"An' turn 'em round," and Rankin twisted his fist savagely. In illustrating the vengeful deed he had allowed some of his excitement to master him, and he rose now and stood hanging over Sprague with a menace in the droop of his shoulders and the stretch of his neck.
"Now you know the business that brought me here, Con Sprague," Rankin went on. "I come over to tell this to Wilson, but I thought it 'uld be fair to tell you first. I'm goin' over to tell him, an' then I'm goin' back home. Now, if your brother-'n-law wants to go to the Legislature, just you get out an' make a few speeches fer Garwood, an' declare y'urself, an' you an' him put y'ur fellers over here to work, an' you do it in two days. I'll watch you an' if you don't do it, I'll say 'plunk,'"--Rankin used the word which the Illinois politicians, doubtless in their distrust of anything British, have substituted for the Englishman's "plump"--"an' the boys'll plunk--an' fer the first time in our history we'll send a minority representative to Springfield, an' it won't be your brother-'n-law, either."
Sprague's face blackened. He knew that dangerous possibility in cumulative voting, but he said nothing.
"I don't ask you fer any answer," said Rankin. "But I've served notice on you. You can do just as you damn please."
And then Rankin went away. He made his call on Wilson, By night he was back in Grand Prairie.
In the early twilight of a Saturday afternoon late in October Garwood walked up Kaskaskia Street from the station in a cold, sullen rain, conscious of but one sensation--he was glad that only one more week of the campaign remained. He walked with long, deliberate strides, indifferent to the rain, which had beaten down his wide hat brim and trickled off it, before and behind, in little streams. His face, under those drooping eaves, was long and serious; it brightened, automatically, only when he met some pedestrian to whom in his capacity as a candidate, he involuntarily spoke a greeting.
Garwood had come home in response to a telegram from Rankin, a telegram which had concentrated such an urgency into its economically chosen ten words that he had traveled many miles since daylight over country roads and by rail to reach Grand Prairie at night. Now, just as the twilight was darkening and the lights were beginning to show in the stores along Main Street, he turned into the Lawrence Block and climbed to his office. The office was dark; young Enright, who was reading law under him, had gone into the country to make one of the political speeches he was proud of having been asked to deliver that fall; the typewriter had closed her desk and gone, and her little clock was ticking lonesomely beside her little vase of flowers. But in his private room, Garwood found Rankin sitting with his feet on the window-sill looking abstractedly down into the street where the lights from the store-windows wriggled in many lines across the canal of mud.
