His visit had stimulated the imagination of Jim Thomas; and after a little while he rose and took his hat and went down to a group of men in the street outside. Ed looked out of the window curiously. He saw Jim go among the group, hat in hand, obviously taking up a collection. The man seemed to take the matter as a joke. But Jim was grave. He came back up presently, hat in hand, and approached Ed. “Give up, Ed,” he invited. “A penny, a nickel, any little thing.” Ed looked in the hat. He saw a button, a burnt match, a pebble, and a slice of tobacco. He grunted and puffed at his pipe. “Set down, Jim,” he invited. “Heat’s touched your head.” Jim explained, in a hurt tone: “No, Ed, not a bit. Only--some of the boys thought we’d take up a collection and send downstairs for a tombstone for Hollow.” Ed swung his head slowly and looked at Jim; and a slow grin broke across his countenance. “I declare,” he commented, “you’re a real joker, Jim.” Then he laughed a cackling laugh, wagged his head, and fell into silence again.