"I'm surprised at you. For a few paltry
votes you--" Just here the front door bell rang, and the business of
the day beginning stopped the conversation, which bade fair to become
unpleasant.
* * * * *
Night came. The votes were being counted, and at six o'clock Perkins was
informed that everything was going his way.
"Get your place ready for a brass band and a serenade," his manager
telephoned.
"I sha'n't!" ejaculated the candidate to himself, his old-time
independence asserting itself now that the polls were closed--and he was
right. He didn't have to. The band did not play in his front yard, for
at eight o'clock the tide that had set in strong for Perkins turned. At
ten, according to votes that had been counted, things were about even,
and the ladies retired. At twelve Perkins turned out the gas.
"That settles the lamp question, anyhow," he whispered to himself as he
went up-stairs, and then he went into Mrs. Perkins's room.
"Well, Bess," he said, "it's all over, and I've made up my mind as to
where the lamps are to go."
"Good!" said the little woman. "On the gate-posts?"
"No, dear. In the parlor--the cloisonne lamps from Tiffany's."
"Why, I thought you said we couldn't--"
"Well, we can. Our lamps can go in there whether the public likes it or
not. We are emancipated."
"But I don't understand," began Mrs. Perkins.
"Oh, it's simple," said Thaddeus, with a sigh of mingled relief and
chagrin.
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