For this reason, and because, when all is said, blood is much thicker
than water, Blount made as if he did not see the beckoning hand-wave
from the depths of the big chair in the smokers' alcove; ignored it, and
with set lips and burning eyes made for the nearest elevator to take
refuge in his room.
XXIII
A CRY IN THE NIGHT.
With the critical election, a struggle which was to decide for another
two-year period whether or not the people of the Sage-Brush State were
to be the masters or the servants of chartered monopoly, only four days
distant, the capital city took on the aspect of a stirring camp--two
rival camps, in fact, since the State headquarters of the two chief
parties were in the Inter-Mountain Hotel--and each incoming train
brought fresh relays of henchmen and district spellbinders to swell the
sidewalk throngs and to crowd the lobbies.
On the Friday morning Blount awoke with the feeling that he had
definitely cut himself off from all the commonplace activities of the
campaign. There were two days of suspense to be outworn, and if he could
have compassed it he would have been glad to efface himself completely.
Since that was impossible, and since it seemed equally impossible that
he should go on keeping up the farce of the _modus vivendi_ after he had
taken the step which would presently blazon his name to the world as
that of his father's accuser, he bought the morning papers hurriedly at
the hotel news-stand and went down the avenue to get his breakfast at
the railroad restaurant, where he would be measurably sure of isolation.
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