Free Sons of Fortune by Jeffrey Archer Page A

mids are
telling both camps that they’ll be supporting their candidate, sim-62
    ply because they
want to be seen backing the winner.
    Just
be thankful that the vote isn’t on Saturday evening,” Jimmy added.
    “Why?”
asked Fletcher.
    “Because
we play Kent on Saturday afternoon, and if Steve Rodgers scores the winning
touchdown, we could kiss goodbye to any chance of you becoming president. It’s
just a pity it’s a home game.
    If
you’d been born a year earlier or a year later, it would have been an away
match, and the impact would have been negligible. But as it is, every voter
will be in the stadium watching the encounter, so pray we lose, or at least
that Rodgers has a bad game.”
    By
two o’clock on Saturday, Fletcher was seated in the stand, prepared for four
quarters that would make up the longest hour of his life. But even he couldn’t
have predicted the outcome.
    “I’m
not sure how it will affect the vote,” said Jimmy, as the two of them ran
toward 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 eighteen, 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.”
    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.”
    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