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He says you promised to show him off Quien Sabe at the toe of your boot and that he's going to give you the chance to-night!" "Ah," commented Annixter, nodding his head, "he is, is he?" Presley was disappointed. Knowing Annixter's irascibility, he had expected to produce a more dramatic effect. He began to explain the danger of the business.
There was a long silence. Then, at length, Presley said: "How are you getting on, Governor?" Magnus looked up slowly. "Why it's Presley," he said. "How do you do, Presley." "Are you getting on all right, sir?" "Yes," said Magnus after a while, "yes, all right. I am going away. I've come to say good-bye. No " He interrupted himself with a deprecatory smile, "YOU said THAT, didn't you?"
And look here, I lied when I said I liked to have people like me to be popular. Rot! I don't care a curse about people's opinions of me. But there's a few people that are more to me than most others that chap Presley, for instance and those people I DO want to have like me. What they think counts. Pshaw! I know I've got enemies; piles of them.
H. Truscott. 9th Ward Percival Upton, John Martin. 10th Ward George Presley, Michael Crapser. 11th Ward Stephen Buhrer, Edward Russell. Mayor Herman M. Chapin. President of the Council Thomas Jones, Jr.
With infinite precautions, the men bore him to the carry-all and deposited him on the back seat; the rain flaps were let down on one side to shut off the gaze of the multitude. But at this point a moment of confusion ensued. Presley, because of half a dozen people who stood in his way, could not see what was going on. There were exclamations, hurried movements.
But abruptly, while the four men stood there, gazing into each other's faces, a vigorous hand-clapping broke out. The raffle of Hartrath's picture was over, and as Presley turned about he saw Mrs. Cedarquist and her two daughters signalling eagerly to the manufacturer, unable to reach him because of the intervening crowd. Then Mrs. Cedarquist raised her voice and cried: "I've won. I've won."
The master of Quien Sabe, in top laced boots and campaign hat, a cigar in his teeth, followed along beside the carry-all. Hilma and Mrs. Derrick were on the back seat, young Vacca driving. Harran and Presley bowed, taking off their hats. "Hello, hello, Pres," cried Annixter, over the heads of the intervening crowd, standing up in his stirrups and waving a hand, "Great day! What a mob, hey?
His frown had lowered to a scowl, his face was a dark red, his head had sunk, bull-like, between his massive shoulders; without winking he gazed long and with troubled eyes at his knotted, muscular hands, lying open on the table before him, idle, their occupation gone. Presley forgot his black lead. He listened to Caraher.
"To the city," she answered, "to San Francisco. I have a sister there who will look after the little tad." "But you, how about yourself, Mrs. Dyke?" She answered him in a quiet voice, monotonous, expressionless: "I am going to die very soon, Mr. Presley. There is no reason why I should live any longer. My son is in prison for life, everything is over for me, and I am tired, worn out."
Already Presley and Harran had run to their horses. "Vacca," cried Annixter, "where's Vacca? Put the saddle on the buckskin, QUICK. Osterman, get as many of the League as are here together at THIS spot, understand. I'll be back in a minute. I must tell Hilma this." Hooven ran up as Annixter disappeared. His little eyes were blazing, he was dragging his horse with him.
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