It was the following night, and the hour was nine. Old Hosie stood in the sheriff's office in Galloway County jail, while Jim Nichols scrutinized a formal looking document his visitor had just delivered into his hands.
"It's all right, isn't it?" said the old lawyer.
"Yep." The sheriff thrust the paper into a drawer. "I'll fetch him right down."
"Remember, don't give him a hint!" Old Hosie warned again. "You're sure," he added anxiously, "he hasn't got on to anything?"
"How many more times have I got to tell you," returned the sheriff, a little irritated, "that I ain't said a word to him--just as you told me! He heard some of the racket last night, sure. But he thought it was just part of the regular campaign row."
"All right! All right! Hurry him along then!"
Left alone, Old Hosie walked excitedly up and down the dingy room, whose sole pretension in an aesthetic way was the breeze-blown "yachting girl" of a soap company's calendar, sailing her bounding craft above the office cuspidor.
The old man grinned widely, rubbed his bony hands together, and a concatenation of low chuckles issued from his lean throat. But when Sheriff Nichols reappeared, ushering in Arnold Bruce, all these outward manifestations of satisfaction abruptly terminated, and his manner became his usual dry and sarcastic one with his nephew.
"Hello, Arn!" he said. "H'are you?"
"Hello!" Bruce returned, rather gruffly, shaking the hand his uncle held out. "What's this the sheriff has just told me about a new trial?"
"It's all right," returned Old Hosie. "We've fought on till we've made 'em give it to us."
"What's the use of it?" Bruce growled. "The cards will be stacked the same as at the other trial."
"Well, whatever happens, you're free till then. I've got you out on bail, and I'm here to take you home with me. So come along with you."
Old Hosie pushed him out and down the jail steps and into a closed carriage that was waiting at the curb. Bruce was in a glowering, embittered mood, as was but natural in a man who keenly feels that he has suffered without justice and has lost all for which he fought.
"You know I appreciate your working for the new trial," he remarked dully, as the carriage rattled slowly on. "How did you manage it?"
"It's too long a story for now. I'll tell you when we get home."
Bruce was gloomily silent for a moment.
"Of course the Blake crowd swept everything at the election to-day?"
"Well, on the whole, their majority wasn't as big as they'd counted on," returned Old Hosie.
They rode on, Bruce sunk in his bitter, rebellious dejection. The carriage turned into the street that ran behind the Court House, then after rattling over the brick pavement for a few moments came to a pause. Hosie opened the door and stepped out.
"Hello! what are we stopping here for?" demanded Bruce. "This is the Court House. I thought you said we were going home?"
"So we are, so we are," Old Hosie rapidly returned, an agitation in his manner that he could not wholly repress. "But first we've got to go into the Court House. Judge Kellog is waiting for us; there's a little formality or two about your release we've got to settle with him. Come along." And taking his arm Old Hosie hurried him into the Court House yard, allowing no time for questioning the plausibility of this explanation.
But suddenly Bruce stopped short.
"Look at that, won't you!" he cried in amazement. "See how the front of the yard is lighted up, and see how it's jammed with people! And there goes the band! What the dickens----"
At that moment some one on the outskirts of the crowd sighted the pair. "There's Bruce!" he shouted.
Immediately there was an uproar. "Hurrah for Bruce! Hurrah for Bruce!"
yelled the crowd, and began to rush to the rear of the yard, cheering as they ran.
Bruce gripped Old Hosie's arm.
"What's this mean?"
"It means we've got to run for it!" And so saying the old man, with a surprising burst of speed left over from his younger years, dragged his nephew up the walk and through the rear door of the Court House, which he quickly locked upon their clamorous pursuers.
Bruce stared at his uncle in bewilderment.
"Hosie--Hosie--what's this mean?"
The old man's leathery face was twitching in a manner remarkable to behold.
"Drat it," he grumbled, with a quaver in his voice, "why don't you read the _Express_ and keep up with the news!"
"What's this mean?" demanded Bruce.
"Well, here's a copy of your old rag. Read it and see for yourself."
Bruce seized the _Express_ the old man held out to him. Up in one corner were the words "_Election Extra_," and across the top of the page ran the great headline:
"BRUCE TICKET SWEEPS CITY"
Bruce looked slowly up, stupefied, and steadied himself with a hand against the door.
"Is--is that true?"
"For my part," declared Old Hosie, the quaver in his voice growing more prominent, "I don't believe more'n half I see in that dirty sheet!"
"Then--it's true?"
"Don't you hear them wild Indians yelling for Mayor Bruce?"
Bruce was too dazed to speak for a moment.
"Tell me--how did it happen?"
"Oh, read your old rag and see!"
"For God's sake, Hosie, don't fool with me!" he cried. "How did it happen? Somebody has been at work. Who did it?"
"Eh! You really want to know that?"
"Yes, yes! Who did it?"
"It was done," said Old Hosie, looking at him very straight and blinking his eyes, "by a party that I understand you thought couldn't do much of anything."