By two o’clock on Saturday, Fletcher was seated in the stand, prepared for four quarters which would make up the longest hour of his life. But even he couldn’t have predicted the outcome.
‘Damn, how did he manage to pull that off?’ growled Nat.
‘Bribery and corruption would be my bet,’ said Tom. ‘Elliot has always been a useful player, but never good enough to make the school team.’
‘Do you think they’ll risk putting him in the game?’
‘Why not? St George’s often field a weak side, so they could leave him out there for a few minutes once they’re confident it won’t affect the result. Then Elliot will spend the rest of the game running up and down the side lines, waving at the voters, while all we can do is stare down at him from the bleachers.’
‘Then let’s make sure all our workers are in position outside the stadium a few minutes before the game ends, and don’t let anyone see our new hand-held placards until Saturday afternoon. That way Elliot won’t have time to come up with his own.’
‘You’re learning fast,’ said Tom.
‘When Elliot’s your opponent, you’re not left with a lot of choice.’
‘I’m not sure how it will affect the vote,’ said Jimmy, as the two of them ran towards the exit to join up with the rest of the team. ‘At least Steve Rodgers can’t shake hands with everyone as they leave the stadium.’
‘I wonder how long he’ll be in the hospital,’ Fletcher said.
‘Three days is all we need,’ said Jimmy. Fletcher laughed.
Fletcher was delighted to find that his team were already well spread out by the time he joined them, and several boys came up to say they would be supporting him, although it still felt close. He never moved beyond the main exit as he continued to shake hands with any boy over the age of fourteen and under the age of nineteen, including, he suspected, a few supporters from the visiting team. Fletcher and Jimmy didn’t leave until they were sure the stadium was empty of everyone except the groundsmen.
As they walked back to their rooms, Jimmy admitted that no one could have predicted a tie, or that Rodgers would have been on his way to the local hospital before the end of the first quarter.
‘If the vote was tonight he’d win on sympathy. If no one sees him again before Tuesday at nine o’clock, you’ll be the president.’
‘Doesn’t ability to do the job come into the equation?’
‘Of course not, you fool,’ said Jimmy. ‘This is politics.’
When Nat arrived at the game, his placards were to be seen everywhere, and all that the Elliot supporters could do was cry foul play. Nat and Tom couldn’t hide their smiles as they took their places in the bleachers. The smiles broadened when St George’s scored early in the first quarter. Nat didn’t want Taft to lose, but no coach was going to risk putting Elliot on the field while St George’s remained in the lead. And that didn’t change until the final quarter.
Nat shook hands with everyone as they left the stadium, but he knew that Taft’s last-minute victory over St George’s hadn’t helped his cause, even if Elliot had only been able to run up and down the sideline until the last person had left the bleachers.
‘Just be thankful he never got in the game,’ said Tom.
Fletcher was invited to read the lesson in chapel that Sunday morning, making it abundantly clear who the principal would have voted for. During lunch, he and Jimmy visited every dorm, to ask the boys how they felt about the food. ‘A sure vote winner,’ the senator had assured them, ‘even if you can’t do anything about it.’ That evening, they climbed into bed exhausted. Jimmy set the alarm for five thirty. Fletcher groaned.
‘A master stroke,’ said Jimmy as they stood outside assembly the following morning waiting for the boys to go off to their classrooms.
‘Brilliant,’ admitted Fletcher.
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Jimmy. ‘Not that I can complain, because I would have recommended that you do exactly the same thing, given the circumstances.’
The two of them stared across at Steve Rodgers, who was standing on crutches by the exit to the hall, allowing the boys to sign their autographs on his plastered leg.
‘A master stroke,’ repeated Jimmy. ‘It brings a new meaning to the sympathy vote. Perhaps we should ask the question, do you want a cripple for president?’
‘One of the greatest presidents in the history of this country was a cripple,’ Fletcher reminded his campaign manager.
‘Then there’s only one thing for it,’ said Jimmy, ‘you’ll have to spend the next twenty-four hours in a wheelchair.’
Over the final weekend, Nat’s workers tried to project an air of confidence, even though they realized it was too close to call. Neither candidate stopped smiling, until Monday evening, when the school bell struck six.
‘Let’s go back to my room,’ said Tom, ‘and tell stories of the death of kings.’
‘Sad stories,’ said Nat.
The team all crowded into Tom’s little room and swapped anecdotes of the roles they had played in the campaign, and laughed at jokes that weren’t funny, as they waited impatiently to learn the result.
A loud rap on the door interrupted their noisy exuberance. ‘Come in,’ called Tom.
They all stood up the moment they saw who it was standing in the doorway.
‘Good evening, Mr Anderson,’ said Nat.
‘Good evening, Cartwright,’ replied the dean of students formally. ‘As the returning officer in the election for president of student government, I have to inform you that due to the closeness of the result, I will be calling for a recount. Assembly has therefore been postponed until eight o’clock.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ was all Nat could think of saying.
When eight o’clock had struck, every boy was seated in his place. They rose dutifully when the dean of students entered the hall. Nat tried to read any sign of the result from the expression on his face, but even the Japanese would have been proud of Mr Anderson’s inscrutability.
The dean walked to the centre of the stage and invited the assembly to be seated. There was a hush, rarely experienced at a normal gathering.
‘I must tell you,’ began the dean, ‘that this was the closest result in the school’s seventy-five-year history.’ Nat could feel the palms of his hands sweating, as he tried to remain calm. ‘The voting for president of student council was Nat Cartwright, 178, Ralph Elliot, 181.’
Half the gathering leapt to their feet and cheered, while the other half remained seated and silent. Nat rose from his place, walked across to Elliot and offered his outstretched hand.
The new president ignored it.
Although everyone knew the result wouldn’t be announced until nine o’clock, the assembly hall was packed long before the principal made his entrance.
Fletcher sat in the back row, with his head bowed, while Jimmy stared directly in front of him. ‘I should have got up earlier every morning,’ said Fletcher.
‘I should have broken your leg,’ Jimmy responded.
The principal, accompanied by the chaplain, marched down the aisle as if to show God was somehow involved in who became president of student government at Hotchkiss. The principal walked to the front of the stage and cleared his throat.
‘The result of the election for student government president,’ said Mr Fleming, ‘is Fletcher Davenport 207 votes, Steve Rodgers 173 votes. I therefore declare Fletcher Davenport to be president.’