“Whatever you say, Chase,” Amos agreed. “Looks to me like the fight’s all over.” It was observed at that time, however, that Congressman Caretall was strangely buoyant for a beaten man. Chase and Caretall separated at the door, and Jim Thomas called to Ed Howe: “I’m going uptown and get me some dinner. I ain’t ate yet.” “Go along,” Ed agreed. Jim went along, overtaking the elder Chase, and they walked together along Pearl Street and up Main to the restaurant. Chase was quietly contented and exceedingly courteous and gracious to those whom they encountered; and for the first half of the journey, Jim basked in the great man’s smile. It was at the corner of Main Street that the first fly dropped into Jim’s ointment. As they turned the corner, they encountered three men. One was V. R. Kite; another was old Thompson, crippled with rheumatism but fat with wealth, and a lifelong enemy of Chase; and the third was Thompson’s son, the shoe man. Chase said: “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” to these men. Kite responded: “Afternoon!” Old Thompson grunted; and young Thompson said: “How do you do, Mr. Chase?” with entirely too much sweet deference in his tones. They passed the group, but when they had gone twenty yards, something prompted Jim Thomas to look around, and he detected the elder Thompson in the act of smiting his knee in a paroxysm of silent and malignant mirth. Right then, Jim Thomas smelled a rat. He looked up at Chase, but Chase was blind and deaf. Jim started to speak, then thought better of it; and at the next corner, he left his chieftain and turned aside to the restaurant. It seemed to him that Sam O’Brien, the fat proprietor of the place, grinned at him when he entered. He ordered a veal sandwich, and when it was ready for him, he doused it with mustard and ate it with sips of cold water between each mouthful. It was delicious, but his stomach was uneasy under it. Sam was frankly grinning at him; and so Jim asked at length, in some desperation: “What’s the joke, Sam?” Sam shook his head. “How’s the election going, Jim?” “All Chase.” Sam threw back his head. He was a fat man, and the mirth billowed out of him. He rocked, he slapped his knee. “All Chase!” he gasped. “All Chase! Oh, Jim! Oh, Jimmy man! All Chase!” He wiped tears from his eyes. “Jim, you’ll kill me!” Jim snorted. He was thoroughly disturbed. Sam was a man whose finger touched the public pulse. Obviously, he knew something. Jim leaned across the counter. “What’s the joke, Sam? Come on--let me laugh, too.” Sam waved his fat hands at his customer. “You go away, Jim. You go ’way. You’ll kill me.” His chortles pursued Jim to the street. There Thomas paused, irresolute. What was he going to do? Warn Chase? Warn Chase’s cohorts? But what should he warn them about? He remembered suddenly that his place was beside the ballot box, and he turned and fairly ran down the street to the voting rooms. And it seemed to him that, as he sped, mirth pursued him.