CHAPTER XXI
Humphrey Bryant had not eaten, had not left his desk. He watched the supervisors trail toward the Commercial House with Jim Harris in the lead, watched the town merchants one by one lock their doors and go home for dinner—and then sat there, staring blankly at the picture of Pingree on the blue calcimined wall.
He was not conscious that so much time passed. Time seemed to speed that day, drawing events after it in a dizzying swirl, portentous events, carrying great consequence for him and Helen Foraker beneath their surface, and he roused with a start as Sim Burns strolled along the walk on his way back from dinner. Wes Hubbard was behind him and Art Billings and the others. Finally Henry Wales, fretting with his pale cigar, hastened along as the clock on Bryant's office wall struck one.
The old man rose and went to the door. Through the open court house window he saw the supervisors moving about their room—he watched and waited. Jim Harris did not emerge from the poolroom.
Bareheaded he crossed the street, breath a trifle short, heart thumping.
The aimless chatter of the group frazzled to a tell-tale silence as the editor appeared in the doorway. He stood a moment, counting them. Each township was represented. He stepped inside, drawing the door shut behind him and stood with his hand on the knob. His white,
225
