one vote. You know that. What difference does one vote make?"
Older persons than Perry have been fooled with that same question. He waivered. There might, he thought, be something in what the guard said. And then Praska leaned closer.
"Can't you picture it, Perry? Just one vote in the whole box for Johnny. It will be a scream. The whole room will be flabbergasted. 'Me-too-Johnny' voted for president. Good night!"
All at once Perry shook with laughter. Lines that had formed themselves in Praska's forehead—lines of apprehension—began to clear.
"Won't it be rich, though? I'll do it; one vote won't matter. Wait until I tell"
Praska's hand closed on his arm. "Tell nothing. Do you want to spoil it? You'll tell somebody, and he'll tell somebody else, and then everybody'll know it. Then what's left of our joke? Just you and me, Perry, and we'll sit back and watch the room when the vote is announced. It will be as good as a circus."
"I won't tell a soul," Perry promised. "'Me, too, Johnny'—Boy, I just want to sit back and watch them. Circus? It will be a riot."
In the lower corridor Praska mixed with the crowd, talking and laughing more than he usually did. He set more than one passing group into a
