Near him stood the sheriff and the deputy-sheriff; around him pressed committee-men, heelers with tallies, vociferous well-wishers, and prophets of victory, and a few, a very few, personal and private friends.

On the other hand, strongly gathering and impatiently awaiting their candidate, his foes gloomed upon him.
Everywhere was a buzzing of voices: farmers and townspeople voting loudly, the sheriff as loudly recording each vote, the clerk humming over his book, the crowd making excited comment.

There was no ballot-voting; it was a _viva voce_ matter, and each man knew his fellow's creed.
Lewis Rand sat at ease, a tall and personable man, with the head of a victor, and a face that had the charm of strength.

The eye was keen and dark, the jaw square, the thick brown hair cut short, as was the Republican fashion.

His dress was plain but good, worn with a certain sober effect, an "it pleases me," that rendered silk and fine ruffles superfluous.