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The darkness had not yet fallen, but the dusk had come. The platform was illumined by little lights like stars. Back of the platform the eucalyptus trees were now pale spectres, their leaves hanging nerveless in the still air.

O-liver sitting down amid thunders of applause let his eyes go for the moment to Jane. A lamp hung almost directly over her head. She had taken off her wide hat and her hair was glorious. She was leaning forward a little, her lips parted, her hands clasped, as if he still spoke to her.

As Tillotson’s sponsor rose Jane straightened up, smiled at Tommy, and again set herself to listen.

The unctuous voice of the speaker was a contrast to O-liver’s crisp tones. There were other contrasts not so apparent. This man was in the game for what he could get out of it. He wanted Tillotson to win because Tillotson’s winning would strengthen his own position politically. He meant indeed that Tillotson should win. He was not particular as to methods.

He said the usual things: Tinkersfield was no Sunday school; and they weren’t slaves to have their liberty taken from them by a lot of impractical reformers. And Lee was that kind. What had he ever done to prove that he’d make good? They knew Tillotson. They didn’t know Lee. Who was Lee anyhow?

He flung the interrogation at them. “What do you know about Lee?”

The pebble that he threw had widening circles. People began to ask themselves what, after all, they knew of O-liver. From somewhere in the darkness went up the words of an evil chant:

What’s the matter with O-liver, O-liver,
White-livered O-liver?
Ask Jane, Sandwich Jane,
O-liver, white liver,
Jane, Jane, Jane.

Jane felt her heart stand still. Back of her she heard Tommy swearing: “It’s all their damned wickedness!” She saw O-liver start from his chair and sink back, helpless against the insidiousness of this attack.

The speaker went on. It would seem, he said, from what he could learn, that Tillotson’s honorable opponent was sailing under false colors. He was a married man. He had deserted his wife. He sat among them as a saint, when he was really a sinner.

“A sinner, gentlemen.” The speaker paused for the effect, then proceeded with his argument. Of course they were all sinners, but they weren’t hypocrites. Tillotson wasn’t a hypocrite. He was a good fellow. He didn’t want Tinkersfield to be a Sunday school. He wanted it to be a town. You know–a town that every fellow would want to hit on Saturday night.

There were those in the crowd who began to feel that a weak spot had been found in O-liver’s armor. Secrecy! They didn’t like it. There were signs of wavering among some who had squared their shoulders. After all, they didn’t want to make a Sunday school of Tinkersfield. They wondered, too, if there wasn’t some truth in the things that were being hinted by that low chant in the darkness:

Ask Jane, Sandwich Jane,
O-liver, white liver,
Jane, Jane, Jane.

O-liver was restless, his hands clenched at his sides. Atwood and Henry were restless. Tommy was restless. They couldn’t let such insults go unnoticed. Somebody had to fight for Jane!

Tillotson’s supporters kept the thing stirring. If the meeting could end in a brawl the odds would be in favor of Tillotson. The effect of O-liver’s uplift would be lost. Even his friends couldn’t sway a fighting crowd back to him.

But they had forgotten to reckon with Jane!

She had seen in a sudden crystal flash the thing which might happen. A fight would end it all for O-liver. She had seen his efforts at self-control. She knew his agony of soul. She knew that at any moment he might knock somebody down–Tillotson or Tillotson’s sponsor. And it would all be in the morning papers. There would be innuendo–the hint of scandalous things. And O-liver’s reputation would pay the price. It was characteristic that she did not at the moment think of her own reputation. It was O-liver who must be saved!