3304	----	THE MACHINE By Upton Sinclair CHARACTERS (In order of appearance) JULIA PATTERSON: a magazine writer. JACK BULLEN: a parlor Socialist. LAURA HEGAN: Hegan's daughter. ALLAN MONTAGUE: a lawyer. JIM HEGAN: the traction king. ANNIE ROBERTS: a girl of the slums. ROBERT GRIMES: the boss. ANDREWS: Hegan's secretary. PARKER: a clerk. ACT I Julia Patterson's apartments in a model tenement on the lower East Side. ACT II Library at "The Towers," Hegan's country place on Long Island, two weeks later. ACT III Hegan's private office in Wall street, the next morning. THE MACHINE ACT I [JULIA PATTERSON'S apartments in a model tenement on the lower East Side. The scene shows the living-room, furnished very plainly, but in the newest taste; "arts and crafts" furniture, portraits of Morris and Ruskin on the walls; a centre table, a couple of easy-chairs, a divan and many book-shelves. The entrance from the outer hall is at centre; entrance to the other rooms right and left.] [At rise: JULIA has pushed back the lamp from the table and is having a light supper, with a cup of tea; and at the same time trying to read a magazine, which obstinately refuses to remain open at the right place. She is an attractive and intelligent woman of thirty. The doorbell rings.] JULIA. Ah, Jack! [Presses button, then goes to the door.] JACK. [Enters, having come upstairs at a run. He is a college graduate and volunteer revolutionist, one of the organizers of the "Society of the Friends of Russian Freedom"; handsome and ardent, eager in manner, and a great talker.] Hello, Julia. All alone? JULIA. Yes. I expected a friend, but she can't come until later. JACK. Just eating? JULIA. I've been on the go all day. Have something. JACK. No; I had dinner. [As she starts to clear things away.] Don't stop on my account. JULIA. I was just finishing up. [As he begins to help.] No; sit down. JACK. Nonsense. Let the men be of some use in the world. JULIA. What have you been up to to-day? JACK. We're organizing a demonstration for the Swedish strikers. JULIA. It's marvelous how those Swedes hold on, isn't it? JACK. The people are getting their eyes open. And when they're once open, they stay open. JULIA. Yes. Did you see my article? JACK. I should think I did! Julia, that was a dandy! JULIA. Do you think so? JACK. I do, indeed. You've made a hit. I heard a dozen people talking about it. JULIA. Indeed? JACK. You've come to be the champion female muck-raker of the country, I think. [JULIA laughs.] JACK. Why did you want to see me so specially tonight? JULIA. I've a friend I want you to meet. Somebody I'm engaged in educating. JACK. You seem to have chosen me for your favorite proselytizer. JULIA. You've seen things with your own eyes, Jack. JACK. Yes; I suppose so. JULIA. And you know how to tell about them. And you've such an engaging way about you...nobody could help but take to you. JACK. Cut out the taffy. Who's your friend? JULIA. Her name's Hegan. JACK. A woman? JULIA. A girl, yes. And she's coming right along, Jack. You must take a little trouble with her, for if we can only bring her through, she can do a lot for us. She's got no end of money. JACK. No relative of Jim Hegan, I hope? JULIA. She's his daughter. JACK. [With a bound.] What! JULIA. His only daughter. JACK. Good God, Julia! JULIA. What's the matter? JACK. You know I don't want to meet people like that. JULIA. Why not? JACK. I don't care to mix with them. I've nothing to say to them. JULIA. My dear Jack, the girl can't help her father. JACK. I know that, and I'm sorry for her. But, meantime, I've got my work to do... JULIA. You couldn't be doing any better work than this. If we can make a Socialist of Laura Hegan... JACK. Oh, stuff, Julia! I've given up chasing after will-o'-the-wisps like that. JULIA.--But think what she could do! JACK. Yes. I used to think what a whole lot of people could do. You might as well ask me to think what her father could do... if he only wanted to do it, instead of poisoning the life-blood of the city, and piling up his dirty millions. Go about this town and see the misery and horror... and think that it's Jim Hegan who sits at the top and reaps the profit of it all! It's Jim Hegan who is back of the organization... he's the real power behind Boss Grimes. It's he who puts up the money and makes possible this whole regime of vice and graft... JULIA. My dear boy, don't be silly. JACK. How do you mean? Isn't it true? JULIA. Of course it's true... but why declaim to me about it? You forget you are talking to the champion female muckraker of the country. JACK. Yes, that's right. But I don't want to meet these people socially. They mean well, a lot of them, I suppose; but they've been accustomed all their lives to being people of importance... to have everybody stand in awe of them, because of their stolen money, and all the wonderful things they might do with it if they only would. JULIA. My dear Jack, did you ever observe anything of the tuft-hunter in me? JACK. No, I don't know that I have. But it's never too late. JULIA. [Laughing.] Well, until you do, have a little faith in me! Meet Laura Hegan, and judge for yourself. JACK. [Grumbling.] All right, I'll meet her. But let me tell you, I don't propose to spare her feelings. She'll get things straight from me. JULIA. That's all right, my boy. Give her the class war and the Revolution with a capital R! Tell her you're the only original representative of the disinherited proletariat, and that some day, before long, you intend to plant the red flag over her daddy's palace. [Seriously.] Of course, what you'll actually do is meet her like a gentleman, and tell her of some of your adventures in Russia, and give her some idea of what's going on outside of her little Fifth avenue set. J ACK. Where did you run on to her? JULIA. I met her at the settlement. JACK. Good Lord! Jim Hegan's daughter! [Laughs.] They were toadying to her there, I'll wager. JULIA. Well, you know what settlement people are. She's been coming there for quite a while, and seems to be interested. She's given them quite a lot of money. JACK. No doubt. JULIA. I had a little talk with her one afternoon. She's a quiet, self-contained girl, but she gave me a peculiar impression. She seemed to be unhappy; there was a kind of troubled note in what she said. I had felt uncomfortable about meeting her... you can imagine, after my study of "Tammany and the Traction Trust." JACK. Did she mention that? JULIA. No, she never has. But I've several times had the feeling that she was trying to get up the courage to do it. I've thought, somehow, that she must be suffering about her father. JACK. My God! Wouldn't it be a joke if Nemesis were to get at Jim Hegan through his daughter? JULIA. Yes; wouldn't it! JACK. How do you suppose he takes her reform activities? JULIA. I don't know, but I fancy they must have had it out. She's not the sort of person to let herself be turned back when her mind's made up. JACK. A sort of chip of the old block. [After a pause.] If I'd known what was up, I wouldn't have suggested asking anybody else to come.. . JULIA. Oh, that's all right; it won't make any difference. JACK. This chap, Montague, that I 'phoned to you about... he's a sort of a convert of my own. JULIA. I see. We'll reciprocate. JACK. I think I've got Montague pretty well landed. You'll be interested in him... it's quite a story. It was last election day... [The bell rings.] JULIA. Ah, there's somebody. [She goes to the door; calls.] Is that you, Miss Hegan? LAURA. [Off.] Yes, it's I. JULIA. You found your way, did you? LAURA. Oh, no trouble at all. [Enters, a tall, stately girl, about twenty-three; simply but elegantly clad.] How do you do? JULIA. I am so glad to see you. Jack, this is Miss Hegan. Mr. Bullen. LAURA. How do you do, Mr. Bullen? JACK. I am very glad to meet you, Miss Hegan. JULIA. Let me take your things. LAURA. [Looking about.] Oh, what a cozy place! I think these model tenements are delightful. JULIA. They're indispensable to us agitators... an oasis in a desert. JACK. Built for the proletariat, and inhabited by cranks. LAURA. Is that the truth? JULIA. It's certainly the truth about this one. Below me are two painters and a settlement worker, and next door is a blind Anarchist and a Yiddish poet. LAURA. What's the reason for it? JULIA. [Going to room off left with LAURA's things.] The places are clean and cheap; and whenever the poor can't pay their rent, we take their homes. JACK. The elimination of the unfit. LAURA. It sounds like a tragic explanation; but I guess it's true. [Looking at Jack.] And so this is Mr. Bullen. For such a famous revolutionist, I expected to find some one more dangerous-looking. JULIA. [Returning.] Don't make up your mind too soon about Jack. He's liable to startle you. LAURA. I'm not easily startled any more. I'm getting quite used to meeting revolutionists. JACK. You don't call them revolutionists that you meet at the settlement, I hope? LAURA. No; but all sorts of people come there. JULIA. By the way, Jack 'phoned me this afternoon, and said he'd invited a friend here. I hope you don't mind. LAURA. Why, no; not at all. Is it one of your Russian friends? JACK. Oh, no; he's an American. His name is Montague. I was just starting to tell Julia about him when you came in. LAURA. Go ahead. JACK. It was quite an adventure. I don't know that I've ever had one that was more exciting. And I've had quite some, you know. LAURA. Yes; I've been told so. JACK. It was last election day, in a polling place on the Bowery. I was a watcher for the Socialists, and this Montague was one of the watchers for the reform crowd. The other one was drunk, and so he had the work all to himself. It was in the heart of Leary's district, and the crowd there was a tough one, I can tell you. It was a close election. LAURA. Yes; I know. JACK. There'd been all kinds of monkey-work going on, and the box was full of marked and defective ballots, and Montague set to work to make them throw them out. I didn't pay much attention at first. I was only there to see that our own ballots were counted; but pretty soon I began to take interest. He had every one in the place against him. There was a Tammany inspector of elections and four tally clerks... all in with Tammany, of course. There were three or four Tammany policemen, and, outside of the railing, the worst crowd of toughs that ever you laid eyes on. To make matters worse, there were several men inside who had no business to be there... one of them a Judge of the City Court, and another a State's attorney... and all of them storming at Montague. JULIA. What did he do? JACK. He just made them throw out the marked ballots. They were willing enough to put them to one side, but wanted to count them in on the tally sheets. And, of course, Montague knew perfectly well that if they ever counted them in they'd close up at the end, and that would be all there was to it. He had the law with him, of course. He's a lawyer himself, and he seemed to know it all by heart; and he'd quote it to them, paragraph by paragraph, and they'd look it up and find that he was right, and, of course, that only made them madder. The old Judge would start up in his seat. "Officer!" he'd shout (he was a red-faced, ignorant fellow... a typical barroom politician), "I demand that you put that man out of here." And the cop actually laid his hand on Montague's shoulder; if he'd ever been landed on the other side of that railing the crowd would have torn him to pieces. But the man stayed as cool as a cucumber. "Officer," he said, "you are aware that I am an election official, here under the protection of the law; and if you refuse me that protection you are liable to a sentence in State's prison." Then he'd quote another paragraph. JULIA. It's a wonder he ever held them. JACK. He did it; he made them throw out forty-seven ballots... and thirty-eight of them were Tammany ballots, too. There was one time when I thought the gang was going to break loose, and I sneaked out and telephoned for help. Then I came back and spoke up for him. I wanted them to know there'd be one witness. You should have seen the grateful look that Montague gave me. LAURA. I can imagine it. JULIA. And how did it end? JACK. Why, you see, we kept them there till eleven o'clock at night, and by that time everybody knew that Tammany had won, and the ballots were not needed. So the old Judge patted us on the back and told us we were heroes, and invited us out to get drunk with him. Montague and I walked home together through the election din, and got acquainted. I don't know that I ever met a man I took to more quickly. LAURA. You are making a Socialist out of him, of course? JACK. Oh, he's coming on. But he is not the sort of man to take his ideas from any one else... he wants to see for himself. He hasn't been in New York long, you know... he comes from the South... from Mississippi. LAURA. [Startled.] From Mississippi! What's his first name? JACK. Allan. LAURA. [Betraying emotion.] Allan Montague! JACK. Do you know him? LAURA. Yes; I know him very well, indeed. Oh... I didn't... that is... I have not seen him for a long time. [Recovering her poise.] Is he surely coming? JACK. He generally keeps his engagements. JULIA. How did you come to know him? LAURA. He's Ollie Montague's brother. JACK. Who's Ollie Montague? LAURA. He's one of those pretty boys that everybody knows in society; he brought his brother up from the South to introduce him. He was in some business deal or other with my father. Then he seemed to drop out of everything, and nobody sees him any more. I don't know why. JACK. I think he was disgusted with his experiences. LAURA. Oh! JACK. [Realizing that he had said something awkward.] I think I was the first Socialist he'd ever met. He had just gotten to the stage of despair. He'd started out with a long program of reforms... and he was going to educate the people to them... one by one, until he'd made them all effective. I said to him: "By the time you've got the attention of the public on reform number thirty... what do you suppose the politicians will have been doing with reform number one?" JULIA. We all have to go through that stage. I can remember just as well... [A ring upon the bell.] Ah, there he is. JACK. [Rises and goes to the door.] But I think he's most through butting his head against the stone wall! [Calls.] Are you there, old man? MONTAGUE. [Off.] I'm here! JACK. How are you? MONTAGUE. Fine! JACK. Come right in. MONTAGUE. [Enters; a tall, handsome man of thirty; self-contained and slow of speech; the dark type of a Southerner.] I'm a trifle late. [Sees LAURA; starts.] Miss Hegan! You! [Recovers himself.] Why... an unexpected pleasure! LAURA. Unexpected on both sides, Mr. Montague. MONTAGUE. I'm delighted to meet you, really! [They shake hands.] JACK. Julia, my friend, Mr. Montague. Miss Patterson. MONTAGUE. I'm very glad to meet you, Miss Patterson. JULIA. We had no idea we were bringing old friends together. MONTAGUE. No; it was certainly a coincidence. LAURA. It's been... let me see... a year since we've met. MONTAGUE. It must be fully that. LAURA. Where do you keep yourself these days? MONTAGUE. Oh, I'm studying, in a quiet way. LAURA. And none of your old friends ever see you? MONTAGUE. I don't get about much. LAURA. [Earnestly.] And friendship means so little to you as that? MONTAGUE. I... it would be hard to explain. I have been busy with politics... [A pause of embarrassment.] JULIA. Mr. Bullen has just been telling us about your heroism. MONTAGUE. My heroism? Where? JULIA. At the polling place. MONTAGUE. Oh, that! It was nothing. LAURA. It seemed like a good deal to us. MONTAGUE. Make him tell you about some of his own adventures. JULIA. Would you ever think, to look at his innocent countenance, that he had helped to hold a building for six hours against Russian artillery? LAURA. Good heavens! Where was this? JULIA. During the St. Petersburg uprising. LAURA. And weren't you frightened to death? JACK. [Laughing.] No; we were too busy taking pot-shots at the Cossacks. It was like the hunting season in the Adirondacks. LAURA. And how did it turn out? JACK. Oh, they were too much for us in the end. I got away, across the ice of the Neva... I had the heel of one shoe shot off. And yet people tell us romance is dead! Anybody who is looking for romance, and knows what it is, can find all he wants in Russia. [Pause.] LAURA. [To MONTAGUE.] Have you seen my father lately? MONTAGUE. No; not for some time. LAURA. You may see him this evening. He promised to call for me. MONTAGUE. Indeed! JACK. Oh, by the way, Julia, I forgot! How's Annie? LAURA. Oh, yes; how is she? JULIA. She's doing well, I think. Better every day. LAURA. Is she still violent? JULIA. Not so much. I can always handle her now. LAURA. Is she in the next room? [Looking to the right.] JULIA. Yes. She's been asleep since afternoon. LAURA. And you still won't let me send her to a hospital? JULIA. Oh, no. Truly, it would kill the poor girl. LAURA. But you... with all your work, and your engagements? JULIA. She's very quiet. And the neighbors come in and help when I'm out. They all sympathize. LAURA. Talking about heroism... it seems to me that you are entitled to mention. JULIA. Why, nonsense!... the girl was simply thrown into my arms. LAURA. Most people would have managed to step out of the way, just the same. You've heard the story, have you, Mr. Montague? MONTAGUE. Bullen has told it to me. You haven't been able to get any justice? JACK. From the police? Hardly! But we're keeping at it, to make the story complete. I went to see Captain Quinn to-day. "What's this?" says he. "Annie Rogers again? Didn't your lady frien' get her pitcher in the papers over that case? An' what more does she want?" JULIA. I went this afternoon to see the Tammany leader of our district... MONTAGUE. Leary? JULIA. The same. I went straight into his saloon. "Lady," says he, "the goil's nutty! You got a bughouse patient on your bands! This here talk about the white-slave traffic, ma'am... it's all the work o' these magazine muckrakers!" "Meaning myself, Mr. Leary?" said I, and he looked kind of puzzled. I don't think he knew who I was. MONTAGUE. All the work of the muckrakers! I see Boss Grimes is out to that effect also. JACK. And I see that half a dozen clergymen sat down to a public banquet with him the other day. That's what we've come to in New York! Bob Grimes, with his hands on every string of the whole infamous system... with his paws in every filthy graft-pot in the city! Bob Grimes, the type and symbol of it all! Every time I see a picture of that bulldog face, it seems to me as if I were confronting all the horrors that I've ever fought in my life! JULIA. It's curious to note how much less denunciation of Tammany one hears now than in the old days. MONTAGUE. Tammany's getting respectable. JACK. The big interests have found out how to use it. The traction gang, especially... [He stops abruptly; a tense pause.] LAURA. [Leaning toward him, with great earnestness.] Mr. Bullen, is that really true? JACK. That is true, Miss Hegan. LAURA. Mr. Bullen, you will understand what it means to me to hear that statement made. I hear it made continually, and I ask if it is true, and I am told that it is a slander. How am I to know? [A pause.] Would you be able to tell me that you know it of your own personal knowledge? JACK. [Weighing the words.] No; I could not say that. LAURA. Would you say that you could prove it to a jury? JACK. I would say, that if I had to prove it, I could get the evidence. LAURA. What would you say, Mr. Montague? MONTAGUE. I would rather not say, Miss Hegan. LAURA. Please! Please! I want you to answer me. MONTAGUE. [After a pause.] I would say that I shall be able to prove it very shortly. LAURA. How do you mean? MONTAGUE. I have been giving most of my time to a study of just that question, and I think that I shall have the evidence. LAURA. I see. [She sinks back, very white; a pause; the bell rings.] JULIA. Who can that be? JACK. [Springing up.] Let me answer it. [Presses button; then, to MONTAGUE.] I had no idea you were going in for that, old man. MONTAGUE. This is the first time I have ever mentioned it to any one. JULIA. [Rising, hoping to relieve an embarrassing situation.] I hope this isn't any more company. JACK. [To MONTAGUE, aside.] You must let me tell you a few things that I know. I've been running down a little story about Grimes and the traction crowd. MONTAGUE. Indeed! What is it? JACK. I can't tell it to you now... it would take too long. But, gee! If I can get the evidence, it'll make your hair stand on end! It has to do with the Grand Avenue Railroad suit. MONTAGUE. The one that's pending in the Court of Appeals? JACK. Yes. You see, Jim Hegan stands to lose a fortune by it, and I've reason to believe that there's some monkey-work being done with the Court. It happens that one of the judges has a nephew... a dissipated chap, who hates him. He's an old college friend of mine, and he's trying to get some evidence for me. MONTAGUE. Good Lord! JACK. And think, it concerns Jim Hegan personally. [A knock at the door.] JULIA. I'll go. [Opens the door.] HEGAN. [Without.] Good evening. Is Miss Hegan here? LAURA. [Standing up.] Father! JULIA. Won't you come in? HEGAN. Thank you. [Enters; a tall, powerfully built man, with a square jaw, wide, over-arching eyebrows, and keen eyes that peer at one; a prominent nose, the aspect of the predatory eagle; a man accustomed to let other people talk and to read their thoughts.] Why, Mr. Montague, you here? MONTAGUE. Mr. Hegan! Why, how do you do? LAURA. We stumbled on each other by chance. Father, this is Miss Patterson. HEGAN. I am very pleased to meet you, Miss Patterson. JULIA. How do you do, Mr. Hegan? [They shake hands.] LAURA. And Mr. Bullen. BULLEN. [Remaining where he is; stiffly.] Good evening, Mr. Hegan. HEGAN. Good evening, sir. [Turns to LAURA.] My dear, I finished up downtown sooner than I expected, and I have another conference at the house. I stopped off to see if you cared to come now, or if I should send back the car for you. LAURA. I think you'd best send it back. JULIA. Why, yes... she only just got here. HEGAN. Very well. JULIA. Won't you stop a minute? HEGAN. No. I really can't. Mr. Grimes is waiting for me downstairs. LAURA. [Involuntarily.] Mr. Grimes! HEGAN. Yes. LAURA. Robert Grimes? HEGAN. [Surprised.] Yes. Why? LAURA. Nothing; only we happened to be just talking about him. HEGAN. I see. JACK. [Aggressively.] We happen to have one of his victims in the next room. HEGAN. [Perplexed.] One of his victims? JULIA. [Protesting.] Jack! JACK. A daughter of the slums. One of the helpless girls who have to pay the tribute that he... [A piercing and terrifying scream is heard off right.] JULIA. Annie! [Runs off.] HEGAN. What's that? [The screams continue.] JULIA. [Off.] Help! Help! [Jack, who is nearest, leaps toward the door; but, before he can reach it, it is flung violently open.] ANNIE. [Enters, delirious, her bare arms and throat covered with bruises, her hair loose, and her aspect wild; an Irish peasant girl, aged twenty.] No! No! Let me go! [Rushes into the opposite corner, and cowers in terror.] JULIA. [Following her.] Annie! Annie! ANNIE. [Flings her off, and stretches out her arms.] What do you want with me? Help! Help! I won't do it! I won't stay! Let me alone! [Wild and frantic sobbing.] JULIA. Annie, dear! Annie! Look at me! Don't you know me? I'm Julia! Your own Julia! No one shall hurt you... no one! ANNIE. [Stares at her wildly.] He's after me still! He'll follow me here! He won't let me get away from him! Oh, save me! JULIA. [Embracing her.] Listen to me, dear. Don't think of things like that. You are in my home... nothing can hurt you. Don't let these evil dreams take hold of you. ANNIE. [Stares, as if coming out of a trance.] Why didn't you help me before? JULIA. Come, dear... come. ANNIE. It's too late... too late! Oh... I can't forget about it! JULIA. Yes, dear. I know... ANNIE. [Seeing the others.] Who?... JULIA. They are all friends; they will help you. Come, dear... lie down again. ANNIE. Oh, what shall I do? [Is led off, sobbing.] JULIA. It will be all right, dear. [Exit; a pause.] HEGAN. What does this mean? JACK. [Promptly and ruthlessly.] It means that you have been seeing the white-slave traffic in action. HEGAN. I don't understand. JACK. [Quietly, but with suppressed passion.] Tens of thousands of girl slaves are needed for the markets of our great cities... for the lumber camps of the North, the mining camps of the West, the ditches of Panama. And every four or five years the supply must be renewed, and so the business of gathering these girl-slaves from our slums is one of the great industries of the city. This girl, Annie Rogers, a decent girl from the North of Ireland, was lured into a dance hall and drugged, and then taken to a brothel and locked in a third-story room. They took her clothing away from her, but she broke down her door at night and fled to the street in her wrapper and flung herself into Miss Patterson's arms. Two men were pursuing her... they tried to carry her off. Miss Patterson called a policeman... but he said the girl was insane. Only by making a disturbance and drawing a crowd was my friend able to save her. And now, we have been the rounds... from the sergeant at the station, and the police captain, to the Chief of Police and the Mayor himself; we have been to the Tammany leader of the district... the real boss of the neighborhood... and there is no justice to be had anywhere for Annie Rogers! HEGAN. Impossible! JACK. You have my word for it, sir. And the reason for it is that this hideous traffic is one of the main cogs in our political machine. The pimps and the panders, the cadets and maquereaux... they vote the ticket of the organization; they contribute to the campaign funds; they serve as colonizers and repeaters at the polls. The tribute that they pay amounts to millions; and it is shared from the lowest to the highest in the organization... from the ward man on the street and the police captain, up to the inner circle of the chiefs of Tammany Hall... yes, even to your friend, Mr. Robert Grimes, himself! A thousand times, sir, has the truth about this monstrous infamy been put before the people of your city; and that they have not long ago risen in their wrath and driven its agents from their midst is due to but one single fact... that this infamous organization of crime and graft is backed at each election time by the millions of the great public service corporations. It is they... MONTAGUE. [Interfering.] Bullen! JACK. Let me go on! It is they, sir, who finance the thugs and repeaters who desecrate our polls. It is they who suborn our press and blind the eyes of our people. It is they who are responsible for this traffic in the flesh of our women. It is they who have to answer for the tottering reason of that poor peasant girl in the next room! LAURA. [Has been listening to this speech, white with horror; as the indictment proceeds, she covers her face with her hands; at this point she breaks into uncontrollable weeping.] Oh! I can't stand it! HEGAN. [Springing to her side.] My dear! LAURA. [Clasping him.] Father! Father! HEGAN. My child! I have begged you not to come to these places! Why should you see such things? LAURA. [Wildly.] Why should I not see them, so long as they exist? HEGAN. [Angrily.] I won't have it. This is the end of it! I mean what I say! Come home with me!... Come home at once! LAURA. With Grimes? I won't meet that man! HEGAN. Very well, then. You need not meet him. I'll call a cab, and take you myself. Where are your things? LAURA. [Looking to the left.] In that room. HEGAN. Come, then. [Takes her off.] JACK. [Turns to MONTAGUE, and to JULIA, who appears in doorway at right.] We gave it to them straight that time, all right! [CURTAIN] ACT II Library of "The Towers," HEGAN's Long Island country place. A spacious room, furnished luxuriously, but with good taste. A large table, with lamp and books in the centre, and easy-chairs beside it. Up stage are French windows leading to a veranda, with drive below; a writing desk between the windows. Entrance right and left. A telephone stand left, and a clock on wall right. [At rise: ANDREWS, standing by the table, opening some letters.] LAURA. [Enters from veranda.] Good afternoon, Mr. Andrews. ANDREWS. Good afternoon, Miss Hegan. LAURA. Has father come yet? ANDREWS. No; he said he'd he back about five. LAURA. Is he surely coming? ANDREWS. Oh, yes. He has an important engagement here. LAURA. He's working very hard these days. ANDREWS. He has a good deal on his mind just now. LAURA. It's this Grand Avenue Railroad business. ANDREWS. Yes. If it should go against him, it would confuse his plans very much. LAURA. Is the matter never going to be decided? ANDREWS. We're expecting the decision any day now. That's why he's so much concerned. He has to hold the market, you see... LAURA. The decision's liable to affect the market? ANDREWS. Oh, yes... very much, indeed. LAURA. I see. And then... 'Phone rings. ANDREWS. Excuse me. Hello! Yes, this is Mr. Hegan's place. Mr. Montague? Why, yes; I believe he's to be here this afternoon. Yes.. . wait a moment... [To LAURA.] It's some one asking for Mr. Montague. LAURA. Who is it? ANDREWS. Hello! Who is this, please? [TO LAURA.] It's Mr. Bullen. LAURA. Mr. Bullen? I'll speak to him. [Takes 'phone.] Hello, Mr. Bullen! This is Miss Hegan. I'm glad to hear from you. How are you? Why, yes, Mr. Montague is coming out... I expect him here any time. He was to take the three-five... just a moment. [Looks at clock.] If the train's on time, he's due here now. We sent to meet him. Call up again in about five minutes. Oh, you have to see him? As soon as that? Nothing wrong, I hope. Well, he couldn't get back to the city until after six. Oh, then you're right near us. Why don't you come over?... That's the quickest way. No; take the trolley and come right across. I'll be delighted to see you. What's that? Why, Mr. Bullen! How perfectly preposterous! My father doesn't blame you for what happened. Don't think of it. Come right along. I'll take it ill of you if you don't... truly I will. Yes; please do. You'll just have time to get the next trolley. Get off at the Merrick road, and I'll see there's an auto there to meet you. Very well. Good-bye. [TO ANDREWS.] Mr. Andrews, will you see there's a car sent down to the trolley to meet Mr. Bullen? ANDREWS. All right. [Exit.] LAURA. [Stands by table, in deep thought, takes a note from table and studies it; shakes her head.] He didn't want to come. He doesn't want to talk to me. But he must! Ah, there he is. [Sound of a motor heard. She waits, then goes to the window.] Ah, Mr. Montague! MONTAGUE. [Enters centre.] Good afternoon, Miss Hegan. LAURA. You managed to catch the train, I see. MONTAGUE. Yes. I just did. LAURA. It is so good of you to come. MONTAGUE. Not at all. I am glad to be here. LAURA. I just had a telephone call from Mr. Bullen. MONTAGUE. [Starting.] From Bullen? LAURA. Yes. He said he had to see you about something. MONTAGUE. [Eagerly.] Where was he? LAURA. He was at his brother's place. I told him to come here. MONTAGUE. Oh! Is he coming? LAURA. Yes; he'll be here soon. MONTAGUE. Thank you very much. LAURA. He said it was something quite urgent. MONTAGUE. Yes. He has some important papers for me. LAURA. I see he made a speech last night that stirred up the press. MONTAGUE. [Smiling.] Yes. LAURA. He is surely a tireless fighter. MONTAGUE. It's such men as Bullen who keep the world moving. LAURA. And do you agree with him, Mr. Montague? MONTAGUE. In what way? LAURA. That the end of it all is to be a revolution. MONTAGUE. I don't know, Miss Hegan. I find I am moving that way. I used to think we could control capital. Now I am beginning to suspect that it is in the nature of capital to have its way, and that if the people wish to rule they must own the capital. LAURA. [After a pause.] Mr. Montague, I had to ask you to come out and see me, because I'd promised my father I would not go into the city again for a while. I've not been altogether well since that evening at Julia's. MONTAGUE. I am sorry to hear that, Miss Hegan. LAURA. It's nothing, but it worries my father, you know. [pause.] I thought we should be alone this afternoon, but I find that my father is coming and... and Mr. Baker is coming also. So I mayn't have time to say all I wished to say to you. But I must thank you for coming. MONTAGUE. I was very glad to come, Miss Hegan. LAURA. I can appreciate your embarrassment at being asked to... MONTAGUE. No! LAURA. We must deal frankly with each other. I know that you did not want to come. I know that you have tried to put an end to our friendship. MONTAGUE. [Hesitates.] Miss Hegan, let me explain my position. LAURA. I think I understand it already. You have found evil conditions which you wish to oppose, and you were afraid that our friendship might stand in the way. MONTAGUE. [In a low voice.] Miss Hegan, I came to New York an entire stranger two years ago, and my brother introduced me to his rich friends. By one of them I was asked to take charge of a law case. It was a case of very great importance, which served to give me an opening into the inner life of the city. I discovered that, in their blind struggle for power, our great capitalists had lost all sense of the difference between honesty and crime. I found that trust funds were being abused... that courts and legislatures were being corrupted... the very financial stability of the country was being wrecked. The thing shocked me to the bottom of my soul, and I set to work to give the public some light on the situation. Then, what happened, Miss Hegan? My newly made rich friends cut me a deal; they began to circulate vile slanders about me... they insulted me openly, on more than one occasion. So, don't you see? LAURA. Yes. I see. But could you not have trusted a friendship such as ours? MONTAGUE. I did not dare. LAURA. You saw that you had to fight my father, and you thought that I would blindly take his side. MONTAGUE. [Hesitating.] I... I couldn't suppose... LAURA. Listen. You have told me your situation; now imagine mine. Imagine a girl brought up in luxury, with a father whom she loves very dearly, and who loves her more than any one else in the world. Everything is done to make her happy... to keep her contented and peaceful. But as she grows up, she reads and listens... and, little by little, it dawns upon her that her father is one of the leaders in this terrible struggle that you have spoken of. She hears about wrongdoing; she is told that her father's enemies have slandered him. At first, perhaps, she believes that. But time goes on... she sees suffering and oppression... she begins to realize a little of cause and effect. She wants to help, she wants to do right, but there is no way for her to know. She goes to one person after another, and no one will deal frankly with her. No one will tell her the truth... absolutely no one! [Leaning forward with intensity.] No one! No one! MONTAGUE. I see. LAURA. So it was with you... and with our friendship. I knew that you had broken it off for such reasons. I knew that there was nothing personal... it was nothing that I had done... MONTAGUE. No! Surely not! LAURA. [Gazes about nervously.] And then the other night... you told me you were investigating the traction companies of New York.. . their connection with politics, and so on. Ever since then I have felt that you were the one person I must talk with. Don't you see? MONTAGUE. Yes; I see. LAURA. I have sought for some one who will tell me the truth. Will you? MONTAGUE. [In a low voice.] You must realize what you are asking of me, Miss Hegan. LAURA. I have not brought you here without realizing that. You must help me! MONTAGUE. Very well. I will do what I can. LAURA. [Leaning forward.] I wish to know about my father. I wish to know to what extent he is involved in these evils that you speak of. MONTAGUE. Your father is in the game, and he has played it the way the game is played. LAURA. Has he been better than the others, or worse? MONTAGUE. About the same, Miss Hegan. LAURA. He has been more successful than they. MONTAGUE. He has been very successful. LAURA. You were concerned in some important deal with my father, were you not? MONTAGUE. I was. LAURA. Then you withdrew. Was that because there was something wrong in it? MONTAGUE. It was, Miss Hegan. LAURA. There were corrupt things done? MONTAGUE. There were many kinds of corrupt things done. LAURA. And was my father responsible for them? MONTAGUE. Yes. LAURA. Directly? MONTAGUE. Yes; directly. LAURA. Then my father is a bad man? MONTAGUE. [After a pause.] Your father finds himself in the midst of an evil system. He is the victim of conditions which he did not create. LAURA. Ah, now you are trying to spare me! MONTAGUE. No. I should say that to any one. I am at war with the system... not with individuals. It is the old story of hating the sin and loving the sinner. Your father's rivals are just as reckless as he take Murdock, for instance, the man who is behind this Grand Avenue Railroad matter. It is hard for a woman to understand that situation. LAURA. I can understand some things very clearly. I go down into the slums and I see all that welter of misery. I see the forces of evil that exist there, defiant and hateful... the saloons and the gambling-houses, and that ghastly white-slave traffic, of which Annie Rogers is the victim. And there is the political organization, taking its toll from all these, and using it to keep itself in power. And there is Boss Grimes, who is at the head of all... and he is one of my father's intimate associates. I ask about it, and I am told that it is a matter of "business." But why should my father do business with a man whose chief source of income is vice? MONTAGUE. That is not quite the case, Miss Hegan. LAURA. Doesn't the vice tribute go to him? MONTAGUE. Part of it does, I have no doubt. But it would be a very small part of his income. LAURA. What then? MONTAGUE. The vice graft serves for the police and the district leaders and the little men; what really pays nowadays is what has come to be called "honest graft." LAURA. What is that? MONTAGUE. The business deals that are trade with the public service corporations. LAURA. Ah! That is what I wish to know about! MONTAGUE. For instance, I am running a street railway... LAURA. [Quickly.] My father is running them all! MONTAGUE. Very well. Your father is in alliance with the organization; he is given franchises and public privileges for practically nothing; and in return he gives the contracts for constructing the subways and street-car lines to companies organized by the politicians. These companies are simply paper companies... they farm out the contracts to the real builders, skimming off a profit of twenty or thirty per cent. One of these companies received contracts last year to the value of thirty million dollars. LAURA. And so that is how Grimes gets his money? MONTAGUE. Grimes' brother is the president of the company I have reference to. LAURA. I see; it is a regular system. MONTAGUE. It is a business, and there is no way to punish it... it does not violate any law... LAURA. And yet it is quite as bad! MONTAGUE. It is far worse, because of its vast scope. It carries every form of corruption in its train. It means the prostitution of our whole system of government... the subsidizing of our newspapers, and of the great political parties. It means that judges are chosen who will decide in favor of the corporations; that legislators are nominated who will protect them against attack. It means everywhere the enthronement of ignorance and incompetence, of injustice and fraud. LAURA. And in the end the public pays for it? MONTAGUE. In the end the public pays for everything. The stolen franchises are unloaded on the market for ten times what they cost, and the people pay their nickels for a wretched, broken-down service. They pay for it in the form of rent and taxes for a dishonest administration. Every struggling unfortunate in the city pays for it, when he comes into contact with the system... when he seeks for help, or even for justice. It was that side of it that shocked me most of all... I being a lawyer, you see. The corrupting of our courts... LAURA. The judges are bought, Mr. Montague? MONTAGUE. The judges are selected, Miss Hegan. LAURA. Selected! I see. MONTAGUE. And that system prevails from the Supreme Court of the State down to the petty Police Magistrates, before whom the poor come to plead. LAURA. And that is why the white-slave traffic goes unpunished! MONTAGUE. That is why. LAURA. And why no one would move a hand for Annie Rogers! MONTAGUE. That is why. LAURA. And my father is responsible for it! MONTAGUE. [Gravely.] Yes; I think he is, Miss Hegan. A PAUSE. LAURA. Have you seen Julia Patterson lately? MONTAGUE. I saw her last night. LAURA. And how is Annie? MONTAGUE. She... [Hesitates.] She is dead. LAURA. [Starting.] Oh! MONTAGUE. She died the night before last. LAURA. [Stares at him, then gives a wild start, and cries] She... she... MONTAGUE. She killed herself. LAURA. Oh! MONTAGUE. She cut her throat. LAURA. [Hides her face and sinks against the table, shuddering and overcome.] Oh, the poor girl! The poor, poor girl! [Suddenly she springs up.] Can't you see? Can't you see? It is things like that that are driving me to distraction! MONTAGUE. [Starting toward her.] Miss Hegan... LAURA. [Covering her face again.] Oh! oh! It is horrible! I can't stand it! I... [Sound of motor heard; they listen.] LAURA. That is my father's car... Mr. Montague, will you excuse me? I must have a talk with my father... MONTAGUE. Certainly. Let me go away... LAURA. No; please wait. Just take a little stroll. I... MONTAGUE. Certainly, I understand. [Exit right.] LAURA. [Seeks to compose herself; then goes to window.] Father! HEGAN. [Off.] Yes, dear. LAURA. Come here. HEGAN. [Enters.] What is it? LAURA. Father, I have just had dreadful news.. HEGAN. What? LAURA. Annie Rogers... that poor girl, you know... HEGAN. Yes. LAURA. She has killed herself. HEGAN. No! LAURA. She cut her own throat. HEGAN. Oh, my dear! [Starts toward her.] I am so sorry... LAURA. [Quickly.] No, father! Listen! You must talk to me... you must talk to me this time! HEGAN. My child... LAURA. You cannot put me off. You cannot, I tell you! HEGAN. Laura, dear, you are upset... LAURA. No! That is not so! I have perfect control of myself. There is no use crying... the girl is dead. That can't be helped. But I mean to understand about it. I mean to know who is responsible for her death. HEGAN. My dear, these evils are hard to know of... LAURA. That house to which that girl was taken... there is a law against such places, is there not? HEGAN. Yes, my dear. LAURA. And why is not the law enforced? HEGAN. It has not been found possible to enforce such laws. LAURA. But why not? HEGAN. Why, my dear, this evil... LAURA. These people pay money to the police, do they not? HEGAN. Why, yes; I imagine... LAURA. Don't tell me what you imagine... tell me what you know! They pay money to the police, don't they? HEGAN. Yes. LAURA. Then why should the police not be punished? Do those who control the police get some of the money? HEGAN. Some of them, my dear. LAURA. That is, the leaders of Tammany. HEGAN. Possibly... yes. LAURA. And Mr. Grimes... he gets some of it? HEGAN. Why, my dear... LAURA. Tell me! HEGAN. But really, Laura, I never asked him what he gets. LAURA. [With intensity.] Father, you must understand me! I will not be trifled with... I am in desperate earnest! I am determined to get to the bottom of this thing! I am no longer a child, and you must not try to deceive me! Mr. Grimes must get some of that money! HEGAN. I think it possible, my dear. LAURA. And do you get any? HEGAN. Good God, Laura! LAURA. Then what is the nature of your relationship with Grimes? HEGAN. Really, my child, this is not fair of you. I have business connections which you cannot possibly understand... LAURA. I can understand everything that you are willing for me to understand! I want to know why you must have business connections with a man like Boss Grimes. HEGAN. My dear, I think you might take your father's word in such a case. It has nothing to do with vice, I can assure you. Grimes is a business ally of mine. He is a rich man, a great power in New York... LAURA. Do you help to keep him a power in New York? HEGAN. Why, I don't know... LAURA. Do you contribute to his campaign funds? HEGAN. Why, Laura! I am a Democrat. Surely I have a right to support my party! LAURA. [Quickly.] Have you ever contributed to the Republican campaign funds? HEGAN. [Disconcerted; laughs.] Why... really... LAURA. Please answer me. HEGAN. I am a Gold Democrat, my dear. LAURA. I see. [She Pauses.] You put Mr. Grimes in the way of making a great deal of money, do you not? HEGAN. I do that. LAURA. He is interested in companies that you give contracts to? HEGAN. Really! You seem to be informed about my affairs! LAURA. I have taken some trouble to inform myself. Father, don't you realize what it means to corrupt the government of the city in this way? HEGAN. Corrupt the government, my dear? LAURA. Does not Grimes have the nominating of judges and legislators? HEGAN. Why, yes... in a way... LAURA. And does he not consult with you? HEGAN. Why, my dear... LAURA. Please tell me. HEGAN. [Realizing that he cannot make any more admissions.] No, my dear. LAURA. Never? HEGAN. Absolutely never. LAURA. He has never made any attempt to influence the courts in your favor? HEGAN. Never. LAURA. Not in any way, father? HEGAN. Not in any way. LAURA. Nor in favor of your companies? HEGAN. No, my dear. LAURA. You mean, you can give me your word of honor that that is the truth? HEGAN. I can, my dear. LAURA. And that none of your lawyers do it? Do you mean that the courts escape your influence... HEGAN. [Laughing disconcertedly.] Really, my dear, this is as bad as a Government investigation! I shall have to take refuge in a lapse of memory. LAURA. [Intensely.] Father! Is it nothing to you that I have the blood of that poor girl on my conscience? HEGAN. My child! LAURA. Yes; just that! She was caught in the grip of this ruthless system; it held her fast and crushed her life out. And we maintain this system! I profit by it... all this luxury and power that I enjoy comes from it directly! Can't you see what I mean? HEGAN. I see, my dear, that you are frightfully overwrought, and that you are making yourself ill. Can't you imagine what it means to me to have you acting in this way? Here I am at one of the gravest crises of my life; I am working day and night, under frightful strain... I have hardly slept six hours in the past three days. And here, when I get a chance for a moment's rest, you come and put me through such an ordeal! You never think of that! LAURA. It's just what I do think of! Why must you torture yourself so? Why... HEGAN. My dear, I, too, am in the grip of the system you speak of. LAURA. But why? Why stay in it? Haven't we money enough yet? HEGAN. I have duties by which I am bound... interests that I must protect. How can I... [A knock.] Come in! ANDREWS. [Enters.] Here are the papers, Mr. Hegan. They must be signed now if they're to catch this mail. HEGAN. All right. [Sits at desk up stage and writes.] LAURA. [Stands by table, staring before her; picks up book carelessly from table.] "Ivanhoe"... [Fingers it idly and a slip of paper falls to floor. She picks it up, glances at it, then starts.] Oh!.. . [Reads.] "Memo to G., two hundred thousand on Court deal. GRIMES." Two hundred thousand on Court deal! [Glances back at her father; then replaces slip and lays book on table.] Father, have you read "Ivanhoe"? HEGAN. [Without looking up.] I'm reading it now. Why? Do you want it? LAURA. No; I just happened to notice it here. HEGAN. [Looks up sharply, watches her, then finishes writing.] There! [Rises; the sound of a motor heard.] What's that? ANDREWS. [Near window.] It's Mr. Grimes. LAURA. [Starting.] Grimes! HEGAN. [TO ANDREWS.] Bring him in. [ANDREWS exit.] LAURA. Father! Why do you bring that man here? HEGAN. I'll not do it again, dear. I didn't realize. He happened to be in the neighborhood... LAURA. I won't meet him! HEGAN. [Putting his arm about her.] Very well, dear; come away. Try to stop worrying yourself now, for the love of me... [Leads her off left.] ANDREWS. [At window.] This way, Mr. Grimes. [GRIMES enters; a powerfully built, broad-shouldered man of about fifty, with a massive jaw, covered with a scrubby beard; the face of a bulldog; a grim, masterful man, who never speaks except when he has to. He enters and seats himself in a chair by the table.] Will you have a cigar? [Grimes takes a cigar, without comment, and chews on it; sits, staring in front of him.] Mr. Hegan will be here directly, Sir. [He nods, and ANDREWS exit. GRIMES continues to chew and stare in front of him. He is not under the necessity of making superfluous motions.] HEGAN. [Enters left.] Hello, Grimes! GRIMES. Hello! HEGAN. [Betraying anxiety.] Well? GRIMES. It's done. HEGAN. What? GRIMES. It's done. HEGAN. Good! [Grimes nods.] How did you manage it? GRIMES. [Grimly.] I put my hand on 'em! HEGAN. Which one? Porter? [GRIMES nods.] Oh, the old hypocrite! What did you offer him? Cash? [GRIMES shakes his head slowly.] What? GRIMES. Discipline! HEGAN. [Perplexed.] But... a judge! GRIMES. When a man's once mine, he stays mine... no matter if it's a life job I give him. MEGAN. But are you sure it's safe? GRIMES. The decision comes tomorrow. HEGAN. [Starting.] What? GRIMES. Tomorrow noon. HEGAN. But how can they write the decision? GRIMES. They'll adopt the minority opinion. HEGAN. Oh! I see! [Chuckles.] GRIMES. You be ready. MEGAN. Trust me! I'll have to go in now. GRIMES. It'll be a great killing. Old Murdock has plunged up to his neck! HEGAN. I know! We'll lay them flat. I'll get ready. [Rises.] Old Porter! Think of it! When did you see him? GRIMES. Last night. HEGAN. I see. I'll be with you. GRIMES. Just a moment. I'll take the money. HEGAN. Oh, yes. Why don't you let me hold it and buy for you? GRIMES. I'll buy for myself. HEGAN. Very well. [Sits at desk.] GRIMES. It's two hundred thousand. HEGAN. That's right. [Writes a check, rises and gives it to Grimes.] There. GRIMES. [Studies the check, nods, and puts it away carefully.] When's the next train? HEGAN. In about ten minutes. [Rings bell.] Andrews! ANDREWS. [Enters left.] Yes, Sir. HEGAN. I'm going into town at once. Telephone orders to the house. ANDREWS. Yes, sir. And shall I come in this evening? HEGAN. Yes; you'd better. And telephone Mr. Isaacson and Mr. Henry Sterns to meet me at eight o'clock for an important conference at.. . let me see, where? GRIMES. At my rooms. HEGAN. Very good. And they're not to fail on any account. It's urgent. ANDREWS. Yes, sir. [HEGAN and GRIMES go off centre. ANDREWS remains sorting papers. A knock, right.] ANDREWS. Come in! [MONTAGUE enters.] ANDREWS. Oh, good afternoon. I was looking for you, Mr. Montague. Mr. Bullen has come. MONTAGUE. Oh! Where is he? ANDREWS. He's waiting. I'll tell him you're here. [Exit right.] MONTAGUE. [Stands at window and sees motor departing.] Grimes! I wonder what that means? [Turns away.] And what a coincidence, that I should be here! Humph! Well, it's not my doings. Ah! Bullen! JACK. [Enters, right, in great excitement.] Montague! MONTAGUE. Yes. JACK. I've got 'em! MONTAGUE. What? JACK. I've got 'em! MONTAGUE. You don't mean it! JACK. Got 'em dead! Got everything! There's never been a case like it! MONTAGUE. [Gazing about.] Ssh! Where was it? JACK. At Judge Porter's house. MONTAGUE. What? JACK. Yes.... Grimes came there. MONTAGUE. When? JACK. Last night. My friend was in the next room... he heard everything! MONTAGUE. And what are they going to do? JACK. Porter is to switch over, and sign the minority opinion, and that's to come out as the decision of the Court. MONTAGUE. Good God! When? JACK. Tomorrow. MONTAGUE. Impossible! JACK. There's to be a meeting of the judges this afternoon. See... here's the decision! [Takes paper from pocket.] The one they mean to kill! MONTAGUE. [Looks at paper.] Merciful heavens! JACK. And look here! [Unfolds a paper, which has pasted on it bits of a torn and charred note.] He threw this in the fireplace, and it didn't burn. MONTAGUE. Bullen! JACK. In Grimes' own handwriting: "My Dear Porter--I will call"... you can see what that word was... "at eight-thirty. Very urgent." How's that? MONTAGUE. Man, it's ghastly! [A pause.] How did you manage to get these? JACK. It's a long story. MONTAGUE. How did Grimes work it? Money? JACK. Not a dollar. MONTAGUE. What then? JACK. Just bluffed him. Party loyalty! What was he named for? MONTAGUE. But in a suit like this! JACK. Never was a better test! If Hegan lost this case, he'd be wiped off the slate, and the organization might go down at the next election. And what were you put in for, judge Porter? Don't you see? MONTAGUE. I see! It takes my breath away! JACK. [Looking about.] And what a place for us to meet in! Did you see Grimes? MONTAGUE. Yes. JACK. I'll wager he came to tell Hegan about it. MONTAGUE. No doubt of it. JACK. God! I'd give one hand to have heard them! MONTAGUE. Don't wish that! It's embarrassing enough as it is! JACK. [Staring at him.] You'll see it through? You won't back out? MONTAGUE. Oh, I'll see it through... trust me for that. But it's devilish awkward! JACK. Why did you come here? MONTAGUE. I tried not to. But Miss Hegan insisted. JACK. [Laughing.] The same here! I was fair caught! MONTAGUE. And now she'll think we learned it here. I'll have to explain to her... JACK. What? MONTAGUE. I Must! JACK. No! [LAURA appears at windows, centre, and hears the rest, which is in excited tones.] It is not to be thought of! MONTAGUE. But I can't help it, man! Miss Hegan will think I've been eavesdropping! JACK. Do you realize what you're proposing, man? You'll ruin everything! We've got Grimes dead... we can land him in jail! But if Hegan heard any whisper of it, they'd balk everything! MONTAGUE. But how? JACK. They'd hold up the decision of the Court... MONTAGUE. Nonsense! With all that they'd stand to lose... LAURA. [Coming forward.] I beg pardon, Mr. Bullen. JACK. Oh! LAURA. I didn't wish to hear what you were saying. But I couldn't help it. I was caught unawares. [The three stare at each other.] It is something that involves my father. [Looking at the papers in BULLEN's hands.] Mr. Bullen has brought you some evidence. Is that so, Mr. Montague? MONTAGUE. [In a low voice.] Yes, Miss Hegan. LAURA. And you wished to take me into your confidence? MONTAGUE. I wished to make it impossible for you to think we had obtained this evidence in your home. LAURA. I See. MONTAGUE. You will do us the justice to recognize that we did not seek admission here. LAURA. Yes; I do that. [A pause.] All that I can say is, that if you think it best to take me into your confidence, you may trust me to the bitter end. MONTAGUE. Miss Hegan, Mr. Bullen has brought me evidence which proves that the decision of the Court, which is to be made known tomorrow, has been... improperly affected. LAURA. [Quickly.] By whom? MONTAGUE. By Robert Grimes. LAURA. [Starts wildly.] And the evidence involves my father? MONTAGUE. Your father will be the chief one to profit from the change. LAURA. [Sinks back against the table; stares away from them, whispering.] To Grimes... two hundred thousand on Court deal! I see! I see! [Faces them, weakly.] And what... what do you mean to do? MONTAGUE. I intend to wait until the decision has been announced, which will be tomorrow, and then to call a public meeting and present the evidence. LAURA. [Starts to implore him; then controls herself.] Yes, yes... that is just. But then... see! It hasn't been done yet! MONTAGUE. How do you mean? LAURA. The decision hasn't come out. It could be stopped! JACK. Why stop it? LAURA. That would prevent the wrong! I would... oh, I see! You want to expose Grimes! You'd rather it happened! JACK. The crime has already been committed. LAURA. And you, Mr. Montague... you prefer it so? MONTAGUE. I had never thought of any other possibility. LAURA. Listen! I don't understand the matter very clearly. The Grand Avenue Railroad case... MONTAGUE. It is an effort to annul a franchise which was obtained by proven bribery. LAURA. Then, if the public could win, it would be worth while, would it not? MONTAGUE. It would establish a precedent of vast importance. But how could that be done? LAURA. We have a hold upon these men... we could compel them to give way! MONTAGUE. They would never do it, Miss Hegan... they have too much at stake. LAURA. But... the evidence you have! Mr. Bullen said you could send Grimes to jail. MONTAGUE. That was just wild talk. Grimes has the district attorney and the courts. He could never be punished for anything. LAURA. But the exposure! JACK. He's been exposed a hundred times. What does that matter to him? LAURA. But then... my father is involved. JACK. Quite true, Miss Hegan... LAURA. And I can make him see how wrong it is. JACK. You can make him see it! But you can't make him do anything! LAURA. Ah, but you don't know my father... truly, you don't. He does these evil things, but at heart he's a kind and loyal man! And he loves me... I am his only daughter... and I can help him to see what is right. We have always understood each other; he will listen to me as he would not to any one else in the world. JACK. But what can you say to him? We can't put our evidence in your hands... LAURA. I don't need your evidence. I must tell you that I, too, have found out something about this case. I know that my father paid Mr. Grimes to influence the decision of that Court. And I know how much he paid him. MONTAGUE. Miss Hegan! JACK. Good God! LAURA. You see, I am not afraid to trust you.... [A pause.] What is the nature of your evidence against Grimes? MONTAGUE. It comes from an eye-witness of his interview with the judge. LAURA. And it is some one you can trust? MONTAGUE. It's for Bullen to tell you. JACK. The judge has a nephew, a dissipated chap, whose inheritance he is holding back... and who hates him in consequence. The nephew happens to be a college chum of mine. He witnessed the interview and he brought me the evidence. LAURA. I see. Then, certainly, I have a case. And don't you see what a hold that gives me upon my father? JACK. Miss Hegan, you are a brave woman, and I would like to give way to you. But you could accomplish nothing. This suit, which is nominally in the public interest, is really backed by Murdock and his crowd, who are fighting your father; you must realize his position.. . the thousand ties that bind him... all the habits of a lifetime! Think of the friends he has to protect; you don't know... LAURA. I know it all. And, on the other hand, I know some things that you do not know. I know that my father is not a happy man. There is a canker eating at his heart... the fruit of life has turned to ashes on his lips. And he has one person in all this world that he loves.. . myself. He has toiled and fought for me... all these years he has told himself that he was making his money for me. And now he finds that it brings me only misery and grief... it is as useless to me as it is to him! And now, suppose I should go to him and say: "Father, you have committed a crime. And I cannot stand it another hour. You must choose here and now... you must give up this fight against the people... you must give up this career, and come with me and help me to do good in the world. Or else"... [her voice breaking.]... "I shall have to leave you! I shall refuse to touch a dollar of your money; I shall refuse in any way to share your guilt!" Don't you see? He will know that I am speaking the truth... and that I mean every word of it. Oh, gentlemen, believe me... my father would be as strong to atone for his injustices as he has been to commit them! Surely, you can't refuse me this chance to save him? JACK. Miss Hegan... MONTAGUE. For God's sake, Jack... JACK. Excuse me, Montague. How long would you expect us to wait, Miss Hegan? LAURA. You need not wait at all. You could go right ahead with your own plans. Meantime, I can go to my father... I will have tonight to plead with him, and tomorrow morning you will know if I have succeeded. JACK. Very well... I will consent to that. LAURA. Let Mr. Montague come to my father's office tomorrow morning at ten o'clock. I shall not give him up... even if I have to follow him there! And now... good-bye... [Starts toward the door, breaks down and cries.] Thank you! Thank you! [Stretches out her hands to them.] MONTAGUE. [Springing toward her.] Miss Hegan! LAURA. Give me a little courage! Tell me you think I shall succeed! MONTAGUE. [Seizing her hand.] I believe you will, Miss Hegan! LAURA. Ah! Thank you! MONTAGUE. [Kisses her hand; tries to speak; overcome.] Good-bye! LAURA. [Exit.] Ah, God! JACK. I understand, old man! If only she weren't so rich! MONTAGUE. If only she weren't... JACK. Yes, yes, dear boy; I know how it is. You're troubled with a conscience, and yours must be strictly a cottage affair! But forget it just now, old fellow... we've got work before us. Play ball! [Takes him by the shoulder; they go off.] [CURTAIN] ACT III HEGAN'S office in Wall street. A large room, furnished with severe simplicity. At the left a large table, with half a dozen chairs about it, and a "ticker" near the wall; at the right, a flat-topped desk and a telephone. Entrance centre. [At rise: ANDREWS stands by desk; takes some papers, looks them over, makes note and replaces them.] PARKER. [Enters.] Say, Andrews, what's the reply to these letters of the Fourth National? ANDREWS. Give them here; I'll see to them. PARKER. Any orders for the brokers this morning? ANDREWS. I'm writing them myself. PARKER. Something special, eh? All right. [Looks at ticker.] Hello! Listen to this: "There is a rumor, widely current, that the decision of the Court of Appeals in the matter of the Public vs. the Grand Avenue Railroad Company will be handed down to-day!" Gee whiz, I wonder if that's so? ANDREWS. I have heard the rumor. PARKER. There was a reporter here yesterday, trying to pump me. I'll bet they're watching the boss. ANDREWS. Yes; no doubt of that. PARKER. Cracky! I'd like to know which way it'll go! ANDREWS. A good many others would like to know, I've no doubt. PARKER. I'll bet my hat the boss knows! ANDREWS. It may be. [A pause; PARKER continues to read ticker.] PARKER. I don't suppose you've heard anything, have you? ANDREWS. I never hear, Parker. PARKER. Oh, say... come off. Why don't you drop a fellow a hint now and then? ANDREWS. I can't afford to. PARKER. It would never go beyond me. [A pause.] Say, Andrews. ANDREWS. Well? PARKER. Would you like to invest a bit for me now and then? ANDREWS. I'm not hankering to, especially. PARKER. I'll go halves with you on the profits. ANDREWS. And how about the losses? PARKER. There wouldn't be any losses. ANDREWS. Cut it out, Parker... we don't want that kind of a thing in the office. [Handing him paper.] Here... I want three copies of this. And take my advice and live on your salary. PARKER. Thanks. I wish the salary increased as fast as the bills do! [Starts to door; sees LAURA.] Oh! Good morning, Miss Hegan! LAURA. [Enters hurriedly.] Good morning. ANDREWS. Good morning, Miss Hegan. PARKER exit. LAURA. Mr. Andrews, where was my father last night? ANDREWS. He had an important conference... LAURA. He did not come to the house. ANDREWS. No, Miss Hegan; it was too late. He stayed downtown... LAURA. And you were not home, either. ANDREWS. I was with him. LAURA. It is too bad! I have been trying all night to find either of you. ANDREWS. Why... your father had no idea when he left... LAURA. I know. Something has turned up... ANDREWS. Nothing wrong, I hope. LAURA. I must see my father as soon as possible. Ile will be here this morning? ANDREWS. Any minute, Miss Hegan. LAURA. He will surely come? ANDREWS. Not the slightest doubt of it. Nothing could keep him away. LAURA. I wish to see him the moment he comes. And if he should call up or send word... ANDREWS. I will see that he is informed, Miss Hegan. LAURA. Thank you. [A pause.] The Court decision is expected to-day, is it not, Mr. Andrews? ANDREWS. [Hesitates.] There has been a rumor, Miss Hegan. LAURA. And so there will be considerable disturbance of the market? ANDREWS. Presumably. LAURA. And my father has made preparations? ANDREWS. Yes. LAURA. That is what the conference was about? ANDREWS. I presume so, Miss Hegan. LAURA. By the way, Mr. Andrews, I expect Mr. Montague here at ten o'clock. Please let me know when he comes. ANDREWS. Yes, Miss Hegan. [Goes to the door, then turns.] Here is Mr. Hegan now. LAURA. [Starting up.] Ah! ANDREWS. [Holding open door.] Good morning, Mr. Hegan. HEGAN. [Enters.] Good morning. LAURA. Father! HEGAN. Why, Laura! [ANDREWS exit.] What are you doing here? LAURA. I've come to have a talk with you. HEGAN. To have a talk with me? LAURA. Come in, please, father. Shut the door. HEGAN. Yes, my dear; but... LAURA. I came into the city on the next train after you. I have been hunting for you ever since... I have been up all night. I have something of the utmost urgency to talk with you about. HEGAN. What is it? LAURA. Come and sit down, please. HEGAN. Yes, my dear. LAURA. Listen, father. Yesterday afternoon, when we were talking, you told me that you had never done anything to influence the courts in their decisions. HEGAN. Yes, Laura. LAURA. And you told me that nobody else ever did it, either for you or for your companies. HEGAN. Yes, but... LAURA. And, father, you told me a falsehood. HEGAN. Laura! LAURA. I am very sorry, but I have to say it. It was a falsehood; and it is but one of many falsehoods that you have told me. I understand just why you did it you think I ought not to ask about these things, because it will make me unhappy; and so, for my own good, you do not hesitate to tell me things that are not true. HEGAN. My child, it is your father that you are talking to! LAURA. It is my father, and a father who knows that I love him very dearly, and who will realize it hurts me to say these things, fully as much as it hurts him to hear them. But they must be said... and said now. HEGAN. Why now? Just at this moment... LAURA. I know what you are going to say. At this moment you are very busy... HEGAN. My dear, the Exchange will open in an hour. And I am in the midst of a big campaign. I have important orders for my brokers, and a hundred other matters to attend to. And I expect Grimes here any minute... LAURA. Grimes? HEGAN. Yes, my dear. LAURA. You are not through with him yet, then? HEGAN. No, Laura... LAURA. Well, even so! Mr. Grimes must wait until I have said what I have to say to you. HEGAN. What is it, Laura? LAURA. You are expecting the decision of the Court of Appeals on the Grand Avenue Railroad case at noon today. HEGAN. Why, yes... LAURA. The decision will be in your favor. And you and Grimes are planning to gamble on it, and to make a great deal of money. HEGAN. Yes, my dear. LAURA. And you paid Grimes two hundred thousand dollars to fix the decision of the Court. HEGAN. [Starting violently.] Laura! LAURA. Grimes went to judge Porter's house the night before last and induced him to change his vote on the case. HEGAN. Laura! LAURA. And so, what was to have been the minority opinion of the Court is to be given out today as the Court's decision. HEGAN. My God! LAURA. You do not deny that this is the truth? HEGAN. You overheard us at the house! LAURA. Not one word, father. HEGAN. But you must have! LAURA. Father, throughout this conversation, you may honor me by assuming that I am telling you the absolute truth. And I will be glad when you will give me the same privilege. HEGAN. Then, how did you learn it? LAURA. That, unfortunately, I am not at liberty to tell you. HEGAN. Then other people know it? LAURA. They do. HEGAN. Good God! [Stares at her, dumbfounded.] Who are these people? LAURA. I cannot tell you that. HEGAN. But, Laura... you must! LAURA. It is impossible. HEGAN. But... how can that be? LAURA. I cannot discuss the matter. HEGAN. But think... my dear! I am your father, and you must trust me... you must help me... LAURA. Please do not ask me. I have given my word. HEGAN. Your word! [Gazes about, distracted.] You take the part of others against your own flesh and blood! LAURA. Listen, father! Think of me for a minute, and how it seems to me. Do not be so ignoble as to think only of the exposure... HEGAN. But, my child, realize what it will mean if this comes out! Are these people among my enemies? LAURA. That depends upon circumstances. HEGAN. I don't understand you. LAURA. I will try to explain, if you will be patient with me. HEGAN. Go on! Go on! LAURA. Father, you know what has been happening to me during the past few months. You know how unhappy I have been. And now you have committed a crime... a dreadful, dreadful crime! HEGAN. My dear! LAURA. I wish to make it clear to you... I am in desperate earnest. I have taken all night to think it over, and I am not making any mistake. I have made up my mind that, come what will, and cost what it may, I must clear myself of the responsibility for these evils. HEGAN. In what way are you responsible? LAURA. In every way imaginable. My whole life is based upon them... everything that I have and enjoy is stained with the guilt of them... the house in which I live, the clothing that I wear, the food that I eat. And I shall never again know what it is to be happy, while I have that fact upon my conscience. Don't you see? HEGAN. I see. LAURA. I tried all night to find you. I wanted to have a chance to talk with you, quietly. And, now, instead, I have to do it here, amid all the rush and strain of this dreadful Wall Street. But so it is.. . I must say it here. Father, I have come to plead with you, to plead with you upon my knees. Listen to me... don't turn me away! HEGAN. What do you wish me to do? LAURA. First of all, I wish you to give up this illegal advantage that you have gained. I wish you to stop this decision, and give the people the victory to which they are entitled. HEGAN. But, my dear, that is madness! How can I... LAURA. You compelled Grimes to do this thing... you can compel him to undo it! HEGAN. But, my dear, it would ruin me! LAURA. If you do what I ask you to do, ruin will not matter. HEGAN. What do you ask me? LAURA. I wish you to stop this mad career... to give up this money game... to drop it utterly! To stop selling stocks and manipulating markets; to stop buying politicians and franchises... to sell out everything... to withdraw. I want you to do it now... today.. . this very hour! HEGAN. But, my dear... LAURA. I want you to come with me, and help me to find happiness again, by doing some good in the world. I want you to use your power and your talents to help people, instead of to destroy them. HEGAN. My child! That is something very easy to talk about, but not so easy to do! LAURA. We will work together, and find ways to do it. HEGAN. It seems possible, from your point of view... with your noble ideals, and your sheltered life... LAURA. My sheltered life! That is just what I can no longer endure! That I should have ease and comfort, while others suffer... that my father should take part in this mad struggle for money and power, in order to give me a sheltered life! I must make it impossible for that to continue! I must make you understand that all your money is powerless to bring me happiness... that it is poisoning my life as well as your own! HEGAN. [Gravely.] Laura, I have tried to protect you... that is the natural instinct of a father... to keep evil things from his daughter's knowledge. If I have told you untruths, as you say, that has been the one reason. But since you will not have it so... since you must face the facts of the world... LAURA. I Must! HEGAN. Very well, then... you shall face them. You tell me to give up this case... to change back the Court's decision, so that the public may reap the advantage. Do you realize that the public has nothing to do with this suit?... That it is a covert attack upon me by an unscrupulous enemy? LAURA. You mean Murdock? HEGAN. Murdock. You know something of his career, perhaps... something of his private life, too. And if I should turn back, as you ask, the public would gain nothing... he would be the only one to profit. He would raid my securities; he would throw my companies into bankruptcy; he would draw my associates away from me... in the end, he would take my place in the traction field. Is that what you wish to bring about? LAURA. It is not that that I am thinking of. It is the corrupting of the Court... HEGAN. The Court! Do you know why Grimes and I had to do what we did? LAURA. No. HEGAN. And yet you have judged me! What would you say if I told you that we had information that one of the judges had received a thousand shares of Grand Avenue stock from Murdock? And that another had been promised a seat in the United States Supreme Court by that eminent Republican? LAURA. Oh! Horrible! HEGAN. You see what the game is? LAURA. But, father! The buying and selling of the powers of the Government... HEGAN. The "Government" consisting of politicians who have gotten themselves elected for the purpose of selling out to the highest bidder. For ten years now I have been in charge of these properties. .. I have had the interests of thousands of investors in my keeping... and all the while I have been like a man surrounded by a pack of wolves. I defended myself as I could... in the end, I found that the best way to defend was by attacking. In other words, I had to go into politics, to make the control of the "Government" a part of my business. Don't you see? LAURA. Yes, I see. But why play such a game? HEGAN. Why? Because it is the only game I have ever known... the only game there is to play. That is the way I have lived my life... the way I have risen to power and command. I played it for myself, and for my friends, and for those I loved. LAURA. You played it for me! And, oh! father! father!... Can't you see what that means to me? To realize that all my life has been based upon such things! Don't you see how I can't let it go on... how, if you refuse to do what I ask you to, it will be impossible for me to touch a dollar of your money? HEGAN. Laura! LAURA. Just that, father! I should never again be able to face my conscience! HEGAN. [After a pause.] Listen to me, dear. You know that I have always meant to withdraw... LAURA. I know that. And that has been a confession! You know that you are wrecking your life-wrecking everything! And if you mean to stop, why not stop? HEGAN. But, my dear, at this moment... in the midst of the battle. .. LAURA. At this moment you are on the point of doing something that will put a brand upon your conscience for the balance of your career. And at this moment you are confronted with the realization that you are ruining your daughter's life. You see her before you, desperate... frantic with shame and grief. And you have to make up your mind, either to drive her from you, heart-broken... or else to turn your face from these evils, and to take up a new way of life. HEGAN. [Broken and crushed, sits staring at her.] Laura! LAURA. [Stretching out her arms to him.] Father! A knock at the door; they start. GRIMES. [Enters.] Oh! Beg pardon! HEGAN. Come in. LAURA. [Starting up.] No! HEGAN. Come in! You must know it! GRIMES. What is it? HEGAN. Shut the door! Grimes, the game is up! GRIMES. How d'ye mean? HEGAN. We've been betrayed. Somebody knows all about the Court decision... about what passed between you and Porter, and between you and me! GRIMES. The hell you say! HEGAN. We're threatened with exposure! GRIMES. Who is it? HEGAN. I don't know. GRIMES. But, then... HEGAN. My daughter tells me. But she is not at liberty to give the names. GRIMES. Well, I'll be damned! [He stares from HEGAN to LAURA; then comes and sits, very deliberately, where he can gaze at them. A long pause; then, nodding toward them.] What's her game? HEGAN. [Weakly.] She will tell you. GRIMES. [Looking at her.] Well? LAURA. I am here to plead with my father to turn back from this wickedness. GRIMES. [Stares.] And do what, ma'am? LAURA. Quit Wall Street, and devote himself to some useful work. GRIMES. [After a pause.] And if he won't? LAURA. I have told him he must choose between his present career and his daughter's love. GRIMES. [Gazes at LAURA, then in front of him; slowly shakes his head.] I can't make out our young people. When I was a boy, young women looked up to their parents. What's your father done to you, that you should turn against him? LAURA. I have not turned against him, Mr. Grimes. GRIMES. [Indicating HEGAN, who sits in an attitude of despair.] Look at him! [A pause.] LAURA. I am pleading with him for his own good... to give up this cruel struggle... GRIMES. To turn tail and run from his enemies? LAURA. It is of my duty to the public that I am thinking, Mr. Grimes. GRIMES. You owe no duty to this world higher than your duty to your father. LAURA. You think that? GRIMES. I think it. LAURA. [Hesitates a moment, then turns.] Father! What do you say? Is that true? HEGAN. [Crushed.] I don't know, my dear. GRIMES. God Almighty! And this is Jim Hegan! [To LAURA.] Where'd you get onto these ideas, ma'am? LAURA. [In a low voice.] I think, Mr. Grimes, it might be best if you did not ask me to discuss this question. Our points of view are too different. GRIMES. [Shrugs his shoulders.] As you please, ma'am. But you needn't mind me... I ain't easy to offend. And I'm only trying to understand you. LAURA. [After a silence.] Mr. Grimes, I had the good fortune to be brought up in a beautiful and luxurious home; but not long ago I began to go down into the slums and see the homes of the people. I saw sights that made me sick with horror. GRIMES. No doubt, ma'am. LAURA. I found the people in the grip of a predatory organization that had bound them hand and foot, and was devouring them alive. GRIMES. You've been listening to tales, ma'am. We do a lot for the people. LAURA. You treat them to free coal and free picnics and free beer, and so you get their votes; and then you sell them out to capitalists like my father. GRIMES. Humph! LAURA. You sell them out to any one, high or low, who will pay for the privilege of exploiting them. You sell them to the rum-dealer and the dive-keeper and the gambler. You sell them to the white-slave trader. GRIMES. There's no such person, Miss Hegan. LAURA. You offer an insult to my intelligence, Mr. Grimes. I have met with him and his work. There was a girl of the slums... her name was Annie Rogers. She was a decent girl; and she was lured into a dive and drugged and shut up in a brothel, a prisoner. She escaped to the street, pursued, and a friend of mine saved her. And, high and low, among the authorities of this city, we sought for justice for that girl, and there was no justice to be had. Yesterday afternoon I learned that she cut her own throat. GRIMES. I see. LAURA. And that happened, Mr. Grimes! It happened in the City of New York! I saw it with my own eyes! GRIMES. Such things have been, ma'am. LAURA. And you permit them. GRIMES. I? LAURA. You permit them GRIMES. I can't attempt to discuss prostitution with a lady. Such things existed long before I was born. LAURA. You could use your power to drive the traffic from the city. GRIMES. Yes, ma'am; I suppose I could. But if I'd been that sort of a man, do you think I'd ever had the power? LAURA. How neatly parried! What sort of a man are you, anyway? GRIMES. [Looks at hey fixedly.] I'll tell you the sort of man I am, ma'am. [A pause.] I wasn't brought up in a beautiful, luxurious home. I was brought up with five brothers, in two rooms on the top floor of a rear tenement on Avenue B; I was a little street "mick," and then I was a prize "scrapper," and the leader of a gang. When a policeman chased me upstairs, my mother stood at the head and fought him off with a rolling-pin. That was the way we stood by our children, ma'am; and we looked to them to stand by us. Once, when I was older, my enemies tried to do me... they charged me with a murder that I never done, ma'am. But d'ye think my old father ever stopped to ask if I done it or not, ma'am? Not much. "Don't mention that, Bob, my boy," says he... "it's all part of the fight, an' we're wid yer." [A pause.] I looked about me at the world, ma'am, and I found it was full of all sorts of pleasant things, that I'd never had, and never stood a chance of havin'. They were for the rich... the people on top. And they looked on with scorn... I was poor and I was low, and I wasn't fit for anything. And so I set to climb, ma'am. I shouldered my way up. I met men that fought me; I fought them back, and I won out. That's the sort of man I am. LAURA. I see. A selfish man, bent upon power at any price! A brutal man, profiting by the weakness of others! An unscrupulous man, trading upon fear and greed! A man who has stopped at no evil to gain his purpose! GRIMES. I am what the game has made me. LAURA. Not so! Not so! Many another man has been born to a fate like yours, and has fought his way up from the pit... to be a tower of strength for goodness and service, an honor to his people and himself. GRIMES. I've not met any such, ma'am. LAURA. No; you've not sought for them. You did not need them in your business. The men you needed were the thugs and the criminals, who could stuff ballot-boxes for you... the dive-keepers and the vice-sellers, who would contribute to your campaign funds! And you have dealt with them... you have built up the power they gave you into a mighty engine of corruption and wrong! And you are master of it... you use it to wring tribute from high and low! Selling immunity to dive-keepers and betraying helpless young girls! Naming legislators and judges, and receiving bribes to corrupt the highest Court in the State. HEGAN. Laura... LAURA. Father, I did not seek this discussion! He challenged me... and he shall hear the truth! For all these months the thing that has been driving me to desperation has been the knowledge that my father was the business associate and ally of a master of infamy like Robert Grimes! GRIMES. Thanks, ma'am! And so now he's to break with me! [A knock at the door.] ANDREWS. [Enters, centre.] Mr. Hegan, these orders for your brokers must be signed. HEGAN. I won't sign them! ANDREWS. Sir? HEGAN. Never mind them. GRIMES. [Springing to his feet.] Jim Hegan, you're mad! [TO ANDREWS.] Go out, will you? [ANDREWS exit.] Hegan, man... surely you don't mean this? HEGAN. Yes... I'm sick of it! GRIMES. But, man, think of the rest of us!... What are we to do? HEGAN. You can buy just the same. GRIMES. But without you? Why, we won't be able to corner Murdock! And if he gets out of this hole, it'll be worse than ever! There'll be hell to pay! HEGAN. I don't care. GRIMES. But, man, you've pledged yourself! Look at what Harris has done!... What excuse will you be able to make to him? And what will you tell Henry Stevens? HEGAN. I'll tell them I've quit. GRIMES. But you told them last night you were going in with every dollar you could raise! You told Isaacson he could break with Murdock! And now you'll tell them you've turned tail and run! Why, Hegan, it's treason! HEGAN. Listen to me... GRIMES. I don't want to listen to you! Half an hour from now you'll be ashamed of yourself... wishing that nobody had heard you! You'll be begging me not to mention it! You... Jim Hegan... the traction king! To lose your nerve over a little thing like this! What's come over you, anyhow... after all the things we've been through together? Why, man... [The 'phone rings.] HEGAN. Hello! Who is it? Oh, Isaacson. Yes; I'll speak with him. Hello, Isaacson! Yes. No; I've not forgotten. I'll do whatever I said I'd do. Er... yes; that's all right. I've been delayed. Yes. I'll get the money to you. Right away. Oh, certainly, that's all right. [Hangs up receiver.] Ah, God! GRIMES. Hegan, listen here. You're in the midst of a battle. And you're the general. Everything depends on you this morning. And you've a right to be afraid.. but you've no right to let others see it. You've no right... do you understand me? And, by God, I won't let you!... I'll be a man for two of you! Shake yourself together now! [Seizes him.] Come, man! Shake yourself together! HEGAN. But think of the exposure! GRIMES. The exposure! And this is Jim Hegan talking! How many times have you been exposed already? And how many times have I been? HEGAN. But this is different. GRIMES. How different? We've got the police, and we've got the district attorney, and we've got the courts. What more do we want? What can they do but talk in the newspapers? And is there anything they haven't said about us already? [Takes HEGAN by the arm, and laughs.] Come, old man! As my friend Leary says: "Dis is a nine-day town. If yez kin stand de gaff for nine days, ye're all right!" We'll stand the gaff! HEGAN. I'm tired of standing it. GRIMES. Yes, we all get tired now and then. But this afternoon it'll be Murdock that's tired. Think of him, Hegan... try to realize him a bit! You've got him where you want him at last! Remember what he did to you in the Brooklyn Ferry case! Remember how he lied to you in the Third Avenue case! And he told Isaacson, only last week, that he'd never let up on you till he'd driven you out of the traction field! HEGAN. Did he say that? GRIMES. He did that! And only yesterday he said he was getting ready to finish you! He's as sure of this Court decision as I am of the sunrise! I'm told he's short already over a quarter of a million shares! HEGAN. But his judges'll get word to him... he'll buy! GRIMES. Of course! But that's just why you ought to be busy! Buy first, and make him pay... damn his soul! ANDREWS. [Knocks and enters.] Mr. Stevens is here, Mr. Hegan. GRIMES. Henry Stevens? We'll see him. [ANDREWS exit.] Come on, man! We'll go over to your brokers and take the orders. It'll give you a smell of the powder smoke. LAURA. [AS HEGAN Starts to follow.] Father, you are going with him? HEGAN. My dear child, what can I do? LAURA. But think of the disgrace... the shame of it! You will carry it with you all your life! HEGAN. I can't help it. I am bound hand and foot. LAURA. Father! [She rushes to him, and flings her arms about him.] Do you realize what you are doing? You are driving me away from you!.. . You are casting me off! And all for a few more dollars! HEGAN. My dear, it is not that. My word is pledged. LAURA. You are trampling me in the dust. You are spurning all that is best in your life! GRIMES. Come, come, man! The game is called HEGAN. Let me go, my dear. LAURA. Father! HEGAN. No! No! [He gently, but firmly, puts her arms from him.] Good-bye, dear. LAURA. Father! [HEGAN and GRIMES go out centre; she sinks by the table, and buries her face in her arms, sobbing; after a considerable, interval, a knock on the door, centre.] Come in! MONTAGUE. [Enters.] Well? LAURA. I have failed. [Rises and stretches out her arms.] Failed! He has gone with Grimes! MONTAGUE. I saw him go, Miss Hegan. LAURA. [Swiftly.] And yet... I have not failed utterly. I have failed to turn back the decision... to save him from this disgrace. But that is not all. MONTAGUE: How do you mean? LAURA. I shall not give him up... and, in the end, I shall have my way; I can see that quite clearly. Ah, how I hurt him! I almost broke his heart! And just now he is in the midst of the battle... the rage of it is on him. But, afterwards, he will recollect... he will be overwhelmed with grief! And then he will see! He will do what I have begged him to! MONTAGUE. Yes... perhaps that is so. LAURA. I know what my love means to him! I know what he is at heart! And when he sees that I mean to carry out my threat, to go by myself and to refuse to touch his money... that will be more than he can bear, Mr. Montague! MONTAGUE. You mean to do that? LAURA. I mean to do it! I mean to do it today; and I will never yield to him... never until he has atoned for this wrong he has done! And don't you see that I will win in the end? MONTAGUE. Yes; I see. LAURA. [Quickly.] Understand, that has nothing to do with your course. I am not asking you to spare him. You must go ahead and do your duty... you must do just what you would have done if I had never stood in the way. MONTAGUE. It is a terrible thing to me, Miss Hegan. I cannot turn back... LAURA. You must not! You must not think of it! It will be a part of my father's punishment... and he has deserved it. He has prepared that cup, and he must drink it... to the dregs! MONTAGUE. You can bear it? LAURA. It is not any question of what I can bear. It is a question of the rights of the people. I saw that quite clearly, as my father talked with me. Whether it is he who wins, or whether it is Murdock, it is always the people that lose. And, let it hurt whom it may, the people must have the truth! MONTAGUE. And then... you will be able to forgive me! Ah, what a weight you lift from me! I hardly dared to face the thought of what I had to do! [Hesitating.] And then, the thought that you mean to renounce your father's wealth... that you are going out into the world... alone... LAURA. It will not be hard for me. You cannot know how I have hated my past life. To know that my father has plundered the public... and then to give his money, and call it charity. To be flattered and fawned upon... to be celebrated and admired... and never for anything that I am, but always for my money! MONTAGUE. I understand what you feel! And see what your decision means to me... it sets me free at last! LAURA. Free! MONTAGUE. Free to speak! Miss Hegan, I came to New York, and I met these rich people, and I saw how their fortunes were poisoning their lives. I saw men who could not have a real friend in the world, because of their money. I saw young girls whose souls were utterly dead in them because they had been brought up to think of themselves as keepers of money-bags, and to guard against men who sought to prey upon them. I hated the thing... I fled from it as I would from a plague. In that world I had met a woman I might have loved... a woman who was noble and beautiful and true; and yet I dared not speak to her... I dared not even permit myself to know her... because I was a poor man, and she was rich. But now she is to be poor also! And so I may speak! LAURA. [Starting.] Oh! MONTAGUE. Miss Hegan, from the first time I met you I felt that you were the woman I should love. But then, as fate would have it, I found myself preparing to attack your father; so I said that we must never meet again. But now you see how it has happened. I have come to know you as I never hoped to know you, and I know that I love you. LAURA. I had no idea... MONTAGUE. You say that you are going away alone. Let us go together. We have the same purpose... we have the same battle to fight. We can go out to the people and help to teach them. LAURA. You... you know that you love me? MONTAGUE. I love you! I want nothing so much as the chance to serve you and help you. The chance to tell you so is more than I had ever ventured to hope for. To find you free and alone... to be able to speak to you, with no thought of wealth or position! To tell you that I love you... just you! You! LAURA. I hardly dare to think of it... now... here... MONTAGUE. We can put all the past behind us... we can take a new start and win our own way. If only you love me! LAURA. Ah, to let myself be happy again. How can I? MONTAGUE. If you love me, then we have the key to happiness... then everything is clear before us. We can face the world together! Do you love me? [Stretches out his arms to her.] Laura! LAURA. [Sways toward him.] I love you. MONTAGUE. [Embraces her.] My love! CURTAIN 
5818	----	THE GILDED AGE A Tale of Today by Mark Twain and Charles Dudley Warner 1873 Part 1. PREFACE. This book was not written for private circulation among friends; it was not written to cheer and instruct a diseased relative of the author's; it was not thrown off during intervals of wearing labor to amuse an idle hour. It was not written for any of these reasons, and therefore it is submitted without the usual apologies. It will be seen that it deals with an entirely ideal state of society; and the chief embarrassment of the writers in this realm of the imagination has been the want of illustrative examples. In a State where there is no fever of speculation, no inflamed desire for sudden wealth, where the poor are all simple-minded and contented, and the rich are all honest and generous, where society is in a condition of primitive purity and politics is the occupation of only the capable and the patriotic, there are necessarily no materials for such a history as we have constructed out of an ideal commonwealth. No apology is needed for following the learned custom of placing attractive scraps of literature at the heads of our chapters. It has been truly observed by Wagner that such headings, with their vague suggestions of the matter which is to follow them, pleasantly inflame the reader's interest without wholly satisfying his curiosity, and we will hope that it may be found to be so in the present case. Our quotations are set in a vast number of tongues; this is done for the reason that very few foreign nations among whom the book will circulate can read in any language but their own; whereas we do not write for a particular class or sect or nation, but to take in the whole world. We do not object to criticism; and we do not expect that the critic will read the book before writing a notice of it: We do not even expect the reviewer of the book will say that he has not read it. No, we have no anticipations of anything unusual in this age of criticism. But if the Jupiter, Who passes his opinion on the novel, ever happens to peruse it in some weary moment of his subsequent life, we hope that he will not be the victim of a remorse bitter but too late. One word more. This is--what it pretends to be a joint production, in the conception of the story, the exposition of the characters, and in its literal composition. There is scarcely a chapter that does not bear the marks of the two writers of the book. S. L. C. C. D. W. [Etext Editor's Note: The following chapters were written by Mark Twain: 1-11, 24, 25, 27, 28, 30, 32-34, 36, 37, 42, 43, 45, 51-53, 57, 59-62; and portions of 35, 49, and 56. See Twain's letter to Dr. John Brown Feb. 28, 1874 D.W.] CHAPTER I. June 18--. Squire Hawkins sat upon the pyramid of large blocks, called the "stile," in front of his house, contemplating the morning. The locality was Obedstown, East Tennessee. You would not know that Obedstown stood on the top of a mountain, for there was nothing about the landscape to indicate it--but it did: a mountain that stretched abroad over whole counties, and rose very gradually. The district was called the "Knobs of East Tennessee," and had a reputation like Nazareth, as far as turning out any good thing was concerned. The Squire's house was a double log cabin, in a state of decay; two or three gaunt hounds lay asleep about the threshold, and lifted their heads sadly whenever Mrs. Hawkins or the children stepped in and out over their bodies. Rubbish was scattered about the grassless yard; a bench stood near the door with a tin wash basin on it and a pail of water and a gourd; a cat had begun to drink from the pail, but the exertion was overtaxing her energies, and she had stopped to rest. There was an ash-hopper by the fence, and an iron pot, for soft-soap-boiling, near it. This dwelling constituted one-fifteenth of Obedstown; the other fourteen houses were scattered about among the tall pine trees and among the corn-fields in such a way that a man might stand in the midst of the city and not know but that he was in the country if he only depended on his eyes for information. "Squire" Hawkins got his title from being postmaster of Obedstown--not that the title properly belonged to the office, but because in those regions the chief citizens always must have titles of some sort, and so the usual courtesy had been extended to Hawkins. The mail was monthly, and sometimes amounted to as much as three or four letters at a single delivery. Even a rush like this did not fill up the postmaster's whole month, though, and therefore he "kept store" in the intervals. The Squire was contemplating the morning. It was balmy and tranquil, the vagrant breezes were laden with the odor of flowers, the murmur of bees was in the air, there was everywhere that suggestion of repose that summer woodlands bring to the senses, and the vague, pleasurable melancholy that such a time and such surroundings inspire. Presently the United States mail arrived, on horseback. There was but one letter, and it was for the postmaster. The long-legged youth who carried the mail tarried an hour to talk, for there was no hurry; and in a little while the male population of the village had assembled to help. As a general thing, they were dressed in homespun "jeans," blue or yellow--here were no other varieties of it; all wore one suspender and sometimes two--yarn ones knitted at home,--some wore vests, but few wore coats. Such coats and vests as did appear, however, were rather picturesque than otherwise, for they were made of tolerably fanciful patterns of calico--a fashion which prevails thereto this day among those of the community who have tastes above the common level and are able to afford style. Every individual arrived with his hands in his pockets; a hand came out occasionally for a purpose, but it always went back again after service; and if it was the head that was served, just the cant that the dilapidated straw hat got by being uplifted and rooted under, was retained until the next call altered the inclination; many' hats were present, but none were erect and no two were canted just alike. We are speaking impartially of men, youths and boys. And we are also speaking of these three estates when we say that every individual was either chewing natural leaf tobacco prepared on his own premises, or smoking the same in a corn-cob pipe. Few of the men wore whiskers; none wore moustaches; some had a thick jungle of hair under the chin and hiding the throat--the only pattern recognized there as being the correct thing in whiskers; but no part of any individual's face had seen a razor for a week. These neighbors stood a few moments looking at the mail carrier reflectively while he talked; but fatigue soon began to show itself, and one after another they climbed up and occupied the top rail of the fence, hump-shouldered and grave, like a company of buzzards assembled for supper and listening for the death-rattle. Old Damrell said: "Tha hain't no news 'bout the jedge, hit ain't likely?" "Cain't tell for sartin; some thinks he's gwyne to be 'long toreckly, and some thinks 'e hain't. Russ Mosely he tote ole Hanks he mought git to Obeds tomorrer or nex' day he reckoned." "Well, I wisht I knowed. I got a 'prime sow and pigs in the, cote-house, and I hain't got no place for to put 'em. If the jedge is a gwyne to hold cote, I got to roust 'em out, I reckon. But tomorrer'll do, I 'spect." The speaker bunched his thick lips together like the stem-end of a tomato and shot a bumble-bee dead that had lit on a weed seven feet away. One after another the several chewers expressed a charge of tobacco juice and delivered it at the deceased with steady, aim and faultless accuracy. "What's a stirrin', down 'bout the Forks?" continued Old Damrell. "Well, I dunno, skasely. Ole, Drake Higgins he's ben down to Shelby las' week. Tuck his crap down; couldn't git shet o' the most uv it; hit wasn't no time for to sell, he say, so he 'fotch it back agin, 'lowin' to wait tell fall. Talks 'bout goin' to Mozouri--lots uv 'ems talkin' that-away down thar, Ole Higgins say. Cain't make a livin' here no mo', sich times as these. Si Higgins he's ben over to Kaintuck n' married a high-toned gal thar, outen the fust families, an' he's come back to the Forks with jist a hell's-mint o' whoop-jamboree notions, folks says. He's tuck an' fixed up the ole house like they does in Kaintuck, he say, an' tha's ben folks come cler from Turpentine for to see it. He's tuck an gawmed it all over on the inside with plarsterin'." "What's plasterin'?" "I dono. Hit's what he calls it. 'Ole Mam Higgins, she tole me. She say she wasn't gwyne to hang out in no sich a dern hole like a hog. Says it's mud, or some sich kind o' nastiness that sticks on n' covers up everything. Plarsterin', Si calls it." This marvel was discussed at considerable length; and almost with animation. But presently there was a dog-fight over in the neighborhood of the blacksmith shop, and the visitors slid off their perch like so many turtles and strode to the battle-field with an interest bordering on eagerness. The Squire remained, and read his letter. Then he sighed, and sat long in meditation. At intervals he said: "Missouri. Missouri. Well, well, well, everything is so uncertain." At last he said: "I believe I'll do it.--A man will just rot, here. My house my yard, everything around me, in fact, shows' that I am becoming one of these cattle--and I used to be thrifty in other times." He was not more than thirty-five, but he had a worn look that made him seem older. He left the stile, entered that part of his house which was the store, traded a quart of thick molasses for a coonskin and a cake of beeswax, to an old dame in linsey-woolsey, put his letter away, an went into the kitchen. His wife was there, constructing some dried apple pies; a slovenly urchin of ten was dreaming over a rude weather-vane of his own contriving; his small sister, close upon four years of age, was sopping corn-bread in some gravy left in the bottom of a frying-pan and trying hard not to sop over a finger-mark that divided the pan through the middle--for the other side belonged to the brother, whose musings made him forget his stomach for the moment; a negro woman was busy cooking, at a vast fire-place. Shiftlessness and poverty reigned in the place. "Nancy, I've made up my mind. The world is done with me, and perhaps I ought to be done with it. But no matter--I can wait. I am going to Missouri. I won't stay in this dead country and decay with it. I've had it on my mind sometime. I'm going to sell out here for whatever I can get, and buy a wagon and team and put you and the children in it and start." "Anywhere that suits you, suits me, Si. And the children can't be any worse off in Missouri than, they are here, I reckon." Motioning his wife to a private conference in their own room, Hawkins said: "No, they'll be better off. I've looked out for them, Nancy," and his face lighted. "Do you see these papers? Well, they are evidence that I have taken up Seventy-five Thousand Acres of Land in this county --think what an enormous fortune it will be some day! Why, Nancy, enormous don't express it--the word's too tame! I tell your Nancy----" "For goodness sake, Si----" "Wait, Nancy, wait--let me finish--I've been secretly bailing and fuming with this grand inspiration for weeks, and I must talk or I'll burst! I haven't whispered to a soul--not a word--have had my countenance under lock and key, for fear it might drop something that would tell even these animals here how to discern the gold mine that's glaring under their noses. Now all that is necessary to hold this land and keep it in the family is to pay the trifling taxes on it yearly--five or ten dollars --the whole tract would not sell for over a third of a cent an acre now, but some day people wild be glad to get it for twenty dollars, fifty dollars, a hundred dollars an acre! What should you say to" [here he dropped his voice to a whisper and looked anxiously around to see that there were no eavesdroppers,] "a thousand dollars an acre! "Well you may open your eyes and stare! But it's so. You and I may not see the day, but they'll see it. Mind I tell you; they'll see it. Nancy, you've heard of steamboats, and maybe you believed in them--of course you did. You've heard these cattle here scoff at them and call them lies and humbugs,--but they're not lies and humbugs, they're a reality and they're going to be a more wonderful thing some day than they are now. They're going to make a revolution in this world's affairs that will make men dizzy to contemplate. I've been watching--I've been watching while some people slept, and I know what's coming. "Even you and I will see the day that steamboats will come up that little Turkey river to within twenty miles of this land of ours--and in high water they'll come right to it! And this is not all, Nancy--it isn't even half! There's a bigger wonder--the railroad! These worms here have never even heard of it--and when they do they'll not believe in it. But it's another fact. Coaches that fly over the ground twenty miles an hour--heavens and earth, think of that, Nancy! Twenty miles an hour. It makes a main's brain whirl. Some day, when you and I are in our graves, there'll be a railroad stretching hundreds of miles--all the way down from the cities of the Northern States to New Orleans--and its got to run within thirty miles of this land--may be even touch a corner of it. Well; do you know, they've quit burning wood in some places in the Eastern States? And what do you suppose they burn? Coal!" [He bent over and whispered again:] "There's world--worlds of it on this land! You know that black stuff that crops out of the bank of the branch?--well, that's it. You've taken it for rocks; so has every body here; and they've built little dams and such things with it. One man was going to build a chimney out of it. Nancy I expect I turned as white as a sheet! Why, it might have caught fire and told everything. I showed him it was too crumbly. Then he was going to build it of copper ore--splendid yellow forty-per-cent. ore! There's fortunes upon fortunes of copper ore on our land! It scared me to death, the idea of this fool starting a smelting furnace in his house without knowing it, and getting his dull eyes opened. And then he was going to build it of iron ore! There's mountains of iron ore here, Nancy--whole mountains of it. I wouldn't take any chances. I just stuck by him--I haunted him--I never let him alone till he built it of mud and sticks like all the rest of the chimneys in this dismal country. Pine forests, wheat land, corn land, iron, copper, coal-wait till the railroads come, and the steamboats! We'll never see the day, Nancy--never in the world---never, never, never, child. We've got to drag along, drag along, and eat crusts in toil and poverty, all hopeless and forlorn--but they'll ride in coaches, Nancy! They'll live like the princes of the earth; they'll be courted and worshiped; their names will be known from ocean to ocean! Ah, well-a-day! Will they ever come back here, on the railroad and the steamboat, and say, 'This one little spot shall not be touched--this hovel shall be sacred--for here our father and our mother suffered for us, thought for us, laid the foundations of our future as solid as the hills!'" "You are a great, good, noble soul, Si Hawkins, and I am an honored woman to be the wife of such a man"--and the tears stood in her eyes when she said it. "We will go to Missouri. You are out of your place, here, among these groping dumb creatures. We will find a higher place, where you can walk with your own kind, and be understood when you speak--not stared at as if you were talking some foreign tongue. I would go anywhere, anywhere in the wide world with you I would rather my body would starve and die than your mind should hunger and wither away in this lonely land." "Spoken like yourself, my child! But we'll not starve, Nancy. Far from it. I have a letter from Beriah Sellers--just came this day. A letter that--I'll read you a line from it!" He flew out of the room. A shadow blurred the sunlight in Nancy's face --there was uneasiness in it, and disappointment. A procession of disturbing thoughts began to troop through her mind. Saying nothing aloud, she sat with her hands in her lap; now and then she clasped them, then unclasped them, then tapped the ends of the fingers together; sighed, nodded, smiled--occasionally paused, shook her head. This pantomime was the elocutionary expression of an unspoken soliloquy which had something of this shape: "I was afraid of it--was afraid of it. Trying to make our fortune in Virginia, Beriah Sellers nearly ruined us and we had to settle in Kentucky and start over again. Trying to make our fortune in Kentucky he crippled us again and we had to move here. Trying to make our fortune here, he brought us clear down to the ground, nearly. He's an honest soul, and means the very best in the world, but I'm afraid, I'm afraid he's too flighty. He has splendid ideas, and he'll divide his chances with his friends with a free hand, the good generous soul, but something does seem to always interfere and spoil everything. I never did think he was right well balanced. But I don't blame my husband, for I do think that when that man gets his head full of a new notion, he can out-talk a machine. He'll make anybody believe in that notion that'll listen to him ten minutes--why I do believe he would make a deaf and dumb man believe in it and get beside himself, if you only set him where he could see his eyes tally and watch his hands explain. What a head he has got! When he got up that idea there in Virginia of buying up whole loads of negroes in Delaware and Virginia and Tennessee, very quiet, having papers drawn to have them delivered at a place in Alabama and take them and pay for them, away yonder at a certain time, and then in the meantime get a law made stopping everybody from selling negroes to the south after a certain day --it was somehow that way--mercy how the man would have made money! Negroes would have gone up to four prices. But after he'd spent money and worked hard, and traveled hard, and had heaps of negroes all contracted for, and everything going along just right, he couldn't get the laws passed and down the whole thing tumbled. And there in Kentucky, when he raked up that old numskull that had been inventing away at a perpetual motion machine for twenty-two years, and Beriah Sellers saw at a glance where just one more little cog-wheel would settle the business, why I could see it as plain as day when he came in wild at midnight and hammered us out of bed and told the whole thing in a whisper with the doors bolted and the candle in an empty barrel. Oceans of money in it --anybody could see that. But it did cost a deal to buy the old numskull out--and then when they put the new cog wheel in they'd overlooked something somewhere and it wasn't any use--the troublesome thing wouldn't go. That notion he got up here did look as handy as anything in the world; and how him and Si did sit up nights working at it with the curtains down and me watching to see if any neighbors were about. The man did honestly believe there was a fortune in that black gummy oil that stews out of the bank Si says is coal; and he refined it himself till it was like water, nearly, and it did burn, there's no two ways about that; and I reckon he'd have been all right in Cincinnati with his lamp that he got made, that time he got a house full of rich speculators to see him exhibit only in the middle of his speech it let go and almost blew the heads off the whole crowd. I haven't got over grieving for the money that cost yet. I am sorry enough Beriah Sellers is in Missouri, now, but I was glad when he went. I wonder what his letter says. But of course it's cheerful; he's never down-hearted--never had any trouble in his life--didn't know it if he had. It's always sunrise with that man, and fine and blazing, at that--never gets noon; though--leaves off and rises again. Nobody can help liking the creature, he means so well--but I do dread to come across him again; he's bound to set us all crazy, of coarse. Well, there goes old widow Hopkins--it always takes her a week to buy a spool of thread and trade a hank of yarn. Maybe Si can come with the letter, now." And he did: "Widow Hopkins kept me--I haven't any patience with such tedious people. Now listen, Nancy--just listen at this: "'Come right along to Missouri! Don't wait and worry about a good price but sell out for whatever you can get, and come along, or you might be too late. Throw away your traps, if necessary, and come empty-handed. You'll never regret it. It's the grandest country --the loveliest land--the purest atmosphere--I can't describe it; no pen can do it justice. And it's filling up, every day--people coming from everywhere. I've got the biggest scheme on earth--and I'll take you in; I'll take in every friend I've got that's ever stood by me, for there's enough for all, and to spare. Mum's the word--don't whisper--keep yourself to yourself. You'll see! Come! --rush!--hurry!--don't wait for anything!' "It's the same old boy, Nancy, jest the same old boy--ain't he?" "Yes, I think there's a little of the old sound about his voice yet. I suppose you--you'll still go, Si?" "Go! Well, I should think so, Nancy. It's all a chance, of course, and, chances haven't been kind to us, I'll admit--but whatever comes, old wife, they're provided for. Thank God for that!" "Amen," came low and earnestly. And with an activity and a suddenness that bewildered Obedstown and almost took its breath away, the Hawkinses hurried through with their arrangements in four short months and flitted out into the great mysterious blank that lay beyond the Knobs of Tennessee. CHAPTER II. Toward the close of the third day's journey the wayfarers were just beginning to think of camping, when they came upon a log cabin in the woods. Hawkins drew rein and entered the yard. A boy about ten years old was sitting in the cabin door with his face bowed in his hands. Hawkins approached, expecting his footfall to attract attention, but it did not. He halted a moment, and then said: "Come, come, little chap, you mustn't be going to sleep before sundown" With a tired expression the small face came up out of the hands,--a face down which tears were flowing. "Ah, I'm sorry I spoke so, my boy. Tell me--is anything the matter?" The boy signified with a scarcely perceptible gesture that the trouble was in the, house, and made room for Hawkins to pass. Then he put his face in his hands again and rocked himself about as one suffering a grief that is too deep to find help in moan or groan or outcry. Hawkins stepped within. It was a poverty stricken place. Six or eight middle-aged country people of both sexes were grouped about an object in the middle of the room; they were noiselessly busy and they talked in whispers when they spoke. Hawkins uncovered and approached. A coffin stood upon two backless chairs. These neighbors had just finished disposing the body of a woman in it--a woman with a careworn, gentle face that had more the look of sleep about it than of death. An old lady motioned, toward the door and said to Hawkins in a whisper: "His mother, po' thing. Died of the fever, last night. Tha warn't no sich thing as saving of her. But it's better for her--better for her. Husband and the other two children died in the spring, and she hain't ever hilt up her head sence. She jest went around broken-hearted like, and never took no intrust in anything but Clay--that's the boy thar. She jest worshiped Clay--and Clay he worshiped her. They didn't 'pear to live at all, only when they was together, looking at each other, loving one another. She's ben sick three weeks; and if you believe me that child has worked, and kep' the run of the med'cin, and the times of giving it, and sot up nights and nussed her, and tried to keep up her sperits, the same as a grown-up person. And last night when she kep' a sinking and sinking, and turned away her head and didn't know him no mo', it was fitten to make a body's heart break to see him climb onto the bed and lay his cheek agin hern and call her so pitiful and she not answer. But bymeby she roused up, like, and looked around wild, and then she see him, and she made a great cry and snatched him to her breast and hilt him close and kissed him over and over agin; but it took the last po' strength she had, and so her eyelids begin to close down, and her arms sort o' drooped away and then we see she was gone, po' creetur. And Clay, he--Oh, the po' motherless thing--I cain't talk abort it--I cain't bear to talk about it." Clay had disappeared from the door; but he came in, now, and the neighbors reverently fell apart and made way for him. He leaned upon the open coffin and let his tears course silently. Then he put out his small hand and smoothed the hair and stroked the dead face lovingly. After a bit he brought his other hand up from behind him and laid three or four fresh wild flowers upon the breast, bent over and kissed the unresponsive lips time and time again, and then turned away and went out of the house without looking at any of the company. The old lady said to Hawkins: "She always loved that kind o' flowers. He fetched 'em for her every morning, and she always kissed him. They was from away north somers--she kep' school when she fust come. Goodness knows what's to become o' that po' boy. No father, no mother, no kin folks of no kind. Nobody to go to, nobody that k'yers for him--and all of us is so put to it for to get along and families so large." Hawkins understood. All, eyes were turned inquiringly upon him. He said: "Friends, I am not very well provided for, myself, but still I would not turn my back on a homeless orphan. If he will go with me I will give him a home, and loving regard--I will do for him as I would have another do for a child of my own in misfortune." One after another the people stepped forward and wrung the stranger's hand with cordial good will, and their eyes looked all that their hands could not express or their lips speak. "Said like a true man," said one. "You was a stranger to me a minute ago, but you ain't now," said another. "It's bread cast upon the waters--it'll return after many days," said the old lady whom we have heard speak before. "You got to camp in my house as long as you hang out here," said one. "If tha hain't room for you and yourn my tribe'll turn out and camp in the hay loft." A few minutes afterward, while the preparations for the funeral were being concluded, Mr. Hawkins arrived at his wagon leading his little waif by the hand, and told his wife all that had happened, and asked her if he had done right in giving to her and to himself this new care? She said: "If you've done wrong, Si Hawkins, it's a wrong that will shine brighter at the judgment day than the rights that many' a man has done before you. And there isn't any compliment you can pay me equal to doing a thing like this and finishing it up, just taking it for granted that I'll be willing to it. Willing? Come to me; you poor motherless boy, and let me take your grief and help you carry it." When the child awoke in the morning, it was as if from a troubled dream. But slowly the confusion in his mind took form, and he remembered his great loss; the beloved form in the coffin; his talk with a generous stranger who offered him a home; the funeral, where the stranger's wife held him by the hand at the grave, and cried with him and comforted him; and he remembered how this, new mother tucked him in his bed in the neighboring farm house, and coaxed him to talk about his troubles, and then heard him say his prayers and kissed him good night, and left him with the soreness in his heart almost healed and his bruised spirit at rest. And now the new mother came again, and helped him to dress, and combed his hair, and drew his mind away by degrees from the dismal yesterday, by telling him about the wonderful journey he was going to take and the strange things he was going to see. And after breakfast they two went alone to the grave, and his heart went out to his new friend and his untaught eloquence poured the praises of his buried idol into her ears without let or hindrance. Together they planted roses by the headboard and strewed wild flowers upon the grave; and then together they went away, hand in hand, and left the dead to the long sleep that heals all heart-aches and ends all sorrows. CHAPTER III. Whatever the lagging dragging journey may have been to the rest of the emigrants, it was a wonder and delight to the children, a world of enchantment; and they believed it to be peopled with the mysterious dwarfs and giants and goblins that figured in the tales the negro slaves were in the habit of telling them nightly by the shuddering light of the kitchen fire. At the end of nearly a week of travel, the party went into camp near a shabby village which was caving, house by house, into the hungry Mississippi. The river astonished the children beyond measure. Its mile-breadth of water seemed an ocean to them, in the shadowy twilight, and the vague riband of trees on the further shore, the verge of a continent which surely none but they had ever seen before. "Uncle Dan'l"(colored,) aged 40; his wife, "aunt Jinny," aged 30, "Young Miss" Emily Hawkins, "Young Mars" Washington Hawkins and "Young Mars" Clay, the new member of the family, ranged themselves on a log, after supper, and contemplated the marvelous river and discussed it. The moon rose and sailed aloft through a maze of shredded cloud-wreaths; the sombre river just perceptibly brightened under the veiled light; a deep silence pervaded the air and was emphasized, at intervals, rather than broken, by the hooting of an owl, the baying of a dog, or the muffled crash of a raving bank in the distance. The little company assembled on the log were all children (at least in simplicity and broad and comprehensive ignorance,) and the remarks they made about the river were in keeping with the character; and so awed were they by the grandeur and the solemnity of the scene before then, and by their belief that the air was filled with invisible spirits and that the faint zephyrs were caused by their passing wings, that all their talk took to itself a tinge of the supernatural, and their voices were subdued to a low and reverent tone. Suddenly Uncle Dan'l exclaimed: "Chil'en, dah's sum fin a comin!" All crowded close together and every heart beat faster. Uncle Dan'l pointed down the river with his bony finger. A deep coughing sound troubled the stillness, way toward a wooded cape that jetted into the stream a mile distant. All in an instant a fierce eye of fire shot out froth behind the cape and sent a long brilliant pathway quivering athwart the dusky water. The coughing grew louder and louder, the glaring eye grew larger and still larger, glared wilder and still wilder. A huge shape developed itself out of the gloom, and from its tall duplicate horns dense volumes of smoke, starred and spangled with sparks, poured out and went tumbling away into the farther darkness. Nearer and nearer the thing came, till its long sides began to glow with spots of light which mirrored themselves in the river and attended the monster like a torchlight procession. "What is it! Oh, what is it, Uncle Dan'l!" With deep solemnity the answer came: "It's de Almighty! Git down on yo' knees!" It was not necessary to say it twice. They were all kneeling, in a moment. And then while the mysterious coughing rose stronger and stronger and the threatening glare reached farther and wider, the negro's voice lifted up its supplications: "O Lord', we's ben mighty wicked, an' we knows dat we 'zerve to go to de bad place, but good Lord, deah Lord, we ain't ready yit, we ain't ready --let dese po' chilen hab one mo' chance, jes' one mo' chance. Take de ole niggah if you's, got to hab somebody.--Good Lord, good deah Lord, we don't know whah you's a gwyne to, we don't know who you's got yo' eye on, but we knows by de way you's a comin', we knows by de way you's a tiltin' along in yo' charyot o' fiah dat some po' sinner's a gwyne to ketch it. But good Lord, dose chilen don't b'long heah, dey's f'm Obedstown whah dey don't know nuffin, an' you knows, yo' own sef, dat dey ain't 'sponsible. An' deah Lord, good Lord, it ain't like yo' mercy, it ain't like yo' pity, it ain't like yo' long-sufferin' lovin' kindness for to take dis kind o' 'vantage o' sick little chil'en as dose is when dey's so many ornery grown folks chuck full o' cussedness dat wants roastin' down dah. Oh, Lord, spah de little chil'en, don't tar de little chil'en away f'm dey frens, jes' let 'em off jes' dis once, and take it out'n de ole niggah. HEAH I IS, LORD, HEAH I IS! De ole niggah's ready, Lord, de ole----" The flaming and churning steamer was right abreast the party, and not twenty steps away. The awful thunder of a mud-valve suddenly burst forth, drowning the prayer, and as suddenly Uncle Dan'l snatched a child under each arm and scoured into the woods with the rest of the pack at his heels. And then, ashamed of himself, he halted in the deep darkness and shouted, (but rather feebly:) "Heah I is, Lord, heah I is!" There was a moment of throbbing suspense, and then, to the surprise and the comfort of the party, it was plain that the august presence had gone by, for its dreadful noises were receding. Uncle Dan'l headed a cautious reconnaissance in the direction of the log. Sure enough "the Lord" was just turning a point a short distance up the river, and while they looked the lights winked out and the coughing diminished by degrees and presently ceased altogether. "H'wsh! Well now dey's some folks says dey ain't no 'ficiency in prah. Dis Chile would like to know whah we'd a ben now if it warn't fo' dat prah? Dat's it. Dat's it!" "Uncle Dan'l, do you reckon it was the prayer that saved us?" said Clay. "Does I reckon? Don't I know it! Whah was yo' eyes? Warn't de Lord jes' a cumin' chow! chow! CHOW! an' a goin' on turrible--an' do de Lord carry on dat way 'dout dey's sumfin don't suit him? An' warn't he a lookin' right at dis gang heah, an' warn't he jes' a reachin' for 'em? An' d'you spec' he gwyne to let 'em off 'dout somebody ast him to do it? No indeedy!" "Do you reckon he saw, us, Uncle Dan'l? "De law sakes, Chile, didn't I see him a lookin' at us?". "Did you feel scared, Uncle Dan'l?" "No sah! When a man is 'gaged in prah, he ain't fraid o' nuffin--dey can't nuffin tetch him." "Well what did you run for?" "Well, I--I--mars Clay, when a man is under de influence ob de sperit, he do-no, what he's 'bout--no sah; dat man do-no what he's 'bout. You mout take an' tah de head off'n dat man an' he wouldn't scasely fine it out. Date's de Hebrew chil'en dat went frough de fiah; dey was burnt considable--ob coase dey was; but dey didn't know nuffin 'bout it--heal right up agin; if dey'd ben gals dey'd missed dey long haah, (hair,) maybe, but dey wouldn't felt de burn." "I don't know but what they were girls. I think they were." "Now mars Clay, you knows bettern dat. Sometimes a body can't tell whedder you's a sayin' what you means or whedder you's a sayin' what you don't mean, 'case you says 'em bofe de same way." "But how should I know whether they were boys or girls?" "Goodness sakes, mars Clay, don't de Good Book say? 'Sides, don't it call 'em de HE-brew chil'en? If dey was gals wouldn't dey be de SHE-brew chil'en? Some people dat kin read don't 'pear to take no notice when dey do read." "Well, Uncle Dan'l, I think that-----My! here comes another one up the river! There can't be two!" "We gone dis time--we done gone dis time, sho'! Dey ain't two, mars Clay--days de same one. De Lord kin 'pear eberywhah in a second. Goodness, how do fiah and de smoke do belch up! Dat mean business, honey. He comin' now like he fo'got sumfin. Come 'long, chil'en, time you's gwyne to roos'. Go 'long wid you--ole Uncle Daniel gwyne out in de woods to rastle in prah--de ole nigger gwyne to do what he kin to sabe you agin" He did go to the woods and pray; but he went so far that he doubted, himself, if the Lord heard him when He went by. CHAPTER IV. --Seventhly, Before his Voyage, He should make his peace with God, satisfie his Creditors if he be in debt; Pray earnestly to God to prosper him in his Voyage, and to keep him from danger, and, if he be 'sui juris' he should make his last will, and wisely order all his affairs, since many that go far abroad, return not home. (This good and Christian Counsel is given by Martinus Zeilerus in his Apodemical Canons before his Itinerary of Spain and Portugal.) Early in the morning Squire Hawkins took passage in a small steamboat, with his family and his two slaves, and presently the bell rang, the stage-plank; was hauled in, and the vessel proceeded up the river. The children and the slaves were not much more at ease after finding out that this monster was a creature of human contrivance than they were the night before when they thought it the Lord of heaven and earth. They started, in fright, every time the gauge-cocks sent out an angry hiss, and they quaked from head to foot when the mud-valves thundered. The shivering of the boat under the beating of the wheels was sheer misery to them. But of course familiarity with these things soon took away their terrors, and then the voyage at once became a glorious adventure, a royal progress through the very heart and home of romance, a realization of their rosiest wonder-dreams. They sat by the hour in the shade of the pilot house on the hurricane deck and looked out over the curving expanses of the river sparkling in the sunlight. Sometimes the boat fought the mid-stream current, with a verdant world on either hand, and remote from both; sometimes she closed in under a point, where the dead water and the helping eddies were, and shaved the bank so closely that the decks were swept by the jungle of over-hanging willows and littered with a spoil of leaves; departing from these "points" she regularly crossed the river every five miles, avoiding the "bight" of the great binds and thus escaping the strong current; sometimes she went out and skirted a high "bluff" sand-bar in the middle of the stream, and occasionally followed it up a little too far and touched upon the shoal water at its head--and then the intelligent craft refused to run herself aground, but "smelt" the bar, and straightway the foamy streak that streamed away from her bows vanished, a great foamless wave rolled forward and passed her under way, and in this instant she leaned far over on her side, shied from the bar and fled square away from the danger like a frightened thing--and the pilot was lucky if he managed to "straighten her up" before she drove her nose into the opposite bank; sometimes she approached a solid wall of tall trees as if she meant to break through it, but all of a sudden a little crack would open just enough to admit her, and away she would go plowing through the "chute" with just barely room enough between the island on one side and the main land on the other; in this sluggish water she seemed to go like a racehorse; now and then small log cabins appeared in little clearings, with the never-failing frowsy women and girls in soiled and faded linsey-woolsey leaning in the doors or against woodpiles and rail fences, gazing sleepily at the passing show; sometimes she found shoal water, going out at the head of those "chutes" or crossing the river, and then a deck-hand stood on the bow and hove the lead, while the boat slowed down and moved cautiously; sometimes she stopped a moment at a landing and took on some freight or a passenger while a crowd of slouchy white men and negroes stood on the bank and looked sleepily on with their hands in their pantaloons pockets,--of course--for they never took them out except to stretch, and when they did this they squirmed about and reached their fists up into the air and lifted themselves on tip-toe in an ecstasy of enjoyment. When the sun went down it turned all the broad river to a national banner laid in gleaming bars of gold and purple and crimson; and in time these glories faded out in the twilight and left the fairy archipelagoes reflecting their fringing foliage in the steely mirror of the stream. At night the boat forged on through the deep solitudes of the river, hardly ever discovering a light to testify to a human presence--mile after mile and league after league the vast bends were guarded by unbroken walls of forest that had never been disturbed by the voice or the foot-fall of man or felt the edge of his sacrilegious axe. An hour after supper the moon came up, and Clay and Washington ascended to the hurricane deck to revel again in their new realm of enchantment. They ran races up and down the deck; climbed about the bell; made friends with the passenger-dogs chained under the lifeboat; tried to make friends with a passenger-bear fastened to the verge-staff but were not encouraged; "skinned the cat" on the hog-chains; in a word, exhausted the amusement-possibilities of the deck. Then they looked wistfully up at the pilot house, and finally, little by little, Clay ventured up there, followed diffidently by Washington. The pilot turned presently to "get his stern-marks," saw the lads and invited them in. Now their happiness was complete. This cosy little house, built entirely of glass and commanding a marvelous prospect in every direction was a magician's throne to them and their enjoyment of the place was simply boundless. They sat them down on a high bench and looked miles ahead and saw the wooded capes fold back and reveal the bends beyond; and they looked miles to the rear and saw the silvery highway diminish its breadth by degrees and close itself together in the distance. Presently the pilot said: "By George, yonder comes the Amaranth!" A spark appeared, close to the water, several miles down the river. The pilot took his glass and looked at it steadily for a moment, and said, chiefly to himself: "It can't be the Blue Wing. She couldn't pick us up this way. It's the Amaranth, sure!" He bent over a speaking tube and said: "Who's on watch down there?" A hollow, unhuman voice rumbled up through the tube in answer: "I am. Second engineer." "Good! You want to stir your stumps, now, Harry--the Amaranth's just turned the point--and she's just a--humping herself, too!" The pilot took hold of a rope that stretched out forward, jerked it twice, and two mellow strokes of the big bell responded. A voice out on the deck shouted: "Stand by, down there, with that labboard lead!" "No, I don't want the lead," said the pilot, "I want you. Roust out the old man--tell him the Amaranth's coming. And go and call Jim--tell him." "Aye-aye, sir!" The "old man" was the captain--he is always called so, on steamboats and ships; "Jim" was the other pilot. Within two minutes both of these men were flying up the pilothouse stairway, three steps at a jump. Jim was in his shirt sleeves,--with his coat and vest on his arm. He said: "I was just turning in. Where's the glass" He took it and looked: "Don't appear to be any night-hawk on the jack-staff--it's the Amaranth, dead sure!" The captain took a good long look, and only said: "Damnation!" George Davis, the pilot on watch, shouted to the night-watchman on deck: "How's she loaded?" "Two inches by the head, sir." "'T ain't enough!" The captain shouted, now: "Call the mate. Tell him to call all hands and get a lot of that sugar forrard--put her ten inches by the head. Lively, now!" "Aye-aye, sir." A riot of shouting and trampling floated up from below, presently, and the uneasy steering of the boat soon showed that she was getting "down by the head." The three men in the pilot house began to talk in short, sharp sentences, low and earnestly. As their excitement rose, their voices went down. As fast as one of them put down the spy-glass another took it up--but always with a studied air of calmness. Each time the verdict was: "She's a gaining!" The captain spoke through the tube: "What steam are You carrying?" "A hundred and forty-two, sir! But she's getting hotter and hotter all the time." The boat was straining and groaning and quivering like a monster in pain. Both pilots were at work now, one on each side of the wheel, with their coats and vests off, their bosoms and collars wide open and the perspiration flowing down heir faces. They were holding the boat so close to the shore that the willows swept the guards almost from stem to stern. "Stand by!" whispered George. "All ready!" said Jim, under his breath. "Let her come!" The boat sprang away, from the bank like a deer, and darted in a long diagonal toward the other shore. She closed in again and thrashed her fierce way along the willows as before. The captain put down the glass: "Lord how she walks up on us! I do hate to be beat!" "Jim," said George, looking straight ahead, watching the slightest yawing of the boat and promptly meeting it with the wheel, "how'll it do to try Murderer's Chute?" "Well, it's--it's taking chances. How was the cottonwood stump on the false point below Boardman's Island this morning?" "Water just touching the roots." "Well it's pretty close work. That gives six feet scant in the head of Murderer's Chute. We can just barely rub through if we hit it exactly right. But it's worth trying. She don't dare tackle it!"--meaning the Amaranth. In another instant the Boreas plunged into what seemed a crooked creek, and the Amaranth's approaching lights were shut out in a moment. Not a whisper was uttered, now, but the three men stared ahead into the shadows and two of them spun the wheel back and forth with anxious watchfulness while the steamer tore along. The chute seemed to come to an end every fifty yards, but always opened out in time. Now the head of it was at hand. George tapped the big bell three times, two leadsmen sprang to their posts, and in a moment their weird cries rose on the night air and were caught up and repeated by two men on the upper deck: "No-o bottom!" "De-e-p four!" "Half three!" "Quarter three!" "Mark under wa-a-ter three!" "Half twain!" "Quarter twain!-----" Davis pulled a couple of ropes--there was a jingling of small bells far below, the boat's speed slackened, and the pent steam began to whistle and the gauge-cocks to scream: "By the mark twain!" "Quar--ter--her--er--less twain!" "Eight and a half!" "Eight feet!" "Seven-ana-half!" Another jingling of little bells and the wheels ceased turning altogether. The whistling of the steam was something frightful now--it almost drowned all other noises. "Stand by to meet her!" George had the wheel hard down and was standing on a spoke. "All ready!" The, boat hesitated seemed to hold her breath, as did the captain and pilots--and then she began to fall away to starboard and every eye lighted: "Now then!--meet her! meet her! Snatch her!" The wheel flew to port so fast that the spokes blended into a spider-web --the swing of the boat subsided--she steadied herself---- "Seven feet!" "Sev--six and a half!" "Six feet! Six f----" Bang! She hit the bottom! George shouted through the tube: "Spread her wide open! Whale it at her!" Pow-wow-chow! The escape-pipes belched snowy pillars of steam aloft, the boat ground and surged and trembled--and slid over into---- "M-a-r-k twain!" "Quarter-her----" "Tap! tap! tap!" (to signify "Lay in the leads") And away she went, flying up the willow shore, with the whole silver sea of the Mississippi stretching abroad on every hand. No Amaranth in sight! "Ha-ha, boys, we took a couple of tricks that time!" said the captain. And just at that moment a red glare appeared in the head of the chute and the Amaranth came springing after them! "Well, I swear!" "Jim, what is the meaning of that?" "I'll tell you what's the meaning of it. That hail we had at Napoleon was Wash Hastings, wanting to come to Cairo--and we didn't stop. He's in that pilot house, now, showing those mud turtles how to hunt for easy water." "That's it! I thought it wasn't any slouch that was running that middle bar in Hog-eye Bend. If it's Wash Hastings--well, what he don't know about the river ain't worth knowing--a regular gold-leaf, kid-glove, diamond breastpin pilot Wash Hastings is. We won't take any tricks off of him, old man!" "I wish I'd a stopped for him, that's all." The Amaranth was within three hundred yards of the Boreas, and still gaining. The "old man" spoke through the tube: "What is she-carrying now?" "A hundred and sixty-five, sir!" "How's your wood?" "Pine all out-cypress half gone-eating up cotton-wood like pie!" "Break into that rosin on the main deck-pile it in, the boat can pay for it!" Soon the boat was plunging and quivering and screaming more madly than ever. But the Amaranth's head was almost abreast the Boreas's stern: "How's your steam, now, Harry?" "Hundred and eighty-two, sir!" "Break up the casks of bacon in the forrard hold! Pile it in! Levy on that turpentine in the fantail-drench every stick of wood with it!" The boat was a moving earthquake by this time: "How is she now?" "A hundred and ninety-six and still a-swelling!--water, below the middle gauge-cocks!--carrying every pound she can stand!--nigger roosting on the safety-valve!" "Good! How's your draft?" "Bully! Every time a nigger heaves a stick of wood into the furnace he goes out the chimney, with it!" The Amaranth drew steadily up till her jack-staff breasted the Boreas's wheel-house--climbed along inch by inch till her chimneys breasted it --crept along, further and further, till the boats were wheel to wheel --and then they, closed up with a heavy jolt and locked together tight and fast in the middle of the big river under the flooding moonlight! A roar and a hurrah went up from the crowded decks of both steamers--all hands rushed to the guards to look and shout and gesticulate--the weight careened the vessels over toward each other--officers flew hither and thither cursing and storming, trying to drive the people amidships--both captains were leaning over their railings shaking their fists, swearing and threatening--black volumes of smoke rolled up and canopied the scene,--delivering a rain of sparks upon the vessels--two pistol shots rang out, and both captains dodged unhurt and the packed masses of passengers surged back and fell apart while the shrieks of women and children soared above the intolerable din---- And then there was a booming roar, a thundering crash, and the riddled Amaranth dropped loose from her hold and drifted helplessly away! Instantly the fire-doors of the Boreas were thrown open and the men began dashing buckets of water into the furnaces--for it would have been death and destruction to stop the engines with such a head of steam on. As soon as possible the Boreas dropped down to the floating wreck and took off the dead, the wounded and the unhurt--at least all that could be got at, for the whole forward half of the boat was a shapeless ruin, with the great chimneys lying crossed on top of it, and underneath were a dozen victims imprisoned alive and wailing for help. While men with axes worked with might and main to free these poor fellows, the Boreas's boats went about, picking up stragglers from the river. And now a new horror presented itself. The wreck took fire from the dismantled furnaces! Never did men work with a heartier will than did those stalwart braves with the axes. But it was of no use. The fire ate its way steadily, despising the bucket brigade that fought it. It scorched the clothes, it singed the hair of the axemen--it drove them back, foot by foot-inch by inch--they wavered, struck a final blow in the teeth of the enemy, and surrendered. And as they fell back they heard prisoned voices saying: "Don't leave us! Don't desert us! Don't, don't do it!" And one poor fellow said: "I am Henry Worley, striker of the Amaranth! My mother lives in St. Louis. Tell her a lie for a poor devil's sake, please. Say I was killed in an instant and never knew what hurt me--though God knows I've neither scratch nor bruise this moment! It's hard to burn up in a coop like this with the whole wide world so near. Good-bye boys--we've all got to come to it at last, anyway!" The Boreas stood away out of danger, and the ruined steamer went drifting down the stream an island of wreathing and climbing flame that vomited clouds of smoke from time to time, and glared more fiercely and sent its luminous tongues higher and higher after each emission. A shriek at intervals told of a captive that had met his doom. The wreck lodged upon a sandbar, and when the Boreas turned the next point on her upward journey it was still burning with scarcely abated fury. When the boys came down into the main saloon of the Boreas, they saw a pitiful sight and heard a world of pitiful sounds. Eleven poor creatures lay dead and forty more lay moaning, or pleading or screaming, while a score of Good Samaritans moved among them doing what they could to relieve their sufferings; bathing their chinless faces and bodies with linseed oil and lime water and covering the places with bulging masses of raw cotton that gave to every face and form a dreadful and unhuman aspect. A little wee French midshipman of fourteen lay fearfully injured, but never uttered a sound till a physician of Memphis was about to dress his hurts. Then he said: "Can I get well? You need not be afraid to tell me." "No--I--I am afraid you can not." "Then do not waste your time with me--help those that can get well." "But----" "Help those that can get well! It is, not for me to be a girl. I carry the blood of eleven generations of soldiers in my veins!" The physician--himself a man who had seen service in the navy in his time--touched his hat to this little hero, and passed on. The head engineer of the Amaranth, a grand specimen of physical manhood, struggled to his feet a ghastly spectacle and strode toward his brother, the second engineer, who was unhurt. He said: "You were on watch. You were boss. You would not listen to me when I begged you to reduce your steam. Take that!--take it to my wife and tell her it comes from me by the hand of my murderer! Take it--and take my curse with it to blister your heart a hundred years--and may you live so long!" And he tore a ring from his finger, stripping flesh and skin with it, threw it down and fell dead! But these things must not be dwelt upon. The Boreas landed her dreadful cargo at the next large town and delivered it over to a multitude of eager hands and warm southern hearts--a cargo amounting by this time to 39 wounded persons and 22 dead bodies. And with these she delivered a list of 96 missing persons that had drowned or otherwise perished at the scene of the disaster. A jury of inquest was impaneled, and after due deliberation and inquiry they returned the inevitable American verdict which has been so familiar to our ears all the days of our lives--"NOBODY TO BLAME." **[The incidents of the explosion are not invented. They happened just as they are told.--The Authors.] CHAPTER V. Il veut faire secher de la neige au four et la vendre pour du sel blanc. When the Boreas backed away from the land to continue her voyage up the river, the Hawkinses were richer by twenty-four hours of experience in the contemplation of human suffering and in learning through honest hard work how to relieve it. And they were richer in another way also. In the early turmoil an hour after the explosion, a little black-eyed girl of five years, frightened and crying bitterly, was struggling through the throng in the Boreas' saloon calling her mother and father, but no one answered. Something in the face of Mr. Hawkins attracted her and she came and looked up at him; was satisfied, and took refuge with him. He petted her, listened to her troubles, and said he would find her friends for her. Then he put her in a state-room with his children and told them to be kind to her (the adults of his party were all busy with the wounded) and straightway began his search. It was fruitless. But all day he and his wife made inquiries, and hoped against hope. All that they could learn was that the child and her parents came on board at New Orleans, where they had just arrived in a vessel from Cuba; that they looked like people from the Atlantic States; that the family name was Van Brunt and the child's name Laura. This was all. The parents had not been seen since the explosion. The child's manners were those of a little lady, and her clothes were daintier and finer than any Mrs. Hawkins had ever seen before. As the hours dragged on the child lost heart, and cried so piteously for her mother that it seemed to the Hawkinses that the moanings and the wailings of the mutilated men and women in the saloon did not so strain at their heart-strings as the sufferings of this little desolate creature. They tried hard to comfort her; and in trying, learned to love her; they could not help it, seeing how she clung, to them and put her arms about their necks and found-no solace but in their kind eyes and comforting words: There was a question in both their hearts--a question that rose up and asserted itself with more and more pertinacity as the hours wore on--but both hesitated to give it voice--both kept silence --and--waited. But a time came at last when the matter would bear delay no longer. The boat had landed, and the dead and the wounded were being conveyed to the shore. The tired child was asleep in the arms of Mrs. Hawkins. Mr. Hawkins came into their presence and stood without speaking. His eyes met his wife's; then both looked at the child--and as they looked it stirred in its sleep and nestled closer; an expression of contentment and peace settled upon its face that touched the mother-heart; and when the eyes of husband and wife met again, the question was asked and answered. When the Boreas had journeyed some four hundred miles from the time the Hawkinses joined her, a long rank of steamboats was sighted, packed side by side at a wharf like sardines, in a box, and above and beyond them rose the domes and steeples and general architectural confusion of a city--a city with an imposing umbrella of black smoke spread over it. This was St. Louis. The children of the Hawkins family were playing about the hurricane deck, and the father and mother were sitting in the lee of the pilot house essaying to keep order and not greatly grieved that they were not succeeding. "They're worth all the trouble they are, Nancy." "Yes, and more, Si." "I believe you! You wouldn't sell one of them at a good round figure?" "Not for all the money in the bank, Si." "My own sentiments every time. It is true we are not rich--but still you are not sorry---you haven't any misgivings about the additions?" "No. God will provide" "Amen. And so you wouldn't even part with Clay? Or Laura!" "Not for anything in the world. I love them just the same as I love my own: They pet me and spoil me even more than the others do, I think. I reckon we'll get along, Si." "Oh yes, it will all come out right, old mother. I wouldn't be afraid to adopt a thousand children if I wanted to, for there's that Tennessee Land, you know--enough to make an army of them rich. A whole army, Nancy! You and I will never see the day, but these little chaps will. Indeed they will. One of these days it will be the rich Miss Emily Hawkins--and the wealthy Miss Laura Van Brunt Hawkins--and the Hon. George Washington Hawkins, millionaire--and Gov. Henry Clay Hawkins, millionaire! That is the way the world will word it! Don't let's ever fret about the children, Nancy--never in the world. They're all right. Nancy, there's oceans and oceans of money in that land--mark my words!" The children had stopped playing, for the moment, and drawn near to listen. Hawkins said: "Washington, my boy, what will you do when you get to be one of the richest men in the world?" "I don't know, father. Sometimes I think I'll have a balloon and go up in the air; and sometimes I think I'll have ever so many books; and sometimes I think I'll have ever so many weathercocks and water-wheels; or have a machine like that one you and Colonel Sellers bought; and sometimes I think I'll have--well, somehow I don't know--somehow I ain't certain; maybe I'll get a steamboat first." "The same old chap!--always just a little bit divided about things.--And what will you do when you get to be one of the richest men in the world, Clay?" "I don't know, sir. My mother--my other mother that's gone away--she always told me to work along and not be much expecting to get rich, and then I wouldn't be disappointed if I didn't get rich. And so I reckon it's better for me to wait till I get rich, and then by that time maybe I'll know what I'll want--but I don't now, sir." "Careful old head!--Governor Henry Clay Hawkins!--that's what you'll be, Clay, one of these days. Wise old head! weighty old head! Go on, now, and play--all of you. It's a prime lot, Nancy; as the Obedstown folk say about their hogs." A smaller steamboat received the Hawkinses and their fortunes, and bore them a hundred and thirty miles still higher up the Mississippi, and landed them at a little tumble-down village on the Missouri shore in the twilight of a mellow October day. The next morning they harnessed up their team and for two days they wended slowly into the interior through almost roadless and uninhabited forest solitudes. And when for the last time they pitched their tents, metaphorically speaking, it was at the goal of their hopes, their new home. By the muddy roadside stood a new log cabin, one story high--the store; clustered in the neighborhood were ten or twelve more cabins, some new, some old. In the sad light of the departing day the place looked homeless enough. Two or three coatless young men sat in front of the store on a dry-goods box, and whittled it with their knives, kicked it with their vast boots, and shot tobacco-juice at various marks. Several ragged negroes leaned comfortably against the posts of the awning and contemplated the arrival of the wayfarers with lazy curiosity. All these people presently managed to drag themselves to the vicinity of the Hawkins' wagon, and there they took up permanent positions, hands in pockets and resting on one leg; and thus anchored they proceeded to look and enjoy. Vagrant dogs came wagging around and making inquiries of Hawkins's dog, which were not satisfactory and they made war on him in concert. This would have interested the citizens but it was too many on one to amount to anything as a fight, and so they commanded the peace and the foreign dog coiled his tail and took sanctuary under the wagon. Slatternly negro girls and women slouched along with pails deftly balanced on their heads, and joined the group and stared. Little half dressed white boys, and little negro boys with nothing whatever on but tow-linen shirts with a fine southern exposure, came from various directions and stood with their hands locked together behind them and aided in the inspection. The rest of the population were laying down their employments and getting ready to come, when a man burst through the assemblage and seized the new-comers by the hands in a frenzy of welcome, and exclaimed--indeed almost shouted: "Well who could have believed it! Now is it you sure enough--turn around! hold up your heads! I want to look at you good! Well, well, well, it does seem most too good to be true, I declare! Lord, I'm so glad to see you! Does a body's whole soul good to look at you! Shake hands again! Keep on shaking hands! Goodness gracious alive. What will my wife say?--Oh yes indeed, it's so!--married only last week--lovely, perfectly lovely creature, the noblest woman that ever--you'll like her, Nancy! Like her? Lord bless me you'll love her--you'll dote on her --you'll be twins! Well, well, well, let me look at you again! Same old --why bless my life it was only jest this very morning that my wife says, 'Colonel'--she will call me Colonel spite of everything I can do--she says 'Colonel, something tells me somebody's coming!' and sure enough here you are, the last people on earth a body could have expected. Why she'll think she's a prophetess--and hanged if I don't think so too --and you know there ain't any, country but what a prophet's an honor to, as the proverb says. Lord bless me and here's the children, too! Washington, Emily, don't you know me? Come, give us a kiss. Won't I fix you, though!--ponies, cows, dogs, everything you can think of that'll delight a child's heart-and--Why how's this? Little strangers? Well you won't be any strangers here, I can tell you. Bless your souls we'll make you think you never was at home before--'deed and 'deed we will, I can tell you! Come, now, bundle right along with me. You can't glorify any hearth stone but mine in this camp, you know--can't eat anybody's bread but mine--can't do anything but just make yourselves perfectly at home and comfortable, and spread yourselves out and rest! You hear me! Here--Jim, Tom, Pete, Jake, fly around! Take that team to my place--put the wagon in my lot--put the horses under the shed, and get out hay and oats and fill them up! Ain't any hay and oats? Well get some--have it charged to me--come, spin around, now! Now, Hawkins, the procession's ready; mark time, by the left flank, forward-march!" And the Colonel took the lead, with Laura astride his neck, and the newly-inspired and very grateful immigrants picked up their tired limbs with quite a spring in them and dropped into his wake. Presently they were ranged about an old-time fire-place whose blazing logs sent out rather an unnecessary amount of heat, but that was no matter-supper was needed, and to have it, it had to be cooked. This apartment was the family bedroom, parlor, library and kitchen, all in one. The matronly little wife of the Colonel moved hither and thither and in and out with her pots and pans in her hands', happiness in her heart and a world of admiration of her husband in her eyes. And when at last she had spread the cloth and loaded it with hot corn bread, fried chickens, bacon, buttermilk, coffee, and all manner of country luxuries, Col. Sellers modified his harangue and for a moment throttled it down to the orthodox pitch for a blessing, and then instantly burst forth again as from a parenthesis and clattered on with might and main till every stomach in the party was laden with all it could carry. And when the new-comers ascended the ladder to their comfortable feather beds on the second floor--to wit the garret--Mrs. Hawkins was obliged to say: "Hang the fellow, I do believe he has gone wilder than ever, but still a body can't help liking him if they would--and what is more, they don't ever want to try when they see his eyes and hear him talk." Within a week or two the Hawkinses were comfortably domiciled in a new log house, and were beginning to feel at home. The children were put to school; at least it was what passed for a school in those days: a place where tender young humanity devoted itself for eight or ten hours a day to learning incomprehensible rubbish by heart out of books and reciting it by rote, like parrots; so that a finished education consisted simply of a permanent headache and the ability to read without stopping to spell the words or take breath. Hawkins bought out the village store for a song and proceeded to reap the profits, which amounted to but little more than another song. The wonderful speculation hinted at by Col. Sellers in his letter turned out to be the raising of mules for the Southern market; and really it promised very well. The young stock cost but a trifle, the rearing but another trifle, and so Hawkins was easily persuaded to embark his slender means in the enterprise and turn over the keep and care of the animals to Sellers and Uncle Dan'l. All went well: Business prospered little by little. Hawkins even built a new house, made it two full stories high and put a lightning rod on it. People came two or three miles to look at it. But they knew that the rod attracted the lightning, and so they gave the place a wide berth in a storm, for they were familiar with marksmanship and doubted if the lightning could hit that small stick at a distance of a mile and a half oftener than once in a hundred and fifty times. Hawkins fitted out his house with "store" furniture from St. Louis, and the fame of its magnificence went abroad in the land. Even the parlor carpet was from St. Louis--though the other rooms were clothed in the "rag" carpeting of the country. Hawkins put up the first "paling" fence that had ever adorned the village; and he did not stop there, but whitewashed it. His oil-cloth window-curtains had noble pictures on them of castles such as had never been seen anywhere in the world but on window-curtains. Hawkins enjoyed the admiration these prodigies compelled, but he always smiled to think how poor and, cheap they were, compared to what the Hawkins mansion would display in a future day after the Tennessee Land should have borne its minted fruit. Even Washington observed, once, that when the Tennessee Land was sold he would have a "store" carpet in his and Clay's room like the one in the parlor. This pleased Hawkins, but it troubled his wife. It did not seem wise, to her, to put one's entire earthly trust in the Tennessee Land and never think of doing any work. Hawkins took a weekly Philadelphia newspaper and a semi-weekly St. Louis journal--almost the only papers that came to the village, though Godey's Lady's Book found a good market there and was regarded as the perfection of polite literature by some of the ablest critics in the place. Perhaps it is only fair to explain that we are writing of a by gone age--some twenty or thirty years ago. In the two newspapers referred to lay the secret of Hawkins's growing prosperity. They kept him informed of the condition of the crops south and east, and thus he knew which articles were likely to be in demand and which articles were likely to be unsalable, weeks and even months in advance of the simple folk about him. As the months went by he came to be regarded as a wonderfully lucky man. It did not occur to the citizens that brains were at the bottom of his luck. His title of "Squire" came into vogue again, but only for a season; for, as his wealth and popularity augmented, that title, by imperceptible stages, grew up into "Judge;" indeed' it bade fair to swell into "General" bye and bye. All strangers of consequence who visited the village gravitated to the Hawkins Mansion and became guests of the "Judge." Hawkins had learned to like the people of his section very much. They were uncouth and not cultivated, and not particularly industrious; but they were honest and straightforward, and their virtuous ways commanded respect. Their patriotism was strong, their pride in the flag was of the old fashioned pattern, their love of country amounted to idolatry. Whoever dragged the national honor in the dirt won their deathless hatred. They still cursed Benedict Arnold as if he were a personal friend who had broken faith--but a week gone by. CHAPTER VI. We skip ten years and this history finds certain changes to record. Judge Hawkins and Col. Sellers have made and lost two or three moderate fortunes in the meantime and are now pinched by poverty. Sellers has two pairs of twins and four extras. In Hawkins's family are six children of his own and two adopted ones. From time to time, as fortune smiled, the elder children got the benefit of it, spending the lucky seasons at excellent schools in St. Louis and the unlucky ones at home in the chafing discomfort of straightened circumstances. Neither the Hawkins children nor the world that knew them ever supposed that one of the girls was of alien blood and parentage: Such difference as existed between Laura and Emily is not uncommon in a family. The girls had grown up as sisters, and they were both too young at the time of the fearful accident on the Mississippi to know that it was that which had thrown their lives together. And yet any one who had known the secret of Laura's birth and had seen her during these passing years, say at the happy age of twelve or thirteen, would have fancied that he knew the reason why she was more winsome than her school companion. Philosophers dispute whether it is the promise of what she will be in the careless school-girl, that makes her attractive, the undeveloped maidenhood, or the mere natural, careless sweetness of childhood. If Laura at twelve was beginning to be a beauty, the thought of it had never entered her head. No, indeed. Her mind wad filled with more important thoughts. To her simple school-girl dress she was beginning to add those mysterious little adornments of ribbon-knots and ear-rings, which were the subject of earnest consultations with her grown friends. When she tripped down the street on a summer's day with her dainty hands propped into the ribbon-broidered pockets of her apron, and elbows consequently more or less akimbo with her wide Leghorn hat flapping down and hiding her face one moment and blowing straight up against her fore head the next and making its revealment of fresh young beauty; with all her pretty girlish airs and graces in full play, and that sweet ignorance of care and that atmosphere of innocence and purity all about her that belong to her gracious time of life, indeed she was a vision to warm the coldest heart and bless and cheer the saddest. Willful, generous, forgiving, imperious, affectionate, improvident, bewitching, in short--was Laura at this period. Could she have remained there, this history would not need to be written. But Laura had grown to be almost a woman in these few years, to the end of which we have now come--years which had seen Judge Hawkins pass through so many trials. When the judge's first bankruptcy came upon him, a homely human angel intruded upon him with an offer of $1,500 for the Tennessee Land. Mrs. Hawkins said take it. It was a grievous temptation, but the judge withstood it. He said the land was for the children--he could not rob them of their future millions for so paltry a sum. When the second blight fell upon him, another angel appeared and offered $3,000 for the land. He was in such deep distress that he allowed his wife to persuade him to let the papers be drawn; but when his children came into his presence in their poor apparel, he felt like a traitor and refused to sign. But now he was down again, and deeper in the mire than ever. He paced the floor all day, he scarcely slept at night. He blushed even to acknowledge it to himself, but treason was in his mind--he was meditating, at last, the sale of the land. Mrs. Hawkins stepped into the room. He had not spoken a word, but he felt as guilty as if she had caught him in some shameful act. She said: "Si, I do not know what we are going to do. The children are not fit to be seen, their clothes are in such a state. But there's something more serious still.--There is scarcely a bite in the house to eat" "Why, Nancy, go to Johnson----." "Johnson indeed! You took that man's part when he hadn't a friend in the world, and you built him up and made him rich. And here's the result of it: He lives in our fine house, and we live in his miserable log cabin. He has hinted to our children that he would rather they wouldn't come about his yard to play with his children,--which I can bear, and bear easy enough, for they're not a sort we want to associate with much--but what I can't bear with any quietness at all, is his telling Franky our bill was running pretty high this morning when I sent him for some meal --and that was all he said, too--didn't give him the meal--turned off and went to talking with the Hargrave girls about some stuff they wanted to cheapen." "Nancy, this is astounding!" "And so it is, I warrant you. I've kept still, Si, as long as ever I could. Things have been getting worse and worse, and worse and worse, every single day; I don't go out of the house, I feel so down; but you had trouble enough, and I wouldn't say a word--and I wouldn't say a word now, only things have got so bad that I don't know what to do, nor where to turn." And she gave way and put her face in her hands and cried. "Poor child, don't grieve so. I never thought that of Johnson. I am clear at my wit's end. I don't know what in the world to do. Now if somebody would come along and offer $3,000--Uh, if somebody only would come along and offer $3,000 for that Tennessee Land." "You'd sell it, S!" said Mrs. Hawkins excitedly. "Try me!" Mrs. Hawkins was out of the room in a moment. Within a minute she was back again with a business-looking stranger, whom she seated, and then she took her leave again. Hawkins said to himself, "How can a man ever lose faith? When the blackest hour comes, Providence always comes with it--ah, this is the very timeliest help that ever poor harried devil had; if this blessed man offers but a thousand I'll embrace him like a brother!" The stranger said: "I am aware that you own 75,000 acres, of land in East Tennessee, and without sacrificing your time, I will come to the point at once. I am agent of an iron manufacturing company, and they empower me to offer you ten thousand dollars for that land." Hawkins's heart bounded within him. His whole frame was racked and wrenched with fettered hurrahs. His first impulse was to shout "Done! and God bless the iron company, too!" But a something flitted through his mind, and his opened lips uttered nothing. The enthusiasm faded away from his eyes, and the look of a man who is thinking took its place. Presently, in a hesitating, undecided way, he said: "Well, I--it don't seem quite enough. That--that is a very valuable property--very valuable. It's brim full of iron-ore, sir--brim full of it! And copper, coal,--everything--everything you can think of! Now, I'll tell you what I'll, do. I'll reserve everything except the iron, and I'll sell them the iron property for $15,000 cash, I to go in with them and own an undivided interest of one-half the concern--or the stock, as you may say. I'm out of business, and I'd just as soon help run the thing as not. Now how does that strike you?" "Well, I am only an agent of these people, who are friends of mine, and I am not even paid for my services. To tell you the truth, I have tried to persuade them not to go into the thing; and I have come square out with their offer, without throwing out any feelers--and I did it in the hope that you would refuse. A man pretty much always refuses another man's first offer, no matter what it is. But I have performed my duty, and will take pleasure in telling them what you say." He was about to rise. Hawkins said, "Wait a bit." Hawkins thought again. And the substance of his thought was: "This is a deep man; this is a very deep man; I don't like his candor; your ostentatiously candid business man's a deep fox--always a deep fox; this man's that iron company himself--that's what he is; he wants that property, too; I am not so blind but I can see that; he don't want the company to go into this thing--O, that's very good; yes, that's very good indeed--stuff! he'll be back here tomorrow, sure, and take my offer; take it? I'll risk anything he is suffering to take it now; here--I must mind what I'm about. What has started this sudden excitement about iron? I wonder what is in the wind? just as sure as I'm alive this moment, there's something tremendous stirring in iron speculation" [here Hawkins got up and began to pace the floor with excited eyes and with gesturing hands]--"something enormous going on in iron, without the shadow of a doubt, and here I sit mousing in the dark and never knowing anything about it; great heaven, what an escape I've made! this underhanded mercenary creature might have taken me up--and ruined me! but I have escaped, and I warrant me I'll not put my foot into--" He stopped and turned toward the stranger; saying: "I have made you a proposition, you have not accepted it, and I desire that you will consider that I have made none. At the same time my conscience will not allow me to--. Please alter the figures I named to thirty thousand dollars, if you will, and let the proposition go to the company--I will stick to it if it breaks my heart!" The stranger looked amused, and there was a pretty well defined touch of surprise in his expression, too, but Hawkins never noticed it. Indeed he scarcely noticed anything or knew what he was about. The man left; Hawkins flung himself into a chair; thought a few moments, then glanced around, looked frightened, sprang to the door---- "Too late--too late! He's gone! Fool that I am! always a fool! Thirty thousand--ass that I am! Oh, why didn't I say fifty thousand!" He plunged his hands into his hair and leaned his elbows on his knees, and fell to rocking himself back and forth in anguish. Mrs. Hawkins sprang in, beaming: "Well, Si?" "Oh, con-found the con-founded--con-found it, Nancy. I've gone and done it, now!" "Done what Si for mercy's sake!" "Done everything! Ruined everything!" "Tell me, tell me, tell me! Don't keep a body in such suspense. Didn't he buy, after all? Didn't he make an offer?" Offer? He offered $10,000 for our land, and----" "Thank the good providence from the very bottom of my heart of hearts! What sort of ruin do you call that, Si!" "Nancy, do you suppose I listened to such a preposterous proposition? No! Thank fortune I'm not a simpleton! I saw through the pretty scheme in a second. It's a vast iron speculation!--millions upon millions in it! But fool as I am I told him he could have half the iron property for thirty thousand--and if I only had him back here he couldn't touch it for a cent less than a quarter of a million!" Mrs. Hawkins looked up white and despairing: "You threw away this chance, you let this man go, and we in this awful trouble? You don't mean it, you can't mean it!" "Throw it away? Catch me at it! Why woman, do you suppose that man don't know what he is about? Bless you, he'll be back fast enough to-morrow." "Never, never, never. He never will comeback. I don't know what is to become of us. I don't know what in the world is to become of us." A shade of uneasiness came into Hawkins's face. He said: "Why, Nancy, you--you can't believe what you are saying." "Believe it, indeed? I know it, Si. And I know that we haven't a cent in the world, and we've sent ten thousand dollars a-begging." "Nancy, you frighten me. Now could that man--is it possible that I --hanged if I don't believe I have missed a chance! Don't grieve, Nancy, don't grieve. I'll go right after him. I'll take--I'll take--what a fool I am!--I'll take anything he'll give!" The next instant he left the house on a run. But the man was no longer in the town. Nobody knew where he belonged or whither he had gone. Hawkins came slowly back, watching wistfully but hopelessly for the stranger, and lowering his price steadily with his sinking heart. And when his foot finally pressed his own threshold, the value he held the entire Tennessee property at was five hundred dollars--two hundred down and the rest in three equal annual payments, without interest. There was a sad gathering at the Hawkins fireside the next night. All the children were present but Clay. Mr. Hawkins said: "Washington, we seem to be hopelessly fallen, hopelessly involved. I am ready to give up. I do not know where to turn--I never have been down so low before, I never have seen things so dismal. There are many mouths to feed; Clay is at work; we must lose you, also, for a little while, my boy. But it will not be long--the Tennessee land----" He stopped, and was conscious of a blush. There was silence for a moment, and then Washington--now a lank, dreamy-eyed stripling between twenty-two and twenty-three years of age--said: "If Col. Sellers would come for me, I would go and stay with him a while, till the Tennessee land is sold. He has often wanted me to come, ever since he moved to Hawkeye." "I'm afraid he can't well come for you, Washington. From what I can hear--not from him of course, but from others--he is not far from as bad off as we are--and his family is as large, too. He might find something for you to do, maybe, but you'd better try to get to him yourself, Washington--it's only thirty miles." "But how can I, father? There's no stage or anything." "And if there were, stages require money. A stage goes from Swansea, five miles from here. But it would be cheaper to walk." "Father, they must know you there, and no doubt they would credit you in a moment, for a little stage ride like that. Couldn't you write and ask them?" "Couldn't you, Washington--seeing it's you that wants the ride? And what do you think you'll do, Washington, when you get to Hawkeye? Finish your invention for making window-glass opaque?" "No, sir, I have given that up. I almost knew I could do it, but it was so tedious and troublesome I quit it." "I was afraid of it, my boy. Then I suppose you'll finish your plan of coloring hen's eggs by feeding a peculiar diet to the hen?" "No, sir. I believe I have found out the stuff that will do it, but it kills the hen; so I have dropped that for the present, though I can take it up again some day when I learn how to manage the mixture better." "Well, what have you got on hand--anything?" "Yes, sir, three or four things. I think they are all good and can all be done, but they are tiresome, and besides they require money. But as soon as the land is sold----" "Emily, were you about to say something?" said Hawkins. Yes, sir. If you are willing, I will go to St. Louis. That will make another mouth less to feed. Mrs. Buckner has always wanted me to come." "But the money, child?" "Why I think she would send it, if you would write her--and I know she would wait for her pay till----" "Come, Laura, let's hear from you, my girl." Emily and Laura were about the same age--between seventeen and eighteen. Emily was fair and pretty, girlish and diffident--blue eyes and light hair. Laura had a proud bearing, and a somewhat mature look; she had fine, clean-cut features, her complexion was pure white and contrasted vividly with her black hair and eyes; she was not what one calls pretty --she was beautiful. She said: "I will go to St. Louis, too, sir. I will find a way to get there. I will make a way. And I will find a way to help myself along, and do what I can to help the rest, too." She spoke it like a princess. Mrs. Hawkins smiled proudly and kissed her, saying in a tone of fond reproof: "So one of my girls is going to turn out and work for her living! It's like your pluck and spirit, child, but we will hope that we haven't got quite down to that, yet." The girl's eyes beamed affection under her mother's caress. Then she straightened up, folded her white hands in her lap and became a splendid ice-berg. Clay's dog put up his brown nose for a little attention, and got it. He retired under the table with an apologetic yelp, which did not affect the iceberg. Judge Hawkins had written and asked Clay to return home and consult with him upon family affairs. He arrived the evening after this conversation, and the whole household gave him a rapturous welcome. He brought sadly needed help with him, consisting of the savings of a year and a half of work--nearly two hundred dollars in money. It was a ray of sunshine which (to this easy household) was the earnest of a clearing sky. Bright and early in the morning the family were astir, and all were busy preparing Washington for his journey--at least all but Washington himself, who sat apart, steeped in a reverie. When the time for his departure came, it was easy to see how fondly all loved him and how hard it was to let him go, notwithstanding they had often seen him go before, in his St. Louis schooling days. In the most matter-of-course way they had borne the burden of getting him ready for his trip, never seeming to think of his helping in the matter; in the same matter-of-course way Clay had hired a horse and cart; and now that the good-byes were ended he bundled Washington's baggage in and drove away with the exile. At Swansea Clay paid his stage fare, stowed him away in the vehicle, and saw him off. Then he returned home and reported progress, like a committee of the whole. Clay remained at home several days. He held many consultations with his mother upon the financial condition of the family, and talked once with his father upon the same subject, but only once. He found a change in that quarter which was distressing; years of fluctuating fortune had done their work; each reverse had weakened the father's spirit and impaired his energies; his last misfortune seemed to have left hope and ambition dead within him; he had no projects, formed no plans--evidently he was a vanquished man. He looked worn and tired. He inquired into Clay's affairs and prospects, and when he found that Clay was doing pretty well and was likely to do still better, it was plain that he resigned himself with easy facility to look to the son for a support; and he said, "Keep yourself informed of poor Washington's condition and movements, and help him along all you can, Clay." The younger children, also, seemed relieved of all fears and distresses, and very ready and willing to look to Clay for a livelihood. Within three days a general tranquility and satisfaction reigned in the household. Clay's hundred and eighty or ninety, dollars had worked a wonder. The family were as contented, now, and as free from care as they could have been with a fortune. It was well that Mrs. Hawkins held the purse otherwise the treasure would have lasted but a very little while. It took but a trifle to pay Hawkins's outstanding obligations, for he had always had a horror of debt. When Clay bade his home good-bye and set out to return to the field of his labors, he was conscious that henceforth he was to have his father's family on his hands as pensioners; but he did not allow himself to chafe at the thought, for he reasoned that his father had dealt by him with a free hand and a loving one all his life, and now that hard fortune had broken his spirit it ought to be a pleasure, not a pain, to work for him. The younger children were born and educated dependents. They had never been taught to do anything for themselves, and it did not seem to occur to them to make an attempt now. The girls would not have been permitted to work for a living under any circumstances whatever. It was a southern family, and of good blood; and for any person except Laura, either within or without the household to have suggested such an idea would have brought upon the suggester the suspicion of being a lunatic. CHAPTER VII. Via, Pecunia! when she's run and gone And fled, and dead, then will I fetch her again With aqua vita, out of an old hogshead! While there are lees of wine, or dregs of beer, I'll never want her! Coin her out of cobwebs, Dust, but I'll have her! raise wool upon egg-shells, Sir, and make grass grow out of marrow-bones, To make her come! B. Jonson. Bearing Washington Hawkins and his fortunes, the stage-coach tore out of Swansea at a fearful gait, with horn tooting gaily and half the town admiring from doors and windows. But it did not tear any more after it got to the outskirts; it dragged along stupidly enough, then--till it came in sight of the next hamlet; and then the bugle tooted gaily again and again the vehicle went tearing by the horses. This sort of conduct marked every entry to a station and every exit from it; and so in those days children grew up with the idea that stage-coaches always tore and always tooted; but they also grew up with the idea that pirates went into action in their Sunday clothes, carrying the black flag in one hand and pistolling people with the other, merely because they were so represented in the pictures--but these illusions vanished when later years brought their disenchanting wisdom. They learned then that the stagecoach is but a poor, plodding, vulgar thing in the solitudes of the highway; and that the pirate is only a seedy, unfantastic "rough," when he is out of the pictures. Toward evening, the stage-coach came thundering into Hawkeye with a perfectly triumphant ostentation--which was natural and proper, for Hawkey a was a pretty large town for interior Missouri. Washington, very stiff and tired and hungry, climbed out, and wondered how he was to proceed now. But his difficulty was quickly solved. Col. Sellers came down the street on a run and arrived panting for breath. He said: "Lord bless you--I'm glad to see you, Washington--perfectly delighted to see you, my boy! I got your message. Been on the look-out for you. Heard the stage horn, but had a party I couldn't shake off--man that's got an enormous thing on hand--wants me to put some capital into it--and I tell you, my boy, I could do worse, I could do a deal worse. No, now, let that luggage alone; I'll fix that. Here, Jerry, got anything to do? All right-shoulder this plunder and follow me. Come along, Washington. Lord I'm glad to see you! Wife and the children are just perishing to look at you. Bless you, they won't know you, you've grown so. Folks all well, I suppose? That's good--glad to hear that. We're always going to run down and see them, but I'm into so many operations, and they're not things a man feels like trusting to other people, and so somehow we keep putting it off. Fortunes in them! Good gracious, it's the country to pile up wealth in! Here we are--here's where the Sellers dynasty hangs out. Hump it on the door-step, Jerry--the blackest niggro in the State, Washington, but got a good heart--mighty likely boy, is Jerry. And now I suppose you've got to have ten cents, Jerry. That's all right--when a man works for me--when a man--in the other pocket, I reckon--when a man --why, where the mischief as that portmonnaie!--when a--well now that's odd--Oh, now I remember, must have left it at the bank; and b'George I've left my check-book, too--Polly says I ought to have a nurse--well, no matter. Let me have a dime, Washington, if you've got--ah, thanks. Now clear out, Jerry, your complexion has brought on the twilight half an hour ahead of time. Pretty fair joke--pretty fair. Here he is, Polly! Washington's come, children! come now, don't eat him up--finish him in the house. Welcome, my boy, to a mansion that is proud to shelter the son of the best man that walks on the ground. Si Hawkins has been a good friend to me, and I believe I can say that whenever I've had a chance to put him into a good thing I've done it, and done it pretty cheerfully, too. I put him into that sugar speculation--what a grand thing that was, if we hadn't held on too long!" True enough; but holding on too long had utterly ruined both of them; and the saddest part of it was, that they never had had so much money to lose before, for Sellers's sale of their mule crop that year in New Orleans had been a great financial success. If he had kept out of sugar and gone back home content to stick to mules it would have been a happy wisdom. As it was, he managed to kill two birds with one stone--that is to say, he killed the sugar speculation by holding for high rates till he had to sell at the bottom figure, and that calamity killed the mule that laid the golden egg--which is but a figurative expression and will be so understood. Sellers had returned home cheerful but empty-handed, and the mule business lapsed into other hands. The sale of the Hawkins property by the Sheriff had followed, and the Hawkins hearts been torn to see Uncle Dan'l and his wife pass from the auction-block into the hands of a negro trader and depart for the remote South to be seen no more by the family. It had seemed like seeing their own flesh and blood sold into banishment. Washington was greatly pleased with the Sellers mansion. It was a two-story-and-a-half brick, and much more stylish than any of its neighbors. He was borne to the family sitting room in triumph by the swarm of little Sellerses, the parents following with their arms about each other's waists. The whole family were poorly and cheaply dressed; and the clothing, although neat and clean, showed many evidences of having seen long service. The Colonel's "stovepipe" hat was napless and shiny with much polishing, but nevertheless it had an almost convincing expression about it of having been just purchased new. The rest of his clothing was napless and shiny, too, but it had the air of being entirely satisfied with itself and blandly sorry for other people's clothes. It was growing rather dark in the house, and the evening air was chilly, too. Sellers said: "Lay off your overcoat, Washington, and draw up to the stove and make yourself at home--just consider yourself under your own shingles my boy --I'll have a fire going, in a jiffy. Light the lamp, Polly, dear, and let's have things cheerful just as glad to see you, Washington, as if you'd been lost a century and we'd found you again!" By this time the Colonel was conveying a lighted match into a poor little stove. Then he propped the stove door to its place by leaning the poker against it, for the hinges had retired from business. This door framed a small square of isinglass, which now warmed up with a faint glow. Mrs. Sellers lit a cheap, showy lamp, which dissipated a good deal of the gloom, and then everybody gathered into the light and took the stove into close companionship. The children climbed all over Sellers, fondled him, petted him, and were lavishly petted in return. Out from this tugging, laughing, chattering disguise of legs and arms and little faces, the Colonel's voice worked its way and his tireless tongue ran blithely on without interruption; and the purring little wife, diligent with her knitting, sat near at hand and looked happy and proud and grateful; and she listened as one who listens to oracles and, gospels and whose grateful soul is being refreshed with the bread of life. Bye and bye the children quieted down to listen; clustered about their father, and resting their elbows on his legs, they hung upon his words as if he were uttering the music of the spheres. A dreary old hair-cloth sofa against the wall; a few damaged chairs; the small table the lamp stood on; the crippled stove--these things constituted the furniture of the room. There was no carpet on the floor; on the wall were occasional square-shaped interruptions of the general tint of the plaster which betrayed that there used to be pictures in the house--but there were none now. There were no mantel ornaments, unless one might bring himself to regard as an ornament a clock which never came within fifteen strokes of striking the right time, and whose hands always hitched together at twenty-two minutes past anything and traveled in company the rest of the way home. "Remarkable clock!" said Sellers, and got up and wound it. "I've been offered--well, I wouldn't expect you to believe what I've been offered for that clock. Old Gov. Hager never sees me but he says, 'Come, now, Colonel, name your price--I must have that clock!' But my goodness I'd as soon think of selling my wife. As I was saying to ---- silence in the court, now, she's begun to strike! You can't talk against her--you have to just be patient and hold up till she's said her say. Ah well, as I was saying, when--she's beginning again! Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twen----ah, that's all.--Yes, as I was saying to old Judge ----go it, old girl, don't mind me.--Now how is that?----isn't that a good, spirited tone? She can wake the dead! Sleep? Why you might as well try to sleep in a thunder-factory. Now just listen at that. She'll strike a hundred and fifty, now, without stopping,--you'll see. There ain't another clock like that in Christendom." Washington hoped that this might be true, for the din was distracting --though the family, one and all, seemed filled with joy; and the more the clock "buckled down to her work" as the Colonel expressed it, and the more insupportable the clatter became, the more enchanted they all appeared to be. When there was silence, Mrs Sellers lifted upon Washington a face that beamed with a childlike pride, and said: "It belonged to his grandmother." The look and the tone were a plain call for admiring surprise, and therefore Washington said (it was the only thing that offered itself at the moment:) "Indeed!" "Yes, it did, didn't it father!" exclaimed one of the twins. "She was my great-grandmother--and George's too; wasn't she, father! You never saw her, but Sis has seen her, when Sis was a baby-didn't you, Sis! Sis has seen her most a hundred times. She was awful deef--she's dead, now. Aint she, father!" All the children chimed in, now, with one general Babel of information about deceased--nobody offering to read the riot act or seeming to discountenance the insurrection or disapprove of it in any way--but the head twin drowned all the turmoil and held his own against the field: "It's our clock, now--and it's got wheels inside of it, and a thing that flutters every time she strikes--don't it, father! Great-grandmother died before hardly any of us was born--she was an Old-School Baptist and had warts all over her--you ask father if she didn't. She had an uncle once that was bald-headed and used to have fits; he wasn't our uncle, I don't know what he was to us--some kin or another I reckon--father's seen him a thousand times--hain't you, father! We used to have a calf that et apples and just chawed up dishrags like nothing, and if you stay here you'll see lots of funerals--won't he, Sis! Did you ever see a house afire? I have! Once me and Jim Terry----" But Sellers began to speak now, and the storm ceased. He began to tell about an enormous speculation he was thinking of embarking some capital in--a speculation which some London bankers had been over to consult with him about--and soon he was building glittering pyramids of coin, and Washington was presently growing opulent under the magic of his eloquence. But at the same time Washington was not able to ignore the cold entirely. He was nearly as close to the stove as he could get, and yet he could not persuade himself, that he felt the slightest heat, notwithstanding the isinglass' door was still gently and serenely glowing. He tried to get a trifle closer to the stove, and the consequence was, he tripped the supporting poker and the stove-door tumbled to the floor. And then there was a revelation--there was nothing in the stove but a lighted tallow-candle! The poor youth blushed and felt as if he must die with shame. But the Colonel was only disconcerted for a moment--he straightway found his voice again: "A little idea of my own, Washington--one of the greatest things in the world! You must write and tell your father about it--don't forget that, now. I have been reading up some European Scientific reports--friend of mine, Count Fugier, sent them to me--sends me all sorts of things from Paris--he thinks the world of me, Fugier does. Well, I saw that the Academy of France had been testing the properties of heat, and they came to the conclusion that it was a nonconductor or something like that, and of course its influence must necessarily be deadly in nervous organizations with excitable temperaments, especially where there is any tendency toward rheumatic affections. Bless you I saw in a moment what was the matter with us, and says I, out goes your fires!--no more slow torture and certain death for me, sir. What you want is the appearance of heat, not the heat itself--that's the idea. Well how to do it was the next thing. I just put my head, to work, pegged away, a couple of days, and here you are! Rheumatism? Why a man can't any more start a case of rheumatism in this house than he can shake an opinion out of a mummy! Stove with a candle in it and a transparent door--that's it--it has been the salvation of this family. Don't you fail to write your father about it, Washington. And tell him the idea is mine--I'm no more conceited than most people, I reckon, but you know it is human nature for a man to want credit for a thing like that." Washington said with his blue lips that he would, but he said in his secret heart that he would promote no such iniquity. He tried to believe in the healthfulness of the invention, and succeeded tolerably well; but after all he could not feel that good health in a frozen, body was any real improvement on the rheumatism. CHAPTER VIII. --Whan pe horde is thynne, as of seruyse, Nought replenesshed with grete diuersite Of mete & drinke, good chere may then suffise With honest talkyng---- The Book of Curtesye. MAMMON. Come on, sir. Now, you set your foot on shore In Novo Orbe; here's the rich Peru: And there within, sir, are the golden mines, Great Solomon's Ophir!---- B. Jonson The supper at Col. Sellers's was not sumptuous, in the beginning, but it improved on acquaintance. That is to say, that what Washington regarded at first sight as mere lowly potatoes, presently became awe-inspiring agricultural productions that had been reared in some ducal garden beyond the sea, under the sacred eye of the duke himself, who had sent them to Sellers; the bread was from corn which could be grown in only one favored locality in the earth and only a favored few could get it; the Rio coffee, which at first seemed execrable to the taste, took to itself an improved flavor when Washington was told to drink it slowly and not hurry what should be a lingering luxury in order to be fully appreciated--it was from the private stores of a Brazilian nobleman with an unrememberable name. The Colonel's tongue was a magician's wand that turned dried apples into figs and water into wine as easily as it could change a hovel into a palace and present poverty into imminent future riches. Washington slept in a cold bed in a carpetless room and woke up in a palace in the morning; at least the palace lingered during the moment that he was rubbing his eyes and getting his bearings--and then it disappeared and he recognized that the Colonel's inspiring talk had been influencing his dreams. Fatigue had made him sleep late; when he entered the sitting room he noticed that the old hair-cloth sofa was absent; when he sat down to breakfast the Colonel tossed six or seven dollars in bills on the table, counted them over, said he was a little short and must call upon his banker; then returned the bills to his wallet with the indifferent air of a man who is used to money. The breakfast was not an improvement upon the supper, but the Colonel talked it up and transformed it into an oriental feast. Bye and bye, he said: "I intend to look out for you, Washington, my boy. I hunted up a place for you yesterday, but I am not referring to that,--now--that is a mere livelihood--mere bread and butter; but when I say I mean to look out for you I mean something very different. I mean to put things in your way than will make a mere livelihood a trifling thing. I'll put you in a way to make more money than you'll ever know what to do with. You'll be right here where I can put my hand on you when anything turns up. I've got some prodigious operations on foot; but I'm keeping quiet; mum's the word; your old hand don't go around pow-wowing and letting everybody see his k'yards and find out his little game. But all in good time, Washington, all in good time. You'll see. Now there's an operation in corn that looks well. Some New York men are trying to get me to go into it--buy up all the growing crops and just boss the market when they mature--ah I tell you it's a great thing. And it only costs a trifle; two millions or two and a half will do it. I haven't exactly promised yet--there's no hurry--the more indifferent I seem, you know, the more anxious those fellows will get. And then there is the hog speculation --that's bigger still. We've got quiet men at work," [he was very impressive here,] "mousing around, to get propositions out of all the farmers in the whole west and northwest for the hog crop, and other agents quietly getting propositions and terms out of all the manufactories--and don't you see, if we can get all the hogs and all the slaughter horses into our hands on the dead quiet--whew! it would take three ships to carry the money.--I've looked into the thing--calculated all the chances for and all the chances against, and though I shake my head and hesitate and keep on thinking, apparently, I've got my mind made up that if the thing can be done on a capital of six millions, that's the horse to put up money on! Why Washington--but what's the use of talking about it--any man can see that there's whole Atlantic oceans of cash in it, gulfs and bays thrown in. But there's a bigger thing than that, yes bigger----" "Why Colonel, you can't want anything bigger!" said Washington, his eyes blazing. "Oh, I wish I could go into either of those speculations--I only wish I had money--I wish I wasn't cramped and kept down and fettered with poverty, and such prodigious chances lying right here in sight! Oh, it is a fearful thing to be poor. But don't throw away those things --they are so splendid and I can see how sure they are. Don't throw them away for something still better and maybe fail in it! I wouldn't, Colonel. I would stick to these. I wish father were here and were his old self again--Oh, he never in his life had such chances as these are. Colonel; you can't improve on these--no man can improve on them!" A sweet, compassionate smile played about the Colonel's features, and he leaned over the table with the air of a man who is "going to show you" and do it without the least trouble: "Why Washington, my boy, these things are nothing. They look large of course--they look large to a novice, but to a man who has been all his life accustomed to large operations--shaw! They're well enough to while away an idle hour with, or furnish a bit of employment that will give a trifle of idle capital a chance to earn its bread while it is waiting for something to do, but--now just listen a moment--just let me give you an idea of what we old veterans of commerce call 'business.' Here's the Rothschild's proposition--this is between you and me, you understand----" Washington nodded three or four times impatiently, and his glowing eyes said, "Yes, yes--hurry--I understand----" ----"for I wouldn't have it get out for a fortune. They want me to go in with them on the sly--agent was here two weeks ago about it--go in on the sly" [voice down to an impressive whisper, now,] "and buy up a hundred and thirteen wild cat banks in Ohio, Indiana, Kentucky, Illinois and Missouri--notes of these banks are at all sorts of discount now--average discount of the hundred and thirteen is forty-four per cent--buy them all up, you see, and then all of a sudden let the cat out of the bag! Whiz! the stock of every one of those wildcats would spin up to a tremendous premium before you could turn a handspring--profit on the speculation not a dollar less than forty millions!" [An eloquent pause, while the marvelous vision settled into W.'s focus.] "Where's your hogs now? Why my dear innocent boy, we would just sit down on the front door-steps and peddle banks like lucifer matches!" Washington finally got his breath and said: "Oh, it is perfectly wonderful! Why couldn't these things have happened in father's day? And I--it's of no use--they simply lie before my face and mock me. There is nothing for me but to stand helpless and see other people reap the astonishing harvest." "Never mind, Washington, don't you worry. I'll fix you. There's plenty of chances. How much money have you got?" In the presence of so many millions, Washington could not keep from blushing when he had to confess that he had but eighteen dollars in the world. "Well, all right--don't despair. Other people have been obliged to begin with less. I have a small idea that may develop into something for us both, all in good time. Keep your money close and add to it. I'll make it breed. I've been experimenting (to pass away the time), on a little preparation for curing sore eyes--a kind of decoction nine-tenths water and the other tenth drugs that don't cost more than a dollar a barrel; I'm still experimenting; there's one ingredient wanted yet to perfect the thing, and somehow I can't just manage to hit upon the thing that's necessary, and I don't dare talk with a chemist, of course. But I'm progressing, and before many weeks I wager the country will ring with the fame of Beriah Sellers' Infallible Imperial Oriental Optic Liniment and Salvation for Sore Eyes--the Medical Wonder of the Age! Small bottles fifty cents, large ones a dollar. Average cost, five and seven cents for the two sizes. "The first year sell, say, ten thousand bottles in Missouri, seven thousand in Iowa, three thousand in Arkansas, four thousand in Kentucky, six thousand in Illinois, and say twenty-five thousand in the rest of the country. Total, fifty five thousand bottles; profit clear of all expenses, twenty thousand dollars at the very lowest calculation. All the capital needed is to manufacture the first two thousand bottles --say a hundred and fifty dollars--then the money would begin to flow in. The second year, sales would reach 200,000 bottles--clear profit, say, $75,000--and in the meantime the great factory would be building in St. Louis, to cost, say, $100,000. The third year we could, easily sell 1,000,000 bottles in the United States and----" "O, splendid!" said Washington. "Let's commence right away--let's----" "----1,000,000 bottles in the United States--profit at least $350,000 --and then it would begin to be time to turn our attention toward the real idea of the business." "The real idea of it! Ain't $350,000 a year a pretty real----" "Stuff! Why what an infant you are, Washington--what a guileless, short-sighted, easily-contented innocent you, are, my poor little country-bred know-nothing! Would I go to all that trouble and bother for the poor crumbs a body might pick up in this country? Now do I look like a man who----does my history suggest that I am a man who deals in trifles, contents himself with the narrow horizon that hems in the common herd, sees no further than the end of his nose? Now you know that that is not me--couldn't be me. You ought to know that if I throw my time and abilities into a patent medicine, it's a patent medicine whose field of operations is the solid earth! its clients the swarming nations that inhabit it! Why what is the republic of America for an eye-water country? Lord bless you, it is nothing but a barren highway that you've got to cross to get to the true eye-water market! Why, Washington, in the Oriental countries people swarm like the sands of the desert; every square mile of ground upholds its thousands upon thousands of struggling human creatures--and every separate and individual devil of them's got the ophthalmia! It's as natural to them as noses are--and sin. It's born with them, it stays with them, it's all that some of them have left when they die. Three years of introductory trade in the orient and what will be the result? Why, our headquarters would be in Constantinople and our hindquarters in Further India! Factories and warehouses in Cairo, Ispahan, Bagdad, Damascus, Jerusalem, Yedo, Peking, Bangkok, Delhi, Bombay--and Calcutta! Annual income--well, God only knows how many millions and millions apiece!" Washington was so dazed, so bewildered--his heart and his eyes had wandered so far away among the strange lands beyond the seas, and such avalanches of coin and currency had fluttered and jingled confusedly down before him, that he was now as one who has been whirling round and round for a time, and, stopping all at once, finds his surroundings still whirling and all objects a dancing chaos. However, little by little the Sellers family cooled down and crystalized into shape, and the poor room lost its glitter and resumed its poverty. Then the youth found his voice and begged Sellers to drop everything and hurry up the eye-water; and he got his eighteen dollars and tried to force it upon the Colonel--pleaded with him to take it--implored him to do it. But the Colonel would not; said he would not need the capital (in his native magnificent way he called that eighteen dollars Capital) till the eye-water was an accomplished fact. He made Washington easy in his mind, though, by promising that he would call for it just as soon as the invention was finished, and he added the glad tidings that nobody but just they two should be admitted to a share in the speculation. When Washington left the breakfast table he could have worshiped that man. Washington was one of that kind of people whose hopes are in the very, clouds one day and in the gutter the next. He walked on air, now. The Colonel was ready to take him around and introduce him to the employment he had found for him, but Washington begged for a few moments in which to write home; with his kind of people, to ride to-day's new interest to death and put off yesterday's till another time, is nature itself. He ran up stairs and wrote glowingly, enthusiastically, to his mother about the hogs and the corn, the banks and the eye-water--and added a few inconsequential millions to each project. And he said that people little dreamed what a man Col. Sellers was, and that the world would open its eyes when it found out. And he closed his letter thus: "So make yourself perfectly easy, mother-in a little while you shall have everything you want, and more. I am not likely to stint you in anything, I fancy. This money will not be for me, alone, but for all of us. I want all to share alike; and there is going to be far more for each than one person can spend. Break it to father cautiously--you understand the need of that--break it to him cautiously, for he has had such cruel hard fortune, and is so stricken by it that great good news might prostrate him more surely than even bad, for he is used to the bad but is grown sadly unaccustomed to the other. Tell Laura--tell all the children. And write to Clay about it if he is not with you yet. You may tell Clay that whatever I get he can freely share in-freely. He knows that that is true--there will be no need that I should swear to that to make him believe it. Good-bye--and mind what I say: Rest perfectly easy, one and all of you, for our troubles are nearly at an end." Poor lad, he could not know that his mother would cry some loving, compassionate tears over his letter and put off the family with a synopsis of its contents which conveyed a deal of love to then but not much idea of his prospects or projects. And he never dreamed that such a joyful letter could sadden her and fill her night with sighs, and troubled thoughts, and bodings of the future, instead of filling it with peace and blessing it with restful sleep. When the letter was done, Washington and the Colonel sallied forth, and as they walked along Washington learned what he was to be. He was to be a clerk in a real estate office. Instantly the fickle youth's dreams forsook the magic eye-water and flew back to the Tennessee Land. And the gorgeous possibilities of that great domain straightway began to occupy his imagination to such a degree that he could scarcely manage to keep even enough of his attention upon the Colonel's talk to retain the general run of what he was saying. He was glad it was a real estate office--he was a made man now, sure. The Colonel said that General Boswell was a rich man and had a good and growing business; and that Washington's work world be light and he would get forty dollars a month and be boarded and lodged in the General's family--which was as good as ten dollars more; and even better, for he could not live as well even at the "City Hotel" as he would there, and yet the hotel charged fifteen dollars a month where a man had a good room. General Boswell was in his office; a comfortable looking place, with plenty of outline maps hanging about the walls and in the windows, and a spectacled man was marking out another one on a long table. The office was in the principal street. The General received Washington with a kindly but reserved politeness. Washington rather liked his looks. He was about fifty years old, dignified, well preserved and well dressed. After the Colonel took his leave, the General talked a while with Washington--his talk consisting chiefly of instructions about the clerical duties of the place. He seemed satisfied as to Washington's ability to take care of the books, he was evidently a pretty fair theoretical bookkeeper, and experience would soon harden theory into practice. By and by dinner-time came, and the two walked to the General's house; and now Washington noticed an instinct in himself that moved him to keep not in the General's rear, exactly, but yet not at his side--somehow the old gentleman's dignity and reserve did not inspire familiarity. CHAPTER IX Washington dreamed his way along the street, his fancy flitting from grain to hogs, from hogs to banks, from banks to eyewater, from eye-water to Tennessee Land, and lingering but a feverish moment upon each of these fascinations. He was conscious of but one outward thing, to wit, the General, and he was really not vividly conscious of him. Arrived at the finest dwelling in the town, they entered it and were at home. Washington was introduced to Mrs. Boswell, and his imagination was on the point of flitting into the vapory realms of speculation again, when a lovely girl of sixteen or seventeen came in. This vision swept Washington's mind clear of its chaos of glittering rubbish in an instant. Beauty had fascinated him before; many times he had been in love even for weeks at a time with the same object but his heart had never suffered so sudden and so fierce an assault as this, within his recollection. Louise Boswell occupied his mind and drifted among his multiplication tables all the afternoon. He was constantly catching himself in a reverie--reveries made up of recalling how she looked when she first burst upon him; how her voice thrilled him when she first spoke; how charmed the very air seemed by her presence. Blissful as the afternoon was, delivered up to such a revel as this, it seemed an eternity, so impatient was he to see the girl again. Other afternoons like it followed. Washington plunged into this love affair as he plunged into everything else--upon impulse and without reflection. As the days went by it seemed plain that he was growing in favor with Louise,--not sweepingly so, but yet perceptibly, he fancied. His attentions to her troubled her father and mother a little, and they warned Louise, without stating particulars or making allusions to any special person, that a girl was sure to make a mistake who allowed herself to marry anybody but a man who could support her well. Some instinct taught Washington that his present lack of money would be an obstruction, though possibly not a bar, to his hopes, and straightway his poverty became a torture to him which cast all his former sufferings under that held into the shade. He longed for riches now as he had ever longed for them before. He had been once or twice to dine with Col. Sellers, and had been discouraged to note that the Colonel's bill of fare was falling off both in quantity and quality--a sign, he feared, that the lacking ingredient in the eye-water still remained undiscovered--though Sellers always explained that these changes in the family diet had been ordered by the doctor, or suggested by some new scientific work the Colonel had stumbled upon. But it always turned out that the lacking ingredient was still lacking--though it always appeared, at the same time, that the Colonel was right on its heels. Every time the Colonel came into the real estate office Washington's heart bounded and his eyes lighted with hope, but it always turned out that the Colonel was merely on the scent of some vast, undefined landed speculation--although he was customarily able to say that he was nearer to the all-necessary ingredient than ever, and could almost name the hour when success would dawn. And then Washington's heart world sink again and a sigh would tell when it touched bottom. About this time a letter came, saying that Judge Hawkins had been ailing for a fortnight, and was now considered to be seriously ill. It was thought best that Washington should come home. The news filled him with grief, for he loved and honored his father; the Boswells were touched by the youth's sorrow, and even the General unbent and said encouraging things to him.--There was balm in this; but when Louise bade him good-bye, and shook his hand and said, "Don't be cast down--it will all come out right--I know it will all come out right," it seemed a blessed thing to be in misfortune, and the tears that welled up to his eyes were the messengers of an adoring and a grateful heart; and when the girl saw them and answering tears came into her own eyes, Washington could hardly contain the excess of happiness that poured into the cavities of his breast that were so lately stored to the roof with grief. All the way home he nursed his woe and exalted it. He pictured himself as she must be picturing him: a noble, struggling young spirit persecuted by misfortune, but bravely and patiently waiting in the shadow of a dread calamity and preparing to meet the blow as became one who was all too used to hard fortune and the pitiless buffetings of fate. These thoughts made him weep, and weep more broken-heartedly than ever; and be wished that she could see his sufferings now. There was nothing significant in the fact that Louise, dreamy and distraught, stood at her bedroom bureau that night, scribbling "Washington" here and there over a sheet of paper. But there was something significant in the fact that she scratched the word out every time she wrote it; examined the erasure critically to see if anybody could guess at what the word had been; then buried it under a maze of obliterating lines; and finally, as if still unsatisfied, burned the paper. When Washington reached home, he recognized at once how serious his father's case was. The darkened room, the labored breathing and occasional moanings of the patient, the tip-toeing of the attendants and their whispered consultations, were full of sad meaning. For three or four nights Mrs. Hawkins and Laura had been watching by the bedside; Clay had arrived, preceding Washington by one day, and he was now added to the corps of watchers. Mr. Hawkins would have none but these three, though neighborly assistance was offered by old friends. From this time forth three-hour watches were instituted, and day and night the watchers kept their vigils. By degrees Laura and her mother began to show wear, but neither of them would yield a minute of their tasks to Clay. He ventured once to let the midnight hour pass without calling Laura, but he ventured no more; there was that about her rebuke when he tried to explain, that taught him that to let her sleep when she might be ministering to her father's needs, was to rob her of moments that were priceless in her eyes; he perceived that she regarded it as a privilege to watch, not a burden. And, he had noticed, also, that when midnight struck, the patient turned his eyes toward the door, with an expectancy in them which presently grew into a longing but brightened into contentment as soon as the door opened and Laura appeared. And he did not need Laura's rebuke when he heard his father say: "Clay is good, and you are tired, poor child; but I wanted you so." "Clay is not good, father--he did not call me. I would not have treated him so. How could you do it, Clay?" Clay begged forgiveness and promised not to break faith again; and as he betook him to his bed, he said to himself: "It's a steadfast little soul; whoever thinks he is doing the Duchess a kindness by intimating that she is not sufficient for any undertaking she puts her hand to, makes a mistake; and if I did not know it before, I know now that there are surer ways of pleasing her than by trying to lighten her labor when that labor consists in wearing herself out for the sake of a person she loves." A week drifted by, and all the while the patient sank lower and lower. The night drew on that was to end all suspense. It was a wintry one. The darkness gathered, the snow was falling, the wind wailed plaintively about the house or shook it with fitful gusts. The doctor had paid his last visit and gone away with that dismal remark to the nearest friend of the family that he "believed there was nothing more that he could do" --a remark which is always overheard by some one it is not meant for and strikes a lingering half-conscious hope dead with a withering shock; the medicine phials had been removed from the bedside and put out of sight, and all things made orderly and meet for the solemn event that was impending; the patient, with closed eyes, lay scarcely breathing; the watchers sat by and wiped the gathering damps from his forehead while the silent tears flowed down their faces; the deep hush was only interrupted by sobs from the children, grouped about the bed. After a time--it was toward midnight now--Mr. Hawkins roused out of a doze, looked about him and was evidently trying to speak. Instantly Laura lifted his head and in a failing voice he said, while something of the old light shone in his eyes: "Wife--children--come nearer--nearer. The darkness grows. Let me see you all, once more." The group closed together at the bedside, and their tears and sobs came now without restraint. "I am leaving you in cruel poverty. I have been--so foolish--so short-sighted. But courage! A better day is--is coming. Never lose sight of the Tennessee Land! Be wary. There is wealth stored up for you there --wealth that is boundless! The children shall hold up their heads with the best in the land, yet. Where are the papers?--Have you got the papers safe? Show them--show them to me!" Under his strong excitement his voice had gathered power and his last sentences were spoken with scarcely a perceptible halt or hindrance. With an effort he had raised himself almost without assistance to a sitting posture. But now the fire faded out of his eyes and be fell back exhausted. The papers were brought and held before him, and the answering smile that flitted across his face showed that he was satisfied. He closed his eyes, and the signs of approaching dissolution multiplied rapidly. He lay almost motionless for a little while, then suddenly partly raised his head and looked about him as one who peers into a dim uncertain light. He muttered: "Gone? No--I see you--still. It is--it is-over. But you are--safe. Safe. The Ten-----" The voice died out in a whisper; the sentence was never finished. The emaciated fingers began to pick at the coverlet, a fatal sign. After a time there were no sounds but the cries of the mourners within and the gusty turmoil of the wind without. Laura had bent down and kissed her father's lips as the spirit left the body; but she did not sob, or utter any ejaculation; her tears flowed silently. Then she closed the dead eyes, and crossed the hands upon the breast; after a season, she kissed the forehead reverently, drew the sheet up over the face, and then walked apart and sat down with the look of one who is done with life and has no further interest in its joys and sorrows, its hopes or its ambitions. Clay buried his face in the coverlet of the bed; when the other children and the mother realized that death was indeed come at last, they threw themselves into each others' arms and gave way to a frenzy of grief. 
5820	----	THE GILDED AGE A Tale of Today by Mark Twain and Charles Dudley Warner 1873 Part 3. CHAPTER XIX. Mr. Harry Brierly drew his pay as an engineer while he was living at the City Hotel in Hawkeye. Mr. Thompson had been kind enough to say that it didn't make any difference whether he was with the corps or not; and although Harry protested to the Colonel daily and to Washington Hawkins that he must go back at once to the line and superintend the lay-out with reference to his contract, yet he did not go, but wrote instead long letters to Philip, instructing him to keep his eye out, and to let him know when any difficulty occurred that required his presence. Meantime Harry blossomed out in the society of Hawkeye, as he did in any society where fortune cast him and he had the slightest opportunity to expand. Indeed the talents of a rich and accomplished young fellow like Harry were not likely to go unappreciated in such a place. A land operator, engaged in vast speculations, a favorite in the select circles of New York, in correspondence with brokers and bankers, intimate with public men at Washington, one who could play the guitar and touch the banjo lightly, and who had an eye for a pretty girl, and knew the language of flattery, was welcome everywhere in Hawkeye. Even Miss Laura Hawkins thought it worth while to use her fascinations upon him, and to endeavor to entangle the volatile fellow in the meshes of her attractions. "Gad," says Harry to the Colonel, "she's a superb creature, she'd make a stir in New York, money or no money. There are men I know would give her a railroad or an opera house, or whatever she wanted--at least they'd promise." Harry had a way of looking at women as he looked at anything else in the world he wanted, and he half resolved to appropriate Miss Laura, during his stay in Hawkeye. Perhaps the Colonel divined his thoughts, or was offended at Harry's talk, for he replied, "No nonsense, Mr. Brierly. Nonsense won't do in Hawkeye, not with my friends. The Hawkins' blood is good blood, all the way from Tennessee. The Hawkinses are under the weather now, but their Tennessee property is millions when it comes into market." "Of course, Colonel. Not the least offense intended. But you can see she is a fascinating woman. I was only thinking, as to this appropriation, now, what such a woman could do in Washington. All correct, too, all correct. Common thing, I assure you in Washington; the wives of senators, representatives, cabinet officers, all sorts of wives, and some who are not wives, use their influence. You want an appointment? Do you go to Senator X? Not much. You get on the right side of his wife. Is it an appropriation? You'd go 'straight to the Committee, or to the Interior office, I suppose? You'd learn better than that. It takes a woman to get any thing through the Land Office: I tell you, Miss Laura would fascinate an appropriation right through the Senate and the House of Representatives in one session, if she was in Washington, as your friend, Colonel, of course as your friend." "Would you have her sign our petition?" asked the Colonel, innocently. Harry laughed. "Women don't get anything by petitioning Congress; nobody does, that's for form. Petitions are referred somewhere, and that's the last of them; you can't refer a handsome woman so easily, when she is present. They prefer 'em mostly." The petition however was elaborately drawn up, with a glowing description of Napoleon and the adjacent country, and a statement of the absolute necessity to the prosperity of that region and of one of the stations on the great through route to the Pacific, of the, immediate improvement of Columbus River; to this was appended a map of the city and a survey of the river. It was signed by all the people at Stone's Landing who could write their names, by Col. Beriah Sellers, and the Colonel agreed to have the names headed by all the senators and representatives from the state and by a sprinkling of ex-governors and ex-members of congress. When completed it was a formidable document. Its preparation and that of more minute plots of the new city consumed the valuable time of Sellers and Harry for many weeks, and served to keep them both in the highest spirits. In the eyes of Washington Hawkins, Harry was a superior being, a man who was able to bring things to pass in a way that excited his enthusiasm. He never tired of listening to his stories of what he had done and of what he was going to do. As for Washington, Harry thought he was a man of ability and comprehension, but "too visionary," he told the Colonel. The Colonel said he might be right, but he had never noticed anything visionary about him. "He's got his plans, sir. God bless my soul, at his age, I was full of plans. But experience sobers a man, I never touch any thing now that hasn't been weighed in my judgment; and when Beriah Sellers puts his judgment on a thing, there it is." Whatever might have been Harry's intentions with regard to Laura, he saw more and more of her every day, until he got to be restless and nervous when he was not with her. That consummate artist in passion allowed him to believe that the fascination was mainly on his side, and so worked upon his vanity, while inflaming his ardor, that he scarcely knew what he was about. Her coolness and coyness were even made to appear the simple precautions of a modest timidity, and attracted him even more than the little tendernesses into which she was occasionally surprised. He could never be away from her long, day or evening; and in a short time their intimacy was the town talk. She played with him so adroitly that Harry thought she was absorbed in love for him, and yet he was amazed that he did not get on faster in his conquest. And when he thought of it, he was piqued as well. A country girl, poor enough, that was evident; living with her family in a cheap and most unattractive frame house, such as carpenters build in America, scantily furnished and unadorned; without the adventitious aids of dress or jewels or the fine manners of society--Harry couldn't understand it. But she fascinated him, and held him just beyond the line of absolute familiarity at the same time. While he was with her she made him forget that the Hawkins' house was nothing but a wooden tenement, with four small square rooms on the ground floor and a half story; it might have been a palace for aught he knew. Perhaps Laura was older than Harry. She was, at any rate, at that ripe age when beauty in woman seems more solid than in the budding period of girlhood, and she had come to understand her powers perfectly, and to know exactly how much of the susceptibility and archness of the girl it was profitable to retain. She saw that many women, with the best intentions, make a mistake of carrying too much girlishness into womanhood. Such a woman would have attracted Harry at any time, but only a woman with a cool brain and exquisite art could have made him lose his head in this way; for Harry thought himself a man of the world. The young fellow never dreamed that he was merely being experimented on; he was to her a man of another society and another culture, different from that she had any knowledge of except in books, and she was not unwilling to try on him the fascinations of her mind and person. For Laura had her dreams. She detested the narrow limits in which her lot was cast, she hated poverty. Much of her reading had been of modern works of fiction, written by her own sex, which had revealed to her something of her own powers and given her indeed, an exaggerated notion of the influence, the wealth, the position a woman may attain who has beauty and talent and ambition and a little culture, and is not too scrupulous in the use of them. She wanted to be rich, she wanted luxury, she wanted men at her feet, her slaves, and she had not--thanks to some of the novels she had read--the nicest discrimination between notoriety and reputation; perhaps she did not know how fatal notoriety usually is to the bloom of womanhood. With the other Hawkins children Laura had been brought up in the belief that they had inherited a fortune in the Tennessee Lands. She did not by any means share all the delusion of the family; but her brain was not seldom busy with schemes about it. Washington seemed to her only to dream of it and to be willing to wait for its riches to fall upon him in a golden shower; but she was impatient, and wished she were a man to take hold of the business. "You men must enjoy your schemes and your activity and liberty to go about the world," she said to Harry one day, when he had been talking of New York and Washington and his incessant engagements. "Oh, yes," replied that martyr to business, "it's all well enough, if you don't have too much of it, but it only has one object." "What is that?" "If a woman doesn't know, it's useless to tell her. What do you suppose I am staying in Hawkeye for, week after week, when I ought to be with my corps?" "I suppose it's your business with Col. Sellers about Napoleon, you've always told me so," answered Laura, with a look intended to contradict her words. "And now I tell you that is all arranged, I suppose you'll tell me I ought to go?" "Harry!" exclaimed Laura, touching his arm and letting her pretty hand rest there a moment. "Why should I want you to go away? The only person in Hawkeye who understands me." "But you refuse to understand me," replied Harry, flattered but still petulant. "You are like an iceberg, when we are alone." Laura looked up with wonder in her great eyes, and something like a blush suffusing her face, followed by a look of langour that penetrated Harry's heart as if it had been longing. "Did I ever show any want of confidence in you, Harry?" And she gave him her hand, which Harry pressed with effusion--something in her manner told him that he must be content with that favor. It was always so. She excited his hopes and denied him, inflamed his passion and restrained it, and wound him in her toils day by day. To what purpose? It was keen delight to Laura to prove that she had power over men. Laura liked to hear about life at the east, and especially about the luxurious society in which Mr. Brierly moved when he was at home. It pleased her imagination to fancy herself a queen in it. "You should be a winter in Washington," Harry said. "But I have no acquaintances there." "Don't know any of the families of the congressmen? They like to have a pretty woman staying with them." "Not one." "Suppose Col. Sellers should, have business there; say, about this Columbus River appropriation?" "Sellers!" and Laura laughed. "You needn't laugh. Queerer things have happened. Sellers knows everybody from Missouri, and from the West, too, for that matter. He'd introduce you to Washington life quick enough. It doesn't need a crowbar to break your way into society there as it does in Philadelphia. It's democratic, Washington is. Money or beauty will open any door. If I were a handsome woman, I shouldn't want any better place than the capital to pick up a prince or a fortune." "Thank you," replied Laura. "But I prefer the quiet of home, and the love of those I know;" and her face wore a look of sweet contentment and unworldliness that finished Mr. Harry Brierly for the day. Nevertheless, the hint that Harry had dropped fell upon good ground, and bore fruit an hundred fold; it worked in her mind until she had built up a plan on it, and almost a career for herself. Why not, she said, why shouldn't I do as other women have done? She took the first opportunity to see Col. Sellers, and to sound him about the Washington visit. How was he getting on with his navigation scheme, would it be likely to take him from home to Jefferson City; or to Washington, perhaps? "Well, maybe. If the people of Napoleon want me to go to Washington, and look after that matter, I might tear myself from my home. It's been suggested to me, but--not a word of it to Mrs. Sellers and the children. Maybe they wouldn't like to think of their father in Washington. But Dilworthy, Senator Dilworthy, says to me, 'Colonel, you are the man, you could influence more votes than any one else on such a measure, an old settler, a man of the people, you know the wants of Missouri; you've a respect for religion too, says he, and know how the cause of the gospel goes with improvements: Which is true enough, Miss Laura, and hasn't been enough thought of in connection with Napoleon. He's an able man, Dilworthy, and a good man. A man has got to be good to succeed as he has. He's only been in Congress a few years, and he must be worth a million. First thing in the morning when he stayed with me he asked about family prayers, whether we had 'em before or after breakfast. I hated to disappoint the Senator, but I had to out with it, tell him we didn't have 'em, not steady. He said he understood, business interruptions and all that, some men were well enough without, but as for him he never neglected the ordinances of religion. He doubted if the Columbus River appropriation would succeed if we did not invoke the Divine Blessing on it." Perhaps it is unnecessary to say to the reader that Senator Dilworthy had not stayed with Col. Sellers while he was in Hawkeye; this visit to his house being only one of the Colonel's hallucinations--one of those instant creations of his fertile fancy, which were always flashing into his brain and out of his mouth in the course of any conversation and without interrupting the flow of it. During the summer Philip rode across the country and made a short visit in Hawkeye, giving Harry an opportunity to show him the progress that he and the Colonel had made in their operation at Stone's Landing, to introduce him also to Laura, and to borrow a little money when he departed. Harry bragged about his conquest, as was his habit, and took Philip round to see his western prize. Laura received Mr. Philip with a courtesy and a slight hauteur that rather surprised and not a little interested him. He saw at once that she was older than Harry, and soon made up his mind that she was leading his friend a country dance to which he was unaccustomed. At least he thought he saw that, and half hinted as much to Harry, who flared up at once; but on a second visit Philip was not so sure, the young lady was certainly kind and friendly and almost confiding with Harry, and treated Philip with the greatest consideration. She deferred to his opinions, and listened attentively when he talked, and in time met his frank manner with an equal frankness, so that he was quite convinced that whatever she might feel towards Harry, she was sincere with him. Perhaps his manly way did win her liking. Perhaps in her mind, she compared him with Harry, and recognized in him a man to whom a woman might give her whole soul, recklessly and with little care if she lost it. Philip was not invincible to her beauty nor to the intellectual charm of her presence. The week seemed very short that he passed in Hawkeye, and when he bade Laura good by, he seemed to have known her a year. "We shall see you again, Mr. Sterling," she said as she gave him her hand, with just a shade of sadness in her handsome eyes. And when he turned away she followed him with a look that might have disturbed his serenity, if he had not at the moment had a little square letter in his breast pocket, dated at Philadelphia, and signed "Ruth." CHAPTER XX. The visit of Senator Abner Dilworthy was an event in Hawkeye. When a Senator, whose place is in Washington moving among the Great and guiding the destinies of the nation, condescends to mingle among the people and accept the hospitalities of such a place as Hawkeye, the honor is not considered a light one. All, parties are flattered by it and politics are forgotten in the presence of one so distinguished among his fellows. Senator Dilworthy, who was from a neighboring state, had been a Unionist in the darkest days of his country, and had thriven by it, but was that any reason why Col. Sellers, who had been a confederate and had not thriven by it, should give him the cold shoulder? The Senator was the guest of his old friend Gen. Boswell, but it almost appeared that he was indebted to Col. Sellers for the unreserved hospitalities of the town. It was the large hearted Colonel who, in a manner, gave him the freedom of the city. "You are known here, sir," said the Colonel, "and Hawkeye is proud of you. You will find every door open, and a welcome at every hearthstone. I should insist upon your going to my house, if you were not claimed by your older friend Gen. Boswell. But you will mingle with our people, and you will see here developments that will surprise you." The Colonel was so profuse in his hospitality that he must have made the impression upon himself that he had entertained the Senator at his own mansion during his stay; at any rate, he afterwards always spoke of him as his guest, and not seldom referred to the Senator's relish of certain viands on his table. He did, in fact, press him to dine upon the morning of the day the Senator was going away. Senator Dilworthy was large and portly, though not tall--a pleasant spoken man, a popular man with the people. He took a lively interest in the town and all the surrounding country, and made many inquiries as to the progress of agriculture, of education, and of religion, and especially as to the condition of the emancipated race. "Providence," he said, "has placed them in our hands, and although you and I, General, might have chosen a different destiny for them, under the Constitution, yet Providence knows best." "You can't do much with 'em," interrupted Col. Sellers. "They are a speculating race, sir, disinclined to work for white folks without security, planning how to live by only working for themselves. Idle, sir, there's my garden just a ruin of weeds. Nothing practical in 'em." "There is some truth in your observation, Colonel, but you must educate them." "You educate the niggro and you make him more speculating than he was before. If he won't stick to any industry except for himself now, what will he do then?" "But, Colonel, the negro when educated will be more able to make his speculations fruitful." "Never, sir, never. He would only have a wider scope to injure himself. A niggro has no grasp, sir. Now, a white man can conceive great operations, and carry them out; a niggro can't." "Still," replied the Senator, "granting that he might injure himself in a worldly point of view, his elevation through education would multiply his chances for the hereafter--which is the important thing after all, Colonel. And no matter what the result is, we must fulfill our duty by this being." "I'd elevate his soul," promptly responded the Colonel; "that's just it; you can't make his soul too immortal, but I wouldn't touch him, himself. Yes, sir! make his soul immortal, but don't disturb the niggro as he is." Of course one of the entertainments offered the Senator was a public reception, held in the court house, at which he made a speech to his fellow citizens. Col. Sellers was master of ceremonies. He escorted the band from the city hotel to Gen. Boswell's; he marshalled the procession of Masons, of Odd Fellows, and of Firemen, the Good Templars, the Sons of Temperance, the Cadets of Temperance, the Daughters of Rebecca, the Sunday School children, and citizens generally, which followed the Senator to the court house; he bustled about the room long after every one else was seated, and loudly cried "Order!" in the dead silence which preceded the introduction of the Senator by Gen. Boswell. The occasion was one to call out his finest powers of personal appearance, and one he long dwelt on with pleasure. This not being an edition of the Congressional Globe it is impossible to give Senator Dilworthy's speech in full. He began somewhat as follows: "Fellow citizens: It gives me great pleasure to thus meet and mingle with you, to lay aside for a moment the heavy duties of an official and burdensome station, and confer in familiar converse with my friends in your great state. The good opinion of my fellow citizens of all sections is the sweetest solace in all my anxieties. I look forward with longing to the time when I can lay aside the cares of office--" ["dam sight," shouted a tipsy fellow near the door. Cries of "put him out."] "My friends, do not remove him. Let the misguided man stay. I see that he is a victim of that evil which is swallowing up public virtue and sapping the foundation of society. As I was saying, when I can lay down the cares of office and retire to the sweets of private life in some such sweet, peaceful, intelligent, wide-awake and patriotic place as Hawkeye (applause). I have traveled much, I have seen all parts of our glorious union, but I have never seen a lovelier village than yours, or one that has more signs of commercial and industrial and religious prosperity --(more applause)." The Senator then launched into a sketch of our great country, and dwelt for an hour or more upon its prosperity and the dangers which threatened it. He then touched reverently upon the institutions of religion, and upon the necessity of private purity, if we were to have any public morality. "I trust," he said, "that there are children within the sound of my voice," and after some remarks to them, the Senator closed with an apostrophe to "the genius of American Liberty, walking with the Sunday School in one hand and Temperance in the other up the glorified steps of the National Capitol." Col. Sellers did not of course lose the opportunity to impress upon so influential a person as the Senator the desirability of improving the navigation of Columbus river. He and Mr. Brierly took the Senator over to Napoleon and opened to him their plan. It was a plan that the Senator could understand without a great deal of explanation, for he seemed to be familiar with the like improvements elsewhere. When, however, they reached Stone's Landing the Senator looked about him and inquired, "Is this Napoleon?" "This is the nucleus, the nucleus," said the Colonel, unrolling his map. "Here is the deepo, the church, the City Hall and so on." "Ah, I see. How far from here is Columbus River? Does that stream empty----" "That, why, that's Goose Run. Thar ain't no Columbus, thout'n it's over to Hawkeye," interrupted one of the citizens, who had come out to stare at the strangers. "A railroad come here last summer, but it haint been here no mo'." "Yes, sir," the Colonel hastened to explain, "in the old records Columbus River is called Goose Run. You see how it sweeps round the town--forty-nine miles to the Missouri; sloop navigation all the way pretty much, drains this whole country; when it's improved steamboats will run right up here. It's got to be enlarged, deepened. You see by the map. Columbus River. This country must have water communication!" "You'll want a considerable appropriation, Col. Sellers. "I should say a million; is that your figure Mr. Brierly." "According to our surveys," said Harry, "a million would do it; a million spent on the river would make Napoleon worth two millions at least." "I see," nodded the Senator. "But you'd better begin by asking only for two or three hundred thousand, the usual way. You can begin to sell town lots on that appropriation you know." The Senator, himself, to do him justice, was not very much interested in the country or the stream, but he favored the appropriation, and he gave the Colonel and Mr. Brierly to and understand that he would endeavor to get it through. Harry, who thought he was shrewd and understood Washington, suggested an interest. But he saw that the Senator was wounded by the suggestion. "You will offend me by repeating such an observation," he said. "Whatever I do will be for the public interest. It will require a portion of the appropriation for necessary expenses, and I am sorry to say that there are members who will have to be seen. But you can reckon upon my humble services." This aspect of the subject was not again alluded to. The Senator possessed himself of the facts, not from his observation of the ground, but from the lips of Col. Sellers, and laid the appropriation scheme away among his other plans for benefiting the public. It was on this visit also that the Senator made the acquaintance of Mr. Washington Hawkins, and was greatly taken with his innocence, his guileless manner and perhaps with his ready adaptability to enter upon any plan proposed. Col. Sellers was pleased to see this interest that Washington had awakened, especially since it was likely to further his expectations with regard to the Tennessee lands; the Senator having remarked to the Colonel, that he delighted to help any deserving young man, when the promotion of a private advantage could at the same time be made to contribute to the general good. And he did not doubt that this was an opportunity of that kind. The result of several conferences with Washington was that the Senator proposed that he should go to Washington with him and become his private secretary and the secretary of his committee; a proposal which was eagerly accepted. The Senator spent Sunday in Hawkeye and attended church. He cheered the heart of the worthy and zealous minister by an expression of his sympathy in his labors, and by many inquiries in regard to the religious state of the region. It was not a very promising state, and the good man felt how much lighter his task would be, if he had the aid of such a man as Senator Dilworthy. "I am glad to see, my dear sir," said the Senator, "that you give them the doctrines. It is owing to a neglect of the doctrines, that there is such a fearful falling away in the country. I wish that we might have you in Washington--as chaplain, now, in the senate." The good man could not but be a little flattered, and if sometimes, thereafter, in his discouraging work, he allowed the thought that he might perhaps be called to Washington as chaplain of the Senate, to cheer him, who can wonder. The Senator's commendation at least did one service for him, it elevated him in the opinion of Hawkeye. Laura was at church alone that day, and Mr. Brierly walked home with her. A part of their way lay with that of General Boswell and Senator Dilworthy, and introductions were made. Laura had her own reasons for wishing to know the Senator, and the Senator was not a man who could be called indifferent to charms such as hers. That meek young lady so commended herself to him in the short walk, that he announced his intentions of paying his respects to her the next day, an intention which Harry received glumly; and when the Senator was out of hearing he called him "an old fool." "Fie," said Laura, "I do believe you are jealous, Harry. He is a very pleasant man. He said you were a young man of great promise." The Senator did call next day, and the result of his visit was that he was confirmed in his impression that there was something about him very attractive to ladies. He saw Laura again and again daring his stay, and felt more and more the subtle influence of her feminine beauty, which every man felt who came near her. Harry was beside himself with rage while the Senator remained in town; he declared that women were always ready to drop any man for higher game; and he attributed his own ill-luck to the Senator's appearance. The fellow was in fact crazy about her beauty and ready to beat his brains out in chagrin. Perhaps Laura enjoyed his torment, but she soothed him with blandishments that increased his ardor, and she smiled to herself to think that he had, with all his protestations of love, never spoken of marriage. Probably the vivacious fellow never had thought of it. At any rate when he at length went away from Hawkeye he was no nearer it. But there was no telling to what desperate lengths his passion might not carry him. Laura bade him good bye with tender regret, which, however, did not disturb her peace or interfere with her plans. The visit of Senator Dilworthy had become of more importance to her, and it by and by bore the fruit she longed for, in an invitation to visit his family in the National Capital during the winter session of Congress. CHAPTER XXI. O lift your natures up: Embrace our aims: work out your freedom. Girls, Knowledge is now no more a fountain sealed; Drink deep until the habits of the slave, The sins of emptiness, gossip and spite And slander, die. The Princess. Whether medicine is a science, or only an empirical method of getting a living out of the ignorance of the human race, Ruth found before her first term was over at the medical school that there were other things she needed to know quite as much as that which is taught in medical books, and that she could never satisfy her aspirations without more general culture. "Does your doctor know any thing--I don't mean about medicine, but about things in general, is he a man of information and good sense?" once asked an old practitioner. "If he doesn't know any thing but medicine the chance is he doesn't know that:" The close application to her special study was beginning to tell upon Ruth's delicate health also, and the summer brought with it only weariness and indisposition for any mental effort. In this condition of mind and body the quiet of her home and the unexciting companionship of those about her were more than ever tiresome. She followed with more interest Philip's sparkling account of his life in the west, and longed for his experiences, and to know some of those people of a world so different from here, who alternately amused and displeased him. He at least was learning the world, the good and the bad of it, as must happen to every one who accomplishes anything in it. But what, Ruth wrote, could a woman do, tied up by custom, and cast into particular circumstances out of which it was almost impossible to extricate herself? Philip thought that he would go some day and extricate Ruth, but he did not write that, for he had the instinct to know that this was not the extrication she dreamed of, and that she must find out by her own experience what her heart really wanted. Philip was not a philosopher, to be sure, but he had the old fashioned notion, that whatever a woman's theories of life might be, she would come round to matrimony, only give her time. He could indeed recall to mind one woman--and he never knew a nobler--whose whole soul was devoted and who believed that her life was consecrated to a certain benevolent project in singleness of life, who yielded to the touch of matrimony, as an icicle yields to a sunbeam. Neither at home nor elsewhere did Ruth utter any complaint, or admit any weariness or doubt of her ability to pursue the path she had marked out for herself. But her mother saw clearly enough her struggle with infirmity, and was not deceived by either her gaiety or by the cheerful composure which she carried into all the ordinary duties that fell to her. She saw plainly enough that Ruth needed an entire change of scene and of occupation, and perhaps she believed that such a change, with the knowledge of the world it would bring, would divert Ruth from a course for which she felt she was physically entirely unfitted. It therefore suited the wishes of all concerned, when autumn came, that Ruth should go away to school. She selected a large New England Seminary, of which she had often heard Philip speak, which was attended by both sexes and offered almost collegiate advantages of education. Thither she went in September, and began for the second time in the year a life new to her. The Seminary was the chief feature of Fallkill, a village of two to three thousand inhabitants. It was a prosperous school, with three hundred students, a large corps of teachers, men and women, and with a venerable rusty row of academic buildings on the shaded square of the town. The students lodged and boarded in private families in the place, and so it came about that while the school did a great deal to support the town, the town gave the students society and the sweet influences of home life. It is at least respectful to say that the influences of home life are sweet. Ruth's home, by the intervention of Philip, was in a family--one of the rare exceptions in life or in fiction--that had never known better days. The Montagues, it is perhaps well to say, had intended to come over in the Mayflower, but were detained at Delft Haven by the illness of a child. They came over to Massachusetts Bay in another vessel, and thus escaped the onus of that brevet nobility under which the successors of the Mayflower Pilgrims have descended. Having no factitious weight of dignity to carry, the Montagues steadily improved their condition from the day they landed, and they were never more vigorous or prosperous than at the date of this narrative. With character compacted by the rigid Puritan discipline of more than two centuries, they had retained its strength and purity and thrown off its narrowness, and were now blossoming under the generous modern influences. Squire Oliver Montague, a lawyer who had retired from the practice of his profession except in rare cases, dwelt in a square old fashioned New England mile away from the green. It was called a mansion because it stood alone with ample fields about it, and had an avenue of trees leading to it from the road, and on the west commanded a view of a pretty little lake with gentle slopes and nodding were now blossoming under the generous modern influences. Squire Oliver Montague, a lawyer who had retired from the practice of his profession except in rare cases, dwelt in a square old fashioned New England groves. But it was just a plain, roomy house, capable of extending to many guests an unpretending hospitality. The family consisted of the Squire and his wife, a son and a daughter married and not at home, a son in college at Cambridge, another son at the Seminary, and a daughter Alice, who was a year or more older than Ruth. Having only riches enough to be able to gratify reasonable desires, and yet make their gratifications always a novelty and a pleasure, the family occupied that just mean in life which is so rarely attained, and still more rarely enjoyed without discontent. If Ruth did not find so much luxury in the house as in her own home, there were evidences of culture, of intellectual activity and of a zest in the affairs of all the world, which greatly impressed her. Every room had its book-cases or book-shelves, and was more or less a library; upon every table was liable to be a litter of new books, fresh periodicals and daily newspapers. There were plants in the sunny windows and some choice engravings on the walls, with bits of color in oil or water-colors; the piano was sure to be open and strewn with music; and there were photographs and little souvenirs here and there of foreign travel. An absence of any "what-pots" in the corners with rows of cheerful shells, and Hindoo gods, and Chinese idols, and nests of use less boxes of lacquered wood, might be taken as denoting a languidness in the family concerning foreign missions, but perhaps unjustly. At any rate the life of the world flowed freely into this hospitable house, and there was always so much talk there of the news of the day, of the new books and of authors, of Boston radicalism and New York civilization, and the virtue of Congress, that small gossip stood a very poor chance. All this was in many ways so new to Ruth that she seemed to have passed into another world, in which she experienced a freedom and a mental exhilaration unknown to her before. Under this influence she entered upon her studies with keen enjoyment, finding for a time all the relaxation she needed, in the charming social life at the Montague house. It is strange, she wrote to Philip, in one of her occasional letters, that you never told me more about this delightful family, and scarcely mentioned Alice who is the life of it, just the noblest girl, unselfish, knows how to do so many things, with lots of talent, with a dry humor, and an odd way of looking at things, and yet quiet and even serious often--one of your "capable" New England girls. We shall be great friends. It had never occurred to Philip that there was any thing extraordinary about the family that needed mention. He knew dozens of girls like Alice, he thought to himself, but only one like Ruth. Good friends the two girls were from the beginning. Ruth was a study to Alice; the product of a culture entirely foreign to her experience, so much a child in some things, so much a woman in others; and Ruth in turn, it must be confessed, probing Alice sometimes with her serious grey eyes, wondered what her object in life was, and whether she had any purpose beyond living as she now saw her. For she could scarcely conceive of a life that should not be devoted to the accomplishment of some definite work, and she had-no doubt that in her own case everything else would yield to the professional career she had marked out. "So you know Philip Sterling," said Ruth one day as the girls sat at their sewing. Ruth never embroidered, and never sewed when she could avoid it. Bless her. "Oh yes, we are old friends. Philip used to come to Fallkill often while he was in college. He was once rusticated here for a term." "Rusticated?" "Suspended for some College scrape. He was a great favorite here. Father and he were famous friends. Father said that Philip had no end of nonsense in him and was always blundering into something, but he was a royal good fellow and would come out all right." "Did you think he was fickle?" "Why, I never thought whether he was or not," replied Alice looking up. "I suppose he was always in love with some girl or another, as college boys are. He used to make me his confidant now and then, and be terribly in the dumps." "Why did he come to you?" pursued Ruth you were younger than he." "I'm sure I don't know. He was at our house a good deal. Once at a picnic by the lake, at the risk of his own life, he saved sister Millie from drowning, and we all liked to have him here. Perhaps he thought as he had saved one sister, the other ought to help him when he was in trouble. I don't know." The fact was that Alice was a person who invited confidences, because she never betrayed them, and gave abundant sympathy in return. There are persons, whom we all know, to whom human confidences, troubles and heart-aches flow as naturally its streams to a placid lake. This is not a history of Fallkill, nor of the Montague family, worthy as both are of that honor, and this narrative cannot be diverted into long loitering with them. If the reader visits the village to-day, he will doubtless be pointed out the Montague dwelling, where Ruth lived, the cross-lots path she traversed to the Seminary, and the venerable chapel with its cracked bell. In the little society of the place, the Quaker girl was a favorite, and no considerable social gathering or pleasure party was thought complete without her. There was something in this seemingly transparent and yet deep character, in her childlike gaiety and enjoyment of the society about her, and in her not seldom absorption in herself, that would have made her long remembered there if no events had subsequently occurred to recall her to mind. To the surprise of Alice, Ruth took to the small gaieties of the village with a zest of enjoyment that seemed foreign to one who had devoted her life to a serious profession from the highest motives. Alice liked society well enough, she thought, but there was nothing exciting in that of Fallkill, nor anything novel in the attentions of the well-bred young gentlemen one met in it. It must have worn a different aspect to Ruth, for she entered into its pleasures at first with curiosity, and then with interest and finally with a kind of staid abandon that no one would have deemed possible for her. Parties, picnics, rowing-matches, moonlight strolls, nutting expeditions in the October woods,--Alice declared that it was a whirl of dissipation. The fondness of Ruth, which was scarcely disguised, for the company of agreeable young fellows, who talked nothings, gave Alice opportunity for no end of banter. "Do you look upon them as I subjects, dear?" she would ask. And Ruth laughed her merriest laugh, and then looked sober again. Perhaps she was thinking, after all, whether she knew herself. If you should rear a duck in the heart of the Sahara, no doubt it would swim if you brought it to the Nile. Surely no one would have predicted when Ruth left Philadelphia that she would become absorbed to this extent, and so happy, in a life so unlike that she thought she desired. But no one can tell how a woman will act under any circumstances. The reason novelists nearly always fail in depicting women when they make them act, is that they let them do what they have observed some woman has done at sometime or another. And that is where they make a mistake; for a woman will never do again what has been done before. It is this uncertainty that causes women, considered as materials for fiction, to be so interesting to themselves and to others. As the fall went on and the winter, Ruth did not distinguish herself greatly at the Fallkill Seminary as a student, a fact that apparently gave her no anxiety, and did not diminish her enjoyment of a new sort of power which had awakened within her. CHAPTER XXII. In mid-winter, an event occurred of unusual interest to the inhabitants of the Montague house, and to the friends of the young ladies who sought their society. This was the arrival at the Sassacua Hotel of two young gentlemen from the west. It is the fashion in New England to give Indian names to the public houses, not that the late lamented savage knew how to keep a hotel, but that his warlike name may impress the traveler who humbly craves shelter there, and make him grateful to the noble and gentlemanly clerk if he is allowed to depart with his scalp safe. The two young gentlemen were neither students for the Fallkill Seminary, nor lecturers on physiology, nor yet life assurance solicitors, three suppositions that almost exhausted the guessing power of the people at the hotel in respect to the names of "Philip Sterling and Henry Brierly, Missouri," on the register. They were handsome enough fellows, that was evident, browned by out-door exposure, and with a free and lordly way about them that almost awed the hotel clerk himself. Indeed, he very soon set down Mr. Brierly as a gentleman of large fortune, with enormous interests on his shoulders. Harry had a way of casually mentioning western investments, through lines, the freighting business, and the route through the Indian territory to Lower California, which was calculated to give an importance to his lightest word. "You've a pleasant town here, sir, and the most comfortable looking hotel I've seen out of New York," said Harry to the clerk; "we shall stay here a few days if you can give us a roomy suite of apartments." Harry usually had the best of everything, wherever he went, as such fellows always do have in this accommodating world. Philip would have been quite content with less expensive quarters, but there was no resisting Harry's generosity in such matters. Railroad surveying and real-estate operations were at a standstill during the winter in Missouri, and the young men had taken advantage of the lull to come east, Philip to see if there was any disposition in his friends, the railway contractors, to give him a share in the Salt Lick Union Pacific Extension, and Harry to open out to his uncle the prospects of the new city at Stone's Landing, and to procure congressional appropriations for the harbor and for making Goose Run navigable. Harry had with him a map of that noble stream and of the harbor, with a perfect net-work of railroads centering in it, pictures of wharves, crowded with steamboats, and of huge grain-elevators on the bank, all of which grew out of the combined imaginations of Col. Sellers and Mr. Brierly. The Colonel had entire confidence in Harry's influence with Wall street, and with congressmen, to bring about the consummation of their scheme, and he waited his return in the empty house at Hawkeye, feeding his pinched family upon the most gorgeous expectations with a reckless prodigality. "Don't let 'em into the thing more than is necessary," says the Colonel to Harry; "give 'em a small interest; a lot apiece in the suburbs of the Landing ought to do a congressman, but I reckon you'll have to mortgage a part of the city itself to the brokers." Harry did not find that eagerness to lend money on Stone's Landing in Wall street which Col. Sellers had expected, (it had seen too many such maps as he exhibited), although his uncle and some of the brokers looked with more favor on the appropriation for improving the navigation of Columbus River, and were not disinclined to form a company for that purpose. An appropriation was a tangible thing, if you could get hold of it, and it made little difference what it was appropriated for, so long as you got hold of it. Pending these weighty negotiations, Philip has persuaded Harry to take a little run up to Fallkill, a not difficult task, for that young man would at any time have turned his back upon all the land in the West at sight of a new and pretty face, and he had, it must be confessed, a facility in love making which made it not at all an interference with the more serious business of life. He could not, to be sure, conceive how Philip could be interested in a young lady who was studying medicine, but he had no objection to going, for he did not doubt that there were other girls in Fallkill who were worth a week's attention. The young men were received at the house of the Montagues with the hospitality which never failed there. "We are glad to see you again," exclaimed the Squire heartily, "you are welcome Mr. Brierly, any friend of Phil's is welcome at our house" "It's more like home to me, than any place except my own home," cried Philip, as he looked about the cheerful house and went through a general hand-shaking. "It's a long time, though, since you have been here to say so," Alice said, with her father's frankness of manner; "and I suspect we owe the visit now to your sudden interest in the Fallkill Seminary." Philip's color came, as it had an awkward way of doing in his tell-tale face, but before he could stammer a reply, Harry came in with, "That accounts for Phil's wish to build a Seminary at Stone's Landing, our place in Missouri, when Col. Sellers insisted it should be a University. Phil appears to have a weakness for Seminaries." "It would have been better for your friend Sellers," retorted Philip, "if he had had a weakness for district schools. Col. Sellers, Miss Alice, is a great friend of Harry's, who is always trying to build a house by beginning at the top." "I suppose it's as easy to build a University on paper as a Seminary, and it looks better," was Harry's reflection; at which the Squire laughed, and said he quite agreed with him. The old gentleman understood Stone's Landing a good deal better than he would have done after an hour's talk with either of it's expectant proprietors. At this moment, and while Philip was trying to frame a question that he found it exceedingly difficult to put into words, the door opened quietly, and Ruth entered. Taking in the, group with a quick glance, her eye lighted up, and with a merry smile she advanced and shook hands with Philip. She was so unconstrained and sincerely cordial, that it made that hero of the west feel somehow young, and very ill at ease. For months and months he had thought of this meeting and pictured it to himself a hundred times, but he had never imagined it would be like this. He should meet Ruth unexpectedly, as she was walking alone from the school, perhaps, or entering the room where he was waiting for her, and she would cry "Oh! Phil," and then check herself, and perhaps blush, and Philip calm but eager and enthusiastic, would reassure her by his warm manner, and he would take her hand impressively, and she would look up timidly, and, after his' long absence, perhaps he would be permitted to Good heavens, how many times he had come to this point, and wondered if it could happen so. Well, well; he had never supposed that he should be the one embarrassed, and above all by a sincere and cordial welcome. "We heard you were at the Sassacus House," were Ruth's first words; "and this I suppose is your friend?" "I beg your pardon," Philip at length blundered out, "this is Mr. Brierly of whom I have written you." And Ruth welcomed Harry with a friendliness that Philip thought was due to his friend, to be sure, but which seemed to him too level with her reception of himself, but which Harry received as his due from the other sex. Questions were asked about the journey and about the West, and the conversation became a general one, until Philip at length found himself talking with the Squire in relation to land and railroads and things he couldn't keep his mind on especially as he heard Ruth and Harry in an animated discourse, and caught the words "New York," and "opera," and "reception," and knew that Harry was giving his imagination full range in the world of fashion. Harry knew all about the opera, green room and all (at least he said so) and knew a good many of the operas and could make very entertaining stories of their plots, telling how the soprano came in here, and the basso here, humming the beginning of their airs--tum-ti-tum-ti-ti --suggesting the profound dissatisfaction of the basso recitative--down --among--the--dead--men--and touching off the whole with an airy grace quite captivating; though he couldn't have sung a single air through to save himself, and he hadn't an ear to know whether it was sung correctly. All the same he doted on the opera, and kept a box there, into which he lounged occasionally to hear a favorite scene and meet his society friends. If Ruth was ever in the city he should be happy to place his box at the disposal of Ruth and her friends. Needless to say that she was delighted with the offer. When she told Philip of it, that discreet young fellow only smiled, and said that he hoped she would be fortunate enough to be in New York some evening when Harry had not already given the use of his private box to some other friend. The Squire pressed the visitors to let him send for their trunks and urged them to stay at his house, and Alice joined in the invitation, but Philip had reasons for declining. They staid to supper, however, and in; the evening Philip had a long talk apart with Ruth, a delightful hour to him, in which she spoke freely of herself as of old, of her studies at Philadelphia and of her plans, and she entered into his adventures and prospects in the West with a genuine and almost sisterly interest; an interest, however, which did not exactly satisfy Philip--it was too general and not personal enough to suit him. And with all her freedom in speaking of her own hopes, Philip could not, detect any reference to himself in them; whereas he never undertook anything that he did not think of Ruth in connection with it, he never made a plan that had not reference to her, and he never thought of anything as complete if she could not share it. Fortune, reputation these had no value to him except in Ruth's eyes, and there were times when it seemed to him that if Ruth was not on this earth, he should plunge off into some remote wilderness and live in a purposeless seclusion. "I hoped," said Philip; "to get a little start in connection with this new railroad, and make a little money, so that I could came east and engage in something more suited to my tastes. I shouldn't like to live in the West. Would you? "It never occurred to me whether I would or not," was the unembarrassed reply. "One of our graduates went to Chicago, and has a nice practice there. I don't know where I shall go. It would mortify mother dreadfully to have me driving about Philadelphia in a doctor's gig." Philip laughed at the idea of it. "And does it seem as necessary to you to do it as it did before you came to Fallkill?" It was a home question, and went deeper than Philip knew, for Ruth at once thought of practicing her profession among the young gentlemen and ladies of her acquaintance in the village; but she was reluctant to admit to herself that her notions of a career had undergone any change. "Oh, I don't think I should come to Fallkill to practice, but I must do something when I am through school; and why not medicine?" Philip would like to have explained why not, but the explanation would be of no use if it were not already obvious to Ruth. Harry was equally in his element whether instructing Squire Montague about the investment of capital in Missouri, the improvement of Columbus River, the project he and some gentlemen in New York had for making a shorter Pacific connection with the Mississippi than the present one; or diverting Mrs. Montague with his experience in cooking in camp; or drawing for Miss Alice an amusing picture of the social contrasts of New England and the border where he had been. Harry was a very entertaining fellow, having his imagination to help his memory, and telling his stories as if he believed them--as perhaps he did. Alice was greatly amused with Harry and listened so seriously to his romancing that he exceeded his usual limits. Chance allusions to his bachelor establishment in town and the place of his family on the Hudson, could not have been made by a millionaire, more naturally. "I should think," queried Alice, "you would rather stay in New York than to try the rough life at the West you have been speaking of." "Oh, adventure," says Harry, "I get tired of New York. And besides I got involved in some operations that I had to see through. Parties in New York only last week wanted me to go down into Arizona in a big diamond interest. I told them, no, no speculation for me. I've got my interests in Missouri; and I wouldn't leave Philip, as long as he stays there." When the young gentlemen were on their way back to the hotel, Mr. Philip, who was not in very good humor, broke out, "What the deuce, Harry, did you go on in that style to the Montagues for?" "Go on?" cried Harry. "Why shouldn't I try to make a pleasant evening? And besides, ain't I going to do those things? What difference does it make about the mood and tense of a mere verb? Didn't uncle tell me only last Saturday, that I might as well go down to Arizona and hunt for diamonds? A fellow might as well make a good impression as a poor one." "Nonsense. You'll get to believing your own romancing by and by." "Well, you'll see. When Sellers and I get that appropriation, I'll show you an establishment in town and another on the Hudson and a box at the opera." "Yes, it will be like Col. Sellers' plantation at Hawkeye. Did you ever see that?" "Now, don't be cross, Phil. She's just superb, that little woman. You never told me." "Who's just superb?" growled Philip, fancying this turn of the conversation less than the other. "Well, Mrs. Montague, if you must know." And Harry stopped to light a cigar, and then puffed on in silence. The little quarrel didn't last over night, for Harry never appeared to cherish any ill-will half a second, and Philip was too sensible to continue a row about nothing; and he had invited Harry to come with him. The young gentlemen stayed in Fallkill a week, and were every day at the Montagues, and took part in the winter gaieties of the village. There were parties here and there to which the friends of Ruth and the Montagues were of course invited, and Harry in the generosity of his nature, gave in return a little supper at the hotel, very simple indeed, with dancing in the hall, and some refreshments passed round. And Philip found the whole thing in the bill when he came to pay it. Before the week was over Philip thought he had a new light on the character of Ruth. Her absorption in the small gaieties of the society there surprised him. He had few opportunities for serious conversation with her. There was always some butterfly or another flitting about, and when Philip showed by his manner that he was not pleased, Ruth laughed merrily enough and rallied him on his soberness--she declared he was getting to be grim and unsocial. He talked indeed more with Alice than with Ruth, and scarcely concealed from her the trouble that was in his mind. It needed, in fact, no word from him, for she saw clearly enough what was going forward, and knew her sex well enough to know there was no remedy for it but time. "Ruth is a dear girl, Philip, and has as much firmness of purpose as ever, but don't you see she has just discovered that she is fond of society? Don't you let her see you are selfish about it, is my advice." The last evening they were to spend in Fallkill, they were at the Montagues, and Philip hoped that he would find Ruth in a different mood. But she was never more gay, and there was a spice of mischief in her eye and in her laugh. "Confound it," said Philip to himself, "she's in a perfect twitter." He would have liked to quarrel with her, and fling himself out of the house in tragedy style, going perhaps so far as to blindly wander off miles into the country and bathe his throbbing brow in the chilling rain of the stars, as people do in novels; but he had no opportunity. For Ruth was as serenely unconscious of mischief as women can be at times, and fascinated him more than ever with her little demurenesses and half-confidences. She even said "Thee" to him once in reproach for a cutting speech he began. And the sweet little word made his heart beat like a trip-hammer, for never in all her life had she said "thee" to him before. Was she fascinated with Harry's careless 'bon homie' and gay assurance? Both chatted away in high spirits, and made the evening whirl along in the most mirthful manner. Ruth sang for Harry, and that young gentleman turned the leaves for her at the piano, and put in a bass note now and then where he thought it would tell. Yes, it was a merry evening, and Philip was heartily glad when it was over, and the long leave-taking with the family was through with. "Farewell Philip. Good night Mr. Brierly," Ruth's clear voice sounded after them as they went down the walk. And she spoke Harry's name last, thought Philip. CHAPTER XXIII. "O see ye not yon narrow road So thick beset wi' thorns and briers? That is the Path of Righteousness, Though after it but few inquires. "And see ye not yon braid, braid road, That lies across the lily leven? That is the Path of Wickedness, Though some call it the road to Heaven." Thomas the Rhymer. Phillip and Harry reached New York in very different states of mind. Harry was buoyant. He found a letter from Col. Sellers urging him to go to Washington and confer with Senator Dilworthy. The petition was in his hands. It had been signed by everybody of any importance in Missouri, and would be presented immediately. "I should go on myself," wrote the Colonel, "but I am engaged in the invention of a process for lighting such a city as St. Louis by means of water; just attach my machine to the water-pipes anywhere and the decomposition of the fluid begins, and you will have floods of light for the mere cost of the machine. I've nearly got the lighting part, but I want to attach to it a heating, cooking, washing and ironing apparatus. It's going to be the great thing, but we'd better keep this appropriation going while I am perfecting it." Harry took letters to several congressmen from his uncle and from Mr. Duff Brown, each of whom had an extensive acquaintance in both houses where they were well known as men engaged in large private operations for the public good and men, besides, who, in the slang of the day, understood the virtues of "addition, division and silence." Senator Dilworthy introduced the petition into the Senate with the remark that he knew, personally, the signers of it, that they were men interested; it was true, in the improvement of the country, but he believed without any selfish motive, and that so far as he knew the signers were loyal. It pleased him to see upon the roll the names of many colored citizens, and it must rejoice every friend of humanity to know that this lately emancipated race were intelligently taking part in the development of the resources of their native land. He moved the reference of the petition to the proper committee. Senator Dilworthy introduced his young friend to influential members, as a person who was very well informed about the Salt Lick Extension of the Pacific, and was one of the Engineers who had made a careful survey of Columbus River; and left him to exhibit his maps and plans and to show the connection between the public treasury, the city of Napoleon and legislation for the benefit off the whole country. Harry was the guest of Senator Dilworthy. There was scarcely any good movement in which the Senator was not interested. His house was open to all the laborers in the field of total abstinence, and much of his time was taken up in attending the meetings of this cause. He had a Bible class in the Sunday school of the church which he attended, and he suggested to Harry that he might take a class during the time he remained in Washington, Mr. Washington Hawkins had a class. Harry asked the Senator if there was a class of young ladies for him to teach, and after that the Senator did not press the subject. Philip, if the truth must be told, was not well satisfied with his western prospects, nor altogether with the people he had fallen in with. The railroad contractors held out large but rather indefinite promises. Opportunities for a fortune he did not doubt existed in Missouri, but for himself he saw no better means for livelihood than the mastery of the profession he had rather thoughtlessly entered upon. During the summer he had made considerable practical advance in the science of engineering; he had been diligent, and made himself to a certain extent necessary to the work he was engaged on. The contractors called him into their consultations frequently, as to the character of the country he had been over, and the cost of constructing the road, the nature of the work, etc. Still Philip felt that if he was going to make either reputation or money as an engineer, he had a great deal of hard study before him, and it is to his credit that he did not shrink from it. While Harry was in Washington dancing attendance upon the national legislature and making the acquaintance of the vast lobby that encircled it, Philip devoted himself day and night, with an energy and a concentration he was capable of, to the learning and theory of his profession, and to the science of railroad building. He wrote some papers at this time for the "Plow, the Loom and the Anvil," upon the strength of materials, and especially upon bridge-building, which attracted considerable attention, and were copied into the English "Practical Magazine." They served at any rate to raise Philip in the opinion of his friends the contractors, for practical men have a certain superstitious estimation of ability with the pen, and though they may a little despise the talent, they are quite ready to make use of it. Philip sent copies of his performances to Ruth's father and to other gentlemen whose good opinion he coveted, but he did not rest upon his laurels. Indeed, so diligently had he applied himself, that when it came time for him to return to the West, he felt himself, at least in theory, competent to take charge of a division in the field. CHAPTER XXIV. The capital of the Great Republic was a new world to country-bred Washington Hawkins. St. Louis was a greater city, but its floating. population did not hail from great distances, and so it had the general family aspect of the permanent population; but Washington gathered its people from the four winds of heaven, and so the manners, the faces and the fashions there, presented a variety that was infinite. Washington had never been in "society" in St. Louis, and he knew nothing of the ways of its wealthier citizens and had never inspected one of their dwellings. Consequently, everything in the nature of modern fashion and grandeur was a new and wonderful revelation to him. Washington is an interesting city to any of us. It seems to become more and more interesting the oftener we visit it. Perhaps the reader has never been there? Very well. You arrive either at night, rather too late to do anything or see anything until morning, or you arrive so early in the morning that you consider it best to go to your hotel and sleep an hour or two while the sun bothers along over the Atlantic. You cannot well arrive at a pleasant intermediate hour, because the railway corporation that keeps the keys of the only door that leads into the town or out of it take care of that. You arrive in tolerably good spirits, because it is only thirty-eight miles from Baltimore to the capital, and so you have only been insulted three times (provided you are not in a sleeping car--the average is higher there): once when you renewed your ticket after stopping over in Baltimore, once when you were about to enter the "ladies' car" without knowing it was a lady's car, and once When you asked the conductor at what hour you would reach Washington. You are assailed by a long rank of hackmen who shake their whips in your face as you step out upon the sidewalk; you enter what they regard as a "carriage," in the capital, and you wonder why they do not take it out of service and put it in the museum: we have few enough antiquities, and it is little to our credit that we make scarcely any effort to preserve the few we have. You reach your hotel, presently--and here let us draw the curtain of charity--because of course you have gone to the wrong one. You being a stranger, how could you do otherwise? There are a hundred and eighteen bad hotels, and only one good one. The most renowned and popular hotel of them all is perhaps the worst one known to history. It is winter, and night. When you arrived, it was snowing. When you reached the hotel, it was sleeting. When you went to bed, it was raining. During the night it froze hard, and the wind blew some chimneys down. When you got up in the morning, it was foggy. When you finished your breakfast at ten o'clock and went out, the sunshine was brilliant, the weather balmy and delicious, and the mud and slush deep and all-pervading. You will like the climate when you get used to it. You naturally wish to view the city; so you take an umbrella, an overcoat, and a fan, and go forth. The prominent features you soon locate and get familiar with; first you glimpse the ornamental upper works of a long, snowy palace projecting above a grove of trees, and a tall, graceful white dome with a statue on it surmounting the palace and pleasantly contrasting with the background of blue sky. That building is the capitol; gossips will tell you that by the original estimates it was to cost $12,000,000, and that the government did come within $21,200,000 of building it for that sum. You stand at the back of the capitol to treat yourself to a view, and it is a very noble one. You understand, the capitol stands upon the verge of a high piece of table land, a fine commanding position, and its front looks out over this noble situation for a city--but it don't see it, for the reason that when the capitol extension was decided upon, the property owners at once advanced their prices to such inhuman figures that the people went down and built the city in the muddy low marsh behind the temple of liberty; so now the lordly front of the building, with, its imposing colonades, its, projecting, graceful wings, its, picturesque groups of statuary, and its long terraced ranges of steps, flowing down in white marble waves to the ground, merely looks out upon a sorrowful little desert of cheap boarding houses. So you observe, that you take your view from the back of the capitol. And yet not from the airy outlooks of the dome, by the way, because to get there you must pass through the great rotunda: and to do that, you would have to see the marvelous Historical Paintings that hang there, and the bas-reliefs--and what have you done that you should suffer thus? And besides, you might have to pass through the old part of the building, and you could not help seeing Mr. Lincoln, as petrified by a young lady artist for $10,000--and you might take his marble emancipation proclamation, which he holds out in his hand and contemplates, for a folded napkin; and you might conceive from his expression and his attitude, that he is finding fault with the washing. Which is not the case. Nobody knows what is the matter with him; but everybody feels for him. Well, you ought not to go into the dome anyhow, because it would be utterly impossible to go up there without seeing the frescoes in it--and why should you be interested in the delirium tremens of art? The capitol is a very noble and a very beautiful building, both within and without, but you need not examine it now. Still, if you greatly prefer going into the dome, go. Now your general glance gives you picturesque stretches of gleaming water, on your left, with a sail here and there and a lunatic asylum on shore; over beyond the water, on a distant elevation, you see a squat yellow temple which your eye dwells upon lovingly through a blur of unmanly moisture, for it recalls your lost boyhood and the Parthenons done in molasses candy which made it blest and beautiful. Still in the distance, but on this side of the water and close to its edge, the Monument to the Father of his Country towers out of the mud--sacred soil is the, customary term. It has the aspect of a factory chimney with the top broken off. The skeleton of a decaying scaffolding lingers about its summit, and tradition says that the spirit of Washington often comes down and sits on those rafters to enjoy this tribute of respect which the nation has reared as the symbol of its unappeasable gratitude. The Monument is to be finished, some day, and at that time our Washington will have risen still higher in the nation's veneration, and will be known as the Great-Great-Grandfather of his Country. The memorial Chimney stands in a quiet pastoral locality that is full of reposeful expression. With a glass you can see the cow-sheds about its base, and the contented sheep nimbling pebbles in the desert solitudes that surround it, and the tired pigs dozing in the holy calm of its protecting shadow. Now you wrench your gaze loose, and you look down in front of you and see the broad Pennsylvania Avenue stretching straight ahead for a mile or more till it brings up against the iron fence in front of a pillared granite pile, the Treasury building-an edifice that would command respect in any capital. The stores and hotels that wall in this broad avenue are mean, and cheap, and dingy, and are better left without comment. Beyond the Treasury is a fine large white barn, with wide unhandsome grounds about it. The President lives there. It is ugly enough outside, but that is nothing to what it is inside. Dreariness, flimsiness, bad taste reduced to mathematical completeness is what the inside offers to the eye, if it remains yet what it always has been. The front and right hand views give you the city at large. It is a wide stretch of cheap little brick houses, with here and there a noble architectural pile lifting itself out of the midst-government buildings, these. If the thaw is still going on when you come down and go about town, you will wonder at the short-sightedness of the city fathers, when you come to inspect the streets, in that they do not dilute the mud a little more and use them for canals. If you inquire around a little, you will find that there are more boardinghouses to the square acre in Washington than there are in any other city in the land, perhaps. If you apply for a home in one of them, it will seem odd to you to have the landlady inspect you with a severe eye and then ask you if you are a member of Congress. Perhaps, just as a pleasantry, you will say yes. And then she will tell you that she is "full." Then you show her her advertisement in the morning paper, and there she stands, convicted and ashamed. She will try to blush, and it will be only polite in you to take the effort for the deed. She shows you her rooms, now, and lets you take one--but she makes you pay in advance for it. That is what you will get for pretending to be a member of Congress. If you had been content to be merely a private citizen, your trunk would have been sufficient security for your board. If you are curious and inquire into this thing, the chances are that your landlady will be ill-natured enough to say that the person and property of a Congressman are exempt from arrest or detention, and that with the tears in her eyes she has seen several of the people's representatives walk off to their several States and Territories carrying her unreceipted board bills in their pockets for keepsakes. And before you have been in Washington many weeks you will be mean enough to believe her, too. Of course you contrive to see everything and find out everything. And one of the first and most startling things you find out is, that every individual you encounter in the City of Washington almost--and certainly every separate and distinct individual in the public employment, from the highest bureau chief, clear down to the maid who scrubs Department halls, the night watchmen of the public buildings and the darkey boy who purifies the Department spittoons--represents Political Influence. Unless you can get the ear of a Senator, or a Congressman, or a Chief of a Bureau or Department, and persuade him to use his "influence" in your behalf, you cannot get an employment of the most trivial nature in Washington. Mere merit, fitness and capability, are useless baggage to you without "influence." The population of Washington consists pretty much entirely of government employee and the people who board them. There are thousands of these employees, and they have gathered there from every corner of the Union and got their berths through the intercession (command is nearer the word) of the Senators and Representatives of their respective States. It would be an odd circumstance to see a girl get employment at three or four dollars a week in one of the great public cribs without any political grandee to back her, but merely because she was worthy, and competent, and a good citizen of a free country that "treats all persons alike." Washington would be mildly thunderstruck at such a thing as that. If you are a member of Congress, (no offence,) and one of your constituents who doesn't know anything, and does not want to go into the bother of learning something, and has no money, and no employment, and can't earn a living, comes besieging you for help, do you say, "Come, my friend, if your services were valuable you could get employment elsewhere--don't want you here?" Oh, no: You take him to a Department and say, "Here, give this person something to pass away the time at--and a salary"--and the thing is done. You throw him on his country. He is his country's child, let his country support him. There is something good and motherly about Washington, the grand old benevolent National Asylum for the Helpless. The wages received by this great hive of employees are placed at the liberal figure meet and just for skilled and competent labor. Such of them as are immediately employed about the two Houses of Congress, are not only liberally paid also, but are remembered in the customary Extra Compensation bill which slides neatly through, annually, with the general grab that signalizes the last night of a session, and thus twenty per cent. is added to their wages, for--for fun, no doubt. Washington Hawkins' new life was an unceasing delight to him. Senator Dilworthy lived sumptuously, and Washington's quarters were charming --gas; running water, hot and cold; bath-room, coal-fires, rich carpets, beautiful pictures on the walls; books on religion, temperance, public charities and financial schemes; trim colored servants, dainty food --everything a body could wish for. And as for stationery, there was no end to it; the government furnished it; postage stamps were not needed --the Senator's frank could convey a horse through the mails, if necessary. And then he saw such dazzling company. Renowned generals and admirals who had seemed but colossal myths when he was in the far west, went in and out before him or sat at the Senator's table, solidified into palpable flesh and blood; famous statesmen crossed his path daily; that once rare and awe-inspiring being, a Congressman, was become a common spectacle--a spectacle so common, indeed, that he could contemplate it without excitement, even without embarrassment; foreign ministers were visible to the naked eye at happy intervals; he had looked upon the President himself, and lived. And more; this world of enchantment teemed with speculation--the whole atmosphere was thick with hand that indeed was Washington Hawkins' native air; none other refreshed his lungs so gratefully. He had found paradise at last. The more he saw of his chief the Senator, the more he honored him, and the more conspicuously the moral grandeur of his character appeared to stand out. To possess the friendship and the kindly interest of such a man, Washington said in a letter to Louise, was a happy fortune for a young man whose career had been so impeded and so clouded as his. The weeks drifted by;--Harry Brierly flirted, danced, added lustre to the brilliant Senatorial receptions, and diligently "buzzed" and "button-holed" Congressmen in the interest of the Columbus River scheme; meantime Senator Dilworthy labored hard in the same interest--and in others of equal national importance. Harry wrote frequently to Sellers, and always encouragingly; and from these letters it was easy to see that Harry was a pet with all Washington, and was likely to carry the thing through; that the assistance rendered him by "old Dilworthy" was pretty fair--pretty fair; "and every little helps, you know," said Harry. Washington wrote Sellers officially, now and then. In one of his letters it appeared that whereas no member of the House committee favored the scheme at first, there was now needed but one more vote to compass a majority report. Closing sentence: "Providence seems to further our efforts." (Signed,) "ABNER DILWORTHY, U. S. S., per WASHINGTON HAWKINS, P. S." At the end of a week, Washington was able to send the happy news, officially, as usual,--that the needed vote had been added and the bill favorably reported from the Committee. Other letters recorded its perils in Committee of the whole, and by and by its victory, by just the skin of its teeth, on third reading and final passage. Then came letters telling of Mr. Dilworthy's struggles with a stubborn majority in his own Committee in the Senate; of how these gentlemen succumbed, one by one, till a majority was secured. Then there was a hiatus. Washington watched every move on the board, and he was in a good position to do this, for he was clerk of this committee, and also one other. He received no salary as private secretary, but these two clerkships, procured by his benefactor, paid him an aggregate of twelve dollars a day, without counting the twenty percent extra compensation which would of course be voted to him on the last night of the session. He saw the bill go into Committee of the whole and struggle for its life again, and finally worry through. In the fullness of time he noted its second reading, and by and by the day arrived when the grand ordeal came, and it was put upon its final passage. Washington listened with bated breath to the "Aye!" "No!" "No!" "Aye!" of the voters, for a few dread minutes, and then could bear the suspense no longer. He ran down from the gallery and hurried home to wait. At the end of two or three hours the Senator arrived in the bosom of his family, and dinner was waiting. Washington sprang forward, with the eager question on his lips, and the Senator said: "We may rejoice freely, now, my son--Providence has crowned our efforts with success." CHAPTER XXV. Washington sent grand good news to Col. Sellers that night. To Louise he wrote: "It is beautiful to hear him talk when his heart is full of thankfulness for some manifestation of the Divine favor. You shall know him, some day my Louise, and knowing him you will honor him, as I do." Harry wrote: "I pulled it through, Colonel, but it was a tough job, there is no question about that. There was not a friend to the measure in the House committee when I began, and not a friend in the Senate committee except old Dil himself, but they were all fixed for a majority report when I hauled off my forces. Everybody here says you can't get a thing like this through Congress without buying committees for straight-out cash on delivery, but I think I've taught them a thing or two--if I could only make them believe it. When I tell the old residenters that this thing went through without buying a vote or making a promise, they say, 'That's rather too thin.' And when I say thin or not thin it's a fact, anyway, they say, 'Come, now, but do you really believe that?' and when I say I don't believe anything about it, I know it, they smile and say, 'Well, you are pretty innocent, or pretty blind, one or the other--there's no getting around that.' Why they really do believe that votes have been bought--they do indeed. But let them keep on thinking so. I have found out that if a man knows how to talk to women, and has a little gift in the way of argument with men, he can afford to play for an appropriation against a money bag and give the money bag odds in the game. We've raked in $200,000 of Uncle Sam's money, say what they will--and there is more where this came from, when we want it, and I rather fancy I am the person that can go in and occupy it, too, if I do say it myself, that shouldn't, perhaps. I'll be with you within a week. Scare up all the men you can, and put them to work at once. When I get there I propose to make things hum." The great news lifted Sellers into the clouds. He went to work on the instant. He flew hither and thither making contracts, engaging men, and steeping his soul in the ecstasies of business. He was the happiest man in Missouri. And Louise was the happiest woman; for presently came a letter from Washington which said: "Rejoice with me, for the long agony is over! We have waited patiently and faithfully, all these years, and now at last the reward is at hand. A man is to pay our family $40,000 for the Tennessee Land! It is but a little sum compared to what we could get by waiting, but I do so long to see the day when I can call you my own, that I have said to myself, better take this and enjoy life in a humble way than wear out our best days in this miserable separation. Besides, I can put this money into operations here that will increase it a hundred fold, yes, a thousand fold, in a few months. The air is full of such chances, and I know our family would consent in a moment that I should put in their shares with mine. Without a doubt we shall be worth half a million dollars in a year from this time--I put it at the very lowest figure, because it is always best to be on the safe side--half a million at the very lowest calculation, and then your father will give his consent and we can marry at last. Oh, that will be a glorious day. Tell our friends the good news--I want all to share it." And she did tell her father and mother, but they said, let it be kept still for the present. The careful father also told her to write Washington and warn him not to speculate with the money, but to wait a little and advise with one or two wise old heads. She did this. And she managed to keep the good news to herself, though it would seem that the most careless observer might have seen by her springing step and her radiant countenance that some fine piece of good fortune had descended upon her. Harry joined the Colonel at Stone's Landing, and that dead place sprang into sudden life. A swarm of men were hard at work, and the dull air was filled with the cheery music of labor. Harry had been constituted engineer-in-general, and he threw the full strength of his powers into his work. He moved among his hirelings like a king. Authority seemed to invest him with a new splendor. Col. Sellers, as general superintendent of a great public enterprise, was all that a mere human being could be --and more. These two grandees went at their imposing "improvement" with the air of men who had been charged with the work of altering the foundations of the globe. They turned their first attention to straightening the river just above the Landing, where it made a deep bend, and where the maps and plans showed that the process of straightening would not only shorten distance but increase the "fall." They started a cut-off canal across the peninsula formed by the bend, and such another tearing up of the earth and slopping around in the mud as followed the order to the men, had never been seen in that region before. There was such a panic among the turtles that at the end of six hours there was not one to be found within three miles of Stone's Landing. They took the young and the aged, the decrepit and the sick upon their backs and left for tide-water in disorderly procession, the tadpoles following and the bull-frogs bringing up the rear. Saturday night came, but the men were obliged to wait, because the appropriation had not come. Harry said he had written to hurry up the money and it would be along presently. So the work continued, on Monday. Stone's Landing was making quite a stir in the vicinity, by this time. Sellers threw a lot or two on the market, "as a feeler," and they sold well. He re-clothed his family, laid in a good stock of provisions, and still had money left. He started a bank account, in a small way--and mentioned the deposit casually to friends; and to strangers, too; to everybody, in fact; but not as a new thing--on the contrary, as a matter of life-long standing. He could not keep from buying trifles every day that were not wholly necessary, it was such a gaudy thing to get out his bank-book and draw a check, instead of using his old customary formula, "Charge it" Harry sold a lot or two, also--and had a dinner party or two at Hawkeye and a general good time with the money. Both men held on pretty strenuously for the coming big prices, however. At the end of a month things were looking bad. Harry had besieged the New York headquarters of the Columbus River Slack-water Navigation Company with demands, then commands, and finally appeals, but to no purpose; the appropriation did not come; the letters were not even answered. The workmen were clamorous, now. The Colonel and Harry retired to consult. "What's to be done?" said the Colonel. "Hang'd if I know." "Company say anything?" "Not a word." "You telegraphed yesterday?" Yes, and the day before, too." "No answer?" "None-confound them!" Then there was a long pause. Finally both spoke at once: "I've got it!" "I've got it!" "What's yours?" said Harry. "Give the boys thirty-day orders on the Company for the back pay." "That's it-that's my own idea to a dot. But then--but then----" "Yes, I know," said the Colonel; "I know they can't wait for the orders to go to New York and be cashed, but what's the reason they can't get them discounted in Hawkeye?" "Of course they can. That solves the difficulty. Everybody knows the appropriation's been made and the Company's perfectly good." So the orders were given and the men appeased, though they grumbled a little at first. The orders went well enough for groceries and such things at a fair discount, and the work danced along gaily for a time. Two or three purchasers put up frame houses at the Landing and moved in, and of course a far-sighted but easy-going journeyman printer wandered along and started the "Napoleon Weekly Telegraph and Literary Repository"--a paper with a Latin motto from the Unabridged dictionary, and plenty of "fat" conversational tales and double-leaded poetry--all for two dollars a year, strictly in advance. Of course the merchants forwarded the orders at once to New York--and never heard of them again. At the end of some weeks Harry's orders were a drug in the market--nobody would take them at any discount whatever. The second month closed with a riot.--Sellers was absent at the time, and Harry began an active absence himself with the mob at his heels. But being on horseback, he had the advantage. He did not tarry in Hawkeye, but went on, thus missing several appointments with creditors. He was far on his flight eastward, and well out of danger when the next morning dawned. He telegraphed the Colonel to go down and quiet the laborers--he was bound east for money --everything would be right in a week--tell the men so--tell them to rely on him and not be afraid. Sellers found the mob quiet enough when he reached the Landing. They had gutted the Navigation office, then piled the beautiful engraved stock-books and things in the middle of the floor and enjoyed the bonfire while it lasted. They had a liking for the Colonel, but still they had some idea of hanging him, as a sort of make-shift that might answer, after a fashion, in place of more satisfactory game. But they made the mistake of waiting to hear what he had to say first. Within fifteen minutes his tongue had done its work and they were all rich men.--He gave every one of them a lot in the suburbs of the city of Stone's Landing, within a mile and a half of the future post office and railway station, and they promised to resume work as soon as Harry got east and started the money along. Now things were blooming and pleasant again, but the men had no money, and nothing to live on. The Colonel divided with them the money he still had in bank--an act which had nothing surprising about it because he was generally ready to divide whatever he had with anybody that wanted it, and it was owing to this very trait that his family spent their days in poverty and at times were pinched with famine. When the men's minds had cooled and Sellers was gone, they hated themselves for letting him beguile them with fine speeches, but it was too late, now--they agreed to hang him another time--such time as Providence should appoint. CHAPTER XXVI. Rumors of Ruth's frivolity and worldliness at Fallkill traveled to Philadelphia in due time, and occasioned no little undertalk among the Bolton relatives. Hannah Shoecraft told another, cousin that, for her part, she never believed that Ruth had so much more "mind" than other people; and Cousin Hulda added that she always thought Ruth was fond of admiration, and that was the reason she was unwilling to wear plain clothes and attend Meeting. The story that Ruth was "engaged" to a young gentleman of fortune in Fallkill came with the other news, and helped to give point to the little satirical remarks that went round about Ruth's desire to be a doctor! Margaret Bolton was too wise to be either surprised or alarmed by these rumors. They might be true; she knew a woman's nature too well to think them improbable, but she also knew how steadfast Ruth was in her purposes, and that, as a brook breaks into ripples and eddies and dances and sports by the way, and yet keeps on to the sea, it was in Ruth's nature to give back cheerful answer to the solicitations of friendliness and pleasure, to appear idly delaying even, and sporting in the sunshine, while the current of her resolution flowed steadily on. That Ruth had this delight in the mere surface play of life that she could, for instance, be interested in that somewhat serious by-play called "flirtation," or take any delight in the exercise of those little arts of pleasing and winning which are none the less genuine and charming because they are not intellectual, Ruth, herself, had never suspected until she went to Fallkill. She had believed it her duty to subdue her gaiety of temperament, and let nothing divert her from what are called serious pursuits: In her limited experience she brought everything to the judgment of her own conscience, and settled the affairs of all the world in her own serene judgment hall. Perhaps her mother saw this, and saw also that there was nothing in the Friends' society to prevent her from growing more and more opinionated. When Ruth returned to Philadelphia, it must be confessed--though it would not have been by her--that a medical career did seem a little less necessary for her than formerly; and coming back in a glow of triumph, as it were, and in the consciousness of the freedom and life in a lively society and in new and sympathetic friendship, she anticipated pleasure in an attempt to break up the stiffness and levelness of the society at home, and infusing into it something of the motion and sparkle which were so agreeable at Fallkill. She expected visits from her new friends, she would have company, the new books and the periodicals about which all the world was talking, and, in short, she would have life. For a little while she lived in this atmosphere which she had brought with her. Her mother was delighted with this change in her, with the improvement in her health and the interest she exhibited in home affairs. Her father enjoyed the society of his favorite daughter as he did few things besides; he liked her mirthful and teasing ways, and not less a keen battle over something she had read. He had been a great reader all his life, and a remarkable memory had stored his mind with encyclopaedic information. It was one of Ruth's delights to cram herself with some out of the way subject and endeavor to catch her father; but she almost always failed. Mr. Bolton liked company, a house full of it, and the mirth of young people, and he would have willingly entered into any revolutionary plans Ruth might have suggested in relation to Friends' society. But custom and the fixed order are stronger than the most enthusiastic and rebellious young lady, as Ruth very soon found. In spite of all her brave efforts, her frequent correspondence, and her determined animation, her books and her music, she found herself settling into the clutches of the old monotony, and as she realized the hopelessness of her endeavors, the medical scheme took new hold of her, and seemed to her the only method of escape. "Mother, thee does not know how different it is in Fallkill, how much more interesting the people are one meets, how much more life there is." "But thee will find the world, child, pretty much all the same, when thee knows it better. I thought once as thee does now, and had as little thought of being a Friend as thee has. Perhaps when thee has seen more, thee will better appreciate a quiet life." "Thee married young. I shall not marry young, and perhaps not at all," said Ruth, with a look of vast experience. "Perhaps thee doesn't know thee own mind; I have known persons of thy age who did not. Did thee see anybody whom thee would like to live with always in Fallkill?" "Not always," replied Ruth with a little laugh. "Mother, I think I wouldn't say 'always' to any one until I have a profession and am as independent as he is. Then my love would be a free act, and not in any way a necessity." Margaret Bolton smiled at this new-fangled philosophy. "Thee will find that love, Ruth, is a thing thee won't reason about, when it comes, nor make any bargains about. Thee wrote that Philip Sterling was at Fallkill." "Yes, and Henry Brierly, a friend of his; a very amusing young fellow and not so serious-minded as Philip, but a bit of a fop maybe." "And thee preferred the fop to the serious-minded?" "I didn't prefer anybody; but Henry Brierly was good company, which Philip wasn't always." "Did thee know thee father had been in correspondence with Philip?" Ruth looked up surprised and with a plain question in her eyes. "Oh, it's not about thee." "What then?" and if there was any shade of disappointment in her tone, probably Ruth herself did not know it. "It's about some land up in the country. That man Bigler has got father into another speculation." "That odious man! Why will father have anything to do with him? Is it that railroad?" "Yes. Father advanced money and took land as security, and whatever has gone with the money and the bonds, he has on his hands a large tract of wild land." "And what has Philip to do with that?" "It has good timber, if it could ever be got out, and father says that there must be coal in it; it's in a coal region. He wants Philip to survey it, and examine it for indications of coal." "It's another of father's fortunes, I suppose," said Ruth. "He has put away so many fortunes for us that I'm afraid we never shall find them." Ruth was interested in it nevertheless, and perhaps mainly because Philip was to be connected with the enterprise. Mr. Bigler came to dinner with her father next day, and talked a great deal about Mr. Bolton's magnificent tract of land, extolled the sagacity that led him to secure such a property, and led the talk along to another railroad which would open a northern communication to this very land. "Pennybacker says it's full of coal, he's no doubt of it, and a railroad to strike the Erie would make it a fortune." "Suppose you take the land and work the thing up, Mr. Bigler; you may have the tract for three dollars an acre." "You'd throw it away, then," replied Mr. Bigler, "and I'm not the man to take advantage of a friend. But if you'll put a mortgage on it for the northern road, I wouldn't mind taking an interest, if Pennybacker is willing; but Pennybacker, you know, don't go much on land, he sticks to the legislature." And Mr. Bigler laughed. When Mr. Bigler had gone, Ruth asked her father about Philip's connection with the land scheme. "There's nothing definite," said Mr. Bolton. "Philip is showing aptitude for his profession. I hear the best reports of him in New York, though those sharpers don't 'intend to do anything but use him. I've written and offered him employment in surveying and examining the land. We want to know what it is. And if there is anything in it that his enterprise can dig out, he shall have an interest. I should be glad to give the young fellow a lift." All his life Eli Bolton had been giving young fellows a lift, and shouldering the loses when things turned out unfortunately. His ledger, take-it-altogether, would not show a balance on the right side; but perhaps the losses on his books will turn out to be credits in a world where accounts are kept on a different basis. The left hand of the ledger will appear the right, looked at from the other side. Philip, wrote to Ruth rather a comical account of the bursting up of the city of Napoleon and the navigation improvement scheme, of Harry's flight and the Colonel's discomfiture. Harry left in such a hurry that he hadn't even time to bid Miss Laura Hawkins good-bye, but he had no doubt that Harry would console himself with the next pretty face he saw --a remark which was thrown in for Ruth's benefit. Col. Sellers had in all probability, by this time, some other equally brilliant speculation in his brain. As to the railroad, Philip had made up his mind that it was merely kept on foot for speculative purposes in Wall street, and he was about to quit it. Would Ruth be glad to hear, he wondered, that he was coming East? For he was coming, in spite of a letter from Harry in New York, advising him to hold on until he had made some arrangements in regard to contracts, he to be a little careful about Sellers, who was somewhat visionary, Harry said. The summer went on without much excitement for Ruth. She kept up a correspondence with Alice, who promised a visit in the fall, she read, she earnestly tried to interest herself in home affairs and such people as came to the house; but she found herself falling more and more into reveries, and growing weary of things as they were. She felt that everybody might become in time like two relatives from a Shaker establishment in Ohio, who visited the Boltons about this time, a father and son, clad exactly alike, and alike in manners. The son; however, who was not of age, was more unworldly and sanctimonious than his father; he always addressed his parent as "Brother Plum," and bore himself, altogether in such a superior manner that Ruth longed to put bent pins in his chair. Both father and son wore the long, single breasted collarless coats of their society, without buttons, before or behind, but with a row of hooks and eyes on either side in front. It was Ruth's suggestion that the coats would be improved by a single hook and eye sewed on in the small of the back where the buttons usually are. Amusing as this Shaker caricature of the Friends was, it oppressed Ruth beyond measure; and increased her feeling of being stifled. It was a most unreasonable feeling. No home could be pleasanter than Ruth's. The house, a little out of the city; was one of those elegant country residences which so much charm visitors to the suburbs of Philadelphia. A modern dwelling and luxurious in everything that wealth could suggest for comfort, it stood in the midst of exquisitely kept lawns, with groups of trees, parterres of flowers massed in colors, with greenhouse, grapery and garden; and on one side, the garden sloped away in undulations to a shallow brook that ran over a pebbly bottom and sang under forest trees. The country about teas the perfection of cultivated landscape, dotted with cottages, and stately mansions of Revolutionary date, and sweet as an English country-side, whether seen in the soft bloom of May or in the mellow ripeness of late October. It needed only the peace of the mind within, to make it a paradise. One riding by on the Old Germantown road, and seeing a young girl swinging in the hammock on the piazza and, intent upon some volume of old poetry or the latest novel, would no doubt have envied a life so idyllic. He could not have imagined that the young girl was reading a volume of reports of clinics and longing to be elsewhere. Ruth could not have been more discontented if all the wealth about her had been as unsubstantial as a dream. Perhaps she so thought it. "I feel," she once said to her father, "as if I were living in a house of cards." "And thee would like to turn it into a hospital?" "No. But tell me father," continued Ruth, not to be put off, "is thee still going on with that Bigler and those other men who come here and entice thee?" Mr. Bolton smiled, as men do when they talk with women about "business" "Such men have their uses, Ruth. They keep the world active, and I owe a great many of my best operations to such men. Who knows, Ruth, but this new land purchase, which I confess I yielded a little too much to Bigler in, may not turn out a fortune for thee and the rest of the children?" "Ah, father, thee sees every thing in a rose-colored light. I do believe thee wouldn't have so readily allowed me to begin the study of medicine, if it hadn't had the novelty of an experiment to thee." "And is thee satisfied with it?" "If thee means, if I have had enough of it, no. I just begin to see what I can do in it, and what a noble profession it is for a woman. Would thee have me sit here like a bird on a bough and wait for somebody to come and put me in a cage?" Mr. Bolton was not sorry to divert the talk from his own affairs, and he did not think it worth while to tell his family of a performance that very day which was entirely characteristic of him. Ruth might well say that she felt as if she were living in a house of cards, although the Bolton household had no idea of the number of perils that hovered over them, any more than thousands of families in America have of the business risks and contingences upon which their prosperity and luxury hang. A sudden call upon Mr. Bolton for a large sum of money, which must be forthcoming at once, had found him in the midst of a dozen ventures, from no one of which a dollar could be realized. It was in vain that he applied to his business acquaintances and friends; it was a period of sudden panic and no money. "A hundred thousand! Mr. Bolton," said Plumly. "Good God, if you should ask me for ten, I shouldn't know where to get it." And yet that day Mr. Small (Pennybacker, Bigler and Small) came to Mr. Bolton with a piteous story of ruin in a coal operation, if he could not raise ten thousand dollars. Only ten, and he was sure of a fortune. Without it he was a beggar. Mr. Bolton had already Small's notes for a large amount in his safe, labeled "doubtful;" he had helped him again and again, and always with the same result. But Mr. Small spoke with a faltering voice of his family, his daughter in school, his wife ignorant of his calamity, and drew such a picture of their agony, that Mr. Bolton put by his own more pressing necessity, and devoted the day to scraping together, here and there, ten thousand dollars for this brazen beggar, who had never kept a promise to him nor paid a debt. Beautiful credit! The foundation of modern society. Who shall say that this is not the golden age of mutual trust, of unlimited reliance upon human promises? That is a peculiar condition of society which enables a whole nation to instantly recognize point and meaning in the familiar newspaper anecdote, which puts into the mouth of a distinguished speculator in lands and mines this remark:--"I wasn't worth a cent two years ago, and now I owe two millions of dollars." CHAPTER XXVII. It was a hard blow to poor Sellers to see the work on his darling enterprise stop, and the noise and bustle and confusion that had been such refreshment to his soul, sicken and die out. It was hard to come down to humdrum ordinary life again after being a General Superintendent and the most conspicuous man in the community. It was sad to see his name disappear from the newspapers; sadder still to see it resurrected at intervals, shorn of its aforetime gaudy gear of compliments and clothed on with rhetorical tar and feathers. But his friends suffered more on his account than he did. He was a cork that could not be kept under the water many moments at a time. He had to bolster up his wife's spirits every now and then. On one of these occasions he said: "It's all right, my dear, all right; it will all come right in a little while. There's $200,000 coming, and that will set things booming again: Harry seems to be having some difficulty, but that's to be expected--you can't move these big operations to the tune of Fisher's Hornpipe, you know. But Harry will get it started along presently, and then you'll see! I expect the news every day now." "But Beriah, you've been expecting it every day, all along, haven't you?" "Well, yes; yes--I don't know but I have. But anyway, the longer it's delayed, the nearer it grows to the time when it will start--same as every day you live brings you nearer to--nearer--" "The grave?" "Well, no--not that exactly; but you can't understand these things, Polly dear--women haven't much head for business, you know. You make yourself perfectly comfortable, old lady, and you'll see how we'll trot this right along. Why bless you, let the appropriation lag, if it wants to--that's no great matter--there's a bigger thing than that." "Bigger than $200,000, Beriah?" "Bigger, child?--why, what's $200,000? Pocket money! Mere pocket money! Look at the railroad! Did you forget the railroad? It ain't many months till spring; it will be coming right along, and the railroad swimming right along behind it. Where'll it be by the middle of summer? Just stop and fancy a moment--just think a little--don't anything suggest itself? Bless your heart, you dear women live right in the present all the time--but a man, why a man lives---- "In the future, Beriah? But don't we live in the future most too much, Beriah? We do somehow seem to manage to live on next year's crop of corn and potatoes as a general thing while this year is still dragging along, but sometimes it's not a robust diet,--Beriah. But don't look that way, dear--don't mind what I say. I don't mean to fret, I don't mean to worry; and I don't, once a month, do I, dear? But when I get a little low and feel bad, I get a bit troubled and worrisome, but it don't mean anything in the world. It passes right away. I know you're doing all you can, and I don't want to seem repining and ungrateful--for I'm not, Beriah--you know I'm not, don't you?" "Lord bless you, child, I know you are the very best little woman that ever lived--that ever lived on the whole face of the Earth! And I know that I would be a dog not to work for you and think for you and scheme for you with all my might. And I'll bring things all right yet, honey --cheer up and don't you fear. The railroad----" "Oh, I had forgotten the railroad, dear, but when a body gets blue, a body forgets everything. Yes, the railroad--tell me about the railroad." "Aha, my girl, don't you see? Things ain't so dark, are they? Now I didn't forget the railroad. Now just think for a moment--just figure up a little on the future dead moral certainties. For instance, call this waiter St. Louis. "And we'll lay this fork (representing the railroad) from St. Louis to this potato, which is Slouchburg: "Then with this carving knife we'll continue the railroad from Slouchburg to Doodleville, shown by the black pepper: "Then we run along the--yes--the comb--to the tumbler that's Brimstone: "Thence by the pipe to Belshazzar, which is the salt-cellar: "Thence to, to--that quill--Catfish--hand me the pincushion, Marie Antoinette: "Thence right along these shears to this horse, Babylon: "Then by the spoon to Bloody Run--thank you, the ink: "Thence to Hail Columbia--snuffers, Polly, please move that cup and saucer close up, that's Hail Columbia: "Then--let me open my knife--to Hark-from-the-Tomb, where we'll put the candle-stick--only a little distance from Hail Columbia to Hark-from-the-Tomb--down-grade all the way. "And there we strike Columbus River--pass me two or throe skeins of thread to stand for the river; the sugar bowl will do for Hawkeye, and the rat trap for Stone's Landing-Napoleon, I mean--and you can see how much better Napoleon is located than Hawkeye. Now here you are with your railroad complete, and showing its continuation to Hallelujah and thence to Corruptionville. "Now then-them you are! It's a beautiful road, beautiful. Jeff Thompson can out-engineer any civil engineer that ever sighted through an aneroid, or a theodolite, or whatever they call it--he calls it sometimes one and sometimes the other just whichever levels off his sentence neatest, I reckon. But ain't it a ripping toad, though? I tell you, it'll make a stir when it gets along. Just see what a country it goes through. There's your onions at Slouchburg--noblest onion country that graces God's footstool; and there's your turnip country all around Doodleville --bless my life, what fortunes are going to be made there when they get that contrivance perfected for extracting olive oil out of turnips--if there's any in them; and I reckon there is, because Congress has made an appropriation of money to test the thing, and they wouldn't have done that just on conjecture, of course. And now we come to the Brimstone region--cattle raised there till you can't rest--and corn, and all that sort of thing. Then you've got a little stretch along through Belshazzar that don't produce anything now--at least nothing but rocks--but irrigation will fetch it. Then from Catfish to Babylon it's a little swampy, but there's dead loads of peat down under there somewhere. Next is the Bloody Run and Hail Columbia country--tobacco enough can be raised there to support two such railroads. Next is the sassparilla region. I reckon there's enough of that truck along in there on the line of the pocket-knife, from Hail Columbia to Hark-from-the Tomb to fat up all the consumptives in all the hospitals from Halifax to the Holy Land. It just grows like weeds! I've got a little belt of sassparilla land in there just tucked away unobstrusively waiting for my little Universal Expectorant to get into shape in my head. And I'll fix that, you know. One of these days I'll have all the nations of the earth expecto--" "But Beriah, dear--" "Don't interrupt me; Polly--I don't want you to lose the run of the map --well, take your toy-horse, James Fitz-James, if you must have it--and run along with you. Here, now--the soap will do for Babylon. Let me see --where was I? Oh yes--now we run down to Stone's Lan--Napoleon--now we run down to Napoleon. Beautiful road. Look at that, now. Perfectly straight line-straight as the way to the grave. And see where it leaves Hawkeye-clear out in the cold, my dear, clear out in the cold. That town's as bound to die as--well if I owned it I'd get its obituary ready, now, and notify the mourners. Polly, mark my words--in three years from this, Hawkeye'll be a howling wilderness. You'll see. And just look at that river--noblest stream that meanders over the thirsty earth! --calmest, gentlest artery that refreshes her weary bosom! Railroad goes all over it and all through it--wades right along on stilts. Seventeen bridges in three miles and a half--forty-nine bridges from Hark-from-the-Tomb to Stone's Landing altogether--forty nine bridges, and culverts enough to culvert creation itself! Hadn't skeins of thread enough to represent them all--but you get an idea--perfect trestle-work of bridges for seventy two miles: Jeff Thompson and I fixed all that, you know; he's to get the contracts and I'm to put them through on the divide. Just oceans of money in those bridges. It's the only part of the railroad I'm interested in,--down along the line--and it's all I want, too. It's enough, I should judge. Now here we are at Napoleon. Good enough country plenty good enough--all it wants is population. That's all right--that will come. And it's no bad country now for calmness and solitude, I can tell you--though there's no money in that, of course. No money, but a man wants rest, a man wants peace--a man don't want to rip and tear around all the time. And here we go, now, just as straight as a string for Hallelujah--it's a beautiful angle --handsome up grade all the way --and then away you go to Corruptionville, the gaudiest country for early carrots and cauliflowers that ever--good missionary field, too. There ain't such another missionary field outside the jungles of Central Africa. And patriotic?--why they named it after Congress itself. Oh, I warn you, my dear, there's a good time coming, and it'll be right along before you know what you're about, too. That railroad's fetching it. You see what it is as far as I've got, and if I had enough bottles and soap and boot-jacks and such things to carry it along to where it joins onto the Union Pacific, fourteen hundred miles from here, I should exhibit to you in that little internal improvement a spectacle of inconceivable sublimity. So, don't you see? We've got the rail road to fall back on; and in the meantime, what are we worrying about that $200,000 appropriation for? That's all right. I'd be willing to bet anything that the very next letter that comes from Harry will--" The eldest boy entered just in the nick of time and brought a letter, warm from the post-office. "Things do look bright, after all, Beriah. I'm sorry I was blue, but it did seem as if everything had been going against us for whole ages. Open the letter--open it quick, and let's know all about it before we stir out of our places. I am all in a fidget to know what it says." The letter was opened, without any unnecessary delay. 
5819	----	THE GILDED AGE A Tale of Today by Mark Twain and Charles Dudley Warner 1873 Part 2. CHAPTER X. Only two or three days had elapsed since the funeral, when something happened which was to change the drift of Laura's life somewhat, and influence in a greater or lesser degree the formation of her character. Major Lackland had once been a man of note in the State--a man of extraordinary natural ability and as extraordinary learning. He had been universally trusted and honored in his day, but had finally, fallen into misfortune; while serving his third term in Congress, and while upon the point of being elevated to the Senate--which was considered the summit of earthly aggrandizement in those days--he had yielded to temptation, when in distress for money wherewith to save his estate; and sold his vote. His crime was discovered, and his fall followed instantly. Nothing could reinstate him in the confidence of the people, his ruin was irretrievable--his disgrace complete. All doors were closed against him, all men avoided him. After years of skulking retirement and dissipation, death had relieved him of his troubles at last, and his funeral followed close upon that of Mr. Hawkins. He died as he had latterly lived--wholly alone and friendless. He had no relatives--or if he had they did not acknowledge him. The coroner's jury found certain memoranda upon his body and about the premises which revealed a fact not suspected by the villagers before-viz., that Laura was not the child of Mr. and Mrs. Hawkins. The gossips were soon at work. They were but little hampered by the fact that the memoranda referred to betrayed nothing but the bare circumstance that Laura's real parents were unknown, and stopped there. So far from being hampered by this, the gossips seemed to gain all the more freedom from it. They supplied all the missing information themselves, they filled up all the blanks. The town soon teemed with histories of Laura's origin and secret history, no two versions precisely alike, but all elaborate, exhaustive, mysterious and interesting, and all agreeing in one vital particular-to-wit, that there was a suspicious cloud about her birth, not to say a disreputable one. Laura began to encounter cold looks, averted eyes and peculiar nods and gestures which perplexed her beyond measure; but presently the pervading gossip found its way to her, and she understood them--then. Her pride was stung. She was astonished, and at first incredulous. She was about to ask her mother if there was any truth in these reports, but upon second thought held her peace. She soon gathered that Major Lackland's memoranda seemed to refer to letters which had passed between himself and Judge Hawkins. She shaped her course without difficulty the day that that hint reached her. That night she sat in her room till all was still, and then she stole into the garret and began a search. She rummaged long among boxes of musty papers relating to business matters of no, interest to her, but at last she found several bundles of letters. One bundle was marked "private," and in that she found what she wanted. She selected six or eight letters from the package and began to devour their contents, heedless of the cold. By the dates, these letters were from five to seven years old. They were all from Major Lackland to Mr. Hawkins. The substance of them was, that some one in the east had been inquiring of Major Lackland about a lost child and its parents, and that it was conjectured that the child might be Laura. Evidently some of the letters were missing, for the name of the inquirer was not mentioned; there was a casual reference to "this handsome-featured aristocratic gentleman," as if the reader and the writer were accustomed to speak of him and knew who was meant. In one letter the Major said he agreed with Mr. Hawkins that the inquirer seemed not altogether on the wrong track; but he also agreed that it would be best to keep quiet until more convincing developments were forthcoming. Another letter said that "the poor soul broke completely down when be saw Laura's picture, and declared it must be she." Still another said: "He seems entirely alone in the world, and his heart is so wrapped up in this thing that I believe that if it proved a false hope, it would kill him; I have persuaded him to wait a little while and go west when I go." Another letter had this paragraph in it: "He is better one day and worse the next, and is out of his mind a good deal of the time. Lately his case has developed a something which is a wonder to the hired nurses, but which will not be much of a marvel to you if you have read medical philosophy much. It is this: his lost memory returns to him when he is delirious, and goes away again when he is himself-just as old Canada Joe used to talk the French patois of his boyhood in the delirium of typhus fever, though he could not do it when his mind was clear. Now this poor gentleman's memory has always broken down before he reached the explosion of the steamer; he could only remember starting up the river with his wife and child, and he had an idea that there was a race, but he was not certain; he could not name the boat he was on; there was a dead blank of a month or more that supplied not an item to his recollection. It was not for me to assist him, of course. But now in his delirium it all comes out: the names of the boats, every incident of the explosion, and likewise the details of his astonishing escape--that is, up to where, just as a yawl-boat was approaching him (he was clinging to the starboard wheel of the burning wreck at the time), a falling timber struck him on the head. But I will write out his wonderful escape in full to-morrow or next day. Of course the physicians will not let me tell him now that our Laura is indeed his child--that must come later, when his health is thoroughly restored. His case is not considered dangerous at all; he will recover presently, the doctors say. But they insist that he must travel a little when he gets well--they recommend a short sea voyage, and they say he can be persuaded to try it if we continue to keep him in ignorance and promise to let him see L. as soon as he returns." The letter that bore the latest date of all, contained this clause: "It is the most unaccountable thing in the world; the mystery remains as impenetrable as ever; I have hunted high and low for him, and inquired of everybody, but in vain; all trace of him ends at that hotel in New York; I never have seen or heard of him since, up to this day; he could hardly have sailed, for his name does not appear upon the books of any shipping office in New York or Boston or Baltimore. How fortunate it seems, now, that we kept this thing to ourselves; Laura still has a father in you, and it is better for her that we drop this subject here forever." That was all. Random remarks here and there, being pieced together gave Laura a vague impression of a man of fine presence, abort forty-three or forty-five years of age, with dark hair and eyes, and a slight limp in his walk--it was not stated which leg was defective. And this indistinct shadow represented her father. She made an exhaustive search for the missing letters, but found none. They had probably been burned; and she doubted not that the ones she had ferreted out would have shared the same fate if Mr. Hawkins had not been a dreamer, void of method, whose mind was perhaps in a state of conflagration over some bright new speculation when he received them. She sat long, with the letters in her lap, thinking--and unconsciously freezing. She felt like a lost person who has traveled down a long lane in good hope of escape, and, just as the night descends finds his progress barred by a bridge-less river whose further shore, if it has one, is lost in the darkness. If she could only have found these letters a month sooner! That was her thought. But now the dead had carried their secrets with them. A dreary, melancholy settled down upon her. An undefined sense of injury crept into her heart. She grew very miserable. She had just reached the romantic age--the age when there is a sad sweetness, a dismal comfort to a girl to find out that there is a mystery connected with her birth, which no other piece of good luck can afford. She had more than her rightful share of practical good sense, but still she was human; and to be human is to have one's little modicum of romance secreted away in one's composition. One never ceases to make a hero of one's self, (in private,) during life, but only alters the style of his heroism from time to time as the drifting years belittle certain gods of his admiration and raise up others in their stead that seem greater. The recent wearing days and nights of watching, and the wasting grief that had possessed her, combined with the profound depression that naturally came with the reaction of idleness, made Laura peculiarly susceptible at this time to romantic impressions. She was a heroine, now, with a mysterious father somewhere. She could not really tell whether she wanted to find him and spoil it all or not; but still all the traditions of romance pointed to the making the attempt as the usual and necessary, course to follow; therefore she would some day begin the search when opportunity should offer. Now a former thought struck her--she would speak to Mrs. Hawkins. And naturally enough Mrs. Hawkins appeared on the stage at that moment. She said she knew all--she knew that Laura had discovered the secret that Mr. Hawkins, the elder children, Col. Sellers and herself had kept so long and so faithfully; and she cried and said that now that troubles had begun they would never end; her daughter's love would wean itself away from her and her heart would break. Her grief so wrought upon Laura that the girl almost forgot her own troubles for the moment in her compassion for her mother's distress. Finally Mrs. Hawkins said: "Speak to me, child--do not forsake me. Forget all this miserable talk. Say I am your mother!--I have loved you so long, and there is no other. I am your mother, in the sight of God, and nothing shall ever take you from me!" All barriers fell, before this appeal. Laura put her arms about her mother's neck and said: "You are my mother, and always shall be. We will be as we have always been; and neither this foolish talk nor any other thing shall part us or make us less to each other than we are this hour." There was no longer any sense of separation or estrangement between them. Indeed their love seemed more perfect now than it had ever been before. By and by they went down stairs and sat by the fire and talked long and earnestly about Laura's history and the letters. But it transpired that Mrs. Hawkins had never known of this correspondence between her husband and Major Lackland. With his usual consideration for his wife, Mr. Hawkins had shielded her from the worry the matter would have caused her. Laura went to bed at last with a mind that had gained largely in tranquility and had lost correspondingly in morbid romantic exaltation. She was pensive, the next day, and subdued; but that was not matter for remark, for she did not differ from the mournful friends about her in that respect. Clay and Washington were the same loving and admiring brothers now that they had always been. The great secret was new to some of the younger children, but their love suffered no change under the wonderful revelation. It is barely possible that things might have presently settled down into their old rut and the mystery have lost the bulk of its romantic sublimity in Laura's eyes, if the village gossips could have quieted down. But they could not quiet down and they did not. Day after day they called at the house, ostensibly upon visits of condolence, and they pumped away at the mother and the children without seeming to know that their questionings were in bad taste. They meant no harm they only wanted to know. Villagers always want to know. The family fought shy of the questionings, and of course that was high testimony "if the Duchess was respectably born, why didn't they come out and prove it?--why did they, stick to that poor thin story about picking her up out of a steamboat explosion?" Under this ceaseless persecution, Laura's morbid self-communing was renewed. At night the day's contribution of detraction, innuendo and malicious conjecture would be canvassed in her mind, and then she would drift into a course of thinking. As her thoughts ran on, the indignant tears would spring to her eyes, and she would spit out fierce little ejaculations at intervals. But finally she would grow calmer and say some comforting disdainful thing--something like this: "But who are they?--Animals! What are their opinions to me? Let them talk--I will not stoop to be affected by it. I could hate----. Nonsense--nobody I care for or in any way respect is changed toward me, I fancy." She may have supposed she was thinking of many individuals, but it was not so--she was thinking of only one. And her heart warmed somewhat, too, the while. One day a friend overheard a conversation like this: --and naturally came and told her all about it: "Ned, they say you don't go there any more. How is that?" "Well, I don't; but I tell you it's not because I don't want to and it's not because I think it is any matter who her father was or who he wasn't, either; it's only on account of this talk, talk, talk. I think she is a fine girl every way, and so would you if you knew her as well as I do; but you know how it is when a girl once gets talked about--it's all up with her--the world won't ever let her alone, after that." The only comment Laura made upon this revelation, was: "Then it appears that if this trouble had not occurred I could have had the happiness of Mr. Ned Thurston's serious attentions. He is well favored in person, and well liked, too, I believe, and comes of one of the first families of the village. He is prosperous, too, I hear; has been a doctor a year, now, and has had two patients--no, three, I think; yes, it was three. I attended their funerals. Well, other people have hoped and been disappointed; I am not alone in that. I wish you could stay to dinner, Maria--we are going to have sausages; and besides, I wanted to talk to you about Hawkeye and make you promise to come and see us when we are settled there." But Maria could not stay. She had come to mingle romantic tears with Laura's over the lover's defection and had found herself dealing with a heart that could not rise to an appreciation of affliction because its interest was all centred in sausages. But as soon as Maria was gone, Laura stamped her expressive foot and said: "The coward! Are all books lies? I thought he would fly to the front, and be brave and noble, and stand up for me against all the world, and defy my enemies, and wither these gossips with his scorn! Poor crawling thing, let him go. I do begin to despise thin world!" She lapsed into thought. Presently she said: "If the time ever comes, and I get a chance, Oh, I'll----" She could not find a word that was strong enough, perhaps. By and by she said: "Well, I am glad of it--I'm glad of it. I never cared anything for him anyway!" And then, with small consistency, she cried a little, and patted her foot more indignantly than ever. CHAPTER XI Two months had gone by and the Hawkins family were domiciled in Hawkeye. Washington was at work in the real estate office again, and was alternately in paradise or the other place just as it happened that Louise was gracious to him or seemingly indifferent--because indifference or preoccupation could mean nothing else than that she was thinking of some other young person. Col. Sellers had asked him several times, to dine with him, when he first returned to Hawkeye, but Washington, for no particular reason, had not accepted. No particular reason except one which he preferred to keep to himself--viz. that he could not bear to be away from Louise. It occurred to him, now, that the Colonel had not invited him lately--could he be offended? He resolved to go that very day, and give the Colonel a pleasant surprise. It was a good idea; especially as Louise had absented herself from breakfast that morning, and torn his heart; he would tear hers, now, and let her see how it felt. The Sellers family were just starting to dinner when Washington burst upon them with his surprise. For an instant the Colonel looked nonplussed, and just a bit uncomfortable; and Mrs. Sellers looked actually distressed; but the next moment the head of the house was himself again, and exclaimed: "All right, my boy, all right--always glad to see you--always glad to hear your voice and take you by the hand. Don't wait for special invitations--that's all nonsense among friends. Just come whenever you can, and come as often as you can--the oftener the better. You can't please us any better than that, Washington; the little woman will tell you so herself. We don't pretend to style. Plain folks, you know--plain folks. Just a plain family dinner, but such as it is, our friends are always welcome, I reckon you know that yourself, Washington. Run along, children, run along; Lafayette,--[**In those old days the average man called his children after his most revered literary and historical idols; consequently there was hardly a family, at least in the West, but had a Washington in it--and also a Lafayette, a Franklin, and six or eight sounding names from Byron, Scott, and the Bible, if the offspring held out. To visit such a family, was to find one's self confronted by a congress made up of representatives of the imperial myths and the majestic dead of all the ages. There was something thrilling about it, to a stranger, not to say awe inspiring.]--stand off the cat's tail, child, can't you see what you're doing?--Come, come, come, Roderick Dhu, it isn't nice for little boys to hang onto young gentlemen's coat tails --but never mind him, Washington, he's full of spirits and don't mean any harm. Children will be children, you know. Take the chair next to Mrs. Sellers, Washington--tut, tut, Marie Antoinette, let your brother have the fork if he wants it, you are bigger than he is." Washington contemplated the banquet, and wondered if he were in his right mind. Was this the plain family dinner? And was it all present? It was soon apparent that this was indeed the dinner: it was all on the table: it consisted of abundance of clear, fresh water, and a basin of raw turnips--nothing more. Washington stole a glance at Mrs. Sellers's face, and would have given the world, the next moment, if he could have spared her that. The poor woman's face was crimson, and the tears stood in her eyes. Washington did not know what to do. He wished he had never come there and spied out this cruel poverty and brought pain to that poor little lady's heart and shame to her cheek; but he was there, and there was no escape. Col. Sellers hitched back his coat sleeves airily from his wrists as who should say "Now for solid enjoyment!" seized a fork, flourished it and began to harpoon turnips and deposit them in the plates before him "Let me help you, Washington--Lafayette pass this plate Washington--ah, well, well, my boy, things are looking pretty bright, now, I tell you. Speculation--my! the whole atmosphere's full of money. I would'nt take three fortunes for one little operation I've got on hand now--have anything from the casters? No? Well, you're right, you're right. Some people like mustard with turnips, but--now there was Baron Poniatowski --Lord, but that man did know how to live!--true Russian you know, Russian to the back bone; I say to my wife, give me a Russian every time, for a table comrade. The Baron used to say, 'Take mustard, Sellers, try the mustard,--a man can't know what turnips are in perfection without, mustard,' but I always said, 'No, Baron, I'm a plain man and I want my food plain--none of your embellishments for Beriah Sellers--no made dishes for me! And it's the best way--high living kills more than it cures in this world, you can rest assured of that.--Yes indeed, Washington, I've got one little operation on hand that--take some more water--help yourself, won't you?--help yourself, there's plenty of it. --You'll find it pretty good, I guess. How does that fruit strike you?" Washington said he did not know that he had ever tasted better. He did not add that he detested turnips even when they were cooked loathed them in their natural state. No, he kept this to himself, and praised the turnips to the peril of his soul. "I thought you'd like them. Examine them--examine them--they'll bear it. See how perfectly firm and juicy they are--they can't start any like them in this part of the country, I can tell you. These are from New Jersey --I imported them myself. They cost like sin, too; but lord bless me, I go in for having the best of a thing, even if it does cost a little more--it's the best economy, in the long run. These are the Early Malcolm--it's a turnip that can't be produced except in just one orchard, and the supply never is up to the demand. Take some more water, Washington--you can't drink too much water with fruit--all the doctors say that. The plague can't come where this article is, my boy!" "Plague? What plague?" "What plague, indeed? Why the Asiatic plague that nearly depopulated London a couple of centuries ago." "But how does that concern us? There is no plague here, I reckon." "Sh! I've let it out! Well, never mind--just keep it to yourself. Perhaps I oughtn't said anything, but its bound to come out sooner or later, so what is the odds? Old McDowells wouldn't like me to--to --bother it all, I'll jest tell the whole thing and let it go. You see, I've been down to St. Louis, and I happened to run across old Dr. McDowells--thinks the world of me, does the doctor. He's a man that keeps himself to himself, and well he may, for he knows that he's got a reputation that covers the whole earth--he won't condescend to open himself out to many people, but lord bless you, he and I are just like brothers; he won't let me go to a hotel when I'm in the city--says I'm the only man that's company to him, and I don't know but there's some truth in it, too, because although I never like to glorify myself and make a great to-do over what I am or what I can do or what I know, I don't mind saying here among friends that I am better read up in most sciences, maybe, than the general run of professional men in these days. Well, the other day he let me into a little secret, strictly on the quiet, about this matter of the plague. "You see it's booming right along in our direction--follows the Gulf Stream, you know, just as all those epidemics do, and within three months it will be just waltzing through this land like a whirlwind! And whoever it touches can make his will and contract for the funeral. Well you can't cure it, you know, but you can prevent it. How? Turnips! that's it! Turnips and water! Nothing like it in the world, old McDowells says, just fill yourself up two or three times a day, and you can snap your fingers at the plague. Sh!--keep mum, but just you confine yourself to that diet and you're all right. I wouldn't have old McDowells know that I told about it for anything--he never would speak to me again. Take some more water, Washington--the more water you drink, the better. Here, let me give you some more of the turnips. No, no, no, now, I insist. There, now. Absorb those. They're, mighty sustaining--brim full of nutriment--all the medical books say so. Just eat from four to seven good-sized turnips at a meal, and drink from a pint and a half to a quart of water, and then just sit around a couple of hours and let them ferment. You'll feel like a fighting cock next day." Fifteen or twenty minutes later the Colonel's tongue was still chattering away--he had piled up several future fortunes out of several incipient "operations" which he had blundered into within the past week, and was now soaring along through some brilliant expectations born of late promising experiments upon the lacking ingredient of the eye-water. And at such a time Washington ought to have been a rapt and enthusiastic listener, but he was not, for two matters disturbed his mind and distracted his attention. One was, that he discovered, to his confusion and shame, that in allowing himself to be helped a second time to the turnips, he had robbed those hungry children. He had not needed the dreadful "fruit," and had not wanted it; and when he saw the pathetic sorrow in their faces when they asked for more and there was no more to give them, he hated himself for his stupidity and pitied the famishing young things with all his heart. The other matter that disturbed him was the dire inflation that had begun in his stomach. It grew and grew, it became more and more insupportable. Evidently the turnips were "fermenting." He forced himself to sit still as long as he could, but his anguish conquered him at last. He rose in the midst of the Colonel's talk and excused himself on the plea of a previous engagement. The Colonel followed him to the door, promising over and over again that he would use his influence to get some of the Early Malcolms for him, and insisting that he should not be such a stranger but come and take pot-luck with him every chance he got. Washington was glad enough to get away and feel free again. He immediately bent his steps toward home. In bed he passed an hour that threatened to turn his hair gray, and then a blessed calm settled down upon him that filled his heart with gratitude. Weak and languid, he made shift to turn himself about and seek rest and sleep; and as his soul hovered upon the brink of unconciousness, he heaved a long, deep sigh, and said to himself that in his heart he had cursed the Colonel's preventive of rheumatism, before, and now let the plague come if it must--he was done with preventives; if ever any man beguiled him with turnips and water again, let him die the death. If he dreamed at all that night, no gossiping spirit disturbed his visions to whisper in his ear of certain matters just then in bud in the East, more than a thousand miles away that after the lapse of a few years would develop influences which would profoundly affect the fate and fortunes of the Hawkins family. CHAPTER XII "Oh, it's easy enough to make a fortune," Henry said. "It seems to be easier than it is, I begin to think," replied Philip. "Well, why don't you go into something? You'll never dig it out of the Astor Library." If there be any place and time in the world where and when it seems easy to "go into something" it is in Broadway on a spring morning, when one is walking city-ward, and has before him the long lines of palace-shops with an occasional spire seen through the soft haze that lies over the lower town, and hears the roar and hum of its multitudinous traffic. To the young American, here or elsewhere, the paths to fortune are innumerable and all open; there is invitation in the air and success in all his wide horizon. He is embarrassed which to choose, and is not unlikely to waste years in dallying with his chances, before giving himself to the serious tug and strain of a single object. He has no traditions to bind him or guide him, and his impulse is to break away from the occupation his father has followed, and make a new way for himself. Philip Sterling used to say that if he should seriously set himself for ten years to any one of the dozen projects that were in his brain, he felt that he could be a rich man. He wanted to be rich, he had a sincere desire for a fortune, but for some unaccountable reason he hesitated about addressing himself to the narrow work of getting it. He never walked Broadway, a part of its tide of abundant shifting life, without feeling something of the flush of wealth, and unconsciously taking the elastic step of one well-to-do in this prosperous world. Especially at night in the crowded theatre--Philip was too young to remember the old Chambers' Street box, where the serious Burton led his hilarious and pagan crew--in the intervals of the screaming comedy, when the orchestra scraped and grunted and tooted its dissolute tunes, the world seemed full of opportunities to Philip, and his heart exulted with a conscious ability to take any of its prizes he chose to pluck. Perhaps it was the swimming ease of the acting, on the stage, where virtue had its reward in three easy acts, perhaps it was the excessive light of the house, or the music, or the buzz of the excited talk between acts, perhaps it was youth which believed everything, but for some reason while Philip was at the theatre he had the utmost confidence in life and his ready victory in it. Delightful illusion of paint and tinsel and silk attire, of cheap sentiment and high and mighty dialogue! Will there not always be rosin enough for the squeaking fiddle-bow? Do we not all like the maudlin hero, who is sneaking round the right entrance, in wait to steal the pretty wife of his rich and tyrannical neighbor from the paste-board cottage at the left entrance? and when he advances down to the foot-lights and defiantly informs the audience that, "he who lays his hand on a woman except in the way of kindness," do we not all applaud so as to drown the rest of the sentence? Philip never was fortunate enough to hear what would become of a man who should lay his hand on a woman with the exception named; but he learned afterwards that the woman who lays her hand on a man, without any exception whatsoever, is always acquitted by the jury. The fact was, though Philip Sterling did not know it, that he wanted several other things quite as much as he wanted wealth. The modest fellow would have liked fame thrust upon him for some worthy achievement; it might be for a book, or for the skillful management of some great newspaper, or for some daring expedition like that of Lt. Strain or Dr. Kane. He was unable to decide exactly what it should be. Sometimes he thought he would like to stand in a conspicuous pulpit and humbly preach the gospel of repentance; and it even crossed his mind that it would be noble to give himself to a missionary life to some benighted region, where the date-palm grows, and the nightingale's voice is in tune, and the bul-bul sings on the off nights. If he were good enough he would attach himself to that company of young men in the Theological Seminary, who were seeing New York life in preparation for the ministry. Philip was a New England boy and had graduated at Yale; he had not carried off with him all the learning of that venerable institution, but he knew some things that were not in the regular course of study. A very good use of the English language and considerable knowledge of its literature was one of them; he could sing a song very well, not in time to be sure, but with enthusiasm; he could make a magnetic speech at a moment's notice in the class room, the debating society, or upon any fence or dry-goods box that was convenient; he could lift himself by one arm, and do the giant swing in the gymnasium; he could strike out from his left shoulder; he could handle an oar like a professional and pull stroke in a winning race. Philip had a good appetite, a sunny temper, and a clear hearty laugh. He had brown hair, hazel eyes set wide apart, a broad but not high forehead, and a fresh winning face. He was six feet high, with broad shoulders, long legs and a swinging gait; one of those loose-jointed, capable fellows, who saunter into the world with a free air and usually make a stir in whatever company they enter. After he left college Philip took the advice of friends and read law. Law seemed to him well enough as a science, but he never could discover a practical case where it appeared to him worth while to go to law, and all the clients who stopped with this new clerk in the ante-room of the law office where he was writing, Philip invariably advised to settle--no matter how, but settle--greatly to the disgust of his employer, who knew that justice between man and man could only be attained by the recognized processes, with the attendant fees. Besides Philip hated the copying of pleadings, and he was certain that a life of "whereases" and "aforesaids" and whipping the devil round the stump, would be intolerable. [Note: these few paragraphs are nearly an autobiography of the life of Charles Dudley Warner whose contributions to the story start here with Chapter XII. D.W.] His pen therefore, and whereas, and not as aforesaid, strayed off into other scribbling. In an unfortunate hour, he had two or three papers accepted by first-class magazines, at three dollars the printed page, and, behold, his vocation was open to him. He would make his mark in literature. Life has no moment so sweet as that in which a young man believes himself called into the immortal ranks of the masters of literature. It is such a noble ambition, that it is a pity it has usually such a shallow foundation. At the time of this history, Philip had gone to New York for a career. With his talent he thought he should have little difficulty in getting an editorial position upon a metropolitan newspaper; not that he knew anything about news paper work, or had the least idea of journalism; he knew he was not fitted for the technicalities of the subordinate departments, but he could write leaders with perfect ease, he was sure. The drudgery of the newspaper office was too distaste ful, and besides it would be beneath the dignity of a graduate and a successful magazine writer. He wanted to begin at the top of the ladder. To his surprise he found that every situation in the editorial department of the journals was full, always had been full, was always likely to be full. It seemed to him that the newspaper managers didn't want genius, but mere plodding and grubbing. Philip therefore read diligently in the Astor library, planned literary works that should compel attention, and nursed his genius. He had no friend wise enough to tell him to step into the Dorking Convention, then in session, make a sketch of the men and women on the platform, and take it to the editor of the Daily Grapevine, and see what he could get a line for it. One day he had an offer from some country friends, who believed in him, to take charge of a provincial daily newspaper, and he went to consult Mr. Gringo--Gringo who years ago managed the Atlas--about taking the situation. "Take it of course," says Gringo, take anything that offers, why not?" "But they want me to make it an opposition paper." "Well, make it that. That party is going to succeed, it's going to elect the next president." "I don't believe it," said Philip, stoutly, "its wrong in principle, and it ought not to succeed, but I don't see how I can go for a thing I don't believe in." "O, very well," said Gringo, turning away with a shade of contempt, "you'll find if you are going into literature and newspaper work that you can't afford a conscience like that." But Philip did afford it, and he wrote, thanking his friends, and declining because he said the political scheme would fail, and ought to fail. And he went back to his books and to his waiting for an opening large enough for his dignified entrance into the literary world. It was in this time of rather impatient waiting that Philip was one morning walking down Broadway with Henry Brierly. He frequently accompanied Henry part way down town to what the latter called his office in Broad Street, to which he went, or pretended to go, with regularity every day. It was evident to the most casual acquaintance that he was a man of affairs, and that his time was engrossed in the largest sort of operations, about which there was a mysterious air. His liability to be suddenly summoned to Washington, or Boston or Montreal or even to Liverpool was always imminent. He never was so summoned, but none of his acquaintances would have been surprised to hear any day that he had gone to Panama or Peoria, or to hear from him that he had bought the Bank of Commerce. The two were intimate at that time,--they had been class, mates--and saw a great deal of each other. Indeed, they lived together in Ninth Street, in a boarding-house, there, which had the honor of lodging and partially feeding several other young fellows of like kidney, who have since gone their several ways into fame or into obscurity. It was during the morning walk to which reference has been made that Henry Brierly suddenly said, "Philip, how would you like to go to St. Jo?" "I think I should like it of all things," replied Philip, with some hesitation, "but what for." "Oh, it's a big operation. We are going, a lot of us, railroad men, engineers, contractors. You know my uncle is a great railroad man. I've no doubt I can get you a chance to go if you'll go." "But in what capacity would I go?" "Well, I'm going as an engineer. You can go as one." "I don't know an engine from a coal cart." "Field engineer, civil engineer. You can begin by carrying a rod, and putting down the figures. It's easy enough. I'll show you about that. We'll get Trautwine and some of those books." "Yes, but what is it for, what is it all about?" "Why don't you see? We lay out a line, spot the good land, enter it up, know where the stations are to be, spot them, buy lots; there's heaps of money in it. We wouldn't engineer long." "When do you go?" was Philip's next question, after some moments of silence. "To-morrow. Is that too soon?" "No, its not too soon. I've been ready to go anywhere for six months. The fact is, Henry, that I'm about tired of trying to force myself into things, and am quite willing to try floating with the stream for a while, and see where I will land. This seems like a providential call; it's sudden enough." The two young men who were by this time full of the adventure, went down to the Wall street office of Henry's uncle and had a talk with that wily operator. The uncle knew Philip very well, and was pleased with his frank enthusiasm, and willing enough to give him a trial in the western venture. It was settled therefore, in the prompt way in which things are settled in New York, that they would start with the rest of the company next morning for the west. On the way up town these adventurers bought books on engineering, and suits of India-rubber, which they supposed they would need in a new and probably damp country, and many other things which nobody ever needed anywhere. The night was spent in packing up and writing letters, for Philip would not take such an important step without informing his friends. If they disapprove, thought he, I've done my duty by letting them know. Happy youth, that is ready to pack its valise, and start for Cathay on an hour's notice. "By the way," calls out Philip from his bed-room, to Henry, "where is St. Jo.?" "Why, it's in Missouri somewhere, on the frontier I think. We'll get a map." "Never mind the map. We will find the place itself. I was afraid it was nearer home." Philip wrote a long letter, first of all, to his mother, full of love and glowing anticipations of his new opening. He wouldn't bother her with business details, but he hoped that the day was not far off when she would see him return, with a moderate fortune, and something to add to the comfort of her advancing years. To his uncle he said that he had made an arrangement with some New York capitalists to go to Missouri, in a land and railroad operation, which would at least give him a knowledge of the world and not unlikely offer him a business opening. He knew his uncle would be glad to hear that he had at last turned his thoughts to a practical matter. It was to Ruth Bolton that Philip wrote last. He might never see her again; he went to seek his fortune. He well knew the perils of the frontier, the savage state of society, the lurking Indians and the dangers of fever. But there was no real danger to a person who took care of himself. Might he write to her often and, tell her of his life. If he returned with a fortune, perhaps and perhaps. If he was unsuccessful, or if he never returned--perhaps it would be as well. No time or distance, however, would ever lessen his interest in her. He would say good-night, but not good-bye. In the soft beginning of a Spring morning, long before New York had breakfasted, while yet the air of expectation hung about the wharves of the metropolis, our young adventurers made their way to the Jersey City railway station of the Erie road, to begin the long, swinging, crooked journey, over what a writer of a former day called a causeway of cracked rails and cows, to the West. CHAPTER XIII. What ever to say be toke in his entente, his langage was so fayer & pertynante, yt semeth unto manys herying not only the worde, but veryly the thyng. Caxton's Book of Curtesye. In the party of which our travelers found themselves members, was Duff Brown, the great railroad contractor, and subsequently a well-known member of Congress; a bluff, jovial Bost'n man, thick-set, close shaven, with a heavy jaw and a low forehead--a very pleasant man if you were not in his way. He had government contracts also, custom houses and dry docks, from Portland to New Orleans, and managed to get out of congress, in appropriations, about weight for weight of gold for the stone furnished. Associated with him, and also of this party, was Rodney Schaick, a sleek New York broker, a man as prominent in the church as in the stock exchange, dainty in his dress, smooth of speech, the necessary complement of Duff Brown in any enterprise that needed assurance and adroitness. It would be difficult to find a pleasanter traveling party one that shook off more readily the artificial restraints of Puritanic strictness, and took the world with good-natured allowance. Money was plenty for every attainable luxury, and there seemed to be no doubt that its supply would continue, and that fortunes were about to be made without a great deal of toil. Even Philip soon caught the prevailing spirit; Barry did not need any inoculation, he always talked in six figures. It was as natural for the dear boy to be rich as it is for most people to be poor. The elders of the party were not long in discovering the fact, which almost all travelers to the west soon find out; that the water was poor. It must have been by a lucky premonition of this that they all had brandy flasks with which to qualify the water of the country; and it was no doubt from an uneasy feeling of the danger of being poisoned that they kept experimenting, mixing a little of the dangerous and changing fluid, as they passed along, with the contents of the flasks, thus saving their lives hour by hour. Philip learned afterwards that temperance and the strict observance of Sunday and a certain gravity of deportment are geographical habits, which people do not usually carry with them away from home. Our travelers stopped in Chicago long enough to see that they could make their fortunes there in two week's tine, but it did not seem worth while; the west was more attractive; the further one went the wider the opportunities opened. They took railroad to Alton and the steamboat from there to St. Louis, for the change and to have a glimpse of the river. "Isn't this jolly?" cried Henry, dancing out of the barber's room, and coming down the deck with a one, two, three step, shaven, curled and perfumed after his usual exquisite fashion. "What's jolly?" asked Philip, looking out upon the dreary and monotonous waste through which the shaking steamboat was coughing its way. "Why, the whole thing; it's immense I can tell you. I wouldn't give that to be guaranteed a hundred thousand cold cash in a year's time." "Where's Mr. Brown?" "He is in the saloon, playing poker with Schaick and that long haired party with the striped trousers, who scrambled aboard when the stage plank was half hauled in, and the big Delegate to Congress from out west." "That's a fine looking fellow, that delegate, with his glossy, black whiskers; looks like a Washington man; I shouldn't think he'd be at poker." "Oh, its only five cent ante, just to make it interesting, the Delegate said." "But I shouldn't think a representative in Congress would play poker any way in a public steamboat." "Nonsense, you've got to pass the time. I tried a hand myself, but those old fellows are too many for me. The Delegate knows all the points. I'd bet a hundred dollars he will ante his way right into the United States Senate when his territory comes in. He's got the cheek for it." "He has the grave and thoughtful manner of expectoration of a public man, for one thing," added Philip. "Harry," said Philip, after a pause, "what have you got on those big boots for; do you expect to wade ashore?" "I'm breaking 'em in." The fact was Harry had got himself up in what he thought a proper costume for a new country, and was in appearance a sort of compromise between a dandy of Broadway and a backwoodsman. Harry, with blue eyes, fresh complexion, silken whiskers and curly chestnut hair, was as handsome as a fashion plate. He wore this morning a soft hat, a short cutaway coat, an open vest displaying immaculate linen, a leathern belt round his waist, and top-boots of soft leather, well polished, that came above his knees and required a string attached to his belt to keep them up. The light hearted fellow gloried in these shining encasements of his well shaped legs, and told Philip that they were a perfect protection against prairie rattle-snakes, which never strike above the knee. The landscape still wore an almost wintry appearance when our travelers left Chicago. It was a genial spring day when they landed at St. Louis; the birds were singing, the blossoms of peach trees in city garden plots, made the air sweet, and in the roar and tumult on the long river levee they found an excitement that accorded with their own hopeful anticipations. The party went to the Southern Hotel, where the great Duff Brown was very well known, and indeed was a man of so much importance that even the office clerk was respectful to him. He might have respected in him also a certain vulgar swagger and insolence of money, which the clerk greatly admired. The young fellows liked the house and liked the city; it seemed to them a mighty free and hospitable town. Coming from the East they were struck with many peculiarities. Everybody smoked in the streets, for one thing, they noticed; everybody "took a drink" in an open manner whenever he wished to do so or was asked, as if the habit needed no concealment or apology. In the evening when they walked about they found people sitting on the door-steps of their dwellings, in a manner not usual in a northern city; in front of some of the hotels and saloons the side walks were filled with chairs and benches--Paris fashion, said Harry--upon which people lounged in these warm spring evenings, smoking, always smoking; and the clink of glasses and of billiard balls was in the air. It was delightful. Harry at once found on landing that his back-woods custom would not be needed in St. Louis, and that, in fact, he had need of all the resources of his wardrobe to keep even with the young swells of the town. But this did not much matter, for Harry was always superior to his clothes. As they were likely to be detained some time in the city, Harry told Philip that he was going to improve his time. And he did. It was an encouragement to any industrious man to see this young fellow rise, carefully dress himself, eat his breakfast deliberately, smoke his cigar tranquilly, and then repair to his room, to what he called his work, with a grave and occupied manner, but with perfect cheerfulness. Harry would take off his coat, remove his cravat, roll up his shirt-sleeves, give his curly hair the right touch before the glass, get out his book on engineering, his boxes of instruments, his drawing paper, his profile paper, open the book of logarithms, mix his India ink, sharpen his pencils, light a cigar, and sit down at the table to "lay out a line," with the most grave notion that he was mastering the details of engineering. He would spend half a day in these preparations without ever working out a problem or having the faintest conception of the use of lines or logarithms. And when he had finished, he had the most cheerful confidence that he had done a good day's work. It made no difference, however, whether Harry was in his room in a hotel or in a tent, Philip soon found, he was just the same. In camp he would get himself, up in the most elaborate toilet at his command, polish his long boots to the top, lay out his work before him, and spend an hour or longer, if anybody was looking at him, humming airs, knitting his brows, and "working" at engineering; and if a crowd of gaping rustics were looking on all the while it was perfectly satisfactory to him. "You see," he says to Philip one morning at the hotel when he was thus engaged, "I want to get the theory of this thing, so that I can have a check on the engineers." "I thought you were going to be an engineer yourself," queried Philip. "Not many times, if the court knows herself. There's better game. Brown and Schaick have, or will have, the control for the whole line of the Salt Lick Pacific Extension, forty thousand dollars a mile over the prairie, with extra for hard-pan--and it'll be pretty much all hardpan I can tell you; besides every alternate section of land on this line. There's millions in the job. I'm to have the sub-contract for the first fifty miles, and you can bet it's a soft thing." "I'll tell you what you do, Philip," continued Larry, in a burst of generosity, "if I don't get you into my contract, you'll be with the engineers, and you jest stick a stake at the first ground marked for a depot, buy the land of the farmer before he knows where the depot will be, and we'll turn a hundred or so on that. I'll advance the money for the payments, and you can sell the lots. Schaick is going to let me have ten thousand just for a flyer in such operations." "But that's a good deal of money." "Wait till you are used to handling money. I didn't come out here for a bagatelle. My uncle wanted me to stay East and go in on the Mobile custom house, work up the Washington end of it; he said there was a fortune in it for a smart young fellow, but I preferred to take the chances out here. Did I tell you I had an offer from Bobbett and Fanshaw to go into their office as confidential clerk on a salary of ten thousand?" "Why didn't you take it ?" asked Philip, to whom a salary of two thousand would have seemed wealth, before he started on this journey. "Take it? I'd rather operate on my own hook;" said Harry, in his most airy manner. A few evenings after their arrival at the Southern, Philip and Harry made the acquaintance of a very agreeable gentleman, whom they had frequently seen before about the hotel corridors, and passed a casual word with. He had the air of a man of business, and was evidently a person of importance. The precipitating of this casual intercourse into the more substantial form of an acquaintanceship was the work of the gentleman himself, and occurred in this wise. Meeting the two friends in the lobby one evening, he asked them to give him the time, and added: "Excuse me, gentlemen--strangers in St. Louis? Ah, yes-yes. From the East, perhaps? Ah; just so, just so. Eastern born myself--Virginia. Sellers is my name--Beriah Sellers. "Ah! by the way--New York, did you say? That reminds me; just met some gentlemen from your State, a week or two ago--very prominent gentlemen --in public life they are; you must know them, without doubt. Let me see --let me see. Curious those names have escaped me. I know they were from your State, because I remember afterward my old friend Governor Shackleby said to me--fine man, is the Governor--one of the finest men our country has produced--said he, 'Colonel, how did you like those New York gentlemen?--not many such men in the world,--Colonel Sellers,' said the Governor--yes, it was New York he said--I remember it distinctly. I can't recall those names, somehow. But no matter. Stopping here, gentlemen--stopping at the Southern?" In shaping their reply in their minds, the title "Mr." had a place in it; but when their turn had arrived to speak, the title "Colonel" came from their lips instead. They said yes, they were abiding at the Southern, and thought it a very good house. "Yes, yes, the Southern is fair. I myself go to the Planter's, old, aristocratic house. We Southern gentlemen don't change our ways, you know. I always make it my home there when I run down from Hawkeye--my plantation is in Hawkeye, a little up in the country. You should know the Planter's." Philip and Harry both said they should like to see a hotel that had been so famous in its day--a cheerful hostelrie, Philip said it must have been where duels were fought there across the dining-room table. "You may believe it, sir, an uncommonly pleasant lodging. Shall we walk?" And the three strolled along the streets, the Colonel talking all the way in the most liberal and friendly manner, and with a frank open-heartedness that inspired confidence. "Yes, born East myself, raised all along, know the West--a great country, gentlemen. The place for a young fellow of spirit to pick up a fortune, simply pick it up, it's lying round loose here. Not a day that I don't put aside an opportunity; too busy to look into it. Management of my own property takes my time. First visit? Looking for an opening?" "Yes, looking around," replied Harry. "Ah, here we are. You'd rather sit here in front than go to my apartments? So had I. An opening eh?" The Colonel's eyes twinkled. "Ah, just so. The country is opening up, all we want is capital to develop it. Slap down the rails and bring the land into market. The richest land on God Almighty's footstool is lying right out there. If I had my capital free I could plant it for millions." "I suppose your capital is largely in your plantation?" asked Philip. "Well, partly, sir, partly. I'm down here now with reference to a little operation--a little side thing merely. By the way gentlemen, excuse the liberty, but it's about my usual time"-- The Colonel paused, but as no movement of his acquaintances followed this plain remark, he added, in an explanatory manner, "I'm rather particular about the exact time--have to be in this climate." Even this open declaration of his hospitable intention not being understood the Colonel politely said, "Gentlemen, will you take something?" Col. Sellers led the way to a saloon on Fourth street under the hotel, and the young gentlemen fell into the custom of the country. "Not that," said the Colonel to the bar-keeper, who shoved along the counter a bottle of apparently corn-whiskey, as if he had done it before on the same order; "not that," with a wave of the hand. "That Otard if you please. Yes. Never take an inferior liquor, gentlemen, not in the evening, in this climate. There. That's the stuff. My respects!" The hospitable gentleman, having disposed of his liquor, remarking that it was not quite the thing--"when a man has his own cellar to go to, he is apt to get a little fastidious about his liquors"--called for cigars. But the brand offered did not suit him; he motioned the box away, and asked for some particular Havana's, those in separate wrappers. "I always smoke this sort, gentlemen; they are a little more expensive, but you'll learn, in this climate, that you'd better not economize on poor cigars" Having imparted this valuable piece of information, the Colonel lighted the fragrant cigar with satisfaction, and then carelessly put his fingers into his right vest pocket. That movement being without result, with a shade of disappointment on his face, he felt in his left vest pocket. Not finding anything there, he looked up with a serious and annoyed air, anxiously slapped his right pantaloon's pocket, and then his left, and exclaimed, "By George, that's annoying. By George, that's mortifying. Never had anything of that kind happen to me before. I've left my pocket-book. Hold! Here's a bill, after all. No, thunder, it's a receipt." "Allow me," said Philip, seeing how seriously the Colonel was annoyed, and taking out his purse. The Colonel protested he couldn't think of it, and muttered something to the barkeeper about "hanging it up," but the vender of exhilaration made no sign, and Philip had the privilege of paying the costly shot; Col. Sellers profusely apologizing and claiming the right "next time, next time." As soon as Beriah Sellers had bade his friends good night and seen them depart, he did not retire apartments in the Planter's, but took his way to his lodgings with a friend in a distant part of the city. CHAPTER XIV. The letter that Philip Sterling wrote to Ruth Bolton, on the evening of setting out to seek his fortune in the west, found that young lady in her own father's house in Philadelphia. It was one of the pleasantest of the many charming suburban houses in that hospitable city, which is territorially one of the largest cities in the world, and only prevented from becoming the convenient metropolis of the country by the intrusive strip of Camden and Amboy sand which shuts it off from the Atlantic ocean. It is a city of steady thrift, the arms of which might well be the deliberate but delicious terrapin that imparts such a royal flavor to its feasts. It was a spring morning, and perhaps it was the influence of it that made Ruth a little restless, satisfied neither with the out-doors nor the in-doors. Her sisters had gone to the city to show some country visitors Independence Hall, Girard College and Fairmount Water Works and Park, four objects which Americans cannot die peacefully, even in Naples, without having seen. But Ruth confessed that she was tired of them, and also of the Mint. She was tired of other things. She tried this morning an air or two upon the piano, sang a simple song in a sweet but slightly metallic voice, and then seating herself by the open window, read Philip's letter. Was she thinking about Philip, as she gazed across the fresh lawn over the tree tops to the Chelton Hills, or of that world which his entrance, into her tradition-bound life had been one of the means of opening to her? Whatever she thought, she was not idly musing, as one might see by the expression of her face. After a time she took up a book; it was a medical work, and to all appearance about as interesting to a girl of eighteen as the statutes at large; but her face was soon aglow over its pages, and she was so absorbed in it that she did not notice the entrance of her mother at the open door. "Ruth?" "Well, mother," said the young student, looking up, with a shade of impatience. "I wanted to talk with thee a little about thy plans." "Mother; thee knows I couldn't stand it at Westfield; the school stifled me, it's a place to turn young people into dried fruit." "I know," said Margaret Bolton, with a half anxious smile, thee chafes against all the ways of Friends, but what will thee do? Why is thee so discontented?" "If I must say it, mother, I want to go away, and get out of this dead level." With a look half of pain and half of pity, her mother answered, "I am sure thee is little interfered with; thee dresses as thee will, and goes where thee pleases, to any church thee likes, and thee has music. I had a visit yesterday from the society's committee by way of discipline, because we have a piano in the house, which is against the rules." "I hope thee told the elders that father and I are responsible for the piano, and that, much as thee loves music, thee is never in the room when it is played. Fortunately father is already out of meeting, so they can't discipline him. I heard father tell cousin Abner that he was whipped so often for whistling when he was a boy that he was determined to have what compensation he could get now." "Thy ways greatly try me, Ruth, and all thy relations. I desire thy happiness first of all, but thee is starting out on a dangerous path. Is thy father willing thee should go away to a school of the world's people?" "I have not asked him," Ruth replied with a look that might imply that she was one of those determined little bodies who first made up her own mind and then compelled others to make up theirs in accordance with hers. "And when thee has got the education thee wants, and lost all relish for the society of thy friends and the ways of thy ancestors, what then?" Ruth turned square round to her mother, and with an impassive face and not the slightest change of tone, said, "Mother, I'm going to study medicine?" Margaret Bolton almost lost for a moment her habitual placidity. "Thee, study medicine! A slight frail girl like thee, study medicine! Does thee think thee could stand it six months? And the lectures, and the dissecting rooms, has thee thought of the dissecting rooms?" "Mother," said Ruth calmly, "I have thought it all over. I know I can go through the whole, clinics, dissecting room and all. Does thee think I lack nerve? What is there to fear in a person dead more than in a person living?" "But thy health and strength, child; thee can never stand the severe application. And, besides, suppose thee does learn medicine?" "I will practice it." "Here?" "Here." "Where thee and thy family are known?" "If I can get patients." "I hope at least, Ruth, thee will let us know when thee opens an office," said her mother, with an approach to sarcasm that she rarely indulged in, as she rose and left the room. Ruth sat quite still for a tine, with face intent and flushed. It was out now. She had begun her open battle. The sight-seers returned in high spirits from the city. Was there any building in Greece to compare with Girard College, was there ever such a magnificent pile of stone devised for the shelter of poor orphans? Think of the stone shingles of the roof eight inches thick! Ruth asked the enthusiasts if they would like to live in such a sounding mausoleum, with its great halls and echoing rooms, and no comfortable place in it for the accommodation of any body? If they were orphans, would they like to be brought up in a Grecian temple? And then there was Broad street! Wasn't it the broadest and the longest street in the world? There certainly was no end to it, and even Ruth was Philadelphian enough to believe that a street ought not to have any end, or architectural point upon which the weary eye could rest. But neither St. Girard, nor Broad street, neither wonders of the Mint nor the glories of the Hall where the ghosts of our fathers sit always signing the Declaration; impressed the visitors so much as the splendors of the Chestnut street windows, and the bargains on Eighth street. The truth is that the country cousins had come to town to attend the Yearly Meeting, and the amount of shopping that preceded that religious event was scarcely exceeded by the preparations for the opera in more worldly circles. "Is thee going to the Yearly Meeting, Ruth?" asked one of the girls. "I have nothing to wear," replied that demure person. "If thee wants to see new bonnets, orthodox to a shade and conformed to the letter of the true form, thee must go to the Arch Street Meeting. Any departure from either color or shape would be instantly taken note of. It has occupied mother a long time, to find at the shops the exact shade for her new bonnet. Oh, thee must go by all means. But thee won't see there a sweeter woman than mother." "And thee won't go?" "Why should I? I've been again and again. If I go to Meeting at all I like best to sit in the quiet old house in Germantown, where the windows are all open and I can see the trees, and hear the stir of the leaves. It's such a crush at the Yearly Meeting at Arch Street, and then there's the row of sleek-looking young men who line the curbstone and stare at us as we come out. No, I don't feel at home there." That evening Ruth and her father sat late by the drawing-room fire, as they were quite apt to do at night. It was always a time of confidences. "Thee has another letter from young Sterling," said Eli Bolton. "Yes. Philip has gone to the far west." "How far?" "He doesn't say, but it's on the frontier, and on the map everything beyond it is marked 'Indians' and 'desert,' and looks as desolate as a Wednesday Meeting." "Humph. It was time for him to do something. Is he going to start a daily newspaper among the Kick-a-poos?" "Father, thee's unjust to Philip. He's going into business." "What sort of business can a young man go into without capital?" "He doesn't say exactly what it is," said Ruth a little dubiously, "but it's something about land and railroads, and thee knows, father, that fortunes are made nobody knows exactly how, in a new country." "I should think so, you innocent puss, and in an old one too. But Philip is honest, and he has talent enough, if he will stop scribbling, to make his way. But thee may as well take care of theeself, Ruth, and not go dawdling along with a young man in his adventures, until thy own mind is a little more settled what thee wants." This excellent advice did not seem to impress Ruth greatly, for she was looking away with that abstraction of vision which often came into her grey eyes, and at length she exclaimed, with a sort of impatience, "I wish I could go west, or south, or somewhere. What a box women are put into, measured for it, and put in young; if we go anywhere it's in a box, veiled and pinioned and shut in by disabilities. Father, I should like to break things and get loose!" What a sweet-voiced little innocent, it was to be sure. "Thee will no doubt break things enough when thy time comes, child; women always have; but what does thee want now that thee hasn't?" "I want to be something, to make myself something, to do something. Why should I rust, and be stupid, and sit in inaction because I am a girl? What would happen to me if thee should lose thy property and die? What one useful thing could I do for a living, for the support of mother and the children? And if I had a fortune, would thee want me to lead a useless life?" "Has thy mother led a useless life?" "Somewhat that depends upon whether her children amount to anything," retorted the sharp little disputant. "What's the good, father, of a series of human beings who don't advance any?" Friend Eli, who had long ago laid aside the Quaker dress, and was out of Meeting, and who in fact after a youth of doubt could not yet define his belief, nevertheless looked with some wonder at this fierce young eagle of his, hatched in a Friend's dove-cote. But he only said, "Has thee consulted thy mother about a career, I suppose it is a career thee wants?" Ruth did not reply directly; she complained that her mother didn't understand her. But that wise and placid woman understood the sweet rebel a great deal better than Ruth understood herself. She also had a history, possibly, and had sometime beaten her young wings against the cage of custom, and indulged in dreams of a new social order, and had passed through that fiery period when it seems possible for one mind, which has not yet tried its limits, to break up and re-arrange the world. Ruth replied to Philip's letter in due time and in the most cordial and unsentimental manner. Philip liked the letter, as he did everything she did; but he had a dim notion that there was more about herself in the letter than about him. He took it with him from the Southern Hotel, when he went to walk, and read it over and again in an unfrequented street as he stumbled along. The rather common-place and unformed hand-writing seemed to him peculiar and characteristic, different from that of any other woman. Ruth was glad to hear that Philip had made a push into the world, and she was sure that his talent and courage would make a way for him. She should pray for his success at any rate, and especially that the Indians, in St. Louis, would not take his scalp. Philip looked rather dubious at this sentence, and wished that he had written nothing about Indians. CHAPTER XV. Eli Bolton and his wife talked over Ruth's case, as they had often done before, with no little anxiety. Alone of all their children she was impatient of the restraints and monotony of the Friends' Society, and wholly indisposed to accept the "inner light" as a guide into a life of acceptance and inaction. When Margaret told her husband of Ruth's newest project, he did not exhibit so much surprise as she hoped for. In fact he said that he did not see why a woman should not enter the medical profession if she felt a call to it. "But," said Margaret, "consider her total inexperience of the world, and her frail health. Can such a slight little body endure the ordeal of the preparation for, or the strain of, the practice of the profession?" "Did thee ever think, Margaret, whether, she can endure being thwarted in an, object on which she has so set her heart, as she has on this? Thee has trained her thyself at home, in her enfeebled childhood, and thee knows how strong her will is, and what she has been able to accomplish in self-culture by the simple force of her determination. She never will be satisfied until she has tried her own strength." "I wish," said Margaret, with an inconsequence that is not exclusively feminine, "that she were in the way to fall in love and marry by and by. I think that would cure her of some of her notions. I am not sure but if she went away, to some distant school, into an entirely new life, her thoughts would be diverted." Eli Bolton almost laughed as he regarded his wife, with eyes that never looked at her except fondly, and replied, "Perhaps thee remembers that thee had notions also, before we were married, and before thee became a member of Meeting. I think Ruth comes honestly by certain tendencies which thee has hidden under the Friend's dress." Margaret could not say no to this, and while she paused, it was evident that memory was busy with suggestions to shake her present opinions. "Why not let Ruth try the study for a time," suggested Eli; "there is a fair beginning of a Woman's Medical College in the city. Quite likely she will soon find that she needs first a more general culture, and fall, in with thy wish that she should see more of the world at some large school." There really seemed to be nothing else to be done, and Margaret consented at length without approving. And it was agreed that Ruth, in order to spare her fatigue, should take lodgings with friends near the college and make a trial in the pursuit of that science to which we all owe our lives, and sometimes as by a miracle of escape. That day Mr. Bolton brought home a stranger to dinner, Mr. Bigler of the great firm of Pennybacker, Bigler & Small, railroad contractors. He was always bringing home somebody, who had a scheme; to build a road, or open a mine, or plant a swamp with cane to grow paper-stock, or found a hospital, or invest in a patent shad-bone separator, or start a college somewhere on the frontier, contiguous to a land speculation. The Bolton house was a sort of hotel for this kind of people. They were always coming. Ruth had known them from childhood, and she used to say that her father attracted them as naturally as a sugar hogshead does flies. Ruth had an idea that a large portion of the world lived by getting the rest of the world into schemes. Mr. Bolton never could say "no" to any of them, not even, said Ruth again, to the society for stamping oyster shells with scripture texts before they were sold at retail. Mr. Bigler's plan this time, about which he talked loudly, with his mouth full, all dinner time, was the building of the Tunkhannock, Rattlesnake and Young-womans-town railroad, which would not only be a great highway to the west, but would open to market inexhaustible coal-fields and untold millions of lumber. The plan of operations was very simple. "We'll buy the lands," explained he, "on long time, backed by the notes of good men; and then mortgage them for money enough to get the road well on. Then get the towns on the line to issue their bonds for stock, and sell their bonds for enough to complete the road, and partly stock it, especially if we mortgage each section as we complete it. We can then sell the rest of the stock on the prospect of the business of the road through an improved country, and also sell the lands at a big advance, on the strength of the road. All we want," continued Mr. Bigler in his frank manner, "is a few thousand dollars to start the surveys, and arrange things in the legislature. There is some parties will have to be seen, who might make us trouble." "It will take a good deal of money to start the enterprise," remarked Mr. Bolton, who knew very well what "seeing" a Pennsylvania Legislature meant, but was too polite to tell Mr. Bigler what he thought of him, while he was his guest; "what security would one have for it?" Mr. Bigler smiled a hard kind of smile, and said, "You'd be inside, Mr. Bolton, and you'd have the first chance in the deal." This was rather unintelligible to Ruth, who was nevertheless somewhat amused by the study of a type of character she had seen before. At length she interrupted the conversation by asking, "You'd sell the stock, I suppose, Mr. Bigler, to anybody who was attracted by the prospectus?" "O, certainly, serve all alike," said Mr. Bigler, now noticing Ruth for the first time, and a little puzzled by the serene, intelligent face that was turned towards him. "Well, what would become of the poor people who had been led to put their little money into the speculation, when you got out of it and left it half way?" It would be no more true to say of Mr. Bigler that he was or could be embarrassed, than to say that a brass counterfeit dollar-piece would change color when refused; the question annoyed him a little, in Mr. Bolton's presence. "Why, yes, Miss, of course, in a great enterprise for the benefit of the community there will little things occur, which, which--and, of course, the poor ought to be looked to; I tell my wife, that the poor must be looked to; if you can tell who are poor--there's so many impostors. And then, there's so many poor in the legislature to be looked after," said the contractor with a sort of a chuckle, "isn't that so, Mr. Bolton?" Eli Bolton replied that he never had much to do with the legislature. "Yes," continued this public benefactor, "an uncommon poor lot this year, uncommon. Consequently an expensive lot. The fact is, Mr. Bolton, that the price is raised so high on United States Senator now, that it affects the whole market; you can't get any public improvement through on reasonable terms. Simony is what I call it, Simony," repeated Mr. Bigler, as if he had said a good thing. Mr. Bigler went on and gave some very interesting details of the intimate connection between railroads and politics, and thoroughly entertained himself all dinner time, and as much disgusted Ruth, who asked no more questions, and her father who replied in monosyllables: "I wish," said Ruth to her father, after the guest had gone, "that you wouldn't bring home any more such horrid men. Do all men who wear big diamond breast-pins, flourish their knives at table, and use bad grammar, and cheat?" "O, child, thee mustn't be too observing. Mr. Bigler is one of the most important men in the state; nobody has more influence at Harrisburg. I don't like him any more than thee does, but I'd better lend him a little money than to have his ill will." "Father, I think thee'd better have his ill-will than his company. Is it true that he gave money to help build the pretty little church of St. James the Less, and that he is, one of the vestrymen?" "Yes. He is not such a bad fellow. One of the men in Third street asked him the other day, whether his was a high church or a low church? Bigler said he didn't know; he'd been in it once, and he could touch the ceiling in the side aisle with his hand." "I think he's just horrid," was Ruth's final summary of him, after the manner of the swift judgment of women, with no consideration of the extenuating circumstances. Mr. Bigler had no idea that he had not made a good impression on the whole family; he certainly intended to be agreeable. Margaret agreed with her daughter, and though she never said anything to such people, she was grateful to Ruth for sticking at least one pin into him. Such was the serenity of the Bolton household that a stranger in it would never have suspected there was any opposition to Ruth's going to the Medical School. And she went quietly to take her residence in town, and began her attendance of the lectures, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She did not heed, if she heard, the busy and wondering gossip of relations and acquaintances, gossip that has no less currency among the Friends than elsewhere because it is whispered slyly and creeps about in an undertone. Ruth was absorbed, and for the first time in her life thoroughly happy; happy in the freedom of her life, and in the keen enjoyment of the investigation that broadened its field day by day. She was in high spirits when she came home to spend First Days; the house was full of her gaiety and her merry laugh, and the children wished that Ruth would never go away again. But her mother noticed, with a little anxiety, the sometimes flushed face, and the sign of an eager spirit in the kindling eyes, and, as well, the serious air of determination and endurance in her face at unguarded moments. The college was a small one and it sustained itself not without difficulty in this city, which is so conservative, and is yet the origin of so many radical movements. There were not more than a dozen attendants on the lectures all together, so that the enterprise had the air of an experiment, and the fascination of pioneering for those engaged in it. There was one woman physician driving about town in her carriage, attacking the most violent diseases in all quarters with persistent courage, like a modern Bellona in her war chariot, who was popularly supposed to gather in fees to the amount ten to twenty thousand dollars a year. Perhaps some of these students looked forward to the near day when they would support such a practice and a husband besides, but it is unknown that any of them ever went further than practice in hospitals and in their own nurseries, and it is feared that some of them were quite as ready as their sisters, in emergencies, to "call a man." If Ruth had any exaggerated expectations of a professional life, she kept them to herself, and was known to her fellows of the class simply as a cheerful, sincere student, eager in her investigations, and never impatient at anything, except an insinuation that women had not as much mental capacity for science as men. "They really say," said one young Quaker sprig to another youth of his age, "that Ruth Bolton is really going to be a saw-bones, attends lectures, cuts up bodies, and all that. She's cool enough for a surgeon, anyway." He spoke feelingly, for he had very likely been weighed in Ruth's calm eyes sometime, and thoroughly scared by the little laugh that accompanied a puzzling reply to one of his conversational nothings. Such young gentlemen, at this time, did not come very distinctly into Ruth's horizon, except as amusing circumstances. About the details of her student life, Ruth said very little to her friends, but they had reason to know, afterwards, that it required all her nerve and the almost complete exhaustion of her physical strength, to carry her through. She began her anatomical practice upon detached portions of the human frame, which were brought into the demonstrating room--dissecting the eye, the ear, and a small tangle of muscles and nerves--an occupation which had not much more savor of death in it than the analysis of a portion of a plant out of which the life went when it was plucked up by the roots. Custom inures the most sensitive persons to that which is at first most repellant; and in the late war we saw the most delicate women, who could not at home endure the sight of blood, become so used to scenes of carnage, that they walked the hospitals and the margins of battle-fields, amid the poor remnants of torn humanity, with as perfect self-possession as if they were strolling in a flower garden. It happened that Ruth was one evening deep in a line of investigation which she could not finish or understand without demonstration, and so eager was she in it, that it seemed as if she could not wait till the next day. She, therefore, persuaded a fellow student, who was reading that evening with her, to go down to the dissecting room of the college, and ascertain what they wanted to know by an hour's work there. Perhaps, also, Ruth wanted to test her own nerve, and to see whether the power of association was stronger in her mind than her own will. The janitor of the shabby and comfortless old building admitted the girls, not without suspicion, and gave them lighted candles, which they would need, without other remark than "there's a new one, Miss," as the girls went up the broad stairs. They climbed to the third story, and paused before a door, which they unlocked, and which admitted them into a long apartment, with a row of windows on one side and one at the end. The room was without light, save from the stars and the candles the girls carried, which revealed to them dimly two long and several small tables, a few benches and chairs, a couple of skeletons hanging on the wall, a sink, and cloth-covered heaps of something upon the tables here and there. The windows were open, and the cool night wind came in strong enough to flutter a white covering now and then, and to shake the loose casements. But all the sweet odors of the night could not take from the room a faint suggestion of mortality. The young ladies paused a moment. The room itself was familiar enough, but night makes almost any chamber eerie, and especially such a room of detention as this where the mortal parts of the unburied might--almost be supposed to be, visited, on the sighing night winds, by the wandering spirits of their late tenants. Opposite and at some distance across the roofs of lower buildings, the girls saw a tall edifice, the long upper story of which seemed to be a dancing hall. The windows of that were also open, and through them they heard the scream of the jiggered and tortured violin, and the pump, pump of the oboe, and saw the moving shapes of men and women in quick transition, and heard the prompter's drawl. "I wonder," said Ruth, "what the girls dancing there would think if they saw us, or knew that there was such a room as this so near them." She did not speak very loud, and, perhaps unconsciously, the girls drew near to each other as they approached the long table in the centre of the room. A straight object lay upon it, covered with a sheet. This was doubtless "the new one" of which the janitor spoke. Ruth advanced, and with a not very steady hand lifted the white covering from the upper part of the figure and turned it down. Both the girls started. It was a negro. The black face seemed to defy the pallor of death, and asserted an ugly life-likeness that was frightful. Ruth was as pale as the white sheet, and her comrade whispered, "Come away, Ruth, it is awful." Perhaps it was the wavering light of the candles, perhaps it was only the agony from a death of pain, but the repulsive black face seemed to wear a scowl that said, "Haven't you yet done with the outcast, persecuted black man, but you must now haul him from his grave, and send even your women to dismember his body?" Who is this dead man, one of thousands who died yesterday, and will be dust anon, to protest that science shall not turn his worthless carcass to some account? Ruth could have had no such thought, for with a pity in her sweet face, that for the moment overcame fear and disgust, she reverently replaced the covering, and went away to her own table, as her companion did to hers. And there for an hour they worked at their several problems, without speaking, but not without an awe of the presence there, "the new one," and not without an awful sense of life itself, as they heard the pulsations of the music and the light laughter from the dancing-hall. When, at length, they went away, and locked the dreadful room behind them, and came out into the street, where people were passing, they, for the first time, realized, in the relief they felt, what a nervous strain they had been under. CHAPTER XVI. While Ruth was thus absorbed in her new occupation, and the spring was wearing away, Philip and his friends were still detained at the Southern Hotel. The great contractors had concluded their business with the state and railroad officials and with the lesser contractors, and departed for the East. But the serious illness of one of the engineers kept Philip and Henry in the city and occupied in alternate watchings. Philip wrote to Ruth of the new acquaintance they had made, Col. Sellers, an enthusiastic and hospitable gentleman, very much interested in the development of the country, and in their success. They had not had an opportunity to visit at his place "up in the country" yet, but the Colonel often dined with them, and in confidence, confided to them his projects, and seemed to take a great liking to them, especially to his friend Harry. It was true that he never seemed to have ready money, but he was engaged in very large operations. The correspondence was not very brisk between these two young persons, so differently occupied; for though Philip wrote long letters, he got brief ones in reply, full of sharp little observations however, such as one concerning Col. Sellers, namely, that such men dined at their house every week. Ruth's proposed occupation astonished Philip immensely, but while he argued it and discussed it, he did not dare hint to her his fear that it would interfere with his most cherished plans. He too sincerely respected Ruth's judgment to make any protest, however, and he would have defended her course against the world. This enforced waiting at St. Louis was very irksome to Philip. His money was running away, for one thing, and he longed to get into the field, and see for himself what chance there was for a fortune or even an occupation. The contractors had given the young men leave to join the engineer corps as soon as they could, but otherwise had made no provision for them, and in fact had left them with only the most indefinite expectations of something large in the future. Harry was entirely happy; in his circumstances. He very soon knew everybody, from the governor of the state down to the waiters at the hotel. He had the Wall street slang at his tongue's end; he always talked like a capitalist, and entered with enthusiasm into all the land and railway schemes with which the air was thick. Col. Sellers and Harry talked together by the hour and by the day. Harry informed his new friend that he was going out with the engineer corps of the Salt Lick Pacific Extension, but that wasn't his real business. "I'm to have, with another party," said Harry, "a big contract in the road, as soon as it is let; and, meantime, I'm with the engineers to spy out the best land and the depot sites." "It's everything," suggested' the Colonel, "in knowing where to invest. I've known people throwaway their money because they were too consequential to take Sellers' advice. Others, again, have made their pile on taking it. I've looked over the ground; I've been studying it for twenty years. You can't put your finger on a spot in the map of Missouri that I don't know as if I'd made it. When you want to place anything," continued the Colonel, confidently, "just let Beriah Sellers know. That's all." "Oh, I haven't got much in ready money I can lay my hands on now, but if a fellow could do anything with fifteen or twenty thousand dollars, as a beginning, I shall draw for that when I see the right opening." "Well, that's something, that's something, fifteen or twenty thousand dollars, say twenty--as an advance," said the Colonel reflectively, as if turning over his mind for a project that could be entered on with such a trifling sum. "I'll tell you what it is--but only to you Mr. Brierly, only to you, mind; I've got a little project that I've been keeping. It looks small, looks small on paper, but it's got a big future. What should you say, sir, to a city, built up like the rod of Aladdin had touched it, built up in two years, where now you wouldn't expect it any more than you'd expect a light-house on the top of Pilot Knob? and you could own the land! It can be done, sir. It can be done!" The Colonel hitched up his chair close to Harry, laid his hand on his knee, and, first looking about him, said in a low voice, "The Salt Lick Pacific Extension is going to run through Stone's Landing! The Almighty never laid out a cleaner piece of level prairie for a city; and it's the natural center of all that region of hemp and tobacco." "What makes you think the road will go there? It's twenty miles, on the map, off the straight line of the road?" "You can't tell what is the straight line till the engineers have been over it. Between us, I have talked with Jeff Thompson, the division engineer. He understands the wants of Stone's Landing, and the claims of the inhabitants--who are to be there. Jeff says that a railroad is for --the accommodation of the people and not for the benefit of gophers; and if, he don't run this to Stone's Landing he'll be damned! You ought to know Jeff; he's one of the most enthusiastic engineers in this western country, and one of the best fellows that ever looked through the bottom of a glass." The recommendation was not undeserved. There was nothing that Jeff wouldn't do, to accommodate a friend, from sharing his last dollar with him, to winging him in a duel. When he understood from Col. Sellers. how the land lay at Stone's Landing, he cordially shook hands with that gentleman, asked him to drink, and fairly roared out, "Why, God bless my soul, Colonel, a word from one Virginia gentleman to another is 'nuff ced.' There's Stone's Landing been waiting for a railroad more than four thousand years, and damme if she shan't have it." Philip had not so much faith as Harry in Stone's Landing, when the latter opened the project to him, but Harry talked about it as if he already owned that incipient city. Harry thoroughly believed in all his projects and inventions, and lived day by day in their golden atmosphere. Everybody liked the young fellow, for how could they help liking one of such engaging manners and large fortune? The waiters at the hotel would do more for him than for any other guest, and he made a great many acquaintances among the people of St. Louis, who liked his sensible and liberal views about the development of the western country, and about St. Louis. He said it ought to be the national capital. Harry made partial arrangements with several of the merchants for furnishing supplies for his contract on the Salt Lick Pacific Extension; consulted the maps with the engineers, and went over the profiles with the contractors, figuring out estimates for bids. He was exceedingly busy with those things when he was not at the bedside of his sick acquaintance, or arranging the details of his speculation with Col. Sellers. Meantime the days went along and the weeks, and the money in Harry's pocket got lower and lower. He was just as liberal with what he had as before, indeed it was his nature to be free with his money or with that of others, and he could lend or spend a dollar with an air that made it seem like ten. At length, at the end of one week, when his hotel bill was presented, Harry found not a cent in his pocket to meet it. He carelessly remarked to the landlord that he was not that day in funds, but he would draw on New York, and he sat down and wrote to the contractors in that city a glowing letter about the prospects of the road, and asked them to advance a hundred or two, until he got at work. No reply came. He wrote again, in an unoffended business like tone, suggesting that he had better draw at three days. A short answer came to this, simply saying that money was very tight in Wall street just then, and that he had better join the engineer corps as soon as he could. But the bill had to be paid, and Harry took it to Philip, and asked him if he thought he hadn't better draw on his uncle. Philip had not much faith in Harry's power of "drawing," and told him that he would pay the bill himself. Whereupon Harry dismissed the matter then and thereafter from his thoughts, and, like a light-hearted good fellow as he was, gave himself no more trouble about his board-bills. Philip paid them, swollen as they were with a monstrous list of extras; but he seriously counted the diminishing bulk of his own hoard, which was all the money he had in the world. Had he not tacitly agreed to share with Harry to the last in this adventure, and would not the generous fellow divide; with him if he, Philip, were in want and Harry had anything? The fever at length got tired of tormenting the stout young engineer, who lay sick at the hotel, and left him, very thin, a little sallow but an "acclimated" man. Everybody said he was "acclimated" now, and said it cheerfully. What it is to be acclimated to western fevers no two persons exactly agree. Some say it is a sort of vaccination that renders death by some malignant type of fever less probable. Some regard it as a sort of initiation, like that into the Odd Fellows, which renders one liable to his regular dues thereafter. Others consider it merely the acquisition of a habit of taking every morning before breakfast a dose of bitters, composed of whiskey and assafoetida, out of the acclimation jug. Jeff Thompson afterwards told Philip that he once asked Senator Atchison, then acting Vice-President: of the United States, about the possibility of acclimation; he thought the opinion of the second officer of our great government would be, valuable on this point. They were sitting together on a bench before a country tavern, in the free converse permitted by our democratic habits. "I suppose, Senator, that you have become acclimated to this country?" "Well," said the Vice-President, crossing his legs, pulling his wide-awake down over his forehead, causing a passing chicken to hop quickly one side by the accuracy of his aim, and speaking with senatorial deliberation, "I think I have. I've been here twenty-five years, and dash, dash my dash to dash, if I haven't entertained twenty-five separate and distinct earthquakes, one a year. The niggro is the only person who can stand the fever and ague of this region." The convalescence of the engineer was the signal for breaking up quarters at St. Louis, and the young fortune-hunters started up the river in good spirits. It was only the second time either of them had been upon a Mississippi steamboat, and nearly everything they saw had the charm of novelty. Col. Sellers was at the landing to bid thorn good-bye. "I shall send you up that basket of champagne by the next boat; no, no; no thanks; you'll find it not bad in camp," he cried out as the plank was hauled in. "My respects to Thompson. Tell him to sight for Stone's. Let me know, Mr. Brierly, when you are ready to locate; I'll come over from Hawkeye. Goodbye." And the last the young fellows saw of the Colonel, he was waving his hat, and beaming prosperity and good luck. The voyage was delightful, and was not long enough to become monotonous. The travelers scarcely had time indeed to get accustomed to the splendors of the great saloon where the tables were spread for meals, a marvel of paint and gilding, its ceiling hung with fancifully cut tissue-paper of many colors, festooned and arranged in endless patterns. The whole was more beautiful than a barber's shop. The printed bill of fare at dinner was longer and more varied, the proprietors justly boasted, than that of any hotel in New York. It must have been the work of an author of talent and imagination, and it surely was not his fault if the dinner itself was to a certain extent a delusion, and if the guests got something that tasted pretty much the same whatever dish they ordered; nor was it his fault if a general flavor of rose in all the dessert dishes suggested that they hid passed through the barber's saloon on their way from the kitchen. The travelers landed at a little settlement on the left bank, and at once took horses for the camp in the interior, carrying their clothes and blankets strapped behind the saddles. Harry was dressed as we have seen him once before, and his long and shining boots attracted not a little the attention of the few persons they met on the road, and especially of the bright faced wenches who lightly stepped along the highway, picturesque in their colored kerchiefs, carrying light baskets, or riding upon mules and balancing before them a heavier load. Harry sang fragments of operas and talked abort their fortune. Philip even was excited by the sense of freedom and adventure, and the beauty of the landscape. The prairie, with its new grass and unending acres of brilliant flowers--chiefly the innumerable varieties of phlox-bore the look of years of cultivation, and the occasional open groves of white oaks gave it a park-like appearance. It was hardly unreasonable to expect to see at any moment, the gables and square windows of an Elizabethan mansion in one of the well kept groves. Towards sunset of the third day, when the young gentlemen thought they ought to be near the town of Magnolia, near which they had been directed to find the engineers' camp, they descried a log house and drew up before it to enquire the way. Half the building was store, and half was dwelling house. At the door of the latter stood a regress with a bright turban on her head, to whom Philip called, "Can you tell me, auntie, how far it is to the town of Magnolia?" "Why, bress you chile," laughed the woman, "you's dere now." It was true. This log horse was the compactly built town, and all creation was its suburbs. The engineers' camp was only two or three miles distant. "You's boun' to find it," directed auntie, "if you don't keah nuffin 'bout de road, and go fo' de sun-down." A brisk gallop brought the riders in sight of the twinkling light of the camp, just as the stars came out. It lay in a little hollow, where a small stream ran through a sparse grove of young white oaks. A half dozen tents were pitched under the trees, horses and oxen were corraled at a little distance, and a group of men sat on camp stools or lay on blankets about a bright fire. The twang of a banjo became audible as they drew nearer, and they saw a couple of negroes, from some neighboring plantation, "breaking down" a juba in approved style, amid the "hi, hi's" of the spectators. Mr. Jeff Thompson, for it was the camp of this redoubtable engineer, gave the travelers a hearty welcome, offered them ground room in his own tent, ordered supper, and set out a small jug, a drop from which he declared necessary on account of the chill of the evening. "I never saw an Eastern man," said Jeff, "who knew how to drink from a jug with one hand. It's as easy as lying. So." He grasped the handle with the right hand, threw the jug back upon his arm, and applied his lips to the nozzle. It was an act as graceful as it was simple. "Besides," said Mr. Thompson, setting it down, "it puts every man on his honor as to quantity." Early to turn in was the rule of the camp, and by nine o'clock everybody was under his blanket, except Jeff himself, who worked awhile at his table over his field-book, and then arose, stepped outside the tent door and sang, in a strong and not unmelodious tenor, the Star Spangled Banner from beginning to end. It proved to be his nightly practice to let off the unexpended seam of his conversational powers, in the words of this stirring song. It was a long time before Philip got to sleep. He saw the fire light, he saw the clear stars through the tree-tops, he heard the gurgle of the stream, the stamp of the horses, the occasional barking of the dog which followed the cook's wagon, the hooting of an owl; and when these failed he saw Jeff, standing on a battlement, mid the rocket's red glare, and heard him sing, "Oh, say, can you see?", It was the first time he had ever slept on the ground. CHAPTER XVII. ----"We have view'd it, And measur'd it within all, by the scale The richest tract of land, love, in the kingdom! There will be made seventeen or eighteeen millions, Or more, as't may be handled!" The Devil is an Ass. Nobody dressed more like an engineer than Mr. Henry Brierly. The completeness of his appointments was the envy of the corps, and the gay fellow himself was the admiration of the camp servants, axemen, teamsters and cooks. "I reckon you didn't git them boots no wher's this side o' Sent Louis?" queried the tall Missouri youth who acted as commissariy's assistant. "No, New York." "Yas, I've heern o' New York," continued the butternut lad, attentively studying each item of Harry's dress, and endeavoring to cover his design with interesting conversation. "'N there's Massachusetts.", "It's not far off." "I've heern Massachusetts was a-----of a place. Les, see, what state's Massachusetts in?" "Massachusetts," kindly replied Harry, "is in the state of Boston." "Abolish'n wan't it? They must a cost right smart," referring to the boots. Harry shouldered his rod and went to the field, tramped over the prairie by day, and figured up results at night, with the utmost cheerfulness and industry, and plotted the line on the profile paper, without, however, the least idea of engineering practical or theoretical. Perhaps there was not a great deal of scientific knowledge in the entire corps, nor was very much needed. They were making, what is called a preliminary survey, and the chief object of a preliminary survey was to get up an excitement about the road, to interest every town in that part of the state in it, under the belief that the road would run through it, and to get the aid of every planter upon the prospect that a station would be on his land. Mr. Jeff Thompson was the most popular engineer who could be found for this work. He did not bother himself much about details or practicabilities of location, but ran merrily along, sighting from the top of one divide to the top of another, and striking "plumb" every town site and big plantation within twenty or thirty miles of his route. In his own language he "just went booming." This course gave Harry an opportunity, as he said, to learn the practical details of engineering, and it gave Philip a chance to see the country, and to judge for himself what prospect of a fortune it offered. Both he and Harry got the "refusal" of more than one plantation as they went along, and wrote urgent letters to their eastern correspondents, upon the beauty of the land and the certainty that it would quadruple in value as soon as the road was finally located. It seemed strange to them that capitalists did not flock out there and secure this land. They had not been in the field over two weeks when Harry wrote to his friend Col. Sellers that he'd better be on the move, for the line was certain to go to Stone's Landing. Any one who looked at the line on the map, as it was laid down from day to day, would have been uncertain which way it was going; but Jeff had declared that in his judgment the only practicable route from the point they then stood on was to follow the divide to Stone's Landing, and it was generally understood that that town would be the next one hit. "We'll make it, boys," said the chief, "if we have to go in a balloon." And make it they did In less than a week, this indomitable engineer had carried his moving caravan over slues and branches, across bottoms and along divides, and pitched his tents in the very heart of the city of Stone's Landing. "Well, I'll be dashed," was heard the cheery voice of Mr. Thompson, as he stepped outside the tent door at sunrise next morning. "If this don't get me. I say, yon, Grayson, get out your sighting iron and see if you can find old Sellers' town. Blame me if we wouldn't have run plumb by it if twilight had held on a little longer. Oh! Sterling, Brierly, get up and see the city. There's a steamboat just coming round the bend." And Jeff roared with laughter. "The mayor'll be round here to breakfast." The fellows turned out of the tents, rubbing their eyes, and stared about them. They were camped on the second bench of the narrow bottom of a crooked, sluggish stream, that was some five rods wide in the present good stage of water. Before them were a dozen log cabins, with stick and mud chimneys, irregularly disposed on either side of a not very well defined road, which did not seem to know its own mind exactly, and, after straggling through the town, wandered off over the rolling prairie in an uncertain way, as if it had started for nowhere and was quite likely to reach its destination. Just as it left the town, however, it was cheered and assisted by a guide-board, upon which was the legend "10 Mils to Hawkeye." The road had never been made except by the travel over it, and at this season--the rainy June--it was a way of ruts cut in the black soil, and of fathomless mud-holes. In the principal street of the city, it had received more attention; for hogs; great and small, rooted about in it and wallowed in it, turning the street into a liquid quagmire which could only be crossed on pieces of plank thrown here and there. About the chief cabin, which was the store and grocery of this mart of trade, the mud was more liquid than elsewhere, and the rude platform in front of it and the dry-goods boxes mounted thereon were places of refuge for all the loafers of the place. Down by the stream was a dilapidated building which served for a hemp warehouse, and a shaky wharf extended out from it, into the water. In fact a flat-boat was there moored by it, it's setting poles lying across the gunwales. Above the town the stream was crossed by a crazy wooden bridge, the supports of which leaned all ways in the soggy soil; the absence of a plank here and there in the flooring made the crossing of the bridge faster than a walk an offense not necessary to be prohibited by law. "This, gentlemen," said Jeff, "is Columbus River, alias Goose Run. If it was widened, and deepened, and straightened, and made, long enough, it would be one of the finest rivers in the western country." As the sun rose and sent his level beams along the stream, the thin stratum of mist, or malaria, rose also and dispersed, but the light was not able to enliven the dull water nor give any hint of its apparently fathomless depth. Venerable mud-turtles crawled up and roosted upon the old logs in the stream, their backs glistening in the sun, the first inhabitants of the metropolis to begin the active business of the day. It was not long, however, before smoke began to issue from the city chimneys; and before the engineers, had finished their breakfast they were the object of the curious inspection of six or eight boys and men, who lounged into the camp and gazed about them with languid interest, their hands in their pockets every one. "Good morning; gentlemen," called out the chief engineer, from the table. "Good mawning," drawled out the spokesman of the party. "I allow thish-yers the railroad, I heern it was a-comin'." "Yes, this is the railroad; all but the rails and the ironhorse." "I reckon you kin git all the rails you want oaten my white oak timber over, thar," replied the first speaker, who appeared to be a man of property and willing to strike up a trade. "You'll have to negotiate with the contractors about the rails, sir," said Jeff; "here's Mr. Brierly, I've no doubt would like to buy your rails when the time comes." "O," said the man, "I thought maybe you'd fetch the whole bilin along with you. But if you want rails, I've got em, haint I Eph." "Heaps," said Eph, without taking his eyes off the group at the table. "Well," said Mr. Thompson, rising from his seat and moving towards his tent, "the railroad has come to Stone's Landing, sure; I move we take a drink on it all round." The proposal met with universal favor. Jeff gave prosperity to Stone's Landing and navigation to Goose Run, and the toast was washed down with gusto, in the simple fluid of corn; and with the return compliment that a rail road was a good thing, and that Jeff Thompson was no slouch. About ten o'clock a horse and wagon was descried making a slow approach to the camp over the prairie. As it drew near, the wagon was seen to contain a portly gentleman, who hitched impatiently forward on his seat, shook the reins and gently touched up his horse, in the vain attempt to communicate his own energy to that dull beast, and looked eagerly at the tents. When the conveyance at length drew up to Mr. Thompson's door, the gentleman descended with great deliberation, straightened himself up, rubbed his hands, and beaming satisfaction from every part of his radiant frame, advanced to the group that was gathered to welcome him, and which had saluted him by name as soon as he came within hearing. "Welcome to Napoleon, gentlemen, welcome. I am proud to see you here Mr. Thompson. You are, looking well Mr. Sterling. This is the country, sir. Right glad to see you Mr. Brierly. You got that basket of champagne? No? Those blasted river thieves! I'll never send anything more by 'em. The best brand, Roederer. The last I had in my cellar, from a lot sent me by Sir George Gore--took him out on a buffalo hunt, when he visited our, country. Is always sending me some trifle. You haven't looked about any yet, gentlemen? It's in the rough yet, in the rough. Those buildings will all have to come down. That's the place for the public square, Court House, hotels, churches, jail--all that sort of thing. About where we stand, the deepo. How does that strike your engineering eye, Mr. Thompson? Down yonder the business streets, running to the wharves. The University up there, on rising ground, sightly place, see the river for miles. That's Columbus river, only forty-nine miles to the Missouri. You see what it is, placid, steady, no current to interfere with navigation, wants widening in places and dredging, dredge out the harbor and raise a levee in front of the town; made by nature on purpose for a mart. Look at all this country, not another building within ten miles, no other navigable stream, lay of the land points right here; hemp, tobacco, corn, must come here. The railroad will do it, Napoleon won't know itself in a year." "Don't now evidently," said Philip aside to Harry. "Have you breakfasted Colonel?" "Hastily. Cup of coffee. Can't trust any coffee I don't import myself. But I put up a basket of provisions,--wife would put in a few delicacies, women always will, and a half dozen of that Burgundy, I was telling you of Mr. Briefly. By the way, you never got to dine with me." And the Colonel strode away to the wagon and looked under the seat for the basket. Apparently it was not there. For the Colonel raised up the flap, looked in front and behind, and then exclaimed, "Confound it. That comes of not doing a thing yourself. I trusted to the women folks to set that basket in the wagon, and it ain't there." The camp cook speedily prepared a savory breakfast for the Colonel, broiled chicken, eggs, corn-bread, and coffee, to which he did ample justice, and topped off with a drop of Old Bourbon, from Mr. Thompson's private store, a brand which he said he knew well, he should think it came from his own sideboard. While the engineer corps went to the field, to run back a couple of miles and ascertain, approximately, if a road could ever get down to the Landing, and to sight ahead across the Run, and see if it could ever get out again, Col. Sellers and Harry sat down and began to roughly map out the city of Napoleon on a large piece of drawing paper. "I've got the refusal of a mile square here," said the Colonel, "in our names, for a year, with a quarter interest reserved for the four owners." They laid out the town liberally, not lacking room, leaving space for the railroad to come in, and for the river as it was to be when improved. The engineers reported that the railroad could come in, by taking a little sweep and crossing the stream on a high bridge, but the grades would be steep. Col. Sellers said he didn't care so much about the grades, if the road could only be made to reach the elevators on the river. The next day Mr. Thompson made a hasty survey of the stream for a mile or two, so that the Colonel and Harry were enabled to show on their map how nobly that would accommodate the city. Jeff took a little writing from the Colonel and Harry for a prospective share but Philip declined to join in, saying that he had no money, and didn't want to make engagements he couldn't fulfill. The next morning the camp moved on, followed till it was out of sight by the listless eyes of the group in front of the store, one of whom remarked that, "he'd be doggoned if he ever expected to see that railroad any mo'." Harry went with the Colonel to Hawkeye to complete their arrangements, a part of which was the preparation of a petition to congress for the improvement of the navigation of Columbus River. CHAPTER XVIII. Eight years have passed since the death of Mr. Hawkins. Eight years are not many in the life of a nation or the history of a state, but they maybe years of destiny that shall fix the current of the century following. Such years were those that followed the little scrimmage on Lexington Common. Such years were those that followed the double-shotted demand for the surrender of Fort Sumter. History is never done with inquiring of these years, and summoning witnesses about them, and trying to understand their significance. The eight years in America from 1860 to 1868 uprooted institutions that were centuries old, changed the politics of a people, transformed the social life of half the country, and wrought so profoundly upon the entire national character that the influence cannot be measured short of two or three generations. As we are accustomed to interpret the economy of providence, the life of the individual is as nothing to that of the nation or the race; but who can say, in the broader view and the more intelligent weight of values, that the life of one man is not more than that of a nationality, and that there is not a tribunal where the tragedy of one human soul shall not seem more significant than the overturning of any human institution whatever? When one thinks of the tremendous forces of the upper and the nether world which play for the mastery of the soul of a woman during the few years in which she passes from plastic girlhood to the ripe maturity of womanhood, he may well stand in awe before the momentous drama. What capacities she has of purity, tenderness, goodness; what capacities of vileness, bitterness and evil. Nature must needs be lavish with the mother and creator of men, and centre in her all the possibilities of life. And a few critical years can decide whether her life is to be full of sweetness and light, whether she is to be the vestal of a holy temple, or whether she will be the fallen priestess of a desecrated shrine. There are women, it is true, who seem to be capable neither of rising much nor of falling much, and whom a conventional life saves from any special development of character. But Laura was not one of them. She had the fatal gift of beauty, and that more fatal gift which does not always accompany mere beauty, the power of fascination, a power that may, indeed, exist without beauty. She had will, and pride and courage and ambition, and she was left to be very much her own guide at the age when romance comes to the aid of passion, and when the awakening powers of her vigorous mind had little object on which to discipline themselves. The tremendous conflict that was fought in this girl's soul none of those about her knew, and very few knew that her life had in it anything unusual or romantic or strange. Those were troublous days in Hawkeye as well as in most other Missouri towns, days of confusion, when between Unionist and Confederate occupations, sudden maraudings and bush-whackings and raids, individuals escaped observation or comment in actions that would have filled the town with scandal in quiet times. Fortunately we only need to deal with Laura's life at this period historically, and look back upon such portions of it as will serve to reveal the woman as she was at the time of the arrival of Mr. Harry Brierly in Hawkeye. The Hawkins family were settled there, and had a hard enough struggle with poverty and the necessity of keeping up appearances in accord with their own family pride and the large expectations they secretly cherished of a fortune in the Knobs of East Tennessee. How pinched they were perhaps no one knew but Clay, to whom they looked for almost their whole support. Washington had been in Hawkeye off and on, attracted away occasionally by some tremendous speculation, from which he invariably returned to Gen. Boswell's office as poor as he went. He was the inventor of no one knew how many useless contrivances, which were not worth patenting, and his years had been passed in dreaming and planning to no purpose; until he was now a man of about thirty, without a profession or a permanent occupation, a tall, brown-haired, dreamy person of the best intentions and the frailest resolution. Probably however the, eight years had been happier to him than to any others in his circle, for the time had been mostly spent in a blissful dream of the coming of enormous wealth. He went out with a company from Hawkeye to the war, and was not wanting in courage, but he would have been a better soldier if he had been less engaged in contrivances for circumventing the enemy by strategy unknown to the books. It happened to him to be captured in one of his self-appointed expeditions, but the federal colonel released him, after a short examination, satisfied that he could most injure the confederate forces opposed to the Unionists by returning him to his regiment. Col. Sellers was of course a prominent man during the war. He was captain of the home guards in Hawkeye, and he never left home except upon one occasion, when on the strength of a rumor, he executed a flank movement and fortified Stone's Landing, a place which no one unacquainted with the country would be likely to find. "Gad," said the Colonel afterwards, "the Landing is the key to upper Missouri, and it is the only place the enemy never captured. If other places had been defended as well as that was, the result would have been different, sir." The Colonel had his own theories about war as he had in other things. If everybody had stayed at home as he did, he said, the South never would have been conquered. For what would there have been to conquer? Mr. Jeff Davis was constantly writing him to take command of a corps in the confederate army, but Col. Sellers said, no, his duty was at home. And he was by no means idle. He was the inventor of the famous air torpedo, which came very near destroying the Union armies in Missouri, and the city of St. Louis itself. His plan was to fill a torpedo with Greek fire and poisonous and deadly missiles, attach it to a balloon, and then let it sail away over the hostile camp and explode at the right moment, when the time-fuse burned out. He intended to use this invention in the capture of St. Louis, exploding his torpedoes over the city, and raining destruction upon it until the army of occupation would gladly capitulate. He was unable to procure the Greek fire, but he constructed a vicious torpedo which would have answered the purpose, but the first one prematurely exploded in his wood-house, blowing it clean away, and setting fire to his house. The neighbors helped him put out the conflagration, but they discouraged any more experiments of that sort. The patriotic old gentleman, however, planted so much powder and so many explosive contrivances in the roads leading into Hawkeye, and then forgot the exact spots of danger, that people were afraid to travel the highways, and used to come to town across the fields, The Colonel's motto was, "Millions for defence but not one cent for tribute." When Laura came to Hawkeye she might have forgotten the annoyances of the gossips of Murpheysburg and have out lived the bitterness that was growing in her heart, if she had been thrown less upon herself, or if the surroundings of her life had been more congenial and helpful. But she had little society, less and less as she grew older that was congenial to her, and her mind preyed upon itself; and the mystery of her birth at once chagrined her and raised in her the most extravagant expectations. She was proud and she felt the sting of poverty. She could not but be conscious of her beauty also, and she was vain of that, and came to take a sort of delight in the exercise of her fascinations upon the rather loutish young men who came in her way and whom she despised. There was another world opened to her--a world of books. But it was not the best world of that sort, for the small libraries she had access to in Hawkeye were decidedly miscellaneous, and largely made up of romances and fictions which fed her imagination with the most exaggerated notions of life, and showed her men and women in a very false sort of heroism. From these stories she learned what a woman of keen intellect and some culture joined to beauty and fascination of manner, might expect to accomplish in society as she read of it; and along with these ideas she imbibed other very crude ones in regard to the emancipation of woman. There were also other books-histories, biographies of distinguished people, travels in far lands, poems, especially those of Byron, Scott and Shelley and Moore, which she eagerly absorbed, and appropriated therefrom what was to her liking. Nobody in Hawkeye had read so much or, after a fashion, studied so diligently as Laura. She passed for an accomplished girl, and no doubt thought herself one, as she was, judged by any standard near her. During the war there came to Hawkeye a confederate officer, Col. Selby, who was stationed there for a time, in command of that district. He was a handsome, soldierly man of thirty years, a graduate of the University of Virginia, and of distinguished family, if his story might be believed, and, it was evident, a man of the world and of extensive travel and adventure. To find in such an out of the way country place a woman like Laura was a piece of good luck upon which Col. Selby congratulated himself. He was studiously polite to her and treated her with a consideration to which she was unaccustomed. She had read of such men, but she had never seen one before, one so high-bred, so noble in sentiment, so entertaining in conversation, so engaging in manner. It is a long story; unfortunately it is an old story, and it need not be dwelt on. Laura loved him, and believed that his love for her was as pure and deep as her own. She worshipped him and would have counted her life a little thing to give him, if he would only love her and let her feed the hunger of her heart upon him. The passion possessed her whole being, and lifted her up, till she seemed to walk on air. It was all true, then, the romances she had read, the bliss of love she had dreamed of. Why had she never noticed before how blithesome the world was, how jocund with love; the birds sang it, the trees whispered it to her as she passed, the very flowers beneath her feet strewed the way as for a bridal march. When the Colonel went away they were engaged to be married, as soon as he could make certain arrangements which he represented to be necessary, and quit the army. He wrote to her from Harding, a small town in the southwest corner of the state, saying that he should be held in the service longer than he had expected, but that it would not be more than a few months, then he should be at liberty to take her to Chicago where he had property, and should have business, either now or as soon as the war was over, which he thought could not last long. Meantime why should they be separated? He was established in comfortable quarters, and if she could find company and join him, they would be married, and gain so many more months of happiness. Was woman ever prudent when she loved? Laura went to Harding, the neighbors supposed to nurse Washington who had fallen ill there. Her engagement was, of course, known in Hawkeye, and was indeed a matter of pride to her family. Mrs. Hawkins would have told the first inquirer that. Laura had gone to be married; but Laura had cautioned her; she did not want to be thought of, she said, as going in search of a husband; let the news come back after she was married. So she traveled to Harding on the pretence we have mentioned, and was married. She was married, but something must have happened on that very day or the next that alarmed her. Washington did not know then or after what it was, but Laura bound him not to send news of her marriage to Hawkeye yet, and to enjoin her mother not to speak of it. Whatever cruel suspicion or nameless dread this was, Laura tried bravely to put it away, and not let it cloud her happiness. Communication that summer, as may be imagined, was neither regular nor frequent between the remote confederate camp at Harding and Hawkeye, and Laura was in a measure lost sight of--indeed, everyone had troubles enough of his own without borrowing from his neighbors. Laura had given herself utterly to her husband, and if he had faults, if he was selfish, if he was sometimes coarse, if he was dissipated, she did not or would not see it. It was the passion of her life, the time when her whole nature went to flood tide and swept away all barriers. Was her husband ever cold or indifferent? She shut her eyes to everything but her sense of possession of her idol. Three months passed. One morning her husband informed her that he had been ordered South, and must go within two hours. "I can be ready," said Laura, cheerfully. "But I can't take you. You must go back to Hawkeye." "Can't-take-me?" Laura asked, with wonder in her eyes. "I can't live without you. You said-----" "O bother what I said,"--and the Colonel took up his sword to buckle it on, and then continued coolly, "the fact is Laura, our romance is played out." Laura heard, but she did not comprehend. She caught his arm and cried, "George, how can you joke so cruelly? I will go any where with you. I will wait any where. I can't go back to Hawkeye." "Well, go where you like. Perhaps," continued he with a sneer, "you would do as well to wait here, for another colonel." Laura's brain whirled. She did not yet comprehend. "What does this mean? Where are you going?" "It means," said the officer, in measured words, "that you haven't anything to show for a legal marriage, and that I am going to New Orleans." "It's a lie, George, it's a lie. I am your wife. I shall go. I shall follow you to New Orleans." "Perhaps my wife might not like it!" Laura raised her head, her eyes flamed with fire, she tried to utter a cry, and fell senseless on the floor. When she came to herself the Colonel was gone. Washington Hawkins stood at her bedside. Did she come to herself? Was there anything left in her heart but hate and bitterness, a sense of an infamous wrong at the hands of the only man she had ever loved? She returned to Hawkeye. With the exception of Washington and his mother, no one knew what had happened. The neighbors supposed that the engagement with Col. Selby had fallen through. Laura was ill for a long time, but she recovered; she had that resolution in her that could conquer death almost. And with her health came back her beauty, and an added fascination, a something that might be mistaken for sadness. Is there a beauty in the knowledge of evil, a beauty that shines out in the face of a person whose inward life is transformed by some terrible experience? Is the pathos in the eyes of the Beatrice Cenci from her guilt or her innocence? Laura was not much changed. The lovely woman had a devil in her heart. That was all. 
5822	----	THE GILDED AGE A Tale of Today by Mark Twain and Charles Dudley Warner 1873 Part 5. CHAPTER XXXVII. That Chairman was nowhere in sight. Such disappointments seldom occur in novels, but are always happening in real life. She was obliged to make a new plan. She sent him a note, and asked him to call in the evening--which he did. She received the Hon. Mr. Buckstone with a sunny smile, and said: "I don't know how I ever dared to send you a note, Mr. Buckstone, for you have the reputation of not being very partial to our sex." "Why I am sure my, reputation does me wrong, then, Miss Hawkins. I have been married once--is that nothing in my favor?" "Oh, yes--that is, it may be and it may not be. If you have known what perfection is in woman, it is fair to argue that inferiority cannot interest you now." "Even if that were the case it could not affect you, Miss Hawkins," said the chairman gallantly. "Fame does not place you in the list of ladies who rank below perfection." This happy speech delighted Mr. Buckstone as much as it seemed to delight Laura. But it did not confuse him as much as it apparently did her. "I wish in all sincerity that I could be worthy of such a felicitous compliment as that. But I am a woman, and so I am gratified for it just as it is, and would not have it altered." "But it is not merely a compliment--that is, an empty complement--it is the truth. All men will endorse that." Laura looked pleased, and said: "It is very kind of you to say it. It is a distinction indeed, for a country-bred girl like me to be so spoken of by people of brains and culture. You are so kind that I know you will pardon my putting you to the trouble to come this evening." "Indeed it was no trouble. It was a pleasure. I am alone in the world since I lost my wife, and I often long for the society of your sex, Miss Hawkins, notwithstanding what people may say to the contrary." "It is pleasant to hear you say that. I am sure it must be so. If I feel lonely at times, because of my exile from old friends, although surrounded by new ones who are already very dear to me, how much more lonely must you feel, bereft as you are, and with no wholesome relief from the cares of state that weigh you down. For your own sake, as well as for the sake of others, you ought to go into society oftener. I seldom see you at a reception, and when I do you do not usually give me very, much of your attention" "I never imagined that you wished it or I would have been very glad to make myself happy in that way.--But one seldom gets an opportunity to say more than a sentence to you in a place like that. You are always the centre of a group--a fact which you may have noticed yourself. But if one might come here--" "Indeed you would always find a hearty welcome, Mr. Buckstone. I have often wished you would come and tell me more about Cairo and the Pyramids, as you once promised me you would." "Why, do you remember that yet, Miss Hawkins? I thought ladies' memories were more fickle than that." "Oh, they are not so fickle as gentlemen's promises. And besides, if I had been inclined to forget, I--did you not give me something by way of a remembrancer?" "Did I?" "Think." "It does seem to me that I did; but I have forgotten what it was now." "Never, never call a lady's memory fickle again! Do you recognize this?" "A little spray of box! I am beaten--I surrender. But have you kept that all this time?" Laura's confusion was very, pretty. She tried to hide it, but the more she tried the more manifest it became and withal the more captivating to look upon. Presently she threw the spray of box from her with an annoyed air, and said: "I forgot myself. I have been very foolish. I beg that you will forget this absurd thing." Mr. Buckstone picked up the spray, and sitting down by Laura's side on the sofa, said: "Please let me keep it, Miss Hawkins. I set a very high value upon it now." "Give it to me, Mr. Buckstone, and do not speak so. I have been sufficiently punished for my thoughtlessness. You cannot take pleasure in adding to my distress. Please give it to me." "Indeed I do not wish to distress you. But do not consider the matter so gravely; you have done yourself no wrong. You probably forgot that you had it; but if you had given it to me I would have kept it--and not forgotten it." "Do not talk so, Mr. Buckstone. Give it to me, please, and forget the matter." "It would not be kind to refuse, since it troubles you so, and so I restore it. But if you would give me part of it and keep the rest--" "So that you might have something to remind you of me when you wished to laugh at my foolishness?" "Oh, by no means, no! Simply that I might remember that I had once assisted to discomfort you, and be reminded to do so no more." Laura looked up, and scanned his face a moment. She was about to break the twig, but she hesitated and said: "If I were sure that you--" She threw the spray away, and continued: "This is silly! We will change the subject. No, do not insist--I must have my way in this." Then Mr. Buckstone drew off his forces and proceeded to make a wily advance upon the fortress under cover of carefully--contrived artifices and stratagems of war. But he contended with an alert and suspicious enemy; and so at the end of two hours it was manifest to him that he had made but little progress. Still, he had made some; he was sure of that. Laura sat alone and communed with herself; "He is fairly hooked, poor thing. I can play him at my leisure and land him when I choose. He was all ready to be caught, days and days ago --I saw that, very well. He will vote for our bill--no fear about that; and moreover he will work for it, too, before I am done with him. If he had a woman's eyes he would have noticed that the spray of box had grown three inches since he first gave it to me, but a man never sees anything and never suspects. If I had shown him a whole bush he would have thought it was the same. Well, it is a good night's work: the committee is safe. But this is a desperate game I am playing in these days --a wearing, sordid, heartless game. If I lose, I lose everything--even myself. And if I win the game, will it be worth its cost after all? I do not know. Sometimes I doubt. Sometimes I half wish I had not begun. But no matter; I have begun, and I will never turn back; never while I live." Mr. Buckstone indulged in a reverie as he walked homeward: "She is shrewd and deep, and plays her cards with considerable discretion--but she will lose, for all that. There is no hurry; I shall come out winner, all in good time. She is the most beautiful woman in the world; and she surpassed herself to-night. I suppose I must vote for that bill, in the end maybe; but that is not a matter of much consequence the government can stand it. She is bent on capturing me, that is plain; but she will find by and by that what she took for a sleeping garrison was an ambuscade." CHAPTER XXXVIII. Now this surprising news caus'd her fall in 'a trance, Life as she were dead, no limbs she could advance, Then her dear brother came, her from the ground he took And she spake up and said, O my poor heart is broke. The Barnardcastle Tragedy. "Don't you think he is distinguished looking?" "What! That gawky looking person, with Miss Hawkins?" "There. He's just speaking to Mrs. Schoonmaker. Such high-bred negligence and unconsciousness. Nothing studied. See his fine eyes." "Very. They are moving this way now. Maybe he is coming here. But he looks as helpless as a rag baby. Who is he, Blanche?" "Who is he? And you've been here a week, Grace, and don't know? He's the catch of the season. That's Washington Hawkins--her brother." "No, is it?" "Very old family, old Kentucky family I believe. He's got enormous landed property in Tennessee, I think. The family lost everything, slaves and that sort of thing, you know, in the war. But they have a great deal of land, minerals, mines and all that. Mr. Hawkins and his sister too are very much interested in the amelioration of the condition of the colored race; they have some plan, with Senator Dilworthy, to convert a large part of their property to something another for the freedmen." "You don't say so? I thought he was some guy from Pennsylvania. But he is different from others. Probably he has lived all his life on his plantation." It was a day reception of Mrs. Representative Schoonmaker, a sweet woman, of simple and sincere manners. Her house was one of the most popular in Washington. There was less ostentation there than in some others, and people liked to go where the atmosphere reminded them of the peace and purity of home. Mrs. Schoonmaker was as natural and unaffected in Washington society as she was in her own New York house, and kept up the spirit of home-life there, with her husband and children. And that was the reason, probably, why people of refinement liked to go there. Washington is a microcosm, and one can suit himself with any sort of society within a radius of a mile. To a large portion of the people who frequent Washington or dwell where, the ultra fashion, the shoddy, the jobbery are as utterly distasteful as they would he in a refined New England City. Schoonmaker was not exactly a leader in the House, but he was greatly respected for his fine talents and his honesty. No one would have thought of offering to carry National Improvement Directors Relief stock for him. These day receptions were attended by more women than men, and those interested in the problem might have studied the costumes of the ladies present, in view of this fact, to discover whether women dress more for the eyes of women or for effect upon men. It is a very important problem, and has been a good deal discussed, and its solution would form one fixed, philosophical basis, upon which to estimate woman's character. We are inclined to take a medium ground, and aver that woman dresses to please herself, and in obedience to a law of her own nature. "They are coming this way," said Blanche. People who made way for them to pass, turned to look at them. Washington began to feel that the eyes of the public were on him also, and his eyes rolled about, now towards the ceiling, now towards the floor, in an effort to look unconscious. "Good morning, Miss Hawkins. Delighted. Mr. Hawkins. My friend, Miss Medlar." Mr. Hawkins, who was endeavoring to square himself for a bow, put his foot through the train of Mrs. Senator Poplin, who looked round with a scowl, which turned into a smile as she saw who it was. In extricating himself, Mr. Hawkins, who had the care of his hat as well as the introduction on his mind, shambled against Miss Blanche, who said pardon, with the prettiest accent, as if the awkwardness were her own. And Mr. Hawkins righted himself. "Don't you find it very warm to-day, Mr. Hawkins?" said Blanche, by way of a remark. "It's awful hot," said Washington. "It's warm for the season," continued Blanche pleasantly. "But I suppose you are accustomed to it," she added, with a general idea that the thermometer always stands at 90 deg. in all parts of the late slave states. "Washington weather generally cannot be very congenial to you?" "It's congenial," said Washington brightening up, "when it's not congealed." "That's very good. Did you hear, Grace, Mr. Hawkins says it's congenial when it's not congealed." "What is, dear?" said Grace, who was talking with Laura. The conversation was now finely under way. Washington launched out an observation of his own. "Did you see those Japs, Miss Leavitt?" "Oh, yes, aren't they queer. But so high-bred, so picturesque. Do you think that color makes any difference, Mr. Hawkins? I used to be so prejudiced against color." "Did you? I never was. I used to think my old mammy was handsome." "How interesting your life must have been! I should like to hear about it." Washington was about settling himself into his narrative style, when Mrs. Gen. McFingal caught his eye. "Have you been at the Capitol to-day, Mr. Hawkins?" Washington had not. "Is anything uncommon going on?" "They say it was very exciting. The Alabama business you know. Gen. Sutler, of Massachusetts, defied England, and they say he wants war." "He wants to make himself conspicuous more like," said Laura. "He always, you have noticed, talks with one eye on the gallery, while the other is on the speaker." "Well, my husband says, its nonsense to talk of war, and wicked. He knows what war is. If we do have war, I hope it will be for the patriots of Cuba. Don't you think we want Cuba, Mr. Hawkins?" "I think we want it bad," said Washington. "And Santo Domingo. Senator Dilworthy says, we are bound to extend our religion over the isles of the sea. We've got to round out our territory, and--" Washington's further observations were broken off by Laura, who whisked him off to another part of the room, and reminded him that they must make their adieux. "How stupid and tiresome these people are," she said. "Let's go." They were turning to say good-by to the hostess, when Laura's attention was arrested by the sight of a gentleman who was just speaking to Mrs. Schoonmaker. For a second her heart stopped beating. He was a handsome man of forty and perhaps more, with grayish hair and whiskers, and he walked with a cane, as if he were slightly lame. He might be less than forty, for his face was worn into hard lines, and he was pale. No. It could not be, she said to herself. It is only a resemblance. But as the gentleman turned and she saw his full face, Laura put out her hand and clutched Washington's arm to prevent herself from falling. Washington, who was not minding anything, as usual, looked 'round in wonder. Laura's eyes were blazing fire and hatred; he had never seen her look so before; and her face, was livid. "Why, what is it, sis? Your face is as white as paper." "It's he, it's he. Come, come," and she dragged him away. "It's who?" asked Washington, when they had gained the carriage. "It's nobody, it's nothing. Did I say he? I was faint with the heat. Don't mention it. Don't you speak of it," she added earnestly, grasping his arm. When she had gained her room she went to the glass and saw a pallid and haggard face. "My God," she cried, "this will never do. I should have killed him, if I could. The scoundrel still lives, and dares to come here. I ought to kill him. He has no right to live. How I hate him. And yet I loved him. Oh heavens, how I did love that man. And why didn't he kill me? He might better. He did kill all that was good in me. Oh, but he shall not escape. He shall not escape this time. He may have forgotten. He will find that a woman's hate doesn't forget. The law? What would the law do but protect him and make me an outcast? How all Washington would gather up its virtuous skirts and avoid me, if it knew. I wonder if he hates me as I do him?" So Laura raved, in tears and in rage by turns, tossed in a tumult of passion, which she gave way to with little effort to control. A servant came to summon her to dinner. She had a headache. The hour came for the President's reception. She had a raving headache, and the Senator must go without her. That night of agony was like another night she recalled. How vividly it all came back to her. And at that time she remembered she thought she might be mistaken. He might come back to her. Perhaps he loved her, a little, after all. Now, she knew he did not. Now, she knew he was a cold-blooded scoundrel, without pity. Never a word in all these years. She had hoped he was dead. Did his wife live, she wondered. She caught at that--and it gave a new current to her thoughts. Perhaps, after all --she must see him. She could not live without seeing him. Would he smile as in the old days when she loved him so; or would he sneer as when she last saw him? If be looked so, she hated him. If he should call her "Laura, darling," and look SO! She must find him. She must end her doubts. Laura kept her room for two days, on one excuse and another--a nervous headache, a cold--to the great anxiety of the Senator's household. Callers, who went away, said she had been too gay--they did not say "fast," though some of them may have thought it. One so conspicuous and successful in society as Laura could not be out of the way two days, without remarks being made, and not all of them complimentary. When she came down she appeared as usual, a little pale may be, but unchanged in manner. If there were any deepened lines about the eyes they had been concealed. Her course of action was quite determined. At breakfast she asked if any one had heard any unusual noise during the night? Nobody had. Washington never heard any noise of any kind after his eyes were shut. Some people thought he never did when they were open either. Senator Dilworthy said he had come in late. He was detained in a little consultation after the Congressional prayer meeting. Perhaps it was his entrance. No, Laura said. She heard that. It was later. She might have been nervous, but she fancied somebody was trying to get into the house. Mr. Brierly humorously suggested that it might be, as none of the members were occupied in night session. The Senator frowned, and said he did not like to hear that kind of newspaper slang. There might be burglars about. Laura said that very likely it was only her nervousness. But she thought she world feel safer if Washington would let her take one of his pistols. Washington brought her one of his revolvers, and instructed her in the art of loading and firing it. During the morning Laura drove down to Mrs. Schoonmaker's to pay a friendly call. "Your receptions are always delightful," she said to that lady, "the pleasant people all seem to come here." "It's pleasant to hear you say so, Miss Hawkins. I believe my friends like to come here. Though society in Washington is mixed; we have a little of everything." "I suppose, though, you don't see much of the old rebel element?" said Laura with a smile. If this seemed to Mrs. Schoonmaker a singular remark for a lady to make, who was meeting "rebels" in society every day, she did not express it in any way, but only said, "You know we don't say 'rebel' anymore. Before we came to Washington I thought rebels would look unlike other people. I find we are very much alike, and that kindness and good nature wear away prejudice. And then you know there are all sorts of common interests. My husband sometimes says that he doesn't see but confederates are just as eager to get at the treasury as Unionists. You know that Mr. Schoonmaker is on the appropriations." "Does he know many Southerners?" "Oh, yes. There were several at my reception the other day. Among others a confederate Colonel--a stranger--handsome man with gray hair, probably you didn't notice him, uses a cane in walking. A very agreeable man. I wondered why he called. When my husband came home and looked over the cards, he said he had a cotton claim. A real southerner. Perhaps you might know him if I could think of his name. Yes, here's his card--Louisiana." Laura took the card, looked at it intently till she was sure of the address, and then laid it down, with, "No, he is no friend of ours." That afternoon, Laura wrote and dispatched the following note. It was in a round hand, unlike her flowing style, and it was directed to a number and street in Georgetown:-- "A Lady at Senator Dilworthy's would like to see Col. George Selby, on business connected with the Cotton Claims. Can he call Wednesday at three o'clock P. M.?" On Wednesday at 3 P. M, no one of the family was likely to be in the house except Laura. CHAPTER XXXIX. Col. Selby had just come to Washington, and taken lodgings in Georgetown. His business was to get pay for some cotton that was destroyed during the war. There were many others in Washington on the same errand, some of them with claims as difficult to establish as his. A concert of action was necessary, and he was not, therefore, at all surprised to receive the note from a lady asking him to call at Senator Dilworthy's. At a little after three on Wednesday he rang the bell of the Senator's residence. It was a handsome mansion on the Square opposite the President's house. The owner must be a man of great wealth, the Colonel thought; perhaps, who knows, said he with a smile, he may have got some of my cotton in exchange for salt and quinine after the capture of New Orleans. As this thought passed through his mind he was looking at the remarkable figure of the Hero of New Orleans, holding itself by main strength from sliding off the back of the rearing bronze horse, and lifting its hat in the manner of one who acknowledges the playing of that martial air: "See, the Conquering Hero Comes!" "Gad," said the Colonel to himself, "Old Hickory ought to get down and give his seat to Gen. Sutler--but they'd have to tie him on." Laura was in the drawing room. She heard the bell, she heard the steps in the hall, and the emphatic thud of the supporting cane. She had risen from her chair and was leaning against the piano, pressing her left hand against the violent beating of her heart. The door opened and the Colonel entered, standing in the full light of the opposite window. Laura was more in the shadow and stood for an instant, long enough for the Colonel to make the inward observation that she was a magnificent Woman. She then advanced a step. "Col. Selby, is it not?" The Colonel staggered back, caught himself by a chair, and turned towards her a look of terror. "Laura? My God!" "Yes, your wife!" "Oh, no, it can't be. How came you here? I thought you were--" "You thought I was dead? You thought you were rid of me? Not so long as you live, Col. Selby, not so long as you live;" Laura in her passion was hurried on to say. No man had ever accused Col. Selby of cowardice. But he was a coward before this woman. May be he was not the man he once was. Where was his coolness? Where was his sneering, imperturbable manner, with which he could have met, and would have met, any woman he had wronged, if he had only been forewarned. He felt now that he must temporize, that he must gain time. There was danger in Laura's tone. There was something frightful in her calmness. Her steady eyes seemed to devour him. "You have ruined my life," she said; "and I was so young, so ignorant, and loved you so. You betrayed me, and left me mocking me and trampling me into the dust, a soiled cast-off. You might better have killed me then. Then I should not have hated you." "Laura," said the Colonel, nerving himself, but still pale, and speaking appealingly, "don't say that. Reproach me. I deserve it. I was a scoundrel. I was everything monstrous. But your beauty made me crazy. You are right. I was a brute in leaving you as I did. But what could I do? I was married, and--" "And your wife still lives?" asked Laura, bending a little forward in her eagerness. The Colonel noticed the action, and he almost said "no," but he thought of the folly of attempting concealment. "Yes. She is here." What little color had wandered back into Laura's face forsook it again. Her heart stood still, her strength seemed going from her limbs. Her last hope was gone. The room swam before her for a moment, and the Colonel stepped towards her, but she waved him back, as hot anger again coursed through her veins, and said, "And you dare come with her, here, and tell me of it, here and mock me with it! And you think I will have it; George? You think I will let you live with that woman? You think I am as powerless as that day I fell dead at your feet?" She raged now. She was in a tempest of excitement. And she advanced towards him with a threatening mien. She would kill me if she could, thought the Colonel; but he thought at the same moment, how beautiful she is. He had recovered his head now. She was lovely when he knew her, then a simple country girl, Now she was dazzling, in the fullness of ripe womanhood, a superb creature, with all the fascination that a woman of the world has for such a man as Col. Selby. Nothing of this was lost on him. He stepped quickly to her, grasped both her hands in his, and said, "Laura, stop! think! Suppose I loved you yet! Suppose I hated my fate! What can I do? I am broken by the war. I have lost everything almost. I had as lief be dead and done with it." The Colonel spoke with a low remembered voice that thrilled through Laura. He was looking into her eyes as he had looked in those old days, when no birds of all those that sang in the groves where they walked sang a note of warning. He was wounded. He had been punished. Her strength forsook her with her rage, and she sank upon a chair, sobbing, "Oh! my God, I thought I hated him!" The Colonel knelt beside her. He took her hand and she let him keep it. She, looked down into his face, with a pitiable tenderness, and said in a weak voice. "And you do love me a little?" The Colonel vowed and protested. He kissed her hand and her lips. He swore his false soul into perdition. She wanted love, this woman. Was not her love for George Selby deeper than any other woman's could be? Had she not a right to him? Did he not belong to her by virtue of her overmastering passion? His wife--she was not his wife, except by the law. She could not be. Even with the law she could have no right to stand between two souls that were one. It was an infamous condition in society that George should be tied to her. Laura thought this, believed it; because she desired to believe it. She came to it as an original propositions founded an the requirements of her own nature. She may have heard, doubtless she had, similar theories that were prevalent at that day, theories of the tyranny of marriage and of the freedom of marriage. She had even heard women lecturers say, that marriage should only continue so long as it pleased either party to it --for a year, or a month, or a day. She had not given much heed to this, but she saw its justice now in a dash of revealing desire. It must be right. God would not have permitted her to love George Selby as she did, and him to love her, if it was right for society to raise up a barrier between them. He belonged to her. Had he not confessed it himself? Not even the religious atmosphere of Senator Dilworthy's house had been sufficient to instill into Laura that deep Christian principle which had been somehow omitted in her training. Indeed in that very house had she not heard women, prominent before the country and besieging Congress, utter sentiments that fully justified the course she was marking out for herself. They were seated now, side by side, talking with more calmness. Laura was happy, or thought she was. But it was that feverish sort of happiness which is snatched out of the black shadow of falsehood, and is at the moment recognized as fleeting and perilous, and indulged tremblingly. She loved. She was loved. That is happiness certainly. And the black past and the troubled present and the uncertain future could not snatch that from her. What did they say as they sat there? What nothings do people usually say in such circumstances, even if they are three-score and ten? It was enough for Laura to hear his voice and be near him. It was enough for him to be near her, and avoid committing himself as much as he could. Enough for him was the present also. Had there not always been some way out of such scrapes? And yet Laura could not be quite content without prying into tomorrow. How could the Colonel manage to free himself from his wife? Would it be long? Could he not go into some State where it would not take much time? He could not say exactly. That they must think of. That they must talk over. And so on. Did this seem like a damnable plot to Laura against the life, maybe, of a sister, a woman like herself? Probably not. It was right that this man should be hers, and there were some obstacles in the way. That was all. There are as good reasons for bad actions as for good ones,--to those who commit them. When one has broken the tenth commandment, the others are not of much account. Was it unnatural, therefore, that when George Selby departed, Laura should watch him from the window, with an almost joyful heart as he went down the sunny square? "I shall see him to-morrow," she said, "and the next day, and the next. He is mine now." "Damn the woman," said the Colonel as he picked his way down the steps. "Or," he added, as his thoughts took a new turn, "I wish my wife was in New Orleans." CHAPTER XL. Open your ears; for which of you will stop, The vent of hearing when loud Rumor speaks? I, from the orient to the drooping west, Making the wind my post-horse, still unfold The acts commenced on this ball of earth: Upon my tongues continual slanders ride; The which in every, language I pronounce, Stuffing the ears of men with false reports. King Henry IV. As may be readily believed, Col. Beriah Sellers was by this time one of the best known men in Washington. For the first time in his life his talents had a fair field. He was now at the centre of the manufacture of gigantic schemes, of speculations of all sorts, of political and social gossip. The atmosphere was full of little and big rumors and of vast, undefined expectations. Everybody was in haste, too, to push on his private plan, and feverish in his haste, as if in constant apprehension that tomorrow would be Judgment Day. Work while Congress is in session, said the uneasy spirit, for in the recess there is no work and no device. The Colonel enjoyed this bustle and confusion amazingly; he thrived in the air of-indefinite expectation. All his own schemes took larger shape and more misty and majestic proportions; and in this congenial air, the Colonel seemed even to himself to expand into something large and mysterious. If he respected himself before, he almost worshipped Beriah Sellers now, as a superior being. If he could have chosen an official position out of the highest, he would have been embarrassed in the selection. The presidency of the republic seemed too limited and cramped in the constitutional restrictions. If he could have been Grand Llama of the United States, that might have come the nearest to his idea of a position. And next to that he would have luxuriated in the irresponsible omniscience of the Special Correspondent. Col. Sellers knew the President very well, and had access to his presence when officials were kept cooling their heels in the Waiting-room. The President liked to hear the Colonel talk, his voluble ease was a refreshment after the decorous dullness of men who only talked business and government, and everlastingly expounded their notions of justice and the distribution of patronage. The Colonel was as much a lover of farming and of horses as Thomas Jefferson was. He talked to the President by the hour about his magnificent stud, and his plantation at Hawkeye, a kind of principality--he represented it. He urged the President to pay him a visit during the recess, and see his stock farm. "The President's table is well enough," he used to say, to the loafers who gathered about him at Willard's, "well enough for a man on a salary, but God bless my soul, I should like him to see a little old-fashioned hospitality--open house, you know. A person seeing me at home might think I paid no attention to what was in the house, just let things flow in and out. He'd be mistaken. What I look to is quality, sir. The President has variety enough, but the quality! Vegetables of course you can't expect here. I'm very particular about mine. Take celery, now --there's only one spot in this country where celery will grow. But I an surprised about the wines. I should think they were manufactured in the New York Custom House. I must send the President some from my cellar. I was really mortified the other day at dinner to see Blacque Bey leave his standing in the glasses." When the Colonel first came to Washington he had thoughts of taking the mission to Constantinople, in order to be on the spot to look after the dissemination, of his Eye Water, but as that invention; was not yet quite ready, the project shrank a little in the presence of vaster schemes. Besides he felt that he could do the country more good by remaining at home. He was one of the Southerners who were constantly quoted as heartily "accepting the situation." "I'm whipped," he used to say with a jolly laugh, "the government was too many for me; I'm cleaned out, done for, except my plantation and private mansion. We played for a big thing, and lost it, and I don't whine, for one. I go for putting the old flag on all the vacant lots. I said to the President, says I, 'Grant, why don't you take Santo Domingo, annex the whole thing, and settle the bill afterwards. That's my way. I'd, take the job to manage Congress. The South would come into it. You've got to conciliate the South, consolidate the two debts, pay 'em off in greenbacks, and go ahead. That's my notion. Boutwell's got the right notion about the value of paper, but he lacks courage. I should like to run the treasury department about six months. I'd make things plenty, and business look up.'" The Colonel had access to the departments. He knew all the senators and representatives, and especially, the lobby. He was consequently a great favorite in Newspaper Row, and was often lounging in the offices there, dropping bits of private, official information, which were immediately, caught up and telegraphed all over the country. But it need to surprise even the Colonel when he read it, it was embellished to that degree that he hardly recognized it, and the hint was not lost on him. He began to exaggerate his heretofore simple conversation to suit the newspaper demand. People used to wonder in the winters of 187- and 187-, where the "Specials" got that remarkable information with which they every morning surprised the country, revealing the most secret intentions of the President and his cabinet, the private thoughts of political leaders, the hidden meaning of every movement. This information was furnished by Col. Sellers. When he was asked, afterwards, about the stolen copy of the Alabama Treaty which got into the "New York Tribune," he only looked mysterious, and said that neither he nor Senator Dilworthy knew anything about it. But those whom he was in the habit of meeting occasionally felt almost certain that he did know. It must not be supposed that the Colonel in his general patriotic labors neglected his own affairs. The Columbus River Navigation Scheme absorbed only a part of his time, so he was enabled to throw quite a strong reserve force of energy into the Tennessee Land plan, a vast enterprise commensurate with his abilities, and in the prosecution of which he was greatly aided by Mr. Henry Brierly, who was buzzing about the capitol and the hotels day and night, and making capital for it in some mysterious way. "We must create, a public opinion," said Senator Dilworthy. "My only interest in it is a public one, and if the country wants the institution, Congress will have to yield." It may have been after a conversation between the Colonel and Senator Dilworthy that the following special despatch was sent to a New York newspaper: "We understand that a philanthropic plan is on foot in relation to the colored race that will, if successful, revolutionize the whole character of southern industry. An experimental institution is in contemplation in Tennessee which will do for that state what the Industrial School at Zurich did for Switzerland. We learn that approaches have been made to the heirs of the late Hon. Silas Hawkins of Missouri, in reference to a lease of a portion of their valuable property in East Tennessee. Senator Dilworthy, it is understood, is inflexibly opposed to any arrangement that will not give the government absolute control. Private interests must give way to the public good. It is to be hoped that Col. Sellers, who represents the heirs, will be led to see the matter in this light." When Washington Hawkins read this despatch, he went to the Colonel in some anxiety. He was for a lease, he didn't want to surrender anything. What did he think the government would offer? Two millions? "May be three, may be four," said the Colonel, "it's worth more than the bank of England." "If they will not lease," said Washington, "let 'em make it two millions for an undivided half. I'm not going to throw it away, not the whole of it." Harry told the Colonel that they must drive the thing through, he couldn't be dallying round Washington when Spring opened. Phil wanted him, Phil had a great thing on hand up in Pennsylvania. "What is that?" inquired the Colonel, always ready to interest himself in anything large. "A mountain of coal; that's all. He's going to run a tunnel into it in the Spring." "Does he want any capital?", asked the Colonel, in the tone of a man who is given to calculating carefully before he makes an investment. "No. Old man Bolton's behind him. He has capital, but I judged that he wanted my experience in starting." "If he wants me, tell him I'll come, after Congress adjourns. I should like to give him a little lift. He lacks enterprise--now, about that Columbus River. He doesn't see his chances. But he's a good fellow, and you can tell him that Sellers won't go back on him." "By the way," asked Harry, "who is that rather handsome party that's hanging 'round Laura? I see him with her everywhere, at the Capitol, in the horse cars, and he comes to Dilworthy's. If he weren't lame, I should think he was going to run off with her." "Oh, that's nothing. Laura knows her business. He has a cotton claim. Used to be at Hawkeye during the war. "Selby's his name, was a Colonel. Got a wife and family. Very respectable people, the Selby's." "Well, that's all right," said Harry, "if it's business. But if a woman looked at me as I've seen her at Selby, I should understand it. And it's talked about, I can tell you." Jealousy had no doubt sharpened this young gentleman's observation. Laura could not have treated him with more lofty condescension if she had been the Queen of Sheba, on a royal visit to the great republic. And he resented it, and was "huffy" when he was with her, and ran her errands, and brought her gossip, and bragged of his intimacy with the lovely creature among the fellows at Newspaper Row. Laura's life was rushing on now in the full stream of intrigue and fashionable dissipation. She was conspicuous at the balls of the fastest set, and was suspected of being present at those doubtful suppers that began late and ended early. If Senator Dilworthy remonstrated about appearances, she had a way of silencing him. Perhaps she had some hold on him, perhaps she was necessary to his plan for ameliorating the condition the tube colored race. She saw Col. Selby, when the public knew and when it did not know. She would see him, whatever excuses he made, and however he avoided her. She was urged on by a fever of love and hatred and jealousy, which alternately possessed her. Sometimes she petted him, and coaxed him and tried all her fascinations. And again she threatened him and reproached him. What was he doing? Why had he taken no steps to free himself? Why didn't he send his wife home? She should have money soon. They could go to Europe--anywhere. What did she care for talk? And he promised, and lied, and invented fresh excuses for delay, like a cowardly gambler and roue as he was, fearing to break with her, and half the time unwilling to give her up. "That woman doesn't know what fear is," he said to himself, "and she watches me like a hawk." He told his wife that this woman was a lobbyist, whom he had to tolerate and use in getting through his claims, and that he should pay her and have done with her, when he succeeded. CHAPTER XLI. Henry Brierly was at the Dilworthy's constantly and on such terms of intimacy that he came and went without question. The Senator was not an inhospitable man, he liked to have guests in his house, and Harry's gay humor and rattling way entertained him; for even the most devout men and busy statesmen must have hours of relaxation. Harry himself believed that he was of great service in the University business, and that the success of the scheme depended upon him to a great degree. He spent many hours in talking it over with the Senator after dinner. He went so far as to consider whether it would be worth his while to take the professorship of civil engineering in the new institution. But it was not the Senator's society nor his dinners--at which this scapegrace remarked that there was too much grace and too little wine --which attracted him to the house. The fact was the poor fellow hung around there day after day for the chance of seeing Laura for five minutes at a time. For her presence at dinner he would endure the long bore of the Senator's talk afterwards, while Laura was off at some assembly, or excused herself on the plea of fatigue. Now and then he accompanied her to some reception, and rarely, on off nights, he was blessed with her company in the parlor, when he sang, and was chatty and vivacious and performed a hundred little tricks of imitation and ventriloquism, and made himself as entertaining as a man could be. It puzzled him not a little that all his fascinations seemed to go for so little with Laura; it was beyond his experience with women. Sometimes Laura was exceedingly kind and petted him a little, and took the trouble to exert her powers of pleasing, and to entangle him deeper and deeper. But this, it angered him afterwards to think, was in private; in public she was beyond his reach, and never gave occasion to the suspicion that she had any affair with him. He was never permitted to achieve the dignity of a serious flirtation with her in public. "Why do you treat me so?" he once said, reproachfully. "Treat you how?" asked Laura in a sweet voice, lifting her eyebrows. "You know well enough. You let other fellows monopolize you in society, and you are as indifferent to me as if we were strangers." "Can I help it if they are attentive, can I be rude? But we are such old friends, Mr. Brierly, that I didn't suppose you would be jealous." "I think I must be a very old friend, then, by your conduct towards me. By the same rule I should judge that Col. Selby must be very new." Laura looked up quickly, as if about to return an indignant answer to such impertinence, but she only said, "Well, what of Col. Selby, sauce-box?" "Nothing, probably, you'll care for. Your being with him so much is the town talk, that's all?" "What do people say?" asked Laura calmly. "Oh, they say a good many things. You are offended, though, to have me speak of it?" "Not in the least. You are my true friend. I feel that I can trust you. You wouldn't deceive me, Harry?" throwing into her eyes a look of trust and tenderness that melted away all his petulance and distrust. "What do they say?" "Some say that you've lost your head about him; others that you don't care any more for him than you do for a dozen others, but that he is completely fascinated with you and about to desert his wife; and others say it is nonsense to suppose you would entangle yourself with a married man, and that your intimacy only arises from the matter of the cotton, claims, for which he wants your influence with Dilworthy. But you know everybody is talked about more or less in Washington. I shouldn't care; but I wish you wouldn't have so much to do with Selby, Laura," continued Harry, fancying that he was now upon such terms that his, advice, would be heeded. "And you believed these slanders?" "I don't believe anything against you, Laura, but Col. Selby does not mean you any good. I know you wouldn't be seen with him if you knew his reputation." "Do you know him?" Laura asked, as indifferently as she could. "Only a little. I was at his lodgings' in Georgetown a day or two ago, with Col. Sellers. Sellers wanted to talk with him about some patent remedy he has, Eye Water, or something of that sort, which he wants to introduce into Europe. Selby is going abroad very soon." Laura started; in spite of her self-control. "And his wife!--Does he take his family? Did you see his wife?" "Yes. A dark little woman, rather worn--must have been pretty once though. Has three or four children, one of them a baby. They'll all go of course. She said she should be glad enough to get away from Washington. You know Selby has got his claim allowed, and they say he has had a run, of luck lately at Morrissey's." Laura heard all this in a kind of stupor, looking straight at Harry, without seeing him. Is it possible, she was thinking, that this base wretch, after, all his promises, will take his wife and children and leave me? Is it possible the town is saying all these things about me? And a look of bitterness coming into her face--does the fool think he can escape so? "You are angry with me, Laura," said Harry, not comprehending in the least what was going on in her mind. "Angry?" she said, forcing herself to come back to his presence. "With you? Oh no. I'm angry with the cruel world, which, pursues an independent woman as it never does a man. I'm grateful to you Harry; I'm grateful to you for telling me of that odious man." And she rose from her chair and gave him her pretty hand, which the silly fellow took, and kissed and clung to. And he said many silly things, before she disengaged herself gently, and left him, saying it was time to dress, for dinner. And Harry went away, excited, and a little hopeful, but only a little. The happiness was only a gleam, which departed and left him thoroughly, miserable. She never would love him, and she was going to the devil, besides. He couldn't shut his eyes to what he saw, nor his ears to what he heard of her. What had come over this thrilling young lady-killer? It was a pity to see such a gay butterfly broken on a wheel. Was there something good in him, after all, that had been touched? He was in fact madly in love with this woman. It is not for us to analyze the passion and say whether it was a worthy one. It absorbed his whole nature and made him wretched enough. If he deserved punishment, what more would you have? Perhaps this love was kindling a new heroism in him. He saw the road on which Laura was going clearly enough, though he did not believe the worst he heard of her. He loved her too passionately to credit that for a moment. And it seemed to him that if he could compel her to recognize her position, and his own devotion, she might love him, and that he could save her. His love was so far ennobled, and become a very different thing from its beginning in Hawkeye. Whether he ever thought that if he could save her from ruin, he could give her up himself, is doubtful. Such a pitch of virtue does not occur often in real life, especially in such natures as Harry's, whose generosity and unselfishness were matters of temperament rather than habits or principles. He wrote a long letter to Laura, an incoherent, passionate letter, pouring out his love as he could not do in her presence, and warning her as plainly as he dared of the dangers that surrounded her, and the risks she ran of compromising herself in many ways. Laura read the letter, with a little sigh may be, as she thought of other days, but with contempt also, and she put it into the fire with the thought, "They are all alike." Harry was in the habit of writing to Philip freely, and boasting also about his doings, as he could not help doing and remain himself. Mixed up with his own exploits, and his daily triumphs as a lobbyist, especially in the matter of the new University, in which Harry was to have something handsome, were amusing sketches of Washington society, hints about Dilworthy, stories about Col. Sellers, who had become a well-known character, and wise remarks upon the machinery of private legislation for the public-good, which greatly entertained Philip in his convalescence. Laura's name occurred very often in these letters, at first in casual mention as the belle of the season, carrying everything before her with her wit and beauty, and then more seriously, as if Harry did not exactly like so much general admiration of her, and was a little nettled by her treatment of him. This was so different from Harry's usual tone about women, that Philip wondered a good deal over it. Could it be possible that he was seriously affected? Then came stories about Laura, town talk, gossip which Harry denied the truth of indignantly; but he was evidently uneasy, and at length wrote in such miserable spirits that Philip asked him squarely what the trouble was; was he in love? Upon this, Harry made a clean breast of it, and told Philip all he knew about the Selby affair, and Laura's treatment of him, sometimes encouraging him--and then throwing him off, and finally his belief that she would go, to the bad if something was not done to arouse her from her infatuation. He wished Philip was in Washington. He knew Laura, and she had a great respect for his character, his opinions, his judgment. Perhaps he, as an uninterested person whom she would have some confidence, and as one of the public, could say some thing to her that would show her where she stood. Philip saw the situation clearly enough. Of Laura he knew not much, except that she was a woman of uncommon fascination, and he thought from what he had seen of her in Hawkeye, her conduct towards him and towards Harry, of not too much principle. Of course he knew nothing of her history; he knew nothing seriously against her, and if Harry was desperately enamored of her, why should he not win her if he could. If, however, she had already become what Harry uneasily felt she might become, was it not his duty to go to the rescue of his friend and try to save him from any rash act on account of a woman that might prove to be entirely unworthy of him; for trifler and visionary as he was, Harry deserved a better fate than this. Philip determined to go to Washington and see for himself. He had other reasons also. He began to know enough of Mr. Bolton's affairs to be uneasy. Pennybacker had been there several times during the winter, and he suspected that he was involving Mr. Bolton in some doubtful scheme. Pennybacker was in Washington, and Philip thought he might perhaps find out something about him, and his plans, that would be of service to Mr. Bolton. Philip had enjoyed his winter very well, for a man with his arm broken and his head smashed. With two such nurses as Ruth and Alice, illness seemed to him rather a nice holiday, and every moment of his convalescence had been precious and all too fleeting. With a young fellow of the habits of Philip, such injuries cannot be counted on to tarry long, even for the purpose of love-making, and Philip found himself getting strong with even disagreeable rapidity. During his first weeks of pain and weakness, Ruth was unceasing in her ministrations; she quietly took charge of him, and with a gentle firmness resisted all attempts of Alice or any one else to share to any great extent the burden with her. She was clear, decisive and peremptory in whatever she did; but often when Philip, opened his eyes in those first days of suffering and found her standing by his bedside, he saw a look of tenderness in her anxious face that quickened his already feverish pulse, a look that, remained in his heart long after he closed his eyes. Sometimes he felt her hand on his forehead, and did not open his eyes for fear she world take it away. He watched for her coming to his chamber; he could distinguish her light footstep from all others. If this is what is meant by women practicing medicine, thought Philip to himself, I like it. "Ruth," said he one day when he was getting to be quite himself, "I believe in it?" "Believe in what?" "Why, in women physicians." "Then, I'd better call in Mrs. Dr. Longstreet." "Oh, no. One will do, one at a time. I think I should be well tomorrow, if I thought I should never have any other." "Thy physician thinks thee mustn't talk, Philip," said Ruth putting her finger on his lips. "But, Ruth, I want to tell you that I should wish I never had got well if--" "There, there, thee must not talk. Thee is wandering again," and Ruth closed his lips, with a smile on her own that broadened into a merry laugh as she ran away. Philip was not weary, however, of making these attempts, he rather enjoyed it. But whenever he inclined to be sentimental, Ruth would cut him off, with some such gravely conceived speech as, "Does thee think that thy physician will take advantage of the condition of a man who is as weak as thee is? I will call Alice, if thee has any dying confessions to make." As Philip convalesced, Alice more and more took Ruth's place as his entertainer, and read to him by the hour, when he did not want to talk --to talk about Ruth, as he did a good deal of the time. Nor was this altogether unsatisfactory to Philip. He was always happy and contented with Alice. She was the most restful person he knew. Better informed than Ruth and with a much more varied culture, and bright and sympathetic, he was never weary of her company, if he was not greatly excited by it. She had upon his mind that peaceful influence that Mrs. Bolton had when, occasionally, she sat by his bedside with her work. Some people have this influence, which is like an emanation. They bring peace to a house, they diffuse serene content in a room full of mixed company, though they may say very little, and are apparently, unconscious of their own power. Not that Philip did not long for Ruth's presence all the same. Since he was well enough to be about the house, she was busy again with her studies. Now and then her teasing humor came again. She always had a playful shield against his sentiment. Philip used sometimes to declare that she had no sentiment; and then he doubted if he should be pleased with her after all if she were at all sentimental; and he rejoiced that she had, in such matters what he called the airy grace of sanity. She was the most gay serious person he ever saw. Perhaps he waw not so much at rest or so contented with her as with Alice. But then he loved her. And what have rest and contentment to do with love? CHAPTER XLII Mr. Buckstone's campaign was brief--much briefer than he supposed it would be. He began it purposing to win Laura without being won himself; but his experience was that of all who had fought on that field before him; he diligently continued his effort to win her, but he presently found that while as yet he could not feel entirely certain of having won her, it was very manifest that she had won him. He had made an able fight, brief as it was, and that at least was to his credit. He was in good company, now; he walked in a leash of conspicuous captives. These unfortunates followed Laura helplessly, for whenever she took a prisoner he remained her slave henceforth. Sometimes they chafed in their bondage; sometimes they tore themselves free and said their serfdom was ended; but sooner or later they always came back penitent and worshiping. Laura pursued her usual course: she encouraged Mr. Buckstone by turns, and by turns she harassed him; she exalted him to the clouds at one time, and at another she dragged him down again. She constituted him chief champion of the Knobs University bill, and he accepted the position, at first reluctantly, but later as a valued means of serving her--he even came to look upon it as a piece of great good fortune, since it brought him into such frequent contact with her. Through him she learned that the Hon. Mr. Trollop was a bitter enemy of her bill. He urged her not to attempt to influence Mr. Trollop in any way, and explained that whatever she might attempt in that direction would surely be used against her and with damaging effect. She at first said she knew Mr. Trollop, "and was aware that he had a Blank-Blank;"--[**Her private figure of speech for Brother--or Son-in-law]--but Mr. Buckstone said that he was not able to conceive what so curious a phrase as Blank-Blank might mean, and had no wish to pry into the matter, since it was probably private, he "would nevertheless venture the blind assertion that nothing would answer in this particular case and during this particular session but to be exceedingly wary and keep clear away from Mr. Trollop; any other course would be fatal." It seemed that nothing could be done. Laura was seriously troubled. Everything was looking well, and yet it was plain that one vigorous and determined enemy might eventually succeed in overthrowing all her plans. A suggestion came into her mind presently and she said: "Can't you fight against his great Pension bill and, bring him to terms?" "Oh, never; he and I are sworn brothers on that measure; we work in harness and are very loving--I do everything I possibly can for him there. But I work with might and main against his Immigration bill, --as pertinaciously and as vindictively, indeed, as he works against our University. We hate each other through half a conversation and are all affection through the other half. We understand each other. He is an admirable worker outside the capitol; he will do more for the Pension bill than any other man could do; I wish he would make the great speech on it which he wants to make--and then I would make another and we would be safe." "Well if he wants to make a great speech why doesn't he do it?" Visitors interrupted the conversation and Mr. Buckstone took his leave. It was not of the least moment to Laura that her question had not been answered, inasmuch as it concerned a thing which did not interest her; and yet, human being like, she thought she would have liked to know. An opportunity occurring presently, she put the same question to another person and got an answer that satisfied her. She pondered a good while that night, after she had gone to bed, and when she finally turned over, to, go to sleep, she had thought out a new scheme. The next evening at Mrs. Gloverson's party, she said to Mr. Buckstone: "I want Mr. Trollop to make his great speech on the Pension bill." "Do you? But you remember I was interrupted, and did not explain to you--" "Never mind, I know. You must' make him make that speech. I very. particularly desire, it." "Oh, it is easy, to say make him do it, but how am I to make him!" "It is perfectly easy; I have thought it all out." She then went into the details. At length Mr. Buckstone said: "I see now. I can manage it, I am sure. Indeed I wonder he never thought of it himself--there are no end of precedents. But how is this going to benefit you, after I have managed it? There is where the mystery lies." "But I will take care of that. It will benefit me a great deal." "I only wish I could see how; it is the oddest freak. You seem to go the furthest around to get at a thing--but you are in earnest, aren't you?" "Yes I am, indeed." "Very well, I will do it--but why not tell me how you imagine it is going to help you?" "I will, by and by.--Now there is nobody talking to him. Go straight and do it, there's a good fellow." A moment or two later the two sworn friends of the Pension bill were talking together, earnestly, and seemingly unconscious of the moving throng about them. They talked an hour, and then Mr. Buckstone came back and said: "He hardly fancied it at first, but he fell in love with it after a bit. And we have made a compact, too. I am to keep his secret and he is to spare me, in future, when he gets ready to denounce the supporters of the University bill--and I can easily believe he will keep his word on this occasion." A fortnight elapsed, and the University bill had gathered to itself many friends, meantime. Senator Dilworthy began to think the harvest was ripe. He conferred with Laura privately. She was able to tell him exactly how the House would vote. There was a majority--the bill would pass, unless weak members got frightened at the last, and deserted--a thing pretty likely to occur. The Senator said: "I wish we had one more good strong man. Now Trollop ought to be on our side, for he is a friend of the negro. But he is against us, and is our bitterest opponent. If he would simply vote No, but keep quiet and not molest us, I would feel perfectly cheerful and content. But perhaps there is no use in thinking of that." "Why I laid a little plan for his benefit two weeks ago. I think he will be tractable, maybe. He is to come here tonight." "Look out for him, my child! He means mischief, sure. It is said that he claims to know of improper practices having been used in the interest of this bill, and he thinks be sees a chance to make a great sensation when the bill comes up. Be wary. Be very, very careful, my dear. Do your very-ablest talking, now. You can convince a man of anything, when you try. You must convince him that if anything improper has been done, you at least are ignorant of it and sorry for it. And if you could only persuade him out of his hostility to the bill, too--but don't overdo the thing; don't seem too anxious, dear." "I won't; I'll be ever so careful. I'll talk as sweetly to him as if he were my own child! You may trust me--indeed you may." The door-bell rang. "That is the gentleman now," said Laura. Senator Dilworthy retired to his study. Laura welcomed Mr. Trollop, a grave, carefully dressed and very respectable looking man, with a bald head, standing collar and old fashioned watch seals. "Promptness is a virtue, Mr. Trollop, and I perceive that you have it. You are always prompt with me." "I always meet my engagements, of every kind, Miss Hawkins." "It is a quality which is rarer in the world than it has been, I believe. I wished to see you on business, Mr. Trollop." "I judged so. What can I do for you?" "You know my bill--the Knobs University bill?" "Ah, I believe it is your bill. I had forgotten. Yes, I know the bill." "Well, would you mind telling me your opinion of it?" "Indeed, since you seem to ask it without reserve, I am obliged to say that I do not regard it favorably. I have not seen the bill itself, but from what I can hear, it--it--well, it has a bad look about it. It--" "Speak it out--never fear." "Well, it--they say it contemplates a fraud upon the government." "Well?" said Laura tranquilly. "Well! I say 'Well?' too." "Well, suppose it were a fraud--which I feel able to deny--would it be the first one?" "You take a body's breath away! Would you--did you wish me to vote for it? Was that what you wanted to see me about?" "Your instinct is correct. I did want you--I do want you to vote for it." "Vote for a fr--for a measure which is generally believed to be at least questionable? I am afraid we cannot come to an understanding, Miss Hawkins." "No, I am afraid not--if you have resumed your principles, Mr. Trollop." "Did you send for we merely to insult me? It is time for me to take my leave, Miss Hawkins." "No-wait a moment. Don't be offended at a trifle. Do not be offish and unsociable. The Steamship Subsidy bill was a fraud on the government. You voted for it, Mr. Trollop, though you always opposed the measure until after you had an interview one evening with a certain Mrs. McCarter at her house. She was my agent. She was acting for me. Ah, that is right--sit down again. You can be sociable, easily enough if you have a mind to. Well? I am waiting. Have you nothing to say?" "Miss Hawkins, I voted for that bill because when I came to examine into it--" "Ah yes. When you came to examine into it. Well, I only want you to examine into my bill. Mr. Trollop, you would not sell your vote on that subsidy bill--which was perfectly right--but you accepted of some of the stock, with the understanding that it was to stand in your brother-in-law's name." "There is no pr--I mean, this is, utterly groundless, Miss Hawkins." But the gentleman seemed somewhat uneasy, nevertheless. "Well, not entirely so, perhaps. I and a person whom we will call Miss Blank (never mind the real name,) were in a closet at your elbow all the while." Mr. Trollop winced--then he said with dignity: "Miss Hawkins is it possible that you were capable of such a thing as that?" "It was bad; I confess that. It was bad. Almost as bad as selling one's vote for--but I forget; you did not sell your vote--you only accepted a little trifle, a small token of esteem, for your brother-in-law. Oh, let us come out and be frank with each other: I know you, Mr. Trollop. I have met you on business three or four times; true, I never offered to corrupt your principles--never hinted such a thing; but always when I had finished sounding you, I manipulated you through an agent. Let us be frank. Wear this comely disguise of virtue before the public--it will count there; but here it is out of place. My dear sir, by and by there is going to be an investigation into that National Internal Improvement Directors' Relief Measure of a few years ago, and you know very well that you will be a crippled man, as likely as not, when it is completed." "It cannot be shown that a man is a knave merely for owning that stock. I am not distressed about the National Improvement Relief Measure." "Oh indeed I am not trying to distress you. I only wished, to make good my assertion that I knew you. Several of you gentlemen bought of that stack (without paying a penny down) received dividends from it, (think of the happy idea of receiving dividends, and very large ones, too, from stock one hasn't paid for!) and all the while your names never appeared in the transaction; if ever you took the stock at all, you took it in other people's names. Now you see, you had to know one of two things; namely, you either knew that the idea of all this preposterous generosity was to bribe you into future legislative friendship, or you didn't know it. That is to say, you had to be either a knave or a--well, a fool --there was no middle ground. You are not a fool, Mr. Trollop." "Miss Hawking you flatter me. But seriously, you do not forget that some of the best and purest men in Congress took that stock in that way?" "Did Senator Bland?" "Well, no--I believe not." "Of course you believe not. Do you suppose he was ever approached, on the subject?" "Perhaps not." "If you had approached him, for instance, fortified with the fact that some of the best men in Congress, and the purest, etc., etc.; what would have been the result?" "Well, what WOULD have been the result?" "He would have shown you the door! For Mr. Blank is neither a knave nor a fool. There are other men in the Senate and the House whom no one would have been hardy enough to approach with that Relief Stock in that peculiarly generous way, but they are not of the class that you regard as the best and purest. No, I say I know you Mr. Trollop. That is to say, one may suggest a thing to Mr. Trollop which it would not do to suggest to Mr. Blank. Mr. Trollop, you are pledged to support the Indigent Congressmen's Retroactive Appropriation which is to come up, either in this or the next session. You do not deny that, even in public. The man that will vote for that bill will break the eighth commandment in any other way, sir!" "But he will not vote for your corrupt measure, nevertheless, madam!" exclaimed Mr. Trollop, rising from his seat in a passion. "Ah, but he will. Sit down again, and let me explain why. Oh, come, don't behave so. It is very unpleasant. Now be good, and you shall have, the missing page of your great speech. Here it is!"--and she displayed a sheet of manuscript. Mr. Trollop turned immediately back from the threshold. It might have been gladness that flashed into his face; it might have been something else; but at any rate there was much astonishment mixed with it. "Good! Where did you get it? Give it me!" "Now there is no hurry. Sit down; sit down and let us talk and be friendly." The gentleman wavered. Then he said: "No, this is only a subterfuge. I will go. It is not the missing page." Laura tore off a couple of lines from the bottom of the sheet. "Now," she said, "you will know whether this is the handwriting or not. You know it is the handwriting. Now if you will listen, you will know that this must be the list of statistics which was to be the 'nub' of your great effort, and the accompanying blast the beginning of the burst of eloquence which was continued on the next page--and you will recognize that there was where you broke down." She read the page. Mr. Trollop said: "This is perfectly astounding. Still, what is all this to me? It is nothing. It does not concern me. The speech is made, and there an end. I did break down for a moment, and in a rather uncomfortable place, since I had led up to those statistics with some grandeur; the hiatus was pleasanter to the House and the galleries than it was to me. But it is no matter now. A week has passed; the jests about it ceased three or four days ago. The, whole thing is a matter of indifference to me, Miss Hawkins." "But you apologized; and promised the statistics for next day. Why didn't you keep your promise." "The matter was not of sufficient consequence. The time was gone by to produce an effect with them." "But I hear that other friends of the Soldiers' Pension Bill desire them very much. I think you ought to let them have them." "Miss Hawkins, this silly blunder of my copyist evidently has more interest for you than it has for me. I will send my private secretary to you and let him discuss the subject with you at length." "Did he copy your speech for you?" "Of course he did. Why all these questions? Tell me--how did you get hold of that page of manuscript? That is the only thing that stirs a passing interest in my mind." "I'm coming to that." Then she said, much as if she were talking to herself: "It does seem like taking a deal of unnecessary pains, for a body to hire another body to construct a great speech for him and then go and get still another body to copy it before it can be read in the House." "Miss Hawkins, what do yo mean by such talk as that?" "Why I am sure I mean no harm--no harm to anybody in the world. I am certain that I overheard the Hon. Mr. Buckstone either promise to write your great speech for you or else get some other competent person to do it." "This is perfectly absurd, madam, perfectly absurd!" and Mr. Trollop affected a laugh of derision. "Why, the thing has occurred before now. I mean that I have heard that Congressmen have sometimes hired literary grubs to build speeches for them.--Now didn't I overhear a conversation like that I spoke of?" "Pshaw! Why of course you may have overheard some such jesting nonsense. But would one be in earnest about so farcical a thing?" "Well if it was only a joke, why did you make a serious matter of it? Why did you get the speech written for you, and then read it in the House without ever having it copied?" Mr. Trollop did not laugh this time; he seemed seriously perplexed. He said: "Come, play out your jest, Miss Hawkins. I can't understand what you are contriving--but it seems to entertain you--so please, go on." "I will, I assure you; but I hope to make the matter entertaining to you, too. Your private secretary never copied your speech." "Indeed? Really you seem to know my affairs better than I do myself." "I believe I do. You can't name your own amanuensis, Mr. Trollop." "That is sad, indeed. Perhaps Miss Hawkins can?" "Yes, I can. I wrote your speech myself, and you read it from my manuscript. There, now!" Mr. Trollop did not spring to his feet and smite his brow with his hand while a cold sweat broke out all over him and the color forsook his face --no, he only said, "Good God!" and looked greatly astonished. Laura handed him her commonplace-book and called his attention to the fact that the handwriting there and the handwriting of this speech were the same. He was shortly convinced. He laid the book aside and said, composedly: "Well, the wonderful tragedy is done, and it transpires that I am indebted to you for my late eloquence. What of it? What was all this for and what does it amount to after all? What do you propose to do about it?" "Oh nothing. It is only a bit of pleasantry. When I overheard that conversation I took an early opportunity to ask Mr. Buckstone if he knew of anybody who might want a speech written--I had a friend, and so forth and so on. I was the friend, myself; I thought I might do you a good turn then and depend on you to do me one by and by. I never let Mr. Buckstone have the speech till the last moment, and when you hurried off to the House with it, you did not know there was a missing page, of course, but I did. "And now perhaps you think that if I refuse to support your bill, you will make a grand exposure?" "Well I had not thought of that. I only kept back the page for the mere fun of the thing; but since you mention it, I don't know but I might do something if I were angry." "My dear Miss Hawkins, if you were to give out that you composed my speech, you know very well that people would say it was only your raillery, your fondness for putting a victim in the pillory and amusing the public at his expense. It is too flimsy, Miss Hawkins, for a person of your fine inventive talent--contrive an abler device than that. Come!" "It is easily done, Mr. Trollop. I will hire a man, and pin this page on his breast, and label it, 'The Missing Fragment of the Hon. Mr. Trollop's Great Speech--which speech was written and composed by Miss Laura Hawkins under a secret understanding for one hundred dollars--and the money has not been paid.' And I will pin round about it notes in my handwriting, which I will procure from prominent friends of mine for the occasion; also your printed speech in the Globe, showing the connection between its bracketed hiatus and my Fragment; and I give you my word of honor that I will stand that human bulletin board in the rotunda of the capitol and make him stay there a week! You see you are premature, Mr. Trollop, the wonderful tragedy is not done yet, by any means. Come, now, doesn't it improve?" Mr Trollop opened his eyes rather widely at this novel aspect of the case. He got up and walked the floor and gave himself a moment for reflection. Then he stopped and studied Laura's face a while, and ended by saying: "Well, I am obliged to believe you would be reckless enough to do that." "Then don't put me to the test, Mr. Trollop. But let's drop the matter. I have had my joke and you've borne the infliction becomingly enough. It spoils a jest to harp on it after one has had one's laugh. I would much rather talk about my bill." "So would I, now, my clandestine amanuensis. Compared with some other subjects, even your bill is a pleasant topic to discuss." "Very good indeed! I thought. I could persuade you. Now I am sure you will be generous to the poor negro and vote for that bill." "Yes, I feel more tenderly toward the oppressed colored man than I did. Shall we bury the hatchet and be good friends and respect each other's little secrets, on condition that I vote Aye on the measure?" "With all my heart, Mr. Trollop. I give you my word of that." "It is a bargain. But isn't there something else you could give me, too?" Laura looked at him inquiringly a moment, and then she comprehended. "Oh, yes! You may have it now. I haven't any, more use for it." She picked up the page of manuscript, but she reconsidered her intention of handing it to him, and said, "But never mind; I will keep it close; no one shall see it; you shall have it as soon as your vote is recorded." Mr. Trollop looked disappointed. But presently made his adieux, and had got as far as the hall, when something occurred to Laura. She said to herself, "I don't simply want his vote under compulsion--he might vote aye, but work against the bill in secret, for revenge; that man is unscrupulous enough to do anything. I must have his hearty co-operation as well as his vote. There is only one way to get that." She called him back, and said: "I value your vote, Mr. Trollop, but I value your influence more. You are able to help a measure along in many ways, if you choose. I want to ask you to work for the bill as well as vote for it." "It takes so much of one's time, Miss Hawkins--and time is money, you know." "Yes, I know it is--especially in Congress. Now there is no use in you and I dealing in pretenses and going at matters in round-about ways. We know each other--disguises are nonsense. Let us be plain. I will make it an object to you to work for the bill." "Don't make it unnecessarily plain, please. There are little proprieties that are best preserved. What do you propose?" "Well, this." She mentioned the names of several prominent Congressmen. "Now," said she, "these gentlemen are to vote and work for the bill, simply out of love for the negro--and out of pure generosity I have put in a relative of each as a member of the University incorporation. They will handle a million or so of money, officially, but will receive no salaries. A larger number of statesmen are to, vote and work for the bill--also out of love for the negro--gentlemen of but moderate influence, these--and out of pure generosity I am to see that relatives of theirs have positions in the University, with salaries, and good ones, too. You will vote and work for the bill, from mere affection for the negro, and I desire to testify my gratitude becomingly. Make free choice. Have you any friend whom you would like to present with a salaried or unsalaried position in our institution?" "Well, I have a brother-in-law--" "That same old brother-in-law, you good unselfish provider! I have heard of him often, through my agents. How regularly he does 'turn up,' to be sure. He could deal with those millions virtuously, and withal with ability, too--but of course you would rather he had a salaried position?" "Oh, no," said the gentleman, facetiously, "we are very humble, very humble in our desires; we want no money; we labor solely, for our country and require no reward but the luxury of an applauding conscience. Make him one of those poor hard working unsalaried corporators and let him do every body good with those millions--and go hungry himself! I will try to exert a little influence in favor of the bill." Arrived at home, Mr. Trollop sat down and thought it all over--something after this fashion: it is about the shape it might have taken if he had spoken it aloud. "My reputation is getting a little damaged, and I meant to clear it up brilliantly with an exposure of this bill at the supreme moment, and ride back into Congress on the eclat of it; and if I had that bit of manuscript, I would do it yet. It would be more money in my pocket in the end, than my brother-in-law will get out of that incorporatorship, fat as it is. But that sheet of paper is out of my reach--she will never let that get out of her hands. And what a mountain it is! It blocks up my road, completely. She was going to hand it to me, once. Why didn't she! Must be a deep woman. Deep devil! That is what she is; a beautiful devil--and perfectly fearless, too. The idea of her pinning that paper on a man and standing him up in the rotunda looks absurd at a first glance. But she would do it! She is capable of doing anything. I went there hoping she would try to bribe me--good solid capital that would be in the exposure. Well, my prayer was answered; she did try to bribe me; and I made the best of a bad bargain and let her. I am check-mated. I must contrive something fresh to get back to Congress on. Very well; a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush; I will work for the bill--the incorporatorship will be a very good thing." As soon as Mr. Trollop had taken his leave, Laura ran to Senator Dilworthy and began to speak, but he interrupted her and said distressfully, without even turning from his writing to look at her: "Only half an hour! You gave it up early, child. However, it was best, it was best--I'm sure it was best--and safest." "Give it up! I!" The Senator sprang up, all aglow: "My child, you can't mean that you--" "I've made him promise on honor to think about a compromise tonight and come and tell me his decision in the morning." "Good! There's hope yet that--" Nonsense, uncle. I've made him engage to let the Tennessee Land bill utterly alone!" "Impossible! You--" "I've made him promise to vote with us!" "INCREDIBLE! Abso--" "I've made him swear that he'll work for us!" "PRE - - - POSTEROUS!--Utterly pre--break a window, child, before I suffocate!" "No matter, it's true anyway. Now we can march into Congress with drums beating and colors flying!" "Well--well--well. I'm sadly bewildered, sadly bewildered. I can't understand it at all--the most extraordinary woman that ever--it's a great day, it's a great day. There--there--let me put my hand in benediction on this precious head. Ah, my child, the poor negro will bless--" "Oh bother the poor negro, uncle! Put it in your speech. Good-night, good-bye--we'll marshal our forces and march with the dawn!" Laura reflected a while, when she was alone, and then fell to laughing, peacefully. "Everybody works for me,"--so ran her thought. "It was a good idea to make Buckstone lead Mr. Trollop on to get a great speech written for him; and it was a happy part of the same idea for me to copy the speech after Mr. Buckstone had written it, and then keep back a page. Mr. B. was very complimentary to me when Trollop's break-down in the House showed him the object of my mysterious scheme; I think he will say, still finer things when I tell him the triumph the sequel to it has gained for us. "But what a coward the man was, to believe I would have exposed that page in the rotunda, and so exposed myself. However, I don't know--I don't know. I will think a moment. Suppose he voted no; suppose the bill failed; that is to suppose this stupendous game lost forever, that I have played so desperately for; suppose people came around pitying me--odious! And he could have saved me by his single voice. Yes, I would have exposed him! What would I care for the talk that that would have made about me when I was gone to Europe with Selby and all the world was busy with my history and my dishonor? It would be almost happiness to spite somebody at such a time." CHAPTER XLIII. The very next day, sure enough, the campaign opened. In due course, the Speaker of the House reached that Order of Business which is termed "Notices of Bills," and then the Hon. Mr. Buckstone rose in his place and gave notice of a bill "To Found and Incorporate the Knobs Industrial University," and then sat down without saying anything further. The busy gentlemen in the reporters' gallery jotted a line in their note-books, ran to the telegraphic desk in a room which communicated with their own writing-parlor, and then hurried back to their places in the gallery; and by the time they had resumed their seats, the line which they had delivered to the operator had been read in telegraphic offices in towns and cities hundreds of miles away. It was distinguished by frankness of language as well as by brevity: "The child is born. Buckstone gives notice of the thieving Knobs University job. It is said the noses have been counted and enough votes have been bought to pass it." For some time the correspondents had been posting their several journals upon the alleged disreputable nature of the bill, and furnishing daily reports of the Washington gossip concerning it. So the next morning, nearly every newspaper of character in the land assailed the measure and hurled broadsides of invective at Mr. Buckstone. The Washington papers were more respectful, as usual--and conciliatory, also, as usual. They generally supported measures, when it was possible; but when they could not they "deprecated" violent expressions of opinion in other journalistic quarters. They always deprecated, when there was trouble ahead. However, 'The Washington Daily Love-Feast' hailed the bill with warm approbation. This was Senator Balaam's paper--or rather, "Brother" Balaam, as he was popularly called, for he had been a clergyman, in his day; and he himself and all that he did still emitted an odor of sanctity now that he had diverged into journalism and politics. He was a power in the Congressional prayer meeting, and in all movements that looked to the spread of religion and temperance. His paper supported the new bill with gushing affection; it was a noble measure; it was a just measure; it was a generous measure; it was a pure measure, and that surely should recommend it in these corrupt times; and finally, if the nature of the bill were not known at all, the 'Love Feast' would support it anyway, and unhesitatingly, for the fact that Senator Dilworthy was the originator of the measure was a guaranty that it contemplated a worthy and righteous work. Senator Dilworthy was so anxious to know what the New York papers would say about the bill; that he had arranged to have synopses of their editorials telegraphed to him; he could not wait for the papers themselves to crawl along down to Washington by a mail train which has never run over a cow since the road was built; for the reason that it has never been able to overtake one. It carries the usual "cow-catcher" in front of the locomotive, but this is mere ostentation. It ought to be attached to the rear car, where it could do some good; but instead, no provision is made there for the protection of the traveling public, and hence it is not a matter of surprise that cows so frequently climb aboard that train and among the passengers. The Senator read his dispatches aloud at the breakfast table. Laura was troubled beyond measure at their tone, and said that that sort of comment would defeat the bill; but the Senator said: "Oh, not at all, not at all, my child. It is just what we want. Persecution is the one thing needful, now--all the other forces are secured. Give us newspaper persecution enough, and we are safe. Vigorous persecution will alone carry a bill sometimes, dear; and when you start with a strong vote in the first place, persecution comes in with double effect. It scares off some of the weak supporters, true, but it soon turns strong ones into stubborn ones. And then, presently, it changes the tide of public opinion. The great public is weak-minded; the great public is sentimental; the great public always turns around and weeps for an odious murderer, and prays for-him, and carries flowers to his prison and besieges the governor with appeals to his clemency, as soon as the papers begin to howl for that man's blood.--In a word, the great putty-hearted public loves to 'gush,' and there is no such darling opportunity to gush as a case of persecution affords." "Well, uncle, dear; if your theory is right, let us go into raptures, for nobody can ask a heartier persecution than these editorials are furnishing." "I am not so sure of that, my daughter. I don't entirely like the tone of some of these remarks. They lack vim, they lack venom. Here is one calls it a 'questionable measure.' Bah, there is no strength in that. This one is better; it calls it 'highway robbery.' That sounds something like. But now this one seems satisfied to call it an 'iniquitous scheme'. 'Iniquitous' does not exasperate anybody; it is weak--puerile. The ignorant will imagine it to be intended for a compliment. But this other one--the one I read last--has the true ring: 'This vile, dirty effort to rob the public treasury, by the kites and vultures that now infest the filthy den called Congress'--that is admirable, admirable! We must have more of that sort. But it will come--no fear of that; they're not warmed up, yet. A week from now you'll see." "Uncle, you and Brother Balaam are bosom friends--why don't you get his paper to persecute us, too?" "It isn't worth while, my, daughter. His support doesn't hurt a bill. Nobody reads his editorials but himself. But I wish the New York papers would talk a little plainer. It is annoying to have to wait a week for them to warm up. I expected better things at their hands--and time is precious, now." At the proper hour, according to his previous notice, Mr. Buckstone duly introduced his bill entitled "An Act to Found and Incorporate the Knobs Industrial University," moved its proper reference, and sat down. The Speaker of the House rattled off this observation: "'Fnobjectionbilltakuzhlcoixrssoreferred!'" Habitues of the House comprehended that this long, lightning-heeled word signified that if there was no objection, the bill would take the customary course of a measure of its nature, and be referred to the Committee on Benevolent Appropriations, and that it was accordingly so referred. Strangers merely supposed that the Speaker was taking a gargle for some affection of the throat. The reporters immediately telegraphed the introduction of the bill.--And they added: "The assertion that the bill will pass was premature. It is said that many favorers of it will desert when the storm breaks upon them from the public press." The storm came, and during ten days it waxed more and more violent day by day. The great "Negro University Swindle" became the one absorbing topic of conversation throughout the Union. Individuals denounced it, journals denounced it, public meetings denounced it, the pictorial papers caricatured its friends, the whole nation seemed to be growing frantic over it. Meantime the Washington correspondents were sending such telegrams as these abroad in the land; Under date of-- SATURDAY. "Congressmen Jex and Fluke are wavering; it is believed they will desert the execrable bill." MONDAY. "Jex and Fluke have deserted!" THURSDAY. "Tubbs and Huffy left the sinking ship last night" Later on: "Three desertions. The University thieves are getting scared, though they will not own it." Later: "The leaders are growing stubborn--they swear they can carry it, but it is now almost certain that they no longer have a majority!" After a day or two of reluctant and ambiguous telegrams: "Public sentiment seems changing, a trifle in favor of the bill --but only a trifle." And still later: "It is whispered that the Hon. Mr. Trollop has gone over to the pirates. It is probably a canard. Mr. Trollop has all along been the bravest and most efficient champion of virtue and the people against the bill, and the report is without doubt a shameless invention." Next day: "With characteristic treachery, the truckling and pusillanimous reptile, Crippled-Speech Trollop, has gone over to the enemy. It is contended, now, that he has been a friend to the bill, in secret, since the day it was introduced, and has had bankable reasons for being so; but he himself declares that he has gone over because the malignant persecution of the bill by the newspapers caused him to study its provisions with more care than he had previously done, and this close examination revealed the fact that the measure is one in every way worthy of support. (Pretty thin!) It cannot be denied that this desertion has had a damaging effect. Jex and Fluke have returned to their iniquitous allegiance, with six or eight others of lesser calibre, and it is reported and believed that Tubbs and Huffy are ready to go back. It is feared that the University swindle is stronger to-day than it has ever been before." Later-midnight: "It is said that the committee will report the bill back to-morrow. Both sides are marshaling their forces, and the fight on this bill is evidently going to be the hottest of the session.--All Washington is boiling." CHAPTER XLIV. "It's easy enough for another fellow to talk," said Harry, despondingly, after he had put Philip in possession of his view of the case. "It's easy enough to say 'give her up,' if you don't care for her. What am I going to do to give her up?" It seemed to Harry that it was a situation requiring some active measures. He couldn't realize that he had fallen hopelessly in love without some rights accruing to him for the possession of the object of his passion. Quiet resignation under relinquishment of any thing he wanted was not in his line. And when it appeared to him that his surrender of Laura would be the withdrawal of the one barrier that kept her from ruin, it was unreasonable to expect that he could see how to give her up. Harry had the most buoyant confidence in his own projects always; he saw everything connected with himself in a large way and in rosy lines. This predominance of the imagination over the judgment gave that appearance of exaggeration to his conversation and to his communications with regard to himself, which sometimes conveyed the impression that he was not speaking the truth. His acquaintances had been known to say that they invariably allowed a half for shrinkage in his statements, and held the other half under advisement for confirmation. Philip in this case could not tell from Harry's story exactly how much encouragement Laura had given him, nor what hopes he might justly have of winning her. He had never seen him desponding before. The "brag" appeared to be all taken out of him, and his airy manner only asserted itself now and then in a comical imitation of its old self. Philip wanted time to look about him before he decided what to do. He was not familiar with Washington, and it was difficult to adjust his feelings and perceptions to its peculiarities. Coming out of the sweet sanity of the Bolton household, this was by contrast the maddest Vanity Fair one could conceive. It seemed to him a feverish, unhealthy atmosphere in which lunacy would be easily developed. He fancied that everybody attached to himself an exaggerated importance, from the fact of being at the national capital, the center of political influence, the fountain of patronage, preferment, jobs and opportunities. People were introduced to each other as from this or that state, not from cities or towns, and this gave a largeness to their representative feeling. All the women talked politics as naturally and glibly as they talk fashion or literature elsewhere. There was always some exciting topic at the Capitol, or some huge slander was rising up like a miasmatic exhalation from the Potomac, threatening to settle no one knew exactly where. Every other person was an aspirant for a place, or, if he had one, for a better place, or more pay; almost every other one had some claim or interest or remedy to urge; even the women were all advocates for the advancement of some person, and they violently espoused or denounced this or that measure as it would affect some relative, acquaintance or friend. Love, travel, even death itself, waited on the chances of the dies daily thrown in the two Houses, and the committee rooms there. If the measure went through, love could afford to ripen into marriage, and longing for foreign travel would have fruition; and it must have been only eternal hope springing in the breast that kept alive numerous old claimants who for years and years had besieged the doors of Congress, and who looked as if they needed not so much an appropriation of money as six feet of ground. And those who stood so long waiting for success to bring them death were usually those who had a just claim. Representing states and talking of national and even international affairs, as familiarly as neighbors at home talk of poor crops and the extravagance of their ministers, was likely at first to impose upon Philip as to the importance of the people gathered here. There was a little newspaper editor from Phil's native town, the assistant on a Peddletonian weekly, who made his little annual joke about the "first egg laid on our table," and who was the menial of every tradesman in the village and under bonds to him for frequent "puffs," except the undertaker, about whose employment he was recklessly facetious. In Washington he was an important man, correspondent, and clerk of two house committees, a "worker" in politics, and a confident critic of every woman and every man in Washington. He would be a consul no doubt by and by, at some foreign port, of the language of which he was ignorant--though if ignorance of language were a qualification he might have been a consul at home. His easy familiarity with great men was beautiful to see, and when Philip learned what a tremendous underground influence this little ignoramus had, he no longer wondered at the queer appointments and the queerer legislation. Philip was not long in discovering that people in Washington did not differ much from other people; they had the same meannesses, generosities, and tastes: A Washington boarding house had the odor of a boarding house the world over. Col. Sellers was as unchanged as any one Philip saw whom he had known elsewhere. Washington appeared to be the native element of this man. His pretentions were equal to any he encountered there. He saw nothing in its society that equalled that of Hawkeye, he sat down to no table that could not be unfavorably contrasted with his own at home; the most airy scheme inflated in the hot air of the capital only reached in magnitude some of his lesser fancies, the by-play of his constructive imagination. "The country is getting along very well," he said to Philip, "but our public men are too timid. What we want is more money. I've told Boutwell so. Talk about basing the currency on gold; you might as well base it on pork. Gold is only one product. Base it on everything! You've got to do something for the West. How am I to move my crops? We must have improvements. Grant's got the idea. We want a canal from the James River to the Mississippi. Government ought to build it." It was difficult to get the Colonel off from these large themes when he was once started, but Philip brought the conversation round to Laura and her reputation in the City. "No," he said, "I haven't noticed much. We've been so busy about this University. It will make Laura rich with the rest of us, and she has done nearly as much as if she were a man. She has great talent, and will make a big match. I see the foreign ministers and that sort after her. Yes, there is talk, always will be about a pretty woman so much in public as she is. Tough stories come to me, but I put'em away. 'Taint likely one of Si Hawkins's children would do that--for she is the same as a child of his. I told her, though, to go slow," added the Colonel, as if that mysterious admonition from him would set everything right. "Do you know anything about a Col. Selby?" "Know all about him. Fine fellow. But he's got a wife; and I told him, as a friend, he'd better sheer off from Laura. I reckon he thought better of it and did." But Philip was not long in learning the truth. Courted as Laura was by a certain class and still admitted into society, that, nevertheless, buzzed with disreputable stories about her, she had lost character with the best people. Her intimacy with Selby was open gossip, and there were winks and thrustings of the tongue in any group of men when she passed by. It was clear enough that Harry's delusion must be broken up, and that no such feeble obstacle as his passion could interpose would turn Laura from her fate. Philip determined to see her, and put himself in possession of the truth, as he suspected it, in order to show Harry his folly. Laura, after her last conversation with Harry, had a new sense of her position. She had noticed before the signs of a change in manner towards her, a little less respect perhaps from men, and an avoidance by women. She had attributed this latter partly to jealousy of her, for no one is willing to acknowledge a fault in himself when a more agreeable motive can be found for the estrangement of his acquaintances. But now, if society had turned on her, she would defy it. It was not in her nature to shrink. She knew she had been wronged, and she knew that she had no remedy. What she heard of Col. Selby's proposed departure alarmed her more than anything else, and she calmly determined that if he was deceiving her the second time it should be the last. Let society finish the tragedy if it liked; she was indifferent what came after. At the first opportunity, she charged Selby with his intention to abandon her. He unblushingly denied it. He had not thought of going to Europe. He had only been amusing himself with Sellers' schemes. He swore that as soon as she succeeded with her bill, he would fly with her to any part of the world. She did not quite believe him, for she saw that he feared her, and she began to suspect that his were the protestations of a coward to gain time. But she showed him no doubts. She only watched his movements day by day, and always held herself ready to act promptly. When Philip came into the presence of this attractive woman, he could not realize that she was the subject of all the scandal he had heard. She received him with quite the old Hawkeye openness and cordiality, and fell to talking at once of their little acquaintance there; and it seemed impossible that he could ever say to her what he had come determined to say. Such a man as Philip has only one standard by which to judge women. Laura recognized that fact no doubt. The better part of her woman's nature saw it. Such a man might, years ago, not now, have changed her nature, and made the issue of her life so different, even after her cruel abandonment. She had a dim feeling of this, and she would like now to stand well with him. The spark of truth and honor that was left in her was elicited by his presence. It was this influence that governed her conduct in this interview. "I have come," said Philip in his direct manner, "from my friend Mr. Brierly. You are not ignorant of his feeling towards you?" "Perhaps not." "But perhaps you do not know, you who have so much admiration, how sincere and overmastering his love is for you?" Philip would not have spoken so plainly, if he had in mind anything except to draw from Laura something that would end Harry's passion. "And is sincere love so rare, Mr. Sterling?" asked Laura, moving her foot a little, and speaking with a shade of sarcasm. "Perhaps not in Washington," replied Philip,--tempted into a similar tone. "Excuse my bluntness," he continued, "but would the knowledge of his love; would his devotion, make any difference to you in your Washington life?" "In respect to what?" asked Laura quickly. "Well, to others. I won't equivocate--to Col. Selby?" Laura's face flushed with anger, or shame; she looked steadily at Philip and began, "By what right, sir,--" "By the right of friendship," interrupted Philip stoutly. "It may matter little to you. It is everything to him. He has a Quixotic notion that you would turn back from what is before you for his sake. You cannot be ignorant of what all the city is talking of." Philip said this determinedly and with some bitterness. It was a full minute before Laura spoke. Both had risen, Philip as if to go, and Laura in suppressed excitement. When she spoke her voice was very unsteady, and she looked down. "Yes, I know. I perfectly understand what you mean. Mr. Brierly is nothing--simply nothing. He is a moth singed, that is all--the trifler with women thought he was a wasp. I have no pity for him, not the least. You may tell him not to make a fool of himself, and to keep away. I say this on your account, not his. You are not like him. It is enough for me that you want it so. Mr. Sterling," she continued, looking up; and there were tears in her eyes that contradicted the hardness of her language, "you might not pity him if you knew my history; perhaps you would not wonder at some things you hear. No; it is useless to ask me why it must be so. You can't make a life over--society wouldn't let you if you would--and mine must be lived as it is. There, sir, I'm not offended; but it is useless for you to say anything more." Philip went away with his heart lightened about Harry, but profoundly saddened by the glimpse of what this woman might have been. He told Harry all that was necessary of the conversation--she was bent on going her own way, he had not the ghost of a chance--he was a fool, she had said, for thinking he had. And Harry accepted it meekly, and made up his own mind that Philip didn't know much about women. CHAPTER XLV. The galleries of the House were packed, on the momentous day, not because the reporting of an important bill back by a committee was a thing to be excited about, if the bill were going to take the ordinary course afterward; it would be like getting excited over the empaneling of a coroner's jury in a murder case, instead of saving up one's emotions for the grander occasion of the hanging of the accused, two years later, after all the tedious forms of law had been gone through with. But suppose you understand that this coroner's jury is going to turn out to be a vigilance committee in disguise, who will hear testimony for an hour and then hang the murderer on the spot? That puts a different aspect upon the matter. Now it was whispered that the legitimate forms of procedure usual in the House, and which keep a bill hanging along for days and even weeks, before it is finally passed upon, were going to be overruled, in this case, and short work made of the, measure; and so, what was beginning as a mere inquest might, torn out to be something very different. In the course of the day's business the Order of "Reports of Committees" was finally reached and when the weary crowds heard that glad announcement issue from the Speaker's lips they ceased to fret at the dragging delay, and plucked up spirit. The Chairman of the Committee on Benevolent Appropriations rose and made his report, and just then a blue-uniformed brass-mounted little page put a note into his hand. It was from Senator Dilworthy, who had appeared upon the floor of the House for a moment and flitted away again: "Everybody expects a grand assault in force; no doubt you believe, as I certainly do, that it is the thing to do; we are strong, and everything is hot for the contest. Trollop's espousal of our cause has immensely helped us and we grow in power constantly. Ten of the opposition were called away from town about noon,(but--so it is said--only for one day). Six others are sick, but expect to be about again tomorrow or next day, a friend tells me. A bold onslaught is worth trying. Go for a suspension of the rules! You will find we can swing a two-thirds vote--I am perfectly satisfied of it. The Lord's truth will prevail. "DILWORTHY." Mr. Buckstone had reported the bills from his committee, one by one, leaving the bill to the last. When the House had voted upon the acceptance or rejection of the report upon all but it, and the question now being upon its disposal--Mr. Buckstone begged that the House would give its attention to a few remarks which he desired to make. His committee had instructed him to report the bill favorably; he wished to explain the nature of the measure, and thus justify the committee's action; the hostility roused by the press would then disappear, and the bill would shine forth in its true and noble character. He said that its provisions were simple. It incorporated the Knobs Industrial University, locating it in East Tennessee, declaring it open to all persons without distinction of sex, color or religion, and committing its management to a board of perpetual trustees, with power to fill vacancies in their own number. It provided for the erection of certain buildings for the University, dormitories, lecture-halls, museums, libraries, laboratories, work-shops, furnaces, and mills. It provided also for the purchase of sixty-five thousand acres of land, (fully described) for the purposes of the University, in the Knobs of East Tennessee. And it appropriated [blank] dollars for the purchase of the Land, which should be the property of the national trustees in trust for the uses named. Every effort had been made to secure the refusal of the whole amount of the property of the Hawkins heirs in the Knobs, some seventy-five thousand acres Mr. Buckstone said. But Mr. Washington Hawkins (one of the heirs) objected. He was, indeed, very reluctant to sell any part of the land at any price; and indeed--this reluctance was justifiable when one considers how constantly and how greatly the property is rising in value. What the South needed, continued Mr. Buckstone, was skilled labor. Without that it would be unable to develop its mines, build its roads, work to advantage and without great waste its fruitful land, establish manufactures or enter upon a prosperous industrial career. Its laborers were almost altogether unskilled. Change them into intelligent, trained workmen, and you increased at once the capital, the resources of the entire south, which would enter upon a prosperity hitherto unknown. In five years the increase in local wealth would not only reimburse the government for the outlay in this appropriation, but pour untold wealth into the treasury. This was the material view, and the least important in the honorable gentleman's opinion. [Here he referred to some notes furnished him by Senator Dilworthy, and then continued.] God had given us the care of these colored millions. What account should we render to Him of our stewardship? We had made them free. Should we leave them ignorant? We had cast them upon their own resources. Should we leave them without tools? We could not tell what the intentions of Providence are in regard to these peculiar people, but our duty was plain. The Knobs Industrial University would be a vast school of modern science and practice, worthy of a great nation. It would combine the advantages of Zurich, Freiburg, Creuzot and the Sheffield Scientific. Providence had apparently reserved and set apart the Knobs of East Tennessee for this purpose. What else were they for? Was it not wonderful that for more than thirty years, over a generation, the choicest portion of them had remained in one family, untouched, as if, separated for some great use! It might be asked why the government should buy this land, when it had millions of yes, more than the railroad companies desired, which, it might devote to this purpose? He answered, that the government had no such tract of land as this. It had nothing comparable to it for the purposes of the University: This was to be a school of mining, of engineering, of the working of metals, of chemistry, zoology, botany, manufactures, agriculture, in short of all the complicated industries that make a state great. There was no place for the location of such a school like the Knobs of East Tennessee. The hills abounded in metals of all sorts, iron in all its combinations, copper, bismuth, gold and silver in small quantities, platinum he--believed, tin, aluminium; it was covered with forests and strange plants; in the woods were found the coon, the opossum, the fox, the deer and many other animals who roamed in the domain of natural history; coal existed in enormous quantity and no doubt oil; it was such a place for the practice of agricultural experiments that any student who had been successful there would have an easy task in any other portion of the country. No place offered equal facilities for experiments in mining, metallurgy, engineering. He expected to live to see the day, when the youth of the south would resort to its mines, its workshops, its laboratories, its furnaces and factories for practical instruction in all the great industrial pursuits. A noisy and rather ill-natured debate followed, now, and lasted hour after hour. The friends of the bill were instructed by the leaders to make no effort to check it; it was deemed better strategy to tire out the opposition; it was decided to vote down every proposition to adjourn, and so continue the sitting into the night; opponents might desert, then, one by one and weaken their party, for they had no personal stake in the bill. Sunset came, and still the fight went on; the gas was lit, the crowd in the galleries began to thin, but the contest continued; the crowd returned, by and by, with hunger and thirst appeased, and aggravated the hungry and thirsty House by looking contented and comfortable; but still the wrangle lost nothing of its bitterness. Recesses were moved plaintively by the opposition, and invariably voted down by the University army. At midnight the House presented a spectacle calculated to interest a stranger. The great galleries were still thronged--though only with men, now; the bright colors that had made them look like hanging gardens were gone, with the ladies. The reporters' gallery, was merely occupied by one or two watchful sentinels of the quill-driving guild; the main body cared nothing for a debate that had dwindled to a mere vaporing of dull speakers and now and then a brief quarrel over a point of order; but there was an unusually large attendance of journalists in the reporters' waiting-room, chatting, smoking, and keeping on the 'qui vive' for the general irruption of the Congressional volcano that must come when the time was ripe for it. Senator Dilworthy and Philip were in the Diplomatic Gallery; Washington sat in the public gallery, and Col. Sellers was, not far away. The Colonel had been flying about the corridors and button-holing Congressmen all the evening, and believed that he had accomplished a world of valuable service; but fatigue was telling upon him, now, and he was quiet and speechless--for once. Below, a few Senators lounged upon the sofas set apart for visitors, and talked with idle Congressmen. A dreary member was speaking; the presiding officer was nodding; here and there little knots of members stood in the aisles, whispering together; all about the House others sat in all the various attitudes that express weariness; some, tilted back, had one or more legs disposed upon their desks; some sharpened pencils indolently; some scribbled aimlessly; some yawned and stretched; a great many lay upon their breasts upon the desks, sound asleep and gently snoring. The flooding gaslight from the fancifully wrought roof poured down upon the tranquil scene. Hardly a sound disturbed the stillness, save the monotonous eloquence of the gentleman who occupied the floor. Now and then a warrior of the opposition broke down under the pressure, gave it up, and went home. Mr. Buckstone began to think it might be safe, now, to "proceed to business." He consulted with Trollop and one or two others. Senator Dilworthy descended to the floor of the House and they went to meet him. After a brief comparison of notes, the Congressmen sought their seats and sent pages about the House with messages to friends. These latter instantly roused up, yawned, and began to look alert. The moment the floor was unoccupied, Mr. Buckstone rose, with an injured look, and said it was evident that the opponents of the bill were merely talking against time, hoping in this unbecoming way to tire out the friends of the measure and so defeat it. Such conduct might be respectable enough in a village debating society, but it was trivial among statesmen, it was out of place in so august an assemblage as the House of Representatives of the United States. The friends of the bill had been not only willing that its opponents should express their opinions, but had strongly desired it. They courted the fullest and freest discussion; but it seemed to him that this fairness was but illy appreciated, since gentlemen were capable of taking advantage of it for selfish and unworthy ends. This trifling had gone far enough. He called for the question. The instant Mr. Buckstone sat down, the storm burst forth. A dozen gentlemen sprang to their feet. "Mr. Speaker!" "Mr. Speaker!" "Mr. Speaker!" "Order! Order! Order! Question! Question!" The sharp blows of the Speaker's gavel rose above the din. The "previous question," that hated gag, was moved and carried. All debate came to a sudden end, of course. Triumph No. 1. Then the vote was taken on the adoption of the report and it carried by a surprising majority. Mr. Buckstone got the floor again and moved that the rules be suspended and the bill read a first time. Mr. Trollop--"Second the motion!" The Speaker--"It is moved and--" Clamor of Voices. "Move we adjourn! Second the motion! Adjourn! Adjourn! Order! Order!" The Speaker, (after using his gavel vigorously)--"It is moved and seconded that the House do now adjourn. All those in favor--" Voices--"Division! Division! Ayes and nays! Ayes and nays!" It was decided to vote upon the adjournment by ayes and nays. This was in earnest. The excitement was furious. The galleries were in commotion in an instant, the reporters swarmed to their places. Idling members of the House flocked to their seats, nervous gentlemen sprang to their feet, pages flew hither and thither, life and animation were visible everywhere, all the long ranks of faces in the building were kindled. "This thing decides it!" thought Mr. Buckstone; "but let the fight proceed." The voting began, and every sound ceased but the calling if the names and the "Aye!" "No!" "No!" "Aye!" of the responses. There was not a movement in the House; the people seemed to hold their breath. The voting ceased, and then there was an interval of dead silence while the clerk made up his count. There was a two-thirds vote on the University side--and two over. The Speaker--"The rules are suspended, the motion is carried--first reading of the bill!" By one impulse the galleries broke forth into stormy applause, and even some of the members of the House were not wholly able to restrain their feelings. The Speaker's gavel came to the rescue and his clear voice followed: "Order, gentlemen--! The House will come to order! If spectators offend again, the Sergeant-at-arms will clear the galleries!" Then he cast his eyes aloft and gazed at some object attentively for a moment. All eyes followed the direction of the Speaker's, and then there was a general titter. The Speaker said: "Let the Sergeant-at Arms inform the gentleman that his conduct is an infringement of the dignity of the House--and one which is not warranted by the state of the weather." Poor Sellers was the culprit. He sat in the front seat of the gallery, with his arms and his tired body overflowing the balustrade--sound asleep, dead to all excitements, all disturbances. The fluctuations of the Washington weather had influenced his dreams, perhaps, for during the recent tempest of applause he had hoisted his gingham umbrella, and calmly gone on with his slumbers. Washington Hawkins had seen the act, but was not near enough at hand to save his friend, and no one who was near enough desired to spoil the effect. But a neighbor stirred up the Colonel, now that the House had its eye upon him, and the great speculator furled his tent like the Arab. He said: "Bless my soul, I'm so absent-minded when I, get to thinking! I never wear an umbrella in the house--did anybody 'notice it'? What-asleep? Indeed? And did you wake me sir? Thank you--thank you very much indeed. It might have fallen out of my hands and been injured. Admirable article, sir--present from a friend in Hong Kong; one doesn't come across silk like that in this country--it's the real--Young Hyson, I'm told." By this time the incident was forgotten, for the House was at war again. Victory was almost in sight, now, and the friends of the bill threw themselves into their work with enthusiasm. They soon moved and carried its second reading, and after a strong, sharp fight, carried a motion to go into Committee of the whole. The Speaker left his place, of course, and a chairman was appointed. Now the contest raged hotter than ever--for the authority that compels order when the House sits as a House, is greatly diminished when it sits as Committee. The main fight came upon the filling of the blanks with the sum to be appropriated for the purchase of the land, of course. Buckstone--"Mr. Chairman, I move you, sir, that the words 'three millions of' be inserted." Mr. Hadley--"Mr. Chairman, I move that the words two and a half dollars be inserted." Mr. Clawson--"Mr. Chairman, I move the insertion of the words five and twenty cents, as representing the true value of this barren and isolated tract of desolation." The question, according to rule, was taken upon the smallest sum first. It was lost. Then upon the nest smallest sum. Lost, also. And then upon the three millions. After a vigorous battle that lasted a considerable time, this motion was carried. Then, clause by clause the bill was read, discussed, and amended in trifling particulars, and now the Committee rose and reported. The moment the House had resumed its functions and received the report, Mr. Buckstone moved and carried the third reading of the bill. The same bitter war over the sum to be paid was fought over again, and now that the ayes and nays could be called and placed on record, every man was compelled to vote by name on the three millions, and indeed on every paragraph of the bill from the enacting clause straight through. But as before, the friends of the measure stood firm and voted in a solid body every time, and so did its enemies. The supreme moment was come, now, but so sure was the result that not even a voice was raised to interpose an adjournment. The enemy were totally demoralized. The bill was put upon its final passage almost without dissent, and the calling of the ayes and nays began. When it was ended the triumph was complete--the two-thirds vote held good, and a veto was impossible, as far as the House was concerned! Mr. Buckstone resolved that now that the nail was driven home, he would clinch it on the other side and make it stay forever. He moved a reconsideration of the vote by which the bill had passed. The motion was lost, of course, and the great Industrial University act was an accomplished fact as far as it was in the power of the House of Representatives to make it so. There was no need to move an adjournment. The instant the last motion was decided, the enemies of the University rose and flocked out of the Hall, talking angrily, and its friends flocked after them jubilant and congratulatory. The galleries disgorged their burden, and presently the house was silent and deserted. When Col. Sellers and Washington stepped out of the building they were surprised to find that the daylight was old and the sun well up. Said the Colonel: "Give me your hand, my boy! You're all right at last! You're a millionaire! At least you're going to be. The thing is dead sure. Don't you bother about the Senate. Leave me and Dilworthy to take care of that. Run along home, now, and tell Laura. Lord, it's magnificent news--perfectly magnificent! Run, now. I'll telegraph my wife. She must come here and help me build a house. Everything's all right now!" Washington was so dazed by his good fortune and so bewildered by the gaudy pageant of dreams that was already trailing its long ranks through his brain, that he wandered he knew not where, and so loitered by the way that when at last he reached home he woke to a sudden annoyance in the fact that his news must be old to Laura, now, for of course Senator Dilworthy must have already been home and told her an hour before. He knocked at her door, but there was no answer. "That is like the Duchess," said he. "Always cool; a body can't excite her-can't keep her excited, anyway. Now she has gone off to sleep again, as comfortably as if she were used to picking up a million dollars every day or two" Then he vent to bed. But he could not sleep; so he got up and wrote a long, rapturous letter to Louise, and another to his mother. And he closed both to much the same effect: "Laura will be queen of America, now, and she will be applauded, and honored and petted by the whole nation. Her name will be in every one's mouth more than ever, and how they will court her and quote her bright speeches. And mine, too, I suppose; though they do that more already, than they really seem to deserve. Oh, the world is so bright, now, and so cheery; the clouds are all gone, our long struggle is ended, our, troubles are all over. Nothing can ever make us unhappy any more. You dear faithful ones will have the reward of your patient waiting now. How father's Wisdom is proven at last! And how I repent me, that there have been times when I lost faith and said, the blessing he stored up for us a tedious generation ago was but a long-drawn curse, a blight upon us all. But everything is well, now--we are done with poverty, sad toil, weariness and heart-break; all the world is filled with sunshine." 
5821	----	THE GILDED AGE A Tale of Today by Mark Twain and Charles Dudley Warner 1873 Part 4. CHAPTER XXVIII. Whatever may have been the language of Harry's letter to the Colonel, the information it conveyed was condensed or expanded, one or the other, from the following episode of his visit to New York: He called, with official importance in his mien, at No.-- Wall street, where a great gilt sign betokened the presence of the head-quarters of the "Columbus River Slack-Water Navigation Company." He entered and gave a dressy porter his card, and was requested to wait a moment in a sort of ante-room. The porter returned in a minute; and asked whom he would like to see? "The president of the company, of course." "He is busy with some gentlemen, sir; says he will be done with them directly." That a copper-plate card with "Engineer-in-Chief" on it should be received with such tranquility as this, annoyed Mr. Brierly not a little. But he had to submit. Indeed his annoyance had time to augment a good deal; for he was allowed to cool his heels a frill half hour in the ante-room before those gentlemen emerged and he was ushered into the presence. He found a stately dignitary occupying a very official chair behind a long green morocco-covered table, in a room with sumptuously carpeted and furnished, and well garnished with pictures. "Good morning, sir; take a seat--take a seat." "Thank you sir," said Harry, throwing as much chill into his manner as his ruffled dignity prompted. "We perceive by your reports and the reports of the Chief Superintendent, that you have been making gratifying progress with the work.--We are all very much pleased." "Indeed? We did not discover it from your letters--which we have not received; nor by the treatment our drafts have met with--which were not honored; nor by the reception of any part of the appropriation, no part of it having come to hand." "Why, my dear Mr. Brierly, there must be some mistake, I am sure we wrote you and also Mr. Sellers, recently--when my clerk comes he will show copies--letters informing you of the ten per cent. assessment." "Oh, certainly, we got those letters. But what we wanted was money to carry on the work--money to pay the men." "Certainly, certainly--true enough--but we credited you both for a large part of your assessments--I am sure that was in our letters." "Of course that was in--I remember that." "Ah, very well then. Now we begin to understand each other." "Well, I don't see that we do. There's two months' wages due the men, and----" "How? Haven't you paid the men?" "Paid them! How are we going to pay them when you don't honor our drafts?" "Why, my dear sir, I cannot see how you can find any fault with us. I am sure we have acted in a perfectly straight forward business way.--Now let us look at the thing a moment. You subscribed for 100 shares of the capital stock, at $1,000 a share, I believe?" "Yes, sir, I did." "And Mr. Sellers took a like amount?" "Yes, sir." "Very well. No concern can get along without money. We levied a ten per cent. assessment. It was the original understanding that you and Mr. Sellers were to have the positions you now hold, with salaries of $600 a month each, while in active service. You were duly elected to these places, and you accepted them. Am I right?" "Certainly." "Very well. You were given your instructions and put to work. By your reports it appears that you have expended the sum of $9,610 upon the said work. Two months salary to you two officers amounts altogether to $2,400--about one-eighth of your ten per cent. assessment, you see; which leaves you in debt to the company for the other seven-eighths of the assessment--viz, something over $8,000 apiece. Now instead of requiring you to forward this aggregate of $16,000 or $17,000 to New York, the company voted unanimously to let you pay it over to the contractors, laborers from time to time, and give you credit on the books for it. And they did it without a murmur, too, for they were pleased with the progress you had made, and were glad to pay you that little compliment --and a very neat one it was, too, I am sure. The work you did fell short of $10,000, a trifle. Let me see--$9,640 from $20,000 salary $2;400 added--ah yes, the balance due the company from yourself and Mr. Sellers is $7,960, which I will take the responsibility of allowing to stand for the present, unless you prefer to draw a check now, and thus----" "Confound it, do you mean to say that instead of the company owing us $2,400, we owe the company $7,960?" "Well, yes." "And that we owe the men and the contractors nearly ten thousand dollars besides?" "Owe them! Oh bless my soul, you can't mean that you have not paid these people?" "But I do mean it!" The president rose and walked the floor like a man in bodily pain. His brows contracted, he put his hand up and clasped his forehead, and kept saying, "Oh, it is, too bad, too bad, too bad! Oh, it is bound to be found out--nothing can prevent it--nothing!" Then he threw himself into his chair and said: "My dear Mr. Brierson, this is dreadful--perfectly dreadful. It will be found out. It is bound to tarnish the good name of the company; our credit will be seriously, most seriously impaired. How could you be so thoughtless--the men ought to have been paid though it beggared us all!" "They ought, ought they? Then why the devil--my name is not Bryerson, by the way--why the mischief didn't the compa--why what in the nation ever became of the appropriation? Where is that appropriation?--if a stockholder may make so bold as to ask." The appropriation?--that paltry $200,000, do you mean?" "Of course--but I didn't know that $200,000 was so very paltry. Though I grant, of course, that it is not a large sum, strictly speaking. But where is it?" "My dear sir, you surprise me. You surely cannot have had a large acquaintance with this sort of thing. Otherwise you would not have expected much of a result from a mere INITIAL appropriation like that. It was never intended for anything but a mere nest egg for the future and real appropriations to cluster around." "Indeed? Well, was it a myth, or was it a reality? Whatever become of it?" "Why the--matter is simple enough. A Congressional appropriation costs money. Just reflect, for instance--a majority of the House Committee, say $10,000 apiece--$40,000; a majority of the Senate Committee, the same each--say $40,000; a little extra to one or two chairman of one or two such committees, say $10,000 each--$20,000; and there's $100,000 of the money gone, to begin with. Then, seven male lobbyists, at $3,000 each --$21,000; one female lobbyist, $10,000; a high moral Congressman or Senator here and there--the high moral ones cost more, because they. give tone to a measure--say ten of these at $3,000 each, is $30,000; then a lot of small-fry country members who won't vote for anything whatever without pay--say twenty at $500 apiece, is $10,000; a lot of dinners to members--say $10,000 altogether; lot of jimcracks for Congressmen's wives and children--those go a long way--you can't sped too much money in that line--well, those things cost in a lump, say $10,000--along there somewhere; and then comes your printed documents--your maps, your tinted engravings, your pamphlets, your illuminated show cards, your advertisements in a hundred and fifty papers at ever so much a line --because you've got to keep the papers all light or you are gone up, you know. Oh, my dear sir, printing bills are destruction itself. Ours so far amount to--let me see--10; 52; 22; 13;--and then there's 11; 14; 33 --well, never mind the details, the total in clean numbers foots up $118,254.42 thus far!" "What!" "Oh, yes indeed. Printing's no bagatelle, I can tell you. And then there's your contributions, as a company, to Chicago fires and Boston fires, and orphan asylums and all that sort of thing--head the list, you see, with the company's full name and a thousand dollars set opposite --great card, sir--one of the finest advertisements in the world--the preachers mention it in the pulpit when it's a religious charity--one of the happiest advertisements in the world is your benevolent donation. Ours have amounted to sixteen thousand dollars and some cents up to this time." "Good heavens!" "Oh, yes. Perhaps the biggest thing we've done in the advertising line was to get an officer of the U. S. government, of perfectly Himmalayan official altitude, to write up our little internal improvement for a religious paper of enormous circulation--I tell you that makes our bonds go handsomely among the pious poor. Your religious paper is by far the best vehicle for a thing of this kind, because they'll 'lead' your article and put it right in the midst of the reading matter; and if it's got a few Scripture quotations in it, and some temperance platitudes and a bit of gush here and there about Sunday Schools, and a sentimental snuffle now and then about 'God's precious ones, the honest hard-handed poor,' it works the nation like a charm, my dear sir, and never a man suspects that it is an advertisement; but your secular paper sticks you right into the advertising columns and of course you don't take a trick. Give me a religious paper to advertise in, every time; and if you'll just look at their advertising pages, you'll observe that other people think a good deal as I do--especially people who have got little financial schemes to make everybody rich with. Of course I mean your great big metropolitan religious papers that know how to serve God and make money at the same time--that's your sort, sir, that's your sort--a religious paper that isn't run to make money is no use to us, sir, as an advertising medium--no use to anybody--in our line of business. I guess our next best dodge was sending a pleasure trip of newspaper reporters out to Napoleon. Never paid them a cent; just filled them up with champagne and the fat of the land, put pen, ink and paper before them while they were red-hot, and bless your soul when you come to read their letters you'd have supposed they'd been to heaven. And if a sentimental squeamishness held one or two of them back from taking a less rosy view of Napoleon, our hospitalities tied his tongue, at least, and he said nothing at all and so did us no harm. Let me see--have I stated all the expenses I've been at? No, I was near forgetting one or two items. There's your official salaries--you can't get good men for nothing. Salaries cost pretty lively. And then there's your big high-sounding millionaire names stuck into your advertisements as stockholders--another card, that--and they are stockholders, too, but you have to give them the stock and non-assessable at that--so they're an expensive lot. Very, very expensive thing, take it all around, is a big internal improvement concern--but you see that yourself, Mr. Bryerman--you see that, yourself, sir." "But look here. I think you are a little mistaken about it's ever having cost anything for Congressional votes. I happen to know something about that. I've let you say your say--now let me say mine. I don't wish to seem to throw any suspicion on anybody's statements, because we are all liable to be mistaken. But how would it strike you if I were to say that I was in Washington all the time this bill was pending? and what if I added that I put the measure through myself? Yes, sir, I did that little thing. And moreover, I never paid a dollar for any man's vote and never promised one. There are some ways of doing a thing that are as good as others which other people don't happen to think about, or don't have the knack of succeeding in, if they do happen to think of them. My dear sir, I am obliged to knock some of your expenses in the head--for never a cent was paid a Congressman or Senator on the part of this Navigation Company." The president smiled blandly, even sweetly, all through this harangue, and then said: "Is that so?" "Every word of it." "Well it does seem to alter the complexion of things a little. You are acquainted with the members down there, of course, else you could not have worked to such advantage?" "I know them all, sir. I know their wives, their children, their babies --I even made it a point to be on good terms with their lackeys. I know every Congressman well--even familiarly." "Very good. Do you know any of their signatures? Do you know their handwriting?" "Why I know their handwriting as well as I know my own--have had correspondence enough with them, I should think. And their signatures --why I can tell their initials, even." The president went to a private safe, unlocked it and got out some letters and certain slips of paper. Then he said: "Now here, for instance; do you believe that that is a genuine letter? Do you know this signature here?--and this one? Do you know who those initials represent--and are they forgeries?" Harry was stupefied. There were things there that made his brain swim. Presently, at the bottom of one of the letters he saw a signature that restored his equilibrium; it even brought the sunshine of a smile to his face. The president said: "That one amuses you. You never suspected him?" "Of course I ought to have suspected him, but I don't believe it ever really occurred to me. Well, well, well--how did you ever have the nerve to approach him, of all others?" "Why my friend, we never think of accomplishing anything without his help. He is our mainstay. But how do those letters strike you?" "They strike me dumb! What a stone-blind idiot I have been!" "Well, take it all around, I suppose you had a pleasant time in Washington," said the president, gathering up the letters; "of course you must have had. Very few men could go there and get a money bill through without buying a single" "Come, now, Mr. President, that's plenty of that! I take back everything I said on that head. I'm a wiser man to-day than I was yesterday, I can tell you." "I think you are. In fact I am satisfied you are. But now I showed you these things in confidence, you understand. Mention facts as much as you want to, but don't mention names to anybody. I can depend on you for that, can't I?" "Oh, of course. I understand the necessity of that. I will not betray the names. But to go back a bit, it begins to look as if you never saw any of that appropriation at all?" "We saw nearly ten thousand dollars of it--and that was all. Several of us took turns at log-rolling in Washington, and if we had charged anything for that service, none of that $10,000 would ever have reached New York." "If you hadn't levied the assessment you would have been in a close place I judge?" "Close? Have you figured up the total of the disbursements I told you of?" "No, I didn't think of that." "Well, lets see: Spent in Washington, say, ........... $191,000 Printing, advertising, etc., say .... $118,000 Charity, say, ....................... $16,000 Total, ............... $325,000 The money to do that with, comes from --Appropriation, ...................... $200,000 Ten per cent. assessment on capital of $1,000,000 ..................... $100,000 Total, ............... $300,000 "Which leaves us in debt some $25,000 at this moment. Salaries of home officers are still going on; also printing and advertising. Next month will show a state of things!" "And then--burst up, I suppose?" "By no means. Levy another assessment" "Oh, I see. That's dismal." "By no means." "Why isn't it? What's the road out?" "Another appropriation, don't you see?" "Bother the appropriations. They cost more than they come to." "Not the next one. We'll call for half a million--get it and go for a million the very next month."--"Yes, but the cost of it!" The president smiled, and patted his secret letters affectionately. He said: "All these people are in the next Congress. We shan't have to pay them a cent. And what is more, they will work like beavers for us--perhaps it might be to their advantage." Harry reflected profoundly a while. Then he said: "We send many missionaries to lift up the benighted races of other lands. How much cheaper and better it would be if those people could only come here and drink of our civilization at its fountain head." "I perfectly agree with you, Mr. Beverly. Must you go? Well, good morning. Look in, when you are passing; and whenever I can give you any information about our affairs and pro'spects, I shall be glad to do it." Harry's letter was not a long one, but it contained at least the calamitous figures that came out in the above conversation. The Colonel found himself in a rather uncomfortable place--no $1,200 salary forthcoming; and himself held responsible for half of the $9,640 due the workmen, to say nothing of being in debt to the company to the extent of nearly $4,000. Polly's heart was nearly broken; the "blues" returned in fearful force, and she had to go out of the room to hide the tears that nothing could keep back now. There was mourning in another quarter, too, for Louise had a letter. Washington had refused, at the last moment, to take $40,000 for the Tennessee Land, and had demanded $150,000! So the trade fell through, and now Washington was wailing because he had been so foolish. But he wrote that his man might probably return to the city soon, and then he meant to sell to him, sure, even if he had to take $10,000. Louise had a good cry-several of them, indeed--and the family charitably forebore to make any comments that would increase her grief. Spring blossomed, summer came, dragged its hot weeks by, and the Colonel's spirits rose, day by day, for the railroad was making good progress. But by and by something happened. Hawkeye had always declined to subscribe anything toward the railway, imagining that her large business would be a sufficient compulsory influence; but now Hawkeye was frightened; and before Col. Sellers knew what he was about, Hawkeye, in a panic, had rushed to the front and subscribed such a sum that Napoleon's attractions suddenly sank into insignificance and the railroad concluded to follow a comparatively straight coarse instead of going miles out of its way to build up a metropolis in the muddy desert of Stone's Landing. The thunderbolt fell. After all the Colonel's deep planning; after all his brain work and tongue work in drawing public attention to his pet project and enlisting interest in it; after all his faithful hard toil with his hands, and running hither and thither on his busy feet; after all his high hopes and splendid prophecies, the fates had turned their backs on him at last, and all in a moment his air-castles crumbled to ruins abort him. Hawkeye rose from her fright triumphant and rejoicing, and down went Stone's Landing! One by one its meagre parcel of inhabitants packed up and moved away, as the summer waned and fall approached. Town lots were no longer salable, traffic ceased, a deadly lethargy fell upon the place once more, the "Weekly Telegraph" faded into an early grave, the wary tadpole returned from exile, the bullfrog resumed his ancient song, the tranquil turtle sunned his back upon bank and log and drowsed his grateful life away as in the old sweet days of yore. CHAPTER XXIX. Philip Sterling was on his way to Ilium, in the state of Pennsylvania. Ilium was the railway station nearest to the tract of wild land which Mr. Bolton had commissioned him to examine. On the last day of the journey as the railway train Philip was on was leaving a large city, a lady timidly entered the drawing-room car, and hesitatingly took a chair that was at the moment unoccupied. Philip saw from the window that a gentleman had put her upon the car just as it was starting. In a few moments the conductor entered, and without waiting an explanation, said roughly to the lady, "Now you can't sit there. That seat's taken. Go into the other car." "I did not intend to take the seat," said the lady rising, "I only sat down a moment till the conductor should come and give me a seat." "There aint any. Car's full. You'll have to leave." "But, sir," said the lady, appealingly, "I thought--" "Can't help what you thought--you must go into the other car." "The train is going very fast, let me stand here till we stop." "The lady can have my seat," cried Philip, springing up. The conductor turned towards Philip, and coolly and deliberately surveyed him from head to foot, with contempt in every line of his face, turned his back upon him without a word, and said to the lady, "Come, I've got no time to talk. You must go now." The lady, entirely disconcerted by such rudeness, and frightened, moved towards the door, opened it and stepped out. The train was swinging along at a rapid rate, jarring from side to side; the step was a long one between the cars and there was no protecting grating. The lady attempted it, but lost her balance, in the wind and the motion of the car, and fell! She would inevitably have gone down under the wheels, if Philip, who had swiftly followed her, had not caught her arm and drawn her up. He then assisted her across, found her a seat, received her bewildered thanks, and returned to his car. The conductor was still there, taking his tickets, and growling something about imposition. Philip marched up to him, and burst out with, "You are a brute, an infernal brute, to treat a woman that way." "Perhaps you'd like to make a fuss about it," sneered the conductor. Philip's reply was a blow, given so suddenly and planted so squarely in the conductor's face, that it sent him reeling over a fat passenger, who was looking up in mild wonder that any one should dare to dispute with a conductor, and against the side of the car. He recovered himself, reached the bell rope, "Damn you, I'll learn you," stepped to the door and called a couple of brakemen, and then, as the speed slackened; roared out, "Get off this train." "I shall not get off. I have as much right here as you." "We'll see," said the conductor, advancing with the brakemen. The passengers protested, and some of them said to each other, "That's too bad," as they always do in such cases, but none of them offered to take a hand with Philip. The men seized him, wrenched him from his seat, dragged him along the aisle, tearing his clothes, thrust him from the car, and, then flung his carpet-bag, overcoat and umbrella after him. And the train went on. The conductor, red in the face and puffing from his exertion, swaggered through the car, muttering "Puppy, I'll learn him." The passengers, when he had gone, were loud in their indignation, and talked about signing a protest, but they did nothing more than talk. The next morning the Hooverville Patriot and Clarion had this "item":-- SLIGHTUALLY OVERBOARD. "We learn that as the down noon express was leaving H---- yesterday a lady! (God save the mark) attempted to force herself into the already full palatial car. Conductor Slum, who is too old a bird to be caught with chaff, courteously informed her that the car was full, and when she insisted on remaining, he persuaded her to go into the car where she belonged. Thereupon a young sprig, from the East, blustered like a Shanghai rooster, and began to sass the conductor with his chin music. That gentleman delivered the young aspirant for a muss one of his elegant little left-handers, which so astonished him that he began to feel for his shooter. Whereupon Mr. Slum gently raised the youth, carried him forth, and set him down just outside the car to cool off. Whether the young blood has yet made his way out of Bascom's swamp, we have not learned. Conductor Slum is one of the most gentlemanly and efficient officers on the road; but he ain't trifled with, not much. We learn that the company have put a new engine on the seven o'clock train, and newly upholstered the drawing-room car throughout. It spares no effort for the comfort of the traveling public." Philip never had been before in Bascom's swamp, and there was nothing inviting in it to detain him. After the train got out of the way he crawled out of the briars and the mud, and got upon the track. He was somewhat bruised, but he was too angry to mind that. He plodded along over the ties in a very hot condition of mind and body. In the scuffle, his railway check had disappeared, and he grimly wondered, as he noticed the loss, if the company would permit him to walk over their track if they should know he hadn't a ticket. Philip had to walk some five miles before he reached a little station, where he could wait for a train, and he had ample time for reflection. At first he was full of vengeance on the company. He would sue it. He would make it pay roundly. But then it occurred to him that he did not know the name of a witness he could summon, and that a personal fight against a railway corporation was about the most hopeless in the world. He then thought he would seek out that conductor, lie in wait for him at some station, and thrash him, or get thrashed himself. But as he got cooler, that did not seem to him a project worthy of a gentleman exactly. Was it possible for a gentleman to get even with such a fellow as that conductor on the letter's own plane? And when he came to this point, he began to ask himself, if he had not acted very much like a fool. He didn't regret striking the fellow--he hoped he had left a mark on him. But, after all, was that the best way? Here was he, Philip Sterling, calling himself a gentleman, in a brawl with a vulgar conductor, about a woman he had never seen before. Why should he have put himself in such a ridiculous position? Wasn't it enough to have offered the lady his seat, to have rescued her from an accident, perhaps from death? Suppose he had simply said to the conductor, "Sir, your conduct is brutal, I shall report you." The passengers, who saw the affair, might have joined in a report against the conductor, and he might really have accomplished something. And, now! Philip looked at leis torn clothes, and thought with disgust of his haste in getting into a fight with such an autocrat. At the little station where Philip waited for the next train, he met a man--who turned out to be a justice of the peace in that neighborhood, and told him his adventure. He was a kindly sort of man, and seemed very much interested. "Dum 'em," said he, when he had heard the story. "Do you think any thing can be done, sir?" "Wal, I guess tain't no use. I hain't a mite of doubt of every word you say. But suin's no use. The railroad company owns all these people along here, and the judges on the bench too. Spiled your clothes! Wal, 'least said's soonest mended.' You haint no chance with the company." When next morning, he read the humorous account in the Patriot and Clarion, he saw still more clearly what chance he would have had before the public in a fight with the railroad company. Still Philip's conscience told him that it was his plain duty to carry the matter into the courts, even with the certainty of defeat. He confessed that neither he nor any citizen had a right to consult his own feelings or conscience in a case where a law of the land had been violated before his own eyes. He confessed that every citizen's first duty in such case is to put aside his own business and devote his time and his best efforts to seeing that the infraction is promptly punished; and he knew that no country can be well governed unless its citizens as a body keep religiously before their minds that they are the guardians of the law, and that the law officers are only the machinery for its execution, nothing more. As a finality he was obliged to confess that he was a bad citizen, and also that the general laxity of the time, and the absence of a sense of duty toward any part of the community but the individual himself were ingrained in him, am he was no better than the rest of the people. The result of this little adventure was that Philip did not reach Ilium till daylight the next morning, when he descended sleepy and sore, from a way train, and looked about him. Ilium was in a narrow mountain gorge, through which a rapid stream ran. It consisted of the plank platform on which he stood, a wooden house, half painted, with a dirty piazza (unroofed) in front, and a sign board hung on a slanting pole--bearing the legend, "Hotel. P. Dusenheimer," a sawmill further down the stream, a blacksmith-shop, and a store, and three or four unpainted dwellings of the slab variety. As Philip approached the hotel he saw what appeared to be a wild beast crouching on the piazza. It did not stir, however, and he soon found that it was only a stuffed skin. This cheerful invitation to the tavern was the remains of a huge panther which had been killed in the region a few weeks before. Philip examined his ugly visage and strong crooked fore-arm, as he was waiting admittance, having pounded upon the door. "Yait a bit. I'll shoost--put on my trowsers," shouted a voice from the window, and the door was soon opened by the yawning landlord. "Morgen! Didn't hear d' drain oncet. Dem boys geeps me up zo spate. Gom right in." Philip was shown into a dirty bar-room. It was a small room, with a stove in the middle, set in a long shallow box of sand, for the benefit of the "spitters," a bar across one end--a mere counter with a sliding glass-case behind it containing a few bottles having ambitious labels, and a wash-sink in one corner. On the walls were the bright yellow and black handbills of a traveling circus, with pictures of acrobats in human pyramids, horses flying in long leaps through the air, and sylph-like women in a paradisaic costume, balancing themselves upon the tips of their toes on the bare backs of frantic and plunging steeds, and kissing their hands to the spectators meanwhile. As Philip did not desire a room at that hour, he was invited to wash himself at the nasty sink, a feat somewhat easier than drying his face, for the towel that hung in a roller over the sink was evidently as much a fixture as the sink itself, and belonged, like the suspended brush and comb, to the traveling public. Philip managed to complete his toilet by the use of his pocket-handkerchief, and declining the hospitality of the landlord, implied in the remark, "You won'd dake notin'?" he went into the open air to wait for breakfast. The country he saw was wild but not picturesque. The mountain before him might be eight hundred feet high, and was only a portion of a long unbroken range, savagely wooded, which followed the stream. Behind the hotel, and across the brawling brook, was another level-topped, wooded range exactly like it. Ilium itself, seen at a glance, was old enough to be dilapidated, and if it had gained anything by being made a wood and water station of the new railroad, it was only a new sort of grime and rawness. P. Dusenheimer, standing in the door of his uninviting groggery, when the trains stopped for water; never received from the traveling public any patronage except facetious remarks upon his personal appearance. Perhaps a thousand times he had heard the remark, "Ilium fuit," followed in most instances by a hail to himself as "AEneas," with the inquiry "Where is old Anchises?" At first he had replied, "Dere ain't no such man;" but irritated by its senseless repetition, he had latterly dropped into the formula of, "You be dam." Philip was recalled from the contemplation of Ilium by the rolling and growling of the gong within the hotel, the din and clamor increasing till the house was apparently unable to contain it; when it burst out of the front door and informed the world that breakfast was on the table. The dining room was long, low and narrow, and a narrow table extended its whole length. Upon this was spread a cloth which from appearance might have been as long in use as the towel in the barroom. Upon the table was the usual service, the heavy, much nicked stone ware, the row of plated and rusty castors, the sugar bowls with the zinc tea-spoons sticking up in them, the piles of yellow biscuits, the discouraged-looking plates of butter. The landlord waited, and Philip was pleased to observe the change in his manner. In the barroom he was the conciliatory landlord. Standing behind his guests at table, he had an air of peremptory patronage, and the voice in which he shot out the inquiry, as he seized Philip's plate, "Beefsteak or liver?" quite took away Philip's power of choice. He begged for a glass of milk, after trying that green hued compound called coffee, and made his breakfast out of that and some hard crackers which seemed to have been imported into Ilium before the introduction of the iron horse, and to have withstood a ten years siege of regular boarders, Greeks and others. The land that Philip had come to look at was at least five miles distant from Ilium station. A corner of it touched the railroad, but the rest was pretty much an unbroken wilderness, eight or ten thousand acres of rough country, most of it such a mountain range as he saw at Ilium. His first step was to hire three woodsmen to accompany him. By their help he built a log hut, and established a camp on the land, and then began his explorations, mapping down his survey as he went along, noting the timber, and the lay of the land, and making superficial observations as to the prospect of coal. The landlord at Ilium endeavored to persuade Philip to hire the services of a witch-hazel professor of that region, who could walk over the land with his wand and tell him infallibly whether it contained coal, and exactly where the strata ran. But Philip preferred to trust to his own study of the country, and his knowledge of the geological formation. He spent a month in traveling over the land and making calculations; and made up his mind that a fine vein of coal ran through the mountain about a mile from the railroad, and that the place to run in a tunnel was half way towards its summit. Acting with his usual promptness, Philip, with the consent of Mr. Bolton, broke ground there at once, and, before snow came, had some rude buildings up, and was ready for active operations in the spring. It was true that there were no outcroppings of coal at the place, and the people at Ilium said he "mought as well dig for plug terbaccer there;" but Philip had great faith in the uniformity of nature's operations in ages past, and he had no doubt that he should strike at this spot the rich vein that had made the fortune of the Golden Briar Company. CHAPTER XXX. Once more Louise had good news from her Washington--Senator Dilworthy was going to sell the Tennessee Land to the government! Louise told Laura in confidence. She had told her parents, too, and also several bosom friends; but all of these people had simply looked sad when they heard the news, except Laura. Laura's face suddenly brightened under it--only for an instant, it is true, but poor Louise was grateful for even that fleeting ray of encouragement. When next Laura was alone, she fell into a train of thought something like this: "If the Senator has really taken hold of this matter, I may look for that invitation to his house at, any moment. I am perishing to go! I do long to know whether I am only simply a large-sized pigmy among these pigmies here, who tumble over so easily when one strikes them, or whether I am really--." Her thoughts drifted into other channels, for a season. Then she continued:-- "He said I could be useful in the great cause of philanthropy, and help in the blessed work of uplifting the poor and the ignorant, if he found it feasible to take hold of our Land. Well, that is neither here nor there; what I want, is to go to Washington and find out what I am. I want money, too; and if one may judge by what she hears, there are chances there for a--." For a fascinating woman, she was going to say, perhaps, but she did not. Along in the fall the invitation came, sure enough. It came officially through brother Washington, the private Secretary, who appended a postscript that was brimming with delight over the prospect of seeing the Duchess again. He said it would be happiness enough to look upon her face once more--it would be almost too much happiness when to it was added the fact that she would bring messages with her that were fresh from Louise's lips. In Washington's letter were several important enclosures. For instance, there was the Senator's check for $2,000--"to buy suitable clothing in New York with!" It was a loan to be refunded when the Land was sold. Two thousand--this was fine indeed. Louise's father was called rich, but Laura doubted if Louise had ever had $400 worth of new clothing at one time in her life. With the check came two through tickets--good on the railroad from Hawkeye to Washington via New York--and they were "dead-head" tickets, too, which had been given to Senator Dilworthy by the railway companies. Senators and representatives were paid thousands of dollars by the government for traveling expenses, but they always traveled "deadhead" both ways, and then did as any honorable, high-minded men would naturally do--declined to receive the mileage tendered them by the government. The Senator had plenty of railway passes, and could. easily spare two to Laura--one for herself and one for a male escort. Washington suggested that she get some old friend of the family to come with her, and said the Senator would "deadhead" him home again as soon as he had grown tired, of the sights of the capital. Laura thought the thing over. At first she was pleased with the idea, but presently she began to feel differently about it. Finally she said, "No, our staid, steady-going Hawkeye friends' notions and mine differ about some things --they respect me, now, and I respect them--better leave it so--I will go alone; I am not afraid to travel by myself." And so communing with herself, she left the house for an afternoon walk. Almost at the door she met Col. Sellers. She told him about her invitation to Washington. "Bless me!" said the Colonel. "I have about made up my mind to go there myself. You see we've got to get another appropriation through, and the Company want me to come east and put it through Congress. Harry's there, and he'll do what he can, of course; and Harry's a good fellow and always does the very best he knows how, but then he's young--rather young for some parts of such work, you know--and besides he talks too much, talks a good deal too much; and sometimes he appears to be a little bit visionary, too, I think the worst thing in the world for a business man. A man like that always exposes his cards, sooner or later. This sort of thing wants an old, quiet, steady hand--wants an old cool head, you know, that knows men, through and through, and is used to large operations. I'm expecting my salary, and also some dividends from the company, and if they get along in time, I'll go along with you Laura--take you under my wing--you mustn't travel alone. Lord I wish I had the money right now. --But there'll be plenty soon--plenty." Laura reasoned with herself that if the kindly, simple-hearted Colonel was going anyhow, what could she gain by traveling alone and throwing away his company? So she told him she accepted his offer gladly, gratefully. She said it would be the greatest of favors if he would go with her and protect her--not at his own expense as far as railway fares were concerned, of course; she could not expect him to put himself to so much trouble for her and pay his fare besides. But he wouldn't hear of her paying his fare--it would be only a pleasure to him to serve her. Laura insisted on furnishing the tickets; and finally, when argument failed, she said the tickets cost neither her nor any one else a cent --she had two of them--she needed but one--and if he would not take the other she would not go with him. That settled the matter. He took the ticket. Laura was glad that she had the check for new clothing, for she felt very certain of being able to get the Colonel to borrow a little of the money to pay hotel bills with, here and there. She wrote Washington to look for her and Col. Sellers toward the end of November; and at about the time set the two travelers arrived safe in the capital of the nation, sure enough. CHAPTER XXXI She the, gracious lady, yet no paines did spare To doe him ease, or doe him remedy: Many restoratives of vertues rare And costly cordialles she did apply, To mitigate his stubborne malady. Spenser's Faerie Queens. Mr. Henry Brierly was exceedingly busy in New York, so he wrote Col. Sellers, but he would drop everything and go to Washington. The Colonel believed that Harry was the prince of lobbyists, a little too sanguine, may be, and given to speculation, but, then, he knew everybody; the Columbus River navigation scheme was, got through almost entirely by his aid. He was needed now to help through another scheme, a benevolent scheme in which Col. Sellers, through the Hawkinses, had a deep interest. "I don't care, you know," he wrote to Harry, "so much about the niggroes. But if the government will buy this land, it will set up the Hawkins family--make Laura an heiress--and I shouldn't wonder if Beriah Sellers would set up his carriage again. Dilworthy looks at it different, of course. He's all for philanthropy, for benefiting the colored race. There's old Balsam, was in the Interior--used to be the Rev. Orson Balsam of Iowa--he's made the riffle on the Injun; great Injun pacificator and land dealer. Balaam'a got the Injun to himself, and I suppose that Senator Dilworthy feels that there is nothing left him but the colored man. I do reckon he is the best friend the colored man has got in Washington." Though Harry was in a hurry to reach Washington, he stopped in Philadelphia; and prolonged his visit day after day, greatly to the detriment of his business both in New York and Washington. The society at the Bolton's might have been a valid excuse for neglecting business much more important than his. Philip was there; he was a partner with Mr. Bolton now in the new coal venture, concerning which there was much to be arranged in preparation for the Spring work, and Philip lingered week after week in the hospitable house. Alice was making a winter visit. Ruth only went to town twice a week to attend lectures, and the household was quite to Mr. Bolton's taste, for he liked the cheer of company and something going on evenings. Harry was cordially asked to bring his traveling-bag there, and he did not need urging to do so. Not even the thought of seeing Laura at the capital made him restless in the society of the two young ladies; two birds in hand are worth one in the bush certainly. Philip was at home--he sometimes wished he were not so much so. He felt that too much or not enough was taken for granted. Ruth had met him, when he first came, with a cordial frankness, and her manner continued entirely unrestrained. She neither sought his company nor avoided it, and this perfectly level treatment irritated him more than any other could have done. It was impossible to advance much in love-making with one who offered no obstacles, had no concealments and no embarrassments, and whom any approach to sentimentality would be quite likely to set into a fit of laughter. "Why, Phil," she would say, "what puts you in the dumps to day? You are as solemn as the upper bench in Meeting. I shall have to call Alice to raise your spirits; my presence seems to depress you." "It's not your presence, but your absence when you are present," began Philip, dolefully, with the idea that he was saying a rather deep thing. "But you won't understand me." "No, I confess I cannot. If you really are so low, as to think I am absent when I am present, it's a frightful case of aberration; I shall ask father to bring out Dr. Jackson. Does Alice appear to be present when she is absent?" "Alice has some human feeling, anyway. She cares for something besides musty books and dry bones. I think, Ruth, when I die," said Philip, intending to be very grim and sarcastic, "I'll leave you my skeleton. You might like that." "It might be more cheerful than you are at times," Ruth replied with a laugh. "But you mustn't do it without consulting Alice. She might not. like it." "I don't know why you should bring Alice up on every occasion. Do you think I am in love with her?" "Bless you, no. It never entered my head. Are you? The thought of Philip Sterling in love is too comical. I thought you were only in love with the Ilium coal mine, which you and father talk about half the time." This is a specimen of Philip's wooing. Confound the girl, he would say to himself, why does she never tease Harry and that young Shepley who comes here? How differently Alice treated him. She at least never mocked him, and it was a relief to talk with one who had some sympathy with him. And he did talk to her, by the hour, about Ruth. The blundering fellow poured all his doubts and anxieties into her ear, as if she had been the impassive occupant of one of those little wooden confessionals in the Cathedral on Logan Square. Has, a confessor, if she is young and pretty, any feeling? Does it mend the matter by calling her your sister? Philip called Alice his good sister, and talked to her about love and marriage, meaning Ruth, as if sisters could by no possibility have any personal concern in such things. Did Ruth ever speak of him? Did she think Ruth cared for him? Did Ruth care for anybody at Fallkill? Did she care for anything except her profession? And so on. Alice was loyal to Ruth, and if she knew anything she did not betray her friend. She did not, at any rate, give Philip too much encouragement. What woman, under the circumstances, would? "I can tell you one thing, Philip," she said, "if ever Ruth Bolton loves, it will be with her whole soul, in a depth of passion that will sweep everything before it and surprise even herself." A remark that did not much console Philip, who imagined that only some grand heroism could unlock the sweetness of such a heart; and Philip feared that he wasn't a hero. He did not know out of what materials a woman can construct a hero, when she is in the creative mood. Harry skipped into this society with his usual lightness and gaiety. His good nature was inexhaustible, and though he liked to relate his own exploits, he had a little tact in adapting himself to the tastes of his hearers. He was not long in finding out that Alice liked to hear about Philip, and Harry launched out into the career of his friend in the West, with a prodigality of invention that would have astonished the chief actor. He was the most generous fellow in the world, and picturesque conversation was the one thing in which he never was bankrupt. With Mr. Bolton he was the serious man of business, enjoying the confidence of many of the monied men in New York, whom Mr. Bolton knew, and engaged with them in railway schemes and government contracts. Philip, who had so long known Harry, never could make up his mind that Harry did not himself believe that he was a chief actor in all these large operations of which he talked so much. Harry did not neglect to endeavor to make himself agreeable to Mrs. Bolton, by paying great attention to the children, and by professing the warmest interest in the Friends' faith. It always seemed to him the most peaceful religion; he thought it must be much easier to live by an internal light than by a lot of outward rules; he had a dear Quaker aunt in Providence of whom Mrs. Bolton constantly reminded him. He insisted upon going with Mrs. Bolton and the children to the Friends Meeting on First Day, when Ruth and Alice and Philip, "world's people," went to a church in town, and he sat through the hour of silence with his hat on, in most exemplary patience. In short, this amazing actor succeeded so well with Mrs. Bolton, that she said to Philip one day, "Thy friend, Henry Brierly, appears to be a very worldly minded young man. Does he believe in anything?" "Oh, yes," said Philip laughing, "he believes in more things than any other person I ever saw." To Ruth, Harry seemed to be very congenial. He was never moody for one thing, but lent himself with alacrity to whatever her fancy was. He was gay or grave as the need might be. No one apparently could enter more fully into her plans for an independent career. "My father," said Harry, "was bred a physician, and practiced a little before he went into Wall street. I always had a leaning to the study. There was a skeleton hanging in the closet of my father's study when I was a boy, that I used to dress up in old clothes. Oh, I got quite familiar with the human frame." "You must have," said Philip. "Was that where you learned to play the bones? He is a master of those musical instruments, Ruth; he plays well enough to go on the stage." "Philip hates science of any kind, and steady application," retorted Harry. He didn't fancy Philip's banter, and when the latter had gone out, and Ruth asked, "Why don't you take up medicine, Mr. Brierly?" Harry said, "I have it in mind. I believe I would begin attending lectures this winter if it weren't for being wanted in Washington. But medicine is particularly women's province." "Why so?" asked Ruth, rather amused. "Well, the treatment of disease is a good deal a matter of sympathy. A woman's intuition is better than a man's. Nobody knows anything, really, you know, and a woman can guess a good deal nearer than a man." "You are very complimentary to my sex." "But," said Harry frankly; "I should want to choose my doctor; an ugly woman would ruin me, the disease would be sure to strike in and kill me at sight of her. I think a pretty physician, with engaging manners, would coax a fellow to live through almost anything." "I am afraid you are a scoffer, Mr. Brierly." "On the contrary, I am quite sincere. Wasn't it old what's his name? that said only the beautiful is useful?" Whether Ruth was anything more than diverted with Harry's company; Philip could not determine. He scorned at any rate to advance his own interest by any disparaging communications about Harry, both because he could not help liking the fellow himself, and because he may have known that he could not more surely create a sympathy for him in Ruth's mind. That Ruth was in no danger of any serious impression he felt pretty sure, felt certain of it when he reflected upon her severe occupation with her profession. Hang it, he would say to himself, she is nothing but pure intellect anyway. And he only felt uncertain of it when she was in one of her moods of raillery, with mocking mischief in her eyes. At such times she seemed to prefer Harry's society to his. When Philip was miserable about this, he always took refuge with Alice, who was never moody, and who generally laughed him out of his sentimental nonsense. He felt at his ease with Alice, and was never in want of something to talk about; and he could not account for the fact that he was so often dull with Ruth, with whom, of all persons in the world, he wanted to appear at his best. Harry was entirely satisfied with his own situation. A bird of passage is always at its ease, having no house to build, and no responsibility. He talked freely with Philip about Ruth, an almighty fine girl, he said, but what the deuce she wanted to study medicine for, he couldn't see. There was a concert one night at the Musical Fund Hall and the four had arranged to go in and return by the Germantown cars. It was Philip's plan, who had engaged the seats, and promised himself an evening with Ruth, walking with her, sitting by her in the hall, and enjoying the feeling of protecting that a man always has of a woman in a public place. He was fond of music, too, in a sympathetic way; at least, he knew that Ruth's delight in it would be enough for him. Perhaps he meant to take advantage of the occasion to say some very serious things. His love for Ruth was no secret to Mrs. Bolton, and he felt almost sure that he should have no opposition in the family. Mrs. Bolton had been cautious in what she said, but Philip inferred everything from her reply to his own questions, one day, "Has thee ever spoken thy mind to Ruth?" Why shouldn't he speak his mind, and end his doubts? Ruth had been more tricksy than usual that day, and in a flow of spirits quite inconsistent, it would seem, in a young lady devoted to grave studies. Had Ruth a premonition of Philip's intention, in his manner? It may be, for when the girls came down stairs, ready to walk to the cars; and met Philip and Harry in the hall, Ruth said, laughing, "The two tallest must walk together" and before Philip knew how it happened Ruth had taken Harry's arm, and his evening was spoiled. He had too much politeness and good sense and kindness to show in his manner that he was hit. So he said to Harry, "That's your disadvantage in being short." And he gave Alice no reason to feel during the evening that she would not have been his first choice for the excursion. But he was none the less chagrined, and not a little angry at the turn the affair took. The Hall was crowded with the fashion of the town. The concert was one of those fragmentary drearinesses that people endure because they are fashionable; tours de force on the piano, and fragments from operas, which have no meaning without the setting, with weary pauses of waiting between; there is the comic basso who is so amusing and on such familiar terms with the audience, and always sings the Barber; the attitudinizing tenor, with his languishing "Oh, Summer Night;" the soprano with her "Batti Batti," who warbles and trills and runs and fetches her breath, and ends with a noble scream that brings down a tempest of applause in the midst of which she backs off the stage smiling and bowing. It was this sort of concert, and Philip was thinking that it was the most stupid one he ever sat through, when just as the soprano was in the midst of that touching ballad, "Comin' thro' the Rye" (the soprano always sings "Comin' thro' the Rye" on an encore)--the Black Swan used to make it irresistible, Philip remembered, with her arch, "If a body kiss a body" there was a cry of "Fire!" The hall is long and narrow, and there is only one place of egress. Instantly the audience was on its feet, and a rush began for the door. Men shouted, women screamed, and panic seized the swaying mass. A second's thought would have convinced every one that getting out was impossible, and that the only effect of a rush would be to crash people to death. But a second's thought was not given. A few cried: "Sit down, sit down," but the mass was turned towards the door. Women were down and trampled on in the aisles, and stout men, utterly lost to self-control, were mounting the benches, as if to run a race over the mass to the entrance. Philip who had forced the girls to keep their seats saw, in a flash, the new danger, and sprang to avert it. In a second more those infuriated men would be over the benches and crushing Ruth and Alice under their boots. He leaped upon the bench in front of them and struck out before him with all his might, felling one man who was rushing on him, and checking for an instant the movement, or rather parting it, and causing it to flow on either side of him. But it was only for an instant; the pressure behind was too great, and, the next Philip was dashed backwards over the seat. And yet that instant of arrest had probably saved the girls, for as Philip fell, the orchestra struck up "Yankee Doodle" in the liveliest manner. The familiar tune caught the ear of the mass, which paused in wonder, and gave the conductor's voice a chance to be heard--"It's a false alarm!" The tumult was over in a minute, and the next, laughter was heard, and not a few said, "I knew it wasn't anything." "What fools people are at such a time." The concert was over, however. A good many people were hurt, some of them seriously, and among them Philip Sterling was found bent across the seat, insensible, with his left arm hanging limp and a bleeding wound on his head. When he was carried into the air he revived, and said it was nothing. A surgeon was called, and it was thought best to drive at once to the Bolton's, the surgeon supporting Philip, who did not speak the whole way. His arm was set and his head dressed, and the surgeon said he would come round all right in his mind by morning; he was very weak. Alice who was not much frightened while the panic lasted in the hall, was very much unnerved by seeing Philip so pale and bloody. Ruth assisted the surgeon with the utmost coolness and with skillful hands helped to dress Philip's wounds. And there was a certain intentness and fierce energy in what she did that might have revealed something to Philip if he had been in his senses. But he was not, or he would not have murmured "Let Alice do it, she is not too tall." It was Ruth's first case. CHAPTER, XXXII. Washington's delight in his beautiful sister was measureless. He said that she had always been the queenliest creature in the land, but that she was only commonplace before, compared to what she was now, so extraordinary was the improvement wrought by rich fashionable attire. "But your criticisms are too full of brotherly partiality to be depended on, Washington. Other people will judge differently." "Indeed they won't. You'll see. There will never be a woman in Washington that can compare with you. You'll be famous within a fortnight, Laura. Everybody will want to know you. You wait--you'll see." Laura wished in her heart that the prophecy might come true; and privately she even believed it might--for she had brought all the women whom she had seen since she left home under sharp inspection, and the result had not been unsatisfactory to her. During a week or two Washington drove about the city every day with her and familiarized her with all of its salient features. She was beginning to feel very much at home with the town itself, and she was also fast acquiring ease with the distinguished people she met at the Dilworthy table, and losing what little of country timidity she had brought with her from Hawkeye. She noticed with secret pleasure the little start of admiration that always manifested itself in the faces of the guests when she entered the drawing-room arrayed in evening costume: she took comforting note of the fact that these guests directed a very liberal share of their conversation toward her; she observed with surprise, that famous statesmen and soldiers did not talk like gods, as a general thing, but said rather commonplace things for the most part; and she was filled with gratification to discover that she, on the contrary, was making a good many shrewd speeches and now and then a really brilliant one, and furthermore, that they were beginning to be repeated in social circles about the town. Congress began its sittings, and every day or two Washington escorted her to the galleries set apart for lady members of the households of Senators and Representatives. Here was a larger field and a wider competition, but still she saw that many eyes were uplifted toward her face, and that first one person and then another called a neighbor's attention to her; she was not too dull to perceive that the speeches of some of the younger statesmen were delivered about as much and perhaps more at her than to the presiding officer; and she was not sorry to see that the dapper young Senator from Iowa came at once and stood in the open space before the president's desk to exhibit his feet as soon as she entered the gallery, whereas she had early learned from common report that his usual custom was to prop them on his desk and enjoy them himself with a selfish disregard of other people's longings. Invitations began to flow in upon her and soon she was fairly "in society." "The season" was now in full bloom, and the first select reception was at hand that is to say, a reception confined to invited guests. Senator Dilworthy had become well convinced; by this time, that his judgment of the country-bred Missouri girl had not deceived him--it was plain that she was going to be a peerless missionary in the field of labor he designed her for, and therefore it would be perfectly safe and likewise judicious to send her forth well panoplied for her work.--So he had added new and still richer costumes to her wardrobe, and assisted their attractions with costly jewelry-loans on the future land sale. This first select reception took place at a cabinet minister's--or rather a cabinet secretary's mansion. When Laura and the Senator arrived, about half past nine or ten in the evening, the place was already pretty well crowded, and the white-gloved negro servant at the door was still receiving streams of guests.--The drawing-rooms were brilliant with gaslight, and as hot as ovens. The host and hostess stood just within the door of entrance; Laura was presented, and then she passed on into the maelstrom of be-jeweled and richly attired low-necked ladies and white-kid-gloved and steel pen-coated gentlemen and wherever she moved she was followed by a buzz of admiration that was grateful to all her senses--so grateful, indeed, that her white face was tinged and its beauty heightened by a perceptible suffusion of color. She caught such remarks as, "Who is she?" "Superb woman!" "That is the new beauty from the west," etc., etc. Whenever she halted, she was presently surrounded by Ministers, Generals, Congressmen, and all manner of aristocratic, people. Introductions followed, and then the usual original question, "How do you like Washington, Miss Hawkins?" supplemented by that other usual original question, "Is this your first visit?" These two exciting topics being exhausted, conversation generally drifted into calmer channels, only to be interrupted at frequent intervals by new introductions and new inquiries as to how Laura liked the capital and whether it was her first visit or not. And thus for an hour or more the Duchess moved through the crush in a rapture of happiness, for her doubts were dead and gone, now she knew she could conquer here. A familiar face appeared in the midst of the multitude and Harry Brierly fought his difficult way to her side, his eyes shouting their gratification, so to speak: "Oh, this is a happiness! Tell me, my dear Miss Hawkins--" "Sh! I know what you are going to ask. I do like Washington--I like it ever so much!" "No, but I was going to ask--" "Yes, I am coming to it, coming to it as fast as I can. It is my first visit. I think you should know that yourself." And straightway a wave of the crowd swept her beyond his reach. "Now what can the girl mean? Of course she likes Washington--I'm not such a dummy as to have to ask her that. And as to its being her first visit, why bang it, she knows that I knew it was. Does she think I have turned idiot? Curious girl, anyway. But how they do swarm about her! She is the reigning belle of Washington after this night. She'll know five hundred of the heaviest guns in the town before this night's nonsense is over. And this isn't even the beginning. Just as I used to say--she'll be a card in the matter of--yes sir! She shall turn the men's heads and I'll turn the women's! What a team that will be in politics here. I wouldn't take a quarter of a million for what I can do in this present session--no indeed I wouldn't. Now, here--I don't altogether like this. That insignificant secretary of legation is--why, she's smiling on him as if he--and now on the Admiral! Now she's illuminating that, stuffy Congressman from Massachusetts--vulgar ungrammatcal shovel-maker--greasy knave of spades. I don't like this sort of thing. She doesn't appear to be much distressed about me--she hasn't looked this way once. All right, my bird of Paradise, if it suits you, go on. But I think I know your sex. I'll go to smiling around a little, too, and see what effect that will have on you" And he did "smile around a little," and got as near to her as he could to watch the effect, but the scheme was a failure--he could not get her attention. She seemed wholly unconscious of him, and so he could not flirt with any spirit; he could only talk disjointedly; he could not keep his eyes on the charmers he talked to; he grew irritable, jealous, and very, unhappy. He gave up his enterprise, leaned his shoulder against a fluted pilaster and pouted while he kept watch upon Laura's every movement. His other shoulder stole the bloom from many a lovely cheek that brushed him in the surging crush, but he noted it not. He was too busy cursing himself inwardly for being an egotistical imbecile. An hour ago he had thought to take this country lass under his protection and show her "life" and enjoy her wonder and delight--and here she was, immersed in the marvel up to her eyes, and just a trifle more at home in it than he was himself. And now his angry comments ran on again: "Now she's sweetening old Brother Balaam; and he--well he is inviting her to the Congressional prayer-meeting, no doubt--better let old Dilworthy alone to see that she doesn't overlook that. And now its Splurge, of New York; and now its Batters of New Hampshire--and now the Vice President! Well I may as well adjourn. I've got enough." But he hadn't. He got as far as the door--and then struggled back to take one more look, hating himself all the while for his weakness. Toward midnight, when supper was announced, the crowd thronged to the supper room where a long table was decked out with what seemed a rare repast, but which consisted of things better calculated to feast the eye than the appetite. The ladies were soon seated in files along the wall, and in groups here and there, and the colored waiters filled the plates and glasses and the, male guests moved hither and thither conveying them to the privileged sex. Harry took an ice and stood up by the table with other gentlemen, and listened to the buzz of conversation while he ate. From these remarks he learned a good deal about Laura that was news to him. For instance, that she was of a distinguished western family; that she was highly educated; that she was very rich and a great landed heiress; that she was not a professor of religion, and yet was a Christian in the truest and best sense of the word, for her whole heart was devoted to the accomplishment of a great and noble enterprise--none other than the sacrificing of her landed estates to the uplifting of the down-trodden negro and the turning of his erring feet into the way of light and righteousness. Harry observed that as soon as one listener had absorbed the story, he turned about and delivered it to his next neighbor and the latter individual straightway passed it on. And thus he saw it travel the round of the gentlemen and overflow rearward among the ladies. He could not trace it backward to its fountain head, and so he could not tell who it was that started it. One thing annoyed Harry a great deal; and that was the reflection that he might have been in Washington days and days ago and thrown his fascinations about Laura with permanent effect while she was new and strange to the capital, instead of dawdling in Philadelphia to no purpose. He feared he had "missed a trick," as he expressed it. He only found one little opportunity of speaking again with Laura before the evening's festivities ended, and then, for the first time in years, his airy self-complacency failed him, his tongue's easy confidence forsook it in a great measure, and he was conscious of an unheroic timidity. He was glad to get away and find a place where he could despise himself in private and try to grow his clipped plumes again. When Laura reached home she was tired but exultant, and Senator Dilworthy was pleased and satisfied. He called Laura "my daughter," next morning, and gave her some "pin money," as he termed it, and she sent a hundred and fifty dollars of it to her mother and loaned a trifle to Col. Sellers. Then the Senator had a long private conference with Laura, and unfolded certain plans of his for the good of the country, and religion, and the poor, and temperance, and showed her how she could assist him in developing these worthy and noble enterprises. CHAPTER XXXIII. Laura soon discovered that there were three distinct aristocracies in Washington. One of these, (nick-named the Antiques,) consisted of cultivated, high-bred old families who looked back with pride upon an ancestry that had been always great in the nation's councils and its wars from the birth of the republic downward. Into this select circle it was difficult to gain admission. No. 2 was the aristocracy of the middle ground--of which, more anon. No. 3 lay beyond; of it we will say a word here. We will call it the Aristocracy of the Parvenus--as, indeed, the general public did. Official position, no matter how obtained, entitled a man to a place in it, and carried his family with him, no matter whence they sprang. Great wealth gave a man a still higher and nobler place in it than did official position. If this wealth had been acquired by conspicuous ingenuity, with just a pleasant little spice of illegality about it, all the better. This aristocracy was "fast," and not averse to ostentation. The aristocracy of the Antiques ignored the aristocracy of the Parvenus; the Parvenus laughed at the Antiques, (and secretly envied them.) There were certain important "society" customs which one in Laura's position needed to understand. For instance, when a lady of any prominence comes to one of our cities and takes up her residence, all the ladies of her grade favor her in turn with an initial call, giving their cards to the servant at the door by way of introduction. They come singly, sometimes; sometimes in couples; and always in elaborate full dress. They talk two minutes and a quarter and then go. If the lady receiving the call desires a further acquaintance, she must return the visit within two weeks; to neglect it beyond that time means "let the matter drop." But if she does return the visit within two weeks, it then becomes the other party's privilege to continue the acquaintance or drop it. She signifies her willingness to continue it by calling again any time within twelve-months; after that, if the parties go on calling upon each other once a year, in our large cities, that is sufficient, and the acquaintanceship holds good. The thing goes along smoothly, now. The annual visits are made and returned with peaceful regularity and bland satisfaction, although it is not necessary that the two ladies shall actually see each other oftener than once every few years. Their cards preserve the intimacy and keep the acquaintanceship intact. For instance, Mrs. A. pays her annual visit, sits in her carriage and sends in her card with the lower right hand corner turned down, which signifies that she has "called in person;" Mrs. B: sends down word that she is "engaged" or "wishes to be excused"--or if she is a Parvenu and low-bred, she perhaps sends word that she is "not at home." Very good; Mrs. A. drives, on happy and content. If Mrs. A.'s daughter marries, or a child is born to the family, Mrs. B. calls, sends in her card with the upper left hand corner turned down, and then goes along about her affairs--for that inverted corner means "Congratulations." If Mrs. B.'s husband falls downstairs and breaks his neck, Mrs. A. calls, leaves her card with the upper right hand corner turned down, and then takes her departure; this corner means "Condolence." It is very necessary to get the corners right, else one may unintentionally condole with a friend on a wedding or congratulate her upon a funeral. If either lady is about to leave the city, she goes to the other's house and leaves her card with "P. P. C." engraved under the name--which signifies, "Pay Parting Call." But enough of etiquette. Laura was early instructed in the mysteries of society life by a competent mentor, and thus was preserved from troublesome mistakes. The first fashionable call she received from a member of the ancient nobility, otherwise the Antiques, was of a pattern with all she received from that limb of the aristocracy afterward. This call was paid by Mrs. Major-General Fulke-Fulkerson and daughter. They drove up at one in the afternoon in a rather antiquated vehicle with a faded coat of arms on the panels, an aged white-wooled negro coachman on the box and a younger darkey beside him--the footman. Both of these servants were dressed in dull brown livery that had seen considerable service. The ladies entered the drawing-room in full character; that is to say, with Elizabethan stateliness on the part of the dowager, and an easy grace and dignity on the part of the young lady that had a nameless something about it that suggested conscious superiority. The dresses of both ladies were exceedingly rich, as to material, but as notably modest as to color and ornament. All parties having seated themselves, the dowager delivered herself of a remark that was not unusual in its form, and yet it came from her lips with the impressiveness of Scripture: "The weather has been unpropitious of late, Miss Hawkins." "It has indeed," said Laura. "The climate seems to be variable." "It is its nature of old, here," said the daughter--stating it apparently as a fact, only, and by her manner waving aside all personal responsibility on account of it. "Is it not so, mamma?" "Quite so, my child. Do you like winter, Miss Hawkins?" She said "like" as if she had, an idea that its dictionary meaning was "approve of." "Not as well as summer--though I think all seasons have their charms." "It is a very just remark. The general held similar views. He considered snow in winter proper; sultriness in summer legitimate; frosts in the autumn the same, and rains in spring not objectionable. He was not an exacting man. And I call to mind now that he always admired thunder. You remember, child, your father always admired thunder?" "He adored it." "No doubt it reminded him of battle," said Laura. "Yes, I think perhaps it did. He had a great respect for Nature. He often said there was something striking about the ocean. You remember his saying that, daughter?" "Yes, often, Mother. I remember it very well." "And hurricanes... He took a great interest in hurricanes. And animals. Dogs, especially--hunting dogs. Also comets. I think we all have our predilections. I think it is this that gives variety to our tastes." Laura coincided with this view. "Do you find it hard and lonely to be so far from your home and friends, Miss Hawkins?" "I do find it depressing sometimes, but then there is so much about me here that is novel and interesting that my days are made up more of sunshine than shadow." "Washington is not a dull city in the season," said the young lady. "We have some very good society indeed, and one need not be at a loss for means to pass the time pleasantly. Are you fond of watering-places, Miss Hawkins?" "I have really had no experience of them, but I have always felt a strong desire to see something of fashionable watering-place life." "We of Washington are unfortunately situated in that respect," said the dowager. "It is a tedious distance to Newport. But there is no help for it." Laura said to herself, "Long Branch and Cape May are nearer than Newport; doubtless these places are low; I'll feel my way a little and see." Then she said aloud: "Why I thought that Long Branch--" There was no need to "feel" any further--there was that in both faces before her which made that truth apparent. The dowager said: "Nobody goes there, Miss Hawkins--at least only persons of no position in society. And the President." She added that with tranquility. "Newport is damp, and cold, and windy and excessively disagreeable," said the daughter, "but it is very select. One cannot be fastidious about minor matters when one has no choice." The visit had spun out nearly three minutes, now. Both ladies rose with grave dignity, conferred upon Laura a formal invitation to call, aid then retired from the conference. Laura remained in the drawing-room and left them to pilot themselves out of the house--an inhospitable thing, it seemed to her, but then she was following her instructions. She stood, steeped in reverie, a while, and then she said: "I think I could always enjoy icebergs--as scenery but not as company." Still, she knew these two people by reputation, and was aware that they were not ice-bergs when they were in their own waters and amid their legitimate surroundings, but on the contrary were people to be respected for their stainless characters and esteemed for their social virtues and their benevolent impulses. She thought it a pity that they had to be such changed and dreary creatures on occasions of state. The first call Laura received from the other extremity of the Washington aristocracy followed close upon the heels of the one we have just been describing. The callers this time were the Hon. Mrs. Oliver Higgins, the Hon. Mrs. Patrique Oreille (pronounced O-relay,) Miss Bridget (pronounced Breezhay) Oreille, Mrs. Peter Gashly, Miss Gashly, and Miss Emmeline Gashly. The three carriages arrived at the same moment from different directions. They were new and wonderfully shiny, and the brasses on the harness were highly polished and bore complicated monograms. There were showy coats of arms, too, with Latin mottoes. The coachmen and footmen were clad in bright new livery, of striking colors, and they had black rosettes with shaving-brushes projecting above them, on the sides of their stove-pipe hats. When the visitors swept into the drawing-room they filled the place with a suffocating sweetness procured at the perfumer's. Their costumes, as to architecture, were the latest fashion intensified; they were rainbow-hued; they were hung with jewels--chiefly diamonds. It would have been plain to any eye that it had cost something to upholster these women. The Hon. Mrs. Oliver Higgins was the wife of a delegate from a distant territory--a gentleman who had kept the principal "saloon," and sold the best whiskey in the principal village in his wilderness, and so, of course, was recognized as the first man of his commonwealth and its fittest representative. He was a man of paramount influence at home, for he was public spirited, he was chief of the fire department, he had an admirable command of profane language, and had killed several "parties." His shirt fronts were always immaculate; his boots daintily polished, and no man could lift a foot and fire a dead shot at a stray speck of dirt on it with a white handkerchief with a finer grace than he; his watch chain weighed a pound; the gold in his finger ring was worth forty five dollars; he wore a diamond cluster-pin and he parted his hair behind. He had always been, regarded as the most elegant gentleman in his territory, and it was conceded by all that no man thereabouts was anywhere near his equal in the telling of an obscene story except the venerable white-haired governor himself. The Hon. Higgins had not come to serve his country in Washington for nothing. The appropriation which he had engineered through Congress for the maintenance, of the Indians in his Territory would have made all those savages rich if it had ever got to them. The Hon. Mrs. Higgins was a picturesque woman, and a fluent talker, and she held a tolerably high station among the Parvenus. Her English was fair enough, as a general thing--though, being of New York origin, she had the fashion peculiar to many natives of that city of pronouncing saw and law as if they were spelt sawr and lawr. Petroleum was the agent that had suddenly transformed the Gashlys from modest hard-working country village folk into "loud" aristocrats and ornaments of the city. The Hon. Patrique Oreille was a wealthy Frenchman from Cork. Not that he was wealthy when he first came from Cork, but just the reverse. When he first landed in New York with his wife, he had only halted at Castle Garden for a few minutes to receive and exhibit papers showing that he had resided in this country two years--and then he voted the democratic ticket and went up town to hunt a house. He found one and then went to work as assistant to an architect and builder, carrying a hod all day and studying politics evenings. Industry and economy soon enabled him to start a low rum shop in a foul locality, and this gave him political influence. In our country it is always our first care to see that our people have the opportunity of voting for their choice of men to represent and govern them--we do not permit our great officials to appoint the little officials. We prefer to have so tremendous a power as that in our own hands. We hold it safest to elect our judges and everybody else. In our cities, the ward meetings elect delegates to the nominating conventions and instruct them whom to nominate. The publicans and their retainers rule the ward meetings (for every body else hates the worry of politics and stays at home); the delegates from the ward meetings organize as a nominating convention and make up a list of candidates--one convention offering a democratic and another a republican list of incorruptibles; and then the great meek public come forward at the proper time and make unhampered choice and bless Heaven that they live in a free land where no form of despotism can ever intrude. Patrick O'Riley (as his name then stood) created friends and influence very, fast, for he was always on hand at the police courts to give straw bail for his customers or establish an alibi for them in case they had been beating anybody to death on his premises. Consequently he presently became a political leader, and was elected to a petty office under the city government. Out of a meager salary he soon saved money enough to open quite a stylish liquor saloon higher up town, with a faro bank attached and plenty of capital to conduct it with. This gave him fame and great respectability. The position of alderman was forced upon him, and it was just the same as presenting him a gold mine. He had fine horses and carriages, now, and closed up his whiskey mill. By and by he became a large contractor for city work, and was a bosom friend of the great and good Wm. M. Weed himself, who had stolen $20,600,000 from the city and was a man so envied, so honored,--so adored, indeed, that when the sheriff went to his office to arrest him as a felon, that sheriff blushed and apologized, and one of the illustrated papers made a picture of the scene and spoke of the matter in such a way as to show that the editor regretted that the offense of an arrest had been offered to so exalted a personage as Mr. Weed. Mr. O'Riley furnished shingle nails to, the new Court House at three thousand dollars a keg, and eighteen gross of 60-cent thermometers at fifteen hundred dollars a dozen; the controller and the board of audit passed the bills, and a mayor, who was simply ignorant but not criminal, signed them. When they were paid, Mr. O'Riley's admirers gave him a solitaire diamond pin of the size of a filbert, in imitation of the liberality of Mr. Weed's friends, and then Mr. O'Riley retired from active service and amused himself with buying real estate at enormous figures and holding it in other people's names. By and by the newspapers came out with exposures and called Weed and O'Riley "thieves,"--whereupon the people rose as one man (voting repeatedly) and elected the two gentlemen to their proper theatre of action, the New York legislature. The newspapers clamored, and the courts proceeded to try the new legislators for their small irregularities. Our admirable jury system enabled the persecuted ex-officials to secure a jury of nine gentlemen from a neighboring asylum and three graduates from Sing-Sing, and presently they walked forth with characters vindicated. The legislature was called upon to spew them forth--a thing which the legislature declined to do. It was like asking children to repudiate their own father. It was a legislature of the modern pattern. Being now wealthy and distinguished, Mr. O'Riley, still bearing the legislative "Hon." attached to his name (for titles never die in America, although we do take a republican pride in poking fun at such trifles), sailed for Europe with his family. They traveled all about, turning their noses up at every thing, and not finding it a difficult thing to do, either, because nature had originally given those features a cast in that direction; and finally they established themselves in Paris, that Paradise of Americans of their sort.--They staid there two years and learned to speak English with a foreign accent--not that it hadn't always had a foreign accent (which was indeed the case) but now the nature of it was changed. Finally they returned home and became ultra fashionables. They landed here as the Hon. Patrique Oreille and family, and so are known unto this day. Laura provided seats for her visitors and they immediately launched forth into a breezy, sparkling conversation with that easy confidence which is to be found only among persons accustomed to high life. "I've been intending to call sooner, Miss Hawkins," said the Hon. Mrs. Oreille, "but the weather's been so horrid. How do you like Washington?" Laura liked it very well indeed. Mrs. Gashly--"Is it your first visit?" Yea, it was her first. All--"Indeed?" Mrs. Oreille--"I'm afraid you'll despise the weather, Miss Hawkins. It's perfectly awful. It always is. I tell Mr. Oreille I can't and I won't put up with any such a climate. If we were obliged to do it, I wouldn't mind it; but we are not obliged to, and so I don't see the use of it. Sometimes its real pitiful the way the childern pine for Parry --don't look so sad, Bridget, 'ma chere'--poor child, she can't hear Parry mentioned without getting the blues." Mrs. Gashly--"Well I should think so, Mrs. Oreille. A body lives in Paris, but a body, only stays here. I dote on Paris; I'd druther scrimp along on ten thousand dollars a year there, than suffer and worry here on a real decent income." Miss Gashly--"Well then, I wish you'd take us back, mother; I'm sure I hate this stoopid country enough, even if it is our dear native land." Miss Emmeline Gashly--"What and leave poor Johnny Peterson behind?" [An airy genial laugh applauded this sally]. Miss Gashly--"Sister, I should think you'd be ashamed of yourself!" Miss Emmeline--"Oh, you needn't ruffle your feathers so: I was only joking. He don't mean anything by coming to, the house every evening --only comes to see mother. Of course that's all!" [General laughter]. Miss G. prettily confused--"Emmeline, how can you!" Mrs. G.--"Let your sister alone, Emmeline. I never saw such a tease!" Mrs. Oreille--"What lovely corals you have, Miss Hawkins! Just look at them, Bridget, dear. I've a great passion for corals--it's a pity they're getting a little common. I have some elegant ones--not as elegant as yours, though--but of course I don't wear them now." Laura--"I suppose they are rather common, but still I have a great affection for these, because they were given to me by a dear old friend of our family named Murphy. He was a very charming man, but very eccentric. We always supposed he was an Irishman, but after be got rich he went abroad for a year or two, and when he came back you would have been amused to see how interested he was in a potato. He asked what it was! Now you know that when Providence shapes a mouth especially for the accommodation of a potato you can detect that fact at a glance when that mouth is in repose--foreign travel can never remove that sign. But he was a very delightful gentleman, and his little foible did not hurt him at all. We all have our shams--I suppose there is a sham somewhere about every individual, if we could manage to ferret it out. I would so like to go to France. I suppose our society here compares very favorably with French society does it not, Mrs. Oreille?" Mrs. O.--"Not by any means, Miss Hawkins! French society is much more elegant--much more so." Laura--"I am sorry to hear that. I suppose ours has deteriorated of late." Mrs. O.--"Very much indeed. There are people in society here that have really no more money to live on than what some of us pay for servant hire. Still I won't say but what some of them are very good people--and respectable, too." Laura--"The old families seem to be holding themselves aloof, from what I hear. I suppose you seldom meet in society now, the people you used to be familiar with twelve or fifteen years ago?" Mrs. O.--"Oh, no-hardly ever." Mr. O'Riley kept his first rum-mill and protected his customers from the law in those days, and this turn of the conversation was rather uncomfortable to madame than otherwise. Hon. Mrs. Higgins--"Is Francois' health good now, Mrs. Oreille?" Mrs. O.--(Thankful for the intervention)--"Not very. A body couldn't expect it. He was always delicate--especially his lungs--and this odious climate tells on him strong, now, after Parry, which is so mild." Mrs. H:--"I should think so. Husband says Percy'll die if he don't have a change; and so I'm going to swap round a little and see what can be done. I saw a lady from Florida last week, and she recommended Key West. I told her Percy couldn't abide winds, as he was threatened with a pulmonary affection, and then she said try St. Augustine. It's an awful distance--ten or twelve hundred mile, they say but then in a case of this kind--a body can't stand back for trouble, you know." Mrs. O.--"No, of course that's off. If Francois don't get better soon we've got to look out for some other place, or else Europe. We've thought some of the Hot Springs, but I don't know. It's a great responsibility and a body wants to go cautious. Is Hildebrand about again, Mrs. Gashly?" Mrs. G.--"Yes, but that's about all. It was indigestion, you know, and it looks as if it was chronic. And you know I do dread dyspepsia. We've all been worried a good deal about him. The doctor recommended baked apple and spoiled meat, and I think it done him good. It's about the only thing that will stay on his stomach now-a-days. We have Dr. Shovel now. Who's your doctor, Mrs. Higgins?" Mrs. H.--"Well, we had Dr. Spooner a good while, but he runs so much to emetics, which I think are weakening, that we changed off and took Dr. Leathers. We like him very much. He has a fine European reputation, too. The first thing he suggested for Percy was to have him taken out in the back yard for an airing, every afternoon, with nothing at all on." Mrs. O. and Mrs. G.--"What!" Mrs. H.--"As true as I'm sitting here. And it actually helped him for two or three days; it did indeed. But after that the doctor said it seemed to be too severe and so he has fell back on hot foot-baths at night and cold showers in the morning. But I don't think there, can be any good sound help for him in such a climate as this. I believe we are going to lose him if we don't make a change." Mrs. O. "I suppose you heard of the fright we had two weeks ago last Saturday? No? Why that is strange--but come to remember, you've all been away to Richmond. Francois tumbled from the sky light--in the second-story hall clean down to the first floor--" Everybody--"Mercy!" Mrs. O.--"Yes indeed--and broke two of his ribs--" Everybody--"What!" Mrs. O. "Just as true as you live. First we thought he must be injured internally. It was fifteen minutes past 8 in the evening. Of course we were all distracted in a moment--everybody was flying everywhere, and nobody doing anything worth anything. By and by I flung out next door and dragged in Dr. Sprague; President of the Medical University no time to go for our own doctor of course--and the minute he saw Francois he said, 'Send for your own physician, madam;' said it as cross as a bear, too, and turned right on his heel, and cleared out without doing a thing!" Everybody--"The mean, contemptible brute!" Mrs. O--"Well you may say it. I was nearly out of my wits by this time. But we hurried off the servants after our own doctor and telegraphed mother--she was in New York and rushed down on the first train; and when the doctor got there, lo and behold you he found Francois had broke one of his legs, too!" Everybody--"Goodness!" Mrs. O.--"Yes. So he set his leg and bandaged it up, and fixed his ribs and gave him a dose of something to quiet down his excitement and put him to sleep--poor thing he was trembling and frightened to death and it was pitiful to see him. We had him in my bed--Mr. Oreille slept in the guest room and I laid down beside Francois--but not to sleep bless you no. Bridget and I set up all night, and the doctor staid till two in the morning, bless his old heart.--When mother got there she was so used up with anxiety, that she had to go to bed and have the doctor; but when she found that Francois was not in immediate danger she rallied, and by night she was able to take a watch herself. Well for three days and nights we three never left that bedside only to take an hour's nap at a time. And then the doctor said Francois was out of danger and if ever there was a thankful set, in this world, it was us." Laura's respect for these, women had augmented during this conversation, naturally enough; affection and devotion are qualities that are able to adorn and render beautiful a character that is otherwise unattractive, and even repulsive. Mrs. Gashly--"I do believe I would a died if I had been in your place, Mrs. Oreille. The time Hildebrand was so low with the pneumonia Emmeline and me were all, alone with him most of the time and we never took a minute's sleep for as much as two days, and nights. It was at Newport and we wouldn't trust hired nurses. One afternoon he had a fit, and jumped up and run out on the portico of the hotel with nothing in the world on and the wind a blowing liken ice and we after him scared to death; and when the ladies and gentlemen saw that he had a fit, every lady scattered for her room and not a gentleman lifted his hand to help, the wretches! Well after that his life hung by a thread for as much as ten days, and the minute he was out of danger Emmeline and me just went to bed sick and worn out. I never want to pass through such a time again. Poor dear Francois--which leg did he break, Mrs. Oreille!" Mrs. O.--"It was his right hand hind leg. Jump down, Francois dear, and show the ladies what a cruel limp you've got yet." Francois demurred, but being coaxed and delivered gently upon the floor, he performed very satisfactorily, with his "right hand hind leg" in the air. All were affected--even Laura--but hers was an affection of the stomach. The country-bred girl had not suspected that the little whining ten-ounce black and tan reptile, clad in a red embroidered pigmy blanket and reposing in Mrs. Oreille's lap all through the visit was the individual whose sufferings had been stirring the dormant generosities of her nature. She said: "Poor little creature! You might have lost him!" Mrs. O.--"O pray don't mention it, Miss Hawkins--it gives me such a turn!" Laura--"And Hildebrand and Percy--are they--are they like this one?" Mrs. G.--"No, Hilly has considerable Skye blood in him, I believe." Mrs. H.--"Percy's the same, only he is two months and ten days older and has his ears cropped. His father, Martin Farquhar Tupper, was sickly, and died young, but he was the sweetest disposition.--His mother had heart disease but was very gentle and resigned, and a wonderful ratter." --[** As impossible and exasperating as this conversation may sound to a person who is not an idiot, it is scarcely in any respect an exaggeration of one which one of us actually listened to in an American drawing room --otherwise we could not venture to put such a chapter into a book which, professes to deal with social possibilities.--THE AUTHORS.] So carried away had the visitors become by their interest attaching to this discussion of family matters, that their stay had been prolonged to a very improper and unfashionable length; but they suddenly recollected themselves now and took their departure. Laura's scorn was boundless. The more she thought of these people and their extraordinary talk, the more offensive they seemed to her; and yet she confessed that if one must choose between the two extreme aristocracies it might be best, on the whole, looking at things from a strictly business point of view, to herd with the Parvenus; she was in Washington solely to compass a certain matter and to do it at any cost, and these people might be useful to her, while it was plain that her purposes and her schemes for pushing them would not find favor in the eyes of the Antiques. If it came to choice--and it might come to that, sooner or later--she believed she could come to a decision without much difficulty or many pangs. But the best aristocracy of the three Washington castes, and really the most powerful, by far, was that of the Middle Ground: It was made up of the families of public men from nearly every state in the Union--men who held positions in both the executive and legislative branches of the government, and whose characters had been for years blemishless, both at home and at the capital. These gentlemen and their households were unostentatious people; they were educated and refined; they troubled themselves but little about the two other orders of nobility, but moved serenely in their wide orbit, confident in their own strength and well aware of the potency of their influence. They had no troublesome appearances to keep up, no rivalries which they cared to distress themselves about, no jealousies to fret over. They could afford to mind their own affairs and leave other combinations to do the same or do otherwise, just as they chose. They were people who were beyond reproach, and that was sufficient. Senator Dilworthy never came into collision with any of these factions. He labored for them all and with them all. He said that all men were brethren and all were entitled to the honest unselfish help and countenance of a Christian laborer in the public vineyard. Laura concluded, after reflection, to let circumstances determine the course it might be best for her to pursue as regarded the several aristocracies. Now it might occur to the reader that perhaps Laura had been somewhat rudely suggestive in her remarks to Mrs. Oreille when the subject of corals was under discussion, but it did not occur to Laura herself. She was not a person of exaggerated refinement; indeed, the society and the influences that had formed her character had not been of a nature calculated to make her so; she thought that "give and take was fair play," and that to parry an offensive thrust with a sarcasm was a neat and legitimate thing to do. She some times talked to people in a way which some ladies would consider, actually shocking; but Laura rather prided herself upon some of her exploits of that character. We are sorry we cannot make her a faultless heroine; but we cannot, for the reason that she was human. She considered herself a superior conversationist. Long ago, when the possibility had first been brought before her mind that some day she might move in Washington society, she had recognized the fact that practiced conversational powers would be a necessary weapon in that field; she had also recognized the fact that since her dealings there must be mainly with men, and men whom she supposed to be exceptionally cultivated and able, she would need heavier shot in her magazine than mere brilliant "society" nothings; whereupon she had at once entered upon a tireless and elaborate course of reading, and had never since ceased to devote every unoccupied moment to this sort of preparation. Having now acquired a happy smattering of various information, she used it with good effect--she passed for a singularly well informed woman in Washington. The quality of her literary tastes had necessarily undergone constant improvement under this regimen, and as necessarily, also; the duality of her language had improved, though it cannot be denied that now and then her former condition of life betrayed itself in just perceptible inelegancies of expression and lapses of grammar. CHAPTER XXXIV. When Laura had been in Washington three months, she was still the same person, in one respect, that she was when she first arrived there--that is to say, she still bore the name of Laura Hawkins. Otherwise she was perceptibly changed.-- She had arrived in a state of grievous uncertainty as to what manner of woman she was, physically and intellectually, as compared with eastern women; she was well satisfied, now, that her beauty was confessed, her mind a grade above the average, and her powers of fascination rather extraordinary. So she, was at ease upon those points. When she arrived, she was possessed of habits of economy and not possessed of money; now she dressed elaborately, gave but little thought to the cost of things, and was very well fortified financially. She kept her mother and Washington freely supplied with money, and did the same by Col. Sellers --who always insisted upon giving his note for loans--with interest; he was rigid upon that; she must take interest; and one of the Colonel's greatest satisfactions was to go over his accounts and note what a handsome sum this accruing interest amounted to, and what a comfortable though modest support it would yield Laura in case reverses should overtake her. In truth he could not help feeling that he was an efficient shield for her against poverty; and so, if her expensive ways ever troubled him for a brief moment, he presently dismissed the thought and said to himself, "Let her go on--even if she loses everything she is still safe--this interest will always afford her a good easy income." Laura was on excellent terms with a great many members of Congress, and there was an undercurrent of suspicion in some quarters that she was one of that detested class known as "lobbyists;" but what belle could escape slander in such a city? Fairminded people declined to condemn her on mere suspicion, and so the injurious talk made no very damaging headway. She was very gay, now, and very celebrated, and she might well expect to be assailed by many kinds of gossip. She was growing used to celebrity, and could already sit calm and seemingly unconscious, under the fire of fifty lorgnettes in a theatre, or even overhear the low voice "That's she!" as she passed along the street without betraying annoyance. The whole air was full of a vague vast scheme which was to eventuate in filling Laura's pockets with millions of money; some had one idea of the scheme, and some another, but nobody had any exact knowledge upon the subject. All that any one felt sure about, was that Laura's landed estates were princely in value and extent, and that the government was anxious to get hold of them for public purposes, and that Laura was willing to make the sale but not at all anxious about the matter and not at all in a hurry. It was whispered that Senator Dilworthy was a stumbling block in the way of an immediate sale, because he was resolved that the government should not have the lands except with the understanding that they should be devoted to the uplifting of the negro race; Laura did not care what they were devoted to, it was said, (a world of very different gossip to the contrary notwithstanding,) but there were several other heirs and they would be guided entirely by the Senator's wishes; and finally, many people averred that while it would be easy to sell the lands to the government for the benefit of the negro, by resorting to the usual methods of influencing votes, Senator Dilworthy was unwilling to have so noble a charity sullied by any taint of corruption--he was resolved that not a vote should be bought. Nobody could get anything definite from Laura about these matters, and so gossip had to feed itself chiefly upon guesses. But the effect of it all was, that Laura was considered to be very wealthy and likely to be vastly more so in a little while. Consequently she was much courted and as much envied: Her wealth attracted many suitors. Perhaps they came to worship her riches, but they remained to worship her. Some of the noblest men of the time succumbed to her fascinations. She frowned upon no lover when he made his first advances, but by and by when she was hopelessly enthralled, he learned from her own lips that she had formed a resolution never to marry. Then he would go away hating and cursing the whole sex, and she would calmly add his scalp to her string, while she mused upon the bitter day that Col. Selby trampled her love and her pride in the dust. In time it came to be said that her way was paved with broken hearts. Poor Washington gradually woke up to the fact that he too was an intellectual marvel as well as his gifted sister. He could not conceive how it had come about (it did not occur to him that the gossip about his family's great wealth had any thing to do with it). He could not account for it by any process of reasoning, and was simply obliged to accept the fact and give up trying to solve the riddle. He found himself dragged into society and courted, wondered at and envied very much as if he were one of those foreign barbers who flit over here now and then with a self-conferred title of nobility and marry some rich fool's absurd daughter. Sometimes at a dinner party or a reception he would find himself the centre of interest, and feel unutterably uncomfortable in the discovery. Being obliged to say something, he would mine his brain and put in a blast and when the smoke and flying debris had cleared away the result would be what seemed to him but a poor little intellectual clod of dirt or two, and then he would be astonished to see everybody as lost in admiration as if he had brought up a ton or two of virgin gold. Every remark he made delighted his hearers and compelled their applause; he overheard people say he was exceedingly bright--they were chiefly mammas and marriageable young ladies. He found that some of his good things were being repeated about the town. Whenever he heard of an instance of this kind, he would keep that particular remark in mind and analyze it at home in private. At first he could not see that the remark was anything better than a parrot might originate; but by and by he began to feel that perhaps he underrated his powers; and after that he used to analyze his good things with a deal of comfort, and find in them a brilliancy which would have been unapparent to him in earlier days--and then he would make a note, of that good thing and say it again the first time he found himself in a new company. Presently he had saved up quite a repertoire of brilliancies; and after that he confined himself to repeating these and ceased to originate any more, lest he might injure his reputation by an unlucky effort. He was constantly having young ladies thrust upon his notice at receptions, or left upon his hands at parties, and in time he began to feel that he was being deliberately persecuted in this way; and after that he could not enjoy society because of his constant dread of these female ambushes and surprises. He was distressed to find that nearly every time he showed a young lady a polite attention he was straightway reported to be engaged to her; and as some of these reports got into the newspapers occasionally, he had to keep writing to Louise that they were lies and she must believe in him and not mind them or allow them to grieve her. Washington was as much in the dark as anybody with regard to the great wealth that was hovering in the air and seemingly on the point of tumbling into the family pocket. Laura would give him no satisfaction. All she would say, was: "Wait. Be patient. You will see." "But will it be soon, Laura?" "It will not be very long, I think." "But what makes you think so?" "I have reasons--and good ones. Just wait, and be patient." "But is it going to be as much as people say it is?" "What do they say it is?" "Oh, ever so much. Millions!" "Yes, it will be a great sum." "But how great, Laura? Will it be millions?" "Yes, you may call it that. Yes, it will be millions. There, now--does that satisfy you?" "Splendid! I can wait. I can wait patiently--ever so patiently. Once I was near selling the land for twenty thousand dollars; once for thirty thousand dollars; once after that for seven thousand dollars; and once for forty thousand dollars--but something always told me not to do it. What a fool I would have been to sell it for such a beggarly trifle! It is the land that's to bring the money, isn't it Laura? You can tell me that much, can't you?" "Yes, I don't mind saying that much. It is the land. "But mind--don't ever hint that you got it from me. Don't mention me in the matter at all, Washington." "All right--I won't. Millions! Isn't it splendid! I mean to look around for a building lot; a lot with fine ornamental shrubbery and all that sort of thing. I will do it to-day. And I might as well see an architect, too, and get him to go to work at a plan for a house. I don't intend to spare and expense; I mean to have the noblest house that money can build." Then after a pause--he did not notice Laura's smiles "Laura, would you lay the main hall in encaustic tiles, or just in fancy patterns of hard wood?" Laura laughed a good old-fashioned laugh that had more of her former natural self about it than any sound that had issued from her mouth in many weeks. She said: "You don't change, Washington. You still begin to squander a fortune right and left the instant you hear of it in the distance; you never wait till the foremost dollar of it arrives within a hundred miles of you," --and she kissed her brother good bye and left him weltering in his dreams, so to speak. He got up and walked the floor feverishly during two hours; and when he sat down he had married Louise, built a house, reared a family, married them off, spent upwards of eight hundred thousand dollars on mere luxuries, and died worth twelve millions. CHAPTER XXXV. Laura went down stairs, knocked at/the study door, and entered, scarcely waiting for the response. Senator Dilworthy was alone--with an open Bible in his hand, upside down. Laura smiled, and said, forgetting her acquired correctness of speech, "It is only me." "Ah, come in, sit down," and the Senator closed the book and laid it down. "I wanted to see you. Time to report progress from the committee of the whole," and the Senator beamed with his own congressional wit. "In the committee of the whole things are working very well. We have made ever so much progress in a week. I believe that you and I together could run this government beautifully, uncle." The Senator beamed again. He liked to be called "uncle" by this beautiful woman. "Did you see Hopperson last night after the congressional prayer meeting?" "Yes. He came. He's a kind of--" "Eh? he is one of my friends, Laura. He's a fine man, a very fine man. I don't know any man in congress I'd sooner go to for help in any Christian work. What did he say?" "Oh, he beat around a little. He said he should like to help the negro, his heart went out to the negro, and all that--plenty of them say that but he was a little afraid of the Tennessee Land bill; if Senator Dilworthy wasn't in it, he should suspect there was a fraud on the government." "He said that, did he?" "Yes. And he said he felt he couldn't vote for it. He was shy." "Not shy, child, cautious. He's a very cautious man. I have been with him a great deal on conference committees. He wants reasons, good ones. Didn't you show him he was in error about the bill?" "I did. I went over the whole thing. I had to tell him some of the side arrangements, some of the--" "You didn't mention me?" "Oh, no. I told him you were daft about the negro and the philanthropy part of it, as you are." "Daft is a little strong, Laura. But you know that I wouldn't touch this bill if it were not for the public good, and for the good of the colored race; much as I am interested in the heirs of this property, and would like to have them succeed." Laura looked a little incredulous, and the Senator proceeded. "Don't misunderstand me, I don't deny that it is for the interest of all of us that this bill should go through, and it will. I have no concealments from you. But I have one principle in my public life, which I should like you to keep in mind; it has always been my guide. I never push a private interest if it is not Justified and ennobled by some larger public good. I doubt Christian would be justified in working for his own salvation if it was not to aid in the salvation of his fellow men." The Senator spoke with feeling, and then added, "I hope you showed Hopperson that our motives were pure?" "Yes, and he seemed to have a new light on the measure: I think will vote for it." "I hope so; his name will give tone and strength to it. I knew you would only have to show him that it was just and pure, in order to secure his cordial support." "I think I convinced him. Yes, I am perfectly sure he will vote right now." "That's good, that's good," said the Senator; smiling, and rubbing his hands. "Is there anything more?" "You'll find some changes in that I guess," handing the Senator a printed list of names. "Those checked off are all right." "Ah--'m--'m," running his eye down the list. "That's encouraging. What is the 'C' before some of the names, and the 'B. B.'?" "Those are my private marks. That 'C' stands for 'convinced,' with argument. The 'B. B.' is a general sign for a relative. You see it stands before three of the Hon. Committee. I expect to see the chairman of the committee to-day, Mr. Buckstone." "So, you must, he ought to be seen without any delay. Buckstone is a worldly sort of a fellow, but he has charitable impulses. If we secure him we shall have a favorable report by the committee, and it will be a great thing to be able to state that fact quietly where it will do good." "Oh, I saw Senator Balloon" "He will help us, I suppose? Balloon is a whole-hearted fellow. I can't help loving that man, for all his drollery and waggishness. He puts on an air of levity sometimes, but there aint a man in the senate knows the scriptures as he does. He did not make any objections?" "Not exactly, he said--shall I tell you what he said?" asked Laura glancing furtively at him. "Certainly." "He said he had no doubt it was a good thing; if Senator Dilworthy was in it, it would pay to look into it." The Senator laughed, but rather feebly, and said, "Balloon is always full of his jokes." "I explained it to him. He said it was all right, he only wanted a word with you,", continued Laura. "He is a handsome old gentleman, and he is gallant for an old man." "My daughter," said the Senator, with a grave look, "I trust there was nothing free in his manner?" "Free?" repeated Laura, with indignation in her face. "With me!" "There, there, child. I meant nothing, Balloon talks a little freely sometimes, with men. But he is right at heart. His term expires next year and I fear we shall lose him." "He seemed to be packing the day I was there. His rooms were full of dry goods boxes, into which his servant was crowding all manner of old clothes and stuff: I suppose he will paint 'Pub. Docs' on them and frank them home. That's good economy, isn't it?" "Yes, yes, but child, all Congressmen do that. It may not be strictly honest, indeed it is not unless he had some public documents mixed in with the clothes." "It's a funny world. Good-bye, uncle. I'm going to see that chairman." And humming a cheery opera air, she departed to her room to dress for going out. Before she did that, however, she took out her note book and was soon deep in its contents; marking, dashing, erasing, figuring, and talking to herself. "Free! I wonder what Dilworthy does think of me anyway? One . . . two. . .eight . . . seventeen . . . twenty-one,. . 'm'm . . . it takes a heap for a majority. Wouldn't Dilworthy open his eyes if he knew some of the things Balloon did say to me. There. . . . Hopperson's influence ought to count twenty . . . the sanctimonious old curmudgeon. Son-in-law. . . . sinecure in the negro institution . . . .That about gauges him . . . The three committeemen . . . . sons-in-law. Nothing like a son-in-law here in Washington or a brother- in-law . . . And everybody has 'em . . . Let's see: . . . sixty- one. . . . with places . . . twenty-five . . . persuaded--it is getting on; . . . . we'll have two-thirds of Congress in time . . . Dilworthy must surely know I understand him. Uncle Dilworthy . . . . Uncle Balloon!--Tells very amusing stories . . . when ladies are not present . . . I should think so . . . .'m . . . 'm. Eighty-five. There. I must find that chairman. Queer. . . . Buckstone acts . . Seemed to be in love . . . . . I was sure of it. He promised to come here. . . and he hasn't. . . Strange. Very strange . . . . I must chance to meet him to-day." Laura dressed and went out, thinking she was perhaps too early for Mr. Buckstone to come from the house, but as he lodged near the bookstore she would drop in there and keep a look out for him. While Laura is on her errand to find Mr. Buckstone, it may not be out of the way to remark that she knew quite as much of Washington life as Senator Dilworthy gave her credit for, and more than she thought proper to tell him. She was acquainted by this time with a good many of the young fellows of Newspaper Row; and exchanged gossip with them to their mutual advantage. They were always talking in the Row, everlastingly gossiping, bantering and sarcastically praising things, and going on in a style which was a curious commingling of earnest and persiflage. Col. Sellers liked this talk amazingly, though he was sometimes a little at sea in it--and perhaps that didn't lessen the relish of the conversation to the correspondents. It seems that they had got hold of the dry-goods box packing story about Balloon, one day, and were talking it over when the Colonel came in. The Colonel wanted to know all about it, and Hicks told him. And then Hicks went on, with a serious air, "Colonel, if you register a letter, it means that it is of value, doesn't it? And if you pay fifteen cents for registering it, the government will have to take extra care of it and even pay you back its full value if it is lost. Isn't that so?" "Yes. I suppose it's so.". "Well Senator Balloon put fifteen cents worth of stamps on each of those seven huge boxes of old clothes, and shipped that ton of second-hand rubbish, old boots and pantaloons and what not through the mails as registered matter! It was an ingenious thing and it had a genuine touch of humor about it, too. I think there is more real: talent among our public men of to-day than there was among those of old times--a far more fertile fancy, a much happier ingenuity. Now, Colonel, can you picture Jefferson, or Washington or John Adams franking their wardrobes through the mails and adding the facetious idea of making the government responsible for the cargo for the sum of one dollar and five cents? Statesmen were dull creatures in those days. I have a much greater admiration for Senator Balloon." "Yes, Balloon is a man of parts, there is no denying it" "I think so. He is spoken of for the post of Minister to China, or Austria, and I hope will be appointed. What we want abroad is good examples of the national character. "John Jay and Benjamin Franklin were well enough in their day, but the nation has made progress since then. Balloon is a man we know and can depend on to be true to himself." "Yes, and Balloon has had a good deal of public experience. He is an old friend of mine. He was governor of one of the territories a while, and was very satisfactory." "Indeed he was. He was ex-officio Indian agent, too. Many a man would have taken the Indian appropriation and devoted the money to feeding and clothing the helpless savages, whose land had been taken from them by the white man in the interests of civilization; but Balloon knew their needs better. He built a government saw-mill on the reservation with the money, and the lumber sold for enormous prices--a relative of his did all the work free of charge--that is to say he charged nothing more than the lumber world bring." "But the poor Injuns--not that I care much for Injuns--what did he do for them?" "Gave them the outside slabs to fence in the reservation with. Governor Balloon was nothing less than a father to the poor Indians. But Balloon is not alone, we have many truly noble statesmen in our country's service like Balloon. The Senate is full of them. Don't you think so Colonel?" "Well, I dunno. I honor my country's public servants as much as any one can. I meet them, Sir, every day, and the more I see of them the more I esteem them and the more grateful I am that our institutions give us the opportunity of securing their services. Few lands are so blest." "That is true, Colonel. To be sure you can buy now and then a Senator or a Representative but they do not know it is wrong, and so they are not ashamed of it. They are gentle, and confiding and childlike, and in my opinion these are qualities that ennoble them far more than any amount of sinful sagacity could. I quite agree with you, Col. Sellers." "Well"--hesitated the, Colonel--"I am afraid some of them do buy their seats--yes, I am afraid they do--but as Senator Dilworthy himself said to me, it is sinful,--it is very wrong--it is shameful; Heaven protect me from such a charge. That is what Dilworthy said. And yet when you come to look at it you cannot deny that we would have to go without the services of some of our ablest men, sir, if the country were opposed to --to--bribery. It is a harsh term. I do not like to use it." The Colonel interrupted himself at this point to meet an engagement with the Austrian minister, and took his leave with his usual courtly bow. CHAPTER XXXVI. In due time Laura alighted at the book store, and began to look at the titles of the handsome array of books on the counter. A dapper clerk of perhaps nineteen or twenty years, with hair accurately parted and surprisingly slick, came bustling up and leaned over with a pretty smile and an affable-- "Can I--was there any particular book you wished to see?" "Have you Taine's England?" "Beg pardon?" "Taine's Notes on England." The young gentleman scratched the side of his nose with a cedar pencil which he took down from its bracket on the side of his head, and reflected a moment: "Ah--I see," [with a bright smile]--"Train, you mean--not Taine. George Francis Train. No, ma'm we--" "I mean Taine--if I may take the liberty." The clerk reflected again--then: "Taine . . . . Taine . . . . Is it hymns?" "No, it isn't hymns. It is a volume that is making a deal of talk just now, and is very widely known--except among parties who sell it." The clerk glanced at her face to see if a sarcasm might not lurk somewhere in that obscure speech, but the gentle simplicity of the beautiful eyes that met his, banished that suspicion. He went away and conferred with the proprietor. Both appeared to be non-plussed. They thought and talked, and talked and thought by turns. Then both came forward and the proprietor said: "Is it an American book, ma'm?" "No, it is an American reprint of an English translation." "Oh! Yes--yes--I remember, now. We are expecting it every day. It isn't out yet." "I think you must be mistaken, because you advertised it a week ago." "Why no--can that be so?" "Yes, I am sure of it. And besides, here is the book itself, on the counter." She bought it and the proprietor retired from the field. Then she asked the clerk for the Autocrat of the Breakfast Table--and was pained to see the admiration her beauty had inspired in him fade out of his face. He said with cold dignity, that cook books were somewhat out of their line, but he would order it if she desired it. She said, no, never mind. Then she fell to conning the titles again, finding a delight in the inspection of the Hawthornes, the Longfellows, the Tennysons, and other favorites of her idle hours. Meantime the clerk's eyes were busy, and no doubt his admiration was returning again--or may be he was only gauging her probable literary tastes by some sagacious system of admeasurement only known to his guild. Now he began to "assist" her in making a selection; but his efforts met with no success--indeed they only annoyed her and unpleasantly interrupted her meditations. Presently, while she was holding a copy of "Venetian Life" in her hand and running over a familiar passage here and there, the clerk said, briskly, snatching up a paper-covered volume and striking the counter a smart blow with it to dislodge the dust: "Now here is a work that we've sold a lot of. Everybody that's read it likes it"--and he intruded it under her nose; "it's a book that I can recommend--'The Pirate's Doom, or the Last of the Buccaneers.' I think it's one of the best things that's come out this season." Laura pushed it gently aside her hand and went on and went on filching from "Venetian Life." "I believe I do not want it," she said. The clerk hunted around awhile, glancing at one title and then another, but apparently not finding what he wanted. However, he succeeded at last. Said he: "Have you ever read this, ma'm? I am sure you'll like it. It's by the author of 'The Hooligans of Hackensack.' It is full of love troubles and mysteries and all sorts of such things. The heroine strangles her own mother. Just glance at the title please,--'Gonderil the Vampire, or The Dance of Death.' And here is 'The Jokist's Own Treasury, or, The Phunny Phellow's Bosom Phriend.' The funniest thing!--I've read it four times, ma'm, and I can laugh at the very sight of it yet. And 'Gonderil,' --I assure you it is the most splendid book I ever read. I know you will like these books, ma'm, because I've read them myself and I know what they are." "Oh, I was perplexed--but I see how it is, now. You must have thought I asked you to tell me what sort of books I wanted--for I am apt to say things which I don't really mean, when I am absent minded. I suppose I did ask you, didn't I?" "No ma'm,--but I--" "Yes, I must have done it, else you would not have offered your services, for fear it might be rude. But don't be troubled--it was all my fault. I ought not to have been so heedless--I ought not to have asked you." "But you didn't ask me, ma'm. We always help customers all we can. You see our experience--living right among books all the time--that sort of thing makes us able to help a customer make a selection, you know." "Now does it, indeed? It is part of your business, then?" "Yes'm, we always help." "How good it is of you. Some people would think it rather obtrusive, perhaps, but I don't--I think it is real kindness--even charity. Some people jump to conclusions without any thought--you have noticed that?" "O yes," said the clerk, a little perplexed as to whether to feel comfortable or the reverse; "Oh yes, indeed, I've often noticed that, ma'm." "Yes, they jump to conclusions with an absurd heedlessness. Now some people would think it odd that because you, with the budding tastes and the innocent enthusiasms natural to your time of life, enjoyed the Vampires and the volume of nursery jokes, you should imagine that an older person would delight in them too--but I do not think it odd at all. I think it natural--perfectly natural in you. And kind, too. You look like a person who not only finds a deep pleasure in any little thing in the way of literature that strikes you forcibly, but is willing and glad to share that pleasure with others--and that, I think, is noble and admirable--very noble and admirable. I think we ought all--to share our pleasures with others, and do what we can to make each other happy, do not you?" "Oh, yes. Oh, yes, indeed. Yes, you are quite right, ma'm." But he was getting unmistakably uncomfortable, now, notwithstanding Laura's confiding sociability and almost affectionate tone. "Yes, indeed. Many people would think that what a bookseller--or perhaps his clerk--knows about literature as literature, in contradistinction to its character as merchandise, would hardly, be of much assistance to a person--that is, to an adult, of course--in the selection of food for the mind--except of course wrapping paper, or twine, or wafers, or something like that--but I never feel that way. I feel that whatever service you offer me, you offer with a good heart, and I am as grateful for it as if it were the greatest boon to me. And it is useful to me--it is bound to be so. It cannot be otherwise. If you show me a book which you have read--not skimmed over or merely glanced at, but read--and you tell me that you enjoyed it and that you could read it three or four times, then I know what book I want--" "Thank you!--th--" --"to avoid. Yes indeed. I think that no information ever comes amiss in this world. Once or twice I have traveled in the cars--and there you know, the peanut boy always measures you with his eye, and hands you out a book of murders if you are fond of theology; or Tupper or a dictionary or T. S. Arthur if you are fond of poetry; or he hands you a volume of distressing jokes or a copy of the American Miscellany if you particularly dislike that sort of literary fatty degeneration of the heart--just for the world like a pleasant spoken well-meaning gentleman in any, bookstore. But here I am running on as if business men had nothing to do but listen to women talk. You must pardon me, for I was not thinking.--And you must let me thank you again for helping me. I read a good deal, and shall be in nearly every day and I would be sorry to have you think me a customer who talks too much and buys too little. Might I ask you to give me the time? Ah-two-twenty-two. Thank you very much. I will set mine while I have the opportunity." But she could not get her watch open, apparently. She tried, and tried again. Then the clerk, trembling at his own audacity, begged to be allowed to assist. She allowed him. He succeeded, and was radiant under the sweet influences of her pleased face and her seductively worded acknowledgements with gratification. Then he gave her the exact time again, and anxiously watched her turn the hands slowly till they reached the precise spot without accident or loss of life, and then he looked as happy as a man who had helped a fellow being through a momentous undertaking, and was grateful to know that he had not lived in vain. Laura thanked him once more. The words were music to his ear; but what were they compared to the ravishing smile with which she flooded his whole system? When she bowed her adieu and turned away, he was no longer suffering torture in the pillory where she had had him trussed up during so many distressing moments, but he belonged to the list of her conquests and was a flattered and happy thrall, with the dawn-light of love breaking over the eastern elevations of his heart. It was about the hour, now, for the chairman of the House Committee on Benevolent Appropriations to make his appearance, and Laura stepped to the door to reconnoiter. She glanced up the street, and sure enough-- 
5823	----	THE GILDED AGE A Tale of Today by Mark Twain and Charles Dudley Warner 1873 Part 6. CHAPTER XLVI. Philip left the capitol and walked up Pennsylvania Avenue in company with Senator Dilworthy. It was a bright spring morning, the air was soft and inspiring; in the deepening wayside green, the pink flush of the blossoming peach trees, the soft suffusion on the heights of Arlington, and the breath of the warm south wind was apparent, the annual miracle of the resurrection of the earth. The Senator took off his hat and seemed to open his soul to the sweet influences of the morning. After the heat and noise of the chamber, under its dull gas-illuminated glass canopy, and the all night struggle of passion and feverish excitement there, the open, tranquil world seemed like Heaven. The Senator was not in an exultant mood, but rather in a condition of holy joy, befitting a Christian statesman whose benevolent plans Providence has made its own and stamped with approval. The great battle had been fought, but the measure had still to encounter the scrutiny of the Senate, and Providence sometimes acts differently in the two Houses. Still the Senator was tranquil, for he knew that there is an esprit de corps in the Senate which does not exist in the House, the effect of which is to make the members complaisant towards the projects of each other, and to extend a mutual aid which in a more vulgar body would be called "log-rolling." "It is, under Providence, a good night's work, Mr. Sterling. The government has founded an institution which will remove half the difficulty from the southern problem. And it is a good thing for the Hawkins heirs, a very good thing. Laura will be almost a millionaire." "Do you think, Mr. Dilworthy, that the Hawkinses will get much of the money?" asked Philip innocently, remembering the fate of the Columbus River appropriation. The Senator looked at his companion scrutinizingly for a moment to see if he meant any thing personal, and then replied, "Undoubtedly, undoubtedly. I have had their interests greatly at heart. There will of course be a few expenses, but the widow and orphans will realize all that Mr. Hawkins, dreamed of for them." The birds were singing as they crossed the Presidential Square, now bright with its green turf and tender foliage. After the two had gained the steps of the Senator's house they stood a moment, looking upon the lovely prospect: "It is like the peace of God," said the Senator devoutly. Entering the house, the Senator called a servant and said, "Tell Miss Laura that we are waiting to see her. I ought to have sent a messenger on horseback half an hour ago," he added to Philip, "she will be transported with our victory. You must stop to breakfast, and see the excitement." The servant soon came back, with a wondering look and reported, "Miss Laura ain't dah, sah. I reckon she hain't been dah all night!" The Senator and Philip both started up. In Laura's room there were the marks of a confused and hasty departure, drawers half open, little articles strewn on the floor. The bed had not been disturbed. Upon inquiry it appeared that Laura had not been at dinner, excusing herself to Mrs. Dilworthy on the plea of a violent headache; that she made a request to the servants that she might not be disturbed. The Senator was astounded. Philip thought at once of Col. Selby. Could Laura have run away with him? The Senator thought not. In fact it could not be. Gen. Leffenwell, the member from New Orleans, had casually told him at the house last night that Selby and his family went to New York yesterday morning and were to sail for Europe to-day. Philip had another idea which, he did not mention. He seized his hat, and saying that he would go and see what he could learn, ran to the lodgings of Harry; whom he had not seen since yesterday afternoon, when he left him to go to the House. Harry was not in. He had gone out with a hand-bag before six o'clock yesterday, saying that he had to go to New York, but should return next day. In Harry's-room on the table Philip found this note: "Dear Mr. Brierly:--Can you meet me at the six o'clock train, and be my escort to New York? I have to go about this University bill, the vote of an absent member we must have here, Senator Dilworthy cannot go. Yours, L. H." "Confound it," said Phillip, "the noodle has fallen into her trap. And she promised she would let him alone." He only stopped to send a note to Senator Dilworthy, telling him what he had found, and that he should go at once to New York, and then hastened to the railway station. He had to wait an hour for a train, and when it did start it seemed to go at a snail's pace. Philip was devoured with anxiety. Where could they, have gone? What was Laura's object in taking Harry? Had the flight anything to do with Selby? Would Harry be such a fool as to be dragged into some public scandal? It seemed as if the train would never reach Baltimore. Then there was a long delay at Havre de Grace. A hot box had to be cooled at Wilmington. Would it never get on? Only in passing around the city of Philadelphia did the train not seem to go slow. Philip stood upon the platform and watched for the Boltons' house, fancied he could distinguish its roof among the trees, and wondered how Ruth would feel if she knew he was so near her. Then came Jersey, everlasting Jersey, stupid irritating Jersey, where the passengers are always asking which line they are on, and where they are to come out, and whether they have yet reached Elizabeth. Launched into Jersey, one has a vague notion that he is on many lines and no one in particular, and that he is liable at any moment to come to Elizabeth. He has no notion what Elizabeth is, and always resolves that the next time he goes that way, he will look out of the window and see what it is like; but he never does. Or if he does, he probably finds that it is Princeton or something of that sort. He gets annoyed, and never can see the use of having different names for stations in Jersey. By and by. there is Newark, three or four Newarks apparently; then marshes; then long rock cuttings devoted to the advertisements of 'patent medicines and ready-made, clothing, and New York tonics for Jersey agues, and Jersey City is reached. On the ferry-boat Philip bought an evening paper from a boy crying "'Ere's the Evening Gram, all about the murder," and with breathless haste--ran his eyes over the following: SHOCKING MURDER!!! TRAGEDY IN HIGH LIFE!! A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN SHOOTS A DISTINGUISHED CONFEDERATE SOLDIER AT THE SOUTHERN HOTEL!!! JEALOUSY THE CAUSE!!! This morning occurred another of those shocking murders which have become the almost daily food of the newspapers, the direct result of the socialistic doctrines and woman's rights agitations, which have made every woman the avenger of her own wrongs, and all society the hunting ground for her victims. About nine o'clock a lady deliberately shot a man dead in the public parlor of the Southern Hotel, coolly remarking, as she threw down her revolver and permitted herself to be taken into custody, "He brought it on himself." Our reporters were immediately dispatched to the scene of the tragedy, and gathered the following particulars. Yesterday afternoon arrived at the hotel from Washington, Col. George Selby and family, who had taken passage and were to sail at noon to-day in the steamer Scotia for England. The Colonel was a handsome man about forty, a gentleman Of wealth and high social position, a resident of New Orleans. He served with distinction in the confederate army, and received a wound in the leg from which he has never entirely recovered, being obliged to use a cane in locomotion. This morning at about nine o'clock, a lady, accompanied by a gentleman, called at the office Of the hotel and asked for Col. Selby. The Colonel was at breakfast. Would the clerk tell him that a lady and gentleman wished to see him for a moment in the parlor? The clerk says that the gentleman asked her, "What do you want to see him for?" and that she replied, "He is going to Europe, and I ought to just say good by." Col. Selby was informed; and the lady and gentleman were shown to the parlor, in which were at the time three or four other persons. Five minutes after two shots were fired in quick succession, and there was a rush to the parlor from which the reports came. Col. Selby was found lying on the floor, bleeding, but not dead. Two gentlemen, who had just come in, had seized the lady, who made no resistance, and she was at once given in charge of a police officer who arrived. The persons who were in the parlor agree substantially as to what occurred. They had happened to be looking towards the door when the man--Col. Selby--entered with his cane, and they looked at him, because he stopped as if surprised and frightened, and made a backward movement. At the same moment the lady in the bonnet advanced towards him and said something like, "George, will you go with me?" He replied, throwing up his hand and retreating, "My God I can't, don't fire," and the next instants two shots were heard and he fell. The lady appeared to be beside herself with rage or excitement, and trembled very much when the gentlemen took hold of her; it was to them she said, "He brought it on himself." Col. Selby was carried at once to his room and Dr. Puffer, the eminent surgeon was sent for. It was found that he was shot through the breast and through the abdomen. Other aid was summoned, but the wounds were mortal, and Col Selby expired in an hour, in pain, but his mind was clear to the last and he made a full deposition. The substance of it was that his murderess is a Miss Laura Hawkins, whom he had known at Washington as a lobbyist and had some business with her. She had followed him with her attentions and solicitations, and had endeavored to make him desert his wife and go to Europe with her. When he resisted and avoided her she had threatened him. Only the day before he left Washington she had declared that he should never go out of the city alive without her. It seems to have been a deliberate and premeditated murder, the woman following him to Washington on purpose to commit it. We learn that the, murderess, who is a woman of dazzling and transcendent beauty and about twenty six or seven, is a niece of Senator Dilworthy at whose house she has been spending the winter. She belongs to a high Southern family, and has the reputation of being an heiress. Like some other great beauties and belles in Washington however there have been whispers that she had something to do with the lobby. If we mistake not we have heard her name mentioned in connection with the sale of the Tennessee Lands to the Knobs University, the bill for which passed the House last night. Her companion is Mr. Harry Brierly, a New York dandy, who has been in Washington. His connection with her and with this tragedy is not known, but he was also taken into custody, and will be detained at least as a witness. P. S. One of the persons present in the parlor says that after Laura Hawkins had fired twice, she turned the pistol towards herself, but that Brierly sprung and caught it from her hand, and that it was he who threw it on the floor. Further particulars with full biographies of all the parties in our next edition. Philip hastened at once to the Southern Hotel, where he found still a great state of excitement, and a thousand different and exaggerated stories passing from mouth to mouth. The witnesses of the event had told it over so many time that they had worked it up into a most dramatic scene, and embellished it with whatever could heighten its awfulness. Outsiders had taken up invention also. The Colonel's wife had gone insane, they said. The children had rushed into the parlor and rolled themselves in their father's blood. The hotel clerk said that he noticed there was murder in the woman's eye when he saw her. A person who had met the woman on the stairs felt a creeping sensation. Some thought Brierly was an accomplice, and that he had set the woman on to kill his rival. Some said the woman showed the calmness and indifference of insanity. Philip learned that Harry and Laura had both been taken to the city prison, and he went there; but he was not admitted. Not being a newspaper reporter, he could not see either of them that night; but the officer questioned him suspiciously and asked him who he was. He might perhaps see Brierly in the morning. The latest editions of the evening papers had the result of the inquest. It was a plain enough case for the jury, but they sat over it a long time, listening to the wrangling of the physicians. Dr. Puffer insisted that the man died from the effects of the wound in the chest. Dr. Dobb as strongly insisted that the wound in the abdomen caused death. Dr. Golightly suggested that in his opinion death ensued from a complication of the two wounds and perhaps other causes. He examined the table waiter, as to whether Col. Selby ate any breakfast, and what he ate, and if he had any appetite. The jury finally threw themselves back upon the indisputable fact that Selby was dead, that either wound would have killed him (admitted by the doctors), and rendered a verdict that he died from pistol-shot wounds inflicted by a pistol in the hands of Laura Hawkins. The morning papers blazed with big type, and overflowed with details of the murder. The accounts in the evening papers were only the premonitory drops to this mighty shower. The scene was dramatically worked up in column after column. There were sketches, biographical and historical. There were long "specials" from Washington, giving a full history of Laura's career there, with the names of men with whom she was said to be intimate, a description of Senator Dilworthy's residence and of his family, and of Laura's room in his house, and a sketch of the Senator's appearance and what he said. There was a great deal about her beauty, her accomplishments and her brilliant position in society, and her doubtful position in society. There was also an interview with Col. Sellers and another with Washington Hawkins, the brother of the murderess. One journal had a long dispatch from Hawkeye, reporting the excitement in that quiet village and the reception of the awful intelligence. All the parties had been "interviewed." There were reports of conversations with the clerk at the hotel; with the call-boy; with the waiter at table with all the witnesses, with the policeman, with the landlord (who wanted it understood that nothing of that sort had ever happened in his house before, although it had always been frequented by the best Southern society,) and with Mrs. Col. Selby. There were diagrams illustrating the scene of the shooting, and views of the hotel and street, and portraits of the parties. There were three minute and different statements from the doctors about the wounds, so technically worded that nobody could understand them. Harry and Laura had also been "interviewed" and there was a statement from Philip himself, which a reporter had knocked him up out of bed at midnight to give, though how he found him, Philip never could conjecture. What some of the journals lacked in suitable length for the occasion, they made up in encyclopaedic information about other similar murders and shootings. The statement from Laura was not full, in fact it was fragmentary, and consisted of nine parts of, the reporter's valuable observations to one of Laura's, and it was, as the reporter significantly remarked, "incoherent", but it appeared that Laura claimed to be Selby's wife, or to have been his wife, that he had deserted her and betrayed her, and that she was going to follow him to Europe. When the reporter asked: "What made you shoot him Miss. Hawkins?" Laura's only reply was, very simply, "Did I shoot him? Do they say I shot him?". And she would say no more. The news of the murder was made the excitement of the day. Talk of it filled the town. The facts reported were scrutinized, the standing of the parties was discussed, the dozen different theories of the motive, broached in the newspapers, were disputed over. During the night subtle electricity had carried the tale over all the wires of the continent and under the sea; and in all villages and towns of the Union, from the. Atlantic to the territories, and away up and down the Pacific slope, and as far as London and Paris and Berlin, that morning the name of Laura Hawkins was spoken by millions and millions of people, while the owner of it--the sweet child of years ago, the beautiful queen of Washington drawing rooms--sat shivering on her cot-bed in the darkness of a damp cell in the Tombs. CHAPTER XLVII. Philip's first effort was to get Harry out of the Tombs. He gained permission to see him, in the presence of an officer, during the day, and he found that hero very much cast down. "I never intended to come to such a place as this, old fellow," he said to Philip; "it's no place for a gentleman, they've no idea how to treat a gentleman. Look at that provender," pointing to his uneaten prison ration. "They tell me I am detained as a witness, and I passed the night among a lot of cut-throats and dirty rascals--a pretty witness I'd be in a month spent in such company." "But what under heavens," asked Philip, "induced you to come to New York with Laura! What was it for?" "What for? Why, she wanted me to come. I didn't know anything about that cursed Selby. She said it was lobby business for the University. I'd no idea what she was dragging me into that confounded hotel for. I suppose she knew that the Southerners all go there, and thought she'd find her man. Oh! Lord, I wish I'd taken your advice. You might as well murder somebody and have the credit of it, as get into the newspapers the way I have. She's pure devil, that girl. You ought to have seen how sweet she was on me; what an ass I am." "Well, I'm not going to dispute a poor, prisoner. But the first thing is to get you out of this. I've brought the note Laura wrote you, for one thing, and I've seen your uncle, and explained the truth of the case to him. He will be here soon." Harry's uncle came, with; other friends, and in the course of the day made such a showing to the authorities that Harry was released, on giving bonds to appear as a witness when wanted. His spirits rose with their usual elasticity as soon as he was out of Centre Street, and he insisted on giving Philip and his friends a royal supper at Delmonico's, an excess which was perhaps excusable in the rebound of his feelings, and which was committed with his usual reckless generosity. Harry ordered, the supper, and it is perhaps needless to say, that Philip paid the bill. Neither of the young men felt like attempting to see Laura that day, and she saw no company except the newspaper reporters, until the arrival of Col. Sellers and Washington Hawkins, who had hastened to New York with all speed. They found Laura in a cell in the upper tier of the women's department. The cell was somewhat larger than those in the men's department, and might be eight feet by ten square, perhaps a little longer. It was of stone, floor and all, and tile roof was oven shaped. A narrow slit in the roof admitted sufficient light, and was the only means of ventilation; when the window was opened there was nothing to prevent the rain coming in. The only means of heating being from the corridor, when the door was ajar, the cell was chilly and at this time damp. It was whitewashed and clean, but it had a slight jail odor; its only furniture was a narrow iron bedstead, with a tick of straw and some blankets, not too clean. When Col. Sellers was conducted to this cell by the matron and looked in, his emotions quite overcame him, the tears rolled down his cheeks and his voice trembled so that he could hardly speak. Washington was unable to say anything; he looked from Laura to the miserable creatures who were walking in the corridor with unutterable disgust. Laura was alone calm and self-contained, though she was not unmoved by the sight of the grief of her friends. "Are you comfortable, Laura?" was the first word the Colonel could get out. "You see," she replied. "I can't say it's exactly comfortable." "Are you cold?" "It is pretty chilly. The stone floor is like ice. It chills me through to step on it. I have to sit on the bed." "Poor thing, poor thing. And can you eat any thing?" "No, I am not hungry. I don't know that I could eat any thing, I can't eat that." "Oh dear," continued the Colonel, "it's dreadful. But cheer up, dear, cheer up;" and the Colonel broke down entirely. "But," he went on, "we'll stand by you. We'll do everything for you. I know you couldn't have meant to do it, it must have been insanity, you know, or something of that sort. You never did anything of the sort before." Laura smiled very faintly and said, "Yes, it was something of that sort. It's all a whirl. He was a villain; you don't know." "I'd rather have killed him myself, in a duel you know, all fair. I wish I had. But don't you be down. We'll get you the best counsel, the lawyers in New York can do anything; I've read of cases. But you must be comfortable now. We've brought some of your clothes, at the hotel. What else, can we get for you?" Laura suggested that she would like some sheets for her bed, a piece of carpet to step on, and her meals sent in; and some books and writing materials if it was allowed. The Colonel and Washington promised to procure all these things, and then took their sorrowful leave, a great deal more affected than the criminal was, apparently, by her situation. The colonel told the matron as he went away that if she would look to Laura's comfort a little it shouldn't be the worse for her; and to the turnkey who let them out he patronizingly said, "You've got a big establishment here, a credit to the city. I've got a friend in there--I shall see you again, sir." By the next day something more of Laura's own story began to appear in the newspapers, colored and heightened by reporters' rhetoric. Some of them cast a lurid light upon the Colonel's career, and represented his victim as a beautiful avenger of her murdered innocence; and others pictured her as his willing paramour and pitiless slayer. Her communications to the reporters were stopped by her lawyers as soon as they were retained and visited her, but this fact did not prevent--it may have facilitated--the appearance of casual paragraphs here and there which were likely to beget popular sympathy for the poor girl. The occasion did not pass without "improvement" by the leading journals; and Philip preserved the editorial comments of three or four of them which pleased him most. These he used to read aloud to his friends afterwards and ask them to guess from which journal each of them had been cut. One began in this simple manner:-- History never repeats itself, but the Kaleidoscopic combinations of the pictured present often seem to be constructed out of the broken fragments of antique legends. Washington is not Corinth, and Lais, the beautiful daughter of Timandra, might not have been the prototype of the ravishing Laura, daughter of the plebeian house of Hawkins; but the orators add statesmen who were the purchasers of the favors of the one, may have been as incorruptible as the Republican statesmen who learned how to love and how to vote from the sweet lips of the Washington lobbyist; and perhaps the modern Lais would never have departed from the national Capital if there had been there even one republican Xenocrates who resisted her blandishments. But here the parallel: fails. Lais, wandering away with the youth Rippostratus, is slain by the women who are jealous of her charms. Laura, straying into her Thessaly with the youth Brierly, slays her other lover and becomes the champion of the wrongs of her sex. Another journal began its editorial with less lyrical beauty, but with equal force. It closed as follows:-- With Laura Hawkins, fair, fascinating and fatal, and with the dissolute Colonel of a lost cause, who has reaped the harvest he sowed, we have nothing to do. But as the curtain rises on this awful tragedy, we catch a glimpse of the society at the capital under this Administration, which we cannot contemplate without alarm for the fate of the Republic. A third newspaper took up the subject in a different tone. It said:-- Our repeated predictions are verified. The pernicious doctrines which we have announced as prevailing in American society have been again illustrated. The name of the city is becoming a reproach. We may have done something in averting its ruin in our resolute exposure of the Great Frauds; we shall not be deterred from insisting that the outraged laws for the protection of human life shall be vindicated now, so that a person can walk the streets or enter the public houses, at least in the day-time, without the risk of a bullet through his brain. A fourth journal began its remarks as follows:-- The fullness with which we present our readers this morning the details of the Selby-Hawkins homicide is a miracle of modern journalism. Subsequent investigation can do little to fill out the picture. It is the old story. A beautiful woman shoots her absconding lover in cold-blood; and we shall doubtless learn in due time that if she was not as mad as a hare in this month of March, she was at least laboring under what is termed "momentary insanity." It would not be too much to say that upon the first publication of the facts of the tragedy, there was an almost universal feeling of rage against the murderess in the Tombs, and that reports of her beauty only heightened the indignation. It was as if she presumed upon that and upon her sex, to defy the law; and there was a fervent, hope that the law would take its plain course. Yet Laura was not without friends, and some of them very influential too. She had in keeping a great many secrets and a great many reputations, perhaps. Who shall set himself up to judge human motives. Why, indeed, might we not feel pity for a woman whose brilliant career had been so suddenly extinguished in misfortune and crime? Those who had known her so well in Washington might find it impossible to believe that the fascinating woman could have had murder in her heart, and would readily give ear to the current sentimentality about the temporary aberration of mind under the stress of personal calamity. Senator Dilworthy, was greatly shocked, of course, but he was full of charity for the erring. "We shall all need mercy," he said. "Laura as an inmate of my family was a most exemplary female, amiable, affectionate and truthful, perhaps too fond of gaiety, and neglectful of the externals of religion, but a woman of principle. She may have had experiences of which I am ignorant, but she could not have gone to this extremity if she had been in her own right mind." To the Senator's credit be it said, he was willing to help Laura and her family in this dreadful trial. She, herself, was not without money, for the Washington lobbyist is not seldom more fortunate than the Washington claimant, and she was able to procure a good many luxuries to mitigate the severity of her prison life. It enabled her also to have her own family near her, and to see some of them daily. The tender solicitude of her mother, her childlike grief, and her firm belief in the real guiltlessness of her daughter, touched even the custodians of the Tombs who are enured to scenes of pathos. Mrs. Hawkins had hastened to her daughter as soon as she received money for the journey. She had no reproaches, she had only tenderness and pity. She could not shut out the dreadful facts of the case, but it had been enough for her that Laura had said, in their first interview, "mother, I did not know what I was doing." She obtained lodgings near, the prison and devoted her life to her daughter, as if she had been really her own child. She would have remained in the prison day and night if it had been permitted. She was aged and feeble, but this great necessity seemed to give her new life. The pathetic story of the old lady's ministrations, and her simplicity and faith, also got into the newspapers in time, and probably added to the pathos of this wrecked woman's fate, which was beginning to be felt by the public. It was certain that she had champions who thought that her wrongs ought to be placed against her crime, and expressions of this feeling came to her in various ways. Visitors came to see her, and gifts of fruit and flowers were sent, which brought some cheer into her hard and gloomy cell. Laura had declined to see either Philip or Harry, somewhat to the former's relief, who had a notion that she would necessarily feel humiliated by seeing him after breaking faith with him, but to the discomfiture of Harry, who still felt her fascination, and thought her refusal heartless. He told Philip that of course he had got through with such a woman, but he wanted to see her. Philip, to keep him from some new foolishness, persuaded him to go with him to Philadelphia; and, give his valuable services in the mining operations at Ilium. The law took its course with Laura. She was indicted for murder in the first degree and held for trial at the summer term. The two most distinguished criminal lawyers in the city had been retained for her defence, and to that the resolute woman devoted her days with a courage that rose as she consulted with her counsel and understood the methods of criminal procedure in New York. She was greatly depressed, however, by the news from Washington. Congress adjourned and her bill had failed to pass the Senate. It must wait for the next session. CHAPTER XLVIII It had been a bad winter, somehow, for the firm of Pennybacker, Bigler and Small. These celebrated contractors usually made more money during the session of the legislature at Harrisburg than upon all their summer work, and this winter had been unfruitful. It was unaccountable to Bigler. "You see, Mr. Bolton," he said, and Philip was present at the conversation, "it puts us all out. It looks as if politics was played out. We'd counted on the year of Simon's re-election. And, now, he's reelected, and I've yet to see the first man who's the better for it." "You don't mean to say," asked Philip, "that he went in without paying anything?" "Not a cent, not a dash cent, as I can hear," repeated Mr. Bigler, indignantly. "I call it a swindle on the state. How it was done gets me. I never saw such a tight time for money in Harrisburg." "Were there no combinations, no railroad jobs, no mining schemes put through in connection with the election? "Not that I knew," said Bigler, shaking his head in disgust. "In fact it was openly said, that there was no money in the election. It's perfectly unheard of." "Perhaps," suggested Philip, "it was effected on what the insurance companies call the 'endowment,' or the 'paid up' plan, by which a policy is secured after a certain time without further payment." "You think then," said Mr. Bolton smiling, "that a liberal and sagacious politician might own a legislature after a time, and not be bothered with keeping up his payments?" "Whatever it is," interrupted Mr. Bigler, "it's devilish ingenious and goes ahead of my calculations; it's cleaned me out, when I thought we had a dead sure thing. I tell you what it is, gentlemen, I shall go in for reform. Things have got pretty mixed when a legislature will give away a United States senatorship." It was melancholy, but Mr. Bigler was not a man to be crushed by one misfortune, or to lose his confidence in human nature, on one exhibition of apparent honesty. He was already on his feet again, or would be if Mr. Bolton could tide him over shoal water for ninety days. "We've got something with money in it," he explained to Mr. Bolton, "got hold of it by good luck. We've got the entire contract for Dobson's Patent Pavement for the city of Mobile. See here." Mr. Bigler made some figures; contract so; much, cost of work and materials so much, profits so much. At the end of three months the city would owe the company three hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars-two hundred thousand of that would be profits. The whole job was worth at least a million to the company--it might be more. There could be no mistake in these figures; here was the contract, Mr. Bolton knew what materials were worth and what the labor would cost. Mr. Bolton knew perfectly well from sore experience that there was always a mistake in figures when Bigler or Small made them, and he knew that he ought to send the fellow about his business. Instead of that, he let him talk. They only wanted to raise fifty thousand dollars to carry on the contract--that expended they would have city bonds. Mr. Bolton said he hadn't the money. But Bigler could raise it on his name. Mr. Bolton said he had no right to put his family to that risk. But the entire contract could be assigned to him--the security was ample--it was a fortune to him if it was forfeited. Besides Mr. Bigler had been unfortunate, he didn't know where to look for the necessaries of life for his family. If he could only have one more chance, he was sure he could right himself. He begged for it. And Mr. Bolton yielded. He could never refuse such appeals. If he had befriended a man once and been cheated by him, that man appeared to have a claim upon him forever. He shrank, however, from telling his wife what he had done on this occasion, for he knew that if any person was more odious than Small to his family it was Bigler. "Philip tells me," Mrs. Bolton said that evening, "that the man Bigler has been with thee again to-day. I hope thee will have nothing more to do with him." "He has been very unfortunate," replied Mr. Bolton, uneasily. "He is always unfortunate, and he is always getting thee into trouble. But thee didn't listen to him again?" "Well, mother, his family is in want, and I lent him my name--but I took ample security. The worst that can happen will be a little inconvenience." Mrs. Bolton looked grave and anxious, but she did not complain or remonstrate; she knew what a "little inconvenience" meant, but she knew there was no help for it. If Mr. Bolton had been on his way to market to buy a dinner for his family with the only dollar he had in the world in his pocket, he would have given it to a chance beggar who asked him for it. Mrs. Bolton only asked (and the question showed that she was no mere provident than her husband where her heart was interested), "But has thee provided money for Philip to use in opening the coal mine?" "Yes, I have set apart as much as it ought to cost to open the mine, as much as we can afford to lose if no coal is found. Philip has the control of it, as equal partner in the venture, deducting the capital invested. He has great confidence in his success, and I hope for his sake he won't be disappointed." Philip could not but feel that he was treated very much like one of the Bolton-family--by all except Ruth. His mother, when he went home after his recovery from his accident, had affected to be very jealous of Mrs. Bolton, about whom and Ruth she asked a thousand questions --an affectation of jealousy which no doubt concealed a real heartache, which comes to every mother when her son goes out into the world and forms new ties. And to Mrs. Sterling; a widow, living on a small income in a remote Massachusetts village, Philadelphia was a city of many splendors. All its inhabitants seemed highly favored, dwelling in ease and surrounded by superior advantages. Some of her neighbors had relations living in Philadelphia, and it seemed to them somehow a guarantee of respectability to have relations in Philadelphia. Mrs. Sterling was not sorry to have Philip make his way among such well-to-do people, and she was sure that no good fortune could be too good for his deserts. "So, sir," said Ruth, when Philip came from New York, "you have been assisting in a pretty tragedy. I saw your name in the papers. Is this woman a specimen of your western friends?" "My only assistance," replied Philip, a little annoyed, was in trying to keep Harry out of a bad scrape, and I failed after all. He walked into her trap, and he has been punished for it. I'm going to take him up to Ilium to see if he won't work steadily at one thing, and quit his nonsense." "Is she as beautiful as the newspapers say she is?" "I don't know, she has a kind of beauty--she is not like--' "Not like Alice?" "Well, she is brilliant; she was called the handsomest woman in Washington--dashing, you know, and sarcastic and witty. Ruth, do you believe a woman ever becomes a devil?" "Men do, and I don't know why women shouldn't. But I never saw one." "Well, Laura Hawkins comes very near it. But it is dreadful to think of her fate." "Why, do you suppose they will hang a woman? Do you suppose they will be so barbarous as that?" "I wasn't thinking of that--it's doubtful if a New York jury would find a woman guilty of any such crime. But to think of her life if she is acquitted." "It is dreadful," said Ruth, thoughtfully, "but the worst of it is that you men do not want women educated to do anything, to be able to earn an honest living by their own exertions. They are educated as if they were always to be petted and supported, and there was never to be any such thing as misfortune. I suppose, now, that you would all choose to have me stay idly at home, and give up my profession." "Oh, no," said Philip, earnestly, "I respect your resolution. But, Ruth, do you think you would be happier or do more good in following your profession than in having a home of your own?" "What is to hinder having a home of my, own?" "Nothing, perhaps, only you never would be in it--you would be away day and night, if you had any practice; and what sort of a home would that make for your husband?" "What sort of a home is it for the wife whose husband is always away riding about in his doctor's gig?" "Ah, you know that is not fair. The woman makes the home." Philip and Ruth often had this sort of discussion, to which Philip was always trying to give a personal turn. He was now about to go to Ilium for the season, and he did not like to go without some assurance from Ruth that she might perhaps love him some day; when he was worthy of it, and when he could offer her something better than a partnership in his poverty. "I should work with a great deal better heart, Ruth," he said the morning he was taking leave, "if I knew you cared for me a little." Ruth was looking down; the color came faintly to her cheeks, and she hesitated. She needn't be looking down, he thought, for she was ever so much shorter than tall Philip. "It's not much of a place, Ilium," Philip went on, as if a little geographical remark would fit in here as well as anything else, "and I shall have plenty of time to think over the responsibility I have taken, and--" his observation did not seem to be coming out any where. But Ruth looked up, and there was a light in her eyes that quickened Phil's pulse. She took his hand, and said with serious sweetness: "Thee mustn't lose heart, Philip." And then she added, in another mood, "Thee knows I graduate in the summer and shall have my diploma. And if any thing happens--mines explode sometimes--thee can send for me. Farewell." The opening of the Ilium coal mine was begun with energy, but without many omens of success. Philip was running a tunnel into the breast of the mountain, in faith that the coal stratum ran there as it ought to. How far he must go in he believed he knew, but no one could tell exactly. Some of the miners said that they should probably go through the mountain, and that the hole could be used for a railway tunnel. The mining camp was a busy place at any rate. Quite a settlement of board and log shanties had gone up, with a blacksmith shop, a small machine shop, and a temporary store for supplying the wants of the workmen. Philip and Harry pitched a commodious tent, and lived in the full enjoyment of the free life. There is no difficulty in digging a bole in the ground, if you have money enough to pay for the digging, but those who try this sort of work are always surprised at the large amount of money necessary to make a small hole. The earth is never willing to yield one product, hidden in her bosom, without an equivalent for it. And when a person asks of her coal, she is quite apt to require gold in exchange. It was exciting work for all concerned in it. As the tunnel advanced into the rock every day promised to be the golden day. This very blast might disclose the treasure. The work went on week after week, and at length during the night as well as the daytime. Gangs relieved each other, and the tunnel was every hour, inch by inch and foot by foot, crawling into the mountain. Philip was on the stretch of hope and excitement. Every pay day he saw his funds melting away, and still there was only the faintest show of what the miners call "signs." The life suited Harry, whose buoyant hopefulness was never disturbed. He made endless calculations, which nobody could understand, of the probable position of the vein. He stood about among the workmen with the busiest air. When he was down at Ilium he called himself the engineer of the works, and he used to spend hours smoking his pipe with the Dutch landlord on the hotel porch, and astonishing the idlers there with the stories of his railroad operations in Missouri. He talked with the landlord, too, about enlarging his hotel, and about buying some village lots, in the prospect of a rise, when the mine was opened. He taught the Dutchman how to mix a great many cooling drinks for the summer time, and had a bill at the hotel, the growing length of which Mr. Dusenheimer contemplated with pleasant anticipations. Mr. Brierly was a very useful and cheering person wherever he went. Midsummer arrived: Philip could report to Mr. Bolton only progress, and this was not a cheerful message for him to send to Philadelphia in reply to inquiries that he thought became more and more anxious. Philip himself was a prey to the constant fear that the money would give out before the coal was struck. At this time Harry was summoned to New York, to attend the trial of Laura Hawkins. It was possible that Philip would have to go also, her lawyer wrote, but they hoped for a postponement. There was important evidence that they could not yet obtain, and he hoped the judge would not force them to a trial unprepared. There were many reasons for a delay, reasons which of course are never mentioned, but which it would seem that a New York judge sometimes must understand, when he grants a postponement upon a motion that seems to the public altogether inadequate. Harry went, but he soon came back. The trial was put off. Every week we can gain, said the learned counsel, Braham, improves our chances. The popular rage never lasts long. CHAPTER XLIX. "We've struck it!" This was the announcement at the tent door that woke Philip out of a sound sleep at dead of night, and shook all the sleepiness out of him in a trice. "What! Where is it? When? Coal? Let me see it. What quality is it?" were some of the rapid questions that Philip poured out as he hurriedly dressed. "Harry, wake up, my boy, the coal train is coming. Struck it, eh? Let's see?" The foreman put down his lantern, and handed Philip a black lump. There was no mistake about it, it was the hard, shining anthracite, and its freshly fractured surface, glistened in the light like polished steel. Diamond never shone with such lustre in the eyes of Philip. Harry was exuberant, but Philip's natural caution found expression in his next remark. "Now, Roberts, you are sure about this?" "What--sure that it's coal?" "O, no, sure that it's the main vein." "Well, yes. We took it to be that" "Did you from the first?" "I can't say we did at first. No, we didn't. Most of the indications were there, but not all of them, not all of them. So we thought we'd prospect a bit." "Well?" "It was tolerable thick, and looked as if it might be the vein--looked as if it ought to be the vein. Then we went down on it a little. Looked better all the time." "When did you strike it?" "About ten o'clock." "Then you've been prospecting about four hours." "Yes, been sinking on it something over four hours." "I'm afraid you couldn't go down very far in four hours--could you?" "O yes--it's a good deal broke up, nothing but picking and gadding stuff." "Well, it does look encouraging, sure enough--but then the lacking indications--" "I'd rather we had them, Mr. Sterling, but I've seen more than one good permanent mine struck without 'em in my time." "Well, that is encouraging too." "Yes, there was the Union, the Alabama and the Black Mohawk--all good, sound mines, you know--all just exactly like this one when we first struck them." "Well, I begin to feel a good deal more easy. I guess we've really got it. I remember hearing them tell about the Black Mohawk." "I'm free to say that I believe it, and the men all think so too. They are all old hands at this business." "Come Harry, let's go up and look at it, just for the comfort of it," said Philip. They came back in the course of an hour, satisfied and happy. There was no more sleep for them that night. They lit their pipes, put a specimen of the coal on the table, and made it a kind of loadstone of thought and conversation. "Of course," said Harry, "there will have to be a branch track built, and a 'switch-back' up the hill." "Yes, there will be no trouble about getting the money for that now. We could sell-out tomorrow for a handsome sum. That sort of coal doesn't go begging within a mile of a rail-road. I wonder if Mr. Bolton' would rather sell out or work it?" "Oh, work it," says Harry, "probably the whole mountain is coal now you've got to it." "Possibly it might not be much of a vein after all," suggested Philip. "Possibly it is; I'll bet it's forty feet thick. I told you. I knew the sort of thing as soon as I put my eyes on it." Philip's next thought was to write to his friends and announce their good fortune. To Mr. Bolton he wrote a short, business letter, as calm as he could make it. They had found coal of excellent quality, but they could not yet tell with absolute certainty what the vein was. The prospecting was still going on. Philip also wrote to Ruth; but though this letter may have glowed, it was not with the heat of burning anthracite. He needed no artificial heat to warm his pen and kindle his ardor when he sat down to write to Ruth. But it must be confessed that the words never flowed so easily before, and he ran on for an hour disporting in all the extravagance of his imagination. When Ruth read it, she doubted if the fellow had not gone out of his senses. And it was not until she reached the postscript that she discovered the cause of the exhilaration. "P. S.--We have found coal." The news couldn't have come to Mr. Bolton in better time. He had never been so sorely pressed. A dozen schemes which he had in hand, any one of which might turn up a fortune, all languished, and each needed just a little more, money to save that which had been invested. He hadn't a piece of real estate that was not covered with mortgages, even to the wild tract which Philip was experimenting on, and which had, no marketable value above the incumbrance on it. He had come home that day early, unusually dejected. "I am afraid," he said to his wife, "that we shall have to give up our house. I don't care for myself, but for thee and the children." "That will be the least of misfortunes," said Mrs. Bolton, cheerfully, "if thee can clear thyself from debt and anxiety, which is wearing thee out, we can live any where. Thee knows we were never happier than when we were in a much humbler home." "The truth is, Margaret, that affair of Bigler and Small's has come on me just when I couldn't stand another ounce. They have made another failure of it. I might have known they would; and the sharpers, or fools, I don't know which, have contrived to involve me for three times as much as the first obligation. The security is in my hands, but it is good for nothing to me. I have not the money to do anything with the contract." Ruth heard this dismal news without great surprise. She had long felt that they were living on a volcano, that might go in to active operation at any hour. Inheriting from her father an active brain and the courage to undertake new things, she had little of his sanguine temperament which blinds one to difficulties and possible failures. She had little confidence in the many schemes which had been about to lift her father out of all his embarrassments and into great wealth, ever since she was a child; as she grew older, she rather wondered that they were as prosperous as they seemed to be, and that they did not all go to smash amid so many brilliant projects. She was nothing but a woman, and did not know how much of the business prosperity of the world is only a, bubble of credit and speculation, one scheme helping to float another which is no better than it, and the whole liable to come to naught and confusion as soon as the busy brain that conceived them ceases its power to devise, or when some accident produces a sudden panic. "Perhaps, I shall be the stay of the family, yet," said Ruth, with an approach to gaiety; "When we move into a little house in town, will thee let me put a little sign on the door: DR. RUTH BOLTON?" "Mrs. Dr. Longstreet, thee knows, has a great income." "Who will pay for the sign, Ruth?" asked Mr. Bolton. A servant entered with the afternoon mail from the office. Mr. Bolton took his letters listlessly, dreading to open them. He knew well what they contained, new difficulties, more urgent demands fox money. "Oh, here is one from Philip. Poor fellow. I shall feel his disappointment as much as my own bad luck. It is hard to bear when one is young." He opened the letter and read. As he read his face lightened, and he fetched such a sigh of relief, that Mrs. Bolton and Ruth both exclaimed. "Read that," he cried, "Philip has found coal!" The world was changed in a moment. One little sentence had done it. There was no more trouble. Philip had found coal. That meant relief. That meant fortune. A great weight was taken off, and the spirits of the whole household rose magically. Good Money! beautiful demon of Money, what an enchanter thou art! Ruth felt that she was of less consequence in the household, now that Philip had found Coal, and perhaps she was not sorry to feel so. Mr. Bolton was ten years younger the next morning. He went into the city, and showed his letter on change. It was the sort of news his friends were quite willing to listen to. They took a new interest in him. If it was confirmed, Bolton would come right up again. There would be no difficulty about his getting all the money he wanted. The money market did not seem to be half so tight as it was the day before. Mr. Bolton spent a very pleasant day in his office, and went home revolving some new plans, and the execution of some projects he had long been prevented from entering upon by the lack of money. The day had been spent by Philip in no less excitement. By daylight, with Philip's letters to the mail, word had gone down to Ilium that coal had been found, and very early a crowd of eager spectators had come up to see for themselves. The "prospecting" continued day and night for upwards of a week, and during the first four or five days the indications grew more and more promising, and the telegrams and letters kept Mr. Bolton duly posted. But at last a change came, and the promises began to fail with alarming rapidity. In the end it was demonstrated without the possibility of a doubt that the great "find" was nothing but a worthless seam. Philip was cast down, all the more so because he had been so foolish as to send the news to Philadelphia before he knew what he was writing about. And now he must contradict it. "It turns out to be only a mere seam," he wrote, "but we look upon it as an indication of better further in." Alas! Mr. Bolton's affairs could not wait for "indications." The future might have a great deal in store, but the present was black and hopeless. It was doubtful if any sacrifice could save him from ruin. Yet sacrifice he must make, and that instantly, in the hope of saving something from the wreck of his fortune. His lovely country home must go. That would bring the most ready money. The house that he had built with loving thought for each one of his family, as he planned its luxurious apartments and adorned it; the grounds that he had laid out, with so much delight in following the tastes of his wife, with whom the country, the cultivation of rare trees and flowers, the care of garden and lawn and conservatories were a passion almost; this home, which he had hoped his children would enjoy long after he had done with it, must go. The family bore the sacrifice better than he did. They declared in fact --women are such hypocrites--that they quite enjoyed the city (it was in August) after living so long in the country, that it was a thousand tunes more convenient in every respect; Mrs. Bolton said it was a relief from the worry of a large establishment, and Ruth reminded her father that she should have had to come to town anyway before long. Mr. Bolton was relieved, exactly as a water-logged ship is lightened by throwing overboard the most valuable portion of the cargo--but the leak was not stopped. Indeed his credit was injured instead of helped by the prudent step be had taken. It was regarded as a sure evidence of his embarrassment, and it was much more difficult for him to obtain help than if he had, instead of retrenching, launched into some new speculation. Philip was greatly troubled, and exaggerated his own share in the bringing about of the calamity. "You must not look at it so!" Mr. Bolton wrote him. "You have neither helped nor hindered--but you know you may help by and by. It would have all happened just so, if we had never begun to dig that hole. That is only a drop. Work away. I still have hope that something will occur to relieve me. At any rate we must not give up the mine, so long as we have any show." Alas! the relief did not come. New misfortunes came instead. When the extent of the Bigler swindle was disclosed there was no more hope that Mr. Bolton could extricate himself, and he had, as an honest man, no resource except to surrender all his property for the benefit of his creditors. The Autumn came and found Philip working with diminished force but still with hope. He had again and again been encouraged by good "indications," but he had again and again been disappointed. He could not go on much longer, and almost everybody except himself had thought it was useless to go on as long as he had been doing. When the news came of Mr. Bolton's failure, of course the work stopped. The men were discharged, the tools were housed, the hopeful noise of pickman and driver ceased, and the mining camp had that desolate and mournful aspect which always hovers over a frustrated enterprise. Philip sat down amid the ruins, and almost wished he were buried in them. How distant Ruth was now from him, now, when she might need him most. How changed was all the Philadelphia world, which had hitherto stood for the exemplification of happiness and prosperity. He still had faith that there was coal in that mountain. He made a picture of himself living there a hermit in a shanty by the tunnel, digging away with solitary pick and wheelbarrow, day after day and year after year, until he grew gray and aged, and was known in all that region as the old man of the mountain. Perhaps some day--he felt it must be so some day--he should strike coal. But what if he did? Who would be alive to care for it then? What would he care for it then? No, a man wants riches in his youth, when the world is fresh to him. He wondered why Providence could not have reversed the usual process, and let the majority of men begin with wealth and gradually spend it, and die poor when they no longer needed it. Harry went back to the city. It was evident that his services were no longer needed. Indeed, he had letters from his uncle, which he did not read to Philip, desiring him to go to San Francisco to look after some government contracts in the harbor there. Philip had to look about him for something to do; he was like Adam; the world was all before him whereto choose. He made, before he went elsewhere, a somewhat painful visit to Philadelphia, painful but yet not without its sweetnesses. The family had never shown him so much affection before; they all seemed to think his disappointment of more importance than their own misfortune. And there was that in Ruth's manner--in what she gave him and what she withheld--that would have made a hero of a very much less promising character than Philip Sterling. Among the assets of the Bolton property, the Ilium tract was sold, and Philip bought it in at the vendue, for a song, for no one cared to even undertake the mortgage on it except himself. He went away the owner of it, and had ample time before he reached home in November, to calculate how much poorer he was by possessing it. CHAPTER L. It is impossible for the historian, with even the best intentions, to control events or compel the persons of his narrative to act wisely or to be successful. It is easy to see how things might have been better managed; a very little change here and there would have made a very, different history of this one now in hand. If Philip had adopted some regular profession, even some trade, he might now be a prosperous editor or a conscientious plumber, or an honest lawyer, and have borrowed money at the saving's bank and built a cottage, and be now furnishing it for the occupancy of Ruth and himself. Instead of this, with only a smattering of civil engineering, he is at his mother's house, fretting and fuming over his ill-luck, and the hardness and, dishonesty of men, and thinking of nothing but how to get the coal out of the Ilium hills. If Senator Dilworthy had not made that visit to Hawkeye, the Hawkins family and Col. Sellers would not now be dancing attendance upon Congress, and endeavoring to tempt that immaculate body into one of those appropriations, for the benefit of its members, which the members find it so difficult to explain to their constituents; and Laura would not be lying in the Tombs, awaiting her trial for murder, and doing her best, by the help of able counsel, to corrupt the pure fountain of criminal procedure in New York. If Henry Brierly had been blown up on the first Mississippi steamboat he set foot on, as the chances were that he would be, he and Col. Sellers never would have gone into the Columbus Navigation scheme, and probably never into the East Tennessee Land scheme, and he would not now be detained in New York from very important business operations on the Pacific coast, for the sole purpose of giving evidence to convict of murder the only woman he ever loved half as much as he loves himself. If Mr. Bolton had said the little word "no" to Mr. Bigler, Alice Montague might now be spending the winter in Philadelphia, and Philip also (waiting to resume his mining operations in the spring); and Ruth would not be an assistant in a Philadelphia hospital, taxing her strength with arduous routine duties, day by day, in order to lighten a little the burdens that weigh upon her unfortunate family. It is altogether a bad business. An honest historian, who had progressed thus far, and traced everything to such a condition of disaster and suspension, might well be justified in ending his narrative and writing --"after this the deluge." His only consolation would be in the reflection that he was not responsible for either characters or events. And the most annoying thought is that a little money, judiciously applied, would relieve the burdens and anxieties of most of these people; but affairs seem to be so arranged that money is most difficult to get when people need it most. A little of what Mr. Bolton has weakly given to unworthy people would now establish his family in a sort of comfort, and relieve Ruth of the excessive toil for which she inherited no adequate physical vigor. A little money would make a prince of Col. Sellers; and a little more would calm the anxiety of Washington Hawkins about Laura, for however the trial ended, he could feel sure of extricating her in the end. And if Philip had a little money he could unlock the stone door in the mountain whence would issue a stream of shining riches. It needs a golden wand to strike that rock. If the Knobs University bill could only go through, what a change would be wrought in the condition of most of the persons in this history. Even Philip himself would feel the good effects of it; for Harry would have something and Col. Sellers would have something; and have not both these cautious people expressed a determination to take an interest in the Ilium mine when they catch their larks? Philip could not resist the inclination to pay a visit to Fallkill. He had not been at the Montague's since the time he saw Ruth there, and he wanted to consult the Squire about an occupation. He was determined now to waste no more time in waiting on Providence, but to go to work at something, if it were nothing better, than teaching in the Fallkill Seminary, or digging clams on Hingham beach. Perhaps he could read law in Squire Montague's office while earning his bread as a teacher in the Seminary. It was not altogether Philip's fault, let us own, that he was in this position. There are many young men like him in American society, of his age, opportunities, education and abilities, who have really been educated for nothing and have let themselves drift, in the hope that they will find somehow, and by some sudden turn of good luck, the golden road to fortune. He was not idle or lazy, he had energy and a disposition to carve his own way. But he was born into a time when all young men of his age caught the fever of speculation, and expected to get on in the world by the omission of some of the regular processes which have been appointed from of old. And examples were not wanting to encourage him. He saw people, all around him, poor yesterday, rich to-day, who had come into sudden opulence by some means which they could not have classified among any of the regular occupations of life. A war would give such a fellow a career and very likely fame. He might have been a "railroad man," or a politician, or a land speculator, or one of those mysterious people who travel free on all rail-roads and steamboats, and are continually crossing and recrossing the Atlantic, driven day and night about nobody knows what, and make a great deal of money by so doing. Probably, at last, he sometimes thought with a whimsical smile, he should end by being an insurance agent, and asking people to insure their lives for his benefit. Possibly Philip did not think how much the attractions of Fallkill were increased by the presence of Alice there. He had known her so long, she had somehow grown into his life by habit, that he would expect the pleasure of her society without thinking mach about it. Latterly he never thought of her without thinking of Ruth, and if he gave the subject any attention, it was probably in an undefined consciousness that, he had her sympathy in his love, and that she was always willing to hear him talk about it. If he ever wondered that Alice herself was not in love and never spoke of the possibility of her own marriage, it was a transient thought for love did not seem necessary, exactly, to one so calm and evenly balanced and with so many resources in her herself. Whatever her thoughts may have been they were unknown to Philip, as they are to these historians; if she was seeming to be what she was not, and carrying a burden heavier than any one else carried, because she had to bear it alone, she was only doing what thousands of women do, with a self-renunciation and heroism, of which men, impatient and complaining, have no conception. Have not these big babies with beards filled all literature with their outcries, their griefs and their lamentations? It is always the gentle sex which is hard and cruel and fickle and implacable. "Do you think you would be contented to live in Fallkill, and attend the county Court?" asked Alice, when Philip had opened the budget of his new programme. "Perhaps not always," said Philip, "I might go and practice in Boston maybe, or go to Chicago." "Or you might get elected to Congress." Philip looked at Alice to see if she was in earnest and not chaffing him. Her face was quite sober. Alice was one of those patriotic women in the rural districts, who think men are still selected for Congress on account of qualifications for the office. "No," said Philip, "the chances are that a man cannot get into congress now without resorting to arts and means that should render hint unfit to go there; of course there are exceptions; but do you know that I could not go into politics if I were a lawyer, without losing standing somewhat in my profession, and without raising at least a suspicion of my intentions and unselfishness? Why, it is telegraphed all over the country and commented on as something wonderful if a congressman votes honestly and unselfishly and refuses to take advantage of his position to steal from the government." "But," insisted Alice, "I should think it a noble ambition to go to congress, if it is so bad, and help reform it. I don't believe it is as corrupt as the English parliament used to be, if there is any truth in the novels, and I suppose that is reformed." "I'm sure I don't know where the reform is to begin. I've seen a perfectly capable, honest man, time and again, run against an illiterate trickster, and get beaten. I suppose if the people wanted decent members of congress they would elect them. Perhaps," continued Philip with a smile, "the women will have to vote." "Well, I should be willing to, if it were a necessity, just as I would go to war and do what I could, if the country couldn't be saved otherwise," said Alice, with a spirit that surprised Philip, well as he thought he knew her. "If I were a young gentleman in these times--" Philip laughed outright. "It's just what Ruth used to say, 'if she were a man.' I wonder if all the young ladies are contemplating a change of sex." "No, only a changed sex," retorted Alice; "we contemplate for the most part young men who don't care for anything they ought to care for." "Well," said Philip, looking humble, "I care for some things, you and Ruth for instance; perhaps I ought not to. Perhaps I ought to care for Congress and that sort of thing." "Don't be a goose, Philip. I heard from Ruth yesterday." "Can I see her letter?" "No, indeed. But I am afraid her hard work is telling on her, together with her anxiety about her father." "Do you think, Alice," asked Philip with one of those selfish thoughts that are not seldom mixed with real love, "that Ruth prefers her profession to--to marriage?" "Philip," exclaimed Alice, rising to quit the room, and speaking hurriedly as if the words were forced from her, "you are as blind as a bat; Ruth would cut off her right hand for you this minute." Philip never noticed that Alice's face was flushed and that her voice was unsteady; he only thought of the delicious words he had heard. And the poor girl, loyal to Ruth, loyal to Philip, went straight to her room, locked the door, threw herself on the bed and sobbed as if her heart world break. And then she prayed that her Father in Heaven would give her strength. And after a time she was calm again, and went to her bureau drawer and took from a hiding place a little piece of paper, yellow with age. Upon it was pinned a four-leaved clover, dry and yellow also. She looked long at this foolish memento. Under the clover leaf was written in a school-girl's hand--"Philip, June, 186-." Squire Montague thought very well of Philip's proposal. It would have been better if he had begun the study of the law as soon as he left college, but it was not too late now, and besides he had gathered some knowledge of the world. "But," asked the Squire, "do you mean to abandon your land in Pennsylvania?" This track of land seemed an immense possible fortune to this New England lawyer-farmer. Hasn't it good timber, and doesn't the railroad almost touch it?" "I can't do anything with it now. Perhaps I can sometime." "What is your reason for supposing that there is coal there?" "The opinion of the best geologist I could consult, my own observation of the country, and the little veins of it we found. I feel certain it is there. I shall find it some day. I know it. If I can only keep the land till I make money enough to try again." Philip took from his pocket a map of the anthracite coal region, and pointed out the position of the Ilium mountain which he had begun to tunnel. "Doesn't it look like it?" "It certainly does," said the Squire, very much interested. It is not unusual for a quiet country gentleman to be more taken with such a venture than a speculator who, has had more experience in its uncertainty. It was astonishing how many New England clergymen, in the time of the petroleum excitement, took chances in oil. The Wall street brokers are said to do a good deal of small business for country clergymen, who are moved no doubt with the laudable desire of purifying the New York stock board. "I don't see that there is much risk," said the Squire, at length. "The timber is worth more than the mortgage; and if that coal seam does run there, it's a magnificent fortune. Would you like to try it again in the spring, Phil?" Like to try it! If he could have a little help, he would work himself, with pick and barrow, and live on a crust. Only give him one more chance. And this is how it came about that the cautious old Squire Montague was drawn into this young fellow's speculation, and began to have his serene old age disturbed by anxieties and by the hope of a great stroke of luck. "To be sure, I only care about it for the boy," he said. The Squire was like everybody else; sooner or later he must "take a chance." It is probably on account of the lack of enterprise in women that they are not so fond of stock speculations and mine ventures as men. It is only when woman becomes demoralized that she takes to any sort of gambling. Neither Alice nor Ruth were much elated with the prospect of Philip's renewal of his mining enterprise. But Philip was exultant. He wrote to Ruth as if his fortune were already made, and as if the clouds that lowered over the house of Bolton were already in the deep bosom of a coal mine buried. Towards spring he went to Philadelphia with his plans all matured for a new campaign. His enthusiasm was irresistible. "Philip has come, Philip has come," cried the children, as if some great good had again come into the household; and the refrain even sang itself over in Ruth's heart as she went the weary hospital rounds. Mr. Bolton felt more courage than he had had in months, at the sight of his manly face and the sound of his cheery voice. Ruth's course was vindicated now, and it certainly did not become Philip, who had nothing to offer but a future chance against the visible result of her determination and industry, to open an argument with her. Ruth was never more certain that she was right and that she was sufficient unto herself. She, may be, did not much heed the still small voice that sang in her maiden heart as she went about her work, and which lightened it and made it easy, "Philip has come." "I am glad for father's sake," she said to Philip, that thee has come. "I can see that he depends greatly upon what thee can do. He thinks women won't hold out long," added Ruth with the smile that Philip never exactly understood. "And aren't you tired sometimes of the struggle?" "Tired? Yes, everybody is tired I suppose. But it is a glorious profession. And would you want me to be dependent, Philip?" "Well, yes, a little," said Philip, feeling his way towards what he wanted to say. "On what, for instance, just now?" asked Ruth, a little maliciously Philip thought. "Why, on----" he couldn't quite say it, for it occurred to him that he was a poor stick for any body to lean on in the present state of his fortune, and that the woman before him was at least as independent as he was. "I don't mean depend," he began again. "But I love you, that's all. Am I nothing--to you?" And Philip looked a little defiant, and as if he had said something that ought to brush away all the sophistries of obligation on either side, between man and woman. Perhaps Ruth saw this. Perhaps she saw that her own theories of a certain equality of power, which ought to precede a union of two hearts, might be pushed too far. Perhaps she had felt sometimes her own weakness and the need after all of so dear a sympathy and so tender an interest confessed, as that which Philip could give. Whatever moved her--the riddle is as old as creation--she simply looked up to Philip and said in a low voice, "Everything." And Philip clasping both her hands in his, and looking down into her eyes, which drank in all his tenderness with the thirst of a true woman's nature-- "Oh! Philip, come out here," shouted young Eli, throwing the door wide open. And Ruth escaped away to her room, her heart singing again, and now as if it would burst for joy, "Philip has come." That night Philip received a dispatch from Harry--"The trial begins tomorrow." CHAPTER, LI December 18--, found Washington Hawkins and Col. Sellers once more at the capitol of the nation, standing guard over the University bill. The former gentleman was despondent, the latter hopeful. Washington's distress of mind was chiefly on Laura's account. The court would soon sit to try her, case, he said, and consequently a great deal of ready money would be needed in the engineering of it. The University bill was sure to pass this, time, and that would make money plenty, but might not the, help come too late? Congress had only just assembled, and delays were to be feared. "Well," said the Colonel, "I don't know but you are more or less right, there. Now let's figure up a little on, the preliminaries. I think Congress always tries to do as near right as it can, according to its lights. A man can't ask any fairer, than that. The first preliminary it always starts out on, is, to clean itself, so to speak. It will arraign two or three dozen of its members, or maybe four or five dozen, for taking bribes to vote for this and that and the other bill last winter." "It goes up into the dozens, does it?" "Well, yes; in a free country likes ours, where any man can run for Congress and anybody can vote for him, you can't expect immortal purity all the time--it ain't in nature. Sixty or eighty or a hundred and fifty people are bound to get in who are not angels in disguise, as young Hicks the correspondent says; but still it is a very good average; very good indeed. As long as it averages as well as that, I think we can feel very well satisfied. Even in these days, when people growl so much and the newspapers are so out of patience, there is still a very respectable minority of honest men in Congress." "Why a respectable minority of honest men can't do any good, Colonel." "Oh, yes it can, too" "Why, how?" "Oh, in many ways, many ways." "But what are the ways?" "Well--I don't know--it is a question that requires time; a body can't answer every question right off-hand. But it does do good. I am satisfied of that." "All right, then; grant that it does good; go on with the preliminaries." "That is what I am coming to. First, as I said, they will try a lot of members for taking money for votes. That will take four weeks." "Yes, that's like last year; and it is a sheer waste of the time for which the nation pays those men to work--that is what that is. And it pinches when a body's got a bill waiting." "A waste of time, to purify the fountain of public law? Well, I never heard anybody express an idea like that before. But if it were, it would still be the fault of the minority, for the majority don't institute these proceedings. There is where that minority becomes an obstruction --but still one can't say it is on the wrong side.--Well, after they have finished the bribery cases, they will take up cases of members who have bought their seats with money. That will take another four weeks." "Very good; go on. You have accounted for two-thirds of the session." "Next they will try each other for various smaller irregularities, like the sale of appointments to West Point cadetships, and that sort of thing--mere trifling pocket-money enterprises that might better, be passed over in silence, perhaps, but then one of our Congresses can never rest easy till it has thoroughly purified itself of all blemishes--and that is a thing to be applauded." "How long does it take to disinfect itself of these minor impurities?" "Well, about two weeks, generally." "So Congress always lies helpless in quarantine ten weeks of a session. That's encouraging. Colonel, poor Laura will never get any benefit from our bill. Her trial will be over before Congress has half purified itself.--And doesn't it occur to you that by the time it has expelled all its impure members there, may not be enough members left to do business legally?" "Why I did not say Congress would expel anybody." "Well won't it expel anybody?" "Not necessarily. Did it last year? It never does. That would not be regular." "Then why waste all the session in that tomfoolery of trying members?" "It is usual; it is customary; the country requires it." "Then the country is a fool, I think." "Oh, no. The country thinks somebody is going to be expelled." "Well, when nobody is expelled, what does the country think then?" "By that time, the thing has strung out so long that the country is sick and tired of it and glad to have a change on any terms. But all that inquiry is not lost. It has a good moral effect." "Who does it have a good moral effect on?" "Well--I don't know. On foreign countries, I think. We have always been under the gaze of foreign countries. There is no country in the world, sir, that pursues corruption as inveterately as we do. There is no country in the world whose representatives try each other as much as ours do, or stick to it as long on a stretch. I think there is something great in being a model for the whole civilized world, Washington" "You don't mean a model; you mean an example." "Well, it's all the same; it's just the same thing. It shows that a man can't be corrupt in this country without sweating for it, I can tell you that." "Hang it, Colonel, you just said we never punish anybody for villainous practices." "But good God we try them, don't we! Is it nothing to show a disposition to sift things and bring people to a strict account? I tell you it has its effect." "Oh, bother the effect!--What is it they do do? How do they proceed? You know perfectly well--and it is all bosh, too. Come, now, how do they proceed?" "Why they proceed right and regular--and it ain't bosh, Washington, it ain't bosh. They appoint a committee to investigate, and that committee hears evidence three weeks, and all the witnesses on one side swear that the accused took money or stock or something for his vote. Then the accused stands up and testifies that he may have done it, but he was receiving and handling a good deal of money at the time and he doesn't remember this particular circumstance--at least with sufficient distinctness to enable him to grasp it tangibly. So of course the thing is not proven--and that is what they say in the verdict. They don't acquit, they don't condemn. They just say, 'Charge not proven.' It leaves the accused is a kind of a shaky condition before the country, it purifies Congress, it satisfies everybody, and it doesn't seriously hurt anybody. It has taken a long time to perfect our system, but it is the most admirable in the world, now." "So one of those long stupid investigations always turns out in that lame silly way. Yes, you are correct. I thought maybe you viewed the matter differently from other people. Do you think a Congress of ours could convict the devil of anything if he were a member?" "My dear boy, don't let these damaging delays prejudice you against Congress. Don't use such strong language; you talk like a newspaper. Congress has inflicted frightful punishments on its members--now you know that. When they tried Mr. Fairoaks, and a cloud of witnesses proved him to be--well, you know what they proved him to be--and his own testimony and his own confessions gave him the same character, what did Congress do then?--come!" "Well, what did Congress do?" "You know what Congress did, Washington. Congress intimated plainly enough, that they considered him almost a stain upon their body; and without waiting ten days, hardly, to think the thing over, the rose up and hurled at him a resolution declaring that they disapproved of his conduct! Now you know that, Washington." "It was a terrific thing--there is no denying that. If he had been proven guilty of theft, arson, licentiousness, infanticide, and defiling graves, I believe they would have suspended him for two days." "You can depend on it, Washington. Congress is vindictive, Congress is savage, sir, when it gets waked up once. It will go to any length to vindicate its honor at such a time." "Ah well, we have talked the morning through, just as usual in these tiresome days of waiting, and we have reached the same old result; that is to say, we are no better off than when we began. The land bill is just as far away as ever, and the trial is closer at hand. Let's give up everything and die." "Die and leave the Duchess to fight it out all alone? Oh, no, that won't do. Come, now, don't talk so. It is all going to come out right. Now you'll see." "It never will, Colonel, never in the world. Something tells me that. I get more tired and more despondent every day. I don't see any hope; life is only just a trouble. I am so miserable, these days!" The Colonel made Washington get up and walk the floor with him, arm in arm. The good old speculator wanted to comfort him, but he hardly knew how to go about it. He made many attempts, but they were lame; they lacked spirit; the words were encouraging; but they were only words--he could not get any heart into them. He could not always warm up, now, with the old Hawkeye fervor. By and by his lips trembled and his voice got unsteady. He said: "Don't give up the ship, my boy--don't do it. The wind's bound to fetch around and set in our favor. I know it." And the prospect was so cheerful that he wept. Then he blew a trumpet-blast that started the meshes of his handkerchief, and said in almost his breezy old-time way: "Lord bless us, this is all nonsense! Night doesn't last always; day has got to break some time or other. Every silver lining has a cloud behind it, as the poet says; and that remark has always cheered me; though --I never could see any meaning to it. Everybody uses it, though, and everybody gets comfort out of it. I wish they would start something fresh. Come, now, let's cheer up; there's been as good fish in the sea as there are now. It shall never be said that Beriah Sellers --Come in?" It was the telegraph boy. The Colonel reached for the message and devoured its contents: "I said it! Never give up the ship! The trial's, postponed till February, and we'll save the child yet. Bless my life, what lawyers they, have in New-York! Give them money to fight with; and the ghost of an excuse, and they: would manage to postpone anything in this world, unless it might be the millennium or something like that. Now for work again my boy. The trial will last to the middle of March, sure; Congress ends the fourth of March. Within three days of the end of the session they will be done putting through the preliminaries then they will be ready for national business: Our bill will go through in forty-eight hours, then, and we'll telegraph a million dollar's to the jury--to the lawyers, I mean--and the verdict of the jury will be 'Accidental murder resulting from justifiable insanity'--or something to, that effect, something to that effect.--Everything is dead sure, now. Come, what is the matter? What are you wilting down like that, for? You mustn't be a girl, you know." "Oh, Colonel, I am become so used to troubles, so used to failures, disappointments, hard luck of all kinds, that a little good news breaks me right down. Everything has been so hopeless that now I can't stand good news at all. It is too good to be true, anyway. Don't you see how our bad luck has worked on me? My hair is getting gray, and many nights I don't sleep at all. I wish it was all over and we could rest. I wish we could lie, down and just forget everything, and let it all be just a dream that is done and can't come back to trouble us any more. I am so tired." "Ah, poor child, don't talk like that-cheer up--there's daylight ahead. Don't give, up. You'll have Laura again, and--Louise, and your mother, and oceans and oceans of money--and then you can go away, ever so far away somewhere, if you want to, and forget all about this infernal place. And by George I'll go with you! I'll go with you--now there's my word on it. Cheer up. I'll run out and tell the friends the news." And he wrung Washington's hand and was about to hurry away when his companion, in a burst of grateful admiration said: "I think you are the best soul and the noblest I ever knew, Colonel Sellers! and if the people only knew you as I do, you would not be tagging around here a nameless man--you would be in Congress." The gladness died out of the Colonel's face, and he laid his hand upon Washington's shoulder and said gravely: "I have always been a friend of your family, Washington, and I think I have always tried to do right as between man and man, according to my lights. Now I don't think there has ever been anything in my conduct that should make you feel Justified in saying a thing like that." He turned, then, and walked slowly out, leaving Washington abashed and somewhat bewildered. When Washington had presently got his thoughts into line again, he said to himself, "Why, honestly, I only meant to compliment him--indeed I would not have hurt him for the world." CHAPTER LII. The weeks drifted by monotonously enough, now. The "preliminaries" continued to drag along in Congress, and life was a dull suspense to Sellers and Washington, a weary waiting which might have broken their hearts, maybe, but for the relieving change which they got out of am occasional visit to New York to see Laura. Standing guard in Washington or anywhere else is not an exciting business in time of peace, but standing guard was all that the two friends had to do; all that was needed of them was that they should be on hand and ready for any emergency that might come up. There was no work to do; that was all finished; this was but the second session of the last winter's Congress, and its action on the bill could have but one result--its passage. The house must do its work over again, of course, but the same membership was there to see that it did it.--The Senate was secure--Senator Dilworthy was able to put all doubts to rest on that head. Indeed it was no secret in Washington that a two-thirds vote in the Senate was ready and waiting to be cast for the University bill as soon as it should come before that body. Washington did not take part in the gaieties of "the season," as he had done the previous winter. He had lost his interest in such things; he was oppressed with cares, now. Senator Dilworthy said to Washington that an humble deportment, under punishment, was best, and that there was but one way in which the troubled heart might find perfect repose and peace. The suggestion found a response in Washington's breast, and the Senator saw the sign of it in his face. From that moment one could find the youth with the Senator even oftener than with Col. Sellers. When the statesman presided at great temperance meetings, he placed Washington in the front rank of impressive dignitaries that gave tone to the occasion and pomp to the platform. His bald headed surroundings made the youth the more conspicuous. When the statesman made remarks in these meetings, he not infrequently alluded with effect to the encouraging spectacle of one of the wealthiest and most brilliant young favorites of society forsaking the light vanities of that butterfly existence to nobly and self-sacrificingly devote his talents and his riches to the cause of saving his hapless fellow creatures from shame and misery here and eternal regret hereafter. At the prayer meetings the Senator always brought Washington up the aisle on his arm and seated him prominently; in his prayers he referred to him in the cant terms which the Senator employed, perhaps unconsciously, and mistook, maybe, for religion, and in other ways brought him into notice. He had him out at gatherings for the benefit of the negro, gatherings for the benefit of the Indian, gatherings for the benefit of the heathen in distant lands. He had him out time and again, before Sunday Schools, as an example for emulation. Upon all these occasions the Senator made casual references to many benevolent enterprises which his ardent young friend was planning against the day when the passage of the University bill should make his means available for the amelioration of the condition of the unfortunate among his fellow men of all nations and all. climes. Thus as the weeks rolled on Washington grew up, into an imposing lion once more, but a lion that roamed the peaceful fields of religion and temperance, and revisited the glittering domain of fashion no more. A great moral influence was thus brought, to bear in favor of the bill; the weightiest of friends flocked to its standard; its most energetic enemies said it was useless to fight longer; they had tacitly surrendered while as yet the day of battle was not come. CHAPTER LIII. The session was drawing toward its close. Senator Dilworthy thought he would run out west and shake hands with his constituents and let them look at him. The legislature whose duty it would be to re-elect him to the United States Senate, was already in session. Mr. Dilworthy considered his re-election certain, but he was a careful, painstaking man, and if, by visiting his State he could find the opportunity to persuade a few more legislators to vote for him, he held the journey to be well worth taking. The University bill was safe, now; he could leave it without fear; it needed his presence and his watching no longer. But there was a person in his State legislature who did need watching --a person who, Senator Dilworthy said, was a narrow, grumbling, uncomfortable malcontent--a person who was stolidly opposed to reform, and progress and him,--a person who, he feared, had been bought with money to combat him, and through him the commonwealth's welfare and its politics' purity. "If this person Noble," said Mr. Dilworthy, in a little speech at a dinner party given him by some of his admirers, "merely desired to sacrifice me.--I would willingly offer up my political life on the altar of my dear State's weal, I would be glad and grateful to do it; but when he makes of me but a cloak to hide his deeper designs, when he proposes to strike through me at the heart of my beloved State, all the lion in me is roused--and I say here I stand, solitary and alone, but unflinching, unquailing, thrice armed with my sacred trust; and whoso passes, to do evil to this fair domain that looks to me for protection, must do so over my dead body." He further said that if this Noble were a pure man, and merely misguided, he could bear it, but that he should succeed in his wicked designs through, a base use of money would leave a blot upon his State which would work untold evil to the morals of the people, and that he would not suffer; the public morals must not be contaminated. He would seek this man Noble; he would argue, he would persuade, he would appeal to his honor. When he arrived on the ground he found his friends unterrified; they were standing firmly by him and were full of courage. Noble was working hard, too, but matters were against him, he was not making much progress. Mr. Dilworthy took an early opportunity to send for Mr. Noble; he had a midnight interview with him, and urged him to forsake his evil ways; he begged him to come again and again, which he did. He finally sent the man away at 3 o'clock one morning; and when he was gone, Mr. Dilworthy said to himself, "I feel a good deal relieved, now, a great deal relieved." The Senator now turned his attention to matters touching the souls of his people. He appeared in church; he took a leading part in prayer meetings; he met and encouraged the temperance societies; he graced the sewing circles of the ladies with his presence, and even took a needle now and then and made a stitch or two upon a calico shirt for some poor Bibleless pagan of the South Seas, and this act enchanted the ladies, who regarded the garments thus honored as in a manner sanctified. The Senator wrought in Bible classes, and nothing could keep him away from the Sunday Schools--neither sickness nor storms nor weariness. He even traveled a tedious thirty miles in a poor little rickety stagecoach to comply with the desire of the miserable hamlet of Cattleville that he would let its Sunday School look upon him. All the town was assembled at the stage office when he arrived, two bonfires were burning, and a battery of anvils was popping exultant broadsides; for a United States Senator was a sort of god in the understanding of these people who never had seen any creature mightier than a county judge. To them a United States Senator was a vast, vague colossus, an awe inspiring unreality. Next day everybody was at the village church a full half hour before time for Sunday School to open; ranchmen and farmers had come with their families from five miles around, all eager to get a glimpse of the great man--the man who had been to Washington; the man who had seen the President of the United States, and had even talked with him; the man who had seen the actual Washington Monument--perhaps touched it with his hands. When the Senator arrived the Church was crowded, the windows were full, the aisles were packed, so was the vestibule, and so indeed was the yard in front of the building. As he worked his way through to the pulpit on the arm of the minister and followed by the envied officials of the village, every neck was stretched and, every eye twisted around intervening obstructions to get a glimpse. Elderly people directed each other's attention and, said, "There! that's him, with the grand, noble forehead!" Boys nudged each other and said, "Hi, Johnny, here he is, there, that's him, with the peeled head!" The Senator took his seat in the pulpit, with the minister' on one side of him and the Superintendent of the Sunday School on the other. The town dignitaries sat in an impressive row within the altar railings below. The Sunday School children occupied ten of the front benches. dressed in their best and most uncomfortable clothes, and with hair combed and faces too clean to feel natural. So awed were they by the presence of a living United States Senator, that during three minutes not a "spit ball" was thrown. After that they began to come to themselves by degrees, and presently the spell was wholly gone and they were reciting verses and pulling hair. The usual Sunday School exercises were hurried through, and then the minister, got up and bored the house with a speech built on the customary Sunday School plan; then the Superintendent put in his oar; then the town dignitaries had their say. They all made complimentary reference to "their friend the, Senator," and told what a great and illustrious man he was and what he had done for his country and for religion and temperance, and exhorted the little boys to be good and diligent and try to become like him some day. The speakers won the deathless hatred of the house by these delays, but at last there was an end and hope revived; inspiration was about to find utterance. Senator Dilworthy rose and beamed upon the assemblage for a full minute in silence. Then he smiled with an access of sweetness upon the children and began: "My little friends--for I hope that all these bright-faced little people are my friends and will let me be their friend--my little friends, I have traveled much, I have been in many cities and many States, everywhere in our great and noble country, and by the blessing of Providence I have been permitted to see many gatherings like this--but I am proud, I am truly proud to say that I never have looked upon so much intelligence, so much grace, such sweetness of disposition as I see in the charming young countenances I see before me at this moment. I have been asking myself as I sat here, Where am I? Am I in some far-off monarchy, looking upon little princes and princesses? No. Am I in some populous centre of my own country, where the choicest children of the land have been selected and brought together as at a fair for a prize? No. Am I in some strange foreign clime where the children are marvels that we know not of? No. Then where am I? Yes--where am I? I am in a simple, remote, unpretending settlement of my own dear State, and these are the children of the noble and virtuous men who have made me what I am! My soul is lost in wonder at the thought! And I humbly thank Him to whom we are but as worms of the dust, that he has been pleased to call me to serve such men! Earth has no higher, no grander position for me. Let kings and emperors keep their tinsel crowns, I want them not; my heart is here! "Again I thought, Is this a theatre? No. Is it a concert or a gilded opera? No. Is it some other vain, brilliant, beautiful temple of soul-staining amusement and hilarity? No. Then what is it? What did my consciousness reply? I ask you, my little friends, What did my consciousness reply? It replied, It is the temple of the Lord! Ah, think of that, now. I could hardly keep the tears back, I was so grateful. Oh, how beautiful it is to see these ranks of sunny little faces assembled here to learn the way of life; to learn to be good; to learn to be useful; to learn to be pious; to learn to be great and glorious men and women; to learn to be props and pillars of the State and shining lights in the councils and the households of the nation; to be bearers of the banner and soldiers of the cross in the rude campaigns of life, and raptured souls in the happy fields of Paradise hereafter. "Children, honor your parents and be grateful to them for providing for you the precious privileges of a Sunday School. "Now my dear little friends, sit up straight and pretty--there, that's it--and give me your attention and let me tell you about a poor little Sunday School scholar I once knew.--He lived in the far west, and his parents were poor. They could not give him a costly education; but they were good and wise and they sent him to the Sunday School. He loved the Sunday School. I hope you love your Sunday School--ah, I see by your faces that you do! That is right! "Well, this poor little boy was always in his place when the bell rang, and he always knew his lesson; for his teachers wanted him to learn and he loved his teachers dearly. Always love your teachers, my children, for they love you more than you can know, now. He would not let bad boys persuade him to go to play on Sunday. There was one little bad boy who was always trying to persuade him, but he never could. "So this poor little boy grew up to be a man, and had to go out in the world, far from home and friends to earn his living. Temptations lay all about him, and sometimes he was about to yield, but he would think of some precious lesson he learned in his Sunday School a long time ago, and that would save him. By and by he was elected to the legislature--Then he did everything he could for Sunday Schools. He got laws passed for them; he got Sunday Schools established wherever he could. "And by and by the people made him governor--and he said it was all owing to the Sunday School. "After a while the people elected him a Representative to the Congress of the United States, and he grew very famous.--Now temptations assailed him on every hand. People tried to get him to drink wine; to dance, to go to theatres; they even tried to buy his vote; but no, the memory of his Sunday School saved him from all harm; he remembered the fate of the bad little boy who used to try to get him to play on Sunday, and who grew up and became a drunkard and was hanged. He remembered that, and was glad he never yielded and played on Sunday. "Well, at last, what do you think happened? Why the people gave him a towering, illustrious position, a grand, imposing position. And what do you think it was? What should you say it was, children? It was Senator of the United States! That poor little boy that loved his Sunday School became that man. That man stands before you! All that he is, he owes to the Sunday School. "My precious children, love your parents, love your teachers, love your Sunday School, be pious, be obedient, be honest, be diligent, and then you will succeed in life and be honored of all men. Above all things, my children, be honest. Above all things be pure-minded as the snow. Let us join in prayer." When Senator Dilworthy departed from Cattleville, he left three dozen boys behind him arranging a campaign of life whose objective point was the United States Senate. When be arrived at the State capital at midnight Mr. Noble came and held a three-hours' conference with him, and then as he was about leaving said: "I've worked hard, and I've got them at last. Six of them haven't got quite back-bone enough to slew around and come right out for you on the first ballot to-morrow; but they're going to vote against you on the first for the sake of appearances, and then come out for you all in a body on the second--I've fixed all that! By supper time to-morrow you'll be re-elected. You can go to bed and sleep easy on that." After Mr. Noble was gone, the Senator said: "Well, to bring about a complexion of things like this was worth coming West for." CHAPTER LIV. The case of the State of New York against Laura Hawkins was finally set down for trial on the 15th day of February, less than a year after the shooting of George Selby. If the public had almost forgotten the existence of Laura and her crime, they were reminded of all the details of the murder by the newspapers, which for some days had been announcing the approaching trial. But they had not forgotten. The sex, the age, the beauty of the prisoner; her high social position in Washington, the unparalleled calmness with which the crime was committed had all conspired to fix the event in the public mind, although nearly three hundred and sixty-five subsequent murders had occurred to vary the monotony of metropolitan life. No, the public read from time to time of the lovely prisoner, languishing in the city prison, the tortured victim of the law's delay; and as the months went by it was natural that the horror of her crime should become a little indistinct in memory, while the heroine of it should be invested with a sort of sentimental interest. Perhaps her counsel had calculated on this. Perhaps it was by their advice that Laura had interested herself in the unfortunate criminals who shared her prison confinement, and had done not a little to relieve, from her own purse, the necessities of some of the poor creatures. That she had done this, the public read in the journals of the day, and the simple announcement cast a softening light upon her character. The court room was crowded at an early hour, before the arrival of judges, lawyers and prisoner. There is no enjoyment so keen to certain minds as that of looking upon the slow torture of a human being on trial for life, except it be an execution; there is no display of human ingenuity, wit and power so fascinating as that made by trained lawyers in the trial of an important case, nowhere else is exhibited such subtlety, acumen, address, eloquence. All the conditions of intense excitement meet in a murder trial. The awful issue at stake gives significance to the lightest word or look. How the quick eyes of the spectators rove from the stolid jury to the keen lawyers, the impassive judge, the anxious prisoner. Nothing is lost of the sharp wrangle of the counsel on points of law, the measured decision's of the bench; the duels between the attorneys and the witnesses. The crowd sways with the rise and fall of the shifting, testimony, in sympathetic interest, and hangs upon the dicta of the judge in breathless silence. It speedily takes sides for or against the accused, and recognizes as quickly its favorites among the lawyers. Nothing delights it more than the sharp retort of a witness and the discomfiture of an obnoxious attorney. A joke, even if it be a lame, one, is no where so keenly relished or quickly applauded as in a murder trial. Within the bar the young lawyers and the privileged hangers-on filled all the chairs except those reserved at the table for those engaged in the case. Without, the throng occupied all the seats, the window ledges and the standing room. The atmosphere was already something horrible. It was the peculiar odor of a criminal court, as if it were tainted by the presence, in different persons, of all the crimes that men and women can commit. There was a little stir when the Prosecuting Attorney, with two assistants, made his way in, seated himself at the table, and spread his papers before him. There was more stir when the counsel of the defense appeared. They were Mr. Braham, the senior, and Mr. Quiggle and Mr. O'Keefe, the juniors. Everybody in the court room knew Mr. Braham, the great criminal lawyer, and he was not unaware that he was the object of all eyes as he moved to his place, bowing to his friends in the bar. A large but rather spare man, with broad shoulders and a massive head, covered with chestnut curls which fell down upon his coat collar and which he had a habit of shaking as a lion is supposed to shake his mane. His face was clean shaven, and he had a wide mouth and rather small dark eyes, set quite too near together: Mr. Braham wore a brown frock coat buttoned across his breast, with a rose-bud in the upper buttonhole, and light pantaloons. A diamond stud was seen to flash from his bosom; and as he seated himself and drew off his gloves a heavy seal ring was displayed upon his white left hand. Mr. Braham having seated himself, deliberately surveyed the entire house, made a remark to one of his assistants, and then taking an ivory-handled knife from his pocket began to pare his finger nails, rocking his chair backwards and forwards slowly. A moment later Judge O'Shaunnessy entered at the rear door and took his seat in one of the chairs behind the bench; a gentleman in black broadcloth, with sandy hair, inclined to curl, a round; reddish and rather jovial face, sharp rather than intellectual, and with a self-sufficient air. His career had nothing remarkable in it. He was descended from a long line of Irish Kings, and he was the first one of them who had ever come into his kingdom--the kingdom of such being the city of New York. He had, in fact, descended so far and so low that he found himself, when a boy, a sort of street Arab in that city; but he had ambition and native shrewdness, and he speedily took to boot-polishing, and newspaper hawking, became the office and errand boy of a law firm, picked up knowledge enough to get some employment in police courts, was admitted to the bar, became a rising young politician, went to the legislature, and was finally elected to the bench which he now honored. In this democratic country he was obliged to conceal his royalty under a plebeian aspect. Judge O'Shaunnessy never had a lucrative practice nor a large salary but he had prudently laid away money-believing that a dependant judge can never be impartial--and he had lands and houses to the value of three or four hundred thousand dollars. Had he not helped to build and furnish this very Court House? Did he not know that the very "spittoon" which his judgeship used cost the city the sum of one thousand dollars? As soon as the judge was seated, the court was opened, with the "oi yis, oi yis" of the officer in his native language, the case called, and the sheriff was directed to bring in the prisoner. In the midst of a profound hush Laura entered, leaning on the arm of the officer, and was conducted to a seat by her counsel. She was followed by her mother and by Washington Hawkins, who were given seats near her. Laura was very pale, but this pallor heightened the lustre of her large eyes and gave a touching sadness to her expressive face. She was dressed in simple black, with exquisite taste, and without an ornament. The thin lace vail which partially covered her face did not so much conceal as heighten her beauty. She would not have entered a drawing room with more self-poise, nor a church with more haughty humility. There was in her manner or face neither shame nor boldness, and when she took her seat in fall view of half the spectators, her eyes were downcast. A murmur of admiration ran through the room. The newspaper reporters made their pencils fly. Mr. Braham again swept his eyes over the house as if in approval. When Laura at length raised her eyes a little, she saw Philip and Harry within the bar, but she gave no token of recognition. The clerk then read the indictment, which was in the usual form. It charged Laura Hawkins, in effect, with the premeditated murder of George Selby, by shooting him with a pistol, with a revolver, shotgun, rifle, repeater, breech-loader, cannon, six-shooter, with a gun, or some other, weapon; with killing him with a slung-shot, a bludgeon, carving knife, bowie knife, pen knife, rolling pin, car, hook, dagger, hair pin, with a hammer, with a screw-driver; with a nail, and with all other weapons and utensils whatsoever, at the Southern hotel and in all other hotels and places wheresoever, on the thirteenth day of March and all other days of the Christian era wheresoever. Laura stood while the long indictment was read; and at the end, in response to the inquiry, of the judge, she said in a clear, low voice; "Not guilty." She sat down and the court proceeded to impanel a jury. The first man called was Michael Lanigan, saloon keeper. "Have you formed or expressed any opinion on this case, and do you know any of the parties?" "Not any," said Mr. Lanigan. "Have you any conscientious objections to capital punishment?" "No, sir, not to my knowledge." "Have you read anything about this case?" "To be sure, I read the papers, y'r Honor." Objected to by Mr. Braham, for cause, and discharged. Patrick Coughlin. "What is your business?" "Well--I haven't got any particular business." "Haven't any particular business, eh? Well, what's your general business? What do you do for a living?" "I own some terriers, sir." "Own some terriers, eh? Keep a rat pit?" "Gentlemen comes there to have a little sport. I never fit 'em, sir." "Oh, I see--you are probably the amusement committee of the city council. Have you ever heard of this case?" "Not till this morning, sir." "Can you read?" "Not fine print, y'r Honor." The man was about to be sworn, when Mr. Braham asked, "Could your father read?" "The old gentleman was mighty handy at that, sir." Mr. Braham submitted that the man was disqualified Judge thought not. Point argued. Challenged peremptorily, and set aside. Ethan Dobb, cart-driver. "Can you read?" "Yes, but haven't a habit of it." "Have you heard of this case?" "I think so--but it might be another. I have no opinion about it." Dist. A. "Tha--tha--there! Hold on a bit? Did anybody tell you to say you had no opinion about it?" "N--n--o, sir." Take care now, take care. Then what suggested it to you to volunteer that remark?" "They've always asked that, when I was on juries." All right, then. Have you any conscientious scruples about capital punishment?" "Any which?" "Would you object to finding a person guilty--of murder on evidence?" "I might, sir, if I thought he wan't guilty." The district attorney thought he saw a point. "Would this feeling rather incline you against a capital conviction?" The juror said he hadn't any feeling, and didn't know any of the parties. Accepted and sworn. Dennis Lafin, laborer. Have neither formed nor expressed an opinion. Never had heard of the case. Believed in hangin' for them that deserved it. Could read if it was necessary. Mr. Braham objected. The man was evidently bloody minded. Challenged peremptorily. Larry O'Toole, contractor. A showily dressed man of the style known as "vulgar genteel," had a sharp eye and a ready tongue. Had read the newspaper reports of the case, but they made no impression on him. Should be governed by the evidence. Knew no reason why he could not be an impartial juror. Question by District Attorney. "How is it that the reports made no impression on you?" "Never believe anything I see in the newspapers." (Laughter from the crowd, approving smiles from his Honor and Mr. Braham.) Juror sworn in. Mr. Braham whispered to O'Keefe, "that's the man." Avery Hicks, pea-nut peddler. Did he ever hear of this case? The man shook his head. "Can you read?" "No." "Any scruples about capital punishment?" "No." He was about to be sworn, when the district attorney turning to him carelessly, remarked, "Understand the nature of an oath?" "Outside," said the man, pointing to the door. "I say, do you know what an oath is?" "Five cents," explained the man. "Do you mean to insult me?" roared the prosecuting officer. "Are you an idiot?" "Fresh baked. I'm deefe. I don't hear a word you say." The man was discharged. "He wouldn't have made a bad juror, though," whispered Braham. "I saw him looking at the prisoner sympathizingly. That's a point you want to watch for." The result of the whole day's work was the selection of only two jurors. These however were satisfactory to Mr. Braham. He had kept off all those he did not know. No one knew better than this great criminal lawyer that the battle was fought on the selection of the jury. The subsequent examination of witnesses, the eloquence expended on the jury are all for effect outside. At least that is the theory of Mr. Braham. But human nature is a queer thing, he admits; sometimes jurors are unaccountably swayed, be as careful as you can in choosing them. It was four weary days before this jury was made up, but when it was finally complete, it did great credit to the counsel for the defence. So far as Mr. Braham knew, only two could read, one of whom was the foreman, Mr. Braham's friend, the showy contractor. Low foreheads and heavy faces they all had; some had a look of animal cunning, while the most were only stupid. The entire panel formed that boasted heritage commonly described as the "bulwark of our liberties." The District Attorney, Mr. McFlinn, opened the case for the state. He spoke with only the slightest accent, one that had been inherited but not cultivated. He contented himself with a brief statement of the case. The state would prove that Laura Hawkins, the prisoner at the bar, a fiend in the form of a beautiful woman, shot dead George Selby, a Southern gentleman, at the, time and place described. That the murder was in cold blood, deliberate and without provocation; that it had been long premeditated and threatened; that she had followed the deceased-from Washington to commit it. All this would be proved by unimpeachable witnesses. The attorney added that the duty of the jury, however painful it might be, would be plain and simple. They were citizens, husbands, perhaps fathers. They knew how insecure life had become in the metropolis. Tomorrow our own wives might be widows, their own children orphans, like the bereaved family in yonder hotel, deprived of husband and father by the jealous hand of some murderous female. The attorney sat down, and the clerk called?" "Henry Brierly." 
5824	----	THE GILDED AGE A Tale of Today by Mark Twain and Charles Dudley Warner 1873 Part 7. CHAPTER LV. Henry Brierly took the stand. Requested by the District Attorney to tell the jury all he knew about the killing, he narrated the circumstances substantially as the reader already knows them. He accompanied Miss Hawkins to New York at her request, supposing she was coming in relation to a bill then pending in Congress, to secure the attendance of absent members. Her note to him was here shown. She appeared to be very much excited at the Washington station. After she had asked the conductor several questions, he heard her say, "He can't escape." Witness asked her "Who?" and she replied "Nobody." Did not see her during the night. They traveled in a sleeping car. In the morning she appeared not to have slept, said she had a headache. In crossing the ferry she asked him about the shipping in sight; he pointed out where the Cunarders lay when in port. They took a cup of coffee that morning at a restaurant. She said she was anxious to reach the Southern Hotel where Mr. Simons, one of the absent members, was staying, before he went out. She was entirely self-possessed, and beyond unusual excitement did not act unnaturally. After she had fired twice at Col. Selby, she turned the pistol towards her own breast, and witness snatched it from her. She had seen a great deal with Selby in Washington, appeared to be infatuated with him. (Cross-examined by Mr. Braham.) "Mist-er.....er Brierly!" (Mr. Braham had in perfection this lawyer's trick of annoying a witness, by drawling out the "Mister," as if unable to recall the name, until the witness is sufficiently aggravated, and then suddenly, with a rising inflection, flinging his name at him with startling unexpectedness.) "Mist-er.....er Brierly! What is your occupation?" "Civil Engineer, sir." "Ah, civil engineer, (with a glance at the jury). Following that occupation with Miss Hawkins?" (Smiles by the jury). "No, sir," said Harry, reddening. "How long have you known the prisoner?" "Two years, sir. I made her acquaintance in Hawkeye, Missouri." "M.....m...m. Mist-er.....er Brierly! Were you not a lover of Miss Hawkins?" Objected to. "I submit, your Honor, that I have the right to establish the relation of this unwilling witness to the prisoner." Admitted. "Well, sir," said Harry hesitatingly, "we were friends." "You act like a friend!" (sarcastically.) The jury were beginning to hate this neatly dressed young sprig. "Mister......er....Brierly! Didn't Miss Hawkins refuse you?" Harry blushed and stammered and looked at the judge. "You must answer, sir," said His Honor. "She--she--didn't accept me." "No. I should think not. Brierly do you dare tell the jury that you had not an interest in the removal of your rival, Col. Selby?" roared Mr. Braham in a voice of thunder. "Nothing like this, sir, nothing like this," protested the witness. "That's all, sir," said Mr. Braham severely. "One word," said the District Attorney. "Had you the least suspicion of the prisoner's intention, up to the moment of the shooting?" "Not the least," answered Harry earnestly. "Of course not, of course-not," nodded Mr. Braham to the jury. The prosecution then put upon the stand the other witnesses of the shooting at the hotel, and the clerk and the attending physicians. The fact of the homicide was clearly established. Nothing new was elicited, except from the clerk, in reply to a question by Mr. Braham, the fact that when the prisoner enquired for Col. Selby she appeared excited and there was a wild look in her eyes. The dying deposition of Col. Selby was then produced. It set forth Laura's threats, but there was a significant addition to it, which the newspaper report did not have. It seemed that after the deposition was taken as reported, the Colonel was told for the first time by his physicians that his wounds were mortal. He appeared to be in great mental agony and fear; and said he had not finished his deposition. He added, with great difficulty and long pauses these words. "I--have --not--told--all. I must tell--put--it--down--I--wronged--her. Years --ago--I--can't see--O--God--I--deserved----" That was all. He fainted and did not revive again. The Washington railway conductor testified that the prisoner had asked him if a gentleman and his family went out on the evening train, describing the persons he had since learned were Col. Selby and family. Susan Cullum, colored servant at Senator Dilworthy's, was sworn. Knew Col. Selby. Had seen him come to the house often, and be alone in the parlor with Miss Hawkins. He came the day but one before he was shot. She let him in. He appeared flustered like. She heard talking in the parlor, I peared like it was quarrelin'. Was afeared sumfin' was wrong: Just put her ear to--the--keyhole of the back parlor-door. Heard a man's voice, "I--can't--I can't, Good God," quite beggin' like. Heard--young Miss' voice, "Take your choice, then. If you 'bandon me, you knows what to 'spect." Then he rushes outen the house, I goes in--and I says, "Missis did you ring?" She was a standin' like a tiger, her eyes flashin'. I come right out. This was the substance of Susan's testimony, which was not shaken in the least by severe cross-examination. In reply to Mr. Braham's question, if the prisoner did not look insane, Susan said, "Lord; no, sir, just mad as a hawnet." Washington Hawkins was sworn. The pistol, identified by the officer as the one used in the homicide, was produced Washington admitted that it was his. She had asked him for it one morning, saying she thought she had heard burglars the night before. Admitted that he never had heard burglars in the house. Had anything unusual happened just before that. Nothing that he remembered. Did he accompany her to a reception at Mrs. Shoonmaker's a day or two before? Yes. What occurred? Little by little it was dragged out of the witness that Laura had behaved strangely there, appeared to be sick, and he had taken her home. Upon being pushed he admitted that she had afterwards confessed that she saw Selby there. And Washington volunteered the statement that Selby, was a black-hearted villain. The District Attorney said, with some annoyance; "There--there! That will do." The defence declined to examine Mr. Hawkins at present. The case for the prosecution was closed. Of the murder there could not be the least doubt, or that the prisoner followed the deceased to New York with a murderous intent: On the evidence the jury must convict, and might do so without leaving their seats. This was the condition of the case two days after the jury had been selected. A week had passed since the trial opened; and a Sunday had intervened. The public who read the reports of the evidence saw no chance for the prisoner's escape. The crowd of spectators who had watched the trial were moved with the most profound sympathy for Laura. Mr. Braham opened the case for the defence. His manner was subdued, and he spoke in so low a voice that it was only by reason of perfect silence in the court room that he could be heard. He spoke very distinctly, however, and if his nationality could be discovered in his speech it was only in a certain richness and breadth of tone. He began by saying that he trembled at the responsibility he had undertaken; and he should, altogether despair, if he did not see before him a jury of twelve men of rare intelligence, whose acute minds would unravel all the sophistries of the prosecution, men with a sense, of honor, which would revolt at the remorseless persecution of this hunted woman by the state, men with hearts to feel for the wrongs of which she was the victim. Far be it from him to cast any suspicion upon the motives of the able, eloquent and ingenious lawyers of the state; they act officially; their business is to convict. It is our business, gentlemen, to see that justice is done. "It is my duty, gentlemen, to untold to you one of the most affecting dramas in all, the history of misfortune. I shall have to show you a life, the sport of fate and circumstances, hurried along through shifting storm and sun, bright with trusting innocence and anon black with heartless villainy, a career which moves on in love and desertion and anguish, always hovered over by the dark spectre of INSANITY--an insanity hereditary and induced by mental torture,--until it ends, if end it must in your verdict, by one of those fearful accidents, which are inscrutable to men and of which God alone knows the secret. "Gentlemen, I, shall ask you to go with me away from this court room and its minions of the law, away from the scene of this tragedy, to a distant, I wish I could say a happier day. The story I have to tell is of a lovely little girl, with sunny hair and laughing eyes, traveling with her parents, evidently people of wealth and refinement, upon a Mississippi steamboat. There is an explosion, one of those terrible catastrophes which leave the imprint of an unsettled mind upon the survivors. Hundreds of mangled remains are sent into eternity. When the wreck is cleared away this sweet little girl is found among the panic stricken survivors in the midst of a scene of horror enough to turn the steadiest brain. Her parents have disappeared. Search even for their bodies is in vain. The bewildered, stricken child--who can say what changes the fearful event wrought in her tender brain--clings to the first person who shows her sympathy. It is Mrs. Hawkins, this good lady who is still her loving friend. Laura is adopted into the Hawkins family. Perhaps she forgets in time that she is not their child. She is an orphan. No, gentlemen, I will not deceive you, she is not an orphan. Worse than that. There comes another day of agony. She knows that her father lives. Who is he, where is he? Alas, I cannot tell you. Through the scenes of this painful history he flits here and there a lunatic! If he, seeks his daughter, it is the purposeless search of a lunatic, as one who wanders bereft of reason, crying where is my child? Laura seeks her father. In vain just as she is about to find him, again and again-he disappears, he is gone, he vanishes. "But this is only the prologue to the tragedy. Bear with me while I relate it. (Mr. Braham takes out a handkerchief, unfolds it slowly; crashes it in his nervous hand, and throws it on the table). Laura grew up in her humble southern home, a beautiful creature, the joy, of the house, the pride of the neighborhood, the loveliest flower in all the sunny south. She might yet have been happy; she was happy. But the destroyer came into this paradise. He plucked the sweetest bud that grew there, and having enjoyed its odor, trampled it in the mire beneath his feet. George Selby, the deceased, a handsome, accomplished Confederate Colonel, was this human fiend. He deceived her with a mock marriage; after some months he brutally, abandoned her, and spurned her as if she were a contemptible thing; all the time he had a wife in New Orleans. Laura was crushed. For weeks, as I shall show you by the testimony of her adopted mother and brother, she hovered over death in delirium. Gentlemen, did she ever emerge from this delirium? I shall show you that when she recovered her health, her mind was changed, she was not what she had been. You can judge yourselves whether the tottering reason ever recovered its throne. "Years pass. She is in Washington, apparently the happy favorite of a brilliant society. Her family have become enormously rich by one of those sudden turns, in fortune that the inhabitants of America are familiar with--the discovery of immense mineral wealth in some wild lands owned by them. She is engaged in a vast philanthropic scheme for the benefit of the poor, by, the use of this wealth. But, alas, even here and now, the same, relentless fate pursued her. The villain Selby appears again upon the scene, as if on purpose to complete the ruin of her life. He appeared to taunt her with her dishonor, he threatened exposure if she did not become again the mistress of his passion. Gentlemen, do you wonder if this woman, thus pursued, lost her reason, was beside herself with fear, and that her wrongs preyed upon her mind until she was no longer responsible for her acts? I turn away my head as one who would not willingly look even upon the just vengeance of Heaven. (Mr. Braham paused as if overcome by his emotions. Mrs. Hawkins and Washington were in tears, as were many of the spectators also. The jury looked scared.) "Gentlemen, in this condition of affairs it needed but a spark--I do not say a suggestion, I do not say a hint--from this butterfly Brierly; this rejected rival, to cause the explosion. I make no charges, but if this woman was in her right mind when she fled from Washington and reached this city in company--with Brierly, then I do not know what insanity is." When Mr. Braham sat down, he felt that he had the jury with him. A burst of applause followed, which the officer promptly, suppressed. Laura, with tears in her eyes, turned a grateful look upon her counsel. All the women among the spectators saw the tears and wept also. They thought as they also looked at Mr. Braham; how handsome he is! Mrs. Hawkins took the stand. She was somewhat confused to be the target of so many, eyes, but her honest and good face at once told in Laura's favor. "Mrs. Hawkins," said Mr. Braham, "will you' be kind enough to state the circumstances of your finding Laura?" "I object," said Mr. McFlinn; rising to his feet. "This has nothing whatever to do with the case, your honor. I am surprised at it, even after the extraordinary speech of my learned friend." "How do you propose to connect it, Mr. Braham?" asked the judge. "If it please the court," said Mr. Braham, rising impressively, "your Honor has permitted the prosecution, and I have submitted without a word; to go into the most extraordinary testimony to establish a motive. Are we to be shut out from showing that the motive attributed to us could not by reason of certain mental conditions exist? I purpose, may, it please your Honor, to show the cause and the origin of an aberration of mind, to follow it up, with other like evidence, connecting it with the very moment of the homicide, showing a condition of the intellect, of the prisoner that precludes responsibility." "The State must insist upon its objections," said the District Attorney. "The purpose evidently is to open the door to a mass of irrelevant testimony, the object of which is to produce an effect upon the jury your Honor well understands." "Perhaps," suggested the judge, "the court ought to hear the testimony, and exclude it afterwards, if it is irrelevant." "Will your honor hear argument on that!" "Certainly." And argument his honor did hear, or pretend to, for two whole days, from all the counsel in turn, in the course of which the lawyers read contradictory decisions enough to perfectly establish both sides, from volume after volume, whole libraries in fact, until no mortal man could say what the rules were. The question of insanity in all its legal aspects was of course drawn into the discussion, and its application affirmed and denied. The case was felt to turn upon the admission or rejection of this evidence. It was a sort of test trial of strength between the lawyers. At the end the judge decided to admit the testimony, as the judge usually does in such cases, after a sufficient waste of time in what are called arguments. Mrs. Hawkins was allowed to go on. CHAPTER LVI. Mrs. Hawkins slowly and conscientiously, as if every detail of her family history was important, told the story of the steamboat explosion, of the finding and adoption of Laura. Silas, that its Mr. Hawkins, and she always loved Laura, as if she had been their own, child. She then narrated the circumstances of Laura's supposed marriage, her abandonment and long illness, in a manner that touched all hearts. Laura had been a different woman since then. Cross-examined. At the time of first finding Laura on the steamboat, did she notice that Laura's mind was at all deranged? She couldn't say that she did. After the recovery of Laura from her long illness, did Mrs. Hawkins think there, were any signs of insanity about her? Witness confessed that she did not think of it then. Re-Direct examination. "But she was different after that?" "O, yes, sir." Washington Hawkins corroborated his mother's testimony as to Laura's connection with Col. Selby. He was at Harding during the time of her living there with him. After Col. Selby's desertion she was almost dead, never appeared to know anything rightly for weeks. He added that he never saw such a scoundrel as Selby. (Checked by District attorney.) Had he noticed any change in, Laura after her illness? Oh, yes. Whenever, any allusion was made that might recall Selby to mind, she looked awful--as if she could kill him. "You mean," said Mr. Braham, "that there was an unnatural, insane gleam in her eyes?" "Yes, certainly," said Washington in confusion. All this was objected to by the district attorney, but it was got before the jury, and Mr. Braham did not care how much it was ruled out after that. "Beriah Sellers was the next witness called. The Colonel made his way to the stand with majestic, yet bland deliberation. Having taken the oath and kissed the Bible with a smack intended to show his great respect for that book, he bowed to his Honor with dignity, to the jury with familiarity, and then turned to the lawyers and stood in an attitude of superior attention. "Mr. Sellers, I believe?" began Mr. Braham. "Beriah Sellers, Missouri," was the courteous acknowledgment that the lawyer was correct. "Mr. Sellers; you know the parties here, you are a friend of the family?" "Know them all, from infancy, sir. It was me, sir, that induced Silas Hawkins, Judge Hawkins, to come to Missouri, and make his fortune. It was by my advice and in company with me, sir, that he went into the operation of--" "Yes, yes. Mr. Sellers, did you know a Major Lackland?" "Knew him, well, sir, knew him and honored him, sir. He was one of the most remarkable men of our country, sir. A member of congress. He was often at my mansion sir, for weeks. He used to say to me, 'Col. Sellers, if you would go into politics, if I had you for a colleague, we should show Calhoun and Webster that the brain of the country didn't lie east of the Alleganies. But I said--" "Yes, yes. I believe Major Lackland is not living, Colonel?" There was an almost imperceptible sense of pleasure betrayed in the Colonel's face at this prompt acknowledgment of his title. "Bless you, no. Died years ago, a miserable death, sir, a ruined man, a poor sot. He was suspected of selling his vote in Congress, and probably he did; the disgrace killed' him, he was an outcast, sir, loathed by himself and by his constituents. And I think; sir"---- The Judge. "You will confine yourself, Col. Sellers to the questions of the counsel." "Of course, your honor. This," continued the Colonel in confidential explanation, "was twenty years ago. I shouldn't have thought of referring to such a trifling circumstance now. If I remember rightly, sir"-- A bundle of letters was here handed to the witness. "Do you recognize, that hand-writing?" "As if it was my own, sir. It's Major Lackland's. I was knowing to these letters when Judge Hawkins received them. [The Colonel's memory was a little at fault here. Mr. Hawkins had never gone into detail's with him on this subject.] He used to show them to me, and say, 'Col, Sellers you've a mind to untangle this sort of thing.' Lord, how everything comes back to me. Laura was a little thing then. 'The Judge and I were just laying our plans to buy the Pilot Knob, and--" "Colonel, one moment. Your Honor, we put these letters in evidence." The letters were a portion of the correspondence of Major Lackland with Silas Hawkins; parts of them were missing and important letters were referred to that were not here. They related, as the reader knows, to Laura's father. Lackland had come upon the track of a man who was searching for a lost child in a Mississippi steamboat explosion years before. The man was lame in one leg, and appeared to be flitting from place to place. It seemed that Major Lackland got so close track of him that he was able to describe his personal appearance and learn his name. But the letter containing these particulars was lost. Once he heard of him at a hotel in Washington; but the man departed, leaving an empty trunk, the day before the major went there. There was something very mysterious in all his movements. Col. Sellers, continuing his testimony, said that he saw this lost letter, but could not now recall the name. Search for the supposed father had been continued by Lackland, Hawkins and himself for several years, but Laura was not informed of it till after the death of Hawkins, for fear of raising false hopes in her mind. Here the Distract Attorney arose and said, "Your Honor, I must positively object to letting the witness wander off into all these irrelevant details." Mr. Braham. "I submit your honor, that we cannot be interrupted in this manner we have suffered the state to have full swing. Now here is a witness, who has known the prisoner from infancy, and is competent to testify upon the one point vital to her safety. Evidently he is a gentleman of character, and his knowledge of the case cannot be shut out without increasing the aspect of persecution which the State's attitude towards the prisoner already has assumed." The wrangle continued, waxing hotter and hotter. The Colonel seeing the attention of the counsel and Court entirely withdrawn from him, thought he perceived here his opportunity, turning and beaming upon the jury, he began simply to talk, but as the grandeur of his position grew upon him --talk broadened unconsciously into an oratorical vein. "You see how she was situated, gentlemen; poor child, it might have broken her, heart to let her mind get to running on such a thing as that. You see, from what we could make out her father was lame in the left leg and had a deep scar on his left forehead. And so ever since the day she found out she had another father, she never could, run across a lame stranger without being taken all over with a shiver, and almost fainting where she, stood. And the next minute she would go right after that man. Once she stumbled on a stranger with a game leg; and she was the most grateful thing in this world--but it was the wrong leg, and it was days and days before she could leave her bed. Once she found a man with a scar on his forehead and she was just going to throw herself into his arms,` but he stepped out just then, and there wasn't anything the matter with his legs. Time and time again, gentlemen of the jury, has this poor suffering orphan flung herself on her knees with all her heart's gratitude in her eyes before some scarred and crippled veteran, but always, always to be disappointed, always to be plunged into new despair--if his legs were right his scar was wrong, if his scar was right his legs were wrong. Never could find a man that would fill the bill. Gentlemen of the jury; you have hearts, you have feelings, you have warm human sympathies; you can feel for this poor suffering child. Gentlemen of the jury, if I had time, if I had the opportunity, if I might be permitted to go on and tell you the thousands and thousands and thousands of mutilated strangers this poor girl has started out of cover, and hunted from city to city, from state to state, from continent to continent, till she has run them down and found they wan't the ones; I know your hearts--" By this time the Colonel had become so warmed up, that his voice, had reached a pitch above that of the contending counsel; the lawyers suddenly stopped, and they and the Judge turned towards the Colonel and remained far several seconds too surprised at this novel exhibition to speak. In this interval of silence, an appreciation of the situation gradually stole over the, audience, and an explosion of laughter followed, in which even the Court and the bar could hardly keep from joining. Sheriff. "Order in the Court." The Judge. "The witness will confine his remarks to answers to questions." The Colonel turned courteously to the Judge and said, "Certainly, your Honor--certainly. I am not well acquainted with the forms of procedure in the courts of New York, but in the West, sir, in the West--" The Judge. "There, there, that will do, that will do! "You see, your Honor, there were no questions asked me, and I thought I would take advantage of the lull in the proceedings to explain to the, jury a very significant train of--" The Judge. "That will DO sir! Proceed Mr. Braham." "Col. Sellers, have you any, reason to suppose that this man is still living?" "Every reason, sir, every reason. "State why" "I have never heard of his death, sir. It has never come to my knowledge. In fact, sir, as I once said to Governor--" "Will you state to the jury what has been the effect of the knowledge of this wandering and evidently unsettled being, supposed to be her father, upon the mind of Miss Hawkins for so many years!" Question objected to. Question ruled out. Cross-examined. "Major Sellers, what is your occupation?" The Colonel looked about him loftily, as if casting in his mind what would be the proper occupation of a person of such multifarious interests and then said with dignity: "A gentleman, sir. My father used to always say, sir"-- "Capt. Sellers, did you; ever see this man, this supposed father?" "No, Sir. But upon one occasion, old Senator Thompson said to me, its my opinion, Colonel Sellers"-- "Did you ever see any body who had seen him?" "No, sir: It was reported around at one time, that"-- "That is all." The defense then sent a day in the examination of medical experts in insanity who testified, on the evidence heard, that sufficient causes had occurred to produce an insane mind in the prisoner. Numerous cases were cited to sustain this opinion. There was such a thing as momentary insanity, in which the person, otherwise rational to all appearances, was for the time actually bereft of reason, and not responsible for his acts. The causes of this momentary possession could often be found in the person's life. [It afterwards came out that the chief expert for the defense, was paid a thousand dollars for looking into the case.] The prosecution consumed another day in the examination of experts refuting the notion of insanity. These causes might have produced insanity, but there was no evidence that they have produced it in this case, or that the prisoner was not at the time of the commission of the crime in full possession of her ordinary faculties. The trial had now lasted two weeks. It required four days now for the lawyers to "sum up." These arguments of the counsel were very important to their friends, and greatly enhanced their reputation at the bar but they have small interest to us. Mr. Braham in his closing speech surpassed himself; his effort is still remembered as the greatest in the criminal annals of New York. Mr. Braham re-drew for the jury the picture, of Laura's early life; he dwelt long upon that painful episode of the pretended marriage and the desertion. Col. Selby, he said, belonged, gentlemen; to what is called the "upper classes:" It is the privilege of the "upper classes" to prey upon the sons and daughters of the people. The Hawkins family, though allied to the best blood of the South, were at the time in humble circumstances. He commented upon her parentage. Perhaps her agonized father, in his intervals of sanity, was still searching for his lost daughter. Would he one day hear that she had died a felon's death? Society had pursued her, fate had pursued her, and in a moment of delirium she had turned and defied fate and society. He dwelt upon the admission of base wrong in Col. Selby's dying statement. He drew a vivid, picture of the villain at last overtaken by the vengeance of Heaven. Would the jury say that this retributive justice, inflicted by an outraged, and deluded woman, rendered irrational by the most cruel wrongs, was in the nature of a foul, premeditated murder? "Gentlemen; it is enough for me to look upon the life of this most beautiful and accomplished of her sex, blasted by the heartless villainy of man, without seeing, at the-end of it; the horrible spectacle of a gibbet. Gentlemen, we are all human, we have all sinned, we all have need of mercy. But I do not ask mercy of you who are the guardians of society and of the poor waifs, its sometimes wronged victims; I ask only that justice which you and I shall need in that last, dreadful hour, when death will be robbed of half its terrors if we can reflect that we have never wronged a human being. Gentlemen, the life of this lovely and once happy girl, this now stricken woman, is in your hands." The jury were risibly affected. Half the court room was in tears. If a vote of both spectators and jury could have been taken then, the verdict would have been, "let her go, she has suffered enough." But the district attorney had the closing argument. Calmly and without malice or excitement he reviewed the testimony. As the cold facts were unrolled, fear settled upon the listeners. There was no escape from the murder or its premeditation. Laura's character as a lobbyist in Washington which had been made to appear incidentally in the evidence was also against her: the whole body of the testimony of the defense was shown to be irrelevant, introduced only to excite sympathy, and not giving a color of probability to the absurd supposition of insanity. The attorney then dwelt upon, the insecurity of life in the city, and the growing immunity with which women committed murders. Mr. McFlinn made a very able speech; convincing the reason without touching the feelings. The Judge in his charge reviewed the, testimony with great show of impartiality. He ended by saying that the verdict must be acquittal or murder in the first, degree. If you find that the prisoner committed a homicide, in possession of her reason and with premeditation, your verdict will be accordingly. If you find she was not in her right mind, that she was the victim of insanity, hereditary or momentary, as it has been explained, your verdict will take that into account. As the Judge finished his charge, the spectators anxiously watched the faces of the jury. It was not a remunerative study. In the court room the general feeling was in favor of Laura, but whether this feeling extended to the jury, their stolid faces did not reveal. The public outside hoped for a conviction, as it always does; it wanted an example; the newspapers trusted the jury would have the courage to do its duty. When Laura was convicted, then the public would tern around and abuse the governor if he did; not pardon her. The jury went out. Mr. Braham preserved his serene confidence, but Laura's friends were dispirited. Washington and Col. Sellers had been obliged to go to Washington, and they had departed under the unspoken fear the verdict would be unfavorable, a disagreement was the best they could hope for, and money was needed. The necessity of the passage of the University bill was now imperative. The Court waited, for, some time, but the jury gave no signs of coming in. Mr. Braham said it was extraordinary. The Court then took a recess for a couple of hours. Upon again coming in, word was brought that the jury had not yet agreed. But the, jury, had a question. The point upon which, they wanted instruction was this. They wanted to know if Col. Sellers was related to the Hawkins family. The court then adjourned till morning. Mr. Braham, who was in something of a pet, remarked to Mr. O'Toole that they must have been deceived, that juryman with the broken nose could read! CHAPTER LVII. The momentous day was at hand--a day that promised to make or mar the fortunes of Hawkins family for all time. Washington Hawkins and Col. Sellers were both up early, for neither of them could sleep. Congress was expiring, and was passing bill after bill as if they were gasps and each likely to be its last. The University was on file for its third reading this day, and to-morrow Washington would be a millionaire and Sellers no longer, impecunious but this day, also, or at farthest the next, the jury in Laura's Case would come to a decision of some kind or other--they would find her guilty, Washington secretly feared, and then the care and the trouble would all come back again, and these would be wearing months of besieging judges for new trials; on this day, also, the re-election of Mr. Dilworthy to the Senate would take place. So Washington's mind was in a state of turmoil; there were more interests at stake than it could handle with serenity. He exulted when he thought of his millions; he was filled with dread when he thought of Laura. But Sellers was excited and happy. He said: "Everything is going right, everything's going perfectly right. Pretty soon the telegrams will begin to rattle in, and then you'll see, my boy. Let the jury do what they please; what difference is it going to make? To-morrow we can send a million to New York and set the lawyers at work on the judges; bless your heart they will go before judge after judge and exhort and beseech and pray and shed tears. They always do; and they always win, too. And they will win this time. They will get a writ of habeas corpus, and a stay of proceedings, and a supersedeas, and a new trial and a nolle prosequi, and there you are! That's the routine, and it's no trick at all to a New York lawyer. That's the regular routine --everything's red tape and routine in the law, you see; it's all Greek to you, of course, but to a man who is acquainted with those things it's mere--I'll explain it to you sometime. Everything's going to glide right along easy and comfortable now. You'll see, Washington, you'll see how it will be. And then, let me think ..... Dilwortby will be elected to-day, and by day, after to-morrow night be will be in New York ready to put in his shovel--and you haven't lived in Washington all this time not to know that the people who walk right by a Senator whose term is up without hardly seeing him will be down at the deepo to say 'Welcome back and God bless you; Senator, I'm glad to see you, sir!' when he comes along back re-elected, you know. Well, you see, his influence was naturally running low when he left here, but now he has got a new six-years' start, and his suggestions will simply just weigh a couple of tons a-piece day after tomorrow. Lord bless you he could rattle through that habeas corpus and supersedeas and all those things for Laura all by himself if he wanted to, when he gets back." "I hadn't thought of that," said Washington, brightening, but it is so. A newly-elected Senator is a power, I know that." "Yes indeed he is.--Why it, is just human nature. Look at me. When we first came here, I was Mr. Sellers, and Major Sellers, Captain Sellers, but nobody could ever get it right, somehow; but the minute our bill went, through the House, I was Col. Sellers every time. And nobody could do enough for me, and whatever I said was wonderful, Sir, it was always wonderful; I never seemed to say any flat things at all. It was Colonel, won't you come and dine with us; and Colonel why don't we ever see you at our house; and the Colonel says this; and the Colonel says that; and we know such-and-such is so-and-so because my husband heard Col. Sellers say so. Don't you see? Well, the Senate adjourned and left our bill high, and dry, and I'll be hanged if I warn't Old Sellers from that day, till our bill passed the House again last week. Now I'm the Colonel again; and if I were to eat all the dinners I am invited to, I reckon I'd wear my teeth down level with my gums in a couple of weeks." "Well I do wonder what you will be to-morrow; Colonel, after the President signs the bill!" "General, sir?--General, without a doubt. Yes, sir, tomorrow it will be General, let me congratulate you, sir; General, you've done a great work, sir;--you've done a great work for the niggro; Gentlemen allow me the honor to introduce my friend General Sellers, the humane friend of the niggro. Lord bless me; you'll' see the newspapers say, General Sellers and servants arrived in the city last night and is stopping at the Fifth Avenue; and General Sellers has accepted a reception and banquet by the Cosmopolitan Club; you'll see the General's opinions quoted, too --and what the General has to say about the propriety of a new trial and a habeas corpus for the unfortunate Miss Hawkins will not be without weight in influential quarters, I can tell you." "And I want to be the first to shake your faithful old hand and salute you with your new honors, and I want to do it now--General!" said Washington, suiting the action to the word, and accompanying it with all the meaning that a cordial grasp and eloquent eyes could give it. The Colonel was touched; he was pleased and proud, too; his face answered for that. Not very long after breakfast the telegrams began to arrive. The first was from Braham, and ran thus: "We feel certain that the verdict will be rendered to-day. Be it good or bad, let it find us ready to make the next move instantly, whatever it may be:" "That's the right talk," said Sellers. "That Braham's a wonderful man. He was the only man there that really understood me; he told me so himself, afterwards." The next telegram was from Mr. Dilworthy: "I have not only brought over the Great Invincible, but through him a dozen more of the opposition. Shall be re-elected to-day by an overwhelming majority." "Good again!" said the Colonel. "That man's talent for organization is something marvelous. He wanted me to go out there and engineer that thing, but I said, No, Dilworthy, I must be on hand here,--both on Laura's account and the bill's--but you've no trifling genius for organization yourself, said I--and I was right. You go ahead, said I --you can fix it--and so he has. But I claim no credit for that--if I stiffened up his back-bone a little, I simply put him in the way to make his fight--didn't undertake it myself. He has captured Noble--. I consider that a splendid piece of diplomacy--Splendid, Sir!" By and by came another dispatch from New York: "Jury still out. Laura calm and firm as a statue. The report that the jury have brought her in guilty is false and premature." "Premature!" gasped Washington, turning white. "Then they all expect that sort of a verdict, when it comes in." And so did he; but he had not had courage enough to put it into words. He had been preparing himself for the worst, but after all his preparation the bare suggestion of the possibility of such a verdict struck him cold as death. The friends grew impatient, now; the telegrams did not come fast enough: even the lightning could not keep up with their anxieties. They walked the floor talking disjointedly and listening for the door-bell. Telegram after telegram came. Still no result. By and by there was one which contained a single line: "Court now coming in after brief recess to hear verdict. Jury ready." "Oh, I wish they would finish!" said Washington. "This suspense is killing me by inches!" Then came another telegram: "Another hitch somewhere. Jury want a little more time and further instructions." "Well, well, well, this is trying," said the Colonel. And after a pause, "No dispatch from Dilworthy for two hours, now. Even a dispatch from him would be better than nothing, just to vary this thing." They waited twenty minutes. It seemed twenty hours. "Come!" said Washington. "I can't wait for the telegraph boy to come all the way up here. Let's go down to Newspaper Row--meet him on the way." While they were passing along the Avenue, they saw someone putting up a great display-sheet on the bulletin board of a newspaper office, and an eager crowd of men was collecting abort the place. Washington and the Colonel ran to the spot and read this: "Tremendous Sensation! Startling news from Saint's Rest! On first ballot for U. S. Senator, when voting was about to begin, Mr. Noble rose in his place and drew forth a package, walked forward and laid it on the Speaker's desk, saying, 'This contains $7,000 in bank bills and was given me by Senator Dilworthy in his bed-chamber at midnight last night to buy --my vote for him--I wish the Speaker to count the money and retain it to pay the expense of prosecuting this infamous traitor for bribery. The whole legislature was stricken speechless with dismay and astonishment. Noble further said that there were fifty members present with money in their pockets, placed there by Dilworthy to buy their votes. Amidst unparalleled excitement the ballot was now taken, and J. W. Smith elected U. S. Senator; Dilworthy receiving not one vote! Noble promises damaging exposures concerning Dilworthy and certain measures of his now pending in Congress. "Good heavens and earth!" exclaimed the Colonel. "To the Capitol!" said Washington. "Fly!" And they did fly. Long before they got there the newsboys were running ahead of them with Extras, hot from the press, announcing the astounding news. Arrived in the gallery of the Senate, the friends saw a curious spectacle--every Senator held an Extra in his hand and looked as interested as if it contained news of the destruction of the earth. Not a single member was paying the least attention to the business of the hour. The Secretary, in a loud voice, was just beginning to read the title of a bill: "House-Bill--No. 4,231,--An-Act-to-Found-and-Incorporate-the Knobs- Industrial-University!--Read-first-and-second-time-considered-in- committee-of-the-whole-ordered-engrossed and-passed-to-third-reading-and- final passage!" The President--"Third reading of the bill!" The two friends shook in their shoes. Senators threw down their extras and snatched a word or two with each other in whispers. Then the gavel rapped to command silence while the names were called on the ayes and nays. Washington grew paler and paler, weaker and weaker while the lagging list progressed; and when it was finished, his head fell helplessly forward on his arms. The fight was fought, the long struggle was over, and he was a pauper. Not a man had voted for the bill! Col. Sellers was bewildered and well nigh paralyzed, himself. But no man could long consider his own troubles in the presence of such suffering as Washington's. He got him up and supported him--almost carried him indeed--out of the building and into a carriage. All the way home Washington lay with his face against the Colonel's shoulder and merely groaned and wept. The Colonel tried as well as he could under the dreary circumstances to hearten him a little, but it was of no use. Washington was past all hope of cheer, now. He only said: "Oh, it is all over--it is all over for good, Colonel. We must beg our bread, now. We never can get up again. It was our last chance, and it is gone. They will hang Laura! My God they will hang her! Nothing can save the poor girl now. Oh, I wish with all my soul they would hang me instead!" Arrived at home, Washington fell into a chair and buried his face in his hands and gave full way to his misery. The Colonel did not know where to turn nor what to do. The servant maid knocked at the door and passed in a telegram, saying it had come while they were gone. The Colonel tore it open and read with the voice of a man-of-war's broadside: "VERDICT OF JURY, NOT GUILTY AND LAURA IS FREE!" CHAPTER LVIII. The court room was packed on the morning on which the verdict of the jury was expected, as it had been every day of the trial, and by the same spectators, who had followed its progress with such intense interest. There is a delicious moment of excitement which the frequenter of trials well knows, and which he would not miss for the world. It is that instant when the foreman of the jury stands up to give the verdict, and before he has opened his fateful lips. The court assembled and waited. It was an obstinate jury. It even had another question--this intelligent jury--to ask the judge this morning. The question was this: "Were the doctors clear that the deceased had no disease which might soon have carried him off, if he had not been shot?" There was evidently one jury man who didn't want to waste life, and was willing to stake a general average, as the jury always does in a civil case, deciding not according to the evidence but reaching the verdict by some occult mental process. During the delay the spectators exhibited unexampled patience, finding amusement and relief in the slightest movements of the court, the prisoner and the lawyers. Mr. Braham divided with Laura the attention of the house. Bets were made by the Sheriff's deputies on the verdict, with large odds in favor of a disagreement. It was afternoon when it was announced that the jury was coming in. The reporters took their places and were all attention; the judge and lawyers were in their seats; the crowd swayed and pushed in eager expectancy, as the jury walked in and stood up in silence. Judge. "Gentlemen, have you agreed upon your verdict?" Foreman. "We have." Judge. "What is it?" Foreman. "NOT GUILTY." A shout went up from the entire room and a tumult of cheering which the court in vain attempted to quell. For a few moments all order was lost. The spectators crowded within the bar and surrounded Laura who, calmer than anyone else, was supporting her aged mother, who had almost fainted from excess of joy. And now occurred one of those beautiful incidents which no fiction-writer would dare to imagine, a scene of touching pathos, creditable to our fallen humanity. In the eyes of the women of the audience Mr. Braham was the hero of the occasion; he had saved the life of the prisoner; and besides he was such a handsome man. The women could not restrain their long pent-up emotions. They threw themselves upon Mr. Braham in a transport of gratitude; they kissed him again and again, the young as well as the advanced in years, the married as well as the ardent single women; they improved the opportunity with a touching self-sacrifice; in the words of a newspaper of the day they "lavished him with kisses." It was something sweet to do; and it would be sweet for a woman to remember in after years, that she had kissed Braham! Mr. Braham himself received these fond assaults with the gallantry of his nation, enduring the ugly, and heartily paying back beauty in its own coin. This beautiful scene is still known in New York as "the kissing of Braham." When the tumult of congratulation had a little spent itself, and order was restored, Judge O'Shaunnessy said that it now became his duty to provide for the proper custody and treatment of the acquitted. The verdict of the jury having left no doubt that the woman was of an unsound mind, with a kind of insanity dangerous to the safety of the community, she could not be permitted to go at large. "In accordance with the directions of the law in such cases," said the Judge, "and in obedience to the dictates of a wise humanity, I hereby commit Laura Hawkins to the care of the Superintendent of the State Hospital for Insane Criminals, to be held in confinement until the State Commissioners on Insanity shall order her discharge. Mr. Sheriff, you will attend at once to the execution of this decree." Laura was overwhelmed and terror-stricken. She had expected to walk forth in freedom in a few moments. The revulsion was terrible. Her mother appeared like one shaken with an ague fit. Laura insane! And about to be locked up with madmen! She had never contemplated this. Mr. Graham said he should move at once for a writ of 'habeas corpus'. But the judge could not do less than his duty, the law must have its way. As in the stupor of a sudden calamity, and not fully comprehending it, Mrs. Hawkins saw Laura led away by the officer. With little space for thought she was, rapidly driven to the railway station, and conveyed to the Hospital for Lunatic Criminals. It was only when she was within this vast and grim abode of madness that she realized the horror of her situation. It was only when she was received by the kind physician and read pity in his eyes, and saw his look of hopeless incredulity when she attempted to tell him that she was not insane; it was only when she passed through the ward to which she was consigned and saw the horrible creatures, the victims of a double calamity, whose dreadful faces she was hereafter to see daily, and was locked into the small, bare room that was to be her home, that all her fortitude forsook her. She sank upon the bed, as soon as she was left alone--she had been searched by the matron--and tried to think. But her brain was in a whirl. She recalled Braham's speech, she recalled the testimony regarding her lunacy. She wondered if she were not mad; she felt that she soon should be among these loathsome creatures. Better almost to have died, than to slowly go mad in this confinement. --We beg the reader's pardon. This is not history, which has just been written. It is really what would have occurred if this were a novel. If this were a work of fiction, we should not dare to dispose of Laura otherwise. True art and any attention to dramatic proprieties required it. The novelist who would turn loose upon society an insane murderess could not escape condemnation. Besides, the safety of society, the decencies of criminal procedure, what we call our modern civilization, all would demand that Laura should be disposed of in the manner we have described. Foreigners, who read this sad story, will be unable to understand any other termination of it. But this is history and not fiction. There is no such law or custom as that to which his Honor is supposed to have referred; Judge O'Shaunnessy would not probably pay any attention to it if there were. There is no Hospital for Insane Criminals; there is no State commission of lunacy. What actually occurred when the tumult in the court room had subsided the sagacious reader will now learn. Laura left the court room, accompanied by her mother and other friends, amid the congratulations of those assembled, and was cheered as she entered a carriage, and drove away. How sweet was the sunlight, how exhilarating the sense of freedom! Were not these following cheers the expression of popular approval and affection? Was she not the heroine of the hour? It was with a feeling of triumph that Laura reached her hotel, a scornful feeling of victory over society with its own weapons. Mrs. Hawkins shared not at all in this feeling; she was broken with the disgrace and the long anxiety. "Thank God, Laura," she said, "it is over. Now we will go away from this hateful city. Let us go home at once." "Mother," replied Laura, speaking with some tenderness, "I cannot go with you. There, don't cry, I cannot go back to that life." Mrs. Hawkins was sobbing. This was more cruel than anything else, for she had a dim notion of what it would be to leave Laura to herself. "No, mother, you have been everything to me. You know how dearly I love you. But I cannot go back." A boy brought in a telegraphic despatch. Laura took it and read: "The bill is lost. Dilworthy ruined. (Signed) WASHINGTON." For a moment the words swam before her eyes. The next her eyes flashed fire as she handed the dispatch to her m other and bitterly said, "The world is against me. Well, let it be, let it. I am against it." "This is a cruel disappointment," said Mrs. Hawkins, to whom one grief more or less did not much matter now, "to you and, Washington; but we must humbly bear it." "Bear it;" replied Laura scornfully, "I've all my life borne it, and fate has thwarted me at every step." A servant came to the door to say that there was a gentleman below who wished to speak with Miss Hawkins. "J. Adolphe Griller" was the name Laura read on the card. "I do not know such a person. He probably comes from Washington. Send him up." Mr. Griller entered. He was a small man, slovenly in dress, his tone confidential, his manner wholly void of animation, all his features below the forehead protruding--particularly the apple of his throat--hair without a kink in it, a hand with no grip, a meek, hang-dog countenance. a falsehood done in flesh and blood; for while every visible sign about him proclaimed him a poor, witless, useless weakling, the truth was that he had the brains to plan great enterprises and the pluck to carry them through. That was his reputation, and it was a deserved one. He softly said: "I called to see you on business, Miss Hawkins. You have my card?" Laura bowed. Mr. Griller continued to purr, as softly as before. "I will proceed to business. I am a business man. I am a lecture-agent, Miss Hawkins, and as soon as I saw that you were acquitted, it occurred to me that an early interview would be mutually beneficial." "I don't understand you, sir," said Laura coldly. "No? You see, Miss Hawkins, this is your opportunity. If you will enter the lecture field under good auspices, you will carry everything before you." "But, sir, I never lectured, I haven't any lecture, I don't know anything about it." "Ah, madam, that makes no difference--no real difference. It is not necessary to be able to lecture in order to go into the lecture tour. If ones name is celebrated all over the land, especially, and, if she is also beautiful, she is certain to draw large audiences." "But what should I lecture about?" asked Laura, beginning in spite of herself to be a little interested as well as amused. "Oh, why; woman--something about woman, I should say; the marriage relation, woman's fate, anything of that sort. Call it The Revelations of a Woman's Life; now, there's a good title. I wouldn't want any better title than that. I'm prepared to make you an offer, Miss Hawkins, a liberal offer,--twelve thousand dollars for thirty nights." Laura thought. She hesitated. Why not? It would give her employment, money. She must do something. "I will think of it, and let you know soon. But still, there is very little likelihood that I--however, we will not discuss it further now." "Remember, that the sooner we get to work the better, Miss Hawkins, public curiosity is so fickle. Good day, madam." The close of the trial released Mr. Harry Brierly and left him free to depart upon his long talked of Pacific-coast mission. He was very mysterious about it, even to Philip. "It's confidential, old boy," he said, "a little scheme we have hatched up. I don't mind telling you that it's a good deal bigger thing than that in Missouri, and a sure thing. I wouldn't take a half a million just for my share. And it will open something for you, Phil. You will hear from me." Philip did hear, from Harry a few months afterward. Everything promised splendidly, but there was a little delay. Could Phil let him have a hundred, say, for ninety days? Philip himself hastened to Philadelphia, and, as soon as the spring opened, to the mine at Ilium, and began transforming the loan he had received from Squire Montague into laborers' wages. He was haunted with many anxieties; in the first place, Ruth was overtaxing her strength in her hospital labors, and Philip felt as if he must move heaven and earth to save her from such toil and suffering. His increased pecuniary obligation oppressed him. It seemed to him also that he had been one cause of the misfortune to the Bolton family, and that he was dragging into loss and ruin everybody who associated with him. He worked on day after day and week after week, with a feverish anxiety. It would be wicked, thought Philip, and impious, to pray for luck; he felt that perhaps he ought not to ask a blessing upon the sort of labor that was only a venture; but yet in that daily petition, which this very faulty and not very consistent young Christian gentleman put up, he prayed earnestly enough for Ruth and for the Boltons and for those whom he loved and who trusted in him, and that his life might not be a misfortune to them and a failure to himself. Since this young fellow went out into the world from his New England home, he had done some things that he would rather his mother should not know, things maybe that he would shrink from telling Ruth. At a certain green age young gentlemen are sometimes afraid of being called milksops, and Philip's associates had not always been the most select, such as these historians would have chosen for him, or whom at a later, period he would have chosen for himself. It seemed inexplicable, for instance, that his life should have been thrown so much with his college acquaintance, Henry Brierly. Yet, this was true of Philip, that in whatever company he had been he had never been ashamed to stand up for the principles he learned from his mother, and neither raillery nor looks of wonder turned him from that daily habit had learned at his mother's knees.--Even flippant Harry respected this, and perhaps it was one of the reasons why Harry and all who knew Philip trusted him implicitly. And yet it must be confessed that Philip did not convey the impression to the world of a very serious young man, or of a man who might not rather easily fall into temptation. One looking for a real hero would have to go elsewhere. The parting between Laura and her mother was exceedingly painful to both. It was as if two friends parted on a wide plain, the one to journey towards the setting and the other towards the rising sun, each comprehending that every, step henceforth must separate their lives, wider and wider. CHAPTER LIX. When Mr. Noble's bombshell fell, in Senator Dilworthy's camp, the statesman was disconcerted for a moment. For a moment; that was all. The next moment he was calmly up and doing. From the centre of our country to its circumference, nothing was talked of but Mr. Noble's terrible revelation, and the people were furious. Mind, they were not furious because bribery was uncommon in our public life, but merely because here was another case. Perhaps it did not occur to the nation of good and worthy people that while they continued to sit comfortably at home and leave the true source of our political power (the "primaries,") in the hands of saloon-keepers, dog-fanciers and hod-carriers, they could go on expecting "another" case of this kind, and even dozens and hundreds of them, and never be disappointed. However, they may have thought that to sit at home and grumble would some day right the evil. Yes, the nation was excited, but Senator Dilworthy was calm--what was left of him after the explosion of the shell. Calm, and up and doing. What did he do first? What would you do first, after you had tomahawked your mother at the breakfast table for putting too much sugar in your coffee? You would "ask for a suspension of public opinion." That is what Senator Dilworthy did. It is the custom. He got the usual amount of suspension. Far and wide he was called a thief, a briber, a promoter of steamship subsidies, railway swindles, robberies of the government in all possible forms and fashions. Newspapers and everybody else called him a pious hypocrite, a sleek, oily fraud, a reptile who manipulated temperance movements, prayer meetings, Sunday schools, public charities, missionary enterprises, all for his private benefit. And as these charges were backed up by what seemed to be good and sufficient, evidence, they were believed with national unanimity. Then Mr. Dilworthy made another move. He moved instantly to Washington and "demanded an investigation." Even this could not pass without, comment. Many papers used language to this effect: "Senator Dilworthy's remains have demanded an investigation. This sounds fine and bold and innocent; but when we reflect that they demand it at the hands of the Senate of the United States, it simply becomes matter for derision. One might as well set the gentlemen detained in the public prisons to trying each other. This investigation is likely to be like all other Senatorial investigations--amusing but not useful. Query. Why does the Senate still stick to this pompous word, 'Investigation?' One does not blindfold one's self in order to investigate an object." Mr. Dilworthy appeared in his place in the Senate and offered a resolution appointing a committee to investigate his case. It carried, of course, and the committee was appointed. Straightway the newspapers said: "Under the guise of appointing a committee to investigate the late Mr. Dilworthy, the Senate yesterday appointed a committee to investigate his accuser, Mr. Noble. This is the exact spirit and meaning of the resolution, and the committee cannot try anybody but Mr. Noble without overstepping its authority. That Dilworthy had the effrontery to offer such a resolution will surprise no one, and that the Senate could entertain it without blushing and pass it without shame will surprise no one. We are now reminded of a note which we have received from the notorious burglar Murphy, in which he finds fault with a statement of ours to the effect that he had served one term in the penitentiary and also one in the U. S. Senate. He says, 'The latter statement is untrue and does me great injustice.' After an unconscious sarcasm like that, further comment is unnecessary." And yet the Senate was roused by the Dilworthy trouble. Many speeches were made. One Senator (who was accused in the public prints of selling his chances of re-election to his opponent for $50,000 and had not yet denied the charge) said that, "the presence in the Capital of such a creature as this man Noble, to testify against a brother member of their body, was an insult to the Senate." Another Senator said, "Let the investigation go on and let it make an example of this man Noble; let it teach him and men like him that they could not attack the reputation of a United States-Senator with impunity." Another said he was glad the investigation was to be had, for it was high time that the Senate should crush some cur like this man Noble, and thus show his kind that it was able and resolved to uphold its ancient dignity. A by-stander laughed, at this finely delivered peroration; and said: "Why, this is the Senator who franked his, baggage home through the mails last week-registered, at that. However, perhaps he was merely engaged in 'upholding the ancient dignity of the Senate,'--then." "No, the modern dignity of it," said another by-stander. "It don't resemble its ancient dignity but it fits its modern style like a glove." There being no law against making offensive remarks about U. S. Senators, this conversation, and others like it, continued without let or hindrance. But our business is with the investigating committee. Mr. Noble appeared before the Committee of the Senate; and testified to the following effect: He said that he was a member of the State legislature of the Happy-Land-of-Canaan; that on the --- day of ------ he assembled himself together at the city of Saint's Rest, the capital of the State, along with his brother legislators; that he was known to be a political enemy of Mr. Dilworthy and bitterly opposed to his re-election; that Mr. Dilworthy came to Saint's Rest and reported to be buying pledges of votes with money; that the said Dilworthy sent for him to come to his room in the hotel at night, and he went; was introduced to Mr. Dilworthy; called two or three times afterward at Dilworthy's request--usually after midnight; Mr. Dilworthy urged him to vote for him Noble declined; Dilworthy argued; said he was bound to be elected, and could then ruin him (Noble) if he voted no; said he had every railway and every public office and stronghold of political power in the State under his thumb, and could set up or pull down any man he chose; gave instances showing where and how he had used this power; if Noble would vote for him he would make him a Representative in Congress; Noble still declined to vote, and said he did not believe Dilworthy was going to be elected; Dilworthy showed a list of men who would vote for him--a majority of the legislature; gave further proofs of his power by telling Noble everything the opposing party had done or said in secret caucus; claimed that his spies reported everything to him, and that-- Here a member of the Committee objected that this evidence was irrelevant and also in opposition to the spirit of the Committee's instructions, because if these things reflected upon any one it was upon Mr. Dilworthy. The chairman said, let the person proceed with his statement--the Committee could exclude evidence that did not bear upon the case. Mr. Noble continued. He said that his party would cast him out if he voted for Mr, Dilworthy; Dilwortby said that that would inure to his benefit because he would then be a recognized friend of his (Dilworthy's) and he could consistently exalt him politically and make his fortune; Noble said he was poor, and it was hard to tempt him so; Dilworthy said he would fix that; he said, "Tell, me what you want, and say you will vote for me;" Noble could not say; Dilworthy said "I will give you $5,000." A Committee man said, impatiently, that this stuff was all outside the case, and valuable time was being wasted; this was all, a plain reflection upon a brother Senator. The Chairman said it was the quickest way to proceed, and the evidence need have no weight. Mr. Noble continued. He said he told Dilworthy that $5,000 was not much to pay for a man's honor, character and everything that was worth having; Dilworthy said he was surprised; he considered $5,000 a fortune--for some men; asked what Noble's figure was; Noble said he could not think $10,000 too little; Dilworthy said it was a great deal too much; he would not do it for any other man, but he had conceived a liking for Noble, and where he liked a man his heart yearned to help him; he was aware that Noble was poor, and had a family to support, and that he bore an unblemished reputation at home; for such a man and such a man's influence he could do much, and feel that to help such a man would be an act that would have its reward; the struggles of the poor always touched him; he believed that Noble would make a good use of this money and that it would cheer many a sad heart and needy home; he would give the, $10,000; all he desired in return was that when the balloting began, Noble should cast his vote for him and should explain to the legislature that upon looking into the charges against Mr. Dilworthy of bribery, corruption, and forwarding stealing measures in Congress he had found them to be base calumnies upon a man whose motives were pure and whose character was stainless; he then took from his pocket $2,000 in bank bills and handed them to Noble, and got another package containing $5,000 out of his trunk and gave to him also. He---- A Committee man jumped up, and said: "At last, Mr. Chairman, this shameless person has arrived at the point. This is sufficient and conclusive. By his own confession he has received a bribe, and did it deliberately. "This is a grave offense, and cannot be passed over in silence, sir. By the terms of our instructions we can now proceed to mete out to him such punishment as is meet for one who has maliciously brought disrespect upon a Senator of the United States. We have no need to hear the rest of his evidence." The Chairman said it would be better and more regular to proceed with the investigation according to the usual forms. A note would be made of Mr. Noble's admission. Mr. Noble continued. He said that it was now far past midnight; that he took his leave and went straight to certain legislators, told them everything, made them count the money, and also told them of the exposure he would make in joint convention; he made that exposure, as all the world knew. The rest of the $10,000 was to be paid the day after Dilworthy was elected. Senator Dilworthy was now asked to take the stand and tell what he knew about the man Noble. The Senator wiped his mouth with his handkerchief, adjusted his white cravat, and said that but for the fact that public morality required an example, for the warning of future Nobles, he would beg that in Christian charity this poor misguided creature might be forgiven and set free. He said that it was but too evident that this person had approached him in the hope of obtaining a bribe; he had intruded himself time and again, and always with moving stories of his poverty. Mr. Dilworthy said that his heart had bled for him--insomuch that he had several times been on the point of trying to get some one to do something for him. Some instinct had told him from the beginning that this was a bad man, an evil-minded man, but his inexperience of such had blinded him to his real motives, and hence he had never dreamed that his object was to undermine the purity of a United States Senator. He regretted that it was plain, now, that such was the man's object and that punishment could not with safety to the Senate's honor be withheld. He grieved to say that one of those mysterious dispensations of an inscrutable Providence which are decreed from time to time by His wisdom and for His righteous, purposes, had given this conspirator's tale a color of plausibility,--but this would soon disappear under the clear light of truth which would now be thrown upon the case. It so happened, (said the Senator,) that about the time in question, a poor young friend of mine, living in a distant town of my State, wished to establish a bank; he asked me to lend him the necessary money; I said I had no, money just then, but world try to borrow it. The day before the election a friend said to me that my election expenses must be very large specially my hotel bills, and offered to lend me some money. Remembering my young, friend, I said I would like a few thousands now, and a few more by and by; whereupon he gave me two packages of bills said to contain $2,000 and $5,000 respectively; I did not open the packages or count the money; I did not give any note or receipt for the same; I made no memorandum of the transaction, and neither did my friend. That night this evil man Noble came troubling me again: I could not rid myself of him, though my time was very precious. He mentioned my young friend and said he was very anxious to have the $7000 now to begin his banking operations with, and could wait a while for the rest. Noble wished to get the money and take it to him. I finally gave him the two packages of bills; I took no note or receipt from him, and made no memorandum of the matter. I no more look for duplicity and deception in another man than I would look for it in myself. I never thought of this man again until I was overwhelmed the next day by learning what a shameful use he had made of the confidence I had reposed in him and the money I had entrusted to his care. This is all, gentlemen. To the absolute truth of every detail of my statement I solemnly swear, and I call Him to witness who is the Truth and the loving Father of all whose lips abhor false speaking; I pledge my honor as a Senator, that I have spoken but the truth. May God forgive this wicked man as I do. Mr. Noble--"Senator Dilworthy, your bank account shows that up to that day, and even on that very day, you conducted all your financial business through the medium of checks instead of bills, and so kept careful record of every moneyed transaction. Why did you deal in bank bills on this particular occasion?" The Chairman--"The gentleman will please to remember that the Committee is conducting this investigation." Mr. Noble--"Then will the Committee ask the question?" The Chairman--"The Committee will--when it desires to know." Mr. Noble--"Which will not be daring this century perhaps." The Chairman--"Another remark like that, sir, will procure you the attentions of the Sergeant-at-arms." Mr. Noble--"D--n the Sergeant-at-arms, and the Committee too!" Several Committeemen--"Mr. Chairman, this is Contempt!" Mr. Noble--"Contempt of whom?" "Of the Committee! Of the Senate of the United States!" Mr. Noble--"Then I am become the acknowledged representative of a nation. You know as well as I do that the whole nation hold as much as three-fifths of the United States Senate in entire contempt.--Three-fifths of you are Dilworthys." The Sergeant-at-arms very soon put a quietus upon the observations of the representative of the nation, and convinced him that he was not, in the over-free atmosphere of his Happy-Land-of-Canaan: The statement of Senator Dilworthy naturally carried conviction to the minds of the committee.--It was close, logical, unanswerable; it bore many internal evidences of its, truth. For instance, it is customary in all countries for business men to loan large sums of money in bank bills instead of checks. It is customary for the lender to make no memorandum of the transaction. It is customary, for the borrower to receive the money without making a memorandum of it, or giving a note or a receipt for it's use--the borrower is not likely to die or forget about it. It is customary to lend nearly anybody money to start a bank with especially if you have not the money to lend him and have to borrow it for the purpose. It is customary to carry large sums of money in bank bills about your person or in your trunk. It is customary to hand a large sure in bank bills to a man you have just been introduced to (if he asks you to do it,) to be conveyed to a distant town and delivered to another party. It is not customary to make a memorandum of this transaction; it is not customary for the conveyor to give a note or a receipt for the money; it is not customary to require that he shall get a note or a receipt from the man he is to convey it to in the distant town. It would be at least singular in you to say to the proposed conveyor, "You might be robbed; I will deposit the money in a bank and send a check for it to my friend through the mail." Very well. It being plain that Senator Dilworthy's statement was rigidly true, and this fact being strengthened by his adding to it the support of "his honor as a Senator," the Committee rendered a verdict of "Not proven that a bribe had been offered and accepted." This in a manner exonerated Noble and let him escape. The Committee made its report to the Senate, and that body proceeded to consider its acceptance. One Senator indeed, several Senators--objected that the Committee had failed of its duty; they had proved this man Noble guilty of nothing, they had meted out no punishment to him; if the report were accepted, he would go forth free and scathless, glorying in his crime, and it would be a tacit admission that any blackguard could insult the Senate of the United States and conspire against the sacred reputation of its members with impunity; the Senate owed it to the upholding of its ancient dignity to make an example of this man Noble --he should be crushed. An elderly Senator got up and took another view of the case. This was a Senator of the worn-out and obsolete pattern; a man still lingering among the cobwebs of the past, and behind the spirit of the age. He said that there seemed to be a curious misunderstanding of the case. Gentlemen seemed exceedingly anxious to preserve and maintain the honor and dignity of the Senate. Was this to be done by trying an obscure adventurer for attempting to trap a Senator into bribing him? Or would not the truer way be to find out whether the Senator was capable of being entrapped into so shameless an act, and then try him? Why, of course. Now the whole idea of the Senate seemed to be to shield the Senator and turn inquiry away from him. The true way to uphold the honor of the Senate was to have none but honorable men in its body. If this Senator had yielded to temptation and had offered a bribe, he was a soiled man and ought to be instantly expelled; therefore he wanted the Senator tried, and not in the usual namby-pamby way, but in good earnest. He wanted to know the truth of this matter. For himself, he believed that the guilt of Senator Dilworthy was established beyond the shadow of a doubt; and he considered that in trifling with his case and shirking it the Senate was doing a shameful and cowardly thing--a thing which suggested that in its willingness to sit longer in the company of such a man, it was acknowledging that it was itself of a kind with him and was therefore not dishonored by his presence. He desired that a rigid examination be made into Senator Dilworthy's case, and that it be continued clear into the approaching extra session if need be. There was no dodging this thing with the lame excuse of want of time. In reply, an honorable Senator said that he thought it would be as well to drop the matter and accept the Committee's report. He said with some jocularity that the more one agitated this thing, the worse it was for the agitator. He was not able to deny that he believed Senator Dilworthy to be guilty--but what then? Was it such an extraordinary case? For his part, even allowing the Senator to be guilty, he did not think his continued presence during the few remaining days of the Session would contaminate the Senate to a dreadful degree. [This humorous sally was received with smiling admiration--notwithstanding it was not wholly new, having originated with the Massachusetts General in the House a day or two before, upon the occasion of the proposed expulsion of a member for selling his vote for money.] The Senate recognized the fact that it could not be contaminated by sitting a few days longer with Senator Dilworthy, and so it accepted the committee's report and dropped the unimportant matter. Mr. Dilworthy occupied his seat to the last hour of the session. He said that his people had reposed a trust in him, and it was not for him to desert them. He would remain at his post till he perished, if need be. His voice was lifted up and his vote cast for the last time, in support of an ingenious measure contrived by the General from Massachusetts whereby the President's salary was proposed to be doubled and every Congressman paid several thousand dollars extra for work previously done, under an accepted contract, and already paid for once and receipted for. Senator Dilworthy was offered a grand ovation by his friends at home, who said that their affection for him and their confidence in him were in no wise impaired by the persecutions that had pursued him, and that he was still good enough for them. --[The $7,000 left by Mr. Noble with his state legislature was placed in safe keeping to await the claim of the legitimate owner. Senator Dilworthy made one little effort through his protege the embryo banker to recover it, but there being no notes of hand or, other memoranda to support the claim, it failed. The moral of which is, that when one loans money to start a bank with, one ought to take the party's written acknowledgment of the fact.] CHAPTER LX. For some days Laura had been a free woman once more. During this time, she had experienced--first, two or three days of triumph, excitement, congratulations, a sort of sunburst of gladness, after a long night of gloom and anxiety; then two or three days of calming down, by degrees --a receding of tides, a quieting of the storm-wash to a murmurous surf-beat, a diminishing of devastating winds to a refrain that bore the spirit of a truce-days given to solitude, rest, self-communion, and the reasoning of herself into a realization of the fact that she was actually done with bolts and bars, prison, horrors and impending, death; then came a day whose hours filed slowly by her, each laden with some remnant, some remaining fragment of the dreadful time so lately ended--a day which, closing at last, left the past a fading shore behind her and turned her eyes toward the broad sea of the future. So speedily do we put the dead away and come back to our place in the ranks to march in the pilgrimage of life again. And now the sun rose once more and ushered in the first day of what Laura comprehended and accepted as a new life. The past had sunk below the horizon, and existed no more for her; she was done with it for all time. She was gazing out over the trackless expanses of the future, now, with troubled eyes. Life must be begun again--at eight and twenty years of age. And where to begin? The page was blank, and waiting for its first record; so this was indeed a momentous day. Her thoughts drifted back, stage by stage, over her career. As far as the long highway receded over the plain of her life, it was lined with the gilded and pillared splendors of her ambition all crumbled to ruin and ivy-grown; every milestone marked a disaster; there was no green spot remaining anywhere in memory of a hope that had found its fruition; the unresponsive earth had uttered no voice of flowers in testimony that one who was blest had gone that road. Her life had been a failure. That was plain, she said. No more of that. She would now look the future in the face; she would mark her course upon the chart of life, and follow it; follow it without swerving, through rocks and shoals, through storm and calm, to a haven of rest and peace or shipwreck. Let the end be what it might, she would mark her course now --to-day--and follow it. On her table lay six or seven notes. They were from lovers; from some of the prominent names in the land; men whose devotion had survived even the grisly revealments of her character which the courts had uncurtained; men who knew her now, just as she was, and yet pleaded as for their lives for the dear privilege of calling the murderess wife. As she read these passionate, these worshiping, these supplicating missives, the woman in her nature confessed itself; a strong yearning came upon her to lay her head upon a loyal breast and find rest from the conflict of life, solace for her griefs, the healing of love for her bruised heart. With her forehead resting upon her hand, she sat thinking, thinking, while the unheeded moments winged their flight. It was one of those mornings in early spring when nature seems just stirring to a half consciousness out of a long, exhausting lethargy; when the first faint balmy airs go wandering about, whispering the secret of the coming change; when the abused brown grass, newly relieved of snow, seems considering whether it can be worth the trouble and worry of contriving its green raiment again only to fight the inevitable fight with the implacable winter and be vanquished and buried once more; when the sun shines out and a few birds venture forth and lift up a forgotten song; when a strange stillness and suspense pervades the waiting air. It is a time when one's spirit is subdued and sad, one knows not why; when the past seems a storm-swept desolation, life a vanity and a burden, and the future but a way to death. It is a time when one is filled with vague longings; when one dreams of flight to peaceful islands in the remote solitudes of the sea, or folds his hands and says, What is the use of struggling, and toiling and worrying any more? let us give it all up. It was into such a mood as this that Laura had drifted from the musings which the letters of her lovers had called up. Now she lifted her head and noted with surprise how the day had wasted. She thrust the letters aside, rose up and went and stood at the window. But she was soon thinking again, and was only gazing into vacancy. By and by she turned; her countenance had cleared; the dreamy look was gone out of her face, all indecision had vanished; the poise of her head and the firm set of her lips told that her resolution was formed. She moved toward the table with all the old dignity in her carriage, and all the old pride in her mien. She took up each letter in its turn, touched a match to it and watched it slowly consume to ashes. Then she said: "I have landed upon a foreign shore, and burned my ships behind me. These letters were the last thing that held me in sympathy with any remnant or belonging of the old life. Henceforth that life and all that appertains to it are as dead to me and as far removed from me as if I were become a denizen of another world." She said that love was not for her--the time that it could have satisfied her heart was gone by and could not return; the opportunity was lost, nothing could restore it. She said there could be no love without respect, and she would only despise a man who could content himself with a thing like her. Love, she said, was a woman's first necessity: love being forfeited; there was but one thing left that could give a passing zest to a wasted life, and that was fame, admiration, the applause of the multitude. And so her resolution was taken. She would turn to that final resort of the disappointed of her sex, the lecture platform. She would array herself in fine attire, she would adorn herself with jewels, and stand in her isolated magnificence before massed, audiences and enchant them with her eloquence and amaze them with her unapproachable beauty. She would move from city to city like a queen of romance, leaving marveling multitudes behind her and impatient multitudes awaiting her coming. Her life, during one hour of each day, upon the platform, would be a rapturous intoxication--and when the curtain fell; and the lights were out, and the people gone, to nestle in their homes and forget her, she would find in sleep oblivion of her homelessness, if she could, if not she would brave out the night in solitude and wait for the next day's hour of ecstasy. So, to take up life and begin again was no great evil. She saw her way. She would be brave and strong; she would make the best of, what was left for her among the possibilities. She sent for the lecture agent, and matters were soon arranged. Straightway, all the papers were filled with her name, and all the dead walls flamed with it. The papers called down imprecations upon her head; they reviled her without stint; they wondered if all sense of decency was dead in this shameless murderess, this brazen lobbyist, this heartless seducer of the affections of weak and misguided men; they implored the people, for the sake of their pure wives, their sinless daughters, for the sake of decency, for the sake of public morals, to give this wretched creature such a rebuke as should be an all-sufficient evidence to her and to such as her, that there was a limit where the flaunting of their foul acts and opinions before the world must stop; certain of them, with a higher art, and to her a finer cruelty, a sharper torture, uttered no abuse, but always spoke of her in terms of mocking eulogy and ironical admiration. Everybody talked about the new wonder, canvassed the theme of her proposed discourse, and marveled how she would handle it. Laura's few friends wrote to her or came and talked with her, and pleaded with her to retire while it was yet time, and not attempt to face the gathering storm. But it was fruitless. She was stung to the quick by the comments of the newspapers; her spirit was roused, her ambition was towering, now. She was more determined than ever. She would show these people what a hunted and persecuted woman could do. The eventful night came. Laura arrived before the great lecture hall in a close carriage within five minutes of the time set for the lecture to begin. When she stepped out of the vehicle her heart beat fast and her eyes flashed with exultation: the whole street was packed with people, and she could hardly force her way to the hall! She reached the ante-room, threw off her wraps and placed herself before the dressing-glass. She turned herself this way and that--everything was satisfactory, her attire was perfect. She smoothed her hair, rearranged a jewel here and there, and all the while her heart sang within her, and her face was radiant. She had not been so happy for ages and ages, it seemed to her. Oh, no, she had never been so overwhelmingly grateful and happy in her whole life before. The lecture agent appeared at the door. She waved him away and said: "Do not disturb me. I want no introduction. And do not fear for me; the moment the hands point to eight I will step upon the platform." He disappeared. She held her watch before her. She was so impatient that the second-hand seemed whole tedious minutes dragging its way around the circle. At last the supreme moment came, and with head erect and the bearing of an empress she swept through the door and stood upon the stage. Her eyes fell upon only a vast, brilliant emptiness--there were not forty people in the house! There were only a handful of coarse men and ten or twelve still coarser women, lolling upon the benches and scattered about singly and in couples. Her pulses stood still, her limbs quaked, the gladness went out of her face. There was a moment of silence, and then a brutal laugh and an explosion of cat-calls and hisses saluted her from the audience. The clamor grew stronger and louder, and insulting speeches were shouted at her. A half-intoxicated man rose up and threw something, which missed her but bespattered a chair at her side, and this evoked an outburst of laughter and boisterous admiration. She was bewildered, her strength was forsaking her. She reeled away from the platform, reached the ante-room, and dropped helpless upon a sofa. The lecture agent ran in, with a hurried question upon his lips; but she put forth her hands, and with the tears raining from her eyes, said: "Oh, do not speak! Take me away-please take me away, out of this. dreadful place! Oh, this is like all my life--failure, disappointment, misery--always misery, always failure. What have I done, to be so pursued! Take me away, I beg of you, I implore you!" Upon the pavement she was hustled by the mob, the surging masses roared her name and accompanied it with every species of insulting epithet; they thronged after the carriage, hooting, jeering, cursing, and even assailing the vehicle with missiles. A stone crushed through a blind, wounding Laura's forehead, and so stunning her that she hardly knew what further transpired during her flight. It was long before her faculties were wholly restored, and then she found herself lying on the floor by a sofa in her own sitting-room, and alone. So she supposed she must have sat down upon the sofa and afterward fallen. She raised herself up, with difficulty, for the air was chilly and her limbs were stiff. She turned up the gas and sought the glass. She hardly knew herself, so worn and old she looked, and so marred with blood were her features. The night was far spent, and a dead stillness reigned. She sat down by her table, leaned her elbows upon it and put her face in her hands. Her thoughts wandered back over her old life again and her tears flowed unrestrained. Her pride was humbled, her spirit was broken. Her memory found but one resting place; it lingered about her young girlhood with a caressing regret; it dwelt upon it as the one brief interval of her life that bore no curse. She saw herself again in the budding grace of her twelve years, decked in her dainty pride of ribbons, consorting with the bees and the butterflies, believing in fairies, holding confidential converse with the flowers, busying herself all day long with airy trifles that were as weighty to her as the affairs that tax the brains of diplomats and emperors. She was without sin, then, and unacquainted with grief; the world was full of sunshine and her heart was full of music. From that--to this! "If I could only die!" she said. "If I could only go back, and be as I was then, for one hour--and hold my father's hand in mine again, and see all the household about me, as in that old innocent time--and then die! My God, I am humbled, my pride is all gone, my stubborn heart repents --have pity!" When the spring morning dawned, the form still sat there, the elbows resting upon the table and the face upon the hands. All day long the figure sat there, the sunshine enriching its costly raiment and flashing from its jewels; twilight came, and presently the stars, but still the figure remained; the moon found it there still, and framed the picture with the shadow of the window sash, and flooded, it with mellow light; by and by the darkness swallowed it up, and later the gray dawn revealed it again; the new day grew toward its prime, and still the forlorn presence was undisturbed. But now the keepers of the house had become uneasy; their periodical knockings still finding no response, they burst open the door. The jury of inquest found that death had resulted from heart disease, and was instant and painless. That was all. Merely heart disease. CHAPTER LXI. Clay Hawkins, years gone by, had yielded, after many a struggle, to the migratory and speculative instinct of our age and our people, and had wandered further and further westward upon trading ventures. Settling finally in Melbourne, Australia, he ceased to roam, became a steady-going substantial merchant, and prospered greatly. His life lay beyond the theatre of this tale. His remittances had supported the Hawkins family, entirely, from the time of his father's death until latterly when Laura by her efforts in Washington had been able to assist in this work. Clay was away on a long absence in some of the eastward islands when Laura's troubles began, trying (and almost in vain,) to arrange certain interests which had become disordered through a dishonest agent, and consequently he knew nothing of the murder till he returned and read his letters and papers. His natural impulse was to hurry to the States and save his sister if possible, for he loved her with a deep and abiding affection. His business was so crippled now, and so deranged, that to leave it would be ruin; therefore he sold out at a sacrifice that left him considerably reduced in worldly possessions, and began his voyage to San Francisco. Arrived there, he perceived by the newspapers that the trial was near its close. At Salt Lake later telegrams told him of the acquittal, and his gratitude was boundless--so boundless, indeed, that sleep was driven from his eyes by the pleasurable excitement almost as effectually as preceding weeks of anxiety had done it. He shaped his course straight for Hawkeye, now, and his meeting with his mother and the rest of the household was joyful--albeit he had been away so long that he seemed almost a stranger in his own home. But the greetings and congratulations were hardly finished when all the journals in the land clamored the news of Laura's miserable death. Mrs. Hawkins was prostrated by this last blow, and it was well that Clay was at her side to stay her with comforting words and take upon himself the ordering of the household with its burden of labors and cares. Washington Hawkins had scarcely more than entered upon that decade which carries one to the full blossom of manhood which we term the beginning: of middle age, and yet a brief sojourn at the capital of the nation had made him old. His hair was already turning gray when the late session of Congress began its sittings; it grew grayer still, and rapidly, after the memorable day that saw Laura proclaimed a murderess; it waxed grayer and still grayer during the lagging suspense that succeeded it and after the crash which ruined his last hope--the failure of his bill in the Senate and the destruction of its champion, Dilworthy. A few days later, when he stood uncovered while the last prayer was pronounced over Laura's grave, his hair was whiter and his face hardly less old than the venerable minister's whose words were sounding in his ears. A week after this, he was sitting in a double-bedded room in a cheap boarding house in Washington, with Col. Sellers. The two had been living together lately, and this mutual cavern of theirs the Colonel sometimes referred to as their "premises" and sometimes as their "apartments"--more particularly when conversing with persons outside. A canvas-covered modern trunk, marked "G. W. H." stood on end by the door, strapped and ready for a journey; on it lay a small morocco satchel, also marked "G. W. H." There was another trunk close by--a worn, and scarred, and ancient hair relic, with "B. S." wrought in brass nails on its top; on it lay a pair of saddle-bags that probably knew more about the last century than they could tell. Washington got up and walked the floor a while in a restless sort of way, and finally was about to sit down on the hair trunk. "Stop, don't sit down on that!" exclaimed the Colonel: "There, now that's all right--the chair's better. I couldn't get another trunk like that --not another like it in America, I reckon." "I am afraid not," said Washington, with a faint attempt at a smile. "No indeed; the man is dead that made that trunk and that saddle-bags." "Are his great-grand-children still living?" said Washington, with levity only in the words, not in the tone. "Well, I don't know--I hadn't thought of that--but anyway they can't make trunks and saddle-bags like that, if they are--no man can," said the Colonel with honest simplicity. "Wife didn't like to see me going off with that trunk--she said it was nearly certain to be stolen." "Why?" "Why? Why, aren't trunks always being stolen?" "Well, yes--some kinds of trunks are." "Very well, then; this is some kind of a trunk--and an almighty rare kind, too." "Yes, I believe it is." "Well, then, why shouldn't a man want to steal it if he got a chance?" "Indeed I don't know.--Why should he?" "Washington, I never heard anybody talk like you. Suppose you were a thief, and that trunk was lying around and nobody watching--wouldn't you steal it? Come, now, answer fair--wouldn't you steal it? "Well, now, since you corner me, I would take it,--but I wouldn't consider it stealing. "You wouldn't! Well, that beats me. Now what would you call stealing?" "Why, taking property is stealing." "Property! Now what a way to talk that is: What do you suppose that trunk is worth?" "Is it in good repair?" "Perfect. Hair rubbed off a little, but the main structure is perfectly sound." "Does it leak anywhere?" "Leak? Do you want to carry water in it? What do you mean by does it leak?" "Why--a--do the clothes fall out of it when it is--when it is stationary?" "Confound it, Washington, you are trying to make fun of me. I don't know what has got into you to-day; you act mighty curious. What is the matter with you?" "Well, I'll tell you, old friend. I am almost happy. I am, indeed. It wasn't Clay's telegram that hurried me up so and got me ready to start with you. It was a letter from Louise." "Good! What is it? What does she say?" "She says come home--her father has consented, at last." "My boy, I want to congratulate you; I want to shake you by the hand! It's a long turn that has no lane at the end of it, as the proverb says, or somehow that way. You'll be happy yet, and Beriah Sellers will be there to see, thank God!" "I believe it. General Boswell is pretty nearly a poor man, now. The railroad that was going to build up Hawkeye made short work of him, along with the rest. He isn't so opposed to a son-in-law without a fortune, now." "Without a fortune, indeed! Why that Tennessee Land--" "Never mind the Tennessee Land, Colonel. I am done with that, forever and forever--" "Why no! You can't mean to say--" "My father, away back yonder, years ago, bought it for a blessing for his children, and--" "Indeed he did! Si Hawkins said to me--" "It proved a curse to him as long as he lived, and never a curse like it was inflicted upon any man's heirs--" "I'm bound to say there's more or less truth--" "It began to curse me when I was a baby, and it has cursed every hour of my life to this day--" "Lord, lord, but it's so! Time and again my wife--" "I depended on it all through my boyhood and never tried to do an honest stroke of work for my living--" "Right again--but then you--" "I have chased it years and years as children chase butterflies. We might all have been prosperous, now; we might all have been happy, all these heart-breaking years, if we had accepted our poverty at first and gone contentedly to work and built up our own wealth by our own toil and sweat--" "It's so, it's so; bless my soul, how often I've told Si Hawkins--" "Instead of that, we have suffered more than the damned themselves suffer! I loved my father, and I honor his memory and recognize his good intentions; but I grieve for his mistaken ideas of conferring happiness upon his children. I am going to begin my life over again, and begin it and end it with good solid work! I'll leave my children no Tennessee Land!" "Spoken like a man, sir, spoken like a man! Your hand, again my boy! And always remember that when a word of advice from Beriah Sellers can help, it is at your service. I'm going to begin again, too!" "Indeed!" "Yes, sir. I've seen enough to show me where my mistake was. The law is what I was born for. I shall begin the study of the law. Heavens and earth, but that Brabant's a wonderful man--a wonderful man sir! Such a head! And such a way with him! But I could see that he was jealous of me. The little licks I got in in the course of my argument before the jury--" "Your argument! Why, you were a witness." "Oh, yes, to the popular eye, to the popular eye--but I knew when I was dropping information and when I was letting drive at the court with an insidious argument. But the court knew it, bless you, and weakened every time! And Brabant knew it. I just reminded him of it in a quiet way, and its final result, and he said in a whisper, 'You did it, Colonel, you did it, sir--but keep it mum for my sake; and I'll tell you what you do,' says he, 'you go into the law, Col. Sellers--go into the law, sir; that's your native element!' And into the law the subscriber is going. There's worlds of money in it!--whole worlds of money! Practice first in Hawkeye, then in Jefferson, then in St. Louis, then in New York! In the metropolis of the western world! Climb, and climb, and climb--and wind up on the Supreme bench. Beriah Sellers, Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States, sir! A made man for all time and eternity! That's the way I block it out, sir--and it's as clear as day--clear as the rosy-morn!" Washington had heard little of this. The first reference to Laura's trial had brought the old dejection to his face again, and he stood gazing out of the window at nothing, lost in reverie. There was a knock-the postman handed in a letter. It was from Obedstown. East Tennessee, and was for Washington. He opened it. There was a note saying that enclosed he would please find a bill for the current year's taxes on the 75,000 acres of Tennessee Land belonging to the estate of Silas Hawkins, deceased, and added that the money must be paid within sixty days or the land would be sold at public auction for the taxes, as provided by law. The bill was for $180--something more than twice the market value of the land, perhaps. Washington hesitated. Doubts flitted through his mind. The old instinct came upon him to cling to the land just a little longer and give it one more chance. He walked the floor feverishly, his mind tortured by indecision. Presently he stopped, took out his pocket book and counted his money. Two hundred and thirty dollars--it was all he had in the world. "One hundred and eighty . . . . . . . from two hundred and thirty," he said to himself. "Fifty left . . . . . . It is enough to get me home . . . .. . . Shall I do it, or shall I not? . . . . . . . I wish I had somebody to decide for me." The pocket book lay open in his hand, with Louise's small letter in view. His eye fell upon that, and it decided him. "It shall go for taxes," he said, "and never tempt me or mine any more!" He opened the window and stood there tearing the tax bill to bits and watching the breeze waft them away, till all were gone. "The spell is broken, the life-long curse is ended!" he said. "Let us go." The baggage wagon had arrived; five minutes later the two friends were mounted upon their luggage in it, and rattling off toward the station, the Colonel endeavoring to sing "Homeward Bound," a song whose words he knew, but whose tune, as he rendered it, was a trial to auditors. CHAPTER LXII Philip Sterling's circumstances were becoming straightened. The prospect was gloomy. His long siege of unproductive labor was beginning to tell upon his spirits; but what told still more upon them was the undeniable fact that the promise of ultimate success diminished every day, now. That is to say, the tunnel had reached a point in the hill which was considerably beyond where the coal vein should pass (according to all his calculations) if there were a coal vein there; and so, every foot that the tunnel now progressed seemed to carry it further away from the object of the search. Sometimes he ventured to hope that he had made a mistake in estimating the direction which the vein should naturally take after crossing the valley and entering the hill. Upon such occasions he would go into the nearest mine on the vein he was hunting for, and once more get the bearings of the deposit and mark out its probable course; but the result was the same every time; his tunnel had manifestly pierced beyond the natural point of junction; and then his, spirits fell a little lower. His men had already lost faith, and he often overheard them saying it was perfectly plain that there was no coal in the hill. Foremen and laborers from neighboring mines, and no end of experienced loafers from the village, visited the tunnel from time to time, and their verdicts were always the same and always disheartening--"No coal in that hill." Now and then Philip would sit down and think it all over and wonder what the mystery meant; then he would go into the tunnel and ask the men if there were no signs yet? None--always "none." He would bring out a piece of rock and examine it, and say to himself, "It is limestone--it has crinoids and corals in it--the rock is right" Then he would throw it down with a sigh, and say, "But that is nothing; where coal is, limestone with these fossils in it is pretty certain to lie against its foot casing; but it does not necessarily follow that where this peculiar rock is coal must lie above it or beyond it; this sign is not sufficient." The thought usually followed:--"There is one infallible sign--if I could only strike that!" Three or four tines in as many weeks he said to himself, "Am I a visionary? I must be a visionary; everybody is in these days; everybody chases butterflies: everybody seeks sudden fortune and will not lay one up by slow toil. This is not right, I will discharge the men and go at some honest work. There is no coal here. What a fool I have been; I will give it up." But he never could do it. A half hour of profound thinking always followed; and at the end of it he was sure to get up and straighten himself and say: "There is coal there; I will not give it up; and coal or no coal I will drive the tunnel clear through the hill; I will not surrender while I am alive." He never thought of asking Mr. Montague for more money. He said there was now but one chance of finding coal against nine hundred and ninety nine that he would not find it, and so it would be wrong in him to make the request and foolish in Mr. Montague to grant it. He had been working three shifts of men. Finally, the settling of a weekly account exhausted his means. He could not afford to run in debt, and therefore he gave the men their discharge. They came into his cabin presently, where he sat with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands--the picture of discouragement and their spokesman said: "Mr. Sterling, when Tim was down a week with his fall you kept him on half-wages and it was a mighty help to his family; whenever any of us was in trouble you've done what you could to help us out; you've acted fair and square with us every time, and I reckon we are men and know a man when we see him. We haven't got any faith in that hill, but we have a respect for a man that's got the pluck that you've showed; you've fought a good fight, with everybody agin you and if we had grub to go on, I'm d---d if we wouldn't stand by you till the cows come home! That is what the boys say. Now we want to put in one parting blast for luck. We want to work three days more; if we don't find anything, we won't bring in no bill against you. That is what we've come to say." Philip was touched. If he had had money enough to buy three days' "grub" he would have accepted the generous offer, but as it was, he could not consent to be less magnanimous than the men, and so he declined in a manly speech; shook hands all around and resumed his solitary communings. The men went back to the tunnel and "put in a parting blast for luck" anyhow. They did a full day's work and then took their leave. They called at his cabin and gave him good-bye, but were not able to tell him their day's effort had given things a mere promising look. The next day Philip sold all the tools but two or three sets; he also sold one of the now deserted cabins as old, lumber, together with its domestic wares; and made up his mind that he would buy, provisions with the trifle of money thus gained and continue his work alone. About the middle of the after noon he put on his roughest clothes and went to the tunnel. He lit a candle and groped his way in. Presently he heard the sound of a pick or a drill, and wondered, what it meant. A spark of light now appeared in the far end of the tunnel, and when he arrived there he found the man Tim at work. Tim said: "I'm to have a job in the Golden Brier mine by and by--in a week or ten days--and I'm going to work here till then. A man might as well be at some thing, and besides I consider that I owe you what you paid me when I was laid up." Philip said, Oh, no, he didn't owe anything; but Tim persisted, and then Philip said he had a little provision now, and would share. So for several days Philip held the drill and Tim did the striking. At first Philip was impatient to see the result of every blast, and was always back and peering among the smoke the moment after the explosion. But there was never any encouraging result; and therefore he finally lost almost all interest, and hardly troubled himself to inspect results at all. He simply labored on, stubbornly and with little hope. Tim staid with him till the last moment, and then took up his job at the Golden Brier, apparently as depressed by the continued barrenness of their mutual labors as Philip was himself. After that, Philip fought his battle alone, day after day, and slow work it was; he could scarcely see that he made any progress. Late one afternoon he finished drilling a hole which he had been at work at for more than two hours; he swabbed it out, and poured in the powder and inserted the fuse; then filled up the rest of the hole with dirt and small fragments of stone; tamped it down firmly, touched his candle to the fuse, and ran. By and by the I dull report came, and he was about to walk back mechanically and see what was accomplished; but he halted; presently turned on his heel and thought, rather than said: "No, this is useless, this is absurd. If I found anything it would only be one of those little aggravating seams of coal which doesn't mean anything, and--" By this time he was walking out of the tunnel. His thought ran on: "I am conquered . . . . . . I am out of provisions, out of money. . . . . I have got to give it up . . . . . . All this hard work lost! But I am not conquered! I will go and work for money, and come back and have another fight with fate. Ah me, it may be years, it may, be years." Arrived at the mouth of the tunnel, he threw his coat upon the ground, sat down on, a stone, and his eye sought the westering sun and dwelt upon the charming landscape which stretched its woody ridges, wave upon wave, to the golden horizon. Something was taking place at his feet which did not attract his attention. His reverie continued, and its burden grew more and more gloomy. Presently he rose up and, cast a look far away toward the valley, and his thoughts took a new direction: "There it is! How good it looks! But down there is not up here. Well, I will go home and pack up--there is nothing else to do" He moved off moodily toward his cabin. He had gone some distance before he thought of his coat; then he was about to turn back, but he smiled at the thought, and continued his journey--such a coat as that could be of little use in a civilized land; a little further on, he remembered that there were some papers of value in one of the pockets of the relic, and then with a penitent ejaculation he turned back picked up the coat and put it on. He made a dozen steps, and then stopped very suddenly. He stood still a moment, as one who is trying to believe something and cannot. He put a hand up over his shoulder and felt his back, and a great thrill shot through him. He grasped the skirt of the coat impulsively and another thrill followed. He snatched the coat from his back, glanced at it, threw it from him and flew back to the tunnel. He sought the spot where the coat had lain--he had to look close, for the light was waning--then to make sure, he put his hand to the ground and a little stream of water swept against his fingers: "Thank God, I've struck it at last!" He lit a candle and ran into the tunnel; he picked up a piece of rubbish cast out by the last blast, and said: "This clayey stuff is what I've longed for--I know what is behind it." He swung his pick with hearty good will till long after the darkness had gathered upon the earth, and when he trudged home at length he knew he had a coal vein and that it was seven feet thick from wall to wall. He found a yellow envelope lying on his rickety table, and recognized that it was of a family sacred to the transmission of telegrams. He opened it, read it, crushed it in his hand and threw it down. It simply said: "Ruth is very ill." CHAPTER LXIII. It was evening when Philip took the cars at the Ilium station. The news of, his success had preceded him, and while he waited for the train, he was the center of a group of eager questioners, who asked him a hundred things about the mine, and magnified his good fortune. There was no mistake this time. Philip, in luck, had become suddenly a person of consideration, whose speech was freighted with meaning, whose looks were all significant. The words of the proprietor of a rich coal mine have a golden sound, and his common sayings are repeated as if they were solid wisdom. Philip wished to be alone; his good fortune at this moment seemed an empty mockery, one of those sarcasms of fate, such as that which spreads a dainty banquet for the man who has no appetite. He had longed for success principally for Ruth's sake; and perhaps now, at this very moment of his triumph, she was dying. "Shust what I said, Mister Sederling," the landlord of the Ilium hotel kept repeating. "I dold Jake Schmidt he find him dere shust so sure as noting." "You ought to have taken a share, Mr. Dusenheimer," said Philip. "Yaas, I know. But d'old woman, she say 'You sticks to your pisiness. So I sticks to 'em. Und I makes noting. Dat Mister Prierly, he don't never come back here no more, ain't it?" "Why?" asked Philip. "Vell, dere is so many peers, and so many oder dhrinks, I got 'em all set down, ven he coomes back." It was a long night for Philip, and a restless one. At any other time the swing of the cars would have lulled him to sleep, and the rattle and clank of wheels and rails, the roar of the whirling iron would have only been cheerful reminders of swift and safe travel. Now they were voices of warning and taunting; and instead of going rapidly the train seemed to crawl at a snail's pace. And it not only crawled, but it frequently stopped; and when it stopped it stood dead still and there was an ominous silence. Was anything the matter, he wondered. Only a station probably. Perhaps, he thought, a telegraphic station. And then he listened eagerly. Would the conductor open the door and ask for Philip Sterling, and hand him a fatal dispatch? How long they seemed to wait. And then slowly beginning to move, they were off again, shaking, pounding, screaming through the night. He drew his curtain from time to time and looked out. There was the lurid sky line of the wooded range along the base of which they were crawling. There was the Susquehannah, gleaming in the moon-light. There was a stretch of level valley with silent farm houses, the occupants all at rest, without trouble, without anxiety. There was a church, a graveyard, a mill, a village; and now, without pause or fear, the train had mounted a trestle-work high in air and was creeping along the top of it while a swift torrent foamed a hundred feet below. What would the morning bring? Even while he was flying to her, her gentle spirit might have gone on another flight, whither he could not follow her. He was full of foreboding. He fell at length into a restless doze. There was a noise in his ears as of a rushing torrent when a stream is swollen by a freshet in the spring. It was like the breaking up of life; he was struggling in the consciousness of coming death: when Ruth stood by his side, clothed in white, with a face like that of an angel, radiant, smiling, pointing to the sky, and saying, "Come." He awoke with a cry--the train was roaring through a bridge, and it shot out into daylight. When morning came the train was industriously toiling along through the fat lands of Lancaster, with its broad farms of corn and wheat, its mean houses of stone, its vast barns and granaries, built as if, for storing the riches of Heliogabalus. Then came the smiling fields of Chester, with their English green, and soon the county of Philadelphia itself, and the increasing signs of the approach to a great city. Long trains of coal cars, laden and unladen, stood upon sidings; the tracks of other roads were crossed; the smoke of other locomotives was seen on parallel lines; factories multiplied; streets appeared; the noise of a busy city began to fill the air;--and with a slower and slower clank on the connecting rails and interlacing switches the train rolled into the station and stood still. It was a hot August morning. The broad streets glowed in the sun, and the white-shuttered houses stared at the hot thoroughfares like closed bakers' ovens set along the highway. Philip was oppressed with the heavy air; the sweltering city lay as in a swoon. Taking a street car, he rode away to the northern part of the city, the newer portion, formerly the district of Spring Garden, for in this the Boltons now lived, in a small brick house, befitting their altered fortunes. He could scarcely restrain his impatience when he came in sight of the house. The window shutters were not "bowed"; thank God, for that. Ruth was still living, then. He ran up the steps and rang. Mrs. Bolton met him at the door. "Thee is very welcome, Philip." "And Ruth?" "She is very ill, but quieter than, she has been, and the fever is a little abating. The most dangerous time will be when the fever leaves her. The doctor fears she will not have strength enough to rally from it. Yes, thee can see her." Mrs. Bolton led the way to the little chamber where Ruth lay. "Oh," said her mother, "if she were only in her cool and spacious room in our old home. She says that seems like heaven." Mr. Bolton sat by Ruth's bedside, and he rose and silently pressed Philip's hand. The room had but one window; that was wide open to admit the air, but the air that came in was hot and lifeless. Upon the table stood a vase of flowers. Ruth's eyes were closed; her cheeks were flushed with fever, and she moved her head restlessly as if in pain. "Ruth," said her mother, bending over her, "Philip is here." Ruth's eyes unclosed, there was a gleam of recognition in them, there was an attempt at a smile upon her face, and she tried to raise her thin hand, as Philip touched her forehead with his lips; and he heard her murmur, "Dear Phil." There was nothing to be done but to watch and wait for the cruel fever to burn itself out. Dr. Longstreet told Philip that the fever had undoubtedly been contracted in the hospital, but it was not malignant, and would be little dangerous if Ruth were not so worn down with work, or if she had a less delicate constitution. "It is only her indomitable will that has kept her up for weeks. And if that should leave her now, there will be no hope. You can do more for her now, sir, than I can?" "How?" asked Philip eagerly. "Your presence, more than anything else, will inspire her with the desire to live." When the fever turned, Ruth was in a very critical condition. For two days her life was like the fluttering of a lighted candle in the wind. Philip was constantly by her side, and she seemed to be conscious of his presence, and to cling to him, as one borne away by a swift stream clings to a stretched-out hand from the shore. If he was absent a moment her restless eyes sought something they were disappointed not to find. Philip so yearned to bring her back to life, he willed it so strongly and passionately, that his will appeared to affect hers and she seemed slowly to draw life from his. After two days of this struggle with the grasping enemy, it was evident to Dr. Longstreet that Ruth's will was beginning to issue its orders to her body with some force, and that strength was slowly coming back. In another day there was a decided improvement. As Philip sat holding her weak hand and watching the least sign of resolution in her face, Ruth was able to whisper, "I so want to live, for you, Phil!" "You will; darling, you must," said Philip in a tone of faith and courage that carried a thrill of determination--of command--along all her nerves. Slowly Philip drew her back to life. Slowly she came back, as one willing but well nigh helpless. It was new for Ruth to feel this dependence on another's nature, to consciously draw strength of will from the will of another. It was a new but a dear joy, to be lifted up and carried back into the happy world, which was now all aglow with the light of love; to be lifted and carried by the one she loved more than her own life. "Sweetheart," she said to Philip, "I would not have cared to come back but for thy love." "Not for thy profession?" "Oh, thee may be glad enough of that some day, when thy coal bed is dug out and thee and father are in the air again." When Ruth was able to ride she was taken into the country, for the pure air was necessary to her speedy recovery. The family went with her. Philip could not be spared from her side, and Mr. Bolton had gone up to Ilium to look into that wonderful coal mine and to make arrangements for developing it, and bringing its wealth to market. Philip had insisted on re-conveying the Ilium property to Mr. Bolton, retaining only the share originally contemplated for himself, and Mr. Bolton, therefore, once more found himself engaged in business and a person of some consequence in Third street. The mine turned out even better than was at first hoped, and would, if judiciously managed, be a fortune to them all. This also seemed to be the opinion of Mr. Bigler, who heard of it as soon as anybody, and, with the impudence of his class called upon Mr. Bolton for a little aid in a patent car-wheel he had bought an interest in. That rascal, Small, he said, had swindled him out of all he had. Mr. Bolton told him he was very sorry, and recommended him to sue Small. Mr. Small also came with a similar story about Mr. Bigler; and Mr. Bolton had the grace to give him like advice. And he added, "If you and Bigler will procure the indictment of each other, you may have the satisfaction of putting each other in the penitentiary for the forgery of my acceptances." Bigler and Small did not quarrel however. They both attacked Mr. Bolton behind his back as a swindler, and circulated the story that he had made a fortune by failing. In the pure air of the highlands, amid the golden glories of ripening September, Ruth rapidly came back to health. How beautiful the world is to an invalid, whose senses are all clarified, who has been so near the world of spirits that she is sensitive to the finest influences, and whose frame responds with a thrill to the subtlest ministrations of soothing nature. Mere life is a luxury, and the color of the grass, of the flowers, of the sky, the wind in the trees, the outlines of the horizon, the forms of clouds, all give a pleasure as exquisite as the sweetest music to the ear famishing for it. The world was all new and fresh to Ruth, as if it had just been created for her, and love filled it, till her heart was overflowing with happiness. It was golden September also at Fallkill. And Alice sat by the open window in her room at home, looking out upon the meadows where the laborers were cutting the second crop of clover. The fragrance of it floated to her nostrils. Perhaps she did not mind it. She was thinking. She had just been writing to Ruth, and on the table before her was a yellow piece of paper with a faded four-leaved clover pinned on it--only a memory now. In her letter to Ruth she had poured out her heartiest blessings upon them both, with her dear love forever and forever. "Thank God," she said, "they will never know" They never would know. And the world never knows how many women there are like Alice, whose sweet but lonely lives of self-sacrifice, gentle, faithful, loving souls, bless it continually. "She is a dear girl," said Philip, when Ruth showed him the letter. "Yes, Phil, and we can spare a great deal of love for her, our own lives are so full." APPENDIX. Perhaps some apology to the reader is necessary in view of our failure to find Laura's father. We supposed, from the ease with which lost persons are found in novels, that it would not be difficult. But it was; indeed, it was impossible; and therefore the portions of the narrative containing the record of the search have been stricken out. Not because they were not interesting--for they were; but inasmuch as the man was not found, after all, it did not seem wise to harass and excite the reader to no purpose. THE AUTHORS 
42830	----	generously made available by The Internet Archive.) CHICAGO, SATAN'S SANCTUM. "I am to speak of stories you will not believe; of beings you cannot love; of foibles for which you have no compassion; of feelings in which you have no share."--W. MC. PRAED By L. O. CURON. C. D. PHILLIPS & CO., CHICAGO. COPYRIGHTED 1899 BY L. O. CURON PREFACE. The present Mayor of the City of Chicago was recently re-elected. A large number of independent voters, deeming one issue a dominant one, which, in fact, was no issue at all, assisted in again bestowing on him the most important office in the municipal government. The legislature had repealed a law under which evil, through the threatened action of corruptionists in the Council, might have been visited upon the city. That they were powerless to inflict it had been demonstrated prior to the repeal of that law and prior to the election. His competitors entertained, upon the question of the extension of street car privileges, the same views as his own. Both were men of as great ability as he, and each had, and still has, a reputation for personal integrity not surpassed by his. Both were men more mature in years, and possessed wider business experiences than he. Hence, either of them could have been safely entrusted with the powers of the executive. Neither of them, however, could invent, for campaign purposes, so catching, so powerful, and yet so sophistical, a political phrase as "The streets may be dirty, but they still belong to the people." To the inventor of that cry the Mayor owes no small political debt. It might be inferred from the large vote he received that, as a public servant, he had been tested and not found wanting. With respect to his persistent opposition to the extension of street car privileges, without adequate compensation to the city, and for a period not in excess of twenty years, it should be said he bravely and manfully did his duty, following, however, not leading public opinion on that question. All danger from that source had disappeared when the polls opened in April last. His competitors stood, on that morning, as honorably pledged to throttle it, if it again appeared, should either of them be elected, as he did. It cannot, however, be said that during his first administration he did his whole duty. It is a peculiarity of the American people that they always praise, with exaggeration, an official who partly does his duty, if the part performed is regarded by them as especially serviceable to the public. He had the benefit of so much exaggerated praise from a press that, for nearly two years then last past, had been condemning him, that some people were charmed into a sort of hysterical admiration for him. He had the happy faculty of concealing the shortcomings of his first administration, under cover of a supposedly overshadowing danger. Thereby he caused his previous record to appear as if free from blemish, and that he had performed every duty--and performed it well. The very adroit use of this faculty is the only reason why he received a plurality of votes so much larger than that of any other candidate nominated on the same ticket with him for a minor office. His best friends did not contend that he did his full duty. They now only hope he will do so. A public official is not entitled to praise, or thanks, for doing his whole duty. He is elected for the purpose of its performance. But full performance is so rare that the people seem to be content if a public servant will do his duty only fairly well. The vices which prevail in the city, and which grew to their enormous, threatening, and hideous proportions during the Mayor's first administration, were known to the people to exist, but were forgotten by them at the polls, were known to the police, and are still known to them, and upon no conceivable basis of belief can it be supposed their existence may not have been known to him, and that he does not know of their continued existence. It is for him to utter the command "Stop," and they will cease, in so far as they can be kept within bounds by his authority. Their absolute suppression, under existing legislation is, perhaps, impossible, but their regulation thereunder is not wholly impracticable. Ordinances demanding, for instance, the imposition of a fine of $200 per day for keeping a house of ill fame, have, he may say, never been enforced, and have fallen into a condition of "innocuous desuetude." The field of observation on matters such as these is too wide to be entered upon here. During the Mayor's first term, one of his best friends, in the columns of his widely circulated newspaper, severely criticised his administration, but supported him for re-election, and explained in its columns, in response to an inquiry made by a correspondent just prior to the election, his reasons for doing so as follows, viz.: "If Mayor Harrison shall receive the support of the independent voters because of the good points of his administration, that will show that his strength consists in doing right, not in doing wrong. It stands to reason that he would rather have the approval of honest and respectable men than of the vicious elements of the community. The R---- believes that Mayor Harrison's present administration from first to last has improved and not deteriorated. The mayor himself ought to know what are the weak points in it, and if he has acquired wisdom by experience he should choose his heads of departments for his second term with a view to curing the evils and failures of his first term. The relations of the police department with gambling resorts, all-night saloons and other forms of vice have been indecent, and probably corrupt. The R---- has frequently urged the dismissal of Superintendent K---- and the appointment of some better man. It believes that Mayor Harrison is much to blame in permitting the evil conditions to continue." The support he received for re-election came from a very large and respectable element of the community, but nobody can doubt that he owes that re-election to the solidarity of the votes of "the vicious elements of the community!" The respectable element did not vote with such allies in order that he should continue to conserve the interests of vice and criminality. The supporters of the all-night saloons, gambling halls, poker joints, and of all other nests of iniquity rallied to his assistance to a man. Without the massed vote of the saloon and its hangers on, he would not have been again chosen Mayor. The leading financial paper of this city, non-partisan in its political views, said on the eve of the election: "An emergency exists. The government of the City of Chicago is held in contempt not only in Chicago but wherever Chicago is known. We are losing good citizens, property, capital, prestige. The very streets, with their filth and dust, repel the visitor; the servants of the city, whether in administrative or legislative positions, are objects of suspicion; the scheme of a well ordered civil service is breaking down; vice receives encouragement as the price of votes. What wonder that many believe the heart is rotten? But there is virtue and power enough to change all this. The moral sentiment and enlightened self interest of the city once aroused and properly guided would overwhelm all opposition." Few, if any, evidences have been given out from the City Hall since the Mayor's re-inauguration tending to show that he proposes voluntarily to destroy this "contempt." His new comptroller is a worthy successor to the departed Waller, while the selection for his corporation counsel is all that could be desired by the most captious citizen. But the vices and crimes which principally brought, through their unchecked prevalence, that contempt, find the man, under whom for two years the police force, which in his friend's language has been "indecent and probably corrupt," again in its command. Doubtless the army of the vicious rejoices. Certain it is the community wonders. He will be observed as time passes. May the results of observation redound to his everlasting credit and success, and to the benefit of the great city of which he is the executive head! In the following pages references to the causes of that contempt will be made. The prurient will find nothing in them to their taste. These references ought to be of some assistance to the Mayor in finding out through a properly organized and well officered police force that these evil causes do exist. Having discovered them, their haunts, and their aids, if he does not already know of them, will he tolerate them any longer in this community? Will his continuous Superintendent of Police be further allowed to throw his kindly protection over them? CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. CHICAGO--Its Development--Power of Criminal Classes in Its Government--Pretenses of Reform--Official Satisfaction--Public Condemnation--Truths as to Power of Criminal Classes. CHAPTER II. THE POLICE FORCE--Its Strength--Composition--Power Dominating--Duties of Defined--Population of Chicago--Nativity of--Police Enemies of Civil Service--Demoralizing Effect--Tariff on Crime--Rates on Gambling Houses, Etc.--Penalty for Refusal to Pay--Instances of Police Rates--Method of Collection--Habits of Policemen--Some Are "Hold Up" Men--Blackmail Levied--Law Department--Arrests in 1897--Police Fix Boundaries for Crime--Chief's Testimony--Analysis of Arrests in 1897 in Second Police Precinct--In City at Large--Division of Fees and Fines With Magistrates--Police Courts, Corrupt--Cost of Police Force. CHAPTER III. ALL NIGHT SALOONS--Character of--Thieves, Thugs and Prostitutes in--Visitors--Country Buyers, Transients, Delegates, Youth and Old Age--Women in--Character of--Basement Saloons--Scenes in--Private Rooms--Scenes in All Night Saloons--Dancing--Music--Morning Hours--Robberies, Etc., Planned--Girls Entrapped--Young Men Ruined--Quarrels--Raids--Drinking--Surroundings of--Houses of Ill Fame--Assignation Houses--Slumming Parties--Fads--Salvation and Volunteer Army--Houses of Ill Fame--Inmates of--How Managed--Practices in--Superstitions--Luck Powders--Sources of Supply--Patrons of--Wholesale House Entertainer--Police Protection--Diseases--Attempts at Reform--People Indifferent. CHAPTER IV. RE-ELECTION OF MAYOR--False Issue Upon Which Re-elected--Vices in Chicago--"Blind Pigs"--Protected by Police--Where Situated--How Conducted--Classes--Drug Stores, Bakeries, Barns--Revenue to Police--Located Near Universities--Lieutenant of Police Convicted for Protecting--Cock Fighting--Bucket Shops--Women Dealers--Pool Rooms--Police Play--Pulling of, Farcical--Views of Chief of Police--Players in--Landlords--Book Making--Alliance Between, and Police and Landlords--New York and Chicago--Chicago's Police Force Worst--Hold Up Men--Methods--Victims--Police Sleep--Mayor's Felicitations, April 11, 1899--Account of Hold Ups, Same Day--Classes of Hold Up Men--Strong Armed Women--Street Car Conductors Robbed--Ice Chests and Ovens for Prisons--Hair Clippers--Protection to Criminals--"Safe Blowers' Union"--Fakes--Panel Houses--Badger Games--Nude Photographs--Obscene Literature--Confidence Men--Diploma Mills--Gambling--Women's Down Town Clubs--Sexual Perverts--Opium Joints. CHAPTER V. COMMON COUNCIL--Boodlers--Bribers--Council of 1899--Powers of--Misuse of--Price of Votes--Passage of Boodle Ordinances--Public Works Department and Bureaus--Illegal Contracts--Street Repairing, Etc.--Civil Service Commission--History of--Present Board Tools of Mayor--Examination by--Examples of--Attacks Upon Law--Special Assessments--Asphalt Ring--Fire Department--County Government--Insane Asylum--Sale of "Cadavers"-- Contracts--Sheriff's Office--Jury Bribers--Judges--Revenue Law--Tax Dodgers--Town Boards--Coroner's Office--Press Trust--Civic Societies-- Berry Committee Report--Baxter Committee--Opening Testimony--Conclusion. CHAPTER I. CHICAGO--ITS DEVELOPMENT--POWER OF CRIMINAL CLASSES IN ITS GOVERNMENT--PRETENSES OF REFORM--OFFICIAL SATISFACTION--PUBLIC CONDEMNATION--TRUTHS AS TO POWER OF CRIMINAL CLASSES. Chicago, with its world-wide fame as the most marvelous product of American enterprise among municipal creations in the nineteenth century, with its wonderful growth, from an Indian trading post in 1837 to a modern city of the second size in point of population in the year 1898, with the record of its stupendous strides in reaching its present commercial and financial position among the commanding trade centers in the world, with its strong civic pride, its numerous and admirable religious, educational and charitable institutions both public and private, its cultured development in literature, music, the arts and sciences, with its memorable disaster in the great fire of 1871, its speedy recoupment from that disaster, and its brilliant achievement in the organization and management of the magnificent "White City," the wide range of the classified exhibits of which covered the entire and progressive contributions of mankind to all that goes to make up the civilization of the age from the earliest period of the commencement of that civilization, this Chicago, grand, philanthropic and patriotic, suffers, as for years it has suffered, from the most extensive and persistent advances in political power, along the lines of their respective crimes, of the criminal classes, until, from the wealthy bribe-giver to the lowest sneak thief and sexual pervert, these classes carry elections, corrupt the corruptible in the Common Council, sway justice in the forum of the lower courts, and govern the police force until it has become a municipal aid to the perpetration of crime. From one administration to the other, the growing power of these lowest classes of society manifests a stronger hold upon civic administration. Pretenses of reform are all that, so far, have followed each bi-ennial election of a Mayor. Here and there, and now and then, gambling houses are closed, threats against police officers, who follow the well grounded practice of levying protection rates upon brothels, street walkers, gambling games of all descriptions, saloons, concert halls, and that varied combination of evils forming the working machinery of vice, are given publicity, and while the growth of these monstrous evils cannot but be known to public officials, both from observation, official reports, events as chronicled in the daily press, grand jury reports, civic and State investigations, and verdicts in the courts, a nerveless cowardice seems to seize each succeeding incumbent of the Executive's office, under whatever political party's banner he may be called to the chair, and prevents him from grappling with, and throttling, the ever increasing power of the combined votaries of all forms of vice and crime. The Mayor recently congratulated the Common Council in these words, viz: "The report of the General Superintendent of Police contains assurance for all classes of citizens that the efficiency, vigilance and zeal that have characterized this department will permit them to pursue their avocations without fear of being robbed and assaulted by long and short men. One need not be exceedingly observant to note that with the approach of winter comes an annual outbreak of crime. We all noticed evidences of such a visitation at the advent of the winter just ended, but it should not be allowed to pass without comment that criminality rarely showed itself during last fall when it was crushed out with a suddenness and success that ought to be regarded with pride and satisfaction by every Chicagoan. There has been no evidence of crime through the recent year as in former years; the criminals came in the fall, but they were severely taught that Chicago was an unhealthy clime for them, with the result that they were wise enough not to linger here long." This statement, so self-satisfying to the official who made it, so totally false in fact, so dangerous to the welfare of the people, and so flippantly interwoven into a public document by one who either knew the contrary to be the truth, or who knowingly used his official position for the suppression of truth, if not of crime, is contradicted by the disclosures made by every organization devoted to the purification of the public morals, the betterment of civil administration, and the eradication of the bestial vices so freely and openly flaunted in the faces of a busy and apparently indifferent people. Contrast the announcement of the Law Enforcement League with this official declaration. Said this League, composed of the pastors of churches and law-abiding people, "Chicago's influence ought to be on the side of purity and good order, but the fact is that vice and crime are prevalent, lawlessness is defiant, recreancy to sworn duty is all but universal. The disorderly saloon is the nesting place of the terrible debaucheries which disgrace our city. Ordinances and laws which have for their object the suppression of venality and crime are trampled ruthlessly beneath the feet of a disloyal and un-American horde. * * * The public mind is profoundly agitated over the reign of lawlessness and moral disorder. * * * The co-operation of all decent and respectable people is absolutely imperative if municipal government is to be transferred from the baser to the better element. * * * We have a right to demand that lawlessness shall cease; that gang rule shall be broken; that partisan politics shall be made subsidiary to municipal righteousness; that the all but omnipotent power of the disorderly shall be broken; that the carnival of crime which curses Chicago shall end; that the law breakers, crime makers and bribe-takers shall be adequately punished and that the fair name of this imperial city shall be redeemed from the reproach of blackmail, wanton immorality and widespread disorder." A noted divine said recently, "I believe that this city is to be the greatest city of this continent and of the world. I believe that Chicago is the devil's headquarters, and I think it is not far from the City Hall. If our own eyes could be fully opened we would see there infinite indecencies, bum politicians, ward workers, heel tappers, men who are the devil's own and delivered body and soul to do his bidding." Another said, "Saloons and all other haunts of vice are wide open, as they have never been before in the city's history." A distinguished lawyer, speaking before the Christian Convention recently held in this city, said, "Scourge off and out of your temples the political hyenas that prey on the municipal body politic, that fatten on the scarlet woman's wages of sin, that share the gambler's plunder and the blind pig's profits." Another eminent divine declared at this meeting, "He knew that men have been kept from coming to, and investing in, Chicago because our morality is so low." Still another divine declared at the same meeting, "But when in one night five homes in the block in which I live--and I moved there because it was the safest place in the city--are robbed, and, within the same week, three men are held up within two blocks, the conditions are serious." Serious, indeed, they are, despite assurances of protection by the police force emanating from the highest official authority! A few plain truths as to the utter prostitution of the civil authorities to the power of the criminal classes in Chicago, and as to the filthiness of those classes, are attempted to be given in the following pages. They may assist in arousing the people to a keen sense of their duty as citizens to demand from a new administration a rigid enforcement of the law by public officers, and that these officers shall become the servants of the people rather than remain the slaves, as well as the persecutors for private gain, of the riffraff of the community. CHAPTER II. THE POLICE FORCE--ITS STRENGTH--COMPOSITION--POWER DOMINATING--DUTIES OF DEFINED--POPULATION OF CHICAGO--NATIVITY OF--POLICE ENEMIES OF CIVIL SERVICE--DEMORALIZING EFFECT--TARIFF ON CRIME--RATES ON GAMBLING HOUSES, ETC.--PENALTY FOR REFUSAL TO PAY--INSTANCES OF POLICE RATES--METHOD OF COLLECTION--HABITS OF POLICEMEN--SOME ARE "HOLD UP" MEN--BLACKMAIL LEVIED--LAW DEPARTMENT--ARRESTS IN 1897-- POLICE FIX BOUNDARIES FOR CRIME--CHIEF'S TESTIMONY--ANALYSIS OF ARRESTS IN 1897 IN SECOND POLICE PRECINCT--IN CITY AT LARGE--DIVISION OF FEES AND FINES WITH MAGISTRATES--POLICE COURTS, CORRUPT--COST OF POLICE FORCE. The Police Force of the City of Chicago consisted on December 31st, 1897, of 3,594 men, of which number 2,298 were first-class patrolmen, the remainder being officers, sergeants, clerks, drivers and patrol-wagon men. The number of square miles of territory embraced within the city limits was, and is, 186.4. The force is composed largely of men of one nationality or of their descendants. A large majority affiliates with the same church. Prior to the passage of the civil service law in 1895, each bi-ennial administration made the force its own valuable mine in which veins of rich rewards for its friends and political workers were found. To this force the aldermanic supporters of the administration attached their henchmen and ward heelers, and these, in turn, as public officers, looked after the political welfare of their backers and of the administration these backers supported. Thus, the political complexion of the force was liable to change every two years. Notwithstanding the presence of a civil service law on the statute books under which the force is now supposed to have been re-organized and re-appointed, its political complexion remains the same. The organization is dominated by the political party which alone uses the distinctive title of "Tammany." The civil service law has been attacked, in behalf of this public force, by officials who were sworn to sustain it, until through their repeated assaults upon it, its administration is looked upon as farcical, and its administrators as its most cunning and relentless foes. The duties of the police force are clearly defined in the city charter. Generally, that instrument provides, "The police shall devote their time and attention to the discharge of the duties of their stations according to the laws and ordinances of the city and the rules and regulations of the department of police, and it shall be their duty, to the best of their ability, to preserve order, peace and quiet, and enforce the laws and ordinances throughout the city." According to the school census of 1898, the population of Chicago was then 1,851,588. This population is one of the most polyglot of any city in the world. Each modern language is spoken by some one class of its people. The population born of American born parents exceeds that of any other nativity, being in round numbers 486,000, while the Germans, born of German born parents, and Germans born in Germany, number in round figures 468,000. Of the Irish 131,000 are American born of Irish parents; born in Ireland, 104,000, making a total of 235,000. These are the largest classes, by nativity, of its people, and with the proverbial ability of the latter nationality to govern and "get there" it supplies the police force with the largest quota of men, year after year. During the years 1897 and 1898 this force, and every man seeking to become a member of it, was taught by city officials, and by none more energetically than by the chief law officer of the city administration, that the civil service law was an especial enemy of theirs, inasmuch as it abridged their privileges and immunities as citizens of the United States, and was, therefore, a menace to their rights, wholly unwarranted by the Constitution of the United States. It was accordingly attacked upon that ground by the officers sworn to enforce it, and, since the establishment of its validity by the highest courts in the land, its provisions are constantly sought, by them, to be avoided and defeated. The efforts of the commissioners to enforce it were commented on in an official message by the city's Executive, as if such efforts were in fact being made, and were part and parcel of an administrative policy; while, in practice, no possible legal device or illegal invention was allowed to fail of application by municipal officials to destroy its commands, even by its commissioners, who announced themselves as its greatest devotees. No more demoralizing example could have been set before the police force than the acts of the higher authorities. Such acts have produced the inevitable result, that, as such higher authorities saw fit to openly throttle a law they were sworn to enforce, the rank and file of the police force itself inferred that they, too, could seek to evade, and refuse to execute, all laws and ordinances which in their judgment affected the suppression of crime. Consequently, that force has become demoralized and corrupt, openly levying a tariff for revenue and official protection upon all classes of wrong-doers, below those who commit felonious crimes of the highest grade, and when the rates are not promptly paid by the protected classes, they are coerced by arrest into the payment of fines and fees for division between the justices and the officers. It is a well known fact that a schedule of prices prevails for police protection, which prices must be paid for that protection. Gambling houses pay from $50.00 per month upwards; panel and badger games, $35.00 to $50.00; music halls with saloon and private room attachments, $100.00; houses of ill fame, from $50.00 upwards, according to the number of inmates at so much per capita; cigar store and barber shop gambling games, $10.00; "blind pigs," the unlicensed vendors of liquors, $10.00 to $30.00, and with permission to gamble, $30.00 to $50.00; crap games, $10.00 to $25.00; opium and Chinese joints, $10.00 to $25.00; drug store "blind pigs," $10.00 to $30.00, and prize fights and cocking mains, a percentage of the gate receipts--usually one-fifth. Whenever a gambling house refuses to pay it is immediately pulled. These rates of police blackmail and of protective tariff have been sworn to before public investigations, and inquiry trials, as imposed and collected. The press has repeatedly commented upon these frightfully cruel persecutions, reeking with the infamy of the participation by public servants in a division of the fetid proceeds of the procuress, of the landlady, of her unfortunate slave, the harlot; of the skin gambler, the clock swindlers and tape gamesters, and of the operators of massage parlors, both male and female. In one case, tried before the Criminal Court of Cook County, a lieutenant of the police force was convicted of the crime of exacting money from the owner of a "blind pig" paid to him by the owner for protection in his unlawful occupation. Going back a few years, during the World's Fair period, as high as $2,000, it is said in public print, was paid for similar protection in a single instance. The officer in charge of a given precinct makes the collections, retains his percentage, passes the remainder on to his next superior, who withholds his rake-off, and so on until the net profit reaches the highest police official. A leading city newspaper, in a caustic editorial, declared that "in Chicago protection means the privilege to commit crime upon the payment of a sum of money to the police. It has ceased to mean that the citizen will be guarded against the acts of criminals." So thoroughly recreant to duty have some of the ranking officers of this force become, that one of the oldest captains when asked why he did not close, in his district, certain notorious saloons where depraved women robbed strangers in wine rooms, replied that "some people would steal in the churches, and you might as well close churches as close the saloons for that reason." Patrolmen in uniform are found in dives playing cards; and in others sleeping during the hours of their supposed presence on their beats. They know the women of the town, the street walkers in the territory they patrol, the keepers of every vile joint, where the most depraved practices are indulged in, the houses of ill fame, high-priced and low-priced, the "Nigger," Japanese, Chinese and mixed bagnios, the policy shops, fences and schools for thieves. All these vice mills and their operators contribute to the policemen's demand, and thus obtain permission to carry on, in daylight, and at night-time, their nefarious, lecherous and disgusting crimes and orgies. One officer gambled in a saloon with a citizen, lost his money, overpowered the citizen, recovered his lost money and then robbed his victim. In broad daylight an officer held up a citizen and robbed him of his money and valuables. When the Chief of Police had this case called to his attention before a legislative investigating committee, he answered, "I tried that man yesterday. He got on the police department ten years ago, and he always had a reputation of being a good officer, and the other morning he had been drinking some, and, like everything else, became a little indiscreet and started out to hold up a man and got hold of a few dollars in that way, and under the impression, very likely, that he would never be discovered, and, like everybody else, with his good record in the past, he was discharged and reinstated, because many people vouched for him, and all said he was an excellent officer, but he stepped by the wayside and fell, and we had him arrested and discharged." Whether the many people who so generously interceded with the Chief of Police for the retention of a thief as a member of his force were that thief's fellow pals and hold-up men, was not disclosed; but it may be said without hazard, that they were not reputable men--if they had any existence at all other than in the imagination, and as part of the bewildering policy of an incapable Chief. Methods of levying blackmail upon other than the disreputable classes, but reaching through them, upwards and beyond them, are not only countenanced, but advised by superior officials and approved by the city's highest executive. On the 5th of November, 1897, a practical stranger in the city was given the following letter, signed by the Chief of Police, viz.: "TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN: The police department is about to issue a history for the benefit of their relief fund. Kindly make all checks payable to W. V. M., East Chicago Avenue Station, and any favors shown the bearer will be appreciated by, Yours truly," This stranger had been denounced through the press as a fraud and a schemer, who had been arrested in other cities for obtaining money under false pretenses, which facts were known to the Chief of Police when his letter of recommendation was written. The stranger was to receive a commission of twenty-five per cent on all subscriptions obtained by him, and the treasurer of the fund, who was selected with the approval of the Chief, the Mayor, and his principal political satellite, ten per cent. Some $8,000 were collected under this scheme, one large railroad corporation subscribing $1,000 and a noted Board of Trade operator $500. Whence the remainder came rests in conjecture, with a well defined belief that noted gamblers, and keepers of houses of ill fame, were contributors to it. A legislative committee's inquiries prevented the consummation of the scheme, but, owing to the speedy departure from the city of the treasurer, the source of the remaining subscriptions could not be inquired into. As a cover to the purposes of this scheme, it was proposed to place these collections to the credit of the Policemen's Benevolent Association Fund of Chicago, which, by reason of the failure of a bank, whose officials are now under indictment for the misappropriation of public funds other than those of this association, had become badly impaired. This proposal followed the appointment of the legislative committee of investigation, by way of preparation to conceal the real purpose of the swindle. That association repudiated the plan. The Chief of Police was asked by the committee of investigation whether he thought it was the proper thing for him, as Chief of Police of Chicago, "to give to a man to go out among business men, corporations and manufacturing establishments of the city a letter telling them that everything this man did and said you would be responsible for, if you knew he had been indicted and arrested in different cities of the United States for defrauding the people out of money on this same identical scheme?" He answered, "I don't believe it." Immediately he was asked, "Have you heard A. was arrested a number of times?" and in reply said, "I read in the newspapers that he was arrested and had trouble in Detroit." Again he was asked whether A. had given him any information as to the number of times he had been arrested for getting money on false pretenses, and his answer was, "I can give you some information on that subject." These extracts from the sworn testimony of this official, speak in no commendatory manner of his sense of official responsibility. They point to a mind deadened to all sense of the duties of his position; they elevate him before his force as a conspicuous example for them to follow, in his disregard of the principles of official decency. In themselves they urge upon that force, by their silent influence, an emulation of such a blackmailing course, even though in its accomplishment the assistance of a swindler is required, and deliberately accepted. A brother of the Chief, a member of the detective force, was frequently found in poolrooms, assisting in their management, and yet the Chief seems to have been unable to acquire the knowledge that poolrooms were running wide open throughout the city. He probably knew it as an individual. In response to a question as to his information on this subject he answered, that no particular complaints were made--"the newspaper boys often came around and said there was pool selling going on at different places," and he presumed "if a desperate effort had been made to look that kind of thing up, we might have possibly been successful." More open admissions of official incompetency it would, perhaps, be difficult to make, and no more flagrant instances could be cited of official degeneracy than are these extracts from the sworn testimony of a defiant and dangerous public servant. In the attack on the Police Pension Fund, which was established under an act of the legislature for the benefit of an officer who shall have reached the age of fifty years, and who shall have served at reaching that age for twenty years on the force, then be retired with a yearly pension equal to one-half of the salary attached to the rank which he may have held for one year next preceding the expiration of his term of twenty years, or who shall have become physically disabled in the performance of his duty, there was manifested a degree of moral irresponsibility, if not of criminality, and a blind adherence to partisanship in defiance of the laws, seldom found in the history of any municipal corporation, and unmatched even by the developments of the Lexow committee of New York City, in matters of a kindred character, inquired into by that committee. For the sake of creating vacancies in the ranks of the police force, to be filled by appointments to be made by the Chief in defiance of the civil service law, and while that law was running the gauntlet of every conceivable attack, both open and covert, which could be made upon it by every department of the city's administration, and by none more virulently than by the Law Department, a plan was devised and put into execution whereby officers of all ranks, after years of police service and experience and in strong physical condition willing and anxious to remain in their positions, were retired from the force against their protest, merely to make way for the substitution of new appointees--the political friends of the Chief and his superior. Men with good records and physically able to perform their duties were thus forced upon the rolls as pensioners, to deplete a fund, sacred as a trust, not only for the benefit of the living and necessitous pensioners, but also for the widows of the men who had lost their lives in the service and the wives and children of those who had died after ten years of police duty. One effect, as to the standing of this fund, was to reduce the balance on hand January 1, 1897, from $16,837 to $4,543 December 31st, 1897. Thus over $10,000 was raided, seized and forced upon unwilling pensioners, "still able bodied and anxious to retain their positions at their full salaries." A more contemptible exercise of political power and administrative robbery could not well be imagined. The omissions of the police force in the enforcement of the laws, their acts of commission in evading, attacking and disregarding others, especially those relating to all night saloons, the source of most of the arrests for disorderly conduct, where wantonness is displayed, assignations are arranged, drunkenness aided and brawls engendered, are blamable, not so much upon the patrolmen, as upon their superior officers. The patrolmen do as they are told. They report infractions of the law, or not, according to their instructions. Their eyes are opened or closed, as the "wink is tipped" to them from above. The men are brave in moments of danger, fearless in rescuing the inmates of burning buildings, risking their lives in stopping runaway horses, tender in caring for lost children, or destitute persons, both men and women, and faithful in the performance of their duties as members of the ambulance corps. During the year 1897 one hundred and eighty were injured while on duty, and of this number forty-seven were on service in the first precinct, embracing the business district, the thoroughfares of which are the most crowded and in which the heaviest fires happen, while only seven were injured in the second precinct along the "levee"--the tough precinct. Given proper management, strict discipline and law abiding example, it could be made, and ought to be made, one of the "finest" forces in the world. Thugs and thieves, within the past two years, through the manipulation of the civil service law, have been admitted to its ranks, to its everlasting disgrace and that of the usurped appointing power. The number of arrests in 1897 for those offences from the perpetrators of which the police are charged with receiving protection money, was less than in any of the previous years since 1895, notwithstanding the increase in population, according to the school census, from 1,616,635 in 1896, to 1,851,588 in 1898, an increase in round numbers of 234,000. The following is the number of arrests for the years 1894, 1895, 1896 and 1897 for offences as named, viz.: 1894. 1895. 1896. 1897. Cock fighting ..... 156 69 ..... Decoy to gambling houses ..... ..... ..... ..... Disorderly 49,072 44,450 50,641 45,844 Inmates of assignation houses 53 53 92 14 Inmates of disorderly houses 21 105 205 181 Inmates of gambling houses 879 1,802 2,535 725 Inmates of houses of ill fame 2,516 2,894 5,547 1,531 Inmates of opium dens 943 1,112 528 253 Keeping assignation houses 17 5 15 19 Keeping disorderly houses 39 28 30 139 Keeping gaming houses 238 300 310 155 Keeping houses of ill fame 174 210 241 648 Robbery 1,072 1,099 1,083 1,200 Violation saloon ordinance 717 1,283 1,359 559 In 1897, as compared with 1896, there was a decrease of 78 in the number of arrests of inmates of assignation houses, 24 of the inmates of disorderly houses, 1,810 of the inmates of gambling houses, 4,016 of the inmates of houses of ill fame, 275 of the inmates of opium dens, 155 of the keepers of gaming houses, and 800 for violation of saloon ordinances. That these offenses had not decreased in point of perpetration is a fact, patent to observation and well known to the people. On the other hand, the arrests for keeping disorderly houses increased 109, and for keeping houses of ill fame 407. In the year 1896, when some effort was made to keep the police out of politics, the total arrests were 13,167 more than in 1897, when the police force had passed into the hands of a political machine, which sought to erase the application of the civil law to its government. In 1896 the inmates suffered arrest, but in 1897 the policy of arresting fewer inmates and more keepers, except of gaming houses, seems to have been inaugurated. "The keepers" are more able to pay than the inmates. For every dollar collected from inmates, the keepers are able to pay ten, or fifty dollars if necessary. From these figures it is clear that the practice of assessments for police protection was maintained principally against keepers in 1897, and that few inmates, comparatively, refused to pay in that year, while a large number of keepers of immoral and gambling houses were tardy in their payments, consequently, the former were not arrested, while the latter were. What the figures for the year 1898 will reveal is as yet unknown. Not only is crime thus tolerated by the police, but its chief officials assume, also, to define the boundaries of the districts in which it may be freely and safely perpetrated. The Chief of Police, testifying before a legislative investigating committee, said: "Now, any fellow who wants to bet on the races or anything of that sort cannot be allowed to do so this side of Jackson street, because we don't want this section of the town polluted with this class of things. We want the boys who have an inclination to bet on horse races to go south." Q. What have you got against the people south of Jackson street? A. I like them. Q. Is that the reason you wanted that stuff to go down there? A. Things are very lively in the lower part of the town, everything has a thrifty appearance, and everything---- Q. You mean south of Jackson street? A. North of Jackson--and things up south of Jackson are virtually dead--there is nothing going on at all, and the stores are all empty. There is nothing doing, and the property, is depreciating in value, and the object was to liven things up a little bit. That part of the city south of Jackson boulevard to Sixteenth street, and from State street on the east to the river on the west, embraces the tough part of the second precinct of the second police district. In the year 1897 of the total number of arrests of women and girls in the city, 17,624 in number, 8,957, or over 50 per cent, were, as the police term it, "run in" from this police district. How often the same women were arrested and re-arrested it is impossible to say, or whether they were "pinched" oftener than once in the same night. Of this latter number 7,364 were discharged by the magistrates, but the larger number contributed one dollar each to the justice for signing a bail bond for their appearance for trial. In addition, 300 women, known as "women lodgers," were also "run in" in this district in 1897. Of these unfortunates 1,746 were fined; 140 held to the criminal court; 193 released on peace bonds; 209 sent to the house of correction; 10 held as witnesses; 10 were insane; 7 destitute, and 23 were sick and sent to the hospital. Of this total number of arrests of women and women lodgers, 9,257 in number, in this police district in 1897, only 2,288, or about 39 per cent were convicted of offenses by police magistrates, while 61 per cent of them were discharged. Of the total number of persons arrested throughout the city in 1897, 83,680 in number, 55,020 were discharged by the police courts, 18,017 were fined, 4,138 held on criminal charges, and 2,947 bound over to keep the peace. The remainder were sent to various homes, refuges, asylums and humane societies. Over 50 per cent of those arrested were discharged. The percentage of those who furnished bail for their appearance, it is difficult to ascertain. That the practice exists is too well known to be proven, that a division of these bail bond fees is made between the magistrate and the police; the police furnishing the victims, the straw bailor his signature to, and the justice his approval of, the bond. The latter collects his fee and divides with the officers, while the straw bailor exacts his compensation in proportion to the ability of the victim to pay, then hands over a share to the arresting officers. That such persecution should exist in a civilized community is a disgrace to its civilization, that public officers should, for one moment, be permitted to engage in such hideous traffic in the liberties of their fellows, is a scandal upon the administration of justice, and that executive officers of the law, sworn to its enforcement, should be ignorant of the infamy of such arrests, or knowingly permit them to be made, is malfeasance in office, and subversion of civil rights. The portion of the fines (not by statute appropriated for other purposes) assessed upon, and collected from, this class of unfortunates by the justices, is required by the ordinances to be paid to the city at the close of each and every month, and is to be apportioned by the city authorities as the statutes and ordinances require. The salaries of the police magistrates are fixed by agreement with the city. These magistrates are chosen bi-ennially after the election of a Mayor, by that officer, from the appointed justices of the peace, and are generally of the same political faith as is the appointing authority. The system is a blot upon the impartial administration of justice. It has become a byword among the people as a malodorous cesspool. From the evidence heard before a legislative committee, that committee reported "that the present system of justice, or police courts, as run, is a disgrace to the present civilization. It shows that justice courts will open in the night time, policemen will go out and drag in men and women, 100 and 200, and even more at a time; that they are refused a trial at night, required to give a bond for which the justice charges them one dollar; that professional bondsmen are in attendance who will collect another dollar, and oftentimes much more, from the poor unfortunate to go on his or her bond until morning, thus making several hundred dollars ofttimes in a night to the police justices and other officers connected with the court, and this is done, as your committee believe, from the evidence, for the purpose of making money for the police justice, the professional bondsman, and the police officer in charge of the arrest." These magistrates are required to report at the "close of each day's business," but their night arrests are construed by them as not following within the definition of "a day's business." The fees arising from them are not, therefore, reported. Civic bodies have denounced in the bitterest terms the evils of this system, and in a recent mayoralty message to the Common Council, in itself the hotbed of boodleism, it is said, "The justice shop system with all its necessarily attendant scandals is about to be wiped out." That desirable result awaits legislative action. The general assembly, if it has any respect for human rights, for commendable municipal government, for the performance of its sworn duty, will lay aside the struggle in legislative halls for political ascendancy, and hasten the day when this festering sore shall have applied to it an instrument of eradication which it alone can wield. It is proper to add that since the foregoing lines were written the night fees are better accounted for, under an agreement between the magistrates and the city by which the magistrates' salaries are raised, as an inducement to them to be honest. The appropriations for the year 1897, for the maintenance of the police force, amounted to $3,356,910. Other sources of income amounted to $17,635.03. The salary warrants drawn against this fund amounted to $3,290,296.26; for other expenses, $167,369.63, making a total of warrants drawn of $3,457,665.89, leaving a deficit of $83,392.84. The total income of the city for the year 1897 from saloon licenses was about $3,000,000. The saloons are, therefore, the policemen's great financial friends in more ways than one, and largely defray the expenses of the department. CHAPTER III. ALL NIGHT SALOONS--CHARACTER OF--THIEVES, THUGS AND PROSTITUTES IN--VISITORS--COUNTRY BUYERS, TRANSIENTS, DELEGATES, YOUTH AND OLD AGE--WOMEN IN--CHARACTER OF--BASEMENT SALOONS--SCENES IN--PRIVATE ROOMS--SCENES IN ALL NIGHT SALOONS--DANCING--MUSIC--MORNING HOURS--ROBBERIES, ETC., PLANNED--GIRLS ENTRAPPED--YOUNG MEN RUINED--QUARRELS--RAIDS--DRINKING--SURROUNDINGS OF--HOUSES OF ILL FAME--ASSIGNATION HOUSES--SLUMMING PARTIES--FADS--SALVATION AND VOLUNTEER ARMY--INMATES OF--HOW MANAGED--PRACTICES IN-- SUPERSTITIONS--LUCK POWDERS--SOURCES OF SUPPLY--PATRONS OF-- WHOLESALE HOUSE ENTERTAINERS--POLICE PROTECTION--DISEASES-- ATTEMPTS AT REFORM--PEOPLE INDIFFERENT. The breeding ground of disorder and crime is to be found in the all night saloons. Despite the stringent ordinances prohibiting the "open door" after midnight, in the most dissolute districts throughout the city, along the streets and avenues of the north, west and south divisions, under ground and on its surface, these dens invite the depraved of both sexes to enter, remain, dissipate and carouse through the night. Murders, robberies and assaults are the necessary outcome of the unlimited drinking, the ribald language, the senseless jealousies, and the heated passions of the motley crowds which are at all times the fascinated patrons of these joints. A more rigid rule has recently been applied to the larger of the down town, or business district, basement saloons. Music is prohibited, and the closing midnight hour respected. These are but the depots for the all night saloons. When they close, the gathered crowds of dissolute women dissolve and betake themselves to the after midnight haunts, there to continue their calling--the solicitation of male visitors for drinks, meals and the ultimate purpose of their solicitation--prostitution. The male frequenters of these resorts belong to all classes of society. The "steady" visitors are thieves, thugs, pickpockets, gamblers, variety actors, "rounders," that large and constantly growing class in great cities which is ceaselessly observing the shady side of life, "seeing the elephant," and not infrequently becoming intimately acquainted with the beast, and pimps, who fatten upon the sinful earnings of abandoned women, whose fondness for their masters increases in proportion to the violence the masters visit upon their slaves. The transient custom is comprised of not only the old rounder, but also of those of younger experience, bursting, or not far advanced, into manhood; those who with a wide knowledge of the ways and wickedness of the world, more than their years warrant, are out for a "good time;" the observer of those ways; the "chiels" who are among them taking notes; clerks, cabmen and their "hauls;" the country buyer under the guidance of the entertainer of the wholesale house with whom the buyer is dealing; the delegates to conventions, out to view the town; the passer through the burg who has heard of the lights and shadows of Chicago; the swallow-tailed youth, and the middle-aged gentleman fresh from escorting to her home the virtuous female companion of the evening's entertainment, the melodrama, the opera, or the social function. The women range from the one who has just "started out" to the most despicable and depraved member of the sex. The former is the observed of all observers, the object of conspicuous attention, and a veritable prize to be won by the most dashing attack and the most liberal offer. She is under the tuition of her female guide, who instructs her "what she has to do that she may not be raw in her entertainment." The basement saloons in the down town district with their brilliant electric lighting equipment, their reflecting mirrors and hardwood finishings, combine, in most instances, the facilities of the rum shop and the restaurant. Here, from noon hour of the day until midnight, come and go the "sporty" women, who have not yet reached the lower degree of a brothel, the "roomers," "the cruisers" of the street, the so-called keepers of manicure parlors, baths and dressmaking establishments, all bent upon a "mash" in its broadest sense, or a "pick up" of any male greenhorn, or sport, who can be ensnared by their wiles. Maintaining a semblance of decorum, they pass the earlier hours of the evening in drinking with the "guests" and in flitting about from table to table, with which each place is abundantly supplied. The conversation is loud, and at times boisterous. Its subject matter is beyond repetition in polite circles. Lecherous glances, libidinous gestures, open invitations, characterize the behavior of the audience. Sometimes personal liberties are attempted, but invariably suppressed by the management. From the private rooms come sounds of hilarity, and the intermixture of words of protest, inducement and vulgarity. The withdrawals of couples are marked, and their early return and ruffled appearance suggest patronage of not distant "hotels," where no questions are asked. Generally, as the midnight hour approaches, the crowd decreases, signs of intoxication increase, and the exodus to the all night resorts is about completed as that hour is struck. When the downtown basement resorts close, the profitable work of the all night joints commences. The attendants in them are joined by squads from the more pretentious and less favored half-night competitors. These resorts, as a rule, are all equipped with private rooms, and many of them, in summer, have a so-called garden attached. Some have vaudeville performances to attract crowds, which end after the midnight hour. Many have a "Ladies' Entrance," but most visitors pass through the bar to the sitting room beyond. The so-called music of the cracked piano and strident male voices now commences, and the hat is passed around by the artists and performers, for contributions for payment for their services, the "house" paying nothing for such services, but permitting the artists to "work" the crowd. Boys of sixteen, and under, join in the gaieties as buck, wing and jig dancers, and also pass the hat. As the hours lengthen, as the liquor begins its effect, freedom of action enlarges, and restraint is removed. Those attitudes at table indicative of respectability are abandoned for others hinting at the widest license, or actually, which is not infrequently the case, illustrating that license, so far as familiarities of the person are concerned. The dance begins, with all its contortions of the body derived from the couche-couchee exhibitions of the World's Fair times, enlarged upon by the grossness of the two-step waltz of the slums. Strolling bands of negro musicians, scraping the violin and strumming the guitar and mandolin, or the home orchestra, composed of these dusky minstrels, add their alleged harmonies to the occasion, and, with nasal expression, roll of coon songs in the popular rag time, with their intimations of free love, warmth of passion and disregard of moral teachings. At times, with assumed pathos and mock dignity they warble a sentimental song with some allusion to "Mother," "Home," or "Just Tell Them That You Saw Me." The spree goes on, with fresh additions from the bagnios. Women with the most repulsive signs of prolonged dissipation, of advanced disease, with the upper parts of the body exposed, not perhaps more than is customary at a fashionable charity ball, join in with salacious abandon. These women, in the phrase of the Bard of Avon, belong to the class of the "custom shrunk," of one of whom a Roman satirist wrote: "* * * but now, That life is flagging at the goal, and like An unstrung lute, her limbs are out of tune, She is become so lavish of her presence, That being daily swallowed by men's eyes They surfeit at the sight. She's grown companion to the common streets-- Want her who will, a stater, a three obolo piece, Or a mere draught of wine, brings her to hand! Nay! place a silver stiver in your palm, And, shocking tameness! She will stoop forthwith To pick it out." As the morning hours draw nigh blear-eyed men and women in all stages of intoxication, creep to their holes to sleep away the day for a renewal of their orgies when darkness again falls. In these all night saloons robberies and burglaries are planned, and hold-ups arranged for. To them young girls are enticed when homeward bound from summer gardens and midwinter balls. Plans are laid for their ruin through drink, and the excitement of an experience new to them, which hide from their view all danger signals. Women are beaten and stabbed in them. Here young men begin their careers of dissipation, of lechery, and, perhaps, of crime, amid surroundings so contrary to the examples of home life, that before they are aware of it, they have become hopelessly enamored of what is termed a sporting life. The flippantly spoken word provokes a heated reply, a jealous woman, surcharged with drink, precipitates a squabble that swells into a free fight, a free fight brings an indiscriminate firing of revolvers, and the consequent death--the murder--of some of the rioters follows. Then, and not until then, do the police raid the place. For a few weeks it is kept under the ban, but gradually the law's grip is relaxed, signs of the old life revive, and soon the same scenes made more joyous and boisterous at the "new opening" are again enacted, to run the same course until another felony is committed, and another temporary closing of the doors enforced. That the all night saloon where such depravity is permitted to hold sway is a menace to the peace, the sobriety, and the safety of the community, is a self evident proposition. A minister in one of his sermons said, "The police wink when you call their attention to the fact that hundreds of saloons are running wide open all night. It is after midnight that the majority of the crimes are committed, and yet these places are allowed to run after hours, and have the protection of the police." The beardless boy and the habitual drunkard are, alike, supplied with drink without question. The former is flattered by being called "a dead game sport," and the latter tickled with the oft-bestowed title of "old sport." Many of these notorious dens are located in the midst of a forest of houses of ill fame. The depraved inmates of these houses, partly clad, are the most indecent visitors to the all night saloons. Perched upon the bar, or peering out from the private wine rooms, they shout their infamous language at the visitors, with invitations to indulgence in the most bestial of practices. Slumming parties, composed of respectable men and women whose morbid curiosity has been aroused by tales of the inconceivable vices forming the night-life of the demi-monde, are not infrequently found "going down the line" dropping into the houses of prostitution, viewing the bar, the private rooms, the dance hall, the crap games and the vicious surroundings of the all night pest holes. To slum has, in a measure, become a fashionable fad. Its purpose is, not to carry into these haunts the example of a better life, but to cater to a dangerous spirit of inquiry, upon the principle that excitement, even though it be found in the midst of the garbage boxes of vice, is relished now and then by the best of mankind. The only indication of a world outside, in which Christian principles prevail, is occasionally to be found, when some of the women garbed in the simple uniform of either the Salvation or Volunteer Army, engaged in rescue work, or in scattering a hopeful word, through the medium of their publications, pass among the crowd, receiving in most instances respectful attention, and, at times, but rarely, a jeer from some drunken sot or wrecked woman. The houses of ill fame, whose stained glass windows with suggestive female figures in the nude advertise the abode of the scarlet woman, are as luxuriously furnished as is the home of the wealthy and respectable citizen. These "creatures of sale," as Shakespeare puts it, are as clearly distinguished in public as members of the demi-monde, as if the Julian laws were in operation in Chicago. In early Rome, under these laws, the courtesan was compelled to dye her hair blue or yellow. Like the Grecian courtesan whose distinctive mark of her calling was blonde hair, the strumpet of today generally favors a fashion coming down from the past ages. The passer-by of these abodes of sensuality is invited by open solicitation or unmistakable gesture to enter them, especially by the more degraded of the women. A studied decorum is maintained in some of the parlors of the older establishments, presided over by a proprietress advanced in years, plentiful in wealth, and dictatorial in management. Harsh rules are prescribed for the maintenance of the condition of slavery into which the girls have fallen. Debts to the house tie them to it by bands too strong to be easily broken, in what are termed the aristocratic branches of this nefarious trade. These women are none the less free from indulgence in unnatural practices than are those of houses of reputed lower degrees of depravity. White and colored alike revel in the same scenes of carnality which, fragments of history state, prevailed in the declining days of Rome and of Greece. The inmates of the lowest of these houses, both in dress, or in the absence of it, and in deportment, follow the habits of the Dicteriades, or low down prostitutes, of Piræus in the time of Pericles. Their appearance in the reception parlors in a state of nudity, and their filthiness in practice is a renewal of the habits of the Lesbian lovers of the fifth century; or of the flute players of the Athenian banquets, accounts of whose indecent dancing and depraved ways are found in the most erotic chapters in ancient literature. From them come the terms applying to the devotees in these days of sodomitic indulgence, forming part of the slang of the neighborhood where they live a debauched and beastly existence. The superstitions of the Grecian and Roman courtesan are carried into the beliefs of those of modern days. What the philters or love charms were to the former, luck powders are to the latter. They are known along the levee as "Sally White's Brand" and "Sally White's Mixed Luck." The former is regarded as particularly lucky. It is a compound of "Sally's" own prescription, and is secretly sprinkled on the floor, at stated periods, as luck is sought after, or is burned in a room and the fumes inhaled. The latter is a mixture of perfumed oils and is used in the bath. The women are the frequent buyers of Sally's prescriptions, avoiding purchasing on a Friday. The sources from which come the supply to the ranks of courtesans, whether inmates of the aristocratic, the middle, or the lowest grades of their temples of vice, are many, various and damnable. Aside from the mere desire to gratify passion, which medical writers maintain constitutes but a small percentage of those who join the army of prostitutes, attributable to an innate sense of virtue in the modern woman, cabmen, in spite of the municipal ordinances, have been known to drive women entering the city to these brothels on the pretext they were hotels. The procuress is at work all the while. "Thou hold'st a place for which the paind'st fiend Of hell would not in reputation change. Thou art the damned doorkeeper to every Coistril that comes inquiring for his Tib; To the choleric fisting of every rogue Thy ear is liable; thy food is such As hath been belched on by infected lungs." The department stores, in which starvation wages are paid to girls and women, who are subjected to the attentions of designing men, invited to lunch, induced to drink; whose love for dress and whose vanity are worked upon; those whose want of education in the relations of the sexes brings about their speedy fall; the servant turned out from her employment ruined by her employer or his son; the seamstress; the victims of unhappy marriages and cruel homes; those compelled by poverty or necessity, and who support dependent relatives; the "chippies" of modern days; the massage parlor graduates; all contribute their distressed quotas to this ever increasing tribe of prostitutes. It gathers in recruits from the overflow of the assignation houses, which are scattered over this city in astonishing profusion. They are found in boulevard castles and in back alley huts. They do not differ in character from those of all cities. Through them come the cast-off women, who, having satisfied the temporary infatuation of their seducers, find themselves victims of false promises, and the graduates from homes wrecked by the discovery of their daylight intrigues. So relentless a warfare is waged upon these private, and in some instances most exclusive, resorts, by the lynx-eyed police, that in the year 1897, nineteen keepers of such places were arrested! Some improvement is noticeable in their suppression from the fact that in 1894 seventeen, in 1895 five, and in 1896 fifteen keepers were arrested! Interference with this style of accommodation is, therefore, possible in Chicago, at or about the time of the arrival of the millennium! Singular to say there are moralists who assign the prostitute a position of usefulness in modern civilization. One of the most distinguished of English writers, in tracing the effects of Christianity upon mankind and its beneficent influences in social life, says: "Under these circumstances there has arisen in society a figure which is certainly the most mournful, and, in some respects, the most awful upon which the eye of the moralist can dwell. That unhappy being whose very name is a shame to speak, who counterfeits, with a cold heart, the transports of affection, and submits herself as a passive instrument of lust, who is scorned and insulted as the vilest of her sex, and doomed for the most part to disease and abject wretchedness, and an early death, appears in every age as the perpetual symbol of the degradation and the sinfulness of man. Herself the supreme type of vice, she is ultimately the most efficient guardian of virtue. But for her the unchallenged purity of countless happy homes would be polluted, and not a few, who in the pride of their untempted chastity think of her with an indignant shudder, would have known the agony of remorse and of despair. On that one degraded and ignoble form are concentrated the passions that might have filled the world with shame. She remains, while creeds and civilizations rise and fade, the external priestess of humanity, blasted for the sins of the people." The entertainer of the wholesale house who conducts his country customer to see the sights of the town, whenever and wherever such sights are to be seen, "where everything goes," pays the expenses of the round of debauchery from the fund provided by his firm; while from the floating, passing, male visitors, no less than from the resident male dwellers, young and old, rich and poor, come the thousands of dollars which go to the support of the lewd woman of the town, from the street walker, up through the mistresses and the shady wives, to the best dressed and most brazen wanton in the palaces--the "swell" houses so styled. The unrevealable indecencies which attend these infamous resorts are within the knowledge of the police, under any and every municipal administration. At times their pressure upon these unfortunates is heavier than at others. The necessity of raising campaign funds, the personal wants of the blackmailers of the police force, the revenges to be gratified for some jealousy aroused, or favor refused, all contribute to increase the weight of oppression. Meanwhile, in the absence of municipal regulations, which seem abhorrent to the average American mind as a recognition of the legalization of vice, diseases are wide spread, until, in the language of a distinguished physician, the most destructive of them have reached the blood of "the best and noblest families of the land." Lecky, in his History of European Morals, speaking of the horrible effects incident to the non-regulation of houses of this character, says: "In the eyes of every physician, and, indeed, in the eyes of most continental writers who have adverted to the subject, no other feature of English life appears so infamous as the fact that an epidemic, which is one of the most dreadful now existing among mankind, which communicates itself from the guilty husband to the innocent wife, and even transmits its taint to her offspring, and which the experience of other nations conclusively proves may be vastly eliminated, should be suffered to rage unchecked, because the legislature refuses to take official cognizance of its existence, or proper sanitary measures for its repression." The protests of Christian organizations and of societies for the suppression of vice seem to be in vain. The city ordinances prohibiting, for instance, the employment of females in massage parlors patronized by men, and others, intended to keep the conduct of all manufactories of vice within limits, if not to accomplish their suppression, are not attempted to be enforced. Some mitigation of the evils of police aggression has been brought about, as has been observed, by placing police magistrates under a salary sufficiently large to induce them to partly abolish the practice of wholesale midnight arrests, with their consequent fees and bailors' exactions. These fees are now accounted for more rigidly and paid over to the city, whether they are the result of daylight or midnight arrests. These evils are not, however, wholly eradicated, nor will they be, until an aroused public sentiment shall give as much attention, public service, and personal endeavor, to the attainment of that most desirable end, as is given to the building of an armory, the establishment of lake front parks, Greater Chicago, the passage of revenue bills, and the defeat of the attempt to obtain public franchises without compensation to the granting municipality. Whatever will tend to create wealth for the individual, to increase the volume of trade, or add to the attractiveness of the city in the improvement or adornment of its public parks, the energetic and pushing citizen aids with his personal services, and abundant wealth. Its moral attractions receive, in so far as the repression of villainy and of disgusting vice is concerned, but little, if any, personal or pecuniary assistance from the people. At a recent meeting of the Law Enforcement League, a clergyman, who had freely given his time and services in behalf of the objects of that association, begged for the paltry sum of $250 with which to carry on the work. It was received by contribution from his audience after repeated appeals. Had it been a meeting for stock subscriptions to some corporation promising large returns, or for the purpose of building a monument to some former day hero, or author, the appeal would not have had to fall upon the ears of the people repeatedly. The request would have been granted upon its first presentation. "This work," said the preacher, "cannot be carried on by sympathy, or applause, or resolutions, or expressions of good will. There is nothing but hard cash that counts in the practical work of enforcing the law." CHAPTER IV. RE-ELECTION OF MAYOR--FALSE ISSUE UPON WHICH RE-ELECTED--VICES IN CHICAGO--"BLIND PIGS"--PROTECTED BY POLICE--WHERE SITUATED--HOW CONDUCTED--CLASSES--DRUG STORES, BAKERIES, BARNS--REVENUE TO POLICE--LOCATED NEAR UNIVERSITIES--LIEUTENANT OF POLICE CONVICTED FOR PROTECTING--COCK FIGHTING--BUCKET SHOPS--WOMEN DEALERS--POOL ROOMS--POLICE PLAY--PULLING OF, FARCICAL--VIEWS OF CHIEF OF POLICE-- PLAYERS--LANDLORDS--BOOK MAKING--ALLIANCE BETWEEN, AND POLICE AND LANDLORDS--NEW YORK AND CHICAGO--CHICAGO POLICE FORCE WORST--HOLD UP MEN--METHODS--VICTIMS--POLICE SLEEP--MAYOR'S FELICITATIONS, APRIL 11, 1899--ACCOUNTS OF HOLD UPS, SAME DAY--CLASSES OF HOLD-UP MEN--STRONG ARMED WOMEN--STREET CAR CONDUCTORS ROBBED--ICE CHEST AND OVENS FOR PRISONS--HAIR CLIPPERS--PROTECTION TO CRIMINALS--"SAFE BLOWERS' UNION"--FAKES--PANEL HOUSES--BADGER GAMES--NUDE PHOTOGRAPHS--OBSCENE LITERATURE--CONFIDENCE MEN--DIPLOMA MILLS--GAMBLING--WOMEN'S DOWN TOWN CLUBS--SEXUAL PERVERTS--OPIUM JOINTS. That public opinion can be aroused on any question deemed of importance to the municipal welfare finds abundant confirmation in the history of Chicago, and that that opinion can make itself felt at the polls has but recently been most remarkably demonstrated. Admittedly deficient, both by friend and foe, in public assemblages called in behalf of its retention in power; permitting the violation of the law, in all its departments; openly consenting to the unrestrainted lechery of the debauched classes, the wide open running of gambling houses, pool rooms and disorderly houses; aiding by its refusal, or neglect, to stop the levying by the police of protection rates upon poker rooms, crap games, pool rooms and dens of that class, the pitfalls and snares set for the young men of the town; assessing for political purposes the keepers of disreputable resorts of all kinds, and the employes of the city under civil service rules in defiance of a law sternly prohibiting that demoralizing practice; an administration appealed to, and received, the support of nearly a majority of the whole people, upon one fictitiously dominant issue, under which all others were adroitly sheltered and wholly hidden from view. That issue which concerned the people as an incorporated body, rather more than as individuals, was practically non-existing. The power to invade the rights of the people had been destroyed by State legislation. In the absence of new legislation, the extension of railroad franchises is now an impossibility, except under the terms of the existing charter. No legislation can be obtained in enlargement of such municipal power, until the next general assembly shall have convened in January, 1901, unless a special session should be called for that particular purpose, the probability of which is too remote to be considered. Meanwhile the new administration which will be carried on for the next two years by practically the same men as for the past two years, can find no refuge behind an issue of supposedly overwhelming importance to hide its neglect of others, which affect, if not directly, yet indirectly, the financial interests of the city. Those matters, to which the administration of the city must now give its attention, concern the purity of municipal legislation; the proper enforcement of the laws in all departments of the city government; no interference in matters of education; no attempt at the control of the civil service commission in the strict enforcement of the law creating it; the proper letting of contracts, and the preservation of pay-rolls from manipulation and fraudulent swelling. The purity of municipal legislation is assured by the election of a number of aldermen whose records as citizens warrant the prediction that they, joining with an already trusty minority, for the ensuing year at least, will conserve public rather than private interests, guided by the promptings of each individual conscience. There will be no opportunity to filch from them for party ends, or for personal advancement, due public acknowledgment of their integrity and ability. But the enforcement of the laws governing municipal administration in its several departments; the proper disbursement of its appropriation funds for street improvements, scavenger service, street and alley cleaning, public buildings and parks, etc.; the management of the school-board by its own officials, free from political suasion; of the civil service commission along the lines contemplated by the law free from party dictation, and the elevation of the police force to the plane of its non-political duties, for the prevention of the spread of vice and indecency, the repression of crime, the protection of life and property, are all matters, the non-attention to which can no longer be excused upon the theory of the necessity of first destroying an attempted private seizure of the public streets, a theory which has gone to its destruction by the repeal of an obnoxious law, under which seizure might have been accomplished. So far as the suppression of vice is concerned, the initial duty of municipal administration is the education of the police in their duties as imposed upon them by law. For years, under every administration, with infrequent, feeble attempts at reform, that force has been rapidly becoming a fleet of harveyized steel battleships, sailing under the flaunting flag of vice, fully armed, and loyally serving the kings of the gamblers, the queens of the demi-monde, and their conjoined forces of thieves, confidence men, cappers, prostitutes, philanderers, etc., etc. It is not in the least fearful of public opinion. If wealth can snap its fingers and cry aloud "The public be d--d," so can the force laugh in its sleeve, and, aping wealth, echo "To hell" with the public. It is not different in Chicago from what it is in New York. The temporary disappearance from the "Tenderloin" of many of its flagrant vices, and the supposed purification of the police force following the astounding revelations of the Lexow committee, have given way under the ceaseless and insidious assaults of criminal and vicious influences. A New York journal recently said: "The reports to the Society for the Prevention of Crime show that the city is in worse condition than ever before. No paper would dare print all that is done openly in dens of vice that are tolerated by the police. The reports seem almost incredible; they show that with few exceptions the police force is corrupt from top to bottom. Gambling houses, disorderly houses and dives of the worst description flourish openly, a regular schedule of rates has been established which the police force charge for protection. The flagrancy of crime which brought about a political revolution five years ago exists today as it did then. In some ways there is even less attempt at concealment than there was in the ante-Lexow days; in others the vice and immorality is more hidden. But it is here, and instead of there being one "Tenderloin" ulcer on the city there are now four, each fully as extended as was that old hotbed of vice." What the police force of New York was before the investigation of the Lexow committee, so the police force of Chicago then was; and what the New York force is today, so is the Chicago force. A new investigation is about to begin in New York city. Watch its revelations day after day. Change the names, and for every police infamy revealed, every unspeakable vice disclosed, every violation of law recorded, their counterparts can be found in Chicago, intensified, not modified. The crimes which these "coppers" should, but do not, give their services to repress, are numerous, if minor in character. In flagrant cases of commission arrests may follow, and often do. It is the unused means of prevention deadened by the purchased indifference of the officers, that is the most glaring of police sins. The location of "blind pigs," or those places in which liquor is sold without a license, both within prohibition districts as well as without them, must either be known to officers traveling beats whereon they flourish, or such officers are too ignorant to belong to the ranks. It is not ignorance of the officers that prevents their suppression. Superiors are paid a price for non-interference. The patrolman follows his orders, permits the illicit traffic to be carried on by those who pay that price, and reports only those who do not pay it, but who seek to conduct the prohibited business without contribution to the permissive fund. In the most respectable settlements of the city, in the very heart of prohibition districts, in which there would be spasms of protest and whirlwinds of indignation if it were even suggested that the lines separating the prohibitive from the non-prohibitive districts should be abolished, are to be found the highest grade of the breed of "blind pigs." They are the brilliantly lighted, well arranged, and aristocratic types of the modern drugstore, where, as the evening shades descend, a band of friendly Indians assembles to discuss the events of the day, conduct wars, shape the destinies of nations, and draw their inspiration from spiritus fermenti op., a drug commonly known, however, as whisky, when obtained without a prescription at the bar of the ordinary licensed saloon. These whisky jacks express amazement at the want of proper regulation of the sale of liquor, while aiding in its unlawful traffic. They are typical Archimagos; high priests of hypocrisy and deceit. They are the open mouthed reformers who shout for a rigorous application of the law for the regulation of saloons outside of their own prohibition districts, for the maintenance of prohibition within those districts, and who wink at their own infractions of the license laws, behind the prescription case--their private bar. This form of attack upon the license law exists all over the city, more so perhaps in prohibition districts than without them, but each drug store, as a rule, has its patrons from whom a yearly revenue is derived by the accommodating and equally guilty proprietor who vends his drinks without compliance with the law. The other class of "blind pigs" owes its existence to a prearranged bargain between a policeman and the members of that class, who, for the entertainment of friends, and the turning of a penny, embark in the business without fear of arrest. As the sale of liquor for use upon the premises as a beverage is lawful when licensed, every combination to evade a license is not only an evasion of the penalties of the license law, but it is a conspiracy to rob the city of a portion of a large revenue, sufficient almost to support the police force. The city is thus plundered by its own servants who take its place in fixing the amount of the license, and who appropriate it when collected to their own use. Some of these institutions are to be found in the rear of bakeries, in the costly barns of the wealthy classes with coachmen as bartenders, and at the gates of the silent cities of the dead. They are a fruitful source of revenue to the police, and, consequently, difficult of discovery, since their patrons must be well known as non-squealers, and the police are too loyal to turn informers. They exist in surrounding country towns and in classic neighborhoods, in Evanston and Hyde Park particularly. Both of these localities are the seats of institutions of learning; the Northwestern University at the one, and the University of Chicago at the other. A Lieutenant of Police was arrested for extorting money for protection from the keeper of a blind pig in Hyde Park. It developed, in the course of his trial, that he was to pay part of the insurance premium to a brewery company. To such an extent has this blackmailing scheme gone, that its proceeds are distributed not alone among patrolmen and superior police officials, but also to brewing companies united in a trust affecting the price and the quality of the poor man's beverage. The national pastime of the Filipinos is of common occurrence in Chicago, and escapes the watchful eyes of the police, although its uniformed members pass the door of the saloon with which the principal pit is connected. The entering crowds, and the crowing of "birds," never fail to announce the on-coming of the main, except to sightless eyes and deafened ears. No underground or out of hearing place is selected for these exhibitions of cock fighting. They are held in the rear of saloons, or in barns or stables connected therewith by covered ways of approach. One geographical division of the city is generally pitted against the other. Usually the indignant police, even with early information of the time and place where and when this inhuman amusement is to be held, arrive upon the scene when the fight has ended, the lights extinguished, and the sports scattered. Although the city council possesses the charter power to prevent these disgraceful combats, that power remains unacted upon, and the offense falls within the definition of disorderly conduct, the penalty prescribed by ordinance, upon conviction for that offense, being a fine of from one to one hundred dollars. Bucket shops have nearly disappeared from the public gaze. They are, nevertheless, still carried on in secret, for the purpose of enabling men and women to gratify their natural propensity for gambling. The active efforts of one man, having the courage of his convictions and with the support of a commercial organization, which is the only competitor of these gambling concerns, have kept them in comparative subjection. Yet, such is the resistance made by them, that this man, aiding also in the discovery and punishment of gambling in general, ran the risk of the destruction of his life, his home, and the loss of the lives of his family, by the explosion of a bomb thrown at night into, or against, his house, by some miscreant or miscreants, with the evident intent of "removing" him as an impediment to the transactions of their murderous employers. The police, after much effort to discover the perpetrators of the outrage, finally dismissed it from further examination, upon the theory that this man had himself "put up the job," to accomplish the destruction of his wife and children, and of his own life. Through this heroic man's efforts, together with those of a fearless and outspoken clergyman, as in New York, and not by reason of police assistance, but in spite of police resistance, the convictions in the criminal court, in the past year for gambling, are wholly due. The latest accessible reports show that in the year 1897 the number of places closed during the two preceding years was one hundred and forty-six, and that at the end of 1897 there were twenty-nine still in existence, including tape games and fraudulent brokers' haunts. These institutions possess a peculiar fascination for women. Three of them, patronized wholly by the female sex, were found under one roof. Of the leading one, a writer in a city daily newspaper, in a vivid description of its general surroundings, said: "The atmosphere of the rooms is stifling and poisonous. The odor is rank with the effluvia of bodies, which, in many cases, present the appearance that would justify the belief that they have been strangers to the bath for weeks. To go into these rooms out of the fresh outdoor world is to almost suffocate at first. * * * The effects are plainly visible in the faces of the women. They had, with few exceptions, leathery, sallow skins, drawn and tense features, hard lines about the mouth, and wrinkles between the eyes, while the eyes themselves had acquired a restless, half cunning expression, composed of cupidity and uncertainty. As for their nervous systems they are wrecks. Take the hand of any woman in those rooms, especially if she has just made an investment, and the nervous vibration is plain--her hand quivers, her whole body is tense, her bulging eyes fix themselves on the board." Alluding to the men who hang around, furnishing "pointers," and looking for an invitation to a fifteen-cent lunch, one of the speculating women said of them, "These men are the lowest creatures who come up here; most of the women are respectable, but these men are lazy, dirty, ignorant and infinitely low, and all they are after is to get money and a free meal out of women." "The ages of the women range from twenty-five to seventy years. The older women peered anxiously through their spectacles at the board and whispered quietly to a companion; wisps of ragged gray hair escaped and waved below the little black bonnet. Heavy, thick-soled shoes stuck out from the hem of the modest black gowns; they grasped worn silk reticules in their nervous fingers, and got out the small sum which, in most instances, they did not have the nerve to invest." Describing the condition in life of these women, the reporter was told that some had been wealthy, and were now poor through speculation; while "more than two-thirds are the mothers of families and are eking out a little income, in many instances supporting an idle, worthless man, who should himself be out in the world earning a living." "If they make 75 cents a day it is a big day for them," said the reporter's informant. "How little you realize the state to which many of these women are brought! Many of them are almost penniless. Frequently they come here in the morning and borrow money with which to begin the day's operations." Pool rooms, as a general rule, run wide open; occasionally they are "closed for repairs" caused by a police raid, forced by some flagrant outrage against the law. They flourish in the most public places, with no restriction upon admission to any visitor. The daily races all over the country are posted on large black boards covering the walls, with a list of the horses entered and a minute of the odds which will be given or demanded by the house, from which the room's judgment of the "favorite" can be ascertained. The money is handled openly, bet openly, and paid openly. City detectives assist in their management, and "play the races." Raids contemplated by the police are tipped off to the managers, and when the officers arrive the game has closed. The incidents attending an actual pull are in the main more laughable than impressive. The "hurry up" wagon takes its load away, and before many moments have elapsed the same faces are seen again returning to the one attractive spot in their daily lives. These rooms are munificent contributors for protection. They pay from $600 to $1,000 per month. They hold back telegraphic messages of the results of races until their confederates have placed bets. They are patronized by women of, apparently, all classes. In one raid eighteen women were captured, fifteen of whom claimed to be married. All of them, of course, gave fictitious names; three had babies in their arms; three claimed they were wives of policemen; a few were well dressed, and all were undoubtedly devotees of gambling, sporting women who fancied they had discovered the way to lead an easy and money-making life. The following extract, taken from the examination of the head of the police force of the city, will show the view entertained by that official of the nature of his duties, in this regard. Before the senatorial committee appointed January 6th, 1898, to investigate scandals in connection with the police force, its Chief was interrogated and answered as follows, viz.: Q. How many pool rooms have you pulled, how many men have been arrested and convicted for pool selling since you have been chief? A. I understand one fellow has been found guilty and fined $2,000. Q. But he was arrested by the Sheriff of Cook County, indicted by the grand jury because the police would not do it? A. I don't know whether it was because the police would not do it, or because they could not do it. Q. Well, it was because they did not do it. Do you mean to say that you, as Chief of Police, with 3,500 sworn men---- A. Don't say 3,500 men. It is 2,500 men; don't make it quite so strong. Q. Do you say to this committee, that with 2,500 sworn men in this city you are powerless to stop the public running of pool rooms in this city? A. I will say that I am powerless to stop a man from making hand books, or selling pools confidentially to his friends. Q. Do you know of any pool rooms being conducted in this city during the months of October, November and December? A. I don't know of my own knowledge; I never was in one. Q. Did any of the 2,500 men ever report anything of that kind to you? A. I never had any definite report on that subject. Q. They were giving the people a liberal government? A. Yes, things were running very easy. * * * * * Q. I will get you to state if it is not a fact that a large number of pool rooms were running openly with telegraph operators in the place, pools were being sold, money paid, and everything running at full blast? A. I never was present; I don't know anything about it. Q. Was there any complaint to you of that kind of thing being done? A. No particular complaint at all. The newspaper boys often came around and said there was pool selling going on at different places. Q. Could not the police of the city of Chicago as readily have found these people who have been fined for gambling as the Sheriff? A. Well, I don't know. I presume if a _desperate effort had been made to look that kind of thing up we might, possibly, have been successful_. Through these resorts, which offer inducements for betting on distant horse races, the confidential clerk, the outside collector for business houses, the employes of banks, young men in all grades of employment involving the handling of the funds of their employers, together with the men of moderate salaries, working men, and the large number of sports who live by their wits, are assisted in a downward career, until defalcations, destitution in homes, and a still more acute phase of living on one's wits, are reached, followed by flight, arrest, conviction, imprisonment, the breaking up of homes, and the necessity for the resort of the broken sport to the tactics of the hold-up man. Yet they are tolerated, until their shameless management becomes a public scandal. Then follows a pull, a period of purification of very slight duration, and again a slow start. Speedily again they are in as full gallop as are the horses whose names they post, and as around the race track the horses go, so around the vice track the pool rooms go. The losing patrons pass under the wire at the end of their foolish struggle to win, some to the penitentiary, some to despair, and some to suicide. The keeper and the landlord who knowingly permits his premises to be used for the selling of pools, are, under the laws of the State of Illinois enacted into an ordinance by the Municipal Code, guilty of a misdemeanor, and are liable to punishment by imprisonment in the county jail for a period not longer than one year, or by a fine not exceeding $2,000, or both. The police make no complaints to justices for arrests, nor to their Chief, according to his testimony. The keeper pays a high rent, while the landlord, perhaps some sanctimonious deacon of a church, who thanks God that he is not as other men are, accepts his monthly returns with unctuous satisfaction, shouts his amens louder, confesses his sins more meekly, or excuses his violation of the laws of the state with a more emphatic shrug of his shoulders and a more fervid rubbing of his hands. Book making, "in which the betting is with the book maker," and pool selling, in which the betting is among the purchasers of the pool, they paying a commission to the seller, are both denounced by the statute, and the court of last resort of the state. The unholy alliance between the police, the keeper of these law breaking and despicable haunts, and the conscienceless landlord, could be summarily dissolved. The police could be made the enemy of both. Their warm friendship for, and silent participation in the profits of, the partnership, can be destroyed by an executive order which needs but to be issued, with no possibility of an early revocation, to be implicitly obeyed by the sellers and "bookies." If not obeyed, then drastic measures within the power of the police to employ should be applied. As these lines are written, some evidence is visible of action by the police. A raid has been made! The inspector, under whose order it was conducted, said, "The sooner these men begin to learn that I mean what I say, the better it will be for them. I want my officers to understand, also, that they will have to be more vigilant." Threatening words, such as these, are common utterances by police officials, but heretofore as their echo died away their fierceness disappeared. No administration could lay claim to higher praise in any city in the land than that its police force is the guardian of the people's rights, the stern foe of crime, and the relentless suppressor of vice and indecency through the enforcement of the laws created for that suppression. If this is done in Chicago, a few of the devil's aids in the diffusion of wickedness will disappear from sight so completely that Asmodeus would vainly tear off the roofs of the houses in a search after proofs of his demoniacal power. While the police force is so closely leagued with pool rooms, and subjected to the power of the money their keepers are willing to pay for permission to carry on their demoralizing business, it is a matter of impossibility to destroy them. Vice works incessantly; the means for its destruction are employed spasmodically. New York City furnishes an astonishing instance of the political power exercised by a combination of the law breakers. The Lexow committee demonstrated the almost total depravity of an officer, charged with a command over its "Tenderloin." The city labored and Greater New York was born. It would seem that greater crime and greater political power in the criminal classes were born at the same birth. That officer became Chief of Police of the expanded metropolis. He had been indicted under the scathing revelations against him made by the Lexow committee, and yet despite the evidence of his depravity, and the protests of the Society for the Prevention of Crime, he was, through the power of politics and crime, foisted upon the new municipality as the ranking officer of its police organization. The result was inevitable. New York, the greater, is now declared to out-Satan New York, the lesser. A new committee is probing into its police management. At the outset of its proceedings it wrung from this officer replies so self condemning as to stagger one's faith in the possibility of such a quality as obedience to official oath in a police officer. The Chief was asked: Q. Perhaps you can tell how it is and why it is, that even while this committee is sitting in session here, the pool rooms are open all around us, and I have in my pocket money that my men won in the pool rooms? A. Perhaps some of my men have it, too. They are looking after it just the same as you are. Q. But the pool rooms are running? The Chief did not answer, but complained to his questioner that he had not been informed of the facts "officially." The examination then proceeded as follows, viz.: Q. Do you mean to say, as Chief of Police, with the men and money at your command, you can't close the pool rooms? "No," replied the Chief, "we do the best we can, as we did when you were a Commissioner." "I closed the pool rooms," shouted his questioner. "You did not," retorted the Chief; "they were alleged to be, on reports of commanding officers, then as now." "Yes," said the questioner, "but there was some fatality about that business, if you know what I mean." "Some forced fatalities," sneered the Chief. "Well, sir," said the questioner, "here are three great evils of importance--gambling houses, pool rooms and policy shops--and you cannot recall from your own recollection--you who are in charge of the enforcement of the laws--a single arrest in any one of these classes of crimes within a month. What do you do for your salary as Chief?" A. "I look after the force as a whole; I look after all reports that come in touching all matters of the kind you refer to and all kinds of crime." The questioner called the Chief's attention to a newspaper and some advertisements it carried. In spite of the questioner's declaration that the paper was a Tammany organ, and that all Tammany men were supposed to buy it and read it, the Chief declared that he never had done so. The questioner made the Chief a present of a copy of the paper, and asked him to read over the massage advertisements. The Chief thanked him and said, "I will attend to these places because I do not believe in such disguises for disorderly houses. Such places are usually in tenement houses and flats. I will attend to them and drive them out." "Will you make the same pledge about pool rooms," demanded the questioner quickly? "That I cannot promise," replied the Chief. "Why can't you promise it?" asked the questioner. "Because they conduct that sort of business in places where we can't get at them, and you know it, but I will try and stamp it out." Chicago and New York methods quite agree, with the advantage in favor of New York. In the latter city, the Chief of Police "will try" to stamp pool rooms out. In Chicago, the Chief, in his reply to similar questions, said: "While a man may come to my office and give information that a certain individual is violating the law somewhere and it is a trivial offense, I do not pay so much attention to it as I do when a report reaches my office that a man has committed a serious crime, such as murder, that a serious crime has been committed on the outside. I should naturally abandon that part of it, and take up the more serious offense, and I have been looking up serious crimes, such as burglary, robbery and the hold-up people, and I have made a desperate effort to suppress that." It was in this connection reference was made by the committee to the fact that one of Chicago's policemen had shortly before been arrested for holding up a citizen and robbing him in the daylight hours, which called forth the reply already quoted in these pages to the effect that this particular star had been tried, that he was a member of the police force for ten years, was a good officer, but got drunk and became a "little indiscreet." For this he was dismissed from the force, but reinstated because "many people" vouched for him. It seems almost incredible that that man is today a member of Chicago's police force; yet such is the shameful fact. Without the aid of the telegraph, the daily newspaper and the race cards, pool rooms and book making could not survive. They are the means of giving vitality to this form of gambling. The telegraph furnishes the press with "events" all over the country, upon which pools and books are made up. The news of the result of a particular race is flashed by wire at once from the race track to the pool rooms all over the land. There is scarcely a daily newspaper in any city that does not devote a page of its issue to sporting events. Many of them have their "forms" or "forecasts" of races, which are the guesses of their sporting men as to the probable results of each race to be run on a particular track. The race card is distributed every evening throughout the city; to cigar stores, saloons and billiard halls. It contains the "results" of the day, together with information as to the entries for the following day's races. Through these sources the sporting community keeps in touch with the world. A Chicago afternoon newspaper upon the occasion of the opening of a race track in an adjoining state presented in its issue its "Form of Today's Races." To those unacquainted with the lingo of the track its guesses are delightfully humorous. Predicting the possible result of the first race, the form says: "B. L. looks the best of the lot on paper. If the trip from the east did not take the edge off H. S. he should win easily, as he showed considerable sprinting ability in his last out. L. P. has a burst of speed which may put her inside of the money and with a good boy up is worth a show bet. The others are a poor lot and of uncertain quality, so that the finish will probably be B. L., etc." Of the second it remarks: "Of these youngsters which have started C. has been the most consistent and is undoubtedly the best, but T. is rounding too rapidly and may run ahead of the mark. F. A. is a sprinter, but if pinched does not like the gaff. M. E. and M. are green ones, and this is the first time they have faced the barrier, so there is no line on them. C. T. and F. A. should be the order of the finish." It says of the third race: "M. is a soft spot, and, if fit, she should win as she pleases. It looks as if the real race should be for the place and the show money, and will likely be between M. and A. H. and T. are also partial to the going, but as the latter has not started recently, T. should be the better if any of the others named are scratched. The result will likely be M. A., etc." Of another, a colt race, its forecast is, "H. is such a good colt that he looks like a 2-to-5 shot in this bunch, and that will be about what the books will lay against him. Of course, he has dicky legs, but the soft undergoing will undoubtedly suit his underpinning. The finish should be H. K., etc." The final race is thus placed in the form: "At the best this is a bad lot, and hardly worthy of doping, as so much depends on the jockeys and start that any one of the probable starters has a chance to get the big end of the purse." To this necessity has journalism come at last! While it urges the suppression, in thundering tones, of all manner of gambling, it is driven, by the necessity of competition, to aid the most injurious of gambling's many attractive methods. Another Chicago newspaper, the columns of which every morning contain the world's news of sporting events, said a short time ago, editorially: "Chief K----'s assurance that he will do his best to suppress gambling will be accepted in good faith. He has made a start in that direction, and the farther he goes the more plainly he will see that for the police to suppress gambling is a mere matter of lifting their hands. Gambling of the sort that the police department is expected to suppress does not flourish save by the connivance of police officers. It is quite true that to extirpate the vice of gaming is beyond the power of the police. Nobody has expected them to do that. While the board of trade and the stock exchanges remain open one form of the vice will be practiced publicly beyond the reach of the police. And so long as cards and dice boxes are to be procured, degenerate human nature will practice the vice in secret. But the police can stamp out the open and flagrant practice of gambling in forms inhibited by the law as easily as they can wink at it. It is a matter of saying "Yes" or "No." A poolroom or a policy shop may open now and then, but it will quickly shut again if the police are in earnest." The assistance derived from the telegraph and newspaper by the gambling fraternity is commented upon by a modern writer, his subject being "The Ethics of Gambling." He remarks, "But it is time to emphasize the fact that the real supports of the gambling habit in its present enormous extent are the telegraph and the newspaper. Half the race courses in the country would be abandoned almost immediately if newspapers were forbidden to report on betting, and if telegraph offices declined to transmit agreements to bet, or information which is intended to guide would-be bettors. How this is to be done it is not for me to say. My present object and duty are exhausted in pointing out the fact that the national life is being deeply injured, the State seriously weakened by the wide spread of the gambling habit, and further, that this habit in its present extent and intensity, is nourished most by the daily press and the telegraph. It must certainly be in the power of the State to deal with this, the most potent instrument by which the gambling fiend fights his way into home after home throughout the length and breadth of the country." "Hold up" men find Chicago their least dangerous and, perhaps, their most profitable field of operations. In all the various forms of this robbery upon the street in day or at night time, or in raiding saloons and stores, it is merciless in its methods. Robbery accomplished, brutality follows. The criminals who resort to it at night, not satisfied with acquiring their victim's property, usually knock him unconscious with the butt end of a revolver, with a billy or sand bag, or blind him with cayenne pepper, and in that hapless condition leave him to be found, no matter what may be the state of the weather. This form of criminality is a winter's occupation. It is occasionally, but rarely, followed in the summer months. Women are held up in the streets at midday, in the evening when returning home from labor, on the street cars, and at the doors of their own homes, and within them. No class is exempt from the attacks of these marauders. The poor suffer with the rich. They are of such frequent occurrence that it is believed not one-fourth of their number is reported to the police. The inefficiency of the force to prevent them is proverbial, and that inefficiency finds much of its origin in the utter disregard of the rules of the department requiring patrolmen to travel their respective beats. The discipline of the force in this respect is nothing; it is worn away by abrasion. The colder the night and the warmer the nearest saloon or kitchen range, there will the patrolman be found. In the former case he is merely dreaming of his duty; and in the latter, he is engaged in a terrific struggle between love and duty. Some back door of a house of ill fame is open to him for shelter, for wine, and oftentimes for food. The good-hearted landladies of these abodes know full well that one way to reach the patrolmen stationed in their neighborhood is through their stomachs, not because they are officers, but because they are men. In localities away from the bagnios, some servant girl, friendly to the "copper," protects him from the inclemency of the weather. To her he gives his time and his devotions at the city's expense. If on some, or on any winter's night, an observation flight could be taken through the air, and over the city, by the Chief, that official would believe his occupation was gone; for, except here and there as some of his subordinates were wending their way at the appointed hour to a patrol box to report, he would fancy he was a general deserted by his army. Closer inspection would, however, reveal to him that never an army had such comfortable winter quarters as has his. While the patrolman thus enjoys his siesta, or indulges in his love making, the hold up man lies in wait on the unguarded beat, to slug and rob the first belated wayfarer whom he may confront. The number of hold ups in Chicago in the year 1898, it is believed, exceeded in number those of any two large cities in the United States combined. The press, in fact, claims that their number was greater than in all of the cities of the United States. They were of almost daily occurrence. They are just as numerous, and just as ingenious and murderous in design, since the continued administration was inaugurated, as before. In the morning edition of the daily press of April 11th, 1899, the re-elected Mayor's felicitations to the council in his annual message delivered on the previous evening were published in these words: "The people of Chicago have reason to congratulate themselves on the successful manner in which the police department has coped with crime. It is acknowledged on all hands that Chicago is a singularly good place for thugs and thieves to avoid, and this notwithstanding the fact that the size of the police force is utterly inadequate." The evening papers of the same date report the following as examples of how the thieves and thugs avoid Chicago: "L. was arrested early yesterday morning for alleged participation in a daring hold up, which occurred near the corner of Van Buren and State streets about an hour before. A cab containing Mr. and Mrs. L. B., who live on Pine street, and Mrs. C. D., of North Clark street, approached the curb. As the three occupants alighted four or five men rushed at them. One drew a revolver and shouted: "Hands up." The other made a dash at Mrs. D., who displayed some valuable jewelry, and snatched a watch worth $225 and a diamond ring valued at $125. The highwaymen then disappeared around the corner." "Attacked by Three Negroes.--Stanton Avenue police are looking for three negroes who held up Albert T., of 37th street, at 33rd and Dearborn streets last night and relieved him of $4.00 and a watch. T. was standing under the shadow of a building at the corner when three negroes approached him. One of them drew a revolver and threatened T., while the other two searched him. Many people were passing at the time, but the party escaped all notice in the deep shadows." "As Thomas L. and Joseph S. left Ald. K.'s saloon early today, S. says he was robbed of $2.45--all the money he had." "Robbed in a Saloon.--August J., bound for Minneapolis from Finland, came to Chicago last evening. He met a woman, and the two went to Samuel M.'s saloon on State street, where J. claims the woman held him up at the point of a revolver and took all his money--$25. J. reported the matter to the Harrison street police, and Officers C. and S. arrested Albert B., the bartender. He was arraigned before Justice F. today on a charge of being accessory to robbery. The woman has not been arrested." Following this, two men boarded an outgoing railroad train at night, and at one of its stopping stations captured a passenger who was standing on the rear platform of a coach, dragged him away, robbed him of a small sum of money, a lady's gold watch, took a plain gold ring from his finger, then bound and gagged him and threw him into an empty freight car near by. Within three weeks after the publication of this effusive compliment to the police, a citizen sent the following communication to an evening paper, which, together with the comments of that paper upon it, is here inserted, as the best criticism of the Mayor's optimistic view of the efficiency of his police force: "April 26, 1899.--Editor the J.: Not fewer than 15 flats and residences in the district bounded by West Adams street, Kedzie avenue, Homan avenue and Washington boulevard have been plundered recently. The thieves reside at ----, a fact well known to the police, but all the efforts of the suffering tax payers are unavailing in having them arrested. "The police authorities will not act. The rascals have been at their present abode (----, first flat) since early last autumn. Their landlord is (well, I won't mention his name) well known. "Our community has become so terrorized that no one dares remain out after dark. Can't you assist us in our troubles? The police don't act. "RESIDENT OF THE DISTRICT." The comments of the paper read as follows, viz.: "The author of the above is a well-to-do West side manufacturer. He says in a note which came with this communication: 'Do not under any circumstances couple my name with it. We are all afraid of our lives, believing that the thieves are so desperate that they would murder any one disclosing their method and abode.' This is the district in which George B. Fern and Cora Henderson met their deaths under such mysterious circumstances. Here is a partial list of the happenings of recent date in this one neighborhood, the first four named cases being within one business block: GEORGE B. FERN, dry goods merchant, 1393 West Madison street; found in his store with bullet hole in his head, mask and revolver with one chamber empty at his side; police say he committed suicide; coroner's jury returned a murder verdict; the grand jury also declares it was a case of murder. CORA HENDERSON, blind woman, 1385 West Madison street; found dead in her house, hole in her skull; murder theory worked upon by police; later theory advanced that she might have met her death by a fall. F. W., tailor, West Madison street; robbers drove up to his store in broad daylight while he was eating in a restaurant next door and intimidated clerk with revolver, loaded in tailor's cloth, drove away. W. H. D., West Madison street, grocer; hole drilled in his safe; burglars scared away when D. came to open store. MRS. FRANK W., Washington boulevard, house entered; $200 stolen. MRS. MARGARET D., Washington boulevard; house entered; $200 worth of property taken. MRS. WARREN F. H., Warren avenue; house entered; $500 worth of property taken. MRS. CHARLES C., Washington boulevard; hearing a noise at her front door, went onto the porch; a burglar who had been trying to force an entrance into the second story dropped at her side, revolver in hand; he escaped, frightening off pursuers with his revolver. DR. F. F. S., West Monroe street and Homan avenue; two men attempted to hold him up in his office; frightened away by the arrival of a patient. PROF. CHARLES E. W., Chicago Piano college; chased by mounted foot pad. MRS. ELIZABETH H. T., M. D., Warren avenue; swindled out of $60 by men who had a 'sure thing' on the races. JOHN V., West Monroe street; swindled by same game. WILLIAM H. P., bookkeeper for C. S. & Co., West Monroe street; house robbed. HERMAN W., West Monroe street; house robbed of diamonds, jewelry and silverware; Mrs. W. coming home, encounters robbers as they were leaving; they politely raised their hats and walked on. H. S. B., real estate, West Adams street; candidate for president of M. club; house robbed. ARTHUR W. C., Illinois Credit Company, West Adams street; house robbed. JOHN G., grocer; attempt made to swindle him out of $100 by men with 'tip' on races. The above list was obtained by a brief canvass of the neighborhood. The house given as the abode of the "thieves" is situated right in this neighborhood, which is one of the best residence districts. It is a gray stone structure and is said to be owned by a well known West side politician. In this place lives at least one of the men who have swindled numerous West side residents of this district by means of the 'tips' on the races. These men, it is said, have operated successfully for a year, few of their victims making complaint on account of the unenviable publicity the affair would thus attain. This gang, too, has headquarters in a West Madison street block within a few doors of the Fern store. This neighborhood is included in the Warren avenue police district. None of the officers at this station, or any of the Central station detectives familiar with the case, believes that the 'jockeys' have anything to do with the 'holdups' and robberies of flats, and laugh at the idea advanced by the author of the letter to The J--." The names and addresses of these victims are printed in full in the newspaper referred to, but for obvious reasons they are not used in reproducing the article. Immediately following the publication of this startling list of crimes, a grand jury submitted to the court the following report. The reader can harmonize, as best he may, this official statement, with that of a lighthearted and self satisfied Mayor who controls, or does not control, as one's thought may elect, the Chicago police force. "In closing our work the members of the jury desire to report to your honor some slight comment on the various matters which have been brought to our attention during our session, and to submit for recommendation to the proper authorities suggestions that may check the amount of crime which has been brought to our notice. "Our city seems to be the asylum of habitual criminals of all classes, who have terrorized the people to an alarming degree. We would particularly call attention to several instances within our knowledge where persons have been found dead, investigation made by the proper authorities, verdicts rendered according to the evidence with recommendations by the coroner's jury that the guilty be brought to justice. These deeds wherein the perpetrators in several instances have not been detected are largely due to the fact that this city is made an asylum for habitual criminals, and we strongly recommend that every measure be taken to close the gates of the city to such people. "Were the statute of the state regarding the arrest of vagabonds more strictly enforced by the proper authorities the number of habitual criminals at large could be largely reduced and Chicago made a less attractive place of residence for this class. The law itself is broad and ample in its provisions. Places under the guise of saloons, duly licensed, are merely rendezvous for thieves, murderers and prostitutes, and notwithstanding the fact that such vile places are well known to the authorities they are permitted to continue without molestation. The defilement of our youths of both sexes should receive the severest penalty of the law. It is our duty to protect and guard the manhood and womanhood of the young. "The continued violation of the ordinance fixing the closing hours of saloons is a great factor in the number of crimes committed in the city, and we earnestly recommend a strict enforcement of the ordinance." Apparently, a few of these criminal gentry regard Chicago as a safe field for their labors! Boys in their teens, men and women, both black and white, the latter of the strong armed class, comprise this coterie of criminals. The strong armed women, generally negresses, have the developed muscles of the pugilist and the daring of the pirate. They entice the stranger into dark passage ways, that innocent stranger, so unfamiliar, but so willing to be made familiar with the wickedness of a great city, who seeks out its most disreputable quarters and scours its darkest byways, to report to his mates, on his return to his country home, the salacious things that he has heard of, and a few of which he witnessed. In these dark and dangerous ways the strong armed women garrote and rob their victims, or they entice the innocent, but lustful, stranger to their rooms, and there, through the panel game, or by sheer strength or drugged potations, appropriate the innocent stranger's valuables. Mortified and humiliated, the stranger usually has nothing to say to the police of the affair. Then the emboldened strong armed women go upon the street in couples, and rob in the most approved methods of the highwayman. Alone, one of these notorious characters is said to have pilfered to the extent of $60,000. She was, and is, a terror to the police force. Released from the penitentiary not long ago, she is now undergoing trial for a fresh offense. Approaching a commercial traveler from behind, she is charged with having nearly strangled him, and then robbed him of his money and jewelry. "Only one man ever got the best of E. F.," said detective Sergeant C. R. W., of Harrison street station, who had arrested E. F. frequently. "Once she held up a cowboy and took $150 from him. He came up to the station hotfoot to report the robbery. We were busy and a little slow in sending out after E., whereupon the cowboy allowed he'd start out after her on his own hook. He met her down by the Polk street depot, and the moment he spotted her he walked right up close to her and covered her with two six-shooters. "You've got $150 of my money, now shell out nigger," he said. "Go and get a warrant and have me arrested then," replied the big colored woman, who wanted time to plant the coin. "These are good enough warrants for me," returned the cowboy significantly, as he poked the revolvers a trifle closer to her face. "Now, I'm going to count twenty, and if I don't see my money coming back before I reach twenty, I'll go with both guns." "When he reached eighteen, E. weakened. She drew out a wad and held it out toward him. But the cowboy was wise and would not touch the roll till she had walked to the nearest lamplight under the escort of his two guns and counted out the $150. Then he let her go and came back to the station and treated." Conductors of street cars are often the victims of the hold up men. Here in Chicago they invented the plan of placing the saloonkeeper in the ice chest, while the looting of the place went on. In another instance a baker was imprisoned in a hot oven. Women in their homes are thrust into closets, gagged and bound, while their houses are ransacked and their property stolen. The want of an energetic police is the cause of the prevalence of such abominable offenses as hair clipping, or the severing from the heads of young girls upon the public streets their braids of hair. One of these perverts was arrested and excused himself upon the ground that it was a mania with him, and that the temptation to cut off the braids of hair from every young girl he met, was almost irresistible. If detectives, instead of lounging around their daily haunts for drinking purposes, loafing in cigar stores, and playing the pool rooms, were mingling with the crowds upon the streets, offenses of this character would be nearly impossible, although this particular weakness seems to lead its impulsive perpetrators to less crowded thoroughfares, and selects the hours of going to and returning from school, as the most favorable parts of the day for its gratification. It may be prompted by a morbid desire, but it is none the less a serious offense, which, as yet, the criminal law has not defined, and has therefore not provided a proper penalty for its punishment. No evidence, so far as it is known, has yet been adduced to show that the braids of hair are ever sold to dealers in that article, such as wig manufacturers, etc. If such evidence should be forthcoming, the ingenuity of the average criminal for the discovery of new methods of despoliation will receive additional confirmation. One peculiar method of protection to the criminal classes is in vogue. A new thief arrives in the city; his arrival is noticed by a detective and the fact reported to headquarters. The thief is invited to visit the Chief. Upon his appearance, permission is given him to remain, provided he "does not work his game" within the city. He can plunder all the neighboring towns he may select, but the price of his remaining in security in Chicago is, that he shall be good and gentlemanly to its people. The "Safe Blowers' Union" has its home in Chicago, from which it radiates, as the spokes of a wheel, to the circumference of its limit of operations. It is a trust; a protective association. It pays for the privilege. It attacks the country bank, blows it, in the silence of the night, to pieces with dynamite if necessary, and murders if interfered with. It returns with its loot to the city, makes its dividends among its membership, police included, and awaits the pressing necessity for a renewal of its suburban raids. It is under the king's mighty shield, the king of the criminals, over whom he reigns with leniency, and whose gifts he accepts with condescension. The fakes of a great city are beyond enumeration. There are fake information bureaus, fake advisory brokers, fake safe systems of speculation, fake music teachers, fake medical colleges, fake law schools, fake lawyers, fake "Old Charters for Sale," fake corporations, fake relief and aid societies, fake preachers and fake detective agencies. The latter, and the street fakers, are friendly with the police. So are the fruit vendors, and the all night lunch counters on wheels. The latter stand where the officers say they shall stand, and the location once found, the officers at once become landlords. As to private detective agencies, without reference to agencies of an established local and national reputation, they are principally constituted of thieves, pickpockets, blackmailers, and porch climbers. In the trial of a case before the Criminal Court of Cook County, a few months ago, a witness acquainted with their inside history, swore that there were men connected with these fake organizations who would commit murder for $50. They enter into conspiracies to ruin the private character of men and women in divorce cases, and for blackmailing purposes. Three of these hounds were lately convicted of conspiracy in less than one hour, by a jury in the same court. These three worthies comprised the entire agency. Their punishment was fixed at imprisonment in the penitentiary. They were employed in getting revenge on a man, who was supposed, by their employer, to have been the cause of his discharge from his commercial position. In getting this revenge they fell upon their shadow, pummelled him with great severity, and badly injured him. So grievous was the offense, that the State's Attorney demand no less a punishment than the jury awarded. They manufacture testimony in divorce proceedings, at the suggestion and upon the request of the parties willing and desirous of cutting the matrimonial tie; or, upon the instigation of one of the parties, they will endeavor to entrap and compromise the other. They revel in the destruction of the character of a good woman, as the vulture revels in the foulness of a carrion. The man of wealth must be on his guard against their attacks, for they would as lief magnify his peccadillos into felonious crimes and attempt his plunder by blackmail, as they would accept the earnings of the Mistresses Overdone, the exhausted bawds, whose pimps they are. Theirs is only another but a more vicious form of depravity than that practiced by the panel house keepers, who send their single workers upon the streets to entice men to their abodes, where they are met by the expert workers of the game. While thus entrapped, and indulging in the sensuality which aids so readily in his allurement, the adroit "creeper" enters the room through a movable panel, or by some other prearranged method of ingress, and takes the watch, the coin, or "any other old thing" of value, found about the removed and scattered clothing of the greenhorn. The police are as well acquainted with these "single workers" as they are with the street walkers. They know their haunts, and their fields of labor. The hotels, and places where crowds are gathered in the early evening, attract the "single workers" as the most promising ground for a successful capture. "Badger games" are not infrequently played in Chicago. Such as are successful are generally kept from the police records, through the preference of the blackmailed subjects to say nothing about them, in dread of their personal exposure. A man, generally one of means and standing, is marked for conquest. The first class hotel is the scene of operations of the female in the case. Fashionably dressed, handsome, with jewels for adornment, she strikes up a flirtation with the selected person. Fool like, as most men are in the case of handsome and well gowned women, he responds to the invitation, an acquaintance is formed and an assignation made. The place is of the woman's selection and known of course to her paramour, styled her husband. The room is entered, compromising situations reached, when, suddenly, the indignant husband appears, the woman screams in terror, and a storm rages. It is calmed by the payment of the price demanded for concealment, and the "sucker" escapes with a load removed from both his pocketbook and his mind. A noted instance of this kind happened to a wealthy and prominent merchant, whose indiscretions in the acceptance of inducements for sexual enjoyment held out to him by a stylish and beautiful woman, and his blindness in not observing his surroundings, enabled the fake husband to photograph him in _flagrante delicto_. Under threats to distribute the pictures it is reported he paid $10,000 for them and the negative. This is a fact easily susceptible of proof. One at least of these proofs did not accompany the package he received, which was supposed to contain all of the pictures. Photographing from the nude is not the fad of the harlot alone. Women infatuated with their shapes begin with the exposure of a beautiful foot, arm or well rounded bust, then a leg, etc., etc., until they stand before the camera almost in _puris naturalibus_. These pictures are taken for pure self admiration, the love of self study and comparison with the forms of celebrated actresses, or the paintings of the masters, famous in art for their conceptions of the perfect woman. They differ from those obscene pictures designed for sale, for which purpose the depraved couple are photographed in situations, attitudes and conditions, natural and unnatural, which appeal to the grossest instincts in man, and shock, also, the moral sense of every one not in himself a sexual pervert. The latter are eagerly sought after, are quite salable, and are carried about the persons of fast young men about town, with intent, upon opportunity, to influence the passions of women. They are the solace of the aged sport, who, having lost all recollection of the ordinary affairs of his youth, still fondly retains the memory of the amours of his younger days, and of the orgies of his middle age. Then recalling with sadness the first appearance of the lamentable indications of his decline, he contentedly yields the passing of his power--"sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything." These are the men, who, if they had lived in the early days of the Roman Empire at or about the date of the Floralian games, would have been the principal patrons, or, if at the time of the prevalence of the Bacchanalian mysteries, the prominent members, of societies organized for the purpose of gratifying unnatural desires; or if they had been Romans in the declining days of that empire would have figured as the most frantic and most lustful of the worshippers of Priapus. The methods of the vendors of obscene literature are innumerable, and all are formed along the lines of extreme caution and cunning. They are keen judges of human nature, quick to detect the inquisitive stranger, or the sporting gent of the town, and adroit in introducing their filthy stock. The purchaser is more than liable to be swindled in the deal, as the fakir requires immediate concealment of the purchase, which, when examined by the vendee in the quiet of his own room often turns out to be a harmless work resembling only in the binding the supposed purchase. The confidence men, who invite the incoming visitor to view the scene of the great explosion on the lake front, and suggest trips to other places where startling events have not occurred, discover, by skillful questioning, the weaknesses of their dupe. They arouse his innate, but dormant, wish to take a chance at some game that seems to him certain of a rich return. He is easily induced to play and allowed to win a small stake, merely to excite greater interest and establish the conviction that he can "beat the game." Naturally he plunges ahead, until the moment comes, set by his trappers, when he is cheated, robbed and goes "flat broke." The dupe may, or may not, report his loss to the police. If he does, and it happens to be one of consequence, detectives may be detailed to search for the swindlers; but if the loss is small in amount, however important to the loser, the dupe is more likely to be laughed at than aided by the officers of the law. To this class belong cabmen who rob drunken men, and "divvy" with the police; commission houses, which secure consignments of goods for sale by false representations; grocery grafters, who solicit throughout the country orders for groceries, claiming to represent wholesale houses, ship an inferior grade and collect C. O. D. at the prices charged for the superior grade; Board of Trade sharks, who "welch" their clients' money by charging up fictitious losses, when the figures will not appear to lie; the false claimants for personal injuries alleged to have been caused through the negligence of wealthy corporations, such as street car lines, manufacturing companies and rolling mills, or by the city, from defective sidewalks, unguarded street excavations, etc., etc.; bakers who sell unlabeled and underweight bread; the gold brick and gold filings sharper; the electric and mining stock swindler, and the advertiser seeking a governess to accompany himself and family abroad. These men have "irresistible tendencies" to work their several games. They cannot help it, they say. Like kleptomaniacs, or "Jack the Hair Clipper," they are impelled by nature to the commission of their crimes. In their own judgment they ought not to be punished, because they are the victims of defective brains. But they are just as cunning as the hair clipper, just as conscious that they are law breakers as he was when he mailed to the Chief of Police in his own words the following note, enclosing some of the braids of hair he had clipped from the head of a young girl, viz: "A clue for J. K.'s cheap skates. Will send more when I get cheap stuff like this. Jack." Of this same class are men who conduct "diploma mills" and make doctors, especially in one day. They sell their parchments as freely as a saloonkeeper does his beer, and then claim that because a college confers distinctive degrees upon men of prominence, without a course of study and examination, they are justified in launching doctors by the score upon unsuspecting communities, "without study and examination," to discredit the medical profession, and send men, women and children to premature graves. Like McTeague, who acquired his knowledge of dentistry from the seven volumes of "Allen's Practical Dentist," they obtain their knowledge of diseases from quack publications, newspapers and magazine articles. They use nothing but "the purest of the earth's productions in their treatment, and no minerals or poisonous materials of any kind are ever permitted to enter your system." Their prices range from "one dollar up." "A positive guarantee is given in every case treated, so you have nothing to risk in any way. Your money back on demand if not satisfied." They can wash kidneys so clean, that if you are a woman and have not extended your arms in years, after taking the first box of kidney pills you "can raise them, and twist your hair," and after the second, "dress yourself, perform your household duties," and "life will again take on a bright hue" for you. Bald heads respond to the "remarkable effects" of their discoveries, with joyful alacrity. Gray hair goes into hiding, and "thick and lustrous eyebrows and eye lashes" blossom forth on one application, as lilac bushes do in the spring time at the first touch of the warmth of the sun's rays. Their remedies are "no longer experiments, they are medical certainties." They "create solid flesh, muscles and strength, clear the brain, and make the blood pure and rich." For humanity's sake, distinguished Mayors, ex-Mayors, city treasurers, scholars, soldiers, ex-state senators and senators, representatives, lawyers and judges, lend their beaming countenances, when fully restored to health, for the uses of these quacks, until the daily press has become a portrait gallery of rebuilt and revitalized men, who, if disease had the clutch upon them they so felicitously describe--in the stereotyped words of the quack--ought to have been dead, buried and mourned long ago. These distinguished men in American life, are merely selling their faces for promotion purposes, much as the titled Englishman sells his title. Of all the sources of police graft, in addition to pool rooms and policy shops, gambling is the most prolific. There are in Chicago over 7,000 saloons and nearly 2,000 cigar stores. The number of gambling houses proper is unknown, but the list swells into the hundreds. The saloon and cigar stores have as a general rule a gambling annex. Gambling houses proper, as known some years ago, have no longer the permanency they then had. Roulette and faro, especially, are sleeping, and awaken only at infrequent intervals. The negro game of craps, and the national game of poker, particularly stud poker, have become the substitutes for the wheel and the lay out. In two-thirds of the saloons and cigar stores poker and stud poker are played, and in many of the saloons, especially the all night variety, the crap table is part of the necessary equipment. It is estimated that poker games are in progress in over eight thousand of the saloons, cigar stores, barber shops and bakeries, every night, while gambling houses with the roulette and faro barred, add over one thousand to the number. Craps are shot even at the doors of some of the theaters. All this is known to the police, tolerated by the police, and taxed by the police. Take the average cigar store for illustration. In the rear are rooms neatly fitted up and supplied with three or more poker tables. The rake off to the house goes on just as in the regularly equipped gambling house. The games are played by men of all classes in life below the society men and men of wealth, who get their amusement at the club. The clubs all forbid poker, but the tabooing order is "more honored in its breach than its observance." In the cigar stores and saloons, workingmen, artisans, clerks, and the loafing skin gambler, participate in the game. The latter is quickly spotted, and placed under the ban. The proprietor requires the games to be square, in so far as he can control them. The losses of the cigar store players are more severe upon them than are those of the gamblers who play for higher stakes. The wages of the workingman, clerks and artisans are their only gambling capital. They have no bank accounts to draw upon. The home suffers; wife and children are the indirect victims. Theirs is a cash game. When wages are exhausted, the unearned wage is mortgaged to the loan "sharks." These greedy and heartless wretches lure the clerk earning a fair salary to borrow from them at reasonable rates, and upon a "strictly confidential" basis. The employer is not to know of the transaction. The clerk is soon in the shark's strong jaws. He must pay what is demanded, or the employer, the rules of whose establishment forbid dealings with the "shark," will be made aware of the violation of his rules, and the clerk's embarrassment commences. Rather than risk discharge from his position, and to escape from the "shark" jaws, the frightened clerk pays in monthly installments double the amount of his loan, plus a sum for a fee to an attorney who was never retained. All this is so much blood money, flowing from the wounds made by the "shark's" sharp teeth. The minor is not prevented in the cigar store joints from gaming any more than he is prevented from drinking at the saloon bar. Nightly, over this vast city, young men are succumbing to the terrible fascination of gaming. Nightly, temptations, almost irresistible, are preying upon their minds. The honesty of their intentions is gradually undermined, and almost before they awaken to a realization of the truth, they have committed some theft and commenced a downward career. Men who filled high positions of trust and earned large salaries are today inmates of the state penitentiary, led away by the fascination and excitement of the gaming table. The evils of gambling, the intensity of the love of the average man for indulgence in its exhilaration, the wide spread use of it in the home, the club, the stag parties, and so on down to the lowest joints in the slums, have been the themes of every writer who attempts to depict the daily life of great cities. It exists in the form of prizes in progressive euchre parties, in social gatherings, in the raffles of the church fairs, the voting for the most popular man or woman, as city or county stenographer, popular firemen or policemen; in guessing contests in the solution of puzzles; or wherever the element of chance enters into the affairs of life, from which amusement is sought to be drawn. Whether it is a wheat deal on the board of trade in which millions are involved, or the cast of the dice by newsboys and boot blacks in the alleys and upon the sidewalks of the city, the controlling passion is there--the passion for gain at the whim of chance. Judgment may prompt the wheat deal, but unless judgment promises large profits the incentive to engage in the manipulation of the markets is absent. The possible toil and mental worry is overlooked in the hope of great gain without correspondingly prolonged labor. Millions fly away in great gambling speculations as easily and as swiftly as the penny of the newsboy takes its flight from one to the other of the inveterate little gamblers, to be found among these sharp witted waifs of the street. It goes on in billiard halls, where "hap hazard" is openly played; at saloon bars where the loser at dice "pays for the drinks." It is to be seen in beer halls, summer gardens, among well dressed people who carry the dice with them, of the usual size, or smaller, with fancy box-guard, and who "shake" for the drinks and dinners, not so much as a matter of gambling, as for the zest it gives to their party, or their outing. It controls political picnics in the fakers' attractions that follow them, and in the prizes offered to the winner, of boys' and girls', women and fat men's, races, or for which artistic cake walkers and ragtime dancers compete. Civil and criminal trials are even chosen as events upon which to place a wager. The frequency of elections, the daily horse racing contests throughout the world, base ball games in season, prize fights between professionals, club athletic contests, policy shops with their daily drawings, and lotteries, all arouse the cupidity of the seeker after quick gains without physical labor. "Bet you five" settles many a mathematical, historical, political or economic proposition, contrary to the truth. Races, accompanied by the usual retinue of book makers, are conducted by a wealthy club, many of whose members are leaders in civic bodies formed for the betterment of local government, and consequently for the suppression of vice. Grand juries report month after month their inability to obtain the co-operation of the police in gathering evidence against gamblers and landlords whereon to found indictments. Each grand jury when empanelled hears from the bench the monotonous song "Gentlemen, bucket shops exist, investigate them," together with such musical accompaniment, as may be added by the judge, in the way of moralizing upon their wickedness. Fashionable women have their down town clubs. There they meet, smoke cigarettes, take their drinks from the sideboard "just like men," gamble for excitement, lose their pin-money and diamonds with the abandon of a virgin, "willing to be rid of her name." The vice and fascination of gambling are so well known and understood by great merchants that they employ a corps of detectives to keep watch over their confidential employes, whose movements are the subject matter of daily reports to their employers. The bond companies, which insure the honesty of clerks and managers entrusted with the handling of money, receive from their spotters the earliest reports of the actions of employes indicative of living beyond the yearly salary paid them by the houses with which they are connected. Gambling, although condemned by all moralists as a degrading vice, is recognized by some as aiding the development of certain qualities of immeasurable service in the intensity of the struggle for business existence prevailing in the aggressive commercialism of this age. Lecky asserts: "Even the gambling table fosters among its more skillful votaries a kind of moral nerve, a capacity for bearing losses with calmness, and controlling the force of the desires, which is scarcely exhibited in equal perfection in any other sphere." Whatever may be the meaning of the phrase "controlling the force of the desires," it is certain that among the young men of today, in all classes of society, the desires for intoxicants and sensuality are past control when associated with gambling. In its most seductive forms its principal aids are the gilded saloon, and the harlot's enslaving smile. The necessity for means with which to gratify aroused passion in both respects, comes through contact with the gaming table; hence, the houses of ill repute, assignation houses and the innocent looking "Hotel" nestling in the middle of the down town business blocks, are the direct allies of the gambling hells in the development of crime--in adding to, rather than in "controlling" the force of the desires. "Sensuality," said a distinguished writer, "is the vice of young men and of old nations." Another, tracing the effects of gaming on human passions, wisely observes, "the habit of gambling is very often allied with, and is even an incentive to, the practice of other vices, whose darkness is beyond dispute. The ordinary aspect of a return from a race meeting will fully confirm this. There we find that drunkenness, licentiousness and gambling go hand in hand, a well assorted trio whose ministry to separate passions is not inconsistent but consistent with mutual incitement and co-operation in the destruction of the honor and purity and strength of men." While gambling is not now conducted "openly," a word which has reference only to the maintenance of down town establishments in which faro and roulette were formerly played, it is conducted under police protection all over this city in forms more inviting, more disastrous to the embryotic gamblers who patronize it, than if the large establishments were in full operation as of yore. The latter could not invite the younger class of gamblers to enter the play, because of their lack of capital; the smaller, widely scattered, and police guarded, cigar store and saloon games, accept smaller sums of money, parts of a dollar, for a stack of poker chips, from the anxious entrant to the game. Prior to the last election a leading evening newspaper accused the city executive with farming out the slum district to two aldermen of unsavory reputation, with leave to them to extort money from gaming houses, high and low, within its limits, for their personal benefit, in consideration of their opposing, in the council, the passage of ordinances relating to the extension of street car privileges. Its condemnation of this bargain was severe, and yet, later on, it was the most persistent of that executive's supporters for re-election. The coon gamblers, thieves, thugs and pimps were all on the staffs of these aldermen. They followed these worthies into the campaign, under the leadership of the eminently respectable newspaper referred to. Inspired by such leadership "Spreader," "Sawed Off," "The Cuckoo," "Book Agent," "Deacon," "Grab All," "Duck," "Shoestring," "Scalper," "Humpty," "Hungry Sid," "Seedy," "Talky," "Whiskers," "Noisy," "Fig," "Old Hoss," "Slick," "Ruby," "Sunday School," and "Mushmouth," captains in the corps of sports felt themselves respectable, led their followers from the barrel and lodging houses with a rush to the polls, and achieved a startling victory. Over all this horrible saturnalia of vice, the colors of the police force float in token of protection. The brave men of that force, morally degraded by the obedience they are compelled to yield to unworthy superiors want merely the opportunity to perform their full duty, not only as patrolmen but as patriotic American citizens. The time when they will be permitted to do so seems far distant, unless an aroused public opinion shall speedily pronounce against the further continuation of a policy of protection to crime and debauchery supported by the men chosen to war unceasingly with both. The dens of the sexual pervert of the male sex, found in the basements of buildings in the most crowded, but least respectable parts of certain streets, with immoral theaters, cheap museums, opium joints and vile concert saloons surrounding them, are the blackest holes of iniquity that ever existed in any country since the dawn of history. A phrase was recently coined in New York which conveys--in the absence of the possibility of describing them in decent language--the meaning of the brute practices indulged in these damnable resorts, and the terrible consequences to humanity as a result of unnatural habits--"Paresis Halls." No form of this indulgence described by writers on the history of morals, no species of sodomy the debased minds of these devils can devise, is missing from the programme of their diabolical orgies. In divine history we read of the abominations of the strange women of Israel, with their male companions, in their worship of Moloch, Belphegor and Baal, and of the death penalties pronounced by Moses against the participants in them. To suppress the brutish immorality, and prevent the spread of disease arising from it, the Jewish law giver put to death all his Midianite female captives except the virgins. Profane history tells of the infamies of the Babylonian banquets, of the incestuous and "promiscuous combats of sensuality" of the Lydians and the Persians; of the Athenian Auletrides, or female flute players, who danced and furnished music at the banquets of the nobility and wallowed in the filth of every sensual indecency, and of the polluted condition of Roman life, prior to, and as the Christian era dawned, but in all the untranslatable literature of eroticism no description of the debaucheries of the ancients, if freely interpreted into English from the dead languages in which they are preserved, could depict the nastiness these yahoos are reported as having introduced into our midst, and rendered more hateful and disgusting by the squalor of their underground abodes. The young are lured by them, ruined in health and seared in conscience. The very slang of the streets is surcharged with expressions, derived from, and directly traceable to, the names of these unmentionable acts of lechery. Not content with the private and crafty pursuit of their calling, they must flaunt it in the faces of the public and under the very eyes of the police, in a series of annual balls held by the "fruits" and the "cabmen," advertised by placards extensively all over the city. At these disreputable gatherings the pervert of the male persuasion displays his habits by aping everything feminine. In speech, walk, dress and adornment they are to all appearances women. The modern mysteries of the toilet, used to build up and round out the female figure, are applied in the make-up of the male pervert. Viewed from the galleries, it is impossible to distinguish them from the sex they are imitating. Theirs is no maid-marian costume; it is strictly in the line of the prevailing styles among fashionable women, from female hair to pinched feet. The convenient bar supplies the liquid excitement, and when the women arrivals from the bagnios swarm into the hall, led in many instances by the landlady, white or black, and the streets and saloons have contributed their quotas, the dance begins and holds on until the morning hours approach. The acts are those mainly suggestive of indecency. Nothing, except the gross language and easy familiarity in deportment, coupled with the assumed falsetto voice and effeminate manners of the pervert, would reveal to the uninformed observer what a seething mass of human corruption he is witnessing. As the "encyclopedia of the art of making up" puts it, "the exposed parts of the human anatomy" usually displayed in fashionable society are counterfeited so perfectly, the wigs are selected and arranged with such nicety, the eyebrows and lashes so dexterously treated, and the features so artistically touched with cosmetics, as to make it very difficult, at first glance, to distinguish between the impostor and the real woman. The big hands and tawdry dresses, the large though pinched feet and the burly ankle, betray the sex of the imitating pervert. No reason, except that the police are paid for non-interference with these vice pitted revels, can be given for their toleration. The city's officials are either in collusion with their projectors, they are incompetent, or are the willing tools of these stinking body scavengers. These beasts look with disdain upon the votaries of natural pleasures, and have an insane pride in their hopeless degradation. The opium joints are closely related sources of iniquity to the pervert's haunts. Under one of the worst of the all night saloons, conducted by a politician of the first ward, who belongs to the party of the Bath House and Hinky Dink, and who "touched" the Hon. Richard Croker of New York for a small loan, the largest of these execrable cellars is protected. It is but a step from the wine rooms of the saloon to the solace of the pipe. The depraved of both sexes in those moments when despair seizes them, when some recollection of childhood, or of home, arouses in them the dormant good still remaining in their hearts, when, as they look into the future, they can discern no ray of hope, but are appalled at the frightful end which must be theirs, shut out the horrors of their situation in life by seeking a paradise built upon "the baseless fabric of a vision." In this joint, since reference to it was written, a man died from the effects of smoking the pipe. The woman who accompanied him, the bartender and the keeper of the joint were placed under arrest. The police expressed amazement at the revelation of the existence of the joint, as did the proprietor of the saloon. It was, of course, closed, and a number of other like resorts were then raided. Press comments upon this death appeared as follows: "In spite of the fact that there are plenty of laws against them, opium dens and objectionable grogshops are among the hardest things in the world to exterminate. The only reasonable explanation for this is that their proprietors must have influence with officers who are employed by the people to execute the laws. 'The police close these places,' said an officer despairingly, referring to dens like that in which the man Adams died Sunday night, 'but they spring up again in a day.' "The police seem to be downcast over it. Yet the causes of the 'springing up' are as plain as the nose on one's face, and the means of removing them as evident as one's hand. "Access to the den in which Adams died was had through the delectable O. saloon, operated by S. V. P., and the den itself was rented by V. P. The levee statesman says he had no idea his basement was used for an opium den. He thought the procession of drunken and dazed men and women who tottered through his saloon and went down his basement stairs all night were going for their laundry. "V. P.'s statement is entitled to as much consideration as the guileless protestations of the gentleman who is caught with the chicken under his coat. V. P. is responsible for the opium den and as soon as the law lays a hand, in earnest, on the landlord the opium dens will cease 'springing up.' "The police knew that an opium den was running in V. P.'s basement. They had been amply warned of it. If they had raided the place a few times and sent the proprietor and inmates to the bridewell it would have stayed closed. "There is a little virtue in sticking to one's native vices. Western races come honestly by drunkenness and gambling. But why tolerate the deliberate importation and cultivation of this strange oriental bestiality? This ingrafted vice must make its own soil. Why should the police treat it so leniently? A hundred-dollar fine for every person found in an opium joint and a modicum of police activity, with the demanding of a strict account from the guilty landlord, will quickly put a damper on the opium dens. Every month that they are tolerated they get a firmer root." These resorts are patronized by others than the fallen women and the criminal classes. Like slumming, it is a fad "to hit the pipe just once" by some adventure seeking people in other walks of life. The habit of opium smoking is easily acquired, and, when acquired, the smoker becomes a slave to its use. There are between two and three hundred of these smoking rooms in Chicago. The number of persons addicted to smoking opium cannot be stated with accuracy. Estimates vary from ten to twenty thousand, the number probably lies between these two estimates. In the Chinese quarters the penetrating odor of opium smoke is plainly perceptible and is thrown off from the garments of passing Chinamen, or is detected as one enters a restaurant or laundry presided over by the oriental. The "dope" soon affects the complexion, and the features wear a dejected appearance. The movements of the victims are listless, almost lifeless. In the saloon referred to, a constant procession of men and women, old and young, come and go up and down the stairway to the region below. It is not guarded with any degree of care, because it is protected from the law's aggression, except occasionally, when by way of diversion it is pulled. Then its patrons get a quiet tip to keep away, consequently few occupants are found. The old pipes and a small quantity of the dope are graciously permitted to be borne away in triumph by the officers. New supplies are provided, and the baleful business resumes its accustomed routine. CHAPTER V. COMMON COUNCIL--BOODLERS--BRIBERS--COUNCIL OF 1899--POWERS OF--MISUSE OF--PRICE OF VOTES--PASSAGE OF BOODLE ORDINANCES--PUBLIC WORKS DEPARTMENT AND BUREAUS--ILLEGAL CONTRACTS--STREET REPAIRING, ETC.--CIVIL SERVICE COMMISSION--HISTORY OF--PRESENT BOARD TOOLS OF MAYOR--EXAMINATION BY--EXAMPLES OF--ATTACKS UPON LAW--SPECIAL ASSESSMENTS--ASPHALT RING--FIRE DEPARTMENT--COUNTY GOVERNMENT--INSANE ASYLUM--SALE OF "CADAVERS"--CONTRACTS--SHERIFF'S OFFICE--JURY BRIBERS--JUDGES--REVENUE LAW--TAX DODGERS--TOWN BOARDS--CORONER'S OFFICE--PRESS TRUST--CIVIC SOCIETIES--BERRY COMMITTEE'S REPORT--BAXTER COMMITTEE--OPENING TESTIMONY--CONCLUSION. For a generation the Common Council of Chicago has been governed by a majority of "boodlers." Aldermen have been, in that period, fairly representative of the wards by which they were elected. The various nationalities, clustered together in such a manner as to give rise to the naming of a ward according to the nativity of its inhabitants, such as Polish, Swedish, Bohemian, German, Irish, etc., have selected as their representatives in the Council, men who, as a rule, in private life were honest. Their selection was usually upon strictly party grounds. The "independent" voter, in municipal elections, is a growth of quite recent years. The class appears to be increasing with great rapidity and to be finding a means of concentrating its strength at the polls. As honest as an alderman may be when he first takes his seat, he soon finds himself surrounded by influences which appear to exert a fascinating power over him. He must elect to be for or against the gang. Prior to the allowance of a yearly salary the temptation to join the gang was heightened by the promising returns, in a pecuniary way, which the gang could almost guarantee the incoming member. An alderman "once prepossessed is half seduced" and, since it is almost axiomatic that the total seduction of a prepossessed alderman is a mere matter of time and opportunity, the fall always comes when some high spirited, progressive, and perhaps, God-professing citizen, offers from his purse a goodly compensation to the gang for the grant of some public privilege. Thus the public privilege is seized upon by the aldermanic gang as a private privilege which it disposes of to the broad-clothed briber at a price satisfactory to its members. The bribers are found in that sanctified element of the community which attends church under the pretext of fearing and worshipping God. "But yet, O Lord! confess I must, At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust; An' sometimes, too, wi' worldly trust Vile self gets in! But thou rememb'rest we are dust, Defil'd in sin." On secular days, its leaders, the accomplished, in thieves' parlance, the "slick" bribers, whisper their temptations into the ears of public servants willing to become their private tools, like the devil in the garden of Eden, "who squat like a toad close to the ear of Eve." The "gang" spots its man with remarkable foresight, and year after year its power to manage public affairs to its own private advantage has become more and more felt by the public. For the first time in a generation, in this year 1899, it is believed an honest majority is in control of the council. The pleasurable fact is that the majority was elected upon a non-partisan basis, the recommendations of a civic body, as to the honesty and capacity of the candidates in the several wards, having been acted upon by the voters in preference to those of party nominating conventions. It is, however, too early to predict a new era in the history of the council. "All signs fail in dry weather," and at this moment there are no indications of an approaching shower of "boodle." The street car franchise question is drowsy and will not be awakened until the corporations controlling the lines are ready to do so. That they will not do so until some legislation is enacted in 1901, is too apparent to require an effort to prove. For one year at least there is a majority in the council which will, it is hoped, protect public rights; and it is also hoped that in 1900 this majority will not only be retained, but also greatly augmented. Projects may be hidden which in the near, or not distant, future, will come forth to plague the consciences of a number of newly admitted members and put their integrity to the severest of tests. The power of the Common Council, as confided to it by legislation, over the affairs of two millions of people, is too immense to be wielded by a single ordinance making body. Under our form of municipal government it controls the finances and the property of the city, regulates licenses to sell liquor and to carry on various classes of business, such as auctioneers, distillers, grocers, lumber yards, livery stables, money changers, brokers, junk stores, billiard, bagatelle and pigeon-hole tables, pin alleys, ball alleys, hackmen, draymen, omnibus drivers, carters, cabmen, porters, expressmen, hawkers, peddlers, pawnbrokers, theatres, shows and amusements, and many other classes of occupations. Its power over the uses to which the streets may be applied is, in one sense, limited; in another almost unlimited. While limited by the charter to the power to lay them out, open, widen and improve them, prevent encroachments and obstructions thereon, lighting and cleansing them, its power to regulate them is almost unlimited. "To regulate" the use of the streets is a broad power, and while several distinct grants of power of regulation are contained in the statute, such as preventing the throwing of ashes and garbage upon them, their use for signs, sign posts, awnings, etc., the carrying of banners, placards, advertisements, etc., therein, the flying of flags, banners or signs across them from house to house, or traffic and sales upon them, nevertheless, the uses to which they may be applied in the way of business enterprises for advertising purposes, are as numerous and as varied as the minds of the originators of the schemes are original and unique. For the right to use, therefore, in a given way in a given ward, the "gang" alderman long ago established and still maintains a schedule of rates. They are graduated from the insignificant charge for permission to "string a banner," or establish a fruit stand, up to the highly respectable "rake off" demanded for the use of them for switch tracks, or street railway purposes. It is not so many years ago that a leading morning newspaper furnished the public with some information on this subject, upon the occasion of the passage of an ordinance granting valuable privileges to a railway corporation. Four members of the council, not the "Big Four" of olden times, but the modern "Big Four" leaders of "de gang," were said to have received for their manipulation of the ordinance, and the organization of their followers for its support, the quite comfortable sum of $25,000 each. Their supporters were to receive $8,000 each for their votes, while the "go between" received $100,000 and a few city lots. The standard price per vote for valuable franchises is $5,000, yet in a pinch of private necessity, a few votes can be commanded at lower figures. The contingency of a possible veto is provided for, so that in that event one-fourth must be added for the second vote to pass the measure over the veto. Thus it has gone on not only with respect to street railway grants, but also for electric lighting, telephone conduits, gas pipes, private telephone wires and that long list of uses devised by business men for the advertisement of their personal interests. The peanut stand privilege, the fruit stand privilege, the bootblack privilege, the banner privilege, all pay cash to some "gang" alderman, as do the policy rooms, pool rooms and saloons with wine room privileges. It is an amusing, as well as an instructive sight, to witness a meeting of the council upon an occasion when some well announced "boodle" ordinance is called up for passage. The plan of campaign has all been arranged beforehand, and the floor leader selected to command the movement. Let it be an ordinance for granting the right to a street railway company to lay down its tracks, and operate its line, in a given street. The preliminaries have all been gone through with, the signatures of property owners verified, and the price to be paid for favorable votes agreed upon. When the ordinance is taken up its opponents are generally in a disorganized condition. There is among them, as a general rule, no coherence of opposition. The main object to be attained, viz., the defeat of the ordinance as it is presented, is lost sight of in the effort "to make records" by the introduction of amendments, reflecting some individual idea of the member who offers it, without having submitted it to his associate opponents for their judgment. Consequently they disagree among themselves and fall to fighting each other, thereby weakening their opposition. Meanwhile the "gang" sits smilingly by, under instructions to vote down all amendments. When one is offered, of comparative unimportance, the quick-witted lobbyists of the corporations, Jew and Gentile, convey a tip to the leader of the "gang" that the amendment "is all right," "quite agreeable," "will be accepted," etc., whereupon the gang's leader obligingly informs the chair that it is his profound belief the amendment is a very proper one, and it is graciously accepted. The opposition having some little encouragement, present other amendments, which are, of course, defeated. Sometimes debate is permitted. If the speeches could be reported verbatim and the words spelled out as pronounced, it would make Mr. Dooley reflect on the style of modern oratory, as presented by the "mimber from Archey Road." The question coming to a vote upon the passage of the ordinance, the roll call begins. From the "Bath House" on the right comes, on the first call, the familiar "Aye." That response is repeated by every member of the gang without explanation, and in a stolid way, indicating contempt for public opinion. The measure is now out of the way. Preparations are made for the next. Settlements have to be made and everybody satisfied before new matters involving "boodle" can be presented. Occasionally there is a loud "kick" by some slow-witted member who fails to secure his full share of the "swag," but he is usually placated in some manner best known to the combination, and business goes on in the old way. The division and distribution of the "boodle" are matters of great secrecy and adroit management. It is forced into the pockets of some, or finds its way into them in mysterious ways. It is discovered under a plate at a restaurant, or under a pillow at bedtime; but it seldom passes into the open hand, held rearwards, as the caricaturist pictures the "boodler." A newspaper thus spoke of the members of the council belonging to the party it represents. "The average ---- representative in the city council is a tramp, if not worse. He represents or claims to represent a political party having respectable principles and leaders of known good character and ability. He comes from twenty-five or thirty different wards, some of them widely separated, and when he reaches the City Hall, whether from the west, the south or the north division, he is nine cases out of ten a bummer and a disreputable who can be bought and sold as hogs are bought and sold at the stockyards. Do these vicious vagabonds stand for the decency and intelligence of the party in Chicago?" This is a picture drawn a few years ago, but it correctly sketches a number of the hold over members of the present council, and a few of the old timers re-elected. The new members of the council, one-half in number, are committed, by their ante-election pledges, to the policy of refusing the grant of privileges to individuals or corporations without compensation to the public. Whatever of benefit the public may derive from this policy, it is not quite clear that it will operate as a preventive of "boodling." The ingenuity of the "boodler" combines the cunning of the sneak thief, with the boldness of the highway robber in devising the ways and means to find and secure his "stuff." It is a matter of congratulation that the boodling species is dwindling away from the public view. How long it will remain in concealment depends upon how long the independent voter wishes to keep it concealed. The department of the city government to which is committed the control of its public improvements consists of a number of bureaus. The Commissioner of Public Works controls, as part of his executive department, the City Engineer, Superintendent of Streets, of Street and Alley Cleaning, of Water, of Sewerage, of Special Assessments and of Maps. When it is considered that this means the care and management of 1,111 miles of improved and 1,464 miles of unimproved streets, 112 miles of improved and 1,235 miles of unimproved alleys, making a total of 3,924 miles of streets and alleys, the letting of contracts for their repair, improvement and cleaning, and all the details of engineering, sewerage and water pipe extension bureaus, involving the expenditure of millions of dollars, the vastness of the public interests entrusted to the Commissioner may be realized. Under every administration the department is assailed for frauds, stuffed pay rolls, favoritism and boodling. The administration now in power (and which has been in power for two years) has not escaped criticism. Powerful as that criticism was, and founded in truth as it was, it apparently did not affect the minds of a majority of the voters. Contracts were let by this administration, in direct violation of the law which provides for a letting to the lowest bidder, after advertising for bids, where the amount is in excess of $500. Yet a political favorite, who was himself at one time spoken of as a probable appointee to the office of Commissioner, but who stepped aside, as it is charged, as the result of a deal, obtained thereby a contract for street repairs amounting to $230,000, which was never advertised for, but let to him privately in such a manner so that the vouchers in payment were drawn in sums less than $500 each. So grossly evasive of the law was this transaction, that it involved the stoppage of payment of the warrants by the Comptroller of the city. A re-measurement of the work was ordered by him. This developed the astonishing fact that, even if the contract had been properly let, there was nevertheless an overcharge, swindling in its nature, to the extent of $60,000. The Comptroller was, therefore, compelled to withhold his sanction to the payment of the vouchers. In some manner, however, they were paid after some slight reductions were made. This was a blow at the sterling integrity of the Comptroller, whose public services in thoroughly reorganizing his office, and placing it on a business basis, and whose devotion to public interests cost him his life, are the only conspicuous acts, free from shame, egotism, or corruption, of an administration to which he loaned the strength of his good name, and upon which he shed the splendor of his ability and personal honor. He will be long remembered as the one oasis in a desert of maladministration. Both in private and in public walks Robert A. Waller lived an honorable life. He died mourned by all who knew him. "His life was gentle, and the elements So mixed in him, that Nature might stand up And say to all the world: This was a man!" The attempt to let the contract for the use of a tug for service to the cribs, or water intakes, in the lake, was another breach of the law so flagrant, as to attract public attention for a time. Its consummation was prevented by the threat of court proceedings, which, at once, led to the insertion of an advertisement for bids. But here again fraud was attempted. The specifications were so drawn as to call for boats of certain dimensions, exact compliance with which was almost impossible, except to one towing company to which originally the contract was about to be let without a bid. This company's bid was $13,000; the lowest bid was $3,500. Still the city authorities hesitated to award the contract to the lowest bidder, but public opinion, and the known ability of the bidder to fulfill his contract regardless of his boats' dimensions, compelled the letting to him, thereby saving to the city the sum of $9,000. Vouchers about which there was a doubt as to their legality, have been paid to a contractor, who was appointed a brigadier general of volunteers, but who resigned the appointment immediately, it is said, for business reasons, or because he could not be assigned to a pleasing command. These vouchers amounted to $50,000, and their payment, it is rather uncharitably said, induced the gallant contractor to become an independent voter. There is no difference between the manufacture of an independent voter in this manner, and his manufacture by putting him on the pay-roll without work. This method seems to have been adopted by the public works department of the city government, following, perhaps, an old precedent. The purchase of water meters, under specifications with which only one company could comply, and the laying of water pipes without letting contracts in a lawful manner, are notorious instances of unblushing frauds committed by this department. It is almost incredible that a dynamo should be bought in parts, so that it could be purchased from a friend, and paid for in sums less than $500; yet this was done. Thus a piece of machinery having a fixed price as a whole, was not only purchased illegally, but paid for in such a manner that its price, as a whole, was doubled when bought in pieces. So it was with other electrical apparatus; so it was with the protection to fire hydrants. Instead of advertising for bids for the work of shielding the fire hydrants from the severity of the winter's cold, they were divided up into companies like those of a regiment of soldiers, each having its contract commander, who received his pay on vouchers each calling for less than $500. The present commissioner is an old politician, who has held several official positions. It is but just to say of him, that, with the general public, he bears a good reputation. His political enemies are not by any means complimentary in their allusions to him, those particularly in the ranks of his own party. He is energetic, self confident, amiable, and a particularly able bluffer when occasion demands it. Without being profound he is efficient, and without being remarkably efficient, he is not at all valueless. The Civil Service Commission has reached its present age, nearly five years, after suffering all the diseases incident to poor nursing. It is not by any means a vigorous child as yet, but as it gains in strength it will perhaps grow in wisdom. When it recognizes the fact that the people permitted it to be born, it will also recognize the further fact that its parents require of it obedience to their wishes. They demand the enforcement of the Civil Service Law as it is written, for the public good and not for partisan advantage. They would impress upon the commission the conviction of their belief that without a properly administered civil service law, municipal government is a menace to republican institutions; that without it the experiment of municipal ownership of "public utilities" is hazardous, and that the increasing intelligence of the people and their wider knowledge of the science of government have taught them that the political maxim, "to the victors belong the spoils," is a relic of the barbaric days of politics, in which wide open primaries, stuffed ballot boxes, captured polling places, and thugs were the governing elements of elections. The civil service law was placed upon the statute book at the instance of those who had made the study of municipal government a duty, and who from that study realized that the growth of great cities, in population, material wealth and industrial development, demands commensurate changes in the manner of governing such communities. The basic principle of the law is the elimination of the spoils system, and the substitution of the merit system. The banishment of the professional politician, that individual who lives upon the spoils of office, is a result certain of accomplishment under the proper administration of this beneficent statute. Foreseeing this result, the professionals in all parties united against it and have sought, and are still seeking, to undermine its provisions and destroy its utility. The law was put into operation by a board of commissioners not one of whom had ever been an active party man. No body of men ever met for the performance of a public duty, who were less tainted with partisanship than were these gentlemen. They studied the law carefully, and acquainted themselves with its text and its spirit. Their selection was satisfactory to the public, and was a guarantee of honest endeavor to place the affairs of the city under the control of the law's terms, in all the departments to which those terms applied, and which could be brought within the classified service. They formulated adequate rules, after consultation with able men familiar with the workings of the federal civil service law. Open to criticism as some of these rules were as being more theoretical than practical, nevertheless they were built upon the basis of selection by merit alone, regardless of politics, and were adapted solely to that end. For two years it adhered to the law, enforcing against the party to which the majority of the commissioners belonged a rule which required that no person holding an office which fell within the classified service could take an examination for that position without resigning the position. The law continued to work during 1895 and 1896 as smoothly as new machinery can. In the Spring of 1897 a new city administration came into power of a different political complexion from that under which the law was placed in force. It was then found, to the amazement of the public, which, however, in the hurly-burly of life soon subsided, that these commissioners were incompetent. One placed his resignation in the hands of the Mayor and was almost immediately appointed to the office of comptroller by that officer. The efficiency of his service in his new office, and the quality of his character, have already been referred to in these pages. Suddenly the same Mayor addressed the late associates of the Comptroller as follows, viz.: "You will please take notice that I have elected to, and I do hereby remove you from the position of Civil Service Commissioner in and for the City of Chicago for the following causes. First: You are and have been in your performance of the duties of said office incompetent. Secondly: In the performance of said duties you have been guilty of neglect of duty." A new commission was appointed, which proceeded to reverse the rule above referred to, whereupon nearly all the employes of the city were discharged. No examinations having been held for these positions there was no eligible list from which to select their successors. Consequently, in such a case, appointments were made under a section of the statute to fill the vacancies for sixty days, during which time examinations were held to obtain an eligible list. These appointments were, of course, all made from the Mayor's party. He could not do otherwise in view of the public utterances he had made during his campaign, when he said if he retained any employes appointed under a prior administration of a different political belief, "it will only be for menagerie purposes." When the examinations were held and a list certified, it was found that in every instance the sixty day men passed at its head. Such a uniformity of results was in itself evidence of a disregard of the law. From the highest position for which examinations were held, down through all grades, to the lowest, such as barn men, the sixty day man was always marked up to the head of the list. During the years 1897 and 1898, no less than seven different persons were selected as civil service commissioners, until a board was found willing to act upon the Mayor's interpretation of the statute. One instance of the abuse of the law will suffice to show the methods resorted to, for the purpose of selecting a party man to fill a vacancy in office. An examination was held of applicants for the position of "foreman of street lamps repairs." The man who passed at the head was a sixty day man. At thirteen years of age he became a sheet metal worker's apprentice, and with the exception of a short period when he was engaged in keeping a saloon and made a failure of it, he continued to follow that occupation. He is a heeler for one of the most notorious of the aldermanic gang. It will be observed in contrasting the questions asked him, and those asked his superior, an applicant for the office of Superintendent of Street Lamp Repairs, that a lower degree of educational qualifications is required of the Superintendent, that of his subordinate, the foreman of the gang of repairers. These questions were propounded to the foreman, viz.: "If the hypothenuse of a right angle triangle is 35 feet and the base 21 feet, what is the altitude? At 30 cents a square yard what is the cost of lining with metal a cubical room 13 feet long? If it takes eight men five and one half days to make 100 lamps, how long will it take six men to make 350 lamps? A building is 302 feet high; the walk and court measure 90 feet; what is the length of a straight line running from the top of the building to the opposite curb? At 25 cents a square yard what is the cost of a sheet of iron sufficient for the construction of a cylinder pipe closed at both ends 28 feet long, the diameter of whose base is 28 inches? What is the capacity in gallons of a sphere 15 inches in diameter? If 24 gallons of water flow through a 2 inch pipe each minute how many gallons will flow through a 3 inch pipe under the same conditions? What is the length of the diameter of a circle whose area equals 1,386 square yards? Name the materials used in the construction of a street lamp? Name three essential qualifications requisite for a foreman?" A street lamp could not be repaired, as a matter of fact, by a person unable to answer these questions! This truth must be apparent to any unbiased mind! All the other applicants could answer the last two questions only, simply because they were honest; but the metal worker answered them all, and was marked 100, although he had not been at school since he was thirteen years of age, and does not appear to have been much of a student since that time. The Superintendent's examination ran as follows, viz.: "What are the duties of Superintendent of Lamp Repairs? What experience have you had to qualify you for this position? How many lamps should a tinner complete in a day? How many signs should an etcher complete in a day? If a special assessment were levied and confirmed, what would your duty be to secure the erecting and lighting of the lamps? On what part of the city property should those posts be set? If posts were to be erected how would you determine what class of posts would be required? What is the general duty of Superintendent of Lamp Repairs regarding repairs to lamps?" The attacks on the civil service law come from all sources. A party convention in 1898, in its platform said, "We pronounce the Civil Service Law inefficient, mischievous and hostile to the regnant principles of popular government. We demand its repeal." The next convention of the same party resolved: "We pledge the ------party to the strict enforcement of this, the Civil Service Law." The Mayor's consistency and that of his party are identical. If the two removed commissioners were incompetent and neglectful, so must the third have been, and yet that equally incompetent and neglectful commissioner was appointed to an office, the very highest in the gift of the Mayor. Acting upon the demand of his party for the repeal of this law, the Corporation Counsel began his attacks upon it by a multiplicity of opinions calculated to gradually remove it from the statute book. Ordinances were passed in accordance with these opinions, creating new heads of departments and exempting them from the civil service rules. Positions, filled by civil service appointees, were abolished. The same positions were re-created under a new name, filled by a sixty day man who was then examined, and certified to the head of the list. The police department, the city treasurer, and other branches of the local government which have attempted by judicial proceedings to emasculate the civil service law, have in every instance been foiled by the decisions of the Supreme Court. The Special Assessment Bureau of the board of public works, has for many years, in conjunction with the alderman, had the origination and passage of ordinances for paving streets, laying sewers, sidewalks, drains, water supply and service pipes, etc. Under a law recently enacted, and now in force, all ordinances originate with a board, named the Board of Local Improvements. The right of petition on behalf of the property owners, is a feature of the new law which smiles at the property owner, while it "winks the other eye." It holds out a hope, as do other provisions of the law, of reduced assessments, but, so far, the practical benefit to the owner of real estate has not been made apparent. Since the year 1861 and including the year 1897, the enormous sum of $90,402,790.44 has been levied upon real estate for the payment of public improvements. During the year ending December, 1891, the amount levied was over six millions of dollars, and during the following year ending December 31, 1892, just preceding the World's Fair, the assessments reached the sum of over fourteen millions of dollars. Reference has already been made to frauds in the letting of contracts for street improvements. They are split up and let to favorites without advertising, so that each payment will fall under $500, although the improvement may be a mile in length. The asphalt ring is just as potent as ever. It fights every effort of other dealers in asphalt to procure a contract and it generally succeeds in foisting upon the people its quality of asphalt at a higher price than that offered at a lower price, by other bidders, perhaps equally as good in quality and which has been successfully used in other cities. Failing recently to stampede the board, the ring accepted contracts at a figure submitted by its competitors. This, however, is a familiar trick of trusts, and will last for a very short period of time, unless the board manifests a disposition to consider the merits of the material of competing contractors. The ring will not abandon its struggle so easily. It is powerful, uniting in its behalf the combined efforts of politicians of all parties, who are connected with the asphalt corporations as stockholders and officers. The Board of Local Improvements not long since made the announcement that it was preparing to levy special assessments during the coming year to the amount of $10,000,000. The people may weep and protest, while the contractor smiles and urges. The one department of the city government, unsurpassed by any of its kind in the world, is the Fire Department. The officers and men are of the best material, of the highest courage, and serve under the strictest discipline. They are fire fighters, not politicians. Their chief is a man of independence of character, honest, taciturn, a strict disciplinarian--a general in command of a corps of which he is justly proud. He tolerates no political interference with his men. In this respect, particularly, he is, always was, and always will be sustained by the entire community. Any attempted management of the department which would tend to lessen its efficiency meets with the chief's stern resistance. Aside from his own moral and physical courage, his admirable sense of duty, and the fact that the public honor him and support him, he has the powerful assistance of the board of underwriters in any case of damaging intermeddling with his command. Knowing his worth and the merits of his department that intermeddling would bring, instantly, a threat of the rise in insurance rates from this board, a threat which would touch the pockets of many property owners, and consequently one which would solidify them in support of the chief. He shares with his men the dangers of their calling. The gallant men, who during the past year lost their lives in saving the property and lives of others, testified by their sacrifice to the hazardous nature of that calling. A recital of the heroic deeds of those men would not be surpassed by the stories of gallantry in the field of battle with which the pages of American history are replete. While Dennis J. Swenie's strength holds out he will command his famous batallions to his own honor, and to that of the city of which he is so faithful and loyal a citizen. Even the possibility of his being supplanted in his command, which appeared recently in the failure to reappoint him at the first opportunity afforded the Mayor, aroused the people to a united protest, which, indications prove, was timely and effective. The omission to send his name to the council with the first of the Mayor's appointees, may have been, as it was claimed "accidental," but it is nevertheless the belief that that omission was in the nature of a test of public opinion. If so, the power of public opinion retained him in command, despite political purpose to the contrary. With the exception of this department all the others of the city are merely run on political lines, as adjuncts of the political party in power, notwithstanding the civil service law. The abuses of that law may become fewer in number, not through any merit of the present board, but because it has about exhausted itself in filling all the offices with men of one political faith by means already explained. The departments of the County government under a feeble civil service law, different from that applicable to the city, are conducted in the same manner as those of the city for the benefit of machine politicians and their regiments of ward and township workers. They are as corruptly managed as those of the city government. The institutions at Dunning for the insane and the poor, are generally managed by ward politicians, whose appointments are in the nature of a reward for party services, or rather, services to some particular boss. Recent reports of grand juries note some improvement in their conduct. On the whole, however, they are regarded in the nature of spoils by the ring of party loafers, whose views of government consist, mainly, in doing the greatest good to the greatest number of the ring. The traffic in dead bodies, or "cadavers" goes on, as it did when exposure came about a year ago through detected shipments to the State of Missouri for the use of a medical college in one of the towns of that state. These pauper dead "escape," in the language of the employes, from the "killer" ward in which they are stored, a place selected to lay out a corpse suited for the dissecting table. It has been a matter of more than rumor and given currency by the press, that subjects for the dissecting table are selected before the breath has left their bodies. This statement finds more or less verification in the disclosures of the Missouri case before alluded to. Contractors for county supplies pay a percentage of their prices to a county ring, and, consequently, a poorer quality of food, fuel and medicines, is furnished to these institutions than the contracts call for, which cost the contractor an additional sum by way of boodle to obtain them. The sheriff's office has had a standing shame for many years in the cost of dieting prisoners. The county board allows the sheriff for dieting, twenty-five cents a day for each prisoner confined in the county jail. The cost of a day's dieting is estimated not to exceed ten cents, according to the greed of the sheriff. From this one source alone the sheriff's office is regarded as one of the most lucrative offices in the county. The excess above the actual cost is clear profit to the sheriff. Some of the bailiffs of the courts have been discovered within the past year as jury bribers, willing to take any side offering the most lucrative terms. The principal in this disreputable business fled, and now an unseemly quarrel is raging between the city's detective department, and the sheriff's and state attorney's office as to which was to blame for that escape. The judges of the Courts of Cook County are men of integrity. Some are able jurists, but of late years the standard for judicial qualifications has been, through party machine nominations, considerably lowered. These judges are charged by the law with some duties the nature of which is purely political. Thus, the selection of justices of the peace for the city, the poor man's court, is confided to them. No scandals, so far, have attended the exercise of this duty, but their selections have not, as a general rule, earned the confidence of the people. "J. P." means nowadays one who will give judgment for the plaintiff. The evil practices, the frauds and swindles, which have their origin in the system now prevailing for the conduct of justice courts, has given rise to strenuous efforts to reform them by state legislation. This will ultimately be accomplished. While the members from the rural districts, in each recurring state legislature, are difficult to manage, in the one session of their term in the lower house in matters affecting a large city, nevertheless, when fully informed, they have granted such remedial legislation to Chicago for which its civic bodies have made timely application. A new revenue law has just gone into operation, designed to abolish the inequalities of taxation which grew up and were fraudulently fostered under the repealed law. What its effect will be it is difficult to predict. The personal property holders, those with long lines of stocks, bonds, valuable house furnishings, large bank accounts, and concealed wealth, are very likely to feel unkindly towards the stringent provisions of this law. They have been evading their just share of taxation for years. They are today the most ignorant of the many people calling at the assessor's office to make out and verify under oath their respective schedules, simply because it is so many years since they were called upon to pay a personal property tax, that they have forgotten all about the form. The holders of large real estate interests, who, for years, have been paying assessors to exempt them from assessment, or reduce their valuations, are, also, most probably confronted with the impossibility of escape from paying their proper share of general taxes. This iniquitous system has been denounced in the press for years. A year ago a town assessor was convicted of the offense, and heavily fined by the court. The tax evaders are as vicious a class in a community as are sneak thieves. Their payment to assessors to lower their valuations is the worst species of corruption. The payrolls of the town assessors present the most conspicuous instances of corruption to be found in any department of the county, or city, government. Many men are carried on their pay rolls and paid from five to ten dollars per day who never do one moment's work in the making of the assessment. They are simply being nursed for political purposes. In one of the wealthiest towns a payroll fell under the writer's observation, which showed a clear steal of $2,200 for a period of two weeks only. These officials designated a personal friend to whom all money was paid. One-fourth of these payments were handed over to the "solicitor" who brought in the "business," one-fourth to the "friend," and the remaining one-half went to the assessor. Men in high station in national and state councils, state and national committeemen, city and county officers, lawyers, politicians and sporting men were engaged in this business of boodling, throwing upon the owners of small real estate interests more than their fair share of the burdens of taxation. In an address delivered in this city by an ex-President of the United States, he said that as Lincoln had declared this country could not exist half slave and half free, so he declared "it could not exist half taxed and half free" from taxation, that the sin of tax evasion was a new danger to the integrity of the Republic and that its evil lay in the "evasion of just taxation by the rich, and the consequent thrusting of an extra burden on the poor." The corporations engaged in the manufacture of gas, in the management of traction companies, of live stock exchanges, of packing companies, railroads, steel companies, sleeping car builders and merchants owning large landed properties, have had their agents regularly employed in procuring a reduction of their valuations for assessment, who were nothing more nor less than bribers. Whether these crimes will be as freely attempted under the new law remains to be developed, but some of the distributors of personal property schedules are again playing their old trick of taking money from the poor under promise of returning them as non-holders of taxable personal property. An arrest of one of these robbers, who had accepted one dollar from each of a number of women has been made. The men elected as assessors and as members of the board of review are men of good character and able judgment. The only indication of danger is that a political boss who has lived and thrived at the public crib and whose political methods have always been unscrupulous has been appointed chief clerk of the board of review. His salary is large enough to keep him out of temptation, if he has not forgotten the ways of the righteous. He was an expert "adjuster" in politics. In assessments the "adjuster's" occupation should now be gone. The difficulty lies in teaching an old adjuster new tricks. The old system of assessment for general taxation was denounced by an official of the county as "nothing more nor less than a gigantic legalized swindle, reeking in corruption, a harbor for 'grafters,' 'petty thieves,' and 'sharks,' and an enormous, unnecessary and galling burden on the tax payers, the expense of which has no justification in reason and should have none in law." The new system abolishes but one of the evils of the old. In place of town assessors, a board of five assessors is established whose work is subject to review by another composed of three members. Their labors are, in turn, passed upon by the State Board of Equalization, before which for years railroads and other corporations have had their adjusters, agents or brokers, and before which they will continue to appear and accomplish, as they always have accomplished, the placing of the lowest possible valuations upon railroad properties, and a reduction of capital stock valuations. The board of assessors now values all the real estate in Cook county in place of the assessors in the separate towns within the county. These towns, six of which are wholly within the city limits, are, through their officials, plunderers of the public, robbing the funds of the towns by increasing their salaries out of all proportion to the services they are required to render, and which could well be dispensed with to the greatest advantage of the people. In the year 1898 they cost the treasury $395,411.55. Absolutely nothing is apparent as the result of this looting of public funds. They occupy, in the business parts of the city, expensive offices, which are open for public use not to exceed four months in the year, and afford, for the remaining months, club accommodations for the hangers on of the political crooks who manage party affairs. Card playing and gambling are their principal occupations. In the division of the proceeds of the robbery, the justices of the peace participate. They are, by virtue of their offices, members of the town board. Their services are not worth ten dollars per annum, but they receive compensation ranging from $200 to $500 per annum. As illustrating the tendency of these town boards, from which the assessment of property for taxation has now been taken away, the following are the valuations of real estate and personal property for the past three years as equalized by the state board. The foundation for the assessments was laid by the town assessors. It will be observed that, notwithstanding the increase in population, the value of real estate and personal property has been steadily declining. The decline is a measure of the boodling propensities of the assessors. Their percentage of award "no fellah can find out." VALUATIONS FOR ASSESSMENT. 1896. 1897. 1898. Real estate $195,684,875 $184,632,905 $178,801,172 Personal property 34,959,299 33,594,167 29,601,393 Population, school census 1,616,635 1,851,588 The value of the taxable real estate in Chicago, according to these figures, decreased in two years $18,883,703, and the value of taxable personal property $5,357,906. During the same period the population increased 234,953. As wealth and population increase in Chicago, values of property decline. At ten per cent of its cash value, which is the basis adopted by assessors for years for taxation value, taxable real estate in Chicago is, in round numbers worth $1,788,000,000. It is impossible to average the per cent paid for reductions in valuations to the assessors. Of the eighteen millions in reduced valuations in 1898, as compared with 1896, it is safe to say five millions were purchased. As the rate of taxation was between nine and ten dollars on one hundred dollars the amount of taxes paid by those who should not have paid them was $500,000. The assessors were "not working for their health," but for about fifty per cent of the taxes saved to their principals, with the aid of the friend and the agent who brought the business, or say about $250,000 of "graft." The coroner's office is also one which not infrequently gives rise to scandals. There are open charges made that some of the juries, called by that official, have found exonerating, instead of incriminating, verdicts for a money consideration in the division of which the office participated. An unseemly quarrel between the coroner and the police revealed the fact that both have favorite undertakers to whom the bodies of those meeting sudden death from accident, or otherwise, are taken. In a dispute as to which should control a corpse a most painful truth became public that it was carted about from one undertaking establishment to another, and that even the law was invoked to obtain possession of it by means of a writ of replevin. The office of the recorder of deeds is one of the most important in the county affairs. Generally speaking it is well conducted, although its records are not as presentable to the eye as are the books of a first-class mercantile firm. Female labor is employed mostly in recording, i. e., spreading an instrument at large upon the records, while male labor keeps up the tract books, indices, etc. The employes of both sexes are favorites of political bosses. The abstract branch of the business of this office is a sublime failure. For years it has cost the county a large sum of money to make good the deficiency--expenses largely exceeding earnings. Its abstracts cannot compete with those of private corporations, which employ experts in that business, and pay them in proportion to their ability, merit alone being their recommendation. The abstract makers employed by the county are shiftless and incompetent. The Torrens system, or the registration of titles, will, in time, but not for many years to come, supersede the abstract system, but not until the public shall have gained more confidence in its merits than it has yet acquired in recorder's abstracts of title. It was not the purpose of these pages to pursue inquiry into the corruption existing in both the municipal and county governments. The primary intent was to refer to the vices and crimes which prevail by reason principally of police partnership in their joint proceeds. Both governments are corrupt, and appear to be so because the people consent they shall be corrupt. The lessons the public learn from day to day, through the columns of the press, are forgotten. When election day approaches a revival of the facts through the press is then charged to political trickery, and its charges of maladministration are disregarded as being invented for party purposes. The press condemns while the evils are prominent, then it condones, and becomes the subservient and truculent supporter of the men who permitted vice and debauchery to attain its stalwart growth. The people believe there is a trust press, banded together to obtain favors through school leases, bank deposits of public funds and personal appointments in return for services to be rendered their municipal benefactors. The only non-member of the trust is the organ of the street car corporations and such exposes of villainy as it may present are set down as means to an end--the effort to obtain public privileges without compensation to the city. Newspapers, therefore, in municipal affairs no longer lead public opinion. They cannot again become its leaders until they free themselves from the suspicion of conserving their own interests by the sacrifice of those of the public. The greatest of them delivered but feeble blows during the recent mayoralty campaign, while the lighter weights, who were fighting for a candidate for renewed honors, had been for two years most unmercifully pounding him for his persistent assistance rendered to the vicious classes, in their indulgence in crime and debauchery. The various civic societies formed for the improvement of municipal government, pay attention solely to matters removed from the insidious and ceaseless advances of crime, close their eyes to evidences of disease apparent on the body politic, and merely dream of higher ideals. They leave to one society the task of the suppression of vice. They give to it neither sympathy nor pecuniary assistance. It begs its way in meetings of its sympathizers, warns the community of the prevalence of crime and indecency, but the community rushes on in the business struggles of the day from year to year, trusting--as it always has trusted--in its public servants for the full performance of their sworn duties--a trust so constantly violated that municipal government has become merely the synonym of the rule of the criminal classes. A special session of the Illinois Legislature was called by the Governor in 1897. Among the subjects included in the call was one suggesting the passage of an act "to establish boards providing for non-partisan police in all cities of the State containing over 100,000 inhabitants." Pursuant to the recommendations of the executive's message, a resolution was passed by the Senate for the appointment of a committee of seven members of that body, which recited the recommendation of the Governor; that a bill had been introduced providing for the establishment of non-partisan police boards in all cities containing the necessary population; that charges and scandals had arisen in regard to the management of the police force in Chicago, and that the committee be clothed "with full power to act" and to investigate "fully the subject" and report its findings as early as possible to the Senate at the special session. The committee consisted of one people's party, one democratic senator and five republican senators. From the moment of its selection it was branded as a partisan committee, appointed not so much to obtain information which would enable an unbiased judgment to be formed upon the merits of the proposed bill as to accumulate political capital for the use of the republican party. The committee proceeded with its investigation, and on February 10th, 1898, submitted its report, which was adopted February 15th, 1898, by a vote of thirty-three republicans and one democrat, eight democrats voting in the negative. The only democrat voting in the affirmative was a member of the reporting committee. On the last day of the special session, no legislation having been enacted on the subject of the proposed bill, a resolution was introduced providing for a continuance of the committee, which recited that it had "unearthed a most deplorable state of affairs in the management and control of the police force of Chicago," and that "the most flagrant violations of the civil service law have been brazenly practiced by those in authority in control of that police force." Nothing resulted from the latter resolution continuing the committee. The report covered the investigations of the committee into the operations of the civil service law, and the manner of its enforcement, finding that it was a plaything in the hands of the party then in power, and an object of constant and premeditated attack. It also found the grossest abuses in the management of the police pension fund and in the workings of the police force as an organization. That crime was protected and lewdness tolerated by it, and that in fact it was a powerful ally of the criminal classes, and practically made an unofficial livelihood off unfortunate women of the town, thieves and their fences, gambling resorts and their keepers, and the patrons and keepers of the all night saloons. It found the Chief of Police was cognizant of the facts, and yet took no steps to correct them. That Chief from whose testimony quotations appear in these pages, was re-appointed to command the police force for the next two years. The findings of this committee made but little, if any, impression upon the public mind. There were no revelations as to the condition of criminal affairs, and the relations of the police therewith, which were new to the people, with the possible exception, perhaps, that it was not known how utterly inefficient and irresponsible the Chief of Police was. From that moment every newspaper has, if not demanded, at least suggested his removal from office. In this respect it but voices the sentiments of the entire community. It is a paradox why, in the face of this public feeling, a majority of the people supported for re-election the staunch friend of the dishonored head of the police force, unless upon the hypothesis that he would not continue to be a part of the new administration. If so, the hypothesis soon failed. The Mayor thought he would "hold him for a while." The lesson to be learned from the failure of this committee's report to attract public attention to the prevalence of criminality and obscenity in Chicago as fostered by the police force is this, that an investigation concerning the methods of government of a city administration controlled by the Democratic party, without a kindred investigation of the methods of a county administration controlled by the Republican party is too partisan to suit the sense of fair play and of justice entertained by every American citizen. It matters not that the order for the investigation had reference only to the passage of legislation for the regulation of the police force in cities of a certain population, and that, therefore, the scope of the inquiry was limited by the terms of the order. Perhaps it was as broad as it could have been made, under the governor's call, which, by the provisions of the constitution fixed the subjects upon which only legislation could be enacted in special session. Either the call should have been broader, or this particular subject matter should have been omitted from it, and left for the regular session's consideration. Then all matters pertaining to the manner of conducting both city and county affairs could have been investigated free from the delimitations of an executive call. Nevertheless, the fact remains that the report of the Berry Committee, as it was called, is a stinging indictment against the police force of Chicago, which sooner or later must be tried at the bar of public opinion. It will, in a measure, have blazed the way for a new committee of inquiry, whose sittings have just commenced, in so far as the police department is concerned. The Baxter Committee was formed under a resolution of the Senate. It consists of five republican and two democratic senators. The resolution refers "to the management and control of the police affairs" of Chicago, and "the conduct of the municipal government thereof, in reference to the expenditure of public money and the enforcement of the law in its several departments." This language would limit the scope of the committee's inquiry to city affairs only. The resolution, however, closes with words granting authority to the committee for a "full, complete and perfect investigation of any and all the said subject matters herein named, and such other subjects as they may deem wise and prudent to investigate in the interests of good government." If this committee is wise it will not confine its efforts to ascertaining how the city government is managed. It will command public approval if it will extend its inquiries into the affairs of the county government as well. This the community will demand; with less it will not be satisfied. The great mass of both parties is concerned with what will be of the most advantage to good government, not with what will be to the greatest advantage of either party. Hence, if this inquiry has in view a partisan purpose its sessions will merely reproduce tales of the street familiar to the ears of the people, and with which the legislature has been familiar for a decade. To associate these crimes and debaucheries with one administration will in one respect be unfair, because they have progressed under other administrations as well, but it can emphasize the one great and astonishing truth, that never in the history of the city has a police force been permitted to become the bed-fellow of these monstrous evils, to protect them and contribute to their overwhelming power, in such a shameless, openhanded and defiant manner as it has in the past two years, as it is still permitted to do, and as it will probably be permitted to do, for the next two years. That committee will find nothing in these pages unknown to the observing citizen. The great mass of the people read and forget. These evils are hinted at herein, and gathered together. They may impress those who are unaccustomed to taking notes of passing events. That the growth of crime in Chicago, and the prevalence of bestiality is not generally believed by the majority of its people is a self-evident proposition. It would be an insult to their intelligence and virtue to assert they knew the facts. It is not a criticism of their intelligence to say they do not know the facts. It is rather to their credit that in the pursuit of their business, the care of their homes, and the cultivation of their morals, they judge the great community in which they live by their own standard, and firmly believe that as they know themselves to be good citizens, they believe their fellow men are likewise good citizens. While they rest in this conviction vice is eternally at work, immorality undermining and crime attacking the power of government, capturing one and then the other of its strongholds, until today the criminal classes constitute the balance of power in every city election, and can handle it as they may choose, by the mere concentration of the voting strength of the keepers of eight thousand saloons and their hangers on. The appointment of a comptroller and corporation counsel acceptable to the public, both being men of sterling integrity, and known ability, is merely a partial promise of reform. The new comptroller is a worthy successor to the deceased Waller, while the new corporation counsel takes his office, with a reputation for probity and legal acumen which are guaranties that neither will be used in an attack upon the people's laws. But the police department and the public works department are still under the same direction. They give no promise of departing from the protection of criminals on the one hand, nor the illegal letting of contracts on the other. Both of these are inviting fields for the Baxter committee to explore, and when they shall have thoroughly done so, if they shall turn their attention to county affairs, they will probably find pastures just as prolific of the rankest of weeds. The Baxter committee began its hearings on the 18th day of May, 1899. Its opening witness confirmed the truth of many of the facts set forth in these pages. He paid protection money for keeping a gambling house, until the demands for a contribution to a campaign fund became too exacting, when he was "told he had better quit." "As an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure," said the witness: "I quit." He testified that gambling was going on everywhere a few days before the committee began its work, named a number of the resorts, and related some of his losses in a few of the games in which, although a professional gambler, he was "skinned." Officers were found in them, and protection to the games openly boasted of. The club organization, it develops, is the gambling idea of evading the laws, the theory being that none can gamble unless they are members. The practice seems, however, to be that every man is a member who will not squeal. Houses of disrepute were visited, and the indecencies alluded to in foregoing pages witnessed by the sergeant-at-arms of the committee. His testimony in this respect was too realistic for publication. A member of a recent grand jury submitted a list of all night saloons he had visited, and found doing business, between the hours of one and five o'clock in the morning. The list contained the names of forty-six saloons, located on eleven different streets. His information was not as startling as was the fact that his joint feat of pedestrianism and absorption of drink is, perhaps, unequalled in sporting or drinking records. He drank in each of the places visited--total drinks, forty-six in four hours. Length of route covered four miles; width, about one-half mile; square miles traversed--two! Can any sprinter, carrying the same weights, surpass this achievement? The witnesses so far called before the committee are mostly from the detective force, and from among lodging house keepers. Their replies are evasive, and when not so, their memories are clouded. All they had ever known of the subjects upon which they are interrogated had fled from their recollection. "I don't remember," avoided many a pitfall. The methods of the committee do not impress an observer as having been the result of much consultation or careful preparation for their work. There is an apparent indifference on the part of some of its members to reaching results, or to remaining steadily in the pursuit of the purposes for which it was organized. Political influences are undoubtedly at work to shorten the lines of its inquiry, and the length of the days it shall devote to their development. This investigation is not wanted by local politicians of either party. It rests with the committee alone to determine whether its work shall be well done or not. To maintain the dignity of the State is their first duty, let their investigation reveal what it may and strike whom it will. A people who voluntarily submit to taxation for the construction of such a stupendous improvement as the drainage canal costing $28,000,000, who apply their surplus water fund to the building of a complete system of intercepting sewers, who compel the abolition of the murderous grade crossings, through the elevation of railway tracks, all for the improvement of the sanitary condition and safety of their homes and lives, are entitled to the best protection the state can give them against the domination of criminals and debauchees, even if the management of its police force should thereby be placed in the hands of state agencies, or under some other supervision which will compel it to dissolve its relations with vice, and prevent it from utilization for political ends. Submission to the exactions of trusts, in the shape of telephone and gas companies, does not require them to submit to a trust of criminals and police officials. The element to which it is estimated $70,000,000 is annually paid in Chicago for its drink bill, must be so regulated, as that it shall cease to furnish the balance of power in elections, to exercise a baneful influence over the police, to ruin the young, to encourage debauchery, and breed criminals. A municipal government that cannot, or will not, control these vicious agencies, will ultimately be condemned by a public-spirited people, if they can be, as they sooner or later will be, persuaded to devote a few hours, taken from their business or pleasure, to a vigorous uprooting of a system under which such iniquities can be born and develop to such menacing proportions. There must be an awakening to the fact that "They say this town is full of cozenage, As, nimble jugglers that deceive the eye, Dark-working sorcerers that change the mind, Soul-killing witches that deform the body, Disguised cheaters, prating mountebanks, And many such like liberties of sin." APPENDIX. From the daily press a few accounts are culled, and added by way of appendix, as to the perpetration of crime and the habits of the police in connection with it. The Baxter Committee unearthed the following account of the degree of protection afforded to citizens by police officers, and the easy-going indifference with which the Chief of Police regarded the affair when it was first called to his attention. On the night of March 3d ult. a woman returning from a drug store was stopped by two detectives and charged with soliciting men upon the streets. She denied this offensive charge, told where she had been and where returning, and showed a bottle of medicine she carried as confirmatory of her statements. This happened about 8:45 o'clock. She was then within twenty feet of the entrance to the house in which she lived. Notwithstanding her denial, the officers went to the house with her. One of them then said, "I'm an officer; open this door!" Another woman with whom the arrested woman was boarding asked, "What is the matter?" One of the officers replied, "This woman was on the street soliciting," to which the boarding house keeper replied, "You are mistaken." "Well," said the officer, "if you want to stop her give me $15," and the reply was, "She has no money to give you or to any one." The boarding house keeper, thinking the men were common thieves, then whispered to the accused woman, "Go with them and I will follow you." The officers took their woman to a corner and into a saloon, where they compelled her to give up a pair of diamond earrings for ten dollars which were handed to her by the bartender. The boarding house woman followed, and prevented the detectives from obtaining the ten dollars, but finally they grabbed the bill from the accused woman's hands. The women were then released and returned to their home. Taking a sealskin sack with them they returned to the saloon, and were handed the diamond earrings, but not without leaving the sack in their stead. The women saw the detectives return, and drink at the bar, paying for their tipple with the money they had snatched from the hand of the one. While the parties were wrangling on the street a police sergeant and two officers in uniform passed. One of the women cried out, "Here are two men robbing this woman!" The sergeant replied, after observation, "I have got nothing to do with this." One of the women asked, "What are you for?" Then the sergeant, having discovered the men were detectives, said to one of them, "They are all right. Get what you can." The sergeant then left. The women now demanded that the detectives show their badges of authority. They were shown. Demand was then made that a patrol wagon should be called. This was denied, but accidentally one came along the street returning to its station. When the accused woman caught sight of it she fainted. The boarding house keeper raised such commotion that one of the detectives said, "For God's sake, shut that woman's mouth up or she will make us trouble!" They then ran away. The next day the boarding house woman called on the Chief of Police and told the whole story. He referred her to the Lieutenant at the station of the precinct in which the indignity occurred. To him the entire facts were given, and written down by the desk sergeant. The men were there identified. On the following day one of the detectives went to the women's house, accompanied by a brother-in-law, whose wife was a personal friend of the boarding house woman. The detective had a copy of the woman's statement as she had made it at the police station. He begged for mercy, crying, "he had nothing to say for himself." He piteously pleaded he had a mother in the hospital, a mother-in-law who was dying, and three small children to support. Suggestions were made, and the woman's feelings worked upon so that she was induced to leave the city. Meanwhile the boarding house keeper made a statement at another police station, in which she suppressed the facts as to the diamonds and the money. She was asked to appear before the police trial board, and refused. Thereupon the charges against the detectives were dismissed. It developed before the Baxter Committee that the Chief of Police had been told all the facts. The papers got hold of an account of the affair, and the Chief called upon the boarding house keeper. In the course of his conversation, this woman trying to protect the officers through her aroused sympathy, was asked by the Chief, "What about those diamond earrings and sealskin sack?" The woman answered, "If you don't know, I don't." He then asked, "Didn't you tell that to me?" She answered, "If you can't remember, I can't." She was then questioned by the Chief whether these officers were begging her to quash the matter, whether they were offering her money for that purpose, etc. The Chief stated the reporters were hounding him to death, when the woman asked him "why he did not show her statement?" He replied it was locked up, "if they want any information they can get it from you." One of the men is still a member of the detective force. The other resigned and went into the saloon business, and appeared before the committee entering a partial denial of the woman's story. The knowledge of the Chief of all the facts was fully shown before the committee. Notwithstanding this, he does not appear to have taken any steps to keep the matter before the trial board, or to institute any other proceedings to bring these detectives to punishment. This is not at all surprising in the face of the fact that this officer is, as is shown in court proceedings, a veritable czar in his own estimation. The following account is taken from the _Chicago Democrat_ of May 27th ult. A similar report of the case is contained in the other dailies. "Judge Brentano held, this morning, that Chief of Police K. did not have the power to have a man restrained of his liberty at his (K.'s) request. The decision was brought about on the hearing of a petition for a writ of habeas corpus filed by Attorney F. A. D. for the release of Edward H., who was arrested last Monday morning at Twenty-ninth and State streets on account of the shooting of Officer James S., which resulted from an attempt of a number of officers to enforce the disarmament-of-colored-people policy of the Chief of Police. "The man had been confined in the county jail, and the return of the sheriff, when the prisoner was brought into court, read: 'Edward H. has been detained in my custody at the request of J. K., Chief of Police for the city of Chicago.' Judge Brentano evinced great displeasure when he read the return of the illegal detainment of the prisoner. 'A man,' said the court, 'cannot be held at the simple request of K. or any other person. K.'s word is not sufficient to keep any man in custody. I won't tolerate any such actions, for if the man was guilty of shooting an officer, or committing any other crime, Mr. K. has had sufficient time and knows how to take the proper steps to punish the prisoner.' "'The court certainly would not allow this man his liberty when he is under arrest and has not been booked or complained against before a justice of the peace owing to the neglect perhaps of such a high official as Mr. K.,' remarked the assistant city prosecuting attorney. "'I certainly would, regardless of whose neglect it is,' said the court. 'The prisoner is discharged.' "No witnesses were heard, the prisoner being discharged on the ground that it was shown in the return of the sheriff that H. was simply being detained to please Chief K. "Attorney D. had witnesses in court to show that the prisoner had been beaten and injured by the police who arrested him, both before his arrival at the Twenty-second street station and after he was installed in a cell at that place. "Prisoners who were in the station at the time H. was taken there were in court to testify that the officers who had charge of the prisoner beat and struck him in such a manner that they thought H. would be killed. "The prisoner's face and condition in court were the best evidences of the treatment he had received. "Both of his eyes are closed, swollen and discolored to such a degree that they stand out in bold contrast to his own color, which is a dark copper. Two gashes, each six inches long, on the top and front of his head bear testimony to the means said to have been used by the officers in carrying out their chief's new disarmament policy. "It is also alleged that the prisoner was confined in a dungeon cell while he was in the custody of the Twenty-second street police. "After his discharge the injured man had to be helped to the elevator by two of his friends because of his injuries. The names of the officers who assaulted the prisoner were not obtainable, for the reason that the prisoner had not been booked and the officer making the arrest had not signed any complaint." Two observations will arrest the attention of the average reader. They must naturally occur to his mind. First, What sort of a Sheriff is he who will keep a man in jail, without a proper commitment? Second, What kind of a lawyer must he be who will suggest to a court the propriety of depriving a man of his liberty, without due process of law, at the mere request of such "a high official" as the Chief of Police? The return of the Sheriff in this case to the writ of _habeas corpus_ should have been treated as a contempt of court. Pool rooms are operating as of yore. The _Daily News_ of May 27 ult. contains the following, viz.: "The saloon of J. H. D. at E. and N. C. streets was converted into a pool room yesterday afternoon at the time the ticker began to record the winning horses in the races at the various tracks throughout the country. A dozen men assembled in the barroom where the ticker was located and placed bets, while a number of women sat in the back rooms and also chanced their money. "The women's wants were looked after by a young man who answered to the name of 'Dude.' After each race he carried them the slip printed from the ticker showing the winners and handed their money to those who had been lucky. During the interval between the races the schedule of the next race was discussed by all who intended to place money, and 'Dude' would come from the rear room with a handful of bills to place on some race by the women. "On the inside money was passed over the bar indiscriminately and a clerk was busy keeping track of those who placed bets. From the conversation which passed between those in the barroom one might judge that he was in a genuine poolroom, where the interference of police was not to be feared. "All the men present merely gave their initials when they risked their money, and these were carefully preserved on paper until the ticker decided whether the money was lost or won. The man who passed as 'Dude' had charge of the pools apparently, and all the money which was placed went through his hands. After taking it he would call the initials of the man placing the bet and then hand the money to the man behind the bar." The ticker was presided over by a large, smooth-faced, well-dressed man and anything which came over the machine which was not a report on a horse race was of no interest. The reports of the score at the various ball games were soon shown the waste basket, while the lists of the horses which earned places were preserved and hung on hooks after they had been carefully inspected by those present. A number of stylishly dressed women were seen to enter the place, and, according to information furnished the _Daily News_, women have been in the habit of visiting the D. saloon for some time for the purpose of placing bets on the races. Two young women came from the direction of L. S. avenue about 4 o'clock and entered the place apparently as though it was nothing new to them. "The 'ladies' entrance' is on the E. street side. The rooms for women are arranged in the east half of the double-flat building on E. street, while the saloon faces on C. street. "J. H. D., who conducts the place, came in yesterday afternoon while the betting was at its height, and, bedecked in diamonds, walked leisurely behind the bar and, picking up a Racing Form, turned to the 'boys' and asked how 'things were going.' He was told the winners in the races which had been reported during his absence and seemed pleased with what was told him. "The saloon is known as 'D.'s O. P. C.,' and has been conducted at this place for the past five or six years. The license for the place is in the name of Mrs. J. H. D. It is said that D. was formerly in the saloon business here, but sold out and went to New York, where he put on a vaudeville show and sunk several thousand dollars trying to make it pay. He finally failed, it is said, and came back to Chicago and reopened his saloon. "At the Chicago avenue police station nothing was known apparently of the gambling at the D. saloon on the races. Capt. R. said that he told a couple of his men some time ago to watch the place, but he said they had reported nothing irregular. The captain seemed surprised when he heard of how affairs were, and Inspector H. was apparently very indignant at the thought that anything of the sort was going on in his district. He at once gave the captain orders to send a couple of men to the place and if anything was found to be going on there to stop it." The result of the visit of the Inspector's officers is thus stated in the _Tribune_ of May 28th ult. Its headline is suggestive, in view of the particulars given in the _Daily News_ of the occurrences by its reporter. "REPORT NO GAMBLING." "A report that a poolroom was being conducted in the saloon of J. H. D., E. and N. C. Streets, was investigated yesterday by Detectives B. and R., who visited the place at 3 p. m., and reported no gambling existed there. It was said that during Friday afternoon bets on the races were accepted in the saloon and that men as well as women frequented the place." The newspapers contribute evidences of the absence of crime in Chicago, and of police operations as follows, viz.: From the _Daily News_ May 27th ult. "Officers from the Attrill street police station are scouring the west side in an effort to apprehend burglars who created havoc in the vicinity of Humboldt Park boulevard and Western avenue during the early morning hours of yesterday. Among the residences visited by the night prowlers were those of: (Here follows a list of eleven burglaries.) "In addition burglaries at the following places in the immediate neighborhood have been committed within the last few days: (Here follows a list of four burglaries.) "One of the burglars rode from house to house on a bicycle. Two revolvers dropped by the visitors were found in the yard of the E. residence. The territory suffering the nightly raids is embraced in the suburb of Maplewood, and citizens have armed themselves in their own defense, asserting that police uniforms have not been seen on the streets concerned for weeks." From the _Democrat_ May 27th ult.: "Burglars forced an entrance into the store of the Guarantee Clothing Company, State street, last night and stole nearly $1,000 worth of goods. "Apparently the thieves took their time, and the police say they must have used a wagon in removing the goods. Persons living in the flats above heard nothing unusual during the night, and the police are unable to comprehend how the thieves could remove the great amount of property without attracting attention. "This morning a clerk opened the front door of the store. It looked as though a small cyclone had passed through the establishment." This burglary took place between two police stations, from neither of which it was far distant. It is probable that if one officer had gone over his beat just once that night, its perpetrators would have been caught in the act. Some neighboring saloon was, perhaps, more needful of police protection! Some tremendous effort is being made, however, to suppress policy shops and clean out all night saloons! Witness the following, viz.: From papers of May 27th ult.: "Detectives D. and D. of Chief K.'s office raided a policy shop in the basement of the building at 6 Washington street last night and destroyed the fixtures of the place and confiscated the sheets, records and other paraphernalia. "The shop was in a small room under the sidewalk and was reached through a barber shop. S. H., the police say, was the agent in charge of the place, and represented the O. R. & G. company of Fort Erie, Canada. No arrests were made, but Chief K. says the place will remain closed." "Two hours after midnight Sergt. M. and Officers M., O'B., H. and F., from the Harrison street police station, raided the C. L. saloon at State street, arresting sixty inmates. The majority of these were boys. There was one man with gray hair and wrinkled face. "Shortly before the police court convened at 9 o'clock the entire crowd was marched into Inspector H.'s office and from there to the courtroom, where the cases were disposed of by Justice M. Every sort of a plea generally used in court was brought into play by the defendants. Some cases were dismissed, while other prisoners were fined $25 and $50. The police claim about half of those arrested were criminals. "The arrests were made because of the large number of complaints against the saloon." The raid on the policy shop belongs to the spasmodic line of operations of the police. Fifty of them could be made if some mysterious reason did not exist why they are not made. The saloon referred to belongs to the all night class, and is one of the most notorious of the kind. It has been protected in the past, and still would be if it were not for the fact that "a large number of complaints" have been made against it. These are not new to the police. They have been made before, but something must be done for appearance sake while the Baxter Committee continues its probing! That this place was a resort for criminals is not a recent discovery by the police. They always knew it. To cull the press for proofs of the truth of the charges made in the foregoing pages, would result, in a few days, in the reproduction of a mass of evidence on the total inefficiency of the police force. Such as are here given are examples of the many the scissors could find. The reader can multiply them, in his mind, ten fold in a week's time, and then reach a result far short of the facts. The whole story of the alliance between the police, the saloons and the justices is told in the following cartoon taken from the Daily News of June 23, 1899. [Illustration: CAUGHT COMING AND GOING.] THE DIVEKEEPER (to Harrison street police officer)--"I've got my dollar a head out of them. Now you can drive them into court and give the justice his chance." 
11418	----	Proofreading Team. [Illustration: "DO YOU BEGIN TO SUSPECT THINGS?" SHE ASKED.] THE GRAFTERS BY FRANCIS LYNDE ILLUSTRATED BY ARTHUR I. KELLER CONTENTS CHAPTER I ASHES OF EMPIRE II A MAN OF THE PEOPLE III THE BOSTONIANS IV THE FLESH-POTS OF EGYPT V JOURNEYS END-- VI OF THE MAKING OF LAWS VII THE SENTIMENTALISTS VIII THE HAYMAKERS IX THE SHOCKING OF HUNNICOTT X WITHOUT BENEFIT OF CLERGY XI THE LAST DITCH XII THE MAN IN POSSESSION XIII THE WRECKERS XIV THE GERRYMANDER XV THE JUNKETERS XVI SHARPENING THE SWORD XVII THE CONSPIRATORS XVIII DOWN, BRUNO! XIX DEEP-SEA SOUNDINGS XX THE WINNING LOSER XXI A WOMAN INTERVENES XXII A BORROWED CONSCIENCE XXIII THE INSURRECTIONARIES XXIV INTO THE PRIMITIVE XXV DEAD WATER AND QUICK XXVI ON THE HIGH PLAINS XXVII BY ORDER OF THE COURT XXVIII THE NIGHT OF ALARMS XXIX THE RELENTLESS WHEELS XXX SUBHI SADIK TO MY GOOD FRIEND MR. EDWARD YOUNG CHAPIN THE GRAFTERS I ASHES OF EMPIRE In point of age, Gaston the strenuous was still no more than a lusty infant among the cities of the brown plain when the boom broke and the junto was born, though its beginnings as a halt camp ran back to the days of the later Mormon migrations across the thirsty plain; to that day when the advanced guard of Zophar Smith's ox-train dug wells in the damp sands of Dry Creek and called them the Waters of Merom. Later, one Jethro Simsby, a Mormon deserter, set up his rod and staff on the banks of the creek, home-steaded a quarter-section of the sage-brush plain, and in due time came to be known as the Dry Creek cattle king. And the cow-camp was still Simsby's when the locating engineers of the Western Pacific, searching for tank stations in a land where water was scarce and hard to come by, drove their stakes along the north line of the quarter-section; and having named their last station Alphonse, christened this one Gaston. From the stake-driving of the engineers to the spike-driving of the track-layers was a full decade. For hard times overtook the Western Pacific at Midland City, eighty miles to the eastward; while the State capital, two days' bronco-jolting west of Dry Creek, had railroad outlets in plenty and no inducements to offer a new-comer. But, with the breaking of the cloud of financial depression, the Western Pacific succeeded in placing its extension bonds, and a little later the earth began to fly on the grade of the new line to the west. Within a Sundayless month the electric lights of the night shift could be seen, and, when the wind was right, the shriek of the locomotive whistle could be heard at Dry Creek; and in this interval between dawn and daylight Jethro Simsby sold his quarter-section for the nominal sum of two thousand dollars, spot cash, to two men who buck-boarded in ahead of the track-layers. This purchase of the "J-lazy-S" ranch by Hawk and Guilford marked the modest beginning of Gaston the marvelous. By the time the temporary sidings were down and the tank well was dug in the damp sands, it was heralded far and wide that the Western Pacific would make the city on the banks of Dry Creek--a city consisting as yet only of the Simsby ranch shacks--its western terminus. Thereupon followed one of the senseless rushes that populate the waste places of the earth and give the professional city-builder his reason for being. In a fortnight after the driving of the silver spike the dusty plain was dotted with the black-roofed shelters of the Argonauts; and by the following spring the plow was furrowing the cattle ranges in ever-widening circles, and Gaston had voted a bond loan of three hundred thousand dollars to pave its streets. Then under the forced draft of skilful exploitation, three years of high pressure passed quickly; years named by the promoters the period of development. In the Year One the very heavens smiled and the rainfall broke the record of the oldest inhabitant. Thus the region round about lost the word "arid" as a qualifying adjective, and the picturesque fictions of the prospectus makers were miraculously justified. In Year Two there was less rain, but still an abundant crop; and Jethro Simsby, drifting in from some unnamed frontier of a newer cow-country, saw what he had missed, took to drink, and shot himself in the lobby of the Mid-Continent Hotel, an ornate, five-storied, brick-and-terra-cotta structure standing precisely upon the site of the "J-lazy-S" branding corral. It was in this same Year Two, the fame of the latest of western Meccas for young men having penetrated to the provincial backgrounds of New Hampshire, that David Kent came. By virtue of his diploma, and three years of country practice in the New Hampshire county town where his father before him had read Blackstone and Chitty, he had his window on the fourth floor of the Farquhar Building lettered "Attorney and Counselor at Law"; but up to the day in the latter part of the fateful Year Three, when the overdue crash came, he was best known as a reckless plunger in real estate--this, mind you, at a moment when every third man counted his gains in "front feet", and was shouting himself hoarse at the daily brass-band lot sales. When the bottom fell out in the autumn of Year Three, Kent fell with it, though not altogether as far or as hard as many another. One of his professional hold-fasts--it was the one that afterward became the bread-tackle in the famine time--was his position as local attorney for the railway company. By reason of this he was among the first to have a hint of the impending cataclysm. The Western Pacific, after so long a pause on the banks of Dry Creek, had floated its second mortgage bonds and would presently build on to the capital, leaving Gaston to way-station quietude. Therefore and wherefore---- Kent was not lacking in native shrewdness or energy. He foresaw, not the pitiable bubble-burst which ensued, indeed, but the certain and inevitable end of the speculative era. Like every one else, he had bought chiefly with promises to pay, and his paper in the three banks aggregated a sum equal to a frugal New Hampshire competence. "How long have I got?" was the laconic wire which he sent to Loring, the secretary of the Western Pacific Advisory Board in Boston, from whom his hint had come. And when Loring replied that the grading and track-laying contracts were already awarded, there was at least one "long" on the Gaston real estate exchange who wrought desperately night and day to "unload". As it turned out, the race against time was both a victory and a defeat. On the morning when the _Daily Clarion_ sounded the first note of public alarm, David Kent took up the last of his bank promises-to-pay, and transferred his final mortgaged holding in Gaston realty. When it was done he locked himself in his office in the Farquhar Building and balanced the account. On leaving the New Hampshire country town to try the new cast for fortune in the golden West, he had turned his small patrimony into cash--some ten thousand dollars of it. To set over against the bill of exchange for this amount, which he had brought to Gaston a year earlier, there were a clean name, a few hundred dollars in bank, six lots, bought and paid for, in one of the Gaston suburbs, and a vast deal of experience. Kent ran his hands through his hair, opened the check-book and hastily filled out a check payable to himself for the remaining few hundreds. When he reached the Apache National on the corner of Colorado and Texas Streets, he was the one hundred and twenty-seventh man in the queue, which extended around the corner and doubled back and forth in the cross-street to the stoppage of all traffic. The announcement in the _Clarion_ had done its work, and the baleful flower of panic, which is a juggler's rose for quick-growing possibilities, was filling the very air of the street with its acrid perfume--the scent of all others that soonest drives men mad. Major James Guilford, the president of the Apache National, was in the cage with the sweating paying tellers, and it was to him that Kent presented his check when his turn came. "What! You, too, Kent?" said the president, reproachfully. "I thought you had more backbone." Kent shook his head. "Gaston has absorbed nine-tenths of the money I brought here; I'll absorb the remaining tenth myself, if it's just the same to you, Major. Thank you." And the hundred and twenty-seventh man pocketed his salvage from the wreck and fought his way out through the jam at the doors. Two hours farther along in the forenoon the Apache National suspended payment, and the bank examiner was wired for. For suddenness and thoroughgoing completeness the Gaston bubble-bursting was a record-breaker. For a week and a day there was a frantic struggle for enlargement, and by the expiration of a fortnight the life was pretty well trampled out of the civic corpse and the stench began to arise. Flight upon any terms then became the order of the day, and if the place had been suddenly plague-smitten the panicky exodus could scarcely have been more headlong. None the less, in any such disorderly up-anchoring there are stragglers perforce: some left like stranded hulks by the ebbing tide; others riding by mooring chains which may be neither slipped nor capstaned. When all was over there were deserted streets and empty suburbs in ruthless profusion; but there was also a hungry minority of the crews of the stranded and anchored hulks left behind to live or die as they might, and presently to fall into cannibalism, preying one upon another between whiles, or waiting like their prototypes of the Spanish Main for the stray spoils of any luckless argosy that might drift within grappling distance. Kent stayed partly because a local attorney for the railroad was as necessary in Gaston the bereaved as in Gaston the strenuous; partly, also, because he was a student of his kind, and the broken city gave him laboratory opportunities for the study of human nature at its worst. He marked the raising of the black flag as the Gaston castaways, getting sorrily afloat one by one, cleared their decks for action. Some Bluebeard admiral there will always be for such stressful occasions, and David Kent, standing aside and growing cynical day by day, laid even chances on Hawk, the ex-district attorney, on Major Guilford, and on one Jasper G. Bucks, sometime mayor of Gaston the iridescent. Afterward he was to learn that he had underrated the gifts of the former mayor. For when the famine time was fully come, and there were no more argosies drifting Gastonward for the bucaneers to sack and scuttle, it was Jasper G. Bucks who called a conference of his fellow werwolves, set forth his new cast for fortune, and brought the junto, the child of sheer desperation fiercely at bay, into being. It was in the autumn of that first cataclysmic year that Secretary Loring, traveling from Boston to the State capital on a mission for the Western Pacific, stopped over a train with Kent. After a rather dispiriting dinner in the deserted Mid-Continent café, and some plowing of the field of recollection in Kent's rooms in the Farquhar Building, they took the deserted street in the golden twilight to walk to the railway station. "It was a decent thing for you to do--stopping over a train with me, Grantham," said the host, when the five squares intervening had been half measured. "I have had all kinds of a time out here in this God-forsaken desert, but never until to-day anything approaching a chummy hour with a man I know and care for." Kent had not spoken since they had felt their way out of the dark lower hall of the Farquhar Building. Up to this point the talk had been pointedly reminiscent; of the men of their university year, of mutual friends in the far-away "God's country" to the eastward, of the Gastonian epic, of all things save only two--the exile's cast for fortune in the untamed West, and one other. "That brings us a little nearer to the things that be--and to your prospects, David," said the guest. "How are you fixed here?" Kent shrugged. "Gaston is dead, as you see; too dead to bury." "Why don't you get out of it, then?" "I shall some day, perhaps. Up to date there has been no place to go to, and no good way to arrive. Like some thousands of others, I've made an ass of myself here, Loring." "By coming, you mean? Oh, I don't know about that. You have had some hard knocks, I take it, but if you are the same David Kent I used to know, they have made a bigger man of you." "Think so?" "I'd bet on it. We have had the Gaston epic done out for us in the newspapers. No man could live through such an experience as you must have had without growing a few inches. Hello! What's this?" A turned corner had brought them in front of a lighted building in Texas Street with a straggling crowd gathered about the porticoed entrance. As Loring spoke, there was a rattle of snare drums followed by the _dum-dum_ of the bass, and a brass band ramped out the opening measures of a campaign march. "It is a rally," said Kent, when they had passed far enough beyond the zone of brass-throated clamorings to make the reply audible. "I told you that the Gaston wolf-pack had gone into politics. We are in the throes of a State election, and there is to be a political speech-making at the Opera House to-night, with Bucks in the title rôle. And there is a fair measure of the deadness of the town! When you see people flock together like that to hear a brass band play, it means one of two things: that the town hasn't outgrown the country village stage, or else it has passed that and all other stages and is well on its way to the cemetery." "That is one way of putting it," Loring rejoined. "If things are as bad as that, it's time you were moving on, don't you think?" "I guess so," was the lack-luster response. "Only I don't know where to go, or what to do when I get there." They were crossing the open square in front of the wide-eaved passenger station. A thunderous tremolo, dominating the distant band music, thrilled on the still air, and the extended arm of the station semaphore with its two dangling lanterns wagged twice. "My train," said Loring, quickening his step. "No," Kent corrected. "It is a special from the west, bringing a Bucks crowd to the political rally. Number Three isn't due for fifteen minutes yet, and she is always late." They mounted the steps to the station platform in good time to meet the three-car special as it came clattering in over the switches, and presently found themselves in the thick of the crowd of debarking ralliers. It was a mixed masculine multitude, fairly typical of time, place and occasion; stalwart men of the soil for the greater part, bearded and bronzed and rough-clothed, with here and there a range-rider in picturesque leathern shaps, sagging pistols and wide-flapped sombrero. Loring stood aside and put up his eye-glasses. It was his first sight near at hand of the untrammeled West _in puris naturalibus_, and he was finding the spectacle both instructive and diverting. Looking to Kent for fellowship he saw that his companion was holding himself stiffly aloof; also, he remarked that none of the boisterous partizans flung a word of recognition in Kent's direction. "Don't you know any of them?" he asked. Kent's reply was lost in the deep-chested bull-bellow of a cattleman from the Rio Blanco. "Hold on a minute, boys, before you scatter! Line up here, and let's give three cheers and a tail-twister for next-Governor Bucks! Now, then--_everybody_! Hip, hip----" The ripping crash of the cheer jarred Loring's eye-glasses from their hold, and he replaced them with a smile. Four times the ear-splitting shout went up, and as the echoes of the "tiger" trailed off into silence the stentorian voice was lifted again. "Good enough! Now, then; three groans for the land syndicates, alien mortgagees, and the Western Pacific Railroad, by grabs! and to hell with 'em!" The responsive clamor was a thing to be acutely remembered--sustained, long-drawn, vindictive; a nerve-wrenching pandemonium of groans, yelpings and cat-calls, in the midst of which the partizans shuffled into loose marching order and tramped away townward. "That answers your question, doesn't it?" said Kent, smiling sourly. "If not, I can set it out for you in words. The Western Pacific is the best-hated corporation this side of the Mississippi, and I am its local attorney." "I don't envy you," said Loring. "I had no idea the opposition crystallized itself in any such concrete ill will. You must have the whole weight of public sentiment against you in any railroad litigation." "I do," said Kent, simply. "If every complainant against us had the right to pack his own jury, we couldn't fare worse." "What is at the bottom of it? Is it our pricking of the Gaston bubble by building on to the capital?" "Oh, no; it's much more personal to these shouters. As you may, or may not, know, our line--like every other western railroad with no competition--has for its motto, 'All the tariff the traffic will stand,' and it bleeds the country accordingly. But we are forgetting your train. Shall we go and see how late it is?" II A MAN OF THE PEOPLE Train Number Three, the Western Flyer, was late, as Kent had predicted--just how late the operator could not tell; and pending the chalking-up of its arriving time on the bulletin board, the two men sat on an empty baggage truck and smoked in companionable silence. While they waited, Loring's thoughts were busy with many things, friendly solicitude for the exile serving as the point of departure. He knew what a handfast friend might know: how Kent had finished his postgraduate course in the law and had succeeded to his father's small practice in the New Hampshire county town where he was born and bred. Also, he knew how Kent's friends, college friends who knew his gifts and ability, had deprecated the burial; and he himself had been curious enough to pay Kent a visit to spy out the reason why. On their first evening together in the stuffy little law office which had been his father's, Kent had made a clean breast of it: there was a young woman in the case, and a promise passed before Kent had gone to college. She was a farmer's daughter, with no notion for a change of environment; wherefore she had determined Kent's career and the scene of it, laying its lines in the narrow field of her own choosing. Later, as Loring knew, the sentimental anchor had dragged until it was hopelessly off holding-ground. The young woman had laid the blame at the door of the university, had given Kent a bad half-year of fault-finding and recrimination, and had finally made an end of the matter by bestowing her dowry of hillside acres on the son of a neighboring farmer. Thereafter Kent had stagnated quietly, living with simple rigor the life he had marked out for himself; thankful at heart, Loring had suspected, for the timely intervention of the farmer's son, but holding himself well in hand against a repetition of the sentimental offense. All this until the opening of the summer hotel at the foot of Old Croydon, and the coming of Elinor Brentwood. No one knew just how much Miss Brentwood had to do with the long-delayed awakening of David Kent; but in Loring's forecastings she enjoyed the full benefit of the doubt. From tramping the hills alone, or whipping the streams for brook trout, David had taken to spending his afternoons with lover-like regularity at the Croydon Inn; and at the end of the season had electrified the sleepy home town by declaring his intention to go West and grow up with the country. In Loring's setting-forth of the awakening, the motive was not far to seek. Miss Brentwood was ambitious, and if her interest in Kent had been only casual she would not have been likely to point him to the wider battle-field. Again, apart from his modest patrimony, Kent had only his profession. The Brentwoods were not rich, as riches are measured in millions; but they lived in their own house in the Back Bay wilderness, moved in Boston's older substantial circle, and, in a world where success, economic or other, is in some sort the touchstone, were many social planes above a country lawyer. Loring knew Kent's fierce poverty-pride--none better. Hence, he was at no loss to account for the exile's flight afield, or for his unhopeful present attitude. Meaning to win trophies to lay at Miss Brentwood's feet, the present stage of the rough joust with Fortune found him unhorsed, unweaponed and rolling in the dust of the lists. Loring chewed his cigar reflectively, wishing his companion would open the way to free speech on the subject presumably nearest his heart. He had a word of comfort, negative comfort, to offer, but it might not be said until Kent should give him leave by taking the initiative. Kent broke silence at last, but the prompting was nothing more pertinent than the chalking-up of the delayed train's time. "An hour and twenty minutes: that means any time after nine o'clock. I'm honestly sorry for you, Grantham--sorry for any one that has to stay in this charnel-house of a town ten minutes after he's through. What will you do with yourself?" Loring got up, looked at his watch, and made a suggestion, hoping that Kent would fall in with it. "I don't know. Shall we go back to your rooms and sit a while?" The exile's eyes gloomed suddenly. "Not unless you insist on it. We should get back among the relics and I should bore you. I'm not the man you used to know, Grantham." "No?" said Loring. "I sha'n't be hypocritical enough to contradict you. Nevertheless, you are my host. It is for you to say what you will do with me until train time." "We can kill an hour at the rally, if you like. You have seen the street parade and heard the band play: it is only fair that you should see the menagerie on exhibition." Loring found his match-box and made a fresh light for his cigar. "It's pretty evident that you and 'next-Governor' Bucks are on opposite sides of the political fence," he observed. "We are. I should think a good bit less of myself than I do--and that's needless--if I trained in his company." "Yet you will give him a chance to make a partizan of me? Well, come along. Politics are not down on my western programme, but I'm here to see all the new things." The Gaston Opera House was a survival of the flush times, and barring a certain tawdriness from disuse and neglect, and a rather garish effect which marched evenly with the brick-and-terra-cotta fronts in Texas Street and the American-Tudor cottages of the suburbs, it was a creditable relic. The auditorium was well filled in pit, dress-circle and gallery when Kent and his guest edged their way through the standing committee in the foyer; but by dint of careful searching they succeeded in finding two seats well around to the left, with a balcony pillar to separate them from their nearest neighbors. Since the public side of American politics varies little with the variation of latitude or longitude, the man from the East found himself at once in homely and remindful surroundings. There was the customary draping of flags under the proscenium arch and across the set-piece villa of the background. In the semicircle of chairs arched from wing to wing sat the local and visiting political lights; men of all trades, these, some of them a little shamefaced and ill at ease by reason of their unwonted conspicuity; all of them listening with a carefully assumed air of strained attention to the speaker of the moment. Also, there was the characteristic ante-election audience, typical of all America--the thing most truly typical in a land where national types are sought for microscopically: wheel-horses who came at the party call; men who came in the temporary upblaze of enthusiastic patriotism, which is lighted with the opening of the campaign, and which goes out like a candle in a gust of wind the day after the election; men who came to applaud blindly, and a few who came to cavil and deride. Loring oriented himself in a leisurely eye-sweep, and so came by easy gradations to the speaker. Measured by the standard of fitness for his office of prolocutor the man standing beside the stage-properties speaker's desk was worthy a second glance. He was dark, undersized, trimly built; with a Vandyke beard clipped closely enough to show the lines of a bull-dog jaw, and eyes that had the gift, priceless to the public speaker, of seeming to hold every onlooking eye in the audience. Unlike his backers in the awkward semicircle, he wore a professional long coat; and the hands that marked his smoothly flowing sentences were slim and shapely. "Who is he?" asked Loring, in an aside to Kent. "Stephen Hawk, the ex-district attorney: boomer, pettifogger, promoter--a charter member of the Gaston wolf-pack. A man who would persuade you into believing in the impeccability of Satan in one breath, and knife you in the back for a ten-dollar bill in the next," was the rejoinder. Loring nodded, and again became a listener. Hawk's speech was merely introductory, and it was nearing its peroration. "Fellow citizens, this occasion is as auspicious as it is significant. When the people rise in their might to say to tyranny in whatsoever form it oppresses them, 'Thus far and no farther shalt thou go,' the night is far spent and the light is breaking in the east. "Since the day when we first began to wrest with compelling hands the natural riches from the soil of this our adoptive State, political trickery in high places, backed by the puissant might of alien corporations, has ground us into the dust. "But now the time of our deliverance is at hand. Great movements give birth to great leaders; and in this, our holy crusade against oppression and tyranny, the crisis has bred the man. Ladies and gentlemen, I have the pleasure of presenting to you the speaker of the evening: our friend and fellow citizen the Honorable Jasper G. Bucks, by the grace of God, and your suffrages, the next governor of the State." In the storm of applause that burst upon the dramatic peroration of the ex-district attorney, a man rose from the center of the stage semicircle and lumbered heavily forward to the footlights. Loring's first emotion was of surprise, tempered with pity. The crisis-born leader, heralded by such a flourish of rhetorical trumpets, was a giant in size; but with his huge figure, unshapely and ill-clad, all promise of greatness seemed to pause. His face, broad-featured, colorless, and beardless as a boy's, was either a blank or an impenetrable mask. There was no convincement in the lack-luster gaze of the small, porcine eyes; no eloquence in the harsh, nasal tones of the untrained voice, or in the ponderous and awkward wavings of the beam-like arms. None the less, before he had uttered a dozen halting sentences he was carrying the audience with him step by step; moving the great concourse of listeners with his commonplace periods as a mellifluous Hawk could never hope to move it. Loring saw the miracle in the throes of its outworking; saw and felt it in his own proper person, and sought in vain to account for it. Was there some subtile magnetism in this great hulk of a man that made itself felt in spite of its hamperings? Or was it merely that the people, weary of empty rhetoric and unkept promises, were ripe to welcome and to follow any man whose apparent earnestness and sincerity atoned for all his lacks? Explain it as he might, Loring soon assured himself that the Honorable Jasper G. Bucks was laying hold of the sentiment of the audience as though it were a thing tangible to be grasped by the huge hands. Unlike Hawk, whose speech flamed easily into denunciation when it touched on the alien corporations, he counseled moderation and lawful reprisals. Land syndicates, railroads, foreign capital in whatever employment, were prime necessities in any new and growing commonwealth. The province of the people was not to wreck the ship, but to guide it. And the remedy for all ills lay in controlling legislation, faithfully and rigidly enforced. "My friends: I'm only a plain, hard-handed farmer, as those of you who are my fellow townsmen can testify. But I've seen what you've seen, and I've suffered what you've suffered. Year after year we send our representatives to the legislature, and what comes of it? Why, these corporations, looking only to their own interests, as they're in duty bound to do, buys 'em if they can. You can't blame 'em for that; it's business--their business. But it is our business, as citizens of this great commonwealth, to prevent it. We have good laws on our statute books, but we need more of 'em; laws for control, with plain, honest men at the capital, in the judiciary, in every root and branch of the executive, to enforce 'em. With such laws, and such men to see that they are executed, there wouldn't be any more extortion, any more raising of the rates of transportation on the produce of our ranches and farms merely because the eastern market for that particular product happened to jump a few cents on the dollar. "No, my friends; plain, hard-handed farmer though I be, I can see what will follow an honest election of the people, by the people, and for the people. The State can be--it ought to be--sovereign within its own boundaries. If we rise up as one man next Tuesday and put a ticket into the ballot-box that says we are going to make it so, and keep it so, you'll see a new commodity tariff put into effect on the Western Pacific Railroad the day after." The speaker paused, and into the little gap of silence barked a voice from the gallery. "That's what you say. But supposin' they don't do it?" Loring was gazing steadfastly at the blank, heavy face, so utterly devoid of the enthusiasm the man was evoking in others. For one flitting instant he thought he saw behind the mask. The immobile face, the awkward gestures, the slipshod English became suddenly transparent, revealing the real man; a man of titanic strength, of tremendous possibilities for good or evil. Loring put up his glasses and looked again; but the figure of the flash-light inner vision had vanished, and the speaker was answering his objector as calmly as though the house held only the single critic to be set right. "I'm always glad to hear a man speak right out in meeting," he said, dropping still deeper into the colloquialisms. "Supposing the corporations don't see the handwriting on the wall--won't see it, you say? Then, my friend, it will become the manifest duty of the legislature and the executive to make 'em see it: always lawfully, you understand; always with a just and equitable respect for the rights of property in which our free and glorious institutions are founded, but with level-handed justice, and without fear or favor." A thunderous uproar of applause clamored on the heels of the answer, and the Honorable Jasper mopped his face with a colored handkerchief and took a swallow of water from the glass on the desk. "Mind you, my friends, I'm not saying we are not going to find plenty of stumps and roots and a tough sod in this furrow we are going to plow. It's only the fool or the ignoramus who underrates the strength of his opponent. It is going to be just plain, honest justice and the will of the people against the money of the Harrimans and the Goulds and the Vanderbilts and all the rest of 'em. But the law is mighty, and it will prevail. Give us an honest legislature to make such laws, and an executive strong enough to enforce 'em, and the sovereign State will stand out glorious and triumphant as a monument against oppression. "When that time comes--and it's a-coming, my friends--the corporations and the syndicates will read the handwriting on the wall; don't you be afraid of that. If they should be a little grain thick-headed and sort o' blind at first, as old King Belshazzar was, it may be that the sovereign State will have to give 'em an object-lesson--lawfully, always lawfully, you understand. But when they see, through the medium of such an object-lesson or otherwise, as the case may be, that we mean business; when they see that we, the people of this great and growing commonwealth, mean to assert our rights to live and move and have our being, to have fair, even-handed justice meted out to ourselves, our wives and our little children, they'll come down and quit watering their stock with the sweat of our brows; and that hold-up motto of theirs, 'All the tariff the traffic will stand,' will be no more known in Israel!" Again the clamor of applause rose like fine dust on the throng-heated air, and Kent looked at his watch. "It is time we were going," he said; adding: "I guess you have had enough of it, haven't you?" Loring was silent for the better part of the way back to the railway station. When he spoke it was in answer to a delayed question of Kent's. "What do I think of him? I don't know, David; and that's the plain truth. He is not the man he appears to be as he stands there haranguing that crowd. That is a pose, and an exceedingly skilful one. He is not altogether apparent to me; but he strikes me as being a man of immense possibilities--whether for good or evil, I can't say." "You needn't draw another breath of uncertainty on that score," was the curt rejoinder. "He is a demagogue, pure and unadulterated." Loring did not attempt to refute the charge. "Are he and his party likely to win?" he asked. "God knows," said Kent. "We have had so many lightning transformations in politics in the State that nothing is impossible." "I'd like to know," was Loring's comment. "It might make some difference to me, personally." "To you?" said Kent, inquiringly. "That reminds me: I haven't given you a chance to say ten words about yourself." "The chance hasn't been lacking. But my business out here is--well, it isn't exactly a Star Chamber matter, but I'm under promise in a way not to talk about it until I have had a conference with our people at the capital. I'll write you about it in a few days." They were ascending the steps at the end of the passenger platform again, and Loring broke away from the political and personal entanglement to give Kent one more opportunity to hear his word of negative comfort. "We dug up the field of recollection pretty thoroughly in our after-dinner séance in your rooms, David, but I noticed there was one corner of it you left undisturbed. Was there any good reason?" Kent made no show of misunderstanding. "There was the excellent reason which must have been apparent to you before you had been an hour in Gaston. I've made my shot, and missed." Loring entered the breach with his shield held well to the fore. He was the last man in the world to assault a friend's confidence recklessly. "I thought a good while ago, and I still think, that you are making a mountain out of a mole-hill, David. Elinor Brentwood is a true woman in every inch of her. She is as much above caring for false notions of caste as you ought to be." "I know her nobility: which is all the more reason why I shouldn't take advantage of it. We may scoff at the social inequalities as much as we please, but we can't laugh them out of court. As between a young woman who is an heiress in her own right, and a briefless lawyer, there are differences which a decent man is bound to efface. And I haven't been able." "Does Miss Brentwood know?" "She knows nothing at all. I was unwilling to entangle her, even with a confidence." "The more fool you," said Loring, bluntly. "You call yourself a lawyer, and you have not yet learned one of the first principles of common justice, which is that a woman has some rights which even a besotted lover is bound to respect. You made love to her that summer at Croydon; you needn't deny it. And at the end of things you walk off to make your fortune without committing yourself; without knowing, or apparently caring, what your stiff-necked poverty-pride may cost her in years of uncertainty. You deserve to lose her." Kent's smile was a fair measure of his unhopeful mood. "You can't well lose what you have never had. I'm not such an ass as to believe that she cared greatly." "How do you know? Not by anything you ever gave her a chance to say, I'll dare swear. I've a bit of qualified good news for you, but the spirit is moving me mightily to hold my tongue." "Tell me," said Kent, his indifference vanishing in the turning of a leaf. "Well, to begin with, Miss Brentwood is still unmarried, though the gossips say she doesn't lack plenty of eligible offers." "Half of that I knew; the other half I took for granted. Go on." "Her mother, under the advice of the chief of the clan Brentwood, has been making a lot of bad investments for herself and her two daughters: in other words, she has been making ducks and drakes of the Brentwood fortune." Kent was as deeply moved as if the loss had been his own, and said as much, craving more of the particulars. "I can't give them. But I may say that the blame lies at your door, David." "At my door? How do you arrive at that?" "By the shortest possible route. If you had done your duty by Elinor in the Croydon summer, Mrs. Brentwood would have had a bright young attorney for a son-in-law and adviser, and the bad investments would not have been made." Kent's laugh was entirely devoid of mirth. "Don't trample on a man when he's down. I was neither a prophet nor the son of a prophet. But how bad is the smash? Surely you know that?" "No, I don't. Bradford was telling me about it the day I left Boston. He gave me to understand that the principal family holding at present is in the stock of a certain western railway." "Did he happen to know the name of the stock?" asked Kent, moistening his lips. "He did. Fate flirts with you two in the usual fashion. Mrs. Brentwood's little fortune--and by consequence, Elinor's and Penelope's--is tied up in the stock of the company whose platform we are occupying at the present moment--the Western Pacific." Kent let slip a hard word directed at ill-advisers in general, and Loring took his cue from the malediction. "You swear pretty feelingly, David. Isn't our property as good a thing as we of the Boston end have been cracking it up to be?" "You know better about the financial part of it than I do. But--well, you are fresh from this anarchistic conclave at the Opera House. You can imagine what the stock of the Western Pacific, or of any other foreign corporation doing business in this State, will be worth in six months after Bucks and his crowd get into the saddle." "You speak as if the result of the election were a foregone conclusion. I hope it isn't. But we were talking more particularly of Miss Brentwood, and your personal responsibilities." The belated train was whistling for the lower yard, and Loring was determined to say all that was in his mind. "Yes; go on. I'm anxious to hear--more anxious than I seem to be, perhaps." "Well, she is coming West, after a bit. She, and her sister and the mother. Mrs. Brentwood's asthma is worse, and the wise men have ordered her to the interior. I thought you'd like to know." "Is she--are they coming this way?" asked Kent. The train was in, and the porter had fetched Loring's hand-bag from the check-stand. The guest paused with one foot on the step of the sleeping-car. "If I were you, David, I'd write and ask; I should, by Jove. It would be a tremendously cheeky thing to do, of course, having such a slight acquaintance with her as you have; but I'll be hanged if I shouldn't chance it. And in the mean time, if I don't go back East next week, you'll hear from me. When you do, or if you do, take a day off and run up to the capital. I shall need you. Good-by." Kent watched the train pull out; stood looking after it until the two red eyes of the rear signals had disappeared in the dusty darkness of the illimitable plain. Then he went to his rooms, to the one which was called by courtesy his office, and without allowing himself time for a nice balancing of the pros and cons, squared himself at the desk to write a letter. III THE BOSTONIANS It was precisely on the day set for the Brentwoods' westward flitting that the postman, making his morning round, delivered David Kent's asking at the house in the Back Bay sub-district. Elinor was busy packing for the migration, but she left Penelope and the maid to cope with the problem of compressing two trunkfuls into one while she read the letter, and she was reading it a second time when Mr. Brookes Ormsby's card came up. "You go, Penelope," she begged. "There is so much to do." "Not I," said the younger sister, cavalierly; "he didn't come to see me." Whereupon Elinor smoothed the two small wrinkles of impatience out of her brow, tucked her letter into her bosom, and went down to meet the early morning caller. Mr. Brookes Ormsby, club-man, gentleman of athletic leisure, and inheritor of the Ormsby millions, was pacing back and forth before the handful of fire in the drawing-room grate when she entered. "You don't deserve to have a collie sheep-dog friend," he protested reproachfully. "How was I to know that you were going away?" Another time Elinor might have felt that she owed him an explanation, but just now she was careful, and troubled about the packing. "How was I to know you didn't know?" she retorted. "It was in the _Transcript_." "Well!" said Ormsby. "Things have come to a pretty pass when I have to keep track of you through the society column. I didn't see the paper. Dyckman brought me word last night at Vineyard Haven, and we broke a propeller blade on the _Amphitrite_ trying to get here in time." "I am so sorry--for the _Amphitrite_," she said. "But you are here, and in good season. Shall I call mother and Nell?" "No. I ran out to see if I'm in time to do your errands for you--take your tickets, and so on." "Oh, we shouldn't think of troubling you. James can do all those things. And failing James, there is a very dependable young woman at the head of this household. Haven't I 'personally conducted' the family all over Europe?" "James is a base hireling," said the caller, blandly. "And as for the capable young woman: do I or do I not recollect a dark night on the German frontier when she was glad enough to call on a sleepy fellow pilgrim to help her wrestle with a particularly thick-headed customs officer?" "If you do, it is not especially kind of you to remind her of it." He looked up quickly, and the masterful soul of the man, for which the clean-cut, square-set jaw and the athletic figure were the outward presentments, put on a mask of deference and humility. "You are hard with me, Elinor--always flinty and adamantine, and that sort. Have you no soft side at all?" She laughed. "The sentimental young woman went out some time ago, didn't she? One can't be an anachronism." "I suppose not. Yet I'm always trying to make myself believe other things about you. Don't you like to be cared for like other women?" "I don't know; sometimes I think I should. But I have had to be the man of the house since father died." "I know," he said. "And it is the petty anxieties that have made you put the woman to the wall. I'm here this morning to save you some of them; to take the man's part in your outsetting, or as much of it as I can. When are you going to give me the right to come between you and all the little worries, Elinor?" She turned from him with a faint gesture of cold impatience. "You are forgetting your promise," she said quite dispassionately. "We were to be friends; as good friends as we were before that evening at Bar Harbor. I told you it would be impossible, and you said you were strong enough to make it possible." He looked at her with narrowing eyes. "It is possible, in a way. But I'd like to know what door of your heart it is that I haven't been able to open." She ignored the pleading and took refuge in a woman's expedient. "If you insist on going back to the beginnings, I shall go back, also--to Abigail and the trunk-packing." He planted himself squarely before her, the mask lifted and the masterful soul asserting itself boldly. "It wouldn't do any good, you know. I am going with you." "To Abigail and the trunk-room?" "Oh, no; to the jumping-off place out West--wherever it is you are going to hibernate." "No," she said decisively; "you must not." "Why?" "My saying so ought to be sufficient reason." "It isn't," he contended, frowning down on her good-naturedly. "Shall I tell you why you don't want me to go? It is because you are afraid." "I am not," she denied. "Yes, you are. You know in your own heart there is no reason why you should continue to make me unhappy, and you are afraid I might over-persuade you." Her eyes--they were the serene eyes of cool gray that take on slate-blue tints in stressful moments--met his defiantly. "If you think that, I withdraw my objection," she said coldly. "Mother and Penelope will be delighted, I am sure." "And you will be bored, world without end," he laughed. "Never mind; I'll be decent about it and keep out of your way as much as you like." Again she made the little gesture of petulant impatience. "You are continually placing me in a false position. Can't you leave me out of it entirely?" It is one of the prime requisites of successful mastership to know when to press the point home, and when to recede gracefully. Ormsby abruptly shut the door upon sentiment and came down to things practical. "It is your every-day comfort that concerns me chiefly. I am going to take all three of you in charge, giving the dependable young person a well-earned holiday--a little journey in which she won't have to chaffer with the transit people. Have you chosen your route to the western somewhere?" Miss Brentwood had the fair, transparent skin that tells tales, and the blue-gray eyes were apt to confirm them. David Kent's letter was hidden in the folds of her loose-waisted morning gown, and she fancied it stirred like a thing alive to remind her of its message. Ormsby was looking past her to the old-fashioned ormolu clock on the high mantel, comparing the time with his watch, but he was not oblivious of the telltale flush. "There is nothing embarrassing about the choosing of a route, is there?" he queried. "Oh, no; being true Americans, we don't know one route from another in our own country," she confessed. "But at the western end of it we want to go over the Western Pacific." Ormsby knew the West by rail routes as one who travels much for time-killing purposes. "It's a rather roundabout cow-path," he objected. "The Overland Short Line is a good bit more direct; not to mention the service, which is a lot better." But Elinor had made her small concession to David Kent's letter, and she would not withdraw it. "Probably you don't own any Western Pacific stock," she suggested. "We do; and we mean to be loyal to our salt." Ormsby laughed. "I see Western Pacific has gone down a few points since the election of Governor Bucks. If I had any, I'd wire my broker to sell." "We are not so easily frightened," she asserted; adding, with a touch of the austerity which was her Puritan birthright: "Nor quite so conscienceless as you men." "Conscience," he repeated half absently; "is there any room for such an out-of-date thing in a nation of successfulists? But seriously; you ought to get rid of Western Pacific. There can be no possible question of conscience involved." "I don't agree with you," she retorted with prompt decision. "If we were to sell now it would be because we were afraid it might prove to be a bad investment. Therefore, for the sake of a presumably ignorant buyer, we have no right to sell." He smiled leniently. "All of which goes to prove that you three lone women need a guardian. But I mustn't keep you any longer from Abigail and the trunks. What time shall I send the expediters after your luggage?" She told him, and went with him to the door. "Please don't think me ungrateful," she said, when she had thrown the night-latch for him. "I don't mean to be." "I don't think anything of you that I ought not to think: in that I am as conscientious as even you could wish. Good-by, until this evening. I'll meet you all at the station." As had come to be the regular order of things, Elinor found herself under fire when she went above stairs to rejoin her mother and sister. Mrs. Brentwood was not indifferent to the Ormsby millions; neither had she forgotten a certain sentimental summer at the foot of Old Croydon. She was a thin-lipped little person, plain-spoken to the verge of unfriendliness; a woman in whom the rugged, self-reliant, Puritan strain had become panic-acidulous. And when the Puritan stock degenerates in that direction, it is apt to lack good judgment on the business side, and also the passivity which smooths the way for incompetence in less assertive folk. Kent had stood something in awe, not especially of her personality, but of her tongue; and had been forced to acquiesce silently in Loring's summing-up of Elinor's mother as a woman who had taken culture and the humanizing amenities of the broader life much as the granite of her native hills takes polish--reluctantly, and without prejudice to its inner granular structure. "Elinor, you ought to be ashamed to keep Brookes Ormsby dangling the way you do," was her comment when Elinor came back. "You are your father's daughters, both of you: there isn't a drop of the Grimkie blood in either of you, I do believe." Elinor was sufficiently her father's daughter to hold her peace under her mother's reproaches: also, there was enough of the Grimkie blood in her veins to stiffen her in opposition when the need arose. So she said nothing. "Since your Uncle Ichabod made such a desperate mess of that copper business in Montana, we have all been next door to poverty, and you know it," the mother went on, irritated by Elinor's silence. "I don't care so much for myself: your father and I began with nothing, and I can go back to nothing, if necessary. But you can't, and neither can Penelope; you'd both starve. I should like to know what Brookes Ormsby has done that you can't tolerate him." "It isn't anything he has done, or failed to do," said Elinor, wearily. "Please let's not go over it all again, mother." Mrs. Brentwood let that gun cool while she fired another. "I suppose he came to say good-by: what is he going to do with himself this winter?" The temptation to equivocate for pure perversity's sake was strong upon Elinor, and she yielded to it. "How should I know? He has the _Amphitrite_ and the Florida coast, hasn't he?" Mrs. Brentwood groaned. "To think of the way he squanders his money in sheer dissipation!" she exclaimed. "Of course, he will take an entire house-party with him, as usual, and the cost of that one cruise would set you up in housekeeping." Penelope laughed with a younger daughter's license. She was a statuesque young woman with a pose, ripe lips, flashing white teeth, laughing eyes with an imp of mischief in them, and an exquisitely turned-up nose that was neither the Brentwood, which was severely classic, nor the Grimkie, which was pure Puritan renaissance. "Which is to intimate that he won't have money enough left to do it when he comes back," she commented. "I wish there were some way of making him believe he had to give me what remains of his income after he has spent all he can on the Florida cruise. I'd wear Worth gowns and be lapped in luxury for the next ten years at the very least." "He isn't going to Florida this winter," said Elinor, repenting her of the small quibble. "He is going West." Mrs. Brentwood looked up sharply. "With us?" she queried. "Yes." Penelope clasped her hands and tried to look soulful. "Oh, Ellie!" she said; "have you----" "No," Elinor retorted; "I have not." IV THE FLESH-POTS OF EGYPT The westward journey began at the appointed hour in the evening with the resourceful Ormsby in command; and when the outsetting, in which she had to sustain only the part of an obedient automaton, was a fact accomplished, Elinor settled back into the pillowed corner of her sleeping-car section to enjoy the unwonted sensation of being the one cared for instead of the caretaker. She had traveled more or less with her mother and Penelope ever since her father's death, and was well used to taking the helm. Experience and the responsibilities had made her self-reliant, and her jesting boast that she was a dependable young woman was the simple truth. Yet to the most modern of girl bachelors there may come moments when the soul harks back to the eternal-womanly, and the desire to be petted and looked after and safe-conducted is stronger than the bachelor conventions. Two sections away the inevitable newly married pair posed unconsciously to point the moral for Miss Brentwood. She marked the eagerly anticipative solicitude of the boyish groom, contrasting it now and then with Ormsby's less obtrusive attentions. It was all very absurd and sentimental, she thought; and yet she was not without a curious heart-stirring of envy provoked by the self-satisfied complacency of the bride. What had that chit of a girl done to earn her immunity from self-defendings and the petty anxieties? Nothing, Elinor decided; at least, nothing more purposeful than the swimmer does when he lets himself drift with the current. None the less, the immunity was hers, undeniably, palpably. For the first time in her life Miss Brentwood found herself looking, with a little shudder of withdrawal and dismay, down the possible vista--possible to every unmarried woman of twenty-four--milestoned by unbroken years of spinsterhood and self-helpings. Was she strong enough to walk this hedged-up path alone?--single-hearted enough to go on holding out against her mother's urgings, against Ormsby's masterful wooing, against her own unconquerable longing for a sure anchorage in some safe haven of manful care and supervision; all this that she might continue to preserve her independence and live the life which, despite its drawbacks, was yet her own? There were times when she doubted her resolution; and this first night of the westward journey was one of them. She had thought at one time that she might be able to idealize David Kent, but he had gone his way to hew out his fortune, taking her upstirrings of his ambition in a purely literal and selfish sense, so far as she could determine. And now there was Brookes Ormsby. She could by no possibility idealize him. He was a fixed fact, stubbornly asserted. Yet he was a great-hearted gentleman, unspoiled by his millions, thoughtful always for her comfort, generous, self-effacing. Just now, for example, when he had done all, he had seemed to divine her wish to be alone and had betaken himself to the smoking-compartment. "I promised not to bore you," he had said, "and I sha'n't. Send the porter after me if there is anything I have forgotten to do." She took up the magazine he had left on the seat beside her and sought to put away the disquieting thoughts. But they refused to be dismissed; and now among them rose up another, dating back to that idealizing summer at the foot of Old Croydon, and having its genesis in a hard saying of her mother's. She closed her eyes, recalling the words and the occasion of them. "You are merely wasting time and sentiment on this young upstart of a country lawyer, Elinor. So long as you were content to make it a summer day's amusement, I had nothing to say; you are old enough and sensible enough to choose your own recreations. But in justice to yourself, no less than to him, you must let it end with our going home. You haven't money enough for two." Her eyes grew hot under the closed lids when she remembered. At the time the hard saying was evoked there was money enough for two, if David Kent would have shared it. But he had held his peace and gone away, and now there was not enough for two. Elinor faced her major weakness unflinchingly. She was not a slave to the luxuries--the luxuries of the very rich. On the contrary, she had tried to make herself believe that hardness was a part of her creed. But latterly, she had been made to see that there was a formidable array of things which she had been calling comforts: little luxuries which Brookes Ormsby's wife might reckon among the simplest necessities of the daily life, but which David Kent's wife might have to forego; nay, things which Elinor Brentwood might presently have to forego. For she compelled herself to front the fact of the diminished patrimony squarely. So long as the modest Western Pacific dividends were forthcoming, they could live comfortably and without pinching. But failing these---- "No, I'm not great enough," she confessed, with a little shiver. "I should be utterly miserable. If I could afford to indulge in ideals it would be different; but I can't--not when one word of mine will build a barrier so high that all the soul-killing little skimpings can never climb over it. And besides, I owe something to mother and Nell." It was the final straw. When any weakness of the human heart can find a seeming virtue to go hand in hand with it, the battle is as good as lost; and at that moment Brookes Ormsby, placidly refilling his short pipe in the smoking-room of the Pullman, was by no means in the hopeless case he was sometimes tempted to fancy himself. As may be surmised, a diligent suitor, old enough to plan thoughtfully, and yet young enough to simulate the youthful ardor of a lover whose hair has not begun to thin at the temples, would lose no ground in a three days' journey and the opportunities it afforded. In Penelope's phrase, Elinor "suffered him", enjoying her freedom from care like a sleepy kitten; shutting the door on the past and keeping it shut until the night when their through sleeper was coupled to the Western Pacific Flyer at A.& T. Junction. But late that evening, when she was rummaging in her hand-bag for a handkerchief, she came upon David Kent's letter and read it again. "Loring tells me you are coming West," he wrote. "I assume there is at least one chance in three that you will pass through Gaston. If you do, and if the hour is not altogether impossible, I should like to meet your train. One thing among the many the past two years have denied me--the only thing I have cared much about, I think--is the sight of your face. I shall be very happy if you will let me look at you--just for the minute or two the train may stop." There was more of it; a good bit more: but it was all guarded commonplace, opening no window in the heart of the man David Kent. Yet even in the commonplace she found some faint interlinings of the change in him; not a mere metamorphosis of the outward man, as a new environment might make, but a radical change, deep and biting, like the action of a strong acid upon a fine-grained metal. She returned the letter to its envelope, and after looking up Gaston on the time-table fell into a heart-stirring reverie, with unseeing eyes fixed on the restful blackness of the night rushing rearward past the car windows. "He has forgotten," she said, with a little lip-curl of disappointment. "He thinks he ought to remember, and he is trying--trying because Grantham said something that made him think he ought to try. But it's no use. It was only a little summer idyl, and we have both outlived it." She was still gazing steadfastly upon the wall of outer darkness when the porter began to make down the berths and Penelope came over to sit in the opposite seat. A moment later the younger sister made a discovery, or thought she did. "Why, Elinor Brentwood!" she said. "I do believe you are crying!" Elinor's smile was serenity undisturbed. "What a vivid imagination you have, Nell, dear," she scoffed. Then she changed the subject arbitrarily: "Is mother quite comfortable? Did you have the porter put a screen in her window?--you know she always insists she can't breathe without it." Penelope evaded the queries and took her turn at subject-wrenching--an art in which she excelled. "We are on our own railroad now, aren't we?" she asked, with purposeful lack-interest. "And--let me see--isn't Mr. Kent at some little town we pass through?" "It is a city," said Elinor. "And the name is Gaston." "I remember now," Penelope rejoined. "I wonder if we shall see him?" "It is most unlikely. He does not know we are coming, and he wouldn't be looking for us." Penelope's fine eyes clouded. At times Elinor's thought-processes were as plain as print to the younger sister; at other times they were not. "I should think the least we could do would be to let him know," she ventured. "Does anybody know what time the train passes Gaston?" "At seven-fifteen to-morrow evening," was the unguarded reply; and Penelope drew her own conclusions from the ready answer and the folded time-table in Elinor's lap. "Well, why don't you send him a wire? I'm sure I should." "Why should I?" said Elinor, warily. "Oh, I don't know: any other young woman of his acquaintance would, I fancy. I have half a mind to do it myself. _I_ like him, if you don't care for him any more." Thus Penelope; and a little while afterward, finding herself in the library compartment with blanks and pen and ink convenient and nothing better to do, she impulsively made the threat good in a ten-word message to Kent. "If he should happen to drop in unexpectedly it will give Ellie the shock of her life," she mused; and the telegram was smuggled into the hands of the porter to be sent as occasion offered. * * * * * Those who knew Mr. Brookes Ormsby best were wont to say that the world of action, a world lusting avidly for resourceful men, had lost the chance of acquiring a promising leader when he was born heir to the Ormsby millions. Be that as it may, he made the most of such opportunities for the exercising of his gift as came to one for whom the long purse leveled most barriers; had been making the most of the present leaguer of a woman's heart--a citadel whose capitulation was not to be compassed by mere money-might, he would have said. Up to the final day of the long westward flight all things had gone well with him. True, Elinor had not thawed visibly, but she had been tolerant; Penelope had amused herself at no one's expense save her own--a boon for which Ormsby did not fail to be duly thankful; and Mrs. Brentwood had contributed her mite by keeping hands off. But at the dining-car luncheon on the last day's run, Penelope, languishing at a table for two with an unresponsive Ormsby for a vis-à-vis, made sly mention of the possible recrudescence of one David Kent at a place called Gaston: this merely to note the effect upon an unresponsive table-mate. In Penelope's observings there was no effect perceptible. Ormsby said "Ah?" and asked if she would have more of the salad. But later, in a contemplative half-hour with his pipe in the smoking-compartment, he let the scrap of information sink in and take root. Hitherto Kent had been little more than a name to him; a name he had never heard on Elinor's lips. But if love be blind in the teens and twenties, it is more than apt to have a keen gift of insight in the thirties and beyond. Hence, by the time Ormsby had come to the second filling of his pipe, he had pieced together bits of half-forgotten gossip about the Croydon summer, curious little reticences on Elinor's part, vague hints let fall by Mrs. Brentwood; enough to enable him to chart the rock on which his love-argosy was drifting, and to name it--David Kent. Now to a well-knit man of the world--who happens to be a heaven-born diplomatist into the bargain--to be forewarned is to be doubly armed. At the end of the half-hour of studious solitude in the smoking-room, Ormsby had pricked out his course on the chart to a boat's-length; had trimmed his sails to the minutest starting of a sheet. A glance at his watch and another at the time-table gave him the length of his respite. Six hours there were; and a dining-car dinner intervened. Those six hours, and the dinner, he decided, must win or lose the race. Picturing for ourselves, if we may, how nine men out of ten would have given place to panic-ardor, turning a possible victory into a hopeless rout, let us hold aloof and mark the generalship of the tenth, who chances to be the heaven-born. For five of the six precious hours Ormsby merely saw to it that Elinor was judiciously marooned. Then the dining-car was reopened and the evening meal was announced. Waiting until a sufficient number of passengers had gone forward to insure a crowded car, Ormsby let his party fall in with the tail of the procession, and the inevitable happened. Single seats only could be had, and Elinor was compelled to dine in solemn silence at a table with three strangers. Dinner over, there remained but twenty minutes of the respite; but the diplomatist kept his head, going back to the sleeping-car with his charges and dropping into the seat beside Elinor with the light of calm assurance in his eye. "You are quite comfortable?" he began. "Sha'n't I have the Presence in the buffet make you a cup of tea? That in the diner didn't deserve the name." She was regarding him with curious anger in the gray eyes, and her reply quite ignored the kindly offer of refreshment. "You are the pink of dragomans," she said. "Don't you want to go and smoke?" "To be entirely consistent, I suppose I ought to," he confessed, wondering if his throw had failed. "Do you want me to go?" "I have been alone all the afternoon: I can endure it a little while longer, I presume." Ormsby permitted himself a single heart-throb of exultation. He had deliberately gone about to break down her poise, her only barrier of defense, and it began to look as if he had succeeded. "I couldn't help it, you know," he said, catching his cue swiftly. "There are times when I'm obliged to keep away from you--times when every fiber of me rebels against the restraints of the false position you have thrust me into. When I'm taken that way I don't dare play with the fire." "I wish I could know how much you mean by that," she said musingly. Deep down in her heart she knew she was as far as ever from loving this man; but his love, or the insistent urging of it, was like a strong current drifting her whither she would not go. "I mean all that an honest man can mean," he rejoined. "I have fought like a soldier for standing-room in the place you have assigned me; I have tried sincerely--and stupidly, you will say--to be merely your friend, just the best friend you ever had. But it's no use. Coming or going, I shall always be your lover." "Please don't," she said, neither coldly nor warmly. "You are getting over into the domain of the very young people when you say things like that." It was an unpleasant thing to say, and he was not beyond wincing a little. None the less, he would not be turned aside. "You'll overlook it in me if I've pressed the thing too hard on the side of sentiment, won't you? Apart from the fact that I feel that way, I've been going on the supposition that you'd like it, if you could only make up your mind to like me." "I do like you," she admitted; "more than any one I have ever known, I think." The drumming wheels and a long-drawn trumpet blast from the locomotive made a shield of sound to isolate them. The elderly banker in the opposite section was nodding over his newspaper; and the newly married ones were oblivious, each to all else but the other. Mrs. Brentwood was apparently sleeping peacefully three seats away; and Penelope was invisible. "There was a time when I should have begged hard for something more, Elinor; but now I'm willing to take what I can get, and be thankful. Will you give me the right to make you as happy as I can on the unemotional basis?" She felt herself slipping. "If you could fully understand----" "I understand that you don't love me, in the novelist's sense of the word, and I am not asking more than you can give. But if you can give me the little now, and more when I have won it--don't curl your lip at me, please: I'm trying to put it as mildly as I can." She was looking at him level-eyed, and he could have sworn that she was never calmer or more self-possessed. "I don't know why you should want my promise--or any woman's--on such conditions," she said evenly. "But I do," he insisted. The lights of a town suburb were flitting past the windows, and the monotonous song of the tires was drowned in the shrill crescendo of the brakes. She turned from him suddenly and laid her cheek against the grateful cool of the window-pane. But when he took her hand she did not withdraw it. "Is it mine, Elinor?" he whispered. "You see, I'm not asking much." "Is it worth taking--by itself?" "You make me very happy," he said quietly; and just then the train stopped with a jerk, and a shuffling bustle of station-platform noises floated in through the open deck transoms of the car. As if the solution of continuity had been a call to arouse her, Elinor freed her hand with a swift little wrench and sat bolt upright in her corner. "This station--do you know the name of it?" she asked, fighting hard for the self-control that usually came so easily. Ormsby consulted his watch. "I am not quite sure. It ought to be----" He broke off when he saw that she was no longer listening to him. There was a stir in the forward vestibule, and the porter came in with a hand-bag. At his heels was a man in a rough-weather box-coat; a youngish man, clean-shaven and wind-tanned to a healthy bronze, with an eager face and alert eyes that made an instant inventory of the car and its complement of passengers. So much Ormsby saw. Then Penelope stood up in her place to greet the new-comer. "Why, Mr. Kent!" she exclaimed. "Are you really going on with us? How nice of you!" Elinor turned coolly upon her seat-mate, self-possession once more firmly seated in the saddle. "Did you know Mr. Kent was going to board the train here?" she asked abruptly. "Do you mean the gentleman Penelope has waylaid? I haven't the pleasure of his acquaintance. Will you introduce us?" V JOURNEYS END-- It had been a day of upsettings for David Kent, beginning with the late breakfast at which Neltje, the night watchman at the railway station, had brought him Penelope's telegram. At ten he had a case in court: Shotwell _vs_. Western Pacific Co., damages for stock-killing; for the plaintiff--Hawk; for the defendant--Kent. With the thought that he was presently going to see Elinor again, Kent went gaily to the battle legal, meaning to wring victory out of a jury drawn for the most part from the plaintiff's stock-raising neighbors. By dint of great perseverance he managed to prolong the fight until the middle of the afternoon, was worsted, as usual, and so far lost his temper as to get himself called down by the judge, MacFarlane. Whereupon he went back to the Farquhar Building and to his office and sat down at the type-writer to pound out a letter to the general counsel, resigning his sinecure. The Shotwell case was the third he had lost for the company in a single court term. Justice for the railroad company, under present agrarian conditions, was not to be had in the lower courts, and he was weary of fighting the losing battle. Therefore---- In the midst of the type-rattling the boy that served the few occupied offices in the Farquhar Building had brought the afternoon mail. It included a letter from Loring, and there was another reversive upheaval for the exile. Loring's business at the capital was no longer a secret. He had been tendered the resident management of the Western Pacific, with headquarters on the ground, and had accepted. His letter was a brief note, asking Kent to report at once for legal duty in the larger field. "I am not fairly in the saddle yet, and shall not be for a week or so," wrote the newly appointed manager. "But I find I am going to need a level-headed lawyer at my elbow from the jump--one who knows the State political ropes and isn't afraid of a scrap. Come in on Number Three to-day, if you can; if not, send a wire and say when I may look for you. Or, better still, wire anyway." David Kent struggled with his emotions until he had got his feet down to the solid earth again. Then he tore up the half-written resignation and began to smite things in order for the flight. Could he make Number Three? Since that was the train named in Penelope's message, nothing short of a catastrophe should prevent his making it. He did make it, with an hour to spare; an hour which he proceeded to turn into a time of sharp trial for the patient telegraph operator at the station, with his badgerings of the man for news of Number Three. The train reported--he took it as a special miracle wrought in his behalf that the Flyer was for this once abreast of her schedule--he fell to tramping up and down the long platform, deep in anticipative prefigurings. The mills of the years grind many grists besides the trickling stream of the hours: would he find Miss Brentwood as he had left her? Could he be sure of meeting her on the frank, friendly footing of the Croydon summer? He feared not; feared all things--lover-like. He hoped there would be no absence-reared barrier to be painfully leveled. A man among men, a leader in some sort, and in battle a soldier who could hew his way painstakingly, if not dramatically, to his end, David Kent was no carpet knight, and he knew his lack. Would Elinor make things easy for him, as she used to daily in the somewhat difficult social atmosphere of the exclusive summer hotel? Measuring it out in all its despairing length and breadth after the fact, he was deeply grateful to Penelope. Missing her ready help at the moment of cataclysms when he entered the sleeping-car, he might have betrayed himself. His first glance lighted on Elinor and Ormsby, and he needed no gloss on the love-text. He had delayed too long; had asked too much of the Fates, and Atropos, the scissors-bearing sister, had snipped his thread of hope. It is one of the consequences of civilization that we are denied the privilege of unmasking at the behest of the elemental emotions; that we are constrained to bleed decorously. Making shift to lean heavily on Penelope, Kent came through without doing or saying anything unseemly. Mrs. Brentwood, who had been sleeping with one eye open, and that eye upon Elinor and Ormsby, made sure that she had now no special reason to be ungracious to David Kent. For the others, Ormsby was good-naturedly suave; Elinor was by turns unwontedly kind and curiously silent; and Penelope--but, as we say, it was to Penelope that Kent owed most. So it came about that the outcome of the cataclysm was a thing which happens often enough in a conventionalized world. David Kent, with his tragedy fresh upon him, dropped informally into place as one of the party of five; and of all the others, Penelope alone suspected how hard he was hit. And when all was said; when the new _modus vivendi_ had been fairly established and the hour grew late, Kent went voluntarily with Ormsby to the smoking-compartment, "to play the string out decently," as he afterward confessed to Loring. "I see you know how to get the most comfort out of your tobacco," said the club-man, when they were companionably settled in the men's room and Kent produced his pipe and tobacco pouch. "I prefer the pipe myself, for a steady thing; but at this time of night a light Castilla fits me pretty well. Try one?" tendering his cigar-case. Fighting shrewdly against a natural prompting to regard Ormsby as an hereditary enemy, Kent forced himself to be neighborly. "I don't mind," he said, returning the pipe to its case. And when the Havanas were well alight, and the talk had circled down upon the political situation in the State, he was able to bear his part with a fair exterior, giving Ormsby an impressionistic outline of the late campaign and the conditions that had made the sweeping triumph of the People's Party possible. "We have been coming to it steadily through the last administration, and a part of the preceding one," he explained. "Last year the drought cut the cereals in half, and the country was too new to stand it without borrowing. There was little local capital, and the eastern article was hungry, taking all the interest the law allows, and as much more as it could get. This year the crop broke all records for abundance, but the price is down and the railroads, trying to recoup for two bad years, have stiffened the freight rates. The net result is our political overturn." "Then the railroads and the corporations are not primarily to blame?" said Ormsby. "Oh, no. Corporations here, as elsewhere, are looking out for the present dollar, but if the country were generally prosperous, the people would pay the tax carelessly, as they do in the older sections. With us it has been a sort of Donnybrook Fair: the agricultural voter has shillalahed the head he could reach most easily." The New Yorker nodded. His millions were solidly placed, and he took no more than a sportsman's interest in the fluctuations of the stock market. "Of course, there have been all sorts of rumors East: 'bull' prophecies that the triumph of the new party means an era of unexampled prosperity for the State--and by consequence for western stocks; 'bear' growlings that things are sure to go to the bow-wows under the Bucks régime. What do you think of it?" Kent blew a series of smoke rings and watched them rise to become a part of the stratified tobacco cloud overhead before replying. "I may as well confess that I am not entirely an unprejudiced observer," he admitted. "For one thing, I am in the legal department of one of the best-hated of the railroads; and for another, Governor Bucks, Meigs, the attorney-general, and Hendricks, the new secretary of State, are men whom I know as, it is safe to say, the general public doesn't know them. If I could be sure that these three men are going to be able to control their own party majority in the Assembly, I should take the first train East and make my fortune selling tips in Wall Street." "You put it graphically. Then the Bucks idea is likely to prove a disturbing element on 'Change?" "It is; always providing it can dominate its own majority. But this is by no means certain. The political earthquake is essentially a popular protest against hard conditions brought about, as the voters seem to believe, by the oppressions of the alien corporations and extortionate railroad rates. Yet there are plenty of steady-going, conservative men in the movement; men who have no present idea of revolutionizing things. Marston, the lieutenant-governor, is one of that kind. It all depends on whether these men will allow themselves to be whipped into line by the leaders, who, as I am very well convinced, are a set of conscienceless demagogues, fighting solely for their own hand." Ormsby nodded again. "You are likely to have good hunting this winter, Mr. Kent. It hasn't begun yet, I take it?" "Oh, no; the Assembly does not convene for a fortnight, and nobody short of an inspired prophet can foretell what legislation will be sprung. But one thing is safe to count on: the leaders are out for spoils. They mean to rob somebody, and, if my guess is worth anything, they are sharp enough to try first to get their schemes legalized by having enabling laws passed by the Assembly." "Um," said the eastern man. Then he took the measure of his companion in a shrewd overlook. "You are the man on the ground, Mr. Kent, and I'll ask a straightforward question. If you had a friend owning stock in one of the involved railways, what would you advise?" Kent smiled. "We needn't make it a hypothetical case. If I had the right to advise Mrs. Brentwood and her daughters, I should counsel them to sit tight in the boat for the present." "Would you? But Western Pacific has gone off several points already." "I know it has; and unfortunately, Mrs. Brentwood bought in at the top of the market. That is why I counsel delay. If she sells now, she is sure to lose. If she holds on, there is an even chance for a spasmodic upward reaction before worse things happen." "Perhaps: you know more about the probabilities than I pretend to. But on the other hand, she may lose more if she holds on." Kent bit deep into his cigar. "We must see to it that she doesn't lose, Mr. Ormsby." The club-man laughed broadly. "Isn't that a good bit like saying that the shallop must see to it that the wind doesn't blow too hard for it?" "Possibly. But in the sorriest wreck there is usually some small chance for salvage. I understand Mrs. Brentwood's holding is not very large?" "A block of some three thousand shares, held jointly by her and her two daughters, I believe." "Exactly: not enough to excite anybody's cupidity; and yet enough to turn the scale if there should ever be a fight for a majority control." "There is no such fight in prospect, is there?" "No; not that I know of. But I was thinking of the possibilities. If a smash comes there will be a good deal of horse-swapping in the middle of the stream--buying up of depressed stocks by people who need the lines worse than the original owners do." "I see," said Ormsby. "Then you would counsel delay?" "I should; and I'll go a step farther. I am on the inside, in a way, and any hint I can give you for Miss--for Mrs. Brentwood's benefit shall be promptly forthcoming." "By Jove! that's decent," said Ormsby, heartily. "You are a friend worth having, Mr. Kent. But which 'inside' do you mean--the railroad or the political?" "Oh, the railroad, of course. And while I think of it, my office will be in the Quintard Building; and you--I suppose you will put up at the Wellington?" "For the present, we all shall. It is Mrs. Brentwood's notion to take a furnished house later on for herself and daughters, if she can find one. I'll keep in touch with you." "Do. It may come to a bit of quick wiring when our chance arrives. You know Loring--Grantham Loring?" "Passably well. I came across him one summer in the mountains of Peru, where he was managing a railroad. He is a mighty good sort. I had mountain fever, and he took me in and did for me." "He is with us now," said David Kent; "the newly appointed general manager of the Western Pacific." "Good!" said the club-man "I think a lot of him; he is an all-around dependable fellow, and plenty capable. I'm glad to know he has caught on higher up." The locomotive whistle was droning again, and a dodging procession of red-eyed switch-lights flicked past the windows. Kent stood up and flung away the stump of his cigar. "The capital," he announced. "I'll go back with you and help out with the shawl-strap things." And in the vestibule he added: "I spoke of Loring because he will be with us in anything we have to do in Mrs. Brentwood's behalf. Look him up when you have time--fourth floor of the Quintard." VI OF THE MAKING OF LAWS The session, the shortest in the history of the State, and thus far the least eventful, was nearing its close; and the alarmists who had prophesied evil and evil only of the "Populist" victory were fast losing credit with the men of their own camp and with the country at large. After the orthodox strife over the speakership of the House, and the equally orthodox wrangle over contested seats, the State Assembly had settled down to routine business, despatching it with such unheard-of celerity as to win columns of approval from the State press as a whole; though there were not wanting a few radical editors to raise the ante-election cry of reform, and to ask pointedly when it was to begin. Notwithstanding the lack of alarms, however, the six weeks had been a period of unceasing vigilance on the part of the interests which were supposed to be in jeopardy. Every alien corporation owning property and doing business in the State had its quota of watchful defenders on the ground; men who came and went, in the lobbies of the capitol, in the visitors' galleries, at the receptions; men who said little, but who saw and heard all things down to the small talk of the corridors and the clubs, and the gossip of the hotel rotundas. David Kent was of this silent army of observation, doing watch-dog duty for the Western Pacific; thankful enough, if the truth be told, to have a thing to do which kept him from dwelling overmuch upon the wreck of his hopes. But in the closing days of the session, when a despatchful Assembly, anxious to be quit of its task, had gone into night sittings, the anodyne drug of work began to lose its effect. The Brentwoods had taken furnished apartments in Tejon Avenue, two squares from the capitol, and Kent had called no oftener than good breeding prescribed. Yet their accessibility, and his unconquerable desire to sear his wound in the flame that had caused it, were constant temptations, and he was battling with them for the hundredth time on the Friday night when he sat in the House gallery listening to a perfunctory debate which concerned itself with a bill touching State water-ways. "Heavens! This thing is getting to be little short of deadly!" fumed Crenshawe, his right-hand neighbor, who was also a member of the corps of observation. "I'm going to the club for a game of pool. Won't you come along?" Kent nodded and left his seat with the bored one. But in the great rotunda he changed his mind. "You'll find plenty of better players than I am at the club," he said in extenuation. "I think I'll smoke a whiff or two here and go back. They can't hold on much longer for to-night." Five minutes later, when he had lighted a cigar and was glancing over the evening paper, two other members of the corporation committee of safety came down from the Senate gallery and stopped opposite Kent's pillar to struggle into their overcoats. "It's precisely as I wrote our people two weeks ago--timidity scare, pure and simple," one of them was saying. "I've a mind to start home to-morrow. There is nothing doing here, or going to be done." "No," said the other. "If it wasn't for House Bill Twenty-nine, I'd go to-night. They will adjourn to-morrow or Monday." "House Bill Twenty-nine is much too dead to bury," was the reassuring rejoinder. "The committee is ours, and the bill will not be heard of again at this session. If that is all you are holding on for----" They passed out of earshot, and Kent folded his newspaper absently. House Bill Twenty-nine had been the one measure touching the sensitive "vested interests"; the one measure for the suppression of which the corporations' lobby had felt called on to take steps. It was an omnibus bill put forth as a substitute for the existing law defining the status of foreign corporations. It had originated in the governor's office,--a fact which Kent had ferreted out within twenty-four hours of its first reading,--and for that reason he had procured a printed copy, searching it diligently for the hidden menace he was sure it embodied. When the search proved fruitless, he had seen the bill pass the House by a safe majority, had followed it to the Senate, and in a cunningly worded amendment tacked on in the upper house had found what he was seeking. Under the existing law foreign corporations were subject to State supervision, and were dealt with as presumably unfriendly aliens. But the Senate amendment to House Bill Twenty-nine fairly swept the interstate corporations, as such, out of existence, by making it obligatory upon them to acquire the standing of local corporations. Charters were to be refiled with the secretary of State; resident directories and operating headquarters were to be established within the boundaries and jurisdiction of the State; in short, the State proposed, by the terms of the new law, to deal only with creatures of its own creation. Kent saw, or thought he saw, the fine hand of the junto in all this. It was a still hunt in which the longest way around was the shortest way home. Like all new-country codes, the organic law of the State favored local corporations, and it might be argued that a bill placing the foreign companies on a purely local footing was an unmixed blessing to the aliens. But on the other hand, an unprincipled executive might easily make the new law an engine of extortion. To go no further into the matter than the required refiling of charters: the State constitution gave the secretary of State quasi-judicial powers. It was within his province to pass upon the applications for chartered rights, and to deny them if the question _pro bono publico_ were involved. Kent put two and two together, saw the wide door of exactions which might be opened, and passed the word of warning among his associates; after which he had watched the course of the amended House Bill Twenty-nine with interest sharp-set, planning meanwhile with Hildreth, the editor of the _Daily Argus_, an exposé which should make plain the immense possibilities for corruption opened up by the proposed law; a journalistic salvo of publicity to be fired as a last resort. The measure as amended had passed the Senate without debate, and had gone back to the House. Here, after the second reading, and in the very hour when the _Argus_ editorial was getting itself cast in the linotypes, there was a hitch. The member from the Rio Blanco, favoring the measure in all its parts, and fearful only lest corporation gold might find a technical flaw in it, moved that it be referred to the committee on judiciary for a report on its constitutionality; and, accordingly, to the committee on judiciary it had gone. Kent recalled the passing of the crisis, remembering how he had hastened to telephone the _Argus_ editor to kill the exposé at the last moment. The incident was now a month in the past, and the committee had not yet reported; would never report, Kent imagined. He knew the personnel of the committee on judiciary; knew that at least three members of it were down on the list, made up at the beginning of the session by his colleagues in the army of observation, as "approachables". Also, he knew by inference at least, that these three men had been approached, not without success, and that House Bill Twenty-nine, with its fee-gathering amendment, was safely shelved. "It's an ill-smelling muck-heap!" he frowned, recalling the incidents of the crisis at the suggestion let fall by the two outgoing lobbyists. "And so much of this dog-watch as isn't sickeningly demoralizing is deadly dull, as Crenshawe puts it. If I had anywhere to go, I'd cut the galleries for to-night." He was returning the newspaper to his pocket when it occurred to him that his object in buying it had been to note the stock quotations; a daily duty which, for Elinor's sake, he had never omitted. Whereupon he reopened it and ran his eye down the lists. There was a decided upward tendency in westerns. Overland Short Line had gained two points; and Western Pacific---- He held the paper under the nearest electric globe to make sure: Western Pacific, preferred, was quoted at fifty-eight and a half, which was one point and a half above the Brentwood purchase price. One minute later an excited life-saver was shut in the box of the public telephone, gritting his teeth at the inanity of the central operator who insisted on giving him "A-1224" instead of "A-1234," the Hotel Wellington. "No, no! Can't you understand? I want twelve-thirty-four; one, two, _three_, four; the Hotel Wellington." There was more skirling of bells, another nerve-trying wait, and at last the clerk of the hotel answered. "What name did you say? Oh, it's you, is it, Mr. Kent? Ormsby? Mr. Brookes Ormsby? No, he isn't here; he went out about two minutes ago. What's that you say? _Damn_? Well, I'm sorry, too. No message that I can take? All right. Good-by." This was the beginning. For the middle part Kent burst out of the telephone-box and took the nearest short-cut through the capitol grounds for the street-car corner. At a quarter of nine he was cross-questioning the clerk face to face in the lobby of the Wellington. There was little more to be learned about Ormsby. The club-man had left his key and gone out. He was in evening dress, and had taken a cab at the hotel entrance. Kent dashed across to his rooms and, in a feverish race against time, made himself fit to chase a man in evening dress. There was no car in sight when he came down, and he, too, took a cab with an explosive order to the driver: "124 Tejon Avenue, and be quick about it!" It was the housemaid that answered his ring at the door of the Brentwood apartment. She was a Swede, a recent importation; hence Kent learned nothing beyond the bare fact that the ladies had gone out. "With Mr. Ormsby?" he asked. "Yaas; Aye tank it vill pee dat yentlemans." The pursuer took the road again, rather unhopefully. There were a dozen places where Ormsby might have taken his charges. Among them there was the legislative reception at Portia Van Brock's. Kent flipped a figurative coin, and gave the order for Alameda Square. The reception was perhaps the least unlikely place of the dozen. He was no more than fashionably late at the Van Brock house, and fortunately he was able to reckon himself among the chosen few for whom Miss Portia's door swung on hospitable hinges at all hours. Loring had known her in Washington, and he had stood sponsor for Kent in the first week of the exile's residence at the capital. Thereafter she had taken Kent up on his own account, and by now he was deep in her debt. For one thing, she had set the fashion in the matter of legislative receptions--her detractors, knowing nothing whatever about it, hinted that she had been an amateur social lobbyist in Washington, playing the game for the pure zest of it--and at these functions Kent had learned many things pertinent to his purpose as watch-dog for the railroad company and legal adviser to his chief--things not named openly on the floor of the House or of the Senate chamber. There was a crush in the ample mansion in Alameda Square, as there always was at Miss Van Brock's "open evenings," and when Kent came down from the cloakroom he had to inch his way by littles through the crowded reception-parlors in the search for the Brentwood party. It was unsuccessful at first; but later, catching a glimpse of Elinor at the piano, and another of Penelope inducting an up-country legislator into the mysteries of social small-talk, he breathed freer. His haphazard guess had hit the mark, and the finding of Ormsby was now only a question of moments. It was Miss Van Brock herself who told him where to look for the club-man--though not at his first asking. "You did come, then," she said, giving him her hand with a frank little smile of welcome. "Some one said you were not going to be frivolous any more, and I wondered if you would take it out on me. Have you been at the night session?" "Yes; at what you and your frivolities have left of it. A good third of the Solons seem to be sitting in permanence in Alameda Square." "'Solons'," she repeated. "That recalls Editor Brownlo's little joke--only he didn't mean it. He wrote of them as 'Solons,' but the printer got it 'solans'. The member from Caliente read the article and the word stuck in his mind. In an unhappy hour he asked Colonel Mack's boy--Harry, the irrepressible, you know--to look it up for him. Harry did it, and of course took the most public occasion he could find to hand in his answer. 'It's geese, Mr. Hackett!' he announced triumphantly; and after we were all through laughing at him the member from the warm place turned it just as neatly as a veteran. 'Well, I'm Hackett,' he said." David Kent laughed, as he was in duty bound, but he still had Ormsby on his mind. "I see you have Mrs. Brentwood and her daughters here: can you tell me where I can find Mr. Brookes Ormsby?" "I suppose I could if I should try. But you mustn't hurry me. There is a vacant corner in that davenport beyond the piano: please put me there and fetch me an ice. I'll wait for you." He did as he was bidden, and when she was served he stood over her, wondering, as other men had wondered, what was the precise secret of her charm. Loring had told him Miss Van Brock's story. She was southern born, the only child of a somewhat ill-considered match between a young California lawyer, wire-pulling in the national capital in the interest of the Central Pacific Railroad, and a Virginia belle tasting the delights of her first winter in Washington. Later, the young lawyer's state, or his employers, had sent him to Congress; and Portia, left motherless in her middle childhood, had grown up in an atmosphere of statecraft, or what passes for such, in an era of frank commercialism. Inheriting her mother's rare beauty of face and form, and uniting with it a sympathetic gift in grasp of detail, political and other, she soon became her father's confidante and loyal partizan, taking the place, as a daughter might, of the ambitious young wife and mother, who had set her heart on seeing the Van Brock name on the roll of the United States Senate. Rensselaer Van Brock had died before the senatorial dream could be realized, but not before he had made a sufficient number of lucky investments to leave his daughter the arbitress of her own future. What that future should be, not even Loring could guess. Since her father's death Miss Van Brock had been a citizen of the world. With a widowed aunt for the shadowiest of chaperons, she had drifted with the tide of inclination, coming finally to rest in the western capital for no better reason, perhaps, than that some portion of her interest-bearing securities were emblazoned with the great seal of this particular western State. Kent was thinking of Loring's recountal as he stood looking down on her. Other women were younger--and with features more conventionally beautiful; Kent could find a round dozen within easy eye-reach, to say nothing of the calm-eyed, queenly _improvisatrice_ at the piano--his constant standard of all womanly charm and grace. Unconsciously he fell to comparing the two, his hostess and his love, and was brought back to things present by a sharp reminder from Portia. "Stop looking at Miss Brentwood that way, Mr. David. She is not for you; and you are keeping me waiting." He smiled down on her. "It is the law of compensation. I fancy you have kept many a man waiting--and will keep many another." There was a little tang of bitterness in her laugh. "You remind me of the time when I went home from school--oh, years and years ago. Old Chloe--she was my black mammy, you know--had a grown daughter of her own, and her effort to dispose of her 'M'randy' was a standing joke in the family. In answer to my stereotyped question she stood back and folded her arms. 'Naw, honey; dat M'randy ain't ma'ied yit. She gwine be des lak you; look pretty, an' say, _Howdy! Misteh Jawnson_, an' go 'long by awn turrer side de road.'" "A very pretty little fable," said Kent. "And the moral?" "Is that I amuse myself with you--all of you; and in your turn you make use of me--or you think you do. Of what use can _I_ be to Mr. David Kent this evening?" "See how you misjudge me!" he protested. "My errand here to-night is purely charitable. Which brings me back to Ormsby: did you say you could tell me where to look for him?" "He is in the smoking-room with five or six other tobacco misanthropes. What do you want of him?" "I want to say two words in his ear; after which I shall vanish and make room for my betters." Miss Van Brock was gazing steadfastly at the impassioned face lighted by the piano candles. "Is it about Miss Brentwood?" she asked abruptly. "In a way--yes," he confessed. She rose and stood beside him--a bewitching figure of a woman who knew her part in the human comedy and played it well. "Is it wise, David?" she asked softly. "I am not denying the possibilities: you might come between them if you should try--I'm rather afraid you could. But you mustn't, you know; it's too late. You've marred her, between you; or rather that convention, which makes a woman deaf, blind and dumb until a man has fairly committed himself, has marred her. For your sake she can never be quite all she ought to be to him: for his sake she could never be quite the same to you." He drew apart from her, frowning. "If I should say that I don't fully understand what you mean?" he rejoined. "I should retort by saying something extremely uncomplimentary about your lack of perspicacity," she cut in maliciously. "I beg pardon," he said, a little stiffly. "You are laboring under an entirely wrong impression. What I have to say to Mr. Brookes Ormsby does not remotely concern the matter you touch upon. It's an affair of the Stock Exchange." "As if I didn't know!" she countered. "You merely reminded me of the other thing. But if it is only a business secret you may as well tell me all about it at first hands. Some one is sure to tell me sooner or later." Now David Kent was growing impatient. Down in the inner depths of him he was persuaded that Ormsby might have difficulty in inducing Mrs. Brentwood to sell her Western Pacific stock even at an advance; might require time, at least. And time, with a Bucks majority tinkering with corporate rights in the Assembly, might well be precious. "Forgive me if I tell Ormsby first," he pleaded. "Afterward, if you care to know, you shall." Miss Van Brock let him go at that, but now the way to the smoking-den on the floor above was hedged up. He did battle with the polite requirements, as a man must; shaking hands or exchanging a word with one and another of the obstructors only as he had to. None the less, when he had finally wrought his way to the smoking-room Ormsby had eluded him again. He went back to the parlors, wondering how he had missed the club-man. In the middle room of the suite he found Portia chatting with Marston, the lieutenant-governor; and a young woman in the smartest of reception gowns had succeeded to Elinor's place at the piano. "You found him?" queried the hostess, excusing herself to the tall, saturnine man who had shared the honors at the head of the People's Party ticket with Jasper G. Bucks. "No," said Kent. "Have you seen him?" "Why, yes; they all came to take leave just a few moments after you left me. I thought of telling Mr. Ormsby you were looking for him, but you shut me off so snippily----" "Miss Van Brock! What have you done? I must go at once." "Really? I am complimented. But if you must, you must, I suppose. I had something to tell you--something of importance; but I can't remember what it was now. I never can remember things in the hurry of leave-takings." As we have intimated, Kent had hitherto found Miss Portia's confidences exceedingly helpful in a business way, and he hesitated. "Tell me," he begged. "No, I can't remember it: I doubt if I shall ever remember it unless you can remind me by telling me why you are so desperately anxious to find Mr. Ormsby." "I wonder if you hold everybody up like this," he laughed. "But I don't mind telling you. Western Pacific preferred has gone to fifty-eight and a half." "And Mr. Ormsby has some to sell? I wish I had. Do you know what I'd do?" She drew closer and laid a hand on his arm. "I'd sell--by wire--to-night; at least, I'd make sure that my telegram would be the first thing my broker would lay his hands on in the morning." "On general principles, I suppose: so should I, and for the same reason. But have I succeeded in reminding you of that thing you were going to tell me?" "Not wholly; only partly. You said this matter of Mr. Ormsby's concerned Miss Brentwood--in a way--didn't you?" "You will have your pound of flesh entire, won't you? The stock is hers, and her mother's and sister's. I want Ormsby to persuade them to sell. They'll listen to him. That is all; all the all." "Of course!" she said airily. "How simple of me not to have been able to add it up without your help. I saw the quotation in the evening paper; and I know, better, perhaps, than you do, the need for haste. Must you go now?" She had taken his arm and was edging him through the press in the parlors toward the entrance hall. "_You_ haven't paid me yet," he objected. "No; I'm trying to remember. Oh, yes; I have it now. Wasn't some one telling me that you are interested in House Bill Twenty-nine?" They had reached the dimly lighted front vestibule, and her hand was still on his arm. "I was interested in it," he admitted, correcting the present to the past tense. "But after it went to the House committee on judiciary you left it to more skilful, or perhaps we'd better say, to less scrupulous hands?" "I believe you are a witch. Is there anything you don't know?" "Plenty of things. For example, I don't know exactly how much it cost our good friends of the 'vested interests' to have that bill mislaid in the committee room. But I do know they made a very foolish bargain." "Beyond all doubt a most demoralizing bargain, which, to say the best of it, was only a choice between two evils. But why foolish?" "Because--well, because mislaid things have a way of turning up unexpectedly, you know, and--" He stopped her in a sudden gust of feverish excitement. "Tell me what you mean in one word, Miss Van Brock. Don't those fellows intend to stay bought?" She smiled pityingly. "You are very young, Mr. David--or very honest. Supposing those 'fellows', as you dub the honorable members of the committee on judiciary, had a little plan of their own; a plan suggested by the readiness of certain of their opponents to rush into print with statements which might derange things?" "I am supposing it with all my might." "That is right; we are only supposing, you must remember. We may suppose their idea was to let the excitement about the amended bill die down; to let people generally, and one fiercely honest young corporation attorney in particular, have time to forget that there was such a thing as House Bill Twenty-nine. And in such a suppositional case, how much they would be surprised, and how they would laugh in their sleeves, if some one came along and paid them handsomely for doing precisely what they meant to do." David Kent's smile was almost ferocious. "My argument is as good now as it was in the beginning: they have yet to reckon with the man who will dare to expose them." She turned from him and spoke to the footman at the door. "Thomas, fetch Mr. Kent's coat and hat from the dressing-room." And then to Kent, in the tone she might have used in telling him of the latest breeziness of the member from the Rio Blanco: "I remember now what it was that I wanted to tell you. While you have been trying to find Mr. Ormsby, the committee on judiciary has been reporting the long-lost House Bill Twenty-nine. If you hurry you may be in time to see it passed--it will doubtless go through without any tiresome debate. But you will hardly have time to obstruct it by arousing public sentiment through the newspapers." David Kent shook the light touch of her hand from his arm and set his teeth hard upon a word hot from the furnace of righteous indignation. For a moment he fully believed she was in league with the junto; that she had been purposely holding him in talk while the very seconds were priceless. She saw the scornful wrath in his eyes and turned it aside with a swift denial. "No, David; I didn't do that," she said, speaking to his inmost thought. "If there had been anything you could do--the smallest shadow of a chance for you--I should have sent you flying at the first word. But there wasn't; it was all too well arranged--" But he had snatched coat and hat from the waiting Thomas and was running like a madman for the nearest cab-stand. VII THE SENTIMENTALISTS Kent's time from Alameda Square to the capitol was the quickest a flogged cab-horse could make, but he might have spared the horse and saved the double fee. On the broad steps of the south portico he, uprushing three at a bound, met the advance guard of the gallery contingent, down-coming. The House had adjourned. "One minute, Harnwicke!" he gasped, falling upon the first member of the corporations' lobby he could identify in the throng. "What's been done?" "They've taken a fall out of us," was the brusk reply. "House Bill Twenty-nine was reported by the committee on judiciary and rushed through after you left. Somebody engineered it to the paring of a fingernail: bare quorum to act; members who might have filibustered weeded out, on one pretext or another, to a man; pages all excused, and nobody here with the privilege of the floor. It was as neat a piece of gag-work as I ever hope to see if I live to be a hundred." Kent faced about and joined the townward dispersal with his informant. "Well, I suppose that settles it definitely; at least, until we can test its constitutionality in the courts," he said. Harnwicke thought not, being of the opinion that the vested interests would never say die until they were quite dead. As assistant counsel for the Overland Short Line, he was in some sense the dean of the corps of observation, and could speak with authority. "There is one chance left for us this side of the courts," he went on; "and now I think of it, you are the man to say how much of a chance it is. The bill still lacks the governor's signature." Kent shook his head. "It is his own measure. I have proof positive that he and Meigs and Hendricks drafted it. And all this fine-haired engineering to-night was his, or Meigs'." "Of course; we all know that. But we don't know the particular object yet. Do they need the new law in their business as a source of revenue? Or do they want to be hired to kill it? In other words, does Bucks want a lump sum for a veto? You know the man better than any of us." "By Jove!" said Kent. "Do you mean to say you would buy the governor of a state?" Harnwicke turned a cold eye on his companion as they strode along. He was of the square-set, plain-spoken, aggressive type--a finished product of the modern school of business lawyers. "I don't understand that you are raising the question of ethics at this stage of the game, do I?" he remarked. Kent fired up a little. "And if I am?" he retorted. "I should say you had missed your calling. It is baldly a question of business--or rather of self-preservation. We needn't mince matters among ourselves. If Bucks is for sale, we buy him." Kent shrugged. "There isn't any doubt about his purchasability. But I confess I don't quite see how you will go about it." "Never mind that part of it; just leave the ways and means with those of us who have riper experience--and fewer hamperings, perhaps--than you have. Your share in it is to tell us how big a bid we must make. As I say, you know the man." David Kent was silent for the striding of half a square. The New England conscience dies hard, and while it lives it is given to drawing sharp lines on all the boundaries of culpability. Kent ended by taking the matter in debate violently out of the domain of ethics and standing it upon the ground of expediency. "It will cost too much. You would have to bid high--not to overcome his scruples, for he has none; but to satisfy his greed--which is abnormal. And, besides, he has his pose to defend. If he can see his way clear to a harvest of extortions under the law, he will probably turn you down--and will make it hot for you later on in the name of outraged virtue." Harnwicke's laugh was cynical. "He and his little clique don't own the earth in fee simple. Perhaps we shall be able to make them grasp that idea before we are through with them. We have had this fight on in other states. Would ten thousand be likely to satisfy him?" "No," said Kent. "If you add another cipher, it might." "A hundred thousand is a pot of money. I take it for granted the Western Pacific will stand its pro-rate?" The New England conscience bucked again, and Kent made his first open protest against the methods of the demoralizers. "I am not in a position to say: I should advise against it. Unofficially, I think I can speak for Loring and the Boston people. We are not more saintly than other folk, perhaps; and we are not in the railroad business for health or pleasure. But I fancy the Advisory Board would draw the line at bribing a governor--at any rate, I hope it would." "Rot!" said Harnwicke. And then: "You'll reap the benefits with other interstate interests; you'll have to come in." Kent hesitated, but not now on the ground of the principle to be defended. "That brings in a question which I am not competent to decide. Loring is your man. You will call a conference of the 'powers,' I take it?" "It is already called. I sent Atherton out to notify everybody as soon as the trap was sprung in the House. We meet in the ordinary at the Camelot. You'll be there?" "A little later--if Loring wants me. I have some telephoning to do before this thing gets on the wires." They parted at the entrance to the Camelot Club, and Kent went two squares farther on to the Wellington. Ormsby had not yet returned, and Kent went to the telephone and called up the Brentwood apartments. It was Penelope that answered. "Well, I think you owe it," she began, as soon as he had given his name. "What did I do at Miss Van Brock's to make you cut me dead?" "Why, nothing at all, I'm sure. I--I was looking for Mr. Ormsby, and----" "Not when I saw you," she broke in flippantly. "You were handing Miss Portia an ice. Are you still looking for Mr. Ormsby?" "I am--just that. Is he with you?" "No; he left here about twenty minutes ago. Is it anything serious?" "Serious enough to make me want to find him as soon as I can. Did he say he was coming down to the Wellington?" "Of course, he didn't," laughed Penelope. And then: "Whatever is the matter with you this evening, Mr. Kent?" "I guess I'm a little excited," said Kent. "Something has happened--something I can't talk about over the wires. It concerns you and your mother and sister. You'll know all about it as soon as I can find Ormsby and send him out to you." Penelope's "Oh!" was long-drawn and gasping. "Is any one dead?" she faltered. "No, no; it's nothing of that kind. I'll send Ormsby out, and he will tell you all about it." "Can't you come yourself?" "I may have to if I can't find Ormsby. Please don't let your mother go to bed until you have heard from one or the other of us. Did you get that?" "Ye-es; but I should like to know more--a great deal more." "I know; and I'd like to tell you. But I am using the public telephone here at the Wellington, and--Oh, damn!" Central had cut him out, and it was some minutes before the connection was switched in again. "Is that you, Miss Penelope? All right; I wasn't quite through. When Ormsby comes, you must do as he tells you to, and you and Miss Elinor must help him convince your mother. Do you understand?" "No, I don't understand anything. For goodness' sake, find Mr. Ormsby and make him run! This is perfectly dreadful!" "Isn't it? And I'm awfully sorry. Good-by." Kent hung up the receiver, and when he was asking a second time at the clerk's desk for the missing man, Ormsby came in to answer for himself. Whereupon the crisis was outlined to him in brief phrase, and he rose to the occasion, though not without a grimace. "I'm not sure just how well you know Mrs. Hepzibah Brentwood," he demurred; "but it will be quite like her to balk. Don't you think you'd better go along? You are the company's attorney, and your opinion ought to carry some weight." David Kent thought not; but a cautious diplomatist, having got the idea well into the back part of his head, was not to be denied. "Of course, you'll come. You are just the man I'll need to back me up. I shan't shirk; I'll take the mother into the library and break the ice, while you are squaring things with the young women. Penelope won't care the snap of her finger either way; but Elinor has some notion's that you are fitter to cope with than I am. After, if you can give me a lift with Mrs. Hepzibah, I'll call you in. Come on; it's getting pretty late to go visiting." Kent yielded reluctantly, and they took a car for the sake of speed. It was Penelope who opened the door for them at 124 Tejon Avenue; and Ormsby made it easy for his coadjutor, as he had promised. "I want to see your mother in the library for a few minutes," he began. "Will you arrange it, and take care of Mr. Kent until I come for him?" Penelope "arranged" it, not without another added pang of curiosity, whereupon David Kent found himself the rather embarrassed third of a silent trio gathered about the embers of the sitting-room fire. "Is it to be a Quaker meeting?" asked Penelope, sweetly, when the silence had grown awe-inspiring. Kent laughed for pure joy at the breaking of the spell. "One would think we had come to drag you all off to jail, Ormsby and I," he said; and then he went on to explain. "It's about your Western Pacific stock, you know. To-day's quotations put it a point and a half above your purchase price, and we've come to persuade you to unload, _pronto_, as the member from the Rio Blanco would say." "Is that all?" said Penelope, stifling a yawn. "Then I'm not in it: I'm an infant." And she rose and went to the piano. "You haven't told us all of it: what has happened?" queried Elinor, speaking for the first time since her greeting of Kent. He briefed the story of House Bill Twenty-nine for her, pointing out the probabilities. "Of course, no one can tell what the precise effect will be," he qualified. "But in my opinion it is very likely to be destructive of dividends. Skipping the dry details, the new law, which is equitable enough on its face, can be made an engine of extortion in the hands of those who administer it. In fact, I happen to know that it was designed and carried through for that very purpose." She smiled. "I have understood you were in the opposition. Are you speaking politically?" "I am stating the plain fact," said Kent, nettled a little by her coolness. "Decadent Rome never lifted a baser set of demagogues into office than we have here in this State at the present moment." He spoke warmly, and she liked him best when he put her on the footing of an equal antagonist. "I can't agree with your inference," she objected. "As a people we are neither obsequious nor stupid." "Perhaps not. But it is one of the failures of a popular government that an honest majority may be controlled and directed by a small minority of shrewd rascals. That is exactly what has happened in the passage of this bill. I venture to say that not one man in ten who voted for it had the faintest suspicion that it was a 'graft'." "If that be true, what chances there are for men with the gift of true leadership and a love of pure justice in their hearts!" she said half-absently; and he started forward and said: "I beg pardon?" She let the blue-gray eyes meet his and there was a passing shadow of disappointment in them. "I ought to beg yours. I'm afraid I was thinking aloud. But it is one of my dreams. If I were a man I should go into politics." "To purify them?" "To do my part in trying. The great heart of the people is honest and well-meaning: I think we all admit that. And there is intelligence, too. But human nature is the same as it used to be when they set up a man who _could_ and called him a king. Gentle or simple, it must be led." "There is no lack of leadership, such as it is," he hazarded. "No; but there seems to be a pitiful lack of the right kind: men who will put self-seeking and unworthy ambition aside and lift the standard of justice and right-doing for its own sake. Are there any such men nowadays?" "I don't know," he rejoined gravely. "Sometimes I'm tempted to doubt it. It is a frantic scramble for place and power for the most part. The kind of man you have in mind isn't in it; shuns it as he would a plague spot." She contradicted him firmly. "No, the kind of man I have in mind wouldn't shun it; he would take hold with his hands and try to make things better; he would put the selfish temptations under foot and give the people a leader worth following--be the real mind and hand of the well-meaning majority." Kent shook his head slowly. "Not unless we admit a motive stronger than the abstraction which we call patriotism." "I don't understand," she said; meaning, rather, that she refused to understand. "I mean that such a man, however exalted his views might be, would have to have an object more personal to him than the mere dutiful promptings of patriotism to make him do his best." "But that would be self-seeking again." "Not necessarily in the narrow sense. The old knightly chivalry was a beautiful thing in its way, and it gave an uplift to an age which would have been frankly brutal without it: yet it had its well-spring in what appeals to us now as being a rather fantastic sentiment." "And we are not sentimentalists?" she suggested. "No; and it's the worse for us in some respects. You will not find your ideal politician until you find a man with somewhat of the old knightly spirit in him. And I'll go further and say that when you do find him he will be at heart the champion of the woman he loves rather than that of a political constituency." She became silent at that, and for a time the low sweet harmonies of the nocturne Penelope was playing filled the gap. Kent left his chair and began to wish honestly for Ormsby's return. He was searing the wound again, and the process was more than commonly painful. They had been speaking in figures, as a man and a woman will; yet he made sure the mask of metaphor was transparent, no less to her than to him. As many times before, his heart was crying out to her; but now behind the cry there was an upsurging tidal wave of emotion new and strange; a toppling down of barriers and a sweeping inrush of passionate rebellion. Why had she put it out of her power to make him her champion in the Field of the Lust of Mastery? Instantly, and like a revealing lightning flash, it dawned upon him that this was his awakening. Something of himself she had shown him in the former time: how he was rusting inactive in the small field when he should be doing a man's work, the work for which his training had fitted him, in the larger. But the glamour of sentiment had been over it all in those days, and to the passion-warped the high call is transmitted in terms of self-seeking. He turned upon her suddenly. "Did you mean to reproach me?" he asked abruptly. "How absurd!" "No, it isn't. You are responsible for me, in a certain sense. You sent me out into the world, and somehow I feel as if I had disappointed you." "'But what went ye out for to see?'" she quoted softly. "I know," he nodded, sitting down again. "You thought you were arousing a worthy ambition, but it was only avarice that was quickened. I've been trying to be a money-getter." "You can be something vastly better." "No, I am afraid not; it is too late." Again the piano-mellowed silence supervened, and Kent put his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, being very miserable. He believed now what he had been slow to credit before: that he had it in him to hew his way to the end of the line if only the motive were strong enough to call out all the reserves of battle-might and courage. That motive she alone, of all the women in the world, might have supplied, he told himself in keen self-pity. With her love to arm him, her clear-eyed faith to inspire him.... He sat up straight and pushed the cup of bitter herbs aside. There would be time enough to drain it farther on. "Coming back to the stock market and the present crisis," he said, breaking the silence in sheer self-defense; "Ormsby and I----" She put the resurrected topic back into its grave with a little gesture of apathetic impatience she used now and then with Ormsby. "I suppose I ought to be interested, but I am not," she confessed. "Mother will do as she thinks best, and we shall calmly acquiesce, as we always do." David Kent was not sorry to be relieved in so many words of the persuasive responsibility, and the talk drifted into reminiscence, with the Croydon summer for a background. It was a dangerous pastime for Kent; perilous, and subversive of many things. One of his meliorating comforts had been the thought that however bitter his own disappointment was, Elinor at least was happy. But in this new-old field of talk a change came over her and he was no longer sure she was entirely happy. She was saying things with a flavor akin to cynicism in them, as thus: "Do you remember how we used to go into raptures of pious indignation over the make-believe sentiment of the summer man and the summer girl? I recollect your saying once that it was wicked; a desecration of things which ought to be held sacred. It isn't so very long ago, but I think we were both very young that summer--years younger than we can ever be again. Don't you?" "Doubtless," said David Kent. He was at a pass in which he would have agreed with her if she had asserted that black was white. It was not weakness; it was merely that he was absorbed in a groping search for the word which would fit her changed mood. "We have learned to be more charitable since," she went on; "more charitable and less sentimental, perhaps. And yet we prided ourselves on our sincerity in that young time, don't you think?" "I, at least, was sincere," he rejoined bluntly. He had found the mood-word at last: it was resentment; though, being a man, he could see no good reason why the memories of the Croydon summer should make her resentful. She was not looking at him when she said: "No; sincerity is always just. And you were not quite just, I think." "To you?" he demanded. "Oh, no; to yourself." Portia Van Brock's accusation was hammering itself into his brain. _You have marred her between you.... For your sake she can never be quite all she ought to be to him; for his sake she could never be quite the same to you_. A cold wave of apprehension submerged him. In seeking to do the most unselfish thing that offered, had he succeeded only in making her despise him? The question was still hanging answerless when there came the sound of a door opening and closing, and Ormsby stood looking in upon them. "We needn't keep these sleepy young persons out of bed any longer," he announced briefly; and the coadjutor said good-night and joined him at once. "What luck?" was David Kent's anxious query when they were free of the house and had turned their faces townward. "Just as much as we might have expected. Mrs. Hepzibah refuses point-blank to sell her stock--won't talk about it. 'The idea of parting with it now, when it is actually worth more than it was when we bought it!'" he quoted, mimicking the thin-lipped, acidulous protest. "Later, in an evil minute, I tried to drag you in, and she let you have it square on the point of the jaw--intimated that it was a deal in which some of you inside people needed her block of stock to make you whole. She did, by Jove!" Kent's laugh was mirthless. "I was never down in her good books," he said, by way of accounting for the accusation. If Ormsby thought he knew the reason why, he was magnanimous enough to steer clear of that shoal. "It's a mess," he growled. "I don't fancy you had any better luck with Elinor." "She seemed not to care much about it either way. She said her mother would have the casting vote." "I know. What I don't know is, what remains to be done." "More waiting," said Kent, definitively. "The fight is fairly on now--as between the Bucks crowd and the corporations, I mean--but there will probably be ups and downs enough to scare Mrs. Brentwood into letting go. We must be ready to strike when the iron is hot; that's all." The New Yorker tramped a full square in thoughtful silence before he said: "Candidly, Kent, Mrs. Hepzibah's little stake in Western Pacific isn't altogether a matter of life and death to me, don't you know? If it comes to the worst, I can have my broker play the part of the god in the car. Happily, or unhappily, whichever way you like to put it, I sha'n't miss what he may have to put up to make good on her three thousand shares." David Kent stopped short and wheeled suddenly upon his companion. "Ormsby, that's a thing I've been afraid of, all along; and it's the one thing you must never do." "Why not?" demanded the straightforward Ormsby. Kent knew he was skating on the thinnest of ice, but his love for Elinor made him fearless of consequences. "If you don't know without being told, it proves that your money has spoiled you to that extent. It is because you have no right to entrap Miss Brentwood into an obligation that would make her your debtor for the very food she eats and the clothes she wears. You will say she need never know: be very sure she would find out, one way or another; and she would never forgive you." "Um," said Ormsby, turning visibly grim. "You are frank enough--to draw it mildly. Another man in my place might suggest that it isn't Mr. David Kent's affair." Kent turned about and caught step again. "I've said my say--all of it," he rejoined stolidly. "We've been decently modern up to now, and we won't go back to the elemental things so late in the day. All the same, you'll not take it amiss if I say that I know Miss Brentwood rather better than you do." Ormsby did not say whether he would or would not, and the talk went aside to less summary ways and means preservative of the Brentwood fortunes. But at the archway of the Camelot Club, where Kent paused, Ormsby went back to the debatable ground in an outspoken word. "I know pretty well now what there is between us, Kent, and we mustn't quarrel if we can help it," he said. "If you complain that I didn't give you a fair show, I'll retort that I didn't dare to. Are you satisfied?" "No," said David Kent; and with that they separated. VIII THE HAYMAKERS By the terms of its dating clause the new trust and corporation law became effective at once, "the public welfare requiring it"; and though there was an immediate sympathetic decline in the securities involved, there was no panic, financial or industrial, to mark the change from the old to the new. Contrary to the expectations of the alarmists and the lawyers, and somewhat to the disappointment of the latter, the vested interests showed no disposition to test the constitutionality of the act in the courts. So far, indeed, from making difficulties, the various alien corporations affected by the new law wheeled promptly into line in compliance with its provisions, vying with one another in proving, or seeming to prove, the time-worn aphorism that capital can never afford to be otherwise than strictly law-abiding. In the reorganization of the Western Pacific, David Kent developed at once and heartily into that rare and much-sought-for quantity, a man for an emergency. Loring, also, was a busy man in this transition period, yet he found time to keep an appreciative eye on Kent, and, true to his implied promise, pushed him vigorously for the first place in the legal department of the localized company. Since the resident manager stood high in the Boston counsels of the company, the pushing was not without results; and while David Kent was still up to his eyes in the work of flogging the affairs of the newly named Trans-Western into conformity with the law, his appointment as general counsel came from the Advisory Board. At one time, when success in his chosen vocation meant more to him than he thought it could ever mean again, the promoted subordinate would have had an attack of jubilance little in keeping with the grave responsibilities of his office. As it fell out, he was too busy to celebrate, and too sore on the sentimental side to rejoice. Hence, his recognition of the promotion was merely a deeper plunge into the flood of legalities and the adding of two more stenographers to his office force. Now there is this to be said of such submersive battlings in a sea of work: while the fierce toil of the buffeting may be good for the swimmer's soul, it necessarily narrows his horizon, inasmuch as a man with his head in the sea-smother lacks the view-point of the captain who fights his ship from the conning tower. So it befell that while the newly appointed general counsel of the reorganized Western Pacific was bolting his meals and clipping the nights at both ends in a strenuous endeavor to clear the decks for a possible battle-royal at the capital, events of a minatory nature were shaping themselves elsewhere. To bring these events down to their focusing point in the period of transition, it is needful to go back a little; to a term of the circuit court held in the third year of Gaston the prosperous. Who Mrs. Melissa Varnum was; how she came to be traveling from Midland City to the end of the track on a scalper's ticket; and in what manner she was given her choice of paying fare to the conductor or leaving the train at Gaston--these are details with which we need not concern ourselves. Suffice it to say that Kent, then local attorney for the company, mastered them; and when Mrs. Varnum, through Hawk, her counsel, sued for five thousand dollars damages, he was able to get a continuance, knowing from long experience that the jury would certainly find for the plaintiff if the case were then allowed to go to trial. And at the succeeding term of court, which was the one that adjourned on the day of Kent's transfer to the capital, two of the company's witnesses had disappeared; and the one bit of company business Kent had been successful in doing that day was to postpone for a second time the coming to trial of the Varnum case. It was while Kent's head was deepest in the flood of reorganization that a letter came from one Blashfield Hunnicott, his successor in the local attorneyship at Gaston, asking for instructions in the Varnum matter. Judge MacFarlane's court would convene in a week. Was he, Hunnicott, to let the case come to trial? Or should he--the witnesses still being unproducible--move for a further continuance? Kent took his head out of the cross-seas long enough to answer. By all means Hunnicott was to obtain another continuance, if possible. And if, before the case were called, there should be any new developments, he was to wire at once to the general office, and further instructions would issue. It was about this time, or, to be strictly accurate, on the day preceding the convening of Judge MacFarlane's court in Gaston, that Governor Bucks took a short vacation--his first since the adjournment of the Assembly. One of the mysteries of this man--the only one for which his friends could not always account plausibly--was his habit of dropping out for a day or a week at irregular intervals, leaving no clue by which he could be traced. While he was merely a private citizen these disappearances figured in the local notes of the Gaston _Clarion_ as business trips, object and objective point unknown or at least unstated; but since his election the newspapers were usually more definite. On this occasion, the public was duly informed that "Governor Bucks, with one or two intimate friends, was taking a few days' recreation with rod and gun on the headwaters of Jump Creek"--a statement which the governor's private secretary stood ready to corroborate to all and sundry calling at the gubernatorial rooms on the second floor of the capitol. Now it chanced that, like all gossip, this statement was subject to correction as to details in favor of the exact fact. It is true that the governor, his gigantic figure clad in sportsmanlike brown duck, might have been seen boarding the train on the Monday evening; and in addition to the ample hand-bag there were rod and gun cases to bear out the newspaper notices. None the less, it was equally true that the keeper of the Gun Club shooting-box at the terminus of the Trans-Western's Jump Creek branch was not called upon to entertain so distinguished a guest as the State executive. Also, it might have been remarked that the governor traveled alone. Late that same night, Stephen Hawk was keeping a rather discomforting vigil with a visitor in the best suite of rooms the Mid-Continent Hotel in Gaston afforded. The guest of honor was a brother lawyer--though he might have refused to acknowledge the relationship with the ex-district attorney--a keen-eyed, business-like gentleman, whose name as an organizer of vast capitalistic ventures had traveled far, and whose present attitude was one of undisguised and angry contempt for Gaston and all things Gastonian. "How much longer have we to wait?" he demanded impatiently, when the hands of his watch pointed to the quarter-hour after ten. "You've made me travel two thousand miles to see this thing through: why didn't you make sure of having your man here?" Hawk wriggled uneasily in his chair. He was used to being bullied, not only by the good and great, but by the little and evil as well. Yet there was a rasp to the great man's impatience that irritated him. "I've been trying to tell you all the evening that I'm only the hired man in this business, Mr. Falkland. I can't compel the attendance of the other parties." "Well, it's damned badly managed, as far as we've gone," was the ungracious comment. "You say the judge refuses to confer with me?" "Ab-so-lutely." "And the train--the last train the other man can come on; is that in yet?" Hawk consulted his watch. "A good half-hour ago." "You had your clerk at the station to meet it?" "I did." "And he hasn't reported?" "Not yet." Falkland took a cigar from his case, bit the end of it like a man with a grudge to satisfy, and began again. "There is a very unbusinesslike mystery about all this, Mr. Hawk, and I may as well tell you shortly that my time is too valuable to make me tolerant of half-confidences. Get to the bottom of it. Has your man weakened?" "No; he is not of the weakening kind. And, besides, the scheme is his own from start to finish, as you know." "Well, what is the matter, then?" Hawk rose. "If you will be patient a little while longer, I'll go to the wire and try to find out. I am as much in the dark as you are." This last was not strictly true. Hawk had a telegram in his pocket which was causing him more uneasiness than all the rasping criticisms of the New York attorney, and he was re-reading it by the light of the corridor bracket when a young man sprang from the ascending elevator and hurried to the door of the parlor suite. Hawk collared his Mercury before he could rap on the door. "Well?" he queried sharply. "It's just as you suspected--what Mr. Hendricks' telegram hinted at. I met him at the station and couldn't do a thing with him." "Where has he gone?" "To the same old place." "You followed him?" "Sure. That is what kept me so long." Hawk hung upon his decision for the barest fraction of a second. Then he gave his orders concisely. "Hunt up Doctor Macquoid and get him out to the club-house as quick as you can. Tell him to bring his hypodermic. I'll be there with all the help he'll need." And when the young man was gone, Hawk smote the air with a clenched fist and called down the Black Curse of Shielygh, or its modern equivalent, on all the fates subversive of well-laid plans. A quarter of an hour later, on the upper floor of the club-house at the Gentlemen's Driving Park, four men burst in upon a fifth, a huge figure in brown duck, crouching in a corner like a wild beast at bay. A bottle and a tumbler stood on the table under the hanging lamp; and with the crash of breaking glass which followed the mad-bull rush of the duck-clothed giant, the reek of French brandy filled the room. "Hold him still, if you can, and pull up that sleeve." It was Macquoid who spoke, and the three apparitors, breathing hard, sat upon the prostrate man and bared his arm for the physician. When the apomorphia began to do its work there was a struggle of another sort, out of which emerged a pallid and somewhat stricken reincarnation of the governor. "Falkland is waiting at the hotel, and he and MacFarlane can't get together," said Hawk, tersely, when the patient was fit to listen. "Otherwise we shouldn't have disturbed you. It's all day with the scheme if you can't show up." The governor groaned and passed his hand over his eyes. "Get me into my clothes--Johnson has the grip--and give me all the time you can," was the sullen rejoinder; and in due course the Honorable Jasper G. Bucks, clothed upon and in his right mind, was enabled to keep his appointment with the New York attorney at the Mid-Continent Hotel. But first came the whipping-in of MacFarlane. Bucks went alone to the judge's room on the floor above the parlor suite. It was now near midnight, but MacFarlane had not gone to bed. He was a spare man, with thin hair graying rapidly at the temples and a care-worn face; the face of a man whose tasks or responsibilities, or both, have overmatched him. He was walking the floor with his head down and his hands--thin, nerveless hands they were--tightly locked behind him, when the governor entered. For a large man the Honorable Jasper was usually able to handle his weight admirably; but now he clung to the door-knob until he could launch himself at a chair and be sure of hitting it. "What's this Hawk's telling me about you, MacFarlane?" he demanded, frowning portentously. "I don't know what he has told you. But it is too flagrant, Bucks; I can't do it, and that's all there is about it." The protest was feebly fierce, and there was the snarl of a baited animal in the tone. "It's too late to make difficulties now," was the harsh reply. "You've got to do it." "I tell you I can not, and I will not!" "A late attack of conscience, eh?" sneered the governor, who was sobering rapidly now. "Let me ask a question or two. How much was that security debt your son-in-law let you in for?" "It was ten thousand dollars. It is an honest debt, and I shall pay it." "But not out of the salary of a circuit judge," Bucks interposed. "Nor yet out of the fees you make your clerks divide with you. And that isn't all. Have you forgotten the gerrymander business? How would you like to see the true inwardness of that in the newspapers?" The judge shrank as if the huge gesturing hand had struck him. "You wouldn't dare," he began. "You were in that, too, deeper than----" Again the governor interrupted him. "Cut it out," he commanded. "I can reward, and I can punish. You are not going to do anything technically illegal; but, by the gods, you are going to walk the line laid down for you. If you don't, I shall give the documents in the gerrymander affair to the papers the day after you fail. Now we'll go and see Falkland." MacFarlane made one last protest. "For God's sake, Bucks! spare me that. It is nothing less than the foulest collusion between the judge, the counsel for the plaintiff--and the devil!" "Cut that out, too, and come along," said the governor, brutally; and by the steadying help of the chair, the door-post and the wall of the corridor, he led the way to the parlor suite on the floor below. The conference in Falkland's rooms was chiefly a monologue with the sharp-spoken New York lawyer in the speaking part. When it was concluded the judge took his leave abruptly, pleading the lateness of the hour and his duties for the morrow. When he was gone the New Yorker began again. "You won't want to be known in this, I take it," he said, nodding at the governor. "Mr. Hawk here will answer well enough for the legal part, but how about the business end of it. Have you got a man you can trust?" The governor's yellow eyebrows met in a meaning scowl. "I've got a man I can hang, which is more to the purpose. It's Major Jim Guilford. He lives here; want to meet him?" "God forbid!" said Falkland, fervently. He rose and whipped himself into his overcoat, turning to Hawk: "Have your young man get me a carriage, and see to it that my special is ready to pull east when I give the word, will you?" Hawk went obediently, and the New Yorker had his final word with the governor alone. "I think we understand each other perfectly," he said. "You are to have the patronage: we are to pay for all actual betterments for which vouchers can be shown at the close of the deal. All we ask is that the stock be depressed to the point agreed upon within the half-year." "It's going to be done," said the governor, trying as he could to keep the eye-image of his fellow conspirator from multiplying itself by two. "All right. Now as to the court affair. If it is managed exactly as I have outlined, there will be no trouble--and no recourse for the other fellows. When I say that, I'm leaving out your Supreme Court. Under certain conditions, if the defendant's hardship could be definitely shown, a writ of _certiorari_ and _supersedeas_ might issue. How about that?" The governor closed one eye slowly, the better to check the troublesome multiplying process. "The Supreme Court won't move in the matter. The ostensible reason will be that the court is now two years behind its docket." "And the real reason?" "Of the three justices, one of them was elected on our ticket; another is a personal friend of Judge MacFarlane. The goods will be delivered." "That's all, then; all but one word. Your judge is a weak brother. Notwithstanding all the pains I took to show him that his action would be technically unassailable, he was ready to fly the track at any moment. Have you got him safe?" Bucks held up one huge hand with the thumb and forefinger tightly pressed together. "I've got him right there," he said. "If you and Hawk have got your papers in good shape, the thing will go through like a hog under a barbed-wire fence." IX THE SHOCKING OF HUNNICOTT It was two weeks after the date of the governor's fishing trip, and by consequence Judge MacFarlane's court had been the even fortnight in session in Gaston, when Kent's attention was recalled to the forgotten Varnum case by another letter from the local attorney, Hunnicott. "Varnum _vs_. Western Pacific comes up Friday of this week, and they are going to press for trial this time, and no mistake," wrote the local representative. "Hawk has been chasing around getting affidavits; for what purpose I don't know, though Lesher tells me that one of them was sworn by Houligan, the sub-contractor who tried to fight the engineer's estimates on the Jump Creek work. "Also, there is a story going the rounds that the suit is to be made a blind for bigger game, though I guess this is all gossip, based on the fact that Mr. Semple Falkland's private car stopped over here two weeks ago, from three o'clock in the afternoon till midnight of the same day. Jason, of the _Clarion_, interviewed the New Yorker, and Falkland told him he had stopped over to look up the securities on a mortgage held by one of his New York clients." Kent read this unofficial letter thoughtfully, and later on took it in to the general manager. "Just to show you the kind of jackal we have to deal with in the smaller towns," he said, by way of explanation. "Here is a case that Stephen Hawk built up out of nothing a year ago. The woman was put off one of our trains because she was trying to travel on a scalper's ticket. She didn't care to fight about it; but when I had about persuaded her to compromise for ten dollars and a pass to her destination, Hawk got hold of her and induced her to sue for five thousand dollars." "Well?" said Loring. "We fought it, of course--in the only way it could be fought in the lower court. I got a continuance, and we choked it off in the same way at the succeeding term. The woman was tired out long ago, but Hawk will hang on till his teeth fall out." "Do you 'continue' again?" asked the general manager. Kent nodded. "I so instructed Hunnicott. Luckily, two of our most important witnesses are missing. They have always been missing, in point of fact." Loring was glancing over the letter. "How about this affidavit business, and the Falkland stop-over?" he asked. "Oh, I fancy that's gossip, pure and simple, as Hunnicott says. Hawk is sharp enough not to let us know if he were baiting a trap. And Falkland probably told the _Clarion_ man the simple truth." Loring nodded in his turn. Then he broke away from the subject abruptly. "Sit down," he said; and when Kent had found a chair: "I had a caller this morning--Senator Duvall." State Senator Duvall had been the father, or the ostensible father, of the Senate amendment to House Bill Twenty-nine. He was known to the corporations' lobby as a legislator who would sign a railroad's death-warrant with one hand and take favors from it with the other; and Kent laughed. "How many did he demand passes for, this time? Or was it a special train he wanted?" "Neither the one nor the other, this morning, as it happened," said the general manager. "Not to put too fine an edge upon it, he had something to sell, and he wanted me to buy it." "What was it?" Kent asked quickly. Loring was rubbing his eye-glasses absently with the corner of his handkerchief. "I guess I made a mistake in not turning him over to you, David. He was too smooth for me. I couldn't find out just what it was he had for sale. He talked vaguely about an impending crisis and a man who had some information to dispose of; said the man had come to him because he was known to be a firm friend of the Trans-Western, and so on." Kent gave his opinion promptly. "It's a capitol-gang deal of some sort to hold us up; and Duvall is willing to sell out his fellow conspirators if the price is right." "Have you any notion of what it is?" Kent shook his head. "Not the slightest. The ways have been tallowed for us, thus far, and I don't fully understand it. I presented our charter for re-filing yesterday, and Hendricks passed it without a word. As I was coming out of the secretary's office I met Bucks. We were pretty nearly open enemies in the old days in Gaston, but he went out of his way to shake hands and to congratulate me on my appointment as general counsel." "That was warning in itself, wasn't it?" "I took it that way. But I can't fathom his drift; which is the more unaccountable since I have it on pretty good authority that the ring is cinching the other companies right and left. Some one was saying at the Camelot last night that the Overland's reorganization of its within-the-State lines was going to cost all kinds of money in excess of the legal fees." Loring's smile was a wordless sarcasm. "It's the reward of virtue," he said ironically. "We were not in the list of subscribers to the conditional fund for purchasing a certain veto which didn't materialize." "And for that very reason, if for no other, we may look out for squalls," Kent asserted. "Jasper G. Bucks has a long memory; and just now the fates have given him an arm to match. I am fortifying everywhere I can, but if the junto has it in for us, we'll be made to sweat blood before we are through with it." "Which brings us back to Senator Duvall. Is it worth while trying to do anything with him?" "Oh, I don't know. I'm opposed to the method--the bargain and sale plan--and I know you are. Turn him over to me if he comes in again." When Kent had dictated a letter in answer to Hunnicott's, he dismissed the Varnum matter from his mind, having other and more important things to think of. So, on the Friday, when the case was reached on Judge MacFarlane's docket--but really, it is worth our while to be present in the Gaston court-room to see and hear what befalls. When the Varnum case was called, Hunnicott promptly moved for a third continuance, in accordance with his instructions. The judge heard his argument, the old and well-worn one of the absence of important witnesses, with perfect patience; and after listening to Hawk's protest, which was hardly more than mechanical, he granted the continuance. Then came the after-piece. Court adjourned, and immediately Hawk asked leave to present, "at chambers," an amended petition. Hunnicott was waylaid by a court officer as he was leaving the room; and a moment later, totally unprepared, he was in the judge's office, listening in some dazed fashion while Hawk went glibly through the formalities of presenting his petition. Not until the papers were served upon him as the company's attorney, and the judge was naming three o'clock of the following afternoon as the time which he would appoint for the preliminary hearing, did the local attorney come alive. "But, your Honor!--a delay of only twenty-four hours in which to prepare a rejoinder to this petition--to allegations of such astounding gravity?" he began, shocked into action by the very ungraspable magnitude of the thing. "What more could you ask, Mr. Hunnicott?" said the judge, mildly. "You have already had a full measure of delay on the original petition. Yet I am willing to extend the time if you can come to an agreement with Mr. Hawk, here." Hunnicott knew the hopelessness of that and did not make the attempt. Instead, he essayed a new line of objection. "The time would be long enough if Gaston were the headquarters of the company, your Honor. But in such a grave and important charge as this amended petition brings, our general counsel should appear in person, and----" "You are the company's attorney, Mr. Hunnicott," said the judge, dryly; "and you have hitherto been deemed competent to conduct the case in behalf of the defendant. I am unwilling to work a hardship to any one, but I can not entertain your protest. The preliminary hearing will be at three o'clock to-morrow." Hunnicott knew when he was definitely at the string's end; and when he was out of the judge's room and the Court House, he made a dash for his office, dry-lipped and panting. Ten minutes sufficed for the writing of a telegram to Kent, and he was half-way down to the station with it when it occurred to him that it would never do to trust the incendiary thing to the wires in plain English. There was a little-used cipher code in his desk provided for just such emergencies, and back he went to labor sweating over the task of securing secrecy at the expense of the precious minutes of time. Wherefore, it was about four o'clock when he handed the telegram to the station operator, and adjured him by all that was good and great not to delay its sending. It was just here he made his first and only slip, since he did not stay to see the thing done. It chanced that the regular day operator was off on leave of absence, and his substitute, a young man from the train-despatcher's office, was a person who considered the company wires an exclusive appanage of the train service department. At the moment of Hunnicott's assault he was taking an order for Number 17; and observing that the lawyer's cipher "rush" covered four closely written pages, he hung it upon the sending hook with a malediction on the legal department for burdening the wires with its mail correspondence, and so forgot it. It was nine o'clock when the night operator came on duty; and being a careful man, he not only looked first to his sending hook, but was thoughtful enough to run over the accumulation of messages waiting to be transmitted, to the end that he might give precedence to the most important. And when he came to Hunnicott's cipher with the thrice-underlined "RUSH" written across its face, and had marked the hour of its handing in, he had the good sense to hang up the entire wire business of the railroad until the thing was safely out of his office. It was half-past nine when the all-important cipher got itself written out in the headquarters office at the capital; and for two anxious hours the receiving operator tried by all means in his power to find the general counsel--tried and failed. For, to make the chain of mishaps complete in all its links, Kent and Loring were spending the evening at Miss Portia Van Brock's, having been bidden to meet a man they were both willing to cultivate--Oliver Marston, the lieutenant-governor. And for this cause it wanted but five minutes of midnight when Kent burst into Loring's bedroom on the third floor of the Clarendon, catastrophic news in hand. "For heaven's sake, read that!" he gasped; and Loring sat on the edge of the bed to do it. "So! they've sprung their mine at last: this is what Senator Duvall was trying to sell us," he said quietly, when he had mastered the purport of Hunnicott's war news. Kent had caught his second wind in the moment of respite, and was settling into the collar in a way to strain the working harness to the breaking point. "It's a put-up job from away back," he gritted. "If I'd had the sense of a pack-mule I should have been on the lookout for just such a trap as this. Look at the date of that message!" The general manager did look, and shook his head. "'Received, 3:45, P.M.; Forwarded, 9:17, P.M.' That will cost somebody his job. What do we do?" "We get busy at the drop of the hat. Luckily, we have the news, though I'll bet high it wasn't Hawk's fault that this message came through with no more than eight hours' delay. Get into your clothes, man! The minutes are precious, now!" Loring began to dress while Kent walked the floor in a hot fit of impatience. "The mastodonic cheek of the thing!" he kept repeating, until Loring pulled him down with another quiet remark. "Tell me what we have to do, David. I am a little lame in law matters." "Do? We have to appear in Judge MacFarlane's court to-morrow afternoon prepared to show that this thing is only a hold-up with a blank cartridge. Hawk meant to take a snap judgment. He counted on throwing the whole thing up against Hunnicott, knowing perfectly well that a little local attorney at a way-station couldn't begin to secure the necessary affidavits." Loring paused with one end of his collar flying loose. "Let me understand," he said. "Do we have to disprove these charges by affidavits?" "Certainly; that is the proper rejoinder--the only one, in fact," said Kent; then, as a great doubt laid hold of him and shook him: "You don't mean to say there is any doubt about our ability to do it?" "Oh, no; I suppose not, if it comes to a show-down. But I was thinking of your man Hunnicott. Doesn't it occur to you that he is in just about as good a fix to secure those affidavits in Gaston as we are here, David?" "Good Lord! Do you mean that we have to send to Boston for our ammunition?" "Haven't we? Don't you see how nicely the thing is timed? Ten days later our Trans-Western reorganization would be complete, and we could swear our own officers on the spot. These people know what they are about." Kent was walking the floor again, but now the strength of the man was coming uppermost. "Never mind: we'll wire Boston, and then we'll do what we can here. Could you get me to Gaston on a special engine in three hours?" "Yes." "Then we have till eleven o'clock to-morrow to prepare. I'll be ready by that time." "David, you are a brick when it comes to the in-fighting," said the general manager; and then he finished buttoning his collar. X WITHOUT BENEFIT OF CLERGY At ten forty-eight on the Saturday morning Kent was standing with the general manager on the Union Station track platform beside the engine which was to make the flying run to Gaston. Nine hours of sharp work lay between the hurried conference in Loring's bedroom and the drive to the station at a quarter before eleven. Boston had been wired; divers and sundry friends of the railway company had been interviewed; some few affidavits had been secured; and now they were waiting to give Boston its last chance, with a clerk hanging over the operator in the station telegraph office to catch the first word of encouragement. "If the Advisory Board doesn't send us something pretty solid, I'm going into this thing lame," said Kent, dubiously. "Of course, what Boston can send us will be only corroborative; unfortunately we can't wire affidavits. But it will help. What we have secured here lacks directness." "Necessarily," said Loring. "But I'm banking on the Board. If we don't get the ammunition before you have to start, I can wire it to you at Gaston. That gives us three hours more to go and come on." "Yes; and if it comes to the worst--if the decision be unfavorable--it can only embarrass us temporarily. This is merely the preliminary hearing, and nothing permanent can be established until we have had a hearing on the merits, and we can go armed to that, at all events." The general manager was looking at his watch, and he shut the case with a snap. "Don't you let it come to that, as long as you have a leg to stand on, David," he said impressively. "An interregnum of ten days might make it exceedingly difficult for us to prove anything." Then, as the telegraph office watcher came to the door and shook his head as a sign that Boston was still silent: "Your time is up. Off with you, and don't let Oleson scare you when he gets 219 in motion. He is a good runner, and you have a clear track." Kent clambered to the footplate of the smart eight-wheeler. "Can you make it by two o'clock?" he asked, when the engineer, a big-boned, blue-eyed Norwegian, dropped the reversing lever into the corner for the start. "Ay tank maybe so, ain'd it? Yust you climb opp dat odder box, Mester Kent, and hol' you' hair on. Ve bane gone to maig dat time, als' ve preak somedings, _ja_!" and he sent the light engine spinning down the yards to a quickstep of forty miles an hour. Kent's after-memory of that distance-devouring rush was a blurred picture of a plunging, rocking, clamoring engine bounding over mile after mile of the brown plain; of the endless dizzying procession of oncoming telegraph poles hurtling like great side-flung projectiles past the cab windows; of now and then a lonely prairie station with waving semaphore arms, sighted, passed and left behind in a whirling sand-cloud in one and the same heart-beat. And for the central figure in the picture, the one constant quantity when all else was mutable and shifting and indistinct, the big, calm-eyed Norwegian on the opposite box, hurling his huge machine doggedly through space. At 12:45 they stopped for water at a solitary tank in the midst of the brown desert. Kent got down stiffly from his cramped seat on the fireman's box and wetted his parched lips at the nozzle of the tender hose. "Do we make it, Jarl?" he asked. The engineer wagged his head. "Ay tank so. Ve maig it all right iff dey haf bane got dose track clear." "There are other trains to meet?" "_Ja_; two bane comin' dis vay; ant Nummer Samteen ve pass opp by." Oleson dropped off to pour a little oil into the speed-woundings while the tank was filling; and presently the dizzying race began again. For a time all things were propitious. The two trains to be met were found snugly withdrawn on the sidings at Mavero and Agriculta, and the station semaphores beckoned the flying special past at full speed. Kent checked off the dodging mile-posts: the pace was bettering the fastest run ever made on the Prairie Division--which was saying a good deal. But at Juniberg, twenty-seven miles out of Gaston, there was a delay. Train Number 17, the east-bound time freight, had left Juniberg at one o'clock, having ample time to make Lesterville, the next station east, before the light engine could possibly overtake it. But Lesterville had not yet reported its arrival; for which cause the agent at Juniberg was constrained to put out his stop signal, and Kent's special came to a stand at the platform. Under the circumstances, there appeared to be nothing for it but to wait until the delayed Number 17 was heard from; and Kent's first care was to report to Loring, and to ask if there were anything from Boston. The reply was encouraging. A complete denial of everything, signed by the proper officials, had been received and repeated to Kent at Gaston--was there now awaiting him. Kent saw in anticipation the nicely calculated scheme of the junto crumbling into small dust in the precise moment of fruition, and had a sharp attack of ante-triumph which he had to walk off in turns up and down the long platform. But as the waiting grew longer, and the dragging minutes totaled the quarter-hour and then the half, he began to perspire again. Half-past two came and went, and still there was no hopeful word from Lesterville. Kent had speech with Oleson, watch in hand. Would the engineer take the risk of a rear-end collision on a general manager's order? Oleson would obey orders if the heavens fell; and Kent flew to the wire again. Hunnicott, at Gaston, was besought to gain time in the hearing by any and all means; and Loring was asked to authorize the risk of a rear-end smash-up. He did it promptly. The light engine was to go on until it should "pick up" the delayed train between stations. The Juniberg man gave Oleson his release and the order to proceed with due care while the sounder was still clicking a further communication from headquarters. Loring was providing for the last contingency by sending Kent the authority to requisition Number 17's engine for the completion of the run in case the track should be blocked, with the freight engine free beyond the obstruction. Having his shackles stricken off, the Norwegian proceeded "with due care," which is to say that he sent the eight-wheeler darting down the line toward Lesterville at the rate of a mile a minute. The mystery of the delay was solved at a point half-way between the two stations. A broken flange had derailed three cars of the freight, and the block was impassable. Armed with the general manager's mandatory wire, Kent ran forward to the engine of the freight train and was shortly on his way again. But in the twenty-mile run to Gaston more time was lost by the lumbering freight locomotive, and it was twenty minutes past three o'clock when the county seat came in sight and Kent began to oscillate between two sharp-pointed horns of a cruel dilemma. By dropping off at the street-crossing nearest the Court House, he might still be in time to get a hearing with such documentary backing as he had been able to secure at the capital. By going on to the station he could pick up the Boston wire which, while it was not strictly evidence, might create a strong presumption in his favor; but in this case he would probably be too late to use it. So he counted the rail-lengths, watch in hand, with a curse to the count for his witlessness in failing to have Loring repeat the Boston message to him during the long wait at Juniberg; and when the time for the decision arrived he signaled the engineer to slow down, jumped from the step at the nearest crossing and hastened up the street toward the Court House. In the mean time, to go back a little, during this day of hurryings to and fro Blashfield Hunnicott had been having the exciting experiences of a decade crowded into a corresponding number of hours. Early in the morning he had begun besieging the headquarters wire office for news and instructions, and, owing to Kent's good intentions to be on the ground in person, had got little enough of either. At length, to his unspeakable relief, he had news of the coming special; and with the conviction that help was at hand he waited at the station with what coolness there was in him to meet his chief. But as the time for the hearing drew near he grew nervous again; and all the keen pains of utter helplessness returned with renewed acuteness when the operator, who had overheard the Juniberg-Lesterville wire talk, told him that the special was hung up at the former station. "O my good Lord!" he groaned. "I'm in for it with empty hands!" None the less, he ran to the baggage-room end of the building and, capturing an express wagon, had himself trundled out to the Court House. The judge was at his desk when Hunnicott entered, and Hawk was on hand, calmly reading the morning paper. The hands of the clock on the wall opposite the judge's desk pointed to five minutes of the hour, and for five minutes Hunnicott sat listening, hoping against hope that he should hear the rush and roar of the incoming special. Promptly on the stroke of three the judge tapped upon his desk with his pencil. "Now, gentlemen, proceed with your case; and I must ask you to be as brief as possible. I have an appointment at four which can not be postponed," he said quietly; and Hawk threw down his paper and began at once. Hunnicott heard his opponent's argument mechanically, having his ear attuned for whistle signals and wheel drummings. Hawk spoke rapidly and straight to his point, as befitted a man speaking to the facts and with no jury present to be swayed by oratorical effort. When he came to the summarizing of the allegations in the amended petition, he did it wholly without heat, piling up the accusations one upon another with the careful method of a bricklayer building a wall. The wall-building simile thrust itself upon Hunnicott with irresistible force as he listened. If the special engine should not dash up in time to batter down the wall---- Hawk closed as dispassionately as he had begun, and the judge bowed gravely in Hunnicott's direction. The local attorney got upon his feet, and as he began to speak a telegram was handed in. It was Kent's wire from Juniberg, beseeching him to gain time at all hazards, and he settled himself to the task. For thirty dragging minutes he rang the changes on the various steps in the suit, knowing well that the fatal moment was approaching when--Kent still failing him--he would be compelled to submit his case without a scrap of an affidavit to support it. The moment came, and still there was no encouraging whistle shriek from the dun plain beyond the open windows. Hawk was visibly disgusted, and Judge MacFarlane was growing justly impatient. Hunnicott began again, and the judge reproved him mildly. "Much of what you are saying is entirely irrelevant, Mr. Hunnicott. This hearing is on the plaintiff's amended petition." No one knew better than the local attorney that he was wholly at the court's mercy; that he had been so from the moment the judge began to consider his purely formal defense, entirely unsupported by affidavits or evidence of any kind. None the less, he strung his denials out by every amplification he could devise, and, having fired his last shot, sat down in despairing breathlessness to hear the judge's summing-up and decision. Judge MacFarlane was mercifully brief. On the part of the plaintiff there was an amended petition fully fortified by uncontroverted affidavits. On the part of the defendant company there was nothing but a formal denial of the allegations. The duty of the court in the premises was clear. The prayer of the plaintiff was granted, the temporary relief asked for was given, and the order of the court would issue accordingly. The judge was rising when the still, hot air of the room began to vibrate with the tremulous thunder of the sound for which Hunnicott had been so long straining his ears. He was the first of the three to hear it, and he hurried out ahead of the others. At the foot of the stair he ran blindly against Kent, dusty, travel-worn and haggard. "You're too late!" he blurted out. "We're done up. Hawk's petition has been granted and the road is in the hands of a receiver." Kent dashed his fist upon the stair-rail. "Who is the man?" he demanded. "Major Jim Guilford," said Hunnicott. Then, as footfalls coming stairward were heard in the upper corridor, he locked arms with Kent, faced him about and thrust him out over the door-stone. "Let's get out of this. You look as if you might kill somebody." XI THE LAST DITCH It was a mark of the later and larger development of David Kent that he was able to keep his head in the moment of catastrophes. In boyhood his hair had been a brick-dust red, and having the temperament which belongs of right to the auburn-hued, his first impulse was to face about and make a personal matter of the legal robbery with Judge MacFarlane. Happily for all concerned, Hunnicott's better counsels prevailed, and when the anger fit passed Kent found himself growing cool and determined. Hunnicott was crestfallen and disposed to be apologetic; but Kent did him justice. "Don't blame yourself: there was nothing else you could have done. Have you a stenographer in your office?" "Yes." "A good one?" "It's young Perkins: you know him." "He'll do. 'Phone him to run down to the station and get what telegrams there are for me, and we'll talk as we go." Once free of the Court House, Kent began a rapid-fire of questions. "Where is Judge MacFarlane stopping?" "At the Mid-Continent." "Have you any idea when he intends leaving town?" "No; but he will probably take the first train. He never stays here an hour longer than he has to after adjournment." "That would be the Flyer east at six o'clock. Is he going east?" "Come to think of it, I believe he is. Somebody said he was going to Hot Springs. He's in miserable health." Kent saw more possibilities, and worse, and quickened his pace a little. "I hope your young man won't let the grass grow under his feet," he said. "The minutes between now and six o'clock are worth days to us." "What do we do?" asked Hunnicott, willing to take a little lesson in practice as he ran. "The affidavits I have brought with me and the telegrams which are waiting at the station must convince MacFarlane that he has made a mistake. We shall prepare a motion for the discharge of the receiver and for the vacation of the order appointing him, and ask the judge to set an early day for the hearing on the merits of the case. He can't refuse." Hunnicott shook his head. "It has been all cut and dried from 'way back," he objected. "They won't let you upset it at the last moment." "We'll give them a run for their money," said Kent. "A good bit of it depends upon Perkins' speed as a stenographer." As it befell, Perkins did not prove a disappointment, and by five o'clock Kent was in the lobby of the Mid-Continent, sending his card up to the judge's room. Word came back that the judge was in the café fortifying the inner man in preparation for his journey, and Kent did not stand upon ceremony. From the archway of the dining-room he marked down his man at a small table in the corner, and went to him at once, plunging promptly into the matter in hand. "The exigencies of the case must plead my excuse for intruding upon you here, Judge MacFarlane," he began courteously. "But I have been told that you were leaving town----" The judge waved him down with a deprecatory fork. "Court is adjourned, Mr. Kent, and I must decline to discuss the case _ex parte_. Why did you allow it to go by default?" "That is precisely what I am here to explain," said Kent, suavely. "The time allowed us was very short; and a series of accidents----" Again the judge interrupted. "A court can hardly take cognizance of accidents, Mr. Kent. Your local attorney was on the ground and he had the full benefit of the delay." "I know," was the patient rejoinder. "Technically, your order is unassailable. None the less, a great injustice has been done, as we are prepared to prove. I am not here to ask you to reopen the case at your dinner-table, but if you will glance over these papers I am sure you will set an early day for the hearing upon the merits." Judge MacFarlane forced a gray smile. "You vote yea and nay in the same breath, Mr. Kent. If I should examine your papers, I should be reopening the case at my dinner-table. You shall have your hearing in due course." "At chambers?" said Kent. "We shall be ready at any moment; we are ready now, in point of fact." "I can not say as to that. My health is very precarious, and I am under a physician's orders to take a complete rest for a time. I am sorry if the delay shall work a hardship to the company you represent; but under the circumstances, with not even an affidavit offered by your side, it is your misfortune. And now I shall have to ask you to excuse me. It lacks but a few minutes of my train time." The hotel porter was droning out the call for the east-bound Flyer, and Kent effaced himself while Judge MacFarlane was paying his bill and making ready for his departure. But when the judge set out to walk to the station, Kent walked with him. There were five squares to be measured, and for five squares he hung at MacFarlane's elbow and the plea he made should have won him a hearing. Yet the judge remained impassible, and at the end of the argument turned him back in a word to his starting point. "I can not recall the order at this time, if I would, Mr. Kent; neither can I set a day for the hearing on the merits. What has been done was done in open court and in the presence of your attorney, who offered no evidence in contradiction of the allegations set forth in the plaintiff's amended petition, although they were supported by more than a dozen affidavits; and it can not be undone in the streets. Since you have not improved your opportunities, you must abide the consequences. The law can not be hurried." They had reached the station and the east-bound train was whistling for Gaston. Kent's patience was nearly gone, and the auburn-hued temperament was clamoring hotly for its innings. "This vacation of yours, Judge MacFarlane: how long is it likely to last?" he inquired, muzzling his wrath yet another moment. "I can not say; if I could I might be able to give you a more definite answer as to the hearing on the merits. But my health is very miserable, as I have said. If I am able to return shortly, I shall give you the hearing at chambers at an early date." "And if not?" "If not, I am afraid it will have to go over to the next term of court." "Six months," said Kent; and then his temper broke loose. "Judge MacFarlane, it is my opinion, speaking as man to man, that you are a scoundrel. I know what you have done, and why you have done it. Also, I know why you are running away, now that it is done. So help me God, I'll bring you to book for it if I have to make a lifetime job of it! It's all right for your political backers; they are thieves and bushwhackers, and they make no secret of it. But there is one thing worse than a trickster, and that is a trickster's tool!" For the moment while the train was hammering in over the switches they stood facing each other fiercely, all masks flung aside, each after his kind; the younger man flushed and battle-mad; the elder white, haggard, tremulous. Kent did not guess, then or ever, how near he came to death. Two years earlier a judge had been shot and maimed on a western circuit and since then, MacFarlane had taken a coward's precaution. Here was a man that knew, and while he lived the cup of trembling might never be put aside. It was the conductor's cry of "All aboard!" that broke the homicidal spell. Judge MacFarlane started guiltily, shook off the angry eye-grip of his accuser, and went to take his place in the Pullman. One minute later the east-bound train was threading its way out among the switches of the lower yard, and Kent had burst into the telegraph office to wire the volcanic news to his chief. XII THE MAN IN POSSESSION Appraised at its value in the current coin of street gossip, the legal seizure of the Trans-Western figured mainly as an example of the failure of modern business methods when applied to the concealment of a working corporation's true financial condition. This unsympathetic point of view was sufficiently defined in a bit of shop-talk between Harnwicke, the cold-blooded, and his traffic manager in the office of the Overland Short Line the morning after the newspaper announcement of the receivership. "I told you they were in deep water," said the lawyer, confidently. "They haven't been making any earnings--net earnings--since the Y.S.& F. cut into them at Rio Verde, and the dividends were only a bluff for stock-bracing purposes. I surmised that an empty treasury was what was the matter when they refused to join us in the veto affair." "That is one way of looking at it," said the traffic manager. "But some of the papers are claiming that it was a legal hold-up, pure and simple." "Nothing of the kind," retorted the lawyer, whose respect for the law was as great as his contempt for the makers of the laws. "Judge MacFarlane had no discretion in the matter. Hawk had a perfect right to file an amended petition, and the judge was obliged to act upon it. I'm not saying it wasn't a devilish sharp trick of Hawk's. It was. He saw a chance to smite them under the fifth rib, and he took it." "But how about his client: the woman who was put off the train? Is she any better off than she was before?" "Oh, she'll get her five thousand dollars, of course, if they don't take the case out of court. It has served its turn. It's an ugly crusher for the Loring management. Hawk's allegations charge all sorts of crookedness, and neither Loring nor Kent seemed to have a word to say for themselves. I understand Kent was in court, either in person or by attorney, when the receivership order was made, and that he hadn't a word to say for himself." This view of Harnwicke's, colored perhaps by the fact that the Trans-Western was a business competitor of the Short Line, was the generally accepted one in railroad and financial circles at the capital. Civilization apart, there is still a deal of the primitive in human nature, and wolves are not the only creatures that are prone to fall upon the disabled member of the pack and devour him. But in the State at large the press was discussing the event from a political point of view; one section, small but vehement, raising the cry of trickery and judicial corruption, and prophesying the withdrawal of all foreign capital from the State, while the other, large and complacent, pointed eloquently to the beneficent working of the law under which the cause of a poor woman, suing for her undoubted right, might be made the whip to flog corporate tyranny into instant subjection. As for the dispossessed stock-holders in the far-away East, they were slow to take the alarm, and still slower to get concerted action. Like many of the western roads, the Western Pacific had been capitalized largely by popular subscription; hence there was no single holder, or group of holders, of sufficient financial weight to enter the field against the spoilers. But when Loring and his associates had fairly got the wires hot with the tale of what had been done, and the much more alarming tale of what was likely to be done, the Boston inertness vanished. A pool of the stock was formed, with the members of the Advisory Board as a nucleus; money was subscribed, and no less a legal light than an ex-attorney-general of the state of Massachusetts was despatched to the seat of war to advise with the men on the ground. None the less, disaster out-travels the swiftest of "limited" trains. Before the heavily-feed consulting attorney had crossed the Hudson in his westward journey, Wall Street had taken notice, and there was a momentary splash in the troubled pool of the Stock Exchange and a vanishing circle of ripples to show where Western Pacific had gone down. In the meantime Major James Guilford, somewhile president of the Apache National Bank of Gaston, and antecedent to that the frowning autocrat of a twenty-five-mile logging road in the North Carolina mountains, had given bond in some sort and had taken possession of the company's property and of the offices in the Quintard Building. His first official act as receiver was to ask for the resignations of a dozen heads of departments, beginning with the general manager and pausing for the moment with the supervisor of track. That done, he filled the vacancies with political troughsmen; and with these as assistant decapitators the major passed rapidly down the line, striking off heads in daily batches until the over-flow of the Bucks political following was provided for on the railroad's pay-rolls to the wife's cousin's nephew. This was the work of the first few administrative days or weeks, and while it was going on, the business attitude of the road remained unchanged. But once seated firmly in the saddle, with his awkward squad well in hand, the major proceeded to throw a bomb of consternation into the camp of his competitors. Kent was dining with Ormsby in the grill-room of the Camelot Club when the waiter brought in the evening edition of the _Argus_, whose railroad reporter had heard the preliminary fizzing of the bomb fuse. The story was set out on the first page, first column, with appropriate headlines. WAR TO THE KNIFE AND THE KNIFE TO THE HILT! TRANS-WESTERN CUTS COMMODITY RATE. Great Excitement in Railroad Circles. Receiver Guilford's Hold-up. Kent ran his eye rapidly down the column and passed the paper across to Ormsby. "I told you so," he said. "They didn't find the road insolvent, but they are going to make it so in the shortest possible order. A rate war will do it quicker than anything else on earth." Ormsby thrust out his jaw. "Have we got to stand by and see 'em do it?" "The man from Massachusetts says yes, and he knows, or thinks he does. He has been here two weeks now, and he has nosed out for himself all the dead-walls. We can't appeal, because there is no decision to appeal from. We can't take it out of the lower court until it is finished in the lower court. We can't enjoin an officer of the court; and there is no authority in the State that will set aside Judge MacFarlane's order when that order was made under technically legal conditions." "You could have told him all that in the first five minutes," said Ormsby. "I did tell him, and was mildly sat upon. To-day he came around and gave me back my opinion, clause for clause, as his own. But I have no kick coming. Somebody will have to be here to fight the battle to a finish when the judge returns, and our expert will advise the Bostonians to retain me." "Does he stay?" Ormsby asked. "Oh, no; he is going back with Loring to-night. Loring has an idea of his own which may or may not be worth the powder it will take to explode it. He is going to beseech the Boston people to enlarge the pool until it controls a safe majority of the stock." "What good will that do?" "None, directly. It's merely a safe preliminary to anything that may happen. I tell Loring he is like all the others: he knows when he has enough and is willing to stand from under. I'm the only fool in the lot." Ormsby's smile was heartening and good for sore nerves. "I like your pluck, Kent; I'll be hanged if I don't. And I'll back you to win, yet." Kent shook his head unhopefully. "Don't mistake me," he said. "I am fighting for the pure love of it, and not with any great hope of saving the stock-holders. These grafters have us by the nape of the neck. We can't make a move till MacFarlane comes back and gives us a hearing on the merits. That may not be till the next term of court. Meanwhile, the temporary receiver is to all intents and purposes a permanent receiver; and the interval would suffice to wreck a dozen railroads." "And still you won't give up?" "No." "I hope you won't have to. But to a man up a tree it looks very much like a dead cock in the pit. As I have said, if there is any backing to do, I'm with you, first, last, and all the time, merely from a sportsman's interest in the game. But is there any use in a little handful of us trying to buck up against a whole state government?" The coffee had been served, and Kent dropped a lump of sugar into his cup. "Ormsby, I'll never let go while I'm alive enough to fight," he said slowly. "One decent quality I have--and the only one, perhaps: I don't know when I'm beaten. And I'll down this crowd of political plunderers yet, if Bucks doesn't get me sand-bagged." His listener pushed back his chair. "If you stood to lose anything more than your job I could understand it," he commented. "As it is, I can't. Any way you look at it, your stake in the game isn't worth the time and effort it will take to play the string out. And I happen to know you're ambitious to do things--things that count." "What is it you don't understand--the motive?" "That's it." Kent laughed. "You are not as astute as Miss Van Brock. She pointed it out to me last night--or thought she did--in two words." Ormsby's eyes darkened, and he did not affect to misunderstand. "It would be a grand-stand play," he said half-musingly, "if you should happen to worry it through, I mean. I believe Mrs. Hepzibah would be ready to fall on your neck and forgive you, and turn me down." Then, half-jestingly: "Kent, what will you take to drop this thing permanently and go away?" David Kent's smile showed his teeth. "The one thing you wouldn't be willing to give. You asked me once when we had fallen over the fence upon this forbidden ground if I were satisfied, and I told you I wasn't. Do we understand each other?" "I guess so," said Ormsby. "But--Say, Kent, I like you too well to see you go up against a stone fence blindfolded. I'm like Guilford: I am the man in possession. And possession is nine points of the law." Kent rose and took the proffered cigar from Ormsby's case. "It depends a good bit upon how the possession is gained--and held--doesn't it?" he rejoined coolly. "And your figure is unfortunate in its other half. I am going to beat Guilford." XIII THE WRECKERS Just why Receiver Guilford, an officer of the court who was supposed to be nursing an insolvent railroad to the end that its creditors might not lose all, should begin by declaring war on the road's revenue, was a question which the managers of competing lines strove vainly to answer. But when, in defiance of all precedent, he made the cut rates effective to and from all local stations on the Trans-Western, giving the shippers at intermediate and non-competitive points the full benefit of the reductions, the railroad colony denounced him as a madman and gave him a month in which to find the bottom of a presumably empty treasury. But the event proved that the major's madness was not altogether without method. It is an axiom in the carrying trade that low rates make business; create it, so to speak, out of nothing. Given an abundant crop, low prices, and high freight rates in the great cereal belt, and, be the farmers never so poor, much of the grain will be stored and held against the chance of better conditions. So it came about that Major Guilford's relief measure was timed to a nicety, and the blanket cut in rates opened a veritable flood-gate for business in Trans-Western territory. From the day of its announcement the traffic of the road increased by leaps and bounds. Stored grain came out of its hiding places at every country cross-roads to beg for cars; stock feeders drove their market cattle unheard-of distances, across the tracks of competing lines, over and around obstacles of every sort, to pour them into the loading corrals of the Trans-Western. Nor was the traffic all outgoing. With the easing of the money burden, the merchants in the tributary towns began thriftily to take advantage of the low rates to renew their stocks; long-deferred visits and business trips suddenly became possible; and the saying that it was cheaper to travel than to stay at home gained instant and grateful currency. In a short time the rolling stock of the road was taxed to its utmost capacity, and the newly appointed purchasing agent was buying cars and locomotives right and left. Also, to keep pace with the ever-increasing procession of trains, a doubled construction force wrought night and day installing new side tracks and passing points. Under the fructifying influence of such a golden shower of prosperity, land values began to rise again, slowly at first, as buyers distrusted the continuance of the golden shower; more rapidly a little later, as the Guilford policy defined itself in terms of apparent permanence. Towns along the line--hamlets long since fallen into the way-station rut of desuetude--awoke with a start, bestirring themselves joyfully to meet the inspiriting conditions. At Midland City, Stephen Hawk, the new right-of-way agent, ventured to ask municipal help to construct a ten-mile branch to Lavabee: it was forthcoming promptly; and the mass meeting, at which the bond loan was anticipated by public subscription shouted itself hoarse in enthusiasm. At Gaston, where Hawk asked for a donation of land whereon the company might build the long-promised division repair-shops, people fought with one another to be first among the donors. And at Juniberg, where the company proposed to establish the first of a series of grain subtreasuries--warehouses in which the farmers of the surrounding country could store their products and borrow money on them from the railroad company at the rate of three per cent, per annum--at Juniberg enough money was subscribed to erect three such depots as the heaviest tributary crop could possibly fill. It was while the pendulum of prosperity was in full swing that David Kent took a day off from sweating over his problem of ousting the receiver and ran down to Gaston. Single-eyed as he was in the pursuit of justice, he was not unmindful of the six lots standing in his name in the Gaston suburb, and from all accounts the time was come to dispose of them. He made the journey in daylight, with his eyes wide open and the mental pencil busy at work noting the changes upon which the State press had been dilating daily, but which he was now seeing for the first time. They were incontestable--and wonderful. He admitted the fact without prejudice to a settled conviction that the sun-burst of prosperity was merely another brief period of bubble-blowing. Towns whose streets had been grass-grown since the day when each in turn had surrendered its right to be called the terminus of the westward-building railroad, were springing into new life. The song of the circular saw, the bee-boom of the planing-mill and the tapping of hammers were heard in the land, and the wayside hamlets were dotted with new roofs. And Gaston---- But Gaston deserved a separate paragraph in the mental note-book, and Kent accorded it, marveling still more. It was as if the strenuous onrush of the climaxing Year Three had never been interrupted. The material for the new company shops was arriving by trainloads, and an army of men was at work clearing the grounds. On a siding near the station a huge grain elevator was rising. In the streets the hustling activity of the "terminus" period was once more in full swing; and at the Mid-Continent Kent had some little difficulty in securing a room. He was smoking his after-dinner cigar in the lobby of the hotel and trying as he might to orient himself when Blashfield Hunnicott drifted in. Kent gave the sometime local attorney a cigar, made room for him on the plush-covered settee, and proceeded to pump him dry of Gaston news. Summed up, the inquiries pointed themselves thus: was there any basis for the Gaston revival other than the lately changed attitude of the railroad? In other words, if the cut rates should be withdrawn and the railroad activities cease, would there not be a second and still more disastrous collapse of the Gaston bubble? Pressed hardly, Hunnicott admitted the probability; given another turn, the screw of inquiry squeezed out an admission of the fact, slurred over by the revivalist, that the railway company's treasury was really the alms-box into which all hands were dipping. "One more question and I'll let up on you," said Kent. "It used to be said of you in the flush times that you kept tab on the real estate transfers when everybody else was too busy to read the record. Do you still do it?" Hunnicott laughed uneasily. "Rather more than ever just now, as you'd imagine." "It is well. Now you know the members of the old gang, from his Excellency down. Tell me one thing: are they buying or selling?" Hunnicott sprang up and slapped his leg. "By Jupiter, Kent! They are selling--every last man of them!" "Precisely. And when they have sold all they have to sell?" "They'll turn us loose--drop us--quit booming the town, if your theory is the right one. But say, Kent, I can't believe it, you know. It's too big a thing to be credited to Jim Guilford and his handful of subs in the railroad office. Why, it's all along the line, everywhere." "I'm telling you that Guilford isn't the man. He is only a cog in the wheel. There is a bigger mind than his behind it." "I can't help it," Hunnicott protested. "I don't believe that any man or clique could bring this thing about unless we were really on the upturn." "Very good; believe what you please, but do as I tell you. Sell every foot of Gaston dirt that stands in your name; and while you are about it, sell those six lots for me in Subdivision Five. More than that, do it pretty soon." Hunnicott promised, in the brokerage affair, at least. Then he switched the talk to the receivership. "Still up in the air, are you, in the railroad grab case?" Kent nodded. "No news of MacFarlane?" "Plenty of it. His health is still precarious, and will likely remain so until the spoilsmen have picked the skeleton clean." Hunnicott was silent for a full minute. Then he said: "Say, Kent, hasn't it occurred to you that they are rather putting meat on the bones instead of taking it off? Their bills for betterments must be out of sight." It had occurred to Kent, but he gave his own explanation of Major Guilford's policy in a terse sentence. "It is a part of the bluff; fattening the thing a little before they barbecue it." "I suppose so. It's a pity we don't live a little farther back in the history of the world: say at a time when we could hire MacFarlane's doctor to obliterate the judge, and no questions asked." Who can explain how it is that some jesting word, trivial and purposeless it may be, will fire a hidden train of thought which was waiting only for some chance spark? "Obliterate the judge," said Hunnicott in grim jest; and straightway Kent saw possibilities; saw a thing to be done, though not yet the manner of its doing. "If you'll excuse me," he said abruptly to his companion, "I believe I'll try to catch the Flyer back to the capital. I came down to see about selling those lots of mine, but if you will undertake it for me----" "Of course," said Hunnicott; "I'll be only too glad. You've ten minutes: can you make it?" Kent guessed so, and made the guess a certainty with two minutes to spare. The through sleeper was lightly loaded, and he picked out the most unneighbored section, of the twelve, being wishful only for undisturbed thinking ground. But before the train had swung past the suburb lights of Gaston, the smoker's unrest seized him and the thought-wheels demanded tobacco. Kent fought it as long as he could, making sure that the smoking-compartment liars' club would be in session; but when the demand became a nagging insistence, he found his pipe and tobacco and went to the men's room. The little den behind the drawing-room had but one occupant besides the rear-end brakeman---a tall, saturnine man in a gray grass-cloth duster who was smoking a Porto Rican stogie. Kent took a second look and held out his hand. "This is an unexpected pleasure, Judge Marston. I was counting on three hours of solitary confinement." The lieutenant-governor acknowledged the hand-clasp, nodded, and made room on the leather-covered divan for the new-comer. Hildreth, the editor of the _Argus_, put it aptly when he said that the grim-faced old cattle king had "blown" into politics. He was a compromise on the People's Party ticket; was no part of the Bucks programme, and had been made to feel it. Tradition had it that he had been a terror to the armed and organized cattle thieves of the early days; hence the brevet title of "Judge." But those that knew him best did not know that he had once been the brightest man upon the Supreme Bench of his native state: this before failing health had driven him into exile. As a mixer, the capital had long since voted Oliver Marston a conspicuous failure. A reticent, reserved man by temperament and habit, and with both temperament and habit confirmed by his long exile on the cattle ranges, he had grown rather less than more talkative after his latest plunge into public life; and even Miss Van Brock confessed that she found him impossible on the social side. None the less, Kent had felt drawn toward him from the first; partly because Marston was a good man in bad company, and partly because there was something remindful of the elder Kent in the strong face, the slow smile and the introspective eye of the old man from the hill country. For a time the talk was a desultory monologue, with Kent doing his best to keep it from dying outright. Later, when he was fairly driven in upon his reserves, he began to speak of himself, and of the hopeless fight for enlargement in the Trans-Western struggle. Marston lighted the match-devouring stogie for the twentieth time, squared himself on the end of the divan and listened attentively. At the end of the recounting he said: "It seems to be a failure of justice, Mr. Kent. Can you prove your postulate?" "I can. With fifteen minutes more on the day of the preliminary hearing I should have shown it to any one's satisfaction." Marston went into a brown study with his eyes fixed upon the stamped-leather devil in the panel at the opposite end of the compartment. When he spoke again, Kent wondered at the legal verbiage, and still more at the clear-cut, judicial opinion. "The facts in the case, as you state them, point to judicial connivance, and we should always be slow to charge that, Mr. Kent. Technically, the court was not at fault. Due notice was served on the company's attorney of record, and you admit, yourself, that the delay, short as it was, would have been sufficient if you had not been accidentally detained. And, since there were no contravening affidavits submitted, Judge MacFarlane was technically warranted in granting the prayer for a temporary receiver." "I'm not trying to refute that," said Kent. "But afterward, when I called upon the judge with the evidence in hand----" "He was under no absolute obligation to retry the case out of court, as you know, Mr. Kent. Neither was he obliged to give you an unofficial notice of the day upon which he would hear your motion for the discharge of the receiver and the vacation of his order appointing him." "Under no absolute legal obligation, perhaps," retorted Kent. "But the moral obligation--" "We are coming to that. I have been giving you what would probably be a minority opinion of an appellate court, if you could take an appeal. The majority opinion might take higher ground, pointing to the manifest injustice done to the defendant company by the shortness of the delay granted; by Judge MacFarlane's refusal to continue the hearing for one hour, though your attorney was present and pleading for the same; and lastly for the indefinite postponement of the hearing on the merits on insufficient grounds, since the judge was not at the time, and has not since been, too ill to attend to the routine duties of his office." Kent looked up quickly. "Judge Marston, do you know that last assertion to be true?" he demanded. The slow smile came and went in the introspective eyes of the older man. "I have been giving you the opinion of the higher court," he said, with his nearest approach to jocoseness. "It is based upon the supposition that your allegations would be supported by evidence." Kent smoked on in silence while the train measured the rail-lengths between two of the isolated prairie stations. When he spoke again there was honest deference in his manner. "Mr. Marston, you have a far better right to your courtesy title of 'Judge' than that given by the Great American Title Company, Unlimited," he said. "Will you advise me?" "As plain Oliver Marston, and a man old enough to be your father, yes. What have you been doing? Trying to oust the receiver, I suppose." "Yes; trying to find some technical flaw by which he could be ousted." "It can't be done. You must strike higher. Are you fully convinced of Judge MacFarlane's venality?" "As fully as I can be without having seen with my own eyes and heard with my own ears." Marston opened his watch and looked at it. Then he lighted another of the villainous little cigars. "We have an hour yet," he said. "You have been giving me the legal points in the case: now give me the inferences--all of them." Kent laughed. "I'm afraid I sha'n't be able to forget the lieutenant-governor. I shall have to call some pretty hard names." "Call them," said his companion, briefly; and Kent went deep into the details, beginning with the formation of the political gang in Gaston the dismantled. The listener in the gray dust-coat heard him through without comment. When Kent reached the end of the inferences, telling the truth without scruple and letting the charge of political and judicial corruption lie where it would, the engineer was whistling for the capital. "You have told me some things I knew, and some others that I only suspected," was all the answer he got until the train was slowing into the Union Station. Then as he flung away the stump of the little cigar the silent one added: "If I were in your place, Mr. Kent, I believe I should take a supplementary course of reading in the State law." "In what particular part of it?" said Kent, keen anxiety in every word. "In that part of the fundamental law which relates to the election of circuit judges, let us say. If I had your case to fight, I should try to obliterate Judge MacFarlane." Kent had but a moment in which to remark the curious coincidence in the use of precisely the same word by both Hunnicott and his present adviser. "But, my dear sir! we should gain nothing by MacFarlane's removal when his successor would be appointed by the executive!" Marston turned in the doorway of the smoking-compartment and laid a fatherly hand on the younger man's shoulder. "My boy, I didn't say 'remove'; I said 'obliterate'. Good night." XIV THE GERRYMANDER With Judge Marston's hint partly to point the way, Kent was no long time in getting at work on the new lead. Having been at the time a practitioner in one of the counties affected, he knew the political deal by which MacFarlane had been elected. Briefly described, it was a swapping of horses in midstream. In the preliminary canvass it was discovered that in all probability Judge MacFarlane's district, as constituted, would not reelect him. But the adjoining district was strong enough to spare a county without loss to the party; and that county added to MacFarlane's voting strength would tip the scale in his favor. The Assembly was in session, and the remedy was applied in the shape of a bill readjusting the district lines to fit the political necessity. While this bill was still in the lower house an obstacle presented itself in the form of a vigorous protest from Judge Whitcomb, whose district was the one to suffer loss. The county in question was a prosperous one, and the court fees--which a compliant clerk might secretly divide with the judge appointing him--were large: wherefore Whitcomb threatened political reprisals if Kiowa County should be taken away from him. The outcome was a compromise. For elective purposes the two districts were gerrymandered as the bill proposed; but it was expressly provided that the transferred county should remain judicially in Whitcomb's district until the expiration of Whitcomb's term of office. Having refreshed his memory as to the facts, Kent spent a forenoon in the State library. He stayed on past the luncheon hour, feeding on a dry diet of Digests; and it was not until hunger began to sharpen his faculties that he thought of going back of the statutory law to the fountain-head in the constitution of the State. Here, after he had read carefully section by section almost through the entire instrument, his eye lighted upon a clause which gradually grew luminous as he read and re-read it. "That is what Marston meant; it must be what he meant," he mused; and returning the book to its niche in the alcove he sat down to put his face in his hands and sum up the status in logical sequence. The conclusion must have been convincing, since he presently sprang up and left the room quickly to have himself shot down the elevator shaft to the street level. The telegraph office in the capitol was closed, but there was another in the Hotel Brunswick, two squares distant, and thither he went. "Hold the pool in fighting trim at all hazards. Think I have found weak link in the chain," was his wire to Loring, at Boston; and having sent it, he went around to Cassatti's and astonished the waiter by ordering a hearty luncheon at half-past three o'clock in the afternoon. It was late in the evening before he left the tiny office on the fifth floor of the Quintard Building where one of his former stenographers had set up in business for herself. Since five o'clock the young woman had been steadily driving the type-writer to Kent's dictation. When the final sheet came out with a whirring rasp of the ratchet, he suddenly remembered that he had promised Miss Van Brock to dine with her. It was too late for the dinner, but not too late to go and apologize, and he did the thing that he could, stopping at his rooms on the way to dress while his cab-driver waited. He found Portia alone, for which he was glad; but her greeting was distinctly accusative. "If I should pretend to be deeply offended and tell Thomas to show you the door, what could you say for yourself?" she began, before he could say a word in exculpation. "I should say every sort of excuseful thing I could think of, knowing very well that the most ingenious lie would fall far short of atoning for the offense," he replied humbly. "Possibly it would be better to tell the truth--had you thought of that?" she suggested, quite without malice. "Yes, I had; and I shall, if you'll let me begin back a bit." He drew up a chair to face her and sat on the edge of it. "You know I told you I was going to Gaston to sell my six lots while Major Guilford's little boom is on?" "I'm trying to remember: go on." "Well, I went yesterday morning and returned late last night. Do you know, it's positively marvelous!" "Which--the six lots, the boom, or the celerity of your movements?" she asked, with a simulation of the deepest interest. "All three, if you please; but I meant the miraculous revival of things along the Trans-Western. But that is neither here nor there--" "I think it is very much here and there," she interrupted. "I see you don't want me to tell the truth--the whole truth; but I am determined. The first man I met after dinner was Hunnicott, and when I had made him my broker in the real estate affair we fell to talking about the railroad steal. Speaking of MacFarlane's continued absence, Hunnicott said, jokingly, that it was a pity we couldn't go back to the methods of a few hundred years ago and hire the Hot Springs doctor to 'obliterate' him. The word stuck in my mind, and I broke away and took the train chiefly to have a chance to think out the new line. In the smoking-room of the sleeper I found--whom, do you suppose?" "Oh, I don't know: Judge MacFarlane, perhaps, coming back to give you a chance to poison him at short range?" "No; it was Marston." "And he talked so long and so fast that you couldn't get here in time for dinner this evening? That would be the most picturesque of the little fictions you spoke of." Kent laughed. "For the first hour he wouldn't talk at all; just sat there wooden-faced, smoking vile little cigars that made me think I was getting hay-fever. But I wouldn't give up; and after I had worn out all the commonplaces I began on the Trans-Western muddle. At that he woke up all at once, and before I knew it he was giving me an expert legal opinion on the case; meaty and sound and judicial. Miss Van Brock, that man is a lawyer, and an exceedingly able one, at that." "Of course," she said coolly. "He was one of the justices of the Supreme Court of his own state at forty-two: that was before he had to come West for his health. I found that out a long time ago." "And you never told me!" said Kent, reproachfully. "Well, no matter; I found out for myself that he is a man to tie to. After we had canvassed the purely legal side of the affair, he wanted to know more, and I went in for the details, telling him all the inferences which involve Bucks, Meigs, Hendricks, MacFarlane and the lot of them." Miss Portia's eyes were flashing. "Good, good, good!" she said. "David, I'm proud of you. That took courage--heaps of it." "I did have to forget pretty hard that he was the lieutenant-governor and nominally one of the gang. But if he is not with us, neither is he against us. He took it all in quietly, and when I was through, he said: 'You have told me some things that I knew, and some others that I only suspected.'" "Was that all?" asked Miss Van Brock, eagerly. "No; I took a good long breath and asked his advice." "Did he give it?" "He did. He said in sober earnest just what Hunnicott had said in a joke: 'If I had your case to fight, I should try to obliterate Judge MacFarlane.' I began to say that MacFarlane's removal wouldn't help us so long as Bucks has the appointing of his successor, and then he turned on me and hammered it in with a last word just as we were leaving the train: 'I didn't say remove; I said obliterate.' I caught on, after so long a time, and I've been hard at work ever since." "You are obliterating me," said Miss Portia. "I haven't the slightest idea what it is all about." "It's easy from this on," said Kent, consolingly. "You know how MacFarlane secured his reelection?" "Everybody knows that." "Well, to cut a long story short, the gerrymander deal won't stand the light. The constitution says--" "Oh, please don't quote law books at me. Put it in English--woman-English, if you can." "I will. The special act of the Assembly is void; therefore there was no legal election, and, by consequence, there is no judge and no receiver." Miss Van Brock was silent for a reflective minute. Then she said: "On second thought, perhaps you would better tell me what the constitution says, Mr. David. Possibly I could grasp it." "It is in the section on elections. It says: 'All circuit or district judges, and all special judges, shall be elected by the qualified voters of the respective circuits or districts in which they are to hold their court.' Kiowa County was cut out of Judge Whitcomb's circuit and placed in Judge MacFarlane's for electoral purposes only. In all other respects it remains a part of Judge Whitcomb's circuit, and will so continue until Whitcomb's term expires. Without the vote of Kiowa, MacFarlane could not have been elected; with it he was illegally elected, or, to put it the other way about, he was not elected at all. Since he is not lawfully a judge, his acts are void, among them this appointment of Major Guilford as receiver for the Trans-Western." She was not as enthusiastic as he thought she ought to be. In the soil prepared for it by the political confidences of the winter there had grown up a many-branching tree of intimacy between these two; a frank, sexless friendship, as Kent would have described it, in which a man who was not very much given to free speech with any one unburdened himself, and the woman made him believe that her quick, apprehending sympathy was the one thing needful--as women have done since the world began. Since the looting of the railroad which had taken him out of the steadying grind of regular work, Kent had been the prey of mixed motives. From the first he had thrown himself heartily into the problem of retrieval, but the pugnacious professional ambition to break the power of the machine had divided time pretty equally with sentiment. Elinor had said little about the vise-nip of hardship which the stock-smashing would impose upon three unguardianed women; but Penelope had been less reticent. Wanting bare justice at the hands of the wreckers, Elinor would go to her wedding with Ormsby as the beggar maid went to King Cophetua; and all the loyalty of an unselfish love rose up in Kent to make the fight with the grafters a personal duel. At every step in the hitherto discouraging struggle Portia Van Brock had been his keen-sighted adviser, prompter, ally of proof. He told himself now and again in a flush of gratitude that he was coming to owe her more than he had ever owed any woman; that where other men, more--or less--fortunate, were not denied the joy of possession, he, the disappointed one, was finding a true and loyal comradeship next best, if not quite equal to the beatitudes of passion. In all of which David Kent was not entirely just to himself. However much he owed to Portia--and the debt was large--she was not his only creditor. Something he owed to the unsatisfied love; more, perhaps, to the good blood in his veins; but most of all to the battle itself. For out of the soul-harrowings of endeavor was emerging a better man, a stronger man, than any his friends had known. Brutal as their blind gropings were, the Flagellants of the Dark Ages plied their whips to some dim purpose. Natures there be that rise only to the occasion; and if there be no occasion, no floggings of adversity or bone-wrenchings upon the rack of things denied, there will be no awakening--no victory. David Kent was suffering in both kinds, and was the better man for it. From looking forward to success in the narrow field of professional advancement, or in the scarcely broader one of the righting of one woman's financial wrongs, he was coming now to crave it in the name of manhood; to burn with an eager desire to see justice done for its own sake. So, when he had come to Portia with the scheme of effacing Judge MacFarlane and his receiver at one shrewd blow, the first of the many plans which held out a fair promise of success as a reward for daring, he was disappointed at her lack of enthusiasm. "What is the matter with it?" he demanded, when he had given her five full minutes for reflection. "I don't know, David," she said gravely. "Have I ever thrown cold water on any of your schemes thus far?" "No, indeed. You have been the loyalest partizan a man ever had, I think; the only one I have to whom I can talk freely. And I have told you more than I have all the others put together." "I know you have. And it hurts me to pull back now when you want me to push. But I can't help it. Do you believe in a woman's intuition?" "I suppose I do: all men do, don't they?" She was tying little knots in the fringe of the table scarf, but the prophetess-eyes, as Penelope called them, were not following the deft intertwinings of the slender fingers. "You mean to set about 'obliterating' Judge MacFarlane forthwith?" she asked. "Assuredly. I have been whipping the thing into shape all afternoon: that is what kept me from dining with you." "It involves some kind of legal procedure?" "Yes; a rather complicated one." "Could you explain it so that I could understand it?" "I think so. In the first place the question is raised by means of an information or inquiry called a _quo warranto_. This is directed to the receiver, and is a demand to know by what authority he holds. Is it clear thus far?" "Pellucidly," she said. "In reply the receiver cites his authority, which is the order from Judge MacFarlane; and in our turn we proceed to show that the authority does not exist--that the judge's election was illegal and that therefore his acts are void. Do I make it plain?" "You make it seem as though it were impossible to fail. And yet I know you will fail." "How do you know it?" "Don't ask me; I couldn't begin to tell you that. But in some spiritual or mental looking-glass I can see you coming to me with the story of that failure--coming to ask my help." He smiled. "You don't need to be the prophetess Penelope says you are to foresee part of that. I always come to you with my woes." "Do you?--oftener than you go to Miss Brentwood?" This time his smile was a mere tightening of the lips. "You do love to grind me on that side, don't you?" he said. "I and my affairs are less than nothing to Miss Brentwood, and no one knows it any better than you do." "But you want to go to her," she persisted. "I am only the alternative." He looked her full in the eyes. "Miss Van Brock, what is it you want me to say? What can I say more than I said a moment ago--that you are the truest friend a man ever had?" The answering look out of the brown eyes was age-old in its infinite wisdom. "How little you men know when you think you know the most," she said half-musingly; then she broke off abruptly. "Let us talk about something else. If Major Guilford is wrecking the railroad, why is he spending so much money on improvements? Have you thought to ask yourself that question?" "A good many times," he admitted, following her promptly back to first principles. "And you have not found the answer?" "Not one that fully satisfies me--no." "I've found one." "Intuitively?" he smiled. "No; it's pure logic, this time. Do you remember showing me a letter that Mr. Hunnicott wrote you just before the explosion--a letter in which he repeated a bit of gossip about Mr. Semple Falkland and his mysterious visit to Gaston?" "Yes, I remember it." "Do you know who Mr. Falkland is?" "Who doesn't?" he queried. "He has half of Wall Street in his clientele." "Yes; but particularly he is the advisory counsel of the Plantagould System. Ever since you showed me that letter I have been trying to account for his presence in Gaston on the day before Judge MacFarlane's spring term of court. I should never have found out but for Mrs. Brentwood." "Mrs. Brentwood!" Miss Van Brock nodded. "Yes; the mother of my--of the young person for whom I am the alternative, is in a peck of trouble; I quote her _verbatim_. She and her two daughters hold some three thousand shares of Western Pacific stock. It was purchased at fifty-seven, and it is now down to twenty-one." "Twenty and a quarter to-day," Kent corrected. "Never mind the fractions. The mother of the incomparable--Penelope, has heard that I am a famous business woman; a worthy understudy for Mrs. Hetty Green; so she came to me for advice. She had a letter from a New York broker offering her a fraction more than the market price for her three thousand shares of Western Pacific." "Well?" said Kent. "Meaning what did I do? I did what you did not do--what you are not doing even now; I put two and two together in the twinkling of a bedstaff. Why should a New York broker be picking up outlying Western Pacific at a fraction more than the market when the stock is sinking every day? I was curious enough to pass the 'why' along to a friend of mine in Wall Street." "Of course he told you all about it," said Kent, incredulously. "He told me what I needed to know. The broker in question is a Plantagould man." "Still I fail to 'connect up,' as the linemen say." "Do you? Ah, David, David! will you leave it for a woman to point out what you should have suspected the moment you read that bit of gossip in Mr. Hunnicott's letter?" Her hand was on the arm of her chair. He covered it with his own. "I'll leave it for you, Portia. You are my good angel." She withdrew the hand quickly, but there was no more than playful resentment in her retort. "Shame on you!" she scoffed. "What would Miss Brentwood say?" "I wish you would leave her out of it," he frowned. "You are continually ignoring the fact that she has promised to be the wife of another man." "And has thereby freed you from all obligations of loyalty? Don't deceive yourself: women are not made that way. Doubtless she will go on and marry the other man in due season; but she will never forgive you if you smash her ideals. But we were talking about the things you ought to have guessed. Fetch me the atlas from the book-case--lower shelf; right-hand corner; that's it." He did it; and in further obedience opened the thin quarto at the map of the United States. There were heavy black lines, inked in with a pen, tracing out the various ramifications of a great railway system. The nucleus of the system lay in the middle West, but there was a growing network of the black lines reaching out toward the Pacific. And connecting the trans-Mississippi network with the western was a broad red line paralleling the Trans-Western Railway. She smiled at his sudden start of comprehension. "Do you begin to suspect things?" she asked. He nodded his head. "You ought to be a man. If you were, I should never give you a moment's peace until you consented to take a partnership with me. It's as plain as day, now." "Is it? Then I wish you would make it appear so to me. I am not half as subtile as you give me credit for being." "Yet you worked this out." "That was easy enough; after I had seen Mrs. Brentwood's letter, and yours from Mr. Hunnicott. The Plantagould people want your railroad, and the receivership is a part of a plan for acquiring it. But why is Major Guilford spending so much money for improvements?" "His reasons are not far to seek now that you have shown me where to look. His instructions are to run the stock down so that the Plantagould can buy it in. Cut rates and big expenditures will do that--have done it. On the other hand, it is doubtless a condition of the deal that the road shall be turned over whole as to its property values--there is to be no wrecking in the general acceptance of the word. The Plantagould doesn't want a picked skeleton." Miss Portia's eyes narrowed. "It's a skilful bit of engineering, isn't it?" she said. "You'd admire it as artistic work yourself if your point of view were not so hopelessly personal." "You don't know half the artistic skill of it yet," he went on. "Besides all these different ends that are being conserved, the gang is taking care of its surplus heelers on the pay-rolls of the company. More than that, it is making immense political capital for itself. Everybody knows what the policy of the road was under the old régime: 'All the tariff the traffic will stand.' But now a Bucks man has hold of it, and liberality is the word. Every man in Trans-Western territory is swearing by Bucks and Guilford. Ah, my dear friend, his Excellency the governor is a truly great man!" She nodded. "I've been trying to impress you with that fact all along. The mistake you made was in not joining the People's Party early in the campaign, David." But Kent was following out his own line of thought and putting it in words as it came. "Think of the brain-work it took to bring all these things into line. There was no hitch, no slip, and nothing was overlooked. They picked their time, and it was a moment when we were absolutely helpless. I had filed our charter, but our local organization was still incomplete. They had their judge and the needful case in his court, pending and ready for use at the precise moment. They had Hawk on the ground, armed and equipped; and they knew that unless a miracle intervened they would have nobody but an unprepared local attorney to obstruct them." "Is that all?" she asked. "No. The finest bit of sculpture is on the capstone of the pyramid. Since we have had no hearing on the merits, Guilford is only a temporary receiver, subject to discharge if the allegations in Hawk's amended petition are not sustained. After the major has sufficiently smashed the stock, Judge MacFarlane will come back, the hearing on the merits will be given, we shall doubtless make our point, and the road will revert to the stock-holders. But by that time enough of the stock will have changed hands on the 'wreck' price to put the Plantagould people safely in the saddle, and the freeze-out will be a fact accomplished." Miss Van Brock drew a long breath that was more than half a sigh. "You spoke the simple truth, David, when you said that his Excellency is a great man. It seems utterly hopeless now that we have cleared up all the little mysteries." Kent rose to take his leave. "No; that is where they all go out and I stay in," he said cheerfully. "The shrewder he is, the more credit there will be in making him let go. And you mark my words: I am going to make him let go. Good night." She had gone with him to the door; was in the act of closing it behind him, when he turned back for a belated question. "By the way, what did you tell Mrs. Brentwood to do?" "I told her not to do anything until she had consulted you and Mr. Loring and Brookes Ormsby. Was that right?" "Quite right. If it comes up again, rub it in some more. We'll save her alive yet, if she will let us. Did you say I might come to dinner to-morrow evening? Thank you: you grow sweeter and more truly compassionate day by day. Good night again." XV THE JUNKETERS When Receiver Guilford took possession of the properties, appurtenances and appendages of the sequestered Trans-Western Railway, one of the luxuries to which he fell heir was private car "Naught-seven," a commodious hotel on wheels originally used as the directors' car of the Western Pacific, and later taken over by Loring to be put in commission as the general manager's special. In the hands of a friendly receiver this car became a boon to the capitol contingent; its observation platform served as a shifting rostrum from which a deep-chested executive or a mellifluous Hawk often addressed admiring crowds at way stations, and its dining saloon was the moving scene of many little relaxative feasts, at which _Veuve Cliquot_ flowed freely, priceless cigars were burned, and the members of the organization unbent, each after his kind. But to the men of the throttle and oil-can, car Naught-seven, in the gift of a hospitable receiver, shortly became a nightmare. Like most private cars, it was heavier than the heaviest Pullman; and the engineer who was constrained to haul it like a dragging anchor at the tail end of a fast train was prone to say words not to be found in any vocabulary known to respectable philologists. It was in the evening of a wind-blown day, a week after Kent's visit to Gaston, that Engineer "Red" Callahan, oiling around for the all-night run with the Flyer on the Western Division, heard above the din and clamor of Union Station noises the sullen thump betokening the addition of another car to his train. "Now fwhat the divvle will that be?" he rasped, pausing, torch in hand, to apostrophize his fireman. The answer came up out of the shadows to the rear on the lips of M'Tosh, the train-master. "You have the Naught-seven to-night, Callahan, and a pretty severe head wind. Can you make your time?" "Haven't thim bloody fools in the up-town office anything betther to do than to tie that sivinty-ton ball-an'-chain to my leg such a night as this?" This is not what Callahan said: it is merely a printable paraphrase of his rejoinder. M'Tosh shook his head. He was a hold-over from the Loring administration, not because his place was not worth taking, but because as yet no political heeler had turned up with the requisite technical ability to hold it. "I don't blame you for cussing it out," he said; and the saying of it was a mark of the relaxed discipline which was creeping into all branches of the service. "Mr. Loring's car is anybody's private wagon these days. Can you make your time with her?" "Not on yer life," Callahan growled. "Is it the owld potgutted thafe iv a rayceiver that's in her?" "Yes; with Governor Bucks and a party of his friends. I take it you ought to feel honored." "Do I?" snapped Callahan. "If I don't make thim junketers think they're in the scuff iv a cyclone whin I get thim on the crooks beyant Dolores ye can gimme time, Misther M'Tosh. Where do I get shut iv thim?" "At Agua Caliente. They are going to the hotel at Breezeland, I suppose. There is your signal to pull out." "I'll go whin I'm dommed good an' ready," said Callahan, jabbing the snout of his oiler into the link machinery. And again M'Tosh let the breach of discipline go without reproof. Breezeland Inn, the hotel at Agua Caliente, is a year-round resort for asthmatics and other health seekers, with a sanatorium annex which utilizes the waters of the warm springs for therapeutic purposes. But during the hot months the capital and the plains cities to the eastward send their quota of summer idlers and the house fills to its capacity. It was for this reason that Mr. Brookes Ormsby, looking for a comfortable resort to which he might take Mrs. Brentwood and her daughters for an outing, hit upon the expedient of going first in person to Breezeland, partly to make sure of accommodations, and partly to check up the attractions of the place against picturesque descriptions in the advertisements. When he turned out of his sleeper in the early morning at Agua Caliente station, car Naught-seven had been thrown in on a siding a little farther up the line, and Ormsby recognized the burly person of the governor and the florid face and pursy figure of the receiver, in the group of men crossing from the private car to the waiting Inn tally-ho. Being a seasoned traveler, the club-man lost no time in finding the station agent. "Isn't there some way you can get me up to the hotel before that crowd reaches?" he asked; adding: "I'll make it worth your while." The reply effaced the necessity for haste. "The Inn auto will be down in a few minutes, and you can go up in that. Naught-seven brought Governor Bucks and the receiver and their party, and they're going down to Megilp, the mining camp on the other side of the State line. They've chartered the tally-ho for the day." Ormsby waited, and a little later was whisked away to the hotel in the tonneau of the guests' automobile. Afterward came a day which was rather hard to get through. Breakfast, a leisurely weighing and measuring of the climatic, picturesque and health-mending conditions, and the writing of a letter or two helped him wear out the forenoon; but after luncheon the time dragged dispiteously, and he was glad enough when the auto-car came to take him to the station for the evening train. As it happened, there were no other passengers for the east-bound Flyer; and finding he still had some minutes to wait, Ormsby lounged into the telegraph office. Here the bonds of ennui were loosened by the gradual development of a little mystery. First the telephone bell rang smartly, and when the telegraph operator took down the ear-piece and said "Well?" in the imperious tone common to his kind, he evidently received a communication that shocked him. Ormsby overheard but a meager half of the wire conversation; and the excitement, whatever its nature, was at the other end of the line. None the less, the station agent's broken ejaculations were provocative of keen interest in a man who had been boring himself desperately for the better part of a day. "Caught him doing it, you say?... Great Scott!... Oh, I don't believe that, you know ... yes--uh-huh--I hear ... But who did the shooting?" Whether the information came or not, Ormsby did not know, for at this conjuncture the telegraph instruments on the table set up a furious chattering, and the railway man dropped the receiver and sprang to his key. This left the listener out of it completely, and Ormsby strolled out to the platform, wondering what had happened and where it had happened. He glanced up at the telephone wires: two of them ran up the graveled driveway toward Breezeland Inn; the poles of the other two sentineled the road to the west down which the tally-ho had driven in the early morning. In the reflective instant the telegraph operator dashed out of his bay-windowed retreat and ran up the track to the private car. In a few minutes he was back again, holding an excited conference with the chauffeur of the Inn automobile, who was waiting to see if the Flyer should bring him any fares for the hotel. Curiosity is said to be peculiarly a foible feminine. It is not, as every one knows. But of the major masculine allotment, Ormsby the masterful had rather less than his due share. He saw the chauffeur turn his car in the length of it and send it spinning down the road and across the line into the adjoining State; heard the mellow whistle of the incoming train, and saw the station man nervously setting his stop signal; all with no more than a mild desire to know the reason for so much excitement and haste--a desire which was content to wait on the explanation of events. The explanation, such as it was, did not linger. The heavy train thundered in from the west; stopped barely long enough to allow the single passenger to swing up the steps of the Pullman; and went on again to stop a second time with a jerk when it had passed the side-track switch. Ormsby put his head out of the window and saw that the private car was to be taken on; remarked also that the thing was done with the utmost celerity. Once out on the main line with car Naught-seven coupled in, the train was backed swiftly down to the station and the small mystery of hurryings was sufficiently solved. The governor and his party were returning, and they did not wish to miss connections. Ormsby had settled back into the corner of his section when he heard the spitting explosions of the automobile and the crash of hoofs and iron-tired wheels on the sharp gravel. He looked out again and was in time to see the finish of the race. Up the road from the westward came the six-horse tally-ho, the horses galloping in the traces and the automobile straining in the lead at the end of an improvised tow-line. In a twinkling the coach was abreast of the private car, the transfer of passengers was effected, and Ormsby was near enough at his onlooking window to remark several things: that there was pell-mell haste and suppressed excitement; that the governor was the coolest man in the group; and that the receiver had to be helped across from the coach to the car. Then the train moved out, gathering speed with each added wheel-turn. The onlooker leaned from his window to see what became of the tangle of horses and auto-car precipitated by the sudden stop of the tally-ho. Mirage effects are common on the western plains, and if Ormsby had not been familiar with them he might have marveled at the striking example afforded by the backward look. In the rapidly increasing perspective the six horses of the tally-ho were suddenly multiplied into a troop; and where the station agent had stood on the platform there seemed to be a dozen gesticulating figures fading into indistinctness, as the fast train swept on its way eastward. The club-man saw no more of the junketing party that night. Once when the train stopped to cut out the dining-car, and he had stepped down for a breath of fresh air on the station platform, he noticed that the private car was brilliantly lighted, and that the curtains and window shades were closely drawn. Also, he heard the popping of bottle corks and the clink of glass, betokening that the governor's party was still celebrating its successful race for the train. Singularly enough, Ormsby's reflections concerned themselves chiefly with the small dishonesty. "I suppose it all goes into the receiver's expense account and the railroad pays for it," he said to himself. "So and so much for an inspection trip to Megilp and return. I must tell Kent about it. It will put another shovelful of coal into his furnace--not that he is especially needing it." * * * * * At the moment of this saying--it was between ten and eleven o'clock at night--David Kent's wrath-fire was far from needing an additional stoking. Once more Miss Van Brock had given proof of her prophetic gift, and Kent had been moodily filling in the details of the picture drawn by her woman's intuition. He had gone late to the house in Alameda Square, knowing that Portia had dinner guests. And it was imperative that he should have her to himself. "You needn't tell me anything but the manner of its doing," she was saying. "I knew they would find a way to stop you--or make one. And you needn't be spiteful at me," she added, when Kent gripped the arms of his chair. "I don't mind your saying 'I told you so'," he fumed. "It's the fact that I didn't have sense enough to see what an easy game I was dealing them. It didn't take Meigs five minutes to shut me off." "Tell me about it," she said; and he did it crisply. "The _quo warranto_ inquiry is instituted in the name of the State; or rather the proceedings are brought by some person with the approval of the governor or the attorney-general, one or both. I took to-day for obtaining this approval because I knew Bucks was out of town and I thought I could bully Meigs." "And you couldn't?" she said. "Not in a thousand years. At first he said he would take the matter under advisement: I knew that meant a consultation with Bucks. Then I put the whip on; told him a few of the things I know, and let him imagine a lot more; but it was no good. He was as smooth as oil, admitting nothing, denying nothing. And what grinds me worst is that I let him put me in fault; gave him a chance to show conclusively how absurd it was for me to expect him to take up a question of such magnitude on the spur of the moment." "Of course," she said sympathetically. "I knew they would find a way. What are you doing?" Kent laughed in spite of his sore _amour-propre_. "At this present moment I am doing precisely what you said I should: unloading my woes upon you." "Oh, but I didn't say that. I said you would come to me for help. Have you?" "I'd say yes, if I didn't know so well just what I am up against." Miss Van Brock laughed unfeelingly. "Is it a man's weakness to fight better in the dark?" "It is a man's common sense to know when he is knocked out," he retorted. She held him with her eyes while she said: "Tell me what you want to accomplish, David; at the end of the ends, I mean. Is it only that you wish to save Miss Brentwood's little marriage portion?" He told the simple truth, as who could help, with Portia's eyes demanding it. "It was that at first; I'll admit it. But latterly--" "Latterly you have begun to think larger things?" She looked away from him, and her next word seemed to be part of an unspoken thought. "I have been wondering if you are great enough, David." He shook his head despondently. "Haven't I just been showing you that I am not?" "You have been showing me that you can not always out-plan, the other person. That is a lack, but it is not fatal. Are you great enough to run fast and far when it is a straight-away race depending only upon mere man-strength and indomitable determination?" Her words fired him curiously. He recalled the little thrill of inspiration which a somewhat similar appeal from Elinor had once given him, and tried to compare the two sensations. There was no comparison. The one was a call to moral victory; the other to material success. None the less, he decided that the present was the more potent spell, perhaps only because it was the present. "Try me," he said impulsively. "If I do ... David, no man can serve two masters--or two mistresses. If I do, will you agree to put the sentimental affair resolutely in the background?" He took his head in his hands and was a long minute making up his mind. But his refusal was blunt enough when it came. "No; at least, not until they are married." It would have taken a keener discernment than Kent's or any man's to have fathomed the prompting of her laugh. "I was only trying you," she said. "Perhaps, if you had said yes I should have deserted you and gone over to the other side." He got up and went to sit beside her on the pillowed divan. "Don't try me again, please--not that way. I am only a man." "I make no promises--not even good ones," she retorted. And then: "Would you like to have your _quo warranto_ blind alley turned into a thoroughfare?" "I believe you can do it if you try," he admitted, brightening a little. "Maybe I can; or rather maybe I can put you in the way of doing it. You say Mr. Meigs is obstinate, and the governor is likely to prove still more obstinate. Have you thought of any way of softening them?" "You know I haven't. It's a stark impossibility from my point of view." "Nothing is impossible; it is always a question of ways and means." Then, suddenly: "Have you been paying any attention to the development of the Belmount oil field?" "Enough to know that it is a big thing; the biggest since the Pennsylvania discoveries, according to all accounts." "And the people of the State are enthusiastic about it, thinking that now the long tyranny of the oil monopoly will be broken?" "That is the way most of the newspapers talk, and there seems to be some little ground for it, granting the powers of the new law." She laid the tips of her fingers on his arm and knotted the thread of suggestion in a single sentence. "In the present state of affairs--with the People's Party as yet on trial, and the public mind ready to take fire at the merest hint of a foreign capitalistic monopoly in the State--tell me what would happen to the man who would let the Universal Oil Company into the Belmount field in defiance of the new trust and corporation law?" "By Jove!" Kent exclaimed, sitting up as if the shapely hand had given him a buffet. "It would ruin him politically, world without end! Tell me; is Bucks going to do that?" She laughed softly. "That is for you to find out, Mr. David Kent; not by hearsay, but in good, solid terms of fact that will appeal to a level-headed, conservative newspaper editor like--well, like Mr. Hildreth, of the _Argus_, let us say. Are you big enough to do it?" "I am desperate enough to try," was the slow-spoken answer. "And when you have the weapon in your hands; when you have found the sword and sharpened it?" "Then I can go to his Excellency and tell him what will happen if he doesn't instruct his attorney-general in the _quo warranto_ affair." "That will probably suffice to save your railroad--and Miss Brentwood's marriage portion. But after, David; what will you do afterward?" "I'll go on fighting the devil with fire until I have burned him out. If this is to be a government of dictators, I can be one of them, too." She clapped her hands enthusiastically. "There spoke the man David Kent; the man I have been trying to discover deep down under the rubbish of ill-temper and hesitancy and--yes, I will say it--of sentiment. Have you learned your lesson, David mine?" It was a mark of another change in him that he rose and stood over her, and that his voice was cool and dispassionate when he said: "If I have, it is because I have you for an inspired text-book, Portia dear." And with that he took his leave. XVI SHARPENING THE SWORD In the beginning of the new campaign of investigation David Kent wisely discounted the help of paid professional spies--or rather he deferred, it to a later stage--by taking counsel with Jeffrey Hildreth, night editor of the _Argus_. Here, if anywhere, practical help was to be had; and the tender of it was cheerfully hearty and enthusiastic. "Most assuredly you may depend on the _Argus_, horse, foot and artillery," said the editor, when Kent had guardedly outlined some portion of his plan. "We are on your side of the fence, and have been ever since Bucks was sprung as a candidate on the convention. But you've no case. Of course, it's an open secret that the Universal people are trying to break through the fence of the new law and establish themselves in the Belmount field without losing their identity or any of their monopolistic privileges. And it is equally a matter of course to some of us that the Bucks ring will sell the State out if the price is right. But to implicate Bucks and the capitol gang in printable shape is quite another matter." "I know," Kent admitted. "But it isn't impossible; it has got to be possible." The night editor sat back in his chair and chewed his cigar reflectively. Suddenly he asked: "What's your object, Kent? It isn't purely _pro lono pullico_, I take it?" Kent could no longer say truthfully that it was, and he did not lie about it. "No, it's purely personal, I guess. I need to get a grip on Bucks and I mean to do it." Hildreth laughed. "And, having got it, you'll telephone me to let up--as you did in the House Bill Twenty-nine fiasco. Where do we come in?" "No; you shall come in on the ground floor this time; though I may ask you to hold your hand until I have used my leverage. And if you'll go into it to stay, you sha'n't be alone. Giving the _Argus_ precedence in any item of news, I'll engage to have every other opposition editor in the State ready to back you." "Gad! you're growing, Kent. Do you mean to down the Bucks crowd ded-definitely?" demanded the editor, who stammered a little under excitable provocation. "Bigger men than you have tried it--and failed." "But no one of them with half my obstinacy, Hildreth. It can be done, and I am going to do it." The night editor laughed again. "If you can show that gang up, Kent, nothing in this State will be too good for you." "I've got it to do," said Kent. "Afterward, perhaps I'll come around for some of the good things. I am not in this for health or pleasure. Can I count on you after the mud-slinging begins?" Hildreth reflected further, disregarding the foreman's reproachful calls for copy. "I'll go you," he said at last; "and I'll undertake to swing the chief into line. But I am going to disagree with you flat on the project of a sudden exposé. Right or wrong, Bucks has pup-popular sentiment on his side. Take the Trans-Western territory, for example: at the present speaking these grafters--or their man Guilford; it's all the same--own those people down there body and soul. You couldn't pry Bucks out of their affections with a crowbar--suddenly, I mean. We'll have to work up to it gradually; educate the people as we go along." "I concede that much," said Kent. "And you may as well begin on this same Trans-Western deal,"--wherewith he pieced together the inferences which pointed to the stock-smashing project behind the receivership. "Don't use too much of it," he added, in conclusion. "It is all inference and deduction as yet, as I say. But you will admit it's plausible." The editor was sitting far back in his chair again, chewing absently on the extinct cigar. "Kent, did you fuf-figure all that out by yourself?" "No," said Kent, briefly. "There is a keener mind than mine behind it--and behind this oil field business, as well." "I'd like to give that mind a stunt on the _Argus_," said the editor. "But about the Belmount mix-up: you will give us a stickful now and then as we go along, if you unearth anything that the public would like to read?" "Certainly; any and everything that won't tend to interfere with my little intermediate scheme. As I have intimated, I must bring Bucks to terms on my own account before I turn him over to you and the people of the State. But I mean to be in on that, too." Hildreth wagged his head dubiously. "I may be overcautious; and I don't want to seem to scare you out, Kent. You ought to know your man better than I do--better than any of us; but if I had your job, I believe I should want to travel with a body-guard. I do, for a fact." David Kent's laugh came easily. Fear, the fear of man, was not among his weaknesses. "I am taking all the chances," he said; and so the conference ended. Two days later the "educational" campaign was opened by an editorial in the _Argus_ setting forth some hitherto unpublished matter concerning the manner in which the Trans-Western had been placed in the hands of a receiver. In its next issue the paper named the receivership after its true author, showing by a list of the officials that the road under Major Guilford had been made a hospital for Bucks politicians, and hinting pointedly that it was to be wrecked for the benefit of a stock-jobbing syndicate of eastern capitalists. Having thus reawakened public interest in the Trans-Western affair, Hildreth sounded a new note of alarm pitched upon the efforts of the Universal Oil Company to establish itself in the Belmount oil region; a cry which was promptly taken up by other State editors. This editorial was followed closely by others in the same strain, and at the end of a fortnight Kent was fain to call a halt. "Not too fast, Hildreth," he cautioned, dropping into the editor's den late one night. "You are doing mighty good work, but you are making it infinitely harder for me--driving the game to deeper cover. One of my men had a clue: Bucks and Meigs were holding conferences with a man from the Belmount field whose record runs back to New York. But they have taken the alarm and thrown us off the track." "The secretary of State's office is the place you want to watch," said Hildreth. "New oil companies are incorporating every day. Pretty soon one of these will swallow up all the others: that one will be the Universal under another name, and in its application for a charter you'll find askings big enough to cover all the rights and privileges of the original monopoly." "That is a good idea," said Kent, who already had a clerk in the secretary of State's office in his pay. "But how are we coming on in the political field?" "We are doing business there, and you have the _Argus_ to thank for it. You--or your idea, I should say--has a respectable following all over the State now; as it didn't have until we began to leg for it." Again Kent acquiesced, making no mention of sundry journeys he had made for the sole purpose of enlisting other editors, or of the open house Miss Van Brock was keeping for out-of-town newspaper men visiting the capital. "Moreover, we've served your turn in the Trans-Western affair," Hildreth went on. "Public interest is on the _qui vive_ for new developments in that. By the way, has the capitol gang any notion of your part in all this upstirring?" Kent smiled and handed the editor an open letter. It was from Receiver Guilford. The post of general counsel for the Trans-Western was vacant, and the letter was a formal tender of the office to the "Hon. David Kent." "H'm," said the editor. "I don't understand that a little bit." "Why?" "If they could get you to accept a general agency in Central Africa or New Zealand, or some other antipodean place where you'd be safely out of the way, it would be evident enough. But here they are proposing to take you right into the heart of things." Kent got a match out of the editor's desk and relighted his cigar. "You've got brain-fag to-night, Hildreth. It's a bribe, pure and simple. They argue that it is merely a matter of dollars and cents to me, as it would be to one of them; and they propose to retain me just as they would any other attorney whose opposition they might want to get rid of. Don't you see?" "Sure. I was thinking up the wrong spout. Have you replied to the major?" "Yes. I told him that my present engagements preclude the possibility of considering his offer; much to my regret." "Did you say that? You're a cold-plucked one, Kent, and I'm coming to admire you. But now is the time for you to begin to look out. They have spotted you, and their attempt to buy you has failed. I don't know how deeply you have gone into Bucks' tinkering with the Universal people, but if you are in the way of getting the grip you spoke of--as this letter seems to indicate--you want to be careful." Kent promised and went his way. One of his saving graces was the ability to hold his tongue, even in a confidential talk with as good a friend as Hildreth. As for example: he had let the suggestion of watching the secretary of State's office come as a new thing from the editor, whereas in fact it was one of the earliest measures he had taken. And on that road he had traveled far, thanks to a keen wit, to Portia Van Brock's incessant promptings, and to the help of the leaky clerk in Hendricks' office; so far, indeed, that he had found the "stool pigeon" oil company, to which Hildreth's hint had pointed--a company composed, with a single exception, of men of "straw," the exception being the man Rumford, whose conferences with the governor and the attorney-general had aroused his suspicions. It was about this time that Hunnicott reported the sale of the Gaston lots at a rather fancy cash figure, and the money came in good play. "Two things remain to be proved," said Portia, in one of their many connings of the intricate course; "two things that must be proved before you can attack openly: that Rumford is really representing the Universal Oil Company; and that he is bribing the junto to let the Universal incorporate under the mask of his 'straw' company. Now is the time when you can not afford to be economical. Have you money?" Since it was the day after the Hunnicott remittance, Kent could answer yes with a good conscience. "Then spend it," she said; and he did spend it like a millionaire, lying awake nights to devise new ways of employing it. And for the abutments of the arch of proof the money-spending sufficed. By dint of a warm and somewhat costly wire investigation of Rumford's antecedents, Kent succeeded in placing the Belmount promoter unquestionably as one of the trusted lieutenants of the Universal; and the leaky clerk in the secretary of State's office gave the text of the application for the "straw" company charter, showing that the powers asked for were as despotic as the great monopoly could desire. But for the keystone of the arch, the criminal implication of the plotters themselves, he was indebted to a fit of ill-considered anger and to a chapter of accidents. XVII THE CONSPIRATORS It was chiefly due to Portia's urgings that Kent took Ormsby into his confidence when the campaign was fairly opened. She put it diplomatically on the ground of charity to an exiled millionaire, temporarily out of a job; but her real reason went deeper. From its inception as a one-man fight against political chicanery in high places, the criticism of the Bucks formula was beginning to shape itself in a readjustment of party lines in the field of State politics; and Miss Van Brock, whose designs upon Kent's future ran far in advance of her admissions to him, was anxiously casting about for a managerial promoter. A little practice-play in municipal politics made the need apparent. It came in the midst of things, basing itself upon the year-gone triumph of agrarianism in the State. In the upheaval, the capital city had participated to the extent of electing a majority of the aldermen on the People's Party ticket; and before long it developed that a majority of this aldermanic majority could be counted among the spoilsmen--was in fact a creature of the larger ring. [Illustration: HE JAMMED THE FIRE END OF HIS CIGAR AMONG THE FINGERS OF THE GRASPING HAND.] Late in the summer an ordinance was proposed by the terms of which a single corporation was to be given a franchise granting a complete monopoly of the streets for gas and water mains and transit rights of way. Thereupon a bitter struggle ensued. Party lines were obliterated, and men who shunned the primaries and otherwise shirked their political duties raised the cry of corruption, and a Civic League was formed to fight the ring. Into this struggle, as giving him the chance to front the enemy in a fair field, David Kent flung himself with all the ardor of a born fighter. Mass meetings were held, with Kent as spokesman for the League, and the outcome was a decency triumph which brought Kent's name into grateful public prominence. Hildreth played an able second, and by the time the obnoxious ordinance had been safely tabled, Kent had a semi-political following which was all his own. Men who had hitherto known him only as a corporation lawyer began to prophesy large things of the fiery young advocate, whose arguments were as sound and convincing as his invective was keen and merciless. Figuratively speaking, Portia stood in the wings and applauded. Also, she saw that her protégé had reached the point where he needed grooming for whatever race lay before him. Hence her urgings, which made a triumvirate out of the council of two, with Brookes Ormsby as the third member. "You understand, I'm not interested a little bit in the merits of the case," said the newly elected chairman, in his first official interview with Miss Van Brock. "So far as the internal politics of this particularly wild and woolly State are concerned, I'm neither in them nor of them. But I am willing to do what I can for Kent." "Owing him a good turn?" said Portia, with malice aforethought. Ormsby's laugh was an Englishman's deep-chested haw-haw. "So he has been making you his confidante in that, too, has he?" "There was no confidence needed," she retorted. "I have eyes; and, to use one of your own pet phrases, I was not born yesterday. But let that go: you are willing to help us?" "I said I was willing to help Kent. If you bracket yourself with him, I am more than willing. But I am rather new to the game. You will have to tell me the moves." "We are only in the opening," she said, continuing the figure. "You will learn as you go along. By and by you will have to spend money; but just now the need is for a cool head to keep our young firebrand out of the personalities. Where is he to-night?" Ormsby's smile was a grin. "I left him at 124 Tejon Avenue half an hour ago. Do you think he is likely to get into trouble there?" On the porch of the Brentwood apartment house David Kent was answering that question measurably well for himself. With the striking of the City Hall clock at nine Mrs. Brentwood had complained of the glare of the electric crossing-lamp and had gone in, leaving the caller with Penelope in the hammock on one side of him and Elinor in a basket chair on the other. Their talk had been of the late municipal struggle, and of Kent's part in it; and, like Miss Van Brock, Penelope was applausive. But Elinor's congratulations were tempered with deprecation. "I am glad you won for the League, of course; everybody must be glad of that," she said. "But I hope the _Argus_ didn't report your speeches correctly. If it did, you have made a host of bitter enemies." "What does a man--a real man--care for that?" This from the depths of the hammock. "I, at least, can afford to be careless," said Kent. "I am not running for office, and I have nothing to lose, politically or otherwise." "Can any man say that truthfully?" Elinor queried. "I think I can. I have given no hostages to fortune." Penelope lifted the challenge promptly. "Lord Bacon said that, didn't he?--about men marrying. If he were alive now he wouldn't need to say it. Men don't have to be discouraged." "Don't they?" said Kent. "No, indeed; they are too utterly selfish for any matrimonial use, as it is. No, don't argue with me, please. I'm fixed--irrevocably fixed." Elinor overtook the runaway conversation and drove it back into the path of her own choosing. "But I do think you owe it to yourself to be more careful in your public utterances," she insisted. "If these men on the other side are only half as unprincipled as your accusations make them out to be, they would not stop short of personal violence." "I am not hunting clemency or personal immunity just now," laughed Kent. "On the contrary, I am only anxious to make the score as heavy as possible. And so far from keeping prudently in the background, I'll confess that I went into this franchise fight chiefly to let the capitol gang know who I am and where I stand." A sudden light came into Elinor's eyes and burned there steadily. She was of those who lay votive offerings upon the shrine of manly courage. "One part of me approves as much as another part disapproves," she said after a time. "I suppose it isn't possible to avoid making political enemies; but is it needful to turn them into personal enemies?" He looked at her curiously. "I am afraid I don't know any middle path, not being a politician," he objected. "And as for the enmity of these men, I shall count it an honor to win it. If I do not win it, I shall know I am not succeeding." Silence for another little space, which Miss Brentwood broke by saying: "Don't you want to smoke? You may." Kent felt in his pocket. "I have no cigar." She looked past him to the hammock. "Penelope!" she called softly; and when there was no response she went to spread the hammock rug over her sister. "You may smoke your pipe," she said; and when she had passed behind him to her chair she made another concession: "Let me fill it for you--you used to." He gave her the pipe and tobacco, and by a curious contradiction of terms began to wonder if he ought not to go. Notwithstanding his frank defiance of Brookes Ormsby, and his declaration of intention in the sentimental affair, he had his own notions about the sanctity of a betrothal. Mrs. Brentwood had vanished, and Penelope was asleep in the hammock. Could he trust himself to be decently loyal to Ormsby if he should stay? Nice questions of conscience had not been troubling him much of late; but this was new ground--or if not new, so old that it had the effect of being new. He let the question go unanswered--and stayed. But he was minded to fling the biggest barrier he could lay hands on in the way of possible disloyalty by saying good things of Ormsby. "I owe you much for my acquaintance with him," he said, when the subject was fairly introduced. "He has been all kinds of a good friend to me, and he promises to be more." "Isn't your debt to Penelope, rather than to me?" she returned. "No, I think not. You are responsible, in the broader sense, at all events. He did not come West for Penelope's sake." Then he took the plunge: "May I know when it is to be--or am I to wait for my bidding with the other and more formally invited guests?" She laughed, a low little laugh that somehow grated upon his nerves. "You shall know--when I know." "Forgive me," he said quickly. "But from something Ormsby said----" "He should not have spoken of it; I have given him no right," she said coldly. "You make me twice sorry: once if I am a trespasser, and again if I have unwittingly broken a confidence. But as a friend--a very old friend--I ventured----" She interrupted him again, but this time her laugh did not hurt him. "Yes; our friendship antedates Mr. Ormsby; it is old enough to excuse anything you said--or were going to say." "Thank you," he rejoined, and he meant it. "What I was going to say touches a matter which I believe you haven't confided to any one. May I talk business for a few minutes?" "If you will light your pipe and go on smoking. It makes me nervous to have people hang on the brink of things." He lighted the pipe, wondering what other thing he might do to allay her nervousness. None the less, he would not go back from his purpose, which was barrier-building. "I have thought, wholly without warrant, perhaps, that your loss in this railroad steal has had something to do with the postponement of your happiness--and Ormsby's. Has it?" "And if it should have?" "I merely wanted to say that we still have a fighting chance. But one of the hard and fast conditions is that every individual stockholder shall hang on to his or her holdings like grim death." She caught her breath with a little gasp. "The encouragement comes too late for us. We have parted with our stock." Kent turned cold and hot and cold again while she was saying it. Then the lawyer in him came uppermost. "Is it gone beyond recall? How much too late am I?" he demanded. "My mother wrote the letter to-day. She had an offer from some one in New York." Kent was on his feet instantly. "Has that letter been mailed? Because if it has, it must be stopped by wire!" Miss Brentwood rose. "It was on the hall table this afternoon; I'll go and see," and in a moment she returned with the letter in her hand. Kent took it from her as if it had been an edged weapon or a can of high explosives. "Heavens! what a turn you gave me!" he said, sitting down again. "Can I see your mother?" "I think she has gone to bed. What do you want to do?" "I want to tell her that she mustn't do any such suicidal thing as this." "You don't know my mother," was the calm reply. "Mr. Ormsby said everything he could think of." "Then we must take matters into our own hands. Will you help me?" "How?" she asked. "By keeping your own counsel and trusting me. Your mother supposes this letter has gone: it has gone--this way." He tore the sealed envelope across and across and dropped the pieces into his pocket. "Now we are safe--at least until the man at the other end writes again." It shocked her a little, and she did not promise to be a party to the subterfuge. But neither did she say she would not. "I am willing to believe that you have strong reasons for taking such strong measures," she said. "May I know them?" Kent's gift of reticence came to his rescue in time to prevent the introduction of another and rather uncertain factor into his complicated problem. "I can explain it more intelligibly a little later on; or if I don't, Ormsby will. In the mean time, you must take my word for it that we shall have our railroad back in due season." It is a question for the psychologists to answer if there be or be not crises in a man's life when the event, weighty or trivial, turns upon that thing which, for the want of a better name, is called a premonition. In the silence that followed his dismissal of the subject, Kent became aware of a vague prompting which was urging him to cut his visit short. There was no definable reason for his going. He had finally brought himself to the point of speaking openly to Elinor of her engagement, and they were, as he fondly believed, safely beyond the danger point in that field. Moreover, Penelope was stirring in her hammock and the perilous privacy was at an end. Nevertheless, he rose and said good-night, and was half-way to the next corner before he realized how inexcusably abrupt his leave-taking had been. When he did realize it, he was of two minds whether to go back or to let the apology excuse another call the following evening. Then the insistent prompting seized him again; and when next he came to a competent sense of things present he was standing opposite the capitol building, staring fixedly up at a pair of lighted windows in the second story. They were the windows of the governor's room; and David Kent's brain cleared suddenly. In the earliest beginnings of the determinate plan to wrest the Trans-Western out of the grasp of the junto he had known that it must come finally to some desperate duel with the master-spirit of the ringsters. Was Jasper Bucks behind those lighted windows--alone? Kent had not meant to make the open attack until he should have a weapon in his hands which would arm him to win. But now as he stood looking up at the heckoning windows a mad desire to have it out once for all with the robber-in-chief sent the blood tingling to his finger-tips. True, he had nothing as yet in the oil-field conspiracy that the newspapers or the public would accept as evidence of fraud and corruption. But on the other hand, Bucks was only a man, after all; a man with a bucaneer's record, and by consequence vulnerable beneath the brazen armor of assurance. If the attack were bold enough---- Kent did not stop to argue it out. When a man's blood is up the odds against him shrink and become as naught. Two minutes later he was in the upper corridor of the capitol, striding swiftly to the door of the lighted room. Recalling it afterward he wondered if the occult prompting which had dragged him out of his chair on the Brentwcod porch saw to it that he walked upon the strip of matting in the tile-paved corridor and so made his approach noiseless. Also, if the same silent monitor bade him stop short of the governor's office: at the door, namely, of the public anteroom, which stood ajar? A low murmur of voices came from beyond, and for a moment he paused listening. Then he went boldly within, crossing the anteroom and standing fairly in the broad beam of light pouring through the open door of communication with the private office. Four men sat in low-toned conference around the governor's writing-table, and if any one of them had looked up the silent witness must have been discovered. Kent marked them down one by one: the governor; Hendricks, the secretary of State; Rumford, the oil man; and Senator Duvall. For five pregnant minutes he stood looking on, almost within arm's reach of the four; hearing distinctly what was said; seeing the papers which changed hands across the table. Then he turned and went away, noiselessly as he had come, the thick-piled carpet of the anteroom muffling his footfalls. It was midnight when he reached his quarters in the Clarendon and flung himself full length upon the bed, sodden with weariness. For two hours he had tramped the deserted streets, striving in sharp travail of soul to fit the invincible, chance-given weapon to his hand. When he came in the thing was done, and he slept the sleep of an outworn laborer. XVIII DOWN, BRUNO! For six days after the night of revelations Kent dived deep, personally and by paid proxy, in a sea of secrecy which, but for the five pregnant minutes in the doorway of the governor's office, might easily have proved fathomless. On the seventh day the conflagration broke out. The editor of the Belmount _Refiner_ was the first to smell smoke and to raise the cry of "Fire!" but by midnight the wires were humming with the news and the entire State was ablaze. The story as it appeared under the scare headlines the next morning was crisply told. An oil company had been formed with Senator Duvall at its head. After its incorporation it was ascertained that it not only held options on all the most valuable wells in the Belmount region, but that its charter gave it immunity from the law requiring all corporations to have their organizations, officers, and operating headquarters in the State. By the time the new company was three days old it had quietly taken up its options and was the single big fish in the pool by virtue of its having swallowed all the little ones. Then came the finishing stroke which had set the wires to humming. On the sixth day it was noised about that Senator Duvall had transferred his controlling interest to Rumford--otherwise to the Universal Oil Company; that he had served only as a figurehead in the transaction, using his standing, social and political, to secure the charter which had been denied Rumford and his associates. It had all been managed very skilfully; the capping of the wells by the Universal's agent, the practical sealing up of the entire district, being the first public intimation of the result of Duvall's treachery and the complete triumph of a foreign monopoly. The storm that swept the State when the facts came out was cyclonic, and it was reported, as it needed to be, that Senator Duvall had disappeared. Never in the history of the State had public feeling risen so high; and there were not lacking those who said that if Duvall showed himself his life would not be safe in the streets of the capital. It was after the _Argus_ had gone to press on the night of explosions that Editor Hildreth sought and found David Kent in his rooms at the Clarendon, and poured out the vials of his wrath. "Say, I'd like to know if you cue-call this giving me a fair show!" he demanded, flinging into Kent's sitting-room and dropping into a chair. "Did I, or did I not understand that I was to have the age on this oil business when there was anything fit to print?" Kent gave the night editor a cigar and was otherwise exasperatingly imperturbable. "Keep your clothes on, and don't accuse a man of disloyalty until you have all the documents in the case," he said. "I didn't know, until I saw your bulletin a few hours ago, that the thing had been pulled off. In fact, I've been too busy with other things to pay much attention to the Belmount end of it." "The ded-devil you have!" sputtered Hildreth, chewing savagely on the gift cigar. "I'd like to know what business you had to mix up in other things to the detriment of my news column. You were the one man who knew all about it; or at least you did a week or two ago." "Yes; but other and more important things have intervened. I have been desperately busy, as I say." "Well, you've lost your chance to get your grip on the capitol gang, anyway; that is one comfort," growled the editor, getting what consolation he could out of Kent's apparent failure. "They played it too fuf-fine for you." "Did they?" said Kent. "It looks pretty much that way, doesn't it? Duvall is the scapegoat, and the only one. About day after to-morrow Bucks' organ, the _Tribune_, will come out with an 'inspired' editorial whitewashing the entire capitol outfit. It will show how Rumford's application for the charter was refused, and how a truly good and beneficent state government has been hoodwinked and betrayed by one of its most trusted supporters." Kent threw off his street coat and went to get his dressing-gown from the wardrobe in the bedroom. When he came back he said: "Hildreth, you have taken me at my word thus far, and you haven't had occasion to call me either a knave or a fool. Do it a little longer and I'll put you in the way of touching off a set-piece of pyrotechnics that will double discount this mild little snap-cracker of the Belmount business." "Can't you do it now?" "No; the time isn't ripe yet. We must let the _Tribune's_ coat of whitewash dry in first." Hildreth wriggled in his chair. "Kent, if I thought it would do any good, I'd cuc-curse you out; I would for a fact. You are too blamed close-mouthed for any ordinary newspaper use." But Kent only laughed at him. Now that the strain was in some measure relaxed he could stand any amount of abuse from so good a friend as the night editor. "Turn on the hot water if you want to, and if it will relieve the pressure. I know about how you feel; and I'd be as sore as you are if I didn't know that I am going to make it up to you a little later on. But about this oil blaze and to-morrow's--or to-day's--issue of the _Argus_. I hope you haven't said too much." "I haven't sus-said anything. The stuff trickled in by Associated wire at the last minute, and we had to cut and slash for space and run it pretty much as it came--the bare story." "All right; that's better. Now suppose you hint darkly that only half of the truth has come out; that more--and more startling--developments may be safely predicted in the immediate hence. Hit it up hard toward the capitol, and don't be afraid of libeling anybody." Hildreth's eyes narrowed. "Say, Kent; you have grown a lot in these last few weeks: what is your diet?" "Hard work--and a determination to make my brag good." "To down the ring, you mean?" "Yes; to down the ring." "Are you any nearer to it than you were when you began?" "A good many parasangs." "By Jove! I more than half believe you've got hold of something ded-definite at last!" "I have, indeed. Hildreth, I have evidence--printable evidence--enough to dig a dozen political graves, one of them big enough to hold Jasper G. Bucks' six-feet-two." "Let me see it!" said the night editor, eagerly; but Kent laughed and pushed him toward the door. "Go home and go to bed. I wouldn't show it to you to-night if I had it here--as I have not. I don't go around with a stick of dynamite in my pocket." "Where is it?" Hildreth asked. "It is in a safety-deposit box in the vault of the Security Bank; where it is going to stay until I am ready to use it. Go home, I say, and let me go to bed. I'm ragged enough to sleep the clock around." In spite of his weariness, which was real enough, Kent was up betimes the next morning. He had a wire appointment with Blashfield Hunnicott and two others in Gaston, and he took an early train to keep it. The ex-local attorney met him at the station with a two-seated rig; and on the way to the western suburbs they picked up Frazee, the county assessor, and Orton, the appraiser of the Apache Building and Loan Association. "Hunnicott has told you what I am after," said Kent, when the surrey party was made up. "We all know the property well enough, but to have it all fair and above-board, we'll drive out and look it over, so that our knowledge may be said to be fully up to date." Twenty minutes afterward the quartet was locating the corners of a square in Gaston's remotest suburb; an "addition" whose only improvements were the weathered and rotting street and lot stakings on the bare, brown plain. "'Lots 1 to 56 in Block 10, Guilford & Hawk's Addition,'" said Kent, reading from a memorandum in his note-book. "It lies beautifully, doesn't it?" "Yes; for a chicken farm," chuckled the assessor. "Well, give me your candid opinion, you two: what is the property worth?" The Building and Loan man scratched his chin. "Say fifty dollars for the plot--if you'll fence it." "No, put it up. You are having a little boom here now: give it the top boom price, if you like." The two referees drew apart and laid their heads together. "As property is going here just now, fifty dollars for the inside lots, and one hundred dollars apiece for the corners; say three thousand for the plot. And that is just about three times as much as anybody but a land-crazy idiot would give for it." It was Frazee who announced the decision. "Thank you both until you are better paid. Now we'll go back to town and you can write me a joint letter stating the fact. If you think it will get you disliked here at home, make the figure higher; make it high enough so that all Gaston will be dead sure to approve." "You are going to print it?" asked the Building and Loan appraiser. "I may want to. You may shape it to that end." "I'll stand by my figures," said Frazee. "It will give me my little chance to get back at the governor. I had it assessed as unimproved suburban property at so much the lot, but he made a kick to the board of equalization and got it put in as unimproved farm land at fifty dollars an acre." Then, looking at his watch: "We'd better be getting back, if you have to catch the Accommodation. Won't you stay over and visit with us?" "I can't, this time; much obliged," said Kent; and they drove to the Building and Loan office where the joint letter of appraisal was written and signed. Kent caught his train with something to spare, and was back at the capital in good time to keep a dinner engagement at Miss Van Brock's. He had understood that Ormsby would be the only other guest. But Portia had a little surprise in store for him. Loring had dropped in, unannounced, from the East; and Portia, having first ascertained that Mrs. Brentwood's asthma was prohibitive of late dinings-out, had instructed Ormsby to bring Elinor and Penelope. Kent had been saving the results of his deep-sea divings in the oil-field investigation to spread them out before Miss Van Brock and Ormsby "in committee," but he put a padlock on his lips when he saw the others. Portia gave him Elinor to take out, and he would have rejoiced brazenly if the table talk, from the bouillon to the ices, had not been persistently general, turning most naturally upon the Universal Oil Company's successful _coup_ in the Belmount field. Kent kept out of it as much as he could, striving manfully to monopolize Elinor for his own especial behoof; but finally Portia laid her commands upon him. "You are not to be allowed to maroon yourself with Miss Brentwood any longer," she said dictatorially. "You know more about the unpublished part of this Belmount conspiracy than any one else excepting the conspirators themselves, and you are to tell us all about it." Kent looked up rather helplessly. "Really, I--I'm not sure that I know anything worth repeating at your dinner-table," he protested. But Miss Van Brock made a mock of his caution. "You needn't be afraid. I pledged everybody to secrecy before you came. It is understood that we are in 'executive session.' And if you don't know much, you may tell us what you know now more than you knew before you knew so little as you know now." "Hold on," said Kent; "will you please say that over again and say it slowly?" "Never mind," laughed Ormsby. "Miss Portia has a copyright on that. But before you begin, I'd like to know if the newspapers have it straight as far as they have gone into it?" "They have, all but one small detail. They are saying that Senator Duvall has left the city and the State." "Hasn't he?" Loring asked. "He hadn't yesterday." "My-oh!" said Portia. "They will mob him if he shows himself." Kent nodded assent. "He knows it: he is hiding out. But I found him." "Where?" from the three women in chorus. "In his own house, out in Pentland Place. The family has been away since April, and the place has been shut up. I took him the first meal he'd had in thirty-six hours." Portia clapped her hands. The butler came in with the coffee and she dismissed him and bade him shut the doors. "Now begin at the very tip end of the beginning," she commanded. Kent had a sharp little tussle with his inborn reticence, thrust it to the wall and told a plain tale. "It begins in a piece of reckless folly. Shortly after I left Mrs. Brentwood's last Thursday evening I had a curious experience. The shortest way down-town is diagonally through the capitol grounds, but some undefinable impulse led me to go around on the Capitol Avenue side. As I was passing the right wing of the building I saw lights in the governor's room, and in a sudden fit of desperation resolved to go up and have it out with Bucks. It was abnormally foolish, I'll confess. I had nothing definite to go on; but I--well, I was keyed up to just about the right pitch, and I thought I might bluff him." "Mercy me! You do need a guardian angel worse than anybody I know!" Portia cut in. "Do go on." Kent nodded. "I had one that night; angel or demon, whichever you please. I was fairly dragged into doing what I did. When I reached the upper corridor the door of the public anteroom was ajar, and I heard voices. The outer room was not lighted, but the door between it and the governor's private office was open. I went in and stood in that open doorway for as much as five minutes, I think, and none of the four men sitting around the governor's writing-table saw me." He had his small audience well in hand by this time, and Ormsby's question was almost mechanical. "Who were the four?" "After the newspaper rapid-fire of this morning you might guess them all. They were his Excellency, Grafton Hendricks, Rumford, and Senator Duvall. They were in the act of closing the deal as I became an onlooker. Rumford had withdrawn his application for a charter, and another 'straw' company had been formed with Duvall at its head. I saw at once what I fancy Duvall never suspected; that he was going to be made the scapegoat for the ring. They all promised to stand by him--and you see how that promise has been kept." "Good heavens!" ejaculated Loring. "What a despicable lot of scoundrels! But the bribe: did you learn anything about that?" "I saw it," said Kent, impressively. "It was a slip of paper passed across the table by Rumford to Bucks, face down. Bucks glanced at it before he thrust it into his pocket, and I had my glimpse, too. It was a draft on a Chicago bank, but I could not read the figures, and I doubt if either of the other conspirators knew the amount. Then the governor tossed a folded paper over to the oil man, saying, 'There is your deed to the choicest piece of property in all Gaston, and you've got it dirt cheap.' I came away at that." Elinor's sigh was almost a sob; but Miss Van Brock's eyes were dancing. "Go on, go on," she exclaimed. "That is only the beginning." Kent's smile was of reminiscent weariness. "I found it so, I assure you. So far as any usable evidence was concerned, I was no better off than before; it was merely my assertion against their denial--one man against four. But I have had a full week, and it has not been wasted. I needn't bore you with the mechanical details. One of my men followed Bucks' messenger to Chicago--he wouldn't trust the banks here or the mails--and we know now, know it in black on white, with the proper affidavits, that the draft was for two hundred thousand dollars, payable to the order of Jasper G. Bucks. The ostensible consideration was the transfer from Bucks to Rumford of a piece of property in the outskirts of Gaston. I had this piece of land appraised for me to-day by two disinterested citizens of Gaston, and they valued it at a possible, but highly improbable, three thousand." "Oh, how clumsy!" said Portia, in fine scorn. "Does his Excellency imagine for a moment that any one would be deceived by such a primitive bit of dust-throwing?" and Ormsby also had something to say about the fatal mistakes of the shrewdest criminals. "It was not so bad," said Kent. "If it should ever be charged that he took money from Rumford, here is a plain business transaction to account for it. The deed, as recorded, has nothing to say of the enormous price paid. The phrasing is the common form used when the parties to the transfer do not wish to make the price public: 'For one dollar to me in hand paid, and other valuable considerations.' Luckily, we are able to establish conclusively what the 'other valuable considerations' were." "It seems to me that these documents arm and equip you for anything you want to do," said Loring, polishing his eye-glasses after his ingrained habit. Kent shook his head. "No; thus far the evidence is all circumstantial, or rather inferential. But I picked up the final link in the chain--the human link--yesterday. One of the detectives had been dogging Duvall. Two days ago the senator disappeared, unaccountably. I put two and two together, and late last evening took the liberty of breaking into his house." "Alone?" said Elinor, with the courage-worshiping light in the blue-gray eyes. "Yes; it didn't seem worth while to double the risk. I did it rather clumsily, I suppose, and my greeting was a shot fired at random in the darkness--the senator mistaking me for a burglar, as he afterward explained. There was no harm done, and the pistol welcome effectually broke the ice in what might otherwise have been a rather difficult interview. We had it out in an upper room, with the gas turned low and the window curtains drawn. To cut a long story short, I finally succeeded in making him understand what he was in for; that his confederates had used him and thrown him aside. Then I went out and brought him some supper." Ormsby smote softly upon the edge of the table with an extended forefinger. "Will he testify?" he asked. Kent's rejoinder was definitive. "He has put himself entirely in my hands. He is a ruined man, politically and socially, and he is desperate. While I couldn't make him give me any of the details in the Trans-Western affair, he made a clean breast of the oil field deal, and I have his statement locked up with the other papers in the Security vaults." It was Penelope who gave David Kent his due meed of praise. "I am neither a triumphant politician nor a successful detective, but I recognize both when they are pointed out to me," she said. "Mr. Kent, will you serve these gentlemen up hot for dinner, or cold for luncheon?" "Yes," Portia chimed in. "You have outrun your pace-setters, and I'm proud of you. Tell us what you mean to do next." Kent laughed. "You want to make me say some melodramatic thing about having the shackles forged and snapping them upon the gubernatorial wrists, don't you? It will be prosaic enough from this on. I fancy we shall have no difficulty now in convincing his Excellency of the justice of our proceedings to quash Judge MacFarlane and his receiver." "But how will you go about it? Surely you can not go personally and threaten the governor of the State!" this from Miss Brentwood. "Can't I?" said Kent. "Having the score written out and safely committed to memory, that will be quite the easiest number on the programme, I assure you." But Loring had something to say about the risk. "Thus far you have not considered your personal safety--haven't had to, perhaps. But you are coming to that now. You are dealing with a desperate man, David; with a gang of them, in fact." "That is so," said Ormsby. "And, as chairman of the executive committee, I shall have to take steps. We can't afford to bury you just yet, Kent." "I think you needn't select the pall-bearers yet a while," laughed the undaunted one; and then Miss Van Brock gave the signal and the "executive committee" adjourned to the drawing-room. Here the talk, already so deeply channeled in the groove political, ran easily to forecastings and predictions for another electoral year; and when Penelope began to yawn behind her fan, Ormsby took pity on her and the party broke up. It was at the moment of leave-taking that Elinor sought and found her chance to extract a promise from David Kent. "I must have a word with you before you do what you say you are going to do," she whispered hurriedly. "Will you come to see me?" "Certainly, if you wish it. But you mustn't let Loring's nervousness infect you. There is no danger." "There is a danger," she insisted, "a much greater danger than the one Mr. Loring fears. Come as soon as you can, won't you?" It was a new thing for her to plead with him, and he promised in an access of tumultuous hope reawakened by her changed attitude. But afterward, when he was walking down-town with Loring, the episode troubled him a little; would have troubled him more if he had not been so deeply interested in Loring's story of the campaign in the East. Taking it all in all, the ex-manager's report was encouraging. The New Englanders were by no means disposed to lie down in the harness, and since the Western Pacific proper was an interstate line, the Advisory Board had taken its grievance to Washington. Many of the small stockholders were standing firm, though there had been panicky defections in spite of all that could be done. Loring had no direct evidence to sustain the stock deal theory; but it was morally certain that the Plantagould brokers were picking up Western Pacific by littles wherever they could find it. "I am inclined to believe we haven't much time to lose," was Kent's comment. "Things will focus here long before Washington can get action. The other lines are bringing a tremendous pressure to bear on Guilford, whose cut rates are demoralizing business frightfully. The fictitious boom in Trans-Western traffic is about worked out; and for political reasons Bucks can't afford to have the road in the hands of his henchmen when the collapse comes. The major is bolstering things from week to week now until the Plantagould people get what they are after--a controlling majority of the stock--and then Judge MacFarlane will come back." They were within two squares of the Clarendon, and the cross-street was deserted save for a drunken cow-boy in shaps and sombrero staggering aimlessly around the corner. "That's curious," Loring remarked. "Don't you know, I saw that same fellow, or his double, lurching across the avenue as we came out of Alameda Square, and I wondered what he was doing out in that region." "It was his double, I guess," said Kent. "This one is many pegs too drunk to have covered the distance as fast as we have been walking." But drunk or sober, the cow-boy turned up again most unexpectedly; this time at the entrance of the alley half-way down the block. In passing he stumbled heavily against Kent; there was a thick-tongued oath, and Loring struck out smartly with his walking-stick. By consequence the man's pistol went off harmlessly in the air. The shot brought a policeman lumbering heavily up from the street beyond, and the skirling of relief whistles shrilled on the night. But the man with a pistol had twisted out of Kent's grasp and was gone in a flash. "By Jove!" said Loring, breathing hard; "he wasn't as drunk as he seemed to be!" Kent drew down his cuffs and shook himself straight in his coat. "No; he wasn't drunk at all; I guess he was the man you saw when we came out of the square." Then, as the policeman came up puffing: "Let me do the talking; the whisky theory will be good enough for the newspapers." XIX DEEP-SEA SOUNDINGS "_Oof_! I feel as if I had been dipped in a warm bath of conspiracy and hung up to dry in the cold storage of nihilism! If you take me to any more meetings of your committee of safety, I shall be like the man without music in his soul--'fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils.'" Thus Penelope, after the breaking up of the Van Brock dinner party. Elinor had elected to walk the few blocks intervening between Alameda Square and Tejon Avenue, and Ormsby had dismissed his chauffeur with the motor-car. "I told you beforehand it was going to be a political confab," said the club-man in self-defense. "And you mustn't treat it lightly, either. Ten prattling words of what you have heard to-night set afloat on the gossip pool of this town might make it pretty difficult for our David." "We are not very likely to babble," retorted Penelope. "We are not so rich in intimates in this aboriginal desert." But Elinor spoke to the penal clause in his warning. "Then Mr. Kent's danger is more real than he admitted?" she said. "It's real enough, I fancy; more real for him than it might be for another man in his place. He is a curious combination, is David: keen and sharp-witted and as cold as an icicle in the planning part; but when it comes to the in-fighting he hasn't sense enough to pound sand, as his New Hampshire neighbors would say." "I like that side of him best," Penelope averred. "Deliver me from a man of the cold and calculating sort who sits on his impulses, sleeps on his injuries, and takes money-revenge for an insult. Mr. Loring tells a story of a transplanted Vermonter in South America. A hot-headed Peruvian called him a liar, and he said: 'Oh, pshaw! you can't prove it.'" "What a merciless generalizer you are!" said Ormsby, laughing. "The man who marries you will have his work cut out for him if he proposes to fill the requirements." "Won't he?" said Penelope. "I can fancy him sitting up nights to figure it all out." They had reached the Tejon Avenue apartment house, and to Elinor's "Won't you come in?" Ormsby said: "It's pretty late, but I'll smoke a cigar on the porch, if you'll let me." Penelope took the hammock, but she kept it only during the first inch of Ormsby's cigar. After her sister had gone in, Elinor went back to the lapsed topic. "I am rather concerned about Mr. Kent. You described him exactly; and--well, he is past the planning part and into the fighting part. Do you think he will take ordinary precautions?" "I hope so, I'm sure," rejoined the amateur chairman. "As his business manager I am responsible for him, after a fashion. I was glad to see Loring to-night--glad he has come back. Kent defers to him more than he does to any one else; and Loring is a solid, sober-minded sort." "Yes," she agreed; "I was glad, too." After that the talk languished, and the silence was broken only by the distant droning of an electric car, the fizz and click of the arc light over the roadway, and the occasional _dap_ of one the great beetles darting hither and thither in the glare. Ormsby was wondering if the time was come for the successful exploiting of an idea which had been growing on him steadily for weeks, not to say months. It was becoming more and more evident to him that he was not advancing in the sentimental siege beyond the first parallel thrown up so skilfully on the last night of the westward journey. It was not that Elinor was lacking in loyalty or in acquiescence; she scrupulously gave him both as an accepted suitor. But though he could not put his finger upon the precise thing said or done which marked the loosening of his hold, he knew he was receding rather than advancing. Now to a man of expedients the interposition of an obstacle suggests only ways and means for overcoming it. Ormsby had certain clear-cut convictions touching the subjugation of women, and as his stout heart gave him resolution he lived up to them. When he spoke again it was of the matter which concerned him most deeply; and his plea was a gentle repetition of many others in the same strain. "Elinor, I have waited patiently for a long time, and I'll go on doing it, if that is what will come the nearest to pleasing you. But it would be a prodigious comfort if I might be counting the days or the weeks. Are you still finding it impossible to set the limit?" She nodded slowly, and he took the next step like a man feeling his way in the dark. "That is as large an answer as you have ever given me, I think. Is there any speakable reason?" "You know the reason," she said, looking away from him. "I am not sure that I do. Is it because the moneygods have been unpropitious--because these robber barons have looted your railroad?" "No; that is only part of it--the smallest part." "I hoped so: if you have too little, I have a good bit too much. But that corners it in a way to make me sorry. I am not keeping my promise to win what you weren't able to give me at first." "Please don't put it that way. If there be any fault, it is mine. You have left nothing undone." The man of expedients ran over his cards reflectively and decided that the moment for playing his long suit was fully come. "Your goodness of heart excuses me where I am to blame," he qualified. "I am coming to believe that I have defeated my own cause." "By being too good to me?" she suggested. "No; by running where I should have been content to walk; by shackling you with a promise, and so in a certain sense becoming your jailer. That is putting it rather clumsily, but isn't it true?" "I had never thought of it in that light," she said unresponsively. "You wouldn't, naturally. But the fact remains. It has wrenched your point of view hopelessly aside, don't you think? I have seen it and felt it all along, but I haven't had the courage of my convictions." "In what way?" she asked. "In the only way the thing can be stood squarely upon its feet. It's hard--desperately hard; and hardest of all for a man of my peculiar build. I am no longer what you would call a young man, Elinor, and I have never learned to turn back and begin all over again with any show of heartiness. They used to say of me in the Yacht Club that if I gained a half-length in a race, I'd hold it if it took the sticks out of my boat." "I know," she assented absently. "Well, it's the same way now. But for your sake--or rather for the sake of my love--I am going to turn back for once. You are free again, Elinor. All I ask is that you will let me begin where I left off somewhere on the road between here and Boston last fall." She sat with clasped hands looking steadily at the darkened windows of the opposite house, and he let her take her own time. When she spoke there was a thrill in her voice that he had never heard before. "I don't deserve it--so much consideration, I mean," she said; and he made haste to spare her. "Yes, you do; you deserve anything the best man in the world could do for you, and I'm a good bit short of that." "But if I don't want you to go back?" He had gained something--much more than he knew; and for a tremulous instant he was near to losing it again by a passionate retraction of all he had been saying. But the cool purpose came to his rescue in time. "I should still insist on doing it. You gave me what you could, but I want more, and I am willing to do what is necessary to win it." Again she said: "You are too good to me," and again he contradicted her. "No; it is hardly a question of goodness; indeed, I am not sure that it escapes being selfish. But I am very much in earnest, and I am going to prove it. Three years ago you met a man whom you thought you could love--don't interrupt me, please. He was like some other men we know: he didn't have the courage of his convictions, lacking the few dollars which might have made things more nearly equal. May I go on?" "I suppose you have earned the right to say what you please," was the impassive reply. It was the old struggle in which they were so evenly matched--of the woman to preserve her poise; of the man to break it down. Another lover might have given up in despair, but Ormsby's strength lay in holding on in the face of all discouragements. "I believe, as much as I believe anything in this world, that you were mistaken in regard to your feeling for the other man," he went on calmly. "But I want you to be sure of that for yourself, and you can't be sure unless you are free to choose between us." "Oh, don't!--you shouldn't say such things to me," she broke out; and then he knew he was gaining ground. "Yes, I must. We have been stumbling around in the dark all these months, and I mean to be the lantern-bearer for once in a way. You know, and I know, and Kent is coming to know. That man is going to be a success, Elinor: he has it in him, and he sha'n't lack the money-backing he may need. When he arrives----" She turned on him quickly, and the blue-gray eyes were suspiciously bright. "Please don't bury me alive," she begged. He saw what he had done; that the nicely calculated purpose had carried straight and true to its mark; and for a moment the mixed motives, which are at the bottom of most human sayings and doings, surged in him like the sea at the vexed tide-line of an iron-bound coast. But it was the better Brookes Ormsby that struggled up out of the elemental conflict. "Don't mistake me," he said. "I am neither better nor worse than other men, I fancy. My motives, such as they are, would probably turn out to be purely selfish in the last analysis. I am proceeding on the theory that constraint breeds the desire for the thing it forbids; therefore I remove it. Also, it is a part of that theory that the successful David Kent will not appeal to you as the unspoiled country lawyer did. No, I'm not going to spoil him; if I were, I shouldn't be telling you about it. But--may I be brutally frank?--the David Kent who will come successfully out of this political prize-fight will not be the man you have idealized." There was a muttering of thunder in the air, and the cool precursory breeze of a shower was sweeping through the tree-tops. "Shall we go into the house?" she asked; and he took it as his dismissal. "You may; I have kept you up long enough." And then, taking her hand: "Are we safely ashore on the new continent, Elinor? May I come and go as heretofore?" "You were always welcome, Brookes; you will be twice welcome, now." It was the first time she had ever called him by his Christian name and it went near to toppling down the carefully reared structure of self-restraint. But he made shift to shore the tottering walls with a playful retort. "If that is the case, I'll have to think up some more self-abnegations. Good night." XX THE WINNING LOSER Editor Hildreth's prophecy concerning the probable attitude of the administration newspapers in the discussion of the oil field affair waited but a day for its fulfilment. On the Friday morning there appeared in the _Capital Tribune_, the _Midland City Chronicle_, the _Range County Maverick_ and the _Agriculta Ruralist_ able editorials exonerating the People's Party, its policy and the executive, and heaping mountains of obloquy on the name of Duvall. These editorials were so similar in tone, tenor and texture, as pointedly to suggest a common model--a coincidence which was not allowed to pass unremarked by Hildreth and other molders of public opinion on the opposite side of the political fence. But Hildreth did not pause at generalities. Two days after the Universal's triumph in the Belmount field, the _Argus_ began to "hit it up" boldly toward the capitol, and two things came of it. The first was an attempt by some party or parties unknown to buy up a controlling interest in the _Argus_. The second was the waylaying of David Kent in the lobby of the Clarendon Hotel by no less a personage than the Honorable Melton Meigs, attorney-general of the State. In his first conversation with Ormsby, Kent had spoken of the three leading spirits of the junto as from personal knowledge; but of the three, Bucks, Hendricks and Meigs, the attorney-general was the least known to him. Prior to his nomination on the State ticket Meigs had been best known as the most astute criminal lawyer in the State, his astuteness lying not so much in his ability as a pleader as in a certain oratorical gift by which he was able to convince not only a jury but the public of the entire innocence of his client. He was a small man physically, with womanish hands and feet, and a beardless face of that prematurely aged cast which is oftenest seen in dwarfs and precocious infants; and his distinguishing characteristic, the one which stuck longest in the mind of a chance acquaintance or a casual observer, was a smile of the congealed sort which served to mask whatever emotion there might be behind it. Kent had seen little of Meigs since the latter had turned him down in the _quo warranto_ matter; and his guard went up quickly when the attorney-general accosted him in the lobby of the hotel and asked for a private interview. "I am very much occupied just now, Mr. Meigs," he demurred; "but if it is a matter of importance----" "It is; a matter of the greatest importance," was the smooth-toned reply. "I am sure you will not regret it if you will give me a few moments, Mr. Kent." Kent decided quickly. Being forewarned, there was nothing to fear. "We will go up to my rooms, if you please," he said, leading the way to the elevator; and no other word was spoken until they were behind closed doors on the fourth floor. "A prefatory remark may make my business with you seem a little less singular, Mr. Kent," Meigs began, when Kent had passed his cigar-case and the attorney-general had apologized for a weak digestive tract. "On wholly divergent lines and from wholly different motives we are both working toward the same end, I believe, and it has occurred to me that we might be of some assistance to each other." Kent's rejoinder was a mute signal to the effect that he was attending. "Some little time ago you came to me as the legal representative of the stock-holders of the Trans-Western Railway Company, and I did not find it possible at that time to meet your wishes in the matter of a _quo warranto_ information questioning Judge MacFarlane's election and status. You will admit, I presume, that your demand was a little peremptory?" "I admit nothing," said Kent, curtly. "But for the sake of expediting present matters----" "Precisely," was the smiling rejoinder. "You will note that I said 'at that time.' Later developments--more especially this charge made openly by the public press of juggling with foreign corporations--have led me to believe that as the public prosecutor I may have duties which transcend all other considerations--of loyalty to a party standard--of----" Kent took his turn at interrupting. "Mr. Meigs, there is nothing to be gained by indirection. May I ask you to come to the point?" "Briefly, then: the course pursued by Senator Duvall in the Belmount affair leaves an unproved charge against others; a charge which I am determined to sift to the bottom--you see, I am speaking quite frankly. That charge involves the reputation of men high in authority; but I shall be strong to do my sworn duty, Mr. Kent; I ask you to believe that." Kent nodded and waved him on. "You will readily understand the delicacy of the task, and how, in the nature of things, I am handicapped and hedged up on every side. Evidence--of a kind to enable me to assail a popular idol--is exceedingly difficult to procure." "It is," said Kent, grimly. "Exactly. But in revolving the matter in my own mind, I thought of you. You are known at the capitol, Mr. Kent, and I may say throughout the State, as the uncompromising antagonist of the State administration. I have asked myself this: Is it possible that a cool-headed, resolute attorney like Mr. David Kent would move so far and so determinedly in this matter of antagonism without substantially paving the ground under his feet with evidence as he went along?" Kent admitted that it was possible, but highly improbable. "So I decided," was the smile-tempered rejoinder. "In that case it only remains for me to remind you of your public duty, Mr. Kent; to ask you in the name of justice and of the people of the State, to place your information in the hands of the public prosecutor." Kent's face betrayed nothing more than his appreciation of the confidence reposed in him by the man whose high sense of official honor was making him turn traitor to the party leader who had dragged him through a successful election. "I have what evidence I need, Mr. Meigs," he declared. "But if I make no secret of this, neither do I conceal the fact that the motive _pro bono publico_ has had little to do with its accumulating. I want justice first for what might be called a purely private end, and I mean to have it." "Pre-cisely," smiled the attorney-general. "And now we are beginning to see our way a little clearer. It is not too late for us to move in the _quo warranto_ proceedings. If you will call at my office I shall be glad to reopen the matter with you." "And the price?" said Kent, shortly. "Oh, my dear sir! must we put it upon the ground of a _quid pro quo_? Rather let us say that we shall help each other. You are in a position to assist me very materially: I may be in a position to serve your turn. Come to my office to-morrow morning prepared to do your duty as an honest, loyal citizen, and you will find me quite willing to meet you half-way." Kent rose and opened his watch. "Mr. Meigs, I have given you your opportunity, and you have seemed to give me mine," he said coolly. "Will you pardon me if I say that I can paddle my own canoe--if I ask you to assure his Excellency that one more device of his to escape punishment has been tried and found wanting?" For a flitting moment the cast-iron smile faded from the impassive face of the attorney-general and an unrelenting devil came to peer out of the colorless eyes. Then Meigs rose cat-like and laid his hand on the door-knob. "Do I understand that you refuse to move in a matter which should be the first duty of a good citizen, Mr. Kent?" he asked purringly. "I certainly do refuse to fall into any such clumsy trap as you have been trying to bait for me, Mr. Meigs," said David Kent, dropping back into his former curtness. The door opened slowly under the impulse of the slender womanish hand. "You have a task of some magnitude before you, Mr. Kent. You can scarcely hope to accomplish it alone." "Meaning that you would like to know if the fight will go on if I should chance to meet another drunken cow-boy with a better aim? It will." The door closed softly behind the retreating figure of the attorney-general, and Kent released the spring of the night-latch. Then he went to the dropped portière at the farther end of the room, drew it aside and looked in on a man who was writing at a table pushed out between the windows. "You heard him, Loring?" he asked. The ex-manager nodded. "They are hard pressed," he said. Then, looking up quickly: "You could name your price if you wanted to close out the stock of goods in hand, David." "I shall name it when the time comes. Are you ready to go over to the _Argus_ office with me? I want to have a three-cornered talk with Hildreth." "In a minute. I'll join you in the lobby if you don't want to wait." * * * * * It was in the afternoon of the same day that Kent found a note in his key-box at the Clarendon asking him to call up 124 Tejon Avenue by telephone. He did it at once, and Penelope answered. The key-box note had been placed at Elinor's request, and she, Miss Penelope, could not say what was wanted; neither could she say definitely when her sister would be in. Elinor had gone out an hour earlier with Mr. Ormsby and Miss Van Brock in Mr. Ormsby's motor-car. When was he, David Kent, coming up? Did he know they were talking of spending the remainder of the summer at Breezeland Inn? And where was Mr. Loring all this time? Kent made fitting answers to all these queries, hung up the ear-piece and went away moodily reflective. He was due at a meeting of the executive committee of the Civic League, but he let the public business wait while he speculated upon the probable object of Elinor's telephoning him. Now there is no field in which the inconsistency of human nature is so persistent as in that which is bounded by the sentimentally narrowed horizon of a man in love. With Ormsby at the nodus of his point of view, David Kent made no secret of his open rivalry of the millionaire, declaring his intention boldly and taking no shame therefor. But when he faced about toward Elinor he found himself growing hotly jealous for her good faith; careful and fearful lest she should say or do something not strictly in accordance with the letter and spirit of her obligations as Ormsby's _fiancée_. For example: at the "conspiracy dinner," as Loring dubbed it, Ormsby being present to fight for his own hand, Kent, as we have seen, had boldly monopolized Miss Brentwood, and would have committed himself still more pointedly had the occasion favored him. None the less, when Elinor had begged him privately to see her before moving in the attack on the junto, he had almost resented the implied establishing of confidential relations with her lover's open rival. For this cause he had been postponing the promised visit, and thereby postponing the taking of the final step in the campaign of intimidation. The unexplained telephone call decided him, however. He would go and see Elinor and have the ordeal over with. But as a preliminary he dined that evening with Ormsby at the Camelot Club, and over the coffee had it out with him. "I am going out to see Miss Brentwood to-night," he announced abruptly. "Have you any objection?" The millionaire gave him the shrewdest of over-looks, ending with a deep-rumbling laugh. "Kent, you are the queerest lot I have ever discovered, and that is saying a good bit. Why, in the name of all the proprieties, should I object?" "Your right is unchallenged," Kent admitted. "Is it? Better ask Miss Brentwood about that. She might say it isn't." "I don't understand," said Kent, dry-tongued. "Don't you? Perhaps I'd better explain: she might find it a little difficult. You have been laboring under the impression that we are engaged, haven't you?" "Laboring under the--why, good heavens, man! it's in everybody's mouth!" "Curious, isn't it, how such things get about," commented the player of long suits. "How do you suppose they get started?" "I don't suppose anything about it, so far as we two are concerned; I have your own word for it. You said you were the man in possession." Ormsby laughed again. "You are something of a bluffer yourself, David. Did you let my little stagger scare you out?" David Kent pushed his chair back from the table and nailed Ormsby with a look that would have made a younger man betray himself. "Do you mean to tell me that there is no engagement between you and Miss Brentwood?" "Just that." Ormsby put all the nonchalance he could muster into the laconic reply, but he was anticipating the sequent demand which came like a shot out of a gun. "And there never has been?" Ormsby grinned. "When you are digging a well and have found your stream of water, it's folly to go deeper, David. Can't you let 'good enough' alone?" Kent turned it over in his mind, frowning thoughtfully into his coffee-cup. When he spoke it was out of the mid-heart of manliness. "I wish you would tell me one thing, Ormsby. Am I responsible for--for the present state of affairs?" Ormsby stretched the truth a little; partly for Elinor's sake; more, perhaps, for Kent's. "You have done nothing that an honorable rival--and incidentally a good friend of mine--might not do. Therefore you are not responsible." "That is putting it very diplomatically," Kent mused. "I am afraid it does not exonerate me wholly." "Yes, it does. But it doesn't put me out of the running, you understand. I'm 'forninst' you yet; rather more stubbornly than before, I fancy." Kent nodded. "That, of course; I should think less of you if you were not. And you shall have as fair a show as you are giving me--which is saying a lot. Shall we go and smoke?" XXI A WOMAN INTERVENES It was still early in the evening when Kent mounted the steps of the Brentwood apartment house. Mother and daughters were all on the porch, but it was Mrs. Brentwood who welcomed him. "We were just wondering if you would imagine the message which Elinor was going to send, and didn't, and come out to see what was wanted," she said. "I am in need of a little legal advice. Will you give me a few minutes in the library?" Kent went with her obediently, but not without wondering why she had sent for him, of all the retainable lawyers in the capital. And the wonder became amazement when she opened her confidence. She had received two letters from a New York broker who offered to buy her railroad stock at a little more than the market price. To the second letter she had replied, asking a price ten points higher than the market. At this the broker had apparently dropped the attempted negotiation, since there had been no more letters. What would Mr. Kent advise her to do--write again? Kent smiled inwardly at the good lady's definition of "legal advice," but he rose promptly to the occasion. If he were in Mrs. Brentwood's place, he would not write again; nor would he pay any attention whatever to any similar proposals from any source. Had there been any others? Mrs. Brentwood confessed that there had been; that a firm of Boston brokers had also written her. Did Mr. Kent know the meaning of all this anxiety to buy in Western Pacific when the stock was going down day by day? Kent took time for reflection before he answered. It was exceedingly difficult to eliminate the personal factor in the equation. If all went well, if by due process of law the Trans-Western should be rescued out of the hands of the wreckers, the property would be a long time recovering from the wounds inflicted by the cut rates and the Guilford bad management. In consequence, any advance in the market value of the stock must be slow and uncertain under the skilfullest handling. But, while it might be advisable for Mrs. Brentwood to take what she could get, the transfer of the three thousand shares at the critical moment might be the death blow to all his hopes in the fight for retrieval. Happily, he hit upon the expedient of shifting the responsibility for the decision to other shoulders. "I scarcely feel competent to advise you in a matter which is personal rather than legal," he said at length. "Have you talked it over with Mr. Ormsby?" Mrs. Brentwood's reply was openly contemptuous. "Brookes Ormsby doesn't know anything about dollars. You have to express it in millions before he can grasp it. He says for me not to sell at any price." Kent shook his head. "I shouldn't put it quite so strongly. At the same time, I am not the person to advise you." The shrewd eyes looked up at him quickly. "Would you mind telling me why, Mr. Kent?" "Not in the least. I am an interested party. For weeks Mr. Loring and I have been striving by all means to prevent transfers of the stock from the hands of the original holders. I don't want to advise you to your hurt; but to tell you to sell might be to undo all that has been done." "Then you are still hoping to get the railroad out of Major Guilford's hands?" "Yes." "And in that case the price of the stock will go up again?" "That is just the difficulty. It may be a long time recovering." "Do you think the sale of my three thousand shares would make any difference?" she asked. "There is reason to fear that it would make all the difference." She was silent for a time, and when she spoke again Kent realized that he was coming to know an entirely unsuspected side of Elinor's mother. "It makes it pretty hard for me," she said slowly. "This little drib of railroad stock is all that my girls have left out of what their father willed them. I want to save it if I can." "So do I," said David Kent, frankly; "and for the same reason." Mrs. Brentwood confined herself to a dry "Why?" "Because I have loved your elder daughter well and truly ever since that summer at the foot of Old Croydon, Mrs. Brentwood, and her happiness and well-being concern me very nearly." "You are pretty plain-spoken, Mr. Kent. I suppose you know Elinor is to be married to Brookes Ormsby?" Mrs. Brentwood was quite herself again. Kent dexterously equivocated. "I know they have been engaged for some time," he said; but the small quibble availed him nothing. "Which one of them was it told you it was broken off?" she inquired. He smiled in spite of the increasing gravity of the situation. "You may be sure it was not Miss Elinor." "Humph!" said Mrs. Brentwood. "She didn't tell me, either. 'Twas Brookes Ormsby, and he said he wanted to begin all over again, or something of that sort. He is nothing but a foolish boy, for all his hair is getting thin." "He is a very honorable man," said Kent. "Because he is giving you another chance? I don't mind telling you plainly that it won't do any good, Mr. Kent." "Why?" he asked in his turn. "For several reasons: one is that Elinor will never marry without my consent; another is that she can't afford to marry a poor man." Kent rose. "I am glad to know how you feel about it, Mrs. Brentwood: nevertheless, I shall ask you to give your consent some day, God willing." He expected an outburst of some sort, and was telling himself that he had fairly provoked it, when she cut the ground from beneath his feet. "Don't you go off with any such foolish notion as that, David Kent," she said, not unsympathetically. "She's in love with Brookes Ormsby, and she knows it now, if she didn't before." And it was with this arrow rankling in him that Kent bowed himself out and went to join the young women on the porch. XXII A BORROWED CONSCIENCE The conversation on the Brentwood porch was chiefly of Breezeland Inn as a health and pleasure resort, until an outbound electric car stopped at the corner below and Loring came up to make a quartet of the trio behind the vine-covered trellis. Later, the ex-manager confessed to a desire for music--Penelope's music--and the twain went in to the sitting-room and the piano, leaving Elinor and Kent to make the best of each other as the spirit moved them. It was Elinor's chance for free speech with Kent--the opportunity she had craved. But now it was come, the simplicity of the thing to be said had departed and an embarrassing complexity had taken its place. Under other conditions Kent would have been quick to see her difficulty, and would have made haste to efface it; but he was fresh from the interview with Mrs. Brentwood, and the Parthian arrow was still rankling. None the less, he was the first to break away from the commonplaces. "What is the matter with us this evening?" he queried. "We have been sitting here talking the vaguest trivialities ever since Penelope and Loring side-tracked us. I haven't been doing anything I am ashamed of; have you?" "Yes," she confessed, looking away from him. "What is it?" "I asked a certain good friend of mine to come to see me when there is good reason to believe he didn't want to come." "What makes you think he didn't want to come?" "Why--I don't know; did he?" She had turned upon him swiftly with an outflash of the playful daring which had been one of his major fetterings in time past--the ecstatic little charm that goes with quick repartee and instant and sympathetic apprehension. "You have never yet asked anything of him that he wasn't glad enough to give," he rejoined, keeping up the third person figurative. "Is that saying very much--or very little?" "Very little, indeed. But it is only your askings that have been lacking--not his good will." "That was said like the David Kent I used to know. Are you really quite the same?" "I hope not," he protested gravely. "People used to say of me that I matured late, and year by year as I look back I can see that it was a true saying. I have done some desperately boyish things since I was a man grown; things that make me tingle when I recall them." "Like wasting a whole summer exploring Mount Croydon with a--a somebody who did not mature late?" "No; I wasn't counting that among my lapses. An older man than I ever hope to be might find excuses for the Croydon summer. I meant in other ways. For one thing, I have craved success as I think few men have ever craved it; and yet my plowings in that field have been ill-timed and boyish to a degree." She shook her head. "I don't know how you measure success; it is a word of so many, many meanings. But I think you are your own severest critic." "That may be; but the fact remains. It is only within the past few months that I have begun to get a true inkling of things; to know, for example, that opportunities are things to be compelled--not waited for." She was looking away from him again. "I am not sure that I like you better for your having discovered yourself. I liked the other David Kent." He smiled rather joylessly. "Somebody has said that for every new point of view gained we have to sacrifice all the treasures of the old. I am sorry if I am disappointing you." "I don't know that you are. And yet, when you were sitting at Miss Van Brock's table the other evening telling us about your experience with the politicians, I kept saying to myself that I didn't know you--that I had never known you." "I wish I knew just how to take that," he said dubiously. "I wish I knew how to make you understand," she returned; and then: "I could have made the other David Kent understand." "You are in duty bound to try to make this one understand, don't you think? You spoke of a danger which was not the violent kind, such as Loring fears. What is it?" "You have had two whole days," she rejoined. "Haven't you discovered it?" "I haven't found anything to fear but failure," was his reply. "That is it; you have given it a name--its only true name--failure." "But I am not going to fail." "You mean you are going to take our railroad away from these men who have stolen it?" "That is what I mean." "And you will do it by threatening to expose them?" "I shall tell Governor Bucks what I know about the oil field deal, assuring him that I shall publish the facts if he doesn't let the law take its course in ousting Judge MacFarlane and the receiver." She rose and stood before him, leaning against one of the vine-clad porch pillars with her hands behind her. "David Kent, are there any circumstances in which you would accept a bribe?" He answered her in all seriousness. "They say every man has his price: mine is higher than any bid they have yet made--or can make, I hope." "Why don't you let _them_ bribe _you_?" she asked coolly. "Is it because it is inexpedient--because there is more 'success' the other way?" He tried to emulate her coolness and made a failure of it. "Have I ever done anything to make you think I had thrown common honesty and self-respect overboard?" he demanded. Her answer was another question, sharp-edged and well thrust home. "Is it any worse to take a bribe than it is to give one? You have just admitted that you are going to buy the governor's neutrality, you know." "I don't see it in that light at all." "The other David Kent would have seen it. He would have said: These men are public criminals. If I can not bring them to justice, I can at least expose them to the scorn of all good men. Therefore I have no right to bargain with them." Kent was silent for a long time. When he spoke it was to say: "Why have you done this, Elinor?" "Because I had to, David. Could I do less?" "I suppose not. It's in the blood--in your blood and mine. Other folk call it the Puritan virus of over-righteousness, and scoff at it. I don't know: sometimes I think they have the best of the argument." "I can't believe you are quite sincere when you say that," she asserted. "Yes, I am. One can not compromise with conscience; that says itself. But I have come to believe latterly that one's conscience may be morbidly acute, or even diseased. I'll admit I've been taking treatment." "That sounds very dreadful," she rejoined. "It does, doesn't it? Yet it had to be done. As I intimated a few minutes ago, my life has hitherto been a sort of unostentatious failure. I used to think it was because I was outclassed: I know now it has been because I wouldn't do as other men do. It has been a rather heart-breaking process--to sort out the scruples, admitting the just and overriding the others--but I have been given to see that it is the price of success." "I want you to succeed," she said. "Pardon me; I don't think you do. You have reopened the door to doubt, and if I admit the doubt I shall fail." The sonata Penelope was playing was approaching its finale, and Elinor was suddenly shaken with a trembling fit of fear--the fear of consequences which might involve this man's entire future. She knew Kent was leaning on her, and she saw herself as one who has ruthlessly thrust an iron bar among the wheels of a delicate mechanism. Who was she to be his conscience-keeper--to stand in the way and bid him go back? Were her own motives always so exalted? Had she not once deliberately debated this same question of expediency, to the utter abasement of her own ideals? Penelope had left the piano, and Loring was looking at his watch. Kent saw them through the open window and got upon his feet. "Grantham is saying he had no idea it was so late," he hazarded. "If I thank you for what you have said I am afraid it must be as the patient thanks the surgeon for the knife-stroke which leaves him a cripple for life." It was the one word needed to break her resolution. "Oh, forget it; please forget it!" she said. "I had no right.... You are doing a man's work in the world, and it must be done in a man's way. If I can not help, you must not let me hinder. If you let anything I have said discourage you, I shall never cease regretting it." His smile was a mere indrawing of the lips. "Having opened the door, you would try to shut it again, would you? How like a woman! But I am afraid it can't be done. I had been trying to keep away from that point of view.... There is much to be said on both sides. There was a time when I wouldn't have gone into such a thing as this fight with the junto; but being in, I should have seen it through regardless of the public welfare--ignoring that side of it. I can't do it now; you have shown me that I can't." "But I don't want to be a stumbling-block," she insisted. "Won't you believe that I wanted to help?" "I believe that your motive was all it should be; yes. But the result is the same." Loring and Penelope were coming out, and the end of their privacy was at hand. "What will you do?" she asked. "I don't know: nothing that I had meant to do. It was a false start and I am back under the wire again." "But you must not turn back unless you are fully convinced of the wrong of going on," she protested. "Didn't you mean to convince me?" "No--yes--I don't know. I--it seems very clear to me; but I want it to seem clear to you. Doesn't your conscience tell you that you ought to turn back?" "No," he said shortly; but he immediately qualified the denial. "You may be right: I am afraid you are right. But I shall have to fight it out for myself. There are many things to consider. If I hold my hand, these bucaneers will triumph over the stockholders, and a host of innocent people will suffer loss." Then, seeing the quick-springing tears in her eyes: "But you mustn't be sorry for having done what you had to do; you have nothing to reproach yourself for." "Oh, but I have!" she said; and so they parted. XXIII THE INSURRECTIONARIES When the Receiver Guilfords, great and small, set their official guillotines at work lopping off department heads, they commonly ignore a consequence overlooked by many; namely, the possible effect of such wholesale changes in leadership upon the rank and file. The American railroad in its unconsolidated stage is a modern feudalism. Its suzerains are the president and board of directors; its clan chiefs are the men who have built it and fought for its footing in the sharply contested field of competition. To these leaders the rank and file is loyal, as loyalty is accorded to the men who build and do, rather than to their successors who inherit and tear down. Add to this the supplanting of competent executive officers by a staff of political trenchermen, ignorant alike of the science of railroading, and the equally important sub-science of industrial manhandling, and you have the kindling for the fire of insurrection which had been slowly smoldering in the Trans-Western service since the day when Major Guilford had issued his general order Number One. At first the fire had burned fitfully, eating its way into the small economies; as when the section hands pelt stray dogs with new spikes from the stock keg, and careless freight crews seed down the right of way with cast-off links and pins; when engineers pour oil where it should be dropped, and firemen feed the stack instead of the steam-dome. But later, when the incompetence of the new officials became the mocking gibe of the service, and the cut-rate avalanche of traffic had doubled all men's tasks, the flames rose higher, and out of the smoke of them loomed the shape of the dread demon of demoralization. First it was Hank Brodrick, who misread his orders and piled two freights in a mountain of wreckage in the deep cut between Long Pine and Argenta. Next it was an overworked night man who lost his head and cranked a switch over in front of the west-bound Flyer, laying the 1020 on her side in the ditch, with the postal and the baggage-car neatly telescoped on top to hold her down. Two days later it was Patsy Callahan; and though he escaped with his life and his job, it was a close call. He was chasing a time freight with the fast mail, and the freight was taking the siding at Delhi to let him pass. One of the red tail-lights of the freight had gone out, and Callahan mistook the other for the target lamp of the second switch. He had time to yell at his fireman, to fling himself upon the throttle-bar and to set the airbrake before he began to turn Irish handsprings down the embankment; but the wrecking crew camped two whole days at Delhi gathering up the debris. It was well on in the summer, when the two divisions, east and west, were strewn with wreckage and the pit tracks in the shops and shop yard were filled to overflowing with crippled engines, that the insurrectionaries began to gather in their respective labor groups to discuss the growing hazards of railroading on the Trans-Western. The outcome was a protest from the Brotherhood of Locomotive Engineers, addressed to the receiver in the name of the organization, setting forth in plain terms the grievance of the members, and charging it bluntly to bad management. This was followed immediately by similar complaints from the trainmen, the telegraphers, and the firemen; all praying for relief from the incubus of incompetent leadership. Not to be behind these, came the Amalgamated Machinists, demanding an increase of pay for night work and overtime; and last, but not least, an intimation went forth from the Federative Council of all these labor unions hinting at possible political consequences and the alienation of the labor vote if the abuses were not corrected. "What d'ye calc'late the major will do about it?" said Brodrick, in the roundhouse conclave held daily by the trainmen who were hung up or off duty. "Will he listen to reason and give us a sure-enough railroad man or two at the top?" "Not in _ein_ t'ousand year," quoth "Dutch" Tischer, Callahan's alternate on the fast mail. "Haf you not de _Arkoos_ been reading? It is bolotics from der beginning to der ent; mit der governor _vorwärts_." "Then I am tellin' you-all right now there's goin' to be a heap o' trouble," drawled "Pike County" Griggs, the oldest engineer on the line. "The shopmen are b'ilin'; and if the major puts on that blanket cut in wages he's talkin' about----" "'If'," broke in Callahan, with fine scorn. "'Tis slaping on yer injuries ye are, Misther Griggs. The notice is out; 'twas posted in the shops this day." "Then that settles it," said Griggs, gloomily. "When does it take hold?" "The first day av the month to come. An' they're telling me it catches everybody, down to the missinger b'ys in the of'ces." Griggs got upon his feet, yawning and stretching before he dropped back into his corner of the wooden settle. "You lissen at me: if that's the fact, I'm tellin' you-all that every wheel on this blame', hoodooed railroad is goin' to stop turnin' at twelve o'clock on the night before that notice takes hold." An oil-begrimed wiper crawled from under the 1031, spat at the dope-bucket and flung his bunch of waste therein. "Gur-r-r! Let 'em stop," he rasped. "The dope's bad, and the waste's bad; and the old man has cut out the 'lectrics and put us back on _them_," kicking a small jacket lamp to the bottom of an empty stall. "Give 's a chaw o' yer smokin' plug, Mr. Callahan," and he held out his hand. Callahan emptied the hot ashes from his black pipe into the open palm. "'Tis what ye get f'r yer impidunce, an' f'r layin' tongue to ould man Durgan, ye scut. 'Tis none av his doin's--the dhirty oil an' the chape waste an' the jacket lamps. It's ay-conomy, me son; an' the other name f'r that is a rayceiver." "Is Durgan with us?" asked Brodrick. "He's wit' himself, as a master-mechanic shu'd be," said Callahan. "So's M'Tosh. But nayther wan n'r t'other av thim'll take a thrain out whin the strike's on. They're both Loring min." At the mention of Loring's name Griggs looked up from the stick he was whittling. "No prospects o' the Boston folks getting the road back again, I reckon," he remarked tentatively. "You should read dose _Arkoos_ newsbapers: den you should know somet'ings alretty, ain'd it?" said Tischer. Brodrick laughed. "If you see it in the papers, it's so," he quoted. "What the _Argus_ doesn't say would make a 'nough sight bigger book than what it does. But I've been kind o' watchin' that man Kent. He's been hot after the major, right from the jump. You rec'lect what he said in them Civic League talks o' his: said these politicians had stole the road, hide, hair an' horns." "I'm onto him," said Callahan. "'Tis a bird he is. Oleson was telling me. The Scandehoovian was thryin' to get him down to Gaston the day they ray-ceivered us. Jarl says he wint a mile a minut', an' the little man never turned a hair." "Is he here yet; or did he go back to God's country?" asked Engineer Scott, leaning from the cab window of the 1031. "He's here; and so is Mr. Loring. They're stopping at the Clarendon," said Brodrick. "Then they haven't quit," drawled Griggs; adding: "I wonder if they have a ghost of a show against the politicals?" "Has annybody been to see 'em?" asked Callahan. "There's a notion for you, Scott," said Brodrick. Scott was the presiding officer in the B. of L.E. local. "Get up a committee from the Federative to go and ask Mr. Loring if there's any use in our tryin' to hold on." The wiper was killing time at a window which commanded a view of the upper yards, with the Union Passenger Station at the end of the three-mile vista. Being a late comer in the field, the Trans-Western had scanty track rights in the upper yard; its local headquarters were in the shops suburb, where the two division main lines proper began and ended, diverging, the one to the eastward and the other to the west. "Holy smut!" said the wiper. "See Dicky Dixon comin' out with the Flyer! How's that for ten miles an hour in the city limits?" It was a foot-note commentary on the way the service was going to pieces. Halkett, the "political" general superintendent, had called Dixon on the carpet for not making time with his train. "If you're afraid to run, say so, and we'll get a man that isn't," Halkett had said; and here was Dixon coming down a borrowed track in a busy yard at the speed which presupposes a ninety-pound rail and nothing in the way. The conclave had gathered at the wiper's window. "The dum fool!" said Brodrick. "If anything gets in front of him----" There was a suburb street-crossing three hundred yards townward from the "yard limits" telegraph office, which stood in the angle formed by the diverging tracks of the two divisions. Beyond the yard the street became a country road, well traveled as the principal southern inlet to the city. When Dixon was within two train-lengths of the crossing, a farm wagon appeared, driven between the cut freight trains on the sidings directly in the path of the Flyer. The men at the roundhouse window heard the crash of the splintering wagon above the roar of the train; and the wiper on the window seat yelped like a kicked dog and went sickly green under his mask of grime. "There it is again," said Scott, when Dixon had brought his train to a stand two hundred yards beyond the "limits" office where he should have stopped for orders. "We're all hoodooed, the last one of us. I'll get that committee together this afternoon and go and buzz Mr. Loring." Now it fell out that these things happened on a day when the tide of retrieval was at its lowest ebb; the day, namely, in which Kent had told Loring that he was undecided as to his moral right to use the evidence against Bucks as a lever to pry the Trans-Western out of the grip of the junto. It befell, also, that it was the day chosen by two other men, not members of the labor unions, in which to call upon the ex-manager; and Loring found M'Tosh, the train-master, and Durgan, the master-mechanic, waiting for him in the hotel corridor when he came in from a late luncheon at the Camelot Club. "Can you give us a few minutes, Mr. Loring?" asked M'Tosh, when Loring had shaken hands with them, not as subordinates. "Surely. My time is not very valuable, just at present. Come in, and I'll see if Mr. Kent has left me any cigars." "Humph!" said Durgan, when the ex-manager had gone into Kent's room to rummage for the smoke offering. "And they give us the major in the place of such a man as that!" with a jerk of his thumb toward the door of the bedroom. "Come off!" warned M'Tosh; "he'll hear you." And when Loring came back with the cigars there was dry humor in his eye. "You mustn't let your loyalty to the old guard get you into trouble with the receiver," he cautioned; and they both smiled. "The trouble hasn't waited for our bringing," said M'Tosh. "That is why we are here. Durgan has soured on his job, and I'm more than sick of mine. It's hell, Mr. Loring. I have been at it twenty years, and I never saw such crazy railroading in any one of them." "Bad management, you mean?" "Bad management at the top, and rotten demoralization at the bottom as a natural consequence. We can't be sure of getting a train out of the yards without accident. Dixon is as careful a man as ever stepped on an engine, and he smashed a farmer's wagon and killed the farmer this morning within two train-lengths of the shop junction." "Drunk?" inquired the ex-manager. "Never a drop; Dixon's a Prohibitionist, dyed in the wool. But just before he took his train, Halkett had him in the sweat-box, jacking him up for not making his time. He came out red in the face, jumped on his engine, and yanked the Flyer down the yards forty miles an hour." "And what is your trouble, Durgan?" asked Loring. "Another side of the same thing. I wrote Major Guilford yesterday, telling him that six pit gangs, all the roundhouse 'emergencies' and two outdoor repair squads couldn't begin to keep the cripples moving; and within a week every one of the labor unions has kicked through its grievance committee. His reply is an order announcing a blanket cut in wages, to go into effect the first of the month. That means a strike and a general tie-up." Loring shook his head regretfully. "It hurts me," he admitted. "We had the best-handled piece of railroad in the West, and I give the credit to the men that did the handling. And to have it wrecked by a gang of incompetent salary-grabbers----" The two left-overs nodded. "That's just it, Mr. Loring," said M'Tosh. "And we're here to ask you if it's worth while for us to stick to the wreck any longer. Are you folks doing anything?" "We have been trying all legal means to break the grip of the combination--yes." "And what are the prospects?" It was the master-mechanic who wanted to know. "They are not very bright at present, I must confess. We have the entire political ring to fight, and the odds are overwhelming." "You say you've been trying legal means'," M'Tosh put in. "Can't we down them some other way? I believe you could safely count on the help of every man in the service, barring the politicals." Loring smiled. "I don't say we should scruple to use force if there were any way to apply it. But the way doesn't offer." "I didn't know," said the train-master, rising to close the interview. "But if the time ever comes, all you or Mr. Kent will have to do will be to pass the word. Maybe you can think of some way to use the strike. It hasn't been declared yet, but you can bet on it to a dead moral certainty." It was late in the afternoon of the same day that the Federative Council sent its committee, chairmaned by Engineer Scott, to interview the ex-general manager at his rooms in the Clarendon. Scott acted as spokesman, stating the case with admirable brevity and conciseness, and asking the same question as that propounded by the train-master, to wit, if there were any prospect of a return of the road to its former management. Loring spoke more hopefully to the committee than he had to Durgan and M'Tosh. There had been a little more time for reflection, and there was the heartening which comes upon the heels of unsolicited help-tenderings, however futile. So he told the men that the stockholders were moving heaven and earth in the effort to recover their property; that until the road should be actually sold under an order from the court, there was always room for hope. The committee might rest assured that no stone would be left unturned; also that the good will of the rank and file would not be forgotten in the day of restitution, if that day should ever dawn. When Loring was through, Engineer Scott did a thing no union man had ever done before: he asked an ex-general manager's advice touching the advisability of a strike. "I can't say as to that," was the prompt reply. "You know your own business best--what it will cost, and what it may accomplish. But I've been on the other side often enough to be able to tell you why most strikes fail, if you care to know." A broad grin ran the gamut of the committee. "Tell us what to do, and we'll do it; Mr. Loring," said Scott, briefly. "First, then, have a definite object and one that will stand the test of public opinion; in this case we'll say it is the maintenance of the present wage-scale and the removal of incompetent officers and men. Secondly, make your protest absolutely unanimous to a man. Thirdly, don't give the major time to fortify: keep your own counsels, and don't send in your ultimatum until the final moment. And, lastly, shun violence as you would a temptation of the devil." "Yon's a man," said Angus Duncan, the member from the Amalgamated Machinists, when the committee was filing out through the hotel corridor. "Now you're shouting!" said Engineer Scott. "And you might say a man and a brother." XXIV INTO THE PRIMITIVE Tested upon purely diplomatic principles, Miss Van Brock's temper was little less than angelic, exhibiting itself under provocation only in guarded pin-pricks of sarcasm, or in small sharp-clawed kitten-buffetings of repartee. But she was at no pains to conceal her scornful disappointment when David Kent made known his doubts concerning his moral right to use the weapon he had so skilfully forged. He delayed the inevitable confession to Portia until he had told Loring; and in making it he did not tell Miss Van Brock to whom he owed the sudden change in the point of view. But Portia would have greatly discredited her gift of insight if she had not instantly reduced the problem to its lowest terms. "You have been asking Miss Brentwood to lend you her conscience, and she has done it," was the form in which she stated the fact. And when Kent did not deny it: "You lack at least one quality of greatness, David; you sway too easily." "No, I don't!" he protested. "I am as obstinate as a mule. Ask Ormsby, or Loring. But the logic of the thing is blankly unanswerable. I can either get down to the dirty level of these highbinders--fight the devil with a brand taken out of his own fire; or----" "Or what?" she asked. "Or think up some other scheme; some plan which doesn't involve a surrender on my part of common decency and self-respect." "Yes?" she retorted. "I suppose you have the other plan all wrought out and ready to drop into place?" "No, I haven't," he admitted reluctantly. "But at least you have some notion of what it is going to be?" "No." She was pacing back and forth in front of his chair in a way that was almost man-like; but her contemptuous impatience made her dangerously beautiful. Suddenly she stopped and turned upon him, and there were sharp claws in the kitten-buffetings. "Do you know you are spoiling a future that most men would hesitate to throw away?" she asked. "While you have been a man of one idea in this railroad affair, we haven't been idle--your newspaper and political friends, and Ormsby and I. You are ambitious; you want to succeed; and we have been laying the foundations for you. The next election would give you anything in the gift of the State that a man of your years could aspire to. Have you known this?" "I have guessed it," he said quite humbly. "Of course you have. But it has all been contingent upon one thing: you were to crush the grafters in this railroad struggle--show them up--and climb to distinction yourself on the ladder from which you had shaken them. It might have been done; it was in a fair way to be done. And now you turn back and leave the plow in the furrow!" There was more of a like quality--a good bit more; some of it regretful; all of it pungent and logical from Miss Van Brock's point of view; and Kent was no rock not to be moved by the small tempest of disappointed vicarious ambition. Wherefore he escaped when he could, though only to begin the ethical battle all over again; to fight and to wander among the tombs in the valley of indecision for a week and a day, eight miserable twirlings of the earth in space, during which interval he was invisible to his friends and innocuous to his enemies. On the morning of the ninth day Editor Hildreth telephoned Miss Van Brock to ask if she knew where Kent could be found. The answer was a rather anxious negative; though the query could have been answered affirmatively by the conductor and motorman of an early morning electric car which ran to the farthest outskirts of the eastern suburb of the city. Following a boyish habit he had never fully outgrown, Kent had once more taken his problem to the open, and the hour after luncheon time found him plodding wearily back to the end of the car line, jaded, dusty and stiff from much tramping of the brown plain, but with the long duel finally fought out to some despairing conclusion. The City Hall clock was upon the stroke of three when the inbound trolley-car landed him in front of the Clarendon. It was a measure of his purposeful abstraction that he went on around the corner to the Security Bank, dusty and unpresentable as he was, and transferred the packet of incriminating affidavits from the safety deposit box to his pocket before going to his rooms in the hotel. This paper weapon was the centering point of the struggle which had now lasted for nearly a fortnight. So long as the weapon was his to use or to cast away, the outcome of the moral conflict hung in the balance. But now he was emerging from the night wanderings among the tombs of the undecided. "I can't give it up; there is too much at stake," he muttered, as he trudged heavily back to the hotel. And before he went above stairs he asked the young woman at the house telephone exchange to ascertain if Governor Bucks were in his office at the capitol, and if so, if he were likely to remain there for an hour. When he reached his rooms he flung the packet of papers on the writing-table and went to freshen himself with a bath. That which lay before him called for fitness, mental and physical, and cool sanity. In other times of stress, as just before a critical hour in court, the tub and the cold plunge had been his fillip where other men resorted to the bottle. He was struggling into clean linen, and the packet was still lying where he had tossed it on entering, when a bell-boy came up with a card. Kent read the name with a ghost of a smile relaxing the care-drawn lines about his mouth. There are times when a man's fate rushes to meet him, and he had fallen upon one of them. "Show him up," was the brief direction; and when the door of the elevator cage clacked again, Kent was waiting. His visitor was a man of heroic proportions; a large man a little breathed, as it seemed, by the swift upward rush of the elevator. Kent admitted him with a nod; and the governor planted himself heavily in a chair and begged a light for his cigar. In the match-passing he gathered his spent breath and declared his errand. "I think we have a little score to settle between us as man to man, Kent," he began, when Kent had clipped the end from his own cigar and lighted it in stolid silence. "Possibly: that is for you to say," was the unencouraging reply. Bucks rose deliberately, walked to the bath-room door, and looked beyond it into the bedroom. "We are quite alone, if that is what you want to make sure of," said Kent, in the same indifferent tone; and the governor came back and resumed his chair. "I came up to see what you want--what you will take to quit," he announced, crossing his legs and locking the huge ham-like hands over his knee. "That is putting it rather abruptly, but business is business, and we can dispense with the preliminaries, I take it." "I told your attorney-general some time ago what I wanted, and he did not see fit to grant it," Kent responded. "I am not sure that I want anything now--anything you can have to offer." This was not at all what he had intended to say; but the presence of the adversary was breeding a stubborn antagonism that was more potent on the moral side than all the prickings of conscience. The yellow-lidded eyes of the governor began to close down, and the look came into them which had been there when he had denied a pardon to a widow pleading for the life of her convicted son. "I had hoped you were in the market," he demurred. "It would be better for all concerned if you had something to sell, with a price attached. I know what you have been doing, and what you think you have got hold of. It's a tissue of mistakes and falsehoods and back-bitings from beginning to end, but it may serve your purpose with the newspapers. I want to buy that package of stuff you've got stowed away in the Security vaults." The governor's chair was on one side of the writing-table, and Kent's was on the other. In plain sight between the two men lay the packet Bucks was willing to bargain for. It was inclosed in a box envelope, bearing the imprint of the Security Bank. Kent was looking steadily away from the table when he said: "What if I say it isn't for sale?" "Don't you think it had better be?" "I don't know. I hadn't thought much about the advisable phase of it." "Well, the time has come when you've got it to do," was the low-toned threat. "But not as a matter of compulsion," said Kent, coolly enough. "What is your bid?" Bucks made it promptly. "Ten thousand dollars: and you promise to leave the State and stay away for one year from the first Tuesday in November next." "That is, until after the next State election." Kent blew a whiff of smoke to the ceiling and shook his head slowly. "It is not enough." The governor uncrossed his legs, crossed them the other way, and said: "I'll make it twenty thousand and two years." "Or thirty thousand and three years," Kent suggested amiably. "Or suppose we come at once to the end of that string and say one hundred thousand and ten years. That would still leave you a fair price for your block of suburban property in Guilford and Hawk's addition to the city of Gaston, wouldn't it?" The governor set his massive jaw with a sharp little click of the teeth. "You are joking on the edge of your grave, my young friend. I taught you in Gaston that you were not big enough to fight me: do you think you are big enough now?" "I don't think; I know," said Kent, incisively. "And since you have referred to the Gaston days: let me ask if I ever gave you any reason to believe that I could be scared out?" "Keep to the point," retorted Bucks, harshly. "This State isn't broad enough to hold you and me on opposite sides of the fence. I could make it too hot to hold you without mixing up in it myself, but I choose to fight my own battles. Will you take twenty thousand dollars spot cash, and MacFarlane's job as circuit judge when I'm through with him? Yes or no." "No." "Then what will you take?" "Without committing myself in any sense, I might say that you are getting off too cheaply on your most liberal proposition. You and your friends have looted a seventy-million-dollar railroad, and----" "You might have stood in on that if you had taken Guilford's offer," was the brusk rejoinder. "There was more than a corporation lawyer's salary in sight, if you'd had sense enough to see it." "Possibly. But I stayed out--and I am still out." "Do you want to get in? Is that your price?" "I intend to get in--though not, perhaps, in the way you have in mind. Are you ready to recall Judge MacFarlane with instructions to give us our hearing on the merits?" The governor's face was wooden when he said: "Is that all you want? I understand MacFarlane is returning, and you will doubtless have your hearing in due season." "Not unless you authorize it," Kent objected. "And if I do? If I say that I have already done so, will you come in and lay down your arms?" "No." "Then I'm through. Give me your key and write me an order on the Security Bank for those papers you are holding." "No," said Kent, again. "I say _yes_!" came the explosive reassertion; and Kent found himself looking down the bright barrel of a pistol thrust into his face across the table. For a man who had been oftenest an onlooker on the football half of life, Kent was measurably quick and resourceful. In one motion he clamped the weapon and turned it aside; in another he jammed the fire end of his cigar among the fingers of the grasping hand. The governor jerked free with an oath, pain-extorted; and Kent dropped the captured weapon into the table drawer. It was all done in two breaths, and when it was over, Kent flung away the broken cigar and lighted a fresh one. "That was a very primitive expedient, your Excellency, to say the best of it," he remarked. "Have you nothing better to offer?" The reply was a wild-beast growl, and taking it for a negative, Kent went on. "Then perhaps you will listen to my proposal. The papers you are so anxious about are here,"--tapping the envelope on the table. "No, don't try to snatch them; you wouldn't get out of here alive with them, lacking my leave. Such of them as relate to your complicity in the Universal Oil deal are yours--on one condition; that your health fails and you get yourself ordered out of the State for the remainder of your term." "No!" thundered the governor. "Very well; you may stay and take a course of home treatment, if you prefer. It's optional." "By God! I don't know what keeps me from throttling you with my hands!" Bucks got upon his feet, and Kent rose, also, slipping the box envelope into his pocket and laying a precautionary hand on the drawer-pull. The governor turned away and walked to the window, nursing his burned fingers. When he faced about it was to return to the charge. "Kent, what is it you want? Say it in two words." "Candidly, I didn't know, until a few minutes ago, Governor. It began with a determination to break your grip on my railroad, I believe." "You can have your railroad, if you can get it--and be damned to it, and to you, too!" "I said it began that way. My sole idea in gathering up this evidence against you and your accomplices was to whittle out a club that would make you let go of the Trans-Western. For two weeks I have been debating with myself as to whether I should buy you or break you; and half an hour before you came, I went to the bank and took these papers out, meaning to go and hunt you up." "Well?" said the governor, and the word bared his teeth because his lips were dry. "I thought I knew, in the old Gaston days, how many different kinds of a scoundrel you could be, but you've succeeded in showing me some new variations in the last few minutes. It's a thousand pities that the people of a great State should be at the mercy of such a gang of pirates as you and Hendricks and Meigs and MacFarlane, and----" "Break it off!" said Bucks. "I'm through. I was merely going to add' that I have concluded not to buy you." "Then it's to be war to the knife, is it?" "That is about the size of it," said Kent; and the governor found his hat. "I'll trouble you to return my property," he growled, pointing to the table drawer. "Certainly." Kent broke the revolver over the blotting pad, swept the ejected cartridges into the open drawer, and passed the empty weapon to its owner. When the door closed behind the outgoing visitor the victor in the small passage at arms began to walk the floor; but at four o'clock, which was Hildreth's hour for coming down-town, he put on his hat and went to climb the three flights of stairs to the editor's den in the _Argus_ building. XXV DEAD WATER AND QUICK The cubby-hole in which Hildreth earned his bread by the sweat of his brain was dark even at midday; and during working hours the editor sat under a funnel-shaped reflector in a conic shower-bath of electric light which flooded man and desk and left the corners of the room in a penumbra of grateful twilight. Kent sat just outside of the cone of radiance, watching Hildreth's face as the editor read stolidly through the contents of the box envelope. It was an instructive study in thought dynamics. There was a gleam of battle satisfaction in the editorial eye when Hildreth faced the last sheet down upon the accumulation of evidence, saying: "You didn't overstate the fact in your brag about the political graves. Only this isn't a spade; it's a steam shovel. Do I understand you are giving me this stuff to use as I please?" "Just that," said Kent. "And you have made it serve your turn, too?" "No." Kent's voice was sharp and crisp. "Isn't that what you got it for?" "Yes." "Then why don't you use it?" "That was what Bucks wanted to know a little while ago when he came to my rooms to try to buy me off. I don't think I succeeded in making him understand why I couldn't traffic with it; and possibly you wouldn't understand." "I guess I do. It's public property, and you couldn't divert it into private channels. Is that the way it struck you?" "It is the way it struck a friend of mine whose sense of ultimate right and wrong hasn't lost its fine edge in the world-mill. I did not want to do it." "Naturally," said the editor. "Giving it up means the loss of all you have been working for in the railroad game. I wish I could use it, just as it stands." "Can't you?" "I am afraid not--effectively. It would make an issue in a campaign; or, sprung on the eve of an election, it might down the ring conclusively. I think it would. But this is the off year, and the people won't rise to a political issue--couldn't make themselves felt if they should." "I don't agree with you. You have your case all made out, with the evidence in sound legal form. What is to prevent your trying it?" "The one thing that you ought to be lawyer enough to see at a glance. There is no court to try it in. With the Assembly in session we might do something: as it is, we can only yap at the heels of the ringsters, and our yapping won't help you in the railroad fight. What do you hear from Boston?" "Nothing new. The stock is still flat on the market, with the stock-holders' pool holding a bare majority, and the Plantagould brokers buying in driblets wherever they can find a small holder who is willing to let go. It is only a question of time; and a very short time at that." The editor wagged his head in sympathy. "I wish I could help you, David. You've done a big thing for me--for the _Argus_; and all I have to hand you in return is a death sentence. MacFarlane is back." "Here? In town?" "Yes. And that isn't the worst of it. The governor sent for him." "Have you any idea what is in the wind?" asked Kent, dry-lipped. "I am afraid I have. My young men have been nosing around in the Trans-Western affair, and several things have developed. Matters are approaching a crisis. The cut-rate boom is about to collapse, and there is trouble brewing in the labor organizations. If Bucks doesn't get his henchmen out of it pretty soon, they will be involved in the smash--which will be bad for them and for him, politically." "I developed most of that a good while ago," Kent cut in. "Yes; I know. But there is more to follow. The stock-smashing plan was all right, but it is proving too slow. Now they are going to do something else." "Can you give it a name?" asked Kent, nerving himself. "I can. But first tell me one thing: as matters stand, could Guilford dispose of the road--sell it or lease it?" "No; he would first have to be made permanent receiver and be given authority by the court." "Ah! that explains Judge MacFarlane's return. Now what I am going to tell you is the deadest of secrets. It came to me from one of the Overland officials, and I'm not supposed to gossip. Did you know the Overland Short Line had passed under Plantagould domination?" "I know they elected a Plantagould directory at the annual meeting." "Exactly. Well, Guilford is going to lease the Trans-Western to its competitor for a term of ninety-nine years. That's your death sentence." Kent sprang to his feet, and what he said is unrecordable. He was not a profane man, but the sanguine temperament would assert itself explosively in moments of sudden stress. "When is this thing to be done?" he demanded, when the temperamental gods were appeased a little. Hildreth shrugged. "I have told you all I could, and rather more than I had any right to. Open the door behind you, won't you? The air is positively sulphurous." Kent opened the door, entirely missing the point of the sarcasm in his heat. "But you must have some idea," he insisted. "I haven't; any more than the general one that they won't let the grass grow under their feet." "No. God blast the whole--I wish I could swear in Sanscrit. The mother-tongue doesn't begin to do justice to it. Now I know what Bucks meant when he told me to take my railroad, _if I could get it_. He had the whole thing coopered up in a barrel at that minute." "I take it you have no alternative to this," said the editor, tapping the pile of affidavits. "Not a cursed shred of an idea! And, Hildreth--" he broke off short because once again the subject suddenly grew too large for coherent speech. Hildreth disentangled himself from the legs of his chair and stood up to put his hands on Kent's shoulders. "You are up against it hard, David," he said; and he repeated: "I'd give all my old shoes to be able to help you out." "I know it," said Kent; and then he turned abruptly and went away. Between nine and ten o'clock the same evening Kent was walking the floor of his room, trying vainly to persuade himself that virtue was its own reward, and wondering if a small dose of chloral hydrate would be defensible under the cruel necessity for sleep. He had about decided in favor of the drug when a tap at the door announced the coming of a bell-boy with a note. It was a message from Portia. "If you have thrown away your chance definitely, and are willing to take a still more desperate one, come to see me," she wrote; and he went mechanically, as a drowning man catches at a straw, knowing it will not save him. The house in Alameda Square was dark when he went up the walk; and while he was feeling for the bell-push his summoner called to him out of the electric stencilings of leaf shadows under the broad veranda. "It is too fine a night to stay indoors," she said. "Come and sit in the hammock while I scold you as you deserve." And when he had taken the hammock: "Now give an account of yourself. Where have you been for the past age or two?" "Wallowing around in the lower depths of the place that Dante visited," he admitted. "Don't you think you deserve a manhandling?" "I suppose so; and if you have it in mind, I shall probably get it. But I may say I'm not especially anxious for a tongue-lashing to-night." "Poor boy!" she murmured, in mock sympathy. "Does it hurt to be truly good?" "Try it some time when you have a little leisure, and see for yourself," he retorted. She laughed. "No; I'll leave that for the Miss Brentwoods. By the way, did you go to tell the household good-by? Penelope was wondering audibly what had become of you." "I didn't know they were gone. I have been nowhere since the night you drove me out with contumely and opprobrium." She laughed again. "You must have dived deep. They went a week ago Tuesday, and you lost your ghostly adviser and your political stage manager at one fell swoop. But it isn't wonderful that you haven't missed Mr. Ormsby. Having elected Miss Brentwood your conscience-keeper-in-chief, you have no further use for the P.S.M." "And you have no further use for me, apparently," he complained. "Did you send for me so that you might abuse me in the second edition?" "No; I wanted to give you a bit of news, and to repeat an old question of mine. Do you know what they are going to do next with your railroad?" "Yes; Hildreth told me this afternoon." "Well, what are _you_ going to do?" "Nothing. There is nothing to be done. They have held to the form of legal procedure thus far, but they won't do it any more. They will take MacFarlane off in a corner somewhere, have him make Guilford permanent receiver, and the lease to the Overland will be consummated on the spot. I sha'n't be in it." "Probably not; certainly not if you don't try to get in it. And that brings me back to the old question. Are you big enough, David?" "If you think I haven't been big enough to live up to my opportunities thus far, I'm afraid I may disappoint you again," he said doubtfully. "You have disappointed me," she admitted. "That is why I am asking: I'd like to be reasonably sure your Jonathan Edwardsy notions are not going to trip us again." "Portia, if I thought you really meant that ... A conscienceless man is bad enough, God knows; but a conscienceless woman----" Her laugh was a decorous little shriek. "David, you are _not_ big; you are narrow, narrow, _narrow_! Is there then no other code of morals in the round world save that which the accident of birth has interleaved with your New England Bible? What is conscience? Is it an absolute standard of right and wrong? Or is it merely your ideal or mine, or Shafiz Ullah Khan's?" "You may call it all the hard names you can lay tongue to," he allowed. "I'm not getting much comfort out of it, and I rather enjoy hearing it abused. But you are thrusting at a shadow in the present instance. Do you know what I did this afternoon?" "How should I know?" "I don't know why you shouldn't: you know everything that happens. But I'll tell you. I had been fighting the thing over from start to finish and back again ever since you blessed me out a week ago last Monday, and at the wind-up this afternoon I took the papers out of the bank vault, having it in mind to go and give his Excellency a bad quarter of an hour." "But you didn't do it?" "No, he saved me the trouble. While I was getting ready to go and hunt him, his card came up. We had it out in my rooms." "I'm listening," she said; and he rehearsed the-facts for her, concealing nothing. "What a curious thing human nature is!" she commented, when he had made an end. "My better judgment says you were all kinds of a somebody for not clinching the nail when you had it so well driven home. And yet I can't help admiring your exalted fanaticism. I do love consistency, and the courage of it. But tell me, if you can, how far these fair-fighting scruples of yours go. You have made it perfectly plain that if a thief should steal your pocketbook, you would suffer loss before you'd compromise with him to get it back. But suppose you should catch him at it: would you feel compelled to call a policeman--or would you----" He anticipated her. "You are doing me an injustice on the other side, now. I'll fight as furiously as you like. All I ask is to be given a weapon that won't bloody my hands." "Good!" she said approvingly. "I think I have found the weapon, but it's desperate, desperate! And O David! you've got to have a cool head and a steady hand when you use it. If you haven't, it will kill everybody within the swing of it--everybody but the man you are trying to reach." "Draw it and let me feel its edge," he said shortly. Her chair was close beside the low-swung hammock. She bent to his ear and whispered a single sentence. For a minute or two he sat motionless, weighing and balancing the chance of success against the swiftly multiplying difficulties and hazards. "You call it desperate," he said at length; "if there is a bigger word in the language, you ought to find it and use it. The risk is that of a forlorn hope; not so much for me, perhaps, as for the innocent--or at least ignorant--accomplices I'll have to enlist." She nodded. "That is true. But how much is your railroad worth?" "It is bonded for fifty millions first, and twenty millions second mortgage." "Well, seventy millions are worth fighting for: worth a very considerable risk, I should say." "Yes." And after another thoughtful interval: "How did you come to think of it?" "It grew out of a bit of talk with the man who will have to put the apex on our pyramid after we have done our part." "Will he stand by us? If he doesn't, we shall all be no better than dead men the morning after the fact." She clasped her hands tightly over her knee, and said: "That is one of the chances we must take, David; one of the many. But it is the last of the bridges to be crossed, and there are lots of them in between. Are the details possible? That was the part I couldn't go into by myself." He took other minutes for reflection. "I can't tell," he said doubtfully. "If I could only know how much time we have." Her eyes grew luminous. "David, what would you do without me?" she asked. "To-morrow night, in Stephen Hawk's office in Gaston, you will lose your railroad. MacFarlane is there, or if he isn't, he'll be there in the morning. Bucks, Guilford and Hawk will go down from here to-morrow evening; and the Overland people are to come up from Midland City to meet them." There was awe undisguised in the look he gave her, and it had crept into his voice when he said: "Portia, are you really a flesh-and-blood woman?" She smiled. "Meaning that your ancestors would have burned me for a witch? Perhaps they would: I think quite likely they burned women who made better martyrs. But I didn't have to call in Flibbertigibbet. The programme is a carefully guarded secret, to be sure; but it is known--it had to be known--to a number of people outside of our friends the enemy. You've heard the story of the inventor and his secret, haven't you?" "No." "Well, the man had invented something, and he told the secret of it to his son. After a little the son wanted to tell it to a friend. The old man said, 'Hold on; I know it--that's one'--holding up one finger--'you know it--that's eleven'--holding up another finger beside the first; 'and now if you tell this other fellow, that'll be one hundred and eleven'--holding up three fingers. That is the case with this programme. One of the one hundred and eleven--he is a person high up in the management of the Overland Short Line--dropped a few words in my hearing and I picked them up. That's all." "It is fearfully short--the time, I mean," he said after another pause. "We can't count on any help from any one in authority. Guilford's broom has swept the high-salaried official corners clean. But the wage-people are mutinous and ripe for anything. I'll go and find out where we stand." And he groped on the floor of the veranda for his hat. "No, wait a minute," she interposed. "We are not quite ready to adjourn yet. There remains a little matter of compensation--your compensation--to be considered. You are still on the company's payrolls?" "In a way, yes; as its legal representative on the ground." "That won't do. If you carry this thing through successfully it must be on your own account, and not as the company's paid servant. You must resign and make terms with Boston beforehand; and that, too, without telling Boston what you propose to do." He haggled a little at that. "The company is entitled to my services," he asserted. "It is entitled to what it pays for--your legal services. But this is entirely different. You will be acting upon your own initiative, and you'll have to spend money like water at your own risk. You must be free to deal with Boston as an outsider." "But I have no money to spend," he objected. Again the brown eyes grew luminous; and again she said: "What would you do without me? Happily, my information came early enough to enable me to get a letter to Mr. Ormsby. He answered promptly by wire this morning. Here is his telegram." She had been winding a tightly folded slip of paper around her fingers, and she smoothed it out and gave it to him. He held it in a patch of the electric light between the dancing leaf shadows and read: "Plot Number Two approved. Have wired one hundred thousand to Kent's order Security Bank. Have him draw as he needs." "So now you see," she went on, "you have the sinews of war. But you must regard it as an advance and name your fee to the Boston folk so you can pay it back." He protested again, rather weakly. "It looks like extortion; like another graft," he said; and now she lost patience with him. "Of all the Puritan fanatics!" she cried. "If it were a simple commercial transaction by which you would save your clients a round seventy million dollars, which would otherwise be lost, would you scruple to take a proportionate fee?" "No; certainly not." "Well, then; you go and tell Mr. Loring to wire his Advisory Board, and to do it to-night." "But I'll have to name a figure," said Kent. "Of course," she replied. Kent thought about it for a long minute. Then he said: "I wonder if ten thousand dollars, and expenses, would paralyze them?" Miss Van Brock's comment was a little shriek of derision. "I knew you'd make difficulties when it came to the paying part of it, and since I didn't know, myself, I wired Mr. Ormsby again. Here is what he says," and she untwisted a second telegram and read it to him. "'Fee should not be less than five per cent. of bonded indebtedness; four-fifths in stock at par; one-fifth cash; no cure, no pay.'" "Three million five hundred thousand dollars!" gasped Kent. "It's only nominally that much," she laughed. "The stock part of it is merely your guaranty of good faith: it is worth next to nothing now, and it will be many a long day before it goes to par, even if you are successful in saving its life. So your magnificent fee shrinks to seven hundred thousand dollars, less your expenses." "But heavens and earth! that's awful!" said Kent. "Not when you consider it as a surgeon's risk. You happen to be the one man who has the idea, and if it isn't carried out, the patient is going to die to-morrow night, permanently. You are the specialist in this case, and specialists come high. Now you may go and attend to the preliminary details, if you like." He found his hat and stood up. She stood with him; but when he took her hand she made him sit down again. "You have at least three degrees of fever!" she exclaimed; "or is it only the three-million-five-hundred-thousand-dollar shock? What have you been doing to yourself?" "Nothing, I assure you. I haven't been sleeping very well for a few nights. But that is only natural." "And I said you must have a cool head! Will you do exactly as I tell you to?" "If you don't make it too hard." "Take the car down-town--don't walk--and after you have made Mr. Loring send his message to Boston, you go straight to Doctor Biddle. Tell him what is the matter with you, and that you need to sleep the clock around." "But the time!" he protested. "I shall need every hour between now and to-morrow night!" "One clear-headed hour is worth a dozen muddled ones. You do as I say." "I hate drugs," he said, rising again. "So do I; but there is a time for everything under the sun. It is a crying necessity that you go into this fight perfectly fit and with all your wits about you. If you don't, somebody--several somebodies--will land in the penitentiary. Will you mind me?" "Yes," he promised; and this time he got away. XXVI ON THE HIGH PLAINS Much to Elinor's relief, and quite as much, perhaps, to Penelope's, Mrs. Brentwood tired of Breezeland Inn in less than a fortnight and began to talk of returning to the apartment house in the capital. Pressed to give a reason for her dissatisfaction, the younger sister might have been at a loss to account for it in words; but Elinor's desire to cut the outing short was based upon pride and militant shame. After many trap-settings she had succeeded in making her mother confess that the stay at Breezeland was at Ormsby's expense; and not all of Mrs. Brentwood's petulant justifyings could remove the sting of the nettle of obligation. "There is no reason in the world why you should make so much of it: I am your mother, and I ought to know," was Mrs. Brentwood's dictum. "You wouldn't have any scruples if we were his guests on the _Amphitrite_ or in his country house on Long Island." "That would be different," Elinor contended. "We are not his guests here; we are his pensioners." "Nonsense!" frowned the mother. "Isn't it beginning to occur to you that beggars shouldn't be choosers? And, besides, so far as you are concerned, you are only anticipating a little." It was an exceedingly injudicious, not to say brutal way of putting it; and the blue-gray eyes flashed fire. "Can't you see that you are daily making a marriage between us more and more impossible?" was the bitter rejoinder. Elinor's _métier_ was cool composure under fire, but she was not always able to compass it. Mrs. Brentwood fanned herself vigorously. She had been aching to have it out with this self-willed young woman who was playing fast and loose with attainable millions, and the hour had struck. "What made you break it off with Brookes Ormsby?" she snapped; adding: "I don't wonder you were ashamed to tell me about it." "I did not break it off; and I was not ashamed." Elinor had regained her self-control, and the angry light in the far-seeing eyes was giving place to the cool gray blankness which she cultivated. "That is what Brookes told me, but I didn't believe him," said the mother. "It's all wrong, anyway, and I more than half believe David Kent is at the bottom of it." Elinor left her chair and went to the window, which looked down on the sanatorium, the ornate parterre, and the crescent driveway. These family bickerings were very trying to her, and the longing to escape them was sometimes strong enough to override cool reason and her innate sense of the fitness of things. In her moments of deepest depression she told herself that the prolonged struggle was making her hard and cynical; that she was growing more and more on the Grimkie side and shrinking on the Brentwood. With the unbending uprightness of the Grimkie forebears there went a prosaic and unmalleable strain destructive alike of sentiment and the artistic ideals. This strain was in her blood, and from childhood she had fought it, hopefully at times, and at other times, as now, despairingly. There were tears in her eyes when she turned to the window; and if they were merely tears of self-pity, they were better than none. Once, in the halcyon summer, David Kent had said that the most hardened criminal in the dock was less dangerous to humanity than the woman who had forgotten how to cry. But into the turmoil of thoughts half indignant, half self-compassionate, came reproach and a great wave of tenderness filial. She saw, as with a sudden gift of retrospection, her mother's long battle with inadequacy, and how it had aged her; saw, too, that the battle had been fought unselfishly, since she knew her mother's declaration that she could contentedly "go back to nothing" was no mere petulant boast. It was for her daughters that she had grown thin and haggard and irritable under the persistent reverses of fortune; it was for them that she was sinking the Grimkie independence in the match-making mother. The tears in Elinor's eyes were not altogether of self-pity when she put her back to the window. Ormsby was coming up the curved driveway in his automobile, and she had seen him but dimly through the rising mist of emotion. "Have you set your heart upon this thing, mother?--but I know you have. And I--I have tried as I could to be just and reasonable; to you and Penelope, and to Brookes Ormsby. He is nobleness itself: it is a shame to give him the shadow when he so richly deserves the substance." She spoke rapidly, almost incoherently; and the mother-love in the woman who was careful and troubled about the things that perish put the match-maker to the wall. It was almost terrifying to see Elinor, the strong-hearted, the self-contained, breaking down like other mothers' daughters. So it was the mother who held out her arms, and the daughter ran to go down on her knees at the chair-side, burying her face in the lap of comforting. "There, there, Ellie, child; don't cry. It's terrible to hear you sob like that," she protested, her own voice shaking in sympathy. "I have been thinking only of you and your future, and fearing weakly that you couldn't bear the hard things. But we'll bear them together--we three; and I'll never say another word about Brookes Ormsby and what might have been." "O mother! you are making it harder than ever, now," was the tearful rejoinder. "I--there is no reason why I should be so obstinate. I haven't even the one poor excuse you are making for me down deep in your heart." "David Kent?" said the mother. The bowed head nodded a wordless assent. "I sha'n't say that I haven't suspected him all along, dear. I am afraid I have. I have nothing against him. But he is a poor man, Elinor; and we are poor, too. You'd be miserably unhappy." "If he stays poor, it is I who am to blame,"--this most contritely. "He had a future before him: the open door was his winning in the railroad fight, and I closed it against him." "You?" said the mother, astonished. "Yes. I told him he couldn't go on in the way he meant to. I made it a matter of conscience; and he--he has turned back when he might have fought it out and made a name for himself, and saved us all. And it was such a hair-splitting thing! All the world would have applauded him if he had gone on; and there was only one woman in all the world to pry into the secret places of his soul and stir up the sleeping doubt!" Now, if all the thrifty, gear-getting "faculty" of the dead and gone Grimkies had become thin and diluted and inefficient in this Mrs. Hepzibah, last of the name, the strong wine and iron of the blood of uprightness had come down to her unstrained. "Tell me all about it, daughter," she adjured; and when the tale was told, she patted the bowed head tenderly and spoke the words of healing. "You did altogether right, Ellie, dear; I--I am proud of you, daughter. And if, as you say, you were the only one to do it, that doesn't matter; it was all the more necessary. Are you sure he gave it up?" Elinor rose and stood with clasped hands beside her mother's chair; a very pitiful and stricken half-sister of the self-reliant, dependable young woman who had boasted herself the head of the household. "I have no means of knowing what he has done," she said slowly. "But I know the man. He has turned back." There was a tap at the door and a servant was come to say that Mr. Brookes Ormsby was waiting with his auto-car. Was Miss Brentwood nearly ready? Elinor said, "In a minute," and when the door closed, she made a confidante of her mother for the first time since her childhood days. "I know what you have suspected ever since that summer in New Hampshire, and it is true," she confessed. "I do love him--as much as I dare to without knowing whether he cares for me. Must I--may I--say yes to Brookes Ormsby without telling him the whole truth?" "Oh, my dear! You couldn't do that!" was the quick reply. "You mean that I am not strong enough? But I am; and Mr. Ormsby is manly enough and generous enough to meet me half-way. Is there any other honest thing to do, mother?" Mrs. Hepzibah shook her head deliberately and determinedly, though she knew she was shaking the Ormsby millions into the abyss of the unattainable. "No; it is his just due. But I can't help being sorry for him, Ellie. What will you do if he says it doesn't make any difference?" The blue-gray eyes were downcast. "I don't know. Having asked so much, and accepted so much from him--it shall be as he says, mother." The afternoon had been all that a summer afternoon on the brown highlands can be, and the powerful touring car had swept them from mile to mile over the dun hills like an earth-skimming dragon whose wing-beat was the muffled, explosive thud of the motor. Through most of the miles Elinor had given herself up to silent enjoyment of the rapture of swift motion, and Ormsby had respected her mood, as he always did. But when they were on the high hills beyond the mining-camp of Megilp, and he had thrown the engines out of gear to brake the car gently down the long inclines, there was room for speech. "This is our last spin together on the high plains, I suppose," he said. "Your mother has fixed upon to-morrow for our return to town, hasn't she?" Elinor confirmed it half-absently. She had been keyed up to face the inevitable in this drive with Ormsby, and she was afraid now that he was going to break her resolution by a dip into the commonplaces. "Are you glad or sorry?" he asked. Her reply was evasive. "I have enjoyed the thin, clean air and the freedom of the wide horizons. Who could help it?" "But you have not been entirely happy?" It was on her lips to say some conventional thing about the constant jarring note in all human happiness, but she changed it to a simple "No." "May I try if I can give the reason?" She made a reluctant little gesture of assent; some such signal of acquiescence as Marie Antoinette may have given the waiting headsman. "You have been afraid every day lest I should begin a second time to press you for an answer, haven't you?" She could not thrust and parry with him. They were past all that. "Yes," she admitted briefly. "You break my heart, Elinor," he said, after a long pause. "But"--with a sudden tightening of the lips--"I'm not going to break yours." She understood him, and her eyes filled quickly with the swift shock of gratitude. "If you had made a study of womankind through ten lifetimes instead of a part of one, you could not know when and how to strike truer and deeper," she said; and then, softly: "Why can't you make me love you, Brookes?" He took his foot from the brake-pedal, and for ten seconds the released car shot down the slope unhindered. Then he checked the speed and answered her. "A little while ago I should have said I didn't know; but now I do know. It is because you love David Kent: you loved him before I had my chance." She did not deny the principal fact, but she gave him his opportunity to set it aside if he could--and would. "Call it foolish, romantic sentiment, if you like. Is there no way to shame me out of it?" He shook his head slowly. "You don't mean that." "But if I say that I do; if I insist that I am willing to be shamed out of it." His smile was that of a brother who remembers tardily to be loving-kind. "I shall leave that task for some one who cares less for you and for your true happiness than I do, or ever shall. And it will be a mighty thankless service that that 'some one' will render you." "But I ought to be whipped and sent to bed," she protested, almost tearfully. "Do you know what I have done?--how I have----" She could not quite put it in words, even for him, and he helped her generously, as before. "I know what Kent hasn't done; which is more to the point. But he will do it fast enough if you will give him half a chance." "No," she said definitively. "I say yes. One thing, and one thing only, has kept him from telling you any time since last autumn: that is a sort of finical loyalty to me. I saw how matters stood when he came aboard of our train at Gaston--I'm asking you to believe that I didn't know it beforeand I saw then that my only hope was to make a handfast friend of him. And I did it." "I believe you can do anything you try to do," she said warmly. This time his smile was a mere grimace. "You will have to make one exception, after this; and so shall I. And since it is the first of any consequence in all my mounting years, it grinds. I can't throw another man out of the window and take his place." "If you were anything but what you are, you would have thrown him out of the window another way," she rejoined. "That would have been a dago's trick; not a white man's," he asserted. "I suppose I might have got in his way and played the dog in the manger generally, and you would have stuck to your word and married me, but I am not looking for that kind of a winning. I don't mind confessing that I played my last card when I released you from your engagement. I said to myself: If that doesn't break down the barriers, nothing will." She looked up quickly. "You will never know how near it came to doing it, Brookes." "But it didn't quite?" "No, it didn't quite." The brother-smile came again. "Let's paste that leaf down and turn the other; the one that has David Kent's name written, at the top. He is going to succeed all around, Elinor; and I am going to help him--for his sake, as well as yours." "No," she dissented. "He is going to fail; and I am to blame for it." He looked at her sidewise. "So you were at the bottom of that, were you? I thought as much, and tried to make him admit it, but he wouldn't. What was your reason?" "I gave it to him: I can't give it to you." "I guess not," he laughed. "I wasn't born on the right side of the Berkshire Hills to appreciate it. But really, you mustn't interfere. As I say, we are going to make something of David; and a little conscience--of the right old Pilgrim Fathers' brand--goes a long way in politics." "But you promised me you were not going to spoil him--only it doesn't matter; you can't." Ormsby chuckled openly, and when she questioned "What?" he said: "I was just wondering what you would say if you knew what he is into now; if you could guess, for instance, that his backers have put up a cool hundred thousand to be used as he sees fit?" "Oh!" she exclaimed; and there was dismay and sharp disappointment in her voice. "You don't mean that he is going to bribe these men?" "No," he said, relenting. "As a matter of fact, I don't know precisely what he is doing with the money, but I guess it is finding its way into legitimate channels. I'll make him give me an itemized expense account for your benefit when it's all over, if you like." "It would be kinder to tell me more about it now," she pleaded. "No; I'll let him have that pleasure, after the fact--if we can get him pardoned out before you go back East." She was silent so long that he stole another sidewise look between his snubbings of the brake-pedal. Her face was white and still, like the face of one suddenly frost-smitten, and he was instantly self-reproachful. "Don't look that way," he begged. "It hurts me; makes me feel how heavy my hand is when I'm doing my best to make it light. He is trying a rather desperate experiment, to be sure, but he is in no immediate personal danger. I believe it or I shouldn't be here; I should be with him." She asked no more questions, being unwilling to tempt him to break confidence with Kent. But she was thinking of all the desperate things a determined man with temperamental unbalancings might do when the touring car rolled noiselessly down the final hill into the single street of Megilp. There was but one vehicle in the street at the moment; a freighter's ore-wagon drawn by a team of mules, meekest and most shambling-prosaic of their tribe. The motor-car was running on the spent velocity of the descent, and Ormsby thought to edge past without stopping. But at the critical instant the mules gave way to terror, snatched the heavy wagon into the opposite plank walk, and tried to climb a near-by telephone pole. Ormsby put his foot on the brake and something snapped under the car. "What was that?" Elinor asked; and Ormsby got down to investigate. "It is our brake connection," he announced, after a brief inspection. "And we are five good miles from Hudgins and his repair kit." A ring of town idlers was beginning to form about them. An automobile was still enough of a rarity in the mining-camp to draw a crowd. "Busted?" inquired one of the onlookers. Ormsby nodded, and asked if there were a machinist in the camp. "Yep," said the spokesman; "up at the Blue Jay mine." "Somebody go after him," suggested Ormsby, flipping a coin; and a boy started on a run. The waiting was a little awkward. The ringing idlers were good-natured but curious. Ormsby stood by and answered questions multiform, diverting curiosity from the lady to the machine. Presently the spokesman said: "Is this here the steam-buggy that helped a crowd of you fellers to get away from Jud Byers and his posse one day a spell back?" "No," said Ormsby. Then he remembered the evening of small surprises--the racing tally-ho with the Inn auto-car to help; and, more pointedly now, the singular mirage effect in the lengthening perspective as the east-bound train shot away from Agua Caliente. "What was the trouble that day?" he asked, putting in a question on his side. "A little ruction up at the Twin Sisters. There was a furss, an' a gun went off, accidintally on purpose killin' Jim Harkins," was the reply. The machinist was come from the Blue Jay, and Ormsby helped Elinor out of her seat while the repairs were making. The town office of the Blue Jay was just across the street, and he took her there and begged house-room and a chair for her, making an excuse that he must go and see to the brake-mending. But once outside he promptly stultified himself, letting the repairs take care of themselves while he went in search of one Jud Byers. The deputy sheriff was not hard to find. Normally and in private life he was the weigher for the Blue Jay; and Ormsby was directed to the scale shanty which served as the weigher's office. The interview was brief and conclusive; was little more than a rapid fire of question and answer; and for the greater part the sheriff's affirmatives were heartily eager. Yes, certainly; if the thing could be brought to pass, he, Byers, would surely do his part. All he asked was an hour or two in which to prepare. "You shall have all the time there is," was the reply. "Have you a Western Union wire here?" "No; nothing but the railroad office." "That won't do; they'd stop the message. How about the Inn?" "Breezeland has a Western Union all right; wire your notice there, and I'll fix to have it 'phoned over. I don't believe it can be worked, though," added the deputy, doubtfully. "We can't tell till we try," said Ormsby; and he hurried back to his car to egg on the machinist with golden promises contingent upon haste. Miss Brentwood found her companion singularly silent on the five-mile race to Breezeland; but the lightning speed at which he drove the car put conversation out of the question. At the hotel he saw her into the lift with decent deliberation; but the moment she was off his hands he fairly ran to the telegrapher's alcove in the main hall. "Have you a Western Union wire to the capital direct?" he inquired. The young man snapped his key and said he had. "It has no connection with the Trans-Western railroad offices?" "None whatever." Ormsby dashed off a brief message to Kent, giving three or four addresses at which he might be found. "Send that, and have them try the Union Station train platform first. Don't let them spare expense at the other end, and if you can bring proof of delivery to Room 261 within half an hour, it means a month's pay to you, individually. Can you do it?" But the operator was already claiming the wire, writing "deth," "deth," "deth," as rapidly as his fingers could shake off the dots and dashes. XXVII BY ORDER OF THE COURT Between the hours of eight-thirty and ten P.M. the Union Passenger Station at the capital presents a moving and spirited spectacle. Within the hour and a half, four through and three local trains are due to leave, and the space within the iron grille that fences off the track platforms from the public part of the station is filled with hurrying throngs of train-takers. Down at the outer end of the train-shed the stuttering pop-valves of the locomotives, the thunderous trundling of the heavy baggage trucks, and the shrill, monotonous chant of the express messengers checking in their cargoes, lift a din harmonious to the seasoned traveler; a medley softened and distance-diminished for those that crowd upon the gate-keepers at the iron grille. It was the evening of the last day in the month; the day when the Federative Council of Railway Workers had sent its ultimatum to Receiver Guilford. The reduction in wages was to go into effect at midnight: if, by midnight, the order had not been rescinded, and the way opened for a joint conference touching the removal of certain obnoxious officials, a general strike and tie-up would be ordered. Trains in transit carrying passengers or United States mail would be run to their respective destinations; trains carrying perishable freight would be run to division stations: with these exceptions all labor would cease promptly on the stroke of twelve. Such was the text of the ultimatum, a certified copy of which Engineer Scott had delivered in person into the hands of the receiver at noon. It was now eight forty-five P.M. The east-bound night express was ready for the run to A. & T. Junction; the fast mail, one hour and thirty-five minutes late from the east, was backing in on track nine to take on the city mail. On track eight, pulled down so that the smoke from the engine should not foul the air of the train-shed, the receiver's private car, with the 1010 for motive power and "Red" Callahan in the cab, had been waiting since seven o'clock for the order to run special to Gaston. And as yet the headquarters office had made no sign; sent no word of reply to the strike notice. Griggs was on for the night run eastward with the express; and "Dutch" Tischer had found himself slated to take the fast mail west. The change of engines on the mail had been effected at the shops; and when Tischer backed his train in on track nine his berth was beside the 1010. Callahan swung down from his cab and climbed quickly to that of the mail engine. "Annything new at the shops, Dutchy?" he inquired. "I was not somet'ings gehearing, _nein_. You was dot _Arkoos_ newsbaper dis evening _schen_? He says nodings too, alretty, about dot strike." "Divil a worrd. Ye might think Scotty'd handed the major a bit av blank paper f'r all the notice he's taking. More thin that, he's lavin' town, wid me to pull him. The Naught-seven's to run special to Gaston--bad cess to ut!" "Vell, I can'd hellup id," said the phlegmatic Bavarian. "I haf the mail and egspress got, and I go mit dem t'rough to Pighorn. You haf der brivate car got, and you go mit dem t'rough to Gaston. Den ve qvits, ain'd it?" Callahan nodded and dropped to the platform. But before he could mount to the foot-board of the 1010, M'Tosh collared him. "Patsy, I have your orders, at last. Your passengers will be down in a few minutes, and you are to pull out ahead of the express." "Is it to Gaston I'm goin', Misther M'Tosh?" The fireman was standing by with the oil can and torch, ready to Callahan's hand, and the train-master drew the engineer aside. "Shovel needn't hear," he said in explanation. And then: "Are you willing to stand with us, Patsy? You've had time enough to think it over." Callahan stood with his arms folded and his cap drawn down over his eyes. "'Tis not f'r meself I'm thinkin', Misther M'Tosh, as ye well know. But I'm a widdy man; an' there's the bit colleen in the convint." "She'll be well cared for, whatever happens to you," was the quick reply. "Thin I'm yer man," said Callahan; and when the train-master was gone, he ordered Shovel to oil around while he did two or three things which, to an initiated onlooker, might have seemed fairly inexplicable. First he disconnected the air-hose between the car and the engine, tying the ends up with a stout cord so that the connection would not seem to be broken. Next he crawled under the Naught-seven and deliberately bled the air-tank, setting the cock open a mere hair's-breadth so that it would leak slowly but surely until the pressure was entirely gone. Then he got a hammer and sledge out of the engine tool-box, and after hooking up the safety-chain couplings between the private car and the 1010, he crippled the points of the hooks with the hammer so that they could not be disengaged without the use of force and the proper tools. "There ye are, ye ould divil's band-wagon," he said, apostrophizing the private car when his work was done. "Ye'll ride this night where Patsy Callahan dhrives, an' be dommed to ye." Meanwhile the train-master had reached the iron grille at the other end of the long track platform. At a small wicket used by the station employees and trainmen, Kent was waiting for him. "Is it all right, M'Tosh? Will he do it?" he asked anxiously. "Yes, Patsy's game for it; I knew he would be. He'd put his neck in a rope to spite the major. But it's a crazy thing, Mr. Kent." "I know it; but if it will give me twenty-four hours--" "It won't. They can't get home on our line because we'll be tied up. But they can get the Naught-seven put on the Overland's Limited at A. & T. Junction, and that will put them back here before you've had time to turn around twice. Have they come down yet?" "No," said Kent; and just then he saw Loring coming in from the street entrance and went to meet him. "I have the final word from Boston," said the ex-manager, when he had walked Kent out of earshot of the train-takers. "Your terms are accepted--with all sorts of safeguards thrown about the 'no cure, no pay' proviso; also with a distinct repudiation of you and your scheme if there is anything unlawful afoot. Do you still think it best to keep me in the dark as to what you are doing?" "Yes; there are enough of us involved, as it stands. You couldn't help; and you might hinder. Besides, if the mine should happen to explode in our direction it'll be a comfort to have a foot-loose friend or two on the outside to pick up the pieces of us." Loring was polishing his eye-glasses with uncommon vigor. "I wish you'd drop it, David, if it isn't too late. I can't help feeling as if I had prodded you into it, whatever it is." Kent linked arms with him and led him back to the street entrance. "Go away, Grantham, and don't come back again," he commanded. "Then you can swear truthfully that you didn't know anything about it. It is too late to interfere, and you are not responsible for me. Go up to see Portia; she'll keep you interested while you wait." When Loring was gone, Kent went back to the wicket in the grille; but M'Tosh, who was always a busy man at train-time, had disappeared again. It was a standing mystery to the train-master, and to the rank and file, why Receiver Guilford had elected to ignore the fact that he was within three hours of a strike which promised to include at least four-fifths of his operatives; had taken no steps for defense, and had not confided, as it appeared, in the members of his own official staff. But Kent was at no loss to account for the official silence. If the secret could be kept for a few hours longer, the junto would unload the Trans-Western, strike, tie-up and general demoralization, upon an unsuspecting Overland management. None the less, there were other things unexplainable even to Kent; for one, this night flitting to Gaston to put the finishing touch on an edifice of fraud which had been builded shamelessly in the light of day. Kent had not the key to unlock this door of mystery; but here the master spirit of the junto was doing, not what he would, but what he could. The negotiations for the lease had consumed much time at a crisis when time was precious. Judge MacFarlane had to be recalled and once more bullied into subjection; and Falkland, acting for the Plantagould interest, had insisted upon some formal compliance with the letter of the law. Bucks had striven masterfully to drive and not be driven; but the delays were inexorable, and the impending strike threatened to turn the orderly charge into a rout. The governor had postponed the _coup_ from day to day, waiting upon the leisurely movements of Falkland; and at the end of the ends there remained but three hours of the final day of grace when the telegram came from Falkland with the welcome news that the Overland officials were on their way from Midland City to keep the appointment in Gaston. Of all this Kent knew nothing, and was anxious in just proportion as the minutes elapsed and the time for the departure of the east-bound express drew near. For the success of the desperate venture turned upon this: that the receiver's special must leave ahead of the passenger train. With the express blocking the way the difficulties became insurmountable. Kent was still standing at the trainmen's wicket when Callahan sent the private car gently up to the trackhead of track eight. M'Tosh had been telephoning again, and the receiver and his party were on the way to the station. "I was afraid you'd have to let the express go first," said Kent, when the train-master came his way again. "How much time have we?" "Five minutes more; and they are on the way down--there they come." Kent looked and saw a group of six men making for the nearest exit in the grille. Then he smote his fist into his palm. "Damn!" he muttered; "they've got the vice-president of the Overland with them! That's bad." "It's bad for Mr. Callafield," growled M'Tosh. "We're in too deep now to back down on his account." Kent moved nearer and stood in the shadow of the gate-keeper's box, leaving M'Tosh, who was on the track platform, free to show himself. From his new point of espial Kent checked off the members of the party. When Major Guilford left it to come back for a word with M'Tosh, there were five others: the governor, his private secretary, Hawk, Halkett, the general superintendent, and the Overland's vice-president. "All ready, M'Tosh?" said the receiver. "Ready and waiting, Major," was the bland reply. "Who is our engineer?" "Patrick Callahan." "That wild Irishman? The governor says he'd as soon ride behind the devil." "Callahan will get you there," said the train-master, with deliberate emphasis. Then he asked a question of his own. "Is Mr. Callafield going with you?" "No. He came down to see us off. How is the fast mail to-night?" "She's just in--an hour and thirty-five minutes late." The major swore pathetically. He was of the generation of railway officials, happily fast passing, which cursed and swore itself into authority. "That's another five hundred dollars' forfeit to the Post-office Department! Who's taking it west?" "Tischer." "Give him orders to cut out all the stops. If he is more than fifty-five minutes late at Bighorn, he can come in and get his time." Tischer had just got the word to go, and was pulling out on the yard main line. "I'll catch him with the wire at yard limits," said M'Tosh. Then: "Would you mind hurrying your people a little, Major? The express is due to leave." Guilford was a heavy man for his weight, and he waddled back to the others, waving his arms as a signal for them to board the car. Kent saw the vice-president of the Overland Short Line shake hands with Bucks and take his leave, and was so intent upon watching the tableau of departure that he failed to notice the small boy in Western Union blue who was trying to thrust a telegram, damp from the copying rolls, into his hand. "It's a rush, sir," said the boy, panting from his quick dash across the track platforms. It was Ormsby's message from Breezeland; and while Kent was trying to grasp the tremendous import of it, M'Tosh was giving Callahan the signal to go. Kent sprang past the gate-keeper and gave the square of damp paper to the train-master. "My God! read that!" he gasped, with a dry sob of excitement. "It was our chance--one chance in a million--and we've lost it!" M'Tosh was a man for a crisis. The red tail-lights of the private-car special were yet within a sprinter's dash of the trackhead, but the train-master lost no time chasing a ten-wheel flyer with "Red" Callahan at the throttle. "Up to my office!" he shouted; and ten seconds later Kent was leaning breathless over the desk in the despatcher's room while M'Tosh called Durgan over the yard limits telephone. "Is that you, Durgan?" he asked, when the reply came. Then: "Drop the board on the mail, quick! and send somebody to tell Tischer to side-track, leaving the main line Western Division clear. Got that?" The answer was evidently prompt and satisfactory, since he began again almost in the same breath. "Now go out yourself and flag Callahan before he reaches the limits. Tell him the time-card's changed and he is to run _west_ with the special to Megilp as first section of the mail--no stops, or Tischer will run him down. Leg it! He's half-way down the yard, now!" The train-master dropped the ear-piece of the telephone and crossed quickly to the despatcher's table. "Orders for the Western Division, Donohue," he said curtly, "and don't let the grass grow. 'Receiver's car, Callahan, engineer, runs to Megilp as first section of fast mail. Fast mail, Hunt, conductor; Tischer, engineer; runs to the end of the division without stop, making up all time possible.' Add to that last, 'By order of the receiver.'" The orders were sent as swiftly as the despatcher could rattle them off on his key; and then followed an interval of waiting more terrible than a battle. Kent tried to speak, but his lips were parched and his tongue was like a dry stick between his teeth. What was doing in the lower yard? Would Durgan fail at the pinch and mismanage it so as to give the alarm? The minutes dragged leaden-winged, and even the sounders on the despatcher's table were silent. Suddenly the clicking began again. The operator at "yard limits" was sending the O.K. to the two train orders. So far, so good. Now if Callahan could get safely out on the Western Division... But there was a hitch in the lower yard. Durgan had obeyed his orders promptly and precisely, and had succeeded in stopping Callahan at the street-crossing where Engineer Dixon had killed the farmer. Durgan climbed to the cab of the 1010, and the changed plan was explained in a dozen words. But now came the crux. "If I stand here till you'd be bringin' me my orders, I'll have the whole kit av thim buzzin' round to know fwhat's the matther," said Callahan; but there was no other thing to do, and Durgan hurried back to the telegraph office to play the messenger. He was too long about it. Before he got back, Halkett was under the cab window of the 1010, demanding to know--with many objurgations--why Callahan had stopped in the middle of the yards. "Get a move on you!" he shouted. "The express is right behind us, and it'll run us down, you damned bog-trotter!" Callahan's gauntleted hand shot up to the throttle-bar. "I'm l'avin', Misther Halkett," he said mildly. "Will yez go back to the car, or ride wit' me?" The general superintendent took no chance of catching the Naught-seven's hand-rails in the darkness, and he whipped up into the cab at the first sharp cough of the exhaust. "I'll go back when you stop for your orders," he said; but a shadowy figure had leaped upon the engine-step a scant half-second behind him, and Callahan was stuffing the crumpled copy of the order into the sweat-band of his cap. The next instant the big 1010 leaped forward like a blooded horse under an unmerited cut of the whip, slid past the yard limits telegraph office and shot out upon the main line of the Western Division. "Sit down, Misther Halkett, an' make yerself aisy!" yelled Callahan across the cab. "'Tis small use Jimmy Shovel'll have for his box this night." "Shut off, you Irish madman!" was the shouted command. "Don't you see you're on the wrong division?" Callahan gave the throttle-bar another outward hitch, tipped his seat and took a hammer from the tool-box. "I know where I'm goin', an' that's more thin you know, ye blandhanderin' divil! Up on that box wit' you, an' kape out av Jimmy Shovel's road, or I'll be the death av yez! Climb, now!" It was at this moment that the tense strain of suspense was broken in the despatcher's room on the second floor of the Union Station. The telephone skirled joyously, and the train-master snatched up the ear-piece. "What does he say?" asked Kent. "It's all right. He says Callahan is out on the Western Division, with Tischer chasing him according to programme. Halkett's in the cab of the 1010 with Patsy, and--hold on--By George! he says one of them jumped the car as it was passing the limits station!" "Which one was it?" asked Kent; and he had to wait till the reply came from Durgan. "It was Hawk, the right-of-way man. He broke and ran for the nearest electric-car line the minute he hit the ground, Durgan says. Does he count?" "No," said Kent; but it is always a mistake to under-rate an enemy's caliber--even that of his small arms. XXVIII THE NIGHT OF ALARMS If Editor Hildreth had said nothing in his evening edition about the impending strike on the Trans-Western, it was not because public interest was waning. For a fortnight the newspapers in the territory tributary to the road had been full of strike talk, and Hildreth had said his say, deprecating the threatened appeal to force as fearlessly as he condemned the mismanagement which was provoking it. But it was Kent who was responsible for the dearth of news on the eve of the event. Early in the morning of the last day of the month he had sought out the editor and begged him to close the columns of the _Evening Argus_ to strike news, no matter what should come in during the course of the day. "I can't go into the reasons as deeply now as I hope to a little later," he had said, his secretive habit holding good to the final fathom of the slipping hawser of events. "But you must bear with me once more, and whatever you hear between now and the time you go to press, don't comment on it. I have one more chance to win out, and it hangs in a balance that a feather's weight might tip the wrong way. I'll be with you between ten and twelve to-night, and you can safely save two columns of the morning paper for the sensation I'm going to give you." It was in fulfilment of this promise that Kent bestirred himself after he had sent a wire to Ormsby, and M'Tosh had settled down to the task of smoothing Callahan's way westward over a division already twitching in the preliminary rigor of the strike convulsion. "I am going to set the fuse for the newspaper explosion," he said to his ally. "Barring accidents, there is no reason why we shouldn't begin to figure definitely upon the result, is there?" M'Tosh was leaning over Despatcher Donohue's shoulder. He had slipped Donohue's fingers aside from the key to cut in with a peremptory "G.S." order suspending, in favor of the fast mail, the rule which requires a station operator to drop his board on a following section that is less than ten minutes behind its file-leader. "The fun is beginning," said the train-master. "Tischer has his tip from Durgan to keep Callahan's tail-lights in sight. With the mail treading on their heels the gentlemen in the Naught-seven will be chary about pulling Patsy down too suddenly in mid career. They have just passed Morning Dew, and the operator reports Tischer for disregarding his slow signal." "Can't you fix that?" asked Kent. "Oh, yes; that is one of the things I can fix. But there are going to be plenty of others." "Still we must take something for granted, Mr. M'Tosh. What I have to do up-town won't wait until Callahan has finished his run. I thought the main difficulty was safely overcome." "Umph!" said the train-master; "the troubles are barely getting themselves born. You must remember that we swapped horses at the last minute. We were ready for the race to the east. Everybody on the Prairie Division had been notified that a special was to go through to-night without stop from Lesterville to A. & T. Junction." "Well?" "Now we have it all to straighten out by wire on another division; meeting points to make, slow trains to side-track, fool operators to hold down; all on the dizzy edge of a strike that is making every man on the line lose his balance. But you go ahead with your newspaper business. I'll do what a man can here. And if you come across that right-of-way agent, I wish you'd make it a case of assault and battery and get him locked up. I'm leery about him." Kent went his way dubiously reflective. In the moment of triumph, when Durgan had announced the success of the bold change in the programme, he had made light of Hawk's escape. But now he saw possibilities. True, the junto was leaderless for the moment, and Bucks had no very able lieutenants. But Hawk would give the alarm; and there was the rank and file of the machine to reckon with. And for weapons, the ring controlled the police power of the State and of the city. Let the word be passed that the employees of the Trans-Western were kidnapping their receiver and the governor, and many things might happen before "Red" Callahan should finish his long race to the westward. Thinking of these things, David Kent walked up-town when he might have taken a car. When the toxin of panic is in the air there is no antidote like vigorous action. Passing the Western Union central office, he stopped to send Ormsby a second telegram, reporting progress and asking him to be present in person at the dénouement to put the facts on the wire at the earliest possible instant of time. "Everything depends upon this," he added, when he had made the message otherwise emphatic. "If we miss the morning papers, we are done." While he was pocketing his change at the receiving clerk's pigeon-hole, a cab rattled up with a horse at a gallop, and Stephen Hawk sprang out. Kent saw him through the plate-glass front and turned quickly to the public writing-desk, hoping to be overlooked. He was. For once in a way the ex-district attorney was too nearly rattled to be fully alert to his surroundings. There were others at the standing desk; and Hawk wrote his message, after two or three false starts, almost at Kent's elbow. Kent heard the chink of coin and the low-spoken urgings for haste at the receiving clerk's window; but he forbore to move until the cab had rattled away. Then he gathered up the spoiled blanks left behind by Hawk and smoothed them out. Two of them bore nothing but the date line, made illegible, it would seem, by the writer's haste and nervousness. But at the third attempt Hawk had got as far as the address: "To All Trans-Western agents on Western Division." Kent stepped quickly to the receiver's window. The only expedient he could think of was open to reproach, but it was no time to be over-scrupulous. "Pardon me," he began, "but didn't the gentleman who was just here forget to sign his message?" The little hook caught its minnow. The receiving clerk was folding Hawk's message to place it in the leather carrier of the pneumatic tube, but he opened and examined it. "No," he said; "it's signed all right: 'J.B. Halkett, G.S.'" "Ah!" said Kent. "That's a little odd. Mr. Halkett is out of town, and this gentleman, Mr. Hawk, is not in his department. I believe I should investigate a little before sending that, if I were you." Having thus sown the small seed of suspicion, which, by the by, fell on barren soil, Kent lost no time in calling up M'Tosh over the nearest telephone. "Do our agents on the Western Division handle Western Union business?" he asked. The reply came promptly. "Yes; locally. The W-U. has an independent line to Breezeland Inn and points beyond." "Well, our right-of-way man has just sent a telegram to all agents, signing Halkett's name. I don't know what he said in it, but you can figure that out for yourself." "You bet I can!" was the emphatic rejoinder. And then: "Where are you now?" "I'm at the Clarendon public 'phone, but I am going over to the _Argus_ office. I'll let you know when I leave there. Good-by." When Kent reached the night editor's den on the third floor of the _Argus_ building he found Hildreth immersed chin-deep in a sea of work. But he quickly extricated himself and cleared a chair for his visitor. "Praise be!" he ejaculated. "I was beginning to get anxious. Large things are happening, and you didn't turn up. I've had Manville wiring all over town for you." "What are some of the large things?" asked Kent, lighting his first cigar since dinner. "Well, for one: do you know that your people are on the verge of the much-talked-of strike?" "Yes; I knew it this morning. That was what I wanted you to suppress in the evening edition." "I suppressed it all right; I didn't know it--day and date, I mean. They kept it beautifully quiet. But that isn't all. Something is happening at the capitol. I was over at the club a little while ago, and Hendricks was there. Somebody sent in a note, and he positively ran to get out. When I came back, I sent Rogers over to Cassatti's to see if he could find you. There was a junto dinner confab on; Meigs, Senator Crowley, three or four of the ring aldermen and half a dozen wa-ward politicians. Rogers has a nose for news, and when he had 'phoned me you weren't there, he hung around on the edges." "Good men you have, Hildreth. What did the unimpeachable Rogers see?" "He saw on a large scale just what I had seen on a small one: somebody pup-passed a note in, and when it had gone the round of the dinner-table those fellows tumbled over each other trying to get away." "Is that all?" Kent inquired. "No. Apart from his nose, Rogers is gifted with horse sense. When the dinner crowd boarded an up-town car, our man paid fare to the same conductor. He wired me from the Hotel Brunswick a few minutes ago. There is some sort of a caucus going on in Hendricks' office in the capitol, and mum-messengers are flying in all directions." "And you wanted me to come and tell you all the whys and wherefores?" Kent suggested. "I told the chief I'd bet a bub-blind horse to a broken-down mule you could do it if anybody could." "All right; listen: something worse than an hour ago the governor, his private secretary, Guilford, Hawk and Halkett started out on a special train to go to Gaston." "What for?" interrupted the editor. "To meet Judge MacFarlane, Mr. Semple Falkland, and the Overland officials. You can guess what was to be done?" "Sure. Your railroad was to be sold out, lock, stock and barrel; or leased to the Overland for ninety-nine years--which amounts to the same thing." "Precisely. Well, by some unaccountable mishap the receiver's special was switched over to the Western Division at yard limits, and the engineer seems to think he has orders to proceed westward. At all events, that is what he is doing. And the funny part of it is that he can't stop to find out his blunder. The fast mail is right behind him, with the receiver's order to smash anything that gets in its way; so you see--" "That will do," said the night editor. "We don't print fairy stories in the _Argus_." "None the less, you are going to print this one to-morrow morning, just as I'm telling it to you," Kent asserted confidently. "And when you get the epilogue you will say that it makes my little preface wearisome by contrast." The light was slowly dawning in the editorial mind. "My heaven!" he exclaimed. "Kent, you're good for twenty years, at the very lul-least!" "Am I? It occurs to me that the prosecuting attorney in the case will have a hard time proving anything. Doesn't it look that way to you? At the worst, it is only an unhappy misunderstanding of orders. And if the end should happen to justify the means----" Hildreth shook his head gravely. "You don't understand, David. If you could be sure of a fair-minded judge and an unbiased jury--you and those who are implicated with you: but you'll get neither in this machine-ridden State." "We are going to have both, after you have filled your two columns--by the way, you are still saving those two columns for me, aren't you?--in to-morrow morning's _Argus_. Or rather, I'm hoping there will be no need for either judge or jury." The night editor shook his head again, and once more he said, "My heaven!" adding: "What could you possibly hope to accomplish? You'll get the receiver and his big boss out of the State for a few minutes, or possibly for a few hours, if your strike makes them hunt up another railroad to return on. But what will it amount to? Getting rid of the receiver doesn't annul the decree of the court." Kent fell back on his secretive habit yet once again. "I don't care to anticipate the climax, Hildreth. By one o'clock one of two things will have happened: you'll get a wire that will make your back hair sit up, or I'll get one that will make me wish I'd never been born. Let it rest at that for the present; you have work enough on hand to fill up the interval, and if you haven't, you can distribute those affidavits I gave you among the compositors and get them into type. I want to see them in the paper to-morrow morning, along with the other news." "Oh, we can't do that, David! The time isn't ripe. You know what I told you about----" "If the time doesn't ripen to-night, Hildreth, it never will. Do as I tell you, and get that stuff into type. Do more; write the hottest editorial you can think of, demanding to know if it isn't time for the people to rise and clean out this stable once for all." "By Jove! David, I've half a mum-mind to do it. If you'd only unbutton yourself a little, and let me see what my backing is going to be----" "All in good season," laughed Kent. "Your business for the present moment is to write; I'm going down to the Union Station." "What for?" demanded the editor. "To see if our crazy engineer is still mistaking his orders properly." "Hold on a minute. How did the enemy get wind of your plot so quickly? You can tell me that, can't you?" "Oh, yes; I told you Hawk was one of the party in the private car. He fell off at the yard limits station and came back to town." The night editor stood up and confronted his visitor. "David, you are either the coolest plunger that ever drew breath--or the bub-biggest fool. I wouldn't be standing in your shoes to-night for two such railroads as the T-W." Kent laughed again and opened the door. "I suppose not. But you know there is no accounting for the difference in tastes. I feel as if I had never really lived before this night; the only thing that troubles me is the fear that somebody or something will get in the way of my demented engineer." He went out into the hall, but as Hildreth was closing the door he turned back. "There is one other thing that I meant to say: when you get your two columns of sensation, you've got to be decent and share with the Associated Press." "I'm dud-dashed if I do!" said Hildreth, fiercely. "Oh, yes, you will; just the bare facts, you know. You'll have all the exciting details for an 'exclusive,' to say nothing of the batch of affidavits in the oil scandal. And it is of the last importance to me that the facts shall be known to-morrow morning wherever the Associated has a wire." "Go away!" said the editor, "and dud-don't come back here till you can uncork yourself like a man and a Cuc-Christian! Go off, I say!" It wanted but a few minutes of eleven when Kent mounted the stair to the despatcher's room in the Union Station. He found M'Tosh sitting at Donohue's elbow, and the sounders on the glass-topped table were crackling like overladen wires in an electric storm. "Strike talk," said the train-master. "Every man on both divisions wants to know what's doing. Got your newspaper string tied up all right?" Kent made a sign of assent. "We are waiting for Mr. Patrick Callahan. Any news from him?" "Plenty of it. Patsy would have a story to tell, all right, if he could stop to put it on the wires. Durgan ought to have caught that blamed right-of-way man and chloroformed him." "I found him messing, as I 'phoned you. Anything come of it?" "Nothing fatal, I guess, since Patsy is still humping along. But Hawk's next biff was more to the purpose. He came down here with Halkett's chief clerk, whom he had hauled out of bed, and two policemen. The plan was to fire Donohue and me, and put Bicknell in charge. It might have worked if Bicknell'd had the sand. But he weakened at the last minute; admitted that he wasn't big enough to handle the despatcher's trick. The way Hawk cursed him out was a caution to sinners." "When was this?" Kent asked. "Just a few minutes ago. Hawk went off ripping; swore he would find somebody who wasn't afraid to take the wires. And, between us three, I'm scared stiff for fear he will." "Can it be done?" "Dead easy, if he knows how to go about it--and Bicknell will tell him. The Overland people don't love us any too well, and if they did, the lease deal would make them side with Guilford and the governor. If Hawk asks them to lend him a train despatcher for a few minutes, they'll do it." "But the union?" Kent objected. "They have three or four non-union men." "Still, Hawk has no right to discharge you." "Bicknell has. He is Halkett's representative, and----" The door opened suddenly and Hawk danced in, followed by a man bareheaded and in his shirt-sleeves, the superintendent's chief clerk, and the two officers. "Now, then, we'll trouble you and your man to get out of here, Mr. M'Tosh," said the captain of the junto forces, vindictively. But the train-master was of those who die hard. He protested vigorously, addressing himself to Bicknell and ignoring the ex-district attorney as if he were not. He, McTosh, was willing to surrender the office on an official order in writing over the chief clerk's signature. But did Bicknell fully understand what it might mean in loss of life and property to put a new man on the wires at a moment's notice? Bicknell would have weakened again, but Hawk was not to be frustrated a second time. "Don't you see he is only sparring to gain time?" he snapped at Bicknell. Then to M'Tosh: "Get out of here, and do it quick! And you can go, too," wheeling suddenly upon Kent. Donohue had taken no part in the conflict of authority. But now he threw down his pen and clicked his key to cut in with the "G.S.," which claims the wire instantly. Then distinctly, and a word at a time so that the slowest operator on the line could get it, he spelled out the message: "All Agents: Stop and hold all trains except first and second fast mail, west-bound. M'Tosh fired, and office in hands of police----" "Stop him!" cried the shirt-sleeved man. "He's giving it away on the wire!" But Donohue had signed his name and was putting on his coat. "You're welcome to what you can find," he said, scowling at the interloper. "If you kill anybody now, it'll be your own fault." "Arrest that man!" said Hawk to his policemen; but Kent interposed. "If you do, the force will be two men shy to-morrow. The Civic League isn't dead yet." And he took down the numbers of the two officers. There were no arrests made, and when the ousted three were clear of the room and the building, Kent asked an anxious question. "How near can they come to smashing us, M'Tosh?" "That depends on Callahan's nerve. The night operators at Donerail, Schofield and Agua Caliente are all Guilford appointees, and when the new man explains the situation to them, they'll do what they are told to do. But I'm thinking Patsy won't pull up for anything milder than a spiked switch." "Well, they might throw a switch on him. I wonder somebody hasn't done it before this." The train-master shook his head. "If Tischer is keeping close up behind, that would jeopardize more lives than Callahan's. But there is another thing that doesn't depend on nerve--Patsy's or anybody's." "What is that?" "Water. The run is one hundred and eighty miles. The 1010's tank is good for one hundred with a train, or a possible hundred and sixty, light. There is about one chance in a thousand that Callahan's crown-sheet won't get red-hot and crumple up on him in the last twenty miles. Let's take a car and go down to yard limits. We can sit in the office and hear what goes over the wires, even if we can't get a finger in to help Patsy out of his troubles." They boarded a Twentieth Avenue car accordingly, but when they reached the end of the line, which was just across the tracks from the junction in the lower yards, they found the yard limits office and the shops surrounded by a cordon of militia. "By George!" said M'Tosh. "They got quick action, didn't they? I suppose it's on the ground of the strike and possible violence." Kent spun on his heel, heading for the electric car they had just left. "Back to town," he said; "unless you two want to jump the midnight Overland as it goes out and get away while you can. If Callahan fails----" XXIX THE RELENTLESS WHEELS But Engineer Callahan had no notion of failing. When he had drawn the hammer on his superior officer, advising discretion and a seat on Jimmy Shovel's box, the 1010 was racking out over the switches in the Western Division yards. Three minutes later the electric beam of Tischer's following headlight sought and found the first section on the long tangent leading up to the high plains, and the race was in full swing. At Morning Dew, the first night telegraph station out of the capital, the two sections were no more than a scant quarter of a mile apart; and the operator tried to flag the second section down, as reported. This did not happen again until several stations had been passed, and Callahan set his jaw and gave the 1010 more throttle. But at Lossing, a town of some size, the board was down and a man ran out at the crossing, swinging a red light. Callahan looked well to the switches, with the steam shut off and his hand dropping instinctively to the air; and the superintendent shrank into his corner and gripped the window ledge when the special roared past the warning signals and on through the town beyond. He had maintained a dazed silence since the episode of the flourished hammer, but now he was moved to yell across the cab. "I suppose you know what you're in for, if you live to get out of this! It's twenty years, in this State, to pass a danger signal!" This is not all that the superintendent said: there were forewords and interjections, emphatic but unprintable. Callahan's reply was another flourish of the hammer, and a sudden outpulling of the throttle-bar; and the superintendent subsided again. But enforced silence and the grindstone of conscious helplessness will sharpen the dullest wit. The swerving lurch of the 1010 around the next curve set Halkett clutching for hand-holds, and the injector lever fell within his grasp. What he did not know about the working parts of a modern locomotive was very considerable; but he did know that an injector, half opened, will waste water as fast as an inch pipe will discharge it. And without water the Irishman would have to stop. Callahan heard the chuckling of the wasting boiler feed before he had gone a mile beyond the curve. It was a discovery to excuse bad language, but his protest was lamb-like. "No more av that, if ye plaze, Misther Halkett, or me an' Jimmy Shovel'll have to--Ah! would yez, now?" Before his promotion to the superintendency Halkett had been a ward boss in the metropolis of the State. Thinking he saw his chance, he took it, and the blow knocked Callahan silly for the moment. Afterward there was a small free-for-all buffeting match in the narrow cab in which the fireman took a hand, and during which the racing 1010 was suffered to find her way alone. When it was over, Callahan spat out a broken tooth and gave his orders concisely. "Up wid him over the coal, an' we'll put him back in the car where he belongs. Now, thin!" Halkett had to go, and he went, not altogether unwillingly. And when it came to jumping across from the rear of the tender to the forward vestibule of the Naught-seven, or being chucked across, he jumped. Now it so chanced that the governor and his first lieutenant in the great railway steal had weighty matters to discuss, and they had not missed the superintendent or the lawyer, supposing them to be still out on the rear platform enjoying the scenery. Wherefore Halkett's sudden appearance, mauled, begrimed and breathless from his late tussle with the two enginemen, was the first intimation of wrong-going that had penetrated to the inner sanctum of the private car. "What's that you say, Mr. Halkett?--on the Western Division? Whereabouts?" demanded the governor. "Between Lossing and Skipjack siding--if we haven't passed the siding in the last two or three minutes. I've been too busy to notice," was the reply. "And you say you were on the engine? Why the devil didn't you call your man down?" "I knocked him down," gritted the superintendent, savagely, "and I'd have beat his face in for him if there hadn't been two of them. It's a plot of some kind, and Callahan knows what he is about. He had me held up with a hammer till just a few minutes ago, and he's running past stop-signals and over red lights like a madman!" Bucks and Guilford exchanged convictions by the road of the eye, and the governor said: "This is pretty serious, Major. Have you anything to suggest?" And without waiting for a reply he turned upon Halkett: "Where is Mr. Hawk?" "I don't know. I supposed he was in here with you. Or maybe he's out on the rear platform." The three of them went to the rear, passing the private secretary comfortably asleep in his wicker chair. When they stepped out upon the recessed observation platform they found it empty. "He must have suspected something and dropped off in the yard or at the shops," said Halkett. And at the saying of it he shrank back involuntarily and added: "Ah! Look at that, will you?" The car had just thundered past another station, and Callahan had underrun one more stop-signal at full speed. At the same instant Tischer's headlight swung into view, half blinding them with its glare. "What is that following us?" asked Bucks. "It's the fast mail," said Halkett. Guilford turned livid and caught at the hand-rail. "S-s-say--are you sure of that?" he gasped. "Of course: it was an hour and thirty-five minutes late, and we are on its time." "Then we can't stop unless somebody throws us on a siding!" quavered the receiver, who had a small spirit in a large body. "I told M'Tosh to give the mail orders to make up her lost time or I'd fire the engineer--told him to cut out all the stops this side of Agua Caliente!" "That's what you get for your infernal meddling!" snapped Halkett. In catastrophic moments many barriers go down; deference to superior officers among the earliest. But the master spirit of the junto was still cool and collected. "This is no time to quarrel," he said. "The thing to be done is to stop this train without getting ourselves ripped open by that fellow behind the headlight yonder. The stop-signals prove that Hawk and the others are doing their best, but we must do ours. What do you say, Halkett?" "There is only one thing," replied the superintendent; "we've got to make the Irishman run ahead fast enough and far enough to give us room to stop or take a siding." The governor planned it in a few curt sentences. Was there a weapon to be had? Danforth, the private secretary, roused from his nap in the wicker chair, was able to produce a serviceable revolver. Two minutes later, the sleep still tingling in his nerves to augment another tingling less pleasurable, the secretary had spanned the terrible gap separating the car from the engine and was making his way over the coal, fluttering his handkerchief in token of his peaceful intentions. He was charged with a message to Callahan, mandatory in its first form, and bribe-promising in its second; and he was covered from the forward vestibule of the private car by the revolver in the hands of a resolute and determined state executive. "One of them's comin' ahead over the coal," warned James Shovel; and Callahan found his hammer. "Run ahead an' take a siding, is ut?" he shouted, glaring down on the messenger. "I have me ordhers fr'm betther men than thim that sint you. Go back an' tell thim so." "You'll be paid if you do, and you'll be shot if you don't," yelled the secretary, persuasively. "Tell the boss he can't shoot two av us to wanst; an' the wan that's left'll slap on the air," was Callahan's answer; and he slacked off a little to bring the following train within easy striking distance. Danforth went painfully and carefully back with this defiance, and while he was bridging the nerve-trying gap, another station with the stop-board down and red lights frantically swinging was passed with a roar and a whistle shriek. "Fwhat are they doing now?" called Callahan to his fireman. "They've gone inside again," was the reply. "Go back an' thry the tank," was the command; and Jimmy Shovel climbed over the coal and let himself down feet foremost into the manhole. When he slid back to the footplate his legs were wet to the mid shin. "It's only up to there," he reported, measuring with his hand. Callahan looked at his watch. There was yet a full hour's run ahead of him, and there was no more than a scant foot of water in the tank with which to make it. Thereafter he forgot the Naught-seven, and whatever menace it held for him, and was concerned chiefly with the thing mechanical. Would the water last him through? He had once made one hundred and seventy miles on a special run with the 1010 without refilling his tank; but that was with the light engine alone. Now he had the private car behind him, and it seemed at times to pull with all the drag of a heavy train. But one expedient remained, and that carried with it the risk of his life. An engine, not overburdened, uses less water proportionately to miles run as the speed is increased. He could outpace the safe-guarding mail, save water--and take the chance of being shot in the back from the forward vestibule of the Naught-seven when he had gained lead enough to make a main-line stop safe for the men behind him. Callahan thought once of the child mothered by the Sisters of Loretto in the convent at the capital, shut his eyes to that and to all things extraneous, and sent the 1010 about her business. At the first reversed curve he hung out of his window for a backward look. Tischer's headlight had disappeared and his protection was gone. On the rear platform of the private car four men watched the threatening second section fade into the night. "Our man has thought better of it," said the governor, marking the increased speed and the disappearance of the menacing headlight. Guilford's sigh of relief was almost a groan. "My God!" he said; "it makes me cold to think what might happen if he should pull us over into the other State!" But Halkett was still smarting from the indignities put upon him, and his comment was a vindictive threat. "I'll send that damned Irishman over the road for this, if it is the last thing I ever do!" he declared; and he confirmed it with an oath. But Callahan was getting his punishment as he went along. He had scarcely settled the 1010 into her gait for the final run against the failing water supply when another station came in sight. It was a small cattle town, and in addition to the swinging red lights and a huge bonfire to illuminate the yards, the obstructionists had torn down the loading corral and were piling the lumber on the track. Once again Callahan's nerve flickered, and he shut off the steam. But before it was too late he reflected that the barrier was meant only to scare him into stopping. One minute later the air was full of flying splinters, and that danger was passed. But one of the broken planks came through the cab window, missing the engineer by no more than a hand's-breadth. And the shower of splinters, sucked in by the whirl of the train, broke glass in the private car and sprinkled the quartet on the platform with split kindling and wreckage. "What was that?" gasped the receiver. Halkett pointed to the bonfire, receding like a fading star in the rearward distance. "Our friends are beginning to throw stones, since clods won't stop him." he said. Bucks shook his head. "If that is the case, we'll have to be doing something on our own account. The next obstruction may derail us." Halkett stepped into the car and pulled the cord of the automatic air. "No good," he muttered. "The Irishman bled our tank before he started. Help me set the hand brakes, a couple of you." Danforth and the governor took hold of the brake wheel with him, and for a minute or two the terrible speed slackened a little. Then some part of the disused hand-gear gave way under the three-man strain and that hope was gone. "There's one thing left," said the superintendent, indomitable to the last. "We'll uncouple and let him drop us behind." The space in the forward vestibule was narrow and cramped, and with the strain of the dragging car to make the pin stick, it took two of them lying flat, waiting for the back-surging moment and wiggling it for slack, to pull it. The coupling dropped out of the hook and the engine shot ahead to the length of the safety-chains; thus far, but no farther. Halkett stood up. "It's up to you, Danforth," he said, raising his voice to be heard above the pounding roar of the wheels. "You're the youngest and lightest: get down on the 1010's brake-beam and unhook those chains." The secretary looked once into the trap with the dodging jaws and the backward-flying bottom and declined the honor. "I can't get down there," he cried. "And I shouldn't know what to do if I could." Once more the superintendent exhibited his nerve. He had nothing at stake save a desire to defeat Callahan; but he had the persistent courage of the bull-terrier. With Bucks and the secretary to steady him he lowered himself in the gap till he could stand upon the brake-beam of the 1010's tender and grope with one free hand for the hook of the nearest safety-chain. Death nipped at him every time the engine gave or took up the slack of the loose coupling, but he dodged and hung on until he had satisfied himself. "It's no good," he announced, when they had dragged him by main strength back to a footing in the narrow vestibule. "The hooks are bent into the links. We're due to go wherever that damned Irishman is taking us." Shovel was firing, and the trailing smoke and cinders quickly made the forward vestibule untenable. When they were driven in, Bucks and the receiver went through to the rear platform, where they were presently joined by Halkett and Danforth. "I've been trying the air again," said the superintendent, "but it's no go. What's next?" The governor gave the word. "Wait," he said; and the four of them clung to the hand-rails, swaying and bending to the bounding lurches of the flying car. * * * * * Mile after mile reels from beneath the relentless wheels, and still the speed increases. Station Donerail is passed, and now the pace is so furious that the watchers on the railed platform can not make out the signals in the volleying wake of dust. Station Schofield is passed, and again the signals, if any there be, are swiftly drowned in the gray dust-smother. From Schofield to Agua Caliente is but a scant ten miles; and as the flying train rushes on toward the State boundary, two faces in the quartet of watchers show tense and drawn under the yellow light of the Pintsch platform lamp. The governor swings himself unsteadily to the right-hand railing and the long look ahead brings the twinkling arc-star of the tower light on Breezeland Inn into view. He turns to Guilford, who has fallen limp into one of the platform chairs. "In five minutes more we shall pass Agua Caliente," he says. "Will you kill the Irishman, or shall I?" Guilford's lips move, but there is no audible reply; and Bucks takes Danforth's weapon and passes quickly and alone to the forward vestibule. The station of Agua Caliente swings into the field of 1010's electric headlight. Callahan's tank has been bone dry for twenty minutes, and he is watching the glass water-gage where the water shows now only when the engine lurches heavily to the left. He knows that the crown-sheet of the fire-box is bare, and that any moment it may give down and the end will come. Yet his gauntleted hand never falls from the throttle-bar to the air-cock, and his eyes never leave the bubble appearing and disappearing at longer intervals in the heel of the water-glass. Shovel has stopped firing, and is hanging out of his window for the straining look ahead. Suddenly he drops to the footplate to grip Callahan's arm. "See!" he says. "They have set the switch to throw us in on the siding!" In one motion the flutter of the exhaust ceases, and the huge ten-wheeler buckles to the sudden setting of the brakes. The man standing in the forward vestibule of the Naught-seven lowers his weapon. Apparently it is not going to be necessary to kill the engineer, after all. But Callahan's nerve has failed him only for the moment. There is one chance in ten thousand that the circumambulating side track is empty; one and one only, and no way to make sure of it. Beyond the station, as Callahan well knows, the siding comes again into the main line, and the switch is a straight-rail "safety." Once again the thought of his motherless child flickers into the engineer's brain; then he releases the air and throws his weight backward upon the throttle-bar. Two gasps and a heart-beat decide it; and before the man in the vestibule can level his weapon and fire, the one-car train has shot around the station, heaving and lurching over the uneven rails of the siding, and grinding shrilly over the points of the safety switch to race on the down grade to Megilp. At the mining-camp the station is in darkness save for the goggle eyes of an automobile drawn up beside the platform, and deep silence reigns but for the muffled, irregular thud of the auto-car's motor. But the beam of the 1010's headlight shows the small station building massed by men, a score of them poising for a spring to the platforms of the private car when the slackening speed shall permit. A bullet tears into the woodwork at Callahan's elbow, and another breaks the glass of the window beside him, but he makes the stop as steadily as if death were not snapping at him from behind and roaring in his ears from the belly of the burned engine. "Be doomping yer fire lively, now, Jimmy, b'y," he says, dropping from his box to help. And while they wrestle with the dumping-bar, these two, the poising figures have swarmed upon the Naught-seven, and a voice is lifted above the Babel of others in sharp protest. "Put away that rope, boys! There's law here, and by God, we're going to maintain it!" At this a man pushes his way out of the thick of the crowd and climbs to a seat beside the chauffeur in the waiting automobile. "They've got him," he says shortly. "To the hotel for all you're worth, Hudgins; our part is to get this on the wires before one o'clock. Full speed; and never mind the ruts." XXX SUBHI SADIK The dawn of a new day was graying over the capital city, and the newsboys were crying lustily in the streets, when David Kent felt his way up the dark staircases of the Kittleton Building to knock at the door of Judge Oliver Marston's rooms on the top floor. He was the bearer of tidings, and he made no more than a formal excuse for the unseemly hour when the door was opened by the lieutenant-governor. "I am sorry to disturb you, Judge Marston," he began, when he had the closed door at his back and was facing the tall thin figure in flannel dressing gown and slippers, "but I imagine I'm only a few minutes ahead of the crowd. Have you heard the news of the night?" The judge pressed the button of the drop-light and waved his visitor to a chair. "I have heard nothing, Mr. Kent. Have a cigar?"--passing the box of unutterable stogies. "Thank you; not before breakfast," was the hasty reply. Then, without another word of preface: "Judge Marston, for the time being you are the governor of the State, and I have come to----" "One moment," interrupted his listener. "There are some stories that read better for a foreword, however brief. What has happened?" "This: last night it was the purpose of Governor Bucks and Receiver Guilford to go to Gaston by special train. In some manner, which has not yet been fully explained, there was a confusion of orders. Instead of proceeding eastward, the special was switched to the tracks of the Western Division; was made the first section of the fast mail, which had orders to run through without stop. You can imagine the result." Marston got upon his feet slowly and began pacing the length of the long room. Kent waited, and the shrill cries of the newsboys floated up and in through the open windows. When the judge finally came back to his chair the saturnine face was gray and haggard. "I hope it was an accident that can be clearly proved," he said; and a moment later: "You spoke of Bucks and Guilford; were there others in the private car?" "Two others; Halkett, and the governor's private secretary." "And were they all killed?" A great light broke in upon Kent when he saw how Marston had misapprehended. Also, he saw how much it would simplify matters if he should be happy enough to catch the ball in the reactionary rebound. "They are all alive and uninjured, to the best of my knowledge and belief; though I understand that one of them narrowly escaped lynching at the hands of an excited mob." The long lean figure erected itself in the chair, and the weight of years seemed to slip from its shoulders. "But I understood you to say that the duties of the executive had devolved upon me, Mr. Kent. You also said I could imagine the result of this singular mistaking of train-orders, and I fancied I could. What was the result?" "A conclusion not quite as sanguinary as that you had in mind, though it is likely to prove serious enough for one member of the party in the private car. The special train was chased all the way across the State by the fast mail. It finally outran the pursuing section and was stopped at Megilp. A sheriff's posse was in waiting, and an arrest was made." "Go on," said the lieutenant-governor. "I must first go back a little. Some weeks ago there was a shooting affray in the mining-camp, arising out of a dispute over a 'salted' mine, and a man was killed. The murderer escaped across the State line. Since the authorities of the State in which the crime was committed had every reason to believe that a governor's requisition for this particular criminal would not be honored, two courses were open to them: to publish the facts and let the moral sentiment of the neighboring commonwealth punish the criminal as it could, or would; or, suppressing the facts, to bide their chance of catching their man beyond the boundaries of the State which gave him an asylum. They chose the latter." A second time Marston left his chair and began to pace the floor. After a little he paused to say: "This murderer is James Guilford, I take it; and the governor--" "No," said Kent, gravely. "The murderer is--Jasper G. Bucks." He handed the judge a copy of the _Argus_. "You will find it all in the press despatches; all I have told you, and a great deal more." The lieutenant-governor read the newspaper story as he walked, lighting the electric chandelier to enable him to do so. When it was finished he sat down again. "What a hideous cesspool it is!" was his comment. "But we shall clean it, Mr. Kent; we shall clean it if it shall leave the People's Party without a vote in the State. Now what can I do for you? You didn't come here at this hour in the morning merely to bring me the news." "No, I didn't, Judge Marston. I want my railroad." "You shall have it," was the prompt response. "What have you done since our last discussion of the subject?" "I tried to 'obliterate' Judge MacFarlane, as you suggested. But I failed in the first step. Bucks and Meigs refused to approve the _quo warranto_." The judge knitted his brows thoughtfully. "That way is open to you now; but it is long and devious, and delays are always dangerous. You spoke of the receivership as being part of a plan by which your road was to be turned over to an eastern monopoly. How nearly has that plan succeeded?" Kent hesitated, not because he was afraid to trust the man Oliver Marston, but because there were some things which the governor of the State might feel called upon to investigate if the knowledge of them were thrust upon him. But in the end he took counsel of utter frankness. "So nearly that if Bucks and the receiver had reached Gaston last night, our road would now be in the hands of the Plantagoulds under a ninety-nine-year lease." The merest ghost of a smile flitted over the lieutenant-governor's face when he said, with his nearest approach to sarcasm: "How extremely opportune the confusion of train-orders becomes as we go along! But answer one more question if you please--it will not involve these singularly heedless railway employees of yours: is Judge MacFarlane in Gaston now?" "He is. He was to have met the others on the arrival of the special train." There were footsteps on the stair and in the corridor, and Marston rose. "Our privacy is about to be invaded, Mr. Kent. This is a miserable business; miserable for everybody, but most of all for the deceived and hoodwinked people of an unhappy State. God knows, I did not seek this office; but since it has fallen on me, I shall do my duty as I see it, and my hand shall be heaviest upon that man who makes a mockery of the justice he is sworn to administer. Come to the capitol a little later in the day, prepared to go at once to Gaston. I think I can promise you your hearing on the merits without further delay." "Thank you," said Kent, simply, grasping the hand of leave-taking. Then he tried to find other and larger words. "I wish I could do something to show my appreciation of your--" But the lieutenant-governor was pushing him toward the door. "You have done something, Mr. Kent, and you can do more. Head those people off at the door and say that for the present I refuse positively to be seen or interviewed. They will find me at the capitol during office hours." It was seven o'clock in the evening of the fiercest working day Kent had ever fought through when the special train--his own private special, sent to Gaston and brought back again over the strike-paralyzed road by the express permission and command of the strikers themselves--set him down in the Union Station at the capital. Looking back to the gray of the morning when he had shaken hands with Governor Marston at the door of the room on the top floor of the Kittleton Building, the crowding events made the interval seem more like a week; and now the events themselves were beginning to take on dream-like incongruities in the haze of utter weariness. "_Evening Argus_! all about the p'liminary trial of Governor Bucks. _Argus_, sir?" piped a small boy at the station exit; but Kent shook his head, found a cab and had himself conveyed quickly through streets still rife with excitement to the Clarendon Hotel. In the lobby was the same bee-buzzing crowd with which he had been contending all day, and he edged his way through it to the elevator, praying that he might go unrecognized--as he did. Once safe in his rooms he sent for Loring, stretching himself on the bed in a very ecstasy of relaxation until the ex-manager came up. Then he emptied his mind as an overladen ass spills its panniers. "I'm done, Grantham," he said; "and that is more different kinds of truth than you have heard in a week. Go and reorganize your management, and M'Tosh is the man to put in Halkett's place. The strike will be declared off at the mere mention of your name and his. That's all. Now go away and let me sleep." "Oh, hold on!" was the good-natured protest; "I'm not more curious than I have to be, but I'd like to know how it was done." "I don't know, myself; and that's the plain fact. But I suspect Marston fell upon Judge MacFarlane: gave him a wire hint of what was due to arrive if he didn't give us a clean bill of health. I had my preliminary interview with the governor at daybreak this morning; and I was with him again between nine and ten. He went over the original papers with me, and about all he said was, 'Be in Gaston by two o'clock this afternoon, and MacFarlane will give you the hearing in chambers.' I went on my knees to the Federative Council to get a train." "You shouldn't have had any trouble there." "I didn't have, after the men understood what was in the wind. Jarl Oleson took me down and brought me back. The council did it handsomely, dipping into its treasury and paying the mileage on a Pullman car." "And MacFarlane reversed his own order?" "Without a question. It was the merest formality. Jennison, Hawk's former law partner, stood for the other side; but he made no argument." "Good!" said Loring. "That will do for the day's work. But now I'd like to know how last night's job was managed." "I'm afraid you want to know more than is good for you. What do the papers say? I haven't looked at one all day." "They say there was a misunderstanding of orders. That will answer for the public, perhaps, but it won't do for me." "I guess it will have to do for you, too, Grantham," said Kent, yawning shamelessly. "Five men, besides myself--six of us in all--know the true inwardness of last night's round-up. There will never be a seventh." Loring's eye-glasses fell from his nose, and he was smiling shrewdly when he replaced them. "There is one small consequence that doesn't please you, I'm sure. You'll have to bury the hatchet with MacFarlane." "Shall I?" flashed Kent, sitting up as if he had been struck with a whip. "Let me tell you: Marston is going to call an extra session of the Assembly. There is a death vacancy in this district, and I shall be a candidate in the special election. If there is no other way to get at MacFarlane, he shall be impeached!" "H'm: so you're going into politics?" "You've said it," said Kent, subsiding among the pillows. "Now will you go?" * * * * * It took the general manager a wakeful twenty-four hours to untangle the industrial snarl which was the receiver's legacy to his successor; and David Kent slept through the major part of that interval, rising only in time to dress for dinner on the day following the retrieval of the Trans-Western. In the grill-room of the Camelot he came face to face with Ormsby, and learned, something to his astonishment, that the Breezeland party had returned to the capital on the first train in from the west. "I thought you were going to stay a month or more," he said, with his eyes cast down. "So did I," said Ormsby. "But Mrs. Brentwood cut it short. She's a town person, and so is Penelope." And it was not until the soup plates had been removed that he added a question. "Are you going out to see them this evening, David? You have my royal permission." "No"--bluntly. "Isn't it up to you to go and give them a chance to jolly you a little? I think they are all aching to do it. Mrs. Hepzibah has seen the rising stock quotations, and she thinks you are It." "No; I can't go there any more," said Kent, and his voice was gruffer than he meant it to be. "Why not?" "There were good reasons before: there are better ones now." "A seven-hundred-thousand-dollar difference?" suggested Ormsby, who had had speech with Loring. Kent flushed a dull red. "I sha'n't strike you, Ormsby, no matter what you say," he said doggedly. "Humph! There is one difference between you and Rabbi Balaam's burro, David: it could talk sense, and you can't," was the offensive rejoinder. Kent changed the subject abruptly. "Say, Ormsby; I'm going into a political office-hunt. There is a death vacancy in the House, and I mean to have the nomination and election. I don't need money now, but I do need a friend. Are you with me?" "Oh, sure. Miss Van Brock will answer for that." "But I don't want you to do it on her account; I want you to do it for me." "It's all one," said the club-man. Kent looked up quickly. "You are right; that is the truest word you've said to-night," and he went away, leaving the dessert untouched. The evening was still young when Kent reached the house in Alameda Square. Within the week the weather had changed, and the first chill of the approaching autumn was in the air. The great square house was lighted and warmed, and the homelikeness of the place appealed to him as it never had before. To her other gifts, which were many and diverse, Miss Van Brock added that of home-making; and the aftermath of battle is apt to be an acute longing for peace and quiet, for domesticity and creature comforts. He had not seen Portia since the night when she had armed him for the final struggle with the enemy; he told himself that he should not see her again until the battle was fought and won. But in no part of the struggle had he been suffered to lose sight of his obligation to her. He had seen the chain lengthen link by link, and now the time was come for the welding of it into a shackle to bind. He did not try to deceive himself, nor did he allow the glamour of false sentiment to blind him. With an undying love for Elinor Brentwood in his heart, he knew well what was before him. None the less, Portia should have her just due. She was waiting for him when he entered the comfortable library. "I knew you would come to-night," she said cheerfully. "I gave you a day to drive the nail--and, O David! you have driven it well!--another day to clinch it, and a third to recover from the effects. Have you fully recovered?" "I hope so. I took the day for it, at all events," he laughed. "I am just out of bed, as you might say." "I can imagine how it took it out of you," she assented. "Not so much the work, but the anxiety. Night before last, after Mr. Loring went away, I sat it out with the telephone, nagging poor Mr. Hildreth for news until I know he wanted to murder me." "How much did you get of it?" he asked. "He told me all he dared--or perhaps it was all he knew--and it made me feel miserably helpless. The little I could get from the _Argus_ office was enough to prove that all your plans had been changed at the last moment." "They were," he admitted; and he began at the beginning and filled in the details for her. She heard him through without comment other than a kindling of the brown eyes at the climaxes of daring; but at the end she gave him praise unstinted. "You have played the man, David, as I knew you would if you could be once fully aroused. I've had faith in you from the very first." "It has been more than faith, Portia," he asserted soberly. "You have taken me up and carried me when I could neither run nor walk. Do you suppose I am so besotted as not to realize that you have been the head, while I have been only the hand?" "Nonsense!" she said lightly. "You are in the dumps of the reaction now. You mustn't say things that you will be sorry for, later on." "I am going to say one thing, nevertheless; and will remain for you to make it a thing hard to be remembered, or the other kind. Will you take what there is of me and make what you can of it?" She laughed in his face. "No, my dear David; no, no, no." And after a little pause: "How deliciously transparent you are, to be sure!" He would have been less than a man if his self-love had not been touched in its most sensitive part. "I am glad if it amuses you," he frowned. "Only I meant it in all seriousness." "No, you didn't; you only thought you did," she contradicted, and the brown eyes were still laughing at him. "Let me tell you what you did mean. You are pleased to think that I have helped you--that an obligation has been incurred; and you meant to pay your debt like a man and a gentleman in the only coin a woman is supposed to recognize." "But if I should say that you are misinterpreting the motive?" he suggested. "It would make your nice little speech a perjury instead of a simple untruth, and I should say no, again, on other, and perhaps better, grounds." "Name them," he said shortly. "I will, David, though I am neither a stick nor a stone to do it without wincing. You love another woman with all your heart and soul, and you know it." "Well? You see I am neither admitting nor denying." "As if you needed to!" she scoffed. "But don't interrupt me, please. You said I might take what there is of you and make what I can of it: I might make you anything and everything in the world, David, except that which a woman craves most in a husband--a lover." His eyes grew dark. "I wish I knew how much that word means to you, Portia." "It means just as much to me as it does to every woman who has ever drawn the breath of life in a passionate world, David. But that isn't all. Leaving Miss Brentwood entirely out of the question, you'd be miserably unhappy." "Why should I?" "Because I shouldn't be able to realize a single one of your ideals. I know what they are--what you will expect in a wife. I could make you a rich man, a successful man, as the world measures success, and perhaps I could even give you love: after the first flush of youth is past, the heavenly-affinity sentiment loses its hold and a woman comes to know that if she cares to try hard enough she can love any man who will be thoughtful and gentle, and whose habits of life are not hopelessly at war with her own. But that kind of love doesn't breed love. Your vanity would pique itself for a little while, and then you would know the curse of unsought love and murder me in your heart a thousand times a day. No, David, I have read you to little purpose if these are the things you will ask of the woman who takes your name and becomes the mother of your children." She had risen and was standing beside his chair, with her hand lightly touching his shoulder. "Will you go now? There are others coming, and--" He made his adieux gravely and went away half dazed and a prey to many emotions, but strangely light-hearted withal: and as once before, he walked when he might have ridden. But the mixed-emotion mood was not immortal. At the Clarendon he found a committee of Civic Leaguers waiting to ask him if he would stand as a "Good Government" candidate in the special election to fill the House vacancy in the capital district; and in the discussion of ways and means, and the setting of political pins which followed there was little food for sentiment. It was three weeks and more after Governor Marston's call summoning the Assembly for an investigative session. Kent had fought his way triumphantly through the special election to a seat in the House, aided and abetted manfully by Ormsby, Hildreth, and the entire Trans-Western influence and vote. And now men were beginning to say that without the tireless blows of the keen-witted, sharp-tongued young corporation lawyer, the junto might still have reasserted itself. But the House committee, of which Kent was the youngest member and the chairman, had proved incorruptible, and the day of the Gaston wolf-pack was over. Hendricks resigned, to escape a worse thing; Meigs came over to the majority with a show of heartiness that made Kent doubly watchful of him; heads fell to the right and left, until at the last there was left only one member of the original cabal to reckon with; the judicial tool of the capitol ring. Kent had hesitated when MacFarlane's name came up; and the judge never knew that he owed his escape from the inquisitorial House committee, and his permission to resign on the plea of broken health, to a young woman whom he had never seen. It was Elinor Brentwood who was his intercessor; and the occasion was the last day of the third week of the extra session--a Saturday afternoon and a legislative recess when Kent had borrowed Ormsby's auto-car, and had driven Elinor and Penelope out to Pentland Place to look at a house he was thinking of buying. For with means to indulge it, Kent's Gaston-bred mania for plunging in real estate had returned upon him with all the acuteness of a half-satisfied passion. They had gone all over the house and grounds with the caretaker, and when there was nothing more to see, Penelope had prevailed on the woman to open the Venetians in the music-room. There was a grand piano in the place of honor, presided over by a mechanical piano-player; and Penelope went into ecstasies of mockery. "Wait till I can find the music scrolls, and I'll hypnotize you," she said gleefully; and Kent and Elinor beat a hasty retreat to the wide entrance hall. "I don't quite understand it," was Elinor's comment, when they had put distance between themselves and Penelope's joyous grinding-out of a Wagner scroll. "It looks as if the owners had just walked out at a moment's notice." "They did," said Kent. "They went to Europe, I believe. And by the way; I think I have a souvenir here somewhere. Will you go up to the first landing of the stair and point your finger at that window?" She did it, wondering; and when he had the line of direction he knelt in the cushioned window-seat and began to probe with the blade of his pen-knife in a small round hole in the woodwork. "What is it?" she asked, coming down to stand beside him. "This." He had cut out a flattened bullet and was holding it up for her to see. "It was meant for me, and I've always had an idea that I heard it strike the woodwork." "For you? Were you ever here when the house was occupied?" "Yes, once; it is the Senator Duvall place. This is the window where I broke in." She nodded intelligence. "I know now why you are going to buy it. The senator is another of those whom you haven't forgiven." His laugh was a ready denial. "I have nothing against Duvall. He was one of Bucks' dupes, and he is paying the price. The property is to be sold at a forced sale, and it is a good investment." "Is that all it means to you? It is too fine to be hawked about as a thing to make money with. It's a splendidly ideal home--leaving out that thing that Penelope is quarreling with." And she made a feint of stopping her ears. He laughed again. "Ormsby says I ought to buy it, and marry and settle down." She took him seriously. "You don't need it. Miss Van Brock has a very lovely home of her own," she said soberly. It was at his tongue's end to tell the woman he loved how the woman he did not love had refused him, but he saved himself on the brink and said: "Why Miss Van Brock?" "Because she is vindictive, too, and----" "But I am not vindictive." "Yes, you are. Do you know anything about Judge MacFarlane's family affairs?" "A little. He has three daughters; one of them rather unhappily married, I believe." "Have you considered the cost to these three women if you make their father's name a byword in the city where they were born?" "He should have considered it," was the unmoved reply. "David!" she said; and he looked up quickly. "You want me to let him resign? It would be compounding a felony. He is a Judge, and he was bribed." She sat down beside him in the cushioned window seat and began to plead with him. "You must let him go," she insisted. "It is entirely in your hands as chairman of the House committee; the governor, himself, told me so. I know all you say about him is true; but he is old and wretched, with only a little while to live, at best." There was a curious little smile curling his lip when he answered her. "He has chosen a good advocate. It is quite like a man of his stamp to try to reach me through you." "David!" she said again. Then: "I really shouldn't know him if I were to see him." "Then why----" he began; but there was a love-light in the blue-gray eyes to set his heart afire. "You are doing this for me?" he said, trembling on the verge of things unutterable. "Yes. You don't know how it hurts me to see you growing hard and merciless as you climb higher and higher in the path you have marked out for yourself." "The path you have marked out for me," he corrected. "Do you remember our little talk over the embers of the fire in your sitting-room at home? I knew then that I had lost the love I might have won; but the desire to be the kind of leader you were describing was born in me at that moment. I haven't always been true to the ideal. I couldn't be, lacking the right to wear your colors on my heart----" "Don't!" she said. "I haven't been true to my ideals. I--I sold them, David!" She was in his arms when she said it, and the bachelor maid was quite lost in the woman. "I'll never believe that," he said loyally. "But if you did, we'll buy them back--together." * * * * * Penelope was good to them. It was a full half-hour before she professed herself satisfied with the mechanical piano-toy; and when she was through, she helped the woman caretaker to shut the Venetians with clangings that would have warned the most oblivious pair of lovers. And afterward, when they were free of the house, she ran ahead to the waiting auto-car, leaving Kent and Elinor to follow at a snail's pace down the leaf-covered walk to the gate. There was a cedar hedge to mark the sidewalk boundary, and while it still screened them Kent bent quickly to the upturned face of happiness. "One more," he pleaded; and when he had it: "Do you know now, dearest, why I brought you here to-day?" She nodded joyously. "It is the sweetest old place. And, David, dear; we'll bring our ideals--all of them; and it shall be your haven when the storms beat." 
34020	----	The WINDOW at the WHITE CAT By MARY ROBERTS RINEHART TRIANGLE BOOKS NEW YORK TRIANGLE BOOKS EDITION PUBLISHED SEPTEMBER 1940 REPRINTED DECEMBER 1940 REPRINTED FEBRUARY 1941 TRIANGLE BOOKS, 14 West Forty-ninth Street, New York, N. Y. PRINTED AND BOUND IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA BY THE AMERICAN BOOK--STRATFORD PRESS, INC., N. Y. C. THE WINDOW AT THE WHITE CAT CHAPTER I SENTIMENT AND CLUES In my criminal work anything that wears skirts is a lady, until the law proves her otherwise. From the frayed and slovenly petticoats of the woman who owns a poultry stand in the market and who has grown wealthy by selling chickens at twelve ounces to the pound, or the silk sweep of Mamie Tracy, whose diamonds have been stolen down on the avenue, or the staidly respectable black and middle-aged skirt of the client whose husband has found an affinity partial to laces and fripperies, and has run off with her--all the wearers are ladies, and as such announced by Hawes. In fact, he carries it to excess. He speaks of his wash lady, with a husband who is an ash merchant, and he announced one day in some excitement, that the lady who had just gone out had appropriated all the loose change out of the pocket of his overcoat. So when Hawes announced a lady, I took my feet off my desk, put down the brief I had been reading, and rose perfunctorily. With my first glance at my visitor, however, I threw away my cigar, and I have heard since, settled my tie. That this client was different was borne in on me at once by the way she entered the room. She had poise in spite of embarrassment, and her face when she raised her veil was white, refined, and young. "I did not send in my name," she said, when she saw me glancing down for the card Hawes usually puts on my table. "It was advice I wanted, and I--I did not think the name would matter." She was more composed, I think, when she found me considerably older than herself. I saw her looking furtively at the graying places over my ears. I am only thirty-five, as far as that goes, but my family, although it keeps its hair, turns gray early--a business asset but a social handicap. "Won't you sit down?" I asked, pushing out a chair, so that she would face the light, while I remained in shadow. Every doctor and every lawyer knows that trick. "As far as the name goes, perhaps you would better tell me the trouble first. Then, if I think it indispensable, you can tell me." She acquiesced to this and sat for a moment silent, her gaze absently on the windows of the building across. In the morning light my first impression was verified. Only too often the raising of a woman's veil in my office reveals the ravages of tears, or rouge, or dissipation. My new client turned fearlessly to the window an unlined face, with a clear skin, healthily pale. From where I sat, her profile was beautiful, in spite of its drooping suggestion of trouble; her first embarrassment gone, she had forgotten herself and was intent on her errand. "I hardly know how to begin," she said, "but suppose"--slowly--"suppose that a man, a well-known man, should leave home without warning, not taking any clothes except those he wore, and saying he was coming home to dinner, and he--he--" She stopped as if her voice had failed her. "And he does not come?" I prompted. She nodded, fumbling for her handkerchief in her bag. "How long has he been gone?" I asked. I had heard exactly the same thing before, but to leave a woman like that, hardly more than a girl, and lovely! "Ten days." "I should think it ought to be looked into," I said decisively, and got up. Somehow I couldn't sit quietly. A lawyer who is worth anything is always a partisan, I suppose, and I never hear of a man deserting his wife that I am not indignant, the virtuous scorn of the unmarried man, perhaps. "But you will have to tell me more than that. Did this gentleman have any bad habits? That is, did he--er--drink?" "Not to excess. He had been forbidden anything of that sort by his physician. He played bridge for money, but I--believe he was rather lucky." She colored uncomfortably. "Married, I suppose?" I asked casually. "He had been. His wife died when I--" She stopped and bit her lip. Then it was not her husband, after all! Oddly enough, the sun came out just at that moment, spilling a pool of sunlight at her feet, on the dusty rug with its tobacco-bitten scars. "It is my father," she said simply. I was absurdly relieved. But with the realization that I had not a case of desertion on my hands, I had to view the situation from a new angle. "You are absolutely at a loss to account for his disappearance?" "Absolutely." "You have had no word from him?" "None." "He never went away before for any length of time, without telling you?" "No. Never. He was away a great deal, but I always knew where to find him." Her voice broke again and her chin quivered. I thought it wise to reassure her. "Don't let us worry about this until we are sure it is serious," I said. "Sometimes the things that seem most mysterious have the simplest explanations. He may have written and the letter have miscarried or--even a slight accident would account--" I saw I was blundering; she grew white and wide-eyed. "But, of course, that's unlikely too. He would have papers to identify him." "His pockets were always full of envelopes and things like that," she assented eagerly. "Don't you think I ought to know his name?" I asked. "It need not be known outside of the office, and this is a sort of confessional anyhow, or worse. People tell things to their lawyer that they wouldn't think of telling the priest." Her color was slowly coming back, and she smiled. "My name is Fleming, Margery Fleming," she said after a second's hesitation, "and my father, Mr. Allan Fleming, is the man. Oh, Mr. Knox, what are we going to do? He has been gone for more than a week!" No wonder she had wished to conceal the identity of the missing man. So Allan Fleming was lost! A good many highly respectable citizens would hope that he might never be found. Fleming, state treasurer, delightful companion, polished gentleman and successful politician of the criminal type. Outside in the corridor the office boy was singing under his breath. "Oh once there was a miller," he sang, "who lived in a mill." It brought back to my mind instantly the reform meeting at the city hall a year before, where for a few hours we had blown the feeble spark of protest against machine domination to a flame. We had sung a song to that very tune, and with this white-faced girl across from me, its words came back with revolting truth. It had been printed and circulated through the hall. "Oh, once there was a capitol That sat on a hill, As it's too big to steal away It's probably there still. The ring's hand in the treasury And Fleming with a sack. They take it out in wagon loads And never bring it back." I put the song out of my mind with a shudder. "I am more than sorry," I said. I was, too; whatever he may have been, he was _her_ father. "And of course there are a number of reasons why this ought not to be known, for a time at least. After all, as I say, there may be a dozen simple explanations, and--there are exigencies in politics--" "I hate politics!" she broke in suddenly. "The very name makes me ill. When I read of women wanting to--to vote and all that, I wonder if they know what it means to have to be polite to dreadful people, people who have even been convicts, and all that. Why, our last butler had been a prize fighter!" She sat upright with her hands on the arms of the chair. "That's another thing, too, Mr. Knox. The day after father went away, Carter left. And he has not come back." "Carter was the butler?" "Yes." "A white man?" "Oh, yes." "And he left without giving you any warning?" "Yes. He served luncheon the day after father went away, and the maids say he went away immediately after. He was not there that evening to serve dinner, but--he came back late that night, and got into the house, using his key to the servants entrance. He slept there, the maids said, but he was gone before the servants were up and we have not seen him since." I made a mental note of the butler. "We'll go back to Carter again," I said. "Your father has not been ill, has he? I mean recently." She considered. "I can not think of anything except that he had a tooth pulled." She was quick to resent my smile. "Oh, I know I'm not helping you," she exclaimed, "but I have thought over everything until I can not think any more. I always end where I begin." "You have not noticed any mental symptoms--any lack of memory?" Her eyes filled. "He forgot my birthday, two weeks ago," she said. "It was the first one he had ever forgotten, in nineteen of them." Nineteen! Nineteen from thirty-five leaves sixteen! "What I meant was this," I explained. "People sometimes have sudden and unaccountable lapses of memory and at those times they are apt to stray away from home. Has your father been worried lately?" "He has not been himself at all. He has been irritable, even to me, and terrible to the servants. Only to Carter--he was never ugly to Carter. But I do not think it was a lapse of memory. When I remember how he looked that morning, I believe that he meant then to go away. It shows how he had changed, when he could think of going away without a word, and leaving me there alone." "Then you have no brothers or sisters?" "None. I came to you--" there she stopped. "Please tell me how you happened to come to me," I urged. "I think you know that I am both honored and pleased." "I didn't know where to go," she confessed, "so I took the telephone directory, the classified part under 'Attorneys,' and after I shut my eyes, I put my finger haphazard on the page. It pointed to your name." I am afraid I flushed at this, but it was a wholesome douche. In a moment I laughed. "We will take it as an omen," I said, "and I will do all that I can. But I am not a detective, Miss Fleming. Don't you think we ought to have one?" "Not the police!" she shuddered. "I thought you could do something without calling in a detective." "Suppose you tell me what happened the day your father left, and how he went away. Tell me the little things too. They may be straws that will point in a certain direction." "In the first place," she began, "we live on Monmouth Avenue. There are just the two of us, and the servants: a cook, two housemaids, a laundress, a butler and a chauffeur. My father spends much of his time at the capital, and in the last two years, since my old governess went back to Germany, at those times I usually go to mother's sisters at Bellwood--Miss Letitia and Miss Jane Maitland." I nodded: I knew the Maitland ladies well. I had drawn four different wills for Miss Letitia in the last year. "My father went away on the tenth of May. You say to tell you all about his going, but there is nothing to tell. We have a machine, but it was being repaired. Father got up from breakfast, picked up his hat and walked out of the house. He was irritated at a letter he had read at the table--" "Could you find that letter?" I asked quickly. "He took it with him. I knew he was disturbed, for he did not even say he was going. He took a car, and I thought he was on his way to his office. He did not come home that night and I went to the office the next morning. The stenographer said he had not been there. He is not at Plattsburg, because they have been trying to call him from there on the long distance telephone every day." In spite of her candid face I was sure she was holding something back. "Why don't you tell me everything?" I asked. "You may be keeping back the one essential point." She flushed. Then she opened her pocket-book and gave me a slip of rough paper. On it, in careless figures, was the number "eleven twenty-two." That was all. "I was afraid you would think it silly," she said. "It was such a meaningless thing. You see, the second night after father left, I was nervous and could not sleep. I expected him home at any time and I kept listening for his step down-stairs. About three o'clock I was sure I heard some one in the room below mine--there was a creaking as if the person were walking carefully. I felt relieved, for I thought he had come back. But I did not hear the door into his bedroom close, and I got more and more wakeful. Finally I got up and slipped along the hall to his room. The door was open a few inches and I reached in and switched on the electric lights. I had a queer feeling before I turned on the light that there was some one standing close to me, but the room was empty, and the hall, too." "And the paper?" "When I saw the room was empty I went in. The paper had been pinned to a pillow on the bed. At first I thought it had been dropped or had blown there. When I saw the pin I was startled. I went back to my room and rang for Annie, the second housemaid, who is also a sort of personal maid of mine. It was half-past three o'clock when Annie came down. I took her into father's room and showed her the paper. She was sure it was not there when she folded back the bed clothes for the night at nine o'clock." "Eleven twenty-two," I repeated. "Twice eleven is twenty-two. But that isn't very enlightening." "No," she admitted. "I thought it might be a telephone number, and I called up all the eleven twenty-twos in the city." In spite of myself, I laughed, and after a moment she smiled in sympathy. "We are not brilliant, certainly," I said at last. "In the first place, Miss Fleming, if I thought the thing was very serious I would not laugh--but no doubt a day or two will see everything straight. But, to go back to this eleven twenty-two--did you rouse the servants and have the house searched?" "Yes, Annie said Carter had come back and she went to waken him, but although his door was locked inside, he did not answer. Annie and I switched on all the lights on the lower floor from the top of the stairs. Then we went down together and looked around. Every window and door was locked, but in father's study, on the first floor, two drawers of his desk were standing open. And in the library, the little compartment in my writing-table, where I keep my house money, had been broken open and the money taken." "Nothing else was gone?" "Nothing. The silver on the sideboard in the dining-room, plenty of valuable things in the cabinet in the drawing-room--nothing was disturbed." "It might have been Carter," I reflected. "Did he know where you kept your house money?" "It is possible, but I hardly think so. Besides, if he was going to steal, there were so many more valuable things in the house. My mother's jewels as well as my own were in my dressing-room, and the door was not locked." "They were not disturbed?" She hesitated. "They had been disturbed," she admitted. "My grandmother left each of her children some unstrung pearls. They were a hobby with her. Aunt Jane and Aunt Letitia never had theirs strung, but my mother's were made into different things, all old-fashioned. I left them locked in a drawer in my sitting-room, where I have always kept them. The following morning the drawer was unlocked and partly open, but nothing was missing." "All your jewelry was there?" "All but one ring, which I rarely remove from my finger." I followed her eyes. Under her glove was the outline of a ring, a solitaire stone. "Nineteen from--" I shook myself together and got up. "It does not sound like an ordinary burglary," I reflected. "But I am afraid I have no imagination. No doubt what you have told me would be meat and drink to a person with an analytical turn of mind. I can't deduct. Nineteen from thirty-five leaves sixteen, according to my mental process, although I know men who could make the difference nothing." I believe she thought I was a little mad, for her face took on again its despairing look. "We _must_ find him, Mr. Knox," she insisted as she got up. "If you know of a detective that you can trust, please get him. But you can understand that the unexplained absence of the state treasurer must be kept secret. One thing I am sure of: he is being kept away. You don't know what enemies he has! Men like Mr. Schwartz, who have no scruples, no principle." "Schwartz!" I repeated in surprise. Henry Schwartz was the boss of his party in the state; the man of whom one of his adversaries had said, with the distinct approval of the voting public, that he was so low in the scale of humanity that it would require a special dispensation of Heaven to raise him to the level of total degradation. But he and Fleming were generally supposed to be captain and first mate of the pirate craft that passed with us for the ship of state. "Mr. Schwartz and my father are allies politically," the girl explained with heightened color, "but they are not friends. My father is a gentleman." The inference I allowed to pass unnoticed, and as if she feared she had said too much, the girl rose. When she left, a few minutes later, it was with the promise that she would close the Monmouth Avenue house and go to her aunts at Bellwood, at once. For myself, I pledged a thorough search for her father, and began it by watching the scarlet wing on her hat through the top of the elevator cage until it had descended out of sight. I am afraid it was a queer hodgepodge of clues and sentiment that I poured out to Hunter, the detective, when he came up late that afternoon. Hunter was quiet when I finished my story. "They're rotten clear through," he reflected. "This administration is worse than the last, and it was a peach. There have been more suicides than I could count on my two hands, in the last ten years. I warn you--you'd be better out of this mess." "What do you think about the eleven twenty-two?" I asked as he got up and buttoned his coat. "Well, it might mean almost anything. It might be that many dollars, or the time a train starts, or it might be the eleventh and the twenty-second letters of the alphabet--k--v." "K--v!" I repeated, "Why that would be the Latin _cave_--beware." Hunter smiled cheerfully. "You'd better stick to the law, Mr. Knox," he said from the door. "We don't use Latin in the detective business." CHAPTER II UNEASY APPREHENSIONS Plattsburg was not the name of the capital, but it will do for this story. The state doesn't matter either. You may take your choice, like the story Mark Twain wrote, with all kinds of weather at the beginning, so the reader could take his pick. We will say that my home city is Manchester. I live with my married brother, his wife and two boys. Fred is older than I am, and he is an exceptional brother. On the day he came home from his wedding trip, I went down with my traps on a hansom, in accordance with a prearranged schedule. Fred and Edith met me inside the door. "Here's your latch-key, Jack," Fred said, as he shook hands. "Only one stipulation--remember we are strangers in the vicinity and try to get home before the neighbors are up. We have our reputations to think of." "There is no hour for breakfast," Edith said, as she kissed me. "You have a bath of your own, and don't smoke in the drawing-room." Fred was always a lucky devil. I had been there now for six years. I had helped to raise two young Knoxes--bully youngsters, too: the oldest one could use boxing-gloves when he was four--and the finest collie pup in our end of the state. I wanted to raise other things--the boys liked pets--but Edith was like all women, she didn't care for animals. I had a rabbit-hutch built and stocked in the laundry, and a dove-cote on the roof. I used the general bath, and gave up my tub to a young alligator I got in Florida, and every Sunday the youngsters and I had a great time trying to teach it to do tricks. I have always taken it a little hard that Edith took advantage of my getting the measles from Billy, to clear out every animal in the house. She broke the news to me gently, the day the rash began to fade, maintaining that, having lost one cook through the alligator escaping from his tub and being mistaken, in the gloom of the back-stairs, for a rubber boot, and picked up under the same misapprehension, she could not risk another cook. On the day that Margery Fleming came to me about her father, I went home in a state of mixed emotion. Dinner was not a quiet meal: Fred and I talked politics, generally, and as Fred was on one side and I on the other there was always an argument on. "What about Fleming?" I asked at last, when Fred had declared that in these days of corruption, no matter what the government was, he was "forninst" it. "Hasn't he been frightened into reform?" "Bad egg," he said, jabbing his potato as if it had been a politician, "and there's no way to improve a bad egg except to hold your nose. That's what the public is doing; holding its nose." "Hasn't he a daughter?" I asked casually. "Yes--a lovely girl, too," Edith assented. "It is his only redeeming quality." "Fleming is a rascal, daughter or no daughter," Fred persisted. "Ever since he and his gang got poor Butler into trouble and then left him to kill himself as the only way out, I have felt that there was something coming to all of them--Hansen, Schwartz and the rest. I saw Fleming on the street to-day." "What!" I exclaimed, almost jumping out of my chair. Fred surveyed me quizzically over his coffee cup. "'Hasn't he a daughter!'" he quoted. "Yes, I saw him, Jack, this very day, in an unromantic four-wheeler, and he was swearing at a policeman." "Where was it?" "Chestnut and Union. His cab had been struck by a car, and badly damaged, but the gentleman refused to get out. No doubt you could get the details from the corner-man." "Look here, Fred," I said earnestly. "Keep that to yourself, will you? And you too, Edith? It's a queer story, and I'll tell you sometime." As we left the dining-room Edith put her hand on my shoulder. "Don't get mixed up with those people, Jack," she advised. "Margery's a dear girl, but her father practically killed Henry Butler, and Henry Butler married my cousin." "You needn't make it a family affair," I protested. "I have only seen the girl once." But Edith smiled. "I know what I know," she said. "How extravagant of you to send Bobby that enormous hobby-horse!" "The boy has to learn to ride sometime. In four years he can have a pony, and I'm going to see that he has it. He'll be eight by that time." Edith laughed. "In four years!" she said, "Why, in four years you'll--" then she stopped. "I'll what?" I demanded, blocking the door to the library. "You'll be forty, Jack, and it's a mighty unattractive man who gets past forty without being sought and won by some woman. You'll be buying--" "I will be thirty-nine," I said with dignity, "and as far as being sought and won goes, I am so overwhelmed by Fred's misery that I don't intend to marry at all. If I do--_if I do_--it will be to some girl who turns and runs the other way every time she sees me." "The oldest trick in the box," Edith scoffed. "What's that thing Fred's always quoting: 'A woman is like a shadow; follow her, she flies; fly from her, she follows.'" "Upon my word!" I said indignantly. "And you are a woman!" "I'm different," she retorted. "I'm only a wife and mother." In the library Fred got up from his desk and gathered up his papers. "I can't think with you two whispering there," he said, "I'm going to the den." As he slammed the door into his workroom Edith picked up her skirts and scuttled after him. "How dare you run away like that?" she called. "You promised me--" The door closed behind her. I went over and spoke through the panels. "'Follow her, she flies; fly from her, she follows'--oh, wife and mother!" I called. "For Heaven's sake, Edith," Fred's voice rose irritably. "If you and Jack are going to talk all evening, go and sit on _his_ knee and let me alone. The way you two flirt under my nose is a scandal. Do you hear that, Jack?" "Good night, Edith," I called, "I have left you a kiss on the upper left hand panel of the door. And I want to ask you one more question: what if I fly from the woman and she doesn't follow?" "Thank your lucky stars," Fred called in a muffled voice, and I left them to themselves. I had some work to do at the office, work that the interview with Hunter had interrupted, and half past eight that night found me at my desk. But my mind strayed from the papers before me. After a useless effort to concentrate, I gave it up as useless, and by ten o'clock I was on the street again, my evening wasted, the papers in the libel case of the _Star_ against the _Eagle_ untouched on my desk, and I the victim of an uneasy apprehension that took me, almost without volition, to the neighborhood of the Fleming house on Monmouth Avenue. For it had occurred to me that Miss Fleming might not have left the house that day as she had promised, might still be there, liable to another intrusion by the mysterious individual who had a key to the house. It was a relief, consequently, when I reached its corner, to find no lights in the building. The girl had kept her word. Assured of that, I looked at the house curiously. It was one of the largest in the city, not wide, but running far back along the side street; a small yard with a low iron fence and a garage, completed the property. The street lights left the back of the house in shadow, and as I stopped in the shelter of the garage, I was positive that I heard some one working with a rear window of the empty house. A moment later the sounds ceased and muffled footsteps came down the cement walk. The intruder made no attempt to open the iron gate; against the light I saw him put a leg over the low fence, follow it up with the other, and start up the street, still with peculiar noiselessness of stride. He was a short, heavy-shouldered fellow in a cap, and his silhouette showed a prodigious length of arm. I followed, I don't mind saying in some excitement. I had a vision of grabbing him from behind and leading him--or pushing him, under the circumstances, in triumph to the police station, and another mental picture, not so pleasant, of being found on the pavement by some passer-by, with a small punctuation mark ending my sentence of life. But I was not apprehensive. I even remember wondering humorously if I should overtake him and press the cold end of my silver mounted fountain pen into the nape of his neck, if he would throw up his hands and surrender. I had read somewhere of a burglar held up in a similar way with a shoe-horn. Our pace was easy. Once the man just ahead stopped and lighted a cigarette, and the odor of a very fair Turkish tobacco came back to me. He glanced back over his shoulder at me and went on without quickening his pace. We met no policemen, and after perhaps five minutes walking, when the strain was growing tense, my gentleman of the rubber-soled shoes swung abruptly to the left, and--entered the police station! I had occasion to see Davidson many times after that, during the strange development of the Fleming case; I had the peculiar experience later of having him follow me as I had trailed him that night, and I had occasion once to test the strength of his long arms when he helped to thrust me through the transom at the White Cat, but I never met him without a recurrence of the sheepish feeling with which I watched him swagger up to the night sergeant and fall into easy conversation with the man behind the desk. Standing in the glare from the open window, I had much the lost pride and self contempt of a wet cat sitting in the sun. Two or three roundsmen were sitting against the wall, lazily, helmets off and coats open against the warmth of the early spring night. In a back room others were playing checkers and disputing noisily. Davidson's voice came distinctly through the open windows. "The house is closed," he reported. "But one of the basement windows isn't shuttered and the lock is bad. I couldn't find Shields. He'd better keep an eye on it." He stopped and fished in his pockets with a grin. "This was tied to the knob of the kitchen door," he said, raising his voice for the benefit of the room, and holding aloft a piece of paper. "For Shields!" he explained, "and signed 'Delia.'" The men gathered around him, even the sergeant got up and leaned forward, his elbows on his desk. "Read it," he said lazily. "Shields has got a wife; and her name ain't Delia." "Dear Tom," Davidson read, in a mincing falsetto, "We are closing up unexpected, so I won't be here to-night. I am going to Mamie Brennan's and if you want to talk to me you can get me by calling up Anderson's drug-store. The clerk is a gentleman friend of mine. Mr. Carter, the butler, told me before he left he would get me a place as parlor maid, so I'll have another situation soon. Delia." The sergeant scowled. "I'm goin' to talk to Tom," he said, reaching out for the note. "He's got a nice family, and things like that're bad for the force." I lighted the cigar, which had been my excuse for loitering on the pavement, and went on. It sounded involved for a novice, but if I could find Anderson's drug-store I could find Mamie Brennan; through Mamie Brennan I would get Delia; and through Delia I might find Carter. I was vague from that point, but what Miss Fleming had said of Carter had made me suspicious of him. Under an arc light I made the first note in my new business of man-hunter and it was something like this: Anderson's drug-store. Ask for Mamie Brennan. Find Delia. Advise Delia that a policeman with a family is a bad bet. Locate Carter. It was late when I reached the corner of Chestnut and Union Streets, where Fred had said Allan Fleming had come to grief in a cab. But the corner-man had gone, and the night man on the beat knew nothing, of course, of any particular collision. "There's plinty of 'em every day at this corner," he said cheerfully. "The department sinds a wagon here every night to gather up the pieces, autymobiles mainly. That trolley pole over there has been sliced off clean three times in the last month. They say a fellow ain't a graduate of the autymobile school till he can go around it on the sidewalk without hittin' it!" I left him looking reminiscently at the pole, and went home to bed. I had made no headway, I had lost conceit with myself and a day and evening at the office, and I had gained the certainty that Margery Fleming was safe in Bellwood and the uncertain address of a servant who _might_ know something about Mr. Fleming. I was still awake at one o'clock and I got up impatiently and consulted the telephone directory. There were twelve Andersons in the city who conducted drug-stores. When I finally went to sleep, I dreamed that I was driving Margery Fleming along a street in a broken taxicab, and that all the buildings were pharmacies and numbered eleven twenty-two. CHAPTER III NINETY-EIGHT PEARLS After such a night I slept late. Edith still kept her honeymoon promise of no breakfast hour and she had gone out with Fred when I came down-stairs. I have a great admiration for Edith, for her tolerance with my uncertain hours, for her cheery breakfast-room, and the smiling good nature of the servants she engages. I have a theory that, show me a sullen servant and I will show you a sullen mistress, although Edith herself disclaims all responsibility and lays credit for the smile with which Katie brings in my eggs and coffee, to largess on my part. Be that as it may, Katie is a smiling and personable young woman, and I am convinced that had she picked up the alligator on the back-stairs and lost part of the end of her thumb, she would have told Edith that she cut it off with the bread knife, and thus have saved to us Bessie the Beloved and her fascinating trick of taking the end of her tail in her mouth and spinning. On that particular morning, Katie also brought me a letter, and I recognized the cramped and rather uncertain writing of Miss Jane Maitland. "DEAR MR. KNOX: "Sister Letitia wishes me to ask you if you can dine with us to-night, informally. She has changed her mind in regard to the Colored Orphans' Home, and would like to consult you about it. "Very truly yours, "SUSAN JANE MAITLAND." It was a very commonplace note: I had had one like it after every board-meeting of the orphans' home, Miss Maitland being on principle an aggressive minority. Also, having considerable mind, changing it became almost as ponderous an operation as moving a barn, although not nearly so stable. (Fred accuses me here of a very bad pun, and reminds me, quite undeservedly, that the pun is the lowest form of humor.) I came across Miss Jane's letter the other day, when I was gathering the material for this narrative, and I sat for a time with it in my hand thinking over again the chain of events in which it had been the first link, a series of strange happenings that began with my acceptance of the invitation, and that led through ways as dark and tricks as vain as Bret Harte's Heathen Chinee ever dreamed of, to the final scene at the White Cat. With the letter I had filed away a half dozen articles and I ranged them all on the desk in front of me: the letter, the bit of paper with eleven twenty-two on it, that Margery gave me the first time I saw her; a note-book filled with jerky characters that looked like Arabic and were newspaper shorthand; a railroad schedule; a bullet, the latter slightly flattened; a cube-shaped piece of chalk which I put back in its box with a shudder, and labeled 'poison,' and a small gold buckle from a slipper, which I--at which I did not shudder. I did not need to make the climaxes of my story. They lay before me. I walked to the office that morning, and on the way I found and interviewed the corner-man at Chestnut and Union. But he was of small assistance. He remembered the incident, but the gentleman in the taxicab had not been hurt and refused to give his name, saying he was merely passing through the city from one railroad station to another, and did not wish any notoriety. At eleven o'clock Hunter called up; he said he was going after the affair himself, but that it was hard to stick a dip net into the political puddle without pulling out a lot more than you went after, or than it was healthy to get. He was inclined to be facetious, and wanted to know if I had come across any more k. v's. Whereupon I put away the notes I had made about Delia and Mamie Brennan and I heard him chuckle as I rang off. I went to Bellwood that evening. It was a suburban town a dozen miles from the city, with a picturesque station, surrounded by lawns and cement walks. Street-cars had so far failed to spoil its tree-bordered streets, and it was exclusive to the point of stagnation. The Maitland place was at the head of the main street, which had at one time been its drive. Miss Letitia, who was seventy, had had sufficient commercial instinct, some years before, to cut her ancestral acres--_their_ ancestral acres, although Miss Jane hardly counted--into building lots, except perhaps an acre which surrounded the house. Thus, the Maitland ladies were reputed to be extremely wealthy. And as they never spent any money, no doubt they were. The homestead as I knew it, was one of impeccable housekeeping and unmitigated gloom. There was a chill that rushed from the old-fashioned center hall to greet the new-comer on the porch, and that seemed to freeze up whatever in him was spontaneous and cheerful. I had taken dinner at Bellwood before, and the memory was not hilarious. Miss Letitia was deaf, but chose to ignore the fact. With superb indifference she would break into the conversation with some wholly alien remark that necessitated a reassembling of one's ideas, making the meal a series of mental gymnastics. Miss Jane, through long practice, and because she only skimmed the surface of conversation, took her cerebral flights easily, but I am more unwieldy of mind. Nor was Miss Letitia's dominance wholly conversational. Her sister Jane was her creature, alternately snubbed and bullied. To Miss Letitia, Jane, in spite of her sixty-five years, was still a child, and sometimes a bad one. Indeed, many a child of ten is more sophisticated. Miss Letitia gave her expurgated books to read, and forbade her to read divorce court proceedings in the newspapers. Once, a recreant housemaid presenting the establishment with a healthy male infant, Jane was sent to the country for a month, and was only brought back when the house had been fumigated throughout. Poor Miss Jane! She met me with fluttering cordiality in the hall that night, safe in being herself for once, with the knowledge that Miss Letitia always received me from a throne-like horsehair sofa in the back parlor. She wore a new lace cap, and was twitteringly excited. "Our niece is here," she explained, as I took off my coat--everything was "ours" with Jane; "mine" with Letitia--"and we are having an ice at dinner. Please say that ices are not injurious, Mr. Knox. My sister is so opposed to them and I had to beg for this." "On the contrary, the doctors have ordered ices for my young nephews," I said gravely, "and I dote on them myself." Miss Jane beamed. Indeed, there was something almost unnaturally gay about the little old lady all that evening. Perhaps it was the new lace cap. Later, I tried to analyze her manner, to recall exactly what she had said, to remember anything that could possibly help. But I could find no clue to what followed. Miss Letitia received me as usual, in the back parlor. Miss Fleming was there also, sewing by a window, and in her straight white dress with her hair drawn back and braided around her head, she looked even younger than before. There was no time for conversation. Miss Letitia launched at once into the extravagance of both molasses and butter on the colored orphans' bread and after a glance at me, and a quick comprehension from my face that I had no news for her, the girl at the window bent over her sewing again. "Molasses breeds worms," Miss Letitia said decisively. "So does pork. And yet those children think Heaven means ham and molasses three times a day." "You have had no news at all?" Miss Fleming said cautiously, her head bent over her work. "None," I returned, under cover of the table linen to which Miss Letitia's mind had veered. "I have a good man working on it." As she glanced at me questioningly, "It needed a detective, Miss Fleming." Evidently another day without news had lessened her distrust of the police, for she nodded acquiescence and went on with her sewing. Miss Letitia's monotonous monologue went on, and I gave it such attention as I might. For the lamps had been lighted, and with every movement of the girl across, I could see the gleaming of a diamond on her engagement finger. "If I didn't watch her, Jane would ruin them," said Miss Letitia. "She gives 'em apples when they keep their faces clean, and the bills for soap have gone up double. Soap once a day's enough for a colored child. Do you smell anything burning, Knox?" I sniffed and lied, whereupon Miss Letitia swept her black silk, her colored orphans and her majestic presence out of the room. As the door closed, Miss Fleming put down her sewing and rose. For the first time I saw how weary she looked. "I do not dare to tell them, Mr. Knox," she said. "They are old, and they hate him anyhow. I couldn't sleep last night. Suppose he should have gone back, and found the house closed!" "He would telephone here at once, wouldn't he?" I suggested. "I suppose so, yes." She took up her sewing from the chair with a sigh. "But I'm afraid he won't come--not soon. I have hemmed tea towels for Aunt Letitia to-day until I am frantic, and all day I have been wondering over something you said yesterday. You said, you remember, that you were not a detective, that some men could take nineteen from thirty-five and leave nothing. What did you mean?" I was speechless for a moment. "The fact is--I--you see," I blundered, "it was a--merely a figure of speech, a--speech of figures is more accurate,--" And then dinner was announced and I was saved. But although she said little or nothing during the meal, I caught her looking across at me once or twice in a bewildered, puzzled fashion. I could fairly see her revolving my detestable figures in her mind. Miss Letitia presided over the table in garrulous majesty. The two old ladies picked at their food, and Miss Jane had a spot of pink in each withered cheek. Margery Fleming made a brave pretense, but left her plate almost untouched. As for me, I ate a substantial masculine meal and half apologized for my appetite, but Letitia did not hear. She tore the board of managers to shreds with the roast, and denounced them with the salad. But Jane was all anxious hospitality. "Please _do_ eat your dinner," she whispered. "I made the salad myself. And I know what it takes to keep a big man going. Harry eats more than Letitia and I together. Doesn't he, Margery?" "Harry?" I asked. "Mrs. Stevens is an unmitigated fool. I said if they elected her president I'd not leave a penny to the home. That's why I sent for you, Knox." And to the maid, "Tell Heppie to wash those cups in luke-warm water. They're the best ones. And not to drink her coffee out of them. She let her teeth slip and bit a piece out of one the last time." Miss Jane leaned forward to me after a smiling glance at her niece across. "Harry Wardrop, a cousin's son, and--" she patted Margery's hand with its ring--"soon to be something closer." The girl's face colored, but she returned Miss Jane's gentle pressure. "They put up an iron fence," Miss Letitia reverted somberly to her grievance, "when a wooden one would have done. It was extravagance, ruinous extravagance." "Harry stays with us when he is in Manchester," Miss Jane went on, nodding brightly across at Letitia as if she, too, were damning the executive board. "Lately, he has been almost all the time in Plattsburg. He is secretary to Margery's father. It is a position of considerable responsibility, and we are very proud of him." I had expected something of the sort, but the remainder of the meal had somehow lost its savor. There was a lull in the conversation while dessert was being brought in. Miss Jane sat quivering, watching her sister's face for signs of trouble; the latter had subsided into muttered grumbling, and Miss Fleming sat, one hand on the table, staring absently at her engagement ring. "You look like a fool in that cap, Jane," volunteered Letitia, while the plates were being brought in. "What's for dessert?" "Ice-cream," called Miss Jane, over the table. "Well, you needn't," snapped Letitia, "I can hear you well enough. You told me it was junket." "I said ice-cream, and you said it would be all right," poor Jane shrieked. "If you drink a cup of hot water after it, it won't hurt you." "Fiddle," Letitia snapped unpleasantly. "I'm not going to freeze my stomach and then thaw it out like a drain pipe. Tell Heppie to put my ice-cream on the stove." So we waited until Miss Letitia's had been heated, and was brought in, sicklied over with pale hues, not of thought, but of confectioners' dyes. Miss Letitia ate it resignedly. "Like as not I'll break out, I did the last time," she said gloomily. "I only hope I don't break out in colors." The meal was over finally, but if I had hoped for another word alone with Margery Fleming that evening, I was foredoomed to disappointment. Letitia sent the girl, not ungently, to bed, and ordered Jane out of the room with a single curt gesture toward the door. "You'd better wash those cups yourself, Jane," she said. "I don't see any sense anyhow in getting out the best china unless there's real company. Besides, I'm going to talk business." Poor, meek, spiritless Miss Jane! The situation was absurd in spite of its pathos. She confided to me once that never in her sixty-five years of life had she bought herself a gown, or chosen the dinner. She was snubbed with painstaking perseverance, and sent out of the room when subjects requiring frank handling were under discussion. She was as unsophisticated as a child of ten, as unworldly as a baby, as--well, poor Miss Jane, again. When the door had closed behind her, Miss Letitia listened for a moment, got up suddenly and crossing the room with amazing swiftness for her years, pounced on the knob and threw it open again. But the passage was empty; Miss Jane's slim little figure was disappearing into the kitchen. The older sister watched her out of sight, and then returned to her sofa without deigning explanation. "I didn't want to see you about the will, Mr. Knox," she began without prelude. "The will can wait. I ain't going to die just yet--not if I know anything. But although I think you'd look a heap better and more responsible if you wore some hair on your face, still in most things I think you're a man of sense. And you're not too young. That's why I didn't send for Harry Wardrop; he's too young." I winced at that. Miss Letitia leaned forward and put her bony hand on my knee. "I've been robbed," she announced in a half whisper, and straightened to watch the effect of her words. "Indeed!" I said, properly thunderstruck. I _was_ surprised. I had always believed that only the use of the fourth dimension in space would enable any one, not desired, to gain access to the Maitland house. "Of money?" "Not money, although I had a good bit in the house." This also I knew. It was said of Miss Letitia that when money came into her possession it went out of circulation. "Not--the pearls?" I asked. She answered my question with another. "When you had those pearls appraised for me at the jewelers last year, how many were there?" "Not quite one hundred. I think--yes, ninety-eight." "Exactly," she corroborated, in triumph. "They belonged to my mother. Margery's mother got some of them. That's a good many years ago, young man. They are worth more than they were then--a great deal more." "Twenty-two thousand dollars," I repeated. "You remember, Miss Letitia, that I protested vigorously at the time against your keeping them in the house." Miss Letitia ignored this, but before she went on she repeated again her cat-like pouncing at the door, only to find the hall empty as before. This time when she sat down it was knee to knee with me. "Yesterday morning," she said gravely, "I got down the box; they have always been kept in the small safe in the top of my closet. When Jane found a picture of my niece, Margery Fleming, in Harry's room, I thought it likely there was some truth in the gossip Jane heard about the two, and--if there was going to be a wedding--why, the pearls were to go to Margery anyhow. But--I found the door of the safe unlocked and a little bit open--and ten of the pearls were gone!" "Gone!" I echoed. "Ten of them! Why, it's ridiculous! If ten, why not the whole ninety-eight?" "How do I know?" she replied with asperity. "That's what I keep a lawyer for: that's why I sent for you." For the second time in two days I protested the same thing. "But you need a detective," I cried. "If you can find the thief I will be glad to send him where he ought to be, but I couldn't find him." "I will not have the police," she persisted inflexibly. "They will come around asking impertinent questions, and telling the newspapers that a foolish old woman had got what she deserved." "Then you are going to send them to a bank?" "You have less sense than I thought," she snapped. "I am going to leave them where they are, and watch. Whoever took the ten will be back for more, mark my words." "I don't advise it," I said decidedly. "You have most of them now, and you might easily lose them all; not only that, but it is not safe for you or your sister." "Stuff and nonsense!" the old lady said, with spirit. "As for Jane, she doesn't even know they are gone. I know who did it. It was the new housemaid, Bella MacKenzie. Nobody else could get in. I lock up the house myself at night, and I'm in the habit of doing a pretty thorough job of it. They went in the last three weeks, for I counted them Saturday three weeks ago myself. The only persons in the house in that time, except ourselves, were Harry, Bella and Hepsibah, who's been here for forty years and wouldn't know a pearl from a pickled onion." "Then--what do you want me to do?" I asked. "Have Bella arrested and her trunk searched?" I felt myself shrinking in the old lady's esteem every minute. "Her trunk!" she said scornfully. "I turned it inside out this morning, pretending I thought she was stealing the laundry soap. Like as not she has them buried in the vegetable garden. What I want you to do is to stay here for three or four nights, to be on hand. When I catch the thief, I want my lawyer right by." It ended by my consenting, of course. Miss Letitia was seldom refused. I telephoned to Fred that I would not be home, listened for voices and decided Margery Fleming had gone to bed. Miss Jane lighted me to the door of the guest room, and saw that everything was comfortable. Her thin gray curls bobbed as she examined the water pitcher, saw to the towels, and felt the bed linen for dampness. At the door she stopped and turned around timidly. "Has--has anything happened to disturb my sister?" she asked. "She--has been almost irritable all day." Almost! "She is worried about her colored orphans," I evaded. "She does not approve of fireworks for them on the fourth of July." Miss Jane was satisfied. I watched her little, old, black-robed figure go lightly down the hall. Then I bolted the door, opened all the windows, and proceeded to a surreptitious smoke. CHAPTER IV A THIEF IN THE NIGHT The windows being wide open, it was not long before a great moth came whirring in. He hurled himself at the light and then, dazzled and singed, began to beat with noisy thumps against the barrier of the ceiling. Finding no egress there, he was back at the lamp again, whirling in dizzy circles until at last, worn out, he dropped to the table, where he lay on his back, kicking impotently. The room began to fill with tiny winged creatures that flung themselves headlong to destruction, so I put out the light and sat down near the window, with my cigar and my thoughts. Miss Letitia's troubles I dismissed shortly. While it was odd that only ten pearls should have been taken, still--in every other way it bore the marks of an ordinary theft. The thief might have thought that by leaving the majority of the gems he could postpone discovery indefinitely. But the Fleming case was of a different order. Taken by itself, Fleming's disappearance could have been easily accounted for. There must be times in the lives of all unscrupulous individuals when they feel the need of retiring temporarily from the public eye. But the intrusion into the Fleming home, the ransacked desk and the broken money drawer--most of all, the bit of paper with eleven twenty-two on it--here was a hurdle my legal mind refused to take. I had finished my second cigar, and was growing more and more wakeful, when I heard a footstep on the path around the house. It was black outside; when I looked out, as I did cautiously, I could not see even the gray-white of the cement walk. The steps had ceased, but there was a sound of fumbling at one of the shutters below. The catch clicked twice, as if some thin instrument was being slipped underneath to raise it, and once I caught a muttered exclamation. I drew in my head and, puffing my cigar until it was glowing, managed by its light to see that it was a quarter to two. When I listened again, the house-breaker had moved to another window, and was shaking it cautiously. With Miss Letitia's story of the pearls fresh in my mind, I felt at once that the thief, finding his ten a prize, had come back for more. My first impulse was to go to the head of my bed, where I am accustomed to keep a revolver. With the touch of the tall corner post, however, I remembered that I was not at home, and that it was not likely there was a weapon in the house. Finally, after knocking over an ornament that shattered on the hearth and sounded like the crash of doom, I found on the mantel a heavy brass candlestick, and with it in my hand I stepped into the gloom of the hallway and felt my way to the stairs. There were no night lights; the darkness was total. I found the stairs before I expected to, and came within an ace of pitching down, headlong. I had kicked off my shoes--a fact which I regretted later. Once down the stairs I was on more familiar territory. I went at once into the library, which was beneath my room, but the sounds at the window had ceased. I thought I heard steps on the walk, going toward the front of the house. I wheeled quickly and started for the door, when something struck me a terrific blow on the nose. I reeled back and sat down, dizzy and shocked. It was only when no second blow followed the first that I realized what had occurred. With my two hands out before me in the blackness, I had groped, one hand on either side of the open door, which of course I had struck violently with my nose. Afterward I found it had bled considerably, and my collar and tie must have added to my ghastly appearance. My candlestick had rolled under the table, and after crawling around on my hands and knees, I found it. I had lost, I suppose, three or four minutes, and I was raging at my awkwardness and stupidity. No one, however, seemed to have heard the noise. For all her boasted watchfulness, Miss Letitia must have been asleep. I got back into the hall and from there to the dining-room. Some one was fumbling at the shutters there, and as I looked they swung open. It was so dark outside, with the trees and the distance from the street, that only the creaking of the shutter told it had opened. I stood in the middle of the room, with one hand firmly clutching my candlestick. But the window refused to move. The burglar seemed to have no proper tools; he got something under the sash, but it snapped, and through the heavy plate-glass I could hear him swearing. Then he abruptly left the window and made for the front of the house. I blundered in the same direction, my unshod feet striking on projecting furniture and causing me agonies, even through my excitement. When I reached the front door, however, I was amazed to find it unlocked, and standing open perhaps an inch. I stopped uncertainly. I was in a peculiar position; not even the most ardent admirers of antique brass candlesticks indorse them as weapons of offense or defense. But, there seeming to be nothing else to do, I opened the door quietly and stepped out into the darkness. The next instant I was flung heavily to the porch floor. I am not a small man by any means, but under the fury of that onslaught I was a child. It was a porch chair, I think, that knocked me senseless; I know I folded up like a jack-knife, and that was all I did know for a few minutes. When I came to I was lying where I had fallen, and a candle was burning beside me on the porch floor. It took me a minute to remember, and another minute to realize that I was looking into the barrel of a revolver. It occurred to me that I had never seen a more villainous face than that of the man who held it--which shows my state of mind--and that my position was the reverse of comfortable. Then the man behind the gun spoke. "What did you do with that bag?" he demanded, and I felt his knee on my chest. "What bag?" I inquired feebly. My head was jumping, and the candle was a volcanic eruption of sparks and smoke. "Don't be a fool," the gentleman with the revolver persisted. "If I don't get that bag within five minutes, I'll fill you as full of holes as a cheese." "I haven't seen any bag," I said stupidly. "What sort of bag?" I heard my own voice, drunk from the shock. "Paper bag, laundry bag--" "You've hidden it in the house," he said, bringing the revolver a little closer with every word. My senses came back with a jerk and I struggled to free myself. "Go in and look," I responded. "Let me up from here, and I'll take you in myself." The man's face was a study in amazement and anger. "You'll take me in! You!" He got up without changing the menacing position of the gun. "You walk in there--here, carry the candle--and take me to that bag. Quick, do you hear?" I was too bewildered to struggle. I got up dizzily, but when I tried to stoop for the candle I almost fell on it. My head cleared after a moment, and when I had picked up the candle I had a good chance to look at my assailant. He was staring at me, too. He was a young fellow, well dressed, and haggard beyond belief. "I don't know anything about a bag," I persisted, "but if you will give me your word there was nothing in it belonging to this house, I will take you in and let you look for it." The next moment he had lowered the revolver and clutched my arm. "Who in the devil's name _are_ you?" he asked wildly. I think the thing dawned on us both at the same moment. "My name is Knox," I said coolly, feeling for my handkerchief--my head was bleeding from a cut over the ear--"John Knox." "Knox!" Instead of showing relief; his manner showed greater consternation than ever. He snatched the candle from me and, holding it up, searched my face. "Then--good God--where is my traveling-bag?" "I have something in my head where you hit me," I said. "Perhaps that is it." But my sarcasm was lost on him. "I am Harry Wardrop," he said, "and I have been robbed, Mr. Knox. I was trying to get in the house without waking the family, and when I came back here to the front door, where I had left my valise, it was gone. I thought you were the thief when you came out, and--we've lost all this time. Somebody has followed me and robbed me!" "What was in the bag?" I asked, stepping to the edge of the porch and looking around, with the help of the candle. "Valuable papers," he said shortly. He seemed to be dazed and at a loss what to do next. We had both instinctively kept our voices low. "You are certain you left it here?" I asked. The thing seemed incredible in the quiet and peace of that neighborhood. "Where you are standing." Once more I began a desultory search, going down the steps and looking among the cannas that bordered the porch. Something glistened beside the step, and stooping down I discovered a small brown leather traveling-bag, apparently quite new. "Here it is," I said, not so gracious as I might have been; I had suffered considerably for that traveling-bag. The sight of it restored Wardrop's poise at once. His twitching features relaxed. "By Jove, I'm glad to see it," he said. "I can't explain, but--tremendous things were depending on that bag, Mr. Knox. I don't know how to apologize to you; I must have nearly brained you." "You did," I said grimly, and gave him the bag. The moment he took it I knew there was something wrong; he hurried into the house and lighted the library lamp. Then he opened the traveling-bag with shaking fingers. It was empty! He stood for a moment, staring incredulously into it. Then he hurled it down on the table and turned on me, as I stood beside him. "It's a trick!" he said furiously. "You've hidden it somewhere. This is not my bag. You've substituted one just like it." "Don't be a fool," I retorted. "How could I substitute an empty satchel for yours when up to fifteen minutes ago I had never seen you or your grip either? Use a little common sense. Some place to-night you have put down that bag, and some clever thief has substituted a similar one. It's an old trick." He dropped into a chair and buried his face in his hands. "It's impossible," he said after a pause, while he seemed to be going over, minute by minute, the events of the night. "I was followed, as far as that goes, in Plattsburg. Two men watched me from the minute I got there, on Tuesday; I changed my hotel, and for all of yesterday--Wednesday, that is--I felt secure enough. But on my way to the train I felt that I was under surveillance again, and by turning quickly I came face to face with one of the men." "Would you know him?" I asked. "Yes. I thought he was a detective, you know I've had a lot of that sort of thing lately, with election coming on. He didn't get on the train, however." "But the other one may have done so." "Yes, the other one may. The thing I don't understand is this, Mr. Knox. When we drew in at Bellwood Station I distinctly remember opening the bag and putting my newspaper and railroad schedule inside. It was the right bag then; my clothing was in it, and my brushes." I had been examining the empty bag as he talked. "Where did you put your railroad schedule?" I asked. "In the leather pocket at the side." "It is here," I said, drawing out the yellow folder. For a moment my companion looked almost haunted. He pressed his hands to his head and began to pace the room like a crazy man. "The whole thing is impossible. I tell you, that valise was heavy when I walked up from the station. I changed it from one hand to the other because of the weight. When I got here I set it down on the edge of the porch and tried the door. When I found it locked--" "But it wasn't locked," I broke in. "When I came down-stairs to look for a burglar, I found it open at least an inch." He stopped in his pacing up and down, and looked at me curiously. "We're both crazy, then," he asserted gravely. "I tell you, I tried every way I knew to unlock that door, and could hear the chain rattling. Unlocked! You don't know the way this house is fastened up at night." "Nevertheless, it was unlocked when I came down." We were so engrossed that neither of us had heard steps on the stairs. The sound of a smothered exclamation from the doorway caused us both to turn suddenly. Standing there, in a loose gown of some sort, very much surprised and startled, was Margery Fleming. Wardrop pulled himself together at once. As for me, I knew what sort of figure I cut, my collar stained with blood, a lump on my forehead that felt as big as a door-knob, and no shoes. "What _is_ the matter?" she asked uncertainly. "I heard such queer noises, and I thought some one had broken into the house." "Mr. Wardrop was trying to break in," I explained, "and I heard him and came down. On the way I had a bloody encounter with an open door, in which I came out the loser." I don't think she quite believed me. She looked from my swollen head to the open bag, and then to Wardrop's pale face. Then I think, woman-like, she remembered the two great braids that hung over her shoulders and the dressing-gown she wore, for she backed precipitately into the hall. "I'm glad that's all it is," she called back cautiously, and we could hear her running up the stairs. "You'd better go to bed," Wardrop said, picking up his hat. "I'm going down to the station. There's no train out of here between midnight and a flag train at four-thirty A. M. It's not likely to be of any use, but I want to see who goes on that train." "It is only half past two," I said, glancing at my watch. "We might look around outside first." The necessity for action made him welcome any suggestion. Reticent as he was, his feverish excitement made me think that something vital hung on the recovery of the contents of that Russia leather bag. We found a lantern somewhere in the back of the house, and together we went over the grounds. It did not take long, and we found nothing. As I look back on that night, the key to what had passed and to much that was coming was so simple, so direct--and yet we missed it entirely. Nor, when bigger things developed, and Hunter's trained senses were brought into play, did he do much better. It was some time before we learned the true inwardness of the events of that night. At five o'clock in the morning Wardrop came back exhausted and nerveless. No one had taken the four-thirty; the contents of the bag were gone, probably beyond recall. I put my dented candlestick back on the mantel, and prepared for a little sleep, blessing the deafness of old age which had enabled the Maitland ladies to sleep through it all. I tried to forget the queer events of the night, but the throbbing of my head kept me awake, and through it all one question obtruded itself--who had unlocked the front door and left it open? CHAPTER V LITTLE MISS JANE I was almost unrecognizable when I looked at myself in the mirror the next morning, preparatory to dressing for breakfast. My nose boasted a new arch, like the back of an angry cat, making my profile Roman and ferocious, and the lump on my forehead from the chair was swollen, glassy and purple. I turned my back to the mirror and dressed in wrathful irritation and my yesterday's linen. Miss Fleming was in the breakfast-room when I got down, standing at a window, her back to me. I have carried with me, during all the months since that time, a mental picture of her as she stood there, in a pink morning frock of some sort. But only the other day, having mentioned this to her, she assured me that the frock was blue, that she didn't have a pink garment at the time this story opens and that if she did she positively didn't have it on. And having thus flouted my eye for color, she maintains that she did _not_ have her back to me, for she distinctly saw my newly-raised bridge as I came down the stairs. So I amend this. Miss Fleming in a blue frock was facing the door when I went into the breakfast-room. Of one thing I am certain. She came forward and held out her hand. "Good morning," she said. "What a terrible face!" "It isn't mine," I replied meekly. "My own face is beneath these excrescences. I tried to cover the bump on my forehead with French chalk, but it only accentuated the thing, like snow on a mountain top." "'The purple peaks of Darien,'" she quoted, pouring me my coffee. "Do you know, I feel so much better since you have taken hold of things. Aunt Letitia thinks you are wonderful." I thought ruefully of the failure of my first attempt to play the sleuth, and I disclaimed any right to Miss Letitia's high opinion of me. From my dogging the watchman to the police station, to Delia and her note, was a short mental step. "Before any one comes down, Miss Fleming," I said, "I want to ask a question or two. What was the name of the maid who helped you search the house that night?" "Annie." "What other maids did you say there were?" "Delia and Rose." "Do you know anything about them? Where they came from, or where they went?" She smiled a little. "What does one know about new servants?" she responded. "They bring you references, but references are the price most women pay to get rid of their servants without a fuss. Rose was fat and old, but Delia was pretty. I thought she rather liked Carter." Carter as well as Shields, the policeman. I put Miss Delia down as a flirt. "And you have no idea where Carter went?" "None." Wardrop came in then, and we spoke of other things. The two elderly ladies it seemed had tea and toast in their rooms when they wakened, and the three of us breakfasted together. But conversation languished with Wardrop's appearance; he looked haggard and worn, avoided Miss Fleming's eyes, and after ordering eggs instead of his chop, looked at his watch and left without touching anything. "I want to get the nine-thirty, Margie," he said, coming back with his hat in his hand. "I may not be out to dinner. Tell Miss Letitia, will you?" He turned to go, but on second thought came back to me and held out his hand. "I may not see you again," he began. "Not if I see you first," I interrupted. He glanced at my mutilated features and smiled. "I have made you a Maitland," he said. "I didn't think that anything but a prodigal Nature could duplicate Miss Letitia's nose! I'm honestly sorry, Mr. Knox, and if you do not want Miss Jane at that bump with a cold silver knife and some butter, you'd better duck before she comes down. Good-by, Margie." I think the girl was as much baffled as I was by the change in his manner when he spoke to her. His smile faded and he hardly met her eyes: I thought that his aloofness puzzled rather than hurt her. When the house door had closed behind him, she dropped her chin in her hand and looked across the table. "You did not tell me the truth last night, Mr. Knox," she said. "I have never seen Harry look like that. Something has happened to him." "He was robbed of his traveling-bag," I explained, on Fred's theory that half a truth is better than a poor lie. "It's a humiliating experience, I believe. A man will throw away thousands, or gamble them away, with more equanimity than he'll see some one making off with his hair brushes or his clean collars." "His traveling-bag!" she repeated scornfully. "Mr. Knox, something has happened to my father, and you and Harry are hiding it from me." "On my honor, it is nothing of the sort," I hastened to assure her. "I saw him for only a few minutes, just long enough for him to wreck my appearance." "He did not speak of father?" "No." She got up and crossing to the wooden mantel, put her arms upon it and leaned her head against them. "I wanted to ask him," she said drearily, "but I am afraid to. Suppose he doesn't know and I should tell him! He would go to Mr. Schwartz at once, and Mr. Schwartz is treacherous. The papers would get it, too." Her eyes filled with tears, and I felt as awkward as a man always does when a woman begins to cry. If he knows her well enough he can go over and pat her on the shoulder and assure her it is going to be all right. If he does not know her, and there are two maiden aunts likely to come in at any minute, he sits still, as I did, and waits until the storm clears. Miss Margery was not long in emerging from her handkerchief. "I didn't sleep much," she explained, dabbing at her eyes, "and I am nervous, anyhow. Mr. Knox, are you sure it was only Harry trying to get into the house last night?" "Only Harry," I repeated. "If Mr. Wardrop's attempt to get into the house leaves me in this condition, what would a real burglar have done to me!" She was too intent to be sympathetic over my disfigured face. "There was some one moving about up-stairs not long before I came down," she said slowly. "You heard me; I almost fell down the stairs." "Did you brush past my door, and strike the knob?" she demanded. "No, I was not near any door." "Very well," triumphantly. "Some one did. Not only that, but they were in the store-room on the floor above. I could hear one person and perhaps two, going from one side of the room to the other and back again." "You heard a goblin quadrille. First couple forward and back," I said facetiously. "I heard real footsteps--unmistakable ones. The maids sleep back on the second floor, and--don't tell me it was rats. There are no rats in my Aunt Letitia's house." I was more impressed than I cared to show. I found I had a half hour before train time, and as we were neither of us eating anything, I suggested that we explore the upper floor of the house. I did it, I explained, not because I expected to find anything, but because I was sure we would not. We crept past the two closed doors behind which the ladies Maitland were presumably taking out their crimps and taking in their tea. Then up a narrow, obtrusively clean stairway to the upper floor. It was an old-fashioned, sloping-roofed attic, with narrow windows and a bare floor. At one end a door opened into a large room, and in there were the family trunks of four generations of Maitlands. One on another they were all piled there--little hair trunks, squab-topped trunks, huge Saratogas--of the period when the two maiden ladies were in their late teens--and there were handsome, modern trunks, too. For Miss Fleming's satisfaction I made an examination of the room, but it showed nothing. There was little or no dust to have been disturbed; the windows were closed and locked. In the main attic were two step-ladders, some curtains drying on frames and an old chest of drawers with glass knobs and the veneering broken in places. One of the drawers stood open, and inside could be seen a red and white patchwork quilt, and a grayish thing that looked like flannel and smelled to heaven of camphor. We gave up finally, and started down. Part way down the attic stairs Margery stopped, her eyes fixed on the white-scrubbed rail. Following her gaze, I stopped, too, and I felt a sort of chill go over me. No spot or blemish, no dirty finger print marked the whiteness of that stair rail, except in one place. On it, clear and distinct, every line of the palm showing, was the reddish imprint of a hand! Margery did not speak; she had turned very white, and closed her eyes, but she was not faint. When the first revulsion had passed, I reached over and touched the stain. It was quite dry, of course, but it was still reddish-brown; another hour or two would see it black. It was evidently fresh--Hunter said afterward it must have been about six hours old, and as things transpired, he was right. The stain showed a hand somewhat short and broad, with widened finger-tips; marked in ink, it would not have struck me so forcibly, perhaps, but there, its ugly red against the white wood, it seemed to me to be the imprint of a brutal, murderous hand. Margery was essentially feminine. "What did I tell you?" she asked. "Some one was in this house last night; I heard them distinctly. There must have been two, and they quarreled--" she shuddered. We went on down-stairs into the quiet and peace of the dining-room again. I got some hot coffee for Margery, for she looked shaken, and found I had missed my train. "I am beginning to think I am being pursued by a malicious spirit," she said, trying to smile. "I came away from home because people got into the house at night and left queer signs of their visits, and now, here at Bellwood, where nothing _ever_ happens, the moment I arrive things begin to occur. And--just as it was at home--the house was so well locked last night." I did not tell her of the open hall door, just as I had kept from her the fact that only the contents of Harry Wardrop's bag had been taken. That it had all been the work of one person, and that that person, having in some way access to the house, had also stolen the pearls, was now my confident belief. I looked at Bella--the maid--as she moved around the dining-room; her stolid face was not even intelligent; certainly not cunning. Heppie, the cook and only other servant, was partly blind and her horizon was the diameter of her largest kettle. No--it had not been a servant, this mysterious intruder who passed the Maitland silver on the sideboard without an attempt to take it, and who floundered around an attic at night, in search of nothing more valuable than patchwork quilts and winter flannels. It is strange to look back and think how quietly we sat there; that we could see nothing but burglary--or an attempt at it--in what we had found. It must have been after nine o'clock when Bella came running into the room. Ordinarily a slow and clumsy creature, she almost flew. She had a tray in her hand, and the dishes were rattling and threatening overthrow at every step. She brought up against a chair, and a cup went flying. The breaking of a cup must have been a serious offense in Miss Letitia Maitland's house, but Bella took no notice whatever of it. "Miss Jane," she gasped, "Miss Jane, she's--she's--" "Hurt!" Margery exclaimed, rising and clutching at the table for support. "No. Gone--she's gone! She's been run off with!" "Nonsense!" I said, seeing Margery's horrified face. "Don't come in here with such a story. If Miss Jane is not in her room, she is somewhere else, that's all." Bella stooped and gathered up the broken cup, her lips moving. Margery had recovered herself. She made Bella straighten and explain. "Do you mean--she is not in her room?" she asked incredulously. "Isn't she somewhere around the house?" "Go up and look at the room," the girl replied, and, with Margery leading, we ran up the stairs. Miss Jane's room was empty. From somewhere near Miss Letitia could be heard lecturing Hepsibah about putting too much butter on the toast. Her high voice, pitched for Heppie's old ears, rasped me. Margery closed the door, and we surveyed the room together. The bed had been occupied; its coverings had been thrown back, as if its occupant had risen hurriedly. The room itself was in a state of confusion; a rocker lay on its side, and Miss Jane's clothing, folded as she had taken it off, had slid off on to the floor. Her shoes stood neatly at the foot of the bed, and a bottle of toilet vinegar had been upset, pouring a stream over the marble top of the dresser and down on to the floor. Over the high wooden mantel the Maitland who had been governor of the state years ago hung at a waggish angle, and a clock had been pushed aside and stopped at half-past one. Margery stared around her in bewilderment. Of course, it was not until later in the day that I saw all the details. My first impression was of confusion and disorder: the room seemed to have been the scene of a struggle. The overturned furniture, the clothes on the floor, the picture, coupled with the print of the hand on the staircase and Miss Jane's disappearance, all seemed to point to one thing. And as if to prove it conclusively, Margery picked up Miss Jane's new lace cap from the floor. It was crumpled and spotted with blood. "She has been killed," Margery said, in a choking voice. "Killed, and she had not an enemy in the world!" "But where is she?" I asked stupidly. Margery had more presence of mind than I had; I suppose it is because woman's courage is mental and man's physical, that in times of great strain women always make the better showing. While I was standing in the middle of the room, staring at the confusion around me, Margery was already on her knees, looking under the high, four-post bed. Finding nothing there she went to the closet. It was undisturbed. Pathetic rows of limp black dresses and on the shelves two black crepe bonnets were mute reminders of the little old lady. But there was nothing else in the room. "Call Robert, the gardener," Margery said quickly, "and have him help you search the grounds and cellars. I will take Bella and go through the house. Above everything, keep it from Aunt Letitia as long as possible." I locked the door into the disordered room, and with my head whirling, I went to look for Robert. It takes a short time to search an acre of lawn and shrubbery. There was no trace of the missing woman anywhere outside the house, and from Bella, as she sat at the foot of the front stairs with her apron over her head, I learned in a monosyllable that nothing had been found in the house. Margery was with Miss Letitia, and from the excited conversation I knew she was telling her--not harrowing details, but that Miss Jane had disappeared during the night. The old lady was inclined to scoff at first. "Look in the fruit closet in the store-room," I heard her say. "She's let the spring lock shut on her twice; she was black in the face the last time we found her." "I did look; she's not there," Margery screamed at her. "Then she's out looking for stump water to take that wart off her neck. She said yesterday she was going for some." "But her clothes are all here," Margery persisted. "We think some one must have got in the house." "If all her clothes are there she's been sleep-walking," Miss Letitia said calmly. "We used to have to tie her by a cord around her ankle and fasten it to the bedpost. When she tried to get up the cord would pull and wake her." I think after a time, however, some of Margery's uneasiness communicated itself to the older woman. She finished dressing, and fumed when we told her we had locked Miss Jane's door and mislaid the key. Finally, Margery got her settled in the back parlor with some peppermints and her knitting; she had a feeling, she said, that Jane had gone after the stump water and lost her way, and I told Margery to keep her in that state of mind as long as she could. I sent for Hunter that morning and he came at three o'clock. I took him through the back entrance to avoid Miss Letitia. I think he had been skeptical until I threw open the door and showed him the upset chair, the old lady's clothing, and the bloodstained lace cap. His examination was quick and thorough. He took a crumpled sheet of note paper out of the waste-basket and looked at it, then he stuffed it in his pocket. He sniffed the toilet water, called Margery and asked her if any clothing was missing, and on receiving a negative answer asked if any shawls or wraps were gone from the halls or other rooms. Margery reported nothing missing. Before he left the room, Hunter went back and moved the picture which had been disturbed over the mantel. What he saw made him get a chair and, standing on it, take the picture from its nail. Thus exposed, the wall showed an opening about a foot square, and perhaps eighteen inches deep. A metal door, opening in, was unfastened and ajar, and just inside was a copy of a recent sentimental novel and a bottle of some sort of complexion cream. In spite of myself, I smiled; it was so typical of the dear old lady, with the heart of a girl and a skin that was losing its roses. But there was something else in the receptacle, something that made Margery Fleming draw in her breath sharply, and made Hunter raise his eyebrows a little and glance at me. The something was a scrap of unruled white paper, and on it the figures eleven twenty-two! CHAPTER VI A FOUNTAIN PEN Harry Wardrop came back from the city at four o'clock, while Hunter was in the midst of his investigation. I met him in the hall and told him what had happened, and with this new apprehension added to the shock of the night before, he looked as though his nerves were ready to snap. Wardrop was a man of perhaps twenty-seven, as tall as I, although not so heavy, with direct blue eyes and fair hair; altogether a manly and prepossessing sort of fellow. I was not surprised that Margery Fleming had found him attractive--he had the blond hair and off-hand manner that women seem to like. I am dark, myself. He seemed surprised to find Hunter there, and not particularly pleased, but he followed us to the upper floor and watched silently while Hunter went over the two rooms. Beside the large chest of drawers in the main attic Hunter found perhaps half a dozen drops of blood, and on the edge of the open drawer there were traces of more. In the inner room two trunks had been moved out nearly a foot, as he found by the faint dust that had been under them. With the stain on the stair rail, that was all he discovered, and it was little enough. Then he took out his note-book and there among the trunks we had a little seance of our own, in which Hunter asked questions, and whoever could do so answered them. "Have you a pencil or pen, Mr. Knox?" he asked me, but I had none. Wardrop felt his pockets, with no better success. "I have lost my fountain pen somewhere around the house to-day," he said irritably. "Here's a pencil--not much of one." Hunter began his interrogations. "How old was Miss Maitland--Miss Jane, I mean?" "Sixty-five," from Margery. "She had always seemed rational? Not eccentric, or childish?" "Not at all; the sanest woman I ever knew." This from Wardrop. "Has she ever, to your knowledge, received any threatening letters?" "Never in all her life," from both of them promptly. "You heard sounds, you say, Miss Fleming. At what time?" "About half-past one or perhaps a few minutes later. The clock struck two while I was still awake and nervous." "This person who was walking through the attics here--would you say it was a heavy person? A man, I mean?" Margery stopped to think. "Yes," she said finally. "It was very stealthy, but I think it was a man's step." "You heard no sound of a struggle? No voices? No screams?" "None at all," she said positively. And I added my quota. "There could have been no such sounds," I said. "I sat in my room and smoked until a quarter to two. I heard nothing until then, when I heard Mr. Wardrop trying to get into the house. I went down to admit him, and--I found the front door open about an inch." Hunter wheeled on Wardrop. "A quarter to two?" he asked. "You were coming home from--the city?" "Yes, from the station." Hunter watched him closely. "The last train gets in here at twelve-thirty," he said slowly. "Does it always take you an hour and a quarter to walk the three squares to the house?" Wardrop flushed uneasily, and I could see Margery's eyes dilate with amazement. As for me, I could only stare. "I did not come directly home," he said, almost defiantly. Hunter's voice was as smooth as silk. "Then--will you be good enough to tell me where you did go?" he asked. "I have reasons for wanting to know." "Damn your reasons--I beg your pardon, Margery. Look here, Mr. Hunter, do you think I would hurt a hair of that old lady's head? Do you think I came here last night and killed her, or whatever it is that has happened to her? And then went out and tried to get in again through the window?" "Not necessarily," Hunter said, unruffled. "It merely occurred to me that we have at least an hour of your time last night, while this thing was going on, to account for. However, we can speak of that later. I am practically certain of one thing, Miss Maitland is not dead, or was not dead when she was taken away from this house." "Taken away!" Margery repeated. "Then you think she was kidnapped?" "Well, it is possible. It's a puzzling affair all through. You are certain there are no closets or unused rooms where, if there had been a murder, the body could be concealed." "I never heard of any," Margery said, but I saw Wardrop's face change on the instant. He said nothing, however, but stood frowning at the floor, with his hands deep in his coat pockets. Margery was beginning to show the effect of the long day's strain; she began to cry a little, and with an air of proprietorship that I resented, somehow, Wardrop went over to her. "You are going to lie down, Margery," he said, holding out his hand to help her up. "Mrs. Mellon will come over to Aunt Letitia, and you must get some sleep." "Sleep!" she said with scorn, as he helped her to her feet. "Sleep, when things like this are occurring! Father first, and now dear old Aunt Jane! Harry, do you know where my father is?" He faced her, as if he had known the question must come and was prepared for it. "I know that he is all right, Margery. He has been--out of town. If it had not been for something unforeseen that--happened within the last few hours, he would have been home to-day." She drew a long breath of relief. "And Aunt Jane?" she asked Hunter, from the head of the attic stairs, "you do not think she is dead?" "Not until we have found something more," he answered tactlessly. "It's like where there's smoke there's fire; where there's murder there's a body." When they had both gone, Hunter sat down on a trunk and drew out a cigar that looked like a bomb. "What do you think of it?" I asked, when he showed no disposition to talk. "I'll be damned if I know," he responded, looking around for some place to expectorate and finding none. "The window," I suggested, and he went over to it. When he came back he had a rather peculiar expression. He sat down and puffed for a moment. "In the first place," he began, "we can take it for granted that, unless she was crazy or sleep-walking, she didn't go out in her night-clothes, and there's nothing of hers missing. She wasn't taken in a carriage, providing she was taken at all. There's not a mark of wheels on that drive newer than a week, and besides, you say you heard nothing." "Nothing," I said positively. "Then, unless she went away in a balloon, where it wouldn't matter what she had on, she is still around the premises. It depends on how badly she was hurt." "Are you sure it was she who was hurt?" I asked. "That print of a hand--that is not Miss Jane's." In reply Hunter led the way down the stairs to the place where the stain on the stair rail stood out, ugly and distinct. He put his own heavy hand on the rail just below it. "Suppose," he said, "suppose you grip something very hard, what happens to your hand?" "It spreads," I acknowledged, seeing what he meant. "Now, look at that stain. Look at the short fingers--why, it's a child's hand beside mine. The breadth is from pressure. It might be figured out this way. The fingers, you notice, point down the stairs. In some way, let us say, the burglar, for want of a better name, gets into the house. He used a ladder resting against that window by the chest of drawers." "Ladder!" I exclaimed. "Yes, there is a pruning ladder there. Now then--he comes down these stairs, and he has a definite object. He knows of something valuable in that cubby hole over the mantel in Miss Jane's room. How does he get in? The door into the upper hall is closed and bolted, but the door into the bath-room is open. From there another door leads into the bedroom, and it has no bolt--only a key. That kind of a lock is only a three-minutes delay, or less. Now then, Miss Maitland was a light sleeper. When she wakened she was too alarmed to scream; she tried to get to the door and was intercepted. Finally she got out the way the intruder got in, and ran along the hall. Every door was locked. In a frenzy she ran up the attic stairs and was captured up there. Which bears out Miss Margery's story of the footsteps back and forward." "Good heavens, what an awful thing!" I gasped. "And I was sitting smoking just across the hall." "He brings her down the stairs again, probably half dragging her. Once, she catches hold of the stair rail, and holds desperately to it, leaving the stain here." "But why did he bring her down?" I asked bewildered. "Why wouldn't he take what he was after and get away?" Hunter smoked and meditated. "She probably had to get the key of the iron door," he suggested. "It was hidden, and time was valuable. If there was a scapegrace member of the family, for instance, who knew where the old lady kept money, and who needed it badly; who knew all about the house, and who--" "Fleming!" I exclaimed, aghast. "Or even our young friend, Wardrop," Hunter said quietly. "He has an hour to account for. The trying to get in may have been a blind, and how do you know that what he says was stolen out of his satchel was not what he had just got from the iron box over the mantel in Miss Maitland's room?" I was dizzy with trying to follow Hunter's facile imagination. The thing we were trying to do was to find the old lady, and, after all, here we brought up against the same _impasse_. "Then where is she now?" I asked. He meditated. He had sat down on the narrow stairs, and was rubbing his chin with a thoughtful forefinger. "One-thirty, Miss Margery says, when she heard the noise. One-forty-five when you heard Wardrop at the shutters. I tell you, Knox, it is one of two things: either that woman is dead somewhere in this house, or she ran out of the hall door just before you went down-stairs, and in that case the Lord only knows where she is. If there is a room anywhere that we have not explored--" "I am inclined to think there is," I broke in, thinking of Wardrop's face a few minutes before. And just then Wardrop himself joined us. He closed the door at the foot of the boxed-in staircase, and came quietly up. "You spoke about an unused room or a secret closet, Mr. Hunter," he said, without any resentment in his tone. "We have nothing so sensational as that, but the old house is full of queer nooks and crannies, and perhaps, in one of them, we might find--" he stopped and gulped. Whatever Hunter might think, whatever I might have against Harry Wardrop, I determined then that he had had absolutely nothing to do with little Miss Maitland's strange disappearance. The first place we explored was a closed and walled-in wine-cellar, long unused, and to which access was gained by a small window in the stone foundation of the house. The cobwebs over the window made it practically an impossible place, but we put Robert, the gardener, through it, in spite of his protests. "There's nothin' there, I tell you," he protested, with one leg over the coping. "God only knows what's down there, after all these years. I've been livin' here with the Miss Maitlands for twenty year, and I ain't never been put to goin' down into cellars on the end of a rope." He went, because we were three to his one, but he was up again in sixty seconds, with the announcement that the place was as bare as the top of his head. We moved every trunk in the store-room, although it would have been a moral impossibility for any one to have done it the night before without rousing the entire family, and were thus able to get to and open a large closet, which proved to contain neatly tied and labeled packages of religious weeklies, beginning in the sixties. The grounds had been gone over inch by inch, without affording any clue, and now the three of us faced one another. The day was almost gone, and we were exactly where we started. Hunter had sent men through the town and the adjacent countryside, but no word had come from them. Miss Letitia had at last succumbed to the suspense and had gone to bed, where she lay quietly enough, as is the way with the old, but so mild that she was alarming. At five o'clock Hawes called me up from the office and almost tearfully implored me to come back and attend to my business. When I said it was impossible, I could hear him groan as he hung up the receiver. Hawes is of the opinion that by keeping fresh magazines in my waiting-room and by persuading me to the extravagance of Turkish rugs, that he has built my practice to its present flourishing state. When I left the telephone, Hunter was preparing to go back to town and Wardrop was walking up and down the hall. Suddenly Wardrop stopped his uneasy promenade and hailed the detective on his way to the door. "By George," he exclaimed, "I forgot to show you the closet under the attic stairs!" We hurried up and Wardrop showed us the panel in the hall, which slid to one side when he pushed a bolt under the carpet. The blackness of the closet was horrible in its suggestion to me. I stepped back while Hunter struck a match and looked in. The closet was empty. "Better not go in," Wardrop said. "It hasn't been used for years and it's black with dust. I found it myself and showed it to Miss Jane. I don't believe Miss Letitia knows it is here." "It hasn't been used for years!" reflected Hunter, looking around him curiously. "I suppose it has been some time since you were in here, Mr. Wardrop?" "Several years," Wardrop replied carelessly. "I used to keep contraband here in my college days, cigarettes and that sort of thing. I haven't been in it since then." Hunter took his foot off a small object that lay on the floor, and picking it up, held it out to Wardrop, with a grim smile. "Here is the fountain pen you lost this morning, Mr. Wardrop," he said quietly. CHAPTER VII CONCERNING MARGERY When Hunter had finally gone at six o'clock, summoned to town on urgent business, we were very nearly where we had been before he came. He could only give us theories, and after all, what we wanted was fact--and Miss Jane. Many things, however, that he had unearthed puzzled me. Why had Wardrop lied about so small a matter as his fountain pen? The closet was empty: what object could he have had in saying he had not been in it for years? I found that my belief in his sincerity of the night before was going. If he had been lying then, I owed him something for a lump on my head that made it difficult for me to wear my hat. It would have been easy enough for him to rob himself, and, if he had an eye for the theatrical, to work out just some such plot. It was even possible that he had hidden for a few hours in the secret closet the contents of the Russia leather bag. But, whatever Wardrop might or might not be, he gave me little chance to find out, for he left the house before Hunter did that afternoon, and it was later, and under strange circumstances, that I met him again. Hunter had not told me what was on the paper he had picked out of the basket in Miss Jane's room, and I knew he was as much puzzled as I at the scrap in the little cupboard, with eleven twenty-two on it. It occurred to me that it might mean the twenty-second day of the eleventh month, perhaps something that had happened on some momentous, long-buried twenty-second of November. But this was May, and the finding of two slips bearing the same number was too unusual. After Hunter left I went back to the closet under the upper stairs, and with some difficulty got the panel open again. The space inside, perhaps eight feet high at one end and four at the other, was empty. There was a row of hooks, as if at some time clothing had been hung there, and a flat shelf at one end, gray with dust. I struck another match and examined the shelf. On its surface were numerous scratchings in the dust layer, but at one end, marked out as if drawn on a blackboard, was a rectangular outline, apparently that of a smallish box, and fresh. My match burned my fingers and I dropped it to the floor, where it expired in a sickly blue flame. At the last, however, it died heroically--like an old man to whom his last hours bring back some of the glory of his prime, burning brightly for a second and then fading into darkness. The last flash showed me, on the floor of the closet and wedged between two boards, a small white globule. It did not need another match to tell me it was a pearl. I dug it out carefully and took it to my room. In the daylight there I recognized it as an unstrung pearl of fair size and considerable value. There could hardly be a doubt that I had stumbled on one of the stolen gems; but a pearl was only a pearl to me, after all. I didn't feel any of the inspirations which fiction detectives experience when they happen on an important clue. I lit a cigar and put the pearl on the table in front of me. But no explanation formed itself in the tobacco smoke. If Wardrop took the pearls, I kept repeating over and over, if Wardrop took the pearls, who took Miss Jane? I tried to forget the pearls, and to fathom the connection between Miss Maitland's disappearance and the absence of her brother-in-law. The scrap of paper, eleven twenty-two, must connect them, but how? A family scandal? Dismissed on the instant. There could be nothing that would touch the virginal remoteness of that little old lady. Insanity? Well, Miss Jane might have had a sudden aberration and wandered away, but that would leave Fleming out, and the paper dragged him in. A common enemy? I smoked and considered for some time over this. An especially malignant foe might rob, or even murder, but it was almost ludicrous to think of his carrying away by force Miss Jane's ninety pounds of austere flesh. The solution, had it not been for the blood-stains, might have been a peaceful one, leaving out the pearls, altogether, but later developments showed that the pearls refused to be omitted. To my mind, however, at that time, the issue seemed a double one. I believed that some one, perhaps Harry Wardrop, had stolen the pearls, hidden them in the secret closet, and disposed of them later. I made a note to try to follow up the missing pearls. Then--I clung to the theory that Miss Maitland had been abducted and was being held for ransom. If I could have found traces of a vehicle of any sort near the house, I would almost have considered my contention proved. That any one could have entered the house, intimidated and even slightly injured the old lady, and taken her quietly out the front door, while I sat smoking in my room with the window open, and Wardrop trying the shutters at the side of the house, seemed impossible. Yet there were the stains, the confusion, the open front door to prove it. But--and I stuck here--the abductor who would steal an old woman, and take her out into the May night without any covering--not even shoes--clad only in her night-clothes, would run an almost certain risk of losing his prize by pneumonia. For a second search had shown not an article of wearing apparel missing from the house. Even the cedar chests were undisturbed; not a blanket was gone. Just before dinner I made a second round of the grounds, this time looking for traces of wheels. I found none near-by, and it occurred to me that the boldest highwayman would hardly drive up to the door for his booty. When I had extended my search to cover the unpaved lane that separated the back of the Maitland place from its nearest neighbor, I was more fortunate. The morning delivery wagons had made fresh trails, and at first I despaired. I sauntered up the lane to the right, however, and about a hundred feet beyond the boundary hedge I found circular tracks, broad and deep, where an automobile had backed and turned. The lane was separated by high hedges of osage orange from the properties on either side, and each house in that neighborhood had a drive of its own, which entered from the main street, circled the house and went out as it came. There was no reason, or, so far as I could see, no legitimate reason, why a car should have stopped there, yet it had stopped and for some time. Deeper tracks in the sand at the side of the lane showed that. I felt that I had made some progress: I had found where the pearls had been hidden after the theft, and this put Bella out of the question. And I had found--or thought I had--the way in which Miss Jane had been taken away from Bellwood. I came back past the long rear wing of the house which contained, I presumed, the kitchen and the other mysterious regions which only women and architects comprehend. A long porch ran the length of the wing, and as I passed I heard my name called. "In here in the old laundry," Margery's voice repeated, and I retraced my steps and went up on the porch. At the very end of the wing, dismantled, piled at the sides with firewood and broken furniture, was an old laundry. Its tubs were rusty, its walls mildewed and streaked, and it exhaled the musty odor of empty houses. On the floor in the middle of the room, undeniably dirty and dishevelled, sat Margery Fleming. "I thought you were never coming," she said petulantly. "I have been here alone for an hour." "I'm sure I never guessed it," I apologized. "I should have been only too glad to come and sit with you." She was fumbling with her hair, which threatened to come down any minute, and which hung, loosely knotted, over one small ear. "I hate to look ridiculous," she said sharply, "and I detest being laughed at. I've been crying, and I haven't any handkerchief." I proffered mine gravely, and she took it. She wiped the dusty streaks off her cheeks and pinned her hair in a funny knob on top of her head that would have made any other woman look like a caricature. But still she sat on the floor. "Now," she said, when she had jabbed the last hair-pin into place and tucked my handkerchief into her belt, "if you have been sufficiently amused, perhaps you will help me out of here." "Out of where?" "Do you suppose I'm sitting here because I like it?" "You have sprained your ankle," I said, with sudden alarm. In reply she brushed aside her gown, and for the first time I saw what had occurred. She was sitting half over a trap-door in the floor, which had closed on her skirts and held her fast. "The wretched thing!" she wailed. "And I have called until I am hoarse. I could shake Heppie! Then I tried to call you mentally. I fixed my mind on you and said over and over, 'Come, please come.' Didn't you feel anything at all?" "Good old trap-door!" I said. "I know I was thinking about you, but I never suspected the reason. And then to have walked past here twenty minutes ago! Why didn't you call me then?" I was tugging at the door, but it was fast, with the skirts to hold it tight. "I looked such a fright," she explained. "Can't you pry it up with something?" I tried several things without success, while Margery explained her plight. "I was sure Robert had not looked carefully in the old wine cellar," she said, "and then I remembered this trap-door opened into it. It was the only place we hadn't explored thoroughly. I put a ladder down and looked around. Ugh!" "What did you find?" I asked, as my third broomstick lever snapped. "Nothing--only I know now where Aunt Letitia's Edwin Booth went to. He was a cat," she explained, "and Aunt Letitia made the railroad pay for killing him." I gave up finally and stood back. "Couldn't you--er--get out of your garments, and--I could go out and close the door," I suggested delicately. "You see you are sitting on the trap-door, and--" But Margery scouted the suggestion with the proper scorn, and demanded a pair of scissors. She cut herself loose with vicious snips, while I paraphrased the old nursery rhyme, "She cut her petticoats all around about." Then she gathered up her outraged garments and fled precipitately. She was unusually dignified at dinner. Neither of us cared to eat, and the empty places--Wardrop's and Miss Letitia's--Miss Jane's had not been set--were like skeletons at the board. It was Margery who, after our pretense of a meal, voiced the suspicion I think we both felt. "It is a strange time for Harry to go away," she said quietly, from the library window. "He probably has a reason." "Why don't you say it?" she said suddenly, turning on me. "I know what you think. You believe he only pretended he was robbed!" "I should be sorry to think anything of the kind," I began. But she did not allow me to finish. "I saw what you thought," she burst out bitterly. "The detective almost laughed in his face. Oh, you needn't think I don't know: I saw him last night, and the woman too. He brought her right to the gate. You treat me like a child, all of you!" In sheer amazement I was silent. So a new character had been introduced into the play--a woman, too! "You were not the only person, Mr. Knox, who could not sleep last night," she went on. "Oh, I know a great many things. I know about the pearls, and what you think about them, and I know more than that, I--" She stopped then. She had said more than she intended to, and all at once her bravado left her, and she looked like a frightened child. I went over to her and took one trembling hand. "I wish you didn't know all those things," I said. "But since you do, won't you let me share the burden? The only reason I am still here is--on your account." I had a sort of crazy desire to take her in my arms and comfort her, Wardrop or no Wardrop. But at that moment, luckily for me, perhaps, Miss Letitia's shrill old voice came from the stairway. "Get out of my way, Heppie," she was saying tartly. "I'm not on my death-bed yet, not if I know it. Where's Knox?" Whereupon I obediently went out and helped Miss Letitia into the room. "I think I know where Jane is," she said, putting down her cane with a jerk. "I don't know why I didn't think about it before. She's gone to get her new teeth; she's been talkin' of it for a month. Not but what her old teeth would have done well enough." "She would hardly go in the middle of the night," I returned. "She was a very timid woman, wasn't she?" "She wasn't raised right," Miss Letitia said with a shake of her head. "She's the baby, and the youngest's always spoiled." "Have you thought that this might be more than it appears to be?" I was feeling my way: she was a very old woman. "It--for instance, it might be abduction, kidnapping--for a ransom." "Ransom!" Miss Letitia snapped. "Mr. Knox, my father made his money by working hard for it: I haven't wasted it--not that I know of. And if Jane Maitland was fool enough to be abducted, she'll stay a while before I pay anything for her. It looks to me as if this detective business was going to be expensive, anyhow." My excuse for dwelling with such attention to detail on the preliminary story, the disappearance of Miss Jane Maitland and the peculiar circumstances surrounding it, will have to find its justification in the events that followed it. Miss Jane herself, and the solution of that mystery, solved the even more tragic one in which we were about to be involved. I say _we_, because it was borne in on me at about that time, that the things that concerned Margery Fleming must concern me henceforth, whether I willed it so or otherwise. For the first time in my life a woman's step on the stair was like no other sound in the world. CHAPTER VIII TOO LATE At nine o'clock that night things remained about the same. The man Hunter had sent to investigate the neighborhood and the country just outside of the town, came to the house about eight, and reported "nothing discovered." Miss Letitia went to bed early, and Margery took her up-stairs. Hunter called me by telephone from town. "Can you take the nine-thirty up?" he asked. I looked at my watch. "Yes, I think so. Is there anything new?" "Not yet; there may be. Take a cab at the station and come to the corner of Mulberry Street and Park Lane. You'd better dismiss your cab there and wait for me." I sent word up-stairs by Bella, who was sitting in the kitchen, her heavy face sodden with grief, and taking my hat and raincoat--it was raining a light spring drizzle--I hurried to the station. In twenty-four minutes I was in the city, and perhaps twelve minutes more saw me at the designated corner, with my cab driving away and the rain dropping off the rim of my hat and splashing on my shoulders. I found a sort of refuge by standing under the wooden arch of a gate, and it occurred to me that, for all my years in the city, this particular neighborhood was altogether strange to me. Two blocks away, in any direction, I would have been in familiar territory again. Back of me a warehouse lifted six or seven gloomy stories to the sky. The gate I stood in was evidently the entrance to its yard, and in fact, some uncomfortable movement of mine just then struck the latch, and almost precipitated me backward by its sudden opening. Beyond was a yard full of shadowy wheels and packing cases; the street lights did not penetrate there, and with an uneasy feeling that almost anything, in this none too savory neighborhood, might be waiting there, I struck a match and looked at my watch. It was twenty minutes after ten. Once a man turned the corner and came toward me, his head down, his long ulster flapping around his legs. Confident that it was Hunter, I stepped out and touched him on the arm. He wheeled instantly, and in the light which shone on his face, I saw my error. "Excuse me," I mumbled, "I mistook my man." He went on again without speaking, only pulling his soft hat down lower over his face. I looked after him until he turned the next corner, and I knew I had not been mistaken; it was Wardrop. The next minute Hunter appeared, from the same direction, and we walked quickly together. I told him who the man just ahead had been, and he nodded without surprise. But before we turned the next corner he stopped. "Did you ever hear of the White Cat?" he asked. "Little political club?" "Never." "I'm a member of it," he went on rapidly. "It's run by the city ring, or rather it runs itself. Be a good fellow while you're there, and keep your eyes open. It's a queer joint." The corner we turned found us on a narrow, badly paved street. The broken windows of the warehouse still looked down on us, and across the street was an ice factory, with two deserted wagons standing along the curb. As well as I could see for the darkness, a lumber yard stretched beyond the warehouse, its piles of boards giving off in the rain the aromatic odor of fresh pine. At a gate in the fence beyond the warehouse Hunter stopped. It was an ordinary wooden gate and it opened with a thumb latch. Beyond stretched a long, narrow, brick-paved alleyway, perhaps three feet wide, and lighted by the merest glimmer of a light ahead. Hunter went on regardless of puddles in the brick paving, and I stumbled after him. As we advanced, I could see that the light was a single electric bulb, hung over a second gate. While Hunter fumbled for a key in his pocket, I had time to see that this gate had a Yale lock, was provided, at the side, with an electric bell button, and had a letter slot cut in it. Hunter opened the gate and preceded me through it. The gate swung to and clicked behind me. After the gloom of the passageway, the small brick-paved yard seemed brilliant with lights. Two wires were strung its length, dotted with many electric lamps. In a corner a striped tent stood out in grotesque relief; it seemed to be empty, and the weather was an easy explanation. From the two-story house beyond there came suddenly a burst of piano music and a none too steady masculine voice. Hunter turned to me, with his foot on the wooden steps. "Above everything else," he warned, "keep your temper. Nobody gives a hang in here whether you're the mayor of the town, the champion pool-player of the first ward, or the roundsman on the beat." The door at the top of the steps was also Yale-locked. We stepped at once into the kitchen, from which I imagined that the house faced on another street, and that for obvious reasons only its rear entrance was used. The kitchen was bright and clean; it was littered, however, with half-cut loaves of bread, glasses and empty bottles. Over the range a man in his shirt sleeves was giving his whole attention to a slice of ham, sizzling on a skillet, and at a table near-by a young fellow, with his hair cut in a barber's oval over the back of his neck, was spreading slices of bread and cheese with mustard. "How are you, Mr. Mayor?" Hunter said, as he shed his raincoat. "This is Mr. Knox, the man who's engineering the _Star-Eagle_ fight." The man over the range wiped one greasy hand and held it out to me. "The Cat is purring a welcome," he said, indicating the frying ham. "If my cooking turns out right I'll ask you to have some ham with me. I don't know why in thunder it gets black in the middle and won't cook around the edges." I recognized the mayor. He was a big fellow, handsome in a heavy way, and "Tommy" to every one who knew him. It seemed I was about to see my city government at play. Hunter was thoroughly at home. He took my coat and his own and hung them somewhere to dry. Then he went into a sort of pantry opening off the kitchen and came out with four bottles of beer. "We take care of ourselves here," he explained, as the newly barbered youth washed some glasses. "If you want a sandwich, there is cooked ham in the refrigerator and cheese--if our friend at the sink has left any." The boy looked up from his glasses. "It's rat-trap cheese, that stuff," he growled. "The other ran out an hour ago and didn't come back," put in the mayor, grinning. "You can kill that with mustard, if it's too lively." "Get some cigars, will you?" Hunter asked me. "They're on a shelf in the pantry. I have my hands full." I went for the cigars, remembering to keep my eyes open. The pantry was a small room: it contained an ice-box, stocked with drinkables, ham, eggs and butter. On shelves above were cards, cigars and liquors, and there, too, I saw a box with an indorsement which showed the "honor system" of the Cat Club. "Sign checks and drop here," it read, and I thought about the old adage of honor among thieves and politicians. When I came out with the cigars Hunter was standing with a group of new arrivals; they included one of the city physicians, the director of public charities and a judge of a local court. The latter, McFeely, a little, thin Irishman, knew me and accosted me at once. The mayor was busy over the range, and was almost purple with heat and unwonted anxiety. When the three new-comers went up-stairs, instead of going into the grill-room, I looked at Hunter. "Is this where the political game is played?" I asked. "Yes, if the political game is poker," he replied, and led the way into the room which adjoined the kitchen. No one paid any attention to us. Bare tables, a wooden floor, and almost as many cuspidors as chairs, comprised the furniture of the long room. In one corner was a battered upright piano, and there were two fireplaces with old-fashioned mantels. Perhaps a dozen men were sitting around, talking loudly, with much scraping of chairs on the bare floor. At one table they were throwing poker dice, but the rest were drinking beer and talking in a desultory way. At the piano a man with a red mustache was mimicking the sextette from _Lucia_ and a roar of applause met us as we entered the room. Hunter led the way to a corner and put down his bottles. "It's fairly quiet to-night," he said. "To-morrow's the big night--Saturday." "What time do they close up?" I asked. In answer Hunter pointed to a sign over the door. It was a card, neatly printed, and it said, "The White Cat never sleeps." "There are only two rules here," he explained. "That is one, and the other is, 'If you get too noisy, and the patrol wagon comes, make the driver take you home.'" The crowd was good-humored; it paid little or no attention to us, and when some one at the piano began to thump a waltz, Hunter, under cover of the noise, leaned over to me. "We traced Fleming here, through your corner-man and the cabby," he said carefully. "I haven't seen him, but it is a moral certainty he is skulking in one of the up-stairs rooms. His precious private secretary is here, too." I glanced around the room, but no one was paying any attention to us. "I don't know Fleming by sight," the detective went on, "and the pictures we have of him were taken a good while ago, when he wore a mustache. When he was in local politics, before he went to the legislature, he practically owned this place, paying for favors with membership tickets. A man could hide here for a year safely. The police never come here, and a man's business is his own." "He is up-stairs now?" "Yes. There are four rooms up there for cards, and a bath-room. It's an old dwelling house. Would Fleming know you?" "No, but of course Wardrop would." As if in answer to my objection, Wardrop appeared at that moment. He ran down the painted wooden stairs and hurried through the room without looking to right or left. The piano kept on, and the men at the tables were still engrossed with their glasses and one another. Wardrop was very pale; he bolted into a man at the door, and pushed him aside without ceremony. "You might go up now," Hunter said, rising. "I will see where the young gentleman is making for. Just open the door of the different rooms up-stairs, look around for Fleming, and if any one notices you, ask if Al Hunter is there. That will let you out." He left me then, and after waiting perhaps a minute, I went up-stairs alone. The second floor was the ordinary upper story of a small dwelling house. The doors were closed, but loud talking, smoke, and the rattle of chips floated out through open transoms. From below the noise of the piano came up the staircase, unmelodious but rhythmical, and from the street on which the house faced an automobile was starting its engine, with a series of shot-like explosions. The noise was confusing, disconcerting. I opened two doors, to find only the usual poker table, with the winners sitting quietly, their cards bunched in the palms of their hands, and the losers, growing more voluble as the night went on, buying chips recklessly, drinking more than they should. The atmosphere was reeking with smoke. The third door I opened was that of a dingy bath-room, with a zinc tub and a slovenly wash-stand. The next, however, was different. The light streamed out through the transom as in the other rooms, but there was no noise from within. With my hand on the door, I hesitated--then, with Hunter's injunction ringing in my ears, I opened it and looked in. A breath of cool night air from an open window met me. There was no noise, no smoke, no sour odor of stale beer. A table had been drawn to the center of the small room, and was littered with papers, pen and ink. At one corner was a tray, containing the remnants of a meal; a pillow and a pair of blankets on a couch at one side showed the room had been serving as a bedchamber. But none of these things caught my eye at first. At the table, leaning forward, his head on his arms, was a man. I coughed, and receiving no answer, stepped into the room. "I beg your pardon," I said, "but I am looking, for--" Then the truth burst on me, overwhelmed me. A thin stream was spreading over the papers on the table, moving slowly, sluggishly, as is the way with blood when the heart pump is stopped. I hurried over and raised the heavy, wobbling, gray head. It was Allan Fleming and he had been shot through the forehead. CHAPTER IX ONLY ONE EYE CLOSED My first impulse was to rouse the house; my second, to wait for Hunter. To turn loose that mob of half-drunken men in such a place seemed profanation. There was nothing of the majesty or panoply of death here, but the very sordidness of the surroundings made me resolve to guard the new dignity of that figure. I was shocked, of course; it would be absurd to say that I was emotionally unstrung. On the contrary, I was conscious of a distinct feeling of disappointment. Fleming had been our key to the Bellwood affair, and he had put himself beyond helping to solve any mystery. I locked the door and stood wondering what to do next. I should have called a doctor, no doubt, but I had seen enough of death to know that the man was beyond aid of any kind. It was not until I had bolted the door that I discovered the absence of any weapon. Everything that had gone before had pointed to a position so untenable that suicide seemed its natural and inevitable result. With the discovery that there was no revolver on the table or floor, the thing was more ominous. I decided at once to call the young city physician in the room across the hall, and with something approximating panic, I threw open the door--to face Harry Wardrop, and behind him, Hunter. I do not remember that any one spoke. Hunter jumped past me into the room and took in in a single glance what I had labored to acquire in three minutes. As Wardrop came in, Hunter locked the door behind him, and we three stood staring at the prostrate figure over the table. I watched Wardrop: I have never seen so suddenly abject a picture. He dropped into a chair, and feeling for his handkerchief, wiped his shaking lips; every particle of color left his face, and he was limp, unnerved. "Did you hear the shot?" Hunter asked me. "It has been a matter of minutes since it happened." "I don't know," I said, bewildered. "I heard a lot of explosions, but I thought it was an automobile, out in the street." Hunter was listening while he examined the room, peering under the table, lifting the blankets that had trailed off the couch on to the floor. Some one outside tried the door-knob, and finding the door locked, shook it slightly. "Fleming!" he called under his breath. "Fleming!" We were silent, in response to a signal from Hunter, and the steps retreated heavily down the hall. The detective spread the blankets decently over the couch, and the three of us moved the body there. Wardrop was almost collapsing. "Now," Hunter said quietly, "before I call in Doctor Gray from the room across, what do you know about this thing, Mr. Wardrop?" Wardrop looked dazed. "He was in a bad way when I left this morning," he said huskily. "There isn't much use now trying to hide anything; God knows I've done all I could. But he has been using cocaine for years, and to-day he ran out of the stuff. When I got here, about half an hour ago, he was on the verge of killing himself. I got the revolver from him--he was like a crazy man, and as soon as I dared to leave him, I went out to try and find a doctor--" "To get some cocaine?" "Yes." "Not--because he was already wounded, and you were afraid it was fatal?" Wardrop shuddered; then he pulled himself together, and his tone was more natural. "What's the use of lying about it?" he said wearily. "You won't believe me if I tell the truth, either, but--he was dead when I got here. I heard something like the bang of a door as I went up-stairs, but the noise was terrific down below, and I couldn't tell. When I went in, he was just dropping forward, and--" he hesitated. "The revolver?" Hunter queried, lynx-eyed. "Was in his hand. He was dead then." "Where is the revolver?" "I will turn it over to the coroner." "You will give it to me," Hunter replied sharply. And after a little fumbling, Wardrop produced it from his hip pocket. It was an ordinary thirty-eight. The detective opened it and glanced at it. Two chambers were empty. "And you waited--say ten minutes, before you called for help, and even then you went outside hunting a doctor! What were you doing in those ten minutes?" Wardrop shut his lips and refused to reply. "If Mr. Fleming shot himself," the detective pursued relentlessly, "there would be powder marks around the wound. Then, too, he was in the act of writing a letter. It was a strange impulse, this--you see, he had only written a dozen words." I glanced at the paper on the table. The letter had no superscription; it began abruptly: "I shall have to leave here. The numbers have followed me. To-night--" That was all. "This is not suicide," Hunter said gravely. "It is murder, and I warn you, Mr. Wardrop, to be careful what you say. Will you ask Doctor Gray to come in, Mr. Knox?" I went across the hall to the room where the noise was loudest. Fortunately, Doctor Gray was out of the game. He was opening a can of caviar at a table in the corner and came out in response to a gesture. He did not ask any questions, and I let him go into the death chamber unprepared. The presence of death apparently had no effect on him, but the identity of the dead man almost stupefied him. "Fleming!" he said, awed, as he looked down at the body. "Fleming, by all that's sacred! And a suicide!" Hunter watched him grimly. "How long has he been dead?" he asked. The doctor glanced at the bullet wound in the forehead, and from there significantly to the group around the couch. "Not an hour--probably less than half," he said. "It's strange we heard nothing, across the hall there." Hunter took a clean folded handkerchief from his pocket and opening it laid it gently over the dead face. I think it was a relief to all of us. The doctor got up from his kneeling posture beside the couch, and looked at Hunter inquiringly. "What about getting him away from here?" he said. "There is sure to be a lot of noise about it, and--you remember what happened when Butler killed himself here." "He was reported as being found dead in the lumber yard," Hunter said dryly. "Well, Doctor, this body stays where it is, and I don't give a whoop if the whole city government wants it moved. It won't be. This is murder, not suicide." The doctor's expression was curious. "Murder!" he repeated. "Why--who--" But Hunter had many things to attend to; he broke in ruthlessly on the doctor's amazement. "See if you can get the house empty, Doctor; just tell them he is dead--the story will get out soon enough." As the doctor left the room Hunter went to the open window, through which a fresh burst of rain was coming, and closed it. The window gave me an idea, and I went over and tried to see through the streaming pane. There was no shed or low building outside, but not five yards away the warehouse showed its ugly walls and broken windows. "Look here, Hunter," I said, "why could he not have been shot from the warehouse?" "He could have been--but he wasn't," Hunter affirmed, glancing at Wardrop's drooping figure. "Mr. Wardrop, I am going to send for the coroner, and then I shall ask you to go with me to the office and tell the chief what you know about this. Knox, will you telephone to the coroner?" In an incredibly short time the club-house was emptied, and before midnight the coroner himself arrived and went up to the room. As for me, I had breakfasted, lunched and dined on horrors, and I sat in the deserted room down-stairs and tried to think how I was to take the news to Margery. At twelve-thirty Wardrop, Hunter and the coroner came down-stairs, leaving a detective in charge of the body until morning, when it could be taken home. The coroner had a cab waiting, and he took us at once to Hunter's chief. He had not gone to bed, and we filed into his library sepulchrally. Wardrop told his story, but it was hardly convincing. The chief, a large man who said very little, and leaned back with his eyes partly shut, listened in silence, only occasionally asking a question. The coroner, who was yawning steadily, left in the middle of Wardrop's story, as if in his mind, at least, the guilty man was as good as hanged. "I am--I was--Mr. Allan Fleming's private secretary," Wardrop began. "I secured the position through a relationship on his wife's side. I have held the position for three years. Before that I read law. For some time I have known that Mr. Fleming used a drug of some kind. Until a week ago I did not know what it was. On the ninth of May, Mr. Fleming sent for me. I was in Plattsburg at the time, and he was at home. He was in a terrible condition--not sleeping at all, and he said he was being followed by some person who meant to kill him. Finally he asked me to get him some cocaine, and when he had taken it he was more like himself. I thought the pursuit was only in his own head. He had a man named Carter on guard in his house, and acting as butler. "There was trouble of some sort in the organization; I do not know just what. Mr. Schwartz came here to meet Mr. Fleming, and it seemed there was money needed. Mr. Fleming had to have it at once. He gave me some securities to take to Plattsburg and turn into money. I went on the tenth--" "Was that the day Mr. Fleming disappeared?" the chief interrupted. "Yes. He went to the White Cat, and stayed there. No one but the caretaker and one other man knew he was there. On the night of the twenty-first, I came back, having turned my securities into money. I carried it in a package in a small Russia leather bag that never left my hand for a moment. Mr. Knox here suggested that I had put it down, and it had been exchanged for one just like it, but I did not let it out of my hand on that journey until I put it down on the porch at the Bellwood house, while I tried to get in. I live at Bellwood, with the Misses Maitland, sisters of Mr. Fleming's deceased wife. I don't pretend to know how it happened, but while I was trying to get into the house it was rifled. Mr. Knox will bear me out in that. I found my grip empty." I affirmed it in a word. The chief was growing interested. "What was in the bag?" he asked. Wardrop tried to remember. "A pair of pajamas," he said, "two military brushes and a clothes-brush, two or three soft-bosomed shirts, perhaps a half-dozen collars, and a suit of underwear." "And all this was taken, as well as the money?" "The bag was left empty, except for my railroad schedule." The chief and Hunter exchanged significant glances. Then-- "Go on, if you please," the detective said cheerfully. I think Wardrop realized the absurdity of trying to make any one believe that part of the story. He shut his lips and threw up his head as if he intended to say nothing further. "Go on," I urged. If he could clear himself he must. I could not go back to Margery Fleming and tell her that her father had been murdered and her lover was accused of the crime. "The bag was empty," he repeated. "I had not been five minutes trying to open the shutters, and yet the bag had been rifled. Mr. Knox here found it among the flowers below the veranda, empty." The chief eyed me with awakened interest. "You also live at Bellwood, Mr. Knox?" "No, I am attorney to Miss Letitia Maitland, and was there one night as her guest. I found the bag as Mr. Wardrop described, empty." The chief turned back to Wardrop. "How much money was there in it when you--left it?" "A hundred thousand dollars. I was afraid to tell Mr. Fleming, but I had to do it. We had a stormy scene, this morning. I think he thought the natural thing--that I had taken it." "He struck you, I believe, and knocked you down?" asked Hunter smoothly. Wardrop flushed. "He was not himself; and, well, it meant a great deal to him. And he was out of cocaine; I left him raging, and when I went home I learned that Miss Jane Maitland had disappeared, been abducted, at the time my satchel had been emptied! It's no wonder I question my sanity." "And then--to-night?" the chief persisted. "To-night, I felt that some one would have to look after Mr. Fleming; I was afraid he would kill himself. It was a bad time to leave while Miss Jane was missing. But--when I got to the White Cat I found him dead. He was sitting with his back to the door, and his head on the table." "Was the revolver in his hand?" "Yes." "You are sure?" from Hunter. "Isn't it a fact, Mr. Wardrop, that you took Mr. Fleming's revolver from him this morning when he threatened you with it?" Wardrop's face twitched nervously. "You have been misinformed," he replied, but no one was impressed by his tone. It was wavering, uncertain. From Hunter's face I judged it had been a random shot, and had landed unexpectedly well. "How many people knew that Mr. Fleming had been hiding at the White Cat?" from the chief. "Very few--besides myself, only a man who looks after the club-house in the mornings, and Clarkson, the cashier of the Borough Bank, who met him there once by appointment." The chief made no comment. "Now, Mr. Knox, what about you?" "I opened the door into Mr. Fleming's room, perhaps a couple of minutes after Mr. Wardrop went out," I said. "He was dead then, leaning on his outspread arms over the table; he had been shot in the forehead." "You heard no shot while you were in the hall?" "There was considerable noise; I heard two or three sharp reports like the explosions of an automobile engine." "Did they seem close at hand?" "Not particularly; I thought, if I thought at all, that they were on the street." "You are right about the automobile," Hunter said dryly. "The mayor sent his car away as I left to follow Mr. Wardrop. The sounds you heard were not shots." "It is a strange thing," the chief reflected, "that a revolver could be fired in the upper room of an ordinary dwelling house, while that house was filled with people--and nobody hear it. Were there any powder marks on the body?" "None," Hunter said. The chief got up stiffly. "Thank you very much, gentlemen," he spoke quietly. "I think that is all. Hunter, I would like to see you for a few minutes." I think Wardrop was dazed at finding himself free; he had expected nothing less than an immediate charge of murder. As we walked to the corner for a car or cab, whichever materialized first, he looked back. "I thought so," he said bitterly. A man was loitering after us along the street. The police were not asleep, they had only closed one eye. The last train had gone. We took a night electric car to Wynton, and walked the three miles to Bellwood. Neither of us was talkative, and I imagine we were both thinking of Margery, and the news she would have to hear. It had been raining, and the roads were vile. Once Wardrop turned around to where we could hear the detective splashing along, well behind. "I hope he's enjoying it," he said. "I brought you by this road, so he'd have to wade in mud up to his neck." "The devil you did!" I exclaimed. "I'll have to be scraped with a knife before I can get my clothes off." We both felt better for the laugh; it was a sort of nervous reaction. The detective was well behind, but after a while Wardrop stood still, while I plowed along. They came up together presently, and the three of us trudged on, talking of immaterial things. At the door Wardrop turned to the detective with a faint smile. "It's raining again," he said, "you'd better come in. You needn't worry about me; I'm not going to run away, and there's a couch in the library." The detective grinned, and in the light from the hall I recognized the man I had followed to the police station two nights before. "I guess I will," he said, looking apologetically at his muddy clothes. "This thing is only a matter of form, anyhow." But he didn't lie down on the couch. He took a chair in the hall near the foot of the stairs, and we left him there, with the evening paper and a lamp. It was a queer situation, to say the least. CHAPTER X BREAKING THE NEWS Wardrop looked so wretched that I asked him into my room, and mixed him some whisky and water. When I had given him a cigar he began to look a little less hopeless. "You've been a darned sight better to me than I would have been to you, under the circumstances," he said gratefully. "I thought we would better arrange about Miss Margery before we try to settle down," I replied. "What she has gone through in the last twenty-four hours is nothing to what is coming to-morrow. Will you tell her about her father?" He took a turn about the room. "I believe it would come better from you," he said finally. "I am in the peculiar position of having been suspected by her father of robbing him, by you of carrying away her aunt, and now by the police and everybody else of murdering her father." "I do not suspect you of anything," I justified myself. "I don't think you are entirely open, that is all, Wardrop. I think you are damaging yourself to shield some one else." His expressive face was on its guard in a moment. He ceased his restless pacing, pausing impressively before me. "I give you my word as a gentleman--I do not know who killed Mr. Fleming, and that when I first saw him dead, my only thought was that he had killed himself. He had threatened to, that day. Why, if you think I killed him, you would have to think I robbed him, too, in order to find a motive." I did not tell him that that was precisely what Hunter _did_ think. I evaded the issue. "Mr. Wardrop, did you ever hear of the figures eleven twenty-two?" I inquired. "Eleven twenty-two?" he repeated. "No, never in any unusual connection." "You never heard Mr. Fleming use them?" I persisted. He looked puzzled. "Probably," he said. "In the very nature of Mr. Fleming's position, we used figures all the time. Eleven twenty-two. That's the time the theater train leaves the city for Bellwood. Not what you want, eh?" "Not quite," I answered non-committally and began to wind my watch. He took the hint and prepared to leave. "I'll not keep you up any longer," he said, picking up his raincoat. He opened the door and stared ruefully down at the detective in the hall below. "The old place is queer without Miss Jane," he said irrelevantly. "Well, good night, and thanks." He went heavily along the hall and I closed my door, I heard him pass Margery's room and then go back and rap lightly. She was evidently awake. "It's Harry," he called. "I thought you wouldn't worry if you knew I was in the house to-night." She asked him something, for-- "Yes, he is here," he said. He stood there for a moment, hesitating over something, but whatever it was, he decided against it. "Good night, dear," he said gently and went away. The little familiarity made me wince. Every unattached man has the same pang now and then. I have it sometimes when Edith sits on the arm of Fred's chair, or one of the youngsters leaves me to run to "daddy." And one of the sanest men I ever met went to his office and proposed to his stenographer in sheer craving for domesticity, after watching the wife of one of his friends run her hand over her husband's chin and give him a reproving slap for not having shaved! I pulled myself up sharply and after taking off my dripping coat, I went to the window and looked out into the May night. It seemed incredible that almost the same hour the previous night little Miss Jane had disappeared, had been taken bodily away through the peace of the warm spring darkness, and that I, as wide-awake as I was at that moment, acute enough of hearing to detect Wardrop's careful steps on the gravel walk below, had heard no struggle, had permitted this thing to happen without raising a finger in the old lady's defense. And she was gone as completely as if she had stepped over some psychic barrier into the fourth dimension! I found myself avoiding the more recent occurrence at the White Cat. I was still too close to it to have gained any perspective. On that subject I was able to think clearly of only one thing: that I would have to tell Margery in the morning, and that I would have given anything I possessed for a little of Edith's diplomacy with which to break the bad news. It was Edith who broke the news to me that the moths had got into my evening clothes while I was hunting in the Rockies, by telling me that my dress-coat made me look narrow across the shoulders and persuading me to buy a new one and give the old one to Fred. Then she broke the news of the moths to Fred! I was ready for bed when Wardrop came back and rapped at my door. He was still dressed, and he had the leather bag in his hand. "Look here," he said excitedly, when I had closed the door, "this is not my bag at all. Fool that I was. I never examined it carefully." He held it out to me, and I carried it to the light. It was an ordinary eighteen-inch Russia leather traveling-bag, tan in color, and with gold-plated mountings. It was empty, save for the railroad schedule that still rested in one side pocket. Wardrop pointed to the empty pocket on the other side. "In my bag," he explained rapidly, "my name was written inside that pocket, in ink. I did it myself--my name and address." I looked inside the pockets on both sides: nothing had been written in. "Don't you see?" he asked excitedly. "Whoever stole my bag had this one to substitute for it. If we can succeed in tracing the bag here to the shop it came from, and from there to the purchaser, we have the thief." "There's no maker's name in it," I said, after a casual examination. Wardrop's face fell, and he took the bag from me despondently. "No matter which way I turn," he said, "I run into a blind alley. If I were worth a damn, I suppose I could find a way out. But I'm not. Well, I'll let you sleep this time." At the door, however, he turned around and put the bag on the floor, just inside. "If you don't mind, I'll leave it here," he said. "They'll be searching my room, I suppose, and I'd like to have the bag for future reference." He went for good that time, and I put out the light. As an afterthought I opened my door perhaps six inches, and secured it with one of the pink conch-shells which flanked either end of the stone hearth. I had failed the night before: I meant to be on hand that night. I went to sleep immediately, I believe. I have no idea how much later it was that I roused. I wakened suddenly and sat up in bed. There had been a crash of some kind, for the shock was still vibrating along my nerves. Dawn was close; the window showed gray against the darkness inside, and I could make out dimly the larger objects in the room. I listened intently, but the house seemed quiet. Still I was not satisfied. I got up and, lighting the candle, got into my raincoat in lieu of a dressing-gown, and prepared to investigate. With the fatality that seemed to pursue my feet in that house, with my first step I trod squarely on top of the conch-shell, and I fell back on to the edge of the bed swearing softly and holding the injured member. Only when the pain began to subside did I realize that I had left the shell on the door-sill, and that it had moved at least eight feet while I slept! When I could walk I put it on the mantel, its mate from the other end of the hearth beside it. Then I took my candle and went out into the hall. My door, which I had left open, I found closed; nothing else was disturbed. The leather bag sat just inside, as Wardrop had left it. Through Miss Maitland's transom were coming certain strangled and irregular sounds, now falsetto, now deep bass, that showed that worthy lady to be asleep. A glance down the staircase revealed Davidson, stretching in his chair and looking up at me. "I'm frozen," he called up cautiously. "Throw me down a blanket or two, will you?" I got a couple of blankets from my bed and took them down. He was examining his chair ruefully. "There isn't any grip to this horsehair stuff," he complained. "Every time I doze off I dream I'm coasting down the old hill back on the farm, and when I wake up I'm sitting on the floor, with the end of my back bone bent like a hook." He wrapped himself in the blankets and sat down again, taking the precaution this time to put his legs on another chair and thus anchor himself. Then he produced a couple of apples and a penknife and proceeded to pare and offer me one. "Found 'em in the pantry," he said, biting into one. "I belong to the apple society. Eat one apple every day and keep healthy!" He stopped and stared intently at the apple. "I reckon I got a worm that time," he said, with less ardor. "I'll get something to wash him down," I offered, rising, but he waved me back to my stair. "Not on your life," he said with dignity. "Let him walk. How are things going up-stairs?" "You didn't happen to be up there a little while ago, did you?" I questioned in turn. "No. I've been kept busy trying to sit tight where I am. Why?" "Some one came into my room and wakened me," I explained. "I heard a racket and when I got up I found a shell that I had put on the door-sill to keep the door open, in the middle of the room. I stepped on it." He examined a piece of apple before putting it in his mouth. Then he turned a pair of shrewd eyes on me. "That's funny," he said. "Anything in the room disturbed?" "Nothing." "Where's the shell now?" "On the mantel. I didn't want to step on it again." He thought for a minute, but his next remark was wholly facetious. "No. I guess you won't step on it up there. Like the old woman: she says, 'Motorman, if I put my foot on the rail will I be electrocuted?' And he says, 'No, madam, not unless you put your other foot on the trolley wire.'" I got up impatiently. There was no humor in the situation that night for me. "Some one had been in the room," I reiterated. "The door was closed, although I had left it open." He finished his apple and proceeded with great gravity to drop the parings down the immaculate register in the floor beside his chair. Then-- "I've only got one business here, Mr. Knox," he said in an undertone, "and you know what that is. But if it will relieve your mind of the thought that there was anything supernatural about your visitor, I'll tell you that it was Mr. Wardrop, and that to the best of my belief he was in your room, not once, but twice, in the last hour and a half. As far as that shell goes, it was I that kicked it, having gone up without my shoes." I stared at him blankly. "What could he have wanted?" I exclaimed. But with his revelation, Davidson's interest ceased; he drew the blanket up around his shoulders and shivered. "Search me," he said and yawned. I went back to bed, but not to sleep. I deliberately left the door wide open, but no intrusion occurred. Once I got up and glanced down the stairs. For all his apparent drowsiness, Davidson heard my cautious movements, and saluted me in a husky whisper. "Have you got any quinine?" he said. "I'm sneezing my head off." But I had none. I gave him a box of cigarettes, and after partially dressing, I threw myself across the bed to wait for daylight. I was roused by the sun beating on my face, to hear Miss Letitia's tones from her room across. "Nonsense," she was saying querulously. "Don't you suppose I can smell? Do you think because I'm a little hard of hearing that I've lost my other senses? Somebody's been smoking." "It's me," Heppie shouted. "I--" "You?" Miss Letitia snarled. "What are you smoking for? That ain't my shirt; it's my--" "I ain't smokin'," yelled Heppie. "You won't let me tell you. I spilled vinegar on the stove; that's what you smell." Miss Letitia's sardonic chuckle came through the door. "Vinegar," she said with scorn. "Next thing you'll be telling me it's vinegar that Harry and Mr. Knox carry around in little boxes in their pockets. You've pinned my cap to my scalp." I hurried down-stairs to find Davidson gone. My blanket lay neatly folded, on the lower step, and the horsehair chairs were ranged along the wall as before. I looked around anxiously for telltale ashes, but there was none, save, at the edge of the spotless register, a trace. Evidently they had followed the apple parings. It grew cold a day or so later, and Miss Letitia had the furnace fired, and although it does not belong to my story, she and Heppie searched the house over to account for the odor of baking apples--a mystery that was never explained. Wardrop did not appear at breakfast. Margery came down-stairs as Bella was bringing me my coffee, and dropped languidly into her chair. She looked tired and white. "Another day!" she said wearily. "Did you ever live through such an eternity as the last thirty-six hours?" I responded absently; the duty I had assumed hung heavy over me. I had a frantic impulse to shirk the whole thing: to go to Wardrop and tell him it was his responsibility, not mine, to make this sad-eyed girl sadder still. That as I had not his privilege of comforting her, neither should I shoulder his responsibility of telling her. But the issue was forced on me sooner than I had expected, for at that moment I saw the glaring head-lines of the morning paper, laid open at Wardrop's plate. She must have followed my eyes, for we reached for it simultaneously. She was nearer than I, and her quick eye caught the name. Then I put my hand over the heading and she flushed with indignation. "You are not to read it now," I said, meeting her astonished gaze as best I could. "Please let me have it. I promise you I will give it to you--almost immediately." "You are very rude," she said without relinquishing the paper. "I saw a part of that; it is about my father!" "Drink your coffee, please," I pleaded. "I will let you read it then. On my honor." She looked at me; then she withdrew her hand and sat erect. "How can you be so childish!" she exclaimed. "If there is anything in that paper that it--will hurt me to learn, is a cup of coffee going to make it any easier?" I gave up then. I had always thought that people heard bad news better when they had been fortified with something to eat, and I had a very distinct recollection that Fred had made Edith drink something--tea probably--before he told her that Billy had fallen off the back fence and would have to have a stitch taken in his lip. Perhaps I should have offered Margery tea instead of coffee. But as it was, she sat, stonily erect, staring at the paper, and feeling that evasion would be useless, I told her what had happened, breaking the news as gently as I could. I stood by her helplessly through the tearless agony that followed, and cursed myself for a blundering ass. I had said that he had been accidentally shot, and I said it with the paper behind me, but she put the evasion aside bitterly. "Accidentally!" she repeated. The first storm of grief over, she lifted her head from where it had rested on her arms and looked at me, scorning my subterfuge. "He was murdered. That's the word I didn't have time to read! Murdered! And you sat back and let it happen. I went to you in time and you didn't do anything. No one did anything!" I did not try to defend myself. How could I? And afterward when she sat up and pushed back the damp strands of hair from her eyes, she was more reasonable. "I did not mean what I said about your not having done anything," she said, almost childishly. "No one could have done more. It was to happen, that's all." But even then I knew she had trouble in store that she did not suspect. What would she do when she heard that Wardrop was under grave suspicion? Between her dead father and her lover, what? It was to be days before I knew and in all that time, I, who would have died, not cheerfully but at least stoically, for her, had to stand back and watch the struggle, not daring to hold out my hand to help, lest by the very gesture she divine my wild longing to hold her for myself. She recovered bravely that morning from the shock, and refusing to go to her room and lie down--a suggestion, like the coffee, culled from my vicarious domestic life--she went out to the veranda and sat there in the morning sun, gazing across the lawn. I left her there finally, and broke the news of her brother-in-law's death to Miss Letitia. After the first surprise, the old lady took the news with what was nearer complacency than resignation. "Shot!" she said, sitting up in bed, while Heppie shook her pillows. "It's a queer death for Allan Fleming; I always said he would be hanged." After that, she apparently dismissed him from her mind, and we talked of her sister. Her mood had changed and it was depressing to find that she spoke of Jane always in the past tense. She could speak of her quite calmly--I suppose the sharpness of our emotions is in inverse ratio to our length of years, and she regretted that, under the circumstances, Jane would not rest in the family lot. "We are all there," she said, "eleven of us, counting my sister Mary's husband, although he don't properly belong, and I always said we would take him out if we were crowded. It is the best lot in the Hopedale Cemetery; you can see the shaft for two miles in any direction." We held a family council that morning around Miss Letitia's bed: Wardrop, who took little part in the proceedings, and who stood at a window looking out most of the time, Margery on the bed, her arm around Miss Letitia's shriveled neck, and Heppie, who acted as interpreter and shouted into the old lady's ear such parts of the conversation as she considered essential. "I have talked with Miss Fleming," I said, as clearly as I could, "and she seems to shrink from seeing people. The only friends she cares about are in Europe, and she tells me there are no other relatives." Heppie condensed this into a vocal capsule, and thrust it into Miss Letitia's ear. The old lady nodded. "No other relatives," she corroborated. "God be praised for that, anyhow." "And yet," I went on, "there are things to look after, certain necessary duties that no one else can attend to. I don't want to insist, but she ought, if she is able, to go to the city house, for a few hours, at least." "City house!" Heppie yelled in her ear. "It ought to be cleaned," Miss Letitia acquiesced, "and fresh curtains put up. Jane would have been in her element; she was always handy at a funeral. And don't let them get one of those let-down-at-the-side coffins. They're leaky." Luckily Margery did not notice this. "I was going to suggest," I put in hurriedly, "that my brother's wife would be only too glad to help, and if Miss Fleming will go into town with me, I am sure Edith would know just what to do. She isn't curious and she's very capable." Margery threw me a grateful glance, grateful, I think, that I could understand how, under the circumstances, a stranger was more acceptable than curious friends could be. "Mr. Knox's sister-in-law!" interpreted Heppie. "When you have to say the letter 's,' turn your head away," Miss Letitia rebuked her. "Well, I don't object, if Knox's sister-in-law don't." She had an uncanny way of expanding Heppie's tabloid speeches. "You can take my white silk shawl to lay over the body, but be sure to bring it back. We may need it for Jane." If the old lady's chin quivered a bit, while Margery threw her arms around her, she was mightily ashamed of it. But Heppie was made of weaker stuff. She broke into a sudden storm of sobs and left the room, to stick her head in the door a moment after. "Kidneys or chops?" she shouted almost belligerently. "Kidneys," Miss Letitia replied in kind. Wardrop went with us to the station at noon, but he left us there, with a brief remark that he would be up that night. After I had put Margery in a seat, I went back to have a word with him alone. He was standing beside the train, trying to light a cigarette, but his hands shook almost beyond control, and after the fourth match he gave it up. My minute for speech was gone. As the train moved out I saw him walking back along the platform, paying no attention to anything around him. Also, I had a fleeting glimpse of a man loafing on a baggage truck, his hat over his eyes. He was paring an apple with a penknife, and dropping the peelings with careful accuracy through a crack in the floor of the platform. I had arranged over the telephone that Edith should meet the train, and it was a relief to see that she and Margery took to each other at once. We drove to the house immediately, and after a few tears when she saw the familiar things around her, Margery rose to the situation bravely. Miss Letitia had sent Bella to put the house in order, and it was evident that the idea of clean curtains for the funeral had been drilled into her until it had become an obsession. Not until Edith had concealed the step-ladder were the hangings safe, and late in the afternoon we heard a crash from the library, and found Bella twisted on the floor, the result of putting a teakwood tabouret on a table and from thence attacking the lace curtains of the library windows. Edith gave her a good scolding and sent her off to soak her sprained ankle. Then she righted the tabouret, sat down on it and began on me. "Do you know that you have not been to the office for two days?" she said severely. "And do you know that Hawes had hysterics in our front hall last night? You had a case in court yesterday, didn't you?" "Nothing very much," I said, looking over her head. "Anyhow, I'm tired. I don't know when I'm going back. I need a vacation." She reached behind her and pulling the cord, sent the window shade to the top of the window. At the sight of my face thus revealed, she drew a long sigh. "The biggest case you ever had, Jack! The biggest retainer you ever had--" "I've spent that," I protested feebly. "A vacation, and you only back from Pinehurst!" "The girl was in trouble--_is_ in trouble, Edith," I burst out. "Any one would have done the same thing. Even Fred would hardly have deserted that household. It's stricken, positively stricken." My remark about Fred did not draw her from cover. "Of course it's your own affair," she said, not looking at me, "and goodness knows I'm disinterested about it, you ruin the boys, both stomachs and dispositions, and I could use your room _splendidly_ as a sewing-room--" "Edith! You abominable little liar!" She dabbed at her eyes furiously with her handkerchief, and walked with great dignity to the door. Then she came back and put her hand on my arm. "Oh, Jack, if we could only have saved you this!" she said, and a minute later, when I did not speak: "Who is the man, dear?" "A distant relative, Harry Wardrop," I replied, with what I think was very nearly my natural tone. "Don't worry, Edith. It's all right. I've known it right along." "Pooh!" Edith returned sagely. "So do I know I've got to die and be buried some day. Its being inevitable doesn't make it any more cheerful." She went out, but she came back in a moment and stuck her head through the door. "_That's_ the only inevitable thing there is," she said, taking up the conversation--an old habit of hers--where she had left off. "I don't know what you are talking about," I retorted, turning my back on her. "And anyhow, I regard your suggestion as immoral." But when I turned again, she had gone. That Saturday afternoon at four o'clock the body of Allan Fleming was brought home, and placed in state in the music-room of the house. Miss Jane had been missing since Thursday night. I called Hunter by telephone, and he had nothing to report. CHAPTER XI A NIGHT IN THE FLEMING HOME I had a tearful message from Hawes late that afternoon, and a little after five I went to the office. I found him offering late editions of the evening paper to a couple of clients, who were edging toward the door. His expression when he saw me was pure relief, the clients', relief strongly mixed with irritation. I put the best face on the matter that I could, saw my visitors, and left alone, prepared to explain to Hawes what I could hardly explain to myself. "I've been unavoidably detained, Hawes," I said, "Miss Jane Maitland has disappeared from her home." "So I understood you over the telephone." He had brought my mail and stood by impassive. "Also, her brother-in-law is dead." "The papers are full of it." "There was no one to do anything, Hawes. I was obliged to stay," I apologized. I was ostentatiously examining my letters and Hawes said nothing. I looked up at him sideways, and he looked down at me. Not a muscle of his face quivered, save one eye, which has a peculiar twitching of the lid when he is excited. It gave him a sardonic appearance of winking. He winked at me then. "Don't wait, Hawes," I said guiltily, and he took his hat and went out. Every line of his back was accusation. The sag of his shoulders told me I had let my biggest case go by default that day; the forward tilt of his head, that I was probably insane; the very grip with which he seized the door-knob, his "good night" from around the door, that he knew there was a woman at the bottom of it all. As he closed the door behind him I put down my letters and dropped my face in my hands. Hawes was right. No amount of professional zeal could account for the interest I had taken. Partly through force of circumstances, partly of my own volition, I had placed myself in the position of first friend to a family with which I had had only professional relations; I had even enlisted Edith, when my acquaintance with Margery Fleming was only three days old! And at the thought of the girl, of Wardrop's inefficiency and my own hopelessness, I groaned aloud. I had not heard the door open. "I forgot to tell you that a gentleman was here half a dozen times to-day to see you. He didn't give any name." I dropped my hands. From around the door Hawes' nervous eye was winking wildly. "You're not sick, Mr. Knox?" "Never felt better." "I thought I heard--" "I was singing," I lied, looking him straight in the eye. He backed nervously to the door. "I have a little sherry in my office, Mr. Knox--twenty-six years in the wood. If you--" "For God's sake, Hawes, there's nothing the matter with me!" I exclaimed, and he went. But I heard him stand a perceptible time outside the door before he tiptoed away. Almost immediately after, some one entered the waiting-room, and the next moment I was facing, in the doorway, a man I had never seen before. He was a tall man, with thin, colorless beard trimmed to a Vandyke point, and pale eyes blinking behind glasses. He had a soft hat crushed in his hand, and his whole manner was one of subdued excitement. "Mr. Knox?" he asked, from the doorway. "Yes. Come in." "I have been here six times since noon," he said, dropping rather than sitting in a chair. "My name is Lightfoot. I am--was--Mr. Fleming's cashier." "Yes?" "I was terribly shocked at the news of his death," he stumbled on, getting no help from me. "I was in town and if I had known in time I could have kept some of the details out of the papers. Poor Fleming--to think he would end it that way." "End it?" "Shoot himself." He watched me closely. "But he didn't," I protested. "It was not suicide, Mr. Lightfoot. According to the police, it was murder." His cold eyes narrowed like a cat's. "Murder is an ugly word, Mr. Knox. Don't let us be sensational. Mr. Fleming had threatened to kill himself more than once; ask young Wardrop. He was sick and despondent; he left his home without a word, which points strongly to emotional insanity. He could have gone to any one of a half dozen large clubs here, or at the capital. Instead, he goes to a little third-rate political club, where, presumably, he does his own cooking and hides in a dingy room. Is that sane? Murder! It was suicide, and that puppy Wardrop knows it well enough. I--I wish I had him by the throat!" He had worked himself into quite a respectable rage, but now he calmed himself. "I have seen the police," he went on. "They agree with me that it was suicide, and the party newspapers will straighten it out to-morrow. It is only unfortunate that the murder theory was given so much publicity. The _Times-Post_, which is Democratic, of course, I can not handle." I sat stupefied. "Suicide!" I said finally. "With no weapon, no powder marks, and with a half-finished letter at his elbow." He brushed my interruption aside. "Mr. Fleming had been--careless," he said. "I can tell you in confidence, that some of the state funds had been deposited in the Borough Bank of Manchester, and--the Borough Bank closed its doors at ten o'clock to-day." I was hardly surprised at that, but the whole trend of events was amazing. "I arrived here last night," he said, "and I searched the city for Mr. Fleming. This morning I heard the news. I have just come from the house: his daughter referred me to you. After all, what I want is a small matter. Some papers--state documents--are missing, and no doubt are among Mr. Fleming's private effects. I would like to go through his papers, and leave to-night for the capital." "I have hardly the authority," I replied doubtfully. "Miss Fleming, I suppose, would have no objection. His private secretary, Wardrop, would be the one to superintend such a search." "Can you find Wardrop--at once?" Something in his eagerness put me on my guard. "I will make an attempt," I said. "Let me have the name of your hotel, and I will telephone you if it can be arranged for to-night." He had to be satisfied with that, but his eagerness seemed to me to be almost desperation. Oddly enough, I could not locate Wardrop after all. I got the Maitland house by telephone, to learn that he had left there about three o'clock, and had not come back. I went to the Fleming house for dinner. Edith was still there, and we both tried to cheer Margery, a sad little figure in her black clothes. After the meal, I called Lightfoot at his hotel, and told him that I could not find Wardrop; that there were no papers at the house, and that the office safe would have to wait until Wardrop was found to open it. He was disappointed and furious; like a good many men who are physical cowards, he said a great deal over the telephone that he would not have dared to say to my face, and I cut him off by hanging up the receiver. From that minute, in the struggle that was coming, like Fred, I was "forninst" the government. It was arranged that Edith should take Margery home with her for the night. I thought it a good idea; the very sight of Edith tucking in her babies and sitting down beside the library lamp to embroider me a scarfpin-holder for Christmas would bring Margery back to normal again. Except in the matter of Christmas gifts, Edith is the sanest woman I know; I recognized it at the dinner table, where she had the little girl across from her planning her mourning hats before the dinner was half finished. When we rose at last, Margery looked toward the music-room, where the dead man lay in state. But Edith took her by the arm and pushed her toward the stairs. "Get your hat on right away, while Jack calls a cab," she directed. "I must get home, or Fred will keep the boys up until nine o'clock. He is absolutely without principle." When Margery came down there was a little red spot burning in each pale cheek, and she ran down the stairs like a scared child. At the bottom she clutched the newel-post and looked behind fearfully. "What's the matter?" Edith demanded, glancing uneasily over her shoulder. "Some one has been up-stairs," Margery panted. "Somebody has been staying in the house while we were away." "Nonsense," I said, seeing that her fright was infecting Edith. "What makes you think that?" "Come and look," she said, gaining courage, I suppose, from a masculine presence. And so we went up the long stairs, the two girls clutching hands, and I leading the way and inclined to scoff. At the door of a small room next to what had been Allan Fleming's bedroom, we paused and I turned on the light. "Before we left," Margery said more quietly, "I closed this room myself. It had just been done over, and the pale blue soils so easily. I came in the last thing, and saw covers put over everything. Now look at it!" It was a sort of boudoir, filled with feminine knickknacks and mahogany lounging chairs. Wherever possible, a pale brocade had been used, on the empire couch, in panels in the wall, covering cushions on the window-seat. It was evidently Margery's private sitting-room. The linen cover that had been thrown over the divan was folded back, and a pillow from the window-seat bore the imprint of a head. The table was still covered, knobby protuberances indicating the pictures and books beneath. On one corner of the table, where the cover had been pushed aside, was a cup, empty and clean-washed, and as if to prove her contention, Margery picked up from the floor a newspaper, dated Friday morning, the twenty-second. A used towel in the bath-room near-by completed the inventory; Margery had been right; some one had used the room while the house was closed. "Might it not have been your--father?" Edith asked, when we stood again at the foot of the stairs. "He could have come here to look for something, and lain down to rest." "I don't think so," Margery said wanly. "I left the door so he could get in with his key, but--he always used his study couch. I don't think he ever spent five minutes in my sitting-room in his life." We had to let it go at that finally. I put them in a cab, and saw them start away: then I went back into the house. I had arranged to sleep there and generally to look after things--as I said before. Whatever scruples I had had about taking charge of Margery Fleming and her affairs, had faded with Wardrop's defection and the new mystery of the blue boudoir. The lower floor of the house was full of people that night, local and state politicians, newspaper men and the usual crowd of the morbidly curious. The undertaker took everything in hand, and late that evening I could hear them carrying in tropical plants and stands for the flowers that were already arriving. Whatever panoply the death scene had lacked, Allan Fleming was lying in state now. At midnight things grew quiet. I sat in the library, reading, until then, when an undertaker's assistant in a pink shirt and polka-dot cravat came to tell me that everything was done. "Is it customary for somebody to stay up, on occasions like this?" I asked. "Isn't there an impression that wandering cats may get into the room, or something of that sort?" "I don't think it will be necessary, sir," he said, trying to conceal a smile. "It's all a matter of taste. Some people like to take their troubles hard. Since they don't put money on their eyes any more, nobody wants to rob the dead." He left with that cheerful remark, and I closed and locked the house after him. I found Bella in the basement kitchen with all the lights burning full, and I stood at the foot of the stairs while she scooted to bed like a scared rabbit. She was a strange creature, Bella--not so stupid as she looked, but sullen, morose--"smouldering" about expresses it. I closed the doors into the dining-room and, leaving one light in the hall, went up to bed. A guest room in the third story had been assigned me, and I was tired enough to have slept on the floor. The telephone bell rang just after I got into bed, and grumbling at my luck, I went down to the lower floor. It was the _Times-Post_, and the man at the telephone was in a hurry. "This is the _Times-Post_. Is Mr. Wardrop there?" "No." "Who is this?" "This is John Knox." "The attorney?" "Yes." "Mr. Knox, are you willing to put yourself on record that Mr. Fleming committed suicide?" "I am not going to put myself on record at all." "To-night's _Star_ says you call it suicide, and that you found him with the revolver in his hand." "The _Star_ lies!" I retorted, and the man at the other end chuckled. "Many thanks," he said, and rang off. I went back to bed, irritated that I had betrayed myself. Loss of sleep for two nights, however, had told on me: in a short time I was sound asleep. I wakened with difficulty. My head felt stupid and heavy, and I was burning with thirst. I sat up and wondered vaguely if I were going to be ill, and I remember that I felt too weary to get a drink. As I roused, however, I found that part of my discomfort came from bad ventilation, and I opened a window and looked out. The window was a side one, opening on to a space perhaps eight feet wide, which separated it from its neighbor. Across from me was only a blank red wall, but the night air greeted me refreshingly. The wind was blowing hard, and a shutter was banging somewhere below. I leaned out and looked down into the well-like space beneath me. It was one of those apparently chance movements that have vital consequences, and that have always made me believe in the old Calvinistic creed of foreordination. Below me, on the wall across, was a rectangle of yellow light, reflected from the library window of the Fleming home. There was some one in the house. As I still stared, the light was slowly blotted out--not as if the light had been switched off, but by a gradual decreasing in size of the lighted area. The library shade had been drawn. My first thought was burglars; my second--Lightfoot. No matter who it was, there was no one who had business there. Luckily, I had brought my revolver with me from Fred's that day, and it was under my pillow; to get it, put out the light and open the door quietly, took only a minute. I was in pajamas, barefoot, as on another almost similar occasion, but I was better armed than before. I got to the second floor without hearing or seeing anything suspicious, but from there I could see that the light in the hall had been extinguished. The unfamiliarity of the house, the knowledge of the silent figure in the drawing-room at the foot of the stairs, and of whatever might be waiting in the library beyond, made my position uncomfortable, to say the least. I don't believe in the man who is never afraid: he doesn't deserve the credit he gets. It's the fellow who is scared to death, whose knees knock together, and who totters rather than walks into danger, who is the real hero. Not that I was as bad as that, but I would have liked to know where the electric switch was, and to have seen the trap before I put my head in. The stairs were solidly built, and did not creak. I felt my way down by the baluster, which required my right hand, and threw my revolver to my left. I got safely to the bottom, and around the newel-post: there was still a light in the library, and the door was not entirely closed. Then, with my usual bad luck, I ran into a heap of folding chairs that had been left by the undertaker, and if the crash paralyzed me, I don't know what it did to the intruder in the library. The light was out in an instant, and with concealment at an end, I broke for the door and threw it open, standing there with my revolver leveled. We--the man in the room, and I--were both in absolute darkness. He had the advantage of me. He knew my location, and I could not guess his. "Who is here?" I demanded. Only silence, except that I seemed to hear rapid breathing. "Speak up, or I'll shoot!" I said, not without an ugly feeling that he might be--even probably was--taking careful aim by my voice. The darkness was intolerable: I reached cautiously to the left and found, just beyond the door frame, the electric switch. As I turned it the light flashed up. The room was empty, but a portière in a doorway at my right was still shaking. I leaped for the curtain and dragged it aside, to have a door just close in my face. When I had jerked it open, I found myself in a short hall, and there were footsteps to my left, I blundered along in the semi-darkness, into a black void which must have been the dining-room, for my outstretched hand skirted the table. The footsteps seemed only beyond my reach, and at the other side of the room the swinging door into the pantry was still swaying when I caught it. I made a misstep in the pantry, and brought up against a blank wall. It seemed to me I heard the sound of feet running up steps, and when I found a door at last, I threw it open and dashed in. The next moment the solid earth slipped from under my feet, I threw out my hand, and it met a cold wall, smooth as glass. Then I fell--fell an incalculable distance, and the blackness of the night came over me and smothered me. CHAPTER XII MY COMMISSION When I came to, I was lying in darkness, and the stillness was absolute. When I tried to move, I found I was practically a prisoner: I had fallen into an air shaft, or something of the kind. I could not move my arms, where they were pinioned to my sides, and I was half-lying, half-crouching, in a semi-vertical position. I worked one arm loose and managed to make out that my prison was probably the dumb-waiter shaft to the basement kitchen. I had landed on top of the slide, and I seemed to be tied in a knot. The revolver was under me, and if it had exploded during the fall it had done no damage. I can hardly imagine a more unpleasant position. If the man I had been following had so chosen, he could have made away with me in any one of a dozen unpleasant ways--he could have filled me as full of holes as a sieve, or scalded me, or done anything, pretty much, that he chose. But nothing happened. The house was impressively quiet. I had fallen feet first, evidently, and then crumpled up unconscious, for one of my ankles was throbbing. It was some time before I could stand erect, and even by reaching, I could not touch the doorway above me. It must have taken five minutes for my confused senses to remember the wire cable, and to tug at it. I was a heavy load for the slide, accustomed to nothing weightier than political dinners, but with much creaking I got myself at last to the floor above, and stepped out, still into darkness, but free. I still held the revolver, and I lighted the whole lower floor. But I found nothing in the dining-room or the pantry. Everything was locked and in good order. A small alcove off the library came next; it was undisturbed, but a tabouret lay on its side, and a half dozen books had been taken from a low book-case, and lay heaped on a chair. In the library, however, everything was confusion. Desk drawers stood open--one of the linen shades had been pulled partly off its roller, a chair had been drawn up to the long mahogany table in the center of the room, with the electric dome overhead, and everywhere, on chairs, over the floor, heaped in stacks on the table, were papers. After searching the lower floor, and finding everything securely locked, I went up-stairs, convinced the intruder was still in the house. I made a systematic search of every room, looking into closets and under beds. Several times I had an impression, as I turned a corner, that some one was just ahead of me, but I was always disappointed. I gave up at last, and, going down to the library, made myself as comfortable as I could, and waited for morning. I heard Bella coming down the stairs, after seven sometime; she came slowly, with flagging footsteps, as if the slightest sound would send her scurrying to the upper regions again. A little later I heard her rattling the range in the basement kitchen, and I went up-stairs and dressed. I was too tired to have a theory about the night visitor; in fact, from that time on, I tried to have no theories of any kind. I was impressed with only one thing--that the enemy or enemies of the late Allan Fleming evidently carried their antagonism beyond the grave. As I put on my collar I wondered how long I could stay in this game, as I now meant to, and avoid lying in state in Edith's little drawing-room, with flowers around and a gentleman in black gloves at the door. I had my ankle strapped with adhesive that morning by my doctor and it gave me no more trouble. But I caught him looking curiously at the blue bruise on my forehead where Wardrop had struck me with the chair, and at my nose, no longer swollen, but mustard-yellow at the bridge. "Been doing any boxing lately," he said, as I laced up my shoe. "Not for two or three years." "New machine?" "No." He smiled at me quizzically from his desk. "How does the other fellow look?" he inquired, and to my haltingly invented explanation of my battered appearance, he returned the same enigmatical smile. That day was uneventful. Margery and Edith came to the house for about an hour and went back to Fred's again. A cousin of the dead man, an elderly bachelor named Parker, appeared that morning and signified his willingness to take charge of the house during that day. The very hush of his voice and his black tie prompted Edith to remove Margery from him as soon as she could, and as the girl dreaded the curious eyes of the crowd that filled the house, she was glad to go. It was Sunday, and I went to the office only long enough to look over my mail. I dined in the middle of the day at Fred's, and felt heavy and stupid all afternoon as a result of thus reversing the habits of the week. In the afternoon I had my first conversation with Fred and Edith, while Margery and the boys talked quietly in the nursery. They had taken a great fancy to her, and she was almost cheerful when she was with them. Fred had the morning papers around him on the floor, and was in his usual Sunday argumentative mood. "Well," he said, when the nursery door up-stairs had closed, "what was it, Jack? Suicide?" "I don't know," I replied bluntly. "What do you think?" he insisted. "How can I tell?" irritably. "The police say it was suicide, and they ought to know." "The _Times-Post_ says it was murder, and that they will prove it. And they claim the police have been called off." I said nothing of Mr. Lightfoot, and his visit to the office, but I made a mental note to see the _Times-Post_ people and learn, if I could, what they knew. "I can not help thinking that he deserved very nearly what he got," Edith broke in, looking much less vindictive than her words. "When one thinks of the ruin he brought to poor Henry Butler, and that Ellen has been practically an invalid ever since, I can't be sorry for him." "What was the Butler story?" I asked. But Fred did not know, and Edith was as vague as women usually are in politics. "Henry Butler was treasurer of the state, and Mr. Fleming was his cashier. I don't know just what the trouble was. But you remember that Henry Butler killed himself after he got out of the penitentiary, and Ellen has been in one hospital after another. I would like to have her come here for a few weeks, Fred," she said appealingly. "She is in some sanatorium or other now, and we might cheer her a little." Fred groaned. "Have her if you like, petty," he said resignedly, "but I refuse to be cheerful unless I feel like it. What about this young Wardrop, Jack? It looks to me as if the _Times-Post_ reporter had a line on him." "Hush," Edith said softly. "He is Margery's fiancé, and she might hear you." "How do you know?" Fred demanded. "Did she tell you?" "Look at her engagement ring," Edith threw back triumphantly. "And it's a perfectly beautiful solitaire, too." I caught Fred's eye on me, and the very speed with which he shifted his gaze made me uncomfortable. I made my escape as soon as I could, on the plea of going out to Bellwood, and in the hall up-stairs I met Margery. "I saw Bella to-day," she said. "Mr. Knox, will you tell me why you stayed up last night? What happened in the house?" "I--thought I heard some one in the library," I stammered, "but I found no one." "Is that all the truth or only part of it?" she asked. "Why do men always evade issues with a woman?" Luckily, woman-like, she did not wait for a reply. She closed the nursery door and stood with her hand on the knob, looking down. "I wonder what you believe about all this," she said. "Do you think my father--killed himself? You were there; you know. If some one would only tell me everything!" It seemed to me it was her right to know. The boys were romping noisily in the nursery. Down-stairs Fred and Edith were having their Sunday afternoon discussion of what in the world had become of the money from Fred's latest book. Margery and I sat down on the stairs, and, as well as I could remember the details, I told her what had happened at the White Cat. She heard me through quietly. "And so the police have given up the case!" she said despairingly. "And if they had not, Harry would have been arrested. Is there nothing I can do? Do I have to sit back with my hands folded?" "The police have not exactly given up the case," I told her, "but there is such a thing, of course, as stirring up a lot of dust and then running to cover like blazes before it settles. By the time the public has wiped it out of its eyes and sneezed it out of its nose and coughed it out of its larynx, the dust has settled in a heavy layer, clues are obliterated, and the public lifts its skirts and chooses another direction. The 'no thoroughfare' sign is up." She sat there for fifteen minutes, interrupted by occasional noisy excursions from the nursery, which resulted in her acquiring by degrees a lapful of broken wheels, three-legged horses and a live water beetle which the boys had found under the kitchen sink and imprisoned in a glass topped box, where, to its bewilderment, they were assiduously offering it dead and mangled flies. But our last five minutes were undisturbed, and the girl brought out with an effort the request she had tried to make all day. "Whoever killed my father--and it was murder, Mr. Knox--whoever did it is going free to save a scandal. All my--friends"--she smiled bitterly--"are afraid of the same thing. But I can not sit quiet and think nothing can be done. I _must_ know, and you are the only one who seems willing to try to find out." So it was, that, when I left the house a half hour later, I was committed. I had been commissioned by the girl I loved--for it had come to that--to clear her lover of her father's murder, and so give him back to her--not in so many words, but I was to follow up the crime, and the rest followed. And I was morally certain of two things--first, that her lover was not worthy of her, and second, and more to the point, that innocent or guilty, he was indirectly implicated in the crime. I had promised her also to see Miss Letitia that day if I could, and I turned over the events of the preceding night as I walked toward the station, but I made nothing of them. One thing occurred to me, however. Bella had told Margery that I had been up all night. Could Bella--? But I dismissed the thought as absurd--Bella, who had scuttled to bed in a panic of fright, would never have dared the lower floor alone, and Bella, given all the courage in the world, could never have moved with the swiftness and light certainty of my midnight prowler. It had not been Bella. But after all I did not go to Bellwood. I met Hunter on my way to the station, and he turned around and walked with me. "So you've lain down on the case!" I said, when we had gone a few steps without speaking. He grumbled something unintelligible and probably unrepeatable. "Of course," I persisted, "being a simple and uncomplicated case of suicide, there was nothing in it anyhow. If it had been a murder, under peculiar circumstances--" He stopped and gripped my arm. "For ten cents," he said gravely, "I would tell the chief and a few others what I think of them. And then I'd go out and get full." "Not on ten cents!" "I'm going out of the business," he stormed. "I'm going to drive a garbage wagon: it's cleaner than this job. Suicide! I never saw a cleaner case of--" He stopped suddenly. "Do you know Burton--of the _Times-Post_?" "No: I've heard of him." "Well, he's your man. They're dead against the ring, and Burton's been given the case. He's as sharp as a steel trap. You two get together." He paused at a corner. "Good-by," he said dejectedly. "I'm off to hunt some boys that have been stealing milk bottles. That's about my size, these days." He turned around, however, before he had gone many steps and came back. "Wardrop has been missing since yesterday afternoon," he said. "That is, he thinks he's missing. We've got him all right." I gave up my Bellwood visit for the time, and taking a car down-town, I went to the _Times-Post_ office. The Monday morning edition was already under way, as far as the staff was concerned, and from the waiting-room I could see three or four men, with their hats on, most of them rattling typewriters. Burton came in in a moment, a red-haired young fellow, with a short thick nose and a muggy skin. He was rather stocky in build, and the pugnacity of his features did not hide the shrewdness of his eyes. I introduced myself, and at my name his perfunctory manner changed. "Knox!" he said. "I called you last night over the 'phone." "Can't we talk in a more private place?" I asked, trying to raise my voice above the confusion of the next room. In reply he took me into a tiny office, containing a desk and two chairs, and separated by an eight-foot partition from the other room. "This is the best we have," he explained cheerfully. "Newspapers are agents of publicity, not privacy--if you don't care what you say." I liked Burton. There was something genuine about him; after Wardrop's kid-glove finish, he was a relief. "Hunter, of the detective bureau, sent me here," I proceeded, "about the Fleming case." He took out his note-book. "You are the fourth to-day," he said. "Hunter himself, Lightfoot from Plattsburg, and McFeely here in town. Well, Mr. Knox, are you willing now to put yourself on record that Fleming committed suicide?" "No," I said firmly. "It is my belief that he was murdered." "And that the secretary fellow, what's his name?--Wardrop?--that he killed him?" "Possibly." In reply Burton fumbled in his pocket and brought up a pasteboard box, filled with jeweler's cotton. Underneath was a small object, which he passed to me with care. "I got it from the coroner's physician, who performed the autopsy," he said casually. "You will notice that it is a thirty-two, and that the revolver they took from Wardrop was a thirty-eight. Question, where's the other gun?" I gave him back the bullet, and he rolled it around on the palm of his hand. "Little thing, isn't it?" he said. "We think we're lords of creation, until we see a quarter-inch bichloride tablet, or a bit of lead like this. Look here." He dived into his pocket again and drew out a roll of ordinary brown paper. When he opened it a bit of white chalk fell on the desk. "Look at that," he said dramatically. "Kill an army with it, and they'd never know what struck them. Cyanide of potassium--and the druggist that sold it ought to be choked." "Where did it come from?" I asked curiously. Burton smiled his cheerful smile. "It's a beautiful case, all around," he said, as he got his hat. "I haven't had any Sunday dinner yet, and it's five o'clock. Oh--the cyanide? Clarkson, the cashier of the bank Fleming ruined, took a bite off that corner right there, this morning." "Clarkson!" I exclaimed. "How is he?" "God only knows," said Burton gravely, from which I took it Clarkson was dead. CHAPTER XIII SIZZLING METAL Burton listened while he ate, and his cheerful comments were welcome enough after the depression of the last few days. I told him, after some hesitation, the whole thing, beginning with the Maitland pearls and ending with my drop down the dumb-waiter. I knew I was absolutely safe in doing so: there is no person to whom I would rather tell a secret than a newspaper man. He will go out of his way to keep it: he will lock it in the depths of his bosom, and keep it until seventy times seven. Also, you may threaten the rack or offer a larger salary, the seal does not come off his lips until the word is given. If then he makes a scarehead of it, and gets in three columns of space and as many photographs, it is his just reward. So--I told Burton everything, and he ate enough beefsteak for two men, and missed not a word I said. "The money Wardrop had in the grip--that's easy enough explained," he said. "Fleming used the Borough Bank to deposit state funds in. He must have known it was rotten: he and Clarkson were as thick as thieves. According to a time-honored custom in our land of the brave and home of the free, a state treasurer who is crooked can, in such a case, draw on such a bank without security, on his personal note, which is usually worth its value by the pound as old paper." "And Fleming did that?" "He did. Then things got bad at the Borough Bank. Fleming had had to divide with Schwartz and the Lord only knows who all, but it was Fleming who had to put in the money to avert a crash--the word crash being synonymous with scandal in this case. He scrapes together a paltry hundred thousand, which Wardrop gets at the capital, and brings on. Wardrop is robbed, or says he is: the bank collapses and Clarkson, driven to the wall, kills himself, just after Fleming is murdered. What does that sound like?" "Like Clarkson!" I exclaimed. "And Clarkson knew Fleming was hiding at the White Cat!" "Now, then, take the other theory," he said, pushing aside his cup. "Wardrop goes in to Fleming with a story that he has been robbed: Fleming gets crazy and attacks him. All that is in the morning--Friday. Now, then--Wardrop goes back there that night. Within twenty minutes after he enters the club he rushes out, and when Hunter follows him, he says he is looking for a doctor, to get cocaine for a gentleman up-stairs. He is white and trembling. They go back together, and find you there, and Fleming dead. Wardrop tells two stories: first he says Fleming committed suicide just before he left. Then he changes it and says he was dead when he arrived there. He produces the weapon with which Fleming is supposed to have killed himself, and which, by the way, Miss Fleming identified yesterday as her father's. But there are two discrepancies. Wardrop practically admitted that he had taken that revolver from Fleming, not that night, but the morning before, during the quarrel." "And the other discrepancy?" "The bullet. Nobody ever fired a thirty-two bullet out of a thirty-eight caliber revolver--unless he was trying to shoot a double-compound curve. Now, then, who does it look like?" "Like Wardrop," I confessed. "By Jove, they didn't both do it." "And he didn't do it himself for two good reasons: he had no revolver that night, and there were no powder marks." "And the eleven twenty-two, and Miss Maitland's disappearance?" He looked at me with his quizzical smile. "I'll have to have another steak, if I'm to settle that," he said. "I can only solve one murder on one steak. But disappearances are my specialty; perhaps, if I have a piece of pie and some cheese--" But I got him away at last, and we walked together down the street. "I can't quite see the old lady in it," he confessed. "She hadn't any grudge against Fleming, had she? Wouldn't be likely to forget herself temporarily and kill him?" "Good Lord!" I said. "Why, she's sixty-five, and as timid and gentle a little old lady as ever lived." "Curls?" he asked, turning his bright blue eyes on me. "Yes," I admitted. "Wouldn't be likely to have eloped with the minister, or advertised for a husband, or anything like that?" "You would have to know her to understand," I said resignedly. "But she didn't do any of those things, and she didn't run off to join a theatrical troupe. Burton, who do you think was in the Fleming house last night?" "Lightfoot," he said succinctly. He stopped under a street lamp and looked at his watch. "I believe I'll run over to the capital to-night," he said. "While I'm gone--I'll be back to-morrow night or the next morning--I wish you would do two things. Find Rosie O'Grady, or whatever her name is, and locate Carter. That's probably not his name, but it will answer for a while. Then get your friend Hunter to keep him in sight for a while, until I come back anyhow. I'm beginning to enjoy this; it's more fun than a picture puzzle. We're going to make the police department look like a kindergarten playing jackstraws." "And the second thing I am to do?" "Go to Bellwood and find out a few things. It's all well enough to say the old lady was a meek and timid person, but if you want to know her peculiarities, go to her neighbors. When people leave the beaten path, the neighbors always know it before the families." He stopped before a drug-store. "I'll have to pack for my little jaunt," he said, and purchased a tooth-brush, which proved to be the extent of his preparations. We separated at the station, Burton to take his red hair and his tooth-brush to Plattsburg, I to take a taxicab, and armed with a page torn from the classified directory to inquire at as many of the twelve Anderson's drug-stores as might be necessary to locate Delia's gentleman friend, "the clerk," through him Delia, and through Delia, the mysterious Carter, "who was not really a butler." It occurred to me somewhat tardily, that I knew nothing of Delia but her given name. A telephone talk with Margery was of little assistance: Delia had been a new maid, and if she had heard her other name, she had forgotten it. I had checked off eight of the Andersons on my list, without result, and the taximeter showed something over nineteen dollars, when the driver drew up at the curb. "Gentleman in the other cab is hailing you, sir," he said over his shoulder. "The other cab?" "The one that has been following us." I opened the door and glanced behind. A duplicate of my cab stood perhaps fifty feet behind, and from it a familiar figure was slowly emerging, carrying on a high-pitched argument with the chauffeur. The figure stopped to read the taximeter, shook his fist at the chauffeur, and approached me, muttering audibly. It was Davidson. "That liar and thief back there has got me rung up for nineteen dollars," he said, ignoring my amazement. "Nineteen dollars and forty cents! He must have the thing counting the revolutions of all four wheels!" He walked around and surveyed my expense account, at the driver's elbow. Then he hit the meter a smart slap, but the figures did not change. "Nineteen dollars!" he repeated dazed. "Nineteen dollars and--look here," he called to his driver, who had brought the cab close, "it's only thirty cents here. Your clock's ten cents fast." "But how--" I began. "You back up to nineteen dollars and thirty cents," he persisted, ignoring me. "If you'll back up to twelve dollars, I'll pay it. That's all I've got." Then he turned on me irritably. "Good heavens, man," he exclaimed, "do you mean to tell me you've been to eight drug-stores this Sunday evening and spent nineteen dollars and thirty cents, and haven't got a drink yet?" "Do you think I'm after a drink?" I asked him. "Now look here, Davidson, I rather think you know what I am after. If you don't, it doesn't matter. But since you are coming along anyhow, pay your man off and come with me. I don't like to be followed." He agreed without hesitation, borrowed eight dollars from me to augment his twelve and crawled in with me. "The next address on the list is the right one," he said, as the man waited for directions. "I did the same round yesterday, but not being a plutocrat, I used the street-cars and my legs. And because you're a decent fellow and don't have to be chloroformed to have an idea injected, I'm going to tell you something. There were eleven roundsmen as well as the sergeant who heard me read the note I found at the Fleming house that night. You may have counted them through the window. A dozen plain-clothes men read it before morning. When the news of Mr. Fleming's mur--death came out, I thought this fellow Carter might know something, and I trailed Delia through this Mamie Brennan. When I got there I found Tom Brannigan and four other detectives sitting in the parlor, and Miss Delia, in a blue silk waist, making eyes at every mother's son of them." I laughed in spite of my disappointment. Davidson leaned forward and closed the window at the driver's back. Then he squared around and faced me. "Understand me, Mr. Knox," he said, "Mr. Fleming killed himself. You and I are agreed on that. Even if you aren't just convinced of it I'm telling you, and--better let it drop, sir," Under his quiet manner I felt a threat: it served to rouse me. "I'll let it drop when I'm through with it," I asserted, and got out my list of addresses. "You'll let it drop because it's too hot to hold," he retorted, with the suspicion of a smile. "If you are determined to know about Carter, I can tell you everything that is necessary." The chauffeur stopped his engine with an exasperated jerk and settled down in his seat, every line of his back bristling with irritation. "I prefer learning from Carter himself." He leaned back in his seat and produced an apple from the pocket of his coat. "You'll have to travel some to do it, son," he said. "Carter left for parts unknown last night, taking with him enough money to keep him in comfort for some little time." "Until all this blows over," I said bitterly. "The trip was for the benefit of his health. He has been suffering--and is still suffering, from a curious lapse of memory." Davidson smiled at me engagingly. "He has entirely forgotten everything that occurred from the time he entered Mr. Fleming's employment, until that gentleman left home. I doubt if he will ever recover." With Carter gone, his retreat covered by the police, supplied with funds from some problematical source, further search for him was worse than useless. In fact, Davidson strongly intimated that it might be dangerous and would be certainly unpleasant. I yielded ungraciously and ordered the cab to take me home. But on the way I cursed my folly for not having followed this obvious clue earlier, and I wondered what this thing could be that Carter knew, that was at least surmised by various headquarters men, and yet was so carefully hidden from the world at large. The party newspapers had come out that day with a signed statement from Mr. Fleming's physician in Plattsburg that he had been in ill health and inclined to melancholia for some time. The air was thick with rumors of differences with his party: the dust cloud covered everything; pretty soon it would settle and hide the tracks of those who had hurried to cover under its protection. Davidson left me at a corner down-town. He turned to give me a parting admonition. "There's an old axiom in the mills around here, 'never sit down on a piece of metal until you spit on it.' If it sizzles, don't sit." He grinned. "Your best position just now, young man, is standing, with your hands over your head. Confidentially, there ain't anything within expectorating distance just now that ain't pretty well het up." He left me with that, and I did not see him again until the night at the White Cat, when he helped put me through the transom. Recently, however, I have met him several times. He invariably mentions the eight dollars and his intention of repaying it. Unfortunately, the desire and the ability have not yet happened to coincide. I took the evening train to Bellwood, and got there shortly after eight, in the midst of the Sunday evening calm, and the calm of a place like Bellwood is the peace of death without the hope of resurrection. I walked slowly up the main street, which was lined with residences; the town relegated its few shops to less desirable neighborhoods. My first intention had been to see the Episcopal minister, but the rectory was dark, and a burst of organ music from the church near reminded me again of the Sunday evening services. Promiscuous inquiry was not advisable. So far, Miss Jane's disappearance was known to very few, and Hunter had advised caution. I wandered up the street and turned at random to the right; a few doors ahead a newish red brick building proclaimed itself the post-office, and gave the only sign of life in the neighborhood. It occurred to me that here inside was the one individual who, theoretically at least, in a small place always knows the idiosyncrasies of its people. The door was partly open, for the spring night was sultry. The postmaster proved to be a one-armed veteran of the Civil War, and he was sorting rapidly the contents of a mail-bag, emptied on the counter. "No delivery to-night," he said shortly. "Sunday delivery, two to three." "I suppose, then, I couldn't get a dollar's worth of stamps," I regretted. He looked up over his glasses. "We don't sell stamps on Sunday nights," he explained, more politely. "But if you're in a hurry for them--" "I am," I lied. And after he had got them out, counting them with a wrinkled finger, and tearing them off the sheet with the deliberation of age, I opened a general conversation. "I suppose you do a good bit of business here?" I asked. "It seems like a thriving place." "Not so bad; big mail here sometimes. First of the quarter, when bills are coming round, we have a rush, and holidays and Easter we've got to hire an express wagon." It was when I asked him about his empty sleeve, however, and he had told me that he lost his arm at Chancellorsville, that we became really friendly When he said he had been a corporal in General Maitland's command, my path was one of ease. "The Maitland ladies! I should say I do," he said warmly. "I've been fighting with Letitia Maitland as long as I can remember. That woman will scrap with the angel Gabriel at the resurrection, if he wakes her up before she's had her sleep out." "Miss Jane is not that sort, is she?" "Miss Jane? She's an angel--she is that. She could have been married a dozen times when she was a girl, but Letitia wouldn't have it. I was after her myself, forty-five years ago. This was the Maitland farm in those days, and my father kept a country store down where the railroad station is now." "I suppose from that the Maitland ladies are wealthy." "Wealthy! They don't know what they're worth--not that it matters a mite to Jane Maitland. She hasn't called her soul her own for so long that I guess the good Lord won't hold her responsible for it." All of which was entertaining, but it was much like an old-fashioned see-saw; it kept going, but it didn't make much progress. But now at last we took a step ahead. "It's a shameful thing," the old man pursued, "that a woman as old as Jane should have to get her letters surreptitiously. For more than a year now she's been coming here twice a week for her mail, and I've been keeping it for her. Rain or shine, Mondays and Thursdays, she's been coming, and a sight of letters she's been getting, too." "Did she come last Thursday?" I asked over-eagerly. The postmaster, all at once, regarded me with suspicion. "I don't know whether she did or not," he said coldly, and my further attempts to beguile him into conversation failed. I pocketed my stamps, and by that time his resentment at my curiosity was fading. He followed me to the door, and lowered his voice cautiously. "Any news of the old lady?" he asked. "It ain't generally known around here that she's missing, but Heppie, the cook there, is a relation of my wife's." "We have no news," I replied, "and don't let it get around, will you?" He promised gravely. "I was tellin' the missus the other day," he said, "that there is an old walled-up cellar under the Maitland place. Have you looked there?" He was disappointed when I said we had, and I was about to go when he called me back. "Miss Jane didn't get her mail on Thursday, but on Friday that niece of hers came for it--two letters, one from the city and one from New York." "Thanks," I returned, and went out into the quiet street. I walked past the Maitland place, but the windows were dark and the house closed. Haphazard inquiry being out of the question, I took the ten o'clock train back to the city. I had learned little enough, and that little I was at a loss to know how to use. For why had Margery gone for Miss Jane's mail _after_ the little lady was missing? And why did Miss Jane carry on a clandestine correspondence? The family had retired when I got home except Fred, who called from his study to ask for a rhyme for mosque. I could not think of one and suggested that he change the word to "temple." At two o'clock he banged on my door in a temper, said he had changed the rhythm to fit, and now couldn't find a rhyme for "temple!" I suggested "dimple" drowsily, whereat he kicked the panel of the door and went to bed. CHAPTER XIV A WALK IN THE PARK The funeral occurred on Monday. It was an ostentatious affair, with a long list of honorary pall-bearers, a picked corps of city firemen in uniform ranged around the casket, and enough money wasted in floral pillows and sheaves of wheat tied with purple ribbon, to have given all the hungry children in town a square meal. Amid all this state Margery moved, stricken and isolated. She went to the cemetery with Edith, Miss Letitia having sent a message that, having never broken her neck to see the man living, she wasn't going to do it to see him dead. The music was very fine, and the eulogy spoke of this patriot who had served his country so long and so well. "Following the flag," Fred commented under his breath, "as long as there was an appropriation attached to it." And when it was all over, we went back to Fred's until the Fleming house could be put into order again. It was the best place in the world for Margery, for, with the children demanding her attention and applause every minute, she had no time to be blue. Mrs. Butler arrived that day, which made Fred suspicious that Edith's plan to bring her, far antedated his consent. But she was there when we got home from the funeral, and after one glimpse at her thin face and hollow eyes, I begged Edith to keep her away from Margery, for that day at least. Fortunately, Mrs. Butler was exhausted by her journey, and retired to her room almost immediately. I watched her slender figure go up the stairs, and, with her black trailing gown and colorless face, she was an embodiment of all that is lonely and helpless. Fred closed the door behind her and stood looking at Edith and me. "I tell you, honey," he declared, "_that_ brought into a cheerful home is sufficient cause for divorce. Isn't it, Jack?" "She is ill," Edith maintained valiantly. "She is my cousin, too, which gives her some claim on me, and my guest, which gives her more." "Lady-love," Fred said solemnly, "if you do not give me the key to the cellarette, I shall have a chill. And let me beg this of you: if I ever get tired of this life, and shuffle off my mortality in a lumber yard, or a political club, and you go around like that, I shall haunt you. I swear it." "Shuffle off," I dared him. "I will see that Edith is cheerful and happy." From somewhere above, there came a sudden crash, followed by the announcement, made by a scared housemaid, that Mrs. Butler had fainted. Fred sniffed as Edith scurried up-stairs. "Hipped," he said shortly. "For two cents I'd go up and give her a good whiff of ammonia--not this aromatic stuff, but the genuine article. That would make her sit up and take notice. Upon my word, I can't think what possessed Edith; these spineless, soft-spoken, timid women are leeches on one's sympathies." But Mrs. Butler was really ill, and Margery insisted on looking after her. It was an odd coincidence, the widow of one state treasurer and the orphaned daughter of his successor; both men had died violent deaths, in each case when a boiling under the political lid had threatened to blow it off. The boys were allowed to have their dinner with the family that evening, in honor of Mrs. Butler's arrival, and it was a riotous meal. Margery got back a little of her color. As I sat across from her, and watched her expressions change, from sadness to resignation, and even gradually to amusement at the boys' antics, I wondered just how much she knew, or suspected, that she refused to tell me. I remembered a woman--a client of mine--who said that whenever she sat near a railroad track and watched an engine thundering toward her, she tortured herself by picturing a child on the track, and wondering whether, under such circumstances, she would risk her life to save the child. I felt a good bit that way; I was firmly embarked on the case now, and I tortured myself with one idea. Suppose I should find Wardrop guilty, and I should find extenuating circumstances--what would I do? Publish the truth, see him hanged or imprisoned, and break Margery's heart? Or keep back the truth, let her marry him, and try to forget that I had had a hand in the whole wretched business? After all, I decided to try to stop my imaginary train. Prove Wardrop innocent, I reasoned with myself, get to the bottom of this thing, and then--it would be man and man. A fair field and no favor. I suppose my proper attitude, romantically taken, was to consider Margery's engagement ring an indissoluble barrier. But this was not romance; I was fighting for my life happiness, and as to the ring--well, I am of the opinion that if a man really loves a woman, and thinks he can make her happy, he will tell her so if she is strung with engagement rings to the ends of her fingers. Dangerous doctrine? Well, this is not propaganda. Tuesday found us all more normal. Mrs. Butler had slept some, and very commendably allowed herself to be tea'd and toasted in bed. The boys were started to kindergarten, after ten minutes of frenzied cap-hunting. Margery went with me along the hall when I started for the office. "You have not learned anything?" she asked cautiously, glancing back to Edith, at the telephone calling the grocer frantically for the Monday morning supply of soap and starch. "Not much," I evaded. "Nothing definite, anyhow. Margery, you are not going back to the Monmouth Avenue house again, are you?" "Not just yet; I don't think I could. I suppose, later, it will have to be sold, but not at once. I shall go to Aunt Letitia's first." "Very well," I said. "Then you are going to take a walk with me this afternoon in the park. I won't take no; you need the exercise, and I need--to talk to you," I finished lamely. When she had agreed I went to the office. It was not much after nine, but, to my surprise, Burton was already there. He had struck up an acquaintance with Miss Grant, the stenographer, and that usually frigid person had melted under the warmth of his red hair and his smile. She was telling him about her sister's baby having the whooping-cough, when I went in. "I wish I had studied law," he threw at me. "'What shall it profit a man to become a lawyer and lose his own soul?' as the psalmist says. I like this ten-to-four business." When we had gone into the inner office, and shut out Miss Grant and the whooping-cough, he was serious instantly. "Well," he said, sitting on the radiator and dangling his foot, "I guess we've got Wardrop for theft, anyhow." "Theft?" I inquired. "Well, larceny, if you prefer legal terms. I found where he sold the pearls--in Plattsburg, to a wholesale jeweler named, suggestively, Cashdollar." "Then," I said conclusively, "if he took the pearls and sold them, as sure as I sit here, he took the money out of that Russia leather bag." Burton swung his foot rhythmically against the pipes. "I'm not so darned sure of it," he said calmly. If he had any reason, he refused to give it. I told him, in my turn, of Carter's escape, aided by the police, and he smiled. "For a suicide it's causing a lot of excitement," he remarked. When I told him the little incident of the post-office, he was much interested. "The old lady's in it, somehow," he maintained. "She may have been lending Fleming money, for one thing. How do you know it wasn't her hundred thousand that was stolen?" "I don't think she ever had the uncontrolled disposal of a dollar in her life." "There's only one thing to do," Burton said finally, "and that is, find Miss Jane. If she's alive, she can tell something. I'll stake my fountain pen on that--and it's my dearest possession on earth, next to my mother. If Miss Jane is dead--well, somebody killed her, and it's time it was being found out." "It's easy enough to say find her." "It's easy enough to find her," he exploded. "Make a noise about it; send up rockets. Put a half-column ad in every paper in town, or--better still--give the story to the reporters and let them find her for you. I'd do it, if I wasn't tied up with this Fleming case. Describe her, how she walked, what she liked to eat, what she wore--in this case what she didn't wear. Lord, I wish I had that assignment! In forty-eight hours she will have been seen in a hundred different places, and one of them will be right. It will be a question of selection--that is, if she is alive." In spite of his airy tone, I knew he was serious, and I felt he was right. The publicity part of it I left to him, and I sent a special delivery that morning to Bellwood, asking Miss Letitia to say nothing and to refer reporters to me. I had already been besieged with them, since my connection with the Fleming case, and a few more made no difference. Burton attended to the matter thoroughly. The one o'clock edition of an afternoon paper contained a short and vivid scarlet account of Miss Jane's disappearance. The evening editions were full, and while vague as to the manner of her leaving, were minute as regarded her personal appearance and characteristics. To escape the threatened inundation of the morning paper men, I left the office early, and at four o'clock Margery and I stepped from a hill car into the park. She had been wearing a short, crepe-edged veil, but once away from the gaze of the curious, she took it off. I was glad to see she had lost the air of detachment she had worn for the last three days. "Hold your shoulders well back," I directed, when we had found an isolated path, "and take long breaths. Try breathing in while I count ten." She was very tractable--unusually so, I imagined, for her. We swung along together for almost a half-hour, hardly talking. I was content merely to be with her, and the sheer joy of the exercise after her enforced confinement kept her silent. When she began to flag a little I found a bench, and we sat down together. The bench had been lately painted, and although it seemed dry enough, I spread my handkerchief for her to sit on. Whereupon she called me "Sir Walter," and at the familiar jest we laughed like a pair of children. I had made the stipulation that, for this one time, her father's death and her other troubles should be taboo, and we adhered to it religiously. A robin in the path was industriously digging out a worm; he had tackled a long one, and it was all he could manage. He took the available end in his beak and hopped back with the expression of one who sets his jaws and determines that this which should be, is to be. The worm stretched into a pinkish and attenuated line, but it neither broke nor gave. "Horrid thing!" Margery said. "That is a disgraceful, heartless exhibition." "The robin is a parent," I reminded her. "It is precisely the same as Fred, who twists, jerks, distorts and attenuates the English language in his magazine work, in order to have bread and ice-cream and jelly cake for his two blooming youngsters." She had taken off her gloves, and sat with her hands loosely clasped in her lap. "I wish some one depended on me," she said pensively. "It's a terrible thing to feel that it doesn't matter to any one--not vitally, anyhow--whether one is around or not. To have all my responsibilities taken away at once, and just to drift around, like this--oh, it's dreadful." "You were going to be good," I reminded her. "I didn't promise to be cheerful," she returned. "Besides my father, there was only one person in the world who cared about me, and I don't know where she is. Dear Aunt Jane!" The sunlight caught the ring on her engagement finger, and she flushed suddenly as she saw me looking at it. We sat there for a while saying nothing; the long May afternoon was coming to a close. The paths began to fill with long lines of hurrying home-seekers, their day in office or factory at an end. Margery got up at last and buttoned her coat. Then impulsively she held out her hand to me. "You have been more than kind to me," she said hurriedly. "You have taken me into your home--and helped me through these dreadful days--and I will never forget it; never." "I am not virtuous," I replied, looking down at her. "I couldn't help it. You walked into my life when you came to my office--was it only last week? The evil days are coming, I suppose, but just now nothing matters at all, save that you are you, and I am I." She dropped her veil quickly, and we went back to the car. The prosaic world wrapped us around again; there was a heavy odor of restaurant coffee in the air; people bumped and jolted past us. To me they were only shadows; the real world was a girl in black and myself, and the girl wore a betrothal ring which was not mine. CHAPTER XV FIND THE WOMAN Mrs. Butler came down to dinner that night. She was more cheerful than I had yet seen her, and she had changed her mournful garments to something a trifle less depressing. With her masses of fair hair dressed high, and her face slightly animated, I realized what I had not done before--that she was the wreck of a very beautiful woman. Frail as she was, almost shrinkingly timid in her manner, there were times when she drew up her tall figure in something like its former stateliness. She had beautiful eyebrows, nearly black and perfectly penciled; they were almost incongruous in her colorless face. She was very weak; she used a cane when she walked, and after dinner, in the library, she was content to sit impassive, detached, propped with cushions, while Margery read to the boys in their night nursery and Edith embroidered. Fred had been fussing over a play for some time, and he had gone to read it to some manager or other. Edith was already spending the royalties. "We could go a little ways out of town," she was saying, "and we could have an automobile; Margery says theirs will be sold, and it will certainly be a bargain. Jack, are you laughing at me?" "Certainly _not_," I replied gravely. "Dream on, Edith. Shall we train the boys as chauffeurs, or shall we buy in the Fleming man, also cheap." "I am sure," Edith said aggrieved, "that it costs more for horse feed this minute for your gray, Jack, than it would for gasolene." "But Lady Gray won't eat gasolene," I protested. "She doesn't like it." Edith turned her back on me and sewed. Near me, Mrs. Butler had languidly taken up the paper; suddenly she dropped it, and when I stooped and picked it up I noticed she was trembling. "Is it true?" she demanded. "Is Robert Clarkson dead?" "Yes," I assented. "He has been dead since Sunday morning--a suicide." Edith had risen and come over to her. But Mrs. Butler was not fainting. "I'm glad, glad," she said. Then she grew weak and semi-hysterical, laughing and crying in the same breath. When she had been helped up-stairs, for in her weakened state it had been more of a shock than we realized, Margery came down and we tried to forget the scene we had just gone through. "I am glad Fred was not here," Edith confided to me. "Ellen is a lovely woman, and as kind as she is mild; but in one of her--attacks, she is a little bit trying." It was strange to contrast the way in which the two women took their similar bereavements. Margery represented the best type of normal American womanhood; Ellen Butler the neurasthenic; she demanded everything by her very helplessness and timidity. She was a constant drain on Edith's ready sympathy. That night, while I closed the house--Fred had not come in--I advised her to let Mrs. Butler go back to her sanatorium. At twelve-thirty I was still down-stairs; Fred was out, and I waited for him, being curious to know the verdict on the play. The bell rang a few minutes before one, and I went to the door; some one in the vestibule was tapping the floor impatiently with his foot. When I opened the door, I was surprised to find that the late visitor was Wardrop. He came in quietly, and I had a chance to see him well, under the hall light; the change three days had made was shocking. His eyes were sunk deep in his head, his reddened lids and twitching mouth told of little sleep, of nerves ready to snap. He was untidy, too, and a three days' beard hardly improved him. "I'm glad it's you," he said, by way of greeting. "I was afraid you'd have gone to bed." "It's the top of the evening yet," I replied perfunctorily, as I led the way into the library. Once inside, Wardrop closed the door and looked around him like an animal at bay. "I came here," he said nervously, looking at the windows, "because I had an idea you'd keep your head. Mine's gone; I'm either crazy, or I'm on my way there." "Sit down, man," I pushed a chair to him. "You don't look as if you have been in bed for a couple of nights." He went to each of the windows and examined the closed shutters before he answered me. "I haven't. You wouldn't go to bed either, if you thought you would never wake up." "Nonsense." "Well, it's true enough. Knox, there are people following me wherever I go; they eat where I eat; if I doze in my chair they come into my dreams!" He stopped there, then he laughed a little wildly. "That last isn't sane, but it's true. There's a man across the street now, eating an apple under a lamppost." "Suppose you _are_ under surveillance," I said. "It's annoying to have a detective following you around, but it's hardly serious. The police say now that Mr. Fleming killed himself; that was your own contention." He leaned forward in his chair and, resting his hands on his knees, gazed at me somberly. "Suppose I say he didn't kill himself?" slowly. "Suppose I say he was murdered? Suppose--good God--suppose I killed him myself?" I drew back in stupefaction, but he hurried on. "For the last two days I've been wondering--if I did it! He hadn't any weapon; I had one, his. I hated him that day; I had tried to save him, and couldn't. My God, Knox, I might have gone off my head and done it--and not remember it. There have been cases like that." His condition was pitiable. I looked around for some whisky, but the best I could do was a little port on the sideboard. When I came back he was sitting with bent head, his forehead on his palms. "I've thought it all out," he said painfully. "My mother had spells of emotional insanity. Perhaps I went there, without knowing it, and killed him. I can see him, in the night, when I daren't sleep, toppling over on to that table, with a bullet wound in his head, and I am in the room, and I have his revolver in my pocket!" "You give me your word you have no conscious recollection of hearing a shot fired." "My word before Heaven," he said fervently. "But I tell you, Knox, he had no weapon. No one came out of that room as I went in and yet he was only swaying forward, as if I had shot him one moment, and caught him as he fell, the next. I was dazed; I don't remember yet what I told the police." The expression of fear in his eyes was terrible to see. A gust of wind shook the shutters, and he jumped almost out of his chair. "You will have to be careful," I said. "There have been cases where men confessed murders they never committed, driven by Heaven knows what method of undermining their mental resistance. Yon expose your imagination to 'third degree' torture of your own invention, and in two days more you will be able to add full details of the crime." "I knew you would think me crazy," he put in, a little less somberly, "but just try it once: sit in a room by yourself all day and all night, with detectives watching you; sit there and puzzle over a murder of a man you are suspected of killing; you know you felt like killing him, and you have a revolver, and he is shot. Wouldn't you begin to think as I do?" "Wardrop," I asked, trying to fix his wavering eyes with mine, "do you own a thirty-two caliber revolver?" "Yes." I was startled beyond any necessity, under the circumstances. Many people have thirty-twos. "That is, I had," he corrected himself. "It was in the leather bag that was stolen at Bellwood." "I can relieve your mind of one thing," I said. "If your revolver was stolen with the leather bag, you had nothing to do with the murder. Fleming was shot with a thirty-two." He looked first incredulous, then relieved. "Now, then," I pursued, "suppose Mr. Fleming had an enemy, a relentless one who would stoop to anything to compass his ruin. In his position he would be likely to have enemies. This person, let us say, knows what you carry in your grip, and steals it, taking away the funds that would have helped to keep the lid on Fleming's mismanagement for a time. In the grip is your revolver; would you know it again?" He nodded affirmatively. "This person--this enemy finds the revolver, pockets it and at the first opportunity, having ruined Fleming, proceeds humanely to put him out of his suffering. Is it far-fetched?" "There were a dozen--a hundred--people who would have been glad to ruin him." His gaze wavered again suddenly. It was evident that I had renewed an old train of thought. "For instance?" I suggested, but he was on guard again. "You forget one thing, Knox," he said, after a moment. "There was nobody else who could have shot him: the room was empty." "Nonsense," I replied. "Don't forget the warehouse." "The warehouse!" "There is no doubt in my mind that he was shot from there. He was facing the open window, sitting directly under the light, writing. A shot fired through a broken pane of one of the warehouse windows would meet every requirement of the case: the empty room, the absence of powder marks--even the fact that no shot was heard. There was a report, of course, but the noise in the club-house and the thunder-storm outside covered it." "By George!" he exclaimed. "The warehouse, of course. I never thought of it." He was relieved, for some reason. "It's a question now of how many people knew he was at the club, and which of them hated him enough to kill him." "Clarkson knew it," Wardrop said, "but he didn't do it." "Why?" "Because it was he who came to the door of the room while the detective and you and I were inside, and called Fleming." I pulled out my pocket-book and took out the scrap of paper which Margery had found pinned to the pillow in her father's bedroom. "Do you know what that means?" I asked, watching Wardrop's face. "That was found in Mr. Fleming's room two days after he left home. A similar scrap was found in Miss Jane Maitland's room when she disappeared. When Fleming was murdered, he was writing a letter; he said: 'The figures have followed me here.' When we know what those figures mean, Wardrop, we know why he was killed and who did it." He shook his head hopelessly. "I do not know," he said, and I believed him. He had got up and taken his hat, but I stopped him inside the door. "You can help this thing in two ways," I told him. "I am going to give you something to do: you will have less time to be morbid. Find out, if you can, all about Fleming's private life in the last dozen years, especially the last three. See if there are any women mixed up in it, and try to find out something about this eleven twenty-two." "Eleven twenty-two," he repeated, but I had not missed his change of expression when I said women. "Also," I went on, "I want you to tell me who was with you the night you tried to break into the house at Bellwood." He was taken completely by surprise: when he had gathered himself together his perplexity was overdone. "With me!" he repeated. "I was alone, of course." "I mean--the woman at the gate." He lost his composure altogether then. I put my back against the door and waited for him to get himself in hand. "There was a woman," I persisted, "and what is more, Wardrop, at this minute you believe she took your Russia leather bag and left a substitute." He fell into the trap. "But she couldn't," he quavered. "I've thought until my brain is going, and I don't see how she could have done it." He became sullen when he saw what he had done, refused any more information, and left almost immediately. Fred came soon after, and in the meantime I had made some notes like this: 1. Examine warehouse and yard. 2. Attempt to trace Carter. 3. See station agent at Bellwood. 4. Inquire Wardrop's immediate past. 5. Take Wardrop to Doctor Anderson, the specialist. 6. Send Margery violets. CHAPTER XVI ELEVEN TWENTY-TWO AGAIN Burton's idea of exploiting Miss Jane's disappearance began to bear fruit the next morning. I went to the office early, anxious to get my more pressing business out of the way, to have the afternoon with Burton to inspect the warehouse. At nine o'clock came a call from the morgue. "Small woman, well dressed, gray hair?" I repeated. "I think I'll go up and see. Where was the body found?" "In the river at Monica Station," was the reply. "There is a scar diagonally across the cheek to the corner of the mouth." "A fresh injury?" "No, an old scar." With a breath of relief I said it was not the person we were seeking and tried to get down to work again. But Burton's prophecy had been right. Miss Jane had been seen in a hundred different places: one perhaps was right; which one? A reporter for the _Eagle_ had been working on the case all night: he came in for a more detailed description of the missing woman, and he had a theory, to fit which he was quite ready to cut and trim the facts. "It's Rowe," he said confidently. "You can see his hand in it right through. I was put on the Benson kidnapping case, you remember, the boy who was kept for three months in a deserted lumber camp in the mountains? Well, sir, every person in the Benson house swore that youngster was in bed at midnight, when the house was closed for the night. Every door and window bolted in the morning, and the boy gone. When we found Rowe--after the mother had put on mourning--and found the kid, ten pounds heavier than he had been before he was abducted, and strutting around like a turkey cock, Rowe told us that he and the boy took in the theater that night, and were there for the first act. How did he do it? He offered to take the boy to the show if he would pretend to go to bed, and then slide down a porch pillar and meet him. The boy didn't want to go home when we found him." "There can't be any mistake about the time in this case," I commented. "I saw her myself after eleven, and said good night." The _Eagle_ man consulted his note-book. "Oh, yes," he asked; "did she have a diagonal cut across her cheek?" "No," I said for the second time. My next visitor was a cabman. On the night in question he had taken a small and a very nervous old woman to the Omega ferry. She appeared excited and almost forgot to pay him. She carried a small satchel, and wore a black veil. What did she look like? She had gray hair, and she seemed to have a scar on her face that drew the corner of her mouth. At ten o'clock I telephoned Burton: "For Heaven's sake," I said, "if anybody has lost a little old lady in a black dress, wearing a black veil, carrying a satchel, and with a scar diagonally across her cheek from her eye to her mouth, I can tell them all about her, and where she is now." "That's funny," he said. "We're stirring up the pool and bringing up things we didn't expect. The police have been looking for that woman quietly for a week: she's the widow of a coal baron, and her son-in-law's under suspicion of making away with her." "Well, he didn't," I affirmed. "She committed suicide from an Omega ferry boat and she's at the morgue this morning." "Bully," he returned. "Keep on; you'll get lots of clues, and remember one will be right." It was not until noon, however, that anything concrete developed. In the two hours between, I had interviewed seven more people. I had followed the depressing last hours of the coal baron's widow, and jumped with her, mentally, into the black river that night. I had learned of a small fairish-haired girl who had tried to buy cyanide of potassium at three drug-stores on the same street, and of a tall light woman who had taken a room for three days at a hotel and was apparently demented. At twelve, however, my reward came. Two men walked in, almost at the same time: one was a motorman, in his official clothes, brass buttons and patches around the pockets. The other was a taxicab driver. Both had the uncertain gait of men who by occupation are unused to anything stationary under them, and each eyed the other suspiciously. The motorman claimed priority by a nose, so I took him first into my private office. His story, shorn of his own opinions at the time and later, was as follows: On the night in question, Thursday of the week before, he took his car out of the barn for the eleven o'clock run. Barney was his conductor. They went from the barn, at Hays Street, down-town, and then started out for Wynton. The controller blew out, and two or three things went wrong: all told they lost forty minutes. They got to Wynton at five minutes after two; their time there was one-twenty-five. The car went to the bad again at Wynton, and he and Barney tinkered with it until two-forty. They got it in shape to go back to the barn, but that was all. Just as they were ready to start, a passenger got on, a woman, alone: a small woman with a brown veil. She wore a black dress or a suit--he was vague about everything but the color, and he noticed her especially because she was fidgety and excited. Half a block farther a man boarded the car, and sat across from the woman. Barney said afterward that the man tried twice to speak to the woman, but she looked away each time. No, he hadn't heard what he said. The man got out when the car went into the barn, but the woman stayed on. He and Barney got another car and took it out, and the woman went with them. She made a complete round trip this time, going out to Wynton and back to the end of the line down-town. It was just daylight when she got off at last, at First and Day Streets. Asked if he had thought at the time that the veiled woman was young or old, he said he had thought she was probably middle-aged. Very young or very old women would not put in the night riding in a street-car. Yes, he had had men who rode around a couple of times at night, mostly to sober up before they went home. But he never saw a woman do it before. I took his name and address and thanked him. The chauffeur came next, and his story was equally pertinent. On the night of the previous Thursday he had been engaged to take a sick woman from a down-town hotel to a house at Bellwood. The woman's husband was with her, and they went slowly to avoid jolting. It was after twelve when he drove away from the house and started home. At a corner--he did not know the names of the streets--a woman hailed the cab and asked him if he belonged in Bellwood or was going to the city. She had missed the last train. When he told her he was going into town, she promptly engaged him, and showed him where to wait for her, a narrow road off the main street. "I waited an hour," he finished, "before she came; I dropped to sleep or I would have gone without her. About half-past one she came along, and a gentleman with her. He put her in the cab, and I took her to the city. When I saw in the paper that a lady had disappeared from Bellwood that night, I knew right off that it was my party." "Would you know the man again?" "I would know his voice, I expect, sir; I could not see much: he wore a slouch hat and had a traveling-bag of some kind." "What did he say to the woman?" I asked. "He didn't say much. Before he closed the door, he said, 'You have put me in a terrible position,' or something like that. From the traveling-bag and all, I thought perhaps it was an elopement, and the lady had decided to throw him down." "Was it a young woman or an old one," I asked again. This time the cabby's tone was assured. "Young," he asserted, "slim and quick: dressed in black, with a black veil. Soft voice. She got out at Market Square, and I have an idea she took a cross-town car there." "I hardly think it was Miss Maitland," I said. "She was past sixty, and besides--I don't think she went that way. Still it is worth following up. Is that all?" He fumbled in his pocket, and after a minute brought up a small black pocket-book and held it out to me. It was the small coin purse out of a leather hand-bag. "She dropped this in the cab, sir," he said. "I took it home to the missus--not knowing what else to do with it. It had no money in it--only that bit of paper." I opened the purse and took out a small white card, without engraving. On it was written in a pencil the figures: C 1122 CHAPTER XVII HIS SECOND WIFE When the cabman had gone, I sat down and tried to think things out. As I have said many times in the course of this narrative, I lack imagination: moreover, a long experience of witnesses in court had taught me the unreliability of average observation. The very fact that two men swore to having taken solitary women away from Bellwood that night, made me doubt if either one had really seen the missing woman. Of the two stories, the taxicab driver's was the more probable, as far as Miss Jane was concerned. Knowing her child-like nature, her timidity, her shrinking and shamefaced fear of the dark, it was almost incredible that she would walk the three miles to Wynton, voluntarily, and from there lose herself in the city. Besides, such an explanation would not fit the blood-stains, or the fact that she had gone, as far as we could find out, in her night-clothes. Still--she had left the village that night, either by cab or on foot. If the driver had been correct in his time, however, the taxicab was almost eliminated; he said the woman got into the cab at one-thirty. It was between one-thirty and one-forty-five when Margery heard the footsteps in the attic. I think for the first time it came to me, that day, that there was at least a possibility that Miss Jane had not been attacked, robbed or injured: that she had left home voluntarily, under stress of great excitement. But if she had, why? The mystery was hardly less for being stripped of its gruesome details. Nothing in my knowledge of the missing woman gave me a clue. I had a vague hope that, if she had gone voluntarily, she would see the newspapers and let us know where she was. To my list of exhibits I added the purse with its inclosure. The secret drawer of my desk now contained, besides the purse, the slip marked eleven twenty-two that had been pinned to Fleming's pillow; the similar scrap found over Miss Jane's mantel; the pearl I had found on the floor of the closet, and the cyanide, which, as well as the bullet, Burton had given me. Add to these the still tender place on my head where Wardrop had almost brained me with a chair, and a blue ankle, now becoming spotted with yellow, where I had fallen down the dumb-waiter, and my list of visible reminders of the double mystery grew to eight. I was not proud of the part I had played. So far, I had blundered, it seemed to me, at every point where a blunder was possible. I had fallen over folding chairs and down a shaft; I had been a half-hour too late to save Allan Fleming; I had been up and awake, and Miss Jane had got out of the house under my very nose. Last, and by no means least, I had waited thirty-five years to find the right woman, and when I found her, some one else had won her. I was in the depths that day when Burton came in. He walked into the office jauntily and presented Miss Grant with a club sandwich neatly done up in waxed paper. Then he came into my private room and closed the door behind him. "Avaunt, dull care!" he exclaimed, taking in my dejected attitude and exhibits on the desk at a glance. "Look up and grin, my friend." He had his hands behind him. "Don't be a fool," I snapped. "I'll not grin unless I feel like it." "Grin, darn you," he said, and put something on the desk in front of me. It was a Russia leather bag. "_The_ leather bag!" he pointed proudly. "Where did you get it?" I exclaimed, incredulous. Burton fumbled with the lock while he explained. "It was found in Boston," he said. "How do you open the thing, anyhow?" It was not locked, and I got it open in a minute. As I had expected, it was empty. "Then--perhaps Wardrop was telling the truth," I exclaimed. "By Jove, Burton, he was robbed by the woman in the cab, and he can't tell about her on account of Miss Fleming! She made a haul, for certain." I told him then of the two women who had left Bellwood on the night of Miss Jane's disappearance, and showed him the purse and its inclosure. The C puzzled him as it had me. "It might be anything," he said as he gave it back, "from a book, chapter and verse in the Bible to a prescription for rheumatism at a drug-store. As to the lady in the cab, I think perhaps you are right," he said, examining the interior of the bag, where Wardrop's name in ink told its story. "Of course, we have only Wardrop's word that he brought the bag to Bellwood; if we grant that we can grant the rest--that he was robbed, that the thief emptied the bag, and either took it or shipped it to Boston." "How on earth did you get it?" "It was a coincidence. There have been a shrewd lot of baggage thieves in two or three eastern cities lately, mostly Boston. The method, the police say, was something like this--one of them, the chief of the gang, would get a wagon, dress like an expressman and go round the depots looking at baggage. He would make a mental note of the numbers, go away and forge a check to match, and secure the pieces he had taken a fancy to. Then he merely drove around to headquarters, and the trunk was rifled. The police got on, raided the place, and found, among others, our Russia leather bag. It was shipped back, empty, to the address inside, at Bellwood." "At Bellwood? Then how--" "It came while I was lunching with Miss Letitia," he said easily. "We're very chummy--thick as thieves. What I want to know is"--disregarding my astonishment--"where is the hundred thousand?" "Find the woman." "Did you ever hear of Anderson, the nerve specialist?" he asked, without apparent relevancy. "I have been thinking of him," I answered. "If we could get Wardrop there, on some plausible excuse, it would take Anderson about ten minutes with his instruments and experimental psychology, to know everything Wardrop ever forgot." "I'll go on one condition," Burton said, preparing to leave. "I'll promise to get Wardrop and have him on the spot at two o'clock to-morrow, if you'll promise me one thing: if Anderson fixes me with his eye, and I begin to look dotty and tell about my past life, I want you to take me by the flap of my ear and lead me gently home." "I promise," I said, and Burton left. The recovery of the bag was only one of the many astonishing things that happened that day and the following night. Hawes, who knew little of what it all meant, and disapproved a great deal, ended that afternoon by locking himself, blinking furiously, in his private office. To Hawes any practice that was not lucrative was bad practice. About four o'clock, when I had shut myself away from the crowd in the outer office, and was letting Miss Grant take their depositions as to when and where they had seen a little old lady, probably demented, wandering around the streets, a woman came who refused to be turned away. "Young woman," I heard her say, speaking to Miss Grant, "he may have important business, but I guess mine's just a little more so." I interfered then, and let her come in. She was a woman of medium height, quietly dressed, and fairly handsome. My first impression was favorable; she moved with a certain dignity, and she was not laced, crimped or made up. I am more sophisticated now; The Lady Who Tells Me Things says that the respectable women nowadays, out-rouge, out-crimp and out-lace the unrespectable. However, the illusion was gone the moment she began to speak. Her voice was heavy, throaty, expressionless. She threw it like a weapon: I am perfectly honest in saying that for a moment the surprise of her voice outweighed the remarkable thing she was saying. "I am Mrs. Allan Fleming," she said, with a certain husky defiance. "I beg your pardon," I said, after a minute. "You mean--the Allan Fleming who has just died?" She nodded. I could see she was unable, just then, to speak. She had nerved herself to the interview, but it was evident that there was a real grief. She fumbled for a black-bordered handkerchief, and her throat worked convulsively. I saw now that she was in mourning. "Do you mean," I asked incredulously, "that Mr. Fleming married a second time?" "He married me three years ago, in Plattsburg. I came from there last night. I--couldn't leave before." "Does Miss Fleming know about this second marriage?" "No. Nobody knew about it. I have had to put up with a great deal, Mr. Knox. It's a hard thing for a woman to know that people are talking about her, and all the time she's married as tight as ring and book can do it." "I suppose," I hazarded, "if that is the case, you have come about the estate." "Estate!" Her tone was scornful. "I guess I'll take what's coming to me, as far as that goes--and it won't be much. No, I came to ask what they mean by saying Allan Fleming killed himself." "Don't you think he did?" "I know he did not," she said tensely. "Not only that: I know who did it. It was Schwartz--Henry Schwartz." "Schwartz! But what on earth--" "You don't know Schwartz," she said grimly. "I was married to him for fifteen years. I took him when he had a saloon in the Fifth Ward, at Plattsburg. The next year he was alderman: I didn't expect in those days to see him riding around in an automobile--not but what he was making money--Henry Schwartz is a money-maker. That's why he's boss of the state now." "And you divorced him?" "He was a brute," she said vindictively. "He wanted me to go back to him, and I told him I would rather die. I took a big house, and kept bachelor suites for gentlemen. Mr. Fleming lived there, and--he married me three years ago. He and Schwartz had to stand together, but they hated each other." "Schwartz?" I meditated. "Do you happen to know if Senator Schwartz was in Plattsburg at the time of the mur--of Mr. Fleming's death?" "He was here in Manchester." "He had threatened Mr. Fleming's life?" "He had already tried to kill him, the day we were married. He stabbed him twice, but not deep enough." I looked at her in wonder. For this woman, not extraordinarily handsome, two men had fought and one had died--according to her story. "I can prove everything I say," she went on rapidly. "I have letters from Mr. Fleming telling me what to do in case he was shot down; I have papers--canceled notes--that would put Schwartz in the penitentiary--that is," she said cunningly, "I did have them. Mr. Fleming took them away." "Aren't you afraid for yourself?" I asked. "Yes, I'm afraid--afraid he'll get me back yet. It would please him to see me crawl back on my knees." "But--he can not force you to go back to him." "Yes, he can," she shivered. From which I knew she had told me only a part of her story. After all she had nothing more to tell. Fleming had been shot; Schwartz had been in the city about the Borough Bank; he had threatened Fleming before, but a political peace had been patched; Schwartz knew the White Cat. That was all. Before she left she told me something I had not known. "I know a lot about inside politics," she said, as she got up. "I have seen the state divided up with the roast at my table, and served around with the dessert, and I can tell you something you don't know about your White Cat. A back staircase leads to one of the up-stairs rooms, and shuts off with a locked door. It opens below, out a side entrance, not supposed to be used. Only a few know of it. Henry Butler was found dead at the foot of that staircase." "He shot himself, didn't he?" "The police said so," she replied, with her grim smile. "There is such a thing as murdering a man by driving him to suicide." She wrote an address on a card and gave it to me. "Just a minute," I said, as she was about to go. "Have you ever heard Mr. Fleming speak of the Misses Maitland?" "They were--his first wife's sisters. No, he never talked of them, but I believe, just before he left Plattsburg, he tried to borrow some money from them." "And failed?" "The oldest one telegraphed the refusal, collect," she said, smiling faintly. "There is something else," I said. "Did you ever hear of the number eleven twenty-two?" "No--or--why, yes--" she said. "It is the number of my house." It seemed rather ridiculous, when she had gone, and I sat down to think it over. It was anticlimax, to say the least. If the mysterious number meant only the address of this very ordinary woman, then--it was probable her story of Schwartz was true enough. But I could not reconcile myself to it, nor could I imagine Schwartz, with his great bulk, skulking around pinning scraps of paper to pillows. It would have been more like the fearlessness and passion of the man to have shot Fleming down in the state house corridor, or on the street, and to have trusted to his influence to set him free. For the first time it occurred to me that there was something essentially feminine in the revenge of the figures that had haunted the dead man. I wondered if Mrs. Fleming had told me all, or only half the truth. That night, at the most peaceful spot I had ever known, Fred's home, occurred another inexplicable affair, one that left us all with racked nerves and listening, fearful ears. CHAPTER XVIII EDITH'S COUSIN That was to be Margery's last evening at Fred's. Edith had kept her as long as she could, but the girl felt that her place was with Miss Letitia. Edith was desolate. "I don't know what I am going to do without you," she said that night when we were all together in the library, with a wood fire, for light and coziness more than heat. Margery was sitting before the fire, and while the others talked she sat mostly silent, looking into the blaze. The May night was cold and rainy, and Fred had been reading us a poem he had just finished, receiving with indifference my comment on it, and basking in Edith's rapture. "Do you know yourself what it is about?" I inquired caustically. "If it's about anything, it isn't poetry," he replied. "Poetry appeals to the ear: it is primarily sensuous. If it is more than that it ceases to be poetry and becomes verse." Edith yawned. "I'm afraid I'm getting old," she said, "I'm getting the nap habit after dinner. Fred, run up, will you, and see if Katie put blankets over the boys?" Fred stuffed his poem in his pocket and went resignedly up-stairs. Edith yawned again, and prepared to retire to the den for forty winks. "If Ellen decides to come down-stairs," she called back over her shoulder, "please come and wake me. She said she felt better and might come down." At the door she turned, behind Margery's back, and made me a sweeping and comprehensive signal. She finished it off with a double wink, Edith having never been able to wink one eye alone, and crossing the hall, closed the door of the den with an obtrusive bang. Margery and I were alone. The girl looked at me, smiled a little, and drew a long breath. "It's queer about Edith," I said; "I never before knew her to get drowsy after dinner. If she were not beyond suspicion, I would think it a deep-laid scheme, and she and Fred sitting and holding hands in a corner somewhere." "But why--a scheme?" She had folded her hands in her lap, and the eternal ring sparkled malignantly. "They might think I wanted to talk to you," I suggested. "To me?" "To you--The fact is, I do." Perhaps I was morbid about the ring: it seemed to me she lifted her hand and looked at it. "It's drafty in here: don't you think so?" she asked suddenly, looking back of her. Probably she had not meant it, but I got up and closed the door into the hall. When I came back I took the chair next to her, and for a moment we said nothing. The log threw out tiny red devil sparks, and the clock chimed eight, very slowly. "Harry Wardrop was here last night," I said, poking down the log with my heel. "Here?" "Yes. I suppose I was wrong, but I did not say you were here." She turned and looked at me closely, out of the most beautiful eyes I ever saw. "I'm not afraid to see him," she said proudly, "and he ought not to be afraid to see me." "I want to tell you something before you see him. Last night, before he came, I thought that--well, that at least he knew something of--the things we want to know." "Yes?" "In justice to him, and because I want to fight fair, I tell you to-night that I don't believe he knows anything about your father's death, and that I believe he was robbed that night at Bellwood." "What about the pearls he sold at Plattsburg?" she asked suddenly. "I think when the proper time comes, he will tell about that too, Margery." I did not notice my use of her name until too late. If she heard, she failed to resent it. "After all, if you love him, hardly anything else matters, does it? How do we know but that he was in trouble, and that Aunt Jane herself gave them to him?" She looked at me with a little perplexity. "You plead his cause very well," she said. "Did he ask you to speak to me?" "I won't run a race with a man who is lame," I said quietly. "Ethically, I ought to go away and leave you to your dreams, but I am not going to do it. If you love Wardrop as a woman ought to love the man she marries, then marry him and I hope you will be happy. If you don't--no, let me finish. I have made up my mind to clear him if I can: to bring him to you with a clear slate. Then, I know it is audacious, but I am going to come, too, and--I'm going to plead for myself then, unless you send me away." She sat with her head bent, her color coming and going nervously. Now she looked up at me with what was the ghost of a smile. "It sounds like a threat," she said in a low voice. "And you--I wonder if you always get what you want?" Then, of course, Fred came in, and fell over a hassock looking for matches. Edith opened the door of the den and called him to her irritably, but Fred declined to leave the wood fire, and settled down in his easy chair. After a while Edith came over and joined us, but she snubbed Fred the entire evening, to his bewilderment. And when conversation lagged, during the evening that followed, I tried to remember what I had said, and knew I had done very badly. Only one thing cheered me: she had not been angry, and she had understood. Blessed be the woman that understands! We broke up for the night about eleven. Mrs. Butler had come down for a while, and had even played a little, something of Tschaikovsky's, a singing, plaintive theme that brought sadness back into Margery's face, and made me think, for no reason, of a wet country road and a plodding, back-burdened peasant. Fred and I sat in the library for a while after the rest had gone, and I told him a little of what I had learned that afternoon. "A second wife!" he said, "and a primitive type, eh? Well, did she shoot him, or did Schwartz? The Lady or the Democratic Tiger?" "The Tiger," I said firmly. "The Lady," Fred, with equal assurance. Fred closed the house with his usual care. It required the combined efforts of the maids followed up by Fred, to lock the windows, it being his confident assertion that in seven years of keeping house, he had never failed to find at least one unlocked window. On that night, I remember, he went around with his usual scrupulous care. Then we went up to bed, leaving a small light at the telephone in the lower hall: nothing else. The house was a double one, built around a square hall below, which served the purpose of a general sitting-room. From the front door a short, narrow hall led back to this, with a room on either side, and from it doors led into the rest of the lower floor. At one side the stairs took the ascent easily, with two stops for landings, and up-stairs the bedrooms opened from a similar, slightly smaller square hall. The staircase to the third floor went up from somewhere back in the nursery wing. My bedroom was over the library, and Mrs. Butler and Margery Fleming had connecting rooms, across the hall. Fred and Edith slept in the nursery wing, so they would be near the children. In the square upper hall there was a big reading table, a lamp, and some comfortable chairs. Here, when they were alone, Fred read aloud the evening paper, or his latest short story, and Edith's sewing basket showed how she put in what women miscall their leisure. I did not go to sleep at once: naturally the rather vital step I had taken in the library insisted on being considered and almost regretted. I tried reading myself to sleep, and when that failed, I tried the soothing combination of a cigarette and a book. That worked like a charm; the last thing I remember is of holding the cigarette in a death grip as I lay with my pillows propped back of me, my head to the light, and a delightful languor creeping over me. I was wakened by the pungent acrid smell of smoke, and I sat up and blinked my eyes open. The side of the bed was sending up a steady column of gray smoke, and there was a smart crackle of fire under me somewhere. I jumped out of bed and saw the trouble instantly. My cigarette had dropped from my hand, still lighted, and as is the way with cigarettes, determined to burn to the end. In so doing it had fired my bed, the rug under the bed and pretty nearly the man on the bed. It took some sharp work to get it all out without rousing the house. Then I stood amid the wreckage and looked ruefully at Edith's pretty room. I could see, mentally, the spot of water on the library ceiling the next morning, and I could hear Fred's strictures on the heedlessness and indifference to property of bachelors in general and me in particular. Three pitchers of water on the bed had made it an impossible couch. I put on a dressing-gown, and, with a blanket over my arm, I went out to hunt some sort of place to sleep. I decided on the davenport in the hall just outside, and as quietly as I could, I put a screen around it and settled down for the night. I was wakened by the touch of a hand on my face. I started, I think, and the hand was jerked away--I am not sure: I was still drowsy. I lay very quiet, listening for footsteps, but none came. With the feeling that there was some one behind the screen, I jumped up. The hall was dark and quiet. When I found no one I concluded it had been only a vivid dream, and I sat down on the edge of the davenport and yawned. I heard Edith moving back in the nursery: she has an uncomfortable habit of wandering around in the night, covering the children, closing windows, and sniffing for fire. I was afraid some of the smoke from my conflagration had reached her suspicious nose, but she did not come into the front hall. I was wide-awake by that time, and it was then, I think, that I noticed a heavy, sweetish odor in the air. At first I thought one of the children might be ill, and that Edith was dosing him with one of the choice concoctions that she kept in the bath-room medicine closet. When she closed her door, however, and went back to bed, I knew I had been mistaken. The sweetish smell was almost nauseating. For some reason or other--association of certain odors with certain events--I found myself recalling the time I had a wisdom tooth taken out, and that when I came around I was being sat on by the dentist and his assistant, and the latter had a black eye. Then, suddenly, I knew. The sickly odor was chloroform! I had the light on in a moment, and was rapping at Margery's door. It was locked, and I got no answer. A pale light shone over the transom, but everything was ominously quiet, beyond the door. I went to Mrs. Butler's door, next; it was unlocked and partly open. One glance at the empty bed and the confusion of the place, and I rushed without ceremony through the connecting door into Margery's room. The atmosphere was reeking with chloroform. The girl was in bed, apparently sleeping quietly. One arm was thrown up over her head, and the other lay relaxed on the white cover. A folded towel had been laid across her face, and when I jerked it away I saw she was breathing very slowly, stertorously, with her eyes partly open and fixed. I threw up all the windows, before I roused the family, and as soon as Edith was in the room I telephoned for the doctor. I hardly remember what I did until he came: I know we tried to rouse Margery and failed, and I know that Fred went down-stairs and said the silver was intact and the back kitchen door open. And then the doctor came, and I was put out in the hall, and for an eternity, I walked up and down, eight steps one way, eight steps back, unable to think, unable even to hope. Not until the doctor came out to me, and said she was better, and would I call a maid to make some strong black coffee, did I come out of my stupor. The chance of doing something, anything, made me determine to make the coffee myself. They still speak of that coffee at Fred's. It was Edith who brought Mrs. Butler to my mind. Fred had maintained that she had fled before the intruders, and was probably in some closet or corner of the upper floor. I am afraid our solicitude was long in coming. It was almost an hour before we organized a searching party to look for her. Fred went up-stairs, and I took the lower floor. It was I who found her, after all, lying full length on the grass in the little square yard back of the house. She was in a dead faint, and she was a much more difficult patient than Margery. We could get no story from either of them that night. The two rooms had been ransacked, but apparently nothing had been stolen. Fred vowed he had locked and bolted the kitchen door, and that it had been opened from within. It was a strange experience, that night intrusion into the house, without robbery as a motive. If Margery knew or suspected the reason for the outrage, she refused to say. As for Mrs. Butler, to mention the occurrence put her into hysteria. It was Fred who put forth the most startling theory of the lot. "By George," he said the next morning when we had failed to find tracks in the yard, and Edith had reported every silver spoon in its place, "by George, it wouldn't surprise me if the lady in the grave clothes did it herself. There isn't anything a hysterical woman won't do to rouse your interest in her, if it begins to flag. How did any one get in through that kitchen door, when it was locked inside and bolted? I tell you, she opened it herself." I did not like to force Margery's confidence, but I believed that the outrage was directly for the purpose of searching her room, perhaps for papers that had been her father's. Mrs. Butler came around enough by morning, to tell a semi-connected story in which she claimed that two men had come in from a veranda roof, and tried to chloroform her. That she had pretended to be asleep and had taken the first opportunity, while they were in the other room, to run down-stairs and into the yard. Edith thought it likely enough, being a credulous person. As it turned out, Edith's intuition was more reliable than my skepticism,--or Fred's. CHAPTER XIX BACK TO BELLWOOD The inability of Margery Fleming to tell who had chloroformed her, and Mrs. Butler's white face and brooding eyes made a very respectable mystery out of the affair. Only Fred, Edith and I came down to breakfast that morning. Fred's expression was half amused, half puzzled. Edith fluttered uneasily over the coffee machine, her cheeks as red as the bow of ribbon at her throat. I was preoccupied, and, like Fred, I propped the morning paper in front of me and proceeded to think in its shelter. "Did you find anything, Fred?" Edith asked. Fred did not reply, so she repeated the question with some emphasis. "Eh--what?" Fred inquired, peering around the corner of the paper. "Did--you--find--any--clue?" "Yes, dear--that is, no. Nothing to amount to anything. Upon my soul, Jack, if I wrote the editorials of this paper, I'd _say_ something." He subsided into inarticulate growls behind the paper, and everything was quiet. Then I heard a sniffle, distinctly. I looked up. Edith was crying--pouring cream into a coffee cup, and feeling blindly for the sugar, with her pretty face twisted and her pretty eyes obscured. In a second I was up, had crumpled the newspapers, including Fred's, into a ball, and had lifted him bodily out of his chair. "When I am married," I said fiercely, jerking him around to Edith and pushing him into a chair beside her, "if I ever read the paper at breakfast when my wife is bursting for conversation, may I have some good and faithful friend who will bring me back to a sense of my duty." I drew a chair to Edith's other side. "Now, let's talk," I said. She wiped her eyes shamelessly with her table napkin. "There isn't a soul in this house I can talk to," she wailed. "All kinds of awful things happening--and we had to send for coffee this morning, Jack. You must have used four pounds last night--and nobody will tell me a thing. There's no use asking Margery--she's sick at her stomach from the chloroform--and Ellen never talks except about herself, and she's horribly--uninteresting. And Fred and you make a ba--barricade out of newspapers, and fire 'yes' at me when you mean 'no.'" "I put the coffee back where I got it, Edith," I protested stoutly. "I know we're barbarians, but I'll swear to that." And then I stopped, for I had a sudden recollection of going up-stairs with something fat and tinny in my arms, of finding it in my way, and of hastily thrusting it into the boys' boot closet under the nursery stair. Fred had said nothing. He had taken her hand and was patting it gently, the while his eye sought the head-lines on the wad of morning paper. "You burned that blue rug," she said to me disconsolately, with a threat of fresh tears. "It took me ages to find the right shade of blue." "I will buy you that Shirvan you wanted," I hastened to assure her. "Yes, to take away when you get married." There is a hint of the shrew in all good women. "I will buy the Shirvan and _not_ get married." Here, I regret to say, Edith suddenly laughed. She threw her head back and jeered at me. "You!" she chortled, and pointed one slim finger at me mockingly. "You, who are so mad about one girl that you love all women for her sake! You, who go white instead of red when she comes into the room! You, who have let your practice go to the dogs to be near her, and then never speak to her when she's around, but sit with your mouth open like a puppy begging for candy, ready to snap up every word she throws you and wiggle with joy!" I was terrified. "Honestly, Edith, do I do that?" I gasped. But she did not answer; she only leaned over and kissed Fred. "Women like men to be awful fools about them," she said. "That's why I'm so crazy about Freddie." He writhed. "If I tell you something nice, Jack, will you make it a room-size rug?" "Room size it is." "Then--Margery's engagement ring was stolen last night and when I commiserated her she said--dear me, the lamp's out and the coffee is cold!" "Remarkable speech, under the circumstances," said Fred. Edith rang the bell and seemed to be thinking. "Perhaps we'd better make it four small rugs instead of one large one," she said. "Not a rug until you have told me what Margery said," firmly. "Oh, that! Why, she said it really didn't matter about the ring. She had never cared much about it anyway." "But that's only a matter of taste," I protested, somewhat disappointed. But Edith got up and patted me on the top of my head. "Silly," she said. "If the right man came along and gave her a rubber teething ring, she'd be crazy about it for his sake." "Edith!" Fred said, shocked. But Edith had gone. She took me up-stairs before I left for the office to measure for the Shirvan, Edith being a person who believes in obtaining a thing while the desire for it is in its first bloom. Across the hall Fred was talking to Margery through the transom. "Mustard leaves are mighty helpful," he was saying. "I always take 'em on shipboard. And cheer up: land's in sight." I would have given much for Fred's ease of manner when, a few minutes later, Edith having decided on four Shirvans and a hall runner, she took me to the door of Margery's room. She was lying very still and pale in the center of the white bed, and she tried bravely to smile at us. "I hope you are better," I said. "Don't let Edith convince you that my coffee has poisoned you." She said she was a little better, and that she didn't know she had had any coffee. That was the extent of the conversation. I, who have a local reputation of a sort before a jury, I could not think of another word to say. I stood there for a minute uneasily, with Edith poking me with her finger to go inside the door and speak and act like an intelligent human being. But I only muttered something about a busy day before me and fled. It was a singular thing, but as I stood in the doorway, I had a vivid mental picture of Edith's description of me, sitting up puppy-like to beg for a kind word, and wiggling with delight when I got it. If I slunk into my office that morning like a dog scourged to his kennel, Edith was responsible. At the office I found a note from Miss Letitia, and after a glance at it I looked for the first train, in my railroad schedule. The note was brief; unlike the similar epistle I had received from Miss Jane the day she disappeared, this one was very formal. "MR. JOHN KNOX: "DEAR SIR--Kindly oblige me by coming to see me as soon as you get this. Some things have happened, not that I think they are worth a row of pins, but Hepsibah is an old fool, and she says she did not put the note in the milk bottle. "Yours very respectfully, "LETITIA ANN MAITLAND." I had an appointment with Burton for the afternoon, to take Wardrop, if we could get him on some pretext, to Doctor Anderson. That day, also, I had two cases on the trial list. I got Humphreys, across the hall, to take them over, and evading Hawes' resentful blink, I went on my way to Bellwood. It was nine days since Miss Jane had disappeared. On my way out in the train I jotted down the things that had happened in that time: Allan Fleming had died and been buried; the Borough Bank had failed; some one had got into the Fleming house and gone through the papers there; Clarkson had killed himself; we had found that Wardrop had sold the pearls; the leather bag had been returned; Fleming's second wife had appeared, and some one had broken into my own house and, intentionally or not, had almost sent Margery Fleming over the borderland. It seemed to me everything pointed in one direction, to a malignity against Fleming that extended itself to the daughter. I thought of what the woman who claimed to be the dead man's second wife had said the day before. If the staircase she had spoken of opened into the room where Fleming was shot, and if Schwartz was in town at the time, then, in view of her story that he had already tried once to kill him, the likelihood was that Schwartz was at least implicated. If Wardrop knew that, why had he not denounced him? Was I to believe that, after all the mystery, the number eleven twenty-two was to resolve itself into the number of a house? Would it be typical of the Schwartz I knew to pin bits of paper to a man's pillow? On the other hand, if he had reason to think that Fleming had papers that would incriminate him, it would be like Schwartz to hire some one to search for them, and he would be equal to having Wardrop robbed of the money he was taking to Fleming. Granting that Schwartz had killed Fleming--then who was the woman with Wardrop the night he was robbed? Why did he take the pearls and sell them? How did the number eleven twenty-two come into Aunt Jane's possession? How did the leather bag get to Boston? Who had chloroformed Margery? Who had been using the Fleming house while it was closed? Most important of all now--where was Aunt Jane? The house at Bellwood looked almost cheerful in the May sunshine, as I went up the walk. Nothing ever changed the straight folds of the old-fashioned lace curtains; no dog ever tracked the porch, or buried sacrilegious and odorous bones on the level lawn; the birds were nesting in the trees, well above the reach of Robert's ladder, but they were decorous, well-behaved birds, whose prim courting never partook of the exuberance of their neighbors', bursting their little throats in an elm above the baby perambulator in the next yard. When Bella had let me in, and I stood once more in the straight hall, with the green rep chairs and the Japanese umbrella stand, involuntarily I listened for the tap of Miss Jane's small feet on the stairs. Instead came Bella's heavy tread, and a request from Miss Letitia that I go up-stairs. The old lady was sitting by a window of her bedroom, in a chintz upholstered chair. She did not appear to be feeble; the only change I noticed was a relaxation in the severe tidiness of her dress. I guessed that Miss Jane's exquisite neatness had been responsible for the white ruchings, the soft caps, and the spotless shoulder shawls which had made lovely their latter years. "You've taken your own time about coming, haven't you?" Miss Letitia asked sourly. "If it hadn't been for that cousin of yours you sent here, Burton, I'd have been driven to sending for Amelia Miles, and when I send for Amelia Miles for company, I'm in a bad way." "I have had a great deal to attend to," I said as loud as I could. "I came some days ago to tell you Mr. Fleming was dead; after that we had to bury him, and close the house. It's been a very sad--" "Did he leave anything?" she interrupted. "It isn't sad at all unless he didn't leave anything." "He left very little. The house, perhaps, and I regret to have to tell you that a woman came to me yesterday who claims to be a second wife." She took off her glasses, wiped them and put them on again. "Then," she said with a snap, "there's one other woman in the world as big a fool as my sister Martha was. I didn't know there were two of 'em. What do you hear about Jane?" "The last time I was here," I shouted, "you thought she was dead; have you changed your mind?" "The last time you were here," she said with dignity, "I thought a good many things that were wrong. I thought I had lost some of the pearls, but I hadn't." "What!" I exclaimed incredulously. She put her hands on the arms of her chair, and leaning forward, shot the words at me viciously. "I--said--I--had--lost--some--of--the--pearls--well--I--haven't." She didn't expect me to believe her, any more than she believed it herself. But why on earth she had changed her attitude about the pearls was beyond me. I merely nodded comprehensively. "Very well," I said, "I'm glad to know it was a mistake. Now, the next thing is to find Miss Jane." "We have found her," she said tartly. "That's what I sent for you about." "Found her!" This time I did get out of my chair. "What on earth do you mean, Miss Letitia? Why, we've been scouring the country for her." She opened a religious monthly on the table beside her, and took out a folded paper. I had to control my impatience while she changed her glasses and read it slowly. "Heppie found it on the back porch, under a milk bottle," she prefaced. Then she read it to me. I do not remember the wording, and Miss Letitia refused, both then and later, to let it out of her hands. As a result, unlike the other manuscripts in the case, I have not even a copy. The substance, shorn of its bad spelling and grammar, was this: The writer knew where Miss Jane was; the inference being that he was responsible. She was well and happy, but she had happened to read a newspaper with an account of her disappearance, and it had worried her. The payment of the small sum of five thousand dollars would send her back as well as the day she left. The amount, left in a tin can on the base of the Maitland shaft in the cemetery, would bring the missing lady back within twenty-four hours. On the contrary, if the recipient of the letter notified the police, it would go hard with Miss Jane. "What do you think of it?" she asked, looking at me over her glasses. "If she was fool enough to be carried away by a man that spells cemetery with one m, she deserves what she's got. And I won't pay five thousand, anyhow, it's entirely too much." "It doesn't sound quite genuine to me," I said, reading it over. "I should certainly not leave any money until we had tried to find who left this." "I'm not so sure but what she'd better stay a while anyhow," Miss Letitia pursued. "Now that we know she's living, I ain't so particular when she gets back. She's been notionate lately anyhow." I had been reading the note again. "There's one thing here that makes me doubt the whole story," I said. "What's this about her reading the papers? I thought her reading glasses were found in the library." Miss Letitia snatched the paper from me and read it again. "Reading the paper!" she sniffed. "You've got more sense than I've been giving you credit for, Knox. Her glasses are here this minute; without them she can't see to scratch her nose." It was a disappointment to me, although the explanation was simple enough. It was surprising that we had not had more attempts to play on our fears. But the really important thing bearing on Miss Jane's departure was when Heppie came into the room, with her apron turned up like a pocket and her dust cap pushed down over her eyes like the slouch hat of a bowery tough. When she got to the middle of the room she stopped and abruptly dropped the corners of her apron. There rolled out a heterogeneous collection of things: a white muslin garment which proved to be a nightgown, with long sleeves and high collar; a half-dozen hair curlers--I knew those; Edith had been seen, in midnight emergencies, with her hair twisted around just such instruments of torture--a shoe buttoner; a railroad map, and one new and unworn black kid glove. Miss Letitia changed her glasses deliberately, and took a comprehensive survey of the things on the floor. "Where did you get 'em?" she said, fixing Heppie with an awful eye. "I found 'em stuffed under the blankets in the chest of drawers in the attic," Heppie shouted at her. "If we'd washed blankets last week, as I wanted to--" "Shut up!" Miss Letitia said shortly, and Heppie's thin lips closed with a snap. "Now then, Knox, what do you make of that?" "If that's the nightgown she was wearing the night she disappeared, I think it shows one thing very clearly, Miss Maitland. She was not abducted, and she knew perfectly well what she was about. None of her clothes was missing, and that threw us off the track; but look at this new glove! She may have had new things to put on and left the old. The map--well, she was going somewhere, with a definite purpose. When we find out what took her away, we will find her." "Humph!" "She didn't go unexpectedly--that is, she was prepared for whatever it was." "I don't believe a word of it," the old lady burst out. "She didn't have a secret; she was the kind that couldn't keep a secret. She wasn't responsible, I tell you; she was extravagant. Look at that glove! And she had three pairs half worn in her bureau." "Miss Maitland," I asked suddenly, "did you ever hear of eleven twenty-two?" "Eleven twenty-two what?" "Just the number, eleven twenty-two," I repeated. "Does it mean anything to you? Has it any significance?" "I should say it has," she retorted. "In the last ten years the Colored Orphans' Home has cared for, fed, clothed, and pampered exactly eleven hundred and twenty-two colored children, of every condition of shape and misshape, brains and no brains." "It has no other connection?" "Eleven twenty-two? Twice eleven is twenty-two, if that's any help. No, I can't think of anything. I loaned Allan Fleming a thousand dollars once; I guess my mind was failing. It would be about eleven twenty-two by this time." Neither of which explanations sufficed for the little scrap found in Miss Jane's room. What connection, if any, had it with her flight? Where was she now. What was eleven twenty-two? And why did Miss Letitia deny that she had lost the pearls, when I already knew that nine of the ten had been sold, who had bought them, and approximately how much he had paid? CHAPTER XX ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS I ate a light lunch at Bellwood, alone, with Bella to look after me in the dining-room. She was very solicitous, and when she had brought my tea, I thought she wanted to say something. She stood awkwardly near the door, and watched me. "You needn't wait, Bella," I said. "I beg your pardon, sir, but--I wanted to ask you--is Miss Fleming well?" "She was not very well this morning, but I don't think it is serious, Bella," I replied. She turned to go, but I fancied she hesitated. "Oh, Bella," I called, as she was going out, "I want to ask you something. The night at the Fleming home, when you and I watched the house, didn't you hear some person running along the hall outside your door? About two o'clock, I think?" She looked at me stolidly. "No, sir, I slept all night." "That's strange. And you didn't hear me when I fell down the dumb-waiter shaft?" "Holy saints!" she ejaculated. "Was _that_ where you fell!" She stopped herself abruptly. "You heard that?" I asked gently, "and yet you slept all night? Bella, there's a hitch somewhere. You didn't sleep that night, at all; you told Miss Fleming I had been up all night. How did you know that? If I didn't know that you couldn't possibly get around as fast as the--person in the house that night, I would say you had been in Mr. Fleming's desk, looking for--let us say, postage stamps. May I have another cup of coffee?" She turned a sickly yellow white, and gathered up my cup and saucer with trembling hands. When the coffee finally came back it was brought grumblingly by old Heppie. "She says she's turned her ankle," she sniffed. "Turned it on a lathe, like a table leg, I should say, from the shape of it." Before I left the dining-room I put another line in my note-book: "What does Bella know?" I got back to the city somewhat late for my appointment with Burton. I found Wardrop waiting for me at the office, and if I had been astonished at the change in him two nights before, I was shocked now. He seemed to have shrunk in his clothes; his eyeballs were bloodshot from drinking, and his fair hair had dropped, neglected, over his forehead. He was sitting in his familiar attitude, his elbows on his knees, his chin on his palms. He looked at me with dull eyes, when I went in. I did not see Burton at first. He was sitting on my desk, holding a flat can in his hand, and digging out with a wooden toothpick one sardine after another and bolting them whole. "Your good health," he said, poising one in the air, where it threatened oily tears over the carpet. "As an appetite-quencher and thirst-producer, give me the festive sardine. How lovely it would be if we could eat 'em without smelling 'em!" "Don't you do anything but eat?" Wardrop asked, without enthusiasm. Burton eyed him reproachfully. "Is that what I get for doing without lunch, in order to prove to you that you are not crazy?" He appealed to me. "He says he's crazy--lost his think works. Now, I ask you, Knox, when I go to the trouble to find out for him that he's got as many convolutions as anybody, and that they've only got a little convolved, is it fair, I ask you, for him to reproach me about my food?" "I didn't know you knew each other," I put in, while Burton took another sardine. "He says we do," Wardrop said wearily; "says he used to knock me around at college." Burton winked at me solemnly. "He doesn't remember me, but he will," he said. "It's his nerves that are gone, and we'll have him restrung with new wires, like an old piano, in a week." Wardrop had that after-debauch suspicion of all men, but I think he grasped at me as a dependability. "He wants me to go to a doctor," he said. "I'm not sick; it's only--" He was trying to light a cigarette, but the match dropped from his shaking fingers. "Better see one, Wardrop," I urged--and I felt mean enough about doing it. "You need something to brace you up." Burton gave him a very small drink, for he could scarcely stand, and we went down in the elevator. My contempt for the victim between us was as great as my contempt for myself. That Wardrop was in a bad position there could be no doubt; there might be more men than Fleming who had known about the money in the leather bag, and who thought he had taken it and probably killed Fleming to hide the theft. It seemed incredible that an innocent man would collapse as he had done, and yet--at this minute I can name a dozen men who, under the club of public disapproval, have fallen into paresis, insanity and the grave. We are all indifferent to our fellow-men until they are against us. Burton knew the specialist very well--in fact, there seemed to be few people he did not know. And considering the way he had got hold of Miss Letitia and Wardrop, it was not surprising. He had evidently arranged with the doctor, for the waiting-room was empty and we were after hours. The doctor was a large man, his size emphasized by the clothes he wore, very light in color, and unprofessional in cut. He was sandy-haired, inclined to be bald, and with shrewd, light blue eyes behind his glasses. Not particularly impressive, except as to size, on first acquaintance; a good fellow, with a brisk voice, and an amazingly light tread. He began by sending Wardrop into a sort of examining room in the rear of the suite somewhere, to take off his coat and collar. When he had gone the doctor looked at a slip of paper in his hand. "I think I've got it all from Mr. Burton," he said. "Of course, Mr. Knox, this is a little out of my line; a nerve specialist has as much business with psychotherapy as a piano tuner has with musical technique. But the idea is Munsterburg's, and I've had some good results. I'll give him a short physical examination, and when I ring the bell one of you may come in. Are you a newspaper man, Mr. Knox?" "An attorney," I said briefly. "Press man, lawyer, or doctor," Burton broke in, "we all fatten on the other fellow's troubles, don't we?" "We don't fatten very much," I corrected "We live." The doctor blinked behind his glasses. "I never saw a lawyer yet who would admit he was making money," he said. "Look at the way a doctor grinds for a pittance! He's just as capable as the lawyer; he works a damn sight harder, and he makes a tenth the income. A man will pay his lawyer ten thousand dollars for keeping him out of jail for six months, and he'll kick like a steer if his doctor charges him a hundred to keep him out of hell for life! Which of you will come in? I'm afraid two would distract him." "I guess it is Knox's butt-in," Burton conceded, "but I get it later, Doctor; you promised." The physical examination was very brief; when I was called in Wardrop was standing at the window looking down into the street below, and the doctor was writing at his desk. Behind Wardrop's back he gave me the slip he had written. "Test is for association of ideas. Watch length of time between word I give and his reply. I often get hold of facts forgotten by the patient. A wait before the answering word is given shows an attempt at concealment." "Now, Mr. Wardrop," he said, "will you sit here, please?" He drew a chair to the center-table for Wardrop, and another, just across for himself. I sat back and to one side of the patient, where I could see Wardrop's haggard profile and every movement of the specialist. On the table was an electric instrument like a small clock, and the doctor's first action was to attach to it two wires with small, black rubber mouthpieces. "Now, Mr. Wardrop," he said, "we will go on with the test. Your other condition is fair, as I told you; I think you can dismiss the idea of insanity without a second thought, but there is something more than brain and body to be considered; in other words, you have been through a storm, and some of your nervous wires are down. Put the mouthpiece between your lips, please; you see, I do the same with mine. And when I give you a word, speak as quickly as possible the association it brings to your mind. For instance, I say 'noise.' Your first association might be 'street,' 'band,' 'drum,' almost anything associated with the word. As quickly as possible, please." The first few words went simply enough. Wardrop's replies came almost instantly. To "light" he replied "lamp;" "touch" brought the response "hand;" "eat" brought "Burton," and both the doctor and I smiled. Wardrop was intensely serious. Then-- "Taxicab," said the doctor, and, after an almost imperceptible pause, "road" came the association. All at once I began to see the possibilities. "Desk." "Pen." "Pipe." "Smoke." "Head." After a perceptible pause the answer came uncertainly. "Hair." But the association of ideas would not be denied, for in answer to the next word, which was "ice," he gave "blood," evidently following up the previous word "head." I found myself gripping the arms of my chair. The dial on the doctor's clock-like instrument was measuring the interval; I could see that now. The doctor took a record of every word and its response. Wardrop's eyes were shifting nervously. "Hot." "Cold." "White." "Black." "Whisky." "Glass," all in less than a second. "Pearls." A little hesitation, then "box." "Taxicab" again. "Night." "Silly." "Wise." "Shot." After a pause, "revolver." "Night." "Dark." "Blood." "Head." "Water." "Drink." "Traveling-bag." He brought out the word "train" after an evident struggle, but in answer to the next word "lost," instead of the obvious "found," he said "woman." He had not had sufficient mental agility to get away from the association with "bag." The "woman" belonged there. "Murder" brought "dead," but "shot," following immediately after, brought "staircase." I think Wardrop was on his guard by that time, but the conscious effort to hide truths that might be damaging made the intervals longer, from that time on. Already I felt sure that Allan Fleming's widow had been right; he had been shot from the locked back staircase. But by whom? "Blow" brought "chair." "Gone." "Bag" came like a flash. In quick succession, without pause, came the words-- "Bank." "Note." "Door." "Bolt." "Money." "Letters," without any apparent connection. Wardrop was going to the bad. When, to the next word, "staircase," again, he said "scar," his demoralization was almost complete. As for me, the scene in Wardrop's mind was already in mine--Schwartz, with the scar across his ugly forehead, and the bolted door to the staircase open! On again with the test. "Flour," after perhaps two seconds, from the preceding shock, brought "bread." "Trees." "Leaves." "Night." "Dark." "Gate." He stopped here so long, I thought he was not going to answer at all. Presently, with am effort, he said "wood," but as before, the association idea came out in the next word; for "electric light" he gave "letters." "Attic" brought "trunks" at once. "Closet." After perhaps a second and a half came "dust," showing what closet was in his mind, and immediately after, to "match" he gave "pen." A long list of words followed which told nothing, to my mind, although the doctor's eyes were snapping with excitement. Then "traveling-bag" again, and instead of his previous association, "woman," this time he gave "yellow." But, to the next word, "house," he gave "guest." It came to me that in his mental processes I was the guest, the substitute bag was in his mind, as being in my possession. Quick as a flash the doctor followed up-- "Guest." And Wardrop fell. "Letters," he said. To a great many words, as I said before, I could attach no significance. Here and there I got a ray. "Elderly" brought "black." "Warehouse." "Yard," for no apparent reason. "Eleven twenty-two." "C" was the answer, given without a second's hesitation. Eleven twenty-two C! He gave no evidence of having noticed any peculiarity in what he said; I doubt if he realized his answer. To me, he gave the impression of repeating something he had apparently forgotten. As if a number and its association had been subconscious, and brought to the surface by the psychologist; as if, for instance, some one prompted a--b, and the corollary "c" came without summoning. The psychologist took the small mouthpiece from his lips, and motioned Wardrop to do the same. The test was over. "I don't call that bad condition, Mr.--Wardrop," the doctor said. "You are nervous, and you need a little more care in your habits. You want to exercise, regularly, and you will have to cut out everything in the way of stimulants for a while. Oh, yes, a couple of drinks a day at first, then one a day, and then none. And you are to stop worrying--when trouble comes round, and stares at you, don't ask it in to have a drink. Take it out in the air and kill it; oxygen is as fatal to anxiety as it is to tuberculosis." "How would Bellwood do?" I asked. "Or should it be the country?" "Bellwood, of course," the doctor responded heartily. "Ten miles a day, four cigarettes, and three meals--which is more than you have been taking, Mr. Wardrop, by two." I put him on the train for Bellwood myself, and late that afternoon the three of us--the doctor, Burton and myself--met in my office and went over the doctor's record. "When the answer comes in four-fifths of a second," he said, before we began, "it is hardly worth comment. There is no time in such an interval for any mental reservation. Only those words that showed noticeable hesitation need be considered." We worked until almost seven. At the end of that time the doctor leaned back in his chair, and thrust his hands deep in his trousers pockets. "I got the story from Burton," he said, after a deep breath. "I had no conclusion formed, and of course I am not a detective. Things looked black for Mr. Wardrop, in view of the money lost, the quarrel with Fleming that morning at the White Cat, and the circumstance of his leaving the club and hunting a doctor outside, instead of raising the alarm. Still, no two men ever act alike in an emergency. Psychology is as exact a science as mathematics; it gets information from the source, and a man can not lie in four-fifths of a second. 'Head,' you noticed, brought 'hair' in a second and three quarters, and the next word, 'ice,' brought the 'blood' that he had held back before. That doesn't show anything. He tried to avoid what was horrible to him. "But I gave him 'traveling-bag;' after a pause, he responded with 'train.' The next word, 'lost,' showed what was in his mind; instead of 'found,' he said 'woman.' Now then, I believe he was either robbed by a woman, or he thinks he was. After all, we can only get what he believes himself. "'Money--letters,'--another slip. "'Shot--staircase'--where are the stairs at the White Cat?" "I learned yesterday of a back staircase that leads into one of the upper rooms," I said. "It opens on a side entrance, and is used in emergency." The doctor smiled confidently. "We look there for our criminal," he said. "Nothing hides from the chronoscope. Now then, 'staircase--scar.' Isn't that significant? The association is clear: a scar that is vivid enough, disfiguring enough, to be the first thing that enters his mind." "Schwartz!" Burton said with awe. "Doctor, what on earth does 'eleven twenty-two C' mean?" "I think that is up to you, gentlemen. The C belongs there, without doubt. Briefly, looking over these slips, I make it something like this: Wardrop thinks a woman took his traveling-bag. Three times he gave the word 'letters,' in response to 'gate,' 'guest' and 'money.' Did he have a guest at the time all this happened at Bellwood?" "I was a guest in the house at the time." "Did you offer him money for letters?" "No." "Did he give you any letters to keep for him?" "He gave me the bag that was substituted for his." "Locked?" "Yes. By Jove, I wonder if there is anything in it? I have reason to know that he came into my room that night at least once after I went asleep." "I think it very likely," he said dryly. "One thing we have not touched on, and I believe Mr. Wardrop knows nothing of it. That is, the disappearance of the old lady. There is a psychological study for you! My conclusion? Well, I should say that Mr. Wardrop is not guilty of the murder. He knows, or thinks he knows, who is. He has a theory of his own, about some one with a scar: it may be only a theory. He does not necessarily know, but he hopes. He is in a state of abject fear. Also, he is hiding something concerning letters, and from the word 'money' in that connection, I believe he either sold or bought some damaging papers. He is not a criminal, but he is what is almost worse." The doctor rose and picked up his hat. "He is a weakling," he said, from the doorway. Burton looked at his watch. "By George!" he said. "Seven-twenty, and I've had nothing since lunch but a box of sardines. I'm off to chase the festive mutton chop. Oh, by the way, Knox, where is that locked bag?" "In my office safe." "I'll drop around in the morning and assist you to compound a felony," he said easily. But as it happened, he did not. CHAPTER XXI A PROSCENIUM BOX I was very late for dinner. Fred and Edith were getting ready for a concert, and the two semi-invalids were playing pinochle in Fred's den. Neither one looked much the worse for her previous night's experience; Mrs. Butler was always pale, and Margery had been so since her father's death. The game was over when I went into the den. As usual, Mrs. Butler left the room almost immediately, and went to the piano across the hall. I had grown to accept her avoidance of me without question. Fred said it was because my overwhelming vitality oppressed her. Personally, I think it was because the neurasthenic type of woman is repulsive to me. No doubt Mrs. Butler deserved sympathy, but her open demand for it found me cold and unresponsive. I told Margery briefly of my visit to Bellwood that morning. She was as puzzled as I was about the things Heppie had found in the chest. She was relieved, too. "I am just as sure, now, that she is living, as I was a week ago that she was dead," she said, leaning back in her big chair. "But what terrible thing took her away? Unless--" "Unless what?" "She had loaned my father a great deal of money," Margery said, with heightened color. "She had not dared to tell Aunt Letitia, and the money was to be returned before she found it out. Then--things went wrong with the Borough Bank, and--the money did not come back. If you know Aunt Jane, and how afraid she is of Aunt Letitia, you will understand how terrible it was for her. I have wondered if she would go--to Plattsburg, and try to find father there." "The _Eagle_ man is working on that theory now," I replied. "Margery, if there was a letter 'C' added to eleven twenty-two, would you know what it meant?" She shook her head in the negative. "Will you answer two more questions?" I asked. "Yes, if I can." "Do you know why you were chloroformed last night, and who did it?" "I think I know who did it, but I don't understand. I have been trying all day to think it out. I'm afraid to go to sleep to-night." "You need not be," I assured her. "If necessary, we will have the city police in a ring around the house. If you know and don't tell, Margery, you are running a risk, and more than that, you are protecting a person who ought to be in jail." "I'm not sure," she persisted. "Don't ask me about it, please." "What does Mrs. Butler say?" "Just what she said this morning. And she says valuable papers were taken from under her pillow. She was very ill--hysterical, all afternoon." The gloom and smouldering fire of the _Sonata Apassionata_ came to us from across the hall. I leaned over and took Margery's small hand between my two big ones. "Why don't you tell me?" I urged. "Or--you needn't tell me, I know what you think. But there isn't any motive that I can see, and why would she chloroform you?" "I don't know," Margery shuddered. "Sometimes--I wonder--do you think she is altogether sane?" The music ended with the crash of a minor chord. Fred and Edith came down the stairs, and the next moment we were all together, and the chance for a quiet conversation was gone. At the door Fred turned and came back. "Watch the house," he said. "And by the way, I guess"--he lowered his voice--"the lady's story was probably straight. I looked around again this afternoon, and there are fresh scratches on the porch roof under her window. It looks queer, doesn't it?" It was a relief to know that, after all, Mrs. Butler was an enemy and a dangerous person to nobody but herself. She retired to her room almost as soon as Fred and Edith had gone. I was wondering whether or not to tell Margery about the experiment that afternoon; debating how to ask her what letters she had got from the postmaster at Bellwood addressed to Miss Jane, and what she knew of Bella. At the same time--bear with me, oh masculine reader, the gentle reader will, for she cares a great deal more for the love story than for all the crime and mystery put together--bear with me, I say, if I hold back the account of the terrible events that came that night, to tell how beautiful Margery looked as the lamplight fell on her brown hair and pure profile, and how the impulse came over me to kiss her as she sat there; and how I didn't, after all--poor gentle reader!--and only stooped over and kissed the pink palm of her hand. She didn't mind it; speaking as nearly as possible from an impersonal standpoint, I doubt if she was even surprised. You see, the ring was gone and--it had only been an engagement ring anyhow, and everybody knows how binding they are! And then an angel with a burning sword came and scourged me out of my Eden. And the angel was Burton, and the sword was a dripping umbrella. "I hate to take you out," he said. "The bottom's dropped out of the sky; but I want you to make a little experiment with me." He caught sight of Margery through the portières, and the imp of mischief in him prompted his next speech. "She said she must see you," he said, very distinctly, and leered at me. "Don't be an ass," I said angrily. "I don't know that I care to go out to-night." He changed his manner then. "Let's go and take a look at the staircase you fellows have been talking about," he said. "I don't believe there is a staircase there, except the main one. I have hounded every politician in the city into or out of that joint, and I have never heard of it." I felt some hesitation about leaving the house--and Margery--after the events of the previous night. But Margery had caught enough of the conversation to be anxious to have me to go, and when I went in to consult her she laughed at my fears. "Lightning never strikes twice in the same place," she said bravely. "I will ask Katie to come down with me if I am nervous, and I shall wait up for the family." I went without enthusiasm. Margery's departure had been delayed for a day only, and I had counted on the evening with her. In fact, I had sent the concert tickets to Edith with an eye single to that idea. But Burton's plan was right. It was, in view of what we knew, to go over the ground at the White Cat again, and Saturday night, with the place full of men, would be a good time to look around, unnoticed. "I don't hang so much to this staircase idea," Burton said, "and I have a good reason for it. I think we will find it is the warehouse, yet." "You can depend on it, Burton," I maintained, "that the staircase is the place to look. If you had seen Wardrop's face to-day, and his agony of mind when he knew he had associated 'staircase' with 'shot,' you would think just as I do. A man like Schwartz, who knew the ropes, could go quietly up the stairs, unbolt the door into the room, shoot Fleming and get out. Wardrop suspects Schwartz, and he's afraid of him. If he opened the door just in time to see Schwartz, we will say, backing out the door and going down the stairs, or to see the door closing and suspect who had just gone, we would have the whole situation, as I see it, including the two motives of deadly hate and jealousy." "Suppose the stairs open into the back of the room? He was sitting facing the window. Do you think Schwartz would go in, walk around the table and shoot him from in front? Pooh! Fudge!" "He had a neck," I retorted. "I suppose he might have turned his head to look around." We had been walking through the rain. The White Cat, as far off as the poles socially, was only a half-dozen blocks actually from the best residence portion of the city. At the corner of the warehouse, Burton stopped and looked up at it. "I always get mad when I look at this building," he said. "My great grandfather had a truck garden on this exact spot seventy years ago, and the old idiot sold out for three hundred dollars and a pair of mules! How do you get in?" "What are you going in for?" I asked. "I was wondering if I had a grudge--I have, for that matter--against the mayor, and I wanted to shoot him, how I would go about it. I think I should find a point of vantage, like an overlooking window in an empty building like this, and I would wait for a muggy night, also like this, when the windows were up and the lights going. I could pot him with a thirty-eight at a dozen yards, with my eyes crossed." We had stopped near the arched gate where I had stood and waited for Hunter, a week before. Suddenly Burton darted away from me and tried the gate. It opened easily, and I heard him splashing through a puddle in the gloomy yard. "Come in," he called softly. "The water's fine." The gate swung to behind me, and I could not see six inches from my nose. Burton caught my elbow and steered me, by touching the fence, toward the building. "If it isn't locked too tight," he was saying, "we can get in, perhaps through a window, and get up-stairs. From there we ought to be able to see down into the club. What the devil's that?" It was a rat, I think, and it scrambled away among the loose boards in a frenzy of excitement. Burton struck a match; it burned faintly in the dampness, and in a moment went out, having shown us only the approximate location of the heavy, arched double doors. A second match showed us a bar and a rusty padlock; there was no entrance to be gained in that way. The windows were of the eight-paned variety, and in better repair than the ones on the upper floors. By good luck, we found one unlocked and not entirely closed; it shrieked hideously as we pried it up, but an opportune clap of thunder covered the sound. By this time I was ready for anything that came; I was wet to my knees, muddy, disreputable. While Burton held the window I crawled into the warehouse, and turned to perform the same service for him. At first I could not see him, outside. Then I heard his voice, a whisper, from beyond the sill. "Duck," he said. "Cop!" I dropped below the window, and above the rain I could hear the squash of the watchman's boots in the mud. He flashed a night lamp in at the window next to ours, but he was not very near, and the open window escaped his notice. I felt all the nervous dread of a real malefactor, and when I heard the gate close behind him, and saw Burton put a leg over the sill, I was almost as relieved as I would have been had somebody's family plate, tied up in a tablecloth, been reposing at my feet. Burton had an instinct for getting around in the dark. I lighted another match as soon as he had closed the window, and we made out our general direction toward where the stairs ought to be. When the match went out, we felt our way in the dark; I had only one box of wax matches, and Burton had dropped his in a puddle. We got to the second floor, finally, and without any worse mishap than Burton banging his arm against a wheel of some sort. Unlike the first floor, the second was subdivided into rooms; it took a dozen precious matches to find our way to the side of the building overlooking the club, and another dozen to find the window we wanted. When we were there at last, Burton leaned his elbows on the sill, and looked down and across. "Could anything be better!" he said. "There's our theater, and we've got a proscenium box. That room over there stands out like a spot-light." He was right. Not more than fifteen feet away, and perhaps a foot lower than our window, was the window of the room where Fleming had been killed. It was empty, as far as we could see; the table, neat enough now, was where it had been before, directly under the light. Any one who sat there would be an illuminated target from our window. Not only that, but an arm could be steadied on the sill, allowing for an almost perfect aim. "Now, where's your staircase?" Burton jeered. The club was evidently full of men, as he had prophesied. Above the rattle of the rain came the thump--thump of the piano, and a half-dozen male voices. The shutters below were closed; we could see nothing. I think it was then that Burton had his inspiration. "I'll bet you a five-dollar bill," he said, "that if I fire off my revolver here, now, not one of those fellows down there would pay the slightest attention." "I'll take that bet," I returned. "I'll wager that every time anybody drops a poker, since Fleming was shot, the entire club turns out to investigate." In reply Burton got out his revolver, and examined it by holding it against the light from across the way. "I'll tell you what I'll do," he said. "Everybody down there knows me; I'll drop in for a bottle of beer, and you fire a shot into the floor here, or into somebody across, if you happen to see any one you don't care for. I suggest that you stay and fire the shot, because if you went, my friend, and nobody heard it, you would accuse me of shooting from the back of the building somewhere." He gave me the revolver and left me with a final injunction. "Wait for ten minutes," he said. "It will take five for me to get out of here, and five more to get into the club-house. Perhaps you'd better make it fifteen." CHAPTER XXII IN THE ROOM OVER THE WAY He went away into the darkness, and I sat down on an empty box by the window and waited. Had any one asked me, at that minute, how near we were to the solution of our double mystery, I would have said we had made no progress--save by eliminating Wardrop. Not for one instant did I dream that I was within less than half an hour of a revelation that changed my whole conception of the crime. I timed the interval by using one of my precious matches to see my watch when he left. I sat there for what seemed ten minutes, listening to the rush of the rain and the creaking of a door behind me In the darkness somewhere, that swung back and forth rustily in the draft from the broken windows. The gloom was infinitely depressing; away from Burton's enthusiasm, his scheme lacked point; his argument, that the night duplicated the weather conditions of that other night, a week ago, seemed less worthy of consideration. Besides, I have a horror of making myself ridiculous, and I had an idea that it would be hard to explain my position, alone in the warehouse, firing a revolver into the floor, if my own argument was right, and the club should rouse to a search. I looked again at my watch; only six minutes. Eight minutes. Nine minutes. Every one who has counted the passing of seconds knows how they drag. With my eyes on the room across, and my finger on the trigger, I waited as best I could. At ten minutes I was conscious there was some one in the room over the way. And then he came into view from the side somewhere, and went to the table. He had his back to me, and I could only see that he was a large man, with massive shoulders and dark hair. It was difficult to make out what he was doing. After a half-minute, however, he stepped to one side, and I saw that he had lighted a candle, and was systematically reading and then burning certain papers, throwing the charred fragments on the table. With the same glance that told me that, I knew the man. It was Schwartz. I was so engrossed in watching him that when he turned and came directly to the window, I stood perfectly still, staring at him. With the light at his back, I felt certain I had been discovered, but I was wrong. He shook the newspaper which had held the fragments, out of the window, lighted a cigarette and flung the match out also, and turned back into the room. As a second thought, he went back and jerked at the cord of the window-shade, but it refused to move. He was not alone, for from the window he turned and addressed some one in the room behind. "You are sure you got them all?" he said. The other occupant of the room came within range of vision. It was Davidson. "All there were, Mr. Schwartz," he replied. "We were nearly finished before the woman made a bolt." He was fumbling in his pockets. I think I expected him to produce an apple and a penknife, but he held out a small object on the palm of his hand. "I would rather have done it alone, Mr. Schwartz," he said. "I found this ring in Brigg's pocket this morning. It belongs to the girl." Schwartz swore, and picking up the ring, held it to the light. Then he made an angry motion to throw it out of the window, but his German cupidity got the better of him. He slid it into his vest pocket instead. "You're damned poor stuff, Davidson," he said, with a snarl. "If she hasn't got them, then Wardrop has. You'll bungle this job and there'll be hell to pay. Tell McFeely I want to see him." Davidson left, for I heard the door close. Schwartz took the ring out and held it to the light. I looked at my watch. The time was almost up. A fresh burst of noise came from below. I leaned out cautiously and looked down at the lower windows; they were still closed and shuttered. When I raised my eyes again to the level of the room across, I was amazed to see a second figure in the room--a woman, at that. Schwartz had not seen her. He stood with his back to her, looking at the ring in his hand. The woman had thrown her veil back, but I could see nothing of her face as she stood. She looked small beside Schwartz's towering height, and she wore black. She must have said something just then, very quietly, for Schwartz suddenly lifted his head and wheeled on her. I had a clear view of him, and if ever guilt, rage, and white-lipped fear showed on a man's face, it showed on his. He replied--a half-dozen words, in a low tone, and made a motion to offer her a chair. But she paid no attention. I have no idea how long a time they talked. The fresh outburst of noise below made it impossible to hear what they said, and there was always the maddening fact that I could not see her face. I thought of Mrs. Fleming, but this woman seemed younger and more slender. Schwartz was arguing, I imagined, but she stood immobile, scornful, watching him. She seemed to have made a request, and the man's evasions moved her no whit. It may have been only two or three minutes, but it seemed longer. Schwartz had given up the argument, whatever it was, and by pointing out the window, I supposed he was telling her he had thrown what she wanted out there. Even then she did not turn toward me; I could not see even her profile. What happened next was so unexpected that it remains little more than a picture in my mind. The man threw out his hands as if to show he could not or would not accede to her request; he was flushed with rage, and even at that distance the ugly scar on his forehead stood out like a welt. The next moment I saw the woman raise her right hand, with something in it. I yelled to Schwartz to warn him, but he had already seen the revolver. As he struck her hand aside, the explosion came; I saw her stagger, clutch at a chair, and fall backward beyond my range of vision. Then the light went out, and I was staring at a black, brick wall. I turned and ran frantically toward the stairs. Luckily, I found them easily. I fell rather than ran down to the floor below. Then I made a wrong turning and lost some time. My last match set me right and I got into the yard somehow, and to the street. It was raining harder than ever, and the thunder was incessant. I ran around the corner of the street, and found the gate to the White Cat without trouble. The inner gate was unlocked, as Burton had said he would leave it, and from the steps of the club I could hear laughter and the refrain of a popular song. The door opened just as I reached the top step, and I half-tumbled inside. Burton was there in the kitchen, with two other men whom I did not recognize, each one holding a stein of beer. Burton had two, and he held one out to me as I stood trying to get my breath. "You win," he said. "Although I'm a hard-working journalist and need the money, I won't lie. This is Osborne of the _Star_ and McTighe of the _Eagle_, Mr. Knox. They heard the shot in there, and if I hadn't told the story, there would have been a panic. What's the matter with you?" I shut the door into the grill-room and faced the three men. "For God's sake, Burton," I panted, "let's get up-stairs quietly. I didn't fire any shot. There's a woman dead up there." With characteristic poise, the three reporters took the situation quietly. We filed through the grill-room as casually as we could; with the door closed, however, we threw caution aside. I led the way up the stairs to the room where I had found Fleming's body, and where I expected to find another. On the landing at the top of the stairs I came face to face with Davidson, the detective, and behind him Judge McFeely. Davidson was trying to open the door of the room where Fleming had been shot, with a skeleton key. But it was bolted inside. There was only one thing to do: I climbed on the shoulders of one of the men, a tall fellow, whose face to this day I don't remember, and by careful maneuvering and the assistance of Davidson's long arms, I got through the transom and dropped into the room. I hardly know what I expected. I was in total darkness. I know that when I had got the door open at last, when the cheerful light from the hall streamed in, and I had not felt Schwartz's heavy hand at my throat, I drew a long breath of relief. Burton found the electric light switch and turned it on. And then--I could hardly believe my senses. The room was empty. One of the men laughed a little. "Stung!" he said lightly. "What sort of a story have you and your friend framed up, Burton?" But I stopped at that minute and picked up a small nickel-plated revolver from the floor. I held it out, on my palm, and the others eyed it respectfully. Burton, after all, was the quickest-witted of the lot. He threw open one of the two doors in the room, revealing a shallow closet, with papered walls and a row of hooks. The other door stuck tight. One of the men pointed to the floor; a bit of black cloth had wedged it, from the other side. Our combined efforts got it open at last, and we crowded in the doorway, looking down a flight of stairs. Huddled just below us, her head at our feet, was the body of the missing woman. "My God," Burton said hoarsely, "who is it?" CHAPTER XXIII A BOX OF CROWN DERBY We got her into the room and on the couch before I knew her. Her fair hair had fallen loose over her face, and one long, thin hand clutched still at the bosom of her gown. It was Ellen Butler! She was living, but not much more. We gathered around and stood looking down at her in helpless pity. A current of cold night air came up the staircase from an open door below, and set the hanging light to swaying, throwing our shadows in a sort of ghastly dance over her quiet face. I was too much shocked to be surprised. Burton had picked up her hat, and put it beside her. "She's got about an hour, I should say," said one of the newspaper men. "See if Gray is around, will you, Jim? He's mostly here Saturday night." "Is it--Miss Maitland?" Burton asked, in a strangely subdued voice. "No; it is Henry Butler's widow," I returned, and the three men were reporters again, at once. Gray was there and came immediately. Whatever surprise he may have felt at seeing a woman there, and dying, he made no comment. He said she might live six hours, but the end was certain. We got a hospital ambulance, and with the clang of its bell as it turned the corner and hurried away, the White Cat drops out of this story, so far as action is concerned. Three detectives and as many reporters hunted Schwartz all of that night and the next day, to get his story. But he remained in hiding. He had a start of over an hour, from the time he switched off the light and escaped down the built-in staircase. Even in her agony, Ellen Butler's hate had carried her through the doorway after him, to collapse on the stairs. I got home just as the cab, with Fred and Edith, stopped at the door. I did not let them get out; a half dozen words, without comment or explanation, and they were driving madly to the hospital. Katie let me in, and I gave her some money to stay up and watch the place while we were away. Then, not finding a cab, I took a car and rode to the hospital. The building was appallingly quiet. The elevator cage, without a light, crept spectrally up and down; my footsteps on the tiled floor echoed and reëchoed above my head. A night watchman, in felt shoes, admitted me, and took me up-stairs. There was another long wait while the surgeon finished his examination, and a nurse with a basin of water and some towels came out of the room, and another one with dressings went in. And then the surgeon came out, in a white coat with the sleeves rolled above his elbows, and said I might go in. The cover was drawn up to the injured woman's chin, where it was folded neatly back. Her face was bloodless, and her fair hair had been gathered up in a shaggy knot. She was breathing slowly, but regularly, and her expression was relaxed--more restful than I had ever seen it. As I stood at the foot of the bed and looked down at her, I knew that as surely as death was coming, it would be welcome. Edith had been calm, before, but when she saw me she lost her self-control. She put her head on my shoulder, and sobbed out the shock and the horror of the thing. As for Fred, his imaginative temperament made him particularly sensitive to suffering in others. As he sat there beside the bed I knew by his face that he was repeating and repenting every unkind word he had said about Ellen Butler. She was conscious; we realized that after a time. Once she asked for water, without opening her eyes, and Fred slipped a bit of ice between her white lips. Later in the night she looked up for an instant, at me. "He--struck my--hand," she said with difficulty, and closed her eyes again. During the long night hours I told the story, as I knew it, in an undertone, and there was a new kindliness in Fred's face as he looked at her. She was still living by morning, and was rallying a little from the shock. I got Fred to take Edith home, and I took her place by the bed. Some one brought me coffee about eight, and at nine o'clock I was asked to leave the room, while four surgeons held a consultation there. The decision to operate was made shortly after. "There is only a chance," a gray-haired surgeon told me in brisk, short-clipped words. "The bullet went down, and has penetrated the abdomen. Sometimes, taken early enough, we can repair the damage, to a certain extent, and nature does the rest. The family is willing, I suppose?" I knew of no family but Edith, and over the telephone she said, with something of her natural tone, to do what the surgeons considered best. I hoped to get some sort of statement before the injured woman was taken to the operating-room, but she lay in a stupor, and I had to give up the idea. It was two days before I got her deposition, and in that time I had learned many things. On Monday I took Margery to Bellwood. She had received the news about Mrs. Butler more calmly than I had expected. "I do not think she was quite sane, poor woman," she said with a shudder. "She had had a great deal of trouble. But how strange--a murder and an attempt at murder--at that little club in a week!" She did not connect the two, and I let the thing rest at that. Once, on the train, she turned to me suddenly, after she had been plunged in thought for several minutes. "Don't you think," she asked, "that she had a sort of homicidal mania, and that she tried to kill me with chloroform?" "I hardly think so," I returned evasively. "I am inclined to think some one actually got in over the porch roof." "I am afraid," she said, pressing her gloved hands tight together. "Wherever I go, something happens that I can not understand. I never wilfully hurt any one, and yet--these terrible things follow me. I am afraid--to go back to Bellwood, with Aunt Jane still gone, and you--in the city." "A lot of help I have been to you," I retorted bitterly. "Can you think of a single instance where I have been able to save you trouble or anxiety? Why, I allowed you to be chloroformed within an inch of eternity, before I found you." "But you did find me," she cheered me. "And just to know that you are doing all you can--" "My poor best," I supplemented. "It is very comforting to have a friend one can rely on," she finished, and the little bit of kindness went to my head. If she had not got a cinder in her eye at that psychological moment, I'm afraid I would figuratively have trampled Wardrop underfoot, right there. As it was, I got the cinder, after a great deal of looking into one beautiful eye--which is not as satisfactory by half as looking into two--and then we were at Bellwood. We found Miss Letitia in the lower hall, and Heppie on her knees with a hatchet. Between them sat a packing box, and they were having a spirited discussion as to how it should be opened. "Here, give it to me," Miss Letitia demanded, as we stopped in the doorway. "You've got stove lengths there for two days if you don't chop 'em up into splinters." With the hatchet poised in mid air she saw us, but she let it descend with considerable accuracy nevertheless, and our greeting was made between thumps. "Come in"--thump--"like as not it's a mistake"--bang--"but the expressage was prepaid. If it's mineral water--" crash. Something broke inside. "If it's mineral water," I said, "you'd better let me open it. Mineral water is meant for internal use, and not for hall carpets." I got the hatchet from her gradually. "I knew a case once where a bottle of hair tonic was spilled on a rag carpet, and in a year they had it dyed with spots over it and called it a tiger skin." She watched me suspiciously while I straightened the nails she had bent, and lifted the boards. In the matter of curiosity, Miss Letitia was truly feminine; great handfuls of excelsior she dragged out herself, and heaped on Heppie's blue apron, stretched out on the floor. The article that had smashed under the vigor of Miss Letitia's seventy years lay on the top. It had been a tea-pot, of some very beautiful ware. I have called just now from my study, to ask what sort of ware it was, and the lady who sets me right says it was Crown Derby. Then there were rows of cups and saucers, and heterogeneous articles in the same material that the women folk seemed to understand. At the last, when the excitement seemed over, they found a toast rack in a lower corner of the box and the "Ohs" and "Ahs" had to be done all over again. Not until Miss Letitia had arranged it all on the dining-room table, and Margery had taken off her wraps and admired from all four corners, did Miss Letitia begin to ask where they had come from. And by that time Heppie had the crate in the wood-box, and the excelsior was a black and smoking mass at the kitchen end of the grounds. There was not the slightest clue to the sender, but while Miss Letitia rated Heppie loudly in the kitchen, and Bella swept up the hall, Margery voiced the same idea that had occurred to me. "If--if Aunt Jane were--all right," she said tremulously, "it would be just the sort of thing she loves to do." I had intended to go back to the city at once, but Miss Letitia's box had put her in an almost cheerful humor, and she insisted that I go with her to Miss Jane's room, and see how it was prepared for its owner's return. "I'm not pretending to know what took Jane Maitland away from this house in the middle of the night," she said. "She was a good bit of a fool, Jane was; she never grew up. But if I know Jane Maitland, she will come back and be buried with her people, if it's only to put Mary's husband out of the end of the lot. "And another thing, Knox," she went on, and I saw her old hands were shaking. "I told you the last time you were here that I hadn't been robbed of any of the pearls, after all. Half of those pearls were Jane's and--she had a perfect right to take forty-nine of them if she wanted. She--she told me she was going to take some, and it--slipped my mind." I believe it was the first lie she had ever told in her hard, conscientious old life. Was she right? I wondered. Had Miss Jane taken the pearls, and if she had, why? Wardrop had been taking a long walk; he got back about five, and as Miss Letitia was in the middle of a diatribe against white undergarments for colored children, Margery and he had a half-hour alone together. I had known, of course, that it must come, but under the circumstances, with my whole future existence at stake, I was vague as to whether it was colored undergarments on white orphans or the other way round. When I got away at last, I found Bella waiting for me in the hall. Her eyes were red with crying, and she had a crumpled newspaper in her hand. She broke down when she tried to speak, but I got the newspaper from her, and she pointed with one work-hardened finger to a column on the first page. It was the announcement of Mrs. Butler's tragic accident, and the mystery that surrounded it. There was no mention of Schwartz. "Is she--dead?" Bella choked out at last. "Not yet, but there is very little hope." Amid fresh tears and shakings of her heavy shoulders, as she sat in her favorite place, on the stairs, Bella told me, briefly, that she had lived with Mrs. Butler since she was sixteen, and had only left when the husband's suicide had broken up the home. I could get nothing else out of her, but gradually Bella's share in the mystery was coming to light. Slowly, too--it was a new business for me--I was forming a theory of my own. It was a strange one, but it seemed to fit the facts as I knew them. With the story Wardrop told that afternoon came my first glimmer of light. He was looking better than he had when I saw him before, but the news of Mrs. Butler's approaching death and the manner of her injury affected him strangely. He had seen the paper, like Bella, and he turned on me almost fiercely when I entered the library. Margery was in her old position at the window, looking out, and I knew the despondent droop of her shoulders. "Is she conscious?" Wardrop asked eagerly, indicating the article in the paper. "No, not now--at least, it is not likely." He looked relieved at that, but only for a moment. Then he began to pace the room nervously, evidently debating some move. His next action showed the development of a resolution, for he pushed forward two chairs for Margery and myself. "Sit down, both of you," he directed. "I've got a lot to say, and I want you both to listen. When Margery has heard the whole story, she will probably despise me for the rest of her life. I can't help it. I've got to tell all I know, and it isn't so much after all. You didn't fool me yesterday, Knox; I knew what that doctor was after. But he couldn't make me tell who killed Mr. Fleming, because, before God, I didn't know." CHAPTER XXIV WARDROP'S STORY "I have to go back to the night Miss Jane disappeared--and that's another thing that has driven me desperate. Will you tell me why I should be suspected of having a hand in that, when she had been a mother to me? If she is dead, she can't exonerate me; if she is living, and we find her, she will tell you what I tell you--that I know nothing of the whole terrible business." "I am quite certain of that, Wardrop," I interposed. "Besides, I think I have got to the bottom of that mystery." Margery looked at me quickly, but I shook my head. It was too early to tell my suspicions. "The things that looked black against me were bad enough, but they had nothing to do with Miss Jane. I will have to go back to before the night she--went away, back to the time Mr. Butler was the state treasurer, and your father, Margery, was his cashier. "Butler was not a business man. He let too much responsibility lie with his subordinates--and then, according to the story, he couldn't do much anyhow, against Schwartz. The cashier was entirely under machine control, and Butler was neglectful. You remember, Knox, the crash, when three banks, rotten to the core, went under, and it was found a large amount of state money had gone too. It was Fleming who did it--I am sorry, Margery, but this is no time to mince words. It was Fleming who deposited the money in the wrecked banks, knowing what would happen. When the crash came, Butler's sureties, to save themselves, confiscated every dollar he had in the world. Butler went to the penitentiary for six months, on some minor count, and when he got out, after writing to Fleming and Schwartz, protesting his innocence, and asking for enough out of the fortune they had robbed him of to support his wife, he killed himself, at the White Cat." Margery was very pale, but quiet. She sat with her fingers locked in her lap, and her eyes on Wardrop. "It was a bad business," Wardrop went on wearily. "Fleming moved into Butler's place as treasurer, and took Lightfoot as his cashier. That kept the lid on. Once or twice, when there was an unexpected call for funds, the treasury was almost empty, and Schwartz carried things over himself. I went to Plattsburg as Mr. Fleming's private secretary when he became treasurer, and from the first I knew things were even worse than the average state government. "Schwartz and Fleming had to hold together; they hated each other, and the feeling was trebled when Fleming married Schwartz's divorced wife." Margery looked at me with startled, incredulous eyes. What she must have seen confirmed Wardrop's words, and she leaned back in her chair, limp and unnerved. But she heard and comprehended every word Wardrop was saying. "The woman was a very ordinary person, but it seems Schwartz cared for her, and he tried to stab Mr. Fleming shortly after the marriage. About a year ago Mr. Fleming said another attempt had been made on his life, with poison; he was very much alarmed, and I noticed a change in him from that time on. Things were not going well at the treasury; Schwartz and his crowd were making demands that were hard to supply, and behind all that, Fleming was afraid to go out alone at night. "He employed a man to protect him, a man named Carter, who had been a bartender in Plattsburg. When things began to happen here in Manchester, he took Carter to the home as a butler. "Then the Borough Bank got shaky. If it went down there would be an ugly scandal, and Fleming would go too. His notes for half a million were there, without security, and he dared not show the canceled notes he had, with Schwartz's indorsement. "I'm not proud of the rest of the story, Margery." He stopped his nervous pacing and stood looking down at her. "I was engaged to marry a girl who was everything on earth to me, and--I was private secretary to the state treasurer, with the princely salary of such a position! "Mr. Fleming came back here when the Borough Bank threatened failure, and tried to get money enough to tide over the trouble. A half million would have done it, but he couldn't get it. He was in Butler's position exactly, only he was guilty and Butler was innocent. He raised a little money here, and I went to Plattsburg with securities and letters. It isn't necessary to go over the things I suffered there; I brought back one hundred and ten thousand dollars, in a package in my Russia leather bag. And--I had something else." He wavered for the first time in his recital. He went on more rapidly, and without looking at either of us. "I carried, not in the valise, a bundle of letters, five in all, which had been written by Henry Butler to Mr. Fleming, letters that showed what a dupe Butler had been, that he had been negligent, but not criminal; accusing Fleming of having ruined him, and demanding certain notes that would have proved it. If Butler could have produced the letters at the time of his trial, things would have been different." "Were you going to sell the letters?" Margery demanded, with quick scorn. "I intended to, but--I didn't. It was a little bit too dirty, after all. I met Mrs. Butler for the second time in my life, at the gate down there, as I came up from the train the night I got here from Plattsburg. She had offered to buy the letters, and I had brought them to sell to her. And then, at the last minute, I lied. I said I couldn't get them--that they were locked in the Monmouth Avenue house. I put her in a taxicab that she had waiting, and she went back to town. I felt like a cad; she wanted to clear her husband's memory, and I--well, Mr. Fleming was your father, Margery, I couldn't hurt you like that." "Do you think Mrs. Butler took your leather bag?" I asked. "I do not think so. It seems to be the only explanation, but I did not let it out of my hand one moment while we were talking. My hand was cramped from holding it, when she gave up in despair at last, and went back to the city." "What did you do with the letters she wanted?" "I kept them with me that night, and the next morning hid them in the secret closet. That was when I dropped my fountain pen!" "And the pearls?" Margery asked suddenly. "When did you get them, Harry?" To my surprise his face did not change. He appeared to be thinking. "Two days before I left," he said. "We were using every method to get money, and your father said to sacrifice them, if necessary." "My father!" He wheeled on us both. "Did you think I stole them?" he demanded. And I confess that I was ashamed to say I had thought precisely that. "Your father gave me nine unmounted pearls to sell," he reiterated. "I got about a thousand dollars for them--eleven hundred and something, I believe." Margery looked at me. I think she was fairly stunned. To learn that her father had married again, that he had been the keystone in an arch of villainy that, with him gone, was now about to fall, and to associate him with so small and mean a thing as the theft of a handful of pearls--she was fairly stunned. "Then," I said, to bring Wardrop back to his story, "you found you had been robbed of the money, and you went in to tell Mr. Fleming. You had some words, didn't you?" "He thought what you all thought," Wardrop said bitterly. "He accused me of stealing the money. I felt worse than a thief. He was desperate, and I took his revolver from him." Margery had put her hands over her eyes. It was a terrible strain for her, but when I suggested that she wait for the rest of the story she refused vehemently. "I came back here to Bellwood, and the first thing I learned was about Miss Jane. When I saw the blood print on the stair rail, I thought she was murdered, and I had more than I could stand. I took the letters out of the secret closet, before I could show it to you and Hunter, and later I put them in the leather bag I gave you, and locked it. You have it, haven't you, Knox?" I nodded. "As for that night at the club, I told the truth then, but not all the truth. I suppose I am a coward, but I was afraid to. If you knew Schwartz, you would understand." With the memory of his huge figure and the heavy under-shot face that I had seen the night before, I could understand very well, knowing Wardrop. "I went to that room at the White Cat that night, because I was afraid not to go. Fleming might kill himself or some one else. I went up the stairs, slowly, and I heard no shot. At the door I hesitated, then opened it quietly. The door into the built-in staircase was just closing. It must have taken me only an instant to realize what had happened. Fleming was swaying forward as I caught him. I jumped to the staircase and looked down, but I was too late. The door below had closed. I knew in another minute who had been there, and escaped. It was raining, you remember, and Schwartz had forgotten to take his umbrella with his name on the handle!" "Schwartz!" "Now do you understand why I was being followed?" he demanded. "I have been under surveillance every minute since that night. There's probably some one hanging around the gate now. Anyhow, I was frantic. I saw how it looked for me, and if I had brought Schwartz into it, I would have been knifed in forty-eight hours. I hardly remember what I did. I know I ran for a doctor, and I took the umbrella with me and left it in the vestibule of the first house I saw with a doctor's sign. I rang the bell like a crazy man, and then Hunter came along and said to go back; Doctor Gray was at the club. "That is all I know. I'm not proud of it, Margery, but it might have been worse, and it's the truth. It clears up something, but not all. It doesn't tell where Aunt Jane is, or who has the hundred thousand. But it does show who killed your father. And if you know what is good for you, Knox, you will let it go at that. You can't fight the police and the courts single-handed. Look how the whole thing was dropped, and the most cold-blooded kind of murder turned into suicide. Suicide without a weapon! Bah!" "I am not so sure about Schwartz," I said thoughtfully. "We haven't yet learned about eleven twenty-two C." CHAPTER XXV MEASURE FOR MEASURE Miss Jane Maitland had been missing for ten days. In that time not one word had come from her. The reporter from the _Eagle_ had located her in a dozen places, and was growing thin and haggard following little old ladies along the street--and being sent about his business tartly when he tried to make inquiries. Some things puzzled me more than ever in the light of Wardrop's story. For the third time I asked myself why Miss Letitia denied the loss of the pearls. There was nothing in what we had learned, either, to tell why Miss Jane had gone away--to ascribe a motive. How she had gone, in view of Wardrop's story of the cab, was clear. She had gone by street-car, walking the three miles to Wynton alone at two o'clock in the morning, although she had never stirred around the house at night without a candle, and was privately known to sleep with a light when Miss Letitia went to bed first, and could not see it through the transom. The theory I had formed seemed absurd at first, but as I thought it over, its probabilities grew on me. I took dinner at Bellwood and started for town almost immediately after. Margery had gone to Miss Letitia's room, and Wardrop was pacing up and down the veranda, smoking. He looked dejected and anxious, and he welcomed my suggestion that he walk down to the station with me. As we went, a man emerged from the trees across and came slowly after us. "You see, I am only nominally a free agent," he said morosely. "They'll poison me yet; I know too much." We said little on the way to the train. Just before it came thundering along, however, he spoke again. "I am going away, Knox. There isn't anything in this political game for me, and the law is too long. I have a chum in Mexico, and he wants me to go down there." "Permanently?" "Yes. There's nothing to hold me here now," he said. I turned and faced him in the glare of the station lights. "What do you mean?" I demanded. "I mean that there isn't any longer a reason why one part of the earth is better than another. Mexico or Alaska, it's all the same to me." He turned on his heel and left me. I watched him swing up the path, with his head down; I saw the shadowy figure of the other man fall into line behind him. Then I caught the platform of the last car as it passed, and that short ride into town was a triumphal procession with the wheels beating time and singing: "It's all the same--the same--to me--to me." I called Burton by telephone, and was lucky enough to find him at the office. He said he had just got in, and, as usual, he wanted something to eat. We arranged to meet at a little Chinese restaurant, where at that hour, nine o'clock, we would be almost alone. Later on, after the theater, I knew that the place would be full of people, and conversation impossible. Burton knew the place well, as he did every restaurant in the city. "Hello, Mike," he said to the unctuous Chinaman who admitted us. And "Mike" smiled a slant-eyed welcome. The room was empty; it was an unpretentious affair, with lace curtains at the windows and small, very clean tables. At one corner a cable and slide communicated through a hole in the ceiling with the floor above, and through the aperture, Burton's order for chicken and rice, and the inevitable tea, was barked. Burton listened attentively to Wardrop's story, as I repeated it. "So Schwartz did it, after all!" he said regretfully, when I finished. "It's a tame ending. It had all the elements of the unusual, and it resolves itself into an ordinary, every-day, man-to-man feud. I'm disappointed; we can't touch Schwartz." "I thought the _Times-Post_ was hot after him." "Schwartz bought the _Times-Post_ at three o'clock this afternoon," Burton said, with repressed rage. "I'm called off. To-morrow we run a photograph of Schwartzwold, his place at Plattsburg, and the next day we eulogize the administration. I'm going down the river on an excursion boat, and write up the pig-killing contest at the union butchers' picnic." "How is Mrs. Butler?" I asked, as his rage subsided to mere rumbling in his throat. "Delirious"--shortly. "She's going to croak, Wardrop's going to Mexico, Schwartz will be next governor, and Miss Maitland's body will be found in a cistern. The whole thing has petered out. What's the use of finding the murderer if he's coated with asbestos and lined with money? Mike, I want some more tea to drown my troubles." We called up the hospital about ten-thirty, and learned that Mrs. Butler was sinking. Fred was there, and without much hope of getting anything, we went over. I took Burton in as a nephew of the dying woman, and I was glad I had done it. She was quite conscious, but very weak. She told the story to Fred and myself, and in a corner Burton took it down in shorthand. We got her to sign it about daylight sometime, and she died very quietly shortly after Edith arrived at eight. To give her story as she gave it would be impossible; the ramblings of a sick mind, the terrible pathos of it all, is impossible to repeat. She lay there, her long, thin body practically dead, fighting the death rattle in her throat. There were pauses when for five minutes she would lie in a stupor, only to rouse and go forward from the very word where she had stopped. She began with her married life, and to understand the beauty of it is to understand the things that came after. She was perfectly, ideally, illogically happy. Then one day Henry Butler accepted the nomination for state treasurer, and with that things changed. During his term in office he altered greatly; his wife could only guess that things were wrong, for he refused to talk. The crash came, after all, with terrible suddenness. There had been an all-night conference at the Butler home, and Mr. Butler, in a frenzy at finding himself a dupe, had called the butler from bed and forcibly ejected Fleming and Schwartz from the house. Ellen Butler had been horrified, sickened by what she regarded as the vulgarity of the occurrence. But her loyalty to her husband never wavered. Butler was one honest man against a complete organization of unscrupulous ones. His disgrace, imprisonment and suicide at the White Cat had followed in rapid succession. With his death, all that was worth while in his wife died. Her health was destroyed; she became one of the wretched army of neurasthenics, with only one idea: to retaliate, to pay back in measure full and running over, her wrecked life, her dead husband, her grief and her shame. She laid her plans with the caution and absolute recklessness of a diseased mentality. Normally a shrinking, nervous woman, she became cold, passionless, deliberate in her revenge. To disgrace Schwartz and Fleming was her original intention. But she could not get the papers. She resorted to hounding Fleming, meaning to drive him to suicide. And she chose a method that had more nearly driven him to madness. Wherever he turned he found the figures eleven twenty-two C. Sometimes just the number, without the letter. It had been Henry Butler's cell number during his imprisonment, and if they were graven on his wife's soul, they burned themselves in lines of fire on Fleming's brain. For over a year she pursued this course--sometimes through the mail, at other times in the most unexpected places, wherever she could bribe a messenger to carry the paper. Sane? No, hardly sane, but inevitable as fate. The time came when other things went badly with Fleming, as I had already heard from Wardrop. He fled to the White Cat, and for a week Ellen Butler hunted him vainly. She had decided to kill him, and on the night Margery Fleming had found the paper on the pillow, she had been in the house. She was not the only intruder in the house that night. Some one--presumably Fleming himself--had been there before her. She found a ladies' desk broken open and a small drawer empty. Evidently Fleming, unable to draw a check while in hiding, had needed ready money. As to the jewels that had been disturbed in Margery's boudoir I could only surmise the impulse that, after prompting him to take them, had failed at the sight of his dead wife's jewels. Surprised by the girl's appearance, she had crept to the upper floor and concealed herself in an empty bedroom. It had been almost dawn before she got out. No doubt this was the room belonging to the butler, Carter, which Margery had reported as locked that night. She took a key from the door of a side entrance, and locked the door behind her when she left. Within a couple of nights she had learned that Wardrop was coming home from Plattsburg, and she met him at Bellwood. We already knew the nature of that meeting. She drove back to town, half maddened by her failure to secure the letters that would have cleared her husband's memory, but the wiser by one thing: Wardrop had inadvertently told her where Fleming was hiding. The next night she went to the White Cat and tried to get in. She knew from her husband of the secret staircase, for many a political meeting of the deepest significance had been possible by its use. But the door was locked, and she had no key. Above her the warehouse raised its empty height, and it was not long before she decided to see what she could learn from its upper windows. She went in at the gate and felt her way, through the rain, to the windows. At that moment the gate opened suddenly, and a man muttered something in the darkness. The shock was terrible. I had no idea, that night, of what my innocent stumbling into the warehouse yard had meant to a half-crazed woman just beyond my range of vision. After a little she got her courage again, and she pried up an unlocked window. The rest of her progress must have been much as ours had been, a few nights later. She found a window that commanded the club, and with three possibilities that she would lose, and would see the wrong room, she won the fourth. The room lay directly before her, distinct in every outline, with Fleming seated at the table, facing her and sorting some papers. She rested her revolver on the sill and took absolutely deliberate aim. Her hands were cold, and she even rubbed them together, to make them steady. Then she fired, and a crash of thunder at the very instant covered the sound. Fleming sat for a moment before he swayed forward. On that instant she realized that there was some one else in the room--a man who took an uncertain step or two forward into view, threw up his hands and disappeared as silently as he had come. It was Schwartz. Then she saw the door into the hall open, saw Wardrop come slowly in and close it, watched his sickening realization of what had occurred; then a sudden panic seized her. Arms seemed to stretch out from the darkness behind her, to draw her into it. She tried to get away, to run, even to scream--then she fainted. It was gray dawn when she recovered her senses and got back to the hotel room she had taken under an assumed name. By night she was quieter. She read the news of Fleming's death in the papers, and she gloated over it. But there was more to be done; she was only beginning. She meant to ruin Schwartz, to kill his credit, to fell him with the club of public disfavor. Wardrop had told her that her husband's letters were with other papers at the Monmouth Avenue house, where he could not get them. Fleming's body was taken home that day, Saturday, but she had gone too far to stop. She wanted the papers before Lightfoot could get at them and destroy the incriminating ones. That night she got into the Fleming house, using the key she had taken. She ransacked the library, finding, not the letters that Wardrop had said were there, but others, equally or more incriminating, canceled notes, private accounts, that would have ruined Schwartz for ever. It was then that I saw the light and went down-stairs. My unlucky stumble gave her warning enough to turn out the light. For the rest, the chase through the back hall, the dining-room and the pantry, had culminated in her escape up the back stairs, while I had fallen down the dumb-waiter shaft. She had run into Bella on the upper floor, Bella, who had almost fainted, and who knew her and kept her until morning, petting her and soothing her, and finally getting her into a troubled sleep. That day she realized that she was being followed. When Edith's invitation came she accepted it at once, for the sake of losing herself and her papers, until she was ready to use them. It had disconcerted her to find Margery there, but she managed to get along. For several days everything had gone well: she was getting stronger again, ready for the second act of the play, prepared to blackmail Schwartz, and then expose him. She would have killed him later, probably; she wanted her measure full and running over, and so she would disgrace him first. Then--Schwartz must have learned of the loss of the papers from the Fleming house, and guessed the rest. She felt sure he had known from the first who had killed Fleming. However that might be, he had had her room entered, Margery chloroformed in the connecting room, and her papers were taken from under her pillow while she was pretending anesthesia. She had followed the two men through the house and out the kitchen door, where she had fainted on the grass. The next night, when she had retired early, leaving Margery and me down-stairs, it had been an excuse to slip out of the house. How she found that Schwartz was at the White Cat, how she got through the side entrance, we never knew. He had burned the papers before she got there, and when she tried to kill him, he had struck her hand aside. When we were out in the cheerful light of day again, Burton turned his shrewd, blue eyes on me. "Awful story, isn't it?" he said. "Those are primitive emotions, if you like. Do you know, Knox, there is only one explanation we haven't worked on for the rest of this mystery--I believe in my soul you carried off the old lady and the Russia leather bag yourself!" CHAPTER XXVI LOVERS AND A LETTER At noon that day I telephoned to Margery. "Come up," I said, "and bring the keys to the Monmouth Avenue house. I have some things to tell you, and--some things to ask you." I met her at the station with Lady Gray and the trap. My plans for that afternoon were comprehensive; they included what I hoped to be the solution of the Aunt Jane mystery; also, they included a little drive through the park, and a--well, I shall tell about that, all I am going to tell, at the proper time. To play propriety, Edith met us at the house. It was still closed, and even in the short time that had elapsed it smelled close and musty. At the door into the drawing-room I stopped them. "Now, this is going to be a sort of game," I explained. "It's a sort of button, button, who's got the button, without the button. We are looking for a drawer, receptacle or closet, which shall contain, bunched together, and without regard to whether they should be there or not, a small revolver, two military brushes and a clothes brush, two or three soft bosomed shirts, perhaps a half-dozen collars, and a suit of underwear. Also a small flat package about eight inches long and three wide." "What in the world are you talking about?" Edith asked. "I am not talking, I am theorizing," I explained. "I have a theory, and according to it the things should be here. If they are not, it is my misfortune, not my fault." I think Margery caught my idea at once, and as Edith was ready for anything, we commenced the search. Edith took the top floor, being accustomed, she said, to finding unexpected things in the servants' quarters; Margery took the lower floor, and for certain reasons I took the second. For ten minutes there was no result. At the end of that time I had finished two rooms, and commenced on the blue boudoir. And here, on the top shelf of a three-cornered Empire cupboard, with glass doors and spindle legs, I found what I was looking for. Every article was there. I stuffed a small package into my pocket, and called the two girls. "The lost is found," I stated calmly, when we were all together in the library. "When did you lose anything?" Edith demanded. "Do you mean to say, Jack Knox, that you brought us here to help you find a suit of gaudy pajamas and a pair of military brushes?" "I brought you here to find Aunt Jane," I said soberly, taking a letter and the flat package out of my pocket. "You see, my theory worked out. _Here_ is Aunt Jane, and _there_ is the money from the Russia leather bag." I laid the packet in Margery's lap, and without ceremony opened the letter. It began: "MY DEAREST NIECE: "I am writing to you, because I can not think what to say to Sister Letitia. I am running away! I--am--running--away! My dear, it scares me even to write it, all alone in this empty house. I have had a cup of tea out of one of your lovely cups, and a nap on your pretty couch, and just as soon as it is dark I am going to take the train for Boston. When you get this, I will be on the ocean, the ocean, my dear, that I have read about, and dreamed about, and never seen. "I am going to realize a dream of forty years--more than twice as long as you have lived. Your dear mother saw the continent before she died, but the things I have wanted have always been denied me. I have been of those that have eyes to see and see not. So--I have run away. I am going to London and Paris, and even to Italy, if the money your father gave me for the pearls will hold out. For a year now I have been getting steamship circulars, and I have taken a little French through a correspondence school. That was why I always made you sing French songs, dearie: I wanted to learn the accent. I think I should do very well if I could only sing my French instead of speaking it. "I am afraid that Sister Letitia discovered that I had taken some of the pearls. But--half of them were mine, from our mother, and although I had wanted a pearl ring all my life, I have never had one. I am going to buy me a hat, instead of a bonnet, and clothes, and pretty things underneath, and a switch; Margery, I have wanted a switch for thirty years. "I suppose Letitia will never want me back. Perhaps I shall not want to come. I tried to write to her when I was leaving, but I had cut my hand in the attic, where I had hidden away my clothes, and it bled on the paper. I have been worried since for fear your Aunt Letitia would find the paper in the basket, and be alarmed at the stains. I wanted to leave things in order--please tell Letitia--but I was so nervous, and in such a hurry. I walked three miles to Wynton and took a street-car. I just made up my mind I was going to do it. I am sixty-five, and it is time I have a chance to do the things I like. "I came in on the car, and came directly here. I got in with the second key on your key-ring. Did you miss it? And I did the strangest thing at Bellwood. I got down the stairs very quietly and out on to the porch. I set down my empty traveling bag--I was going to buy everything new in the city--to close the door behind me. Then I was sure I heard some one at the side of the house, and I picked it up and ran down the path in the dark. "You can imagine my surprise when I opened the bag this morning to find I had picked up Harry's. I am emptying it and taking it with me, for he has mine. "If you find this right away, please don't tell Sister Letitia for a day or two. You know how firm your Aunt Letitia is. I shall send her a present from Boston to pacify her, and perhaps when I come back in three or four months, she will be over the worst. "I am not quite comfortable about your father, Margery. He is not like himself. The last time I saw him he gave me a little piece of paper with a number on it and he said they followed him everywhere, and were driving him crazy. Try to have him see a doctor. And I left a bottle of complexion cream in the little closet over my mantel, where I had hidden my hat and shoes that I wore. Please destroy it before your Aunt Letitia sees it. "Good-by, my dear niece. I suppose I am growing frivolous in my old age, but I am going to have silk linings in my clothes before I die. "YOUR LOVING AUNT JANE." When Margery stopped reading, there was an amazed silence. Then we all three burst into relieved, uncontrolled mirth. The dear, little, old lady with her new independence and her sixty-five-year-old, romantic, starved heart! Then we opened the packet, which was a sadder business, for it had represented Allan Fleming's last clutch at his waning public credit. Edith ran to the telephone with the news for Fred, and for the first time that day Margery and I were alone. She was standing with one hand on the library table; in the other she held Aunt Jane's letter, half tremulous, wholly tender. I put my hand over hers, on the table. "Margery!" I said. She did not stir. "Margery, I want my answer, dear. I love you--love you; it isn't possible to tell you how much. There isn't enough time in all existence to tell you. You are mine, Margery--mine. You can't get away from that." She turned, very slowly, and looked at me with her level eyes. "Yours!" she replied softly, and I took her in my arms. Edith was still at the telephone. "I don't know," she was saying. "Just wait until I see." As she came toward the door, Margery squirmed, but I held her tight. In the doorway Edith stopped and stared; then she went swiftly back to the telephone. "Yes, dear," she said sweetly. "They are, this minute." 
42333	----	THE CLEVERDALE MYSTERY; OR, THE MACHINE AND ITS WHEELS. _A STORY OF AMERICAN LIFE._ BY W. A. WILKINS, EDITOR OF "THE WHITEHALL (N. Y.) TIMES." NEW YORK: FORDS, HOWARD, & HULBERT. 1882. Copyright, 1882, By W. A. WILKINS. All rights reserved. PREFACE. In presenting this volume to the public, the author hopes to impart information to some; reflect their own character to others; possibly point a moral, and by the tale interest the reader. The warp of the fabric is reality, the woof fiction, the coloring domestic. Awaiting the verdict, Respectfully, THE AUTHOR. CONTENTS. PAGE CHAPTER I.--BEAUTIFUL LAKE GEORGE, 9 " II.--A QUARTETTE OF SCHEMERS, 18 " III.--TEMPEST-TOSSED LAKE GEORGE, 26 " IV.--THE BOSS AND HIS AIDS, 33 " V.--TO THE RESCUE, 44 " VI.--THE CAMP DINNER, 52 " VII.--THE CRUEL THUNDERBOLT, 58 " VIII.--AFFAIRS AT CLEVERDALE, 65 " IX.--THE CAUCUS, 72 " X.--THE CRUELTY OF AMBITION, 82 " XI.--THE CONVENTION, 90 " XII.--A WICKED SCHEME, 99 " XIII.--DALEY'S STRENGTH WANES, 108 " XIV.--THE ELECTION, 116 " XV.--GLOOMY FOREBODINGS, 125 " XVI.--PRINCE OF MANNIS MANOR, 134 " XVII.--SARGENT ENLISTED, 144 " XVIII.--GEORGE AND FANNIE ALDEN, 149 " XIX.--THE BURNING FACTORY, 155 " XX.--THE SECRET MARRIAGE, 164 " XXI.--SPOILS! SPOILS! 172 " XXII.--SAD FAREWELLS, 179 " XXIII.--EXILED FROM HOME AND FRIENDS, 186 " XXIV.--THE DISTRACTED WIFE, 198 " XXV.--THE CRUEL LETTER, 209 " XXVI.--A DIRTY JOB, 215 " XXVII.--CLEVERDALE'S SORROW, 223 " XXVIII.--AMONG THE HILLS OF COLORADO, 232 " XXIX.--POOR MARY HARRIS, 239 " XXX.--THE ATTEMPTED SUICIDE, 247 " XXXI.--A REVELATION, 258 " XXXII.--THE WANDERER'S RETURN, 265 " XXXIII.--RETRIBUTIVE JUSTICE, 274 " XXXIV.--THE CLEVERDALE MYSTERY, 277 " XXXV.--EPILOGUE--THE MACHINE AND ITS WHEELS, 285 CHARACTERS. Hon. DARIUS HAMBLIN--State Senator and Political "Boss." Hon. WALTER MANNIS--State Assemblyman; one of the "Boss's" Lieutenants. ASSEMBLYMAN DALEY--Bolting candidate. CYRUS HART MILLER--Wily country politician. GEORGE ALDEN--Bank officer; hero; lover. SARGENT--Purchasable commodity, convenient to his owner. JOE RAWLINGS--Editor; wise; in the market. PADDY SULLIVAN--Pothouse politician; an important factor. FARMER JOHNSON--Honest; cheap; "_Let me speak to you privately!_" GEORGE HORTON--Chairman of County Committee; fertile in schemes. FARMER HARRIS--Avenger. BELLE HAMBLIN--Sweetheart; oppressed by a father's ambition. FANNIE ALDEN--Self-sacrificing sister. MARY HARRIS--Betrayed. MRS. DARIUS HAMBLIN--Model mother. MRS. NASH--Good Samaritan. CAMPERS, FACTORY BOSSES, VILLAGERS, MINERS, POLITICIANS, and other incidental characters. THE CLEVERDALE MYSTERY. CHAPTER I. BEAUTIFUL LAKE GEORGE. The world is full of charming spots that seem to be the original site of Paradise, but none show more perfectly the grace and grandeur of the Creator's handiwork than Lake George. Its limpid waters reflect the outlines of numerous islands--one for each calendar day of the year, yet each possessing beauties distinctly its own. The mirror of the lake's surface is framed by mountains of varying shape and size, yet each with special charms, while between them nestle lovely valleys, over which the eye never tires of roaming. In summer, every isle, hill, and valley is glorious with verdure; in winter they are dazzling in snowy vesture; but no matter what the season or condition, the lake and its surroundings are a constant source of delight to those who are fortunate enough to dwell on its shore. It is to the credit of humanity that Lake George is a favorite place of resort during the summer, and that hundreds of families delight in building permanent summer homes there. Beautiful villas, picturesque hotels, tasteful cottages, unique cabins, and snowy tents abound on the water's marge, and pleasure boats of all sorts dance gaily on its waves. The vulgar, the dissipated, and stupid classes that haunt summer resorts seem to avoid Lake George; even humanity seems to endeavor to be in keeping with its surroundings at this beautiful retreat, and fair women, robust, active men, and healthy children are the rule at this modern Eden. On the forward deck of a steamer that ploughed its way through the crystal waters on a bright summer day in 187- was a small party, consisting of Hon. Darius Hamblin, Mrs. Hamblin, Miss Belle Hamblin, and two little boys, George and Willie, aged respectively ten and six, with their nurse. The Hon. Darius, a man of fifty-five, had served his district as New York State Senator at Albany for two terms. He possessed excellent judgment, and knew this so well that no one could help seeing that he was vain and inclined to be arbitrary in his manner. Mrs. Hamblin was a small, brown-haired lady, with whom time had dealt so gently that the unwelcome and indelible lines of approaching age had been sparingly distributed across a sweet and placid countenance. Devoting her whole attention to the wants and pleasures of her children, she was not merely a kind mother, for with dignity and power she held the reins firmly in her grasp, although the high-spirited boys tightly champed the bits. While the mother, as she sat on the steamer's deck, was all attention to her youthful treasures, the father discussed the politics and finances of the country with several gentlemen whom he chanced to meet. Thoroughly engrossed in conversation, he scarce noticed his daughter Belle, who, affectionately taking his arm, called attention to a landing the steamer was about to make. As the boat drew in, there was seen a gathering bevy of males and females. Small row-boats hovered near the little coves surrounding the dock, and as great waves from the _Horicon's_ paddles dashed their snow-crested tops upon the rocks, the little craft danced upon the water, some girlish voices uttering exclamations of fear for their owners' safety. Several persons leaving the steamer were quickly surrounded by friends gathered to meet them. In a moment the captain cried, "All aboard!" The engine resuming its work, the paddle-wheels lashed the water, many little boats shooting out into the swell. Those on the steamer eagerly watched the merry throng on the dock or the still happier ones rocked by the "rollies." "Oh, papa," exclaimed Belle, "this is delightful! See that party on the little island--isn't it a funny sight? See that gentleman shaking a frying-pan over his head! See the other campers washing dishes in the lake! Oh, how I shall enjoy this month! We are to stop at the next landing, and in ten minutes will leave the boat. Oh, isn't it delightful!" The father rising took his daughter by the arm, his manner indicating unbounded love and parental pride. Belle Hamblin was a beautiful girl scarcely nineteen years of age. Of medium height, she possessed a faultless form combining exquisite symmetry and grace. Full of animation when speaking, her tender blue eyes flashed intelligence and goodness, captivating every one who came within their reach. She completely won the admiration of those on the boat by the tender and sympathetic way in which she ministered to a poor woman accompanied by four children, giving to the little ones from her lunch-basket oranges, bananas, and cakes, while the mother was offered more substantial food in the way of sandwiches. Tender-hearted and kind when Willie injured his wee finger, she worked over the wound, hugged the curly-headed boy to her heart, stilling his cries with sisterly caresses. Belle Hamblin was no ordinary character, for God had wrought those lovely attributes into her nature which cannot fail to command respect and admiration. She could not avoid being a prominent figure in any life picture of which she was part, for to her mother's instinctive quality of love was added the natural intelligence of her father. Possessing a pride in striking contrast with that so positive in her father's character, she readily assumed her natural position as leader in social circles. Endowed with a liberal education, taught the economies of life, and instructed in the art of housekeeping, she was fitted to be queen of the kitchen or the enchantress of the drawing-room. The boat nearing the beautiful retreat where the Hamblins were to sojourn, wraps, baskets, and umbrellas were gathered up while Mr. Hamblin was taking leave of his friends. The _Horicon_ slowly approached the dock close at hand; the party passed through the cabin to the gangway; lines were thrown ashore and the steamer made fast. Mr. Hamblin led the way, the children, wild as young colts, jumping in gleeful anticipation. About thirty persons crowded to the gangway, a rush was made for shore, when suddenly the piercing shriek of a female startled the bystanders, as a little boy fell headlong into the lake. "Willie is overboard! Save him!" The voice was that of Belle Hamblin. Rushing wildly to the edge of the gangway and seeing the little fellow sink into the water, she was nearly frantic with excitement. Mr. and Mrs. Hamblin were filled with terror, while those standing on shore appeared as if paralyzed. Suddenly a blue-shirted man darted through the crowd, and throwing himself into the lake, seized Willie, and a moment later placed him in the arms of the sister. Belle, looking into his face, quickly exclaimed: "Mr. Alden! I did not expect to see you here, but God bless you for saving the life of our treasure." The curly-headed boy, with water dripping from his locks, lay in his sister's arms. Gasping and moving his head, the water running from his nostrils and mouth, he was carried to the family parlor at the hotel, where a physician soon restored him to his normal condition, and then the family, recovering from their fatigue and fright, appeared on the grounds, their exciting introduction and acknowledged social and political standing making them the observed of all. Mr. Hamblin, having held many important positions in his party, was soon on terms of friendship with the sterner sex, Mrs. Hamblin and Belle taking their natural places among the ladies. Mr. Hamblin was a genial conversationalist, and with his political reputation preceding him was of course much courted by all at the "Lakeside." Having been a State Senator for two terms, a prominent candidate for gubernatorial honors at a late convention, and possessing wealth and eloquence, his power was naturally great. A candidate for renomination the coming fall, he had already started the machinery to obtain control of delegates needed to consummate his desired wish. American politics are controlled entirely by "wires," those of the great political machine being intricate as the telegraph netting one sees over the roof-tops of a large city. Mr. Hamblin, with a perfect knowledge of the workings of this machine, knew that a successful candidate must be able to manipulate the little wires of the party caucus, for as the caucuses are the expression of each town in the senatorial or assembly district, to obtain needed support requires wire-pullers in every school district. A candidate's personal merit is of minor consequence; he can do nothing without understanding the working of the party machinery, and knowing also how to lubricate the entire apparatus with money. Mr. Hamblin had been a little uneasy of late, a rival having arisen to contest his field. Heretofore enjoying the monopoly in the district, he was now in danger of meeting an obstacle in his onward course. As he sat on the piazza holding a letter in his hand, he soliloquized: "Well, well! Making my way in politics has always been easy as knocking the ashes from this cigar, but if Miller's letter is correct Darius Hamblin is in danger. Let me see; I'll read this over again"--and he closely scanned the following letter: CLEVERDALE, July 31, 187-. HON. DARIUS HAMBLIN: DEAR SIR: It is just as I feared: Daley says he will be a candidate at all hazards, and asserts he can drive you from the track very easily, having your former clerk's evidence to use against you. He is desperate, and has already been seen to visit saloons in the village, spending considerable money to win over the boys. Can you meet Rawlings, Horton, and myself at Saratoga Saturday night? Answer by telegraph at once. Yours, CYRUS HART MILLER. Mr. Hamblin knit his brow for a moment and said: "Of course I must go. I must not be beaten this year. The next gubernatorial nomination may be mine if I win this time. I can be elected Governor, and Daley must be crushed or bought off. The die is cast--I leave on the next boat for Saratoga." Rising from his seat and wiping the perspiration from his brow, he passed on to his room. Mrs. Hamblin expressed no surprise when informed he was going to Saratoga, for she had become accustomed to his sudden moves since he had gone into politics; she had learned that everything must be secondary to his ambition and political necessities. She quickly packed a small satchel, and the boat being due in an hour, Mr. Hamblin walked out to bid his children good-by. Belle, leaving the side of a gentleman sitting beneath an arbor, came to meet him. "Oh, papa! are you going away? That is too bad! I expected to take you out for a row this evening. Beside, a moonlight concert at Cleverdale Camp is announced in honor of your visit. Can't you postpone your departure?" "No, my pet, business before pleasure. I am to meet a few friends at Saratoga to-night on very important business. By the way, I must send a telegram at once." Embracing his daughter, he stepped into the office and hastily wrote a dispatch. When he came out Belle took his arm and said: "Papa, we shall be _so_ disappointed if you go. Mr. Alden has arranged to do you honor. And--" "Belle," said he, interrupting her, "say no more about it, for I must go. By the way, Alden, who seems to be paying you much attention, may be good enough for a casual acquaintance at Lake George, but a daughter of Darius Hamblin, fit to be queen, in choosing associates must look higher than her father's bank clerk." "But, papa, he is a gentleman--the very soul of honor--and there is not a lady in our party but feels honored by George Alden's attentions. Didn't he save Willie's life? He didn't know who it was, but seeing a child fall overboard his duty was plain. Beside, he always admired you, and you have repeatedly acknowledged that you liked him better than any other clerk in your employ. If you could see his kindness to the boys and myself, you would be more than ever pleased with him." Mr. Hamblin's features grew hard; his lips became tightly compressed and the color left his cheeks as he said: "Belle, my honor and that of your family is in your keeping. Bestow your affection upon that bank clerk and my affection for you will end forever. The Hamblin family can ill afford to make low connections. You hear my wishes--my commands. There comes the boat. Here, George, bring my satchel, and tell your mother I am awaiting her." Poor Belle! trembling with involuntary emotion, her pale face was a reflection of the countenance of her proud father. She scarcely beheld the boat as it drew near; dimly saw a happy throng on the deck and the usual bevy of glad-hearted persons on the dock; faintly heard the paddle-wheels beating the water, and barely caught a glimpse of the small boats dancing in the steamer's wake, when a flood of tears burst from her eyes. Her mother quickly led her away, but not before her companions became conscious of her weakness. The stern look upon her father's face and the cold good-by he returned to all was plain evidence of something wrong in the family which all had begun to look upon as a perfect pattern of happiness and domestic goodness. CHAPTER II. A QUARTETTE OF SCHEMERS. Saratoga was alive with a brilliant throng of pleasure-seekers, gay with beauty and dress. Handsome equipages dashed along its shaded avenues with horses gaily caparisoned, the carriage occupants being decked with holiday splendor. The grand hotels overflowed with beauty and fashion; the parks, where artistic bands filled the air with music, were perfect bowers of loveliness. The hotel piazzas were crowded with visitors; the handiwork of Worth was everywhere present, and nature's mines contributed sparkling gems to adorn fair wearers. All was not beauty however, for the presence of shoddy was perceptible, and listeners were amused or disgusted when lovely exteriors shattered hopes as stately matrons uttered words coarse and illiterate. "All is not gold that glitters" is fully realized while spending a day at America's famous watering-place and beholding the shams and deceptions of the fashionable world. Saratoga is not merely a watering-place; it is also a mart where goods are painted and varnished to sell--in fact where many mothers introduce their daughters, expecting to dispose of them to the highest bidder. Politicians gather there to make and unmake men; "slates" are made or broken according to the amount of cash or patronage controlled by the manipulators. As the afternoon train arrived from the north, on the piazza of the "Grand Union" sat three men anxiously awaiting the arrival of another. A few moments later a carriage was driven up, and the three gentlemen--none other than Cyrus Hart Miller, Editor Rawlings, and George Horton, chairman of a county committee--arose to greet the Hon. Darius Hamblin. The greeting scarcely ceased when several other gentlemen leaving their seats quickly moved forward to welcome the new arrival. Passing into the hotel, Senator Hamblin met other acquaintances, and it was readily seen that he was a lion among the men gathered at the great spa to discuss politics and "lay pipe" for the grasping of power and distribution of patronage. After dinner four men met in Senator Hamblin's parlor. The reader by this time being acquainted with the leading spirit of the party, we will describe the others. Cyrus Hart Miller, familiarly known as a local politician of the true American type, held a position in the Customs Department of the nation, having been appointed through the influence of his senator. One of those bold and adventurous spirits, who know so well how to control a caucus, he possessed a commanding presence, and when "button-holing" a man would produce convincing arguments that the cause espoused by him was apparently right. He always rallied the "boys" at a caucus, and when unable to win by the preferable method of moral suasion, was abundantly able to resort to bulldozing or "solid" methods. Just the man to take care of Senator Hamblin's interest, he was a standing delegate to all conventions where he could be of service to his chief. Although prepossessing in personal appearance, his hands were ever ready to perform any dirty work consistent with the average ward politician. Editor Rawlings, another tool of Senator Hamblin, had been under the protection of his chief for a long time. His paper, like many country journals, was financially weak, but the purse-strings of the Senator, drawn about the editor's neck, enabled him to eke out an existence. When the Senator wished an article to appear in the _Investigator_, he was such a liberal paymaster that Editor Rawlings never hesitated to throw out paying advertisements to please him. The _Investigator_ was Hamblin's organ, and Rawlings the superserviceable monkey. Every time the "boss" desired the crank turned, the monkey danced to the uttermost limit of the string, but if the string had broken the monkey could not have been controlled. Rawlings was one of those detestable creatures who have done so much to destroy the influence of respectable journalism. He was of that breed of rodents which sneak into an honorable profession and gnaw only where there is cheese. George Horton, chairman of the county committee, another lieutenant of the same general, held the office of County Clerk, and although not as willing to perform dirty work as his companions, was an able adviser, with a mind prolific of deep-laid schemes. Being a zealous partisan of the "boss," in all advisory councils he was an important factor. The quartette was a true type of the American political clique; their deliberations a fair sample of such conferences. "Well, gentlemen," said the Senator, "help yourselves to cigars, and let us proceed to business. Miller, what is your opinion of my chance for renomination? Speak out--let us be frank with each other. What is Daley about, and does he intend to make us trouble?" "Well--y-e-s," drawled out Miller, "he intends to beat you if possible. Approaching Rawlings on Sunday, he began working on him, even offering to help sustain the paper if Rawlings would not be tied to any one individual. If I am not mistaken he actually offered to advance the cash to buy a new press and engine for the office. Eh, Rawlings?" The latter, turning red, was somewhat embarrassed, but soon regaining his composure, replied: "Yes, the cuss _did_ make a pretty good bid for my influence. You see, he knows he can't get along without a newspaper, and knowing the Senator would do as well as the next man I just dropped him--yes, dropped him like a hot potato, so to speak. When I go for a man I'm always solid. I'm a thoroughbred, and no man knows that better than our honorable friend, the next Governor of the State BY THUNDER!" and he emphasized the remark by bringing his closed hand down upon the table. "Never mind that, Rawlings; I know you are all right, but we must head off Daley. That quarrel with my clerk on the Canal Committee was unfortunate, but the young rascal can have nothing to use against me unless he resorts to slander and lies, which unscrupulous enemies may put him up to. We must first get Daley out of the way. He has a little money, but not much; although he claims, you say, that the railroad interest are backing him against me. See here, Horton, what can you suggest? let me hear from you. First we will take a glass of wine. Rawlings, touch that bell. There; a waiter will soon be here. Light fresh cigars, gentlemen; by the by, Rawlings, did you ever visit Lake George?" "No, sir." "No? Well, you must go up there. I shall return soon and you must be my guest." "All very nice, Senator, but where are the 'spons' to liquidate the minutiæ, eh? You millionaires think newspaper men can scoop in all the plums, by thunder! The only time we can enjoy an excursion is when somebody's old steamboat wants puffing up. Now look here, Senator, if the door of heaven could be entered for a cent I couldn't afford to even peek under the canvas." "Well, well, Rawlings," Hamblin replied laughingly, "we will look after the press, for if we do not keep this great lever of the world in order the world will suffer. Now, gentlemen, let us indulge in a little champagne. Here, waiter, fill up. Gentlemen, your health." And the Senator raised a glass to his lips. "Drink quick," exclaimed Rawlings, "for Daleys are dangerous." It was a poor pun, but the point seen by the party the Senator said: "Ah, Rawlings, you are a cool fellow. The mighty men of the Fourth Estate are the literary and social princes of the day. Another cigar, Rawlings, and then I move the previous question with additional power of debate." Thus did Senator Hamblin touch the weak points of his fellow-men. Well knowing flattery and wine were twin demons, attractive and seductive, with their assistance he enticed many men into his net. He had little confidence in Rawlings, well aware that if his antagonist Daley should offer more than he to obtain the influence of the _Investigator_, Rawlings would not hesitate to desert him. Perceiving his embarrassment when Miller mentioned the Daley matter, and well aware he had given Daley to understand the _Investigator_ was in the market, Senator Hamblin threw out the Lake George invitation, for Rawlings was susceptible to flattery, and liking the flesh-pots well filled with milk and honey, when approached through the stomach, the gateway to his affection, was at the command of the man desiring to enter. A week of feasting at the "Lakeside" and such private attention as the Senator could show Rawlings would apparently hold him. "Horton, let us hear from you. What shall we do to force Daley from the course? You must have something to say on the subject?" "I can tell you where Daley left a bar down, when elected to the Assembly last year," replied Horton. "I know a man who will swear he received two hundred and fifty dollars from him, with which to buy votes. This might be worked up and Rawlings can help us, the _Investigator_ sounding the key-note in the editor's well chosen words and--" "But see here, Horton, I can't run the risk of being sued for libel. Remember, Senator, I am not a millionaire, although I may put on a million airs," quickly replied the editor. "Here is my plan," Horton continued, as if not noticing the remark. "Rawlings in his next issue must write a powerful leader advocating your renomination, hinting there is to be another candidate, and say in words like this: "'At this time there must be no change of horses, for Senator Hamblin has served his constituency faithfully, his hands being free from any taint of corruption. If the voters of this district wish to bring out a new candidate, it must be one who has never placed himself in position to be indicted for committing perjury, by taking the ironclad oath as a certain Assemblyman has done.' "There, how does that strike you, Senator, and how does it hit you, Rawlings?" The latter, hesitating, looked toward Senator Hamblin, who arose, took him by the arm, and walking toward the window stepped out on the balcony. They were absent about five minutes, and on re-entering the room, Rawlings approaching Horton, extended his hand and said: "All right, Horton, old fellow; put it there. The thing shall be done or my name isn't Joe Rawlings. I must go to the telegraph office at once." Seizing his hat he passed out as a telegraph messenger entered. "A telegram for Cyrus Hart Miller." "Here, boy!" replied that individual, and seizing the dispatch quickly tore open the envelope. The telegram being in cipher, Miller took from his pocket a memorandum, dismissed the boy, and making out the contents his face turned red with excitement, and he said: "Just as I feared. Rawlings has really sold out to Daley. His paper appears on Tuesday, and unless he wires the boys immediately, we're euchred! Did you make any arrangement with him, Senator?" "Yes, I 'fixed' him, and he has gone to telegraph his foreman. An article left at his office, he said, covered the whole ground and he would wire the boys to put it in type. To-morrow evening we will go to Cleverdale and be on the ground to cut off any attempt of Daley to beat us. Go at once, Miller, and secure a copy of Rawlings's dispatch--money will do it." A few moments later Miller came in, privately handing the Senator a copy of the dispatch, which read as follows: SARATOGA. FOREMAN _Investigator_, Cleverdale, N. Y. Kill double-leaded leader, "A Change of Candidates Must be Made," and substitute article on sanctum copy-hook, entitled, "Senator Hamblin's Great Public Services." (Signed) J. RAWLINGS. Senator Hamblin stepping into his bedroom read the message; returning, a pleasant smile illumined his countenance. Touching the bell, he ordered another bottle of wine. CHAPTER III. TEMPEST-TOSSED LAKE GEORGE. For three days Belle Hamblin remained in her room attended by her mother. The cruel words of her father sank deep into her proud and sensitive heart, and obstructed a great fount of joy, for during her short acquaintance with George Alden she had become greatly interested in him. A young man of irreproachable character, he had obtained a collegiate education, had never contracted bad habits, and was called a model man and brother. His sister gave music lessons, but that was not a sin in this land. With Belle, who had often wished herself differently situated in life, the idea of self-dependence was strong. Having all that wealth could give, she envied those who day after day toiled at some honest labor. Poor, unsuspecting girl, with every comfort at her command, she knew little of the sorrows of female toilers. Admiring the music teacher in the abstract, she knew nothing of the hardships attendant upon her labor. Looking upon the factory girls in her native town with some degree of envy, she was ignorant of the pangs of suffering so many undergo to make their scanty earnings sustain helpless loved ones at home. During her seclusion, Belle had been greatly missed by her companions. One morning a note received from Camp Cleverdale, accompanying an elegant bouquet, gave her much pleasure, and she exclaimed: "Oh, mamma, I _must_ go out to-day. I feel better and think the air will do me good. Will you consent?" "Yes, my child, if your nerves have become quiet. Your father writes he may be absent a week longer. He has gone to Cleverdale and seems to be having trouble about political matters. Just what they are I am unable to say, for he always says 'women have no business meddling with politics.'" "I agree with him, and only wish _he_ would also give it up. Politics make men unmindful of everything else. Papa is so absorbed in it he forgets the feeling of his own flesh and blood, believing everything must play a secondary part to his detestable politics. His mind is in constant ferment, while the companions it brings him are not such as those with whom we like to see our loved ones associate. His only desire now is that I will bestow my hand upon some man who can strengthen him politically. Yes, it is too true that when a man becomes absorbed in politics, he is willing to barter away his birthright to gain his point." "Belle, you are getting to be as incorrigible a hater of politics as I, but I cannot blame you. If George Alden controlled as many votes as that man Miller, or was as ready to do such editorial work as Rawlings, I believe your father would look upon him with favor. But never mind, child, go out to-day and enjoy yourself. Do just as you have done heretofore." Having thus obtained the mother's consent, Belle arose, put on her hat--having previously arrayed herself in her flannel boating suit--and left the apartment. Her appearance was the occasion of many friendly greetings. In a few moments a boat bearing four white capped young men left the little island at the south, where Cleverdale Camp, named in honor of Belle, was located. The lake was beautiful, the waves running sufficiently high to make rowing pleasant, and it was not many seconds before the boat with its jolly crew shot into the bay. In an instant Belle was face to face with the quartette, the first to greet her being George Alden, whose tender looks betokened his joy at again seeing her. "Ah, Miss Hamblin, we have missed you at Camp Cleverdale, and as soon as you are able to bear the excitement you must come. We have postponed the entertainment on account of your sudden illness," said Alden. "I shall be well enough in a day or two," the girl replied; "the lake air is my good physician." The meeting lasted but a moment, the quartette departing together, but Belle suddenly felt like herself again. One morning, a week later, the sun arose with more than its usual majesty and glory, and the cool air laden with the sweet odor of blackberry and pine came down from the mountains. The water of the lake was ruffled with little ripples, whose tops rose and glistened in the sun and then flitted on toward the shore, foreboding a pleasant day for boating, so the tiny boats riding at anchor in the bay were put in readiness for excursions or fishing expeditions. Belle, expecting her father, concluded to remain on shore and enjoy the children's society. About ten o'clock, Geordie asking permission to go on the lake, Belle gave consent, when Willie said: "Tan't I do too? I wants to wide with Geordie--may I do?" "Yes, but Jane must go with you." The three were soon pushing off from shore, the little shell drifting into the bay where Geordie had permission to row around a rock about a quarter mile distant, and backward and forward the craft danced, the oar-blades rising like sheets of silver, dripping diamonds into the crystal waters. Slowly over the north-west hills began to creep a black bank of clouds. It grew larger and larger, a half hour later spreading overhead like a dark ink-spot on a beautiful robe of blue. Belle, although absorbed in a pleasing book, occasionally looked to see if the children were in sight. The wind blew in little puffs, but she had never seen one of those gales that spring up so suddenly on Lake George. Suddenly she rose from her seat and laid down her book. About a mile from the boys' boat she detected an angry sea, and as her keen eye glanced toward the hills, nearly half a mile away, she saw the boat dancing on the rising waves. Wildly advancing to the extreme edge of the dock she beheld the angry waters running in toward shore, each wave seeming to push the preceding one as if intent upon running down and absorbing it. Beckoning to the boys, she waved her handkerchief, and called: "Geordie! Geordie! come in--quick!" but the winds only dashed by her, while the waves seemed to laugh her to scorn. Drops of perspiration stood on her brow, her cries attracting the attention of her mother and a number of ladies. Only three or four men, employés at the house, came down, and when Belle implored them to go for the boys, they only replied: "Ah, Miss, we are no oarsmen; the waves would swallow us up." Looking again, the almost distracted girl saw the waves with their great white heads, like ghostly capped spirits of evil, rushing about the boat. Mother and daughter were like maniacs, for the boys would be drowned unless aid was sent them, the little arms of Geordie being too weak for such powerful antagonists. The yawning mouth of each sea seemed to engulf the boat, which, riding for an instant upon another crest, would suddenly dive into the trough of the sea. "Oh, mother!" exclaimed Belle, "I cannot stand this! I must go to their rescue, or they will be lost. I will save them." Quickly jumping into her own boat--a perfect little craft, made to ride the waves--she seized the oars and shot forth into the bay, only to be buffeted about by the angry elements. Unable to go straight to the loved ones, she gradually pointed her boat toward the north, and by great effort ran along the dock. As she worked against a chopping sea, banks of water struck the craft and sheets of spray rose above to break and fall over her. The wind dashed down upon her head, clutching at her brown locks. Still she pulled like a little giant. Occasionally catching a glimpse of the three, she beheld Geordie at his post heroically working his way to the rock. The winds howled madly at her, and with all their force tried to push the brave girl back. Seconds were like hours, yet she pulled on until about ready to reverse her boat's position, when the waves seemed to say: "Ah, my fine lady, when you turn, then we will swallow you." Watching her opportunity--the sea lulling for an instant--she gave a quick pull, and as a huge wave approached, her boat turned and she breathed a sigh of relief as the water passed by her boat's stern. It was an awful time to her; one of those inspiring, grand, but cruel moments when Lake George, so beautiful in all its quiet glory, suddenly becomes transformed into a thing ugly, wicked, and furious. Within a short distance of the little boat and its precious load, Belle saw a huge wave, looking like a dozen ordinary billows combined, sweeping down upon her brothers. "Geordie!" she screamed, "put your prow to the sea!" but the words scarcely left her lips before the boat was caught up and the two boys and nurse thrown into the water. Belle unconsciously closed her eyes for an instant; on opening them she beheld Jane standing on the partly submerged rock, with Geordie and Willie clasped in her arms. South of the rock was the island on which Cleverdale Camp was situated. The frantic girl saw the waves go headlong over the rock, submerging the faithful nurse nearly to the waist, but how dare she approach them? The children were as brave as the nurse, Geordie standing on the rock clinging to Jane, while little Willie was clasped in her arms. In the distance could be seen the smoke of a small steamboat, but not a man was visible in the locality, all having gone for a day's pleasure; and Cleverdale Camp was deserted. Belle's strength fast failing, she knew she could hold out little longer. Suddenly the cloud broke and in an instant the mad seas were partially quieted, as if the flood of golden sunshine that burst through the murky canopy had appeased them. Belle hastily ran her boat on the rock; Jane and the children were quickly seated in the stern; the sun disappeared behind the dark curtain of cloud, and the waters resumed their reckless sport. But the boat was turned toward Cleverdale Camp, and in a few moments shot into the little bay, and ran upon the sandy beach out of all danger. Belle rose quickly, jumped ashore, beckoned Jane and the boys to follow, staggered, and fell fainting upon the greensward. CHAPTER IV. THE BOSS AND HIS AIDS. One of the nation's prominent beings, indigenous with American politics, is "The Boss." The Boss is a great man, and stands forth mighty and inscrutable, an autocrat wielding his sceptre with a strong hand. He must be brave as a lion; sagacious as an elephant; with all the cunning of a fox and the obstinacy of a bull-dog. His hide should be thick as that of the rhinoceros, and he must be as quick as the leopard in the mythical ability to change his spots. Like the hyena he must have an appetite for ghoulish work, while his eyes must be powerful as the eagle's, and his talons equal to those of any bird of prey. He must have a backbone combining all the vertebral rigidity of the whole animal kingdom, and his heels should resemble in their trip hammer power the catapults of the great American mule. He must be a man of quick conception, ready to comprehend situations at once, and when an emergency suddenly rises he must be able to take it by the coat-collar and make it resume its seat. He must be a positive character in all things. He cannot be a boor, for social qualities are useful to him. He is not the creation of human hands; he is born, not made, and his qualifications are merely perversions of noble gifts of the Creator. In all deals on the political card-table, the Boss stacks the cards just as really as do such magnates as Vanderbilt, Jay Gould, _ed omnes_, in Wall Street. The Boss dictates candidates and sketches plans of political action, and if the man desiring an office does not suit the Boss, he may as well take a back seat without waiting to be sat upon and rolled over afterward. The Boss does not always act openly, but generally prefers to keep in the background. Sometimes he is a judge "out of politics," as he says. He does not openly take part in the composition of tickets, but when a candidate comes to the surface the question is usually asked, "Does he suit the Judge?" The Boss has his trusted lieutenants, selected for their fealty to their leader, and no man can expect to obtain an appointment within the territory of any Boss unless the latter espouses his cause. In many cases the Boss is a Senator or an Assemblyman, or even a lesser county official. Oftentimes he holds no elective office, but may be an appointee of the government or State. In office or out, he exists, and seems to be as inseparable from the political machinery of this Republic as the engineer from the machinery driving a steamboat. Senator Hamblin, the Boss of his senatorial district, had his trusted aids in every town. He knew whom he could depend on when the town caucuses were held, yet feared the attempt of Daley to overthrow him, although confident of his ability to intercept the little scheme. Monday evening, the four men arriving at Cleverdale, Senator Hamblin and Miller walked together toward the home of the former, while Horton and Rawlings went direct to the _Investigator_ office. Rawlings calling for his proof-sheets, an article laudatory of Senator Hamblin was shown Horton. It was read and pronounced good, Horton suggesting the addition referred to in the conference at Saratoga. The words were quickly penned, and copy given the compositor. This was barely done when the sanctum door opened and Daley entered. "Ah, Mr. Daley, how do you do?" exclaimed Rawlings. "Just returned home. How's things in Cleverdale? Nothing new, eh?" "No--guess not. How are you, Horton?" and he extended his hand to the County Clerk. "By the way, Rawlings," said Daley, "I am told you have changed your mind about carrying out the conservative wishes of the community. Is that so?" "I don't exactly catch your meaning, Daley. Be a little more explicit," said Rawlings. "Well, if you want it any plainer, I mean just this: the machine has recaptured the _Investigator_, after its editor's declaring he was with the people. That's all, Rawlings--that's all." Rawlings, usually cool and collected, at once lost his temper; his lips trembled, his face flushed with anger, and raising his clenched fist, he said: "See here, Daley, there is the door! and if you don't get out of it d----d quick, I'll throw you out! D'ye hear?" Rawlings stepped forward as if to execute his threat, and Daley quickly turned and left the office. The next morning the _Investigator_ appeared with the article reflecting on Daley. In the mean time Senator Hamblin visited the bank, and, meeting several party leaders, discussed the political situation, seemingly anxious concerning the position of every one with whom he conversed. He was suspicious of all, well knowing the hold he possessed on his followers was only retained by the amount of patronage at his control and the sum of money he was willing to spend for the purpose of enthusing "the boys," for no boss must let the boys become low-spirited; they may in such case take a notion to change bosses. As the Senator dismissed two persons the door opened and Paddy Sullivan entered. Paddy was a large, red-faced, sandy-haired Irishman, his cheeks covered with a long rough beard. Holding a cigar between the second and third fingers of his left hand, he seized his black slouched hat with his right and dropped it on the table. His appearance seemed to please the Senator, for he extended a more cordial welcome to Paddy than to any previous visitors. "How are you, Paddy?" he said, warmly grasping the great mass of flesh that individual used for a hand. "Foine as a top, Sinitor, and how's yersel'?" quickly answered Paddy. "Well--very well. Sit down and let's have a quiet talk. Throw away that old stump, there--try a choice Havana," and he passed a cigar-box taken from a private drawer. "Now, Paddy, how are all the boys, and how goes politics at 'The Shades'?" "Politics has been so dull that we're only been able to dhraw about two kegs of lager a day. I've always noticed, Sinitor, that when politics is a little hazy, the boys are busted and the beer-tap only runs driblets. Ah, Sinitor, if I was in Congress, be jabers! I'd go in for a law that would have elickshun hild ivery month. But see here, Sinitor, look out for that blagyard Daley. He bought four kegs of lager lasht week; but shure I sot up six kegs for the b'ys--and--sh-h-h-h, d'ye moind--I tould 'em Sinitor Hamblin had left orders for me to do it--that I did. When the Daleys get the shtart of Paddy Sullivan and his frinds it's whin Paddy's shlapin'." "You did right," said the Senator, "and you can send the bill to me. By the way, Paddy, are the boys all right? How many of the laborers at the mill can you pull for me? Ah, Paddy, you are a clear-headed man; no one can control as many votes as yourself." "Ah, bedad! yee's jist roight. Ayven the good Father Burns wid his blissed callin' can't run as many men wid his holy power as Paddy Sullivan wid his lager and whishkey. The b'ys knows who's their frind, and when they was swallowing Daley's lager I tips 'em the wink and says I, 'B'ys, dom Daley, but here's to the hilth of the Boss!' and, Sinitor, ivery mother's son of 'em was rid hot for yees!" "Well, Paddy, keep your eyes open. The caucus will be held in about six weeks. In the mean time set a keg of lager on tap each Wednesday and Saturday evenings and let the boys drink. If Daley comes around let Miller know. I shall be absent a few days, but on my return we must open the ball. One hundred copies of the _Investigator_ will be given you each week. Give them to the boys, and call especial attention to the leading article. Right must win. Daley is engaged in an infamous conspiracy to help the corporations, and if it takes every dollar I am worth I am bound to stand by the people against monopolies. Ah, Paddy, to just such men as you are we indebted for a sound government founded and upheld upon patriotic principles. Without such, America as a nation would be a failure. Yes, sir, a failure." "There's where your head is livil, Sinitor, and when yees git Paddy Sullivan's infl_oo_ence, yees git as thrue a heart as iver wint pitty-pat benaythe a man's vist. But I must go, and niver ye fear but that yee'l bate that Daley. Good-mornin', sir, good-mornin'," and Paddy was gone. The Senator quickly threw open the window, and the fumes of tobacco, whiskey, and onions passing out, he thus soliloquized: "Whew! that chap is not a very sweet-smelling bouquet. Gracious! it makes me sick. What a dirty road is the political highway to success. Bah! But a man cannot secure good fruit without the use of unsavory fertilizers, and so it is with politics; the tree must be nursed, and if the gardener wants palatable fruit he must not object to the fertilizing element needed to give the tree life and strength. No, I can stand a thousand Sullivans if they are as strong politically as Paddy." At that moment the door opened and Cyrus Hart Miller entered. "Well, Miller, what is it? You seem hot and flushed. Anything new?" quickly asked the Senator. "Yes, and you must act at once. You remember a military company is about to be organized here. Those in charge have succeeded in getting enough names enrolled to obtain the necessary papers for organization. The company is an assured fact, the next thing needed is a name. Daley has offered to buy them a complete set of colors worth four hundred dollars, if the company is named for him. I just learned this from Kip Rogers, who expects to be captain, and I said to Kip, 'Senator Hamblin would do better.' How would Hamblin Guards sound? The organization is to be composed of the best blood in Cleverdale, and every man would be a strong friend of a generous patron. It is a good scheme, Senator, and a magnanimous offer from you would make the company a powerful auxiliary to your other strings. Of course there is the 'Hamblin Mutual Benefit Death Lottery Association,' named for you; then there is the 'Hamblin Steam-Engine Company,' the 'Hamblin Yacht Club,' all good, substantial aids to your ambition; but, Senator, the 'Hamblin Guards' would be of more real benefit to you than all the rest put together. What say you? I told Kip I would see him in an hour's time, for Daley wanted an answer this evening." "Miller, you are a shrewd manager. Yes, you are right. You can say to Kip that I will present a stand of colors worth seven hundred and fifty dollars. The company can command me for one thousand dollars cash beside to fit up their parlors if the organization is named for me. Not a bad idea, and when the grand centennials occur the 'Hamblin Guards' shall go. Yes, Miller, they shall go with all the glory the men and their patron can command. Go at once and bring me their answer." Miller was off in an instant, when the Senator seated himself and thus soliloquized: "Hamblin Guards! eh? yes; it will read well in the newspapers. Ah, it is pleasing to see one's name in print--for other people to read. Such things as this, for instance, tell at the polls: "'Senator Hamblin is the generous patron of our local churches. He gives large sums for the support of the gospel. His charities are generously bestowed, while his name is recorded upon the hearts of all who love the church.' "Yes, permitting Belle to bestow gifts upon charitable institutions has been of great advantage, for every dollar thus expended has brought me at least four votes. She gives from her heart, while I advance funds from my pocket at the dictation of my head. She is a noble girl, and I was cruel to her when I left Lake George. But pshaw! George Alden! only a clerk in the bank! He has no political significance, and I cannot allow my daughter to form an alliance with a mere private citizen. Her heart is young and tender, and the fire of to-day can be easily quenched. When she marries she must make a brilliant match. Belle is sick, her mother writes, and I must return to Lake George. This evening I must attend the church meeting; to-morrow the Cleverdale Woollen Mill Company are to hold an important business meeting, and I must be present. Senator, you have too many irons in the fire! Be careful, sir, for these hard times are shrinking values. No unwise ventures, sir, or your fortune will take wings and fly away." Thus he soliloquized, until interrupted by a note which read as follows: _Investigator_ OFFICE. DEAR SENATOR: I will be at your house at 7 P.M. Will you be at home? Tell boy Yes or No. Yours faithfully, J. RAWLINGS. "Tell him Yes," said the Senator, and as the boy passed out, he remarked: "What the devil does he want now?" Senator Hamblin stood high in the community as a successful business man. Until recently he had suffered but few losses. At the height of his business career, he was the leader of numerous enterprises, and for the past ten years president of the Cleverdale National Bank, the stock of said institution being quoted at one dollar and ninety cents. He was director in the Cleverdale Woollen Mill Company, capital one million dollars. His business friends saw and regretted that his infatuation for politics caused him to do many questionable things. In business, social, and religious walks, a man must be the personification of all that is good, but in politics he is allowed the fullest license to tread paths that are crooked. Hence Senator Hamblin's friends tried to reconcile themselves to his action, but succeeded only in stultifying themselves. Promptly at seven that evening, Editor Rawlings was admitted into the library at Senator Hamblin's residence. "Good-evening, Senator! Excuse me for calling. I will not occupy much of your valuable time. I have called to inquire concerning our business matters. I want to go to New York on Friday to buy that press and engine. What shall I do about payments?" said Rawlings. "You can buy a press and engine for fifteen hundred dollars and have them billed to me," said the Senator. "After election I will make over same to you after you render me a bill for legitimate services and distribution of campaign papers. Do you understand?" "Y-e-s, I understand, but Daley sent word he would give me out-and-out two thousand dollars to support him. Business is business, Senator, and I must make hay while the sun shines. Now I don't want to be mean or go back on a bargain, but hadn't you better see the two thousand dollars? You needn't say yes now, but let Miller come around and see me--he can fix it, for Miller is a man of business." Senator Hamblin rose and walked toward the door. He was not in an agreeable mood, for he knew the man was a knave. Yet he was at his mercy. Had he followed the impulse of his mind he would have kicked him out-doors, but conquering his feelings, he said: "Rawlings, you are not playing fair with me. If I accede to your demand now, will this be the last? I must know where I stand, as I cannot pay all I am worth for the help of a newspaper. Everybody thinks I have a gold mine and that they can tap me at their will." "Oh, no, Senator, I don't think anything of that kind, but the railroads are shelling out money to overthrow you, and you know that business is business. I would rather be with you, by thunder, and am only asking what is fair." Senator Hamblin, aware that Rawlings would desert him if he did not submit to his extortionate demand, and anxious to terminate the interview, replied: "Well, I suppose I must submit. Miller will call in the morning and arrange matters. I have an engagement at eight, and time is most up." Rawlings, not at all put out by the Senator's manner, rose and said: "All right, I will leave you. I am solid, Senator--a regular thoroughbred--and when I go for a man I go my whole length," and passed out. "Solid! Yes, you _are_ solid--in your cheek. You are one of the representative men of the political arena. Bad--bad; and still you must be tolerated--yes, courted and paid. It is a blot upon our institutions that such rascals sometimes mould public opinion, all because they can wield a powerful pen. They prate of honesty and rob a man by their disgraceful blackmailing and--But how could politicians get along if it weren't for such rascals?" CHAPTER V. TO THE RESCUE. While the gale on the lake was putting Belle and her brothers in peril, four young men stood at one of the docks about two miles north of Cleverdale Camp, watching the surface of the water. One of them raised a field-glass to his eyes and looking across the tempest-tossed lake gazed intently toward Cleverdale Camp, and then said to his companion: "Alden, what is that? It looks like a small boat; see, it seems to be hovering about the island rock. As I am alive, man, there is a woman on the rock with two objects at her side. It must be--" His further remarks were cut short by Alden, who quickly seized the glass, looked intently for a moment, then said: "Bob, there is also a woman in the small boat trying to rescue another from the rock. The two objects beside the woman on the rock look like children. They must be helped. Come along; who will go with me? Step up, boys; no time is to be lost; with a man at the oars and another at the helm we can weather this storm. Quick! who goes?" George Alden, for it was he, was greatly excited as he observed the boat, for a terrible suspicion was filling his mind. "George, are you a fool?" asked Bob Harkins. "No boat can stand such a gale; you are mad, man." "I'm neither one nor the other, Bob, but a man; when a fellow mortal is in danger I am going to the rescue. If some one will go with me the work will be easier, but, alone or not, I am going. Come on, for I am off!" and he started for the bay, where his boat was safely harbored. All efforts to dissuade him were fruitless, and no one volunteered to accompany him. His boat, the "Nellie," shot out from under the bridge across the little bay with only himself for crew. Fortunately the wind was in the right direction, yet the group on shore anxiously watched him. His boat rode the seas like a cockle-shell; she was up on a white crest one instant, and then hid herself in the sea's trough for several seconds, as if she had been swallowed up, but skilfully the well-trained arms managed the oars. Suddenly, during a lull in the wind, Alden cast his eyes toward the submerged rock, and perceived that the objects had left it, while a little way toward the south he beheld the rescuer and rescued dashing over the excited lake toward Cleverdale Camp. "Thank God!" he exclaimed, "they are saved." Heading his craft for Cleverdale Camp, within two minutes after Belle Hamblin had fallen George Alden was at her side. "Oh, Mr. Alden, Belle is dead, she is dead! What shall we do?" exclaimed Geordie, while little Willie was moaning piteously. Quickly leaning down and placing his ear to her lips, Alden felt a faint breath, and then was gratified to hear a deep sigh. She lay on the grass, her face white as snow, her eyes closed, the beautiful brown hair falling about her shoulders. Alden cast but a glance at her, and then asked the faithful Jane: "Will you help carry her to our camp?" The limp form was taken up and George Alden passed toward the camp with Belle's face close to his. She was very pale, and the thought that her stillness might, perhaps, be that of death staggered him for an instant. Holding her in his embrace and realizing that his arms clasped all his heart desired, he raised his eyes toward heaven, and said something more earnest than young men often do when looking in that direction. The camp reached, Belle was laid upon a bed of boughs, a blanket having been previously thrown over it, and then Alden and Jane began the work of restoration by gently rubbing the girl's brow with brandy, a little of the same diluted being forced between her lips. The young man, informed by Jane of the circumstances of the morning, of the storm and the wrecked boat containing herself and the two boys, of their rescue by the brave girl, felt assured that Belle was only paying the usual penalty of overtaxing nature. But, feeling certain that his own destiny was linked with the beautiful girl lying so pale and quiet on the improvised couch, the pulsation of his heart would have told tales if any one had been by to listen. While chafing her hand with spirits Alden was gladdened to feel her fingers close about his own, and then he noted movements of the lips as if she were trying to speak. He quickly poured a portion of the spirits into his hand and placed it to her nostrils. Nature began to reassert itself. Belle sighed loud and long; her eyelids unclosed, the blue filling for an instant with wonder, and then the long fringed lids closed again. The veins filled with blood, and the plump cheeks showed the rose-tint of returning life. Gradually strength returning, she gently lifted her head, opened her eyes, and said: "Where am I? Where are Jane and the boys? Are they saved?" "Yes, Miss Belle," he replied, "they are all here. You are at Cleverdale Camp, with friends. Can't you sleep for a while? Jane will stay with you while I amuse the boys. You are safe here away from the storm, and a half-hour sleep will restore your strength." "You are very kind," murmured Belle. Then she exclaimed, "Oh, I can see the mad waves opening their great yawning mouths ready to swallow me. My dear little brothers; let them come to me. Oh, Willie and Geordie! Thank God! you are saved. Thank God!" and kissing their foreheads she fell back exhausted. George Alden arose to withdraw, telling Jane he would be in the tent only a few feet distant, when Belle, opening her eyes, said: "Oh, don't leave me yet. Stay--but no--I am not myself. I am still filled with the horror of those cruel waves. My poor mother, God pity her! she probably mourns us as lost. Oh, George, is there not some way to inform her of our safety? It will kill her if she thinks us drowned." "Yes, I will see to it at once, only promise you will try to sleep again," he replied. "I will promise anything if you will only manage to relieve mamma's anxiety," and she again closed her eyes. George, quickly obtaining a piece of white cloth, with paint he had at hand put on it in large, bold letters: "ALL SAFE AT CLEVERDALE CAMP." Placing the sign in a conspicuous place and firing a pistol, he saw his signal was heard, as several persons gathered on the dock and answered by another pistol-shot. Raising a field-glass he beheld Mrs. Hamblin standing on shore with a telescope to her eyes. Knowing the anxiety of the mother was relieved, he returned to camp and ascertained that Belle was sleeping. The hurricane, as if sullen at being foiled in its attempt to destroy the little party now safe at Camp Cleverdale, began to halt in its mad career, the waves that had been roaring and dancing upon the shore showing signs of exhaustion. Although the winds blew, it was evident their force was nearly spent. Later in the afternoon, while George Alden was seated upon a rock amusing Geordie and Willie, the boys much interested in the stories he was relating, Jane approached the trio and informed him that Belle, awakening from her sleep, wished to see him in the tent. Leaving the boys with Jane he walked toward the Camp, and on entering the enclosure was gratified at finding Belle sitting up. "How are you feeling now?" he asked. "You look rested, and I hope are much refreshed." "Yes, thanks to your kindness, I am feeling like myself again. Is the storm over? What a narrow escape for us all! But, how came you here?" she asked, anxiously. George then told his own adventures, relating all the circumstances of his trip, and then said: "Ah, Belle, how happy I am that you are safe! I earnestly hope that you may experience no ill effects from your adventure." "No, I am feeling quite well excepting a little lameness in my arms. It was a long, hard pull for my weak hands, but had I not undertaken it our poor little boys would have been drowned. It was a terrible ordeal, and when the cruel waves capsized their boat my senses nearly left me. When I saw my loved ones on the rock clasped in Jane's arms, my heart sent forth such a prayer of thanks! Are the boys injured?" "Not in the least, the little fellows are perfectly safe. I trembled for you, though, when I saw your white face, your eyes closed, and your lips speechless." He spoke feelingly, and as he did so gently took her hand, which she allowed him to hold with the confidence one feels when beside a trusted friend. "And yourself, George," she said, "you look pale, as if the excitement had been too much for you, but I hope it is only your anxiety for us." "It has been an anxious day for me. Had you been drowned, my heart would have been sorely stricken. Belle, I must speak--do forgive me--but you are dearer to me than all the world. I see you are offended, but when all I care for, all that I love, is before me I cannot help speaking from my heart." Belle arose from her seat and said: "Oh, think of what you are saying. I am not my own mistress. You are noble and brave, and having been the means of saving us from sorrow, I cannot be too grateful to you. You are more to me than--than I wish; but do not talk of this to-day. The scenes of the morning--the awful waves, that seem even now to laugh me to scorn--make this moment too much like the bright day following the darkness of night--too much like the sunshine after a storm. Please, George, no more of this--at least not now." "As you say; but hark! hear the merry laugh of the boys. Come, let us join them. There! you look like your own dear self again." As they stepped forth the sun suddenly hid its face behind a cloud, but the tempest had nearly subsided. Belle's brothers ran to meet her, and in an instant two little pairs of arms were entwined about her neck. Then she arose and, turning to George, said: "Can we go to our mother now? The lake is calm." "Yes, in a short time, for I think I see the boys in the distance--if it is, we can make one trip. I have the children's boat, washed ashore during the gale, but Geordie's little arms cannot row to-night. See! The boat is headed for the island, and in a few moments we will take you to your friends." In ten minutes the three companions of George Alden, stepping on the shore, were quickly informed of the state of affairs, and in a short time Jane and the children were in one boat, George and Belle in another, all gliding over the lake, which now was calm and beautiful, and soon Belle and the children were in their mother's arms. Remaining with the fond hope of again seeing Belle, Alden wandered through the hotel, and about half-past eight, discovering the girl at the door of her parlor, he went toward her. Gently and lovingly taking her hand he drew her toward him and somehow their lips met. That instant a hand roughly seized the young man by the coat-collar, hurled him across the hallway, and the Hon. Darius Hamblin stood between the two. CHAPTER VI. A CAMP DINNER. Senator Hamblin, leaving the stage-coach at Lake George, embarked on the little steamer Ganouski. He was accompanied by two gentlemen on their way to join a camping party of male friends, who had pitched their tents on an island about two miles south of Lakeside. The Senator was in good spirits, enjoying the society of his companions. The younger of the two, a fine-looking man about thirty years of age, resided in the same county with Hamblin, having represented his district two terms in the State legislature. His personal appearance was commanding, and for a young man he had taken a high standing in the political arena of the day. He possessed a keen black eye, sharp and piercing, around the corners of which could be detected an expression of recklessness and trickery, so necessary for a man of his calling. Hon. Walter Mannis had been very successful in his political career, and older men pointed to him as a brilliant ornament--in fact, a rising star in the political theatre of the State; and so Senator Hamblin patronized and courted the young member. Mannis had inherited a large fortune, which, added to his fine personal appearance and many accomplishments, made him a lion in both public and private circles. He was called the handsome member of the legislature, and many a mamma tried to win his smiles for a pretty daughter. Yet Mr. Mannis had never yielded to the charms of female loveliness and virtue. He remained a target, his heart seemingly impregnable to love's arrows. His companion, a member of the legislature also, representing an assembly district in the great metropolis, was about the age of Mannis, although not as fine-looking or intellectually as bright. "Senator," said Mannis, as the three sat on the deck of the little steamer, "you must stop at the island and dine with me. Our friends expect us, and a royal camp dinner will be awaiting our arrival. We shall leave the steamer at the dock nearest camp, where a boat will be waiting to convey us to the island. After dinner we will row you to your family at Lakeside, about two miles distant. What say you?" "I will stop on one condition, Mannis, and that your promise to spend to-morrow with me. I would like to have some conversation with you concerning political matters in our county. Have I your promise?" "I shall be most happy to accept, Senator." A half hour later the little steamer drew up at the dock, when the three disembarked. They were soon seated in a small boat, and after a pull of a few moments the party stepped on the rock answering as a dock for the little island. Introductions being over, Senator Hamblin was led to the table, where a tempting repast was spread. Reader, have you ever participated in a camp dinner? No? Then you have missed one of the rarest treats of life. The dining-room is a tent opened at one end, through the centre extending a stationary table made of planed boards. On each side is a bench nailed to the table, capable of seating about six persons. To seat one's self, sit on the bench with back to the table; gracefully raising the lower limbs, right about face, your seat acting as a pivot for the body, swing over quickly, drop the feet beneath the table, and you are ready for preliminaries. Before you is new bread, white and tempting; butter of a rich golden hue; tomatoes, crimson and juicy with richness; cucumbers, pickles, sauces, and other relishes. The waiters are clothed in habiliments of blue surmounted by elegant crowns of native straw. The cool breezes blowing from the lake, golden yellow-jackets in swarms hover about your head, occasionally swooping down into the sugar-bowl to see if the sweetness is first-class. Presently bowls of delicious turtle soup are placed before you, and the aroma that rises is more than appetizing to a hungry man. As you convey luscious spoonfuls to your mouth, another aroma greets your olfactories: it is the fumes of coffee. S--p--p--p--p! A pair of red squirrels go scampering up a tree near by, intent on getting over the dining-room to enjoy the rich odors wasting themselves on the desert air. Soup is followed by fish--none of your canned salmon or salt cod--none of your stale shad, a week out of water--but fish almost wriggling their tails as you spear them with a fork. They are smoking hot, with a rich hue of brown--the edge of the dish being ornamented with small clippings of fried pork. Take the fish on your fork, insert a knife-blade in the back, when the white meat falls on your plate anxious to be eaten. Drop the knife and with your fingers catch hold of the skeleton at the head, pull gently, and it will divide itself from the other half. Your plate loaded with mealy potatoes, squash, boiled onions, and corn, you have before you a dinner fit for an epicure. How good everything tastes! All formality having been left at home, the camp dinner is the Eden of banquets. Counting your skeletons, you will be surprised at the number of fish you have eaten. With your voracious appetite you will not fail to leave a place for a dessert of fruit which follows. Pies and puddings are not usually a part of camp dinners, fruit taking their place. Senator Hamblin enjoyed the repast as thoroughly as his entertainer could have wished. Indeed, the entire party, though composed of politicians, did not easily get back to politics; for a half hour after dinner they sat on the rocks smoking cigars and discussing the surroundings. They could scarcely have helped it, for the scene was charming; the golden rays of the sun fringing the western hills gave the foliage a rare quality of splendor. The lake was like a sheet of silver, the surface reflecting the lovely azure of an unclouded sky. The air was pure and sweet, the breezes soft, and all the surroundings were specially successful bits of nature's handiwork. Senator Hamblin was enchanted as he gazed upon the beauties of nature spread before him; for the moment he even forgot the trials and vexations of politics. Worldly feelings that agitated him from day to day were gone, and he felt that he stood in an earthly paradise such as no other locality could present. "Mannis, this is grand! In all my travels I never beheld anything so enchanting. I do not wonder this is such a resort. In all accounts of this beautiful lake justice has never been done it. But while I am lost in delight and bewilderment, I am forgetting my family await me at Lakeside. Come, let us proceed to my quarters; it is growing late, and before we leave this place it will be dark." The party arose, preparing to depart, and by the time adieus were said the shades of evening had fallen. The moon burst forth over the hilltops as Senator Hamblin, Assemblyman Mannis, with two others, jumped into the boat. The little craft soon touched the beach, and Senator Hamblin stepped ashore. "Remember, Mannis, you are to spend to-morrow with me. Good-night, gentlemen;" and in a moment the oars struck the water again and the little boat was far away on its return trip. Watching the craft a moment he turned toward the house and said: "Mannis is one of nature's noblemen. What a magnificent couple he and my proud Belle would make! Egad! if I could bring it about Belle would have a husband every way worthy of her. We will see." After returning the warm welcome of those on the piazza he went directly to his room, fate decreeing his arrival at the moment George Alden so warmly greeted Belle. The young man, taken by surprise, was pushed violently across the hallway, while Belle confronted her stern father, who said: "Belle, I am astonished!" and he led her gently into the room, quickly closing the door, and Alden was left alone. The latter, regaining his composure, waited but a moment, then turned and left the house, in a short time arriving at his island camp. For an hour he remained alone on the rock with his own thoughts for company. He thought of the few days passed at the lake; the rescue of little Willie; the happy moments in the society of his heart's idol; the long days when her illness prevented him seeing her; and the many happy moments since she rejoined her friends. He thought of the day just ended; the storm; the brave girl in the boat; the loved ones on the rock, and the poor girl lying before him so helpless and white. His mind went back to the happy moment when he held her hand and told his love. George Alden was a brave man, never quailing at danger, but when he thought of his humiliation he moaned in agony of spirit. "I am only a bank clerk," he said, "but is that reason why this man's daughter should be injured by my society? I love her, and I'll have her, too, in spite of her father." CHAPTER VII. THE CRUEL THUNDERBOLT. "Belle, what does this mean? How dare that fellow pollute your lips with a kiss?" angrily asked Mr. Hamblin as the door closed behind him. "Father," replied Belle quickly, "George Alden is a noble man, and inspired by honorable impulses. His touch is not pollution." Senator Hamblin was filled with rage; his face became scarlet; his lips trembled, and raising his hand he exclaimed: "Go to your room! If he dares to repeat the scene of this evening I will send the presumptuous puppy adrift. No employé of mine must presume upon stealing my treasure. My daughter must select her companions from a higher circle than that of book-keepers." Suddenly Mrs. Hamblin entered, and beholding Belle with hands clasped over her eyes, and hearing her sobs, placed an arm lovingly about her neck, and asked: "What is it, Belle, darling?" "What is it?" exclaimed the father; "it is this: she would throw away the honor of the family on that beggar, Alden!" "Oh, Darius! think of what you say. Are you ignorant of the events of the day, or is your heart turned to stone? Poor child, she has saved the lives of your boys and proved herself full of heroism. The scenes she passed through to-day would have prostrated a person of ordinary character. Husband, you little know what a brave and noble daughter you have." Senator Hamblin tried to calm himself. He walked to and fro several times, and then, halting before his wife, asked: "What do you mean? If anything remarkable has occurred please inform me." As Mrs. Hamblin related the incidents of the day, the cold, hard expression of her husband's countenance gradually softened. He forgot for a moment his personal ambition, forgot that the sweet girl before him had not only disobeyed but actually defied him, forgot the handsome Mannis and the audacity of the poor bank clerk Alden. As he listened to the thrilling recital of Belle's experience, the father predominated, and from his heart, in spite of its hard political crust, burst natural feelings. When his wife had finished he arose, went to Belle, lovingly placed his arms about her, and said: "You are a noble girl, and I am proud of you. There, wipe away those tears. Your young heart is too good to carry a load of sorrow. The day's excitement has been too much for you. Give me a kiss and go to your room. A night's rest will refresh you." Belle, raising her head, gazed into her father's face, and saw there the old look of love and affection that it wore before he became absorbed in public life; the cold, cruel lines disappearing, he was again the companion of her childhood. A flood of joy filled her heart, and she gave her father a look and embrace that would have reformed any parent not a politician. "Good-night, darling," said the Senator, when released by his daughter. "Go to your room now. To-morrow you shall have a day of pleasure. I expect a friend to spend the day and dine with us." Belle left the room accompanied by her mother, and the proud man was alone. "She is a noble character," the Senator exclaimed as he paced the floor. "And Alden--curse him!--is worthy of her admiration. Still, so is Mannis. When she meets him she cannot help admiring him. But she is proud and sensitive. She must be moulded by kind treatment; force and arbitrary measures won't do. She is full of the 'no surrender' spirit of her father, bless her. I must try strategy." Belle entered her room, followed by her mother, and closing the door threw herself into a chair, and burst into tears. "Oh, mother, what trials I am having! Ever since we arrived here something has been occurring to make me unhappy. What have I done to deserve it? Papa is not the same man he used to be; he thinks even his own flesh and blood must bow to his ambition. Poor George has fallen under his displeasure, merely for the sin of loving me. Why should we have any hearts at all?" Then she told all that had taken place between herself and George Alden, and when she referred to the scene at the parlor door she sobbed as if her heart would break. Her mother, who had suffered worse and longer than her daughter by the remorseless ambition that was demanding the entire sacrifice, comforted the weeping girl as only a mother could, and an hour later sleep ended for the day the sorrows of both. The next morning opened bright and beautiful, the Hamblins as usual appearing at the breakfast-table. Belle's exploit of the previous day had been noised about the neighborhood, and she found herself the centre of attraction at the Lakeside, and the little boys Geordie and Willie came in for a share of honor. Belle bore her honors meekly. Unlike her father, hers was not a character to be excited by public applause. Besides, her mind was preoccupied, and her eyes often strayed toward Cleverdale Camp. While gazing in that direction she saw a little boat enter the bay and a gentleman step from it upon the beach, where her father warmly greeted him, and then escorted him to her and her mother. "Mr. Mannis, I take pleasure in introducing you to Mrs. Hamblin and my daughter, Miss Belle." The guest bowed to both, and said: "Ladies, I feel you are hardly strangers to me, for my friend here, your honored husband and father, is an old acquaintance in the forum of politics and at the State capital." "We are always glad to meet Mr. Hamblin's friends," replied the elder lady, "and he has often spoken of you; you are very welcome, sir." Mannis bowed his acknowledgments and then turned to Belle. "Miss Hamblin, allow me to congratulate you on your narrow escape yesterday, and express my admiration of your noble exploit. It is fortunate that you had learned to use the oar, but few even of young ladies who row would have the courage to undertake so hazardous a trip. Do you know your praises are being sung far and near?" "Belle is a brave girl," said the Senator, "and I am proud of her. Don't blush, Belle, you are too modest." "But, papa, what did I do? I could no more resist the impulse that sent me out than you could help reaching forth your hand and snatching one of the boys from an approaching locomotive." "Say what you will, Miss Hamblin, the world gives every human being credit for the brave deeds they perform, and your modesty will not enable you to avoid being praised for your heroism." The conversation continued for a long time. Belle, like a true woman, enjoyed the society of a gentleman, and as Mannis had perfect manners and was a fluent conversationalist, the moments passed most agreeably. The Senator was delighted by the grace with which his daughter entertained his guest, and with great satisfaction he noticed that the handsome Assemblyman was greatly interested in the girl. Not a word on political topics had been spoken; for a deeper game was being played by the proud father, who in believing that he held a winning hand forgot that his stake was his own flesh and blood. After dinner the two gentlemen went to enjoy a quiet smoke on the veranda of the gentlemen's sitting-room. Mannis was profuse in compliments regarding the Senator's family, all of which were extremely gratifying to the honorable gentleman. Gradually the subject of the approaching campaign came up, and Mannis disclosed that Daley had urged him to espouse his cause against Hamblin. "I told him from the first I was with you, and now repeat it more strongly than before. I am more friendly to you now than ever." "Thanks, Mannis, and if I can do anything to advance your interest you can always command me," replied the Senator. Just then little Willie came running to his father, who took him upon his knee. The child's bright blue eyes and head of handsome brown curls always attracted attention, which his amusing lisp was quite sure to hold. Twining his little arms about his papa's neck, he began talking in a manner so amusing that the practical Mannis at once took a great liking to him, and Willie reciprocated it, so that Mannis was still further impressed by the Hamblins in general. As the party chatted a storm-cloud arose, but no one seemed to notice it. The green was covered with children, little Willie among them, and as he danced with all the joyousness of healthy childhood he seemed the leader of the little party. The cloud grew larger, but no one was alarmed, for sudden and short visits from storm-clouds are not unusual at Lake George. Suddenly, however, there was a flash, a ball of fire appearing over the house and then dashing swiftly down. The shock for an instant prostrated all who were near by, but they slowly recovered--all but one; little Willie lay motionless upon the grass. Senator Hamblin sprang from the piazza, seized the little form, pressing it to his bosom, and exclaimed: "Willie--my child--speak to me! Wake up, my son! look into your father's face!" But the little form was silent, for Willie was face to face with his Father in heaven. The lifeless form was carried into the parlor, and the family that prosperity had almost estranged from its head seemed united again by its terrible grief. NOTE.--A casualty like the one described in this chapter occurred at Lake George, in the summer of 1877, the victim being a little girl of nine years. The author has borrowed the incident, describing the electric phenomenon as related to him by several persons who were sitting or standing by the child when the terrible thunderbolt dropped from the clouds. CHAPTER VIII. AFFAIRS AT CLEVERDALE. Cleverdale is a flourishing village of about eight thousand inhabitants. Enjoying transportation facilities both by rail and canal, it contains several large factories, which in turn enable a bank to do a great deal of business and cause money to circulate freely. Churches and schools, not excepting a young ladies' finishing school, abound, and there is no lack of the rum-shops that in towns so large are always demanded by one class of inhabitants. Like all other towns, Cleverdale had its local causes of dispute, and its differences between classes, yet so proud of Senator Hamblin was the town that when, two or three days after Willie's death, a little white hearse moved slowly from the Senator's door it was followed to the cemetery by representatives of every class and interest in the town, even the red head of Paddy Sullivan being prominent in the procession. Paddy was dressed in his Sunday suit of black. On his head he wore a high white hat with a narrow black band around it, and in his face was an expression of grief that undoubtedly was honest. One of the Senator's bids for prominence had been the erection of the most imposing monument in the village cemetery, although he had not at the time buried any member of his family. This monument had given his eye much comfort, but when little Willie was laid in its shadow, the ambitious politician was too much absorbed in grief to notice the stately stone at all. For a few days his nobler sentiments had him so completely in possession that he fairly forgot even his public interests; although Miller called and reported that he had faithfully carried out all the wishes of his chief, no further orders were given him. "Wait a day or two, Miller," said the Senator. "I am too much overcome for business or politics now," were his words. But time cures grief, and great burdens soon fall from shoulders accustomed to other burdens. A few days passed and the doors of the Hamblin mansion were again opened, and Senator Hamblin at his bank looking after his large business enterprises. His political interests also began to receive attention. In this direction he found that his temporary withdrawal from affairs had been utilized by his opponents, who made a vigorous push. Of course Miller had not been idle, having worked hard--even kept Rawlings in line; in fact, no attempt had been made of late to win the _Investigator's_ editor to Daley's side. But an ugly paper had been privately circulated, charging Senator Hamblin with having made admission before a former clerk of the Canal Committee, of which Hamblin was chairman, of a character not consistent with a man of honor. The paper accused him of boasting, during his two years of chairmanship, of making more than a hundred thousand dollars on bills that his committee had approved. Fortunately a copy of the paper fell into the hands of Miller, who went to work to prevent further circulation. He had even called on young Sargent, making threats to intimidate him, but without obtaining satisfaction. He knew Sargent was greatly incensed against Senator Hamblin for throwing him out of his berth and fat salary, and also knew Daley and his friends paid well for the information they were using. Senator Hamblin gave Miller full power to treat with Sargent and make him recant. Miller was a good worker, and not afraid to face any one. Had he been going to die, he would not have hesitated to call on Satan, if that were possible, and he would have done it in the full belief that some satisfactory arrangement for the future could be made. He called promptly on Sargent, who received him with great cordiality. "Well, Sargent, how are you?" said Miller, extending his hand to greet the ex-clerk. "All right, Miller. Take a seat." The visitor at once stated his business. "Sargent, what in the world possessed you to make such a charge against the Senator? Of course the shot may temporarily injure the man it is fired at, but, my dear fellow, just think how it will injure you. Hamblin is powerful and rich and stands high among the business men of the State. He is a leading man in politics, and his influence can be used to crush a young man like you. He will be renominated, and that means re-elected: then all the men backing or helping Daley will be crushed. That is as sure as fate, for when the convention meets he will have at least three quarters of the delegates. His election is an assured fact, and can you, a young man, afford to go down with the wreck? I have always found, in politics, a man is safest when sticking to the machine." "That may be," said Sargent, "but Hamblin played a mean trick when he shoved me out of the berth I held. I worked for him faithfully, and just because Jim Warren was backed up by Paddy Sullivan and the factory bosses I had to slide. I say it was a dirty trick, and I mean to get even with him." "See here, Sargent, didn't the Senator say he would see you provided for? Now look here, man; there is need of another clerk in the bank, as the cashier's health is poor and young Alden unable to do the work alone. That place was to be given you, but when you got your back up and 'went' for the Senator, _his_ Ebenezer rose, and you lost a better place than a temporary position on a committee." "Why, I didn't know that," said Sargent in a surprised tone. "Well, it is a fact; maybe it is too late now, after all you have done to injure yourself; but see here, Sargent, can't you recall that statement, if by so doing you can benefit yourself? Of course, if you persist, we shall meet the paper and break its damaging points; you will be ruined with it, for you must know Senator Hamblin will not hesitate to kill so grave a charge against his integrity. Come, Sargent, think it over. I don't know what I can do for you, but assure me you will recall the words and I will try and place you in a position where you will be taken care of. As you are now, when the polls close on election night, your reputation will be blasted and Daley and his friends powerless to help you. I tell you, Sargent, every young man should remember the loaf of bread he is cutting to-day may be turned to stone to-morrow." Miller's words made a deep impression on Sargent, who rested his head on his hand a moment and then replied: "But how can I recall the words? That's what bothers me." "I can fix that. Of course you will have to follow your first paper with a second, acknowledging your error in publishing the first--but pshaw! who cares for that? If you get a thousand-dollar position, that will fix you--eh, old fellow?" and Miller playfully hit Sargent in the ribs with his cane. "Wait and let me think it over. I cannot decide now. I don't think anything very bad can result from it, for in politics everything is honorable. Queer thing is politics. Eh, Miller?" "Yes, Sargent, but you might better freeze to a live man's heritage than walk, with your eyes open, into a dead man's grave." The door-bell rang and Sargent recognized the voice of Daley, inquiring for him. He heard him approaching the room, and quickly turning the key in the lock and pointing to a closet, whispered to Miller: "Quick! hide in there!" As Miller entered the closet and closed the door, Sargent turned the key and admitted Daley greatly excited. "Are you alone, Sargent? Eh? yes? Well, all right. That infernal Miller is raising the deuce with my canvass. Now see here, Sargent, the caucuses have been called in most of the towns in the county for next Saturday. Miller has succeeded in buying back the Strong Mill gang. Last week the whole lot were red-hot for me, but this morning the foreman informed me that he and his men should vote at the caucus for Hamblin delegates. The caucus is to be held in the evening, something unprecedented in town politics, so the factory hands can gag the voice of people of intelligence. The new military company has also been bought up for Hamblin by Miller, with a seven hundred and fifty dollar set of colors, and the devil is to pay generally. Of course _you_ will stick to me, and when our caucus is held we must spring a mine on the whole gang. By the Eternal! I am going to beat the scoundrels. Yes, sir, beat 'em!" and he walked the room like a lion at bay. "All right, Daley, but I am not well to-day, I have a wretched headache, and you must excuse me this morning. Call to-morrow and we will talk it over. Excuse me now. Excuse--" His further remarks were cut short by a crash in the closet, when the door flew open, Miller falling headlong on the floor, prostrate at the feet of Daley. Miller rose from the floor, which was covered with broken glass, boxes, and books precipitated upon his head by a chance movement of his own as he had crouched listening at the key-hole. As Miller regained his feet, the three men stared at one another for an instant; then Daley exclaimed: "Miller! you are the very evil one himself. Where in the world did you drop from?" Then turning to Sargent, he said: "And you too have turned against me. Well, who _is_ to be trusted?" Seizing his hat, he hastily left the room, muttering words in such direct conflict with the third article on the table of stone delivered to Moses on Mount Sinai, that they must be omitted here. CHAPTER IX. THE CAUCUS. For three weeks after the death of little Willie, Belle could not bear to leave the mother and the little brother who remained. She even suspended her work among the needy, and many inmates of charitable institutions missed delicacies she had been accustomed to distribute among them. Society in the village became dull and stupid by her withdrawal from its circles. During this time, however, George Alden frequently called, and the tenderness and affection of each heart for the other was plainly manifested. Mr. Hamblin in no manner interfered with his daughter and her lover, yet he chafed, fretted, and hoped that something would occur to break the spell. Shortly after her return home, Belle received a letter from Mannis, full of sympathy, yet every line breathing sentiments that distressed her, for unlike most young ladies she felt hurt when demands were made upon her to which she could not respond. Admiring many qualities possessed by the handsome Assemblyman, she had no warmer feelings than friendship for any other man than George Alden. The latter was her ideal of true manliness, the former only evoked admiration for his intellectual qualifications and social gifts. Gladly would she have met Mannis on terms of common friendship, but his letter revealed that he expected more, for he announced a determination to lay siege to her heart. Her father often spoke of his friend, even hinting that he would be proud of a son-in-law so gifted and successful. She had hoped that Willie's sudden death had changed her father's heart, but now she realized that the temptations and ambitions of public life once more bound him in their chains. A lively canvass was now waging, and the inevitable discussions, criminations, and recriminations grew more and more exciting. On the eve of the caucuses the war of the factions waxed hot. Leaders and bullies of both sides were on the alert, and Paddy Sullivan held matinées and evening gatherings at "The Shades," lager beer and poor whiskey flowing as free as water, and the "b'ys" kept full at the expense of one or the other candidate. "Arrah! b'ys, whoop 'er in!" Paddy would exclaim as he tapped a fresh keg of lager. The night before the caucus of the Senator's party Paddy Sullivan was in his glory. The leading spirit among the class frequenting his gin palace, his word he declared to be "lar." While the bar was flanked by a row of men, Miller entered accompanied by Editor Rawlings, the latter overcome with liquor. After a general hand-shaking, Miller said: "Come, boys, what'll it be?" "Arrah, Mishter Miller!" said Paddy, "things is jist rid-hot; the b'ys is all sound fer our frind the Sinitor. The ould man will win as aisy as sippin' beer. I'll bet tin dollars wid any mon in the crowd that Daley won't git quarther of the votes to-morrow avenin'. He was jusht in here wid his party, and the b'ys took in his beer, and when the door closed agin him they up and give three cheers for the Sinitor. Now thin, gintlemen, here's a sintiment: When the caucus closes may Daley be a spilt pig wid his nose out of j'int." "Hip! hip! guzzle 'er down!" chorused the crowd. "Them's the sentiments!" said Rawlings, who clung to the bar for support. "I'm solid for Sen'ter 'Amblin. Whoop 'er in, boys. I'm a thoroughbred every time! Come, Paddy, set 'em up again--what'll y' 'ave, boys? This is a thoroughbred drink. 'Zactly so." The party falling in line, their guns were soon loaded with ammunition, warranted to kill at forty rods and indirectly damage everybody in the neighborhood. Rawlings continued: "Gen'lemen--'ere's hopin' that to-morrer evenin' the old man'll scoop in all the (hic) votes and every son of a gun'll be a--a Millerite. Eh, Miller! ole man, how's that fer a thurrerbred?" The sentiment was applauded, even the fat wife of the proprietor, at the back door of the bar-room, responding: "Faith, the iditor is as livel-headed as that darlin' ould mon, my Paddy." After ordering cigars for the party, Miller prepared to leave the place; pausing at the door and striking an attitude, he said: "Boys, I hope you will all attend the caucus to-morrow evening, using your prerogatives as free citizens to help sustain an honest man--the people's candidate--against the monopolies that are trying to overthrow the individual rights of every man here." Then taking the red fist of Paddy, he whispered: "Well done, old friend; you are a power, and the Senator knows it, and won't forget it either." Seizing the staggering editor by the arm, Miller left the saloon. This was the last visit the pair made that night, every drinking-place in town having been previously visited, and all hands treated to whiskey and cigars, Miller privately slipping a ten or twenty dollar bill into each proprietor's hand. Leaving "The Shades," Rawlings was assisted home by lesser political lights, Miller going directly to Senator Hamblin's residence, where several persons were in consultation, concluding arrangements for the morrow's caucus. The day opened lively, Miller and aids being on duty bright and early, while Daley and his friends, greatly discouraged, were nevertheless determined not to give up the fight. Their cause was almost hopeless, for on entering the canvass they expected to overthrow Senator Hamblin by the support of the moral portion of the public. Daley, possessing no more virtue than his opponent, had mounted the reform hobby to ride into power, but he found that a majority of voters could not be won to his side. The fight having become bitter--a sort of a "dog in the manger" contest--Daley saw no way to win, so he determined to be satisfied with preventing Senator Hamblin's re-election. Copies of Sargent's statement had been prepared for circulation in every town, but, receiving no explanation of Miller's sudden appearance during the interview at Sargent's, Daley thought something had been done to counteract its effects, and as Sargent had mysteriously disappeared, his anxiety increased. Cleverdale had seldom before been so excited. Politicians walked the streets, men were button-holed in stairways, offices, or "sample-rooms," and importuned to vote for one or another of the delegates. Daley, feeling the ground slip from under his feet, began working up his friends on the issue that he was a badly used man, and prepared a programme for a grand "bolt" at every caucus in the county where Hamblin delegates might be chosen. Bolting is the salve to heal wounds caused by disappointed hopes of politicians. It is a prerogative that such men avail themselves of; yet being a "double-ender," the end placed against the shoulder often does the most damage. Bitterness between opposite parties is nothing compared to the bad blood that exists between factions of the same party. It is a bad time for men to know the misdeeds of each other, for secrets are used after being enlarged and exaggerated to powerful dimensions. Such occasions furnish capital to the opposite party, and many campaigns are carried on by simply using against candidates ammunition that members of their own party have manufactured. The Cleverdale drinking-saloons were in full blast, the bummers revelling in what to them seemed paradise. Bad whiskey and ice-cool lager were free to all, up to the hour the caucus was to be held. Long before seven P.M. the town hall was filled with men. Air impregnated with onions, garlic, old pipes, and poor whiskey, greeted the olfactory organs of those entering the room. To this was added the exudations from garments of factory hands and laborers, who had worked hard during the excessively hot day and not availed themselves of such cheap luxuries as soap and water. Miller, with aids and assistants well organized for the forthcoming fray, was present, while Daley, flanked by a coterie of followers, was active. Paddy Sullivan was on duty, moving about among the men whom he controlled. Suddenly the chairman of the Town Committee mounted the platform and pounded the table with his fist. The buzzing profanity and coarse jokes of the multitude ceased at once. Reader, take a careful look across the sea of upturned faces, for here are the men who, choosing delegates, make the officers of the town, the officers of the county, the officers of the State, yes, the chief ruler of the nation. Sprinkled through the crowd are a few intellectual countenances; but observe the majority--coarse, uncultured, ignorant specimens of humanity--many faces stamped with the look of ruffian, while the drunken gibberish of others disgusts one with the thought that the elective franchise has been extended to all. The chairman, again striking the table before him, said: "Gentlemen! as chairman of the Town Committee I call this caucus to order. The deliberations of this meeting cannot proceed until a chairman has been chosen. Gentlemen, who will be your presiding officer?" One of the Daley party quickly said: "I move that Robert Furman be chairman of this caucus!" "Misther Cheerman! I moves an amindmint that Iditor Rawlins bees the gintleman to take the cheer," said Paddy Sullivan. This was followed by shouts of "Furman!" on the Daley side, while the Hamblin crowd were as loud in shouting, "Rawlings!" For a few seconds there was a perfect pandemonium. The noise was deafening. The chairman of the Town Committee, pounding vigorously on the table, finally succeeded in quieting the enthusiasm of the factions. He then said: "Gentlemen! I cannot put the motion unless there is order. The motion now is on the amendment. All who favor Editor Rawlings as chairman of this caucus will manifest it by voting aye." There was a tremendous shout from the Hamblin side of the house. "All who are opposed will say No." "No!" was given with equal force by the other side, followed by wild shouts from each faction. For fully a minute the noise continued, the desk resounding with blows from the chairman's fist. Men jumped upon chairs and benches, while the platform was crowded with leaders of both factions. But the temporary chairman knew his business. When the excitement subsided he said: "Being unable to decide the vote, you will now prepare to divide the house. All who favor the amendment will go to the left side of the hall. All opposed will take the right side--and I appoint Cyrus Hart Miller and Harvey Barnes tellers to count the vote." The excitement was renewed with greater fury than before, the Daley men shouting: "Give us a teller!" "Both tellers are Hamblin men!" "We protest agin it!" "Shame on ye to bar us out!" After the house was divided the tellers finished the count, announcing the amendment carried by a large majority. The decision exasperating the vanquished party, threats were made against the chairman of the Town Committee, while the victors were wild with enthusiasm. Paddy Sullivan, hardly able to contain himself, his red face glistened like a coal of fire, while his carroty hair, stiff as bristles, stood erect. "Hip! hip! hurray!" he cried, "bedad, the Sinitor has yees." The newly-elected chairman mounting the platform, and thanking the caucus for the honor done him, asked whom they desired for secretary. The Daley crowd claimed the right to fill the place, but a vote on two candidates resulted in a victory for the "machine," the Senator's faction. The chair asked the further pleasure of the caucus, when a young lawyer named Hardy arose to address the meeting. He spoke of the unhappy faction fight; he was for harmony, but thought the machine entirely responsible for the existing state of affairs. Censuring Senator Hamblin, he eulogized Daley, whom he believed actuated by the highest and most honorable motives in seeking the nomination, and he warned the "machine" men of the dangers besetting them trying to force a bad nomination. He then moved that the caucus proceed to ballot for a delegate to the senatorial convention to be held at Cleverdale, one week from that day. An amendment making Cyrus Hart Miller the delegate from Cleverdale, provoked another spasm of excitement, shouts of "Ballot" being heard from the Daley side, while cries of "Question" came with equal force from the Hamblin party. Although scarcely any one had large interests at stake, the audience seemed crazed with rage; opposing leaders were like wild beasts; oaths, threats, and invectives of all kinds were heard; the noise filling the hall was like the roar of infuriated animals, and in some parts of the room blows were exchanged; only by the greatest effort did the police prevent a general fight. The chairman, on finally being able to put the motion, heard many voices vote "Aye!" and the opposition loudly crying "No!" but he declared that Cyrus Hart Miller seemed elected the town delegate. Groans and hisses greeted the announcement. Amid the excitement Daley mounted the platform, and said: "My friends will do me a favor by withdrawing from the hall. If we cannot receive fair treatment here we can at least hold an honest caucus in another place. Follow me!" Jumping to the floor, he was followed by a mad crowd. As they withdrew from the hall, groans, hisses, cat-calls, and all sorts of wordy invectives were hurled at them. Cyrus Hart Miller was then unanimously chosen delegate, and a series of resolutions was passed, instructing the delegate to vote for the Hon. Darius Hamblin. Then the caucus adjourned. As the bolting caucus also elected a delegate, Cleverdale was to be represented by both factions. Senator Hamblin won a victory in the county, securing ten of the fifteen towns, although bolting delegates had also been chosen. Several bottles of wine were drank that evening by the men assembling in the private office of the Boss, but the latter was not happy, for, having stirred up a bitter faction fight, he trembled for the consequences. CHAPTER X. THE CRUELTY OF AMBITION. Senator Hamblin sat alone in his private office at the bank, evidently engaged in taking a moral inventory of his position. Although winning a victory at the caucuses, he fully realized having slipped down lower in the scale of morality. His canvass had already cost over five thousand dollars, to say nothing of the loss of honor and the awakening of bitter hostility against himself in his own political household. He knew it would take a large amount of cash to elect him, and hypocritically condemning the corrupt use of money by Daley and his followers, agreed with himself that he must exceed Daley's corruption fund or else be defeated. He fully realized the multiplicity of evils that beset him, but did not desire to turn back. "I will be elected," said he, "cost what it may, and then try to recover what I lose. There is no backing out now, for the convention will be held next week--then for the result. Daley will bolt the ticket, but I will overwhelm him through the power of money. You infernal little god Mammon, how powerful you are! You have overthrown empires and dynasties; how easily, then, you can overthrow the machinations of a bolting clique! We shall see." Just then George Alden entered and handed him several letters. Glancing over the superscriptions, his eyes fell upon the well-known handwriting of his admired friend, Assemblyman Mannis. Quickly opening the envelope, he read as follows: MANNIS MANOR, HAVELOCK, September 20, 187-. MY DEAR SENATOR: I write to congratulate you on your victory over your enemies. We made a gallant fight for you here, and as I am chosen delegate from our town, you can readily understand who has won here. It has been reported that this place elected a bolting delegate, but Havelock is the only town, my dear friend, failing to elect one. Havelock will, therefore, be solid for you at the convention. For a long time I have contemplated addressing you upon a subject interesting me individually. The deep shadow of affliction that gathered over your loved home has delayed the request I am about to make. To say that I admire your charming daughter scarce expresses my feelings, yet I would not make known my affection nor presume upon paying her attention without the consent of her honored father. I now ask your consent to address her, with the honest intention of winning her heart and hand. I am a bachelor, and, until I met Miss Belle, had no thought of breaking away from a life of singleness. Please convey my regards to Mrs. Hamblin and Miss Belle, and if my request is not considered presumptuous kindly write me in reply at an early day. Sincerely, your friend, WALTER MANNIS. As the Senator concluded reading the epistle, a smile of satisfaction crossed his face. "This is one of the happiest moments of my life! With such a brilliant man for my son-in-law I should indeed be a proud father--but there is Alden. Well, she must drop him, and at once. Did I dare send him away, he should go this very day. But no; he is a favorite with all the directors, and he is certainly a faithful man. Ah! there's Sargent, he can be induced to do any work I desire him to perform. After election, he will have a position in the bank, for our cashier will surely die, his place will be filled by young Alden, and Sargent will be chosen teller. Alden should not be allowed to longer visit my daughter, but how can it be prevented? I shall at once make my wishes and Mannis's request known to my wife and daughter. Poor Belle! She is deeply interested in Alden, but what of that? Isn't my word law in my own family? Is not a man justified in guiding the destiny of those belonging to him? In fact, does not the imperative duty devolve upon a parent of making provision in life for his loved ones? This intimacy between Belle and Alden must immediately be broken." Thus he reasoned, trying to justify himself in allowing ambition to mislead him, but in contemplating the programme his conscience was not easy nor his mind comfortable. Seizing the letter, he started for home, but on reaching the street met Miller, who wishing to see him on important business, he returned to the office. Before Miller left others arrived, and the hours passed quickly without the interview taking place that was to bring pain and trouble to a young girl, merely because her heart was to be considered of less consequence than her father's ambition. The engagements of the afternoon and evening made it necessary for Senator Hamblin to postpone the proposed conversation with his wife and daughter. On the following evening Belle, returning from the house of a friend, met her lover, who saluted her affectionately, and, offering his arm, proposed a walk. As the two passed along the street, they were happy as mortals usually are when the little god of love is binding them together with chains that do not gall except when one tries to escape from them. Absorbed in each other's society, they spoke of the past, the happy moments at Lake George; and then Alden poured the thoughts of his heart into the willing ear of the maiden at his side. His tale of love elicited from the heart of the happy girl a modest response, that nevertheless answered its purpose completely. Then they began to forecast the future, which was not as clear as they desired, for both were conscious of obstacles obstructing their paths. Belle knew her father's consent to her marriage with George Alden could never be obtained, while the young clerk felt the enmity of Senator Hamblin toward him was not of a nature easy to be overcome. Still, what lover has ever lacked hope in proportion to what was to be hoped against? Belle, full of joy, entered her home and sought her mother, telling of the happy hour passed; and as she related her joy, the loving parent, embracing her child, said: "Darling, my blessing rest upon you, and may God soften the heart of your father; may the ambition holding him in its clutches spare your young heart sorrow." The following morning, Mr. Hamblin arose from the breakfast-table, and said: "Belle, I should like a few moments' conversation with you," and gently leading her from the room to his private apartment, he said: "My daughter, I wish to speak of a matter that interests not only your future, but that of our family. You have arrived at an age when you will be called upon to make choice of all that brings happiness or sorrow. Life's journey may be made joyous or a highway paved with sharp stones, hedged in with thistles and pitfalls. You are beginning the road without knowledge of the trials and vexations that may obstruct your progress. Unskilled in the ways and manners of those who will seek to turn you from the path of duty, you must know a father's love and anxiety for his offspring makes him anxious about her future welfare. You have passed from girlhood to womanhood and must soon choose a companion. I should always reproach myself did I fail in my duty toward assisting you to begin the journey aright." The trembling girl, scarce knowing what reply to make, fully realized that the long-dreaded interview had begun, and a deep sigh escaping her, she said: "I hardly understand your meaning, father, but I cannot believe you so cruel as to leave the one most interested without a voice in deciding a matter of such vital importance as you hint at." "I see you comprehend me. Assemblyman Mannis asks the privilege of addressing you. He is rich, respected and talented, having already won honors of which few young men can boast. Coming from a good family, he is a prize that any lady may well feel proud to win. Ah, I see you do not receive this proposal as I wish. I did not expect you to think well of it at first; but, Belle, you are possessed of good judgment, and must see that the union of the estates of Mannis and myself would give us great power." "But, papa, I cannot give him my heart, that is another's. While I am ready to obey you in everything else I cannot change the current of affection, even at your bidding. Oh, spare me any moments of sorrow, and do not urge me, for I cannot receive the attentions of your friend." "Cannot! but you _must_! This is only sentimentality. Once the wife of Walter Mannis, your affections would be his. As your father, I must see that you start aright in life. I am older than you, and have seen the world from all sides. People bow to station and wealth, it is the 'open sesame' to every heart--the key unlocking the door of every house in the land. Be not hasty in your conclusions, my darling; you are a sensible girl, and I believe the infatuation that beset you at Lake George will soon wear away, and the scales now dimming your vision fall, revealing not only your duty but your path to happiness as well. Do not shed tears, but bear up and look upon this matter as your father thinks best for your future welfare." Belle suddenly brushed away the tears; her eyes flashed, her flushed face showed plainly that passion raged in her heart. Always gentle, seldom allowing anger to rise, Belle had ever spoken kindly to her father. Now, unable to control herself longer, she broke forth: "As my father, I suppose, you have the right to barter or sell me, soul and body, to the highest bidder. Yes, you can advertise and even receive sealed proposals for my hand. But, father or not, I say distinctly that so long as I live, with mind clear and under my own control, I shall _never_ be the wife of Mr. Mannis! I also believe him too honorable to desire such a union were he aware of my feelings. No, sir! I say now, as your child, I will never marry a man who has not my love." As she spoke she looked the proud and noble woman that she was. Her hair hung loosely about her face, her lustrous eyes shone like diamonds, and the rich tinge of vermilion on cheeks and lips were in striking contrast to the paleness of her father. Senator Hamblin was filled with conflicting emotions. Admiring his daughter for her positive character, he was enraged at her bold defiance of his orders. But his lips soon became firmly set and a look of anger dispelled that of admiration and surprise. "Belle," he exclaimed, "my orders must be obeyed. You shall marry Walter Mannis. I have no more to say at present, except that young Alden shall go from the bank, for it is he that has made you defy your father. Yes, he shall go as soon as I can get rid of him. He has rewarded me for giving him employment by stealing my best and greatest treasure, and he shall pay for it." He ceased speaking, and casting an angry look upon Belle, quickly left the apartment. Belle gazed after him for an instant, and wildly throwing up her hands, exclaimed: "What have I done, oh, what have I done to merit this?" Bursting into tears, she staggered as if about to fall, when Mrs. Hamblin entering, caught and bore her helpless daughter to a sofa. The stricken girl opened her eyes, and exclaimed: "Oh, Mamma! Papa has spoken cruel words to me; he will discharge George; he wants me to marry Mr. Mannis. God help us all when a father is willing to sell his own flesh and blood to gratify his political ambition!" CHAPTER XI. THE CONVENTION. Belle's heart was sad and full of forebodings of disaster to her lover, for, knowing her father's determined nature, she feared he would at once discharge the young man who had dared to love his daughter. Fully realizing the situation, she kept her room during the day. Her loving mother was her comforter, yet hardly dare plead for her daughter, knowing so well her husband's selfish nature and overbearing disposition. She knew that if her husband was opposed he would become more decided in his purposes than if left to think over his own unjust and cruel orders. Belle decided that she must see George Alden without delay, so she wrote a note requesting him to call at her home at once. Her father, she knew, would be absent and they could enjoy an uninterrupted interview. She was well aware that if her incensed parent knew George Alden was to visit her, he would certainly give orders to prevent his entering the house. Promptly at the appointed hour George entered the house, and saw quickly that Belle was in trouble. "Oh, George," said Belle, "our sunshine of last evening was followed by a storm. I sent for you to tell you of my father's cruel purpose. He has given orders that I must receive the attentions of another, and he even threatened to remove you from the bank. My heart is wretched, for should you lose your place for the reason that you love me, I should feel that I was your evil genius. I sent for you to ask if you would give me up, rather than lose your position at the bank. Think of it, George, for you are dependent upon what you earn for the support of yourself and sister. You are free to decide now, and whatever you choose I will acquiesce in." "Belle, do you think the ties that bind us together are lightly assumed; or has your father's command made you regret the step you have taken? If the latter, then you are free, for I would not cause you one moment of grief or pain. But you are everything to me--my very existence--and rather than surrender you to another, I would lose all this world can give. Oh, Belle, you cannot doubt me!" "Doubt you? No, George, I do not. My heart is yours alone; and let my father do his worst, he cannot change the course of my affection nor make me sacrifice myself upon the altar of his ambition. He is determined to prevent you from even seeing me, and whatever is done we must be guarded. I shall be advised by Mamma in all my movements. Attend faithfully to your duties at the bank and I don't think you will lose your place, unless the directors are dissatisfied with you. We are both young and time will work changes, perhaps for our good. Let no action of yours place you at a disadvantage, and be sure not to quarrel with my father. If he treats you in an arbitrary manner do not complain. Perhaps he may change his intentions when this hateful political campaign is over." "Belle, I will do all you ask. Whatever insults he may heap upon me will be borne for your sake; but I do not believe he can discharge me from the bank; in fact, our cashier is very ill, there is really no hope of his recovery, and I have been told by members of the Board of Directors that I am to fill the vacant position. Now, Belle, I will leave you, but shall see you when I can, for I must look often upon your dear face. Rest assured I shall retain my place unless some charge can be preferred against me, and of that I am not afraid." The two conversed a few moments longer, then parted, full of confidence in each other, yet filled with anxiety for their future. Senator Hamblin was greatly excited after his interview with his daughter, and walking quickly to his office threw himself into a chair, and said: "Confound that puppy Alden! What shall I do? I am determined that Belle shall marry Walter Mannis. I little expected so much opposition. She has defied me, her father. H'm! I admire her spirit, but she must be conquered, for my mind is set upon this marriage. Curse the day that took us to Lake George! It was disaster from the time we landed from the steamboat until we left. Dear little Willie was taken from us there, and now my beautiful daughter has rebelled against me. I must write a letter in reply to Mannis and delay giving him a direct answer. Let me see. I will write at once," and taking pen and paper, he wrote as follows: CLEVERDALE, N. Y., September 18, 187-. MY DEAR MANNIS: Your very welcome letter was duly received and I was gratified at its contents. Allow me to thank you for your expressions in my behalf, as well as your effort to aid my canvass. Believe me, dear Mannis, I appreciate your friendship. In relation to your request to address my daughter, it would give me inexpressible pleasure to know that she was to become the wife of so brilliant a man as yourself. My wife and daughter have deeply felt the affliction befalling us at Lake George, and I am urging them to withdraw from seclusion. The death of our little Willie has left a desolate household, and my loved ones refuse to be comforted. While I freely give my consent and express my great delight at your request, I ask you to delay, for a brief period, addressing my daughter. We will meet at the Convention and can then talk the matter over at length. Again thanking you for past favors, and expressing my pleasure at your request, I remain, Your friend, DARIUS HAMBLIN. Folding and addressing the letter, he said: "That will do for the present; in the mean time I shall see if my commands are to be obeyed." The days flew rapidly by and Senator Hamblin was busily engaged in managing his canvass, trying every way to break the force of Daley and his friends. Daley, learning of Sargent's treachery, as he called it, had not made use of the statement as expected. Having neglected to get Sargent's affidavit to the paper made against Senator Hamblin, he was chagrined and dumbfounded on learning that Miller had succeeded in obtaining one to the later document. The day of the Convention was only twenty-four hours distant, and of course there was some excitement in the senatorial district. As the reader may not understand the _modus operandi_ of political conventions, we will explain how nominations are made. There are sixty counties in the Empire State, embracing a population of 5,082,871 persons. These sixty counties are divided into thirty-two senatorial and one hundred and twenty-eight assembly districts, apportioned pro rata according to population for the composition of the State Legislature. New York County is entitled to seven senators and twenty-four assemblymen; King's County, three senators and twelve assemblymen; Albany County, one senator and three assemblymen; Erie County, one senator and five assemblymen; Oneida County, one senator and three assemblymen; leaving nineteen senators and eighty-one assemblymen to be divided among the remaining fifty-five counties, requiring from two to five counties to constitute a senatorial district. Each of the fifty-five counties are allowed from one to three assemblymen, except Fulton and Hamilton, which have but one to represent them both. The county to which Cleverdale belongs is composed of fifteen towns, and this, added to the adjoining county of sixteen towns, furnishes the required quota of population for a senatorial district. There are different methods of manipulating caucuses and conventions, and as the exciting political scenes of this story are to take place at the Senatorial Convention, we will explain the latter. Some counties send a delegate direct to the Senatorial Convention from each and every town caucus; some select three delegates at each assembly district convention, while others at their regular county convention select three delegates to be sent from each assembly district. In many counties, both great political organizations adopt the same method, while neither one of the different systems is in any manner used exclusively by either party. The county and senatorial district in which Cleverdale is situated is governed by the method first described. At the caucuses held in country towns, delegates are chosen by those present without enrolling names. In the cities, and in fact in some large towns, these caucuses are called "primaries," and the names of all belonging to the party holding the primary must be enrolled before they are allowed to participate in the regular order of business of the primary. The respectable portion of the voting population being remiss in their duty, the "boss" and his followers are in full control of the caucus or primary. The entire composition of a ticket submitted to the approval of honest voters is the work of these men. Those claiming to represent the moral sentiment of communities rarely attend the caucus or primary, yet seldom fail to complain of that which they could easily prevent. Honesty in politics can never be expected until the intelligent and honest masses awaken to the necessity of devoting a little time to the primaries. The better element of the community is responsible for the demoralization in political matters, for, being in overwhelming majority, a little attention to the caucus or primary would make unfit nominations impossible. But the American way, in politics as in all things else, is to let everything drift until the situation is desperate, and then to work for a cure, which generally they effect. Not until they realize the proverbial superiority of prevention to cure will Americans be as wise as they are smart. The day of the Convention having arrived, Cleverdale was full of politicians, and an irrepressible conflict raged. The thirty-one delegates present were divided, yet Miller's careful canvass assured him that his chief would certainly receive eighteen, if not twenty votes, in the first ballot. Several delegates were working for a compromise candidate; but this element, composed mostly of Daley men, was intent on defeating Senator Hamblin at all hazards. It was their only hope now; and while resolved to bolt his nomination if made, and run Daley as a stump candidate, the irregularity of such a course was to be avoided, if possible, by a compromise candidate. In Miller's private parlor at Cleverdale's best hotel champagne, cigars, and other refreshments were served. Miller could not prevail on all delegates to accept his hospitality, for several moral lights in their respective towns could not forget their standing, and enter a room where temptations might lead them astray. Miller became somewhat alarmed at the proposed compromise, for several of his own friends talked of making success sure rather than run any risk of defeat. Miller was given unlimited power by his chief to thwart Daley's purpose. So, finally, in company with George Horton, Miller held a protracted interview with the delegates in question, and a generous distribution of money ended further efforts for a compromise candidate. Promptly at one o'clock, the Convention was called to order by the chairman of the Senatorial Committee, who nominated Hon. Walter Mannis as chairman. A Daley delegate offered an amendment that James Kendrick, of Silvertown, be substituted for Mr. Mannis. This was a test of the strength of the respective candidates, and the loss of the amendment by a vote of seventeen against fourteen was greeted with applause by the friends of Senator Hamblin. The deliberations proceeded with many interruptions, when a motion for a ballot called talkers to their feet. The Daley men, with great persistency, fought for a compromise, and the speakers in making their appeal embraced the opportunity to attack the character of Senator Hamblin. Sargent's statement was read, followed by the affidavit, read by Miller, wherein Sargent retracted his charges against Hamblin, admitting the injustice done to a man who never, to the affiant's knowledge, performed a dishonorable act. The delegates became greatly excited, the Daley men making another appeal for a compromise candidate, charging the responsibility of defeat--which they declared sure to follow--upon the Hamblin faction, if their request was ignored. Charges of so grave a nature were preferred by both sides, that, if true, both Senator Hamblin and ex-Assemblyman Daley would have been consigned to felons' cells. The Daley delegates failing to carry their point, one of their number moved to withdraw and hold another Convention. Twelve delegates left the room, after which the nomination of Hon. Darius Hamblin was made, and suitable resolutions passed, endorsing the action of the Convention and condemning the course of the bolters. A committee appointed to wait upon the candidate and inform him of his nomination, soon returned with Senator Hamblin, who was received with cheers. Order being restored, he thanked the delegates for the honor conferred on him, and followed with a powerful speech, his words being carefully and shrewdly chosen to win sympathy. While he regretted, he said, the action of his personal enemies, he felt it his duty to remain in the field, so long as the Daley faction attacked his character. He deftly told of the personal sacrifices made to serve his fellow-citizens, the speech concluding with a promise of certain election, the cause represented by him being in the hands of the people. Several others spoke, among them Mannis, who paid a glowing tribute to his friend; then the Convention adjourned. In the mean time the twelve bolting delegates assembled at another place, where they were joined by eleven others, chosen by bolting caucuses in the senatorial district. A Convention was organized, Daley was nominated, and resolutions were passed declaring him the regular candidate, adjournment following. Two faction candidates were now before the people, the hostility between them bordering on frenzy. CHAPTER XII. A WICKED SCHEME. The campaign opened vigorously and malignantly, so far as the senatorial nomination was concerned. The leaders began the work of organization at once. Miller was manager of Senator Hamblin's canvass. Yet every action was made at the instigation and under full direction of the Boss himself. Money was freely used, and the men at the factories were, through their pockets, made interested combatants. Senator Hamblin supposed he had the support of all the bosses at the mills, but Daley succeeded in securing several men of influence, whom Miller found himself unable to win over. Even the great manufacturing company of which Hamblin was a director had many Daley men in its employ. The opposition party placed its candidate in the field, the leaders in the full hope that the split in Senator Hamblin's party would give them victory. Consequently there was no lack of ammunition to keep up the fight. It is a custom of American politics for journals of the opposite party to help on the faction fights of their opponents by publishing the charges made by each faction against the other, and these cause fully as much bad blood as the most fiendish politician can desire. One of the first demonstrations on either side was the presentation of colors by Senator Hamblin to the newly organized Hamblin Guards. The affair was shrewdly managed to give it all the political significance that such affairs carry with them. The company was to be christened and the colors presented by the honorable gentleman whose name had been adopted. One of the best city bands was engaged, and a banquet was ordered, to which many prominent men from abroad were invited. An elaborate programme was prepared and the event pretty well advertised. It was not especially intended by members of the company to use the occasion for political purposes, but their patron shrewdly managed otherwise. Prominent members of the New York State National Guard were to grace the occasion with their presence, and the gathering of shoulder-strapped notables was to be large. Cleverdale was to have a great gala-day, and, of course, Senator Hamblin expected to reap the benefit. The stand of colors consisted of two elegant silk flags--one the National colors, the other the company flag bearing the name of HAMBLIN GUARDS and the State coat-of-arms in gold and colors. Senator Hamblin, desiring to bring Walter Mannis and his daughter together upon the stage of the Opera House, shrewdly arranged that, immediately after his presentation speech, Mannis should receive the flags in behalf of the company from the hands of Belle. At first the girl refused to take part in the festivities, appealing to her father to excuse her, and pleading her grief at the loss of little Willie; but the father was inexorable, and Belle saw that she would not be spared the pain of taking the part assigned her in her father's political programme. The opportunity of bringing Belle and Mannis together, added to his inherent pride of display and political significance of the occasion, made the Senator extremely happy, so what matter if it made his daughter miserable? The town, on the occasion, presented the appearance of holiday grandeur. Bunting streamed from many public places and private residences, while the cool October air and clear blue sky combined to make a truly royal day for the affair. As the military company was composed of the best blood of Cleverdale, it was natural that the citizens generally should honor the day. The Opera House was resplendent with beauty and brains. When, at the appointed hour, the Hamblin Guards, commanded by Captain Rogers, entered, delicious music filled the hall, and amid the waving of handkerchiefs and smiles and cheers the company marched through the aisle to the stage, and were arrayed in solid ranks at its back. The music ceasing, Senator Hamblin appeared in front, accompanied by his daughter and followed by Hon. Walter Mannis and Captain Rogers. The programme opened with the presentation speech by Senator Hamblin. It was an eloquent effort, and the points were so many and so well put that deafening applause was frequent. Belle stood by, holding the staff on which the company colors were furled. Beautiful in her rich attire of satin and velvet, her sparkling eyes, rosy cheeks and lips made her a most attractive figure. Mannis, standing beside her, glanced with admiration at the beautiful girl. Senator Hamblin's eye flashed with pride as he beheld his daughter, but no one understood the meaning of the furtive glances he cast toward Mannis and Belle, except the latter, who saw and comprehended its full significance; it caused a twinge of pain and a sigh to escape her, and these attracted the attention of Mannis. Realizing that she was attracting attention, a blush overspread her face, and the handsome Assemblyman felt flattered by the belief that his presence caused her emotion, while in reality her mind was clouded by the remembrance of her father's cruel commands. Her agitation was momentary, for the cue being given Belle gracefully unfurled the beautiful ensign. It was the natural signal for applause, and the roof fairly shook with cheers, the band playing "The Star-Spangled Banner," when Mannis took the flag and passed it to the captain, who placed it in the hands of the company's ensign. The other banner then given Belle was not fully exposed until coming into the hands of Mannis. That gentleman then spoke in eloquent words, his handsome form and commanding presence giving excellent effect to his utterances. On finishing he was greeted with loud applause. The party, retiring from the stage, entered a private box at the left while the band played several selections. The Hamblin Guards gave a display of military drill which was greatly enjoyed by the audience. Assemblyman Mannis divided his attention between father and daughter, the latter treating him with politeness. This was gratifying to her father, who hoped she would overcome her reluctance to obey him. But he reckoned without remembering the inflexible will of his child, who was too well bred to act other than as a lady toward her father's guest, especially when he was treating her with great deference. While conversing with those about her, Belle saw George Alden occupying a conspicuous seat, and many loving glances passed between her and him. George could not avoid hearing the expressions of admiration that greeted the handsome group. Senator Hamblin was a noble-looking man; Mannis was handsome, and Belle never shone with greater brilliancy. The ceremonies were nearly over when Captain Rogers, advancing to the front of the stage, in a few words thanked the people of Cleverdale for the honor done his command in assembling to witness the christening. He also thanked his superior officers, coming from a distance to honor the occasion; and for the magnificent gift of colors paid a handsome eulogy to the honorable gentleman whose name the company bore. Then he proposed three cheers for Senator Hamblin, which were given by the whole assembly, rising to their feet. He then declared the exercises closed, the band played "Home, Sweet Home," and the audience left the Opera House. Senator Hamblin and party passing from the box, Belle was followed by Mannis. As they reached the auditorium, the handsome Assemblyman offered his arm, saying: "Miss Hamblin, may I have the honor of accompanying you home?" With a pleasant smile she replied: "Thank you, kindly, but I have a previous engagement," and with a "Good-night, sir," turning, she took the arm of George Alden, who was at her side. Mannis was chagrined and Senator Hamblin's countenance quickly overspread with anger. Whispering to his companion, he said: "My friend, I am astonished, but we will speak of this later." He could say no more, for, coming upon a party of distinguished military gentlemen awaiting him--military men always know whom to waylay at such times--the party was led to the Cleverdale House and ushered into the banquet hall. Several tables were arranged for the company, Senator Hamblin, Assemblyman Mannis and the military guests being placed at a special table. At the right was another, at which were seated Miller, Paddy Sullivan, George Horton, and several other political celebrities. At the left were the officers--both commissioned and non-commissioned--while at other tables were seated the members of the company. The tables were loaded with every delicacy that could be obtained, while bottles of wine flanked a regular line of graceful glasses. Course after course was partaken of, and amid the hilarity the host and his friend appeared to forget their disappointment. The popping of corks seemed just the kind of artillery that the uniformed guests enjoyed best. Yet those who remember the troublous times of twenty years ago will not forget that the Union was saved by members of this same Home Guard, who play at soldiering with zest, but in time of need "mean business." Speeches, toasts, etc., followed, until the "wee sma' hours" the flow of soul, wit, and wine continued, and Senator Hamblin reaped the full benefit. When the last toast was drank, the host arose, and bidding the company good-night, departed with his guests. After the military dignitaries were conducted to their rooms, Senator Hamblin joined Mannis, who was awaiting him. "My dear Mannis, I am amazed at my daughter's conduct toward you this evening. It was unexpected to me." "I am afraid, Senator, she has deeply set her affection on that young Alden. I can read character, and tremble lest my efforts to win her prove unsuccessful." "Unsuccessful? they shall not be. Do you suppose I will allow my child to throw herself away upon a common bank clerk? No! if you love her as you say she shall be your wife. My mind is made up, and the sentimental nonsense of the girl shall be overcome." "You may not be able to overcome it, Senator. Still, I never loved until I saw your daughter, and I will wed her if her consent can be obtained, trusting to winning her affections afterward. Be careful what you do, though; don't frighten her with harsh treatment. She is conscientious, and having a share of her father's self-will she must be handled carefully, or before you know it she will fly off like a frightened bird. I shall leave here early in the morning; before I go I beg of you, whatever you do, to be discreet." The angry father could not be quieted so easily. His face was hard with passion; he swore to himself that Alden should be sent away in disgrace and Belle be locked in her room; but when Mannis told him his canvass would not permit anything so arbitrary, the cord controlling his every action being touched, he became quiet, and said: "Well, what course can I pursue? Answer me that." Mannis suddenly rising to his feet, looked into the closet, under the bed, behind the door, and in every place that might conceal a listener, then approaching Senator Hamblin, whispered: "This man Alden must be sacrificed." Senator Hamblin started, while a shade of horror passed over his countenance. "No, no! Mannis, no bloodshed for me!" "Bloodshed? Nonsense! no one said bloodshed. He is in your bank, surrounded by temptation. Place a trap for him, do you understand? Your daughter is too honorable and high-minded to associate with a rascal." "Yes, I see," thoughtfully answered the Senator. "I declare, Mannis, you are full of expedients. Yes, he shall be entrapped, for I am justified in saving my daughter." "Treat her kindly and do not be harsh with Alden; but work up a trap for him. Haven't you a clerk in the bank you can enlist to help you?" "Let me see. I have it! The cashier, Wilber, can live but a short time and Alden will be his successor. Sargent, who published that ugly paper about me, is promised Alden's present place. Yes; he is my man, and I will use him." The two talked a few moments longer, and warmly shaking hands parted, Senator Hamblin leaving for his home. On entering the gate he heard his name spoken, and turning saw Miller approaching, all excitement and out of breath, for he had been running. "More trouble, Senator; that d----d Rawlings has sold us out." "Sold us out! the devil he has! And two thousand dollars of my money gone! It can't be possible, Miller!" "But it is so, for I had it from his own lips. To-morrow's edition will fire into you from all sides. It's a bad go, and I have been afraid of the scoundrel. I was half inclined when I heard it to let Paddy Sullivan set a few of the lads on the office and clean it out. But that will hardly do." "What shall we do for a home paper, now?" "There is only one course left us, and that is buy up the _Advertiser_, which is in the market; but we must get legal hold of the concern. That is the only way now, for we must have an organ." "Call at my office early to-morrow morning, and we will arrange the matter. Curse the luck! but I will block that little game. Good-night!" and the Senator entered the house, not to sleep, but to lie upon his bed thinking over the two exciting problems of the day, namely, how to entrap Alden, and in what manner to counteract the effects of Rawlings' treachery. CHAPTER XIII. DALEY'S STRENGTH WANES. The appearance of the _Investigator_ next morning was like a thunderbolt in the village of Cleverdale. It came out boldly against Senator Hamblin, and charged that his action at the convention meant the overthrow of his party. The editor stated that he had stood by the man as long as he had even a piece of argument to catch his toes on, but when the wisdom of the men controlling the convention could not bring Senator Hamblin to see his duty, when a compromise candidate was asked for and refused, it was time for all respectable men in the party to declare themselves on the side of honesty, justice, and common-sense. It cited the charges first brought by Sargent, copied Sargent's first statement in full, and then charged that the profligate use of money had done more than anything else to make the elective franchise a farce. Senator Hamblin was held responsible for the disgrace of corrupting voters in the village of Cleverdale. The article was a scathing arraignment of Hamblin before the bar of public opinion, and apparently its influence foreboded disaster to the regular candidate. During the early morning hours Miller met his "boss" at the private office of the latter, having previously seen the editor of the _Advertiser_, who offered to sell his paper for twenty-five hundred dollars. The price was considered high, but that being the best that could be done, Miller was ordered to purchase the concern at once. One of Cleverdale's young lawyers was placed in charge of the _Advertiser's_ editorial columns, and the first number devoted itself to Rawlings' treachery and Daley's private character. The latter, the new editor asserted, was, unlike that of Cæsar's wife, not above suspicion, while Senator Hamblin's private character was pure and spotless. The fight between the papers was so full of acrimony that Satan himself would have delighted in it, had there been any possibility of his receiving fire-proof copies. Both candidates were attacked, and the sins of their ancestors were carefully elaborated and fired off as campaign fireworks. Previous to an election, American journalism of the party-organ stripe has a demoralizing influence in the land. The good qualities of candidates are briefly mentioned. But the bad qualities--ah! these are what the party organs delight in. Not the part that their own candidate occupies on the side of virtue; not the good that is in him; not the intellectual qualifications he boasts of; not the nobleness of character he possesses--none of these inspire the editor. No, all of this is nothing: the amount of "pure cussedness" that can be attributed to the opposing candidate is the indicator of journalistic inspiration. Many a man who has thought himself a moral light has in an unguarded moment accepted a nomination, and the astonishment of himself and friends to see how corrupt he suddenly becomes is not infrequently a harbinger of victory for the opposition. The English language can hardly furnish adjectives to qualify such a man. Damned he is inevitably, and his carcass when hung up is filled with arrows dipped in printer's poisoned ink. When a foreigner picks up one of our party organs, during an exciting political campaign, he cannot help thanking his Creator he was not born in a land where public men are such rascals and robbers. Cardinal Wolsey said, "Corruption wins not more than honesty," but the dethroned favorite lived before America had gone into politics on her own account, and then left the work to her parasites instead of attending to it herself. As an index to the feeling of the Cleverdale community, a very interesting incident that occurred after the _Investigator's_ editor came out against Senator Hamblin is valuable. One evening Editor Rawlings, boldly entering the "Shades," walked up to Paddy Sullivan, and extending his hand said: "Good-evening, Paddy." The man addressed rose slowly to his feet, the hot blood rushed to his face, the florid countenance assuming an almost purple hue. Drawing back from the outstretched hand as if it had been a viper preparing to strike its fangs into his flesh, a look of scorn flashed from his bleared eyes, his lips trembled, and his chin quivered as he roared: "Shake hands! wid sich a dirty traither as yees? Judas Iscariot was a white man beside the loike of yees, and Binedict Arnold a saint. Git out av this house, ye villin! Bad cess to a loafer who sells hisself to a tradin' thafe! Shake hands wid yees, is it? May me hand be cut from me arrum afore it aven teches that pizen thing av yours." Several men gathered about Rawlings, and each had a word to say. "Well, gentlemen, what have I done?" asked Rawlings; "can't a thoroughbred citizen call in here without being insulted? Come, boys, let's take a drink. Set 'em up, Paddy." "Set 'em up, Paddy? Not a domned set up here. D'ye hear?" and the proprietor began pulling off his coat. "Now look ye here, Mr. Binedict Arnold, there's the door! and if your dirty carcass isn't outside of it in fifteen siconds, be jabers, I'm the darlint to throw yees out! No, b'ys, yees kape back. Moind, I'm the jedge to settle wid him. Iditor, git out!" Rawlings, realizing that the angry Paddy was in earnest, slowly walked toward the door, when an egg striking him full in the back caused him to utter a savage oath. "Paddy Sullivan, you and your gang of ruffians will repent this!" During the interview Paddy failed to observe three men whispering to his wife, back of the bar. The woman handing them a package, the ugly-looking fellows stole out the side-door, and hid behind a tree as Rawlings was leaving the saloon. The exasperated editor unconsciously approached the trio, swearing furiously at the outrage to his person, bitterly denouncing Senator Hamblin, whom he held responsible for the insult. As he arrived at the ambuscade, three men suddenly sprang out, and before recovering from his surprise Rawlings was enveloped in a cloud of flour, the substance filling his eyes and mouth and covering him from head to foot. For once the _Investigator_ man could boast that he was a white man, but he did not think to do it. And before he had recovered sufficiently to recognize his assailants, they had fled. Hearing approaching footsteps, he stepped aside as Senator Hamblin and Cyrus Hart Miller passed. Hidden behind a tree, he gnashed his teeth with rage as the objects of his hatred disappeared. He then left his place of concealment and started homeward. The campaign went on, and Senator Hamblin bled freely. His chances were desperate, the Daley crowd drawing so heavily from him that at times the election of the opposition party candidate seemed almost assured. Miller was at work day and night, and wherever money could be used to win back strong leaders the price was paid and the wanderers brought back to the fold. At the Cleverdale Woollen Mill, of which Senator Hamblin was a large stockholder, three powerful bosses opposed him. One had seen the necessity of "getting straight" for his employer, the others refusing to see their duty, or rather their interest. Having been exhorted and coaxed, it was evident they meant to "stick," and, each controlling many men, it became necessary to resort to other means to prevent opposition to the Senator. As a warning to others, one of the bosses was to be removed from his position at the factory. Of course it would not do to openly discharge men for having political opinions of their own, for that would be called proscription, and in this free land would never be tolerated. Besides, a candidate could ill afford being called a "bulldozer," so, pay-day arriving, one of the bosses was discharged, and informed that his work did not please. He denounced the company for depriving him of the right of enjoying his own opinions, the charge being indignantly denied, but the company put a stanch Hamblin man in the vacant place, while the other stubborn boss, thinking discretion the better part of valor, was not slow in deserting Daley. The factory hands were soon made solid for their employer, for in the factory were posted large placards bearing the words: EMPLOY�S ARE EXPECTED TO VOTE FOR DARIUS HAMBLIN FOR STATE SENATOR. Will any man vote the bread and butter from the mouths of his wife and children? Senator Hamblin meanwhile treated his daughter with great kindness. He did not refer to the scene at the Opera House, or again forbid her meeting Alden. He gave her large sums of money to distribute among the charitable institutions and poor of Cleverdale. Belle was happy at being allowed to assist the needy, and her father found her a valuable aid to his ambition. It was not strange, with so much money wisely distributed, that his canvass should grow more promising as election drew nearer. Men were sent into every part of the senatorial district, and if argumentative power availed not, more solid inducements were used. The powerful railroad interests were helping Daley, but even with the contributions from the great monopolies he continually lost ground. When he was nominated the mad passions of his backers held full sway, but as time passed men became cooler, and the irregularity of Daley's nomination, as well as the interest of the party, were powerful arguments in favor of Senator Hamblin. Here and there strong leaders were recaptured, and returned with their followers to the support of the regular nominee. Miller managed the canvass with consummate skill. He was everywhere at the right moment, while County Clerk Horton, Assemblyman Mannis, Paddy Sullivan, and others were valuable auxiliaries. "The machine" showed its great strength in the emergency, and demonstrated that the most powerful engine of American politics, when the bosses instead of the people have their hand on it, _is_ the machine. Daley's canvass dwindled to insignificant proportions, although danger was by no means impossible, for it was reported that Daley would withdraw and urge his friends to support the opposite party's candidate. As for Rawlings, he had really been a detriment to the bolters, for his malice and treachery were so apparent that respectable people became disgusted with him, and the _Investigator_ became a boomerang. Rawlings was treated with contempt by his townsmen, and of course did not enjoy the respect of those who purchased him. A week before election day the cashier of the Cleverdale National Bank died. The directors at once called a meeting and elected George Alden cashier, choosing Sargent as teller to fill the vacancy caused by Alden's promotion. Sargent's appointment was to be kept secret until after election, lest it might endanger the bank president's success. It was a proud day for George Alden when he was formally made cashier, and Belle was agreeably surprised when her father spoke kindly of the young man, although he added: "I hope he will do nothing to destroy the confidence the directors have placed in him, but, like all young men, he may fall into temptation. He has greater responsibility than ever before, and in these days of defalcations it is hard to tell who will fall. George Alden is only human." Belle, biting her lip with concealed vexation, was about to reply when a glance from her mother stifled the words she would have spoken. Feeling the significance of her father's remark, she went to her room to reflect upon what she had heard. CHAPTER XIV. THE ELECTION. 'Twas the eve of election, and everything had been done by all sides to insure a full vote. Thorough canvasses having been made by the three candidates, every party felt confident of winning the day. A mass meeting at the Opera House was to be addressed by Senator Hamblin, and the hour drawing nigh a vast crowd assembled. At eight o'clock the spacious balcony was filled with ladies, stalwart men occupying seats on the main floor. When Senator Hamblin entered cheer after cheer greeted him. Bowing acknowledgments, he turned to greet the semi-circle of solid men of Cleverdale occupying chairs on the stage. Although his face was radiant with pleasure, careworn lines about his eyes gave evidence of the strain he had undergone during the exciting canvass now drawing to a close. As he took his seat a gentleman rose and said: "Ladies and gentlemen, for the purpose of organizing this meeting, I nominate as chairman, William J. Campbell. All favoring Mr. Campbell as chairman will signify it by saying Aye." There was a loud vote "Aye!" "All opposed will say No!" There being no votes in the negative, the motion was declared carried, and Mr. Campbell escorted to the chair. Making a brief speech, he paid a high compliment to "Cleverdale's favorite," Senator Hamblin, predicting a sweeping victory on the morrow, looking for a more harmonious feeling in the party after the canvass was over. His remarks were frequently interrupted by applause, after which he asked the pleasure of the meeting. Cyrus Hart Miller arose and proposed a number of gentlemen as vice-presidents of the meeting. The list contained names of many old citizens, and it was evident an effort had been made to recognize every element of Cleverdale. Every nationality was represented, even the names of several colored persons--descendants of Ham--being sandwiched between Celtic or Teutonic slices, while the native American was present in small quantity--merely enough for seasoning. Then followed a long list of secretaries, embracing the names of many young men. The motion being submitted and carried, these gentlemen were invited to take seats on the stage. After music by the band, Cleverdale's glee club sang a piece suitable for the occasion, when the chairman presented Senator Hamblin. This was the occasion for more applause. When this subsided, the honorable gentleman began his remarks. Speaking at length, the occasion offered fine opportunities for display of his oratorical powers. Giving his views upon leading public questions, and comprehensively elucidating all the details of his subject, he compelled his audience to be attentive listeners. His views upon finances were explained, and his opposition to railroads and other monopolies graphically dilated upon. In all his remarks, however, he held one highly-colored picture before his auditors: it was a life-size photograph of himself as a Reformer. No reference was made to Daley and his friends until near the close of the speech, when the Senator paid his respects to them in words not at all complimentary. He told his hearers of having been forced into the campaign against his will, compelled to be their candidate simply to vindicate their honor as well as his own. Not desiring the office, it being a detriment to his business, he had placed himself in the hands of his friends and neighbors, and the morrow's verdict would be received by him either as an indorsement or condemnation of his course as their servant. Having been told that vast sums of money would be expended by the bolting faction, he also had the assurance of gentlemen managing the campaign on his side that every effort would be made to thwart the corrupters of the ballot-box. Dwelling heavily upon this one point, he somehow refrained from telling the audience that his own check for twenty thousand dollars had been drawn that day, and the money distributed in every town in the senatorial district for the purpose of purchasing votes. Had the information been given, the knowledge might have increased his vote among that class of men whose patriotic motives at the polls are governed by money. The Senator spoke for two hours, and, the meeting closing, the people of Cleverdale were left in a halo of political enthusiasm. Election day opened pleasantly. Cyrus Hart Miller had thoroughly organized his forces, his chief staff officer being the powerful Paddy Sullivan. Next to his own Bridget and the children, Senator Hamblin occupied the chief seat in Paddy's affections, for the "Boss" being a generous paymaster Paddy adored him. The opening hours of election day were quiet. During the morning the honest voters cast their ballots, the marketable article appearing later in the day. As Miller entered one of the polling-places and met Farmer Johnson, he extended his hand and said: "Mr. Johnson, how are you to-day?" "Mighty well, Miller; how's things agoin' here?" "Oh, Hamblin will be elected by a good big majority." "Don't be sartin on it. I tell you what it is, them Daley fellers is a-workin' like blazes into the hands of t'other party." "That's nothing new, for Daley has been working that way all the time, being paid to bolt and come up a stump candidate. He is a bad man, Mr. Johnson." "Don't know so much about that air; but see here, Miller--let me speak to you privately--he offered to pay my team hire if I'd come down and vote for him." "But a farmer worth his forty thousand dollars wouldn't sell his vote!" "Sell my vote! See here, Miller, let's go into this room. There: I can speak to you by ourselves, now. Do you mean to insinuate I'd sell my vote--me, a farmer who can buy the best farm in this 'ere county? No, sir, you've got the wrong man." "Why, Mr. Johnson, of course you wouldn't." "No, I jest wouldn't. But you see this is a good workin' day, and me and my two boys dropped everything to come down to vote. Daley offered to pay for my team if we'd go for him. I don't like him half so well as I do Hamblin; but--er--it kinder seems as if you'd oughter stand the price of our three days' work and team-hire if we vote your ticket." "What do you call it worth? Are the boys here?" "Yes, they'll be here in a few minutes; and if you'll give me five dollars--that is, two for the team and a dollar apiece for our three days' work--we'll vote for Hamblin." "It's a pretty good price, but I suppose I will have to do it." "But 'tain't sellin' our votes. I'd scorn doing such a mean trick as that. It's only gettin' pay for lost time." "Exactly so, Mr. Johnson; I wouldn't dare offer to buy your votes for fear of offending you. There are your boys--call them." The good old farmer, whose fine sense of honor would not permit him to sell his vote, said: "Jack, you and Jim must vote for Hamblin; give us your ballots, Miller." The ballots deposited in the box, Farmer Johnson, one of the upholders of our free institutions, received a five-dollar greenback for performing his duty as a patriot. This was only one instance, many of the same character occurring during the day. Paddy Sullivan was at the polling district, and as the "b'ys" came up, said: "Now, thin! here's your clane ticket--sthand aside and let the voters come up. Here, Misther Inspecthor, take this ballot. Be jabers, thim's the regular clane ticket, an' it's meself as knows how to git 'em in! Whoop 'em in, b'ys!" Crowding his fat form before those voting against his candidate, at every opportunity, and challenging them, he ruled despotically, and respectable men looked approval. "Arrah! Paddy Sullivan is no slouch, and when yees wants the ballot kept clane, I'm the daisy to do it." Men ran hither and thither; Miller's aids receiving orders flew off, returning with those to be "seen." Whispering consultations were held, ballots distributed and deposited, the corrupted voters thereafter receiving pasteboard checks representing the amount agreed upon. In a small room in another part of the building the holders, presenting the checks, received their cash. During the afternoon the excitement increased, the purchasable voters flocking about Miller and Paddy Sullivan, the latter standing near the ballot-box and making himself obnoxious to all voting the other ticket. He assumed to instruct the inspectors of election about their duties, and these officials feared to dispute his authority, in many instances their decisions being forestalled by him. Those of the other party were at his mercy, and the power of a pothouse politician was absolute. He was especially abusive to those of his own political party who voted for Daley, and soon after noon the Daley crowd becoming demoralized were driven from the polls. So thoroughly was Senator Hamblin's programme carried out that every voter on his side was brought to the polls, in many instances men being paid to vote in both polling-places. All this was done in the interest of Senator Hamblin, who claimed to represent the "honesty and reform" element of the community. Honesty and Reform! what sins you have to answer for! So potent are these names that if Beelzebub ever expects to people his realms with the good, he need only announce from platform and press that he is for honesty and reform. Toward night Senator Hamblin received words of encouragement from every town. Passing the day at the bank, directing the movements of his forces, he was in excellent spirits at the prospects of his success and the downfall of his enemies. The polls closing, Cyrus Hart Miller and Paddy Sullivan joined the boss at Hamblin's private office. "Sinitor, ye're elected by two thousand majority, and there hain't enough lift of Daley to grase a griddle wid. Didn't we vote the b'ys lively!" "Paddy, you are a trump, and I shall never forget your services in my behalf. Here is a little present for you," and he handed him two one-hundred-dollar bills. "God bless you, Sinitor, and whin Paddy Sullivan can help yees, he's yer man, every time. May ye live long and niver want for a frind." Cigars were lighted, and the trio waited for returns. It was not long before the good news began to flow in, Cleverdale's majority for Senator Hamblin being nearly two hundred larger than that of two years previous. No sooner was the result announced than the streets were illuminated with bonfires and a crowd of men approached the bank. Telegrams kept coming in containing news of Senator Hamblin's increased majorities on every side, so that his election was assured beyond a doubt. His countenance beamed with delight, and Paddy Sullivan, whirling upon his heel, shouted: "Hip! hip! hooray! didn't we whoop 'em in!" The shout reaching the crowd outside, they at once responded: "Three cheers for Senator Hamblin!" In answer to the summons, Senator Hamblin stepped out, followed by Miller and Paddy, and was greeted with cheers from the crowd, who demanded a speech. He responded in a few words of thanks, congratulating his fellow-citizens that honesty and right had triumphed over corruption. When he concluded, cries were made for Miller, who appeared and spoke briefly, thanking his fellow-citizens for their part in the day's victory. Of course he did not refer to the fact that at least three quarters of those before him had received checks, ranging from two to five dollars, for voting for Senator Hamblin. A great victory had been won--that was enough. Senator Hamblin, figuring the cost, found he had paid over forty thousand dollars for the honor of holding an office for which he would receive fifteen hundred dollars per year for two years. Contemplating the cost, he said: "It is a pretty expensive investment, but the profits have not yet begun to come in." It was far into the night when, entering his residence, he retired to his room, and said: "Now if I can get rid of Alden and make Belle the wife of Mannis I shall be a happy man. Mannis is rich, and I have lately met with heavy losses. To-morrow Sargent goes into the bank, and then--for Alden!" CHAPTER XV. GLOOMY FOREBODINGS. The excitement of election had hardly subsided when Daley was declared bankrupt. With the loss of property his mind became shattered. Brooding over his troubles and looking upon himself as a victim of the grossest persecution, his brain became so diseased that he would talk of nothing but fancied wrongs. Friends, observing his singular actions, little thought that he contemplated revenge. Two weeks later, however, Daley entered the bank, pulled a revolver from his pocket and fired two shots at his late antagonist. Luckily the pistol failed to do its work, and Daley was secured before he could do more mischief. Raving and swearing that he would have Senator Hamblin's life, he was removed at once, his friends promising to send him to an asylum. Senator Hamblin agreed not to prosecute him, but the affair caused great excitement, much sympathy being expressed for Daley. His case was only one of many: men infatuated with politics are often overwhelmed in financial and social ruin, occasionally followed by dethronement of reason. Sargent's position in the bank caused much comment, but he was a good accountant and at once became conversant with his work. Cashier Alden gladly saw how readily he fell into the routine of a teller's duties, for he himself had long been doing the work of two men. While glad to have so useful an assistant, he did not feel the confidence he wished in the new teller, for Sargent lacked that frank expression of countenance that all business men look for in one another. Besides, the attitude that Sargent had occupied toward the president of the bank prejudiced Alden's mind against him. The new cashier knew that Sargent, over his own signature, had made statements reflecting upon Senator Hamblin's character, and had subsequently under oath denied them, his reward being the position as bank-teller. If Alden had been a politician he would have seen nothing unusual in such inconsistency, but being only a business man he judged Sargent by business rules, just as if politics was not a rule unto itself. One evening Senator Hamblin was writing letters in his private office at the bank when Sargent entered, and said: "Excuse me, but I desire to get a book I have here." "All right, Sargent. How do you like your new place?" said the Senator. "It suits me nicely. Just my fit, thanks to you, sir. Anything I can do to serve your interests I shall be ready to perform." "Anything, Sargent?" "Yes, sir! You can command me to do anything you will. I am indebted to you, and only too anxious to serve you." Senator Hamblin hesitated as if about to speak, and then in a low tone of voice said: "I have some very important work I may call upon you to perform. It is very peculiar, and will require the greatest secrecy. You have done private work for me before, and whatever you do now will not be without reward. I am not quite ready. In the mean time attend strictly to your duties, and make yourself strong with the cashier. Win his confidence in every particular, and you will have no cause for regret. I have taken you into my confidence as well as my employ. You can go now, as I have letters to write, and wish to be alone." "Good-night, sir!" said Sargent. "When you need my services, command me and I shall obey," and he passed out of the building. "Yes," said Senator Hamblin, "I believe he will do anything I desire, and with his assistance a trap can be laid for Alden, for I am determined he shall be put out of the way." He had just written a letter to Mannis, containing the following lines: "When shall I see you? I desire to know what has occurred to your mind to help along that little scheme. You must have a programme. Shall we meet soon?" Folding and addressing the letter, he soon after started for home, and arriving there saw Belle and George Alden in the parlor. He did not enter the room, but passing the door muttered angrily: "We will spoil that fun soon. Curse it! I wish I could strangle him!" His hatred for the cashier increasing, he could not drive the thought from his mind that Alden was really doing something criminal. A certain villain named Iago once worked himself into a similar frame of mind. Hamblin's one absorbing thought was to ruin Alden, and thus estrange from him his daughter's affection. Belle felt sure that her father's tranquillity was not permanent. Expecting another outbreak, she never awoke in the morning without saying to herself, "I am afraid it will come to-day." Her father often spoke of money losses, accompanying his remarks with these words: "I should not care, if my daughter were as well provided for as I desire." Although raising no objection to George Alden's visiting the house, he was always cross after seeing him there. At the bank he spoke to him only on business, and as the cashier attended strictly to his duties there was little reason for conversation between him and the Senator. Of course all this could not escape the attention of the village people, for "folks will talk." Everybody had his own views about the matter. George Alden was often seen with the beautiful daughter of the bank president, and it was remarked that the young lady seemed a satisfied party to the arrangement, so the village gossips had a rich morsel to roll about in their mouths. One of the directors of the bank, a regular sitter in one of the Cleverdale stores--where that detestable creature, the male gossip, may be found every evening warming his toes as well as warming the reputation of his neighbors--related his suspicions to fellow-sitters, who in turn related them to their wives, and finally the news was generally circulated that Senator Hamblin disliked Cashier Alden because the latter admired his daughter. This was enlarged upon to suit the crowd where the subject was under discussion, until the whole neighborhood knew more about the private matters of the Hamblin family than did the family itself. There is nothing wonderful about this, though, for the family who knows as much about its own business as the neighbors do has never yet been discovered. Belle observed with pain her father's angry countenance, and sighed as she thought of the change that had come over him in a few short months. Once she was his pet; he never entered the house without uttering words of endearment or presenting her some token of affection; now, sullen and morose, he took his meals in silence, and the old, happy, sunshiny days were only memories. George Alden hearing her sigh looked into her face, and said: "Why are you sad?" "I was thinking--thinking of the happy past." "And has the present or future no happy moments?" "Yes, it has many; but oh, George, time works some dreadful changes. Once I was my father's pride, but that day has passed, and now he has no love, but ambition; no companions but such as Miller and Paddy Sullivan; no thought but for politics, and few aims outside of public life. Oh, how I should enjoy one single moment of the good old days--when I had a father." George offered some lover's sympathy of a kind that, although made by lips, does not put itself into words. But he said: "It makes me sad to realize that I am much to blame for this state of affairs. If I thought you would be happier I would make the greatest sacrifice man can, and give you up. I know by his every action toward me that I am the subject of his hatred. He considers me a thief who has stolen his most precious treasure, and if I did not fill my position at the bank acceptably I should not be retained an hour." "Is he unkind to you, George?" "No, he never speaks to me except on business matters. If he has anything to say, any little pleasantry to relate, it is always to Sargent, whom he treats in a far more friendly manner than he does me." "What kind of a clerk does Sargent make?" "He is a good accountant, perfectly correct, and very apt and quick to learn; writes a fine hand, and has the most wonderful power of imitating handwriting I ever saw." "Do you have confidence in him? Is he a man you can safely trust?" "H'm--well, he is your father's choice, he trusts him; why shouldn't I?" Belle, with true womanly instinct, was not satisfied, and said: "Be frank with me, George. You must have reason for distrusting him, and I ask your confidence. No one more than I can desire you to have a trustworthy clerk." "I can only say I am not impressed with his honesty. Perhaps I am prejudiced, for you know he has not placed himself on record as one whose word can be relied upon. Belle, when Sargent stepped into the bank I should have resigned at once had it not been for you." "For me! why?" "Because your father wished him to have the position. No harm may come of it, but I have a presentiment of evil. Pshaw; it's a foolish whim, no doubt, and I should not be influenced by it, nor worry you with it. I think it is time for me to be off when I torment my sweetheart with presentiments. Good-night." Belle went directly to her mother, who said: "What is it, Belle? is anything wrong to-night?" "Oh, I don't know. Why did papa engage that Sargent as bank clerk? He does not bear a good reputation. George does not have confidence in him, and I am afraid he is not a trustworthy man." "You and George don't like him, eh? If you and George will please attend to your own affairs you will both appear to better advantage." Belle started; it was her father who had spoken; he had entered the room unperceived, just in time to hear her remark. "Papa, as you have heard me, I cannot recall my words. After his publishing such a statement about you, I cannot repress my indignation against the fellow. I do not like him, and with due respect to you have no confidence in him." "If my daughter will not interfere in the public and private business matters of her father," said the Senator coldly, "but will be guided more by his advice and judgment, her future will be happier, and her companions not of that class who slander their betters." So speaking, he left the room. Belle's temper rose quickly; the hot blood mantled her cheek, and her eyes flashed fire. "George Alden's character is as far above that detestable Sargent's as the sky is above the earth. Papa hates those who are good and noble, but he takes to his confidence such men as Cyrus Miller, Paddy Sullivan, and that Sargent. Oh, this detestable politics! It steals the honorable instincts from good men, and makes them willing to sacrifice any and every thing to gain power. It has taken away my dear father, and left you a widow and me fatherless. God pity us both!" Sympathetic words calmed the daughter's grief somewhat, and a few moments later, bidding her mother good-night, Belle gained her room and fell upon her knees before the only Friend who entirely consoled her when she felt desolate. She arose comforted. She was scarcely asleep when she dreamed that, again a little girl, happy and free from sorrow, she saw her father and flew to meet him. As her arms were about to embrace him, a serpent's head darted before her, the face changing to that of Sargent, who said: "Beware, maiden! I am the god of political ambition, and am about to crush you in my coils." As it wound its dreadful length about her she reached forth her hands and piteously implored her father to save her. He only laughed, and said: "Oh, no, my daughter; I am the slave of the serpent. He demands your sacrifice, and I must obey." Looking again, she saw the faces of her father's political friends, all laughing at her, and the serpent said: "Only ten seconds to live!" Closer and closer its coils tightened about her; she could scarcely breathe; her agony becoming unbearable, she gave a loud shriek, and cried: "Oh, mother, save me!" Springing to the floor, the frightened girl beheld her mother entering the room. "What is it, child? How you frightened me." "It was a hideous nightmare. I thought I was being crushed by a serpent." After relating her dream, Belle tried again to sleep, but during the remainder of the night the phantom haunted her. Truly, her dream was only a presage of the grief and trouble in store for her. CHAPTER XVI. THE PRINCE OF MANNIS MANOR. Havelock, the home of Hon. Walter Mannis, is a beautiful village situated in a valley surrounded by lofty hills. The place is not a busy one, but the home of many old and wealthy families who reside there during the summer months. The streets are lined on either side with well-grown shade trees, and the handsome residences are surrounded by spacious grounds tastefully laid out. Mannis Manor had passed down from father to son for four successive generations, each inheritor marking his ownership with additions or alterations until the fine old house displays architectural styles of different periods of the past century. Walter Mannis inherited this old manor and its two hundred acres, beside a fortune in cash of over a quarter of a million dollars. Having been in possession about ten years, with so much money at his command, is it strange that he had devoted much of his time to pleasure and dissipation? Both parents dying during his childhood, in the conduct of household matters he was dependent upon a house-keeper, an inmate of the old manor many years before he became its owner. Mrs. Culver felt her responsibility, and considered it her privilege as well as duty to keep a motherly eye upon the young master. One of those good souls found in every community, she enjoyed her work, and her word about the manor was law. Mannis humored her whims, for she was a most valuable member of his household. She was sixty years of age, prudent, systematic, orderly, thoroughly competent and trustworthy. While carefully managing household affairs, she devoted much time to the supervision of farm duties, acknowledging no authority except the master himself, who had great confidence in her ability. Looking after his domestic comforts, she kept his suite of rooms in perfect order; regulated his wardrobe, and saw every garment kept in repair. She occasionally scolded him for extravagance in dress, and he received her severe words good-humoredly, for he really loved the kind, motherly attention bestowed upon him. In sickness she was a valuable nurse, and her closet of "yarbs and nostrums" a curiosity. With cup and spoon in hand ready to dose a patient, she was supremely happy. She was proud of "her Walter," although the young man caused her many hours of anxiety. At college he had sought merry young men for associates, and as he was provided with plenty of money he had no trouble to find them. Witty, vivacious, and eloquent, these brilliant adjuncts made him a lion in society, young men seeking him, while the ladies felt honored at his attention. He was a great flirt, and his conquests of hearts were frequent, yet he never until now had surrendered his own. While his eye sparkled with intelligence, it did not impress a student of human nature as being the eye of an honest man; even children could sometimes see in it something that made them distrustful. He enjoyed the gay life money enabled him to follow, and much of his time was passed away from home. During the winter his abiding-place was the great metropolis. Allowing himself to be led to palatial gambling dens, he played, and lost heavily, yet his passion was not cooled by reverses. Wall Street tempted him, and his ventures at first returned him fair margins, but his later investments were unsuccessful. Becoming interested in politics, he was twice elected member of assembly, and his manner, fortune, and intellectual qualities made him a great favorite at Albany. The legislator who can gain the personal friendship of his associates can accomplish more than the cold, dignified man, so often elected simply to give character to his constituency. Mannis was not only a good debater on the floor, but a "powerful persuader" between sessions, and could accomplish more with members from the "rural districts" than any man in either house. The farmer members looked upon him as a kind of deity. He flattered them, and when they were unable to frame a bill in presentable shape, assisted them, and thus won their regard, though for his own part he felt that many buckwheat producers had been spoiled by sending an equal number of farmers to the State Legislature. Mannis was well adapted to politics, and really liked its excitements. Having served two terms, he was only prevented seeking a renomination because it had been the custom to alternate the office, every two years, between the northern and southern part of his assembly district. He seriously thought of overthrowing this old time-honored custom, but friends persuading him to wait or look for something higher, he turned his aspirations to Congress, and was trying to educate his forces to assist in the consummation of this wish. In business speculations he was seldom successful, for money invested in many enterprises always returned him less than he put in. His losses troubled him, and he was often haunted with the idea that he would eventually become a poor man. Investing in government bonds and drawing the interest at stated intervals was too slow a way of making money. Observing friends gaining fortunes by speculation, he felt that he too could make money in the same way. At the time this story began he had lost half his fortune in speculation and gambling, and realized that his available funds were gradually passing from his hands. His farm yield, though not enough to help him out of his difficulty, was, thanks to the management of Mrs. Culver, sufficient to support his household without making drafts on his bank account. But his extravagant private expenses worried and caused him hours of anxious thought. "There's nothing else to do," he would say to himself; "I must make a wealthy marriage. With a fortune and a wife I can save myself and keep a life-lease on the old manor." It was this thought that actuated him partially in his desire to wed Belle Hamblin. While he admired her brilliant personality, and confessed that he was never before so charmed with a lady, he acknowledged to himself that her father's fortune was necessary to save him from the financial disaster which he feared. He sat in his room one evening smoking a cigar and thinking. All about were evidences of his æsthetic taste. Bric-à-brac crowded the mantels, while many fine pictures adorned the walls. Easels, arranged with a view to throwing light upon the works they held, were on all sides. Oriental rugs lay on the floor, while the luxurious furniture about the apartment seemed to coax the visitor or inhabitant to lounge upon soft cushions. Curtains of costly material hung before the large plate-glass windows, and as the afternoon sun peered through them it saw a picture of which the owner of the apartment was not the least handsome part. A servant entered with a number of letters, which Mannis hastily shuffled through his fingers as if they had been cards. His eye quickly detecting the one he was looking for, he dropped the rest, and said: "Here it is: let me see what the Senator has to say. What a man he is! He seems to be as infatuated with me as I am with his beautiful daughter. Well, I am infatuated with her; she is certainly the most charming creature I ever met; and I am determined to win with her her father's fortune also, for I have no father of my own to return to, and have the 'fatted calf' business done for me. Let me see what Hamblin has written." Opening the letter, he read it carefully through, then smiled and said: "Yes, he will do anything to rid himself of Alden. When I proposed entrapping him he was startled, but now can hardly wait for my suggestions. He hates Alden; he is ambitious that his daughter shall make a brilliant match; he thinks me the personification of brilliancy, and, by Jove, he doesn't miss it much. Ah, Senator, if you knew how I was running through my fortune you would change your mind. This is a very good joke you are playing on yourself." Returning to his letters, he opened another, when his countenance suddenly changed, and he exclaimed: "Great God! I am almost ruined!" He arose, and for a moment walked the room without uttering a word, when he suddenly stopped and said: "Fifty thousand dollars gone at once! I must raise the money somehow to pay what I have borrowed. What a fool a man is when he is not satisfied to reach forth his hand and pluck the ripe fruit hanging near him, instead of letting his appetite for the unattainable ruin him. What can I do? I cannot mortgage the estate, for that would expose me at once. But how can I raise the money--that is, who--will--lend--it--to--me? S-h-h! I have it. I can raise it in New York on the notes of my friends, and my friends need never know it. It is a desperate game, but my estate is good for it, and in an emergency men do many queer things." He walked the room in a nervous manner, running his fingers through his hair, rubbing his hands together, and occasionally saying words that are not in the dictionary. "It is the old story," he resumed. "I've killed the goose that laid the golden eggs. Well, there is one trick left in my hand, and that is Belle Hamblin. I will go to work at once and help the Senator get rid of Alden. I will go to Cleverdale on the evening train. The girl has a strong will, and is very correct in her ideas of right and wrong; if she hears that Alden is a defaulter she will shed a few tears and never wish to see him again. He must be sacrificed; so the quicker the better." Ringing the bell, a servant appeared. "Tell Mrs. Culver I desire to see her immediately." In a few moments Mrs. Culver entered, and said: "What do you wish, sir?" "I am going away this evening, and will be absent a few days." "But you don't look well; are you sick? I am afraid you are not taking care of yourself. I have been fixing some medicine for you, which you must take before going away. Young men are so careless, they don't know how to take care of their health." "I am all right. Don't trouble your kind heart about me. I need fresh air and out-door exercise, and a two-day jaunt will tone me up. Tell Henry to hitch up the sorrels and take me to the seven-thirty train this evening. I shall take a nap first, as I have a headache, and after a light supper shall be ready to start. So, never mind your doctor's stuff. If I am not well on my return you shall have two days' enjoyment dosing me." When the evening train left Havelock it bore away Hon. Walter Mannis, who had previously sent a dispatch to Senator Hamblin stating that he would be at the Cleverdale Hotel after the arrival of the evening train. On his arrival he was greeted by Hamblin. A few remarks were made concerning politics and business, when Mannis said: "I received your letter while preparing to leave for Cleverdale. From it I learned you have not changed your intention concerning Alden. You still mean to get rid of him?" "Yes, he must be put out of the way, for since his promotion he is more obnoxious to me than ever. No time must be lost, for he is a more frequent visitor at my house than before. He must be dropped as soon as possible." "Draw your chair closer to mine: we must speak low and be guarded. You ask what I have to suggest. My plan is this: Sargent, you say, will do anything you desire: well, is he a good penman, and can he imitate handwriting?" "Yes, he is an expert at that business." "Good! now for it. He must alter the bank books, and make it appear that Alden has embezzled five thousand dollars." "Great God!" exclaimed Hamblin. "Don't start, Senator; it is a desperate game, but it's often been played successfully. You say you shall get him out of the way at all hazards: well, this plan will effectually dispose of the ambitious young man." "Suppose he shows fight?" "He must be allowed to run away. You can work that up. The affair can be kept between yourself, Sargent, and Alden, and when the latter is exposed you can feign sympathy, telling him if he will leave at once the affair will remain a secret. Yes, you can even offer to loan him the money to pay the deficiency. Make the evidence so strong against him that he cannot possibly see a way of escape, and if I know anything of human nature he will run away rather than be exposed." "Suppose he should first see my daughter, and she should advise him to remain and face the danger." "It must be done when she is absent from home. You must find some pretence to send your wife and daughter on a visit to friends, or else send them to New York." "You are a shrewd fellow, Mannis, and no mistake." "A shrewd rogue, you mean." "No, I do not. In this affair I am but doing the duty that a father owes to his child. She is in danger of being sacrificed to an adventurer who only wants her father's money. But she shall be saved." The plotters talked a while longer about the matter; then Senator Hamblin withdrew, and Mannis said to himself: "Now my case does not seem as desperate as it did." And as Senator Hamblin stepped into the street, he said: "I don't like this affair at all, but I am losing heavily, and the ventures I have lately made have turned out bad. Mannis' fortune added to my own will save me from disaster. Poor Belle must be temporarily made unhappy, but when she finds herself the wife of Hon. Walter Mannis perhaps she will thank me for saving her." Perhaps the state prisons will one day hold the great rogues instead of small ones, but they did not do it in 187-, or the above recorded conversation could not have taken place. CHAPTER XVII. SARGENT ENLISTED. The time was approaching for Senator Hamblin to take his seat in the State Senate. After his interview with Mannis his conduct toward his daughter and George Alden underwent a change. Gradually assuming a loving deportment toward the former, he paid much attention to her personal comforts; in fact, began to act more like his former self. His cold formality seemed to thaw, and Belle was happier, while her mother entered a new era of existence as the husband's old manner returned. The change not only took place in his own household, but his demeanor toward the cashier was greatly altered for the pleasanter. Late one afternoon the president, calling the teller into his private office, said: "Sargent, I shall be here this evening doing private work. I want to see you about half past seven o'clock. Come in here as if on your own business, and if I am not alone go out and return soon afterward. Say nothing about this, but come on time. You can go now." The latter withdrew, but was shrewd enough to comprehend that he was wanted on something important. The bank closed at the usual hour, and all left for home except the Senator, who arose and nervously walked the floor for a few moments, drops of perspiration standing on his brow. "Great heavens! what am I about to do? This troubled conscience is horrible. But shall I go to pieces financially? No! I must not give way to this weakness. What would the world say were I to become bankrupt?" He resumed his seat by the table, began looking over his papers, and for an hour spoke no word, only an occasional sigh escaping him. At length he said: "What a villain I am! Yet, isn't it better to save myself and my reputation than allow this opportunity to pass? Mannis and his fortune can save me: it is no time to turn back." Putting on overcoat and hat he left the bank, and on entering his home met Belle, who gave him a kiss. To his conscience this token of affection was like molten lead, and leaving her he went directly to his own room, saying: "My God! how can I strike this blow at her heart?" At the tea-table he appeared uneasy and ate little, and being questioned by his wife and daughter only said: "I have a slight headache--that is all; it will soon pass off." Shortly afterward Belle came near him, and said: "Papa, won't you stay home this evening? I will bathe your head, and perhaps it will relieve the pain." "No, my daughter, I have very important business at the office this evening." "Let business go for once; be my patient, and I will be your gentle and loving nurse." Little did the kind-hearted girl know that she was plunging daggers into her father's heart, and that every word of endearment pierced him to the very soul. Abruptly leaving the house, he went directly to his office, when he was joined by Sargent. The latter was dressed with scrupulous care, for he was a great dandy, and spent most of his salary for clothing. Senator Hamblin beckoned him to approach and be seated, and hesitating before commencing his business, fumbled over his papers a few moments, and then said: "Sargent, a few weeks ago you offered to do me a service. Can I enlist you in a cause that interests me deeply, if it will also be of great advantage to you?" "Yes, sir; you can ask me nothing that I would refuse to do." "That is well spoken. But first, I wish you to swear you will not betray my confidence." "I swear that, whatever you ask of me, no living person shall ever learn its nature." "To begin with, you know I do not like Alden." "Yes, sir; I found that out the first day I entered the bank." "I have reason to know that Alden does not like you, Sargent." "I am also aware of that." "You are a shrewd fellow." "Not very, sir, but any one can see Alden has no confidence in me. A day never passes without his showing it." "How would you like his place, Sargent?" "It would be the happiest day of my life when I could displace the fellow by stepping into his shoes." "Would you be willing to take any chances to accomplish that very thing?" "Yes, sir, I would do anything--except resort to bloodshed--to become cashier." "I have a reason for wishing to get rid of him." "Yes, sir, I think I know why." "Ah, you do? Why is it?" "You do not want him for a son-in-law." "That's it, exactly. Now how can we get rid of him? Have you any ideas on the subject?" "I have not thought of it, but will carry out any plan you may suggest. Don't be afraid to trust me, for I hate the fellow even worse than you do. He has lorded it over me the past few weeks, and I would like to see him disgraced." "Well, have you any idea you could arrange a trap for him to fall into?" "Yes, yes; a job could be put up that would send him to prison and, blast him! I would be glad to boss it." The words were spoken with force, direct from the heart of the teller, so the Senator at once saw his way clear. "What can you do and when can you do it?" he asked. "With your assistance and co-operation I can fix a job making him a defaulter," replied Sargent. "Go to work at once. Keep me informed of your movements. Be discreet, and report your plans to me here to-morrow evening. Your reward for the faithful performance of the work shall be the cashiership." The two separated, and as Sargent passed out he smiled, and said to himself: "I will crush the fellow, and glory in his downfall. I wonder, though, if some day the Senator won't put somebody up to crushing me in the same way?" CHAPTER XVIII. GEORGE AND FANNIE ALDEN. George Alden resided in a neat little cottage on a side street. His house was presided over by his sister Fannie, his senior by ten years. The dwelling, in no way pretentious, was simple in all its appointments, and the very perfection of neatness. The little parlor was not elegant, but all about were to be seen evidences of the cultivated taste of its occupants. The tables were covered with books of poems from both early and later authors, while many classical works could be seen upon the shelves of a pretty but quaint mahogany bookcase that rose from floor to ceiling on one side of the apartment. The handsomest piece of furniture in the house was a large square piano. On entering we behold a dark-haired lady sitting before the instrument, while her fingers glide over the ivory keys. The performer is lost in her delightful pastime, her face glowing with enthusiasm, and, the last strain finished, she rises from the instrument, and we behold the sister of George Alden. A lady of medium height, slightly built, with dark hair and eyes; goodness and intelligence are written on every lineament of her countenance. In early life her father was able to give her many advantages; with a natural taste for music, she became mistress of the pianoforte, and when her father's physical energies failed, was obliged to teach music for the support of the family. A noble girl--self-sacrificing to an extraordinary degree. When she announced through the village papers, ten years before our story opened, her desire for scholars in instrumental music, the good people of Cleverdale responded with alacrity. The family at that time consisted of the parents and the children, Fannie and George, the latter a boy of fourteen. Attending the Cleverdale Academy, at the age of sixteen he was graduated with all the honors the institution afforded. He was a model youth, and on leaving school possessed a little fund of two hundred and fifty dollars, earned after school hours by keeping books for a Cleverdale merchant. His sister, his adviser in everything, possessed a decided character and excellent judgment. She had unbounded confidence in her brother. Assisting him in his studies, she inculcated right ideas of independence in his mind, and taught him the value of self-reliance and education. A great reader herself, she had, by example and conversation, succeeded in bringing him to such a delight in histories, travels, and general literature, that he was considered an unusually well-informed young man. When George Alden finished his common-school education he desired to enter college, but his little savings would scarce allow him to enjoy the fruition of that hope. His sister succeeded in obtaining a large music class, while her mother attended to the household duties with such aid as her daughter could give, and Fannie was not only able to earn sufficient to provide the family with necessary comforts, but from time to time placed small sums of money in the savings bank. Foreseeing that George, with his ambition to become a scholar, would desire to enter college, to assist him she denied herself many of the luxuries that all young ladies naturally enjoy. Thoroughly devoted to her parents, she always said she should never leave them so long as either required her services. Perhaps her resolution would not have been so well preserved if a bullet from a Southern rifle during the war of the Rebellion had not entered the heart of a young Captain of a Cleverdale Company. At seventeen, George was ready to enter college. With his sister's savings of two hundred dollars added to his own fortune of two hundred and fifty, with an additional sum of one hundred and fifty earned during the past year, he bade farewell to home and friends to enter upon his collegiate course. Time passed and the boy rose rapidly in his classes. The father's health continued to fail; his mind becoming wholly lost, he was indeed dead to his friends long before the dissolution of body and soul. Although he was a great care to his daughter, the patient girl never complained, but ministered to his wants with as much gentleness as if he were a child. One day the poor broken-down machinery refused to work, and before George could be summoned home the vital spark had fled, and death completed the work begun nearly two years before. Fannie now resumed her music class, while George, through his own efforts of teaching and doing such work as he could get, was enabled to continue his course at college. Two years later he was graduated with high honors, and returning home found his mother much changed in health, while his sister showed evident signs of fatigue. It then came with full force to him that he must give up the idea of a profession, temporarily at least, and seek employment that would furnish him an immediate income. Unlike many college-educated young men, he did not expect to command a high position, but became salesman with the merchant whose book-keeper he had been previous to entering college. One year later, the teller in the Cleverdale bank resigning, George Alden was appointed to the position, where we find him at the beginning of this story. It was not long before the mother followed the father. The two orphans mourned the death of their parents; and after a few months of rest Fannie recovered from her fatigue. George would not at first give consent to her resuming the music class, which she had been obliged to relinquish on account of her mother's illness, but when she declared and insisted that she should be much happier if allowed to help support the little household, he relented, and she was again at her work teaching music. The little house their parents left was encumbered with a mortgage, which was finally paid, and it became the property of the brother and sister. Belle Hamblin loved the noble-hearted Fannie, although the latter was much her senior. Fannie Alden was her ideal of a true woman. She knew all about the ties that bound Belle and George together, and also knew of Senator Hamblin's opposition to her brother's suit. Often thinking of what "might have been," if a bullet had not cut off a life so dear to her, she said to George: "Have patience and all will come right. You are both young and can wait." She thought the hard-hearted father would some time realize that his daughter's happiness was of more consequence than his own ambition. When George Alden heard that Sargent was to enter the bank as teller he threatened to resign, but his sister said: "Resign! no, George, that must not be done. You can preserve your own honor, and if the new teller is not honest his character will soon be known. Your duty is to remain and not throw away your opportunity, because your employers have chosen to hire a man in whom you have no confidence." "Fannie, I cannot work with a rascal, and I believe Sargent to be one. Would an honest man make such a statement against another as he made against Senator Hamblin, and then follow it by another, swearing the first was false? I should constantly feel that such a man would do something dishonorable, and perhaps get me into trouble. I cannot drive the impression from my mind, that if Sargent ever comes into the bank as teller there will be some complication." "Take care of your own work, and you can keep yourself free from trouble," she replied. George Alden could not drive these thoughts from his mind, for he looked upon Sargent as his evil genius, and was unable to conceal the fact that he had no confidence in the man. Several times on returning from dinner he found the teller engaged in looking over his books, and once asked what he was doing, but Sargent only replied: "I am posting myself thoroughly on the whole system of banking." Two weeks before Senator Hamblin was to take his seat in the Senate Chamber at Albany, a disaster occurred in Cleverdale, which we will relate in the next chapter. CHAPTER XIX. THE BURNING FACTORY. It was a cold day in December, with everything in business and manufacturing circles of Cleverdale full of activity; the large mill of the Cleverdale Woollen Company running on full time. Senator Hamblin was at the bank conversing with the cashier upon business matters, when the ominous clang of the fire-bell startled him. The conversation ceased, and both men, quickly stepping to the window, looked into the street. All was bustle and confusion, the noise of the steam-engines, as they passed, adding to the excitement. Opening the door, Senator Hamblin asked a fireman where the fire was. "At the Cleverdale Woollen Mill," he replied, and hastily passed on. "The Cleverdale Woollen Mill!" exclaimed the Senator, "and there is but a small insurance on it, for most of the polices expired yesterday, and have not been renewed. Ruin!" Re-entering the bank, his blanched face and agitated manner attracted the attention of cashier and teller. "It's our mill!" he gasped. "If the flames cannot be stayed we shall lose heavily." Then, putting on overcoat and hat, he said: "George, come with me, and you, Sargent, remain in charge of the bank." A moment later the two men stood before the burning factory, where crowds of people had already gathered. Sheets of flame were pouring from the windows of the first and second floor, which had been cleared of operatives. The panic-stricken crowd, gazing at the windows upon the third floor, beheld a sight that filled them with terror, for at each window were faces pale with fright. The fire below cutting off the egress, one hundred and fifty men, women, and children were prisoners. The hot flames crackled and hissed; the heat became intense. Shrieks and cries of distress filled the air. Wives, mothers, fathers, husbands, sisters and brothers ran wildly about the burning building, praying God and imploring man to save their dear ones, cut off from the outer world; meanwhile, "For God's sake save us!" came from the windows above. Senator Hamblin, realizing the fearful condition of affairs, seized a factory boss by the arm and asked: "Jones, is there no way of saving the lives of those poor creatures?" "Yes, there is one way, and only one. The large iron door, opening from the room where the people are imprisoned into the main hallway, is locked, and here is the key. If that door could be opened and the door connecting with the winding staircase on the outside of the building unbolted, every person could escape, sir." "Cannot some one open those doors? Why, man, what are you thinking about?" "But, sir, to get at the main door one must pass through the narrow hall on the first and second floors, and the first hall is on fire for a short distance." "My God! what can be done?" exclaimed Senator Hamblin. "It is fearful to see those people perish. Where is this hallway, Jones?" "Step this way and I will show you." The two men following, Jones approached the flames, the forked tongues darting angrily toward them. Hotter and hotter became the fire, louder and louder rose the cries of terror and agony from the imperilled people; some had already thrown themselves from the windows, only to be picked up dying or dead. "Here," said Jones, "is the entrance. If some one could enter here, and reach and unlock the iron door, he could liberate the hands." "See here, Jones, I will give you five hundred dollars if you will save them," said Senator Hamblin. "I am too old and clumsy--it needs a younger man for such a job." Alden heard the heart-rending cries of those above begging in most piteous tones to be saved; he saw their peril, yet he hesitated a moment before he said: "Mr. Hamblin, I will try to save them. Heaven knows it is worth the trial." The Senator looked at Alden, looked at the fire, and for a moment was honest enough to wish his own soul in a hotter place. "Jones," said George, "get several blankets from the store-room if you can; be quick." "Aye, aye, sir! and Lord bless you," Jones replied, and was off, returning in a moment. "Dip these blankets in water; there, now wind them about me. Here, give me that lantern; break off the frame." Then turning to the president he said, "Sir, if I never return from this building, please tell my sister and--and--and--your daughter I died in trying to do what they would not have me leave undone. God bless you, sir; God bless them." As George entered the passage-way indicated by Jones the Senator was so filled with admiration for the young man and contempt for himself that for an instant he was in danger of becoming an honorable man again. But experience in practical politics teaches wonderful self-control, for a minute after the Senator said to himself: "Brave fellow! a man couldn't be in better condition, morally, to die; I hope he'll realize it himself. If he does he shall have a first-class monument, and I'll pay the cost of engrossing in first-class style the resolutions that his associates in the bank will 'resolve' to present to his family. I hope he will not return. It will be best--it will be best." While George Alden was preparing to enter the burning factory, a long ladder was placed at one window, but the brave firemen mounting it were driven back by the scorching flames. The puffing and pumping of the steam-engines, with their shrill signal whistle, accompanied by the moanings and lamentations of the imperilled, made the scene one of horror, stout hearts quailing at the prospect of so many persons being entombed in the burning factory. The flames had already ignited the floor dividing the second and third stories, and amid the cries from the burning building were mingled many voices imploring God to save them. The information reaching the excited people, of George Alden undertaking the perilous trip to save the operatives, blessings were invoked upon his head by the anxious throng. But where was the brave fellow? Entering the building, he walked rapidly along the main hall, approached the stairs leading to the second story, and turning to ascend, encountered a flash of flame which he soon passed. Gaining the second floor, he encountered a fiercer flame. As he felt its warm breath strike the glass on his visor he realized the danger, and with a quick bound cleared the monster. Clouds of smoke rose about him to stifle him, but the wailing of female voices reached his ears, and stimulated him; and being a pure man at heart, he was further strengthened by the feeling that One who once walked with some other young fellows in a fiery furnace was by his side. Suddenly finding a bank of burning coals in his pathway, a feeling that he was lost overpowered him. Behind were the flames and two blank, impenetrable walls; before him a mass of live coals--cruel and hissing hot--ready to devour him. Looking again he beheld a small door. He seized the latch, but to his horror the door was locked. Praying for assistance, and casting his eyes toward the floor, he spied a large iron bar. Seizing it he began battering the door, which to his great joy flew open, permitting him to enter the adjoining hallway, where he stood an instant to regain his breath, for the stifling heat had almost stopped respiration. Having often been in the factory, he was familiar with all its passage-ways, and knew that the hallway Jones described had been reached. But could he gain the iron door, at least three hundred feet onward, and up another flight of stairs? Going about two thirds the distance, he ran up the stairway unmolested, when the glare of flames indicated another approaching danger. His heart quailed, but he could not turn back, his only hope being in pushing forward. He nearly reached the huge iron door, the key of which he grasped tightly in his hand. He made a dash at the fire which encircled him. He gasped for breath; the hot, seething flames seized his hand and arm, causing him to cry with pain. In an instant his feet cleared the flames, but just as he thought himself safe a huge burning timber fell, struck his back, felled him and held him fast. He was only a few feet from the door leading into the hallway, where the flames had not yet entered. Groaning with pain, by a spasmodic effort he rolled the burning beam from his back, but on trying to rise he found to his horror that he could not stand, for his back was injured. Retaining full use of his hands, he quickly tore off his blankets, and with an herculean effort dragged himself to the door. He seemed to have superhuman strength, for with his hands he moved himself about with a rapidity that surprised him. Out of reach of the flames, he dragged himself to the outer door, removed two bars, and slipping the bolt, the solid wrought-iron screen of the narrow exit was open. Dragging himself along, he returned and reached the great iron door, the effort causing intense pain. Unable to raise himself high enough to reach the lock, after great effort he mounted a box behind the door, slipped the key into the hole, and the bolt shot back. He then removed the iron bar, and the door, pressed hard by the people inside, flew back upon its hinges, striking Alden and throwing him bleeding to the floor. Like wild animals, the freed men, women and children made a rush for liberty. The hallway was filled with human beings, and as the crowd emerged from the narrow doorway into the open air at the back, shouts of joy greeted them from the masses outside. The friends of the lately imprisoned operatives made a rush for the foot of the narrow stairway, and as those given up for lost stepped into the open air, loving arms caught them, and those lately shedding tears of sorrow now laughed hysterically or made other demonstrations of joy. The release of the one hundred and fifty had been accomplished none too soon, for the flames spread with fearful rapidity. Great angry forks leaped from window to window and then shot upward, enveloping the wooden cornice in sheets of flame. The roof was sending forth clouds of smoke, while little jets of flame ignited the dry wood of the huge tower surmounting the structure. Suddenly, a stout, brawny, bareheaded man rushed to the entrance from which the liberated people had just emerged. It was Jones, the boss, who had described the passage-way to George Alden. He was greatly excited, and as the air filled with cheers for George Alden's brave act, he cried out: "Alden is in the burning building!" Immediately the cheering ceased, and word was passed from lip to lip that Cashier Alden, who had saved the people, was himself perishing. Every face blanched with horror. "Follow me, two of you!" cried Jones. Two stout operatives sprang forward, and in an instant the three men were in the hallway leading to the iron door, where they encountered clouds of smoke. To the cry, "Come on, men!" the heavy tramping of three pairs of feet were heard on the floor. Through the smoke rushed the brave fellows until Jones said: "Here's the door;" then he cried out, "Mister Alden! Mister Alden! Are you alive?" No voice responding, he called again and again with the same result; then Jones, with one tremendous push, sent the great iron door shut with a loud clang, and turning to retreat, his foot struck something on the floor. Stooping, he touched the form of George Alden, lying insensible before him. "Thank God, boys, it is the cashier. Quick! men, seize him." The three then, grasping the lifeless man, turned and hastily ran toward the door. As they emerged from the burning building, shouts of joy rent the air, but when the deathlike face of George Alden was visible everybody became mute. "Is the brave fellow dead?" were the words uttered, but they were not answered. Carefully George Alden was laid upon a pile of blankets, when one of the village doctors sprang forward, placed his head upon the breast of the wounded man, and said: "He lives." Two women broke through the crowd, and Belle Hamblin and Fannie Alden were beside the almost lifeless form. "Is he dead?" they both cried in tones of anguish. "He lives," replied the doctor, "but must be taken away from here at once." A litter was procured, the wounded man placed upon it, when eight stout pairs of hands gently raised and bore it to Alden's little cottage, only two blocks distant. As the silent form was laid on the bed, the two ladies entered the apartment, and the men immediately withdrew. The physician examined the wounds on the head and announced they were not necessarily fatal, and gave the opinion that he had fainted from exhaustion. His hands and arms were badly burned, and there was every indication of a hard struggle. His clothing was burned and torn, and as he lay upon the bed gasping for breath, the two trembling women mingled tears of sympathy with prayers for their darling's recovery. CHAPTER XX. THE SECRET MARRIAGE. The day following the fire was gloomy; the smouldering pile of brick, stone and charred timbers marked the work of the destroying element. The immense factory was a ruin, and among the débris were seen the iron frames of intricate machinery, whose busy hum had so long gladdened the hearts of seven hundred operatives and their kindred. Many sad faces gathered about the ruins, and with trembling voices asked: "What will become of our wives and little ones?" George Alden's act of heroism was the theme of general conversation, and prayers for his recovery sprang spontaneously from the hearts of men who had seldom prayed before. The newspapers were full of glowing eulogiums of the brave fellow who lay in so critical a condition. His spirit seemed undecided whether to remain in the bruised tenement or wing its flight to another world, but two devoted women watched at his bedside, and a skilful surgeon noted every movement of the patient, who occasionally opened his eyes and stared unmeaningly about. No intelligible words escaped his lips, for his mind wandered. But near the hour of noon, he opened his eyes, exclaiming: "Where is the key? Oh, how it burns! Tell Belle and Fannie I died doing my duty," and, closing his eyes, was silent. Suddenly opening them again, he looked about, as if in doubt of his whereabouts. When his gaze became fixed on Belle and Fannie, for the first time since the disaster he spoke coherently and said: "God bless you both! where am I?" "In your own bed, George. Do you feel better?" gently replied his sister. "My poor back is broken. Did I--did I save them?" "Yes, all escaped. Do you remember it?" said Fannie. "Yes--yes, but never mind." Raising his burned hand to Belle's, he said: "You are _so_ kind to remain with me," then closed his eyes as if exhausted. A spasmodic moan escaping him, he cried out: "My back is broken! I shall be a cripple and a burden to my friends. Oh, why did I escape?" His two companions tried to calm him. As Dr. Briar entered the apartment, George looked into his face and asked: "Doctor, is my back broken?" The kind-hearted physician did not reply, but soothed him with encouraging words. The ladies withdrawing, an examination by the physician and his assistant revealed the fact that the poor sufferer's back was seriously injured. Everything was done by the good doctor to make him comfortable, and as the examination caused great suffering a sleeping potion was given him, for a raging fever indicated danger. The two women entering the room, to Belle's interrogations concerning her lover's injuries the doctor replied that he hoped for the best. Meanwhile other scenes were taking place in the community. Senator Hamblin sat in his private room at his residence, looking haggard, and seemingly in great trouble. He arose from his chair and began pacing the apartment. "Everything is against me," he said. "All my late investments have been losses--and now comes this fire to wipe out over one hundred thousand dollars of my property. Oh, what fools we were to hesitate about renewing those policies! I can see nothing but financial ruin unless I can extricate myself from the strait I am in. With my credit good, I can raise plenty of money, but how can I repay it? Within the next month I must borrow at least fifty thousand dollars. These losses almost unman me. Had I kept out of politics, giving my exclusive attention to business affairs, I should not have been in this predicament. What an infernal fool I am to allow ambition to lead me to ruin!" He placed his hands over his head as if to get rest, but apparently he found none, for he continued: "It seems like a dream, that George Alden entered the burning factory. He is a brave fellow, and the physician says he cannot live--thank God! but he is happier than I, for I am standing between _two_ fires--two powers are pulling my conscience in opposite directions--one for Mannis and his fortune, the other for George Alden and his honor. Pshaw! what is honor? Will it buy bread? Will it obtain station and fame? Not a bit of it. If Alden dies, Belle will be the wife of Walter Mannis, and I, her father, will be saved. If he lives there is only one way to dispose of him. By the way!--as Sargent is doctoring the books, why shouldn't he make the deficit fifty thousand, which I need, instead of five thousand? I might look over the securities and cash, stea--abstract that amount, and give Sargent such good cause that he will have no excuse for going back on me as he did once before. I'll go down to the bank at once." On his way to the bank, the Senator met many persons who inquired about the condition of Cashier Alden. To all inquiries he returned the same answer: "Poor fellow, I am afraid he cannot live." Entering the bank, Sargent said to him: "By present indications our cashier will step out without our aid, eh?" "It does look so, but he is a brave fellow after all. What is the latest, Sargent?" "He awoke to consciousness at noon, complaining of his back, which Dr. Briar, upon examination, found seriously injured, and says his case is almost hopeless. He fears internal injuries, as Alden has a high fever--everything pointing to danger." "It is sad, but may be for the best," was the reply, as Senator Hamblin entered his private office. Greatly dejected and full of trouble, to him the future looked dark and portentous. Gladly would he have allowed his daughter to act from the dictation of her heart did he not think the fortune of Mannis would extricate him from the dilemma. Poor, foolish man, he little knew Mannis was as "deep in the mire as he in the mud" of financial ruin. When at first raising objections to Belle's forming an alliance with Alden, he fairly hated the innocent cause of his ire, but gradually his feelings underwent a change; his old affection for his child returning, and the brave feat of the cashier touching his heart, he longed for a way out of his trouble. Unable to entertain thoughts of bankruptcy, his pride and fear of disgrace made him plot against the cashier. The full significance of his political victory lost sight of, he could not drive the one absorbing thought from his mind, namely, the marriage of his daughter with Mannis; beside saving him, it could be easily brought about were Alden disposed of. For two days George Alden's life hung in the balance. Fannie and Belle remained constantly at his bedside. On the morning of the third day, Doctor Briar, after examining his patient, beckoned the two ladies to follow him to an adjoining room. "Ladies," he said, "it is my duty to inform you, you have a very sick patient. Calm yourselves and do not give way to grief--but I fear he cannot recover. He should be told his danger, and I think I can trust you both to talk with him on this subject." Belle drew a deep sigh, which found response in the heart of Fannie. "Oh, save him, sir! if you can, for he is so dear to us. I cannot have him die. He is too noble and good," impulsively spoke Belle. "Whatever can be done to save his life we shall do. All the good people of Cleverdale are praying for his recovery; let us hope their prayers may be answered, but as his physician I cannot speak encouragingly. He is a noble fellow, and I hope and pray it may be God's will to spare his life." Bravely the two women repressed their grief, for both saw the necessity of great fortitude. The physician withdrew, and Belle and Fannie re-entered the sick-room, when Alden opened his eyes and in a low tone said: "Belle, you look tired and anxious--are my injuries serious?" "Yes, George, you are badly injured." "Is there any possibility of my recovery?" "We hope for the best, for oh! we could not spare you." "By the anxiety on your faces, I feel my condition is very serious," he said feebly. "Oh, Belle, I wish you were my wife." A shadow of deep pain crossed his features. "Would you be happier were I your wife?" Belle asked. "Happier! If I am to die I should be resigned to go and wait with outstretched arms for you to join me." Belle, conversing with him a few moments longer, joined Fannie at the window, the two whispered together, when Belle, returning to the bedside, said: "George, would you be entirely happy were I your wife?" "Yes, I could even die happy, for I fear I am to live but a short time. Your faces tell me I am fatally injured. But it would be too much happiness to expect, to gaze upon you as my own wife." Looking for a moment intently into his face, she gently raised his burned hand with her own, and said: "George, I will be your wife, though myself is all I have to give." Bending over the pillow, she touched the parched lips with her own, sealing her promise with a kiss. "God bless you!" were all the words Alden uttered, as, closing his eyes, he fell back exhausted. Belle joined Fannie in an adjoining room; the latter said: "Dear Belle, you are a precious girl--but what will your parents say?" "Mamma will not object, and for the present Papa must not know of it. It is all I can do for George." She threw her arms about Fannie's neck, and a flood of tears followed. Mrs. Hamblin came later, and to her daughter's appeal for consent to the proposed marriage she yielded. She knew her husband would not approve the arrangement, but acting upon her own convictions she could not refuse. None were present at the ceremony but Mrs. Hamblin, Fannie Alden, and the clergyman, besides the strangely joined pair. The sufferer had been awake a long time, his eyes beaming with pleasure at the prospect of marriage with the girl he loved. The clergyman, approaching the bedside, commenced the ceremony. The mother trembled, and, turning to conceal her emotion, burst into tears at the moment the clergyman finished the ceremony. The husband looking into the face of his wife, his eyes filled with joy, and he gasped: "I--I--am so--so--happy!" and then lost consciousness. Loving hands quickly applied restoratives, and in a few moments the sufferer opened his eyes, and said: "I thought I was married--but it was only a dream." "It is not a dream, for I am your wife," said Belle. "Mine, all mine at last," he said, and the invisible angels hovering about his pillow recorded the nuptials in that book the entries in which can never be altered for earthly and dishonest purposes. CHAPTER XXI. SPOILS! SPOILS! Christmas came, the day passing quiet and gloomy at the Alden home. The injured man grew worse and was delirious--living over the awful scenes of the fire many times during the day, and starting from his slumbers, crying out: "Yes, they are saved, they are saved!" then he would moan, "Oh, how the fire burns my flesh! Take that big timber off my back! Must I perish? See, the iron door opens, the people are free--and I have saved them!" For six days he was delirious, but just one week after the disaster he opened his eyes, looked about him, and in a weak voice said: "Give me water." His sister, standing near, raised a glass to his lips while he drank with a relish that he had not displayed since the disaster, his eye flashing with a little of its natural fire; and his sister felt there was really a change for the better. Full of hope, she could scarcely realize that the good symptoms were real. "Where--where is Belle?" he asked. "Watching over you constantly. She has gone home for a little rest, but will return in about two hours. Be quiet and go to sleep now; you are better, but must not exhaust yourself." "Then she will certainly return?" "Yes, but you must not talk more." The patient closing his eyes, his sister seated herself at his bedside. Two hours later the young wife returned, and perceiving the happy look upon Fannie's face, said: "What is it? Tell me quick: is he better?" "Yes, he opened his eyes, asked for a glass of water, and then inquired for you; when told you would return in two hours, a look of joy crossed his face and he again closed his eyes. He has slept quietly ever since, and his fever has perceptibly gone down." "Oh, that he may only live!" said Belle, while her eyes filled with tears of joy. Both ladies entering the sick-room, a glance toward the bed assured them the patient was awake and awaiting their return. Belle, stooping over, kissed him, which greeting he returned with-- "You are so good, I am trying to get well for your sake," he whispered. When Doctor Briar made his afternoon call he was greatly encouraged. "He is better," he said, "and if kept quiet there is now strong hope of his recovery. Good nursing will do more for him than anything else." From that day Alden gained slowly, and all Cleverdale was made happy by the good news that their hero was likely to recover. All? No; there was one exception. Senator Hamblin, at his office, engaged in writing letters, looked troubled and dejected. He had just returned from the State Capitol, where he had attended the opening session of the Legislature. Before him lay many letters, some with seals unbroken. One in the well-known handwriting of Walter Mannis greatly interested him. "He is anxious as ever to marry my daughter," he exclaimed. "He believes we will have a peaceful solution of the problem, but in that we have both reckoned wrong. When I left home a few days since, there was not the least possible hope of Alden's ever getting up again. It is a blind game, trying to discount fate. It seemed as if he would relieve us by going off in a regular and legitimate way, but he disappoints us and will remain. Why have I allowed Belle to attend him during his illness? She has not only compromised herself, but by this act I have sanctioned her course." He lighted a cigar, and soon great clouds of smoke rose and circled over his head, while his pen lay idle beside him. "Well," he whispered, "if he recovers it will be a bad go. If he could only look into the future, he would have no wish to live--but perhaps he may have a relapse." Seeming to catch a gleam of hope, he resumed his cigar again, and continued to fill the room with clouds of smoke for at least ten minutes. Then suddenly rising, he said: "There is no help for it: I must see that our programme is carried out. Sargent is ready to do his work, and I cannot let sentimentality make me lose sight of my own danger. Alden will no doubt recover, and there never will occur so good an opportunity as the present to make the necessary preparations to get rid of him. The hero-worship business is short, and by the time the good people of Cleverdale get through admiring the noble act of Cashier Alden, we will be ready with the trap." Observing Sargent was alone, he said: "I wish to speak with you for a few moments." The teller entering the president's private office, the latter said: "Have you thought over the matter we discussed the night before the fire?" "Yes, sir, it has been on my mind a great deal." "It is evident we must carry out our original intention, for I think Alden will recover." "It looks that way now." "Have you any plans to suggest?" "Yes, I can alter his books--put worthless bonds among the securities, making it appear Alden has abstracted the currency they represent, and carry the transaction along on his books until discovered." "How will you manage to clear yourself of any complicity?" "That is easily accomplished. The figures can be altered to correspond with dates in September or August, when Alden was alone in the bank, and make it appear that the worthless bonds were placed among the collaterals at the time, and only discovered by the forced absence of the cashier." "That is very good, Sargent. Public opinion and sympathy are so strong for Alden it will not do for him to remain here. When confronted with the accusation he must be induced to run away rather than face exposure. When he is accused of defalcation I can express sympathy for him--offer to make good the missing funds--even give him money with which to abscond." "But, suppose he writes back to his friends--what then?" "In that case we must plan to intercept his letters." "That will be easily done, my brother being clerk in the post-office." "Sargent, you are quick-witted. That will be the very thing; it is a most important point, and has bothered me considerably. We will do nothing until after I return home next week. By that time we shall know more about his chance of recovery." A customer entering the bank, the conversation ceased. The following Monday was cold and wintry, and before Senator Hamblin left Cleverdale for Albany he called at the bank and said to Sargent: "He is much better this morning, and we will plant our seed on Saturday." During the week he was engrossed in his legislative duties. Being a recognized leader in his party, his late victory over both the opposition and stump candidate raised him higher than ever in the estimation of his fellow senators, and in the scramble for spoils of office his power was great. While there were scores of applicants for every office in the gift of the Senate or Legislature, those inducing Senator Hamblin, to espouse their cause were usually successful. The Senator was besieged by many callers, while every mail brought him letters asking help to obtain some position. Every senator and member possessed scores of friends seeking appointments. Mothers, sisters, wives and even children appealed personally to Senator Hamblin for aid, until he was nearly driven to distraction. It was impossible for him to move without encountering some one with a petition, for even when seated in the Senate Chamber, cards and letters were thrust into his hands by the pages, requesting interviews in the cloak-room. Every man who had peddled a vote on election day, asked another to support his candidate, or hurrahed at a political meeting, expected to share in the spoils. Every member unable to obtain positions for all his friends was declared ungrateful, and curses loud and deep were heaped upon his head. Reader, did you ever visit your State Capitol at the organization of the Legislature, and see the scramble for spoils? A great army of hungry office-seekers, like sharks after a ship, appear even before the opening. Candidates for leading positions, such as speaker and clerks of the House, clerk of the Senate, postmasters, door-keepers and sergeant-at-arms, commence operations before the houses organize. Senators and Assemblymen are besieged and promises obtained from them to support some favorite candidate. Those seeking these places make pledges to support their helpers for subordinate positions, promising to help members voting for them to chairmanships of leading committees. It is a persistent scramble, and honor must take a back seat until the spoils are disposed of. After the leading offices are filled, the fight for subordinate places follows. Railroad trains from the North, South, East and West are laden with applicants accompanied by their backers. Chairmen of county committees, members of the State Committee, Assembly district, and town bosses, are all on hand to offer their assistance in arranging the "slates." Senator Hamblin was in a dilemma. There were two applicants from Cleverdale for the same position; one backed by Paddy Sullivan, the other by Cyrus Hart Miller. Miller was his first and best man, but Senator Hamblin could not afford to ignore Paddy Sullivan. He expostulated and plead with them, but each was persistent and obstinate. Both were on the ground, and as the war for spoils raged, each felt sure of winning. A rupture with one or other of the favorites seemed imminent, when the affair was amicably arranged, at a cost to the Senator of several hundred dollars, paid to appease his powerful lieutenant, Paddy Sullivan. The scramble for spoils continued several days, and when the Speaker of the House and the President of the Senate announced their appointments, the usual Swearing Bee began. Disappointed men vowed they would never again support the party, and that night, as the "Swearing Train" left the Capitol city, a long streak of sulphur must have arisen above the car roofs, and all supplied by the profanity of those who, if they had spent as much time in trying to obtain legitimate business employment as they had done in crawling at the heels of appointing powers, would have been richer, better, more useful and independent citizens. CHAPTER XXII. SAD FAREWELLS. George Alden improved slowly, his back having received serious injuries, from which Dr. Briar feared he would never fully recover. His faithful nurses were in constant attendance at his bedside, bestowing every attention that skill could suggest or loving hands perform. For many weeks he could not be moved. He became much emaciated, paroxysms of pain being of frequent occurrence and making opiates necessary. Weeks passed, and spring was near at hand. Allowed to sit up for a short time each day, Alden looked from the window upon the street, enjoying every movement with delight known only to those confined for months upon beds of sickness and pain. Belle sat beside him reading aloud from a book, the patient watching her constantly, seemingly in a trance of worshipful devotion. His eyes sent forth sympathetic and tender glances, his heart catching every word that fell from the beautiful lips. Forgetting himself, he was held in transports of love, soon, alas! to be broken, leaving him a poor worshipper, removed far from his idol. Enjoying these precious hours, and watching the expression of love and happiness gathering upon the face of his young wife, he little thought she was to be the victim of the ambition and lost fortunes of two other men. "Ah, Belle!" he said one day, "during all my sickness and suffering, I have passed many happy hours; will it always last?" "I hope so, my dear husband; and when you recover we will publish our marriage, and then renew these happy moments without the attendant suffering." "But must I be a cripple? Oh, the thought is agony to me. What should I do, a helpless person entirely dependent upon those I love? Even with all the precious hours I could enjoy with you and my dear sister, I should pray God to take me away." "Do not talk of that. Dr. Briar says you will again be able to walk. Do for the present let your mind rest and be contented; your recovery depends entirely upon this." "Yes, I know it, and were it not for my two good and loving nurses my mind long ere this would have given way. I am truly happy, yet I am so often reminded of the danger surrounding me that I cannot dispel the thought that I may be permanently helpless." Belle, rising from her chair, approached him lovingly, placed her arm about his neck, and laughingly said: "No more of such gloomy forebodings. If you wish to get well you must be happy and contented; if not your nurses will retire and send two snuff-taking, herb-giving hospital women to take care of you. How would you like that, my impatient prisoner?" "That being too great a punishment, I will promise to obey my nurses, providing they will remain with me." Week after week passing, the later spring began to send forth its balmy breezes. The snows of winter long since gone, and the birds returned from southern homes, the trees began taking on their garb of emerald, while the apple blossoms were bursting forth, soon to expand their germs into luscious fruit. The factory had not been rebuilt, and much suffering had been experienced among families whose members were thrown out of employment by the disastrous fire of the previous fall. The heavy loss to the Cleverdale Woollen Company forced several of its stockholders into bankruptcy, and the business interests of the village were more or less affected by the disaster. Naturally, everybody thought Senator Hamblin too solid financially to be disturbed by the loss of one hundred thousand dollars--the amount of his stock in the company--but had they seen him in the solitude of his office or home meditating over the critical condition of his business affairs, they would have formed a far different opinion. During the winter he had been obliged to raise large sums of money to prevent his own bank paper from going to protest, but with an unlimited credit he could command almost any desired amount. Men with funds lying idle were glad to place their money in the hands of as safe a man as they supposed him to be. Widows and factory operatives felt secure, could they induce the president of the Cleverdale Bank to take their savings and pay them interest. In this way Senator Hamblin succeeded in averting the calamity that would otherwise have overwhelmed him. He borrowed heavily from the bank on the notes of his friends. The limited amount a bank may loan to any one individual--as regulated by the National Banking law--is one tenth of its capital stock, but on notes of his friends President Hamblin had already borrowed three quarters of the bank's capital. Thus keeping himself apparently solvent, the people of Cleverdale looked upon him as the wealthiest man in the county, and being a shrewd actor in life's drama, by his conversation and general demeanor he succeeded in making good the impression of his wealth, bestowing gifts upon charitable objects with more liberality than ever before. The Hamblin Guards were his especial pride; he contributed largely to the company's support when occasion afforded opportunity for the organization to do credit to its patron. At the State Capitol he was the leader in numerous projects, and his power was felt on many occasions, when important bills had to be carried through both houses. He returned to his home nearly every Saturday, remaining until Monday. While appearing happy and at ease before the public, in private he was discontented and miserable. Inevitable ruin staring him in the face, he planned to avert the calamity by the assistance of Walter Mannis. He delayed making final arrangements for disgracing the cashier, hoping the latter would die, but as months passed and the obstinate fellow refused to play the part assigned him, Senator Hamblin became petulant and cross because he was so long in getting well. He constantly chided Belle for confining herself so closely to the sick-room. "You must go away from home for a time. Your mother and yourself had better make preparations immediately for the long-talked-of visit to your aunt in Philadelphia," said he. "You need rest and recreation, my daughter." "I cannot leave home at present; perhaps I may be able to go next month. George is improving rapidly and begins to walk about the room, and even talks of soon resuming his work at the bank." "Tell him to hurry up, for I want to see the roses back again in your cheeks. You must have rest and at once." As he turned and left the room, he failed to hear his daughter remark: "What would Papa say did he know I was the wife of George Alden?" Two weeks later George Alden, riding for the first time since his illness through the streets of the village, received many demonstrations of the esteem in which he was held. Not only were kind expressions uttered by men, but the "God bless you" of many an old woman reaching him touched his heart-strings. Each day's drive gave him new force, he grew stronger, and the danger of being crippled for life finally passed away. One day, after he had returned from his drive, Belle sat at his side, where she had passed so many anxious hours. "Belle, my darling," he said, "you look tired and careworn, your bright color has entirely vanished, and you need a change of air and scene. I am improving so rapidly now, you ought to go away for a while." "Do you think so, George? Papa said the same thing to me a short time ago. He wants Mamma and me to visit his sister at Philadelphia, but I cannot endure the thought of leaving you." "I am much better, and by another week hope to be able to resume my duties at the bank. Although I should greatly miss you, nevertheless you must promise to go, for you need it." Fannie entering the room at that moment, her brother appealed to her. "Fannie, I am trying to persuade Belle to leave home for a short time. Her father also desires her to visit his sister; and she needs rest. Come, Fannie, be as decided with her as you have been with me, and she will not dare disobey." Fannie laughingly replied, "Yes, my dear Belle, you must go, for it will greatly benefit your health. Get ready to go at once, for George will soon be able to go into the bank." Belle consented, and returning home, told her mother of her determination. Mrs. Hamblin readily fell in with the arrangement; so dressmakers were called, and everything was done to make the ladies ready for the journey. One week later George Alden declared himself able to resume his duties, but postponed returning to the bank until after the departure of his wife. Naturally enough he and Belle were constantly together, and were as one in dreading the separation. "I am sorry, George, I promised to go," said Belle one day. "I cannot tell why I feel so badly about leaving you. I am not superstitious, but I fear something will occur to keep us apart." "It is all for the best," said George. "Go, my precious wife, for a change is what you need. I shall resume my work at once, and while you are absent will write you each day. Returning you will be better able to meet your father, and tell him of our marriage." The two were together several hours the day before the departure, but there was an indescribable feeling in the minds of both that something would occur affecting their happiness. Telling their fears to Fannie, she laughed and said: "Nonsense; lovers always feel that way when they part. Nothing is likely to occur affecting your happiness, unless it will make you both miserable to see the roses again in bloom upon Belle's cheeks." But the final parting was full of sad forebodings, and as the train bore away Mrs. Hamblin and daughter, the tears shed in silence by the latter would not have ceased so soon had she known that her cup of happiness was to be replaced by one so full of trouble that its very bitterness would almost drive her into eternity. CHAPTER XXIII. EXILED FROM HOME AND FRIENDS. The Legislative season drawing to a close, Senator Hamblin made preparations to return home. Determining upon an active and early canvass for the nomination as Gubernatorial candidate, his money had been lavishly expended to win converts, while his large dinner parties--the finest of the season--were attended by leading men and high dignitaries. So successful had been his efforts to make friends for himself, that even when the session closed, and before his canvass began, he was spoken of as the probable choice of his party for the Governor's chair. He therefore concentrated all his energies to accomplish two objects: his own nomination and the marriage of his daughter to Walter Mannis. When awake these two objects were constantly on his mind; when asleep his dreams were filled with them; when the impending financial hurricane forced itself upon his mind he always reasoned: "Walter Mannis will make my daughter a magnificent husband, while his fortune will prevent my failure. Once Governor of the State, and I can wield influence enough to extricate myself from the present dilemma." The session had not been a profitable one to him, for no large jobs that he was interested in came before the Senate; besides, while looking out for his pocket, he had to avoid injuring his chances for the nomination. The session had cost him several thousand dollars more than his salary, which added to his embarrassments, yet his lavish use of money made all believe his wealth increasing. After the departure of Belle, George Alden became much depressed in spirits. He was anxious to enter the bank at once, but by the advice of Doctor Briar he went, accompanied by his sister, to visit a cousin about two hundred miles distant. The change of air and scene, together with the letters received from his wife, gave him renewed vigor, and his despondency wore away. After a visit of one week he made preparations to return home--his sister, as much in need of a change as himself, was induced to remain a few days longer. On his return, Alden was welcomed by many friends, who warmly grasped his hand and expressed their gratification; but when, on the following day, he entered the bank, he felt hurt at the cold greeting of the teller. Removing his hat and stepping to his desk, he opened a book, when Sargent said: "Beg pardon, Mr. Alden, but the president desires to see you in his private office before you resume your duties." "See me?" said the astonished cashier. "For what?" "That you will hear, sir, from his own lips." His voice was full of irony, and the manner in which he spoke caused the cashier to tremble, his pale face indicating agitation. "Well, I will see him at once," Alden replied, and stepping to the door of the private office, he gently rapped. Receiving a summons, he opened the door and entered the apartment. The president was sitting at his desk. Alden said: "The teller informed me you desired my presence here." The president, giving him a cold, meaning look, rose from his seat, turned the key in the lock, then said: "Yes, he was right. Be seated. I have much to say, and of a painful nature." George Alden's lips trembled. For a moment neither spoke, the silence being finally broken by the president. "George, never in my whole life did I have such a painful duty to perform as now falls to my lot. You have served the bank for several years, and during that time have succeeded in winning the confidence of every officer of the institution. You have been trusted implicitly at all times, yet an examination reveals to us that this confidence placed in you has not been deserved." He paused, when George Alden sprang to his feet, and gasped: "I--I do not--that is--I cannot comprehend your meaning." "Be seated, Alden. It almost unmans me; in fact, ever since this affair came to my knowledge my confidence in mankind has been shaken as never before. I see you are overcome; why not confess your crime, and let us see that you are not as depraved as your act would indicate." "My God! what do you mean? Confess what? At least, inform me of what I am charged." "Why inform you of what you already know? The abstraction of the funds has been discovered and the worthless bonds are here." Turning to his desk and opening a drawer, he laid before the astonished cashier five thousand dollars in worthless paper. "I swear before my Maker," exclaimed George, "that I never saw those bonds before. What conspiracy is this?" The president affected surprise and answered: "You act your part well. You little thought, I suppose, that we would discover your crime. The books, however, show that some time in August last year you took five thousand dollars in money from the bank, placing these worthless bonds in the vault as collateral." George Alden rose to his feet, and lifting his clenched hand above his head, and bringing it down upon the table before him, said: "It is a lie! If anything is wrong the villain is in the other room." "Beware, young man, how you talk; the evidence is too strong for you to escape by any means whatever. Here is the entry made in your own handwriting. You cannot deny this. Look here--is that written by any other hand than your own?" "It--it--it--does look--oh, my God! I never wrote it. Am I dreaming? No, I am the victim of that man who has been at my desk." Catching hold of a chair to prevent himself from falling, and turning toward the president, in piteous tones he said: "Mr. Hamblin, certainly you do not think me capable of robbing the bank?" His answer being only a cold wave of the hand, the distracted man stared at his tormentor; as he did so, anger succeeded amazement, and he exclaimed: "It is a foul conspiracy, and _you_ are at the bottom of it! You would ruin me to satisfy your own ambition, you scoundrel!" The president turned white with rage, and said: "Have a care what you say, young man, or I will hand you over to the courts, where your crime will receive its just punishment. Your assumed innocence cannot stand against proofs so damaging as these books reveal." "But I never committed the deed. I am innocent of anything so despicable. I a defaulter! God knows I never wronged any man. Oh, why was I brought out of the burning factory!" His weak condition showed that he had miscalculated his strength, and Senator Hamblin looking into his face, saw its deathly pallor, while the poor man's eyeballs seemed almost ready to burst from their sockets. Much alarmed, he rose hastily, and seizing the hand of George Alden, said: "I pity you--God knows I do. You are only human, and I will try and help you out of this trouble, for I recognize you have claims upon me." "Thank you; perhaps I spoke hastily just now, but answer me--do you think I am guilty?" "The evidence is very strong against you." "But have you never thought another might have desired to get me out of the way?" "To whom do you refer?" The cashier turned, and pointing toward the door opening into the banking department, replied: "The man who once went back on _you_." "No, I cannot believe that--for he pities you, and to him you owe the fact that no one knows of your crime but him and myself." "My crime? Stop! do not call it that." "Calm yourself, George, and let us talk of the future. Of course, it is impossible for you to remain in the bank. No one but Sargent and myself knows of the affair. You are without means to make good the missing sum. I have suffered great anguish of mind since I learned of this matter, and am not indifferent to the existing relations between you and my family, which makes my course toward you far different than it would be were our relations otherwise. Beside this, your brave act of last fall entitles you to consideration, therefore I will befriend and help you, if I can." "Thank you, sir! thank you. I--I am so bewildered, I scarcely know what to do. I cannot realize that I am awake. I know I am innocent of any crime; but I have no adviser." "Listen a moment," replied the president. "I can and will help you. I will replace the money, and thus make good the defalcation--advance you five hundred dollars beside, and you can quietly leave Cleverdale." "I leave Cleverdale like a criminal! Confessing by flight that I am a thief! No, sir, I cannot do that." "You do not realize your situation. At present no one knows of this affair. If you remain in town an excuse must be given for discharging you from the bank, for it will be impossible for you to retain your position here. Reflect a moment. If you desire to remain and face the evidence, I am powerless to prevent you. I am your friend so far as I can be, but should you remain here it will be necessary for me to report this matter to the board of directors. I wish I might do otherwise, but I cannot be placed in the attitude of sacrificing my own honor. I know that warm affection exists between you and my daughter; as the father of her whom you love and respect, I will help you if you will help yourself, but I cannot go beyond those limits and make myself the shielder of an openly apparent criminal. Ah! I know what you would say, but facts exist that we must look at squarely. I offer to help you, but you must leave Cleverdale at once." The distracted cashier fell into a chair and groaned with agony. Through his mind rapidly passing many thoughts, he fully realized his situation, and knew he was the victim of a base trick, if not a conspiracy, yet he was powerless to prove his innocence. Thoughts of his young wife and sister passing rapidly through his mind, his first and only consideration was to shield them from disgrace. Once he thought of disclosing the secret of his marriage, but remembering the solemn promise made his wife, and knowing that Senator Hamblin was a cold-hearted man, he feared the disclosure might increase their difficulties. These thoughts running rapidly through his mind, he wished for his wife and sister that he might consult them, but as they were far away, in whatever he did he must act alone, and in his weakened condition he was unfit to decide so serious a matter. He believed his innocence would be established if he prevented the conspiracy from being made public; although he was a good enough judge of human nature to suspect Hamblin, he was loath to believe that the president desired his ruin. He believed that Hamblin's mind had been poisoned by Sargent, who had really robbed the bank and made a scapegoat of the cashier. At the same time he recognized the fact that Senator Hamblin was in the power of the teller, but desired to get rid of the cashier. The more he thought over the subject the more he saw the utter impossibility of proving his innocence, but concluded to make one more appeal to the president. "Give me time to think, sir," he replied to Senator Hamblin, when the latter asked for his decision. "Before you drive me from home and friends, make a more thorough examination, for I am confident you will be convinced of my innocence." "No, that cannot be. This was discovered immediately after your heroic adventure. I was astonished and could not believe you guilty. I have investigated thoroughly, and after due deliberation am convinced in my own mind concerning this matter." "But Sargent--what does he say?" "He pleaded for you, as never before man did for another. When it looked as if you must die, I decided to make good the amount and let your grave cover the crime. I am entrusted with the funds of this institution. If you remain in the village I must give a reason for your discharge--if you go away your absence must be attributed to mystery; I shall never follow you. If you can ever repay me the amount I advance, all right; if you cannot, I shall feel that I have protected you as well as the honor of a member of my own household." Eloquence can make deceit appear as the purest of truths. This gift accounted in part for Senator Hamblin's great power, for he was a natural actor. His persuasive manner and strong language had a perceptible effect upon George Alden, who gave evident signs of weakness of mind and body. Long months of confinement left him powerless to cope with a strong mind, and gradually his will succumbed to that of his persecutor. He could write to Belle and Fannie, he reasoned, and be advised by them. Yes, he would save himself and friends the disgrace that must inevitably follow the charge he knew to be false, yet was unable to disprove. It would be a terrible ordeal, but he thought it would be only temporary and his vindication must surely follow. As for Belle, who never could doubt his honesty, he could keep her informed of his whereabouts, awaiting her summons to return. "What is your decision, George? I must know at once," asked the president. "Give me one day to decide." "No, you must make your choice at once--the directors will meet this evening, and if you remain here I must tell them of the defalcation, and then I shall be powerless to aid you. I wish it were otherwise, but it is not." "Well, sir, to shield those I love I accept your offer. I hope I have not made a wrong decision, but my vindication is sure to follow." Senator Hamblin opened a private drawer, and taking from it five hundred dollars, said: "Here, George, is money--no, do not push it back--you will require it--you need not take it as a gift, it is only lent you." At first Alden refused the loan, but the president, pretending to be affected almost to tears, at last succeeded in forcing the money upon him. The interview ended, Alden left the building and wended his footsteps homeward. Alone in the privacy of his chamber he gave way to his feelings, after which he began making preparations for leaving Cleverdale. Taking up a picture of his wife that lay upon the table before him, he covered it with kisses, and said: "I am her evil genius, and thus far have only caused her unhappiness. But she shall know all; yes, every word that passed between her father and me shall be written her." For two hours he sat beside the table, writing. He wrote of the terrible charges against him, and placed on paper every word that passed between the bank president and himself. He asserted his innocence; told of his love, and begged his wife to do everything in her power to clear up the mystery. He read and reread his letter, and added more, telling her of his assumed name and destination. He then wrote another letter, containing substantially the same matter, which he directed to his sister. Not one word concerning his marriage, or his legal relationship to Belle, appeared in either letter. He was too much absorbed in his situation to think of anything but his flight and the causes that led to it. At nine o'clock George Alden, bidding farewell to his home, went directly to the post office, mailed his letters, and then turned toward the depot. Meeting many friends, to their inquiries whither he was bound he replied, he was "going for his sister." It was a falsehood, and his conscience troubled him for it. As the train steamed out of the depot his heart was too full of sadness to speak to any one. Although an innocent man, his sorrows must affect the two noble women whom he believed he was serving by leaving home. God pity the three! Business reverses may drive a man from home and friends, death may inflict anguish hard to be endured, calumny may cast dark shadows over noble lives, but ambition alone can inflict unmerited misery on honorable natures; and worse than the ambition that causes war--worse because meaner--is the feeling that political necessities engender and stimulate in a man until he can coolly perform deeds more fiendish than Holy Writ anywhere ascribes to Satan. In proof whereof it is only necessary to quote a word or two of Senator Hamblin's soliloquy after Alden left the bank. "_I_ am the scoundrel.--Well, a man must be one to succeed in politics." CHAPTER XXIV. THE DISTRACTED WIFE. The next morning, as Senator Hamblin entered the bank, Sargent handed him two letters. Receiving them in silence, he went directly to his private office, closed and locked the door, and seating himself at the desk, seemed much troubled. "I am playing a dangerous game, and wish I were well out of it. During the long, tedious night, sleep refused to relieve me of that dreadful look of agony and despair that yesterday overshadowed Alden's countenance. But can I do otherwise than try to prevent the crash that would ruin me and disgrace those dependent upon me? It is a desperate game, but I cannot retrace my steps. Let me look at these letters. Yes, here is one addressed to my daughter and another to the Alden girl. I cannot bear to open them, but must do so, for how else can I know his destination?" For a moment he was silent, then quickly opening the letter addressed to Belle, and counting the sheets, he found there were six of them--just twenty-four pages in all. Reading, he was soon interested in the contents. Troubled thoughts running through his mind, he frequently passed his hand across his brow as if hiding the words from view. Before the letter was finished he was greatly agitated, and when all was read, his head bowed upon the desk, sigh after sigh escaped him. "What have I done? The writer of this letter would have made my daughter a kind and true husband. I will recall him--I must, for I cannot go farther in this deception. Poor Belle! God pity her! I--her father--have basely conspired to destroy her happiness. God! what a villain I am!" He arose and paced the floor in terrible agony of conscience. "I have added crime to cruelty, and my hand is plotting against two true and noble hearts. I will at once recall Alden, for Belle's letter received last evening informs me of her return home to-morrow. What sorrow awaits her! I must--I will make amends for all." Resuming his seat, he was about to open the letter addressed to Fannie Alden, when a rap at the door caused him to pause, and hastily slipping the two letters into a private drawer, he arose, and opening the door, to his surprise he found himself face to face with Walter Mannis. "Ah, Senator, how do you do? Glad to see you. You look surprised. Didn't expect to see me to-day, eh?" "No, I did not expect you, Mannis, but I am glad to see you. Walk in, and be seated." Closing and locking the door, and resuming his chair, he said: "Mannis, this is bad business. Yesterday I sent poor Alden away as if he were a common thief. To-day I am a changed man and must give up this business, for it is a damnable scheme." "Pshaw! Senator, you are only doing your duty; beside it is too late to turn back now. Tut, tut, man, another day will calm your mind and all will be well." "I suppose I am weak, but the scene I passed through yesterday has quite unmanned me; I will soon throw off this spell, realizing now that only the successful development of our scheme will save us. But I was a fool to ever begin it." Mannis, with his keen eye, saw that the veteran politician was really moved. He was astonished; what politician would not have been? But he did not lose his wits; he said: "The only thing necessary now is to prevent Alden's return. Of course you have intercepted his letters, for Sargent told me as I entered the bank that he handed you two this morning." "Yes, I have them safe; but the counterfeiting and forging business must follow. When will bloodshed be added?" The words were spoken in a desperate voice, so Mannis quickly replied: "Come, Senator, put on your hat and let us walk over to my room at the hotel. You need fresh air and a glass of wine--then we will return here and look further into this matter." The Senator at first refused the invitation, but persuasion finally made him yield, and the two men left the bank. Returning an hour later, Senator Hamblin was in better spirits, the fresh air, together with several glasses of wine, having changed his whole demeanor. Despondency had given way to exuberance of spirits, and both men were soon seated side by side, smoking cigars. Then George Alden's letters were brought from their hiding-place and examined, Mannis remarking: "Well, he is a gushing youth if nothing else." It being decided an answer must be sent Alden, Mannis, taking paper and pen, wrote as follows: "CLEVERDALE, 187-. "SIR: On receipt of your letter I immediately returned to Cleverdale. When I thought you an honest man, I respected and loved you, but your crime has aroused me from this dream. Never dare address me again, for I abhor a villain. BELLE HAMBLIN. "To GEORGE ALDEN." "There, Senator, have Sargent copy this--imitating your daughter's handwriting--and mail it to the gusher. It will make him overflow with rhapsody--or profanity. Gracious! how I would like to see him when he runs his eyes over this _billet-doux_," and he ended his words with a long, low whistle. The interview was but a short one, and the two men shook hands. Mannis, while leaving the private office and passing into the bank, whispered to Sargent: "Come to my room at the hotel at noon, I wish to see you privately." Promptly at noon Sargent entered the Cleverdale Hotel, and hastily going to Mannis's room rapped at the door. A voice within calling out, "Come in," the teller entered the apartment, and Mannis rose to meet him. "Sargent, the old man is faint-hearted, and if something is not done to prevent, he will have Alden back here." "Yes, I noticed he looked like a sick man when he came to the bank this morning. If he should repent, what would you and I do?" "We must not give him a chance. Will you stand by me in this matter, Sargent? Remember, you are to be cashier." "Stand by you? Yes, sir; I am with you and can take a hand in anything you suggest." "Well, let's shake hands over that. Now let me whisper a few words in your ear." For five minutes the two men whispered together; then Sargent said: "By thunder! I never thought of that--but I am your man--that will check things certain." "Not a lisp of this," said Mannis; "but Saturday evening, at eight o'clock, meet me near the hollow road, and be sure to bring along that suit." In another moment Mannis was alone, and an hour later, behind a span of fleet horses, he was speeding over the road toward Havelock. "The girl shall be mine," he said, "and the Senator's money will chip in nicely to keep me afloat. But if he only knew I wanted his cash, even more than his pretty daughter, he would shut down on me. Chicken-hearted as a child, I am afraid he will repent, and try to undo the little game. I always took him for a man of pluck; but we will arrange this business, though. My eyes! how he will shake in his boots when Sargent and I get through with our part of this affair--and won't all Cleverdale be excited? Whew! There'll be a first-class rumpus!" The following day Mrs. Hamblin and Belle arrived at the Hamblin mansion; the husband and father was not there to receive them. Relieving themselves of wraps, etc., they took their supper. Belle with great impatience momentarily expected the arrival of George Alden. Eight, half-past eight, nine o'clock came, still the young husband failed to appear. "It is strange, mamma," said she. "I wrote him I would be here this evening. Can he be sick? I will send Jane to his house--possibly he is there." Seating herself, she hastily wrote: "DEAR GEORGE: "I am home. Come at once. "BELLE." Summoning Jane, instructions concerning the note were given; in twenty minutes the faithful nurse returned and exclaimed: "The house is dark, and no person there." "No one there!" said Belle, in a trembling voice. "It is singular enough. He came home three days since. Where is Papa?--he can tell us whether George has been at the bank. There must be something wrong." "Be calm, my child," said her mother; "he will come soon--there is some good reason for his absence. Perhaps he is at the bank with your father." "True; I never thought of that. It is getting late, and we had better send James to the bank and ascertain. I must know his whereabouts before I can sleep." She immediately rang the bell, and Jane appeared. "Tell James to go to the bank, and see if Papa is there. Also tell him to inquire if Mr. Alden is there. If Papa is alone, ask him if he will please come home at once." Half an hour later, James returned with the information that Mr. Hamblin was alone at his office, and would be up soon. Belle was much agitated; her mother tried to quiet her, but without success. Shortly after, Senator Hamblin entered the house; Belle ran to meet him, but by his manner she was conscious that something terrible had happened. After embracing his wife and daughter, the latter asked: "Papa, where--is--is--George?" Slow to answer, his hesitation only added to her agitation, for she continued: "Oh, speak! What has happened?" "My daughter, he is unworthy of you, he has proven himself a villain." "Proven himself a villain! why, what do you mean? Answer me!" Her face became deathly pale, and she tottered as if about to fall. "He has--I cannot speak it, for I am affected as never before--but you must know the worst--George Alden has stolen five thousand dollars from the bank." There was a wild shriek, and Belle fell sobbing into her mother's arms. "It is--it is false! he never committed a crime." Rising quickly, with excited voice she asked: "And--and where is he?" "Alas, my child, he has absconded. I befriended him, making good the amount, and the crime is known only to the teller and myself." "Father," exclaimed Belle, "this awful crime is yours, not his; you have conspired to defame as pure a man as ever lived,--and _you have killed his wife_." "His wife! My God, Belle, what do you mean?" "I mean that I am the wedded wife of George Alden, whom an unnatural father conspired to ruin, branding him as a criminal and sending him away a fugitive. Oh, I see it all! Weak from his late illness, not able to cope with villains, and left by me at the mercy of his persecutors, he is ruined, and I am murdered by--oh, God!--my father!" The sorrow-stricken wife sobbed with intense agony; her proud sire stood trembling like a whipped cur. Approaching his wife, he said: "Why was I not made aware of this marriage? I would have saved him from flight, but now I am afraid it is too late. He--he--did not tell me of this." "No, pledged not to reveal the marriage until my return, his fine sense of honor, together with his weak condition, made him keep the secret. But what is manliness, honor, or love to you? You drove him away!" replied Belle. "I did not drive him away, the evidence of guilt caused his flight. I not only made good the defalcation, but gave him money for necessary expenses. He made a fatal mistake in not informing me of this marriage; but I promise to recall him. I will do it at once. You must bear up until his return." "Then you will restore him to me, and when he returns you will proclaim his innocence?" "Hope for the best, my child. You did wrong in keeping your marriage from me." The family retired, but not to sleep. All the long night Belle lay upon her sleepless pillow, unable to drive the thought from her mind that her husband was suffering. In the bedchamber of her father there was no repose, for even a politician cannot always stifle conscience at will. The Senator ordered remorse to quit his presence, but as remorse was not in his pay, it refused to obey his mandate. The wretched man would willingly have welcomed financial destruction, if thereby he could have restored George Alden to his daughter. Solemnly pledging himself to make restitution for the wrong he had done, he resolved on the morrow to write to George Alden, bidding him return. But he reckoned without his host, for Mannis and Sargent had not yet been interviewed by their consciences. When, next morning, Senator Hamblin entered the breakfast-room, his face showed plainly the struggle through which he had passed. Inquiring for his daughter, he was told by Mrs. Hamblin that she was sleeping soundly. "Poor child, let her sleep. Would that she could enjoy an unbroken slumber until the return of her husband." At nine o'clock he went to the bank and found Sargent alone. "Have you mailed the forged letter to Alden?" he asked. "Yes, sir; it left this morning." "I am sorry, for I am convinced I have done a great wrong. I have been a fool--yes, worse than that, a villain--but I will recall him at once." Sargent, conscious that his companion's mind had undergone a radical change, did not at first reply, but no other remark being made by the president, he finally said: "Will it not be dangerous for him to return here? he might make it warm for us." "I care not; although there would be no danger. There are reasons why I desire his immediate return. To-day is Friday--I will write to him at once, and he can be here by the middle of next week." As he entered his private office and closed the door behind him, Sargent laughingly said to himself: "Just as I expected--but we will nip this little game; for he has men, not a girl, to deal with now. We hold the trump cards and he will find himself euchred." One hour later Senator Hamblin passed into the banking room, and handed Sargent a letter addressed, GEORGE HOWARD, CHICAGO, ILL., saying: "Mail this at once. And do not be disappointed in this matter; if we can get Alden back again, I will make you a handsome present--I will remain here while you are absent." Sargent, leaving the bank, slipped the letter into his pocket. "Lucky he sent me! I will take care of this for the present." CHAPTER XXV. THE CRUEL LETTER. George Alden, with satchel in hand, stepped from a train just arrived from the East, at Chicago; his pale face, blood-shot eyes, and whole manner betokening a nervous condition. A stranger in a strange city, scarcely knowing which way to go, he felt almost like a guilty wretch fleeing from justice. The events of the past three days passing before his mind like a row of spectres, his haggard face told plainly of his anguish. The sun was sinking beneath the western plains as the fugitive walked the streets of the strange city, not knowing whither to turn. He was faint from lack of nourishment, for he had not taken sufficient food to preserve his strength; while severe pains in his back recalled to his mind the fearful experience in the burning factory, when he lay in the hallway held down by the firebrand. He entered a restaurant, and seating himself at a small table in a recess, ordered food. Then, taking a photograph from his pocket, he imprinted many kisses upon the pictured face of his wife. "Poor child!" he murmured. "She has already received my letter--God help her! I am sure, though, she will bid me return, as soon as she reads the letter." The waiter soon returned, and Alden said: "Can you direct me to an inexpensive, respectable private boarding-house, where I can find comfort? I am not well." "Yes, sir," replied the waiter, "I can direct you to just such a place as you desire." His supper finished, he paid his bill, and with directions from the waiter he started in search of the boarding-house, which he soon found. Making known his wants, the good lady, after asking a few questions and looking into his honest face, decided to take him as a boarder. It was fortunate for him that she did, for Mrs. Nash afterward proved a valuable friend at a time when Alden stood in need of care and attention. In the solitude of his room he threw himself into a chair and gave way to a paroxysm of mental anguish, reproaching himself for deserting his home and friends, for the act was an acknowledgment of guilt. Retiring at an early hour, exhaustion made him sleep soundly. In dreamland he forgot his troubles, again living over those happy days passed with his loving wife and sister. Sancho Panza uttered the sentiments of every living creature, when he invoked God's blessing upon the man who invented sleep. As the morning sun crept into Alden's apartment its rays fell upon the sleeper's face and caused him to move his head upon the pillow. In a moment he opened his eyes, gazing about the room as if in doubt of his whereabouts; gradually the painful realities of life drove the happy dreams from his mind, filling his heart with sad thoughts, his only companions the past few days. Quitting his bed, he dressed himself, and involuntarily glancing into the mirror he started back in affright, and said: "My God! is that haggard-looking face mine? Here I am, far away from home and kindred, hiding in Chicago. For what? Because I was a coward. Yes; having braved the dangers of fire, I did not have courage to face my false accuser. Oh, why did I run away like a thief?" Overcoming his agitation, he bathed, dressed, and was soon ready to descend to the breakfast-room. At the table he met others, to whom he was introduced, but his heavy heart usurping the whole space within him, he talked little and ate less. His meal finished, he returned to his room to wait for expected letters. Two long days passed, and the suspense was straining his nerves to their utmost tension; unable to divert his mind by reading, he watched the passage of time, which never moved so slowly. Saturday evening he sent Mrs. Nash's son to the post-office, instructing him to inquire for letters for George Howard, the latter his mother's maiden name, assumed by him on leaving Cleverdale; but the lad returned without tidings from either wife or sister. On Sunday, leaving his room for a walk, he cared nothing for the sights that another time and under different circumstances would have pleased and interested him. Attending morning service at church, his thoughts were far away, an eloquent discourse failing to arouse him from his abstraction. The service over, he sought his boarding-house, and was going directly to his room, when Mrs. Nash accosted him, and said: "Mr. Howard, you seem ill; can I do anything for you?" Halting to see whom she was addressing, he recalled his assumed name, and replied: "No, I am weary, that is all. Thank you for your interest in me." "But, sir, you do not look strong. Pardon me, but have you been ill?" "Yes, I have been very ill for many months, but am getting stronger now, and will soon be well again." The sigh that escaped him convinced the good woman his sufferings were mental. Observing the paleness overspreading his face, her heart was touched, but not wishing to appear impertinent, she said: "I have a son about your age, far away in a foreign clime, and you must forgive me, if I, a mother, take an interest in you. If I could only know the whereabouts of my own boy, I could close my eyes in peace instead of lying upon my pillow each night imagining him surrounded by all kinds of danger and temptations," and she raised her handkerchief to her eyes. "I pity any person in trouble," Alden said, "for I have had my share of sorrow and suffering." He would have said more, but at that moment the door-bell rang, and Mrs. Nash said: "If you are in trouble confide in me, and I will try and give you the consolation I hope some good person will give my own poor boy." George Howard--we must for the present call him by that name--passed on to his room, while the good woman went to answer the door-bell. At the supper table she spoke kindly to the new boarder, who ate but little, and soon re-entered his room. The following day, sending again to the post-office, the boy returned bearing in his hand a letter addressed to George Howard, Chicago, Ill. Seizing it with trembling hands, Alden hastily tore open the envelope, looked at the few lines it contained, and holding the sheet before his eyes, with a trembling voice read aloud: "CLEVERDALE, 187-. "SIR: On receipt of your letter, I immediately returned to Cleverdale. When I thought you an honest man, I respected and loved you, but your crime has aroused me from this dream. Never dare address me again, for I abhor a villain. BELLE HAMBLIN." He crushed the letter and tore it into shreds. As the pieces fell from his hand his pale face became suffused with scarlet, and large cords rose on his temples and brow as he said: "My God!--And she too believes it? I did not think that--Oh, my head is bursting--_I am dying--God, have mercy--I--I_--" He staggered and fell heavily to the floor. Mrs. Nash hastily entering the room beheld him lying senseless upon the carpet. The good woman, seeing the scattered pieces of paper, at once comprehended the situation, for she knew her young son had brought a letter which must have contained bad news. "Poor fellow! I am afraid he is gone." Stooping, she placed her hand over his heart. "No, he is not dead," she continued. She stepped into the hall and summoned help; and two women lifted the insensible form to the bed. A physician was called at once, and attempted to resuscitate him. Remaining in a partial stupor all day, toward night Alden began to show signs of returning consciousness. The following day, as he lay upon his bed looking at the kind-hearted woman watching over him, his mind seemed utterly broken down, for his appearance was that of listless disinterestedness. His face was pale, with the exception of a bright-red spot on either cheek. For three long weary months he kept his room, yet never murmured at fate's decrees. His hostess constantly watched her patient, and never troubled him with questions; her only desire being for his recovery. The physician gave orders that he must be kept perfectly quiet, and all letters withheld from him, unless containing cheering news. No letters came, however, and the good woman wondered; but had she known of the scenes taking place elsewhere, she would have been filled with greater wonder. CHAPTER XXVI. A DIRTY JOB. Time dragged slowly, Senator Hamblin being ill at ease. Beholding his daughter's sorrow, and knowing she could not become the wife of Walter Mannis, he began looking about for some other method to avert the financial disaster threatening him. Scarcely a moment passed that he did not reproach himself for the great wrong he had done. Overwhelmed with horror, and fully realizing that ambition and selfishness had made him a criminal, he little realized that he was dealing with men deeper and more desperate than himself. One night a man left the village of Cleverdale and passed into the country. He wore a slouched hat pulled well down over his forehead, while his coat-collar was turned up about his neck. The night was dark and cloudy, so the pedestrian was scarcely observed by any one; but when he met an acquaintance, he pulled his hat further over his brow, and passed unrecognized. Under his left arm he carried a large bundle, his right hand holding fast a heavy cane, which he used to pick out his pathway. It was not long before, passing beyond the corporate limits of the village, his feet were treading the highway leading toward Havelock. As he kept on his way he heard the noise of an approaching carriage. The dense clouds overhead made the night so dark that teams were compelled to move slowly, and as the mysterious pedestrian neared the carriage he coughed three times; a low whistle assured him his signal was heard. The single individual in the vehicle cried out, "Whoa!" the man on foot approached and jumped in. The team turned and headed toward Havelock, and the horses were driven faster than was compatible with safety. One hour later the vehicle entered a piece of dense woods. The driver, dismounting, seized the horses by the head and led them on, through a narrow roadway or lane, for a distance of at least a quarter of a mile. When he stopped the man in the carriage jumped to the ground, and the two stood side by side. The driver then reached beneath the seat of the carriage, and drew forth a dark lantern, a pickaxe, two shovels, a hoe, a coil of rope, and two long queer-looking hooks with wooden handles. As he passed his hand under the seat, a noise was heard similar to the wail of a cat. Both men were disguised, and as they continued their work conversed in low tones. Gathering up their tools and moving along at a rapid pace for about five hundred feet, they stopped at the edge of the forest and scaled a high picket fence. White slabs of marble, tall columns of the same material, and large granite monuments rose before them like spectres, grim and lonely. A ghost-like stillness pervaded the scene, for the two men were in a city of the dead, surrounded on all sides by its silent habitations. "Follow me--it is only a short distance away. Come," said the taller of the two, who led on, his companion following. The two men paused at the side of a newly made mound, and laying down their tools, pulled off their overcoats and prepared for work. As they threw aside their disguises the reader would at once have recognized the two men as Hon. Walter Mannis and Sargent, the teller. "Here is the grave," said Mannis. "And we must commence our work at once. This man was buried last Sunday, and in size and personal appearance looks much like Alden. Let us hurry up and snake him out--come, take that pick and loosen the earth. Eh? what's that? S--h--h--h! Pshaw! it's only a twig which broke beneath your feet." "This is rather serious business, Mannis. Give me a pull from that bottle. There--that tastes good, and it will nerve a fellow up." "Yes, we need a little backbone--be careful and do not make much noise, for we are within a quarter mile of the road, and there is danger of being discovered. Here--hand me that spade. The earth is not very solid, for I can easily run this spade down a foot or two." "This pick goes in as easy," said Sargent, "as if it were cutting cheese. Wonder where Alden is now? Ha! ha! wouldn't he make Rome howl if he knew what we were doing? But, d--n him! he always looked upon me as if I was a scoundrel; now I'll be even with him. There, how is that? Hand me that other spade." Mannis, doing as requested, said: "Be careful, Sargent, and throw the dirt where the grave-digger pitched it. So the old man weakened, eh?--if he knew that you pocketed his letter he would be apt to send you adrift. His pretty daughter is his pride, his very life--Ah, Sargent, she is a darling, and I feel rather sorry for her, for she will cry her pretty eyes out upon learning George Alden will never return. Careful, Sargent; the earth is falling back into the grave. Here, take another drink; egad! a little good spirits is required to keep the evil spirits away. I don't just like this job; but virtue will have its reward, and such patterns as you and I will not be forgotten, eh?"--and both men laughed, as the devil also must have done if he was present, as probably he was. For a full half-hour they toiled on, until they stood at least three feet deep in the grave. Slowly the mound of earth rose about them and the scene became animated. In the distance was heard the rumbling of thunder, the dark clouds overhead becoming blacker and more dense, while the men, unaccustomed to manual labor, paused at intervals to rest. Nearer and nearer they came to the box and its occupant, until at last Sargent's spade struck the wood, sending back a dull, hollow thud, startling both men. "Gracious, Sargent! that frightened me, it came so sudden; but it will not be long before we shall have this ugly business finished." "It startled me too. This is a pretty tough job, Mannis." "That's so; but remember it will make you cashier of the bank." "Yes, that will pay--but see here, Mannis, it's mighty slippery business after all." "We have no time to discuss the matter now--come, let's to work; ten minutes of lively shovelling will have the box clean as a whistle." Both men resumed their labor, shovelful after shovelful of dirt was thrown up on top of the mound already formed, until they stood upon the cover of the box. "Lay the shovels outside, Sargent, and take another drink. There, that will set you up. Here's at you!" and he turned the bottle and drank deep from its throat. Taking a screw-driver from his pocket, and turning the rays of his dark lantern into the grave, Mannis began removing the screws from the cover. It was but the work of a few moments, when, the cover carefully laid outside the grave, the screw-driver began its work on the lid of the coffin. As the corpse was exposed to view, Mannis touched its cold, clammy face. A thrill of horror went through his frame, causing him to start and step heavily upon Sargent's toes, their owner standing behind him on the lower part of the coffin-lid. Both men expressed their abhorrence of the scene, and an outsider looking upon the body-snatchers would have beheld three death-like countenances instead of one. "Here, Sargent, stick that hook into the clothing. Now wait a moment until I get the other hook into this side; there--steady now! Can you take hold of both hooks? There, don't drop him, and I will fasten this rope about his breast. Now if you can hold on a moment, I will get out and hang to him with the rope." Nimble as a cat, Mannis sprang from the grave. "Now pull out the hooks, and come and help me." Sargent did not wait for a second summons, for his hair already stood on end at the thought of being alone in the grave with the dead man, and he was at the side of Mannis in an instant. The two men worked hard, and soon had their horrid prey out on the grass. The coffin-lid was laid back and the outside cover placed in position, the body-snatchers not waiting to replace the screws. Quickly they plied their spades, only stopping to tread down the loose dirt. In twenty minutes the grave was refilled, the mound rebuilt and the ground cleared up, as it was found. "Sargent, we have a burden to tug. First, let us take the tools to the wagon and then return for the cold corpus." Gathering up their tools and soon placing them beneath the carriage-seat, the men returned, and taking up the corpse, prepared to leave the cemetery. When approaching the fence, a sudden flash of lightning caused them to drop their burden, and the body rolled over into a hole near by. "Egad! Mannis, I am sick of this. U-u-g-h! when that flash struck the face of the corpse it sent a thrill of horror all through me. I wish the body was in its coffin again." "You think it rather unpleasant work, eh, Sargent? Well, that's because you've never been in politics. But we have got over the worst of it. Let us kick off a picket and push the fellow through the fence." Suiting the action to the words, he gave a vigorous blow with his foot, and two pickets flew off. The body was then lifted up and crowded through the aperture, and ten minutes later the men and their disagreeable burden reached the carriage. "It is one o'clock, Sargent," said Mannis, turning the light of his dark lantern on his watch. "We must hurry up. Get that suit of clothes, there; spread them out. Now help me strip this fellow. It was mighty lucky Alden left these clothes in the bank; very kind of him, and I am much obliged for his thoughtfulness. No one will examine them critically to see if they are old clothes or not." "Old clothes! They are not old clothes, it is a suit he wore last year when he slept in the bank, and he never took them away. This fellow looks pretty fine in borrowed clothes, eh, Mannis?" The body was soon dressed; the hardest work experienced was that of encasing the feet in boots, although the task, after much effort, was successfully accomplished. The two men had labored faithfully and their work was soon finished. The clothes taken from the dead man were buried, the form lifted into the carriage, the men following, when Mannis turned the horses' heads toward Cleverdale. The clouds began discharging flashes of lightning, loud peals of thunder adding their unpleasantness to the scene, and amid almost impenetrable darkness the team could not be driven faster than a walk. Presently great drops of rain spattered into the carriage, striking the occupants full in the face. After a long, gloomy ride, which neither Mannis nor Sargent enjoyed, the street lamps of Cleverdale were faintly seen in the distance. "Where are we, Sargent? Oh, I see now--that flash showed up the country. There is the road--let us turn in and plant this chap." The horses' heads were again turned, and approaching a clump of forest trees the two men jumped out. The body was taken from the vehicle and dropped over the fence. Both men then followed, and carrying the body back some distance, placed it beneath a tree. "Where is the pistol, Sargent? All right--now I'll put a ball into his brain." A sharp report followed, and Mannis had fired through the sightless eyes, the pistol being held so near as to tear and disfigure the face past recognition. "There!" said he. "I guess this will be a good enough Alden until I marry the girl." The pistol laid beside the body, the two men hastily left the place. One hour later, Sargent was in his bed, and as daylight began to dawn, as naturally as if nothing unusual had happened, Mannis was on his way toward Havelock. CHAPTER XXVII. CLEVERDALE'S SORROW. Gradually the disappearance of George Alden became known about Cleverdale. His sister, on returning, was greatly shocked to learn of his absence. It was thought best by both Senator Hamblin and Belle that the cause of his flight should be kept from her, and she was encouraged by both assuring her of his probable restoration to them in the course of two or three days. Patiently the two women waited. The Sabbath was gloomy and dismal, for a drizzling rain kept everybody within doors. Monday dawned, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday following without the return of the loved wanderer. The hours passed slowly and sadly, and the lines about the eyes of both women showed plainly that sorrow and grief were almost bursting two hearts. Since the news of the cashier's departure became known, many inquiries had been made, and much sympathy expressed for the friends of the young man. It was feared his brain had become disturbed during his long illness, and that he was wandering about in a weakened condition of body as well as mind. One remembered that he appeared abstracted and acted strangely; another recollected passing him without his scarcely returning recognition, and many others now brought to their remembrance strange actions on his part. As day after day passed the excitement increased, and his disappearance became the theme of general conversation. It was singular that no one recollected his departure on the evening train, the night he left his native village. Senator Hamblin, nervous and filled with great anxiety, wondered why his summons had not brought back the fugitive. Many times he took from his private drawer the intercepted letters written to his daughter and Fannie Alden, and closely examined the assumed name and address, to convince himself that he had made no mistake in directing his letter. Much of his time was spent at home with his wife and daughter, who saw his anxiety, but little suspected the double load that weighed him down. Looking upon himself as a criminal, the impending financial ruin, added to the injury done his own daughter, nearly drove him to desperation. He scarcely slept during the long, tedious hours of the night, while the day gave him no peace of mind. Receiving a visit from Mannis, the two men held a consultation for an hour, Senator Hamblin telling of his resolve and determination to make all reparation in his power for the wrong he had done. The wily Mannis pretended to coincide with him, even expressing a mock penitence for the part he had performed in the affair. So well did he act his rôle that Senator Hamblin never suspected the deception that was to make him a victim. He knew nothing of the body lying in the woods, soon to play an important part in the development of the scheme. Since the change in himself he began to look upon Mannis as a villain, even congratulating himself that fate, more careful of his child's happiness than her own father, had made her the wife of George Alden. But when Mannis expressed penitence for what he had done, Senator Hamblin fell into the error of believing him an honest man. He did not hear the words Mannis whispered into Sargent's ear as he passed through the bank: "The old man trembles, Sargent, and is greatly affected--how he will rip and tear when the fellow in the woods is found! Oh, my!" Both men laughed, and Mannis left the bank. Friday was a pleasant day, the excitement being on the increase, for George Alden's disappearance had become still more cause of wonder. About noon, two little boys, greatly frightened and excited, came running into the village, exclaiming: "A man--a dead man--in the woods over there!" "Where?" inquired a citizen. "Stop and tell me." The other lad, calming himself, said: "We were playing in the woods out yonder, and saw a man--looking as if he was dead--lying under a tree, and we just ran away, sir." By this time several other persons gathered about the boys, insisting upon the little fellows leading them to the place where the cause of their fright could be found. The lads agreed to go as far as the fence and point out the spot. The men moved along, their numbers increasing, and by the time they arrived at the grove there were at least twenty persons in the crowd. The boys pointed to a large maple tree, and a moment later the crowd surrounded the dead body. An offensive odor filled the air, and the horrible sight caused many to turn hastily away. "Who is it?" asked every one, but no one seemed able to answer. The crowd was being augmented by numbers, for the news of the discovery had spread rapidly. Finally a man broke through the crowd, and hastily glancing at the body, said: "It is George Alden. I know those clothes; but see, the face is pretty much gone. Horrible!" The news flew quickly to the village, and many people flocked to the scene. Gazing upon the mutilated remains, many, recognizing the clothing, corroborated the opinion first expressed. Soon it was decided in the minds of all that the remains were those of the missing cashier, a pistol in close proximity to the body telling a tale of suicide. The coroner came later, a jury was empanelled, and it was discovered that all valuables on the person had been stolen. Although the body was so badly decomposed that a thorough examination was impossible, the bullet-hole was plainly visible, the whole face having the appearance of being scorched and lacerated. In this condition the remains were placed in a handsome casket, and closed never to be opened. The first theory was one of suicide, although the fact that the watch and everything else of value had been taken from the pockets suggested to many murder as the cause of death. While the community was greatly shocked, the scenes taking place at the Hamblin mansion were heart-rending. Fannie Alden, on returning to Cleverdale, had been prevailed upon to remain with Belle until her brother's return. During the anxious days the sisters tried to comfort each other, constantly remaining together. As the hours wore on, no tidings of the loved one being received, hope gradually gave way to despondency, and when the awful news reached them that the dead body of the husband and brother had been found, it prostrated both with grief. "Oh," cried Belle, "I must go to him, and look upon his dear face once more." When told it would not be possible for her to see him, her sobs and moans were so piteous that they would have even softened the hearts of the two villainous authors of the deep and cruel game, so full of woe to her, had not these hearts been reserved for more appropriate treatment. For several days Senator Hamblin visited his daughter only once, for he knew that he was a poor comforter. Suffering the torments of hell, he cursed his mad ambition and declared himself a murderer. "Oh, my God!" he would exclaim, "what have I done to gratify my ambition? Step by step, approaching this awful deed, what crimes I have committed, and what sorrow I have brought upon my beloved daughter. Dead? yes, and I his murderer! How can I free myself from myself? My dreams are haunted by this awful spectre. I see him before me in his agony, as he trembled at the false accusation that he was a thief. That look haunts me, and almost drives me mad." Falling into a chair and burying his head in both hands, he groaned in agony of spirit. "Oh, had I the courage to end this! But no, I dare not run the risk of a worse torment than I am experiencing. If this is earth, what must hell be? I must live and look upon her sad face--see her misery and acknowledge that I, her unnatural father, murdered her husband! Ambition, what a fiend you are!" and so passed hour after hour. The remains had been removed by the coroner and placed temporarily in the receiving vault. The funeral, appointed for the following day, was a sad and solemn occasion for the people of Cleverdale, the eulogies pronounced over the supposed dead hero touching the hearts of all. The brave act of rescuing the one hundred and fifty operatives from the burning factory was referred to in glowing words, and stout hearts were overcome as they thought of the sad death of the estimable man whom every one loved and respected. The prostrated young wife was unable to attend the ceremony, for, utterly overcome with grief, she could not leave her room. A grave was opened in the Hamblin lot, for the Senator ordered that the body should rest there. The crowd that followed was very great, for most of the one hundred and fifty rescued persons followed as mourners, and as they stood beside the yawning chasm, sobs filled the air. Never was there such an affecting funeral in Cleverdale. The church bells tolled sad requiems, and it was a day long to be remembered. As the earth closed over the remains of the man stolen from his grave in Havelock, many grief-stricken hearts were weighed down by the cruel clods; while two jolly fellows met in a room at the Cleverdale Hotel, opened a bottle of wine, and drank to the success of their businesslike scheme. Instead of abating, Belle's grief increased, causing her to pass many sad hours mourning, and reproaching herself for leaving her husband before his body and mind had regained their natural strength. She desired to make public her marriage and assume her lawful name, but at the urgent solicitation of her father decided to keep her secret; though not until Fannie Alden had acquiesced in her decision. Afterward regretting this deception, she passed many unhappy hours in the dual character assumed. Senator Hamblin lost all interest in politics; he was burdened with his crime and haunted by visions. In his chamber, at the bank, or with his family he appeared like a broken-down man; even his old political friends failed to arouse him from his moods of despondency. Miller called to converse with him on subjects that heretofore occupied his whole attention. "I care not, Miller," he said. "I am sick and tired of politics." Even Paddy Sullivan failed to awaken the old-time enthusiasm, and the canvass for the gubernatorial nomination was abandoned temporarily at least. Day after day, week after week, month after month, he moved about in a mechanical way. As he kept his notes renewed, no one suspected his financial condition, but the interest on his borrowed money was increasing his indebtedness. He was always kind to Belle, however, and as she lost all love and interest for everything he often expostulated with her. "No, papa, my heart is frozen. I can only wait for the time when I shall meet George in the other world. But you, papa, look haggard and broken down." "Ah! my child, I am a murderer--the brand of Cain is upon me. It will be only for a short time, for this terrible responsibility is killing me." The dutiful girl, throwing her arms about his neck, kissed him. "How can you kiss me," he would say, "when I have been so cruel to you? Oh, Belle, the world is ignorant of your relation to him and it does not know I drove him away. If the people of Cleverdale, who loved him so, knew that I was his murderer, think you they would spare me?" "You knew not what you did then. For my sake throw off this grim demon that is holding you. You must be prepared for your public duties, for it will be but a short time before you must go to the Senate again." "If I could recall the dead, I would willingly give all I possess; yes, I would esteem it a privilege to lie down in the grave myself could I give you back your dead husband." Belle, filled with grief for the dead, beheld the suffering of the living, and resolved to bear up and save her father if possible. Poor Fannie Alden was spared the grief that would have been hers had she been told of the charge preferred against her brother. She believed that, becoming deranged, he had taken his own life. A long investigation was made, but of course nothing was found supporting the theory of murder excepting the fact of the pockets containing no valuables. It was ascertained, however, that the watch of George Alden was at a jewelry store, left there by the owner to be repaired; but the absence of all other articles from the pockets was enveloped in deep mystery. Not one word written by the deceased had been found. The excitement soon died away, the suicide theory being gradually accepted. Senator Hamblin and daughter thought they knew why he had taken his own life. Mannis and Sargent knew George Alden was not dead. But the people of Cleverdale, visiting the cemetery, often paused beside the grave and said: "Such a good and noble man! What a sad thing that he became insane and killed himself!" CHAPTER XXVIII. AMONG THE HILLS OF COLORADO. Four long weary months passed, and George Alden, alias George Howard, sat in his room at the boarding-house in Chicago. His face was pale, and lines of sorrow were plainly visible about his eyes. Gazing intently at a photograph, his only companion in many a sad hour, he murmured: "Lost! lost to me, all that I loved and adored! Four months ago I fled like a thief from my native village; oh, fatal mistake, fatal mistake! By that act acknowledging myself guilty of a crime I never committed, I must now prepare to go forth into the world and battle for a new existence." Raising the picture to his lips, he kissed it again and again. "Oh, that cruel letter! But 'grief never kills;' the fact that I am spared proves the truthfulness of the old saying. My wife believes me a villain, and all I might say or do would never convince her to the contrary. And my poor sister has deserted me; she too must believe me guilty of crime." He was much agitated, and rising from his chair paced the room for a few moments, when forcing a change of manner he said: "No more of this--I must smother these remembrances of mine; henceforth I must conquer the feeling that overwhelms me. Farewell all past loves! Farewell all past joys and sorrows! To-morrow I go forth into the world, and as Mrs. Nash's door closes behind me the curtain disclosing the past will drop forever. It must be so, or I cannot expect to keep up with the army I am soon to join." The next morning, rising early, he packed his satchel, and descended to the breakfast-room, where he ate more than usual. Upon leaving the table he entered the sitting-room, where he glanced over the newspaper until Mrs. Nash joined him. "Mrs. Nash, I am going away to-day." "Going away? You must not go yet, for you are hardly strong enough." "Do not think me ungrateful to such a kind mother as you have been to me, but I must seek a place where I can earn money. I have been dreading departure from this home--the only one I possess in the world; but I have fully realized the need of active employment for my mind. I must forget myself--forget I ever lived until I came to you. Do not ask me why. Some time I promise to tell you all; yes, open wide the book, that you may read every line upon the pages that to me are so sad and gloomy." The good woman noted his sorrow, and saw the necessity of cheering words. "Never mind all that," she said; "this world is full of sunshine, and if clouds hide the light for a while, remember that the sun shines just the same. I shall miss you, but wherever you go I shall always think of you, and hope to hear of your prosperity." "Dear, kind mother--you are all I have now--the only link binding my heart to the past is your love and kindness. God bless you! God bless you!" His voice trembled with emotion, and Mrs. Nash, wiping away a tear, forced a smile, and replied: "If I am your mother, you are my son, and as you are to leave me, I insist upon a promise." "Name it, my good mother, and if it is among the possibilities I will readily comply." "It is this: you must try to forget all sorrow of the past and live for the future. You must write me at least once a month, telling about yourself. You must, above all things, be cheerful and not give way to despondency." Promising to obey, and regretfully bidding the good woman farewell, Alden turned his face westward from Chicago, to seek a fortune and begin a new life for himself in the wilds of Colorado. A week later, he stood alone in the streets of a small settlement in the silver hills, and, after walking about for a while, entered a hotel, and bargained for a week's board. On entering the small room assigned him he was forced to smile at the primitive style of the apartment and its furniture. The bed was simply a "tick" filled with dried grass, over which was spread two coarse woollen blankets. The bedstead was without posts, while an old rickety chair and a barrel used as a table completed the furniture of the apartment. The following day he met two young men who, like himself, were strangers in the locality and seeking a fortune. Sympathy drawing the three together, they mutually formed plans for the future. The next morning the three, leaving the inn on a prospecting tour, first visited the mines in the vicinity. Every detail was carefully noted, and they asked so many questions of those in charge, that, as they left the place, a foreman remarked: "There are three keen-eyed chaps, and I'll bet a silver brick they'll strike a paying lead before they are much older." Four days later they staked a claim, pulled off their coats and began active operations; a few old heads smiling at the three "tender-feet" turning miners. Alden rapidly gained strength, and the bracing air and steady exercise gradually restored him to health. The paleness so long overspreading his countenance gave place to a healthy glow, and the clouds that darkened his mind were only visible at periods when he allowed old thoughts to disturb him. His natural strong will-power reasserted itself as his physical vigor returned. His principal thought now was to repay the sum which Senator Hamblin advanced him when he fled, like a thief, from home and friends. The amount he was accused of stealing he knew was not incumbent on him to pay, for he now fully believed Senator Hamblin had really manufactured the charge to get him out of the way, that he might marry his daughter to Walter Mannis. Belle, he knew, was his lawful wedded wife, and could not, if she wished, marry Mannis; yet he longed at some future day to return to Cleverdale and confront his false accusers, even though his wife had turned against him. This thought often entered his mind, but he dismissed it with the remark: "No, I shall never go back to be spurned by the only woman I ever loved." His companions often inquired concerning his past life, and as he evaded direct answers, they concluded his presence in Colorado was the result of a love affair. Soon learning to look upon him as the very soul of honor, in all their movements he became an adviser with rare judgment and foresight. Operations were partially suspended by the three miners during the winter, for the weather prevented much work. Being prudent during the winter months, they made but little inroad upon their reserve fund, and when spring opened were ready to renew operations. All about them were evidences of rich mineral wealth, and before summer came they had gone to a considerable depth into the earth. Day by day they toiled on, and old miners, straying through the gulch and watching them, changed doubt of the "tender-feet" to admiration at their plucky spirit. All through the region in that mountain-pass spread the fame of the new company, and when indications of paying ore began to develop itself everybody said: "I told you so! those chaps will certainly succeed." George Howard showed plainly that he was worthy of success. Nearly a year had passed since his departure from Cleverdale, and during that time, with the exception of the forged letter, he had received no tidings from his native place. Could he have seen that silent mound in the Cleverdale Cemetery surmounted by a plain marble slab bearing the name of George Alden, it is possible that he might have abated his energies, but his only ambition now being to succeed in his new life, right royally did he concentrate all his efforts to accomplish his desire. He regularly wrote to his good friend Mrs. Nash, and the letters received in return overflowed with sympathy and words of encouragement. Greatly prizing her letters, he read and re-read them until every word was indelibly engraved upon his mind. This was very unromantic, but it was also very much to his credit. One day, "Three Boys Gulch," as it was called, was the scene of excitement, for the efforts of the partners were crowned with success by the discovery of a rich vein of silver. The news travelled on swift wings, and spectators looking into the shaft shook their heads at the thought of what they had missed. The young men became lions at once, for were they not owners of a bonanza? and George Howard wrote a short letter to his friend Mrs. Nash as follows: "THREE BOYS GULCH. "MY DEAR FRIEND AND MOTHER: "I am a rich man, for we have struck a bonanza. Business may call me to Chicago soon, when I shall see you, and then, my good mother, I will tell you the secret of my life. Until then, farewell. "Ever your friend, "GEORGE HOWARD." Sealing the letter, he said: "And now for a vindication of myself; even if I were guilty, everybody will listen to me when I own a third of a rich silver mine." CHAPTER XXIX. POOR MARY HARRIS. Go where you will, seek whom you may, converse with all whom you meet, and you will fail to find a person of either sex, arrived at years of discretion, whose heart does not conceal a secret. Some have secrets of love, some secrets of business, while other heart-closets may conceal the skeleton of a secret crime. Several of our characters have faithfully retained secrets which, if known, would have long ere this abruptly terminated our story. Senator Hamblin suffered intensely by his terrible secret. Fully conscious that George Alden had committed no crime, to the oft-repeated inquiries of his daughter concerning the defalcation he evaded direct answers by saying he believed him innocent, although the sum of five thousand dollars had mysteriously disappeared. His agency in the supposed death of George Alden weighed heavily upon him, while the impending crash in his business affairs was a secret that gave him no peace of mind. His daughter possessed two secrets; one of them, her marriage with George Alden, was faithfully kept from all except those of her own immediate family. While it was publicly known that she mourned his death, refusing comfort, none but those mentioned were aware of the relation she sustained toward the late cashier. Another secret which she guarded safely was her knowledge of the accusation which she supposed caused her husband's death. Fannie Alden was unconscious of the charges made against her brother's integrity. Had she known the cause of George's disappearance, her sensitive nature would have received a wound from which she never could have recovered. Therefore, Belle felt justified in keeping this secret locked in her breast, although she believed the charges false in every particular. Two other persons possessed a secret, over which they cracked many jokes. Mannis and Sargent often met and talked over the success of their scheme. The latter, now cashier of the bank, fully felt his importance. Sargent's thoughts sometimes reverted to the night when, playing the rôle of body-snatcher, he assisted to disguise a dead body to account for the absence of the living; and he never felt proud of that night's work; but when a twinge of conscience disturbed him, he quieted his mind with the oft-repeated remark: "Well, a man must look out for his own interests." Walter Mannis felt little remorse at the part he performed in the game, for his was a callous conscience, and such little episodes never disturbed the serenity of his mind. The Congressional nomination was sought and won by him, thanks to money, and his election was easily accomplished. Considerable hostility to his nomination was evinced at first, but when the convention closed its deliberations, there was a general acquiescence in the result. The candidacy of Daley was too fresh in the minds of recalcitrant politicians to encourage a repetition of the "bolting" game. Poor Daley, still an inmate of the asylum, and with small hope of recovery, left a warning behind. Senator Hamblin, of late much with Mannis, fell under the influence of his companion, whose wily tongue and smooth manner again completely won the Senator's confidence and esteem. The father still entertained hope that his daughter, recovering from grief occasioned by the death of George Alden, would ultimately become the wife of his friend. Mannis soliloquized one day in his room at the Manor, surrounded by books, letters, and scraps of paper covered with figures: "My case is desperate," he said, "and something must be done at once, or I shall be caught napping. The note on which I took the liberty of endorsing Hamblin's name falls due next Wednesday. By Jove! it must be got out of the way, dead sure, or there will be trouble. It is for ten thousand dollars, and if not taken care of at maturity, those city bankers will make me trouble." Lighting a cigar and stretching himself in an easy-chair, he watched the smoke for a moment or two as it curled above his head, and then continued: "Mannis, you are a cool fellow, and Hamblin falls an easy prey into your clutches. I feel sorry for him; I wouldn't have his tender conscience for a fortune. He thinks he murdered Alden--ha! ha! ha!--a confounded good joke. But supposing the ex-cashier should walk in some day, with papers and documents, to say nothing of his face, to prove he is not dead? Wh-e-e-w-w! wouldn't there be a nice old time in Cleverdale? I only hope he will wait until I secure the girl, whom I have sworn to marry. Once married to Belle Hamblin, and I am saved; the old man's fortune can help me out of my trouble, and it must. I have lately hinted to him again my desire to marry his daughter, and he takes kindly to the notion. They do say she is inconsolable at Alden's supposed death; but she will get over that; 'grief cannot kill'--" and singing the refrain from a popular air, he seemed very happy, for he resumed: "See here, old fellow, you are a Congressman, but it will be some time before you go to Washington, and if you can get a hold there, perhaps you too can make a strike. All those fellows get rich, and Walter Mannis will look out for number one. Oh, if I can only capture Belle Hamblin, and take her to Washington as my wife, what a brilliant couple we will make, for I flatter myself I am not bad-looking. Ah, Mannis, you are an egotistical fellow. Egad! But how can you help it? I vow I will go to Cleverdale to-morrow, see Hamblin, and again urge my suit. What would the old man think if he knew of that note his name is on! But, pshaw, he will never know of it. I shall get it out of the way somehow, and at once." He was interrupted by a servant entering and handing him a note, which he hastily tore open. As he read it a shade of anger crossed his countenance. "Confound that girl!" he said. "She thinks I will marry her, does she? She doesn't know me. I must get rid of her some way; but how? That's the question. Let me think." Dropping into a chair and passing his hand across his brow, he was engaged in deep thought for almost ten minutes. Breaking the silence, he said: "Well, I must get her away from here, to begin with. This affair troubles me more than any woman scrape I was ever engaged in. If her father knew about it there would have to be a new election for a Congressman to fill my place. It is a bad go, for I certainly have deceived the girl, and old Harris is a savage fellow, who wouldn't hesitate to pop the man who betrayed his daughter." Mannis, for once, was really troubled. He cared little for the misery he might bring upon others, but he fully realized that his life would be endangered, did his treatment of Mary Harris reach the ears of her father. The poor girl had been deceived by a promise of marriage, and the note Mannis received was an appeal begging him to fulfil his word. The innocent creature was ignorant of the duplicity of the man she had trusted, for although many times before he had crushed young lives as if they were the merest baubles, he had managed to prevent any charges appearing against him. For many minutes his nervous agitation was very great. He tried to drive fear from his mind by reading, but could arouse no interest in his favorite books, for the fear of Mary Harris haunted him, and he trembled for his own personal safety. "This will never do," he suddenly said, "I will go to Cleverdale and visit the Senator, and then make a pilgrimage to the great Babylon, New York, where something must turn up to help me out of my troubles." The same evening found him at Cleverdale, and at a late hour Sargent was with him at the hotel. The precious couple engaged in a game of cards, surrounding themselves with clouds of cigar smoke, and drank champagne as they talked of Alden, and congratulated themselves their plans had worked so well. And yet each in his heart wondered what had become of the victim. "How do you like your place, Sargent?" asked Mannis. "It is a very good situation, but a man can hardly get rich on the salary. I'll tell you what it is, Mannis, I have had a notion for some time that the silver hills of Colorado are the place for me. Those chaps out there are fast getting rich, while we salaried men, working infernally hard, can lay up nothing. To-day I read an account of three young fellows who staked a claim last fall and now they are millionaires. The excitement is intense, and the lucky chaps have been offered millions for the claim." "Who are they, Sargent? Where are they from?" asked Mannis. "Hanged if I know; but I wish I was one of them. You fellows with fortunes don't know the hardships we paupers have to undergo; and the more I think of the matter, the more I believe in the advice, 'Go West, young man.'" The two men drank so heavily that before midnight several empty bottles stood on the side-table, and both were in a very convivial condition, when Sargent, bidding Mannis good-night, wended his footsteps homeward in rather uncertain fashion. The next forenoon Mannis arose with a headache, but did not fail to call upon Senator Hamblin, whom he found busy, as usual, but glad to meet the Congressman-elect. After a few moments' conversation, Mannis said: "I am going to New York, Senator, for a few days' recreation. I have had the blues lately, and have prescribed for myself a week's sojourn in the gay city. The metropolis is the celestial city of the world, and when the pilgrim groans under a burden of blue devils a plunge into the pool washes away the load, and man comes forth brighter, better, and happier. The forced seclusion of the country clogs the brain, deadens the intellect, and makes man's heart heavy as lead." "You have the blues, Mannis! Why, I supposed you never felt a care except when a candidate for the people's suffrages." "But there is greater cause, my friend," and Mannis's voice assumed a tone of sadness. "When a man sees the dearest object of his life before him, yet, like Tantalus, putting forth his hand to grasp it, it recedes, he is unhappy." "I cannot understand you, Mannis," said the Senator. "You speak in parables; be more explicit." "Were I married and quietly settled in life, I should be happy; but the only woman I ever loved I fear will never be mine. Your daughter, my friend, could make me supremely content." Senator Hamblin looked into the face of his companion and replied: "It would gratify me much if your hopes could be realized. Cheer up and do not look so despondent. My daughter has been terribly grieved by the tragic death of her lover, but time will heal her wound. Be patient awhile longer." "Ah, my friend, you can easily say that, but could I have the hope that at some future time she would be mine, I should indeed be happy. Urge her to receive my attentions. Tell her of my affectionate regard for her, and if she gives encouragement let me know. Here is a card containing my New York address. One word from you, and I will be here as soon as steam can convey me." He arose to depart, and Senator Hamblin, warmly grasping his hand, said: "Good-by, Mannis! Keep up a good heart and all may yet be well." The door closing behind him, Mannis passed into the street, and said to himself: "Pretty well played, Mannis, my dear boy. If the old man would only give me his ducats his pretty daughter might cry her eyes out if she wished." An hour later he was on the train bound for New York. CHAPTER XXX. THE ATTEMPTED SUICIDE. Over a year had elapsed since the supposed death of George Alden. During that time Senator Hamblin had become not only changed in manner, habits, and disposition, but lines indicative of approaching age had appeared upon his brow and features. Instead of forgetting his responsibility for the supposed death of George Alden, he steadily reproached himself for his villainy. His daughter carried her load of sorrow until it almost broke her heart. Losing all interest in worldly matters, despondency eclipsed the brilliancy and self-will that had always been characteristic of her. Fannie Alden passed many hours with her, although resisting the persistent efforts of Senator Hamblin, his wife, and daughter to induce her to become an inmate of the mansion. She was a cheering comforter, for having arrived at an age where she could look back upon many sad and unhappy hours, she had become nerved to bear affliction with better grace than the young wife. The inroads of grief upon Belle's health caused much alarm, her friends fearing she would not survive the shock. Her father, watching the gradual decline, and knowing he was the cause of all her trouble, lost all desire for public advancement. The efforts of his political friends to arouse and make him renew his canvass for the gubernatorial nomination proved futile. Attributing his physical condition to overwork and excitement, his business associates, ignorant of the true cause, urged him to temporarily lay aside all care and seek rest. His financial ruin appeared more imminent than before, and as the crisis seemed close at hand, peace of mind was impossible. Still believing Mannis a rich man, and seeing no other way to extricate himself from financial embarrassment, he secretly hoped to induce Belle to become the young Congressman's wife. His critical situation had been sedulously kept from his wife and daughter, but he now realized it could not be a secret much longer. Renewing his notes often, and asking friends for re-endorsements, he began to be questioned. He passed many hours in his private office trying to devise a way out of his difficulties, but all without success. Since Sargent had become cashier of the bank, Senator Hamblin knew his situation must be known to at least one man, yet the cashier never uttered a word on the subject. Aware that the president was using the funds of the institution, Sargent cared not so long as the directors possessed such confidence in the presiding officer that they never looked into the affairs of the bank. The president was in full command, so the cashier never talked. When fully convinced that the calamity could not be averted, Senator Hamblin determined to inform his wife and daughter of his condition. Belle's gradually declining health alarmed him, and he made himself believe that if prevailed upon to marry she might be spared. One day, upon leaving the dinner-table, he requested the presence of both ladies in his private room, and when they were seated he said: "What I have to say will undoubtedly surprise you both. For many years, enjoying the station money gives, we have been called the wealthiest family in the county. For a long time everything I touched turned to gold, and you, my dear wife and daughter, have never known lack of luxuries. Freely giving to charity, my means have been devoted toward the advancement of the community. Foolishly believing there was no end to my success, in an evil moment I stepped aside from legitimate business, and entered the political arena. I now curse the day the temptation of power and station in public life allured me from my path, for that prize once grasped only leads one farther away from friends. It is the old, old story, yet man never considers the nine hundred and ninety-nine engulfed in the maelstrom, without believing that he can be the thousandth man to overcome all obstacles and attain the desires of his heart. What fatal error!" "Husband, what do you mean?" Mrs. Hamblin asked. Pausing a moment to overcome his emotion, the Senator continued: "Engrossed in public affairs, I have forgotten my duty to you both, and spent thousands of dollars to gratify my ambition. I have neglected vast business interests and suffered heavy losses. I have been blind--yes, mad! Now I must pay the penalty. Oh, pity me, help me! For a year past the torments of hell have been mine, and to-day--oh, I can hardly speak the words--to-day I am--am bankrupt." "Bankrupt!" exclaimed both women, rising. "Yes, I have said it; bankrupt! Oh, I knew it would surprise you. No one else knows of it. The world calls me a millionaire, but my estate and business would not pay my debts." "Darius," quietly but feelingly spoke Mrs. Hamblin, "why have you kept us in ignorance of this? We could have helped you instead of increasing your burden." "I know it; but I have been a coward, walking about for a year vainly hoping a miracle would extricate me. My poor child's troubled face constantly before me, and my remorse at the crime of sending off her husband, have almost made me take my own life. My daily actions have been a lie, and the time is not far distant when I must be branded a villain--for all men failing are so called." "Papa," said Belle, gently putting her arms about his neck, "I can do something to help you, and will get well for your sake. I have nothing to live for but you, dear mamma, and brother Geordie--all else that my heart yearns for lies in yonder graveyard. Fannie Alden supports herself, and why cannot I?" "My dear daughter, I little deserve this from you, whom I have caused so much misery. Had it not been for my wife and children, I should not have hesitated crossing the border of eternity; but meditating such an act, the faces of my loved ones rising before me seemed to say: 'Would you leave us to bear the disgrace alone?' My heart has been full of secret woe, and now public humiliation and disgrace must be added." Hiding his face, for a few moments emotion overwhelmed him, and it required the combined efforts of wife and daughter to calm his agitation. For a long time he talked of his condition. He told the two women every detail of his affairs, sorrowfully confessing his own responsibility in the matter; but withholding, of course, his part in the conspiracy against George Alden. "I have done it," he said. "No one is to blame but myself. Had I turned a deaf ear to fame, I should not now be standing on the verge of bankruptcy." "Is there no way to extricate yourself?" asked his wife. "I fear not, for I owe large sums of borrowed money which must be paid. People with funds lying idle have forced their hard-earned savings upon me. With unbounded credit I can raise large sums of money, but that cancer, interest, is eating the vitals of my principal. I have much real estate--enough, in fact, if advantageously disposed of, to relieve me; but what will a forced sale return? Had I another fortune to assist, I could prevent the impending disaster, and, in time, extricate myself from my present dilemma." "Is there not a way to do what you mention?" asked Belle. "There might be--but no--" he said, suddenly checking himself, "no--not now--I cannot hope for that." He spoke hesitatingly, as if revolving in his mind a method whereby he could receive help. His companions noticing this, Belle said: "Be frank with us, and if there is any possible way to assist you, let us know; perhaps we can advise you." Gazing intently upon his daughter, he replied: "Yes, there is one way out of this dilemma, and only one. But do not ask me now, for I cannot expect aid in that direction--no, it would be asking too much of my loved one." "Tell us to what you refer; if in our power to assist, the danger might be averted." Like a drowning man catching at straws, he seemed to be filled with hope of rescue; hesitating a moment, he said: "You, my daughter, can save me." The bewildered girl started with surprise. "I can save you? How?" "By becoming the wife of Walter Mannis." The unexpected words went with crushing effect to the daughter's heart, causing her to sink into a chair. Choking spasmodically for a moment, she regained her feet, and replied: "Marry him? No, I would die, beg, or even starve, before becoming his wife. Oh, you know not what you ask." The look of partial joy that had gathered upon the Senator's face was followed by one of deep despair. He became very pale, and clasping both hands across his head, sighed heavily. "No, that was too much to expect. I cannot blame you, Belle; but all is lost. We will say no more about it now. Let the crisis come; and we must take the consequences, be they what they may," and imprinting a kiss upon the foreheads of both wife and daughter, he left the room. Belle, greatly agitated, when alone with her mother indulged in a paroxysm of tears. Sadly grieved at her father's distress, his wish that she should marry Walter Mannis almost overpowered her, for, believing Mannis indirectly to blame for the death of her husband, the mention of his name by her father seemed almost a crime. "To think that papa desires me to marry him!" she said. "Were I to comply, his victim would rise from the grave to haunt me. I wish I could prevent the calamity. Poor papa! He is greatly overcome, and I fear his failure will kill him. But marriage--and with Mannis--oh!" In the mean time Senator Hamblin, entering his own apartment, threw himself into a chair, and muttered, "Lost--all is lost! Ruin irretrievable confronts me. The last hope is gone. I cannot blame Belle. The poor girl has greater cause than she knows for refusing to marry Mannis, but the act would have saved me. I cannot remain to face the disgrace of failure. It is only a step across the chasm, and I will take it." Taking his pen he wrote hastily the following letter: "MY DEAR WIFE AND DAUGHTER: Forgive and pity your poor distracted husband and father. I am lost; financial ruin cannot be averted. When this meets your eyes, I shall have solved the problem of eternity. Deeply wronging you both, I have also the death of my daughter's husband to account for before the throne of God. I cannot longer bear the burden laid upon me by my mad and insatiable ambition. I charge you both to caution my boy against following in the footsteps of his father. Politics and ambition have held out tempting promises to me, which have never been fulfilled. I have used honorable public positions for my own selfish ends. Instead of assisting at making this the best government in the world of nations, my efforts have been joined with men laboring to attain place and emolument by overthrowing honesty. By precept and example I have done my share in making my country the reverse of that intended by its founders. Educate my boy to rise above the demoralizing ways of modern politicians. Impress upon his mind the necessity of joining with better men than his father in establishing this republic upon a foundation that will assure its perpetuity. Make him understand that politics should only be avoided when it leads men to seek company that destroys self-respect and corrupts honest purpose. Have him understand that 'nothing is right in politics that is wrong in any other field of life.' I lay great stress on this now, because I feel my duty in this direction has been sinfully neglected. "Poor Belle! Had I been mindful of your happiness, you would not have been a victim to my mad ambition. The house and grounds were deeded to you, my wife, several years since for your maintenance and that of your children. You must not part with the property without securing a price commensurate with its value. Think of me occasionally, and remember me as the loving companion and father I was before I became infatuated with the demon who has ruined so many. "Farewell forever. "YOUR DISTRACTED HUSBAND AND FATHER." Enclosing the letter in an envelope, he addressed it "To my Wife and Daughter," and placed it where it would be seen. With a sad face he then proceeded to arrange his papers and carefully prepare a schedule containing a full inventory of his indebtedness. Then he arose, and taking a hasty survey of the room, said: "Farewell to all my sorrows and happiness!" Then he left the house, going toward the barn. Passing through the yard where Geordie was at play, he went to him, and putting his arms about the little fellow, said: "My son, always be a good boy and obey your mother and sister." As he kissed him Geordie said: "Yes, Papa; I will try and be good to them, and to you too." Senator Hamblin entered the barn, and looking about saw he was alone. Taking a knife from his pocket and cutting a piece from a coil of rope upon the floor, he fastened it to a beam overhead, and placing a box underneath measured the length necessary to reach his neck. Falling upon his knees he poured forth his voice to God in prayer. Yes, for the first time in many years, Senator Hamblin prayed. But the act did not seem to do him any good, for when he had finished he mounted the box, and adjusted the rope about his neck; his face was overspread with the pallor of death and his eyes were suffused with tears. "God forgive me," he said, and as he kicked away the box it went crashing through the window near him. The noise reaching the ears of Geordie, in an instant the boy stood in the doorway. One glance toward the writhing form suspended in mid-air, and the little fellow ran with lightning speed toward the house, meeting his mother and sister coming toward him. "Papa! quick! in the barn!" he exclaimed. Mother and daughter, not waiting for further information, flew wildly in the direction indicated, and entering the barn, both paused as if paralyzed, Mrs. Hamblin catching the door for support. Belle quickly ran and, seizing the quivering body in her arms, cried to her mother: "Quick! quick! Cut the rope, for he is not dead." Mrs. Hamblin, pulling the knife from the beam where her husband had placed it, a quick stroke severed the rope, and the limp form fell to the floor. Movements of hands and limbs showed that life still remained, and the two women quickly began the work of restoring consciousness. After five minutes they observed signs of returning life. Soon the Senator opened his eyes, and seeing the women bending over him, he said: "Why, why did you do this? I care not to live." Half an hour later he lay upon the bed in his own room, his wife and daughter standing over him, administering to his comfort, for he was utterly prostrated. "Why, oh, why did you cross my purpose?" he said. "I am lost. Belle destroyed my last hope. But I do not blame her." His daughter, engaged bathing his temples, said: "Oh, Papa, do you wish to leave us?" "No! but I cannot remain and face this disgrace. No! I must go, I must go unless, unless--" He hesitated. "Unless what?" quickly interrupted Belle. "Unless you save me by marrying Walter Mannis," he said. Belle, looking into his pale face and blood-shot eyes, fully realized his broken-down condition. Finding that there was but one hope of saving his life, a deep sigh escaped her, and she gasped: "Well--I--I--I will sacrifice myself--I will--marry Mr. Mannis," and she fell fainting across the form of her father. CHAPTER XXXI. A REVELATION. The excitement over the "Three Boys" mine called many adventurers to the vicinity. Capitalists came in great numbers, and the three lucky owners were the lions of the hour. The fame of the new mine extending far away, the leading journals of the land were filled with graphic accounts of the bonanza. The owners described, men wondered who they really were, as no knowledge of whence they came could be obtained. They gave their names as George Howard, Ralph Waters, and Frank Bentley, and that was all the curious ones could learn about them. Already, the partners had ordered improved machinery needed to work the mines. The wealth of the "Three Boys" was computed at several millions, and of course the owners were abundantly able to borrow all the funds necessary to assist them in developing their prize. Men came forward, offering to advance all the money required and take stock in the mine, but the shrewd owners thought best to hold aloof from any connection with others. George Howard's thorough knowledge of banking was valuable in assisting them to obtain money from banks, so they were independent of any aid others could afford, and all the pressure of outsiders to be allowed an interest was unavailing. George Howard, under his assumed name, was the same methodical and honorable man as when in the bank at Cleverdale. He was the head of the firm in all financial matters; his advice always resulted in the concern's advantage. His embrowned and healthy face covered with a handsome beard, and his eyes sparkling with all the vivacity of yore, the impression that his frank, straight-forward manner made upon all with whom he associated was always favorable. He was thoroughly relied upon by his companions, and when indulging in moments of despondency they labored earnestly to restore him to good nature. A perfect gentleman, a refined and cultivated spirit, and, withal, one versed so well in business matters, they wondered why he had become an adventurer in the wilds of Colorado. Many times the two conversed together concerning their partner, yet no suspicion of wrong on his part ever entered their mind. It was decided between them that a love affair and blasted affections had sent George Howard out into the world to seek his fortune and open a new book of life. They were satisfied to accept this explanation, and their companion rose in their respect as they did so. One day a stranger appeared at the new mine, and asked many questions. He claimed to represent a wealthy banking-house in Chicago, and it was not long before George Howard was perfectly satisfied that the gentleman was all he represented himself to be. After forming the acquaintance of the three partners, the stranger unfolded the object of his visit, which was nothing less than to purchase the claim or induce the owners to open negotiations with a view to forming a stock company. Painting a glowing picture of the advantage to be gained by the latter plan, he assured the firm they could realize a fortune at once. George Howard, not in favor of the latter plan, was not averse to selling the mine, providing the purchasers would pay enough. Although not a jockey at a trade, he was shrewd enough to know the firm owned wealth such as he had never dreamed of possessing. While assuring Mr. James of the firm's disinclination to enter into a speculation, he would confer with his companions with a view to selling their claim. And the result of the consultation was the decision to sell the mine. Mr. James requesting time to consult by mail with his partners, a week afterward a letter from the bankers asked an interview with the owners of the mine at Chicago, and three days later the four men were on their way. For two days after their arrival the banking-house labored to induce the miners to form a stock company, but, after exhausting their powers of persuasion without avail, the firm finally offered three million dollars for the mine. The offer was accepted, the sale soon effected, and the young men, with a million dollars each, were happy. George Alden, _alias_ Howard, sat alone in his room at a hotel, and said to himself: "What a change since my first visit here, one year and a half ago! Then I was broken down in health and full of sorrow. Time has wrought many changes in me, for to-day I am strong in both body and mind, and possess a fortune of a million dollars. But with this money I cannot obtain the happiness I desire. My wife's cruel letter, that nearly killed me, recurs to my mind many times a day. What shall I do? I am a millionaire, but cannot return to Cleverdale to be spurned by her as if I were a thief! No, I will go and see the good Mrs. Nash, tell her the story of my life, and then seek a foreign clime, and in travel try to drive the one great sorrow from my heart. Oh, Belle, my darling wife, how happy we might be! Your proud father would not scorn me now on account of financial standing. I will go this day to see Mrs. Nash, remain with the good woman a short time, and see that her future is made more comfortable." Two hours later the three partners separated, Waters and Bentley taking trains for their destination, while George Howard went directly to the residence of Mrs. Nash. The good woman at first did not recognize him, as he stood before her in the little parlor of her home, but after closely scanning his face her delight was unbounded. She had heard of his prosperity, but when informed of his selling his interest in the mine for one million dollars, she could scarcely realize the truth of the assertion. "One million dollars!" she exclaimed. "The day of miracles has returned to us." That day Alden told the motherly woman his story. He told her of his childhood; his struggle to obtain an education; his career as salesman in a store; and his appointment as teller in the bank. He told of the happy weeks at Lake George, where he met the love of his heart, and then related the opposition of her father. As he proceeded, Mrs. Nash became much interested. He spoke of his adventure in the burning factory, describing his injuries and sufferings. He told of his long illness, and the secret marriage, and when he described the happy days following, he could scarcely control his emotion. He told of the parting between his wife and himself; the false accusations against his honor, his weak condition causing him to flee from home and friends, and then he related the particulars of his flight and the cruel letter. Suddenly Mrs. Nash arose excitedly, and asked: "What is your rightful name?" "Alden--George Alden." "George Alden? And was Cleverdale the place you fled from?" "Yes; but you are agitated; what--what is it?" "There has been a great mistake somewhere. You are mourned as dead." "My God! Mrs. Nash, what do you mean?" exclaimed George. "_I_ mourned as dead?" "Yes, wait here a moment. I have a paper containing full particulars. Your poor wife could never have written that letter. But I will get the paper." A moment later she returned. Greatly excited, Alden seized the newspaper, which bore date of a year and a half previous. His eyes fell upon a marked article, which read as follows: "A SAD TRAGEDY. [From the Cleverdale, N. Y., _Investigator_.] "We are called upon to chronicle one of the saddest tragedies that ever occurred in this locality. The facts of the case are as follows: Last fall the Cleverdale Woollen Mill was destroyed by fire, and one of the bravest and noblest acts of the age was performed by George Alden, cashier of the Cleverdale National Bank. The immense factory employed seven hundred men, women, and children, and, as the flames burst forth, one hundred and fifty persons on the third floor were cut off from escape, except by the way of two doors only reached by running a gauntlet of fire. Poor Alden succeeded in relieving the captives, but his bravery nearly cost him his life; for several months he languished on a bed of suffering, and approached the door of eternity. Kind attention and skilful treatment brought him up, but the sad catastrophe left him weak in mind and body. His lifeless form was found on Friday last, in Reynolds Grove, a bullet-hole in the brain and a pistol lying at the side of the unfortunate man telling too plainly of his death by suicide." George Alden paused a moment to calm his agitation, and then proceeded: "The body was horribly decomposed, the face being unrecognizable, the clothing alone proving the identity of the poor fellow. "It was a sad ending of a noble life, and never did a community mourn for one of its citizens as the people of Cleverdale mourn for poor George Alden. Two women in this affliction are entitled to our deepest sympathy. His sister has lost the companion of her life, while the beautiful daughter of Senator Hamblin is utterly prostrated by the sad event. George Alden was an estimable young man, and the love and respect of the whole community was shown when all business was suspended to allow a public demonstration of sorrow at the grave of Cleverdale's hero." Alden dropped the paper and exclaimed, "Oh, my poor wife! how I have wronged you! But who are the villains who have done this? I have been the victim of a wicked conspiracy. To-night I will leave for Cleverdale. I must go at once, for I have deeply wronged my wife. But perhaps she is dead! Oh no, she _must_ be alive, and her father will not turn me off now." Making immediate preparations to leave Chicago, he presented his kind friend with a generous sum of money, promising to write her on his arrival at Cleverdale. That night he was on a train bound for the East. He remembered how full of sorrow he was when he arrived in the city, eighteen months previous. Now he was returning to his home and kindred, unconscious of the events going forward at Cleverdale to rob him of his wife. His first thought was to telegraph his friends, informing them of his coming, but he finally concluded to hasten on and verify his existence in the flesh by his own person and with his own lips. CHAPTER XXXII. THE WANDERER'S RETURN. The day after his attempted suicide, Senator Hamblin, holding an interview with his daughter, again deceived her, saying that Mannis, fully cognizant of his financial embarrassment, offered to assist him when she became his wife. Belle exacted a promise from her father that he would inform Mannis of her marriage with George Alden, and that her heart could never be another's. If Mannis wished her to become his wife after knowing all, she would be ready to make the sacrifice to save her father. For several days after this conversation, Belle, almost frantic with grief, remained in her own private apartment. Consenting to wed a man whom she believed indirectly responsible for her unhappiness, her condition became pitiable, and she moaned and sobbed continually. "If I could only die and be laid beside my husband in yonder cemetery!" she said. "I fear I shall lose my reason, for this awful sacrifice I am about to make will break my heart. I cannot love another, much less this man who drove my poor sick husband into his grave. Is there no other way to avert the calamity awaiting Papa?" "No, my child," replied her mother. "I fear not. You have promised to sacrifice yourself upon the altar of duty, to save your father. You have always been a brave girl, and you must rouse yourself from this despondency. You must be calm, or your health--yes, perhaps your life will pay the penalty." "Oh, why did Papa allow himself to be led into this difficulty? God pity us all!" Her mother was with her day and night, while Fannie Alden came often, and to her Belle related all her trials. She did not withhold the fact of her father's financial troubles from her sister-in-law; she even told of the attempted suicide, which greatly shocked Fannie, for the affair had been kept from the knowledge of the public. In words accompanied by sobs, Belle related her promise to wed Walter Mannis in order to save her father from ruin, and then she gave way to an outburst of tears. Fannie mingled her tears with those of the distracted girl, but said: "Belle, my dear sister, your duty is plain. Poor George cannot return. You are young, and time may temper the roughness of that which now seems so hard and cruel. Oh, it is hard that fate decrees this sacrifice, but the ways of Providence are mysterious and past comprehension. You will, at least, occupy a position of honor, for Mr. Mannis is a rising man in the world, and many will envy you." "Envy me! It seems criminal to wed such a man! He was the evil genius that followed my dear husband; indirectly, he sent George into eternity." Thus she reasoned, and instead of becoming reconciled to her fate, grieved day and night. Senator Hamblin at first felt a return of happiness. After recovering from the shock of his attempted suicide he seemed much changed, and began to look upon life as possessing more attractions. He desired to live, and tried to believe the marriage of his daughter would prolong her days; but when he saw her rapidly sink under her load of grief his gloominess returned. He thought the calamity of failure indefinitely postponed, but when he beheld the cost he reproached himself. He had deceived his child, for he was well aware her sense of honor would not permit her to marry Mannis and be a party to deceit. This thought troubled him so greatly, his former distraction of mind returned. "Could I restore George Alden," he said, "I would face the disgrace of financial ruin instead of continuing this deception. Her affections are buried in the grave on yonder hillside, and I am afraid she will hardly live to become the wife of Mannis." He visited her daily, and once sitting at her bedside, where she almost constantly remained, he said: "Belle, my daughter, would that I could extricate myself from this dilemma at a less cost than the sacrifice of your health." "Papa, I am a poor weak girl, and Mr. Mannis must take my hand without my heart. It is all I can give. But as he understands it, I am ready for the sacrifice; and if it will be the means of saving you from disgrace I shall be repaid." Senator Hamblin felt guilty at his deception in not informing Mannis, as he had promised; for, writing of his daughter's consent, he simply referred to the girl's low spirits and failing health. Mannis was prepared for this information, and in his reply pretended to be affected by her suffering, and expressed much sympathy for her. He closed by informing his expectant father-in-law of his intention to visit Cleverdale the following week, when all preliminaries could be arranged for the consummation of his long-deferred wish. One week later Mannis arrived. Senator Hamblin took him directly to his home, when an interview between Belle and himself was arranged. As the poor girl's affianced husband met her he took her cold hand in his, raised it to his lips, and said: "It is long since we met, but you have ever been present in my mind." With great coldness and formality she replied: "I have seen much trouble since then." "I know it, and my heartfelt sympathy has ever been yours. Your decision to become my wife has brought unspeakable joy to my heart. Ah! Miss Belle, when you are mine we will seek other scenes, and drive away the dark clouds of gloom surrounding you. Your pale cheeks shall bloom again, believe me." The interview was of short duration, Belle acting mechanically in all her movements. She was like one in a trance, and Mannis noticed a great change in her since the day he was her father's guest at Lake George, nearly three years previous. He had seen her only twice since the sad event of little Willie's death. As he expressed his desire for an early marriage, the day was appointed for a month later. Mannis remained, dining with Senator Hamblin. But Belle, overcome by the interview, retired to her room, and neither mother nor daughter appeared at the table. The engagement of Hon. Walter Mannis and Miss Belle Hamblin was soon the theme of general conversation. "Society papers" recorded it, and long, glowing descriptions of the contracting parties were printed. Mannis was spoken of as one of the leading men in the State, while the beauty of Miss Hamblin was extolled in rapturous terms of praise. While the public congratulated the honorable gentleman and his beautiful _fiancée_ on their engagement, there was one sad-hearted maiden who secretly mourned the inconstancy of man. Poor Mary Harris received the announcement as if it were a poisoned arrow. She had trusted him with all the simplicity of innocence, and she was unable to cast him out of her heart, even after being assured of his treachery. In solitude she shed many tears, but never did she impart the secret of her trouble to any one. A motherless girl, her father's eyes had not been as watchful of her as of his farm duties. He knew Mannis was a visitor at the farm-house, but never imagined that the attentions paid his daughter were more than that of any other neighbor. The poor girl, knowing well her father's disposition, withheld her secret, lest Mannis should be called upon to pay the debt with his life. So she had suffered and borne her load in silence, fondly hoping the man she loved would eventually keep his promise, and save her from disgrace. Preparations for the marriage commencing, dressmakers came, and Belle submitted herself to their manipulations. As she was unable to shed tears, the anxiety of her mother was greatly increased. Belle had met Mannis several times, but the interviews were never of long duration, the expectant bride acting like the bride of death. Mannis tried to rouse her, but she remained cold, listless, and resigned, like a lamb being prepared for slaughter. Her beautiful eyes occasionally sparkled, but all the old intelligence had been succeeded by a languid and almost meaningless look. This state of affairs could not be kept from the outside world. The dressmakers saw her condition, and of course they talked--dressmakers always do. Then Dame Rumor said the girl was slowly dying. Some attributed her decline to the death of George Alden, even accusing Belle of treating the cashier in such a manner as to make him take his own life and cause her to suffer the pangs of remorse. Another class made her the victim of a father's determination that his daughter should marry against her will; while others mercifully believed she was merely dying of quick consumption. The wedding ceremony was to be very private, the bride's health not admitting of excitement. Mannis, somewhat disappointed, as he desired a brilliant wedding, yielded to the wishes of his betrothed. The evening before the wedding he called at the Hamblin mansion, and held an interview with Belle, remaining for an hour. When leaving he took Belle's hand in his own, and before she was aware of his intention he drew her toward him, and imprinted his first kiss upon her brow. Belle gave a spasmodic scream, placed both hands over her heart, and drew back suddenly as if bitten by a serpent. "What is the matter, Belle?" inquired Mannis, greatly alarmed. "My heart is bursting! Oh, leave me, please, for the present. It is only a momentary pain. To-morrow I will be well and cheerful. Yes, I will overflow with joy. Go--go, now!" Noting the singular appearance of her face, Mannis was startled, for he saw that Belle appeared as if unconscious of her actions. Hastily leaving the room and going directly to the apartment of Mrs. Hamblin, he said: "Belle is not well. Please go to her." Mrs. Hamblin was quickly with her daughter, whom she found lying upon the sofa, shedding the first tears that had passed her eyelids for many days. "Oh, mother!" she sobbed, "his lips touched my forehead, and I the wife of George Alden." An hour later she was sleeping. As she roamed about dreamland, she passed through many familiar scenes. She paused at a little cottage, where she remained, enjoying many happy hours with her husband. As she took her departure, Walter Mannis suddenly appeared before her, and with one sweep of his hand dashed the little cottage and its beloved occupant to pieces. She shrieked and started to run, when, stretching forth his hand, he caught her by the waist, and as he placed his lips against her forehead sharp needles entered her quivering heart, causing her to cry with pain. The fright awakened her, and she could sleep no more for a long time. The day appointed for the wedding was a gloomy one. The sky was hidden by dark clouds; rain fell during the whole day, the weather being a reflex of the hearts of all within the Hamblin mansion. Even little Geordie felt the gloom in his young heart, and wondered why a wedding-day was so sad. The ceremony was to be witnessed only by relatives of the contracting parties. Belle's face was placid, but sad resignation to her fate beaming peacefully from her beautiful eyes, she was more like an angel than a bride. While being dressed in travelling costume for the ceremony she was passive as a doll in the hands of her mother and maid, seeming to have lost all interest in everything about her, except her kind mother, to whom she spoke often of the future, and of saving her father from disgrace. As the hour approached when she was to be made the wife of Walter Mannis, many tokens of affection were received from friends in the way of bridal presents. "Take them away," she said. "They are but wreaths for a tomb." At seven o'clock, Mrs. Hamblin entered the room, informing her daughter the bridegroom awaited her. Tears sprang to Belle's eyes as she pressed her lips warmly against a photograph of George Alden. A moment later she stood in the parlor beside Walter Mannis. The officiating clergyman had just finished a prayer, and commenced the ceremony by taking the icy hand of the bride and placing it in that of Mannis, and was about to pronounce the words making the twain one, when the door was hastily thrown open, and a handsome, black-bearded man stood in the presence of the bridal party. "I forbid this marriage!" he exclaimed. "The woman has a living husband." There was astonishment on the faces of all present. Belle was the first to recognize the intruder. Throwing up her arms, she wildly cried: "George--my husband! Thank--" and fell fainting in the arms of George Alden. Senator Hamblin stared at the man before him as if transfixed. Mrs. Hamblin, Fannie Alden, the clergyman and all others present were like statues, still and immovable. But Mannis, having looked once at the stranger, fled hastily from the house. CHAPTER XXXIII. RETRIBUTIVE JUSTICE. Mannis, reaching the street, was wild with excitement. "Curse the luck! Why didn't the fellow keep away from Cleverdale? I am lost!" Overcome by his feelings, he entered the Cleverdale Hotel, and ordering a team was soon on his homeward way, while thoughts of inevitable failure and exposure coursed through his mind. The fugitive's return and the revelation made greatly astonished him, yet he had no doubt but that Alden and Belle were really man and wife. Reaching the old Manor at ten o'clock, he was soon in his room, where he gave way to his feelings. "I am a doomed man; my race is about run. What a fool I have been! To-morrow the world will learn of this beautiful little tableau at Hamblin's, and I shall be the butt of all jokes. But, pshaw! what do I care for that? Other things will make the neighborhood too warm for me. I must leave here, and at once." Walking the room, gloom gathered upon his brow as he realized the desperate game he had been playing. Suddenly his gaze fell upon a letter lying upon his writing-table, the superscription being in the delicate handwriting of Mary Harris. With trembling hands he tore off the envelope, and read as follows: "DEAR WALTER: When you read this, my body will be lying in the pond, back of your house, and my soul before its Maker." "Great God!" he exclaimed, "I have killed her! Poor girl! poor girl!" After partially calming himself, he continued reading the letter. "When the hour of your wedding arrives, death will be my bridegroom. I have loved you with all the affection of my heart, and I forgive the wrong you have done me. God spare your life. Tears fall so fast I can scarcely see the paper before me or even hold my pen. Think occasionally of poor Mary. I cannot live and face the disgrace that will be mine. God bless and forgive you. "MARY HARRIS." Dropping the letter, he staggered and fell upon the sofa, utterly overcome. For a few moments he moaned in anguish, but soon rousing himself he arose and said: "I must overcome this nervousness, and drown these thoughts with brandy--not with water, as poor Mary did hers." He hastily quaffed a glass of liquor, and the color returned to his face. Then he spoke rapidly to himself. "I must go! The suicide of Mary Harris being discovered, her father will seek my life. Alden has returned. Now I must be the fugitive." During the night he wrote several letters, rising at intervals and pacing the room in great agitation. Occasionally lying down, he tried to drive distracting thoughts from his mind, but sleep refused to respond to his summons. Toward morning he packed a trunk and valise, intending to take them with him. Daylight arriving and the household astir, Mrs. Culver was amazed at hearing him moving about in his room. Going to his door she rapped, and being admitted expressed much surprise at his presence in the house. He only said the wedding had been postponed, but as the good woman observed the ghastly expression upon the face of her master, she knew something had occurred which he did not wish to divulge. Mannis partook of a light breakfast, and at nine o'clock, his trunk and valise having been placed in the carriage, he bade Mrs. Culver good-by, and said: "I may be absent a fortnight." As he stepped into the carriage, farmer Harris, bareheaded, with his face full of rage, suddenly appeared before him, and, pulling a pistol from his pocket, said: "You miserable wretch, prepare to die! My poor daughter's body lies in yonder house, and you are her murderer. May the devil take your soul!" There was a flash, followed by a sharp report, and the "Honorable" Walter Mannis fell back in his carriage. Mary Harris was avenged, as far as the death of a deliberate villain can avenge the destruction of a pure woman's life. CHAPTER XXXIV. THE CLEVERDALE MYSTERY. After Mannis fled so precipitately from the parlor of the Hamblin mansion, George Alden was the first to break the silence. "Friends!" he exclaimed, "I am George Alden, whom you have supposed dead. A great wrong or mistake has made me its victim, and the body lying in yonder cemetery is that of a stranger." Then, covering the face of his wife with kisses, he moved forward, and deposited the insensible form of Belle on the sofa, when Fannie Alden sprang quickly toward him, and hysterically embraced him, exclaiming: "Yes, it is indeed my brother! Oh, what happiness!" The fright occasioned by the sudden appearance of the supposed dead man having been dispelled by Alden's words, all except members of the family withdrew. In a few moments the efforts at restoration were successful; Belle opened her eyes, and said: "Was it a dream?" Beholding the form kneeling beside her, feeling the warm breath on her face, and seeing the loving eyes looking into her own, she cried: "No--no--it is true. Oh, George, my husband, is it indeed you?" "Yes, Belle, and I have returned never to leave you again." Her joy was accompanied by hysterics, and she sobbed and laughed alternately, her arms encircling the neck of her husband. "You must not leave me--oh, it still seems like a dream--but where is he? Had I married him? Oh, it is horrible!" and she closed her eyes, as if to hide the memory of the scene. "But yourself, George?" she continued; "tell us where you have been all these long, long, weary months." "Calm yourself, Belle. Be satisfied that we are reunited. My story is a long one, and after you recover from this excitement you shall know all." Senator Hamblin, although greatly bewildered, was thoroughly convinced that George Alden really stood before him. When the apparition burst so suddenly upon him, he reeled, and for a time nearly lost his senses, but when he saw his daughter clasped in the arms of the intruder, and heard the words that fell from her lips, fright was superseded by surprise. His heart was filled with both fear and joy; the former overwhelming him as he thought of his responsibility for all the trouble of the past two years; yet joy taking possession of him when he beheld alive the man of whose death he had believed himself the immediate cause. When he had fully regained his composure, he grasped George Alden's hand, and said: "Forgive me; I have deeply wronged you!" He stooped as if about to fall upon his knees, but Alden said: "No, no--not that, sir! Say nothing about those matters at present. Surely this joy should wipe out all scores between you and me." News of the return of George Alden, who had been mourned as dead, quickly spread through the community, and Cleverdale could scarcely credit the news. The hotels, stores, and street corners were scenes of excitement; men of all classes discussed the event, and the return of George Alden caused even greater wonder than his disappearance. When the news reached Sargent, he exclaimed, "Alden returned? Thunder and Mars! I must skip out of this at once. Wonder what has become of Mannis? Well, it is every one for himself in this deal. Good-by, old Cleverdale! good-by! Perhaps I'll see you later." An hour afterward, Sargent was on a western-bound train, and the community was rid of its worst villain. The following morning all arose early at the Hamblin mansion; Belle would not allow her husband to leave her side even for an instant, and for the first time in many months joy and happiness were visible in her eyes. Fannie Alden had remained at the mansion, and, all anxious to hear the wanderer's story, an hour later the family assembled in the parlor to listen to the remarkable revelation. "Before George commences his story," said Senator Hamblin, "I must remove a crushing load from my own heart." He then related every detail of the part he had acted in the conspiracy, taking upon himself all the odium belonging to him. He gave such a pitiful description of his terrible sufferings of mind and remorse of conscience, that all present were deeply affected. The proud man was truly humbled; his penitence, for once, was not assumed. Fully exonerating his son-in-law from the charge against his integrity, he took from his pocket two envelopes, and placed the intercepted letters in the hand of George Alden. "I am a guilty wretch," he said, "and deserve all the execration you can heap upon my head. To save myself, I even urged my daughter to marry Walter Mannis, after all the suffering I had caused her. I have been an unnatural father. Despise me--all of you--for I deserve it." He was utterly prostrated, and Belle, leaving the side of her husband, threw her arms about his neck, and said: "Papa, it is all over now; let us bury the past. Cheer up; George has returned, and will forgive and assist you." "I agree with Belle," said George. "You have had your share of suffering; let us try to forget the past, and keep our secret from the outside world. Your financial matters need not distress you further, for my fortune is ample to help us all. But the body in yonder cemetery--what can you tell us about that?" "Nothing, for I was the victim of that deception. Ah, there has been a deeper game played than I expected." Senator Hamblin's revelation surprised all present, but no more so than a telegram that was suddenly brought in. It read as follows: "HAVELOCK, ---- "SENATOR HAMBLIN: Benjamin Harris shot and killed Walter Mannis this morning. The body of Harris's daughter was found in the mill-pond, and a letter left by the unfortunate girl charged Mannis with being her betrayer." "What a narrow escape was mine!" exclaimed Belle. The Senator's eyes sought the floor; Alden's arm encircled Belle. Then the young husband related his story, beginning at the time of the terrible accusation and telling every occurrence up to the time of his departure from Chicago for Cleverdale. "Never did a train move so slowly as the one that bore me on my homeward journey," said he. "I dared not send a telegram--being ignorant of matters here; but as the cars neared Cleverdale two men, seating themselves directly behind me, began to talk, and from their conversation I learned a wedding was to take place that evening. When the names of the contracting parties were mentioned, my brain whirled, and for a moment reason seemed about to leave me. Then, as they spoke of the mystery and sadness enveloping the whole affair, and the deep sorrow occasioned by my supposed death, I learned of the suffering that my precious wife had experienced. In a few moments, the train stopping at Cleverdale, I alighted, and looking at my watch saw that the hour appointed for the ceremony was only five minutes later. Jumping into a carriage, I gave the driver a gold piece to drive his best. The rest you know." "How you have suffered!" said Belle. "Yes, we have all suffered. But now let the curtain drop upon the past. Whatever the outside world may think, the secrets of this drama must remain locked in the hearts of those present." The narrations concluded, Senator Hamblin was apprised of Sargent's flight, but the information did not disturb him; he merely said: "Another character gone whose presence here is not desired." George Alden was warmly greeted by his old friends, his first appearance at the bank being the occasion for a spontaneous levée. Many crowded in and warmly grasped his hand; for it is not every day that one can shake hands with a man who is hero, dead-alive, and millionaire all in one. The mystery surrounding the whole affair gave Cleverdale abundant opportunity for gossip. The secret marriage; the flight of George Alden; the mysterious body found in Reynolds Grove; the contemplated marriage of Belle with Walter Mannis; the prostration of the expectant bride; the wedding-party; the abrupt return of the supposed dead, and the good fortune of the latter; the sudden disappearance of Sargent, and the withdrawal of Senator Hamblin from politics, were events that stirred the gossiping clubs of Cleverdale as they never had been before. The body which had played a leading part in this story was disinterred and buried in another place. After recovering from the excitement, George Alden held an interview with his father-in-law, and arranged to pay all his indebtedness. Senator Hamblin was to withdraw permanently from politics and retain his position as president of the bank. The astonishment of the ex-Senator was great when the financial affairs of the late Hon. Walter Mannis were shown up and that individual proved a bankrupt. The forged names of several well-known men were found on notes which Mannis had used in city banks, and among this forged paper the name of Senator Hamblin was discovered. Belle's health being already much improved, it was thought a journey would be beneficial; and as she was desirous of seeing Mrs. Nash, a visit to Chicago was arranged, where the young couple spent several happy days. While guests of the kind woman, the wayward son returned, and there was gladness in the mother's heart when she learned that her boy had become a better man. Belle's health returned; the roses again bloomed on her cheeks, and her eyes flashed with their old-time brilliancy. Then an invitation brought George Alden's late partners to Cleverdale, and a happy reunion took place between the "Three Boys," as they were called in Colorado. Plans were at once made for a residence on the grounds adjoining the Hamblin homestead, and a few months later a substantial and commodious residence was occupied by Mr. and Mrs. George Alden; a suite of rooms being prepared expressly for Fannie Alden. Mrs. Hamblin saw with gladness the happiness of her children, and reoccupying the old place in her husband's affection, her joy was complete. Later on, George Alden entered into a copartnership with others, the Cleverdale Woollen Mill was rebuilt, and the old company's great manufactory again rattled and clattered through the busy days, to the substantial delight of many who owed their lives, in a double sense, to Alden's manliness. Time passed on, and excitement over the events of this story gradually subsided, but to this day many conjectures are indulged in, for the gossips never got at the heart of the story, and no one has yet been able to solve THE CLEVERDALE MYSTERY. CHAPTER XXXV. EPILOGUE--THE MACHINE AND ITS WHEELS. The political incidents of this story, taken from actual life, reflect the evils of our national system. The great political machine has many cranks, and the scheming of office-seekers, the manipulations of the caucus and convention, and the tactics resorted to on election day by wire-pullers and leaders are not exaggerations. Every public man will recognize Senator Hamblin, Ex-Assemblyman Daley, Hon. Walter Mannis, Cyrus Hart Miller, Paddy Sullivan, Editor Rawlings, and "honest" farmer Johnson, as wheels belonging to the great machine. Senator Hamblin, ambitious, rich, bold, possessing natural gifts of oratory, is a wheel with almost absolute power. The rising generation, looking upon such men with admiration, strive to emulate their example. Cyrus Hart Miller, bold, unscrupulous, and aggressive, is another wheel--one that moves "the boys" at caucus and on election day. Paddy Sullivan presides over the "gin palace," and men gathering at the bar worship spirits in decanter and keg, while imbibing political opinions. In American politics the power of such wheels is very great, and no machine is complete without them. While it requires many wheels to work the machine, some are large, some small, but all are dangerous. Men becoming infatuated with politics, the desire to hold office leads them from paths of rectitude. They lose their hold on legitimate business, and grasping for the bubble fame, go headlong to destruction. One man may succeed in reaching the summit of his ambition, but it is by climbing over the ruins of the nine hundred and ninety-nine fallen on the highway. The fight for spoils develops bad passions, creates schisms in parties. Faction fights in both political organizations are so full of bitterness and so empty of principle that they disgust the honest voters; yet the latter with their preponderant majority seem to be powerless to overthrow the politicians. One large wheel seems to have power to turn scores of little wheels in the great machine. The dangers of the system have lately been exemplified in a tragedy that plunged the nation into sorrow; but while we mourn the death of a chief magistrate the politicians still continue to propel the machine. It is not to be supposed that all men engaged in political work or inspired by political ambition are bad men. On the contrary, there are thousands who are honest and honorable; politics is not only the privilege but the duty of every American citizen, and every inducement should be held out to the youth of the generations of to-day to go into politics with all the strength of their manhood. But the difficulty--as every intelligent man knows--is that caucuses and conventions and election work are left almost entirely to those who seek not patriotism but pelf; and the aim of this story is to show the natural tendency and actual results of the system as it exists to-day--to try and make it so plain that men may realize its vileness, and so to add another ounce to the weight of infamy that "the Machine" has to carry, hoping that the accumulation may at last beat it down. No partisan end is in view; it will puzzle the most expert politician to say which of the two great political parties in our land is aimed at--or rather, which is _not_ aimed at. We all live in glass houses and cannot afford to throw stones at each other. On the other hand--to change the figure--it is sometimes wholesome to "see oursels as ithers see us"--or would see us if they could get a fair inside view. It's not a pretty picture; more's the pity. Let us try to better the original. While the author has endeavored to briefly sketch the workings of the system, he leaves to others the task of correcting the evils resulting from "_The Machine and its Wheels_." Transcriber's Note: Although most printer's errors have been retained, some have been silently corrected. Spelling and punctuation, capitalization, accents hyphens and formatting markup have been normalized and include the following: Line 4572: wassilent is now was silent Line 5171: dress-makers is now dressmakers Line 7145: "Were I to [inserted missing "] Line 7392: your rightful name?" [changed ' to "] 
28820	----	Counsel for the Defense By Leroy Scott Author of "The Shears of Destiny," "To Him That Hath," "The Walking Delegate" Frontispiece by Charles M. Chapman GARDEN CITY NEW YORK DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 1912 _Copyright, 1911, 1912, by_ LEROY SCOTT _All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages, including the Scandinavian_ [Illustration: "THRILLING WITH AN UNEXPECTED HOPE, KATHERINE ROSE AND TRIED TO KEEP HERSELF BEFORE THE EYES OF DOCTOR SHERMAN LIKE AN ACCUSING CONSCIENCE"] TO HELEN PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS KATHERINE WEST. DR. DAVID WEST, her father. ARNOLD BRUCE, editor of the _Express_. HARRISON BLAKE, ex-lieutenant-governor. MRS. BLAKE, his mother. "BLIND CHARLIE" PECK, a political boss. HOSEA HOLLINGSWORTH, an old attorney. BILLY HARPER, reporter on the _Express_. THE REVEREND DR. SHERMAN, of the Wabash Avenue Church. MRS. SHERMAN, his wife. MRS. RACHEL GRAY, Katherine's aunt. ROGER KENNEDY, prosecuting attorney. JUDGE KELLOG. MR. BROWN, of the National Electric & Water Company. MR. MANNING, a detective. ELIJAH STONE, a detective. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. Westville Prepares to Celebrate 3 II. The Bubble Reputation 15 III. Katherine Comes Home 30 IV. Doctor West's Lawyer 49 V. Katherine Prepares for Battle 63 VI. The Lady Lawyer 80 VII. The Mask Falls 98 VIII. The Editor of the _Express_ 116 IX. The Price of a Man 131 X. Sunset at The Sycamores 146 XI. The Trial 158 XII. Opportunity Knocks at Bruce's Door 172 XIII. The Deserter 191 XIV. The Night Watch 212 XV. Politics Make Strange Bedfellows 226 XVI. Through The Storm 240 XVII. The Cup of Bliss 250 XVIII. The Candidate and the Tiger 264 XIX. When Greek Meets Greek 276 XX. A Spectre Comes to Town 295 XXI. Bruce to the Front 311 XXII. The Last Stand 328 XXIII. At Elsie's Bedside 346 XXIV. Billy Harper Writes a Story 368 XXV. Katherine Faces the Enemy 388 XXVI. An Idol's Fall 403 XXVII. The End of The Beginning 418 COUNSEL FOR THE DEFENSE CHAPTER I WESTVILLE PREPARES TO CELEBRATE The room was thick with dust and draped with ancient cobwebs. In one corner dismally reposed a literary junk heap--old magazines, broken-backed works of reference, novels once unanimously read but now unanimously forgotten. The desk was a helter-skelter of papers. One of the two chairs had its burst cane seat mended by an atlas of the world; and wherever any of the floor peered dimly through the general débris it showed a complexion of dark and ineradicable greasiness. Altogether, it was a room hopelessly unfit for human habitation; which is perhaps but an indirect manner of stating that it was the office of the editor of a successful newspaper. Before a typewriter at a small table sat a bare-armed, solitary man. He was twenty-eight or thirty, abundantly endowed with bone and muscle, and with a face----But not to soil this early page with abusive terms, it will be sufficient to remark that whatever the Divine Sculptor had carved his countenance to portray, plainly there had been no thought of re-beautifying the earth with an Apollo. He was constructed not for grace, but powerful, tireless action; and there was something absurdly disproportionate between the small machine and the broad and hairy hands which so heavily belaboured its ladylike keys. It was a custom with Bruce to write the big local news story of the day himself, a feature that had proved a stimulant to his paper's circulation and prestige. To-morrow was to be one of the proudest days of Westville's history, for to-morrow was the formal opening of the city's greatest municipal enterprise, its thoroughly modern water-works; and it was an extensive and vivid account of the next day's programme that the editor was pounding so rapidly out of his machine for that afternoon's issue of the _Express_. Now and then, as he paused an instant to shape an effective sentence in his mind, he glanced through the open window beside him across Main Street to where, against the front of the old Court House, a group of shirt-sleeved workmen were hanging their country's colours about a speakers' stand; then his big, blunt fingers thumped swiftly on. He had jerked out the final sheet, and had begun to revise his story, making corrections with a very black pencil and in a very large hand, when there sauntered in from the general editorial room a pale, slight young man of twenty-five. The newcomer had a reckless air, a humorous twist to the left corner of his mouth, and a negligent smartness in his dress which plainly had its origin elsewhere than in Westville. The editor did not raise his eyes. "In a minute, Billy," he said shortly. "Nothing to hurry about, Arn," drawled the other. The young fellow drew forward the atlas-bottomed chair, leisurely enthroned himself upon the nations of the earth, crossed his feet upon the window-sill, and lit a cigarette. About his lounging form there was a latent energy like that of a relaxed cat. He gazed rather languidly over at the Square, its sides abustle with excited preparation. Across the fronts of stores bunting was being tacked; from upper windows crisp cotton flags were being unscrolled. As for the Court House yard itself, to-day its elm-shaded spaces were lifeless save for the workmen about the stand, a litigant or two going up the walk, and an occasional frock-coated lawyer, his vest democratically unbuttoned to the warm May air. But to-morrow---- The young fellow had turned his head slowly toward the editor's copy, and, as though reading, he began in an emotional, declamatory voice: "To-morrow the classic shades of Court House Square will teem with a tumultuous throng. In the emblazoned speakers' stand the Westville Brass Band, in their new uniforms, glittering like so many grand marshals of the empire, will trumpet forth triumphant music fit to burst; and aloft from this breeze-fluttered throne of oratory----" "Go to hell!" interrupted Bruce, eyes still racing through his copy. "And down from this breeze-fluttered throne of oratory," continued Billy, with a rising quaver in his voice, "Mr. Harrison Blake, Westville's favourite son; the Reverend Doctor Sherman, president of the Voters' Union, and the Honourable Hiram Cogshell, Calloway County's able-bodiest orator, will pour forth prodigal and perfervid eloquence upon the populace below. And Dr. David West, he who has directed this magnificent work from its birth unto the present, he who has laid upon the sacred altar of his city's welfare a matchless devotion and a lifetime's store of scientific knowledge, he who----" "See here, young fellow!" The editor slammed down the last sheet of his revised story, and turned upon his assistant a square, bony, aggressive face that gave a sense of having been modelled by a clinched fist, and of still glowering at the blow. He had gray eyes that gleamed dogmatically from behind thick glasses, and hair that brush could not subdue. "See here, Billy Harper, will you please go to hell!" "Sure; follow you anywhere, Arn," returned Billy pleasantly, holding out his cigarette case. "You little Chicago alley cat, you!" growled Bruce. He took a cigarette, broke it open and poured the tobacco into a black pipe, which he lit. "Well--turn up anything?" "Governor can't come," replied the reporter, lighting a fresh cigarette. "Hard luck. But we'll have the crowd anyhow. Blake tell you anything else?" "He didn't tell me that. His stenographer did; she'd opened the Governor's telegram. Blake's in Indianapolis to-day--looking after his chances for the Senate, I suppose." "See Doctor West?" "Went to his house first. But as usual he wouldn't say a thing. That old boy is certainly the mildest mannered hero of the day I ever went up against. The way he does dodge the spot-light!--it's enough to make one of your prima donna politicians die of heart failure. To do a great piece of work, and then be as modest about it as he is--well, Arn, I sure am for that old doc!" "Huh!" grunted the editor. "When it comes time to hang the laurel wreath upon his brow to-morrow I'll bet you and your spavined old Arrangements Committee will have to push him on to the stand by the scruff of his neck." "Did you get him to promise to sit for a new picture?" "Yes. And you ought to raise me ten a week for doing it. He didn't want his picture printed; and if we did print it, he thought that prehistoric thing of the eighties we've got was good enough." "Well, be sure you get that photo, if you have to use chloroform. I saw him go into the Court House a little while ago. Better catch him as he comes out and lead him over to Dodson's gallery." "All right." The young fellow recrossed his feet upon the window-sill. "But, Arn," he drawled, "this certainly is a slow old burg you've dragged me down into. If one of your leading citizens wants to catch the seven-thirty to Indianapolis to-morrow morning, I suppose he sets his alarm to go off day before yesterday." "What's soured on your stomach now?" demanded the editor. "Oh, the way it took this suburb of Nowhere thirty years to wake up to Doctor West! Every time I see him I feel sore for hours afterward at how this darned place has treated the old boy. If your six-cylinder, sixty-horse power, seven-passenger tongues hadn't remembered that his grandfather had founded Westville, I bet you'd have talked him out of the town long ago." "The town didn't understand him." "I should say it didn't!" agreed the reporter. "And I guess you don't understand the town," said the editor, a little sharply. "Young man, you've never lived in a small place." "Till this, Chicago was my smallest--the gods be praised!" "Well, it's the same in your old smokestack of the universe as it is here!" retorted Bruce. "If you go after the dollar, you're sane. If you don't, you're cracked. Doctor West started off like a winner, so they say; looked like he was going to get a corner on all the patients of Westville. Then, when he stopped practising----" "You never told me what made him stop." "His wife's death--from typhoid; I barely remember that. When he stopped practising and began his scientific work, the town thought he'd lost his head." "And yet two years ago the town was glad enough to get him to take charge of installing its new water system!" "That's how it discovered he was somebody. When the city began to look around for an expert, it found no one they could get had a tenth of his knowledge of water supply." "That's the way with your self-worshipping cross-roads towns! You raise a genius--laugh at him, pity his family--till you learn how the outside world respects him. Then--hurrah! Strike up the band, boys! When I think how that old party has been quietly studying typhoid fever and water supply all these years, with you bunch of hayseeds looking down on him as a crank--I get so blamed sore at the place that I wish I'd chucked your letter into the waste-basket when you wrote me to come!" "It may have been a dub of a town, Billy, but it'll be the best place in Indiana before we get through with it," returned the editor confidently. "But whom else did you see?" "Ran into the Honourable Hiram Cogshell on Main Street, and he slipped me this precious gem." Billy handed Bruce a packet of typewritten sheets. "Carbon of his to-morrow's speech. He gave it to me, he said, to save us the trouble of taking it down. The Honourable Hiram is certainly one citizen who'll never go broke buying himself a bushel to hide his light under!" The editor glanced at a page or two of it with wearied irritation, then tossed it back. "Guess we'll have to print it. But weed out some of his flowers of rhetoric." "Pressed flowers," amended Billy. "Swipe the Honourable Hiram's copy of 'Bartlett's Quotations' and that tremendous orator would have nothing left but his gestures." "How about the grand jury, Billy?" pursued the editor. "Anything doing there?" "Farmer down in Buck Creek Township indicted for kidnapping his neighbour's pigs," drawled the reporter. "Infants snatched away while fond mother slept. Very pathetic. Also that second-story man was indicted that stole Alderman Big Bill Perkins's clothes. Remember it, don't you? Big Bill's clothes had so much diameter that the poor, hard-working thief couldn't sell the fruits of his industry. Pathos there also. Guess I can spin the two out for a column." "Spin 'em out for about three lines," returned Bruce in his abrupt manner. "No room for your funny stuff to-day, Billy; the celebration crowds everything else out. Write that about the Governor, and then help Stevens with the telegraph--and see that it's carved down to the bone." He picked up the typewritten sheets he had finished revising, and let out a sharp growl of "Copy!" "That's your celebration story, isn't it?" asked the reporter. "Yes." And Bruce held it out to the "devil" who had appeared through the doorway from the depths below. "Wait a bit with it, Arn. The prosecuting attorney stopped me as I was leaving, and asked me to have you step over to the Court House for a minute." "What's Kennedy want?" "Something about the celebration, he said. I guess he wants to talk with you about some further details of the programme." "Why the deuce didn't he come over here then?" growled Bruce. "I'm as busy as he is!" "He said he couldn't leave." "Couldn't leave?" said Bruce, with a snap of his heavy jaw. "Well, neither can I!" "You mean you won't go?" "That's what I mean! I'll go to the very gates of hell to get a good piece of news, but when it comes to general affairs the politicians, business men, and the etceteras of this town have got to understand that there's just as much reason for their coming to me as for my going to them. I'm as important as any of them." "So-ho, we're on our high horse, are we?" "You bet we are, my son! And that's where you've got to be if you want this town to respect you." "All right. She's a great nag, if you can keep your saddle. But I guess I'd better tell Kennedy you're not coming." Without rising, Billy leaned back and took up Bruce's desk telephone, and soon was talking to the prosecuting attorney. After a moment he held out the instrument to the editor. "Kennedy wants to speak with you," he said. Bruce took the 'phone. "Hello, that you Kennedy?... No, I can't come--too busy. Suppose you run over here.... Got some people there? Well, bring 'em along.... Why can't they come? Who are they?... Can't you tell me what the situation is?... All right, then; in a couple of minutes." Bruce hung up the receiver and arose. "So you're going after all?" asked Billy. "Guess I'd better," returned the editor, putting on his coat and hat. "Kennedy says something big has just broken loose. Sounds queer. Wonder what the dickens it can be." And he started out. "But how about your celebration story?" queried Billy. "Want it to go down?" Bruce looked at his watch. "Two hours till press time; I guess it can wait." And taking the story back from the boy he tossed it upon his desk. He stepped out into the local room, which showed the same kindly tolerance of dirt as did his private office. At a long table two young men sat before typewriters, and in a corner a third young man was taking the clicking dictation of a telegraph sounder. "Remember, boys, keep everything but the celebration down to bones!" Bruce called out. And with that he passed out of the office and down the stairway to the street. CHAPTER II THE BUBBLE REPUTATION Despite its thirty thousand population--"Forty thousand, and growing, sir!" loyally declared those disinterested citizens engaged in the sale of remote fields of ragweed as building lots--Westville was still but half-evolved from its earlier state of an overgrown country town. It was as yet semi-pastoral, semi-urban. Automobiles and farm wagons locked hubs in brotherly embrace upon its highways; cowhide boots and patent leather shared its sidewalks. There was a stockbroker's office that was thoroughly metropolitan in the facilities it afforded the élite for relieving themselves of the tribulation of riches; and adjoining it was Simpson Brothers & Company, wherein hick'ry-shirted gentlemen bartered for threshing machines, hayrakes, axle grease, and such like baubles of Arcadian pastime. There were three topics on which one could always start an argument in Westville--politics, religion, and the editor of the _Express_. A year before Arnold Bruce, who had left Westville at eighteen and whom the town had vaguely heard of as a newspaper man in Chicago and New York but whom it had not seen since, had returned home and taken charge of the _Express_, which had been willed him by the late editor, his uncle. The _Express_, which had been a slippered, dozing, senile sheet under old Jimmie Bruce, burst suddenly into a volcanic youth. The new editor used huge, vociferous headlines instead of the mere whispering, timorous types of his uncle; he wrote a rousing, rough-and-ready English; occasionally he placed an important editorial, set up in heavy-faced type and enclosed in a black border, in the very centre of his first page; and from the very start he had had the hardihood to attack the "established order" at several points and to preach unorthodox political doctrines. The wealthiest citizens were outraged, and hotly denounced Bruce as a "yellow journalist" and a "red-mouthed demagogue." It was commonly held by the better element that his ultra-democracy was merely a mask, a pose, an advertising scheme, to gather in the gullible subscriber and to force himself sensationally into the public eye. But despite all hostile criticism of the paper, people read the _Express_--many staid ones surreptitiously--for it had a snap, a go, a tang, that at times almost took the breath. And despite the estimate of its editor as a charlatan, the people had yielded to that aggressive personage a rank of high importance in their midst. Bruce stepped forth from his stairway, crossed Main Street, and strode up the shady Court House walk. On the left side of the walk, a-tiptoe in an arid fountain, was poised a gracious nymph of cast-iron, so chastely garbed as to bring to the cheek of elderly innocence no faintest flush. On the walk's right side stood a rigid statue, suggesting tetanus in the model, of the city's founder, Col. Davy West, wearing a coonskin cap and leaning with conscious dignity upon a long deer rifle. Bruce entered the dingy Court House, mounted a foot-worn wooden stairway, browned with the ambrosial extract of two generations of tobacco-chewing litigants, and passed into a damp and gloomy chamber. This room was the office of the prosecuting attorney of Calloway County. That the incumbent might not become too depressed by his environment, the walls were cheered up by a steel engraving of Daniel Webster, frowning with multitudinous thought, and by a crackled map of Indiana--the latter dotted by industrious flies with myriad nameless cities. Three men arose from about the flat-topped desk in the centre of the room, the prosecutor, the Reverend Doctor Sherman, and a rather smartly dressed man whom Bruce remembered to have seen once or twice but whom he did not know. With the first two the editor shook hands, and the third was introduced to him as Mr. Marcy, the agent of the Acme Filter Company, which had installed the filtering plant of the new water-works. Bruce turned in his brusque manner to the prosecuting attorney. "What's the matter?" he asked. "Suppose we all sit down first," suggested the prosecutor. They did so, and Kennedy regarded Bruce with a solemn, weighty stare. He was a lank, lantern-jawed, frock-coated gentleman of thirty-five, with an upward rolling forelock and an Adam's-apple that throbbed in his throat like a petrified pulse. He was climbing the political ladder, and he was carefully schooling himself into that dignity and poise and appearance of importance which should distinguish the deportment of the public man. "Well, what is it?" demanded Bruce shortly. "About the water-works?" "Yes," responded Kennedy. "The water-works, Mr. Bruce, is, I hardly need say, a source of pride to us all. To you especially it has had a large significance. You have made it a theme for a continuous agitation in your paper. You have argued and urged that, since the city's new water-works promised to be such a great success, Westville should not halt with this one municipal enterprise, but should refuse the new franchise the street railway company is going to apply for, take over the railway, run it as a municipal----" "Yes, yes," interrupted Bruce impatiently. "But who's dead? Who wants the line of march changed to go by his grocery store?" "What I was saying was merely to recall how very important the water-works has been to us," the prosecutor returned, with increased solemnity. He paused, and having gained that heightened stage effect of a well-managed silence, he continued: "Mr. Bruce, something very serious has occurred." For all its ostentation the prosecutor's manner was genuinely impressive. Bruce looked quickly at the other two men. The agent was ill at ease, the minister pale and agitated. "Come," cried Bruce, "out with what you've got to tell me!" "It is a matter of the very first importance," returned the prosecutor, who was posing for a prominent place in the _Express's_ account of this affair--for however much the public men of Westville affected to look down upon the _Express_, they secretly preferred its superior presentment of their doings. "Doctor Sherman, in his capacity of president of the Voters' Union, has just brought before me some most distressing, most astounding evidence. It is evidence upon which I must act both as a public official and as a member of the Arrangements Committee, and evidence which concerns you both as a committeeman and as an editor. It is painful to me to break----" "Let's have it from first hands," interrupted Bruce, irritated by the verbal excelsior which the prosecutor so deliberately unwrapped from about his fact. He turned to the minister, a slender man of hardly more than thirty, with a high brow, the wide, sensitive mouth of the born orator, fervently bright eyes, and the pallor of the devoted student--a face that instantly explained why, though so young, he was Westville's most popular divine. "What's it about, Doctor Sherman?" the editor asked. "Who's the man?" There was no posing here for Bruce's typewriter. The minister's concern was deep and sincere. "About the water-works, as Mr. Kennedy has said," he answered in a voice that trembled with agitation. "There has been some--some crooked work." "Crooked work?" ejaculated the editor, staring at the minister. "Crooked work?" "Yes." "You are certain of what you say?" "Yes." "Then you have evidence?" "I am sorry--but--but I have." The editor was leaning forward, his nostrils dilated, his eyes gleaming sharply behind their thick glasses. "Who's mixed up in it? Who's the man?" The minister's hands were tightly interlocked. For an instant he seemed unable to speak. "Who's the man?" repeated Bruce. The minister swallowed. "Doctor West," he said. Bruce sprang up. "Doctor West?" he cried. "The superintendent of the water-works?" "Yes." If the editor's concern for the city's welfare was merely a political and business pose, if he was merely an actor, at least he acted his part well. "My God!" he breathed, and stood with eyes fixed upon the young minister. Then suddenly he sat down again, his thick brows drew together, and his heavy jaws set. "Let's have the whole story," he snapped out. "From the very beginning." "I cannot tell you how distressed I am by what I have just been forced to do," began the young clergyman. "I have always esteemed Doctor West most highly, and my wife and his daughter have been the closest friends since girlhood. To make my part in this affair clear, I must recall to you that of late the chief attention of the Voters' Union has naturally been devoted to the water-works. I never imagined that anything was wrong. But, speaking frankly, after the event, I must say that Doctor West's position was such as made it a simple matter for him to defraud the city should he so desire." "You mean because the council invested him with so much authority?" demanded Bruce. "Yes. As I have said, I regarded Doctor West above all suspicion. But a short time ago some matters--I need not detail them--aroused in me the fear that Doctor West was using his office for--for----" "For graft?" supplied Bruce. The minister inclined his head. "Later, only a few weeks ago, a more definite fear came to me," he continued in his low, pained voice. "It happens that I have known Mr. Marcy here for years; we were friends in college, though we had lost track of one another till his business brought him here. A few small circumstances--my suspicion was already on the alert--made me guess that Mr. Marcy was about to give Doctor West a bribe for having awarded the filter contract to his company. I got Mr. Marcy alone--taxed him with his intention--worked upon his conscience----" "Mr. Marcy has stated," the prosecutor interrupted to explain, "that Doctor Sherman always had great influence over him." Mr. Marcy corroborated this with a nod. "At length Mr. Marcy confessed," Doctor Sherman went on. "He had arranged to give Doctor West a certain sum of money immediately after the filtering plant had been approved and payment had been made to the company. After this confession I hesitated long upon what I should do. On the one hand, I shrank from disgracing Doctor West. On the other, I had a duty to the city. After a long struggle I decided that my responsibility to the people of Westville should overbalance any feeling I might have for any single individual." "That was the only decision," said Bruce. "Go on!" "But at the same time, to protect Doctor West's reputation, I decided to take no one into my plan; should his integrity reassert itself at the last moment and cause him to refuse the bribe, the whole matter would then remain locked up in my heart. I arranged with Mr. Marcy that he should carry out his agreement with Doctor West. Day before yesterday, as you know, the council, on Doctor West's recommendation, formally approved the filtering plant, and yesterday a draft was sent to the company. Mr. Marcy was to call at Doctor West's home this morning to conclude their secret bargain. Just before the appointed hour I dropped in on Doctor West, and was there when Mr. Marcy called. I said I would wait to finish my talk with Doctor West till they were through their business, took a book, and went into an adjoining room. I could see the two men through the partly opened door. After some talk, Mr. Marcy drew an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Doctor West, saying in a low voice, 'Here is that money we spoke about.'" "And he took it?" Bruce interrupted. "Doctor West slipped the envelope unopened into his pocket, and replied, 'Thank you very much; it will come in very handy just now.'" "My God!" breathed the editor. "Though I had suspected Doctor West, I sat there stunned," the minister continued. "But after a minute or two I slipped out by another door. I returned with a policeman, and found Doctor West still with Mr. Marcy. The policeman arrested Doctor West, and found the envelope upon his person. In it was two thousand dollars." "Now, what do you think of that?" Kennedy demanded of the editor. "Won't the town be thunderstruck!" Bruce turned to the agent, who had sat through the recital, a mere corroborative presence. "And this is all true?" "That is exactly the way it happened," replied Mr. Marcy. Bruce looked back at the minister. "But didn't he have anything to say for himself?" "I can answer that," put in Kennedy. "I had him in here before I sent him over to the jail. He admits practically every point that Doctor Sherman has made. The only thing he says for himself is that he never thought the money Mr. Marcy gave him was intended for a bribe." Bruce stood up, his face hard and glowering, and his fist crashed explosively down upon the table. "Of all the damned flimsy defenses that ever a man made, that's the limit!" "It certainly won't go down with the people of Westville," commented the prosecutor. "And I can see the smile of the jury when he produces that defense in court." "I should say they would smile!" cried Bruce. "But what was his motive?" "That's plain enough," answered the prosecutor. "We both know, Mr. Bruce, that he has earned hardly anything from the practice of medicine since we were boys. His salary as superintendent of the water-works was much less than he has been spending. His property is mortgaged practically to its full value. Everything has gone on those experiments of his. It's simply a case of a man being in a tight fix for money." Bruce was striding up and down the room, scowling and staring fiercely at the worn linoleum that carpeted the prosecutor's office. "I thought you'd take it rather hard," said Kennedy, a little slyly. "It sort of puts a spoke in that general municipal ownership scheme of yours--eh?" Bruce paused belligerently before the prosecutor. "See here, Kennedy," he snapped out. "Because a man you've banked on is a crook, does that prove a principle is wrong?" "Oh, I guess not," Kennedy had to admit. "Well, suppose you cut out that kind of talk then. But what are you going to do about the doctor?" "The grand jury is in session. I'm going straight before it with the evidence. An hour from now and Doctor West will be indicted." "And what about to-morrow's show?" "What do you think we ought to do?" "What ought we to do!" Again the editor's fist crashed upon the desk. "The celebration was half in Doctor West's honour. Do we want to meet and hurrah for the man that sold us out? As for the water-works, it looks as if, for all we know, he might have bought us a lot of old junk. Do we want to hold a jubilee over a junk pile? You ask what we ought to do. God, man, there's only one thing to do, and that's to call the whole damned performance off!" "That's my opinion," said the prosecutor. "What do you think, Doctor Sherman?" The young minister wiped his pale face. "It's a most miserable affair. I'm sick because of the part I've been forced to play--I'm sorry for Doctor West--and I'm particularly sorry for his daughter--but I do not see that any other course would be possible." "I suppose we ought to consult Mr. Blake," said Kennedy. "He's not in town," returned Bruce. "And we don't need to consult him. We three are a majority of the committee. The matter has to be settled at once. And it's settled all right!" The editor jerked out his watch, glanced at it, then reached for his hat. "I'll have this on the street in an hour--and if this town doesn't go wild, then I don't know Westville!" He was making for the door, when the newspaper man in him recalled a new detail of his story. He turned back. "How about this daughter of Doctor West?" he asked. The prosecutor looked at the minister. "Was she coming home for the celebration, do you know?" "Yes. She wrote Mrs. Sherman she was leaving New York this morning and would get in here to-morrow on the Limited." "What's she like?" asked Bruce. "Haven't you seen her?" asked Kennedy. "She hasn't been home since I came back to Westville. When I left here she was a tomboy--mostly legs and freckles." The prosecutor's lean face crinkled with a smile. "I guess you'll find she's grown right smart since then. She went to one of those colleges back East; Vassar, I think it was. She got hold of some of those new-fangled ideas the women in the East are crazy over now--about going out in the world for themselves, and----" "Idiots--all of them!" snapped Bruce. "After she graduated, she studied law. When she was back home two years ago she asked me what chance a woman would have to practise law in Westville. A woman lawyer in Westville--oh, Lord!" The prosecutor leaned back and laughed at the excruciating humour of the idea. "Oh, I know the kind!" Bruce's lips curled with contempt. "Loud-voiced--aggressive--bony--perfect frights." "Let me suggest," put in Doctor Sherman, "that Miss West does not belong in that classification." "Yes, I guess you're a little wrong about Katherine West," smiled Kennedy. Bruce waved his hand peremptorily. "They're all the same! But what's she doing in New York? Practising law?" "No. She's working for an organization something like Doctor Sherman's--The Municipal League, I think she called it." "Huh!" grunted Bruce. "Well, whatever she's like, it's a pretty mess she's coming back into!" With that the editor pulled his hat tightly down upon his forehead and strode out of the Court House and past the speakers' stand, across whose front twin flags were being leisurely festooned. Back in his own office he picked up the story he had finished an hour before. With a sneer he tore it across and trampled it under foot. Then, jerking a chair forward to his typewriter, his brow dark, his jaw set, he began to thump fiercely upon the keys. CHAPTER III KATHERINE COMES HOME Next morning when the Limited slowed down beside the old frame station--a new one of brick was rising across the tracks--a young woman descended from a Pullman at the front of the train. She was lithe and graceful, rather tall and slender, and was dressed with effective simplicity in a blue tailored suit and a tan straw hat with a single blue quill. Her face was flushed, and there glowed an expectant brightness in her brown eyes, as though happiness and affection were upon the point of bubbling over. Standing beside her suit-case, she eagerly scanned the figures about the station. Three or four swagger young drummers had scrambled off the smoker, and these ambassadors of fashion as many hotel bus drivers were inviting with importunate hospitality to honour their respective board and bed. There was the shirt-sleeved figure of Jim Ludlow, ticket agent and tenor of the Presbyterian choir. And leaning cross-legged beneath the station eaves, giving the effect of supporting the low roof, were half a dozen slowly masticating, soberly contemplative gentlemen--loose-jointed caryatides, whose lank sculpture forms the sole and invariable ornamentation of the façades of all Western stations. But nowhere did the young woman's expectant eyes alight upon the person whom they sought. The joyous response to welcome, which had plainly trembled at the tips of her being, subsided, and in disappointment she picked up her bag and was starting for a street car, when up the long, broad platform there came hurrying a short-legged little man, with a bloodshot, watery eye. He paused hesitant at a couple of yards, smiled tentatively, and the remnant of an old glove fumbled the brim of a rumpled, semi-bald object that in its distant youth had probably been a silk hat. The young woman smiled back and held out her hand. "How do you do, Mr. Huggins." "How de do, Miss Katherine," he stammered. "Have you seen father anywhere?" she asked anxiously. "No. Your aunt just sent me word I was to meet you and fetch you home. She couldn't leave Doctor West." "Is father ill?" she cried. The old cabman fumbled his ancient headgear. "No--he ain't--he ain't exactly sick. He's just porely. I guess it's only--only a bad headache." He hastily picked up her suit-case and led her past the sidling admiration of the drummers, those sovereign critics of Western femininity, to the back of the station where stood a tottering surrey and a dingy gray nag, far gone in years, that leaned upon its shafts as though on crutches. Katherine clambered in, and the drooping animal doddered along a street thickly overhung with the exuberant May-green of maples. She gazed with ardent eyes at the familiar frame cottages, in some of which had lived school and high-school friends, sitting comfortably back amid their little squares of close-cropped lawn. She liked New York with that adoptive liking one acquires for the place one chooses from among all others for the passing of one's life; but her affection remained warm and steadfast with this old town of her girlhood. "Oh, but it feels good to be back in Westville again!" she cried to the cabman. "I reckon it must. I guess it's all of two years sence you been home." "Two years, yes. It's going to be a great celebration this afternoon, isn't it?" "Yes'm--very big"--and he hastily struck the ancient steed. "Get-ep there, Jenny!" Mr. Huggins's mare turned off Station Avenue, and Katharine excitedly stared ahead beneath the wide-boughed maples for the first glimpse of her home. At length it came into view--one of those big, square, old-fashioned wooden houses, built with no perceptible architectural idea beyond commodious shelter. She had thought her father might possibly stumble out to greet her, but no one stood waiting at the paling gate. She sprang lightly from the carriage as it drew up beside the curb, and leaving Mr. Huggins to follow with her bag she hurried up the brick-paved path to the house. As she crossed the porch, a slight, gray, Quakerish little lady, with a white kerchief folded across her breast, pushed open the screen door. Her Katherine gathered into her arms and kissed repeatedly. "I'm so glad to see you, auntie!" she cried. "How are you?" "Very well," the old woman answered in a thin, tremulous voice. "How is thee?" "Me? Oh, you know nothing's ever wrong with me!" She laughed in her buoyant young strength. "But you, auntie?" She grew serious. "You look very tired--and very, very worn and worried. But I suppose it's the strain of father's headache--poor father! How is he?" "I--I think he's feeling some better," the old woman faltered. "He's still lying down." They had entered the big, airy sitting-room. Katherine's hat and coat went flying upon the couch. "Now, before I so much as ask you a question, or tell you a thing, Aunt Rachel, I'm going up to see dear old father." She made for the stairway, but her aunt caught her arm in consternation. "Wait, Katherine! Thee musn't see him yet." "Why, what's the matter?" Katherine asked in surprise. "It--it would be better for him if thee didn't disturb him." "But, auntie--you know no one can soothe him as I can when he has a headache!" "But he's asleep just now. He didn't sleep a minute all night." "Then of course I'll wait." Katherine turned back. "Has he suffered much----" She broke off. Her aunt was gazing at her in wide-eyed, helpless misery. "Why--why--what's the matter, auntie?" Her aunt did not answer her. "Tell me! What is it? What's wrong?" Still the old woman did not speak. "Something has happened to father!" cried Katherine. She clutched her aunt's thin shoulders. "Has something happened to father?" The old woman trembled all over, and tears started from her mild eyes. "Yes," she quavered. "But what is it?" Katherine asked frantically. "Is he very sick?" "It's--it's worse than that." "Please! What is it then?" "I haven't the heart to tell thee," she said piteously, and she sank into a chair and covered her face. Katherine caught her arm and fairly shook her in the intensity of her demand. "Tell me! I can't stand this another instant!" "There--there isn't going to be any celebration." "No celebration?" "Yesterday--thy father--was arrested." "Arrested!" "And indicted for accepting a bribe." Katherine shrank back. "Oh!" she whispered. "Oh!" Then her slender body tensed, and her dark eyes flashed fire. "Father accept a bribe! It's a lie! A lie!" "It hardly seems true to me, either." "It's a lie!" repeated Katherine. "But is he--is he locked up?" "They let me go his bail." Again Katherine caught her aunt's arm. "Come--tell me all about it!" "Please don't make me. I--I can't." "But I must know!" "It's in the newspapers--they're on the centre-table." Katherine turned to the table and seized a paper. At sight of the sheet she had picked up, the old woman hurried across to her in dismay. "Don't read that _Express_!" she cried, and she sought to draw the paper from Katherine's hands. "Read the _Clarion_. It's ever so much kinder." But Katherine had already seen the headline that ran across the top of the _Express_. It staggered her. She gasped at the blow, but she held on to the paper. "I'll read the worst they have to say," she said. Her aunt dropped into a chair and covered her eyes to avoid sight of the girl's suffering. The story, in its elements, was a commonplace to Katherine; in her work with the Municipal League she had every few days met with just such a tale as this. But that which is a commonplace when strangers are involved, becomes a tragedy when loved ones are its actors. So, as she read the old, old story, Katherine trembled as with mortal pain. But sickening as was the story in itself, it was made even more agonizing to her by the manner of the _Express's_ telling. Bruce's typewriter had never been more impassioned. The story was in heavy-faced type, the lines two columns wide; and in a "box" in the very centre of the first page was an editorial denouncing Doctor West and demanding for him such severe punishment as would make future traitors forever fear to sell their city. Article and editorial were rousing and vivid, brilliant and bitter--as mercilessly stinging as a salted whip-lash cutting into bare flesh. Katherine writhed with the pain of it. "Oh!" she cried. "It's brutal! Brutal! Who could have had the heart to write like that about father?" "The editor, Arnold Bruce," answered her aunt. "Oh, he's a brute! If I could tell him to his face----" Her whole slender being flamed with anger and hatred, and she crushed the paper in a fierce hand and flung it to the floor. Then, slowly, her face faded to an ashen gray. She steadied herself on the back of a chair and stared in desperate, fearful supplication at the bowed figure of the older woman. "Auntie?" she breathed. "Yes?" "Auntie"--eyes and voice were pleading--"auntie, the--the things--this paper says--they never happened, did they?" The old head nodded. "Oh! oh!" she gasped. She wavered, sank stricken into a chair, and buried her face in her arms. "Poor father!" she moaned brokenly. "Poor father!" There was silence for a moment, then the old woman rose and gently put a hand upon the quivering young shoulder. "Don't, dear! Even if it did happen, I can't believe it. Thy father----" At that moment, overhead, there was a soft noise, as of feet placed upon the floor. Katherine sprang up. "Father!" she breathed. There began a restless, slippered pacing. "Father!" she repeated, and sprang for the stairway and rapidly ran up. At her father's door she paused, hand over her heart. She feared to enter to her father--feared lest she should find his head bowed in acknowledged shame. But she summoned her strength and noiselessly opened the door. It was a large room, a hybrid of bedroom and study, whose drawn shades had dimmed the brilliant morning into twilight. An open side door gave a glimpse of glass jars, bellying retorts and other paraphernalia of the laboratory. Walking down the room was a tall, stooping, white-haired figure in a quilted dressing-gown. He reached the end of the room, turned about, then sighted her in the doorway. "Katherine!" he cried with quavering joy, and started toward her; but he came abruptly to a pause, hesitating, accused man that he was, to make advances. Her sickening fear was for the instant swept away by a rising flood of love. She sprang forward and threw her arms about his neck. "Father!" she sobbed. "Oh, father!" She felt his tears upon her forehead, felt his body quiver, and felt his hand gently stroke her back. "You've heard--then?" he asked, at length. "Yes--from the papers." He held her close, but for a moment did not speak. "It isn't a--a very happy celebration--I've prepared for you." She could only cry convulsively, "Poor father!" "You never dreamt," he quavered, "your old father--could do a thing like this--did you?" She did not answer. She trembled a moment longer on his shoulder; then, slowly and with fear, she lifted her head and gazed into his face. The face was worn--she thrilled with pain to see how sadly worn it was!--but though tear-wet and working with emotion, it met her look with steadiness. It was the same simple, kindly, open face that she had known since childhood. There was a sudden wild leaping within her. She clutched his shoulders, and her voice rang out in joyous conviction: "Father--you are not guilty!" "You believe in me, then?" "You are not guilty!" she cried with mounting joy. He smiled faintly. "Why, of course not, my child." "Oh, father!" And again she caught him in a close embrace. After a moment she leaned back in his arms. "I'm so happy--so happy! Forgive me, daddy dear, that I could doubt you even for a minute." "How could you help it? They say the evidence against me is very strong." "I should have believed you innocent against all the evidence in the world! And I do, and shall--no matter what they may say!" "Bless you, Katherine!" "But come--tell me how it all came about. But, first, let's brighten up the room a little." So great was her relief that her spirits had risen as though some positive blessing had befallen her. She crossed lightly to the big bay window, raised the shades and threw up the sashes. The sunlight slanted down into the room and lay in a dazzling yellow square upon the floor. The soft breeze sighed through the two tall pines without and bore into them the perfumed freshness of the spring. "There now, isn't that better?" she said, smiling brightly. "That's just what your home-coming has done for me," he said gratefully--"let in the sunlight." "Come, come--don't try to turn the head of your offspring with flattery! Now, sir, sit down," and she pointed to a chair at his desk, which stood within the bay window. "First,"--with his gentle smile--"if I may, I'd like to take a look at my daughter." "I suppose a father's wish is a daughter's command," she complained. "So go ahead." He moved to the window, so that the light fell full upon her, and for a long moment gazed into her face. The brow was low and broad. Over the white temples the heavy dark hair waved softly down, to be fastened in a simple knot low upon the neck, showing in its full beauty the rare modelling of her head. The eyes were a rich, warm, luminous brown, fringed with long lashes, and in them lurked all manner of fathomless mysteries. The mouth was soft, yet full and firm--a real mouth, such as Nature bestows upon her real women. It was a face of freshness and youth and humour, and now was tremulous with a smiling, tear-wet tenderness. "I think," said her father, slowly and softly, "that my daughter is very beautiful." "There--enough of your blarney!" She flushed with pleasure, and pressed her fresh cheek against his withered one. "You dear old father, you!" She drew him to his desk, which was strewn with a half-finished manuscript on the typhoid bacillus, and upon which stood a faded photograph of a young woman, near Katherine's years and made in her image, dressed in the tight-fitting "basque" of the early eighties. Westville knew that Doctor West had loved his wife dearly, but the town had never surmised a tenth of the grief that had closed darkly in upon him when typhoid fever had carried her away while her young womanhood was in its freshest bloom. Katherine pressed him down into his chair at the desk, sat down in one beside it, and took his hand. "Now, father, tell me just how things stand." "You know everything already," said he. "Not everything. I know the charges of the other side, and I know your innocence. But I do not know your explanation of the affair." He ran his free hand through his silver hair, and his face grew troubled. "My explanation agrees with what you have read, except that I did not know I was being bribed." "H'm!" Her brow wrinkled thoughtfully and she was silent for a moment. "Suppose we go back to the very beginning, father, and run over the whole affair. Try to remember. In the early stages of negotiations, did the agent say anything to you about money?" He did not speak for a minute or more. "Now that I think it over, he did say something about its being worth my while if his filter was accepted." "That was an overture to bribe you. And what did you say to him?" "I don't remember. You see, at the time, his offer, if it was one, did not make any impression on me. I believe I didn't say anything to him at all." "But you approved his filter?" "Yes." "Mr. Marcy says in the _Express_, and you admit it, that he offered you a bribe. You approved his filter. On the face of it, speaking legally, that looks bad, father." "But how could I honestly keep from approving his filter, when it was the very best on the market for our water?" demanded Doctor West. "Then how did you come to accept that money?" The old man's face cleared. "I can explain that easily. Some time ago the agent said something about the Acme Filter Company wishing to make a little donation to our hospital. I'm one of the directors, you know. So, when he handed me that envelope, I supposed it was the contribution to the hospital--perhaps twenty-five or fifty dollars." "And that is all?" "That's the whole truth. But when I explained the matter to the prosecuting attorney, he just smiled." "I know it's the truth, because you say it." She affectionately patted the hand that she held. "But, again speaking legally, it wouldn't sound very plausible to an outsider. But how do you explain the situation?" "I think the whole affair must be just a mistake." "Possibly. But if so, you'll have to be able to prove it." She thought a space. "Could it be that this is a manufactured charge?" Doctor West's eyes widened with amazement. "Why, of course not! You have forgotten that the man who makes the charge is Mr. Sherman. You surely do not think he would let himself be involved in anything that he did not believe to be in the highest degree honourable?" "I do not know him very well. During the four years he has been here, I have met him only a few times." "But you know what your dearest friend thinks of him." "Yes, I know Elsie considers her husband to be an ecclesiastical Sir Galahad. And I must admit that he has seemed to me the highest type of the modern young minister." "Then you agree with me, that Mr. Sherman is thoroughly honest in this affair? That his only motive is a sense of public duty?" "Yes. I cannot conceive of him knowingly doing a wrong." "That's what has forced me to think it's only just a mistake," said her father. "You may be right." She considered the idea. "But what does your lawyer say?" His pale cheeks flushed. "I have no lawyer," he said slowly. "I see. You were waiting to consult me about whom to retain." He shook his head. "Then you have approached some one?" "I have spoken to Hopkins, and Williams, and Freeman. They all----" He hesitated. "Yes?" "They all said they could not take my case." "Could not take your case!" she cried. "Why not?" "They made different excuses. But their excuses were not their real reason." "And what was that?" The old man flushed yet more painfully. "I guess you do not fully realize the situation, Katherine. I don't need to tell you that a wave of popular feeling against political corruption is sweeping across the country. This is the first big case that has come out in Westville, and the city is stirred up over this as it hasn't been stirred in years. The way the _Express_----You saw the _Express_?" Her hands instinctively clenched. "It was awful! Awful!" "The way the _Express_ has handled it has especially--well, you see----" "You mean those lawyers are afraid to take the case?" Doctor West nodded. Katherine's dark eyes glowed with wrath. "Did you try any one else?" "Mr. Green came to see me. But----" "Of course not! It would kill your case to have a shyster represent you." She gripped his hand, and her voice rang out: "Father, I'm glad those men refused you. We're going to get for you the biggest man, the biggest lawyer, in Westville." "You mean Mr. Blake?" "Yes, Mr. Blake." "I thought of him at first, of course. But I--well, I hesitated to approach him." "Hesitated? Why?" "Well, you see," he stammered, "I remembered about your refusing him, and I felt----" "That would never make any difference to him," she cried. "He's too much of a gentleman. Besides, that was five years ago, and he has forgotten it." "Then you think he'll take the case?" "Of course, he'll take it! He'll take it because he's a big man, and because you need him, and because he's no coward. And with the biggest man in Westville on your side, you'll see how public opinion will right-about face!" She sprang up, aglow with energy. "I'm going to see him this minute! With his help, we'll have this matter cleared up before you know it, and"--smiling lightly--"just you see, daddy, all Westville will be out there in the front yard, tramping over Aunt Rachel's sweet williams, begging to be allowed to come and kiss your hand!" He kissed her own. He rose, and a smile broke through the clouds of his face. "You've been home only an hour, and I feel that a thousand years have been lifted off me." "That's right--and just keep on feeling a thousand years younger." She smiled caressingly, and began to twist a finger in a buttonhole of his coat. "U'm--don't you think, daddy, that such a very young gentleman as you are, such a regular roaring young blade, might--u'm--might----" "Might what, my dear?" "Might----" She leaned forward and whispered in his ear. A hand went to his throat. "Eh, why, is this one----" "I'm afraid it is, daddy--very!" "We've been so upset I guess your aunt must have forgotten to put out a clean one for me." "And I suppose it never occurred to the profound scientific intellect that it was possible for one to pull out a drawer and take out a collar for one's self." She crossed to the bureau and came back with a clean collar. "Now, sir--up with your chin!" With quick hands she replaced the offending collar with the fresh one, tied the tie and gave it a perfecting little pat. "There--that's better! And now I must be off. I'll send around a few policemen to keep the crowds off Aunt Rachel's flower-beds." And pressing on his pale cheek another kiss, and smiling at him from the door, she hurried out. CHAPTER IV DOCTOR WEST'S LAWYER Katherine's refusal of Harrison Blake's unforeseen proposal, during the summer she had graduated from Vassar, had, until the present hour, been the most painful experience of her life. Ever since that far-away autumn of her fourteenth year when Blake had led an at-first forlorn crusade against "Blind Charlie" Peck and swept that apparently unconquerable autocrat and his corrupt machine from power, she had admired Blake as the ideal public man. He had seemed so fine, so big already, and loomed so large in promise--it was the fall following his proposal that he was elected lieutenant-governor--that it had been a humiliation to her that she, so insignificant, so unworthy, could not give him that intractable passion, love. But though he had gone very pale at her stammered answer, he had borne his disappointment like a gallant gentleman; and in the years since then he had acquitted himself to perfection in that most difficult of rôles, the lover who must be content to be mere friend. Katherine still retained her girlish admiration of Mr. Blake. Despite his having been so conspicuous at the forefront of public affairs, no scandal had ever soiled his name. His rectitude, so said people whose memories ran back a generation, was due mainly to fine qualities inherited from his mother, for his father had been a good-natured, hearty, popular politician with no discoverable bias toward over-scrupulosity. In fact, twenty years ago there had been a great to-do touching the voting, through a plan of the elder Blake's devising, of a gang of negroes half a dozen times down in a river-front ward. But his party had rushed loyally to his rescue, and had vindicated him by sending him to Congress; and his sudden death on the day after taking his seat had at the time abashed all accusation, and had suffused his memory with a romantic afterglow of sentiment. Blake lived alone with his mother in a house adjoining the Wests', and a few moments after Katherine had left her father she turned into the Blakes' yard. The house stood far back in a spacious lawn, shady with broad maples and aspiring pines, and set here and there with shrubs and flower-beds and a fountain whose misty spray hung a golden aureole upon the sunlight. It was quite worthy of Westville's most distinguished citizen--a big, roomy house of brick, its sterner lines all softened with cool ivy, and with a wide piazza crossing its entire front and embracing its two sides. The hour was that at which Westville arose from its accustomed mid-day dinner--which was the reason Katherine was calling at Blake's home instead of going downtown to his office. She was informed that he was in. Telling the maid she would await him in his library, where she knew he received all clients who called on business at his home, she ascended the well-remembered stairway and entered a large, light room with walls booked to the ceiling. Despite her declaration to her father that that old love episode had been long forgotten by Mr. Blake, at this moment it was not forgotten by her. She could not subdue a fluttering agitation over the circumstance that she was about to appeal for succour to a man she had once refused. She had but a moment to wait. Blake's tall, straight figure entered and strode rapidly across the room, his right hand outstretched. "What--you, Katherine! I'm so glad to see you!" She had risen. "And I to see you, Mr. Blake." For all he had once vowed himself her lover, she had never overcome her girlhood awe of him sufficiently to use the more familiar "Harrison." "I knew you were coming home, but I had not expected to see you so soon. Please sit down again." She resumed her soft leather-covered chair, and he took the swivel chair at his great flat-topped library desk. His manner was most cordial, but lurking beneath it Katherine sensed a certain constraint--due perhaps, to their old relationship--perhaps due to meeting a friend involved in a family disgrace. Blake was close upon forty, with a dark, strong, handsome face, penetrating but pleasant eyes, and black hair slightly marked with gray. He was well dressed but not too well dressed, as became a public man whose following was largely of the country. His person gave an immediate impression of a polished but not over-polished gentleman--of a man who in acquiring a large grace of manner, has lost nothing of virility and bigness and purpose. "It seems quite natural," Katherine began, smiling, and trying to speak lightly, "that each time I come home it is to congratulate you upon some new honour." "New honour?" queried he. "Oh, your name reaches even to New York! We hear that you are spoken of to succeed Senator Grayson when he retires next year." "Oh, that!" He smiled--still with some constraint. "I won't try to make you believe that I'm indifferent about the matter. But I don't need to tell you that there's many a slip betwixt being 'spoken of' and actually being chosen." There was an instant of awkward silence. Then Katherine went straight to the business of her visit. "Of course you know about father." He nodded. "And I do not need to say, Katherine, how very, very sorry I am." "I was certain of your sympathy. Things look black on the surface for him, but I want you to know that he is innocent." "I am relieved to be assured of that," he said, hesitatingly. "For, frankly, as you say, things do look black." She leaned forward and spoke rapidly, her hands tightly clasped. "I have come to see you, Mr. Blake, because you have always been our friend--my friend, and a kinder friend than a young girl had any right to expect--because I know you have the ability to bring out the truth no matter how dark the circumstantial evidence may seem. I have come, Mr. Blake, to ask you, to beg you, to be my father's lawyer." He stared at her, and his face grew pale. "To be your father's lawyer?" he repeated. "Yes, yes--to be my father's lawyer." He turned in his chair and looked out to where the fountain was flinging its iridescent drapery to the wind. She gazed at his strong, clean-cut profile in breathless expectation. "I again assure you he is innocent," she urged pleadingly. "I know you can clear him." "You have evidence to prove his innocence?" asked Blake. "That you can easily uncover." He slowly swung about. Though with all his powerful will he strove to control himself, he was profoundly agitated, and he spoke with a very great effort. "You have put me in a most embarrassing situation, Katherine." She caught her breath. "You mean?" "I mean that I should like to help you, but--but----" "Yes? Yes?" "But I cannot." "Cannot! You mean--you refuse his case?" "It pains me, but I must." She grew as white as death. "Oh!" she breathed. "Oh!" She gazed at him, lips wide, in utter dismay. Suddenly she seized his arm. "But you have not yet thought it over--you have not considered," she cried rapidly. "I cannot take no for your answer. I beg you, I implore you, to take the case." He seemed to be struggling between two desires. A slender, well-knit hand stretched out and clutched a ruler; his brow was moist; but he kept silent. "Mr. Blake, I beg you, I implore you, to reconsider," she feverishly pursued. "Do you not see what it will mean to my father? If you take the case, he is as good as cleared!" His voice came forth low and husky. "It is because it is beyond my power to clear him that I refuse." "Beyond your power?" "Listen, Katherine," he answered. "I am glad you believe your father innocent. The faith you have is the faith a daughter ought to have. I do not want to hurt you, but I must tell you the truth--I do not share your faith." "You refuse, then, because you think him guilty?" He inclined his head. "The evidence is conclusive. It is beyond my power, beyond the power of any lawyer, to clear him." This sudden failure of the aid she had so confidently counted as already hers, was a blow that for the moment completely stunned her. She sank back in her chair and her head dropped down into her hands. Blake wiped his face with his handkerchief. After a moment, he went on in an agitated, persuasive voice: "I do not want you to think, because I refuse, that I am any less your friend. If I took the case, and did my best, your father would be convicted just the same. I am going to open my heart to you, Katherine. I should like very much to be chosen for that senatorship. Naturally, I do not wish to do any useless thing that will impair my chances. Now for me, an aspirant for public favour, to champion against the aroused public the case of a man who has--forgive me the word--who has betrayed that public, and in the end to lose that case, as I most certainly should--it would be nothing less than political suicide. Your father would gain nothing. I would lose--perhaps everything. Don't you see?" "I follow your reasons," she said brokenly into her hands, "I do not blame you--I accept your answer--but I still believe my father innocent." "And for that faith, as I told you, I admire and honour you." She slowly rose. He likewise stood up. "What are you going to do?" he asked. "I do not know," she answered dully. "I was so confident of your aid, that I had thought of no alternative." "Your father has tried other lawyers?" "Yes. They have all refused. You can guess their reason." He was silent for an instant. "Why not take the case yourself?" "I take the case!" cried Katherine, amazed. "Yes. You are a lawyer." "But I have never handled a case in court! I am not even admitted to the bar of the state. And, besides, a woman lawyer in Westville---- No, it's quite out of the question." "I was only suggesting it, you know," he said apologetically. "Oh, I realized you did not mean it seriously." Her face grew ashen as her failure came to her afresh. She gazed at him with a final desperation. "Then your answer--it is final?" "I am sorry, but it is final," said he. Her head dropped. "Thank you," she said dully. "Good-by." And she started away. "Wait, Katherine." She paused, and he came to her side. His features were gray-hued and were twitching strangely; for an instant she had the wild impression that his old love for her still lived. "I am sorry that--that the first time you asked aid of me--I should fail you. But but----" "I understand." "One word more." But he let several moments pass before he spoke it, and he wet his lips continually. "Remember, I am still your friend. Though I cannot take the case, I shall be glad, in a private way, to advise you upon any matters you may care to lay before me." "You are very good." "Then you accept?" "How can I refuse? Thank you." He accompanied her down the stairway and to the door. Heavy-hearted, she returned home. This was sad news to bring her father, whom but half an hour before she had so confidently cheered; and she knew not in what fresh direction to turn for aid. She went straight up to her father's room. With him she found a stranger, who had a vague, far-distant familiarity. The two men rose. "This is my daughter," said Doctor West. The stranger bowed slightly. "I have heard of Miss West," he said, and in his manner Katherine's quick instinct read strong preconceived disapprobation. "And, Katherine," continued her father, "this is Mr. Bruce." She stopped short. "Mr. Bruce of the _Express_?" "Of the _Express_," Bruce calmly repeated. Her dejected figure grew suddenly tense, and her cheeks glowed with hot colour. She moved up before the editor and gazed with flashing eyes into his square-jawed face. "So you are the man who wrote those brutal things about father?" He bristled at her hostile tone and manner, and there was a quick snapping behind the heavy glasses. "I am the man who wrote those true things about your father," he said with cold emphasis. "And after that you dare come into this house!" "Pardon me, Miss West, but a newspaper man dares go wherever his business takes him." She was trembling all over. "Then let me inform you that you have no business here. Neither my father nor myself has anything whatever to say to yellow journalists!" "Katherine! Katherine!" interjected her father. Bruce bowed, his face a dull red. "I shall leave, Miss West, just as soon as Doctor West answers my last question. I called to see if he wished to make any statement, and I was asking him about his lawyer. He told me he had as yet secured none, but that you were applying to Mr. Blake." Doctor West stepped toward her eagerly. "Yes, Katherine, what did he say? Will he take the case?" She turned from Bruce, and as she looked into the white, worn face of her father, the fire of her anger went out. "He said--he said----" "Yes--yes?" She put her arms about him. "Don't you mind, father dear, what he said." Doctor West grew yet more pale. "Then--he said--the same as the others?" She held him tight. "Dear daddy!" "Then--he refused?" "Yes--but don't you mind it," she tried to say bravely. Without a sound, the old man's head dropped upon his chest. He held to Katherine a moment; then he moved waveringly to an old haircloth sofa, sank down upon it and bowed his face into his hands. Bruce broke the silence. "I am to understand, then, that your father has no lawyer?" Katherine wheeled from the bowed figure, and her anger leaped instantly to a white heat. "And why has he no lawyer?" she cried. "Because of the inhuman things you wrote about him!" "You forget, Miss West, that I am running a newspaper, and it is my business to print the news." "The news, yes; but not a malignant, ferocious distortion of the news! Look at my father there. Does it not fill your soul with shame to think of the black injustice you have done him?" "Mere sentiment! Understand, I do not let conventional sentiment stand between me and my duty." "Your duty!" There was a world of scorn in her voice. "And, pray, what is your duty?" "Part of it is to establish, and maintain, decent standards of public service in this town." "Don't hide behind that hypocritical pretence! I've heard about you. I know the sort of man you are. You saw a safe chance for a yellow story for your yellow newspaper, a safe chance to gain prominence by yelping at the head of the pack. If he had been a rich man, if he had had a strong political party behind him, would you have dared assail him as you have? Never! Oh, it was brutal--infamous--cowardly!" There was an angry fire behind the editor's thick glasses, and his square chin thrust itself out. He took a step nearer. "Listen to me!" he commanded in a slow, defiant voice. "Your opinion is to me a matter of complete indifference. I tell you that a man who betrays his city is a traitor, and that I would treat an old traitor exactly as I would treat a young traitor, I tell you that I take it as a sign of an awakening public conscience when reputable lawyers refuse to defend a man who has done what your father has done. And, finally, I predict that, try as you may, you will not be able to find a decent lawyer who will dare to take his case. And I glory in it, and consider it the result of my work!" He bowed to her. "And now, Miss West, I wish you good afternoon." She stood quivering, gasping, while he crossed to the door. As his hand fell upon the knob she sprang forward. "Wait!" she cried. "Wait! He has a lawyer!" He paused. "Indeed! And whom?" "One who is going to make you take back every cowardly word you have printed!" "Who is it, Katherine?" It was her father who spoke. She turned. Doctor West had raised his head, and in his eyes was an eager, hopeful light. She bent over him and slipped an arm about his shoulders. "Father dear," she quavered, "since we can get no one else, will you take me?" "Take you?" he exclaimed. "Because," she quavered on, "whether you will or not, I'm going to stay in Westville and be your lawyer." CHAPTER V KATHERINE PREPARES FOR BATTLE For a long space after Bruce had gone Katherine sat quiveringly upon the old haircloth sofa beside her father, holding his hands tightly, caressingly. Her words tumbled hotly from her lips--words of love of him--of resentment of the injustice which he suffered--and, fiercest of all, of wrath against Editor Bruce, who had so ruthlessly, and for such selfish ends, incited the popular feeling against him. She would make such a fight as Westville had never seen! She would show those lawyers who had been reduced to cowards by Bruce's demagogy! She would bring the town humiliated to her father's feet! But emotion has not only peaks, but plains, and dark valleys. As she cooled and her passion descended to a less exalted level, she began to see the difficulties of, and her unfitness for, the rôle she had so impulsively accepted. An uneasiness for the future crept upon her. As she had told Mr. Blake, she had never handled a case in court. True, she had been a member of the bar for two years, but her duties with the Municipal League had consisted almost entirely in working up evidence in cases of municipal corruption for the use of her legal superiors. An untried lawyer, and a woman lawyer at that--surely a weak reed for her father to lean upon! But she had thrown down the gage of battle; she had to fight, since there was no other champion; and even in this hour of emotion, when tears were so plenteous and every word was accompanied by a caress, she began to plan the preliminaries of her struggle. "I shall write to-night to the league for a leave of absence," she said. "One of the things I must see to at once is to get admitted to the state bar. Do you know when your case is to come up?" "It has been put over to the September term of court." "That gives me four months." She was silently thoughtful for a space. "I've got to work hard, hard! upon your case. As I see it now, I am inclined to agree with you that the situation has arisen from a misunderstanding--that the agent thought you expected a bribe, and that you thought the bribe a small donation to the hospital." "I'm certain that's how it is," said her father. "Then the thing to do is to see Doctor Sherman, and if possible the agent, have them repeat their testimony and try to search out in it the clue to the mistake. And that I shall see to at once." Five minutes later Katherine left the house. After walking ten minutes through the quiet, maple-shaded back streets she reached the Wabash Avenue Church, whose rather ponderous pile of Bedford stone was the most ambitious and most frequented place of worship in Westville, and whose bulk was being added to by a lecture room now rising against its side. Katherine went up a gravelled walk toward a cottage that stood beneath the church's shadow. The house's front was covered with a wide-spreading rose vine, a tapestry of rich green which June would gorgeously embroider with sprays of heart-red roses. The cottage looked what Katherine knew it was, a bower of lovers. Her ring was answered by a fair, fragile young woman whose eyes were the colour of faith and loyalty. A faint colour crept into the young woman's pale cheeks. "Why--Katherine--why--why--I don't know what you think of us, but--but----" She could stammer out no more, but stood in the doorway in distressed uncertainty. Katherine's answer was to stretch out her arms. "Elsie!" Instantly the two old friends were in a close embrace. "I haven't slept, Katherine," sobbed Mrs. Sherman, "for thinking of what you would think----" "I think that, whatever has happened, I love you just the same." "Thank you for saying it, Katherine." Mrs. Sherman gazed at her in tearful gratitude. "I can't tell you how we have suffered over this--this affair. Oh, if you only knew!" It was instinctive with Katherine to soothe the pain of others, though suffering herself. "I am certain Doctor Sherman acted from the highest motives," she assured the young wife. "So say no more about it." They had entered the little sitting-room, hung with soft white muslin curtains. "But at the same time, Elsie, I cannot believe my father guilty," Katherine went on. "And though I honour your husband, why, even the noblest man can be mistaken. My hope of proving my father's innocence is based on the belief that Doctor Sherman may somehow have made a mistake. At any rate, I'd like to talk over his evidence with him." "He's trying to work on his sermon, though he's too worn to think. I'll bring him right in." She passed through a door into the study, and a moment later reëntered with Doctor Sherman. The present meeting would have been painful to an ordinary person; doubly so was it to such a hyper-sensitive nature. The young clergyman stood hesitant just within the doorway, his usual pallor greatly deepened, his thin fingers intertwisted--in doubt how to greet Katherine till she stretched out her hand to him. "I want you to understand, Katherine dear," little Mrs. Sherman put in quickly, with a look of adoration at her husband, "that Edgar reached the decision to take the action he did only after days of agony. You know, Katherine, Doctor West was always as kind to me as another father, and I loved him almost like one. At first I begged Edgar not to do anything. Edgar walked the floor for nights--suffering!--oh, how you suffered, Edgar!" "Isn't it a little incongruous," said Doctor Sherman, smiling wanly at her, "for the instrument that struck the blow to complain, in the presence of the victim, of _his_ suffering?" "But I want her to know it!" persisted the wife. "She must know it to do you justice, dear! It seemed at first disloyal--but finally Edgar decided that his duty to the city----" "Please say no more, Elsie." Katherine turned to the pale young minister. "Doctor Sherman, I have not come to utter one single word of recrimination. I have come merely to ask you to tell me all you know about the case." "I shall be glad to do so." "And could I also talk with Mr. Marcy, the agent?" "He has left the city, and will not return till the trial." Katherine was disappointed by this news. Doctor Sherman, though obviously pained by the task, rehearsed in minutest detail the charges he had made against Doctor West, which charges he would later have to repeat upon the witness stand. Also he recounted Mr. Marcy's story. Katherine scrutinized every point in these two stories for the loose end, the loop-hole, the flaw, she had thought to find. But flaw there was none. The stories were perfectly straightforward. Katherine walked slowly away, still going over and over Doctor Sherman's testimony. Doctor Sherman was telling the indubitable truth--yet her father was indubitably innocent. It was a puzzling case, this her first case--a puzzling, most puzzling case. When she reached home she was told by her aunt that a gentleman was waiting to see her. She entered the big, old-fashioned parlour, fresh and tasteful despite the stiff black walnut that, in the days of her mother's marriage, had been spread throughout the land as beauty by the gentlemen who dealt conjointly in furniture and coffins. From a chair there rose a youthful and somewhat corpulent presence, with a chubby and very serious pink face that sat in a glossy high collar as in a cup. He smiled with a blushful but ingratiating dignity. "Don't you remember me? I'm Charlie Horn." "Oh!" And instinctively, as if to identify him by Charlie Horn's well-remembered strawberry-marks, Katherine glanced at his hands. But they were clean, and the warts were gone. She looked at him in doubt. "You can't be Nellie Horn's little brother?" "I'm not so little," he said, with some resentment. "Since you knew me," he added a little grandiloquently, "I've graduated from Bloomington." "Please pardon me! It was kind of you to call, and so soon." "Well, you see I came on business. I suppose you have seen this afternoon's _Express_?" She instinctively stiffened. "I have not." He drew out a copy of the _Express_, opened it, and pointed a plump, pinkish forefinger at the beginning of an article on the first page. "You see the _Express_ says you are going to be your father's lawyer." Katharine read the indicated paragraphs. Her colour heightened. The statement was blunt and bare, but between the lines she read the contemptuous disapproval of the "new woman" that a few hours since Bruce had displayed before her. Again her anger toward Bruce flared up. "I am a reporter for the _Clarion_," young Charlie Horn announced, striving not to appear too proud. "And I've come to interview you." "Interview me?" she cried in dismay. "What about?" "Well, you see," said he, with his benign smile, "you're the first woman lawyer that's ever been in Westville. It's almost a bigger sensation than your fath--you see, it's a big story." He drew from his pocket a bunch of copy paper. "I want you to tell me about how you are going to handle the case. And about what you think a woman lawyer's prospects are in Westville. And about what you think will be woman's status in future society. And you might tell me," concluded young Charlie Horn, "who your favourite author is, and what you think of golf. That last will interest our readers, for our country club is very popular." It had been the experience of Nellie Horn's brother that the good people of Westville were quite willing--nay, even had a subdued eagerness--to discourse about themselves, and whom they had visited over Sunday, and who was "Sundaying" with them, and what beauties had impressed them most at Niagara Falls; and so that confident young ambassador from the _Clarion_ was somewhat dazed when, a moment later, he found himself standing alone on the West doorstep with a dim sense of having been politely and decisively wished good afternoon. But behind him amid the stiff, dark, solemn-visaged furniture (Calvinists, every chair of them!) he left a person far more dazed than himself. Charlie Horn's call had brought sharply home to Katherine a question that, in the press of affairs, she hardly had as yet considered--how was Westville going to take to a woman lawyer being in its midst? She realized, with a chill of apprehension, how profoundly this question concerned her next few months. Dear, bustling, respectable Westville, she well knew, clung to its own idea of woman's sphere as to a thing divinely ordered, and to seek to leave which was scarcely less than rebellion against high God. In patriarchal days, when heaven's justice had been prompter, such a disobedient one would suddenly have found herself rebuked into a bit of saline statuary. Katherine vividly recalled, when she had announced her intention to study law, what a raising of hands there was, what a loud regretting that she had not a mother. But since she had not settled in Westville, and since she had not been actively practising in New York, the town had become partially reconciled. But this step of hers was new, without a precedent. How would Westville take it? Her brain burned with this and other matters all afternoon, all evening, and till the dawn began to edge in and crowd the shadows from her room. But when she met her father at the breakfast table her face was fresh and smiling. "Well, how is my client this morning?" she asked gaily. "Do you realize, daddy, that you are my first really, truly client?" "And I suppose you'll be charging me something outrageous as a fee!" "Something like this"--kissing him on the ear. "But how do you feel?" "Certain that my lawyer will win my case." He smiled. "And how are you?" "Brimful of ideas." "Yes? About the----" "Yes. And about you. First, answer a few of your counsel's questions. Have you been doing much at your scientific work of late?" "The last two months, since the water-works has been practically completed, I have spent almost my whole time at it." "And your work was interesting?" "Very. You see, I think I am on the verge of discovering that the typhoid bacillus----" "You'll tell me all about that later. Now the first order of your attorney is, just as soon as you have finished your coffee and folded your napkin, back you go to your laboratory." "But, Katherine, with this affair----" "This affair, worry and all, has been shifted off upon your eminent counsel. Work will keep you from worry, so back you go to your darling germs." "You're mighty good, dear, but----" "No argument! You've got to do just what your lawyer tells you. And now," she added "as I may have to be seeing a lot of people, and as having people about the house may interrupt your work, I'm going to take an office." He stared at her. "Take an office?" "Yes. Who knows--I may pick up a few other cases. If I do, I know who can use the money." "But open an office in Westville! Why, the people----Won't it be a little more unpleasant----" He paused doubtfully. "Did you see what the _Express_ had to say about you?" She flushed, but smiled sweetly. "What the _Express_ said is one reason why I'm going to open an office." "Yes?" "I'm not going to let fear of that Mr. Bruce dictate my life. And since I'm going to be a lawyer, I'm going to be the whole thing. And what's more, I'm going to act as though I were doing the most ordinary thing in the world. And if Mr. Bruce and the town want to talk, why, we'll just let 'em talk!" "But--but--aren't you afraid?" "Of course I'm afraid," she answered promptly. "But when I realize that I'm afraid to do a thing, I'm certain that that is just exactly the thing for me to do. Oh, don't look so worried, dear"--she leaned across and kissed him--"for I'm going to be the perfectest, properest, politest lady that ever scuttled a convention. And nothing is going to happen to me--nothing at all." Breakfast finished, Katherine despotically led her father up to his laboratory. A little later she set out for downtown, looking very fresh in a blue summer dress that had the rare qualities of simplicity and grace. Her colour was perhaps a little warmer than was usual, but she walked along beneath the maples with tranquil mien, seemingly unconscious of some people she passed, giving others a clear, direct glance, smiling and speaking to friends and acquaintances in her most easy manner. As she turned into Main Street the intelligence that she was coming seemed in some mysterious way to speed before her. Those exemplars of male fashion, the dry goods clerks, craned furtively about front doors. Bare-armed and aproned proprietors of grocery stores and their hirelings appeared beneath the awnings and displayed an unprecedented concern in trying to resuscitate, with aid of sprinkling-cans, bunches of expiring radishes and young onions. Owners of amiable steeds that dozed beside the curb hurried out of cavernous doors, the fear of run-away writ large upon their countenances, to see if a buckle was not loose or a tug perchance unfastened. Behind her, as she passed, Main Street stood statued in mid-action, strap in motionless hand, sprinkling-can tilting its entire contents of restorative over a box of clothes-pins, and gaped and stared. This was epochal for Westville. Never before had a real, live, practising woman lawyer trod the cement walk of Main Street. When Katherine came to Court House Square, she crossed to the south side, passed the _Express_ Building, and made for the Hollingsworth Block, whose first floor was occupied by the New York Store's "glittering array of vast and profuse fashion." Above this alluring pageant were two floors of offices; and up the narrow stairway leading thereunto Katherine mounted. She entered a door marked "Hosea Hollingsworth. Attorney-at-Law. Mortgages. Loans. Farms." In the room were a table, three chairs, a case of law books, a desk, on the top of the desk a "plug" hat, so venerable that it looked a very great-grandsire of hats, and two cuspidors marked with chromatic evidence that they were not present for ornament alone. From the desk there rose a man, perhaps seventy, lean, tall, smooth-shaven, slightly stooped, dressed in a rusty and wrinkled "Prince Albert" coat, and with a countenance that looked a rank plagiarism of the mask of Voltaire. In one corner of his thin mouth, half chewed away, was an unlighted cigar. "I believe this is Mr. Hollingsworth?" said Katherine. The question was purely formal, for his lank figure was one of her earliest memories. "Yes. Come right in," he returned in a high, nasal voice. She drew a chair away from the environs of the cuspidors and sat down. He resumed his place at his desk and peered at her through his spectacles, and a dry, almost imperceptible smile played among the fine wrinkles of his leathery face. "And I believe this is Katherine West--our lady lawyer," he remarked. "I read in the _Express_ how you----" Bruce was on her nerves. She could not restrain a sudden flare of temper. "The editor of that paper is a cad!" "Well, he ain't exactly what you might call a hand-raised gentleman," the old lawyer admitted. "At least, I never heard of his exerting himself so hard to be polite that he strained any tendons." "You know him, then?" "A little. He's my nephew." "Oh! I remember." "And we live together," the old man loquaciously drawled on, eying her closely with a smile that might have been either good-natured or satirical. "Batch it--with a nigger who saves us work by stealing things we'd otherwise have to take care of. We scrap most of the time. I make fun of him, and he gets sore. The trouble with the editor of the _Express_ is, he had a doting ma. He should have had an almighty lot of thrashing when a boy, and instead he never tasted beech limb once. He's suffering from the spared rod." Katherine had a shrinking from this old man; an aversion which in her mature years she had had no occasion to examine, but which she had inherited unanalyzed from her childhood, when old Hosie Hollingsworth had been the chief scandal of the town--an infidel, who had dared challenge the creation of the earth in seven days, and yet was not stricken down by a fiery bolt from heaven! She did not pursue the subject of Bruce, but went directly to her business. "I understand that you have an office to rent." "So I have. Like to see it?" "That is what I called for." "Just come along with me." He rose, and Katherine followed him to the floor above and into a room furnished much as the one she had just left. "This office was last used," commented old Hosie, "by a young fellow who taught school down in Buck Creek Township and got money to study law with. He tried law for a while." The old man's thin prehensile lips shifted his cigar to the other side of his mouth. "He's down in Buck Creek Township teaching school to get money to pay his back office rent." "How about the furniture?" asked Katherine. "That was his. He left it in part payment. You can use it if you want to." "But I don't want those things about"--pointing gingerly to a pair of cuspidors. "All right. Though I don't see how you expect to run a law office in Westville without 'em." He bent over and took them in his hands. "I'll take 'em along. I need a few more, for my business is picking up." "I suppose I can have possession at once." "Whenever you please." Standing with the cuspidors in his two hands the old lawyer looked her over. He slowly grinned, and a dry cackle came out of his lean throat. "I was born out there in Buck Creek Township myself," he said. "Folks all Quakers, same as your ma's and your Aunt Rachel's. I was brought up on plowing, husking corn and going to meeting. Never smiled till after I was twenty; wore a halo, size too large, that slipped down and made my ears stick out. My grandfather's name was Elijah, my father's Elisha. My father had twelve sons, and beginning with me, Hosea, he named 'em all in order after the minor prophets. Being brought up in a houseful of prophets, naturally a lot of the gift of prophecy sort of got rubbed off on me." "Well?" said Katherine impatiently, not seeing the pertinence of this autobiography. Again he shifted his cigar. "Well, when I prophesy, it's inspired," he went on. "And you can take it as the word that came unto Hosea, that a woman lawyer settling in Westville is going to raise the very dickens in this old town!" CHAPTER VI THE LADY LAWYER When old Hosie had withdrawn with his expectorative plunder, Katherine sat down at the desk and gazed thoughtfully out of her window, taking in the tarnished dome of the Court House that rose lustreless above the elm tops and the heavy-boned farmhorses that stood about the iron hitch-racks of the Square, stamping and switching their tails in dozing warfare against the flies. Once more, she began to go over the case. Having decided to test all possible theories, she for the moment pigeon-holed the idea of a mistake, and began to seek for other explanations. For a space she vacantly watched the workmen tearing down the speakers' stand. But presently her eyes began to glow, and she sprang up and excitedly paced the little office. Perhaps her father had unwittingly and innocently become involved in some large system of corruption! Perhaps this case was the first symptom of the existence of some deep-hidden municipal disease! It seemed possible--very possible. Her two years with the Municipal League had taught her how common were astute dishonest practices. The idea filled her. She began to burn with a feverish hope. But from the first moment she was sufficiently cool-headed to realize that to follow up the idea she required intimate knowledge of Westville political conditions. Here she felt herself greatly handicapped. Owing to her long residence away from Westville she was practically in ignorance of public affairs--and she faced the further difficulty of having no one to whom she could turn for information. Her father she knew could be of little service; expert though he was in his specialty, he was blind to evil in men. As for Blake, she did not care to ask aid from him so soon after his refusal of assistance. And as for others, she felt that all who could give her information were either hostile to her father or critical of herself. For days the idea possessed her mind. She kept it to herself, and, her suspicious eyes sweeping in all directions, she studied as best she could to find some evidence or clue to evidence, that would corroborate her conjecture. In her excited hope, she strove, while she thought and worked, to be indifferent to what the town might think about her. But she was well aware that Old Hosie's prophecy was swift in coming true--that a storm was raging, a storm of her own sex. It should be explained, however, in justice to them, that they forgot the fact, or never really knew it, that she had been forced to take her father's case. To be sure, there was no open insult, no direct attack, no face-to-face denunciation; but piazzas buzzed indignantly with her name, and at the meeting of the Ladies' Aid the poor were forgotten, as at the Missionary Society were the unbibled heathen upon the foreign shore. Fragments of her sisters' pronouncements were wafted to Katherine's ears. "No self-respecting, womanly woman would ever think of wanting to be a lawyer"--"A forward, brazen, unwomanly young person"--"A disgrace to the town, a disgrace to our sex"--"Think of the example she sets to impressionable young girls; they'll want to break away and do all sorts of unwomanly things"--"Everybody knows her reason for being a lawyer is only that it gives her a greater chance to be with the men." Katherine heard, her mouth hardened, a certain defiance came into her manner. But she went straight ahead seeking evidence to support her suspicion. Every day made her feel more keenly her need of intimate knowledge about the city's political affairs; then, unexpectedly, and from an unexpected quarter, an informant stepped out upon her stage. Several times Old Hosie Hollingsworth had spoken casually when they had chanced to pass in the building or on the street. One day his lean, stooped figure appeared in her office and helped itself to a chair. "I see you haven't exactly made what Charlie Horn, in his dramatic criticisms, calls an uproarious and unprecedented success," he remarked, after a few preliminaries. "I have not been sufficiently interested to notice," was her crisp response. "That's right; keep your back up," said he. "I've been agin about everything that's popular, and for everything that's unpopular, that ever happened in this town. I've been an 'agin-er' for fifty years. They'd have tarred and feathered me long ago if there'd been any leading citizen unstingy enough to have donated the tar. Then, too, I've had a little money, and going through the needle's eye is easy business compared to losing the respect of Westville so long as you've got money--unless, of course," he added, "you're a female lawyer. I tell you, there's no more fun than stirring up the animals in this old town. Any one unpopular in Westville is worth being friends with, and so if you're willing----" He held out his thin, bony hand. Katherine, with no very marked enthusiasm, took it. Then her eyes gleamed with a new light; and obeying an impulse she asked: "Are you acquainted with political conditions in Westville?" "Me acquainted with----" He cackled. "Why, I've been setting at my office window looking down on the political circus of this town ever since Noah run aground on Mount Ararat." She leaned forward eagerly. "Then you know how things stand?" "To a T." "Tell me, is there any rotten politics, any graft or corruption going on?" She flushed. "Of course, I mean except what's charged against my father." "When Blind Charlie Peck was in power, there was more graft and dirty----" "Not then, but now?" she interrupted. "Now? Well, of course you know that since Blake run Blind Charlie out of business ten years ago, Blake has been the big gun in this town." "Yes, I know." "Then you must know that in the last ten years Westville has been text, sermon, and doxology for all the reformers in the state." "But could not corruption be going on without Mr. Blake knowing it? Could not Mr. Peck be secretly carrying out some scheme?" "Blind Charlie? Blind Charlie ain't dead yet, not by a long sight--and as long as there's a breath in his carcass, that good-natured old blackguard is likely to be a dangerous customer. But though Charlie's still the boss of his party, he controls no offices, and has got no real power. He's as helpless as Satan was after he'd been kicked out of heaven and before he'd landed that big job he holds on the floor below. Nowadays, Charlie just sits in his side office over at the Tippecanoe House playing seven-up from breakfast till bedtime." "Then you think there's no corrupt politics in Westville?" she asked in a sinking voice. "Not an ounce of 'em!" said Old Hosie with decision. This agreed with the conviction that had been growing upon Katherine during the last few days. While she had entertained suspicion of there being corruption, she had several times considered the advisability of putting a detective on the case. But this idea she now abandoned. After this talk with the old lawyer, Katherine was forced back again upon misunderstanding. She went carefully over the records of her father's department, on file in the Court House, seeking some item that would cast light upon the puzzle. She went over and over the indictment, seeking some loose end, some overlooked inconsistency, that would yield her at least a clue. For days she kept doggedly at this work, steeling herself against the disapprobation of the town. But she found nothing. Then, in a flash, an overlooked point recurred to her. The trouble, so went her theory, was all due to a confusion of the bribe with the donation to the hospital. Where was that donation? Here was a matter that might at last lead to a solution of the difficulty. Again on fire with hope, she interviewed her father. He was certain that a donation had been promised, he had thought the envelope handed him by Mr. Marcy contained the gift--but of the donation itself he knew no more. She interviewed Doctor Sherman; he had heard Mr. Marcy refer to a donation but knew nothing about the matter. She tried to get in communication with Mr. Marcy, only to learn that he was in England studying some new filtering plants recently installed in that country. Undiscouraged, she one day stepped off the train in St. Louis, the home of the Acme Filter, and appeared in the office of the company. The general manager, a gentleman who ran to portliness in his figure, his jewellery and his courtesy, seemed perfectly acquainted with the case. In exculpation of himself and his company, he said that they were constantly being held up by every variety of official from a county commissioner to a mayor, and they were simply forced to give "presents" in order to do business. "But my father's defense," put in Katherine, "was that he thought this 'present' was in reality a donation to the hospital. Was anything said to my father about a donation?" "I believe there was." "That corroborates my father!" Katherine exclaimed eagerly. "Would you make that statement at the trial--or at least give me an affidavit to that effect?" "I'll be glad to give you an affidavit. But I should explain that the 'present' and the donation were two distinctly separate affairs." "Then what became of the donation?" Katherine cried triumphantly. "It was sent," said the manager. "Sent?" "I sent it myself," was the reply. Katherine left St. Louis more puzzled than before. What had become of the check, if it had really been sent? Home again, she ransacked her father's desk with his aid, and in a bottom drawer they found a heap of long-neglected mail. Doctor West at first scratched his head in perplexity. "I remember now," he said. "I never was much of a hand to keep up with my letters, and for the few days before that celebration I was so excited that I just threw everything----" But Katherine had torn open an envelope and was holding in her hands a fifty dollar check from the Acme Filter Company. "What was the date of your arrest?" she asked sharply. "The date Mr. Marcy gave you that money?" "The fifteenth of May." "This check is dated the twelfth of May. The envelope shows it was received in Westville on the thirteenth." "Well, what of that?" "Only this," said Katherine slowly, and with a chill at her heart, "that the prosecution can charge, and we cannot disprove the charge, that the real donation was already in your possession at the time you accepted what you say you believed was the donation." Then, with a rush, a great temptation assailed Katherine--to destroy this piece of evidence unfavourable to her father which she held in her hands. For several moments the struggle continued fiercely. But she had made a vow with herself when she had entered law that she was going to keep free from the trickery and dishonourable practices so common in her profession. She was going to be an honest lawyer, or be no lawyer at all. And so, at length, she laid the check before her father. "Just indorse it, and we'll send it in to the hospital," she said. Afterward it occurred to her that to have destroyed the check would at the best have helped but little, for the prosecution, if it so desired, could introduce witnesses to prove that the donation had been sent. Suspicion of having destroyed or suppressed the check would then inevitably have rested upon her father. This discovery of the check was a heavy blow, but Katherine went doggedly back to the first beginnings; and as the weeks crept slowly by she continued without remission her desperate search for a clue which, followed up, would make clear to every one that the whole affair was merely a mistake. But the only development of the summer which bore at all upon the case--and that bearing seemed to Katherine indirect--was that, since early June, the service of the water-works had steadily been deteriorating. There was frequently a shortage in the supply, and the filtering plant, the direct cause of Doctor West's disgrace, had proved so complete a failure that its use had been discontinued. The water was often murky and unpleasant to the taste. Moreover, all kinds of other faults began to develop in the plant. The city complained loudly of the quality of the water and the failure of the system. It was like one of these new-fangled toys, averred the street corners, that runs like a miracle while the paint is on it and then with a whiz and a whir goes all to thunder. But to this mere by-product of the case Katherine gave little thought. She had to keep desperately upon the case itself. At times, feeling herself so alone, making no inch of headway, her spirits sank very low indeed. What made the case so wearing on the soul was that she was groping in the dark. She was fighting an invisible enemy, even though it was no more than a misunderstanding--an enemy whom, strive as she would, she could not clutch, with whom she could not grapple. Again and again she prayed for a foe in the open. Had there been a fight, no matter how bitter, her part would have been far, far easier--for in fight there is action and excitement and the lifting hope of victory. It took courage to work as she did, weary week upon weary week, and discover nothing. It took courage not to slink away at the town's disapprobation. At times, in the bitterness of her heart, she wished she were out of it all, and could just rest, and be friends with every one. In such moods it would creep coldly in upon her that there could be but one solution to the case--that after all her father must be guilty. But when she would go home and look into his thoughtful, unworldy old face, that solution would instantly become impossible; and she would cast out doubt and despair and renew her determination. The weeks dragged heavily on--hot and dusty after the first of July, and so dry that out in the country the caked earth was a fine network of zigzagging fissures, and the farmers, gazing despondently upon their shrivelling corn, watched with vain hope for a rescuing cloud to darken the clear, hard, brilliant heavens. At length the summer burned to its close; the opening day of the September term of court was close at hand. But still the case stood just as on the day Katherine had stepped so joyously from the Limited. The evidence of Sherman was unshaken. The charges of Bruce had no answer. One afternoon--her father's case was set for two days later--as Katherine left her office, desperate, not knowing which way to turn, her nerves worn fine and thin by the long strain, she saw her father's name on the front page of the _Express_. She bought a copy. In the centre of the first page, in a "box" and set in heavy-faced type, was an editorial in Bruce's most rousing style, trying her father in advance, declaring him flagrantly guilty, and demanding for him the law's extremest penalty. That editorial unloosed her long-collected wrath--wrath that had many a reason. In Bruce's person Katherine had from the first seen the summing up, the leader, of the bitterness against her father. All summer he had continued his sharp attacks, and the virulence of these had helped keep the town wrought up against Doctor West. Moreover, Katherine despised Bruce as a powerful, ruthless, demagogic hypocrite. And to her hostility against him in her father's behalf and to her contempt for his quack radicalism, was added the bitter implacability of the woman who feels herself scorned. The town's attitude toward her she resented. But Bruce she hated, and him she prayed with all her soul that she might humble. She crushed the _Express_, flung it from her into the gutter, and walked home all a-tremble. Her aunt met her in the hall as she was laying off her hat. A spot burned faintly in either withered cheek of the old woman. "Who does thee think is here?" she asked. "Who?" Katherine repeated mechanically, her wrath too high for interest in anything else. "Mr. Bruce. Upstairs with thy father." "What!" cried Katherine. Her hat missed the hook and fell to the floor, and she went springing up the stairway. The next instant she flung open her father's door, and walked straight up to Bruce, before whom she paused, bosom heaving, eyes on fire. "What are you doing here?" she demanded. His powerful figure rose, and his square-hewn face looked directly into her own. "Interviewing your father," he returned with his aggressive calm. "He was asking me to confess," explained Doctor West. "Confess?" cried Katherine. "Just so," replied Bruce. "His guilt is undoubted, so he might as well confess." Scorn flamed at him. "I see! You are trying to get a confession out of him, in advance of the trial, as a big feature for your terrible paper!" She moved a pace nearer him. All the suppressed anger, all the hidden anguish, of the last three months burst up volcanically. "Oh! oh!" she cried breathlessly. "I never dreamt till I met you that a man could be so low, so heartless, as to hound an old man as you have hounded my father--and all for the sake of a yellow newspaper sensation. But he's a safe man for you to attack. Yes, he's safe--old, unpopular, helpless!" Bruce's heavy brows lowered. He did not give back a step before her ireful figure. "And because he's old and unpopular I should not attack him, eh?" he demanded. "Because he's down, I should not hit him? That's your woman's reasoning, is it? Well, let me tell you," and his gray eyes flashed, and his voice had a crunching tone--"that I believe when you've got an enemy of society down, don't, because you pity him, let him up to go and do the same thing again. While you've got him down, keep on hitting him till you've got him finished!" "Like the brute that you are!" she cried. "But, like the coward you are, you first very carefully choose your 'enemy of society.' You were careful to choose one who could not hit back!" "I did not choose your father. He thrust himself upon the town's attention. And I consider neither his weakness nor his strength. I consider only the fact that your father has done the city a greater injury than any man who ever lived in Westville." "It's a lie! I tell you it's a lie!" "It's the truth!" he declared harshly, dominantly. "His swindling Westville by giving us a worthless filtering-plant in return for a bribe--why, that is the smallest evil he has done the town. Before that time, Westville was on the verge of making great municipal advances--on the verge of becoming a model and a leader for the small cities of the Middle West. And now all that grand development is ruined--and ruined by that man, your father!" He excitedly jerked a paper from his pocket and held it out to her. "If you want to see what he has brought us to, read that editorial in the _Clarion_!" She fixed him with glittering eyes. "I have read one cowardly editorial to-day in a Westville paper. That is enough." "Read that, I say!" he commanded. For answer she took the _Clarion_ and tossed it into the waste-basket. She glared at him, quivering all over, in her hands a convulsive itch for physical vengeance. "If I thought that in all your fine talk about the city there was one single word of sincerity, I might respect you," she said with slow and scathing contempt. "But your words are the words of a mere poseur--of a man who twists the truth to fit his desires--of a man who deals in the ideas that seem to him most profitable--of a man who cares not how poor, how innocent, is the body he uses as a stepping stone for his clambering greed and ambition. Oh, I know you--I have watched you--I have read you. You are a mere self-seeker! You are a demagogue! You are a liar! And, on top of that, you are a coward!" Whatever Arnold Bruce was, he was a man with a temper. Fury was blazing behind his heavy spectacles. "Go on! I care _that_ for the words of a woman who has so little taste, so little sense, so little modesty, as to leave the sphere----" "You boor!" gasped Katharine. "Perhaps I am. At least I am not afraid to speak the truth straight out even to a woman. You are all wrong. You are unwomanly. You are unsexed. Your pretensions as a lawyer are utterly preposterous, as the trial on Thursday will show you. And the condemnation of the town is not half as severe a rebuke----" "Stop!" gasped Katherine. A wild defiance surged up and overmastered her, her nerves broke, and her hot words tumbled out hysterically. "You think you are a God-anointed critic of humanity, but you are only a heartless, conceited cad! Just wait--I'll show you what your judgment of me is worth! I am going to clear my father! I am going to make this Westville that condemns me kneel at my feet! and as for you--you can think what you please! But don't you ever dare to speak to my father again--don't you ever dare speak to me again--don't you ever dare enter this house again! Now go! Go! I say. Go! Go! Go!" His face had grown purple; he seemed to be choking. For a space he gazed at her. Then without answering he bowed slightly and was gone. She glared a moment at the door. Then suddenly she collapsed upon the floor, her head and arms on the old haircloth sofa, and her whole body shook with silent sobs. Doctor West, first gazing at her a little helplessly, sat down upon the sofa, and softly stroked her hair. For a time there were no words--only her convulsive breathing, her choking sobs. Presently he said gently: "I'm sure you'll do everything you said." "No--that's the trouble," she moaned. "What I said--was--was just a big bluff. I won't do any--of those things. Your trial is two days off--and, father, I haven't one bit of evidence--I don't know what we're going to do--and the jury will have to--oh, father, father, that man was right; I'm just--just a great big failure!" Again she shook with sobs. The old man continued to sit beside her, softly stroking her thick brown hair. CHAPTER VII THE MASK FALLS But presently the sobs subsided, as though shut off by main force, and Katherine rose to her feet. She wiped her eyes and looked at her father, a wan smile on her reddened, still tremulous face. "What a hope-inspiring lawyer you have, father!" "I would not want a truer," said he loyally. "We won't have one of these cloud-bursts again, I promise you. But when you have been under a strain for months, and things are stretched tighter and tighter, and at last something makes things snap, why you just can't help--well," she ended, "a man would have done something else, I suppose, but it might have been just as bad." "Worse!" avowed her father. "Anyhow, it's all over. I'll just repair some of the worst ravages of the storm, and then we'll talk about our programme for the trial." As she was arranging her hair before her father's mirror, she saw, in the glass, the old man stoop and take something from the waste-basket. Turning his back to her, he cautiously examined the object. She left the mirror and came up behind him. "What are you looking at, dear?" He started, and glanced up. "Oh--er--that editorial Mr. Bruce referred to." He rubbed his head dazedly. "If that should happen, with me even indirectly the cause of it--why, Katherine, it really would be pretty bad!" He held out the _Clarion_. "Perhaps, after all, you had better read it." She took the paper. The _Clarion_ had from the first opposed the city's owning the water-works, and the editorial declared that the present situation gave the paper, and all those who had held a similar opinion, their long-awaited triumph and vindication. "This failure is only what invariably happens whenever a city tries municipal ownership," declared the editorial. "The situation has grown so unbearably acute that the city's only hope of good water lies in the sale of the system to some private concern, which will give us that superior service which is always afforded by private capital. Westville is upon the eve of a city election, and we most emphatically urge upon both parties that they make the chief plank of their platforms the immediate sale of our utterly discredited water-works to some private company." The editorial did not stir Katherine as it had appeared to stir Bruce, nor even in the milder degree it had stirred Doctor West. She was interested in the water-works only in so far as it concerned her father, and the _Clarion's_ proposal had no apparent bearing on his guilt or innocence. She laid the _Clarion_ on the table, without comment, and proceeded to discuss the coming trial. The only course she had to suggest was that they plead for a postponement on the ground that they needed more time in which to prepare their defense. If that plea were denied, then before them seemed certain conviction. On that plea, then, they decided to place all their hope. When this matter had been talked out Doctor West took the _Clarion_ from the table and again read the editorial with troubled face, while Katherine walked to and fro across the floor, her mind all on the trial. "If the town does sell, it will be too bad!" he sighed. "I suppose so," said Katherine mechanically. "It has reached me that people are saying that the system isn't worth anything like what we paid for it." "Is that so?" she asked absently. Doctor West drew himself up and his faded cheeks flushed indignantly. "No, it is not so. I don't know what's wrong, but it's the very best system of its size in the Middle West!" She paused. "Forgive me--I wasn't paying any attention to what I was saying. I'm sure it is." She resumed her pacing. "But if they sell out to some company," Doctor West continued, "the company will probably get it for a third, or less, of what it is actually worth." "So, if some corporation has been secretly wanting to buy it," commented Katherine, "things could not have worked out better for the corporation if they had been planned." She came to a sudden pause, and stood gazing at her father, her lips slowly parting. "It could not have worked out better for the corporation if it had been planned," she repeated. "No," said Doctor West. She picked up the _Clarion_, quickly read the editorial, and laid the paper aside. "Father!" Her voice was a low, startled cry. "Yes?" She moved slowly toward him, in her face a breathless look, and caught his shoulders with tense hands. "_Perhaps it was planned!_" "What?" Her voice rang out more loudly: "_Perhaps it was planned!_" "But Katherine--what do you mean?" "Let me think. Let me think." She began feverishly to pace the room. "Oh, why did I not think of this before!" she cried to herself. "I thought of graft--political corruption--everything else. But it never occurred to me that there might be a plan, a subtle, deep-laid plan, to steal the water-works!" Doctor West watched her rather dazedly as she went up and down the floor, her brows knit, her lips moving in self-communion. Her connection with the Municipal League in New York had given her an intimate knowledge of the devious means by which public service corporations sometimes gain their end. Her mind flashed over all the situation's possibilities. Suddenly she paused before her father, face flushed, triumph in her eyes. "Father, _it was planned!_" "Eh?" said he. "Father," she demanded excitedly, "do you know what the great public service corporations are doing now?" Her words rushed on, not waiting for an answer. "They have got hold of almost all the valuable public utilities in the great cities, and now they are turning to a fresh field--the small cities. Westville is a rich chance in a small way. It has only thirty thousand inhabitants now. But it is growing. Some day it will have fifty thousand--a hundred thousand." "That's what people say." "If a private company could get hold of the water-works, the system would not only be richly profitable at once, but it would be worth a fortune as the city grows. Now if a company, a clever company, wanted to buy in the water-works, what would be their first move?" "To make an offer, I suppose." "Never! Their first step would be to try to make the people want to sell. And how would they try to make the people want to sell?" "Why--why----" "By making the water-works fail!" Her excitement was mounting; she caught his shoulders. "Fail so badly that the people would be disgusted, just as they now are, and willing to sell at any price. And now, father--and now, father--" he could feel her quivering all over--"listen to me! We're coming to the point! How would they make the water-works fail?" He could only blink at her. "They'd make it fail by removing from office, and so disgracing him that everything he had done would be discredited, the one incorruptible man whose care and knowledge had made it a success! Don't you see, father? Don't you see?" "Bless me," said the old man, "if I know what you're talking about!" "With you out of the way, whom they knew they could not corrupt, they could buy under officials to attend to the details of making the water bad and the plant itself a failure--just exactly what has been done. You are not the real victim. You are just an obstruction--something that they had to get out of the way. The real victim is Westville! It's a plan to rob the city!" His gray eyes were catching the light that blazed from hers. "I begin to see," he said. "It hardly seems possible people would do such things. But perhaps you're right. What are you going to do?" "Fight!" "Fight?" He looked admiringly at her glowing figure. "But if there is a strong company behind all this, for you to fight it alone--it will be an awful big fight!" "I don't care how big the fight is!" she cried exultantly. "What has almost broken my heart till now is that there has been no one to fight!" A shadow fell on the old man's face. "But after all, Katherine, it is all only a guess." "Of course it is only a guess!" she cried. "But I have tested every other possible solution. This is the only one left, and it fits every known circumstance of the case. It is only a guess--but I'll stake my life on its being the right guess!" Her voice rose. "Oh, father, we're on the right track at last! We're going to clear you! Don't you ever doubt that. We're going to clear you!" There was no resisting the ringing confidence in her voice, the fire of her enthusiasm. "Katherine!" he cried, and opened his arms. She rushed into them. "We're going to clear you, father! And, oh, won't it be fine! Won't it be fine!" For a space they held each other close, then they parted. "What are you going to do first?" he asked. "Try to find the person, or corporation, behind the scheme." "And how will you do that?" "First, I shall talk it over with Mr. Blake. You know he told me to come to him if I ever wished his advice. He knows the situation here--he has the interests of Westville at heart--and I know he will help us. I'm not going to lose a second, so I'm off to see him now." She rushed downstairs. But she did have to lose a second, and many of them, for when she called up Mr. Blake's office on the telephone, the answer came back that Mr. Blake was in the capital and would not return till the following day on the one forty-five. It occurred to Katherine to advise with old Hosie Hollingsworth, for during the long summer her blind, childish shrinking had changed to warm liking of the dry old lawyer; and she had discovered, too, that the heresies it had been his delight to utter a generation before--and on which he still prided himself--were now a part of the belief of many an orthodox divine. But she decided against conferring with Old Hosie. Her adviser and leader must be a man more actively in the current of modern affairs. No, Blake was her great hope, and precious and few as were the hours before the trial, there was nothing for it but to wait for his return. She went up to her room, and her excited mind, now half inspired, went feverishly over the situation and all who were in any wise concerned in it. She thought of the fifty dollar check from the Acme Filter Company. With her new viewpoint she now understood the whole bewildering business of that check. The company, or at least one of its officers, was somehow in on the deal, and there had been some careful scheming behind the sending of that fifty dollars. The company had been confronted with two obvious difficulties. First, it had to make certain that the check would not be received until after the two thousand dollars was in the hands of her father. Second, the date of the check and the date of the Westville postmark must be earlier than the day the two thousand dollars was delivered--else Doctor West could produce check and envelope to prove that the check had not arrived until after he had already accepted what he thought was the donation, and thus perhaps ruin the whole scheme. What had been done, Katherine now clearly perceived, was that some one, most probably an assistant of her father, had been bought over to look out for the arrival of the letter, to hold it back until the critical day had passed, and then slip it into her father's neglected mail. Her mind raced on to further matters, further persons, connected with the situation. When she came to Bruce her hands clenched the arms of her wicker rocking chair. In a flash the whole man was plain to her, and her second great discovery of the day was made. Bruce was an agent of the hidden corporation! The motive behind his fierce desire to destroy her father was at last apparent. To destroy Doctor West was his part in the conspiracy. As for his rabid advocacy of municipal ownership, and all his fine talk about the city's betterment, that was mere sham--merely the virtuous front behind which he could work out his purpose unsuspected. No one could quote the scripture of civic improvement more loudly than the civic despoiler. She always had distrusted him. Now she knew him. Many a time through the night her mind flashed back to him from other matters and she thrilled with a vengeful joy at the thought of tearing aside his mask. It was a long and feverish night to Katherine, and a long and feverish forenoon. At a quarter to two she was in Blake's office, which was furnished with just that balance between simplicity and richness appropriate to a growing great man with a constituency half of the city and half of the country. She had sat some time at a window looking down upon the Square, its foliage now a dusty, shrivelled brown, when Blake came in. He had not been told that she was waiting, and at sight of her he came to a sudden pause. But the next instant he had crossed the room and was shaking her hand. For that first instant Katherine's eyes and mind, which during the last twenty-four hours had had an almost more than mortal clearness, had an impression that he was strangely agitated. But the moment over, the impression was gone. He placed a chair for her at the corner of his desk and himself sat down, his dark, strong, handsome face fixed on hers. "Now, how can I serve you, Katherine?" There were rings about her eyes, but excitement gave her colour. "You know that to-morrow is father's trial?" "Yes. You must have a hard, hard fight before you." "Perhaps not so hard as you may think." She tried to keep her tugging excitement in leash. "I hope not," said he. "I think it may prove easy--if you will help me." "Help you?" "Yes. I have come to ask you that again." "Well--you see--as I told you----" "But the situation has changed since I first came to you," she put in quickly, not quite able to restrain a little laugh. "I have found something out!" He started. "You have found--you say----" "I have found something out!" She smiled at him happily, triumphantly. "And that?" said he. She leaned forward. "I do not need to tell you, for you know it, that the big corporations have discovered a new gold mine--or rather, thousands of little gold mines. That all over the country they have gained control, and are working to gain control, of the street-car lines, gas works and other public utilities in the smaller cities." "Well?" She spoke excitedly, putting the case more definitely than it really was, to better the chance of winning his aid. "Well, I have just discovered that there is a plan on foot, directed by a hidden some one, to seize the water-works of Westville. I have discovered that my father is not guilty. He is the victim of a trick to ruin the water-works and make the people willing to sell. The first thing to do is to find the man behind the scheme. I want you to help me find this man." A greenish pallor had overspread his features. "And you want me--to find this man?" he repeated. "Yes. I know you will take this up, simply because of your interest in the city. But there is another reason--it would help you in your larger ambition. If you could disclose this scheme, save the city, become the hero of a great popular gratitude, think how it would help your senatorial chances!" He did not at once reply, but sat staring at her. "Don't you see?" she cried. "I--I see." "Why, it would turn your chance for the Senate into a certainty! It would--but, Mr. Blake, what's the matter?" "Matter," he repeated, huskily. "Why--why nothing." She gazed at him with deep concern. "But you look almost sick." In his eyes there struggled a wild look. Her gaze became fixed upon his face, so strangely altered. In her present high-wrought state all her senses were excited to their intensest keenness. There was a moment of silence--eyes into eyes. Then she stood slowly up, and one hand reached slowly out and clutched his arm. "Mr. Blake!" she whispered, in an awed and terrified tone. She continued to stare into his eyes. "Mr. Blake!" she repeated. She felt a tensing of his body, as of a man who seeks to master himself with a mighty effort. He tried to smile, though his greenish pallor did not leave him. "It is my turn," he said, "to ask what is the matter with you, Katherine." "Mr. Blake!" She loosed her hold upon his arm, and shrank away. He rose. "What is the matter?" he repeated. "You seem upset. I suppose it is the nervous strain of to-morrow's trial." In her face was stupefied horror. "It is what--what I have discovered." "What you call your discovery would be most valuable, if true. But it is just a dream, Katherine--a crazy, crazy dream." She still was looking straight into his eyes. "Mr. Blake, it is true," she said slowly, almost breathlessly. "For I have found the man behind the plan." "Indeed! And who?" "I think you know him, Mr. Blake." "I?" "Better than any one else." His smile had left him. "Who?" She continued to stare at him for a moment in silence. Then she slowly raised her arm and pointed at him. The silence continued for several moments, each gazing at the other. He had put one hand upon his desk and was leaning heavily upon it. He looked like a man sick unto death. But soon a shiver ran through him; he swallowed, gripped himself in a strong control, and smiled again his strained, unnatural smile. "Katherine, Katherine," he tried to say it reprovingly and indulgently, but there was a quaver in his voice. "You have gone quite out of your head!" "It is true!" she cried. "All unintentionally I have followed one of the oldest of police expedients. I have suddenly confronted the criminal with his crime, and I have surprised his guilt upon his face!" "What you say is absurd. I can explain it only on the theory that you are quite out of your mind." "Never before was I so much in it!" In this moment when she felt that the hidden enemy she had striven so long to find was at last revealed to her, she felt more of anguish than of triumph. "Oh, how could you do such a thing, Mr. Blake?" she burst out. "How could you do it?" He shook his head, and tried to smile at her perversity--but the smile was a wan failure. "I see--I see!" she cried in her pain. "It is just the old story. A good man rises to power through being the champion of the people--and, once in power, the opportunities, the temptation, are too much for him. But I never--no, never!--thought that such a thing would happen with you!" He strove for the injured air of the misjudged old friend. "Again I must say that I can only explain your charges by supposing that you are out of your head." "Here in Westville you believe it is not woman's business to think about politics," Katherine went on, in her voice of pain. "But I could not help thinking about them, and watching them. I have lost my faith in the old parties, but I had kept my faith in some of their leaders. I believe some of them honest, devoted, indomitable. And of them all, the one I admired most, ranked highest, was you. And now--and now--oh, Mr. Blake!--to learn that you----" "Katherine! Katherine!" And he raised his hands with the manner of exasperated, yet indulgent, helplessness. "Mr. Blake, you know you are now only playing a part! And you know that I know it!" She moved up to him eagerly. "Listen to me," she pleaded rapidly. "You have only started on this, you have not gone too far to turn back. You have done no real wrong as yet, save to my father, and I know my father will forgive you. Drop your plan--let my father be honourably cleared--and everything will be just as before!" For a space he seemed shaken by her words. She watched him, breathless, awaiting the outcome of the battle she felt was waging within him. "Drop the plan--do!--do!--I beg you!" she cried. His dark face twitched; a quivering ran through his body. Then by a mighty effort he partially regained his mastery. "There is no plan for me to drop," he said huskily. "You still cling to the part you are playing?" "I am playing no part; you are all wrong about me," he continued. "Your charges are so absurd that it would be foolish to deny them. They are merely the ravings of an hysterical woman." "And this is your answer?" "That is my answer." She gazed at him for a long moment. Then she sighed. "I'm so sorry!" she said; and she turned away and moved toward the door. She gave him a parting look, as he stood pale, quivering, yet controlled, behind his desk. In this last moment she remembered the gallant fight this man had made against Blind Charlie Peck; she remembered that fragrant, far-distant night of June when he had asked her to marry him; and she felt as though she were gazing for the last time upon a dear dead face. "I'm sorry--oh, so sorry!" she said tremulously. "Good-by." And turning, she walked with bowed head out of his office. CHAPTER VIII THE EDITOR OF THE _EXPRESS_ Katherine stumbled down into the dusty, quivering heat of the Square. She was still awed and dumfounded by her discovery; she could not as yet realize its full significance and whither it would lead; but her mind was a ferment of thoughts that were unfinished and questions that did not await reply. How had a man once so splendid come to sell his soul for money or ambition? What would Westville think and do, Westville who worshipped him, if it but knew the truth? How was she to give battle to an antagonist, so able in himself, so powerfully supported by the public? What a strange caprice of fate it was that had given her as the man she must fight, defeat, or be defeated by, her former idol, her former lover! Shaken with emotion, her mind shot through with these fragmentary thoughts, she turned into a side street. But she had walked beneath its withered maples no more than a block or two, when her largest immediate problem, her father's trial on the morrow, thrust itself into her consciousness, and the pressing need of further action drove all this spasmodic speculation from her mind. She began to think upon what she should next do. Almost instantly her mind darted to the man whom she had definitely connected with the plot against her father, Arnold Bruce, and she turned back toward the Square, afire with a new idea. She had made great advance through suddenly, though unintentionally, confronting Blake with knowledge of his guilt. Might she not make some further advance, gain some new clue, by confronting Bruce in similar manner? Ten minutes after she had left the office of Harrison Blake, Katherine entered the _Express_ Building. From the first floor sounded a deep and continuous thunder; that afternoon's issue was coming from the press. She lifted her skirts and gingerly mounted the stairway, over which the _Express's_ "devil" was occasionally seen to make incantations with the stub of an undisturbing broom. At the head of the stairway a door stood open. This she entered, and found herself in the general editorial room, ankle-deep with dirt and paper. The air of the place told that the day's work was done. In one corner a telegraph sounder was chattering its tardy world-gossip to unheeding ears. In the centre at a long table, typewriters before them, three shirt-sleeved young men sprawled at ease reading the _Express_, which the "devil" had just brought them from the nether regions, moist with the black spittle of the beast that there roared and rumbled. At sight of her tall, fresh figure, a red spot in her either cheek, defiance in her brown eyes, Billy Harper, quicker than the rest, sprang up and crossed the room. "Miss West, I believe," he said. "Can I do anything for you?" "I wish to speak with Mr. Bruce," was her cold reply. "This way," and Billy led her across the wilderness of proofs, discarded copy and old newspapers, to a door beside the stairway that led down into the press-room. "Just go right in," he said. She entered. Bruce, his shirt-sleeves rolled up and his bared fore-arms grimy, sat glancing through the _Express_, his feet crossed on his littered desk, a black pipe hanging from one corner of his mouth. He did not look round but turned another page. "Well, what's the matter?" he grunted between his teeth. "I should like a few words with you," said Katherine. "Eh!" His head twisted about. "Miss West!" His feet suddenly dropped to the floor, and he stood up and laid the pipe upon his desk. For the moment he was uncertain how to receive her, but the bright, hard look in her eyes fixed his attitude. "Certainly," he said in a brusque, businesslike tone. He placed the atlas-bottomed chair near his own. "Be seated." She sat down, and he took his own chair. "I am at your service," he said. Her cheeks slowly gathered a higher colour, her eyes gleamed with a pre-triumphant fire, and she looked straight into his square, rather massive face. Over Blake she had felt an infinity of regret and pain. For this man she felt only boundless hatred, and she thrilled with a vengeful, exultant joy that she was about to unmask him--that later she might crush him utterly. "I am at your service," he repeated. She slowly wet her lips and gathered herself to strike, alert to watch the effects of her blow. "I have called, Mr. Bruce," she said with slow distinctness, "to let you know that I know that a conspiracy is under way to steal the water-works! And to let you know that I know that you are near its centre!" He started. "What?" he cried. Her devouring gaze did not lose a change of feature, not so much as the shifting in the pupil of his eye. "Oh, I know your plot!" she went on rapidly. "It's every detail! The first step was to ruin the water-works, so the city would sell and sell cheap. The first step toward ruining the system was to get my father out of the way. And so this charge against my father was trumped up to ruin him. The leader of the whole plot is Mr. Blake; his right hand man yourself. Oh, I know every detail of your infamous scheme!" He stared at her. His lips had slowly parted. "What--you say that Mr. Blake----" "Oh, you are trying to play your part of innocence well, but you cannot deceive me!" she cried with fierce contempt. "Yes, Mr. Blake is the head of it. I just came from his office. There's not a doubt in the world of his guilt. He has admitted it. Oh----" "Admitted it?" "Yes, admitted it! Oh, it was a fine and easy way to make a fortune--to dupe the city into selling at a fraction of its value a business that run privately will pay an immense and ever-growing profit." He had stood up and was scratching his bristling hair. "My God! My God!" he whispered. She rose. "And you!" she cried, glaring at him, her voice mounting to a climax of scorn, "You! Don't walk the room"--he had begun to do so--"but look me in the face. To think how you have attacked my father, maligned him, covered him with dishonour! And for what? To help you carry through a dirty trick to rob the city! Oh, I wish I had the words to tell you----" But he had begun again to pace the little room, scratching his head, his eyes gleaming behind the heavy glasses. "Listen to me!" she commanded. "Oh, give me all the hell you want to!" he cried out. "Only don't ask me to listen to you!" He paused abruptly before her, and, eyes half-closed, stared piercingly into her face. As she returned his stare, it began to dawn upon her that he did not seem much taken aback. At least his guilt bore no near likeness to that of Mr. Blake. Suddenly he made a lunge for the door, jerked it open, and his voice descended the stairway, out-thundering the press. "Jake! Oh, Jake!" A lesser roar ascended: "Yes!" "Stop the press! Rip open the forms! Get the men at the linotypes! And be alive down there, every damned soul of you! And you, Billy Harper, I'll want you here in two minutes!" He slammed the door, and turned on Katherine. She had looked upon excitement before, but never such excitement as was flaming in his face. "Now give me all the details!" he cried. She it was that was taken aback. "I--I don't understand," she said. "No time to explain now. Looks like I've been all wrong about your father--perhaps a little wrong about you--and perhaps you've been a little wrong about me. Let it go at that. Now for the details. Quick!" "But--but what are you going to do?" "Going to get out an extra! It's the hottest story that ever came down the pike! It'll make the _Express_, and"--he seized her hand in his grimy ones, his eyes blazed, and an exultant laugh leaped from his deep chest--"and we'll simply rip this old town wide open!" Katherine stared at him in bewilderment. "Oh, won't this wake the old town up!" he murmured to himself. He dropped into his chair, jerked some loose copy paper toward him, and seized a pencil. "Now quick! The details!" "You mean--you are going to print this?" she stammered. "Didn't I say so!" he answered sharply. "Then you really had nothing to do with Mr. Blake's----" "Oh, hell! I beg pardon. But this is no time for explanations. Come, come"--he rapped his desk with his knuckles--"don't you know what getting out an extra is? Every second is worth half your lifetime. Out with the story!" Katherine sank rather weakly into her chair, beginning to see new things in this face she had so lately loathed. "The fact of the matter is," she confessed, "I guess I stated my information a little more definitely than it really is." "You mean you haven't the facts?" "I'm afraid not. Not yet." "Nothing definite I could hinge a story on?" She shook her head. "I didn't come prepared for--for things to take this turn. It would spoil everything to have this made public before I had my case worked up." "Then there's no extra!" He flung down his pencil and sprang up. "Nothing doing, Billy," he called to Harper, who that instant opened the door; "go on back with you." He began to walk up and down the little office, scowling, hands clenched in his trousers' pockets. After a moment he stopped short, and looked at Katherine half savagely. "I suppose you don't know what it means to a newspaper man to have a big story laid in his hands and then suddenly jerked out?" "I suppose it is something of a disappointment." "Disappointment!" The word came out half groan, half sneer. "Rot! If you were waiting in church and the bridegroom didn't show up, if you were----oh, I can't make you understand the feeling!" He dropped back into his chair and scratched viciously at the copy paper with his heavy black pencil. She watched him in a sort of fascination, till he abruptly looked up. Suspicion glinted behind the heavy glasses. "Are you sure, Miss West," he asked slowly "that this whole affair isn't just a little game?" "What do you mean?" "That your whole story is nothing but a hoax? Nothing but a trick to get out of a tight hole by calling another man a thief?" Her eyes flashed. "You mean that I am telling a lie?" "Oh, you lawyers doubtless have a better-tasting word for it. You would call it, say, a 'professional expedient.'" She was still not sufficiently recovered from her astonishment to be angry. Besides, she felt herself by an unexpected turn put in the wrong regarding Bruce. "What I have said to you is the absolute truth," she declared. "Here is the situation--believe me or not, just as you please. I ask you, for the moment, to accept the proposition that my father is the victim of a plot to steal the water-works, and then see how everything fits in with that theory. And bear in mind, as an item worth considering, my father's long and honourable career--never a dishonouring word against him till this charge came." And she went on and outlined, more fully than on yesterday before her father, the reasoning that had led her to her conclusion. "Now, does not that sound possible?" she demanded. He had watched her with keen, half-closed eyes. "H'm. You reason well," he conceded. "That's a lawyer's business," she retorted. "So much for theory. Now for facts." And she continued and gave him her experience of half an hour before with Blake, the editor's boring gaze fixed on her all the while. "Now I ask you this question: Is it likely that even a poor water system could fail so quickly and so completely as ours has done, unless some powerful person was secretly working to make it fail? Do you not see it never could? We all would have seen it, but we've all been too busy, too blind, and thought too well of our town, to suspect such a thing." His eyes were still boring into her. "But how about Doctor Sherman?" he asked. "I believe that Doctor Sherman is an innocent tool of the conspiracy, just as my father is its innocent victim," she answered promptly. Bruce sat with the same fixed look, and made no reply. "I have stated my theory, and I have stated my facts," said Katherine. "I have no court evidence, but I am going to have it. As I remarked before, you can believe what I have said, or not believe it. It's all the same to me." She stood up. "I wish you good afternoon." He quickly rose. "Hold on!" he said. She paused at the door. He strode to and fro across the little office, scowling with thought. Then he paused at the window and looked out. "Well?" she demanded. He wheeled about. "It sounds plausible." "Thank you," she said crisply. "I could hardly expect a man who has been the champion of error, to admit that he has been wrong and accept the truth. Good afternoon." Again she reached for the door-knob. "Wait!" he cried. There was a ring of resentment in his voice, but his square face that had been grudgingly non-committal was now aglow with excitement. "Of course you're right!" he exclaimed. "There's a damned infernal conspiracy! Now what can I do to help?" "Help?" she asked blankly. "Help work up the evidence? Help reveal the conspiracy?" She had not yet quite got her bearings concerning this new Bruce. "Help? Why should you help? Oh, I see," she said coldly; "it would make a nice sensational story for your paper." He flushed at her cutting words, and his square jaw set. "I suppose I might follow your example of a minute ago and say that I don't care what you think. But I don't mind telling you a few things, and giving you a chance to understand me if you want to. I was on a Chicago paper, and had a big place that was growing bigger. I could have sold the _Express_ when my uncle left it to me, and stayed there; but I saw a chance, with a paper of my own, to try out some of my own ideas, so I came to Westville. My idea of a newspaper is that its function is to serve the people--make them think--bring them new ideas--to be ever watching their interests. Of course, I want to make money--I've got to, or go to smash; but I'd rather run a candy store than run a sleepy, apologetic, afraid-of-a-mouse, mere money-making sheet like the _Clarion_, that would never breathe a word against the devil's fair name so long as he carried a half-inch ad. You called me a yellow journalist yesterday. Well, if to tell the truth in the hardest way I know how, to tell it so that it will hit people square between the eyes and make 'em sit up and look around 'em--if that is yellow then I'm certainly a yellow journalist, and I thank God Almighty for inventing the breed!" As Katherine listened to his snappy, vibrant words, as she looked at his powerful, dominant figure, and into his determined face with its flashing eyes, she felt a reluctant warmth creep through her being. "Perhaps--I may have been mistaken about you," she said. "Perhaps you may!" he returned grimly. "Perhaps as much as I was about your father. And, speaking of your father, I don't mind adding something more. Ever since I took charge of the _Express_, I've been advocating municipal ownership of every public utility. The water-works, which were apparently so satisfactory, were a good start; I used them constantly as a text for working up municipal ownership sentiment. The franchises of the Westville Traction Company expire next year, and I had been making a campaign against renewing the franchises and in favour of the city taking over the system and running it. Opinion ran high in favour of the scheme. But Doctor West's seeming dishonesty completely killed the municipal ownership idea. That was my pet, and if I was bitter toward your father--well, I couldn't help it. And now," he added rather brusquely, "I've explained myself to you. To repeat your words, you can believe me or not, just as you like." There was no resisting the impression of the man's sincerity. "I suppose," said Katherine, "that I should apologize for--for the things I've called you. My only excuse is that your mistake about my father helped cause my mistake about you." "And I," returned he, "am not only willing to take back, publicly, in my paper, what I have said against your father, but am willing to print your statement about----" "You must not print a word till I get my evidence," she put in quickly. "Printing it prematurely might ruin my case." "Very well. And as for what I have said about you, I take back everything--except----" He paused; she saw disapprobation in his eyes. "Except the plain truth I told you that being a lawyer is no work for a woman." "You are very dogmatic!" said she hotly. "I am very right," he returned. "Excuse my saying it, but you appear to have too many good qualities as a woman to spoil it all by going out of your sphere and trying----" "Why--why----" She stood gasping. "Do you know what your uncle told me about you?" "Old Hosie?" He shrugged his shoulders. "Hosie's an old fool!" "He said that the trouble with you was that you had not been thrashed enough as a boy. And he was right, too!" She turned quickly to the door, but he stepped before her. "Don't get mad because of a little truth. Remember, I want to help you." "I think," said she, "that we're better suited to fight each other than to help each other. I'm not so sure I want your help." "I'm not so sure you can avoid taking it," he retorted. "This isn't your father's case alone. It's the city's case, too, and I've got a right to mix in. Now do you want me?" She looked at him a moment. "I'll think it over. For the present, good afternoon." He hesitated, then held out his hand. She hesitated, then took it. After which, he opened the door for her and bowed her out. CHAPTER IX THE PRICE OF A MAN When, half an hour before, Katherine walked with bowed head out of Harrison Blake's office, Blake gazed fixedly after her for a moment, and his face, now that he was private, deepened its sickly, ashen hue. Then he strode feverishly up and down the room, lips twitching nervously, hands clinching and unclinching. Then he unlocked a cabinet against the wall, poured out a drink from a squat, black bottle, gulped it down, and returned the bottle, forgetting to close the cabinet. After which he dropped into his chair, gripped his face in his two hands, and sat at his desk breathing deeply, but otherwise without motion. Presently his door opened. "Mr. Brown is here to see you," announced a voice. He slowly raised his head, and stared an instant at his stenographer in dumfounded silence. "Mr. Brown!" he repeated. "Yes," said the young woman. He continued to stare at her in sickly stupefaction. "Shall I tell him you'll see him later?" "Show him in," said Blake. "But, no--wait till I ring." He passed his hand across his moist and pallid face, paced his room again several times, then touched a button and stood stiffly erect beside his desk. The next moment the door closed behind a short, rather chubby man with an egg-shell dome and a circlet of grayish hair. He had eyes that twinkled with good fellowship and a cheery, fatherly manner. "Well, well, Mr. Blake; mighty glad to see you!" he exclaimed as he crossed the room. Blake, still pale, but now with tense composure, took the hand of his visitor. "This is a surprise, Mr. Brown," said he. "How do you happen to be in Westville?" Mr. Brown disposed himself comfortably in the chair that Katherine had so lately occupied. "To-morrow's the trial of that Doctor West, isn't it?" "Yes." "Well, I thought I'd better be on the ground to see how it came out." Blake did not respond at once; but, lips very tight together, sat gazing at the ruddy face of his visitor. "Everything's going all right, isn't it?" asked Mr. Brown in his cheery voice. "About the trial, you mean?" Blake asked with an effort. "Of course. The letter I had from you yesterday assured me conviction was certain. Things still stand the same way, I suppose?" Blake's whole body was taut. His dark eyes were fixed upon Mr. Brown. "They do not," he said quietly. "Not stand the same way?" cried Mr. Brown, half rising from his chair. "Why not?" "I am afraid," replied Blake with his strained quiet, "that the prosecution will not make out a case." "Not make out a case?" "To-morrow Doctor West is going to be cleared." "Cleared? Cleared?" Mr. Brown stared. "Now what the devil--see here, Blake, how's that going to happen?" Blake's tense figure had leaned forward. "It's going to happen, Mr. Brown," he burst out, with a flashing of his dark eyes, "because I'm tired of doing your dirty work, and the dirty work of the National Electric & Water Company!" "You mean you're going to see he's cleared?" "I mean I'm going to see he's cleared!" "What--you?" ejaculated Mr. Brown, still staring. "Why, only in your letter yesterday you were all for the plan! What's come over you?" "If you'd gone through what I've just gone through----" Blake abruptly checked his passionate reference to his scene with Katherine. "I say enough when I say that I'm going to see that Doctor West is cleared. There you have it." No further word was spoken for a moment. The two men, leaning toward each other, gazed straight into one another's eyes. Blake's powerful, handsome face was blazing and defiant. The fatherly kindness had disappeared from the other, and it was keen and hard. "So," said Mr. Brown, cuttingly, and with an infinity of contempt, "it appears that Mr. Harrison Blake is the owner of a white liver." "You know that's a lie!" Blake fiercely retorted. "You know I've got as much courage as you and your infernal company put together!" "Oh, you have, have you? From the way you're turning tail----" "To turn tail upon a dirty job is no cowardice!" "But there have been plenty of dirty jobs you haven't run from. You've put through many a one in the last two or three years on the quiet." "But never one like this." "You knew exactly what the job was when you made the bargain with us." "Yes. And my stomach rose against it even then." "Then why the devil did you tie up with us?" "Because your big promises dazzled me! Because you took me up on a high mountain and showed me the kingdoms of the earth!" "Well, you then thought the kingdoms were pretty good looking property." "Good enough to make me forget the sort of thing I was doing. Good enough to blind me as to how things might come out. But I see now! And I'm through with it all!" The chubby little man's eyes were on fire. But he was too experienced in his trade to allow much liberty to anger. "And that's final--that's where you stand?" he asked with comparative calm. "That's where I stand!" cried Blake. "I may have got started crooked, but I'm through with this kind of business now! I'm going back to clean ways! And you, Mr. Brown, you might as well say good-by!" But Mr. Brown was an old campaigner. He never abandoned a battle merely because it apparently seemed lost. He now leaned back in his chair, slowly crossed his short legs, and thoughtfully regarded Blake's excited features. His own countenance had changed its aspect; it had shed its recent hardness, and had not resumed its original cheeriness. It was eminently a reasonable face. "Come, let's talk this whole matter over in a calm manner," he began in a rather soothing tone. "Neither of us wants to be too hasty. There are a few points I'd like to call your attention to, if you'll let me." "Go ahead with your points," said Blake. "But they won't change my decision." "First, let's talk about the company," Mr. Brown went on in his mild, persuasive manner. "Frankly, you've put the company in a hole. Believing that you would keep your end of the bargain, the company has invested a lot of money and started a lot of projects. We bought up practically all the stock of the Westville street car lines, when that municipal ownership talk drove the price so low, because we expected to get a new franchise through your smashing this municipal ownership fallacy. We have counted on big things from the water-works when you got hold of it for us. And we have plans on foot in several other cities of the state, and we've been counting on the failure of municipal ownership in Westville to have a big influence on those cities and to help us in getting what we want. In one way and another this deal here means an awful lot to the company. Your failing us at the last moment means to the company----" "I understand all that," interrupted Blake. "Here's a point for you to consider then: Since the company has banked so much upon your promise, since it will lose so heavily if you repudiate your word, are you not bound in honour to stand by your agreement?" Blake opened his lips, but Mr. Brown raised a hand. "Don't answer now. I just leave that for you to think upon. So much for the company. Now for yourself. We promised you if you carried this deal through--and you know how able we are to keep our promise!--we promised you Grayson's seat in the Senate. And after that, with your ability and our support, who knows where you'd stop?" Mr. Brown's voice became yet more soft and persuasive. "Isn't that a lot to throw overboard because of a scruple?" "I can win all that, or part of it, by being loyal to the people," Blake replied doggedly, but in a rather unsteady tone. "Come, come, Mr. Blake," said Brown reprovingly, "you know you're not talking sense. You know that the only quick and sure way of getting the big offices is by the help of the corporations. So you realize what you're losing." Blake's face had become drawn and pale. He closed his eyes, as though to shut out the visions of the kingdoms Mr. Brown had conjured up. "I'm ready to lose it!" he cried. "All right, then," Mr. Brown went mildly on. "So much for what we lose, and what you lose. Now for the next point, the action you intend to take regarding Doctor West. Do you mind telling me just how you propose to undo what you have done so far?" "I haven't thought it out yet. But I can do it." "Of course," pursued Mr. Brown blandly, "you propose to do it so that you will appear in no way to be involved?" Blake was thinking of Katherine's accusation. "Of course." "Just suppose you think about that point for a minute or two." There was a brief silence. When Mr. Brown next spoke he spoke very slowly and accompanied each word with a gentle tap of his forefinger on the desk. "Can you think of a single way to clear Doctor West without incriminating yourself?" Blake gave a start. "What's that?" "Can you get Doctor West out of his trouble without showing who got him into his trouble? Just think that over." During the moment of silence Blake grew yet more pale. "I'll kill the case somehow!" he breathed. "But the case looks very strong against Doctor West. Everybody believes him guilty. Do you think you can suddenly, within twenty-four hours, reverse the whole situation, and not run some risk of having suspicion shift around to you?" Blake's eyes fell to his desk, and he sat staring whitely at it. "And there's still another matter," pursued the gentle voice of Mr. Brown, now grown apologetic. "I wouldn't think of mentioning it, but I want you to have every consideration before you. I believe I never told you that the National Electric & Water Company own the majority stock of the Acme Filter Company." "No, I didn't know that." "It was because of that mutual relationship that I was able to help out your little plan by getting Marcy to do what he did. Now if some of our directors should feel sore at the way you've thrown us down, they might take it into their minds to make things unpleasant for you." "Unpleasant? How?" Mr. Brown's fatherly smile had now come back. It was full of concern for Blake. "Well, I'd hate, for instance, to see them use their pressure to drive Mr. Marcy to make a statement." "Mr. Marcy? A statement?" "Because," continued Mr. Brown in his tone of fatherly concern, "after Mr. Marcy had stated what he knows about this case, I'm afraid there wouldn't be much chance for you to win any high places by being loyal to the people." For a moment after this velvet threat Blake held upon Mr. Brown an open-lipped, ashen face. Then, without a word, he leaned his elbows upon his desk and buried his face in his hands. For a long space there was silence in the room. Mr. Brown's eyes, kind no longer, but keenest of the keen, watched the form before him, timing the right second to strike again. At length he recrossed his legs. "Of course it's up to you to decide, and what you say goes," he went on in his amiable voice. "But speaking impartially, and as a friend, it strikes me that you've gone too far in this matter to draw back. It strikes me that the best and only thing is to go straight ahead." Blake's head remained bowed in his hands, and he did not speak. "And, of course," pursued Mr. Brown, "if you should decide in favour of the original agreement, our promise still stands good--Senate and all." Mr. Brown said no more, but sat watching his man. Again there was a long silence. Then Blake raised his face--and a changed face it was indeed from that which had fallen into his hands. It bore the marks of a mighty struggle, but it was hard and resolute--the face of a man who has cast all hesitancy behind. "The agreement still stands," he said. "Then you're ready to go ahead?" "To the very end," said Blake. Mr. Brown nodded. "I was sure you'd decide that way," said he. "I want to thank you for what you've said to bring me around," Blake continued in his new incisive tone. "But it is only fair to tell you that this was only a spell--not the first one, in fact--and that I would have come to my senses anyhow." "Of course, of course." It was not the policy of Mr. Brown, once the victory was won, to discuss to whom the victory belonged. Blake's eyes were keen and penetrating. "And you say that the things I said a little while back will not affect your attitude toward me in the future?" "Those things? Why, they've already passed out of my other ear! Oh, it's no new experience," he went on with his comforting air of good-fellowship, "for me to run into one of our political friends when he's sick with a bad case of conscience. They all have it now and then, and they all pull out of it. No, don't you worry about the future. You're O. K. with us." "Thank you." "And now, since everything is so pleasantly cleared up," continued Mr. Brown, "let's go back to my first question. I suppose everything looks all right for the trial to-morrow?" Blake hesitated a moment, then told of Katherine's discovery. "But it's no more than a surmise," he ended. "Has she guessed any other of the parties implicated?" Mr. Brown asked anxiously. "I'm certain she has not." "Is she likely to raise a row to-morrow?" "I hardly see how she can." "All the same, we'd better do something to quiet her," returned Mr. Brown meaningly. Blake flashed a quick look at the other. "See here--I'll not have her touched!" Mr. Brown's scanty eyebrows lifted. "Hello! You seem very tender about her!" Blake looked at him sternly a moment. Then he said stiffly: "I once asked Miss West to marry me." "Eh--you don't say!" exclaimed the other, amazed. "That is certainly a queer situation for you!" He rubbed his naked dome. "And you still feel----" "What I feel is my own affair!" Blake cut in sharply. "Of course, of course!" agreed Mr. Brown quickly. "I beg your pardon!" Blake ignored the apology. "It might be well for you not to see me openly again like this. With Miss West watching me----" "She might see us together, and suspect things. I understand. Needn't worry about that. You may not see me again for a year. I'm here--there--everywhere. But before I go, how do things look for the election?" "We'll carry the city easily." "Who'll you put up for mayor?" "Probably Kennedy, the prosecuting attorney." "Is he safe?" "He'll do what he's told." "That's good. Is he strong with the people?" "Fairly so. But the party will carry him through." "H'm." Mr. Brown was thoughtful for a space. "This is your end of the game, of course, and I make it a point not to interfere with another man's work. The only time I've butted in here was when I helped you about getting Marcy. But still, I hope you don't mind my making a suggestion." "Not at all." "We've got to have the next mayor and council, you know. Simply got to have them. We don't want to run any risk, however small. If you think there's one chance in a thousand of Kennedy losing out, suppose you have yourself nominated." "Me?" exclaimed Blake. "It strikes you as a come-down, of course. But you can do it gracefully--in the interest of the city, and all that, you know. You can turn it into a popular hit. Then you can resign as soon as our business is put through." "There may be something in it," commented Blake. "It's only a suggestion. Just think it over, and use your own judgment." He stood up. "Well, I guess that's all we need to say to one another. The whole situation here is entirely in your hands. Do as you please, and we ask no questions about how you do it. We're not interested in methods, only in results." He clapped Blake heartily upon the shoulder. "And it looks as though we all were going to get results! Especially you! Why, you, with this trial successfully over--with the election won--with the goods delivered----" He suddenly broke off, for the tail of his eye had sighted Blake's open cabinet. "Will you allow me a liberty?" "Certainly," replied Blake, in the dark as to his visitor's purpose. Mr. Brown crossed to the cabinet, and returned with the squat, black bottle and two small glasses. He tilted an inch into each tumbler, gave one to Blake, and raised the other on high. His face was illumined with his fatherly smile. "To our new Senator!" he said. CHAPTER X SUNSET AT THE SYCAMORES When the door had closed behind the pleasant figure of Mr. Brown, Blake pressed the button upon his desk. His stenographer appeared. "I have some important matters to consider," he said. "Do not allow me to be disturbed until Doctor and Mrs. Sherman come with the car." His privacy thus secured, Blake sat at his desk, staring fixedly before him. His brow was compressed into wrinkles, his dark face, still showing a yellowish pallor, was hard and set. He reviewed the entire situation, and as his consuming ambition contemplated the glories of success, and the success after that, and the succession of successes that led up and ever up, his every nerve was afire with an excruciating, impatient pleasure. For a space while Katherine had confronted him, and for a space after she had gone, he had shrunk from this business he was carrying through. But he had spoken truthfully to Mr. Brown when he had said that his revulsion was but a temporary feeling, and that of his own accord he would have come back to his original decision. He had had such revulsions before, and each time he had swung as surely back to his purpose as does the disturbed needle to the magnetic pole. Westville considered Harrison Blake a happy blend of the best of his father and mother; whereas, in point of fact, his father and his mother lived in him with their personalities almost intact. There was his mother, with her idealism and her high sense of honour; and his father, with his boundless ambition and his lack of principles. In the earlier years of Blake's manhood his mother's qualities had dominated. He had sincerely tried to do great work for Westville, and had done it; and the reputation he had then made, and the gratitude he had then won, were the seed from which had grown the great esteem with which Westville now regarded him. But a few years back he had found that rise, through virtue, was slow and beset with barriers. His ambition had become impatient. Now that he was a figure of local power and importance, temptation began to assail him with offers of rapid elevation if only he would be complaisant. In this situation, the father in him rose into the ascendency; he had compromised and yielded, though always managing to keep his dubious transactions secret. And now at length ambition ruled him--though as yet not undisturbed, for conscience sometimes rose in unexpected revolt and gave him many a bitter battle. When his stenographer told Blake that Doctor and Mrs. Sherman were waiting at the curb, he descended with something more like his usual cast of countenance. Elsie and her husband were in the tonneau, and as Blake crossed the sidewalk to the car she stretched out a nervous hand and gave him a worn, excited smile. "It is so good of you to take us out to The Sycamores for over night!" she exclaimed. "It's such a pleasure--and such a relief!" She did not need to explain that it was a relief because the motion, the company, the change of scene, would help crowd from her mind the dread of to-morrow when her husband would have to take the stand against Doctor West; she did not need to explain this, because Blake's eyes read it all in her pale, feverish face. Blake shook hands with Doctor Sherman, dismissed his chauffeur, and took the wheel. They spun out of the city and down into the River Road--the favourite drive with Westville folk--which followed the stream in broad sweeping curves and ran through arcades of thick-bodied, bowing willows and sycamores lofty and severe, their foliage now a drought-crisped brown. After half an hour the car turned through a stone gateway into a grove of beech and elm and sycamore. At a comfortable distance apart were perhaps a dozen houses whose outer walls were slabs of trees with the bark still on. This was The Sycamores, a little summer resort established by a small group of the select families of Westville. Blake stopped the car before one of these houses--"cabins" their owners called them, though their primitiveness was all in that outer shell of bark. A rather tall, straight, white-haired old lady, with a sweet nobility and strength of face, was on the little porch to greet them. She welcomed Elsie and her husband warmly and graciously. Then with no relaxation of her natural dignity into emotional effusion, she embraced her son and kissed him--for to her, as to Westville, he was the same man as five years before, and to him she had given not only the love a mother gives her only son, but the love she had formerly borne her husband who, during his last years, had been to her a bitter grief. Blake returned the kiss with no less feeling. His love of his mother was the talk of Westville; it was the one noble sentiment which he still allowed to sway him with all its original sincerity and might. They had tea out upon the porch, with its view of the river twinkling down the easy hill between the trees. Mrs. Blake, seeing how agitated Elsie was, and under what a strain was Doctor Sherman, and guessing the cause, deftly guided the conversation away from to-morrow's trial. She led the talk around to the lecture room which was being added to Doctor Sherman's church--a topic of high interest to them all, for she was a member of the church, Blake was chairman of the building committee, and Doctor Sherman was treasurer of the committee and active director of the work. This manoeuvre had but moderate success. Blake carried his part of the conversation well enough, and Elsie talked with a feverish interest which was too great a drain upon her meagre strength. But the stress of Doctor Sherman, which he strove to conceal, seemed to grow greater rather than decrease. Presently Blake excused himself and Doctor Sherman, and the two men strolled down a winding, root-obstructed path toward the river. As they left the cabin behind them, Blake's manner became cold and hard, as in his office, and Doctor Sherman's agitation, which he had with such an effort kept in hand, began to escape his control. Once he stumbled over the twisted root which a beech thrust across their path and would have fallen had not Blake put out a swift hand and caught him. Yet at this neither uttered a word, and in silence they continued walking on till they reached a retired spot upon the river's bank. Here Doctor Sherman sank to a seat upon a mossy, rotting log. Blake, erect, but leaning lightly against the scaling, mottled body of a giant sycamore, at first gave no heed to his companion. He gazed straight ahead down the river, emaciated by the drought till the bowlders of its bottom protruded through the surface like so many bones--with the ranks of austere sycamores keeping their stately watch on either bank--with the sun, blood red in the September haze, suspended above the river's west-most reach. Thus the pair remained for several moments. Then Blake looked slowly about at the minister. "I brought you down here because there is something I want to tell you," he said calmly. "I supposed so; go ahead," responded Doctor Sherman in a choked voice, his eyes upon the ground. "You seem somewhat disturbed," remarked Blake in the same cold, even tone. "Disturbed!" cried Doctor Sherman. "Disturbed!" His voice told how preposterously inadequate was the word. He did not lift his eyes, but sat silent a moment, his white hands crushing one another, his face bent upon the rotted wood beneath his feet. "It's that business to-morrow!" he groaned; and at that he suddenly sprang up and confronted Blake. His fine face was wildly haggard and was working in convulsive agony. "My God," he burst out, "when I look back at myself as I was four years ago, and then look at myself as I am to-day--oh, I'm sick, sick!" A hand gripped the cloth over his breast. "Why, when I came to Westville I was on fire to serve God with all my heart and never a compromise! On fire to preach the new gospel that the way to make people better is to make this an easier world for people to be better in!" That passion-shaken figure was not a pleasant thing to look upon. Blake turned his eyes back to the glistening river and the sun, and steeled himself. "Yes, I remember you preached some great sermons in those days," he commented in his cold voice. "And what happened to you?" "You know what happened to me!" cried the young minister with his wild passion. "You know well enough, even if you were not in that group of prominent members who gave me to understand that I'd either have to change my sermons or they'd have to change their minister!" "At least they gave you a choice," returned Blake. "And I made the wrong choice! I was at the beginning of my career--the church here seemed a great chance for so young a man--and I did not want to fail at the very beginning. And so--and so--I compromised!" "Do you suppose you are the first man that has ever made a compromise?" "That compromise was the direct cause of to-morrow!" the young clergyman went on in his passionate remorse. "That compromise was the beginning of my fall. After the prominent members took me up, favoured me, it became easy to blink my eyes at their business methods. And then it became easy for me to convince myself that it would be all right for me to gamble in stocks." "That was your great mistake," said the dry voice of the motionless figure against the tree. "A minister has no business to fool with the stock market." "But what was I to do?" Doctor Sherman cried desperately. "No money behind me--the salary of a dry goods clerk--my wife up there, whom I love better than my own life, needing delicacies, attention, a long stay in Colorado--what other chance, I ask you, did I have of getting the money?" "Well, at any rate, you should have kept your fingers off that church building fund." "God, don't I realize that! But with the market falling, and all the little I had about to be swept away, what else was a half frantic man to do but to try to save himself with any money he could put his hands upon?" Blake shrugged his shoulders. "Well, if luck was against you when that church money was also swept away, luck was certainly with you when it happened that I was the one to discover what you had done." "So I thought, when you offered to replace the money and cover the whole thing up. But, God, I never dreamed you'd exact such a price in return!" He gripped Blake's arm and shook it. His voice was a half-muffled shriek. "If you wanted the water-works, if you wanted to do this to Doctor West, why did you pick on me to bring the accusation? There are men who would never have minded it--men without conscience and without character!" Blake steadfastly kept his steely gaze upon the river. "I believe I have answered that a number of times," he replied in his hard, even tone. "I picked you because I needed a man of character to give the charges weight. A minister, the president of our reform body--no one else would serve so well. And I picked you because--pardon me, if in my directness I seem brutal--I picked you because you were all ready to my hand; you were in a situation where you dared not refuse me. Also I picked you, instead of a man with no character to lose, because I knew that you, having a character to lose and not wanting to lose it, would be less likely than any one else ever to break down and confess. I hope my answer is sufficiently explicit." Doctor Sherman stared at the erect, immobile figure. "And you still intend," he asked in a dry, husky voice, "you still intend to force me to go upon the stand to-morrow and commit----" "I would not use so unpleasant a word if I were you." "But you are going to force me to do it?" "I am not going to force you. You referred a few minutes ago to the time when you had a choice. Well, here is another time when you have a choice." "Choice?" cried Doctor Sherman eagerly. "Yes. You can testify, or not testify, as you please. Only in reaching your decision," added the dry, emotionless voice, "I suggest that you do not forget that I have in my possession your signed confession of that embezzlement." "And you call that a choice?" cried Doctor Sherman. "When, if I refuse, you'll expose me, ruin me forever, kill Elsie's love for me! Do you call that a choice?" "A choice, certainly. Perhaps you are inclined not to testify. If so, very well. But before you make your decision I desire to inform you of one fact. You will remember that I said in the beginning that I brought you down here to tell you something." "Yes. What is it?" "Merely this. That Miss West has discovered that I am behind this affair." "What!" Doctor Sherman fell back a step, and his face filled with sudden terror. "Then--she knows everything?" "She knows little, but she suspects much. For instance, since she knows that this is a plot, she is likely to suspect that every person in any way connected with the affair is guilty of conspiracy." "Even--even me?" "Even you." "Then--you think?" Blake turned his face sharply about upon Doctor Sherman--the first time since the beginning of their colloquy. It was his father's face--his father in one of his most relentless, overriding moods--the face of a man whom nothing can stop. "I think," said he slowly, driving each word home, "that the only chance for people who want to come out of this affair with a clean name is to stick the thing right through as we planned." Doctor Sherman did not speak. "I tell you about Miss West for two reasons. First, in order to let you know the danger you're in. Second, in order, in case you decided to testify, that you may be forewarned and be prepared to outface her. I believe you understand everything now?" "Yes," was the almost breathless response. "Then may I be allowed to ask what you are going to do--testify, or not testify?" The minister's hands opened and closed. He swallowed with difficulty. "Testify, or not testify?" Blake insisted. "Testify," whispered Doctor Sherman. "Just as you choose," said Blake coldly. The minister sank back to his seat upon the mossy log, and bowed his head into his hands. "Oh, my God!" he breathed. There followed a silence, during which Blake gazed upon the huddled figure. Then he turned his set face down the glittering, dwindled stream, and, one shoulder lightly against the sycamore, he watched the sun there at the river's end sink softly down into its golden slumber. CHAPTER XI THE TRIAL Katherine's first thought, on leaving Bruce's office, was to lay her discovery before Doctor Sherman. She was certain that with her new-found knowledge, and with her entirely new point of view, they could quickly discover wherein he had been duped--for she still held him to be an unwitting tool--and thus quickly clear up the whole case. But for reasons already known she failed to find him; and learning that he had gone away with Blake, she well knew Blake would keep him out of her reach until the trial was over. In sharpest disappointment, Katherine went home. With the trial so few hours away, with all her new discoveries buzzing chaotically in her head, she felt the need of advising with some one about the situation. Bruce's offer of assistance recurred to her, and she found herself analyzing the editor again, just as she had done when she had walked away from his office. She rebelled against him in her every fibre, yet at the same time she felt a reluctant liking for him. He was a man with big dreams, a rough-and-ready idealist, an idealist with sharply marked limitations, some areas of his mind very broad, some dogmatically narrow. Opinionated, obstinate, impulsive, of not very sound judgment, yet dictatorial because supremely certain of his rightness--courageous, unselfish, sincere--that was the way she now saw the editor of the _Express_. But he had sneered at her, sharply criticized her, and she hotly spurned the thought of asking his aid. Instead of him, she that evening summoned Old Hosie Hollingsworth to her house, and to the old lawyer she told everything. Old Hosie was convinced that she was right, and was astounded. "And to think that the good folks of this town used to denounce me as a worshipper of strange gods!" he ejaculated. "Gee, what'll they say when they learn that the idol they've been wearing out their knee-caps on has got clay feet that run clear up to his Adam's-apple!" They decided that it would be a mistake for Katherine to try to use her new theories and discoveries openly in defence of her father. She had too little evidence, and any unsupported charges hurled against Blake would leave that gentleman unharmed and would come whirling back upon Katherine as a boomerang of popular indignation. She dared not breathe a word against the city's favourite until she had incontrovertible proof. Under the circumstances, the best course seemed for her to ask for a postponement on the morrow to enable her to work up further evidence. "Only," warned Hosie, "you must remember that the chances are that Blake has already slipped the proper word to Judge Kellog, and there'll be no postponement." "Then I'll have to depend upon tangling up that Mr. Marcy on the stand." "And Doctor Sherman?" "There'll be no chance of entangling him. He'll tell a straightforward story. How could he tell any other? Don't you see how he's been used?--been made spectator to a skilfully laid scheme which he honestly believes to be a genuine case of bribery?" At parting Old Hosie held her hand a moment. "D'you remember the prophecy I made the day you took your office--that you would raise the dickens in this old town?" "Yes," said Katherine. "Well, that's coming true--as sure as plug hats don't grow on fig trees! Only not in the way I meant then. Not as a freak. But as a lawyer." "Thank you." She smiled and slowly shook her head. "But I'm afraid it won't come true to-morrow." "Of course a prophecy is no good, unless you do your best." "Oh, I'm going to do my best," she assured him. The next morning, on the long awaited day, Katherine set out for the Court House, throbbing alternately with hope and fear of the outcome. Mixed with these was a perturbation of a very different sort--an ever-growing stage-fright. For this last there was good reason. Trials were a form of recreation as popular in Calloway County as gladiatorial contests in ancient Rome, and this trial--in the lack of a sensational murder in the county during the year--was the greatest of the twelvemonth. Moreover, it was given added interest by the fact that, for the first time in recorded history, Calloway County was going to see in action that weirdest product of whirling change, a woman lawyer. Hub to hub about the hitch-racks of the Square were jammed buggies, surries, spring wagons and other country equipages. The court-room was packed an hour before the trial, and in the corridor were craning, straining, elbowing folk who had come too late. In the open windows--the court-room was on the ground floor--were the busts of eager citizens whose feet were pedestaled on boxes, the sale of which had been a harvest of small coin to neighbouring grocers; and in the trees without youths of simian habit clung to advantageous limbs and strained to get a view of the proceedings. Old Judge Kellog who usually dozed on his twenty-first vertebra through testimony and argument--once a young fledgling of a lawyer, sailing aloft in the empyrean of his eloquence, had been brought tumbling confusedly to earth by the snoring of the bench--attested to the unusualness of the occasion by being upright and awake. And Bud White, the clerk, called the court to order, not with his usual masterpiece of mumbled unintelligibility, brought to perfection by long years of practice, but with real words that could have been understood had only the audience been listening. But their attention was all fixed upon the counsel for the defence. Katherine, in a plain white shirt waist and a black sailor, sat at a table alone with her father. Doctor West was painfully nervous; his long fingers were constantly twisting among themselves. Katherine was under an even greater strain. She realized with an intenser keenness now that the moment for action was at hand, that this was her first case, that her father's reputation, his happiness, perhaps even his life, were at stake; and she was well aware that all this theatre of people, whose eyes she felt burning into her back, regarded her as the final curiosity of nature. Behind her, with young Harper at his side, she had caught a glimpse of Arnold Bruce, eying her critically and sceptically she thought; and in the audience she had glimpsed the fixed, inscrutable face of Harrison Blake. But she clung blindly to her determination, and as Bud White sat down, she forced herself to rise. A deep hush spread through the court-room. She stood trembling, swallowing, voiceless, a statue of stage-fright, wildly hating herself for her impotence. For a dizzy, agonizing moment she saw herself a miserable failure--saw the crowd laughing at her as they filed out. A youthful voice, from a balcony seat in an elm tree, floated in through the open window: "Speak your piece, little girl, or set down." There was a titter. She stiffened. "Your--your Honour," she stammered, "I move a postponement in order to allow the defence more time to prepare its case." Judge Kellog fingered his patriarchal beard. Katherine stood hardly breathing while she waited his momentous words. But his answer was as Old Hosie had predicted. "In view of the fact that the defence has already had four months in which to prepare its case," said he, "I shall have to deny the motion and order the trial to proceed." Katherine sat down. The hope of deferment was gone. There remained only to fight. A jury was quickly chosen; Katherine felt that her case would stand as good a chance with any one selection of twelve men as with any other. Kennedy then stepped forward. With an air that was a blend of his pretentious--if rather raw-boned--dignity as a coming statesman, of extreme deference toward Katherine's sex, and of the sense of his personal belittlement in being pitted against such a legal weakling, he outlined to the jury what he expected to prove. After which, he called Mr. Marcy to the stand. The agent of the filter company gave his evidence with that degree of shame-facedness proper to the man, turned state's witness, who has been an accomplice in the dishonourable proceedings he is relating. It all sounded and looked so true--so very, very true! When Katherine came to cross-examine him, she gazed at him steadily a moment. She knew that he was lying, and she knew that he knew that she knew he was lying. But he met her gaze with precisely the abashed, guilty air appropriate to his rôle. What she considered her greatest chance was now before her. Calling up all her wits, she put to Mr. Marcy questions that held distant, hidden traps. But when she led him along the devious, unsuspicious path that conducted to the trap and then suddenly shot at him the question that should have plunged him into it, he very quietly and nimbly walked around the pitfall. Again and again she tried to involve him, but ever with the same result. He was abashed, ready to answer--and always elusive. At the end she had gained nothing from him, and for a minute stood looking silently at him in baffled exasperation. "Have you any further questions to ask the witness?" old Judge Kellog prompted her, with a gentle impatience. For a moment, stung by this witness's defeat of her, she had an impulse to turn about, point her finger at Blake in the audience, and cry out the truth to the court-room and announce what was her real line of defence. But she realized the uproar that would follow if she dared attack Blake without evidence, and she controlled herself. "That is all, Your Honour," she said. Mr. Marcy was dismissed. The lean, frock-coated figure of Mr. Kennedy arose. "Doctor Sherman," he called. Doctor Sherman seemed to experience some difficulty in making his way up to the witness stand. When he faced about and sat down the difficulty was explained to the crowd. He was plainly a sick man. Whispers of sympathy ran about the court-room. Every one knew how he had sacrificed a friend to his sense of civic duty, and everyone knew what pain that act must have caused a man with such a high-strung conscience. With his hands tightly gripping the arms of his chair, his bright and hollow eyes fastened upon the prosecutor, Doctor Sherman began in a low voice to deliver his direct testimony. Katherine listened to him rather mechanically at first, even with a twinge of sympathy for his obvious distress. But though her attention was centred here in the court-room, her brain was subconsciously ranging swiftly over all the details of the case. Far down in the depths of her mind the question was faintly suggesting itself, if one witness is a guilty participant in the plot, then why not possibly the other?--when she saw Doctor Sherman give a quick glance in the direction where she knew sat Harrison Blake. That glance brought the question surging up to the surface of her conscious mind, and she sat bewildered, mentally gasping. She did not see how it could be, she could not understand his motive--but in the sickly face of Doctor Sherman, in his strained manner, she now read guilt. Thrilling with an unexpected hope, Katherine rose and tried to keep herself before the eyes of Doctor Sherman like an accusing conscience. But he avoided her gaze, and told his story in every detail just as when Doctor West had been first accused. When Kennedy turned him over for cross-examination, Katherine walked up before him and looked him straight in the eyes a full moment without speaking. He could no longer avoid her gaze. In his eyes she read something that seemed to her like mortal terror. "Doctor Sherman," she said slowly, clearly, "is there nothing you would like to add to your testimony?" His words were a long time coming. Katherine's life hung suspended while she waited his answer. "Nothing," he said. "There is no fact, no detail, that you may have omitted in your direct testimony, that you now desire to supply?" "Nothing." She took a step nearer, bent on him a yet more searching gaze, and put into her voice its all of conscience-stirring power. "You wish to go on record then, before this court, before this audience, before the God whom you have appealed to in your oath, as having told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?" He averted his eyes and was silent a moment. For that moment Blake, back in the audience, did not breathe. To the crowd it seemed that Doctor Sherman was searching his mind for some possible trivial omission. To Katherine it seemed that he was in the throes of a final struggle. "You wish thus to go on record?" she solemnly insisted. He looked back at her. "I do," he breathed. She realized now how desperate was this man's determination, how tightly his lips were locked. But she had picked up another thread of this tangled skein, and that made her exult with a new hope. She went spiritedly at the cross-examination of Doctor Sherman, striving to break him down. So sharp, so rigid, so searching were her questions, that there were murmurs in the audience against such treatment of a sincere, high-minded man of God. But the swiftness and cleverness of her attack availed her nothing. Doctor Sherman, nerved by last evening's talk beside the river, made never a slip. From the moment she reluctantly discharged him she felt that her chance--her chance for that day, at least--was gone. But she was there to fight to the end, and she put her only witness, her father, upon the stand. His defence, that he was the victim of a misunderstanding, was smiled at by the court-room--and smiled at with apparently good reason, since Kennedy, in anticipation of the line of defense, had introduced the check from the Acme Filter Company which Dr. West had turned over to the hospital board, to prove that the donation from the filter company had been in Dr. West's hands at the time he had received the bribe from Mr. Marcy. Dr. West testified that the letter containing this check had not been opened until many days after his arrest, and Katharine took the stand and swore that it was she herself who had opened the envelope. But even while she testified she saw that she was not believed; and she had to admit within herself that her father's story appeared absurdly implausible, compared to the truth-visaged falsehoods of the prosecution. But when the evidence was all in and the time for argument was come, Katherine called up her every resource, she remembered that truth was on her side, and she presented the case clearly and logically, and ended with a strong and eloquent plea for her father. As she sat down, there was a profound hush in the court-room. Her father squeezed her hand. Tears stood in his eyes. "Whatever happens," he whispered, "I'm proud of my daughter." Kennedy's address was brief and perfunctory, for the case seemed too easy to warrant his exertion. Still stimulated by the emotion aroused by her own speech and the sense of the righteousness of her cause, Katherine watched the jury go out with a fluttering hope. She still clung to hope when, after a short absence, the jury filed back in. She rose and held her breath while they took their seats. "You have reached a verdict, gentlemen?" asked Judge Kellog. "We have," answered the foreman. "What is it?" "We find the defendant guilty." Doctor West let out a little moan, and his head fell forward into his arms. Katherine bent over him and whispered a word of comfort into his ear; then rose and made a motion for a new trial. Judge Kellog denied the motion, and haltingly asked Doctor West to step forward to the bar. Doctor West did so, and the two old men, who had been friends since childhood, looked at each other for a space. Then in a husky voice Judge Kellog pronounced sentence: One thousand dollars fine and six months in the county jail. It was a light sentence--but enough to blacken an honest name for life, enough to break a sensitive heart like Doctor West's. A little later Katherine, holding an arm of her father tightly within her own, walked with him and fat, good-natured Sheriff Nichols over to the old brick county jail. And yet a little later, erect, eyes straight before her, she came down the jail steps and started homeward. As she was passing along the Square, immediately before her Harrison Blake came out of his stairway and started across the sidewalk to his waiting car. Discretion urged her to silence; but passion was the stronger. She stepped squarely up before him and flashed him a blazing look. "Well--and so you think you've won!" she cried in a low voice. His colour changed, but instantly he was master of himself. "What, Katherine, you still persist in that absurd idea of yesterday." "Oh, drop that pretence! We know each other too well for that!" She moved nearer and, trembling from head to foot, her passionate defiance burst all bounds. "You think you have won, don't you!" she hotly cried. "Well, let me tell you that this affair is not merely a battle that was to-day won and ended! It's a war--and I have just begun to fight!" And sweeping quickly past him, she walked on into Main Street and down it through the staring crowds--very erect, a red spot in either cheek, her eyes defiantly meeting every eye. CHAPTER XII OPPORTUNITY KNOCKS AT BRUCE'S DOOR On the following morning Bruce had just finished an editorial on Doctor West's trial, and was busily thumping out an editorial on the local political situation--the Republican and Democratic conventions were both but a few days off--when, lifting his scowling gaze to his window while searching for the particular word he needed, he saw Katherine passing along the sidewalk across the street. Her face was fresh, her step springy; hers was any but a downcast figure. Forgetting his editorial, he watched her turn the corner of the Square and go up the broad, worn steps of the dingy old county jail. "Well, what do we think of her?" queried a voice at his elbow. Bruce turned abruptly. "Oh, it's you, Billy. D'you see Blake?" "Yes." The young fellow sank loungingly into the atlas-seated chair. "He wouldn't say anything definite. Said it was up to the convention to pick the candidates. But it's plain Kennedy's his choice for mayor, and we'll be playing perfectly safe in predicting Kennedy's nomination." "And Peck?" "Blind Charlie said it was too early to make any forecasts. In doubt as to whom they'd put forward for mayor." "Would Blake say anything about Doctor West's conviction?" "Sorry for Doctor West's sake--but the case was clear--trial fair--a wholesome example to the city--and some more of that line of talk." Bruce grunted. The reporter leisurely lit a cigarette. "But how about the lady lawyer, eh?" He playfully prodded his superior's calf with his pointed shoe. "I suppose you'll fire me off your rotten old sheet for saying it, but I still think she made a damned good showing considering that she had no case--and considering also that she was a woman." Again he thrust his toe into his chief. "Considering she was a woman--eh, Arn?" "Shut up, Billy, or I _will_ fire you," growled Bruce. "Oh, all right," answered the other cheerfully. "After half a year of the nerve-racking social whirl of this metropolis, I think it would be sort of restful to be back in dear, little, quiet Chicago. But seriously now, Arn, you've got to admit she's good-looking?" "Good looks don't make a lawyer!" retorted Bruce. "But she's clever--got ideas--opinions of her own, and strong ones too." "Perhaps." The reporter blew out a cloud of smoke. "Arn, I've been thinking about a very interesting possibility." "Well, make it short, and get in there and write your story!" "I've been thinking," continued Billy meditatively, "over what an interesting situation it would make if the super-masculine editor of the _Express_ should fall in love with the lady law----" Bruce sprang up. "Confound you, Billy! If I don't crack that empty little----" But Billy, tilted back in his chair, held out his cigarette case imperturbably. "Take one, Arn. You'll find them very soothing for the nerves." "You impertinent little pup, you!" He grabbed Billy by his long hair, held him a moment--then grinned affectionately and took a cigarette. "You're the worst ever!" He dropped back into his chair. "Now shut up!" "All right. But speaking impersonally, and with the unemotional aloofness of a critic, you'll have to admit that it would make a good dramatic situation." "Blast you!" cried the editor. "Shall I fire you, or chuck you through the window?" "Inasmuch as our foremost scientists are uniformly agreed that certain unpleasant results may eventuate when the force of gravitation brings a human organism into sudden and severe juxtaposition with a cement sidewalk, I humbly suggest that you fire me. Besides, that act will automatically avenge me, for then your yellow old newspaper will go plum to blazes!" "For God's sake, Billy, get out of here and let me work!" "But, seriously, Arn--I really am serious now"--and all the mischief had gone out of the reporter's eyes--"that Miss West would have put up a stunning fight if she had had any sort of a case. But she had nothing to fight with. They certainly had the goods on her old man!" Bruce turned from his machine and regarded the reporter thoughtfully. Then he crossed and closed the door which was slightly ajar, and again fixed his eyes searchingly on young Harper. "Billy," he said in a low, impressive voice, "can you keep a big secret?" At Bruce's searching, thoughtful gaze a look of humility crept into Billy's face. "Oh, I know you've got every right to doubt me," he acknowledged. "I certainly did leak a lot at the mouth in Chicago when I was boozing so much. But you know since you pulled me out of that wild bunch I was drinking my way to hell with and brought me down here, I've been screwed tight as a board to the water-wagon!" "I know it, Billy. I shouldn't for an instant----" "And, Arn," interrupted Billy, putting his arm contritely across the other's shoulder, "even though I do joke at you a little--simply can't help it--you know how eternally grateful I am to you! You're giving me the chance of my life to make a man of myself. People in this town don't half appreciate you; they don't know you for what I know you--the best fellow that ever happened!" "There, there! Cut it out, cut it out!" said Bruce gruffly, gripping the other's hand. "That's always the way," said Billy, resentfully. "Your only fault is that you are so infernally bull-headed that a fellow can't even thank you." "You're thanking me the right way when you keep yourself bolted fast to the water-cart. What I started out to tell you, what I want you to keep secret, is this: They put the wrong man in jail yesterday." "What!" ejaculated Billy, springing up. "I tell you this much because I want you to keep your eye on the story. Hell's likely to break loose there any time, and I want you to be ready to handle it in case I should have to be off the job." "Good God, old man!" Billy stared at him. "What's behind all this? If Doctor West's the wrong man, then who's the right one?" "I can't tell you any more now." "But how did you find this out?" "I said I couldn't tell you any more." A knowing look came slowly into Billy's face. "H'm. So that was what Miss West called here about day before yesterday." "Get in there and write your story," said Bruce shortly, and again sat down before his typewriter. Billy stood rubbing his head dazedly for a long space, then he slowly moved to the door. He opened it and paused. "Oh, I say, Arn," he remarked in an innocent tone. "Yes?" "After all," he drawled, "it would make an interesting dramatic situation, wouldn't it?" Bruce whirled about and threw a statesman's year book, but young Harper was already on the safe side of the door; and the incorrigible Billy was saved from any further acts of reprisal being attempted upon his person by the ringing of Bruce's telephone. Bruce picked up the instrument. "Hello. Who's this?" he demanded. "Mr. Peck," was the answer. "What! You don't mean 'Blind Charlie'?" "Yes. I called up to see if you could come over to the hotel for a little talk about politics." "If you want to talk to me you know where to find me! Good-by!" "Wait! Wait! What time will you be in?" "The paper goes to press at two-thirty. Any time after then." "I'll drop around before three." Four hours later Bruce was glancing through that afternoon's paper, damp from the press, when there entered his office a stout, half-bald man of sixty-five, with loose, wrinkled, pouchy skin, drooping nose, and a mouth--stained faintly brown at its corners--whose cunning was not entirely masked by a good-natured smile. One eye had a shrewd and beady brightness; the gray film over the other announced it without sight. This was "Blind Charlie" Peck, the king of Calloway County politics until Blake had hurled him from his throne. Bruce greeted the fallen monarch curtly and asked him to sit down. Bruce did not resume his seat, but half leaned against his desk and eyed Blind Charlie with open disfavour. The old man settled himself and smiled his good-natured smile at the editor. "Well, Mr. Bruce, this is mighty dry weather we're having." "Yes. What do you want?" "Well--well--" said the old man, a little taken aback, "you certainly do jump into the middle of things." "I've found that the quickest way to get there," retorted Bruce. "You know there's no use in you and me wasting any words. You know well enough what I think of you." "I ought to," returned Blind Charlie, dryly, but with good humour. "You've said it often enough." "Well, that there may be no mistake about it, I'll say it once more. You're a good-natured, good-hearted, cunning, unprincipled, hardened old rascal of a politician. Now if you don't want to say what you came here to say, the same route that brings you in here takes you out." "Come, come," said the old man, soothingly. "I think you have said a lot of harder things than were strictly necessary--especially since we both belong to the same party." "That's one reason I've said them. You've been running the party most of your life--you're still running it--and see what you've made of it. Every decent member is ashamed of it! It stinks all through the state!" Blind Charlie's face did not lose its smile of imperturbable good nature. It was a tradition of Calloway County that he had never lost his temper. "You're a very young man, Mr. Bruce," said the old politician, "and young blood loves strong language. But suppose we get away from personalities, and get away from the party's past and talk about its present and its future." "I don't see that it has any present or future to talk about, with you at the helm." "Oh, come now! Granted that my ways haven't been the best for the party. Granted that you don't like me. Is that any reason we shouldn't at least talk things over? Now, I admit we don't stand the shadow of a ghost's show this election unless we make some changes. You represent the element in the party that has talked most for changes, and I have come to get your views." Bruce studied the loose-skinned, flabby face, wondering what was going on behind that old mask. "What are your own views?" he demanded shortly. Blind Charlie had taken out a plug of tobacco and with a jack-knife had cut off a thin slice. This, held between thumb and knife-blade, he now slowly transferred to his mouth. "Perhaps they're nearer your own than you think. I see, too, that the old ways won't serve us now. Blake will put up a good ticket. I hear Kennedy is to be his mayor. The whole ticket will be men who'll be respectable, but they'll see that Blake gets what he wants. Isn't that so?" Bruce thought suddenly of Blake's scheme to capture the water-works. "Very likely," he admitted. "Now between ourselves," the old man went on confidingly, "we know that Blake has been getting what he wants for years--of course in a quiet, moderate way. Did you ever think of this, how the people here call me a 'boss' but never think of Blake as one? Blake's an 'eminent citizen.' When the fact is, he's a stronger, cleverer boss than I ever was. My way is the old way; it's mostly out of date. Blake's way is the new way. He's found out that the best method to get the people is to be clean, or to seem clean. If I wanted a thing I used to go out and grab it. If Blake wants a thing he makes it appear that he's willing to go to considerable personal trouble to take it in order to do a favour to the city, and the people fall all over themselves to give it to him. He's got the churches lined up as solid behind him as I used to have the saloons. Now I know we can't beat Blake with the kind of a ticket our party has been putting up. And I know we can't beat Blake with a respectable ticket, for between our respectables----" "Charlie Peck's respectables!" Bruce interrupted ironically. "And Blake's respectables," the old man continued imperturbably, "the people will choose Blake's. Are my conclusions right so far?" "Couldn't be more right. What next?" "As I figure it out, our only chance, and that a bare fighting chance, is to put up men who are not only irreproachable, but who are radicals and fighters. We've got to do something new, big, sensational, or we're lost." "Well?" said Bruce. "I was thinking," said Blind Charlie, "that our best move would be to run you for mayor." "Me?" cried Bruce, starting forward. "Yes. You've got ideas. And you're a fighter." Bruce scrutinized the old face, all suspicion. "See here, Charlie," he said abruptly, "what the hell's your game?" "My game?" "Oh, come! Don't expect me to believe in you when you pose as a reformer!" "See here, Bruce," said the other a little sharply, "you've called me about every dirty word lying around handy in the Middle West. But you never called me a hypocrite." "No." "Well, I'm not coming to you now pretending that I've been holding a little private revival, and that I've been washed in the blood of the Lamb." "Then what's behind this? What's in it for you?" "I'll tell you--though of course I can't make you believe me if you don't want to. I'm getting pretty old--I'm sixty-seven. I may not live till another campaign. I'd like to see the party win once more before I go. That's one thing. Another is, I've got it in for Blake, and want to see him licked. I can't do either in my way. I can possibly do both in your way. Mere personal satisfaction like this would have been mighty little for me to have got out of an election in the old days. But it's better than nothing at all"--smiling good-naturedly--"even to a cunning, unprincipled, hardened old rascal of a politician." "But what's the string tied to this offer?" "None. You can name the ticket, write the platform----" "It would be a radical one!" warned Bruce. "It would have to be radical. Our only chance is in creating a sensation." "And if elected?" "You shall make every appointment without let or hindrance. I know I'd be a fool to try to bind you in any way." Bruce was silent a long time, studying the wrinkled old face. "Well, what do you say?" queried Blind Charlie. "Frankly, I don't like being mixed up with you." "But you believe in using existing party machinery, don't you? You've said so in the _Express_." "Yes. But I also have said that I don't believe in using it the way you have." "Well, here's your chance to take it and use it your own way." "But what show would I stand? Feeling in town is running strong against radical ideas." "I know, I know. But you are a fighter, and with your energy you might turn the current. Besides, something big may happen before election." That same thought had been pulsing excitedly in Bruce's brain these last few minutes. If Katherine could only get her evidence! Bruce moved to the window and looked out so that that keen one eye of Blind Charlie might not perceive the exultation he could no longer keep out of his face. Bruce did not see the tarnished dome of the Court House--nor the grove of broad elms, shrivelled and dusty--nor the enclosing quadrangle of somnolent, drooping farm horses. He was seeing this town shaken as by an explosion. He was seeing cataclysmic battle, with Blind Charlie become a nonentity, Blake completely annihilated, and himself victorious at the front. And, dream of his dreams! he was seeing himself free to reshape Westville upon his own ideals. "Well, what do you say?" asked Blind Charlie. Controlling himself, Bruce turned about. "I accept, upon the conditions you have named. But at the first sign of an attempt to limit those conditions, I throw the whole business overboard." "There will be no such attempt, so we can consider the matter settled." Blind Charlie held out his hand, which Bruce, with some hesitation, accepted. "I congratulate you, I congratulate myself, I congratulate the party. With you as leader, I think we've all got a fighting chance to win." They discussed details of Bruce's candidacy, they discussed the convention; and a little later Blind Charlie departed. Bruce, fists deep in trousers pockets, paced up and down his little office, or sat far down in his chair gazing at nothing, in excited, searching thought. Billy Harper and other members of the staff, who came in to him with questions, were answered absently with monosyllables. At length, when the Court House clock droned the hour of five through the hot, burnt-out air, Bruce washed his hands and brawny fore-arms at the old iron sink in the rear of the reporter's room, put on his coat, and strode up Main Street. But instead of following his habit and turning off into Station Avenue, where was situated the house in which he and Old Hosie ate and slept and had their quarrels, he continued his way and turned into an avenue beyond--on his face the flush of defiant firmness of the bold man who finds himself doing the exact thing he had sworn that he would never do. He swung open the gate of the West yard, and with firm step went up to the house and rang the bell. When the screen swung open Katherine herself was in the doorway--looking rather excited, trimly dressed, on her head a little hat wound with a veil. "May I come in?" he asked shortly. "Why, certainly," and she stepped aside. "I didn't know." He bowed and entered the parlour and stood rather stiffly in the centre of the room. "My reason for daring to violate your prohibition of three days ago, and enter this house, is that I have something to tell you that may prove to have some bearing upon your father's case." "Please sit down. When I apologized to you I considered the apology as equivalent to removing all signs against trespassing." They sat down, and for a moment they gazed at each other, still feeling themselves antagonists, though allies--she smilingly at her ease, he grimly serious. "Now, please, what is it?" she asked. Bruce, speaking reservedly at first, told her of Blind Charlie's offer. As he spoke he warmed up and was quite excited when he ended. "And now," he cried, "don't you see how this works in with the fight to clear your father? It's a great opportunity--haven't thought out yet just how we can use it--that will depend upon developments, perhaps--but it's a great opportunity! We'll sweep Blake completely and utterly from power, reinstate your father in position and honour, and make Westville the finest city of the Middle West!" But she did not seem to be fired by the torch of his enthusiasm. In fact, there was a thoughtful, questioning look upon her face. "Well, what do you think of it?" he demanded. "I have been given to understand," she said pleasantly, "that it is unwomanly to have opinions upon politics." He winced. "This is hardly the time for sarcasm. What do you think?" "If you want my frank opinion, I am rather inclined to beware of Greeks bearing gifts," she replied. "What do you mean?" "When a political boss, and a boss notoriously corrupt, offers an office to a good man, I think the good man should be very, very suspicious." "You think Peck has some secret corrupt purpose? I've been scrutinizing the offer for two hours. I know the ins and outs of the local political situation from A to Z. I know all Peck's tricks. But I have not found the least trace of a hidden motive." "Perhaps you haven't found it because it's hidden so shrewdly, so deeply, that it can't be seen." "I haven't found it because it's not there to find!" retorted Bruce. "Peck's motive is just what he told me; I'm convinced he was telling the truth. It's a plain case, and not an uncommon case, of a politician preferring the chance of victory with a good ticket, to certain defeat with a ticket more to his liking." "I judge, then, that you are inclined to accept." "I have accepted," said Bruce. "I hope it will turn out better than worst suspicion might make us fear." "Oh, it will!" he declared. "And mark me, it's going to turn out a far bigger thing for your father than you seem to realize." "I hope that more fervently than do you!" "I suppose you are going to keep up your fight for your father?" "I expect to do what I can," she answered calmly. "What are you going to do?" She smiled sweetly, apologetically. "You forget only one day has passed since the trial. You can hardly expect a woman's mind to lay new plans as quickly as a man's." Bruce looked at her sharply, as though there might be irony in this; but her face was without guile. She glanced at her watch. "Pardon me," he said, noticing this action and standing up. "You have your hat on; you were going out?" "Yes. And I'm afraid I must ask you to excuse me." She gave him her hand. "I hope you don't mind my saying it, but if I were you I'd keep all the eyes I've got on Mr. Peck." "Oh, I'll not let him fool me!" he answered confidently. As he walked out of the yard he was somewhat surprised to see the ancient equipage of Mr. Huggins waiting beside the curb. And he was rather more surprised when a few minutes later, as he neared his home, Mr. Huggins drove past him toward the station, with Katherine in the seat behind him. In response to her possessed little nod he amazedly lifted his hat. "Now what the devil is she up to?" he ejaculated, and stared after her till the old carriage turned in beside the station platform. As he reached his gate the eastbound Limited came roaring into the station. The truth dawned upon him. "By God," he cried, "if she isn't going back to New York!" CHAPTER XIII THE DESERTER Bruce was incensed at the cool manner in which Katherine had taken leave of him without so much as hinting at her purpose. In offering her aid and telling her his plans he had made certain advances. She had responded to these overtures by telling nothing. He felt he had been snubbed, and he resented such treatment all the more from a woman toward whom he had somewhat relaxed his dignity and his principles. As he sat alone on his porch that night he breathed out along with his smoke an accompanying fire of profanity; but for all his wrath, he could not keep the questions from arising. Why had she gone? What was she going to do? Was she coming back? Had she given up her father's case, and had she been silent to him that afternoon about her going for the simple reason that she had been ashamed to acknowledge her retreat? He waited impatiently for the return of his uncle, who had been absent that evening from supper. He thought that Hosie might answer these questions since he knew the old man to be on friendly terms with Katherine. But when Old Hosie did shuffle up the gravel walk, he was almost as much at a loss as his nephew. True, a note from Katherine had been thrust under his door telling him she wished to talk with him that afternoon; but he had spent the day looking at farms and had not found the note till his return from the country half an hour before. Bruce flung away his cigar in exasperation, and the dry night air was vibrant with half-whispered but perfervid curses. She was irritating, erratic, irrational, irresponsible--preposterous, simply preposterous--damn that kind of women anyhow! They pretended to be a lot, but there wasn't a damned thing to them! But he could not subdue his curiosity, though he fervently informed himself of the thousand and one kinds of an unblessed fool he was for bothering his head about her. Nor could he banish her image. Her figure kept rising before him out of the hot, dusty blackness: as she had appeared before the jury yesterday, slender, spirited, clever--yes, she had spoken cleverly, he would admit that; as she had appeared in her parlour that afternoon, a graceful, courteous, self-possessed home person; as he had seen her in Mr. Huggins's old surrey, with her exasperating, non-committal, cool little nod. But why, oh, why, in the name of the flaming rendezvous of lost and sizzling souls couldn't a woman with her qualities also have just one grain--only one single little grain!--of the commonest common-sense? The next morning Bruce sent young Harper to inquire from Doctor West in the jail, and after that from Katherine's aunt, why Katherine had gone to New York, whether she had abandoned the case, and whether she had gone for good. But if these old people knew anything, they did not tell it to Billy Harper. Westville buzzed over Katherine's disappearance. The piazzas, the soda-water fountains, the dry goods counters, the Ladies' Aid, were at no loss for an explanation of her departure. She had lost her case--she had discovered that she was a failure as a lawyer--she had learned what Westville thought of her--so what other course was open to her but to slip out of town as quietly as she could and return to the place from which she had come? The Women's Club in particular rejoiced at her withdrawal. Thank God, a pernicious example to the rising young womanhood of the town was at last removed! Perhaps woman's righteous disapproval of Katherine had a deeper reason than was expressed--for what most self-searching person truly knows the exact motives that prompt his actions? Perhaps, far down within these righteously indignant bosoms, was unconsciously but potently this question: if that type of woman succeeds and wins man's approval, then what is going to become of us who have been built upon man's former taste? At any rate, feminine Westville declared it a blessing that "that terrible thing" was gone. Westville continued to buzz, but it soon had matters more worth its buzzing. Pressing the heels of one another there came two amazing surprises. The city had taken for granted the nomination of Kennedy for mayor, but the convention's second ballot declared Blake the nominee. Blake had given heed to Mr. Brown's advice and had decided to take no slightest risk; but to the people he let it be known that he had accepted the nomination to help the city out of its water-works predicament, and Westville, recognizing his personal sacrifice, rang with applause of his public spirit. The respectable element looked forward with self-congratulation to him as the next chief of the city--for he would have an easy victory over any low politician who would consent to be Blind Charlie's candidate. Then, without warning, came Bruce's nomination, with a splendid list of lesser candidates, and upon a most progressive platform. Westville gasped again. Then recovering from its amazement, it was inclined to take this nomination as a joke. But Bruce soon checked their jocularity. That he was fighting for an apparently defunct cause seemed to make no difference to him. Perhaps Old Hosie had spoken more wisely than he had intended when he had once sarcastically remarked that Bruce was "a cross between a bulldog and Don Quixote." Certainly the qualities of both strains were now in evidence. He sprang instantly into the campaign, and by the power and energy of his speeches and of his editorials in the _Express_, he fairly raised his issue from the dead. Bruce did not have a show, declared the people--not the ghost of a show--but if he maintained the ferocious earnestness with which he was starting out, this certainly was going to be the hottest campaign which Westville had seen since Blake had overthrown Blind Charlie Peck. People recalled Katherine now and then to wonder what she was doing and how mortified she must feel over her fiasco, and to laugh good-naturedly or sarcastically at the pricked soap-bubble of her pretensions. But the newer and present excitement of the campaign was forcing her into the comparative insignificance of all receding phenomena--when, one late September Sunday morning, Westville, or that select portion of Westville which attended the Wabash Avenue Church, was astonished by the sight of Katherine West walking very composedly up the church's left aisle, looking in exceedingly good health and particularly stunning in a tailor-made gown of rich brown corduroy. She quietly entered a vacant pew and slipped to a position which allowed her an unobstructed view of Doctor Sherman, and which allowed Doctor Sherman an equally unobstructed view of her. Worshippers who stared her way noticed that she seemed never to take her gaze from the figure in the pulpit; and it was remarked, after the service was over, that though Doctor Sherman's discourses had been falling off of late--poor man, his health was failing so!--to-day's was quite the poorest sermon he had ever preached. The service ended, Katherine went quietly out of the church, smiling and bowing to such as met her eyes, and leaving an active tongue in every mouth behind her. So she had come back! Well, of all the nerve! Did you ever! Was she going to stay? What did she think she was going to do? And so on all the way home, to where awaited the heavy Sunday dinner on which Westville gorged itself python-like--if it be not sacrilege to compare communicants with such heathen beasts--till they could scarcely move; till, toward three o'clock, the church paper sank down upon the distended stomachs of middle age, and there arose from all the easy chairs of Westville an unrehearsed and somewhat inarticulate, but very hearty, hymnal in praise of the bounty of the Creator. At about the time Westville was starting up this chorus, Old Hosie Hollingsworth, in Katherine's parlour, deposited his rusty silk hat upon the square mahogany piano that had been Doctor West's wedding gift to his wife. The old lawyer lowered himself into a rocker, crossed his attenuated legs, and shook his head. "Land sakes--I certainly was surprised to get your note!" he repeated. "When did you get back?" "Late last night." He stared admiringly at her fresh young figure. "I must say, you don't look much like a lawyer who has lost her first case and has sneaked out of town to hide her mortification!" "Is that what people have been saying?" she smiled. "Well, I don't feel like one!" "Then you haven't given up?" "Given up?" She lifted her eyebrows. "I've just begun. It's still a hard case, perhaps a long case; but at last I have a start. And I have some great plans. It was to ask your advice about these plans that I sent for you." "My advice! Huh! I ain't ever been married--not even so much as once," he commented dryly, "but I've been told by unfortunates that have that it's the female way to do a thing and then ask whether she should do it or not." "Now, don't be cynical!" laughed Katherine. "You know I tried to consult you before I went away. But it still is not too late for your advice. I'll put my plans before you, and if your masculine wisdom, whose superiority you have proved by keeping yourself unmarried, can show me wherein I'm wrong, I'll change them or drop them altogether." "Fire away," he said, half grumbling. "What are your plans?" "They're on a rather big scale. First, I shall put a detective on the case." "That's all right, but don't you underestimate Harrison Blake," warned Old Hosie. "Since you've come back Blake will be sure you're after him. He will be on his guard against you; he will expect you to use a detective; he will watch out for him, perhaps try to have his every move shadowed. I suppose you never thought of that?" he demanded triumphantly. "Oh, yes I did," Katherine returned. "That's why I'm going to hire two detectives." The old man raised his eyebrows. "Two detectives?" "Yes. One for Mr. Blake to watch. One to do the real work." "Oh!" It was an ejaculation of dawning comprehension. "The first detective will be a mere blind; a decoy to engage Mr. Blake's attention. He must be a little obvious, rather blundering--so that Mr. Blake can't miss him. He will know nothing about my real scheme at all. While Mr. Blake's attention and suspicion are fixed on the first man, the second man, who is to be a real detective with real brains in his head, will get in the real work." "Splendid! Splendid!" cried Old Hosie, looking at her enthusiastically. "And yet that pup of a nephew of mine sniffs out, 'Her a lawyer? Nothing! She's only a woman!'" Katherine flushed. "That's what I want Mr. Blake to think." "To underestimate you--yes, I see. Have you got your first man?" "No. I thought you might help me find him, for a local man, or a state man, will be best; it will be easiest for him to be found out to be a detective." "I've got just the article for you," cried Old Hosie. "You know Elijah Stone?" "No. But, of course, I've seen him." "He's Westville's best and only. He thinks he's something terrible as a detective--what you might call a hyper-super-ultra detective. Detective sticks out big all over him--like a sort of universal mumps. He never looks except when he looks cautiously out of the corner of his eye; he walks on his tiptoes; he talks in whispers; he simply oozes mystery. Fat head?--why, Lige Stone wears his hat on a can of lard!" "Come, I'm not engaging a low comedian for a comic opera." "Oh, he's not so bad as I said. He's really got a reputation. He's just the kind of a detective that an inexperienced girl might pick up. Blake will soon find out you've hired him, he'll believe it a bona fide arrangement on your part, and will have a lot of quiet laughs at your simplicity. God made Lige especially for you." "All right. I'll see him to-morrow." "Have you thought about the other detective?" "Yes. One reason I went to New York was to try to get a particular person--Mr. Manning, with whom I've worked on some cases for the Municipal League. He has six children, and is very much in love with his wife. The last thing he looks like is a detective. He might pass for a superintendent of a store, or a broker. But he's very, very competent and clever, and is always master of himself." "And you got him?" "Yes. But he can't come for a couple of weeks. He is finishing up a case for the Municipal League." "How are you going to use him?" "I don't just know yet. Perhaps I can fit him into a second scheme of mine. You've heard of Mr. Seymour, of Seymour & Burnett?" "The big bankers and brokers?" "Yes. I knew Elinor Seymour at Vassar, and I visited her several times; and as Mr. Seymour is president of the Municipal League, altogether I saw him quite a great deal. I don't mean to be conceited, but I really believe Mr. Seymour has a lot of confidence in me." "That's a fine compliment to his sense," Old Hosie put in. "He's about the most decent of the big capitalists," she went on. "He was my second reason for going to New York. When I got there he had just left to spend a week-end in Paris, or something of the sort. I had to wait till he came back; that's why I was gone so long. I went to him with a plain business proposition. I gave him a hint of the situation out here, told him there was a chance the water-works might be sold, and asked authority to buy the system in for him." "And how did he take it?" Old Hosie asked eagerly. "You behold in me an accredited agent of Seymour & Burnett. I don't know yet how I shall use that authority, but if I can't do anything better, and if the worst comes to the very worst, I'll buy in the plant, defeat Mr. Blake, and see that the city gets something like a fair price for its property." Old Hosie stared at her in open admiration. "Well, if you don't beat the band!" he exclaimed. "In the meantime, I shall busy myself with trying to get my father's case appealed. But that is really only a blind; behind that I shall every minute be watching Mr. Blake. Now, what do you think of my plans? You know I called you in for your advice." "Advice! You need advice about as much as an angel needs a hat pin!" "But I'm willing to change my plans if you have any suggestions." "I was a conceited old idiot when I was a little sore awhile ago because you had called me in for my opinion after you had settled everything. Go right ahead. It's fine. Fine, I tell you!" He chuckled. "And to think that Harrison Blake thinks he's bucking up against only a woman. Just a simple, inexperienced, dear, bustling, blundering woman! What a jar he's got coming to him!" "We mustn't be too hopeful," warned Katherine. "There's a long, hard fight ahead. Perhaps my plan may not work out. And remember that, after all, I am only a woman." "But if you do win!" His old eyes glowed excitedly. "Your father cleared, the idol of the town upset, the water-works saved--think what a noise all that will make!" A new thought slowly dawned into his face. "H'm--this old town hasn't been, well, exactly hospitable to you; has laughed at you--sneered at you--given you the cold shoulder." "Has it? What do I care!" "It would be sort of nice, now wouldn't it," he continued slowly, keenly, with his subdued excitement, "sort of heaping coals of fire on Westville's roofs, if the town, after having cut you dead, should find that it had been saved by you. I suppose you've never thought of that aspect of the case--eh? I suppose it has never occurred to you that in saving your father you'll also save the town?" She flushed--and smiled a little. "Oh, so we've already thought of that, have we. I see I can't suggest anything new to you. Let the old town jeer all it wants to now, we'll show 'em in the end!--is that it?" She smiled again, but did not answer him. "Now you'll excuse me, won't you, for I promised to call on father this afternoon?" "Certainly." He rose. "How is your father--or haven't you seen him yet?" "I called at the jail first thing this morning. He's very cheerful." "That's good. Well, good-by." Old Hosie was reaching for his hat, but just then a firm step sounded on the porch and there was a ring of the bell. Katherine crossed the parlour and swung open the screen. Standing without the door was Bruce, a challenging, defiant look upon his face. "Why, Mr. Bruce," she exclaimed, smiling pleasantly. "Won't you please come in?" "Thank you," he said shortly. He bowed and entered, but stopped short at sight of his uncle. "Hello! You here?" "Just to give an off-hand opinion, I should say I am." Old Hosie smiled sweetly, put his hat back upon the piano and sank into his chair. "I just dropped in to tell Miss Katherine some of those very clever and cutting things you've said to me about the idea of a woman being a lawyer. I've been expostulating with her--trying to show her the error of her ways--trying to prove to her that she wasn't really clever and didn't have the first qualification for law." "You please let me speak for myself!" retorted Bruce. "How long are you going to stay here?" Old Hosie recrossed his long legs and settled back with the air of the rock of ages. "Why, I was expecting Miss Katherine was going to invite me to stay to supper." "Well, I guess you won't. You please remember this is your month to look after Jim. Now you trot along home and see that he don't fry the steak to a shingle the way you let him do it last night." "Last night I was reading your editorial on the prospects of the corn crop and I got so worked up as to how it was coming out that I forgot all about that wooden-headed nigger. I tell you, Arn, that editorial was one of the most exciting, stirring, nerve-racking, hair-breadth----" "Come, get along with you!" Bruce interrupted impatiently. "I want to talk some business with Miss West!" Old Hosie rose. "You see how he treats me," he said plaintively to Katherine. "I haven't had one kind word from that young pup since, when he was in high-school, he got so stuck on himself because he imagined every girl in town was in love with him." Bruce took Old Hosie's silk hat from the piano and held it out to him. "You certainly won't get a kind word from me to-night if that steak is burnt!" Katherine followed Hosie out upon the porch. "He's a great boy," whispered the old man proudly--"if only I can lick his infernal conceit out of him!" He gripped her hand. "Good-by, and luck with you!" She watched the bent, spare figure down the walk, then went in to Bruce. The editor was standing stiffly in the middle of the parlour. "I trust that my call is not inopportune?" "I'm glad to see you, but it does so happen that I promised father to call at five o'clock. And it's now twenty minutes to." "Perhaps you will allow me to walk there with you?" "But wouldn't that be, ah--a little dangerous?" "Dangerous?" "Yes. Perhaps you forget that Westville disapproves of me. It might not be a very politic thing for a candidate for mayor to be seen upon the street with so unpopular a person. It might cost votes, you know." He flushed. "If the people in this town don't like what I do, they can vote for Harrison Blake!" He swung open the door. "If you want to get there on time, we must start at once." Two minutes later they were out in the street together. People whom they passed paused and stared back at them; groups of young men and women, courting collectively on front lawns, ceased their flirtatious chaffing and their bombardments with handfuls of loose grass, and nudged one another and sat with eyes fixed on the passing pair; and many a solid burgher, out on his piazza, waking from his devotional and digestive nap, blinked his eyes unbelievingly at the sight of a candidate for mayor walking along the street with that discredited lady lawyer who had fled the town in chagrin after losing her first case. At the start Katherine kept the conversation upon Bruce's candidacy. He told her that matters were going even better than he had hoped; and informed her, with an air of triumph he did not try to conceal, that Blind Charlie Peck had been giving him an absolutely free rein, and that he was more than ever convinced that he had correctly judged that politician's motives. Katherine meekly accepted this implicit rebuke of her presumption, and congratulated him upon the vindication of his judgment. "But I came to you to talk about your affairs, not mine," he said as they turned into Main Street. "I half thought, when you left, that you had gone for good. But your coming back proves you haven't given up. May I ask what your plans are, and how they are developing?" Her eyes dropped to the sidewalk, and she seemed to be embarrassed for words. It was not wholly his fault that he interpreted her as crest-fallen, for Katherine was not lacking in the wiles of Eve. "Your plans have not been prospering very well, then?" he asked, after a pause. "Oh, don't think that; I still have hopes," she answered hurriedly. "I am going to keep right on at the case--keep at it hard." "Were you successful in what you went to New York for?" "I can't tell yet. It's too early. But I hope something will come of it." He tried to get a glimpse of her face, but she kept it fixed upon the ground--to hide her discomfiture, he thought. "Now listen to me," he said kindly, with the kindness of the superior mind. "Here's what I came to tell you, and I hope you won't take it amiss. I admire you for the way you took your father's case when no other lawyer would touch it. You have done your best. But now, I judge, you are at a standstill. At this particular moment it is highly imperative that the case go forward with highest speed. You understand me?" "I think I do," she said meekly. "You mean that a man could do much better with the case than a woman?" "Frankly, yes--still meaning no offense to you. You see how much hangs upon your father's case besides his own honour. There is the election, the whole future of the city. You see we are really facing a crisis. We have got to have quick action. In this crisis, being in the dark as to what you were doing, and feeling a personal responsibility in the matter, I have presumed to hint at the outlines of the case to a lawyer friend of mine in Indianapolis; and I have engaged him, subject to your approval, to take charge of the matter." "Of course," said Katherine, her eyes still upon the sidewalk, "this man lawyer would expect to be the chief counsel?" "Being older, and more experienced----" "And being a man," Katherine softly supplied. "He of course would expect to have full charge--naturally," Bruce concluded. "Naturally," echoed Katherine. "Of course you would agree to that?" "I was just trying to think what a man would do," she said meditatively, in the same soft tone. "But I suppose a man, after he had taken a case when no one else would take it, when it was hopeless--after he had spent months upon it, made himself unpopular by representing an unpopular cause, and finally worked out a line of defense that, when the evidence is gained, will not only clear his client but astound the city--after he had triumph and reputation almost within his grasp, I suppose a man would be quite willing to step down and out and hand over the glory to a newcomer." He looked at her sharply. But her face, or what he saw of it, showed no dissembling. "But you are not stating the matter fairly," he said. "You should consider the fact that you are at the end of your rope!" "Yes, I suppose I should consider that," she said slowly. They were passing the Court House now. He tried to study her face, but it continued bent upon the sidewalk, as if in thought. They reached the jail, and she mounted the first step. "Well, what do you say?" he asked. She slowly raised her eyes and looked down on him guilelessly. "You've been most thoughtful and kind--but if it's just the same to you, I'd like to keep on with the case a little longer alone." "What!" he ejaculated. He stared at her. "I don't know what to make of you!" he cried in exasperation. "Oh, yes you do," she assured him sweetly, "for you've been trying to make very little of me." "Eh! See here, I half believe you don't want my aid!" he blurted out. Standing there above him, smiling down upon him, she could hardly resist telling him the truth--that sooner would she allow her right hand to be burnt off than to accept aid from a man who had flaunted and jeered at her lawyership--that it was her changeless determination not to tell him one single word about her plans--that it was her purpose to go silently ahead and let her success, should she succeed, be her reply to his unbelief. But she checked the impulse to fling the truth in his face--and instead continued to smile inscrutably down upon him. "I hope that you will do all for my father, for the city, for your own election, that you can," she said. "All I ask is that for the present I be allowed to handle the case by myself." The Court House tower tolled five. She held out to him a gloved hand. "Good-by. I'm sorry I can't invite you in," she said lightly, and turned away. He watched the slender figure go up the steps and into the jail, then turned and walked down the street--exasperated, puzzled, in profound thought. CHAPTER XIV THE NIGHT WATCH The next morning Elijah Stone appeared in Katherine's office as per request. He was a thickly, if not solidly, built gentleman, in imminent danger of a double chin, and with that submerged blackness of the complexion which is the result of a fresh-shaven heavy beard. He kept his jaw clinched to give an appearance of power, and his black eyebrows lowered to diffuse a sense of deeply pondered mystery. His wife considered him a rarely handsome specimen of his sex, and he permitted art to supplement the acknowledged gifts of nature so far as to perfume his glossy black hair, to wear a couple of large diamond rings, and to carry upon the watch chain that clanked heavily across the broad and arching acreage of his waistcoat a begemmed lodge emblem in size a trifle smaller than a paper weight. He was an affable, if somewhat superior, being, and he listened to Katherine with a still further lowering of his impressive brows. She informed him, in a perplexed, helpless, womanly way, that she was inclined to believe that her father was "the victim of foul play"--the black brows sank yet another degree--and that she wished him privately to investigate the matter. He of course would know far, far better what to do than she, but she would suggest that he keep an eye upon Blake. At first Mr. Stone appeared somewhat sceptical and hesitant, but after peering darkly out for a long and ruminative period at the dusty foliage of the Court House elms, and after hearing the comfortable fee Katherine was willing to pay, he consented to accept the case. As he left he kindly assured her, with manly pity for her woman's helplessness, that if there was anything in her suspicion she "needn't waste no sleep now about gettin' the goods." In the days that followed, Katherine saw her Monsieur Lecoque shadowing the movements of Blake with the lightness and general unobtrusiveness of a mahogany bedstead ambling about upon its castors. She soon guessed that Blake perceived that he was being watched, and she imagined how he must be smiling up his sleeve at her simplicity. Had the matters at stake not been so grave, had she been more certain of the issue, she might have put her own sleeve to a similar purpose. In the meantime, as far as she could do so without exciting suspicion, she kept close watch upon Blake. It had occurred to her that there was a chance that he had an unknown accomplice whose discovery would make the gaining of the rest of the evidence a simple matter. There was a chance that he might let slip some revealing action. At any rate, till Mr. Manning came, her rôle was to watch with unsleeping eye for developments. Her office window commanded the entrance to Blake's suite of rooms, and no one went up by day whom she did not see. Her bedroom commanded Blake's house and grounds, and every night she sat at her darkened window till the small hours and watched for possible suspicious visitors, or possible suspicious movements on the part of Blake. Also she did not forget Doctor Sherman. On the day of her departure for New York, she had called upon Doctor Sherman, and in the privacy of his study had charged him with playing a guilty part in Blake's conspiracy. She had been urged to this course by the slender chance that, when directly accused as she had dared not accuse him in the court-room, he might break down and confess. But Doctor Sherman had denied her charge and had clung to the story he had told upon the witness stand. Since Katherine had counted but little on this chance, she had gone away but little disappointed. But she did not now let up upon the young minister. Regular attendance at church had of late years not been one of Katherine's virtues, but after her return it was remarked that she did not miss a single service at which Doctor Sherman spoke. She always tried to sit in the very centre of his vision, seeking to keep ever before his mind, while he preached God's word, the sin he had committed against God's law and man's. He visibly grew more pale, more thin, more distraught. The changes inspired his congregation with concern; they began to talk of overwork, of the danger of a breakdown; and seeing the dire possibility of losing so popular and pew-filling a pastor, they began to urge upon him the need of a long vacation. Katherine could not but also give attention to the campaign, since it was daily growing more sensational, and was completely engrossing the town. Blake, in his speeches, stood for a continuance of the rule that had made Westville so prosperous, and dwelt especially upon an improvement in the service of the water-works, though as to the nature of the improvements he confined himself to language that was somewhat vague. Katherine heard him often. He was always eloquent, clever, forceful, with a manly grace of presence upon the platform--just what she, and just what the town, expected him to be. But the surprise of the campaign, to Katherine and to Westville, was Arnold Bruce. Katherine had known Bruce to be a man of energy; now, in her mind, a forceful if not altogether elegant phrase of Carlyle attached itself to him--"A steam-engine in pants." He was never clever, never polished, he never charmed with the physical grace of his opponent, but he spoke with a power, an earnestness, and an energy that were tremendous. By the main strength of his ideas and his personality he seemed to bear down the prejudice against the principle for which he stood. He seemed to stand out in the mid-current of hostile opinion and by main strength hurl it back into its former course. The man's efforts were nothing less than herculean. He was a bigger man, a more powerful man, than Westville had ever dreamed; and his spirited battle against such apparently hopeless odds had a compelling fascination. Despite her defiantly critical attitude, Katherine was profoundly impressed; and she heard it whispered about that, notwithstanding Blake's great popularity, his party's certainty of success was becoming very much disturbed. Both Katherine and Bruce were fond of horseback riding--Doctor West's single luxury, his saddle horse, was ever at Katherine's disposal--and at the end of one afternoon they met by chance out along the winding River Road, with its border of bowing willows and mottled sycamores, between whose browned foliage could be glimpsed long reaches of the broad and polished river, steel-gray in the shadows, a flaming copper where the low sun poured over it its parting fire. Little by little Bruce began to talk of his ideals. Presently he was speaking with a simplicity and openness that he had not yet used with Katherine. She perceived, more clearly than before, that whereas he was dogmatic in his ideas and brutally direct in their expression, he was a hot-souled idealist, overflowing with a passionate, even desperate, love of democracy, which he feared was in danger of dying out in the land--quietly and painlessly suffocated by a narrowing oligarchy which sought to blind the people to its rule by allowing them the exercise of democracy's dead forms. His square, rude face, which she watched with a rising fascination, was no longer repellent. It had that compelling beauty, superior to mere tint and moulding of the flesh, which is born of great and glowing ideas. She saw that there was sweetness in his nature, that beneath his rough exterior was a violent, all-inclusive tenderness. Now and then she put in a word of discriminating approval, now and then a word of well-reasoned dissent. "I believe you are even more radical than I am!" he exclaimed, looking at her keenly. "A woman, if she is really radical, has got to be more radical than a man. She sees all the evils and dangers that he sees, and in addition she suffers from injustices and restrictions from which man is wholly free." He was too absorbed in the afterglow of what he had been saying to take in all the meanings implicated in her last phrase. "Do you know," he said, as they neared the town, "you are the first woman I have met in Westville to whom one could talk about real things and who could talk back with real sense." A very sly and pat remark upon his inconsistency was at her tongue's tip. But she realized that he had spoken impulsively, unguardedly, and she felt that it would be little short of sacrilege to be even gently sarcastic after the exalted revelation he had made of himself. "Thank you," she said quietly, and turned her face and smiled at the now steel-blue reaches of the river. He dropped in several evenings to see her. When he was in an idealistic mood she was warmly responsive. When he was arbitrary and opinionated, she met him with chaffing and raillery, and at such times she was as elusive, as baffling, as exasperating as a sprite. On occasions when he rather insistently asked her plans and her progress in her father's case, she evaded him and held him at bay. She felt that he admired her, but with a grudging, unwilling admiration that left his fundamental disapproval of her quite unshaken. The more she saw of this dogmatic dreamer, this erratic man of action, the more she liked him, the more she found really admirable in him. But mixed with her admiration was an alert and pugnacious fear, so big was he, so powerful, so violently hostile to all the principles involved in her belief that the whole wide world of action should in justice lie as much open to woman to choose from as to man. Without cessation Katherine kept eyes and mind on Blake. She searched out and pondered over the thousand possible details and ramifications his conspiracy might have. No human plan was a perfect plan. By patiently watching and studying every point there was a chance that she might discover one detail, one slip, one oversight, that would give her the key to the case. One of the thousand possibilities was that he had an active partner in his scheme. Since no such partner was visible in the open, it was likely that his associate was a man with whom Blake wished to have seemingly no relations. Were this conjecture true, then naturally he would meet this confederate in secret. She began to think upon all possible means and places of holding secret conferences. Such a meeting might be held there in Westville in the dead of night. It might be held in any large city in which individuals might lose themselves--Indianapolis, Louisville, Cincinnati, Chicago. It might be held at any appointed spot within the radius of an automobile journey. Katherine analyzed every possible place of this last possibility. She began to watch, as she watched other possibilities, the comings and goings of the Blake automobile. It occurred to her that, if anything were in this conjecture, the meeting would be held at night; and then, a little later, it occurred to her to make a certain regular observation. The Blake garage and the West stable stood side by side and opened into the same alley. Every evening while Blake's car was being cleaned--if it had been in use during the day--Katherine went out to say good night to her saddle horse, and as she was on friendly terms with Blake's man she contrived, while exchanging a word with him, to read the mileage record of the speedometer. This observation she carried on with no higher hope of anything resulting from it than from any of a score of other measures. It was merely one detail of her all-embracing vigilance. Every night she sat on watch--the evening's earlier half usually in the rustic summer-house in the backyard, the latter part at her bedroom window. One night after most of Westville was in bed, her long, patient vigil was rewarded by seeing the Blake automobile slip out with a single vague figure at the wheel and turn into the back streets of the town. Hours passed, and still she sat wide-eyed at her window. It was not till raucous old muzzains of roosters raised from the watch-towers of their various coops their concatenated prophecy of the dawn, that she saw the machine return with its single passenger. The next morning, as soon as she saw Blake's man stirring about his work, she slipped out to her stable. Watching her chance, she got a glimpse of Blake's speedometer. Then she quickly slipped back to her room and sat there in excited thought. The evening before the mileage had read 1437; this morning the reading was 1459. Blake, in his furtive midnight journey, had travelled twenty-two miles. If he had slipped forth to meet a secret ally, then evidently their place of meeting was half of twenty-two miles distant. Where was this rendezvous? Almost instantly she thought of The Sycamores. That fitted the requirements exactly. It was eleven miles distant--Blake had a cabin there--the place was deserted at this season of the year. Nothing could be safer than for two men, coming in different vehicles, from different points perhaps, to meet at that retired spot at such an eyeless hour. Perhaps there was no confederate. Perhaps Blake's night trip was not to a secret conference. Perhaps The Sycamores was not the rendezvous. But there was a chance that all three of these conjectures were correct. And if so, there was a chance,--aye, more, a probability--that there would be further midnight trysts. Bruce had fallen into the habit of dropping in occasionally for a few minutes at the end of an evening's speaking to tell Katherine how matters seemed to be progressing. When he called that night toward ten he was surprised to be directed around to the summer-house. His surprise was all the more because the three months' drought had that afternoon been broken, and the rain was now driving down in gusts and there was a far rumbling of thunder that threatened a nearer and a fiercer cannonading. Crouching beneath his umbrella, he made his way through the blackness to the summer-house, in which he saw sitting a dim, solitary figure. "In mercy's name, what are you doing out here?" he demanded as he entered. "Watching the rain. I love to be out in a storm." Every clap of thunder sent a shiver through her. "You must go right into the house!" he commanded. "You'll get wet. I'll bet you're soaked already!" "Oh, no. I have a raincoat on," she answered calmly. "I'm going to stay and watch the storm a little longer." He expostulated, spoke movingly of colds and pneumonia. But she kept her seat and sweetly suggested that he avoid his vividly pictured dangers of a premature death by following his own advice. He jerked a rustic chair up beside her, growled a bit in faint imitation of the thunder, then ran off into the wonted subject of the campaign. As the situation now stood he had a chance of winning, so successful had been his fight to turn back public opinion; and if only he had and could use the evidence Katherine was seeking, an overwhelming victory would be his beyond a doubt. He plainly was chafing at her delays, and as plainly made it evident that he was sceptical of her gaining proof. But she did not let herself be ruffled. She evaded all his questions, and when she spoke she spoke calmly and with good-nature. Presently, sounding dimly through a lull in the rising tumult of the night, they heard the Court House clock strike eleven. Soon after, Katherine's ear, alert for a certain sound, caught a muffled throbbing that was not distinguishable to Bruce from the other noises of the storm. She sprang up. "You must go now--good night!" she said breathlessly, and darted out of the summer-house. "Wait! Where are you going?" he cried, and tried to seize her, but she was gone. He stumbled amazedly after her vague figure, which was running through the grape-arbour swiftly toward the stable. The blackness, his unfamiliarity with the way, made him half a minute behind Katherine in entering the barn. "Miss West!" he called. "Miss West!" There was no answer and no sound within the stable. Just then a flash of lightning showed him that the rear door was open. As he felt his way through this he heard Katherine say, "Whoa, Nelly! Whoa, Nelly!" and saw her swing into the saddle. He sprang forward and caught the bridle rein. "What are you going to do?" he cried. "Going out for a little gallop," she answered with an excited laugh. "What?" A light broke in upon him. "You've been sitting there all evening in your riding habit! Your horse has been standing saddled and bridled in the stall! Tell me--where are you going?" "For a little ride, I said. Now let loose my rein." "Why--why--" he gasped in amazement. Then he cried out fiercely: "You shall not go! It's madness to go out in a storm like this!" "Mr. Bruce, let go that rein this instant!" she said peremptorily. "I shall do nothing of the sort! I shall not let you make an insane fool of yourself!" She bent downward. Though in the darkness he could not see her face, the tensity of her tone told him her eyes were flashing. "Mr. Bruce," she said with slow emphasis, "if you do not loosen that rein, this second, I give you my word I shall never see you, never speak to you again." "All right, but I shall not let you make a fool of yourself," he cried with fierce dominance. "You've got to yield to sense, even though I use force on you." She did not answer. Swiftly she reversed her riding crop and with all her strength brought its heavy end down upon his wrist. "Nelly!" she ordered sharply, and in the same instant struck the horse. The animal lunged free from Bruce's benumbed grasp, and sprang forward into a gallop. "Good night!" she called back to him. He shouted a reply; his voice came to her faintly, wrathful and defiant, but his words were whirled away upon the storm. CHAPTER XV POLITICS MAKE STRANGE BED-FELLOWS She quieted Nelly into a canter, made her way through the soundly sleeping back streets, and at length emerged from the city and descended into the River Road, which was slightly shorter than Grayson's Pike which led over the high back country to The Sycamores. She knew what Nelly could do, and she settled the mare down into the fastest pace she could hold for the eleven miles before her. Katherine was aquiver with suspense, one moment with hopeful expectation, the next with fear that her deductions were all awry. Perhaps Blake had not gone out to meet a confederate. And if he had, perhaps The Sycamores was not the rendezvous. But if her deductions were correct, who was this secret ally? Would she be able to approach them near enough to discover his identity? And would she be able to learn the exact outlines of the plot that was afoot? If so, what would it all prove to be? Such questions and doubts galloped madly through her mind. The storm grew momently in fierceness. The water and fury of three months of withheld storms were spending themselves upon the earth in one violent outburst. The wind cracked her skirt like a whip-lash, and whined and snarled and roared among the trees. The rain drove at her in maddened sheets, found every opening in her raincoat, and soon she was as wet as though dropped in the river yonder. The night was as black as the interior of a camera, save when--as by the opening of a snapshot shutter--an instantaneous view of the valley was fixed on Katherine's startled brain by the lightning ripping in fiery fissures down the sky. Then she saw the willows bending and whipping in the wind, saw the gnarled old sycamores wrestling with knotted muscles, saw the broad river writhing and tossing its swollen and yellow waters. Then, blackness again--and, like the closing click of this world-wide camera, there followed a world-shaking crash of thunder. Katherine would have been terrified but for the stimulant within. She crouched low upon her horse, held a close rein, petted Nelly, talked to her and kept her going at her best--onward--onward--onward--through the covered wooden bridge that spanned Buck Creek--through the little old village of Sleepy Eye--up Red Man's Ridge--and at last, battered, buffeted, half-drowned, she and Nelly drew up at the familiar stone gateway of The Sycamores. She dismounted, led Nelly in and tied her among the beeches away from the drive. Then cautiously, palpitantly, she groped her way in the direction of the Blake cabin, avoiding the open lest the lightning should betray her presence. At length she came to the edge of a cleared space in which she knew the cabin stood. But she could see nothing. The cabin was just a cube of blackness imbedded in this great blackness which was the night. She peered intently for a lighted window; she listened for the lesser thunder of a waiting automobile. But she could see nothing but the dark, hear nothing but the dash of the rain, the rumble of the thunder, the lashing and shrieking of the wind. Her heart sank. No one was here. Her guesses all were wrong. But she crept toward the house, following the drive. Suddenly, she almost collided with a big, low object. She reached forth a hand. It fell upon the tire of an automobile. She peered forward and seemed to see another low shape. She went toward it and felt. It was a second car. She dashed back among the trees, and thus sheltered from the revealing glare of the lightning, almost choking with excitement, she began to circle the house for signs which would locate in what room were the men within. She paused before each side and peered closely at it, but each side in turn presented only blackness, till she came to the lee of the house. This, too, was dark for the first moment. Then in a lower window, which she knew to be the window of Blake's den, two dull red points of light appeared--glowed--subsided--glowed again--then vanished. A minute later one reappeared, then the other; and after the slow rise and fall and rise of the glow, once more went out. She stood rigid, wondering at the phenomenon. Then suddenly she realized that within were two lighted cigars. Bending low, she scurried across the open space and crouched beside the window. Luckily it had been opened to let some fresh air into the long-closed room. And luckily this was the lee of the house and the beat of the storm sounded less loudly here, so that their voices floated dimly out to her. This lee was also a minor blessing, for Katherine's poor, wet, shivering body now had its first protection from the storm. Tense, hardly breathing, with all five senses converged into hearing, she stood flattened against the wall and strained to catch their every word. One voice was plainly Blake's. The other had a faintly familiar quality, though she could not place it. This second man had evidently come late, for their conversation was of a preliminary, beating-around-the-bush character--about the fierceness of the storm, and the additional security it lent their meeting. Katherine searched her memory for the owner of this second voice. She had thought at first of Doctor Sherman, but this voice had not a tone in common with the young clergyman's clear, well-modulated baritone. This was a peculiar, bland, good-natured drawl. She had not heard it often, but she had unmistakably heard it. As she ransacked her memory it grew increasingly familiar, yet still eluded her. Then, all of a sudden, she knew it, and she stood amazed. The second voice was the voice of Blind Charlie Peck. Katherine was well acquainted with the secret bi-partisan arrangement common in so many American cities, by which the righteous voter is deluded into believing that there are two parties contending for the privilege of giving him their best service, whereas in reality the two are one, secretly allied because as a political trust they can most economically and profitably despoil the people. Her first thought was that these ancient enemies, who for ten years had belaboured one another with such a realistic show of bitterness upon the political stage of Westville, had all along been friends and partners behind the scenes. But of this idea she was presently disillusioned. "Well, Mr. Blake, let's get down to business," Blind Charlie's voice floated out to her. "You've had a day to think over my proposition. Now what have you got to say to it?" There was a brief silence. When Blake did speak, Katherine could discern in his repressed tone a keen aversion for his companion. "My position is the same as last night. What you say is all guesswork. There is nothing in it." Blind Charlie's voice was soft--purringly soft. "Then why didn't you ask me to go to hell, and stay at home instead of coming out here?" There was again a short silence. "Come now," the soft voice persuaded, "let's don't go over what we did last night. I know I'm right." "I tell you you're only guessing," Blake doggedly returned. "You haven't a scrap of proof." "I don't need proof, when I'm certain about a thing," gently returned the voice of Blind Charlie. "I've been in politics for forty-eight years--ever since I was nineteen, when I cast my first vote. I've got sharpened up considerable in that time, and while I haven't been in on much in the last ten years, I can still smell a fat deal clean across the state. For the last three months I've been smelling, and smelling it keener every day, that you've got a rich game going." "And so"--rather sarcastically--"you set Bruce on, to try to run the game down!" "Well, I would use a little different figure of speech," returned Blind Charlie smoothly. "When I've got a coon up a hollow tree I build a fire in the hollow to bring him down. Bruce is my fire." "And you think your coon is coming down?" "I rather think he is. Don't you?" "Well, I tell you he's not! For there's no coon up the tree!" "I see I've got to state the thing to you again," said Blind Charlie patiently, and so softly that Katherine had to strain her utmost to get his words. "When I grew sure you had a big deal on about the water-works, I saw that the only way to force you to let me in was to put you in a fix where you would either have to split up or be in danger of losing the whole thing. So I nominated Bruce. He's one of the easiest I ever took in; but, I tell you, he is certainly one hell of a fighter! That's what I nominated him for. You know as well as I do the way he's swinging the voters round. It beats anything I've ever seen. If he keeps this up till election, and if I pull off a couple of good tricks I've got all ready, he'll be a winner, sure! And now"--Blind Charlie's purring voice thrust out its claws--"either I put Bruce in and smash your deal till it's not worth a damn, or else you come across!" "There's nothing in it, I tell you!" declared Blake. "There's no use keeping up that pretence," continued Blind Charlie. "You've had a day to think over my proposition. You know perfectly well what your choice is between: a sure thing if you divide with me, the risk of nothing if you refuse. So let's waste no more time. Come, which is it?" There was a long silence. "I understand," commented Blind Charlie, with a soft sympathy that Katherine knew was meant to bite like acid. "It's hard for a respectable man like you to mix up with Charlie Peck. But political business makes strange bed-fellows, and unless you're willing to sleep with almost anybody you'd better keep out of this kind of business altogether. But after all," he added, "I guess it's better to share a good bed than to have no bed at all." "What do you want?" Blake asked huskily. "Only my share of the bed," blandly returned Blind Charlie. "What's that, in plain words?" "Not much. Only half of what you're going to make." Blake exploded. "Damn you, Peck, you're nothing but a damned blackmailer!" "All right, I agree to that," said Blind Charlie. Then he added in his soft voice: "But if I'm a blackmailer in this affair, then please, Mr. Blake, what do you call yourself?" "You--you----" To the crouching figure outside the window Blake seemed to be half-choking. But suddenly he exploded again. "I'll not do it, Peck! I'll not do it--never while God's earth stands!" "I guess you will, Blake!" Blind Charlie's voice was no longer soft; it had a slow, grating, crunching sound. "Damn your soul, you've been acting toward me with your holier-than-thou reformer's attitude for ten years. D'you think I'm a man to swallow that quietly? D'you think I haven't had it in for you all those ten years? Why, there hasn't been a minute that I haven't been looking for my chance. And at last I've got it! I've not only got a line on this water-works business, but I've found out all about your pretty little deal with Adamson during the last months you were Lieutenant-Governor!" "Adamson!" ejaculated Blake. "Yes, Adamson!" went on the harsh voice of Blind Charlie. "That hits you where you live, eh! You didn't know I had it, did you? Well, I didn't till to-day--but I've got it now all right! There, my cards are all on the table. Look 'em over. I don't want Bruce elected any more than you do; but either you do what I say, or by God I turn over to Bruce all I know about the Adamson affair and all I know about this water-works deal! Now I give you just one minute to decide!" Katherine breathlessly awaited the answer. A space passed. She heard Blind Charlie stand up. "Time's up! Good night--and to hell with you!" "Wait! Wait!" Blake cried. "Then you accept?" Blake's voice shook. "Before I answer, what do you want?" "I've already told you. Half of what you get." "But I'm to get very little." "Very little!" Blind Charlie's voice was ironical; it had dropped its tone of crushing menace. "Very little! Now I figure that you'll get the water-works for a third, or less, of their value. That'll give you something like half a million at the start-off, not to speak of the regular profits later on. Now as for me," he concluded drily, "I wouldn't call that such a very little sum that I'd kick it out of my way if I saw it lying in the road." "But no such sum is lying there." "No? Then what do you get?" Blake did not answer. "Come, speak out!" Blake's voice came with an effort. "I'm not doing this for myself." "Then who for?" Blake hesitated, then again spoke with an effort. "The National Electric & Water Company." Blind Charlie swore in his surprise. "But I reckon you're not doing it for them for charity?" "No." "Well, what for?" Blake again remained silent. "Come, what for?" impatiently demanded Charlie. "For a seat in the Senate." "That's no good to me. What else?" "Fifty thousand dollars." "The devil! Is that all?" ejaculated Blind Charlie. "Everything." Blind Charlie swore to himself for a moment. Then he fell into a deep silence. "Well, what's the matter?" Blake presently inquired. "I was just wondering," replied Blind Charlie, slowly, "if it wouldn't be better to call this business off between you and me." "Call it off?" "Yes. I never imagined you were playing for such a little pile as fifty thousand. Since there's only fifty thousand in it"--his voice suddenly rang out with vindictive triumph--"I was wondering if it wouldn't pay me better to use what I know to help elect Bruce." "Elect Bruce?" cried Blake in consternation. "Exactly. Show you up, and elect Bruce," said Blind Charlie coolly. "To elect my mayor--there's more than fifty thousand for me in that." There was a dismayed silence on Blake's part. But after a moment he recovered himself, and this time it was his voice that had the note of ascendency. "You are forgetting one point, Mr. Peck," said he. "Yes?" "Bruce's election will not mean a cent to you. You will get no offices. Moreover, the control of your party machinery will be sure to pass from you to him." "You're right," said the old man promptly. "See how quick I am to acknowledge the corn. However, after all," he added philosophically, "what you're getting is really enough for two. You take the senatorship, and I'll take the fifty thousand. What do you say to that?" "What about Bruce--if I accept?" "Bruce? Bruce is just a fire to smoke the coon out. When the coon comes down, I put out the fire." "You mean?" "I mean that I'll see that Bruce don't get elected." "You'll make sure about that?" "Oh, you just leave Bruce to me!" said Blind Charlie with grim confidence. "And now, do you accept?" Blake was silent. He still shrunk from this undesirable alliance. Outside, Katherine again breathlessly hung upon his answer. "What do you say?" demanded the old man sharply. "Do you accept? Or do I smash you?" "I accept--of course." "And we'll see this thing through together?" "Yes." "Then here you are. Let's shake on it." They talked on, dwelling on details of their partnership, Katherine missing never a word. At length, their agreement completed, they left the room, and Katherine slipped from the window across into the trees and made such haste as she could through the night and the storm to where she had left her horse. She heard one car go slowly out the entrance of the grove, its lamps dark that its visit might not be betrayed, and she heard it turn cautiously into the back-country road. After a little while she saw a glare shoot out before the car--its lamps had been lighted--and she saw it skim rapidly away. Soon the second car crept out, took the high back-country pike, and repeated the same tactics. Then Katherine untied Nelly, mounted, and started slowly homeward along the River Road. CHAPTER XVI THROUGH THE STORM Bowed low to shield herself against the ever fiercer buffets of the storm, Katherine gave Nelly free rein to pick her own way at her own pace through the blackness. The rain volleyed into her pitilessly, the wind sought furiously to wrest her from the saddle, the lightning cracked open the heavens into ever more fiery chasms, and the thunder rattled and rolled and reverberated as though a thousand battles were waging in the valley. It was as if the earth's dissolution were at hand--as if the long-gathered wrath of the Judgment Day were rending the earth asunder and hurling the fragments afar into the black abysm of eternity. But Katherine, though gasping and shivering, gave minor heed to this elemental rage. Whatever terror she might have felt another time at such a storm, her brain had now small room for it. She was exultantly filled with the magnitude of her discovery. The water-works deal! The National Electric & Water Company! Bruce not a bona fide candidate at all, but only a pistol at Blake's head to make him stand and deliver! Blake and Blind Charlie--those two whole-hearted haters, who belaboured each other so valiantly before the public--in a secret pact to rob that same dear public! At the highest moments of her exultation it seemed that victory was already hers; that all that remained was to proclaim to Westville on the morrow what she knew. But beneath all her exultation was a dim realization that the victory itself was yet to be won. What she had gained was only a fuller knowledge of who her enemies were, and what were their purposes. Her mind raced about her discovery, seeking how to use it as the basis of her own campaign. But the moment of an extensive and astounding discovery is not the moment for the evolving of well-calculated plans; so the energies of her mind were spent on extravagant dreams or the leaping play of her jubilation. One decision, however, she did reach. That was concerning Bruce. Her first impulse was to go to him and tell him all, in triumphant refutation of his ideas concerning woman in general, and her futility in particular. But as she realized that she was not at the end of her fight, but only at a better-informed beginning, she saw that the day of her triumph over him, if ever it was to come, had at least not yet arrived. As for admitting him into her full confidence, her woman's pride was still too strong for that. It held her to her determination to tell him nothing. She was going to see this thing through without him. Moreover, she had another reason for silence. She feared, if she told him all, his impetuous nature might prompt him to make a premature disclosure of the information, and that would be disastrous to her future plans. But since he was vitally concerned in Blake's and Peck's agreement, it was at least his due that he be warned; and so she decided to tell him, without giving her source of information, that Blind Charlie proposed to sell him out. Nelly's pace had slowed into a walk, and even then the gale at times almost swept the poor horse staggering from the road. The rain drove down in ever denser sheets. The occasional flashes of lightning served only to emphasize the blackness. So dense was it, it seemed a solid. The world could not seem blacker to a toad in the heart of a stone. The instants of crackling fire showed Katherine the river, below her in the valley, leaping, surging, almost out of its banks--the trees, writhing and wrestling, here and there one jaggedly discrowned. And once, as she was crossing a little wooden bridge that spanned a creek, she saw that it was almost afloat--and for an instant of terror she wished she had followed the higher back-country road taken by the two automobiles. She had reached the foot of Red Man's Ridge, and was winding along the river's verge, when she thought she heard her name sound faintly through the storm. She stopped Nelly and sat in sudden stiffness, straining her ears. Again the voice sounded, this time nearer, and there was no mistaking her name. "Miss West! Katherine!" She sat rigid, almost choking. The next minute a shapeless figure almost collided with Nelly. It eagerly caught the bridle-rein and called out huskily: "Is that you, Miss West?" She let out a startled cry. "Who are you? What do you want?" "It's you! Thank God, I've found you!" cried the voice. "Arnold Bruce!" she ejaculated. He loosened the rein and moved to her side and put his hand upon the back of her saddle. "Thank God I've found you!" he repeated, with a strange quaver to his voice. "Arnold Bruce! What are you doing here?" "Didn't you hear me shout after you, when you started, that I was coming, too?" "I heard your voice, but not what you said." "Do you think I would let you go out alone on a night like this?" he demanded in his unstrung tone. "It's no night for a man to be out, much less a woman!" "You mean--you followed me?" "What else did you think I'd do?" "And on foot?" "If I had stopped to get a horse I'd have lost your direction. So I ran after you." They were moving on now, his hand upon the back of her saddle to link them together in the darkness. He had to lean close to her that their voices might be heard above the storm. "And you have run after me all this way?" "Ran and walked. But I couldn't make much headway in the storm--Calling out to you every few steps. I didn't know what might have happened to you. All kinds of pictures were in my mind. You might have been thrown and be lying hurt. In the darkness the horse might have wandered off the road and slipped with you into the river. It was--it was----" She felt the strong forearm that lay against her back quiver violently. "Oh, why did you do it!" he burst out. A strange, warm tingling crept through her. "I--I----" Something seemed to choke her. "Oh, why did you do it!" he repeated. Contrary to her determination of but a little while ago, an impulse surged up in her to tell him all she had just learned, to tell him all her plans. She hung for a moment in indecision. Then her old attitude, her old determination, resumed its sway. "I had a suspicion that I might learn something about father's case," she said. "It was foolishness!" he cried in fierce reproof, yet with the same unnerved quaver in his voice. "You should have known you could find nothing on such a night as this!" She felt half an impulse to retort sharply with the truth. But the thought of his stumbling all that way in the blackness subdued her rising impulse to triumph over him. So she made no reply at all. "You should never have come! If, when you started, you had stopped long enough for me to speak to you, I could have told you you would not have found out anything. You did not, now did you?" She still kept silent. "I knew you did not!" he cried in exasperated triumph. "Admit the truth--you know you did not!" "I did not learn everything I had hoped." "Don't be afraid to acknowledge the truth!" "You remember what I said when you were first offered the nomination by Mr. Peck--to beware of him?" "Yes. You were wrong. But let's not talk about that now!" "I am certain now that I was right. I have the best of reasons for believing that Mr. Peck intends to sell you out." "What reasons?" She hesitated a moment. "I cannot give them to you--now. But I tell you I am certain he is planning treachery." "Your talk is wild. As wild as your ride out here to-night." "But I tell you----" "Let's talk no more about it now," he interrupted, brushing the matter aside. "It--it doesn't interest me now." There was a blinding glare of lightning, then an awful clap of thunder that rattled in wild echoes down the valley. "Oh, why did you come?" he cried, pressing closer. "Why did you come? It's enough to kill a woman!" "Hardly," said she. "But you're wet through," he protested. "And so are you." "Have my coat." And he started to slip it off. "No. One more wet garment won't make me any drier." "Then put it over your head. To keep off this awful beat of the storm. I'll lead your horse." "No, thank you; I'm all right," she said firmly, putting out a hand and checking his motion to uncoat himself. "You've been walking. I've been riding. You need it more than I do." And then she added: "Did I hurt you much?" "Hurt me?" "When I struck you with my crop." "That? I'd forgotten that." "I'm very sorry--if I hurt you." "It's nothing. I wish you'd take my coat. Bend lower down." And moving forward, he so placed himself that his broad, strong body was a partial shield to her against the gale. This new concern for her, the like of which he had never before evinced the faintest symptoms, begot in her a strange, tingling, but blurred emotion. They moved on side by side, now without speech, gasping for the very breath that the gale sought to tear away from their lips. The storm was momently gaining power and fury. Afterward the ancient weather-men of Calloway County were to say that in their time they had never seen its like. The lightning split the sky into even more fearsome fiery chasms, and in the moments of wild illumination they could see the road gullied by scores of impromptu rivulets, could glimpse the broad river billowing and raging, the cattle huddling terrified in the pastures, the woods swaying and writhing in deathlike grapple. The wind hurled by them in a thousand moods and tones, all angry; a fine, high shrieking on its topmost note--a hoarse snarl--a lull, as though the straining monster were pausing to catch its breath--then a roaring, sweeping onrush as if bent on irresistible destruction. And on top of this glare, this rage, was the thousandfold crackle, rattle, rumble of the thunder. At such a time wild beasts, with hostility born in their blood, draw close together. It was a storm to resolve, as it were, all complex shades of human feeling into their elementary colours--when fear and hate and love stand starkly forth, unqualified, unblended. Without being aware that she was observing, Katherine sensed that Bruce's agitation was mounting with the storm. And as she felt his quivering presence beside her in the furious darkness, her own emotion surged up with a wild and startling strength. A tree top snapped off just before them with its toy thunder. "Will this never stop!" gasped Bruce, huskily. "God, I wish I had you safe home!" The tremulous tensity in his voice set her heart to leaping with an unrestraint yet wilder. But she did not answer. Suddenly Nelly stumbled in a gully and Katherine pitched forward from the saddle. She would have fallen, had not a pair of strong arms closed about her in mid-air. "Katherine--Katherine!" Bruce cried, distracted. Nelly righted herself and Katherine regained her seat, but Bruce still kept his arm about her. "Tell me--are you hurt?" he demanded. She felt the arms around her trembling with intensity. "No," she said with a strange choking. "Oh, Katherine--Katherine!" he burst out. "If you only knew how I love you!" What she felt could not crystallize itself into words. "Do you love me?" he asked huskily. Just then there was a flash of lightning. It showed her his upturned face, appealing, tender, passion-wrought. A wild, exultant thrill swept through her. Without thinking, without speaking, her tingling arm reached out, of its own volition as it were, and closed about his neck, and she bent down and kissed him. "Katherine!" he breathed hoarsely. "Katherine!" And he crushed her convulsively to him. She lay thrilled in his arms.... After a minute they moved on, his arm about her waist, her arm about his neck. Rain, wind, thunder were forgotten. Forgotten were their theories of life. For that hour the man and woman in them were supremely happy. CHAPTER XVII THE CUP OF BLISS The next morning Katherine lay abed in that delicious lassitude which is the compound of complete exhaustion and of a happiness that tingles through every furthermost nerve. And as she lay there she thought dazedly of the miracle that had come to pass. She had not even guessed that she was in love with Arnold Bruce. In fact, she had been resisting her growing admiration for him, and the day before she could hardly have told whether her liking was greater than her hostility. Then, suddenly, out there in the storm, all complex counter-feelings had been swept side, and she had been revealed to herself. She was tremulously, tumultuously happy. She had had likings for men before, but she had never guessed that love was such a mighty, exultant thing as this. But, as she lay there, the thoughts that had never come to her in the storm out there on the River Road, slipped into her mind. Into her exultant, fearful, dizzy happiness there crept a fear of the future. She clung with all her soul to the ideas of the life she wished to live; she knew that he, in all sincerity, was militantly opposed to those ideas. Difference in religious belief had brought bitterness, tragedy even, into the lives of many a pair of lovers. The difference in their case was no less firmly held to on either side, and she realized that the day must come when their ideas must clash, when they two must fight it out. Quivering with love though she was, she could but look forward to that inevitable day with fear. But there were too many other new matters tossing in her brain for her to dwell long upon this dread. At times she could but smile whimsically at the perversity of love. The little god was doubtless laughing in impish glee at what he had brought about. She had always thought in a vague way that she would sometime marry, but she had always regarded it as a matter of course that the man she would fall in love with would be one in thorough sympathy with her ideas and who would help her realize her dream. And here she had fallen in love with that dreamed-of man's exact antithesis! And yet, as she thought of Arnold Bruce, she could not imagine herself loving any other man in all the world. Love gave her a new cause for jubilation over her last night's discovery. Victory, should she win it, and win it before election, had now an added value--it would help the man she loved. But as she thought over her discovery, she realized that while she might create a scandal with it, it was not sufficient evidence nor the particular evidence that she desired. Blake and Peck would both deny the meeting, and against Blake's denial her word would count for nothing, either in court or before the people of Westville. And she could not be present at another conference with two or three witnesses, for the pair had last night settled all matters and had agreed that it would be unnecessary to meet again. Her discovery, she perceived more clearly than on the night before, was not so much evidence as the basis for a more enlightened and a more hopeful investigation. Another matter, one that had concerned her little while Bruce had held but a dubious place in her esteem, now flashed into her mind and assumed a large importance. The other party, as she knew, was using Bruce's friendship for her as a campaign argument against him; not on the platform of course--it never gained that dignity--but in the street, and wherever the followers of the hostile camps engaged in political skirmish. Its sharpest use was by good housewives, with whom suffrage could be exercised solely by influencing their husbands' ballots. "What, vote for Mr. Bruce! Don't you know he's a friend of that woman lawyer? A man who can see anything in that Katherine West is no fit man for mayor!" All this talk, Katherine now realized, was in some degree injuring Bruce's candidacy. With a sudden pain at the heart she now demanded of herself, would it be fair to the man she loved to continue this open intimacy? Should not she, for his best interests, urge him, require him, to see her no more? She was in the midst of this new problem, when her Aunt Rachel brought her in a telegram. She read it through, and on the instant the problem fled her mind. She lay and thought excitedly--hour after hour--and her old plans altered where they had been fixed, and took on definite form where previously they had been unsettled. The early afternoon found her in the office of old Hosie Hollingsworth. "What do you think of that?" she demanded, handing him the telegram. Old Hosie read it with a puzzled look. Then slowly he repeated it aloud: "'Bouncing boy arrived Tuesday morning. All doing well. John.'" He raised his eyes to Katherine. "I'm always glad to see people lend the census a helping hand," he drawled. "But who in Old Harry is John?" "Mr. Henry Manning. The New York detective I told you about." "Eh? Then what----" "It's a cipher telegram," Katherine explained with an excited smile. "It means that he will arrive in Westville this afternoon, and will stay as long as I need him." "But what should he send that sort of a fool thing for?" "Didn't I tell you that he and I are to have no apparent relations whatever? An ordinary telegram, coming through that gossiping Mr. Gordon at the telegraph office, would have given us away. Now I've come to you to talk over with you some new plans for Mr. Manning. But first I want to tell you something else." She briefly outlined what she had learned the night before; and then, without waiting to hear out his ejaculations, rapidly continued: "I told Mr. Manning to come straight to you, on his arrival, to learn how matters stood. All my communications to him, and his to me, are to be through you. Tell him everything, including about last night." "And what is he to do?" "I was just coming to that." Her brown eyes were gleaming with excitement. "Here's my plan. It seems to me that if Blind Charlie Peck could force his way into Mr. Blake's scheme and become a partner in it, then Mr. Manning can, too." Old Hosie blinked. "Eh? Eh? How?" "You are to tell Mr. Manning that he is Mr. Hartsell, or whoever he pleases, a real estate dealer from the East, and that his ostensible business in Westville is to invest in farm lands. Buying in run-down or undrained farms at a low price and putting them in good condition, that's a profitable business these days. Besides, since you are an agent for farm lands, that will explain his relations with you. Understand?" "Yes. What next?" "Secretly, he is to go around studying the water-works. Only not so secretly that he won't be noticed." "But what's that for?" "Buying farm land is only a blind to hide his real business," she went on rapidly. "His real business here is to look into the condition of the water-works with a view to buying them in. He is a private agent of Seymour & Burnett; you remember I am empowered to buy the system for Mr. Seymour. When Mr. Blake and Mr. Peck discover that a man is secretly examining the water-works--and they'll discover it all right; when they discover that this man is the agent of Mr. Seymour, with all the Seymour millions behind him--and we'll see that they discover that, too--don't you see that when they make these discoveries this may set them to thinking, and something may happen?" "I don't just see it yet," said Old Hosie slowly, "but it sounds like there might be something mighty big there." "When Mr. Blake learns there is another secret buyer in the field, a rival buyer ready and able to run the price up to three times what he expects to pay--why, he'll see danger of his whole plan going to ruin. Won't his natural impulse be, rather than run such a risk, to try to take the new man in?--just as he took in Blind Charlie Peck?" "I see! I see!" exclaimed Old Hosie. "By George, it's mighty clever! Then what next?" "I can't see that far. But with Mr. Manning on the inside, our case is won." Old Hosie leaned forward. "It's great! Great! If you're not above shaking hands with a mere man----" "Now don't make fun of me," she cried, gripping the bony old palm. "And while you're quietly turning this little trick," he chuckled, "the Honourable Harrison Blake will be carefully watching every move of Elijah Stone, the best hippopotamus in the sleuth business, and be doing right smart of private snickering at the simplicity of womankind." She flushed, but added soberly: "Of course it's only a plan, and it may not work at all." They talked the scheme over in detail. At length, shortly before the hour at which the afternoon express from the East was due to arrive, Katherine retired to her own office. Half an hour later, looking down from her window, she saw the old surrey of Mr. Huggins' draw up beside the curb, in it a quietly dressed, middle-aged passenger who had the appearance of a solid man of affairs. He crossed the sidewalk and a little later Katherine heard him enter Old Hosie's office on the floor below. After a time she saw the stranger go out and drive around the Square to the Tippecanoe House, Peck's hotel, where Katherine had directed that Mr. Manning be sent to facilitate his being detected by the enemy. Her plan laid, Katherine saw there was little she could do but await developments--and in the meantime to watch Blake, which Mr. Mannings' rôle would not permit his doing, and to watch and study Doctor Sherman. Despite this new plan, and her hopes in it, she realized that it was primarily a plan to defeat Blake's scheme against the city. She still considered Doctor Sherman the pivotal character in her father's case; he was her father's accuser, the man who, she believed more strongly every day, could clear him with a few explanatory words. So she determined to watch him none the less closely because of her new plan--to keep her eyes upon him for signs that might show his relations to Blake's scheme--to watch for signs of the breaking of his nerve, and at the first sign to pounce accusingly upon him. When she reached home that afternoon she found Bruce awaiting her. Since morning, mixed with her palpitating love and her desire to see him, there had been dread of this meeting. In the back of her mind the question had all day tormented her, should she, for his own interests, send him away? But sharper than this, sharper a hundredfold, was the fear lest the difference between their opinions should come up. But Bruce showed no inclination to approach this difference. Love was too new and near a thing for him to wander from the present. For this delay she was fervently grateful, and forgetful of all else she leaned back in a big old walnut chair and abandoned herself completely to her happiness, which might perhaps be all too brief. They talked of a thousand things--talk full of mutual confession: of their former hostility, of what it was that had drawn their love to one another, of last night out in the storm. The spirits of both ran high. Their joy, as first joy should be, was sparkling, effervescent. After a time she sat in silence for several moments, smiling half-tenderly, half-roguishly, into his rugged, square-hewed face, with its glinting glasses and its _chevaux de frise_ of bristling hair. "Well," he demanded, "what are you thinking about?" "I was thinking what very bad eyes I have." "Bad eyes?" "Yes. For up to yesterday I always considered you----But perhaps you are thin-skinned about some matters?" "Me thin-skinned? I've got the epidermis of a crocodile!" "Well, then--up to yesterday I always thought you--but you're sure you won't mind?" "I tell you I'm so thick-skinned that it meets in the middle!" "Well, then, till yesterday I always thought you rather ugly." "Glory be! Eureka! Excelsior!" "Then you don't mind?" "Mind?" cried he. "Did you think that I thought I was pretty?" "I didn't know," she replied with her provoking, happy smile, "for men are such conceited creatures." "I'm not authorized to speak for the rest, but I'm certainly conceited," he returned promptly. "For I've always believed myself one of the ugliest animals in the whole human menagerie. And at last my merits are recognized." "But I said 'till yesterday'," she corrected. "Since then, somehow, your face seems to have changed." "Changed?" "Yes. I think you are growing rather good-looking." Behind her happy raillery was a tone of seriousness. "Good-looking? Me good-looking? And that's the way you dash my hopes!" "Yes, sir. Good-looking." "Woman, you don't know what sorrow is in those words you spoke! Just to think," he said mournfully, "that all my life I've fondled the belief that when I was made God must have dropped the clay while it was still wet." "I'm sorry----" "Don't try to comfort me. The blow's too heavy." He slowly shook his head. "I never loved a dear gazelle----" "Oh, I don't mean the usual sort of good-looking," she consoled him. "But good-looking like an engine, or a crag, or a mountain." "Well, at any rate," he said with solemn resignation, "it's something to know the particular type of beauty that I am." Suddenly they both burst into merry laughter. "But I'm really in earnest," she protested. "For you really are good-looking!" He leaned forward, caught her two hands in his powerful grasp and almost crushed his lips against them. "Perhaps it's just as well you don't mind my face, dear," he half-whispered, "for, you know, you're going to see a lot of it." She flushed, and her whole being seemed to swim in happiness. They did not speak for a time; and she sat gazing with warm, luminous eyes into his rugged, determined face, now so soft, so tender. But suddenly her look became very grave, for the question of the morning had recurred to her. Should she not give him up? "May I speak about something serious?" she asked with an effort. "Something very serious?" "About anything in the world!" said he. "It's something I was thinking about this morning, and all day," she said. "I'm afraid I haven't been very thoughtful of you. And I'm afraid you haven't been very thoughtful of yourself." "How?" "We've been together quite often of late." "Not often enough!" "But often enough to set people talking." "Let 'em talk!" "But you must remember----" "Let's stop their tongues," he interrupted. "How?" "By announcing our engagement." He gripped her hands. "For we are engaged, aren't we?" "I--I don't know," she breathed. "Don't know?" He stared at her. "Why, you're white as a sheet! You're not in earnest?" "Yes." "What does this mean?" "I--I had started to tell you. You must remember that I am an unpopular person, and that in my father I am representing an unpopular man. And you must remember that you are candidate for mayor." He had begun to get her drift. "Well?" "Well, I am afraid our being together will lessen your chances. And I don't want to do anything in the world that will injure you." "Then you think----" "I think--I think"--she spoke with difficulty--"we should stop seeing each other." "For my sake?" "Yes." He bent nearer and looked her piercingly in the eyes. "But for your own sake?" he demanded. She did not speak. "But for your own sake?" he persisted. "For my sake--for my sake----" Half-choked, she broke off. "Honest now? Honest?" She did not realize till that moment all it would mean to her to see him no more. "For my own sake----" Suddenly her hands tightened about his and she pressed them to her face. "For my sake--never! never!" "And do you think that I----" He gathered her into his strong arms. "Let them talk!" he breathed passionately against her cheek. "We'll win the town in spite of it!" CHAPTER XVIII THE CANDIDATE AND THE TIGER The town's talk continued, as Katherine knew it would. But though she resented it in Bruce's behalf, it was of small importance in her relationship with him compared with the difference in their opinions. She was in constant fear, every time he called, lest that difference should come up. But it did not on the next day, nor on the next. He was too full of love on the one hand, too full of his political fight on the other. The more she saw of him the more she loved him, so thoroughly fine, so deeply tender, was he--and the more did she dread that avoidless day when their ideas must come into collision, so masterful was he, so certain that he was right. On the fourth evening after their stormy ride she thought the collision was at hand. "There is something serious I want to speak to you about," he began, as they sat in the old-fashioned parlour. "You know what the storm has done to the city water. It has washed all the summer's accumulation of filth down into the streams that feed the reservoir, and since the filtering plant is out of commission the water has been simply abominable. The people are complaining louder than ever. Blake and the rest of his crew are telling the public that this water is a sample of what everything will be like if I'm elected. It's hurting me, and hurting me a lot. I don't blame the people so much for being influenced by what Blake says, for, of course, they don't know what's going on beneath the surface. But I've got to make some kind of a reply, and a mighty strong one, too. Now here's where I want you to help me." "What can I do?" she asked. "If I could only tell the truth--what a regular knock-out of a reply that would be!" he exclaimed. "Some time ago you told me to wait--you expected to have the proof a little later. Do you have any idea how soon you will have your evidence?" Again she felt the impulse to tell him all she knew and all her plans. But a medley of motives worked together to restrain her. There was the momentum of her old decision to keep silent. There was the knowledge that, though he loved her as a woman, he still held her in low esteem as a lawyer. There was the instinct that what she knew, if saved, might in some way serve her when they two fought their battle. And there was the thrilling dream of waiting till she had all her evidence gathered and then bringing it triumphantly to him--and thus enable him through her to conquer. "I'm afraid I can't give you the proof for a while yet," she replied. She saw that he was impatient at the delay, that he believed she would discover nothing. She expected the outbreak that very instant. She expected him to demand that she turn the case over to the Indianapolis lawyer he had spoken to her about, who _would_ be able to make some progress; to demand that she give up law altogether, and demand that as his intended wife she give up all thought of an independent professional career. She nerved herself for the shock of battle. But it did not come. "All right," he said. "I suppose I'll have to wait a little longer, then." He got up and paced the floor. "But I can't let Blake and his bunch go on saying those things without any kind of an answer from me. I've got to talk back, or get out of the fight!" He continued pacing to and fro, irked by his predicament, frowning with thought. Presently he paused before her. "Here is what I'm going to say," he announced decisively. "Since I cannot tell the whole truth, I'm going to tell a small part of the truth. I'm going to say that the condition of the water is due to intentional mismanagement on the part of the present administration--which everybody knows is dominated by Blake. Blake's party, in order to prevent my election on a municipal ownership platform, in order to make sure of remaining in power, is purposely trying to make municipal ownership fail. And I'm going to say this as often, and as hard, as I can!" In the days that followed he certainly did say it hard, both in the _Express_ and in his speeches. The charge had not been made publicly before, and, stated with Bruce's tremendous emphasis, it now created a sensation. Everybody talked about it; it gave a yet further excitement to a most exciting campaign. There was vigorous denial from Blake, his fellow candidates, and from the _Clarion_, which was supporting the Blake ticket. Again and again the _Clarion_ denounced Bruce's charge as merely the words of a demagogue, a yellow journalist--merely the irresponsible and baseless calumny so common in campaigns. Nevertheless, it had the effect that Bruce intended. His stock took a new jump, and sentiment in his favour continued to grow at a rate that made him exult and that filled the enemy with concern. This inquietude penetrated the side office of the Tippecanoe House and sorely troubled the heart of Blind Charlie Peck. So, early one afternoon, he appeared in the office of the editor of the _Express_. His reception was rather more pleasant than on the occasion of his first visit, now over a month before; for, although Katherine had repeated her warning, Bruce had given it little credit. He did not have much confidence in her woman's judgment. Besides, he was reassured by the fact that Blind Charlie had, in every apparent particular, adhered to his bargain to keep hands off. "Just wait a second," Bruce said to his caller; and turning back to his desk he hastily scribbled a headline over an item about a case of fever down in River Court. This he sent down to the composing-room, and swung around to the old politician. "Well, now, what's up?" "I just dropped around," said Blind Charlie, with his good-natured smile, "to congratulate you on the campaign you're making. You're certainly putting up a fine article of fight!" "It does look as if we had a pretty fair chance of winning," returned Bruce, confidently. "Great! Great!" said Blind Charlie heartily. "I certainly made no mistake when I picked you out as the one man that could win for us." "Thanks. I've done my best. And I'm going to keep it up." "That's right. I told you I looked on it as my last campaign. I'm pretty old, and my heart's not worth a darn. When I go, whether it's up or down, I'll travel a lot easier for having first soaked Blake good and proper." Bruce did not answer. He expected Blind Charlie to leave; in fact, he wanted him to go, for it lacked but a quarter of an hour of press time. But instead of departing, Blind Charlie settled back in his chair, crossed his legs and leisurely began to cut off a comfortable mouthful from his plug of tobacco. "Yes, sir, it's a great fight," he continued. "It doesn't seem that it could be improved on. But a little idea has come to me that may possibly help. It may not be any good at all, but I thought it wouldn't do any harm to drop in and suggest it to you." "I'll be glad to hear it," returned Bruce. "But couldn't we talk it over, say in half an hour? It's close to press time, and I've got some proofs to look through--in fact the proof of an article on that water-works charge of mine." "Oh, I'll only take a minute or two," said Blind Charlie. "And you may want to make use of my idea in this afternoon's paper." "Well, go ahead. Only remember that at this hour the press is my boss." "Of course, of course," said Blind Charlie amiably. "Well, here's to business: Now I guess I've been through about as many elections as you are years old. It isn't what the people think in the middle of the campaign that wins. It's what they think on election day. I've seen many a horse that looked like he had the race on ice at the three quarters licked to a frazzle in the home stretch. Same with candidates. Just now you look like a winner. What we want is to make sure that you'll still be out in front when you go under the wire." "Yes, yes," said Bruce impatiently. "What's your plan?" "You've got the people with you now," the old man continued, "and we want to make sure you don't lose 'em. This water-works charge of yours has been a mighty good move. But I've had my ear to the ground. I've had it to the ground for nigh on fifty years, and if there's any kind of a political noise, you can bet I hear it. Now I've detected some sounds which tell me that your water-works talk is beginning to react against you." "You don't say! I haven't noticed it." "Of course not; if you had, there'd be no use for me to come here and tell you," returned Blind Charlie blandly. "That's where the value of my political ear comes in. Now in my time I've seen many a sensation react and swamp the man that started it. That's what we've got to look out for and guard against." "U'm! And what do you think we ought to do?" Bruce was being taken in a little easier than Blind Charlie had anticipated. "If I were you," the old man continued persuasively, "I'd pitch the tune of the whole business in a little lower key. Let up on the big noise you're making--cut out some of the violent statements. I think you understand. Take my word for it, quieter tactics will be a lot more effective at this stage of the game. You've got the people--you don't want to scare them away." Bruce stared thoughtfully, and without suspicion, at the loose-skinned, smiling, old face. "U'm!" he said. "U'm!" Blind Charlie waited patiently for two or three minutes. "Well, what do you think?" he asked. "You may be right," Bruce slowly admitted. "There's no doubt of it," the old politician pleasantly assured him. "And of course I'm much obliged. But I'm afraid I disagree with you." "Eh?" said Blind Charlie, with the least trace of alarm. Bruce's face tightened, and the flat of his hand came down upon his desk. "When you start a fight, the way to win is to keep on fighting. And that's what I'm going to do." Blind Charlie started forward in his chair. "See here," he began, authoritatively. But in an instant his voice softened. "You'll be making a big mistake if you do that. Better trust to my older head in this. I want to win as much as you do, you know." "I admit you may be right," said Bruce doggedly. "But I'm going to fight right straight ahead." "Come, now, listen to reason." "I've heard your reasons. And I'm going right on with the fight." Blind Charlie's face grew grim, but his voice was still gentle and insinuating. "Oh, you are, are you? And give no attention to my advice?" "I'm sorry, but that's the way I see it." "I'm sorry, but that's the way I don't see it." "I know; but I guess I'm running this campaign," retorted Bruce a little hotly. "And I guess the party chairman has some say-so, too." "I told you, when I accepted, that I would take the nomination without strings, or I wouldn't take it at all. And you agreed." "I didn't agree to let you ruin the party." Bruce looked at him keenly, for the first time suspicious. Katherine's warning echoed vaguely in his head. "See here, Charlie Peck, what the devil are you up to?" "Better do as I say," advised Peck. "I won't!" "You won't, eh?" Blind Charlie's face had grown hard and dark with threats. "If you don't," he said, "I'm afraid the boys won't see your name on the ticket on election day." Bruce sprang up. "Damn you! What do you mean by that?" "I reckon you're not such an infant that you need that explained." "You're right; I'm not!" cried Bruce. "And so you threaten to send word around to the boys to knife me on election day?" "As I said, I guess I don't need to explain." "No, you don't, for I now see why you came here," cried Bruce, his wrath rising as he realized that he had been hoodwinked by Blind Charlie from the very first. "So there's a frame-up between you and Blake, and you're trying to sell me out and sell out the party! You first tried to wheedle me into laying down--and when I wouldn't be fooled, you turned to threats!" "The question isn't what I came for," snapped Blind Charlie. "The question is, what are you going to do? Either you do as I say, or not one of the boys will vote for you. Now I want your answer." "You want my answer, do you? Why--why----" Bruce glared down at the old man in a fury. "Well, by God, you'll get my answer, and quick!" He dropped down before his typewriter, ran in a sheet of paper, and for a minute the keys clicked like mad. Then he jerked out the sheet of paper, scribbled a cabalistic instruction across its top, sprang to his office door and let out a great roar of "Copy!" He quickly faced about upon Blind Charlie. "Here's my answer. Listen: "'This afternoon Charlie Peck called at the office of the _Express_ and ordered its editor, who is candidate for mayor, to cease from his present aggressive campaign tactics. He threatened, in case the candidate refused, to order the "boys" to knife him at the polls. "'The candidate refused. "'Voters of Westville, do your votes belong to you, or do they belong to Charlie Peck?' "That's my answer, Peck. It all goes in big, black type in a box in the centre of the first page of this afternoon's paper. We'll see whether the party will stand for your methods." At this instant the grimy young servitor of the press appeared. "Here, boy. Rush that right down." "Hold on!" cried Peck in consternation. "You're not going to print that thing?" "Unless the end of the world happens along just about now, that'll be on the street in half an hour." Bruce stepped to the door and opened it wide. "And, now, clear out! You and your votes can go plum to hell!" "Damn you! But that piece will do you no good. I'll deny it!" "Deny it--for God's sake do! Then everybody will know I'm telling the truth. And let me warn you, Charlie Peck--I'm going to find out what your game is! I'm going to show you up! I'm going to wipe you clear off the political map!" Blind Charlie swore at him again as he passed out of the door. "We're not through with each other yet--remember that!" "You bet we're not!" Bruce shouted after him. "And when we are, there'll not be enough of you left to know what's happened!" CHAPTER XIX WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK Two hours later Bruce was striding angrily up and down the West parlour, telling Katherine all about it. She refrained from saying, "I told you so," by either word or look. She was too wise for such a petty triumph. Besides, there was something in that afternoon's _Express_, which Bruce had handed her that interested her far more than his wrathful recital of Blind Charlie's treachery; and although she was apparently giving Bruce her entire attention, and was in fact mechanically taking in his words, her mind was excitedly playing around this second piece of news. For Doctor Sherman, so said the _Express_, had that day suddenly left Westville. He had been failing in health for many weeks and was on the verge of a complete breakdown, the _Express_ sympathetically explained, and at last had yielded to the importunities of his worried congregation that he take a long vacation. He had gone to the pine woods of the North, and to insure the unbroken rest he so imperatively required, to prevent the possibility of appealing letters of inconsiderate parishioners or other cares from following him into his isolation, he had, at his doctor's command, left no address behind. Katherine instantly knew that this vacation was a flight. The situation in Westville had grown daily more intense, and Doctor Sherman had seemed to her to be under an ever-increasing strain. Blake, she was certain, had ordered the young clergyman to leave, fearing, if he remained, that his nerve might break and he might confess his true relation to her father's case. She realized that now, when Doctor Sherman was apparently weakening, was the psychological time to besiege him with accusation and appeal; and while Bruce was rehearsing his scene with Blind Charlie she was rapidly considering means for seeking out Doctor Sherman and coming face to face with him. Her mind was brought back from its swift search by Bruce swinging a chair up before her and sitting down. "But, Katherine--I'll show Peck!" he cried, fiercely, exultantly. "He doesn't know what a fight he's got ahead of him. This frees me entirely from him and his machine, and I'm going to beat him so bad that I'll drive him clear out of politics." She nodded. That was exactly what she was secretly striving to help him do. He became more composed, and for a hesitant, silent moment he peered thoughtfully into her eyes. "But, Katherine--this affair with Peck this afternoon shows me I am up against a mighty stiff proposition," he said, speaking with the slowness of one who is shaping his statements with extreme care. "I have got to fight a lot harder than I thought I would have to three hours ago, when I thought I had Peck with me. To beat him, and beat Blake, I have got to have every possible weapon. Consequently, circumstances force me to speak of a matter that I wish I did not have to talk about." He reached forward and took her hand. "But, remember, dear," he besought her tenderly, "that I don't want to hurt you. Remember that." She felt a sudden tightening about the heart. "Yes--what is it?" she asked quietly. "Remember, dear, that I don't want to hurt you," he repeated. "It's about your father's case. You see how certain victory would be if we only had the evidence to prove what we know?" "I see." "I don't mean to say one single unkind word about your not having made--having made--more encouraging progress." He pressed her hand; his tone was gentle and persuasive. "I'll confess I have secretly felt some impatience, but I have not pressed the matter because--well, you see that in this critical situation, with election so near, I'm forced to speak about it now." "What would you like?" she said with an effort. "You see we cannot afford any more delays, any more risks. We have got to have the quickest possible action. We have got to use every measure that may get results. Now, dear, you would not object, would you, if at this critical juncture, when every hour is so valuable, we were to put the whole matter in the hands of my Indianapolis lawyer friend I spoke to you about?" The gaze she held upon his continued steady, but she was pulsing wildly within and she had to swallow several times before she could speak. "You--you think he can do better than I can?" "I do not want to say a single word that will reflect on you, dear. But we must admit the facts. You have had the case for over four months, and we have no real evidence as yet." "And you think he can get it?" "He's very shrewd, very experienced. He'll follow up every clue with detectives. If any man can succeed in the short time that remains, he can." "Then you--you think I can't succeed?" "Come, dear, let's be reasonable!" "But I think I can." "But, Katherine!" he expostulated. She felt what was coming. "I'm sure I can--if you will only trust me a little longer!" she said desperately. He dropped her hand. "You mean that, though I ask you to give it up, you want to continue the case?" She grew dizzy, his figure swam before her. "I--I think I do." "Why--why----" He broke off. "I can't tell you how surprised I am!" he exclaimed. "I have said nothing of late because I was certain that, if I gave nature a little time in which to work, there would be no need to argue the matter with you. I was certain that, now that love had entered your life, your deeper woman's instincts would assert themselves and you would naturally desire to withdraw from the case. In fact, I was certain that your wish to practise law, your ambition for a career outside the home, would sink into insignificance--and that you would have no desire other than to become a true woman of the home, where I want my wife to be, where she belongs. Oh, come now, Katherine," he added with a rush of his dominating confidence, taking her hand again, "you know that's just what you're going to do!" She sat throbbing, choking. She realized that the long-feared battle was now inevitably at hand. For the moment she did not know whether she was going to yield or fight. Her love of him, her desire to please him, her fear of what might be the consequence if she crossed him, all impelled her toward surrender; her deep-seated, long-clung-to principles impelled her to make a stand for the life of her dreams. She was a tumult of counter instincts and emotions. But excited as she was, she found herself looking on at herself in a curious detachment, palpitantly wondering which was going to win--the primitive woman in her, the product of thousands of generations of training to fit man's desire, or this other woman she contained, shaped by but a few brief years, who had come ardently to believe that she had the right to be what she wanted to be, no matter what the man required. "Oh, come now, dear," Bruce assured her confidently, yet half chidingly, "you know you are going to give it all up and be just my wife!" She gazed at his rugged, resolute face, smiling at her now with that peculiar forgiving tenderness that an older person bestows upon a child that is about to yield its childish whim. "There now, it's all settled," he said, smoothing her hand. "And we'll say no more about it." And then words forced their way up out of her turbulent indecision. "I'm afraid it isn't settled." His eyebrows rose in surprise. "No?" "No. I want to be your wife, Arnold. But--but I can't give up the other." "What! You're in earnest?" he cried. "I am--with all my heart!" He sank back and stared at her. If further answer were needed, her pale, set face gave it to him. His quick anger began to rise, but he forced it down. "That puts an entirely new face on the matter," he said, trying to speak calmly. "The question, instead of merely concerning the next few weeks, concerns our whole lives." She tried to summon all her strength, all her faculties, for the shock of battle. "Just so," she answered "Then we must go over the matter very fully," he said. His command over himself grew more easy. He believed that what he had to do was to be patient, and talk her out of her absurdity. "You must understand, of course," he went on, smiling at her tenderly, "that I want to support my wife, and that I am able to support my wife. I want to protect her--shield her--have her lean upon me. I want her to be the goddess of my home. The goddess of my home, Katherine! That's what I want. You understand, dear, don't you?" She saw that he confidently expected her to yield to his ideal and accept it, and she now knew that she could never yield. She paused a space before she spoke, in a sort of terror of what might be the consequence of the next few moments. "I understand you," she said, duplicating his tone of reason. "But what shall I do in the home? I dislike housework." "There's no need of your doing it," he promptly returned. "I can afford servants." "Then what shall I do in the home?" she repeated. "Take things easy. Enjoy yourself." "But I don't want to enjoy myself. I want to do things. I want to work." "Come, come, be reasonable," he said, with his tolerant smile. "You know that's quite out of the question." "Since you are going to pay servants," she persisted, "why should I idle about the house? Why should not I, an able-bodied person, be out helping in the world's work somehow--and also helping you to earn a living?" "Help me earn a living!" He flushed, but his resentment subsided. "When I asked you to marry me I implied in that question that I was able and willing to support you. Really, Katherine, it's quite absurd for you to talk about it. There is no financial necessity whatever for you to work." "You mean, then, that I should not work because, in you, I have enough to live upon?" "Of course!" "Do you know any man, any real man I mean," she returned quickly, "who stops work in the vigour of his prime merely because he has enough money to live upon? Would you give up your work to-morrow if some one were willing to support you?" "Now, don't be ridiculous, Katherine! That's quite a different question. I'm a man, you know." "And work is a necessity for you?" "Why, of course." "And you would not be happy without it?" she eagerly pursued. "Certainly not." "And you are right there! But what you don't seem to understand is, that I have the same need, the same love, for work that you have. If you could only recognize, Arnold, that I have the same feelings in this matter that you have, then you would understand me. I demand for myself the right that all men possess as a matter of course--the right to work!" "If you must work," he cried, a little exasperated, "why, of course, you can help in the housework." "But I also demand the right to choose my work. Why should I do work which I do not like, for which I have no aptitude, and which I should do poorly, and give up work which interests me, for which I have been trained, and for which I believe I have an aptitude?" "But don't you realize, in doing it, if you are successful, you are taking the bread out of a man's mouth?" he retorted. "Then every man who has a living income, and yet works, is also taking the bread out of a man's mouth. But does a real man stop work because of that? Besides, if you use that argument, then in doing my own housework I'd be taking the bread out of a woman's mouth." "Why--why----" he stammered. His face began to redden. "We shouldn't belittle our love with this kind of talk. It's all so material, so sordid." "It's not sordid to me!" she cried, stretching out a hand to him. "Don't be angry, Arnold. Try to understand me--please do, please do. Work is a necessity of life to you. It is also a necessity of life to me. I'm fighting with you for the right to work. I'm fighting with you for my life!" "Then you place work, your career, above our happiness together?" he demanded angrily. "Not at all," she went on rapidly, pleadingly. "But I see no reason why there should not be both. Our happiness should be all the greater because of my work. I've studied myself, Arnold, and I know what I need. To be thoroughly happy, I need work; useful work, work that interests me. I tell you we'll be happier, and our happiness will last longer, if only you let me work. I know! I know!" "Dream stuff! You're following a mere will-o'-the-wisp!" "That's what women have been following in the past," she returned breathlessly. "Look among your married friends. How many ideally happy couples can you count? Very, very few. And why are there so few? One reason is, because the man finds, after the novelty is worn off, that his wife is uninteresting, has nothing to talk about; and so his love cools to a good-natured, passive tolerance of her. Most married men, when alone with their wives, sit in stupid silence. But see how the husband livens up if a man joins them! This man has been out in the interesting world. The wife has been cooped up at home. The man has something to talk about. The wife has not. Well, I am going to be out in the interesting world, doing something. I am going to have something to talk to my husband about. I am going to be interesting to him, as interesting to him as any man. And I am going to try to hold his love, Arnold, the love of his heart, the love of his head, to the very end!" He was exasperated by her persistence, but he still held himself in check. "That sounds very plausible to you. But there is one thing in your argument you forget." "And that?" "We are grown-up people, you and I. I guess we can talk straight out." "Yes. Go on!" He gazed at her very steadily for a moment. "There are such things as children, you know." She returned his steady look. "Of course," she said quickly. "Every normal woman wants children. And I should want them too." "There--that settles it," he said with triumph. "You can't combine children and a profession." "But I can!" she cried. "And I should give the children the very best possible care, too! Of course there are successive periods in which the mother would have to give her whole attention to the children. But if she lives till she is sixty-five the sum total of her forty or forty-five married years that she has to give up wholly to her children amounts to but a few years. There remains all the balance of her life that she could give to other work. Do you realize how tremendously the world is changing, and how women's work is changing with it?" "Oh, let's don't mix in statistics, and history, and economics with our love!" "But we've got to if our love is to last!" she cried. "We're living in a time when things are changing. We've got to consider the changes. And the greatest changes are, and are going to be, in woman's work. Up in our attic are my great-grandmother's wool carders, her spinning wheel, her loom, all sorts of things; she spun, wove, made all the clothing, did everything. These things are now done by professional experts; that sort of work has been taken away from woman. Now all that's left for the woman to do in the home is to cook, clean, and care for children. Life is still changing. We are still developing. Some time these things too will be done, and better done, by professional experts--though just how, or just when, I can't even guess. Once there was a strong sentiment against the child being taken from the mother and being sent to school. Now most intelligent parents are glad to put their children in charge of trained kindergartners at four or five. And in the future some new institution, some new variety of trained specialist, may develop that will take charge of the child for a part of the day at an even earlier age. That's the way the world is moving!" "Thanks for your lecture on the Rise, Progress and Future of Civilization," he said ironically, trying to suppress himself. "But interesting as it was, it has nothing whatever to do with the case. We're not talking about civilization, and the universe, and evolution, and the fourth dimension, and who's got the button. We're talking about you and me. About you and me, and our love." "Yes, Arnold, about you and me and our love," she cried eagerly. "I spoke of these things only because they concern you and me and our love so very, very much." "Of all things for two lovers to talk about!" he exclaimed with mounting exasperation. "They are the things of all things! For our love, our life, hangs upon them!" "Well, anyhow, you haven't got these new institutions, these new experts," he retorted, brushing the whole matter aside. "You're living to-day, not in the millennium!" "I know, I know. In the meantime, life for us women is in a stage of transition. Until these better forms develop we are going to have a hard time. It will be difficult for me to manage, I know. But I'm certain I can manage it." He stood up. His face was very red, and he swallowed once or twice before the words seemed able to come out. "I'm surprised, Katherine--surprised!--that you should be so persistent in this nonsense. What you say is all against nature. It won't work." "Perhaps not. But at least you'll let me try! That's all I ask of you--that you let me try!" "It would be weak in me, wrong in me, to yield." "Then you're not willing to give me a chance?" He shook his head. She rose and moved before him. "But, Arnold, do you realize what you are doing?" she cried with desperate passion. "Do you realize what it is I'm asking you for? Work, interesting work--that's what I need to make me happy, to make you happy! Without it, I shall be miserable, and you will be miserable in having a miserable wife about you--and all our years together will be years of misery. So you see what a lot I'm fighting for: work, development, happiness!--the happiness of all our married years!" "That's only a delusion. For your sake, and my sake, I've got to stand firm." "Then you will not let me?" "I will not." She stared palely at his square, adamantine face. "Arnold!" she breathed. "Arnold!--do you know what you're trying to do?" "I am trying to save you from yourself!" "You're trying to break my will across yours," she cried a little wildly. "You're trying to crush me into the iron mould of your idea of a woman. You're trying to kill me--yes, to kill me." "I am trying to save you!" he repeated, his temper breaking its frail leash. "Your ideas are all wrong--absurd--insane!" "Please don't be angry, Arnold!" she pleaded. "How can I help it, when you won't listen to reason! When you are so perversely obstinate!" "I'm not obstinate," she cried breathlessly, holding one of his hands tightly in both her own. "I'm just trying to cling as hard as I can to life--to our happiness. Please give me a chance, Arnold! Please, please!" "Confound such obstinate wrong-headedness!" he exploded. "No, I tell you! No! And that settles it!" She shrank back. "Oh!" she cried. Her breast began to rise and fall tumultuously, and her cheeks slowly to redden. "Oh!" she cried again. Then her words leaped hotly out: "Oh, you bigot!" "If to stand by what I know is right, and to save you from making a fool of yourself, is to be a bigot--then I'm a bigot all right, and I thank the God that made me one!" "And you think you are going to save me from myself?" she demanded. He stepped nearer, and towering over her, he took hold of her shoulders in a powerful grasp and looked down upon her dominantly. "I know I am! I am going to make you exactly what I want you to be!" Her eyes flamed back up into his. "Because you are the stronger?" "Because I am the stronger--and because I am right," he returned grimly. "I admit that you are the superior brute," she said with fierce passion. "But you will never break me to your wishes!" "And I tell you I will!" "And I tell you you will not!" There was a strange and new fire in her eyes. "What do you mean?" he asked. "I mean this," she returned, and the hands that gripped her shoulders felt her tremble through all her body. "I should not expect you to marry a woman who was so unreasonable as to demand that you, for her sake, should give up your loved career. And, for my part, I shall never marry a man so unreasonable as to make the same demand of me." He fell back a pace. "You mean----" "Was I not plain enough? I mean that you will never have the chance to crush me into your iron mould, for I will never marry you." "What!" And then: "So I'm fired, am I?" he grated out. "Yes, for you're as narrow and as conventional as the rest of men," she rushed on hotly. "You never say a word so long as a woman's work is unpleasant! It's all right for her to scrub, and wash dishes, and wear her life away in factories. But as soon as she wants to do any work that is pleasant and interesting and that will gain her recognition, you cry out that she's unwomanly, unsexed, that she's flying in the face of God! Oh, you are perfectly willing that woman, on the one hand, should be a drudge, or on the other the pampered pet of your one-woman harem. But I shall be neither, I tell you. Never! Never! Never!" They stared at one another, trembling with passion. "And you," he said with all the fierce irony of his soul, "and you, I suppose, will now go ahead and clear your father, expose Blake, and perform all those other wonders you've talked so big about!" "That's just what I am going to do!" she cried defiantly. "And that's just what you are not!" he blazed back. "I may have admired the woman in you--but, for those things, you have not the smallest atom of ability. Your father's trial, your failure to get evidence--hasn't that shown you? You are going to be a failure--a fizzle--a fiasco! Did you hear that? A pitiable, miserable, humiliated fiasco! And time will prove it!" "We'll see what time will prove!" And she swept furiously past him out of the room. CHAPTER XX A SPECTRE COMES TO TOWN For many an hour Katherine's wrath continued high, and she repeated, with clinched hands, all her invectives against the bigotry of Bruce. He was a bully--a boor--a brute--a tyrant. He considered himself the superman. And in pitiable truth he was only a moral coward--for his real reason in opposing her had been that he was afraid to have Westville say that his wife worked. And he had insulted her, for his parting words to her had been a jeering statement that she had no ability, only a certain charm of sex. How, oh, how, had she ever imagined that they two might possibly share a happy life together? But after a season her wrath began to subside, and she began to see that after all Bruce was no very different man from the Bruce she had loved the last few weeks. He had been thoroughly consistent with himself. She had known that he was cocksure and domineering. She had foreseen that the chances were at least equal that he would take the position he had. She had foreseen and feared this very issue. His virtues were just as big as on yesterday, when she and he had thought of marriage, and his faults were no greater. And she realized, after the first passion of their battle had spent its force, that she still loved him. In the long hours of the night a pang of emptiness, of vast, irretrievable loss, possessed her. She and Love had touched each other for a space--then had flung violently apart, and were speeding each in their eternally separate direction. Life for her might be rich and full of honour and achievement, but as she looked forward into the long procession of years, she saw that life was going to have its dreariness, its vacancies, its dull, unending aches. It was going to be such a very, very different business from that life of work and love and home and mutual aid she had daringly dreamed of during the two weeks she and Bruce had been lovers. But she did not regret her decision. She did not falter. Her resentment of Bruce's attitude stiffened the backbone of her purpose. She was going straight ahead, bear the bitterness, and live the life she had planned as best she could. But there quickly came other matters to share her mind with a lost love and a broken dream. First was the uproar created by Bruce's defiant announcement in the _Express_ of Blind Charlie's threatened treachery. That sensation reigned for a day or two, then was almost forgotten in a greater. This second sensation made its initial appearance quite unobtrusively; it had a bare dozen lines down in a corner of the same issue of the _Express_ that had contained Bruce's defiance and Doctor Sherman's departure. The substance of the item was that two cases of illness had been reported from the negro quarter in River Court, and that the doctors said the symptoms were similar to those of typhoid fever. Those two cases of fever in that old frame tenement up a narrow, stenchy alley were the quiet opening of a new act in the drama that was played that year in Westville. The next day a dozen cases were reported, and now the doctors unhesitatingly pronounced them typhoid. The number mounted rapidly. Soon there were a hundred. Soon there was an epidemic. And the Spectre showed no deference to rank. It not only stalked into the tenements of River Court and Railroad Alley--and laid its felling finger on starveling children and drink-shattered men--It visited the large and airy homes on Elm and Maple Streets and Wabash Avenue, where those of wealth and place were congregated. In Westville was the Reign of Terror. Haggard doctors were ever on the go, snatching a bite or a moment's sleep when chance allowed. Till then, modern history had been reckoned in Westville from the town's invasion by factories, or from that more distant time when lightning had struck the Court House. But those milestones of time are to-day forgotten. Local history is now dated, and will be for many a decade, from the "Days of Fever" and the related events which marked that epoch. In the early days of the epidemic Katherine heard one morning that Elsie Sherman had just been stricken. She had seen little of Elsie during the last few weeks; the strain of their relation was too great to permit the old pleasure in one another's company; but at this news she hastened to Elsie's bedside. Her arrival was a God-send to the worn and hurried Doctor Woods, who had just been called in. She telegraphed to Indianapolis for a nurse; she telegraphed to a sister of Doctor Sherman to come; and she herself undertook the care of Elsie until the nurse should arrive. "What do you think of her case, Doctor?" she asked anxiously when Doctor Woods dropped in again later in the day. He shook his head. "Mrs. Sherman is very frail." "Then you think----" "I'm afraid it will be a hard fight. I think we'd better send for her husband." Despite her sympathy for Elsie, Katherine thrilled with the possibility suggested by the doctor's words. Here was a situation that should bring Doctor Sherman out of his hiding, if anything could bring him. Once home, and unnerved by the sight of his wife precariously balanced between life and death, she was certain that he would break down and confess whatever he might know. She asked Elsie for her husband's whereabouts, but Elsie answered that she had had letters but that he had never given an address. Katherine at once determined to see Blake, and demand to know where Doctor Sherman was; and after the nurse arrived on an afternoon train, she set out for Blake's office. But Blake was out, and his return was not expected for an hour. To fill in the time, Katherine paid a visit to her father in the jail. She told him of Elsie's illness, and told at greater length than she had yet had chance to do about the epidemic. In his turn he talked to her about the fever's causes; and when she left the jail and returned to Blake's office an idea far greater than merely asking Doctor Sherman's whereabouts was in her mind. This time she was told that Blake was in, but could see no one. Undeterred by this statement, Katherine walked quickly past the stenographer and straight for his private door, which she quickly and quietly opened and closed. Blake was sitting at his desk, his head bowed forward in one hand. He was so deep in thought, and she had entered so quietly, that he had not heard her. She crossed to his desk, stood opposite him, and for a moment gazed down upon his head. "Mr. Blake," she remarked at length. He started up. "You here!" he ejaculated. "Yes. I came to talk to you." He did not speak at once, but stood staring a little wildly at her. She had not spoken to him since the day of her father's trial, nor seen him save at a distance. She was now startled at the change this closer view revealed to her. His eyes were sunken and ringed with purple, his face seemed worn and thin, and had taken on a tinge of yellowish-green. "I left orders that I could see no one," he said, trying to speak sharply. "I know," she answered quietly. "But you'll see me." For an instant he hesitated. "Very well--sit down," he said, resuming his chair. "Now what is it you wish?" She seated herself and leaned across the desk toward him. "I wish to talk to you about the fever," she said with her former composure, and looking him very steadily in the eyes. "I suppose you know what caused it?" "I am no doctor. I do not." "Then let me tell you. My father has just told me that there must have been a case of typhoid during the summer somewhere back in the drainage area of the water-system. That recent big storm carried the summer's accumulation of germ-laden filth down into the streams. And since the city was unguarded by a filter, those germs were swept into the water-mains, we drank them, and the epidemic----" "That filter was useless--a complete failure!" Blake broke in rather huskily. "You know, Mr. Blake, and I know," she returned, "that that filter has been, and still is, in excellent condition. And you know, and I know, that if it had been in operation, purifying the water, there might possibly have been a few cases of typhoid, but there would never have been this epidemic. That's the God's truth, and you know it!" He swallowed, but did not answer her. "I suppose," she pursued in her steady tone, "you realize who is responsible for all these scores of sick?" "If what you say is true, then your father is guilty, for building such a filter." "You know better. You know that the guilty man is yourself." His face grew more yellowish-green. "It's not so! No one is more appalled by this disaster than I am!" "I know you are appalled by the outcome. You did not plan to murder citizens. You only planned to defraud the city. But this epidemic is the direct consequence of your scheme. Every person who is now in a sick bed, you put that person there. Every person who may later go to his grave, you will have sent that person there." Her steady voice grew more accusing. "What does your conscience say to you? And what do you think the people will say to you, to the great public-spirited Mr. Blake, when they learn that you, prompted by the desire for money and power, have tried to rob the city and have stricken hundreds with sickness?" His yellowish face contorted most horribly, but he did not answer. "I see that your conscience has been asking you those same questions," Katherine pursued. "It is something, at least, that your conscience is not dead. Those are not pleasant questions to have asked one, are they?" Again his face twisted, but he seemed to gather hold of himself. "You are as crazy as ever--that's all rot!" he said huskily, with a denying sweep of a clinched hand. "But what do you want?" "Three things. First, that you have the filter put back in commission. Let's at least do what we can to prevent any more danger from that source." "The filter is useless. Besides, I am no official, and have nothing to do with it." "It is in perfect condition, and you have everything to do with it," she returned steadily. He swallowed. "I'll suggest it to the mayor." "Very well; that is settled. To the next point. Have you heard that Mrs. Sherman is sick?" "Yes." "She wants her husband." "Well?" "My second demand is to know where you have hidden Doctor Sherman." "Doctor Sherman? I have nothing to do with Doctor Sherman!" "You also have everything to do with Doctor Sherman," she returned steadily. "He is one of the instruments of your plot. You feared that he would break down and confess, and so you sent him out of the way. Where is he?" Again his face worked spasmodically. "I tell you once more I have nothing whatever to do with Doctor Sherman! Now I hope that's all. I am tired of this. I have other matters to consider. Good day." "No, it is not all. For there is my third demand. And that is the most important of the three. But perhaps I should not say demand. What I make you is an offer." "An offer?" he exclaimed. She did not reply to him directly. She leaned a little farther across his desk and looked at him with an even greater intentness. "I do not need to ask you to pause and think upon all the evil you have done the town," she said slowly. "For you have thought. You were thinking at the moment I came in. I can see that you are shaken with horror at the unforeseen results of your scheme. I have come to you to take sides with your conscience; to join it in asking you, urging you, to draw back and set things as nearly right as you can. That is my demand, my offer, my plea--call it what you will." He had been gazing at her with wide fixed eyes. When he spoke, his voice was dry, mechanical. "Set things right? How?" "Come forward, confess, and straighten out the situation of your own accord. Westville is in a terrible condition. If you act at once, you can at least do something to relieve it." "By setting things right, as you call it, you of course include the clearing of your father?" "The clearing of my father, of course. And let me say to you, Mr. Blake--and for this moment I am speaking as your friend--that it will be better for you to clear this whole matter up voluntarily, at once, than to be exposed later, as you certainly will be. To clear this matter at once may have the result of simplifying the fight against the epidemic--it may save many lives. That is what I am thinking of first of all just now." "You mean to say, then, that it is either confess or be exposed?" "There is no use in my beating about the bush with you," she replied in her same steady tone. "For I know that you know that I am after you." He did not speak at once. He sat gazing fixedly at her, with twitching face. She met his gaze without blinking, breathlessly awaiting his reply. Suddenly a tremor ran through him and his face set with desperate decision. "Yes, I know you are after me! I know you are having me followed--spied upon!" There was a biting, contemptuous edge to his tone. "Even if I were guilty, do you think I would be afraid of exposure from you? Oh, I know the man you have sleuthing about on my trail. Elijah Stone! And I once thought you were a clever girl!" "You refuse, then?" she said slowly. "I do! And I defy you! If your accusations against me are true, go out and proclaim them to the city. I'm willing to stand for whatever happens!" She regarded his flushed, defiant face. She perceived clearly that she had failed, that it was useless to try further. "Very well," she said slowly. "But I want you to remember in the future that I have given you this chance; that I have given you your choice, and you have chosen." "And I tell you again that I defy you!" "You are a more hardened man, or a more desperate man, than I thought," said she. He did not reply upon the instant, but sat gazing into her searching eyes. Before he could speak, the telephone at his elbow began to ring. He picked it up. "Hello! Yes, this is Mr. Blake.... Her temperature is the same, you say?... No, I have not had an answer yet. I expect a telegram any minute. I'll let you know as soon as it comes. Good-by." "Is some one sick?" Katherine asked, as he hung up the receiver. "My mother," he returned briefly, his recent defiance all gone. Katherine, too, for the moment, forgot their conflict. "I did not know it. There are so many cases, you know. Who is attending her?" "Doctor Hunt, temporarily," he answered. "But these Westville doctors are all amateurs in serious cases. I've telegraphed for a specialist--the best man I could hear of--Doctor Brenholtz of Chicago." His defiance suddenly returned. "If I have seemed to you worn, unnerved, now you know the real cause!" he said. "So," she remarked slowly, "the disaster you have brought on Westville has struck your own home!" His face twitched convulsively. "I believe we have finished our conversation. Good afternoon." Katherine rose. "And if she dies, you know who will have killed her." He sprang up. "Go! Go!" he cried. But she remained in her tracks, looking him steadily in the eyes. While they stood so, the stenographer entered and handed him a telegram. He tore it open, glanced it through, and stood staring at it in a kind of stupor. "My God!" he breathed. He tore the yellow sheet across, dropped the pieces in the waste-basket and began to pace his room, on his face a wild, dazed look. He seemed to have forgotten Katherine's presence. But a turn brought her into his vision. He stopped short. "You still here?" "I was waiting to hear if Doctor Brenholtz was coming," she said. He stared at her a moment. Then he crossed to his desk, took the two fragments of the telegram from his waste-basket and held them out to her. "There is what he says." She took the telegram and read: "No use my coming. Best man on typhoid in West lives in your own town. See Dr. David West." Katherine laid down the yellow pieces and raised her eyes to Blake's white, strained face. The two gazed at each other for a long moment. "Well?" he said huskily. "Well?" she quietly returned. "Do you think I can get him?" "How can you get a man who is serving a sentence in jail?" "If I--if I----" He could not get the words out. "Yes. If you confess--clear him--get him out of jail--of course he will treat the case." "I didn't mean that! God!" he cried, "is confession of a thing I never did the fee you exact for saving a life?" "What, you still hold out?" "I'm not guilty! I tell you, I'm not guilty!" "Then you'll not confess?" "Never! Never!" "Not even to save your mother?" "She's sick--very sick. But she's not going to die--I'll not let her die! Your father does not have to be cleared to get out of jail. In this emergency I can arrange to get him out for a time on parole. What do you say?" She gazed at the desperate, wildly expectant figure. A little shiver ran through her. "What do you say?" he repeated. "There can be but one answer," she replied. "My father is too big a man to demand any price for his medical skill--even the restoration of his honest name by the man who stole it. Parole him, and he will go instantly to Mrs. Blake." He dropped into his chair and seized his telephone. "Central, give me six-o-four--quick!" There was a moment of waiting. "This you, Judge Kellog?... This is Harrison Blake. I want you to arrange the proper papers for the immediate parole of Doctor West. I'll be responsible for everything. Am coming right over and will explain." He fairly threw the receiver back upon its hook. "Your father will be free in an hour," he cried. And without waiting for a reply, he seized his hat and hurried out. CHAPTER XXI BRUCE TO THE FRONT Katherine came down from Blake's office with many thoughts surging through her brain: Of her father's release--of Blake's obduracy--of his mother's illness; but at the forefront of them all, because demanding immediate action, was the need of finding Doctor Sherman. As she stepped forth from the stairway, she saw Arnold Bruce striding along the Square in her direction. There was a sudden leaping of her heart, a choking at her throat. But they passed each other with the short cold nod which had been their manner of greeting during the last few days when they had chanced to meet. The next instant a sudden impulse seized her, and she turned about. "Mr. Bruce," she called after him. He came back to her. His face was rather pale, but was doggedly resolute. Her look was not very different from his. "Yes, Miss West?" said he. For a moment it was hard for her to speak. No word, only that frigid nod, had passed between them since their quarrel. "I want to ask you something--and tell you something," she said coldly. "I am at your service," said he. "We cannot talk here. Suppose we cross into the Court House yard?" In silence he fell into step beside her. They did not speak until they were in the yard where passers-by could not overhear them. "You know of Mrs. Sherman's illness?" she began in a distant, formal tone. "Yes." "It promises to be serious. We must get her husband home if possible. But no one has his address. An idea for reaching him has been vaguely in my head. It may not be good, but it now seems the only way." "Do you mind telling me what it is?" "Doctor Sherman is somewhere in the pine woods of the North. What I thought about doing was to order some Chicago advertising agency to insert notices in scores of small dailies and weeklies up North, announcing to Doctor Sherman his wife's illness and urging him to come home. My hope is that one of the papers may penetrate whatever remote spot he may be in and the notice reach his eyes. What I want to ask you is the name of an agency." "Black & Graves are your people," said he. "Also I want to know how to go about it to get prompt action on their part." "Write out the notice and send it to them with your instructions. And since they won't know you, better enclose a draft or money order on account. No, don't bother about the money; you won't know how much to send. I know Phil Black, and I'll write him to-day guaranteeing the account." "Thank you," she said. "You're perfectly welcome," said he with his cold politeness. "Is there anything else I can do?" "That's all about that. But I have something to tell you--a suggestion to make for your campaign, if you will not consider it impertinent." "Quite otherwise. I shall be very glad to get it." "You have been saying in your speeches that the bad water has been due to intentional mismanagement of the present administration, which is ruled by Mr. Blake, for the purpose of rendering unpopular the municipal ownership principle." "I have, and it's been very effective." "I suggest that you go farther." "How?" "Make the fever an issue of the campaign. The people, in fact all of us, have been too excited, too frightened, to understand the relation between the bad management of the water-works, the bad water, and the fever. Tell them that relation. Only tell it carefully, by insinuation if necessary, so that you will avoid the libel law--for you have no proof as yet. Make them understand that the fever is due to bad water, which in turn is due to bad management of the water-works, which in turn is due to the influence of Mr. Blake." "Great! Great!" exclaimed Bruce. "Oh, the idea is not really mine," she said coldly. "It came to me from some things my father told me." Her tone recalled to him their chilly relationship. "It's a regular knock-out idea," he said stiffly. "And I'm much obliged to you." They had turned back and were nearing the gate of the yard. "I hope it will really help you--but be careful to avoid giving them an opening to bring a libel charge. Permit me to say that you have been making a splendid campaign." "Things do seem to be coming my direction. The way I threw Blind Charlie's threat back into his teeth, that has made a great hit. I think I have him on the run." He hesitated, gave her a sharp look, then added rather defiantly: "I might as well tell you that in a few days I expect to have Blake also on the run--in fact, in a regular gallop. That Indianapolis lawyer friend of mine, Wilson's his name, is coming here to help me." "Oh!" she exclaimed. "You'll remember," he continued in his defiant tone, "that I once told you that your father's case was not your case. It's the city's. I'm going to put Wilson on it, and I expect him to clear it all up in short order." She could not hold back a sudden uprush of resentment. "So then it's to be a battle between us, is it?" she demanded, looking him straight in the face. "A battle? How?" "To see which one gets the evidence." "We've got to get it--that's all," he answered grimly. In an instant she had resumed control of herself. "I hope you succeed," she said calmly. "Good afternoon." And with a crisp nod she turned away. Bruce's action in calmly taking the case out of her hands, which was in effect an iteration of his statement that he had no confidence in her ability, stung her bitterly and for a space her wrath flamed high. But there were too many things to be done to give much time to mere resentment. She wrote the letter to the Chicago advertising agency, mailed it, then set out to find her father. At the jail she was told that he had been released and had left for Blake's. There she found him. He came out into the hall, kissed her warmly, then hurried back into the bedroom. Katherine, glancing through the open door, saw him move swiftly about the old gray-haired woman, while Blake stood in strained silence looking on. When her father had done all for Mrs. Blake he could do at that time, Katherine hurried him away to Elsie Sherman. He replaced the very willing Doctor Woods, who knew little about typhoid, and assumed charge of Elsie with all his unerring mastery of what to do. He gave her his very best skill, and he hovered about her with all the concern that the illness of his own child might have evoked, for she had been a warm favourite with him and the charges of her husband had in no degree lessened his regard. Whatever science and care and love could do for her, it all was certain to be done. Within two hours after Blake had received Doctor Brenholtz's telegram its contents had flashed about the town. Doctor West was besieged. The next day found him treating not only as many individual cases as his strength and the hours of the day allowed, but found him in command of the Board of Health's fight against the plague, with all the rest of the city's doctors accepting orders from him. All his long life of incessant study and experiment, all those long years when he had been laughed at for a fool and jeered at for a failure--all that time had been but an unconscious preparation for this great fight to save a stricken city. And the town, for all its hatred, for all the stain upon his name, as it watched this slight, white-haired man go so swiftly and gently and efficiently about his work, began to feel for him something akin to awe--began dimly to feel that this old figure whom it had been their habit to scorn for near a generation was perhaps their greatest man. While Katherine watched this fight against the fever with her father as its central figure, while she awaited in suspense some results of her advertising campaign, and while she tried to press forward the other details of her search for evidence, she could but keep her eyes upon the mayoralty campaign--for it was mounting to an ever higher climax of excitement. Bruce was fighting like a fury. The sensation created by his announcement of Blind Charlie's threatened treachery was a mere nothing compared to the uproar created when he informed the people, not directly, but by careful insinuation, that Blake was responsible for the epidemic. Blake denied the charge with desperate energy and with all his power of eloquence; he declared that the epidemic was but another consequence of that supremest folly of mankind, public ownership. He was angrily supported by his party, his friends and his followers--but those followers were not so many as a few short weeks before. Passion was at its highest--so high that trustworthy forecasts of the election were impossible. But ten days before election it was freely talked about the streets, and even privately admitted by some of Blake's best friends, that nothing but a miracle could save him from defeat. In these days of promise Bruce seemed to pour forth an even greater energy; and in his efforts he was now aided by Mr. Wilson, the Indianapolis lawyer, who was spending his entire time in Westville. Katherine caught in Bruce's face, when they passed upon the street, a gleam of triumph which he could not wholly suppress. She wondered, with a pang of jealousy, if he and Mr. Wilson were succeeding where she had failed--if all her efforts were to come to nothing--if her ambition to demonstrate to Bruce that she could do things was to prove a mere dream? Toward noon one day, as she was walking along the Square homeward bound from Elsie Sherman's, she passed Bruce and Mr. Wilson headed for the stairway of the _Express_ Building. Both bowed to her, then Katherine overheard Bruce say, "I'll be with you in a minute, Wilson," and the next instant he was at her side. "Excuse me, Miss West," he said. "But we have just unearthed something which I think you should be the first person to learn." "I shall be glad to hear it," she said in the cold, polite tone they reserved for one another. "Let's go over into the Court House yard." They silently crossed the street and entered the comparative seclusion of the yard. "I suppose it is something very significant?" she asked. "So significant," he burst out, "that the minute the _Express_ appears this afternoon Harrison Blake is a has-been!" She looked at him quickly. The triumph she had of late seen gleaming in his face was now openly blazing there. "You mean----" "I mean that I've got the goods on him!" "You--you have evidence?" "The best sort of evidence!" "That will clear my father?" "Perhaps not directly. Indirectly, yes. But it will smash Blake to smithereens!" She was happy on Bruce's account, on her father's, on the city's, but for the moment she was sick upon her own. "Is the nature of the evidence a secret?" "The whole town will know it this afternoon. I asked you over here to tell you first. I have just secured a full confession from two of Blake's accomplices." "Then you've discovered Doctor Sherman?" she exclaimed. "Doctor Sherman?" He stared at her. "I don't know what you mean. The two men are the assistant superintendent of the water-works and the engineer at the pumping-plant." "How did you get at them?" "Wilson and I started out to cross-examine everybody who might be in the remotest way connected with the case. My suspicion against the two men was first aroused by their strained behaviour. I went----" "Then it was you who made this discovery, not that--that other lawyer?" "Yes, I was the first to tackle the pair, though Wilson has helped me. He's a great lawyer, Wilson. We've gone at them relentlessly--with accusation, cross-examination, appeal; with the result that this morning both of them broke down and confessed that Blake had secretly paid them to do all that lay within their power to make the water-works a failure." They followed the path in silence for several moments, Katherine's eyes upon the ground. At length she looked up. In Bruce's face she plainly read what she had guessed to be an extra motive with him all along, a glowering determination to crush her, humiliate her, a determination to cut the ground from beneath her ambition by overturning Blake and clearing her father without her aid. "And so," she breathed, "you have made good all your predictions. You have succeeded and I have failed." For an instant his square face glowed upon her, exultant with triumph. Then he partially subdued the look. "We won't discuss that matter," he said. "It's enough to repeat what I once said, that Wilson is a crackerjack lawyer." "All the same, I congratulate you--and wish you every success," she said; and as quickly thereafter as she could she made her escape, her heart full of the bitterness of personal defeat. That afternoon the _Express_, in its largest type, in its editor's highest-powered English, made its exposure of Harrison Blake. And that afternoon there was pandemonium in Westville. Violence might have been attempted upon Blake, but, fortunately for him, he had gone the night before to Indianapolis--on a matter of state politics, it was said. Blake, however, was a man to fight to the last ditch. On the morning after the publication of the _Express's_ charges, the _Clarion_ printed an indignant denial from him. That same morning Bruce was arrested on a charge of criminal libel, and that same day--the grand jury being in session--he was indicted. Blake's attorney demanded that, since these charges had a very direct bearing upon the approaching election, the trial should take precedence over other cases and be heard immediately. To this Bruce eagerly agreed, for he desired nothing better than to demolish Blake in court, and the trial was fixed for five days before election. Katherine, going about, heard the people jeer at Blake's denial; heard them say that his demand for a trial was mere bravado to save his face for a time--that when the trial came he would never show up. She saw the former favourite of Westville become in an hour an object of universal abomination. And, on the other hand, she saw Bruce leap up to the very apex of popularity. For Bruce's sake, for every one's sake but her own, she was rejoiced. But as for herself, she walked in the valley of humiliation, she ate of the ashes of bitterness. Swept aside by the onrush of events, feeling herself and her plans suddenly become futile, she decided to cease all efforts and countermand all orders. But she could not veto her plan concerning Doctor Sherman, for her money was spent and her advertisements were broadcast through the North. As for Mr. Manning, he stated that he had become so interested in the situation that he was going to stay on in Westville for a time to see how affairs came out. On the day of the trial Katherine and the city had one surprise at the very start. Contrary to all predictions, Harrison Blake was in the court-room and at the prosecution's table. Despite all the judge, the clerk, and the sheriff could do to maintain order, there were cries and mutterings against him. Not once did he flinch, but sat looking straight ahead of him, or whispering to his private attorney or to the public prosecutor, Kennedy. He was a brave man. Katherine had known that. Bruce, all confidence, recited on the witness stand how he had come by his evidence. Then the assistant superintendent told with most convincing detail how he had succumbed to Blake's temptation and done his bidding. Next, the engineer testified to the same effect. The crowd lowered at Blake. Certainly matters looked blacker than ever for the one-time idol of the city. But Blake sat unmoved. His calmness begat a sort of uneasiness in Katherine. When the engineer had completed his direct testimony, Kennedy arose, and following whispered suggestions from Blake, cross-questioned the witness searchingly, ever more searchingly, pursued him in and out, in and out, till at length, snap!--Katherine's heart stood still, and the crowd leaned forward breathless--snap, and he had caught the engineer in a contradiction! Kennedy went after the engineer with rapid-fire questions that involved the witness in contradiction on contradiction--that got him confused, then hopelessly tangled up--that then broke him down completely and drew from him a shamefaced confession. The fact was, he said, that Mr. Bruce, wanting campaign material, had privately come to him and paid him to make his statements. He had had no dealings with Mr. Blake whatever. He was a poor man--his wife was sick with the fever--he had needed the money--he hoped the court would be lenient with him--etc., etc. The other witness, recalled, confessed to the same story. Amid a stunned court room, Bruce sprang to his feet. "Lies! Lies!" he cried in a choking fury. "They've been bought off by Blake!" "Silence!" shouted Judge Kellog, pounding his desk with his gavel. "I tell you it's trickery! They've been bought off by Blake!" "Silence!" thundered the judge, and followed with a dire threat of contempt of court. But already Mr. Wilson and Sheriff Nichols were dragging the struggling Bruce back into his chair. More shouts and hammering of gavels by the judge and clerk had partially restored to order the chaos begotten by this scene, when a bit of paper was slipped from behind into Bruce's hand. He unfolded it with trembling fingers, and read in a disguised, back-hand scrawl: "There's still enough left of me to know what's happened." That was all. But Bruce understood. Here was the handiwork and vengeance of Blind Charlie Peck. He sprang up again and turned his ireful face to where, in the crowd, sat the old politician. "You--you----" he began. But before he got further he was again dragged down into his seat. And almost before the crowd had had time fairly to regain its breath, the jury had filed out, had filed back in again, had returned its verdict of guilty, and Judge Kellog had imposed a sentence of five hundred dollars fine and sixty days in the county jail. In all the crowd that looked bewildered on, Katherine was perhaps the only one who believed in Bruce's cry of trickery. She saw that Blake, with Blind Charlie's cunning back of him, had risked his all on one bold move that for a brief period had made him an object of universal hatred. She saw that Bruce had fallen into a trap cleverly baited for him, saw that he was the victim of an astute scheme to discredit him utterly and remove him from the way. As Blake left the Court House Katherine heard a great cheer go up for him; and within an hour the evidence of eye and ear proved to her that he was more popular than ever. She saw the town crowd about him to make amends for the injustice it considered it had done him. And as for Bruce, as he was led by Sheriff Nichols from the Court House toward the jail, she heard him pursued by jeers and hisses. Katherine walked homeward from the trial, completely dazed by this sudden capsizing of all of Bruce's hopes--and of her own hopes as well, for during the last few days she had come to depend on Bruce for the clearing of her father. That evening, and most of the night, she spent in casting up accounts. As matters then stood, they looked desperate indeed. On the one hand, everything pointed to Blake's election and the certain success of his plans. On the other hand, she had gained no clue whatever to the whereabouts of Doctor Sherman; nothing had as yet developed in the scheme she had built about Mr. Manning; as for Mr. Stone, she had expected nothing from him, and all he had turned in to her was that he suspected secret relations between Blake and Peck. Furthermore, the man she loved--for yes, she loved him still--was in jail, his candidacy collapsed, the cause for which he stood a ruin. And last of all, the city, to the music of its own applause, was about to be colossally swindled. A dark prospect indeed. But as she sat alone in the night, the cheers for Blake floating in to her, she desperately determined to renew her fight. Five days still remained before election, and in five days one might do much; during those five days her ships might still come home from sea. She summoned her courage, and gripped it fiercely. "I'll do my best! I'll do my best!" she kept breathing throughout the night. And her determination grew in its intensity as she realized the sum of all the things for which she fought, and fought alone. She was fighting to save her father, she was fighting to save the city, she was fighting to save the man she loved. CHAPTER XXII THE LAST STAND The next morning Katherine, incited by the desperate need of action, was so bold as to request Mr. Manning to meet her at Old Hosie's. She was fortunate enough to get into the office without being observed. The old lawyer, in preparation for the conference, had drawn his wrinkled, once green shade as far down as he dared without giving cause for suspicion, and before the window had placed a high-backed chair and thrown upon it a greenish, blackish, brownish veteran of a fall overcoat--thus balking any glances that might rove lazily upward to his office. Old Hosie raised his lean figure from his chair and shook her hand, at first silently. He, too, was dazed by the collapse of Bruce's fortunes. "Things certainly do look bad," he said slowly. "I never suspected that his case would suddenly stand on its head like that." "Nor did I--though from the beginning I had an instinctive feeling that it was too good, too easy, to be true." "And to think that after all we know the boy is right!" groaned the old man. "That's what makes the whole affair so tantalizing. We know he is right--we know my father is innocent--we know the danger the city is in--we know Mr. Blake's guilt--we know just what his plans are. We know everything! But we have not one jot of evidence that would be believed by the public. The irony of it! To think, for all our knowledge, we can only look helplessly on and watch Mr. Blake succeed in everything." Old Hosie breathed an imprecation that must have made his ancestors, asleep behind the old Quaker meeting-house down in Buck Creek, gasp in their grassy, cedar-shaded graves. "All the same," Katherine added desperately, "we've got to half kill ourselves trying between now and election day!" They subsided into silence. In nervous impatience Katherine awaited the appearance of the pseudo-investor in run-down farms. He seemed a long time in coming, but the delay was all in her suspense, for as the Court House clock was tolling the appointed hour Mr. Manning, _alias_ Mr. Hartsell, walked into the office. He was, as Katherine had once described him to Old Hosie, a quiet, reserved man with that confidence-inspiring amplitude in the equatorial regions commonly observable in bank presidents and trusted officials of corporations. As he closed the door his subdued but confident dignity dropped from him and he warmly shook hands with Katherine, for this was their first meeting since their conference in New York six weeks before. "You must know how very, very terrible our situation is," Katherine rapidly began. "We've simply _got_ to do something!" "I certainly haven't done much so far," said Manning, with a rueful smile. "I'm sorry--but you don't know how tedious my rôle's been to me. To act the part of bait, and just lie around before the noses of the fish you're after, and not get a bite in two whole weeks--that's not my idea of exciting fishing." "I know. But the plan looked a good one." "It looked first-class," conceded Manning. "And, perhaps----" "With election only four days off, we've simply got to do something!" Katherine repeated. "If nothing else, let's drop that plan, devise a new one, and stake our hopes on some wild chance." "Wait a minute," said Manning. "I wouldn't drop that plan just yet. I've gone two weeks without a bite, but--I'm not sure--remember I say I'm not sure--but I think that at last I may possibly have a nibble." "A nibble you say?" cried Katherine, leaning eagerly forward. "At least, the cork bobbed under." "When?" "Last night." "Last night? Tell me about it!" "Well, of late I've been making my study of the water-works more and more obvious, and I've half suspected that I've been watched, though I was too uncertain to risk raising any false hopes by sending you word about it. But yesterday afternoon Blind Charlie Peck--he's been growing friendly with me lately--yesterday Blind Charlie invited me to have supper with him. The supper was in his private dining-room; just us two. I suspected that the old man was up to some game, and when I saw the cocktails and whiskey and wine come on, I was pretty sure--for you know, Miss West, when a crafty old politician of the Peck variety wants to steal a little information from a man, his regulation scheme is to get his man so drunk he doesn't know what he's talking about." "I know. Go on!" "I tried to beg off from the drinking. I told Mr. Peck I did not drink. I liked it, I said, but I could not carry it. A glass or two would put me under the table, so the only safe plan for me was to leave it entirely alone. But he pressed me--and I took one. And he pressed me again, and I took another--and another--and another--till I'd had five or----" "But you should never have done it!" cried Katherine in alarm. Manning smiled at her reassuringly. "I'm no drinking man, but I'm so put together that I can swallow a gallon and then sign the pledge with as steady a hand as the president of the W. C. T. U. But after the sixth drink I must have looked just about right to Blind Charlie. He began to put cunning questions at me. Little by little all my secrets leaked out. The farm lands were only a blind. My real business in Westville was the water-works. There was a chance that the city might sell them, and if I could get them I was going to snap them up. In fact, I was going to make an offer to the city in a very few days. I had been examining the system closely; it wasn't really in bad shape at all; it was worth a lot more than the people said; and I was ready, if I had to, to pay its full value to get it--even more. I had plenty of money behind me, for I was representing Mr. Seymour, the big New York capitalist." "Good! Good!" cried Katharine breathlessly. "How did he seem to take it?" "I could see that he was stirred up, and I guessed that he was thinking big thoughts." "But did he say anything?" "Not a word. Except that it was interesting." "Ah!" It was an exclamation of disappointment. Then she instantly added: "But of course he could not say anything until after he had talked it over with Mr. Blake. He'll do that this morning--if he did not do it last night. You may be approached by them to-day." She stood up excitedly, and her brown eyes glowed. "After all, something may come of the plan!" "It's at least an opening," said Manning. "Yes. And let's use it for all it's worth. Don't you think it would be best for you to go right back to your hotel, and keep yourself in sight, so Mr. Peck won't have to lose a second in case he wants to talk to you again?" "That's what I had in mind." "And all day I'll be either in my office, or at home, or at Mrs. Sherman's. And the minute anything develops, send word to Mr. Hollingsworth and he'll send word to me." "I'll not waste a minute," he assured her. All day she waited with suppressed excitement for good news from Manning. But the only news was that there was no news. And so on the second day. And so on the third. Her hopes, that had flared so high, sunk by slow degrees to mere embers among the ashes. It appeared that the nibble, which had seemed but the preliminary to swallowing the bait, was after all no more than a nibble; that the fish had merely nosed the worm and swum away. In the meantime, while eaten up by the suspense of this inaction, she was witness to activity of the most strenuous variety. Never had she seen a man spring up into favour as did Harrison Blake. His campaign meetings were resumed the very night of Bruce's conviction; the city crowded to them; the Blake Marching Club tramped the streets till midnight, with flaming torches, rousing the enthusiasm of the people with their shouts and campaign songs; and wherever Blake appeared upon the platform he was greeted by an uproar, and even when he appeared by daylight, when men's spirits are more sedate, his progress through the streets was a series of miniature ovations. As for Bruce, Katherine saw his power and position crumble so swiftly that she could hardly see them disappear. The structure of a tremendous future had stood one moment imposingly before her eyes. Presto, and it was no more! The sentiment he had roused in favour of public ownership, and against the regime of Blake, was as a thing that had never been. With him in jail, his candidacy was but the ashes that are left by a conflagration--though, to be sure, since the ballots were already printed, it was too late to remove his name. He was a thing to be cursed at, jeered at. He had suddenly become a little lower than nobody, a little less than nothing. And as for his paper, when Katherine looked at it it made her sick at heart. Within a day it lost a third in size. Advertisers no longer dared, perhaps no longer cared, to give it patronage. Its news and editorial character collapsed. This last she could hardly understand, for Billy Harper was in charge, and Bruce had often praised him to her as a marvel of a newspaper man. But one evening, when she was coming home late from Elsie Sherman's and hurrying through the crowd of Main Street, Billy Harper lurched against her. The next day, with a little adroit inquiry, she learned that Harper, freed from Bruce's restraining influence, and depressed by the general situation, was drinking constantly. It required no prophetic vision for Katherine to see that, if things continued as they now were going, on the day Bruce came out of jail he would find the _Express_, which he had lifted to power and a promise of prosperity, had sunk into a disrepute and a decay from which even so great an energy as his could not restore it. Since there was so little she could do elsewhere, Katherine was at the Shermans' several times a day, trying in unobtrusive ways to aid the nurse and Doctor Sherman's sister. Miss Sherman was a spare, silent woman of close upon forty, with rather sharp, determined features. Despite her unloveliness, Katherine respected her deeply, for in other days Elsie had told her sister-in-law's story. Miss Sherman and her brother were orphans. To her had been given certain plain virtues, to him all the graces of mind and body. She was a country school-teacher, and it had been her hard work, her determination, her penny-counting economy, that had saved her talented brother from her early hardships and sent him through college. She had made him what he was; and beneath her stern exterior she loved him with that intense devotion a lonely, ingrowing woman feels for the object on which she has spent her life's thought and effort. Whenever Katherine entered the sick chamber--they had moved Elsie's bed into the sitting-room because of its greater convenience and better air--her heart would stand still as she saw how white and wasted was her friend. At such a time she would recall with a choking keenness all of Elsie's virtues, each virtue increased and purified--her simplicity, her purity, her loyalty. Several times Elsie came back from the brink of the Great Abyss, over which she so faintly hovered, and smiled at Katherine and spoke a few words--but only a few, for Doctor West allowed no more. Each time she asked, with fluttering trepidation, if any word had come from her husband; and each time at Katherine's choking negative she would try to smile bravely and hide her disappointment. On one of the last days of this period--it was the Sunday before election--Doctor West had said that either the end or a turn for the better must be close at hand. Katherine had been sitting long watching Elsie's pale face and faintly rising bosom, when Elsie slowly opened her eyes. Elsie pressed her friend's hand with a barely perceptible pressure and smiled with the faintest shadow of a smile. "You here again, Katherine?" she breathed. "Yes, dear." "Just the same dear Katherine!" "Don't speak, Elsie." She was silent a space. Then the wistful look Katherine had seen so often came into the patient's soft gray eyes, and she knew what Elsie's words were going to be before they passed her lips. "Have you heard anything--from him?" Katherine slowly shook her head. Elsie turned her face away for a moment. A sigh fluttered out. Then she looked back. "But you are still trying to find him?" "We have done, and are doing, everything, dear." "I'm sure," sighed Elsie, "that he would come if he only knew." "Yes--if he only knew." "And you will keep on--trying--to get him word?" "Yes, dear." "Then perhaps--he may come yet." "Perhaps," said Katherine, with hopeful lips. But in her heart there was no hope. Elsie closed her eyes, and did not speak again. Presently Katherine went out into the level, red-gold sunlight of the waning November afternoon. The church bells, resting between their morning duty and that of the night, all were silent; over the city there lay a hush--it was as if the town were gathering strength for its final spasm of campaign activity on the morrow. There was nothing in that Sabbath calm to disturb the emotion of Elsie's bedside, and Katherine walked slowly homeward beneath the barren maples, in that fearful, tremulous, yearning mood in which she had left the bedside of her friend. In this same mood she reached home and entered the empty sitting-room. She was slowly drawing off her gloves when she perceived, upon the centre-table, a special delivery letter addressed to herself. She picked it up in moderate curiosity. The envelope was plain, the address was typewritten, there was nothing to suggest the identity of the sender. In the same moderate curiosity she unfolded the inclosure. Then her curiosity became excitement, for the letter bore the signature of Mr. Seymour. "I have to-day received a letter from Mr. Harrison Blake of Westville," Mr. Seymour wrote her, "of which the following is the text: 'We have just learned that there is in our city a Mr. Hartsell who represents himself to be an agent of yours instructed to purchase the water-works of Westville. Before entering into any negotiations with him the city naturally desires to be assured by you that he is a representative of your firm. As haste is necessary in this matter, we request you to reply at once and by special delivery." "Ah, I understand the delay now!" Katherine exclaimed. "Before making a deal with Mr. Manning, Mr. Blake and Mr. Peck wanted to be sure their man was what he said he was!" "And now, Miss West," Mr. Seymour wrote on, "since you have kept me in the dark as to the details of your plan, and as I have never heard of said Hartsell, I have not known just how to reply to your Mr. Blake. So I have had recourse to the vague brevity of a busy man, and have sent the following by the same mail that brings this to you: 'Replying to your inquiry of the 3rd inst. I beg to inform you that I have a representative in Westville fully authorized to act for me in the matter of the water-works.' I hope this reply is all right. Also there is a second hope, which is strong even if I try to keep it subdued; and that is that you will have to buy the water-works in for me." From that instant Katherine's mind was all upon her scheme. She was certain that Mr. Seymour's reply was already in the hands of Blake and Peck, and that they were even then planning, or perhaps had already planned, what action they should take. At once she called Old Hosie up by telephone. "I think it looks as though the 'nibble' were going to develop into a bite, and quick," she said rapidly. "Get into communication with Mr. Manning and tell him to make no final arrangement with those parties till he sees me. I want to know what they offer." It was an hour later, and the early night had already fallen, when there was a ring at the West door, and Old Hosie entered, alone. Katharine quickly led the old lawyer into the parlour. "Well?" she whispered. "Manning has just accepted an invitation for an automobile ride this evening from Charlie Peck." Katherine suddenly gripped his hand. "That may be a bite!" The old man nodded with suppressed excitement. "They were to set out at six. It's five minutes to six now." Without a word Katherine crossed swiftly and opened the door an inch, and stood tensely waiting beside it. Presently, through the calm of the Sabbath evening, there started up very near the sudden buzzing of a cranked-up car. Then swiftly the buzzing faded away into the distance. Katherine turned. "It's Mr. Blake's car. They'll all be at The Sycamores in half an hour. It's a bite, certain! Get hold of Mr. Manning as soon as he comes back, and bring him here. The house will be darkened, but the front door will be unlocked. Come right in. Come as late as you please. You'll find me waiting here in the parlour." The hours that followed were trying ones for Katherine. She sat about with her aunt till toward ten o'clock. Then her father returned from his last call, and soon thereafter they all went to their rooms. Katherine remained upstairs till she thought her father and aunt were settled, then slipped down to the parlour, set the front door ajar, and sat waiting in the darkness. She heard the Court House clock with judicial slowness count off eleven o'clock--then after a long, long space, count off twelve. A few minutes later she heard Blake's car return, and after a time she heard the city clock strike one. It was close upon two when soft steps sounded upon the porch and the front door opened. She silently shook hands with her two vague visitors. "We didn't think it safe to come any sooner," explained Old Hosie in a whisper. "You've been with them out at The Sycamores?" Katherine eagerly inquired of Manning. "Yes. For a four hours' session." "Well?" "Well, so far it looks O. K." In a low voice he detailed to Katherine how they had at first fenced with one another; how at length he had told them that he had a formal proposal to the city to buy the water-works all drawn up and that on the morrow he was going to present it--and that, furthermore, he would, if necessary, increase the sum he offered in that proposal to the full value of the plant. Blake and Peck, after a slow approach to the subject, in which they admitted that they also planned to buy the system, had suggested that, inasmuch as he was only an agent and there would be no profit in the purchase to him personally, he abandon his purpose. If he would do this they would make it richly worth his while. He had replied that this was such a different plan from that which he had been considering that he must have time to think it over and would give them his answer to-morrow. On which understanding the three had parted. "I suppose it would hardly be practicable," said Katherine when he had finished, "to have a number of witnesses concealed at your place of meeting and overhear your conversation?" "No, it would be mighty difficult to pull that off." "And what's more," she commented, "Mr. Blake would deny whatever they said, and with his present popularity his words would carry more weight than that of any half dozen witnesses we might get. At the best, our charges would drag on for months, perhaps years, in the courts, with in the end the majority of the people believing in him. With the election so near, we must have instantaneous results. We must use a means of exposing him that will instantly convince all the people." "That's the way I see it," agreed Manning. "When did they offer to pay you, in case you agreed to sell out to them?" "On the day they got control of the water-works. Naturally they didn't want to pay me before, for fear I might break faith with them and buy in the system for Mr. Seymour." "Can't you make them put their proposition in the form of an agreement, to be signed by all three of you?" asked Katherine. "But mebbe they won't consent to that," put in Old Hosie. "Mr. Manning will know how to bring them around. He can say, for example, that, unless he has such a written agreement, they will be in a position to drop him when once they've got what they want. He can say that unless they consent to sign some such agreement he will go on with his original plan. I think they'll sign." "And if they do?" queried Old Hosie. "If they do," said Katherine, "we'll have documentary evidence to show Westville that those two great political enemies, Mr. Blake and Mr. Peck, are secretly business associates--their business being a conspiracy to wreck the water-works and defraud the city. I think such a document would interest Westville." "I should say it would!" exclaimed Old Hosie. They whispered on, excitedly, hopefully; and when the two men had departed and Katherine had gone up to her room to try to snatch a few hours' sleep, she continued to dwell eagerly upon the plan that seemed so near of consummation. She tossed about her bed, and heard the Court House clock sound three, and then four. Then the heat of her excitement began to pass away, and cold doubts began to creep into her mind. Perhaps Blake and Peck would refuse to sign. And even if they did sign, she began to see this prospective success as a thing of lesser magnitude. The agreement would prove the alliance between Blake and Peck, and would make clear that a conspiracy existed. It was good, but it was not enough. It fell short by more than half. It would not clear her father, though his innocence might be inferred, and it would not prove Blake's responsibility for the epidemic. As she lay there staring wide-eyed into the gloom of the night, listening to the town clock count off the hours of her last day, she realized that what she needed most of all, far more than Manning's document even should he get it, was the testimony which she believed was sealed behind the lips of Doctor Sherman, whose present whereabouts God only knew. CHAPTER XXIII AT ELSIE'S BEDSIDE The day before election, a day of hope deferred, had dragged slowly by and night had at length settled upon the city. Doctor West had the minute before come in from a long, dinnerless day of hastening from case to case, and now he, Katherine, and her aunt were sitting about the supper table. To Katherine's eye her father looked very weary and white and frail. The day-and-night struggle at scores of bedsides was sorely wearing him down. As for Katherine, she was hardly less worn. She scarcely touched the food before her. The fears that always assail one at a crisis, now swarmed in upon her. With the election but a few hours distant, with no word as yet from Mr. Manning, she saw all her high plans coming to naught and saw herself overwhelmed with utter defeat. From without there dimly sounded the beginning of the ferment of the campaign's final evening; it brought to her more keenly that to-morrow the city was going to give itself over unanimously to be despoiled. Across the table, her father, pale and worried, was a reminder that, when his fight of the plague was completed, he must return to jail. Her mind flashed now and then to Bruce; she saw him in prison; she saw not only his certain defeat on the morrow, but she saw him crushed and ruined for life as far as a career in Westville was concerned; and though she bravely tried to master her feeling, the throbbing anguish with which she looked upon his fate was affirmation of how poignant and deep-rooted was her love. And yet, despite these flooding fears, she clung with a dizzy desperation to hope, and to the determination to fight on to the last second of the last minute. While swinging thus between despair and desperate hope, she was maintaining, at first somewhat mechanically to be sure, a conversation with her father, whom she had not seen since their early breakfast together. "How does the fever situation seem to-night?" she asked. "Much better," said Doctor West. "There were fewer new cases reported to-day than any day for a week." "Then you are getting the epidemic under control?" "I think we can at last say we have it thoroughly in hand. The number of new cases is daily decreasing, and the old cases are doing well. I don't know of an epidemic of this size on record where the mortality has been so small." She came out of her preoccupation and breathlessly demanded: "Tell me, how is Elsie Sherman? I could not get around to see her to-day." He dropped his eyes to his plate and did not answer. "You mean she is no better?" "She is very low." "But she still has a chance?" "Yes, she has a chance. But that's about all. The fever is at its climax. I think to-night will decide which it's to be." "You are going to her again to-night?" "Right after supper." "Then I'll go with you," said Katherine. "Poor Elsie! Poor Elsie!" she murmured to herself. Then she asked, "Have they had any word from Doctor Sherman?" "I asked his sister this afternoon. She said they had not." They fell silent for a moment or two. Doctor West nibbled at his ham with a troubled air. "There is one feature of the case I cannot approve of," he at length remarked "Of course the Shermans are poor, but I do not think Miss Sherman should have impaired Elsie's chances, such as they are, from motives of economy." "Impaired Elsie's chances?" queried Katherine. "And certainly she should not have done so without consulting me," continued Doctor West. "Done what?" "Oh, I forgot I had not had a chance to tell you. When I made my first call this morning I learned that Miss Sherman had discharged the nurse." "Discharged the nurse?" "Yes. During the night." "But what for?" "Miss Sherman said they could not afford to keep her." "But with Elsie so dangerously sick, this is no time to economize!" "Exactly what I told her. And I said there were plenty of friends who would have been happy to supply the necessary money." "And what did she say?" "Very little. She's a silent, determined woman, you know. She said that even at such a time they could not accept charity." "But did you not insist upon her getting another nurse?" "Yes. But she refused to have one." "Then who is looking after Elsie?" "Miss Sherman." "Alone?" "Yes, alone. She has even discharged old Mrs. Murphy, who came in for a few hours a day to clean up." "It seems almost incomprehensible!" ejaculated Katherine. "Think of running such a risk for the sake of a few dollars!" "After all, Miss Sherman isn't such a bad nurse," Doctor West's sense of justice prompted him to admit. "In fact, she is really doing very well." "All the same, it seems incomprehensible!" persisted Katherine. "For economy's sake----" She broke off and was silent a moment. Then suddenly she leaned across the table. "You are sure she gave no other reason?" "None." "And you believe her?" "Why, you don't think she would lie to me, do you?" exclaimed Doctor West. "I don't say that," Katherine returned rapidly. "But she's shrewd and close-mouthed. She might not have told you the whole truth." "But what could have been her real reason then?" "Something besides the reason she gave. That's plain." "But what is it? Why, Katherine," her father burst out, half rising from his chair, "what's the matter with you?" Her eyes were glowing with excitement. "Wait! Wait!" she said quickly, lifting a hand. She gazed down upon the table, her brow puckered with intense thought. Her father and her aunt stared at her in gathering amazement, and waited breathlessly till she should speak. After a minute she glanced up at her father. The strange look in her face had grown more strange. "You saw no one else there besides Miss Sherman?" she asked quickly. "No." "Nor signs of any one?" "No," repeated the bewildered old man. "What are you thinking of, Katherine?" "I don't dare say it--I hardly dare think it!" She pushed back her chair and arose. She was quivering all over, but she strove to command her agitation. "As soon as you're through supper, father, I'll be ready to go to Elsie." "I'm through now." "Come on, then. Let's not lose a minute!" They hurried out and entered the carriage which, at the city's charge, stood always waiting Doctor West's requirements. "To Mrs. Sherman's--quick!" Katherine ordered the driver, and the horse clattered away through the crisp November night. Already people were streaming toward the centre of the town to share in the excitement of the campaign's closing night. As the carriage passed the Square, Katherine saw, built against the Court House and brilliantly festooned with vari-coloured electric bulbs, the speakers' stand from which Blake and others of his party were later to address the final mass-meeting of the campaign. The carriage turned past the jail into Wabash Avenue, and a minute afterward drew up beside the Sherman cottage. Pulsing with the double suspense of her conjecture and of her concern for Elsie's life, Katherine followed her father into the sick chamber. As they entered the hushed room the spare figure of Miss Sherman rose from a rocker beside the bed, greeted them with a silent nod, and drew back to give place to Doctor West. Katherine moved slowly to the foot of the bed and gazed down. For a space, one cause of her suspense was swept out of her being, and all her concern was for the flickering life before her. Elsie lay with eyes closed, and breathing so faintly that she seemed scarcely to breathe at all. So pale, so wasted, so almost wraithlike was she as to suggest that when her spirit fled, if flee it must, nothing could be left remaining between the sheets. As she gazed down upon her friend, hovering uncertainly upon life's threshold, a tingling chill pervaded Katherine's body. Since her mother's loss in unremembering childhood, Death had been kind to her; no one so dear had been thus carried up to the very brink of the grave. All that had been sweet and strong in her friendship with Elsie now flooded in upon her in a mighty wave of undefined emotion. She was immediately conscious only of the wasted figure before her, and its peril, but back of consciousness were unformed memories of their girlhood together, of the inseparable intimacy of their young womanhood, and of that shy and tender time when she had been the confidante of Elsie's courtship. There was a choking at her throat, tears slipped down her cheeks, and there surged up a wild, wild wish, a rebellious demand, that Elsie might come safely through her danger. But, presently, her mind reverted to the special purpose that had brought her hither. She studied the face of Miss Sherman, seeking confirmation of the conjecture that had so aroused her--studying also for some method of approaching Miss Sherman, of breaking down her guard, and gaining the information she desired. But she learned nothing from the expression of those spare, self-contained features; and she realized that the lips of the Sphinx would be easier to unlock than those of this loyal sister of a fugitive brother. That her conjecture was correct, she became every instant more convinced. She sensed it in the stilled atmosphere of the house; she sensed it in the glances of cold and watchful hostility Miss Sherman now and then stole at her. She was wondering what should be her next step, when Doctor West, who had felt Elsie's pulse and examined the temperature chart, drew Miss Sherman back to near where Katherine stood. "Still nothing from Doctor Sherman?" he whispered in grave anxiety. "Nothing," said Miss Sherman, looking straight into her questioner's eyes. "Too bad, too bad!" sighed Doctor West. "He ought to be home!" Miss Sherman let the first trace of feeling escape from her compressed being. "But still there is a chance?" she asked quickly. "A fighting chance. I think we shall know which it's to be within an hour." At these words Katherine heard from behind her ever so faint a sound, a sound that sent a thrill through all her nerves. A sound like a stifled groan. For a minute or more she did not move. But when Doctor West and Miss Sherman had gone back to their places and Doctor West had begun the final fight for Elsie's life, she slowly turned about. Before her was a door. Her heart gave a leap. When she had entered she had searched the room with a quick glance, and that door had then been closed. It now stood slightly ajar. Some one within must have noiselessly opened it to hear Doctor West's decree upon the patient. Swiftly and silently Katherine slipped through the door and locked it behind her. For a moment she stood in the darkness, striving to master her throbbing excitement. At length she spoke. "Will you please turn on the light, Doctor Sherman," she said. There was no answer; only a black and breathless silence. "Please turn on the light, Doctor Sherman," Katherine repeated. "I cannot, for I do not know where the electric button is." Again there was silence. Then Katherine heard something like a gasp. There was a click, and then the room, Doctor Sherman's study, burst suddenly into light. Behind the desk, one hand still upon the electric key, stood Doctor Sherman. He was very thin and very white, and was worn, wild-eyed and dishevelled. He was breathing heavily and he stared at Katherine with the defiance of a desperate creature brought at last to bay. "What do you want?" he demanded huskily. "A little talk with you," replied Katherine, trying to speak calmly. "You must excuse me. With Elsie so sick, I cannot talk." She stood very straight before him. Her eyes never left his face. "We must talk just the same," she returned. "When did you come home?" "Last night." "Why did you not let your friends know of your return? All day, in fact for several days, they have been sending telegrams to every place where they could conceive your being." He did not answer. "It looks very much as if you were trying to hide." Again he did not reply. "It looks very much," she steadily pursued, "as if your sister discharged the nurse and the servant in order that you might hide here in your own home without risk of discovery." Still he did not answer. "You need not reply to that question, for the reply is obvious. I guessed the meaning of the nurse's discharge as soon as I heard of it. I guessed that you were secretly hovering over Elsie, while all Westville thought you were hundreds of miles away. But tell me, how did you learn that Elsie was sick?" He hesitated, then swallowed. "I saw a notice of it in a little country paper." "Ah, I thought so." She moved forward and leaned across the desk. Their eyes were no more than a yard apart. "Tell me," she said quietly, "why did you slip into town by night? Why are you hiding in your own home?" A tremor ran through his slender frame. With an effort he tried to take the upperhand. "You must excuse me," he said, with an attempt at sharp dignity. "I refuse to be cross-examined." "Then I will answer for you. The reason, Doctor Sherman, is that you have a guilty conscience." "That is not----" "Do not lie," she interrupted quickly. "You realize what you have done, you are afraid it may become public, you are afraid of the consequences to yourself--and that is why you slipped back in the dead of night and lie hidden like a fugitive in your own house." A spasm of agony crossed his face. "For God's sake, tell me what you want and leave me!" "I want you to clear my father." "Clear your father?" he cried. "And how, if you please?" "By confessing that he is innocent." "When he is guilty!" "You know he is not." "He's guilty--he's guilty, I tell you! Besides," he added, wildly, "don't you see that if I proclaim him innocent I proclaim myself a perjured witness?" She leaned a little farther across the desk. "Is not that exactly what you are, Doctor Sherman?" He shrank back as though struck. One hand went tremulously to his chin and he stared at her. "No! No!" he burst out spasmodically. "It's not so! I shall not admit it! Would you have me ruin myself for all time? Would you have me ruin Elsie's future! Would you have me kill her love for me?" "Then you will not confess?" "I tell you there is nothing to confess!" She gazed at him steadily a moment. Then she turned back to the door, softly unlocked and opened it. He started to rush through, but she raised a hand and stopped him. "Just look," she commanded in a whisper. He stared through the open door. They could see Elsie's white face upon the pillow, with the two dark braids beside it; and could see Doctor West hovering over her. He had not heard them, but Miss Sherman had, and she directed at Katherine a pale and hostile glance. The young husband twisted his hands in agony. "Oh, Elsie! Elsie!" he moaned. Katherine closed the door, and turned again to Doctor Sherman. "You have seen your work," she said. "Do you still persist in your innocence?" He drew a deep, shivering breath and shrank away behind his desk, but did not answer. Katherine followed him. "Do you know how sick your wife is?" "I heard your father say." "She is swinging over eternity by a mere thread." Katherine leaned across the desk and her eyes gazed with an even greater fixity into his. "If the thread snaps, do you know who will have broken it?" "Don't! Don't!" he begged. "Her own husband," Katherine went on relentlessly. A cry of agony escaped him. "You saw that old man in there bending over her," she pursued, "trying with all his skill, with all his love, to save her--to save her from the peril you have plunged her into--and with never a bitter feeling against you in his heart. If she lives, it will be because of him. And yet that old man is ruined and has a blackened reputation. I ask you, do you know who ruined him?" "Don't! Don't!" he cried, and he sank a crumpled figure at his desk, and buried his face in his arms. "Look up!" cried Katherine sternly. "Wait!" he moaned. "Wait!" She passed around the desk and firmly raised his shoulders. "Look me in the eyes!" He lifted a face that worked convulsively. She stood accusingly before him. "Out with the truth!" she commanded in a rising voice. "In the presence of your wife, perhaps dying, and dying as the result of your act--in the presence of that old man, whom you have ruined with your word--do you still dare to maintain your innocence? Out with the truth, I say!" He sprang to his feet. "I can stand it no longer!" he gasped in an agony that went to Katherine's heart. "It's killing me! It's been tearing me apart for months! What I have suffered--oh, what I have suffered! I'll tell you all--all! Oh, let me get it off my soul!" The desperation of his outburst, the sight of his fine face convulsed with uttermost agony and repentance, worked a sudden revulsion in Katherine's heart. All her bitterness, her momentary sternness, rushed out of her, and there she was, quivering all over, hot tears in her eyes, gripping the hands of Elsie's husband. "I'm so glad--not only for father's sake--but for your sake," she cried chokingly. "Let me tell you at once! Let me get it out of myself!" "First sit down," and she gently pressed him back into his chair and drew one up to face him. "And wait for a moment or two, till you feel a little calmer." He bowed his head into his hands, and for a space breathed deeply and tremulously. Katherine stood waiting. Through the night sounded the brassy strains of "My Country 'Tis of Thee." Back at the Court House Blake's party was opening its great mass-meeting. "I'm a coward--a coward!" Doctor Sherman groaned at length into his hands. And in a voice of utmost contrition he went on and told how, to gain money for the proper care of Elsie, he had been drawn into gambling in stocks; how he had made use of church funds to save himself in a falling market, and how this church money had, like his own, been swallowed down by Wall Street; how Blake had discovered the embezzlement, for the time had saved him, but later by threat of exposure had driven him to play the part he had against Doctor West. "You must make this statement public, instantly!" Katherine exclaimed when he had finished. He shrank back before that supreme humiliation. "Let me do it later--please, please!" he besought her. "A day's delay will be----" She caught his arm. "Listen!" she commanded. Both held their breath. Through the night came the stirring music of "The Star Spangled Banner." "What is that?" he asked. "The great rally of Mr. Blake's party at the Court House." Her next words drove in. "To-morrow Mr. Blake is going to capture the city, and be in position to rob it. And all because of your act, Doctor Sherman!" "You are right, you are right!" he breathed. She held out a pen to him. "You must write your statement at once." "Yes, yes," he cried, "only let it be short now. I'll make it in full later." "You need write only a summary." He seized the pen and dipped it into the ink and for a moment held it shaking over a sheet of paper. "I cannot shape it--the words won't come." "Shall I dictate it then?" "Do! Please do!" "You are willing to confess everything?" "Everything!" Katherine stood thinking for a moment at his side. "Ready, then. Write, 'I embezzled funds from my church; Mr. Blake found me out, and replaced what I had taken, with no one being the wiser. Later, by the threat of exposing me if I refused, he compelled me to accuse Doctor West of accepting a bribe and still later he compelled me to testify in court against Doctor West. Mr. Blake's purpose in so doing was to remove Doctor West from his position, ruin the water-works, and buy them in at a bargain. I hereby confess and declare, of my own free will, that I have been guilty of lying and of perjury.' Do you want to say that?" "Yes! Yes!" "'And I further confess and declare that Dr. David West is innocent in every detail of the charges made against him. Signed, Harold Sherman.'" He dropped his pen and sprang up. "And now may I go in to Elsie?" "You may." He hurried noiselessly across the room and through the door. Katherine, picking up the precious paper she had worked so many months to gain, followed him. Miss Sherman saw them come in, but remained silent. Doctor West was bending over Elsie and did not hear their entrance. Doctor Sherman tiptoed to the bedside, and stood gazing down, his breath held, hardly less pale than the soft-sleeping Elsie herself. Presently Doctor West straightened up and perceived the young minister. He started, then held out his hand. "Why, Doctor Sherman!" he whispered eagerly. "I'm so glad you've come at last!" The younger man drew back. "You won't be willing to shake hands with me--when you know." Then he took a quick half step forward. "But tell me," he breathed, "is there--is there any hope?" "I dare not speak definitely yet--but I think she is going to live." "Thank God!" cried the young man. Suddenly he collapsed upon the floor and embraced Doctor West about the knees, and knelt there sobbing out broken bits of sentences. "Why--why," stammered Doctor West in amazement, "what does this mean?" Katherine moved forward. Her voice quavered, partly from joy, partly from pity for the anguished figure upon the floor. "It means you are cleared, father! This will explain." And she gave him Doctor Sherman's confession. The old man read it, then passed a bewildered hand across his face. "I--I don't understand this!" "I'll explain it later," said Katherine. "Is--is this true?" It was to the young minister that Doctor West spoke. "Yes. And more. I can't ask you to forgive me!" sobbed Doctor Sherman. "It's beyond forgiveness! But I want to thank you for saving Elsie. At least you'll let me thank you for that!" "What I have done here has been only my duty as a physician," said Doctor West gently. "As for the other matter"--he looked the paper through, still with bewilderment--"as for that, I'm afraid I am not the chief sufferer," he said slowly, gently. "I have been under a cloud, it is true, and I won't deny that it has hurt. But I am an old man, and it doesn't matter much. You are young, just beginning life. Of us two you are the one most to be pitied." "Don't pity me--please!" cried the minister. "I don't deserve it!" "I'm sorry--so sorry!" Doctor West shook his head. Apparently he had forgotten the significance of this confession to himself. "I have always loved Elsie, and I have always admired you and been proud of you. So if my forgiveness means anything to you, why I forgive you with all my heart!" A choking sound came from the bowed figure, but no words. His embracing arms fell away from Doctor West. He knelt there limply, his head bowed upon his bosom. There was a moment of breathless silence. In the background Miss Sherman stood looking on, white, tense, dry-eyed. Doctor Sherman turned slowly, fearfully, toward the bed. "But, Elsie," he whispered in a dry, lost voice. "It's all bad--but that's the worst of all. When she knows, she never can forgive me!" Katherine laid a hand upon his shoulder. "If you think that, then you don't know Elsie. She will be pained, but she loves you with all her soul; she would forgive you anything so long as you loved her, and she would follow you through every misery to the ends of the world." "Do you think so?" he breathed; and then he crept to the bed and buried his face upon it. Katherine looked down upon him for a moment. Then her own concerns began flooding back upon her. She realized that she had not yet won the fight. She had only gained a weapon. "I must go now," she whispered to her father, taking the paper from his hand. Throbbing with returned excitement, she hurried out to the dimly comprehended, desperate effort that lay before her. CHAPTER XXIV BILLY HARPER WRITES A STORY As Katherine crossed the porch and went down the steps she saw, entering the yard, a tall, square-hatted apparition. "Is that you, Miss Katherine?" it called softly to her. "Yes, Mr. Hollingsworth." "I was looking for you." He turned and they walked out of the yard together. "I went to your house, and your aunt told me you were here. I've got it!" he added excitedly. "Got what?" "The agreement!" She stopped short and seized his arm. "You mean between Blake, Peck, and Manning?" "Yes. I've got it!" "Signed?" "All signed!" And he slapped the breast pocket of his old frock-coat. "Let me see it! Please!" He handed it to her, and by the light of a street lamp she glanced it through. "Oh, it's too good to believe!" she murmured exultantly. "Oh, oh!" She thrust it into her bosom, where it lay beside Doctor Sherman's confession. "Come, we must hurry!" she cried. And with her arm through his they set off in the direction of the Square. "When did Mr. Manning get this?" she asked, after a moment. "I saw him about an hour ago. He had then just got it." "It's splendid! Splendid!" she ejaculated. "But I have something, too!" "Yes?" queried the old man. "Something even better." And as they hurried on she told him of Doctor Sherman's confession. Old Hosie burst into excited congratulations, but she quickly checked him. "We've no time now to rejoice," she said. "We must think how we are going to use these statements--how we are going to get this information before the people, get it before them at once, and get it before them so they must believe it." They walked on in silent thought. From the moment they had left the Shermans' gate the two had heard a tremendous cheering from the direction of the Square, and had seen a steady, up-reaching glow, at intervals brilliantly bespangled by rockets and roman candles. Now, as they came into Main Street, they saw that the Court House yard was jammed with an uproarious multitude. Within the speakers' stand was throned the Westville Brass Band; enclosing the stand in an imposing semicircle was massed the Blake Marching Club, in uniforms, their flaring torches adding to the illumination of the festoons of incandescent bulbs; and spreading fanwise from this uniformed nucleus it seemed that all of Westville was assembled--at least all of Westville that did not watch at fevered bedsides. At the moment that Katherine and Old Hosie, walking along the southern side of Main Street, came opposite the stand, the first speaker concluded his peroration and resumed his seat. There was an outburst of "Blake! Blake! Blake!" from the enthusiastic thousands; but the Westville Brass Band broke in with the chorus of "Marching Through Georgia." The stirring thunder of the band had hardly died away, when the thousands of voices again rose in cries of "Blake! Blake! Blake!" The chairman with difficulty quieted the crowd, and urged them to have patience, as all the candidates were going to speak, and Blake was not to speak till toward the last. Kennedy was the next orator, and he told the multitude, with much flinging heavenward of loose-jointed arms, what an unparalleled administration the officers to be elected on the morrow would give the city, and how first and foremost it would be their purpose to settle the problem of the water-works in such a manner as to free the city forever from the dangers of another epidemic such as they were now experiencing. As supreme climax to his speech, he lauded the ability, character and public spirit of Blake till superlatives could mount no higher. When he sat down the crowd went well-nigh mad. But amid the cheering for the city's favourite, some one shouted the name of Doctor West and with it coupled a vile epithet. At once Doctor West's name swept through the crowd, hissed, jeered, cursed. This outbreak made clear one ominous fact. The enthusiasm of the multitude was not just ordinary, election-time enthusiasm. Beneath it was smouldering a desire of revenge for the ills they had suffered and were suffering--a desire which at a moment might flame up into the uncontrollable fury of a mob. Katherine clutched Old Hosie's arm. "Did you hear those cries against my father?" "Yes." "Well, I know now what I shall do!" He saw that her eyes were afire with decision. "What?" "I am going across there, watch my chance, slip out upon the speakers' stand, and expose and denounce Mr. Blake before Mr. Blake's own audience!" The audacity of the plan for a moment caught Old Hosie's breath. Then its dramatic quality fired his imagination. "Gorgeous!" he exclaimed. "Come on!" she cried. She started across the street, with Old Hosie at her heels. But before she reached the opposite curb she paused, and turned slowly back. "What's the matter?" asked Old Hosie. "It won't do. The people on the stand would pull me down before I got started speaking. And even if I spoke, the people would not believe me. I have got to put this evidence"--she pressed the documents within her bosom--"before their very eyes. No, we have got to think of some other way." By this time they were back in the seclusion of the doorway of the _Express_ Building, where they had previously been standing. For several moments the hoarse, vehement oratory of a tired throat rasped upon their heedless ears. Once or twice Old Hosie stole a glance at Katherine's tensely thoughtful face, then returned to his own meditation. Presently she touched him on the arm. He looked up. "I have it this time!" she said, with the quiet of suppressed excitement. "Yes?" "We're going to get out an extra!" "An extra?" he exclaimed blankly. "Yes. Of the _Express_!" "An extra of the _Express_?" "Yes. Get it out before this crowd scatters, and in it reproductions of these documents!" He stared at her. "Son of Methuselah!" Then he whistled. Then his look became a bit strange, and there was a strange quality to his voice when he said: "So you are going to give Arnold Bruce's paper the credit of the exposure?" His tone told her the meaning that lay behind his words. He had known of the engagement, and he knew that it was now broken. She flushed. "It's the best way," she said shortly. "But you can't do it alone!" "Of course not." Her voice began to gather energy. "We've got to get the _Express_ people here at once--and especially Mr. Harper. Everything depends on Mr. Harper. He'll have to get the paper out." "Yes! Yes!" said Old Hosie, catching her excitement. "You look for him here in this crowd--and, also, if you can see to it, send some one to get the foreman and his people. I'll look for Mr. Harper at his hotel. We'll meet here at the office." With that they hurried away on their respective errands. Arrived at the National House, where Billy Harper lived, Katherine walked into the great bare office and straight up to the clerk, whom the mass-meeting had left as the room's sole occupant. "Is Mr. Harper in?" she asked quickly. The clerk, one of the most prodigious of local beaux, was startled by this sudden apparition. "I--I believe he is." "Please tell him at once that I wish to see him." He fumbled the white wall of his lofty collar with an embarrassed hand. "Excuse me, Miss West, but the fact is, I'm afraid he can't see you." "Give him my name and tell him I simply _must_ see him." The clerk's embarrassment waxed greater. "I--I guess I should have said it the other way around," he stammered. "I'm afraid you won't want to see him." "Why not?" "The fact is--he's pretty much cut up, you know--and he's been so worried that--that--well, the plain fact is," he blurted out, "Mr. Harper has been drinking." "To-night?" "Yes." "Much?" "Well--I'm afraid quite a little." "But he's here?" "He's in the bar-room." Katherine's heart had been steadily sinking. "I must see him anyhow!" she said desperately. "Please call him out!" The clerk hesitated, in even deeper embarrassment. This affair was quite without precedent in his career. "You must call him out--this second! Didn't you hear me?" "Certainly, certainly." He came hastily from behind his desk and disappeared through a pair of swinging wicker doors. After a moment he reappeared, alone, and his manner showed a degree of embarrassment even more acute. Katherine crossed eagerly to meet him. "You found Mr. Harper?" "Yes." "Well?" "I couldn't make him understand. And even if I could, he's--he's--well," he added with a painful effort, "he's in no condition for you to talk to, Miss West." Katherine gazed whitely at the clerk for a moment. Then without a word she stepped by him and passed through the wicker door. With a glance she took in the garishly lighted room--its rows of bottles, its glittering mirrors, its white-aproned bartender, its pair of topers whose loyalty to the bar was stronger than the lure of oratory and music at the Square. And there at a table, his head upon his arms, sat the loosely hunched body of him who was the foundation of all her present hopes. She moved swiftly across the sawdusted floor and shook the acting editor by the shoulder. "Mr. Harper!" she called into his ear. She shook him again, and again she called his name. "Le' me 'lone," he grunted thickly. "Wanter sleep." She was conscious that the two topers had paused in mid-drink and were looking her way with a grinning, alcoholic curiosity. She shook the editor with all her strength. "Mr. Harper!" she called fiercely. "G'way!" he mumbled. "'M busy. Wanter sleep." Katherine gazed down at the insensate mass in utter hopelessness. Without him she could do nothing, and the precious minutes were flying. Through the night came a rumble of applause and fast upon it the music of another patriotic air. In desperation she turned to the bartender. "Can't you help me rouse him?" she cried. "I've simply _got_ to speak to him!" That gentleman had often been appealed to by frantic women as against customers who had bought too liberally. But Katherine was a new variety in his experience. There was a great deal too much of him about the waist and also beneath the chin, but there was good-nature in his eyes, and he came from behind his counter and bore himself toward Katherine with a clumsy and ornate courtesy. "Don't see how you can, Miss. He's been hittin' an awful pace lately. You see for yourself how far gone he is." "But I must speak to him--I must! Surely there is some extreme measure that would bring him to his senses!" "But, excuse me; you see, Miss, Mr. Harper is a reg'lar guest of the hotel, and I wouldn't dare go to extremes. If I was to make him mad----" "I'll take all the blame!" she cried. "And afterward he'll thank you for it!" The bartender scratched his thin hair. "Of course, I want to help you, Miss, and since you put it that way, all right. You say I can go the limit?" "Yes! Yes!" The bartender retired behind his bar and returned with a pail of water. He removed the young editor's hat. "Stand back, Miss; it's ice cold," he said; and with a swing of his pudgy arms he sent the water about Harper's head, neck, and upper body. The young fellow staggered up with a gasping cry. His blinking eyes saw the bartender, with the empty pail. He reached for the tumbler before him. "Damn you, Murphy!" he growled. "I'll pay you----" But Katherine stepped quickly forward and touched his dripping sleeve. "Mr. Harper!" she said. He slowly turned his head. Then the hand with the upraised tumbler sank to the table, and he stared at her. "Mr. Harper," she said sharply, slowly, trying to drive her words into his dulled brain, "I've got to speak to you! At once!" He continued to blink at her stupidly. At length his lips opened. "Miss West," he said thickly. She shook him fiercely. "Pull yourself together! I've got to speak to you!" At this moment Mr. Murphy, who had gone once more behind his bar, reappeared bearing a glass. This he held out to Harper. "Here, Billy, put this down. It'll help straighten you up." Harper took the glass in a trembling hand and swallowed its contents. "And now, Miss," said the bartender, putting Harper's dry hat on him, "the thing to do is to get him out in the cold air, and walk him round a bit. I'd do it for you myself," he added gallantly, "but everybody's down at the Square and there ain't no one here to relieve me." "Thank you very much, Mr. Murphy." "It's nothing at all, Miss," said he with a grandiloquent gesture of a hairy, bediamonded hand. "Glad to do it." She slipped her arm through the young editor's. "And now, Mr. Harper, we must go." Billy Harper vaguely understood the situation and there was a trace of awakening shame in his husky voice. "Are you sure--you want to be seen with me--like this?" "I must, whether I want to or not," she said briefly; and she led him through the side door out into the frosty night. The period that succeeded will ever remain in Katherine's mind as matchless in her life for agonized suspense. She was ever crying out frantically to herself, why did this man she led have to be in such a condition at this the time when he was needed most? While she rapidly walked her drenched and shivering charge through the deserted back streets, the enthusiasm of Court House Square reverberated maddeningly in her ears. She realized how rapidly time was flying--and yet, aflame with desire for action as she was, all she could do was to lead this brilliant, stupefied creature to and fro, to and fro. She wondered if she would be able to bring him to his senses in time to be of service. To her impatience, which made an hour of every moment, it seemed she never would. But her hope was all on him, and so doggedly she kept him going. Presently he began to lurch against her less heavily and less frequently; and soon, his head hanging low in humiliation, he started shiveringly to mumble out an abject apology. She cut him short. "We've no time for apologies. There's work to be done. Is your head clear enough to understand?" "I think so," he said humbly, albeit somewhat thickly. "Listen then! And listen hard!" Briefly and clearly she outlined to him her discoveries and told him of the documents she had just secured. She did not realize it, but this recital of hers was, for the purpose of sobering him, better far than a douche of ice-water, better far than walking in the tingling air. She was appealing to, stimulating, the most sensitive organ of the born newspaper man, his sense of news. Before she was through he had come to a pause beneath a sputtering arc light, and was interrupting her with short questions, his eyes ablaze with excitement. "God!" he ejaculated when she had finished, "that would make the greatest newspaper story that ever broke loose in this town!" She trembled with an excitement equal to his own. "And I want you to make it into the greatest newspaper story that ever broke loose in this town!" "But to-morrow the voting----" "There's no to-morrow about it! We've got to act to-night. You must get out an extra of the _Express_." "An extra of the _Express_!" "Yes. And it must be on the streets before that mass-meeting breaks up." "Oh, my God, my God!" Billy whispered in awe to himself, forgetting how cold he was as his mind took in the plan. Then he started away almost on a run. "We'll do it! But first, we've got to get the press-room gang." "I've seen to that. I think we'll find them waiting at the office." "You don't say!" ejaculated Billy. "Miss West, to-morrow, when there's more time, I'm going to apologize to you, and everybody, for----" "If you get out this extra, you won't need to apologize to anybody." "But to-night, if you'll let me," continued Billy, "I want you to let me say that you're a wonder!" Katherine let this praise go by unheeded, and as they hurried toward the Square she gave him details she had omitted in her outline. When they reached the _Express_ office they found Old Hosie, who told them that the foreman and the mechanical staff were in the press-room. A shout from Billy down the stairway brought the foreman running up. "Do you know what's doing, Jake?" cried Billy. "Yes. Mr. Hollingsworth told me." "Everything ready?" "Sure, Billy. We're waiting for your copy." "Good! First of all get these engraved." He excitedly handed the foreman Katherine's two documents. "Each of 'em three columns wide. We'll run 'em on the front page. And, Jake, if you let those get lost, I'll shoot you so full of holes your wife'll think she's married to a screen door! Now chase along with you!" Billy threw off his drenched coat, slipped into an old one hanging on a hook, dropped into a chair before a typewriter, ran in a sheet of paper, and without an instant's hesitation began to rattle off the story--and Katherine, in a sort of fascination, stood gazing at that worth-while spectacle, a first-class newspaperman in full action. But suddenly he gave a cry of dismay and his arms fell to his sides. "My mind sees the story all right," he groaned. "I don't know whether it's that ice-water or the drink, but my arms are so shaky I can't hit the keys straight." On the instant Katherine had him out of the chair and was in his place. "I studied typewriting along with my law," she said rapidly. "Dictate it to me on the machine." There was not a word of comment. At once Billy began talking, and the keys began to whir beneath Katherine's hands. The first page finished, Billy snatched it from her, gave a roar of "Copy!" glanced it through with a correcting pencil, and thrust it into the hands of an in-rushing boy. As the boy scuttled away, a thunderous cheering arose from the Court House yard--applause that outsounded a dozen-fold all that had gone before. "What's that?" asked Katherine of Old Hosie, who stood at the window looking down upon the Square. "It's Blake, trying to speak. They're giving him the ovation of his life!" Katherine's face set. "H'm!" said Billy grimly, and plunged again into his dictation. Now and then the uproar that followed a happy phrase of Blake almost drowned the voice of Billy, now and then Old Hosie from his post at the window broke in with a sentence of description of the tumultuous scene without; but despite these interruptions the story rattled swiftly on. Again and again Billy ran to the sink at the back of the office and let the clearing water splash over his head; his collar was a shapeless rag; he had to keep thrusting his dripping hair back from his forehead; his slight, chilled body was shivering in every member; but the story kept coming, coming, coming, a living, throbbing creation from his thin and twitching lips. As Katherine's flying hands set down the words, she thrilled as though this story were a thing entirely new to her. For Billy Harper, whatever faults inheritance or habit had fixed upon him, was a reporter straight from God. His trained mind had instantly seized upon and mastered all the dramatic values of the complicated story, and his English, though crude and rough-and-tumble from his haste, was vivid passionate, rousing. He told how Doctor West was the victim of a plot, a plot whose great victim was the city and people of Westville, and this plot he outlined in all its details. He told of Doctor Sherman's part, at Blake's compulsion. He told of the secret league between Blake and Peck. He declared the truth of the charges for which Bruce was then lying in the county jail. And finally--though this he did at the beginning of his story--he drove home in his most nerve-twanging words the fact that Blake the benefactor, Blake the applauded, was the direct cause of the typhoid epidemic. As a fresh sheet was being run into the machine toward the end of the story there was another tremendous outburst from the Square, surpassing even the one of half an hour before. "Blake's just finished his speech," called Old Hosie from the window. "The crowd wants to carry him on their shoulders." "They'd better hurry up; this is one of their last chances!" cried Billy. Then he saw the foreman enter with a look of concern. "Any thing wrong, Jake?" "One of the linotype men has skipped out," was the answer. "Well, what of that?" said Harper. "You've got one left." "It means that we'll be delayed in getting out the paper. I hadn't noticed it before, but Grant's been gone some time. We're quite a bit behind you, and Simmons alone can't begin to handle that copy as fast as you're sending it down." "Do the best you can," said Billy. He started at the dictation again. Then he broke off and called sharply to the foreman: "Hold on, Jake. D'you suppose Grant slipped out to give the story away?" "I don't know. But Grant was a Blake man." Billy swore under his breath. "But he hadn't seen the best part of the story," said the foreman. "I'd given him only that part about Blake and Peck." "Well, anyhow, it's too late for him to hurt us any," said Billy, and once more plunged into the dictation. Fifteen minutes later the story was finished, and Katherine leaned back in her chair with aching arms, while Billy wrote a lurid headline across the entire front page. With this he rushed down into the composing-room to give orders about the make-up. When he returned he carried a bunch of long strips. "These are the proofs of the whole thing, documents and all, except the last part of the story," he said. "Let's see if they've got it all straight." He laid the proofs on Katherine's desk and was drawing a chair up beside her, when the telephone rang. "Who can want to talk to us at such an hour?" he impatiently exclaimed, taking up the receiver. "Hello! Who's this?... What!... All right. Hold the wire." With a surprised look he pushed the telephone toward Katherine. "Somebody to talk to you," he said. "To talk to me!" exclaimed Katherine. "Who?" "Harrison Blake," said Billy. CHAPTER XXV KATHERINE FACES THE ENEMY Katherine took up the receiver in tremulous hands. "Hello! Is this Mr. Blake?" "Yes," came a familiar voice over the wire. "Is this Miss West?" "Yes. What is it?" "I have a matter which I wish to discuss with you immediately." "I am engaged for this evening," she returned, as calmly as she could. "If to-morrow you still desire to see me, I can possibly arrange it then." "I must see you to-night--at once!" he insisted. "It is a matter of the utmost importance. Not so much to me as to you," he added meaningly. "If it is so important, then suppose you come here," she replied. "I cannot possibly do so. I am bound here by a number of affairs. I have anticipated that you would come, and have sent my car for you. It will be there in two minutes." Katherine put her hand over the mouthpiece, and repeated Blake's request to Old Hosie and Billy Harper. "What shall I do?" she asked. "Tell him to go to!" said Billy promptly. "You've got him where you want him. Don't pay any more attention to him." "I'd like to know what he's up to," mused Old Hosie. "And so would I," agreed Katherine, thoughtfully. "I can't do anything more here; he can't hurt me; so I guess I'll go." She removed her hand from the mouthpiece and leaned toward it. "Where are you, Mr. Blake?" "At my home." "Very well. I am coming." She stood up. "Will you come with me?" she asked Old Hosie. "Of course," said the old lawyer with alacrity. And then he chuckled. "I'd like to see how the Senator looks to-night!" "I'll just take these proofs along," she said, thrusting them inside her coat. The next instant she and Old Hosie were hurrying down the stairway. As they came into the street the Westville Brass Band blew the last notes of "Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean," out of cornets and trombones; the great crowd, intoxicated with enthusiasm, responded with palm-blistering applause; and then the candidate for president of the city council arose to make his oratorical contribution. He had got no further than his first period when Blake's automobile glided up before the _Express_ office, and at once Katherine and Old Hosie stepped into the tonneau. They sped away from this maelstrom of excitement into the quiet residential streets, Katherine wondering what Blake desired to see her about, and wondering if there could possibly be some flaw in her plan that she had overlooked, and if after all Blake still had some weapon in reserve with which he could defeat her. Five minutes later they were at Blake's door. They were instantly admitted, and Katherine was informed that Blake awaited her in his library. She had had no idea in what state of mind she would find Blake, but she had at least expected to find him alone. But instead, when she entered the library with Old Hosie, a small assembly rose to greet her. There was Blake, Blind Charlie Peck, Manning, and back in a shadowy corner a rather rotund gentleman, whom she had observed in Westville the last few days, and whom she knew to be Mr. Brown of the National Electric & Water Company. Blake's face was pale and set, and his dark eyes gleamed with an unusual brilliance. But in his compressed features Katherine could read nothing of what was in his mind. "Good evening," he said with cold politeness. "Will you please sit down, Miss West. And you also, Mr. Hollingsworth." Katherine thanked him with a nod, and seated herself. She found her chair so placed that she was the centre of the gaze of the little assembly. "I take it for granted, Miss West," Blake began steadily, formally, "that you are aware of the reason for my requesting you to come here." "On the other hand, I must confess myself entirely ignorant," Katherine quietly returned. "Pardon me if I am forced to believe otherwise. But nevertheless, I will explain. It has come to me that you are now engaged in getting out an issue of the _Express_, in which you charge that Mr. Peck and myself are secretly in collusion to defraud the city. Is that correct?" "Entirely so," said Katherine. She felt full command of herself, yet every instant she was straining to peer ahead and discover, before it fell, the suspected counter-stroke. "Before going further," Blake continued, "I will say that Mr. Peck and I, though personal and political enemies, must join forces against such a libel directed at us both. This will explain Mr. Peck's presence in my house for the first time in his life. Now, to resume our business. What you are about to publish is a libel. It is for your sake, chiefly, that I have asked you here." "For my sake?" "For your sake. To warn you, if you are not already aware of it, of the danger you are plunging into headlong. But surely you are acquainted with our libel laws." "I am." His face, aside from its cold, set look, was still without expression; his voice was low-pitched and steady. "Then of course you understand your risk," he continued. "You have had a mild illustration of the working of the law in the case of Mr. Bruce. But the case against him was not really pressed. The court might not deal so leniently with you. I believe you get my meaning?" "Perfectly," said Katherine. There was a silence. Katherine was determined not to speak first, but to force Blake to take the lead. "Well?" said he. "I was waiting to hear what else you had to say," she replied. "Well, you are aware that what you purpose printing is a most dangerous libel?" "I am aware that you seem to think it so." "There is no thinking about it; it _is_ libel!" he returned. For the first time there was a little sharpness in his voice. "And now, what are you going to do?" "What do you want me to do?" "Suppress the paper." "Is that advice, or a wish, or a command?" "Suppose I say all three." Her eyes did not leave his pale, intent face. She was instantly more certain that he had some weapon in reserve. But still she failed to guess what it might be. "Well, what are you going to do?" he repeated. "I am going to print the paper," said Katherine. An instant of stupefied silence followed her quiet answer. "You are, are you?" cried Blind Charlie, springing up. "Well, let me----" "Sit down, Peck!" Blake ordered sharply "Come, give me a chance at her!" "Sit down! I'm handling this!" Blake cried with sudden harshness. "Well, then, show her where she's at!" grumbled Blind Charlie, subsiding into his chair. Blake turned back to Katherine. His face was again impassive. "And so it is your intention to commit this monstrous libel?" he asked in his former composed tone. "Perhaps it is not libel," said Katherine. "You mean that you think you have proofs?" "No. That is not my meaning." "What then do you mean?" "I mean that I _have_ proofs." "Ah, at last we are coming to the crux of the matter. Since you have proofs for your statements, you think there is no libel?" "I believe that is sound law," said Katherine. "It is sound enough law," he said. He leaned toward her, and there was now the glint of triumph in his eyes. "But suppose the proofs were not sound?" Katherine started. "The proofs not sound?" "Yes. I suppose your article is based upon testimony?" "Of course." His next words were spoken slowly, that each might sink deeply in. "Well, suppose your witnesses had found they were mistaken and had repudiated their testimony? What then?" She sank back in her chair. At last the expected blow had fallen. She sat dazed, thinking wildly. Had they got to Doctor Sherman since she had seen him, and forced him to recant? Had Manning, offered the world by them in this crisis, somehow sold her out? She searched the latter's face with consternation. But he wore a rather stolid look that told her nothing. Blake read the effect of his words in her white face and dismayed manner. "Suppose they have repudiated their statements? What then?" he crushingly persisted. She caught desperately at her courage and her vanishing triumph. "But they have not repudiated." "You think not? You shall see!" He turned to Blind Charlie. "Tell him to step in." Blind Charlie moved quickly to a side door. Katherine leaned forward and stared after him, breathless, her heart stilled. She expected the following moment to see the slender figure of Doctor Sherman enter the room, and hear his pallid lips deny he had ever made the confession of a few hours before. Blind Charlie opened the door. "They're ready for you," he called. It was all Katherine could do to keep from springing up and letting out a sob of relief. For it was not Doctor Sherman who entered. It was the broad and sumptuous presence of Elijah Stone, detective. He crossed and stood before Blake. "Mr. Stone," said Blake, sharply, "I want you to answer a few questions for the benefit of Miss West. First of all, you were employed by Miss West on a piece of detective work, were you not?" "I was," said Mr. Stone, avoiding Katherine's eye. "And the nature of your employment was to try to discover evidence of an alleged conspiracy against the city on my part?" "It was." "And you made to her certain reports?" "I did." "Let me inform you that she has used those reports as the basis of a libellous story which she is about to print. Now answer me, did you give her any real evidence that would stand the test of a court room?" Mr. Stone gazed at the ceiling. "My statements to her were mere surmises," he said with the glibness of a rehearsed answer. "Nothing but conjecture--no evidence at all." "What is your present belief concerning these conjectures?" "I have since discovered that my conjectures were all mistakes." "That will do, Mr. Stone!" Blake turned quickly upon Katherine. "Well, now what have you got to say?" he demanded. She could have laughed in her joy. "First of all," she called to the withdrawing detective, "I have this to say to you, Mr. Stone. When you sold out to these people, I hope you made them pay you well." The detective flushed, but he had no chance to reply. "This is no time for levity, Miss West!" Blake said sharply. "Now you see your predicament. Now you see what sort of testimony your libel is built upon." "But my libel is not built upon that testimony." "Not built----" He now first observed that Katherine was smiling. "What do you mean?" "Just what I said. That my story is not based on Mr. Stone's testimony." There were exclamations from Mr. Brown and Blind Charlie. "Eh--what?" said Blake. "But you hired Stone as a detective?" "And he was eminently successful in carrying out the purpose for which I hired him. That purpose was to be watched, and bought off, by you." Blake sank back and stared at her. "Then your story is based----" "Partly on the testimony of Doctor Sherman," she said. Blake came slowly up to his feet. "Doctor Sherman?" he breathed. "Yes, of Doctor Sherman." Blind Charlie moved quickly forward. "What's that?" he cried. "It's not true!" burst from Blake's lips. "Doctor Sherman is in Canada!" "When I saw him two hours ago he was at his wife's bedside." "It's not true!" Blake huskily repeated. "And I might add, Mr. Blake," Katherine pursued, "that he made a full statement of everything--everything!--and that he gave me a signed confession." Blake stared at her blankly. A sickly pallor was creeping over his face. Katherine stood up. "And I might furthermore add, gentlemen," she went on, now also addressing Blind Charlie, "that I know all about the water-works deal, and the secret agreement among you." "Hold on! You're going too far!" the old politician cried savagely. "You've got no evidence against me!" "I could hardly help having it, since I was present at your proceedings." "You?" "Personally and by proxy. I am the agent of Mr. Seymour of New York. Mr. Hartsell here, otherwise Mr. Manning, has represented me, and has turned over to me the agreement you signed to-day." They whirled about upon Manning, who continued unperturbed in his chair. "What she says is straight, gentlemen," he said. "I have only been acting for Miss West." A horrible curse fell from the thick, loose lips of Blind Charlie Peck. Blake, his sickly pallor deepening, stared from Manning to Katherine. "It isn't so! It can't be so!" he breathed wildly. "If you want to see just what I've got, here it is," said Katherine, and she tossed the bundle of proofs upon the desk. Blake seized the sheets in feverish hands. Blind Charlie stepped to his side, and Mr. Brown slipped forward out of his corner and peered over their shoulders. First they saw the two facsimiles, then their eyes swept in the leading points of Billy Harper's fiery story. Then a low cry escaped from Blake. He had come upon Billy Harper's great page-wide headline: "BLAKE CONSPIRES TO SWINDLE WESTVILLE; DIRECT CAUSE OF CITY'S SICK AND DEAD." At that Blake collapsed into his chair and gazed with ashen face at the black, accusing letters. This relentless summary of the situation appalled them all into a moment's silence. Blind Charlie was the first to speak. "That paper must never come out!" he shouted. Blake raised his gray-hued face. "How are you going to stop it?" "Here's how," cried Peck, his one eye ablaze with fierce energy. "That crowd at the Square is still all for you, Blake. Don't let the girl out of the house! I'll rush to the Square, rouse the mob properly, and they'll raid the office, rip up the presses, plates, paper, every damned thing!" "No--no--I'll not stand for that!" Blake burst out. But Blind Charlie had already started quickly away. Not so quickly, however, but that the very sufficient hand of Manning was about his wrist before he reached the door. "I guess we won't be doing that to-night, Mr. Peck," Manning said quietly. The old politician stood shaking with rage and erupting profanity. But presently this subsided, and he stood, as did the others, gazing down at Blake. Blake sat in his chair, silent, motionless, with scarcely a breath, his eyes fixed on the headline. His look was as ghastly as a dead man's, a look of utter ruin, of ruin so terrible and complete that his dazed mind could hardly comprehend it. There was a space of profound silence in the room. But after a time Blind Charlie's face grew malignantly, revengefully jocose. "Well, Blake," said he, "I guess this won't hurt me much after all. I guess I haven't much reputation to lose. But as for you, who started this business--you the pure, moral, high-minded reformer----" He interrupted himself by raising a hand. "Listen!" Faintly, from the direction of the Square, came the dim roar of cheering, and then the outburst of the band. Blind Charlie, with a cynical laugh, clapped a hand upon Blake's shoulder. "Don't you hear 'em, Blake? Brace up! The people still are for you!" Blake did not reply. The old man bent down, his face now wholly hard. "And anyhow, Blake, I'm getting this satisfaction out of the business. I've had it in for you for a dozen years, and now you're going to get it good and plenty! Good night and to hell with you!" Blake did not look up. Manning slipped an arm through the old man's. "I'll go along with you for a little while," said Manning quietly. "Just to see that you don't start any trouble." As the pair were going out Mr. Brown, who had thus far not said a single word, bent his fatherly figure over Blake. "Of course, you realize, Mr. Blake, that our relations are necessarily at an end," he said in a low voice. "Of course," Blake said dully. "I'm very sorry we cannot help you, but of course you realize we cannot afford to be involved in a mess like this. Good night." And he followed the others out, Old Hosie behind him. For a space Katherine stood alone, gazing down upon Blake's bowed and silent figure. Now that it was all over, now that his allies had all deserted him, to see this man whom she had known as so proud, so strong, so admired, with such a boundless future--who had once been her own ideal of a great man--who had once declared himself her lover--to see this man now brought so low, stirred in her a strange emotion, in which there was something of pity, something of sympathy, and a tugging remembrance of the love he long ago had offered. But the noise of the front door closing upon the men recalled her to herself, and very softly, so as not to disturb him, she started away. Her hand was on the knob, when there sounded a dry and husky voice from behind her. "Wait, Katherine! Wait!" CHAPTER XXVI AN IDOL'S FALL She turned. Blake had risen from his chair. "What is it?" she asked. He came up to her, the proofs still in his hands. He was unsteady upon his feet, like a man dizzy from a heavy blow. The face which she had been accustomed to see only as full of poise and strength and dignity was now supremely haggard. When he spoke he spoke in uttermost despair--huskily, chokingly, yet with an effort at control. "Do you know what this is going to do to me?" he asked, holding out the proof-sheets. "Yes," she said. "It is going to ruin me--reputation, fortune, future! Everything!" She did not answer him. "Yes, that is going to be the result," he continued in his slow, husky voice. "Only one thing can save me." "And that?" He stared at her for a moment with wildly burning eyes. Then he wet his dry lips. "That is for you to countermand this extra." "You ask me to do that?" "It is my only chance. I do." "I believe you are out of your mind!" she cried. "I believe I am!" he said hoarsely. "Think just a moment, and you will see that what you ask is quite impossible. Just think a moment." He was silent for a time. A tremor ran through him, his body stiffened. "No, I do not ask it," he said. "I am not trying to excuse myself now, but when a thing falls so unexpectedly, so suddenly----" A choking at the throat stopped him. "If I have seemed to whimper, I take it back. You have beaten me, Katherine. But I hope I can take defeat like a man." She did not answer. They continued gazing at one another. In the silence of the great house they could hear each other's agitated breathing. Into his dark face, now turned so gray, there crept a strange, drawn look--a look that sent a tingling through all her body. "What is it?" she asked. "To think," he exclaimed in a low, far-away voice, almost to himself, "that I have lost everything through you! Through you, through whom I might have gained everything!" "Gained everything? Through me?" she repeated. "How?" "I am sure I would have kept out of such things--as this--if, five years ago, you had said 'yes' instead of 'no'." "Said yes?" she breathed. "I think you would have kept me in the straight road. For I would not have dared to fall below your standards. For I"--he drew a deep, convulsive breath--"for I loved you, Katherine, better than anything in all the world!" She trembled at the intensity of his voice. "You loved me--like that?" "Yes. And since I have lost you, and lost everything, there is perhaps no harm in my telling you something else. Only on that one night did I open my lips about love to you--but I have loved you through all the years since then. And ... and I still love you." "You still love me?" she whispered. "I still love you." She stared at him. "And yet all these months you have fought against me!" "I have not fought against _you_," he said. "Somehow, I got started in this way, and I have fought to win--have fought against exposure, against defeat." "And you still love me?" she murmured, still amazed. As she gazed at him there shot into her a poignant pang of pity for this splendid figure, tottering on the edge of the abyss. For an instant she thought only of him. "You asked me a moment ago to suppress the paper," she cried impulsively. "Shall I do it?" "I now ask nothing," said he. "No--no--I can't suppress the paper!" she said in anguish. "That would be to leave father disgraced, and Mr. Bruce disgraced, and the city----But what are you going to do?" "I do not know. This has come so suddenly. I have had no time to think." "You must at least have time to think! If you had an hour--two hours?" There was a momentary flash of hope in his eyes. "If I had an hour----" "Then we'll delay the paper!" she cried. She sprang excitedly to the telephone upon Blake's desk. The next instant she had Billy Harper on the wire, Blake watching her, motionless in his tracks. "Mr. Harper," she said, "it is now half-past ten. I want you to hold the paper back till eleven-thirty.... What's that?" She listened for a moment, then slowly hung up the receiver. She did not at once turn round, but when she did her face was very white. "Well?" Blake asked. "I'm sorry," she said, barely above a whisper. "The paper has been upon the street for ten minutes." They gazed at one another for several moments, both motionless, both without a word. Then thin, sharp cries penetrated the room. Blake's lips parted. "What is that?" he asked mechanically. Katherine crossed and raised a window. Through it came shrill, boyish voices: "Extry! Extry! All about the great Blake conspiracy!" These avant couriers of Blake's disgrace sped onward down the avenue. Katherine turned slowly back to Blake. He still stood in the same posture, leaning heavily upon an arm that rested on his mahogany desk. He did not speak. Nor was there anything that Katherine could say. It was for but a moment or two that they stood in this strained silence. Then a dim outcry sounded from the centre of the town. In but a second, it seemed, this outcry had mounted to a roar. "It is the crowd--at the Square," said Blake, in a dry whisper. "Yes." "The extra--they have seen it." The roar rose louder--louder. It was like the thunder of an on-rushing flood that has burst its dam. It began to separate into distinct cries, and the shuffle of running feet. "They are coming this way," said Blake in his same dry, mechanical tone. There was no need for Katherine to reply. The fact was too apparent. She moved to the open window, and stood there waiting. The roar grew nearer--nearer. In but a moment, it seemed to her, the front of this human flood appeared just beyond her own house. The next moment the crowd began to pour into Blake's wide lawn--by the hundreds--by the thousands. Many of them still carried in clenched hands crumpled copies of the _Express_. Here and there, luridly illuminating the wild scene, blazed a smoking torch of a member of the Blake Marching Club. And out of the mouths of this great mob, which less than a short hour before had lauded him to the stars--out of the mouths of these his erewhile idolaters, came the most fearful imprecations, the most fearful cries for vengeance. Katherine became aware that Blake was standing behind her gazing down upon this human storm. She turned, and in his pallid face she plainly read the passionate regret that was surging through his being. His had been the chance to serve these people, and serve them with honour to himself--honour that hardly had a limit. And now he had lost them, lost them utterly and forever, and with them had lost everything! Some one below saw his face at the window and swore shriekingly to have his life. Blake drew quickly back and stood again beside his desk. He was white--living flesh could not be more white--but he still maintained that calm control which had succeeded his first desperate consternation. "What are you going to do?" Katherine asked. He very quietly drew out a drawer of his desk and picked up a pistol. "What!" she cried. "You are not going to fight them off!" "No. I have injured enough of them already," he replied in his measured tone. "Keep all this from my mother as long as you can--at least till she is stronger." As she saw his intention Katherine sprang forward and caught the weapon he was turning upon himself. "No! No! You must not do that!" "But I must," he returned quietly. "Listen!" The cries without had grown more violent. The heavy front door was resounding with blows. "Don't you see that this is the only thing that's left?" he asked. "And don't you see," she said rapidly, "its effect upon your mother? In her weakened condition, your death will be her death. You just said you had injured enough already. Do you want to kill one more? And besides, and in spite of all," she added with a sudden fire, "there's a big man in you! Face it like that man!" He hesitated. Then he relaxed his hold upon the pistol, still without speaking. Katherine returned it to its place and closed the drawer. At this instant Old Hosie, who had been awaiting Katherine below, rushed excitedly into the library. "Don't you know hell's broke loose?" he cried to Katherine. "They'll have that front door down in a minute! Come on!" But Katherine could not take her gaze from Blake's pale, set face. "What are you going to do?" she asked again. "What is he going to do?" exclaimed Old Hosie. "Better ask what that mob is going to do. Listen to them!" A raging cry for Blake's life ascended, almost deafening their ears. "No, no--they must not do that!" exclaimed Katherine, and breathlessly she darted from the room. Old Hosie looked grimly at Blake. "You deserve it, Blake. But I'm against mob law. Quick, slip out the back way. You can just catch the eleven o'clock express and get out of the State." Without waiting to see the effect of his advice Old Hosie hurried after Katherine. She had reached the bottom of the stairway just as cooperated shoulders crashed against the door and made it shiver on its hinges. Her intention was to go out and speak to the crowd, but to open the front door was to admit and be overwhelmed by the maddened mob. She knew the house almost as well as she knew her own, and she recalled that the dining-room had a French window which opened upon the piazza on the side away from the crowd. She ran back through the darkened rooms, swung open this window and ran about the piazza to the front door. As she reached it, the human battering-ram drew back for another infuriated lunge. She sprang between the men and the door. "Stop! Stop!" she cried. "What the hell's this!" ejaculated the leader of the assault. "Say, if it ain't a woman!" cried a member of the battering-ram. "Out of the way with you!" roared the leader in a fury. But she placed her back against the door. "Stop--men! Give me just one word!" "Better stop this, boys!" gasped a man at the foot of the steps, struggling in half a dozen pairs of arms. "I warn you! It's against the law!" "Shut up, Jim Nichols; this is our business!" cried the leader to the helpless sheriff. "And now, you"--turning again to Katherine--"out of the way!" The seething, torch-lit mob on the lawn below repeated his cry. The leader, his wrath increasing, seized Katherine roughly by the arm and jerked her aside: "Now, all together, boys!" he shouted. But at that instant upon the front of the mob there fell a tall, lean fury with a raging voice and a furiously swinging cane. It was Old Hosie. Before this fierce chastisement, falling so suddenly upon their heads, the battering-ram for a moment pressed backward. "You fools! You idiots!" the old man cried, and his high, sharp voice cut through all the noises of the mob. "Is that the way you treat the woman that saved you!" "Saved us?" some one shouted incredulously. "Her save us?" "Yes, saved you!" Old Hosie cried in a rising voice down upon the heads of the crowd. His cane had ceased its flailing; the crowd had partially ceased its uproar. "Do you know who that woman is? She's Katherine West!" "Oh, the lady lawyer!" rose several jeering voices. For the moment Old Hosie's tall figure, with his cane outstretched, had the wrathful majesty of a prophet of old, denouncing his foolish and reprobate people. "Go on, all of you, laugh at her to-night!" he shouted. "But after to-night you'll all slink around Westville, ashamed to look anything in the face higher than a dog! For half a year you've been sneering at Katherine West. And see how she's paid you back! It was she that found out your enemy. It was she that dug up all the facts and evidence you've read in those papers there. It was she that's saved you from being robbed. And now----" "She done all that?" exclaimed a voice from the now stilled mob. "Yes, she done all that!" shouted Old Hosie. "And what's more, she got out that paper in your hands. While you've been sneering at her, she's been working for you. And now, after all this, you're not even willing to listen to a word from her!" His voice rose in its contemptuous wrath still one note higher. "And now listen to me! I'm going to tell you exactly what you are! You are all----" But Westville never learned exactly what it was. Just then Old Hosie was firmly pulled back by the tails of his Prince Albert coat and found himself in the possession of the panting, dishevelled sheriff of Galloway County. "You've made your point, Hosie," said Jim Nichols. "They'll listen to her now." Katherine stepped forward into the space Old Hosie had involuntarily vacated. With the torchlights flaring up into her face she stood there breathing deeply, awed into momentary silence by the great crowd and by the responsibility that weighed upon her. "If, as Mr. Hollingsworth has said," she began in a tremulous but clear voice that carried to the farthest confines of the lawn, "you owe me anything, all I ask in return is that you refrain from mob violence;" and she went on to urge upon them the lawful course. The crowd, taken aback by the accusations and revelations Old Hosie had flung so hotly into their faces, strangely held by her impassioned woman's figure pedestalled above them on the porch, listened to her with an attention and respect which they as yet were far from understanding. She felt that she had won her audience, that she had turned them back to lawful measures, when suddenly there was a roar of "Blake! Blake!"--the stilled crowd became again a mob--and she saw that the focus of their gaze had shifted from her to a point behind her. Looking about, she saw that the door had opened, and that Blake, pale and erect, was standing in the doorway. The crowd tried to surge forward, but the front ranks, out of their new and but half-comprehended respect for Katherine, stood like a wall against the charge that would have overwhelmed her. Blake moved forward to her side. "I should like to speak to them, if I can," he said quietly. Katherine held up her hand for silence. The mob hissed and cursed him, and tried to break through the human fortification of the front ranks. Through it all Blake stood silent, pale, without motion. Katherine, her hand still upraised, continued to cry out for silence; and after a time the uproar began in a measure to diminish. Katherine took quick advantage of the lull. "Gentlemen," she called out, "won't you please give Mr. Blake just a word!" Cries that they should give him a chance to speak ran through the crowd, and thus abjured by its own members the mob quieted yet further. While they were subsiding into order Blake looked steadily out upon this sea of hostile faces. Katherine watched him breathlessly, wondering what he was about to say. It swept in upon her, with a sudden catching of the throat, that he made a fine figure standing there so straight, so white, with so little sign of fear; and despite what the man had done, again some of her old admiration for him thrilled through her, and with it an infinite pang of regret for what he might have been. At length there was moderate order, and Blake began to speak. "Gentlemen, I do not wish to plead for myself," he said quietly, yet in his far-carrying voice. "What I have done is beyond your forgiveness. I merely desire to say that I am guilty; to say that I am here to give myself into your hands. Do with me as you think best. If you prefer immediate action, I shall go with you without resistance. If you wish to let the law take its course, then"--here he made a slight gesture toward Jim Nichols, who stood beside him--"then I shall give myself into the hands of the sheriff. I await your choice." With that he paused. A perfect hush had fallen on the crowd. This man who had dominated them in the days of his glory, dominated them for at least a flickering moment in this the hour of his fall. For that brief moment all were under the spell of their habit to honour him, the spell of his natural dignity, the spell of his direct words. Then the spell was over. The storm broke loose again. There were cries for immediate action, and counter cries in favour of the law. The two cries battled with each other. For a space there was doubt as to which was the stronger. Then that for the law rose louder and louder and drowned the other out. Sheriff Nichols slipped his arm through Blake's. "I guess you're going to come with me," he said. "I am ready," was Blake's response. He turned about to Katherine. "You deserved to win," he said quietly. "Thank you. Good-by." "Good-by," said she. The sheriff drew him away. Katherine, panting, leaning heavily against a pillar of the porch, watched the pair go down the steps--watched the great crowd part before them--watched them march through this human alley-way, lighted by smoking campaign torches--watched them till they had passed into the darkness in the direction of the jail. Then she dizzily reached out and caught Old Hosie's arm. "Help me home," she said weakly. "I--I feel sick." CHAPTER XXVII THE END OF THE BEGINNING It was the following night, and the hour was nine. Old Hosie stood in the sheriff's office in Galloway County jail, while Jim Nichols scrutinized a formal looking document his visitor had just delivered into his hands. "It's all right, isn't it?" said the old lawyer. "Yep." The sheriff thrust the paper into a drawer. "I'll fetch him right down." "Remember, don't give him a hint!" Old Hosie warned again. "You're sure," he added anxiously, "he hasn't got on to anything?" "How many more times have I got to tell you," returned the sheriff, a little irritated, "that I ain't said a word to him--just as you told me! He heard some of the racket last night, sure. But he thought it was just part of the regular campaign row." "All right! All right! Hurry him along then!" Left alone, Old Hosie walked excitedly up and down the dingy room, whose sole pretension in an æsthetic way was the breeze-blown "yachting girl" of a soap company's calendar, sailing her bounding craft above the office cuspidor. The old man grinned widely, rubbed his bony hands together, and a concatenation of low chuckles issued from his lean throat. But when Sheriff Nichols reappeared, ushering in Arnold Bruce, all these outward manifestations of satisfaction abruptly terminated, and his manner became his usual dry and sarcastic one with his nephew. "Hello, Arn!" he said. "H'are you?" "Hello!" Bruce returned, rather gruffly, shaking the hand his uncle held out. "What's this the sheriff has just told me about a new trial?" "It's all right," returned Old Hosie. "We've fought on till we've made 'em give it to us." "What's the use of it?" Bruce growled. "The cards will be stacked the same as at the other trial." "Well, whatever happens, you're free till then. I've got you out on bail, and I'm here to take you home with me. So come along with you." Old Hosie pushed him out and down the jail steps and into a closed carriage that was waiting at the curb. Bruce was in a glowering, embittered mood, as was but natural in a man who keenly feels that he has suffered without justice and has lost all for which he fought. "You know I appreciate your working for the new trial," he remarked dully, as the carriage rattled slowly on. "How did you manage it?" "It's too long a story for now. I'll tell you when we get home." Bruce was gloomily silent for a moment. "Of course the Blake crowd swept everything at the election to-day?" "Well, on the whole, their majority wasn't as big as they'd counted on," returned Old Hosie. They rode on, Bruce sunk in his bitter, rebellious dejection. The carriage turned into the street that ran behind the Court House, then after rattling over the brick pavement for a few moments came to a pause. Hosie opened the door and stepped out. "Hello! what are we stopping here for?" demanded Bruce. "This is the Court House. I thought you said we were going home?" "So we are, so we are," Old Hosie rapidly returned, an agitation in his manner that he could not wholly repress. "But first we've got to go into the Court House. Judge Kellog is waiting for us; there's a little formality or two about your release we've got to settle with him. Come along." And taking his arm Old Hosie hurried him into the Court House yard, allowing no time for questioning the plausibility of this explanation. But suddenly Bruce stopped short. "Look at that, won't you!" he cried in amazement. "See how the front of the yard is lighted up, and see how it's jammed with people! And there goes the band! What the dickens----" At that moment some one on the outskirts of the crowd sighted the pair. "There's Bruce!" he shouted. Immediately there was an uproar. "Hurrah for Bruce! Hurrah for Bruce!" yelled the crowd, and began to rush to the rear of the yard, cheering as they ran. Bruce gripped Old Hosie's arm. "What's this mean?" "It means we've got to run for it!" And so saying the old man, with a surprising burst of speed left over from his younger years, dragged his nephew up the walk and through the rear door of the Court House, which he quickly locked upon their clamorous pursuers. Bruce stared at his uncle in bewilderment. "Hosie--Hosie--what's this mean?" The old man's leathery face was twitching in a manner remarkable to behold. "Drat it," he grumbled, with a quaver in his voice, "why don't you read the _Express_ and keep up with the news!" "What's this mean?" demanded Bruce. "Well, here's a copy of your old rag. Read it and see for yourself." Bruce seized the _Express_ the old man held out to him. Up in one corner were the words "_Election Extra_," and across the top of the page ran the great headline: "BRUCE TICKET SWEEPS CITY" Bruce looked slowly up, stupefied, and steadied himself with a hand against the door. "Is--is that true?" "For my part," declared Old Hosie, the quaver in his voice growing more prominent, "I don't believe more'n half I see in that dirty sheet!" "Then--it's true?" "Don't you hear them wild Indians yelling for Mayor Bruce?" Bruce was too dazed to speak for a moment. "Tell me--how did it happen?" "Oh, read your old rag and see!" "For God's sake, Hosie, don't fool with me!" he cried. "How did it happen? Somebody has been at work. Who did it?" "Eh! You really want to know that?" "Yes, yes! Who did it?" "It was done," said Old Hosie, looking at him very straight and blinking his eyes, "by a party that I understand you thought couldn't do much of anything." "But who? Who?" "If you really want to know, the party's name is Miss Katherine West." Bruce's stupefaction outdid itself. "Katherine West!" he repeated. Old Hosie could maintain his rôle no longer. "Yes, Katherine West!" he burst out in triumphant joy, his words tumbling over one another. "She did it all--every bit of it! And that mob out in front is there to celebrate your election. We knew how things were going to turn out, so we were safe in getting this thing ready in advance. And I don't mind telling you, young fellow, that this celebration is just as much for her as it is for you. The town has simply gone crazy about her and is looking for a chance to kiss her feet. She said she wouldn't come to-night, but we all insisted. I promised to bring her, and I've got to be off. So good-by!" Bruce caught his arm. "Wait, Hosie! Tell me what she did! Tell me the rest!" "Read that paper I gave you! And here, I brought this for you, too." He took from his inside pocket a copy of the extra Katherine and Billy Harper had got out the night before. "Those two papers will tell you all there is to tell. And now," he continued, opening a door and pushing Bruce through it, "you just wait in there so I'll know where to find you when I want you. I've got to hustle for a while, for I'm master of ceremonies of this show. How's that for your old uncle? It's the first time I've ever been connected with a popular movement in my life except to throw bricks at it, and I ain't so sure I can stand popularity for one whole night." With that he was gone. Bruce recognized the room into which he had been thrust as the court room in which he had been tried and sentenced, in which Katherine had pleaded her father's case. Over the judge's desk, as though in expectation of his coming, a green-shaded drop lamp shed its cone of light. Bruce stumbled forward to the desk, sank into the judge's chair, and began feverishly to devour the two copies of his paper. Billy Harper, penitently sober and sworn to sobriety for all his days, had outdone himself on that day's issue. He told how the voters crowded to the polls in their eagerness to vote for Bruce, and he gave with a tremendous exultation an estimate of Bruce's majority, which was so great as to be an almost unanimous election. Also he told how Blind Charlie Peck had prudently caught last night's eleven o'clock express and was now believed to be repairing his health down at Hot Springs, Arkansas. Also he gave a deal of inside history: told how the extra had been gotten out the night before, with the Blake mass-meeting going on beneath the _Express's_ windows; told of the scene at the home of Blake, and Blake's strange march to jail; and, freed from the restraint of Katherine's presence, who would have forbidden him, he told with a world of praise the story of how she had worked up the case. The election extra finished, Bruce spread open the extra of the night before, the paper that had transferred him from a prison cell to the mayor's office, and read the mass of Katherine's evidence that Billy had so stirringly set forth. Then the head of the editor of the _Express_, of the mayor of Westville, sank forward into his folded arms and he sat bowed, motionless, upon the judge's desk. A great outburst of cheering from the crowd, though louder far than those that had preceded it, did not disturb him; and he did not look up until he heard the door of the court room open. Then he saw that Old Hosie had entered, and with him Katherine. "I'll just leave you two for a minute," Old Hosie said rapidly, "while I go out and start things going by introducing the Honourable Hiram Cogshell." With that the old man took the arm of Katherine's father, who had been standing just behind, slipped through the door and was gone. A moment later, from in front, there arose a succession of cheers for Doctor West. Bruce came slowly down from behind the railing of Judge Kellog's desk and paused before Katherine. She was very white, her breath came with a tremulous irregularity, and she looked at him with wide, wondering, half-fearful eyes. At first Bruce could not get out a word, such a choking was there in his throat, such a throbbing and whirling through all his being. He dizzily supported himself with a hand upon the back of a bench, and stood and gazed at her. It was she that broke the silence. "Mr. Hollingsworth did not tell me--you were here. I'd better go." And she started for the door. "No--no--don't!" he said. He drew a step nearer her. "I've just read"--holding up the two papers--"what you have done." "Mr. Harper has--has exaggerated it very much," she returned. Her voice seemed to come with as great a difficulty as his own. "And I have read," he continued, "how much I owe you." "It's--it's----" She did not finish in words, but a gesture disclaimed all credit. "It has made me. And I want to thank you, and I do thank you. And I do thank you," he repeated lamely. She acknowledged his gratitude with an inclination of her head. Motions came easier than words. "And since I owe it all to you, since I owe nothing to any political party, I want to tell you that I am going to try to make the very best mayor that I can!" "I am sure of that," she said. "I realize that it's not going to be easy," he went on. "The people seem to be with me now, thanks to you--but as soon as I try to carry out my ideas, I know that both parties will rise up and unite against me. The big fight is still ahead. But since--since you have done it all--I want you to know that I am going to fight straight ahead for the people, no matter what happens to me." "I know," she said. "My eyes have been opened to many things about politics," he added. She did not speak. Silence fell between them; the room was infiltered by a multitudinous hum from without. Presently the thought, and with it the fear, that had been rising up stronger and stronger in Bruce for the last half hour, forced itself through his lips. "I suppose that now--you'll be going back to New York?" "No. I have had several cases offered me to-day. I am going to stay in Westville." "Oh!" he said--and was conscious of a dizzy relief. Then, "I wish you success." "Thank you." Again there was a brief silence, both standing and looking in constraint at one another. "This celebration is very trying, isn't it?" she said. "I suppose we might sit down while we wait." "Yes." They each took the end of a different bench, and rather stiffly sat gazing into the shadowy severity of the big room. Sounding from the front of the Court House they heard rather vaguely the deep-chested, sonorous rhetoric of the Honourable Hiram. But they heard it for but an instant. Suddenly the court room door flew open and Old Hosie marched straight up before them. "You're the dad-blastedest pair of idiots I ever saw!" he burst out, with an exasperation that was not an entire success, for it was betrayed by a little quaver. They stood up. "What's the matter?" stammered Bruce. "Matter?" cried Old Hosie. "What d'you suppose I left you two people here together for?" "You said you had to start----" "Well, couldn't I have another and a bigger reason? I've been listening outside the door here, and the way you people have acted! See here, you two know you love one another, and yet you act toward each other like a pair of tame icebergs that have just been introduced!" He turned in a fury upon his nephew, blinking to keep the moisture from his eyes. "Don't you love her?" he demanded, pointing to Katherine, who had suddenly grown yet more pale. "Why--yes--yes----" "Then why in the name of God don't you tell her so?" "I'm--I'm afraid she won't care to hear it," stammered Bruce, not daring to look at Katherine. "Tell her so, and see what she says," shouted Old Hosie. "How else are you going to find out? Tell her what a fool you've been. Tell her she's proved to you you're all wrong about what you thought she ought to do. Tell her unless you get some one of sense to help run you, you're going to make an all-fired mess of this mayor's job. Tell her"--there was a choking in his voice--"oh, boy, just tell her what you feel! "And now," he added quickly, and again sharply, "that mob outside won't listen to the Honourable Hiram much longer. They want you folks. I give you just two minutes to fix things up. Two minutes--no more!" And pulling his high hat down upon his forehead, Old Hosie turned abruptly and again left the room. Bruce looked slowly about upon Katherine. His rugged, powerful face was working with emotion. "What Uncle Hosie has said is all true," he stammered fearfully. "You know I love you, Katherine. And there isn't anything you'll want to do that I'll not be glad to have you do. Won't you forget, Katherine, and won't you--won't you----" He stretched out his arms to her. "Oh, Katherine!" he cried. "I love you! I want you! I need you!" While he spoke her face had grown radiant. "And I--and I"--she choked, then her voice went on with an uprush of happiness--"and I--oh, Arnold, I need you!" * * * * * When Old Hosie reëntered a minute later and saw what there was to be seen, he let out a little cry of joy and swooped down upon them. "Look out, Katherine," he warned, quaveringly, "for I'm going to kiss you!" But despite this warning the old man succeeded in his enterprise. "This is great!--great!" he cried, shaking a hand of each. "But we'll have to cut this hallelujah business short till that little picnic outside is over. I just pulled the Honourable Hiram down--and, say, just listen to that roar!" A roar it was indeed. Of a bursting brass band, of thousands of eager people. "And who do you suppose they're shouting for?" inquired the joyous Hosie. Katherine smiled a tear-bright smile at Bruce. "For the new mayor," she said. "No, no! All for you!" said he. "Well, come on and we'll see who it's for!" cried Old Hosie. And taking an arm of each he led them out to face the cheering multitude. THE END THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS GARDEN CITY. N. Y. TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and intent. 
38846	----	THE WRECKERS BY FRANCIS LYNDE WITH FRONTISPIECE BY ARTHUR E. BECHER CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS NEW YORK 1920 COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS Published March, 1920 To a certain grave and reverend official of the Union Pacific System who, in his younger days, might well have played the part of _Jimmie Dodds_, this book is affectionately inscribed by THE AUTHOR. [Illustration: "You have spoken only of the difficulties and responsibilities, Graham, but there is another side to it."] CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. AT SAND CREEK SIDING 1 II. A TANK PARTY 11 III. MR. CHADWICK'S SPECIAL 23 IV. THE TIPPING OF THE SCALE 36 V. THE DIRECTORS' MEETING 51 VI. THE ALEXA GOES EAST 60 VII. "HEADS OFF, GENTLEMEN!" 65 VIII. WITH THE STRINGS OFF 75 IX. AND SATAN CAME ALSO 90 X. THE BIG SMASH 96 XI. WHAT EVERY MAN KNOWS 102 XII. WITH THE WHEELS TRIGGED 112 XIII. THE LOST 1016 123 XIV. A CLOSE CALL 140 XV. THE MACHINE 155 XVI. IN THE COAL YARD 169 XVII. THE MAN AT THE WINDOW 185 XVIII. THE NAME ON THE REGISTER 200 XIX. THE HOODOO 206 XX. THE HELPLESS WIRES 216 XXI. BILLY MORRIS EXPLAINS 225 XXII. WHAT THE PILOT ENGINE FOUND 232 XXIII. THE MAJOR'S PREMONITION 247 XXIV. THE DEAD-LINE 262 XXV. FLAGGED DOWN 274 XXVI. THE DIPSOMANIAC 292 XXVII. THE DESERTER 312 XXVIII. THE BEGINNING OF THE END 319 XXIX. THE MURDER MADMAN 334 XXX. "UNDER THE WIDE AND STARRY SKY" 349 XXXI. P. S. L. COMES HOME 365 THE WRECKERS I At Sand Creek Siding As a general proposition, I don't believe much in the things called "hunches." They are bad for the digestion, and as often as not are like those patent barometers that are always pointing to "Set Fair" when it is raining like Noah's flood. But there are exceptions to all rules, and we certainly uncovered the biggest one of the lot--the boss and I--the night we left Portland and the good old Pacific Coast. It was this way. We had finished the construction work on the Oregon Midland; had quit, cleaned up the offices, drawn our last pay-checks, told everybody good-by, and were on our way to the train, when I had one of those queer little premonitory chills you hear so much about and knew just as well as could be that we were never going to pull through to Chicago without getting a jolt of some sort. The reason--if you'll call it a reason--was that, just before we came to the railroad station, the boss walked calmly under a ladder standing in front of a new building; and besides that, it was the thirteenth day of the month, a Friday, and raining like the very mischief. Just to sort of toll us along, maybe, the fates didn't begin on us that night. They waited until the next day, and then proceeded to shove us in behind a freight-train wreck at Widner, Idaho, where we lost twelve hours. It looked as if that didn't amount to much, because we weren't due anywhere at any particular time. The boss was on his way home for a little visit with his folks in Illinois, and beyond that he was going to meet a bunch of Englishmen in Montreal, and maybe let them make him General Manager of one of the Canadian railroads. So Mr. Norcross was in no special hurry, and neither was I. I wasn't under pay, but I expected to be when we reached Canada. I had been confidential clerk and shorthand man for the boss on the Midland construction, and he was taking me along partly because he knows a cracking good stenographer when he sees one, but mostly because I was dead anxious to go anywhere he was going. But to come back to the Widner delay: if it hadn't been for that twelve-hour lay-out we would have caught the Saturday night train on the Pioneer Short Line, instead of the day train Sunday morning, and there would have been no meeting with Mrs. Sheila and Maisie Ann; no telegram from Mr. Chadwick, because it wouldn't have found us; no hold-up at Sand Creek Siding; in short, nothing would have happened that did happen. But I mustn't get ahead of my story. It was on Sunday that the jolt began to get ready to land on us. Mr. Norcross had been a railroad man for so long that he had forgotten how to knock off on Sundays, and right soon after breakfast, with the help of a little Pullman berth table and me and my typewriter, he turned our section into a business office, saying that now we had a good quiet day, we'd clean up the million or so odds and ends of correspondence he'd been letting go while we were tussling for the Midland right-of-way through the Oregon mountains. By this time, you will understand, we were rocketing along over the Pioneer Short Line, and were supposed to be due at Portal City at half-past seven that evening. From where he sat dictating to me the boss was facing forward and now and then an absent sort of look came into his eyes while he was talking off his letters, and it puzzled me because it wasn't like him. I may as well say here as anywhere that one of his strong points is to be always "at himself" under all sorts of conditions. So, as I say, I was sort of puzzled; and one of the times after he had given me a full grist of letters and had gone off to smoke while I typed a few thousand lines from my notes to catch up, I made a discovery. There were two people in Section Five just ahead of us, a young woman and a girl of maybe fifteen or so, and the Pullman was the old-fashioned kind, with low seat-backs. I put it up that in those absent-eyed intervals Mr. Norcross had been studying the back of the young woman's neck. I was measurably sure it wasn't the little girl's. Along in the forenoon I made an excuse to go and get a drink of water out of the forward cooler, and on the way back I took a good square look at our neighbors in Number Five. At that I didn't wonder at the boss's temporary lapses any more whatever. The young woman was pretty enough to start a stopped clock--only "pretty" isn't just the word, either; there wasn't any word, when you come right down to it. And the little girl was simply a peach--a nice, downy, rosy peach; chunky, round-faced, sunny-haired, jolly; with a neat little turned-up nose and big sort of boyish laughing eyes that fairly dared the world. I made a good half-dozen mistakes when I got in behind the old writing machine again and went on with the letters; but never mind about that. As I began to say, things rocked along until we had about worn the day out, and at the second call to dinner Mr. Norcross told me to strap up the machine and put the files away in the grips and we'd go eat. Though I was only his stenographer, and a kid at that, he was big enough and Western enough not to let the buck-private-to-officer gap make any difference, and always when we were knocking about together he made me sit at his table. Sometimes, when it happened that way, he'd ditch the rank-and-file dignities and talk to me as if the thousand miles or so between his job and mine were wiped out. But this Sunday evening he was pretty quiet, breaking out once in the meat course to tell me that he'd just had a forwarded telegram from an old friend of his that would stop us off for a day or two in Portal City, the headquarters of the Pioneer Short Line. Farther along, pretty well into the ice-cream and black coffee, he came to life again to ask me if I had noticed the young lady and the girl in the Pullman section next to ours. I told him I had, and then, because I had never known him to bother his head for two minutes in succession about any woman, he gave me a shock; said they were ticketed to Portal City--and to find that out he must have asked the train conductor--adding that when we reached Portal it would be the neighborly thing for me to do to help them off with their hand-bags and see that they got a cab if they wanted one. "Sure I will," says I. "That is, if the lady's husband isn't there to meet them." "What?" he snaps out. "You know her? She is married?" "No, I don't exactly _know_ her," I shuffled. "But she is married, all right." "How can you tell if you don't know her?" he barked; just like that. I had to make good, right quick, as everybody does who goes up against Mr. Graham Norcross. But it so happened that I was able to. "Her suit case is standing in the aisle, and I saw the tag. It has her name, 'Mrs. Sheila Macrae,' on it." The boss has a way of making two up-and-down wrinkles and a little curved horse-shoe line come between his eyes when he is going to reach for you. "There are times, Jimmie, when you see altogether too much," he said, sort of gruff; and he ate straight through to the far side of his ice-cream pyramid before he began again. "'Macrae,' you say: that is Scotch. And so is 'Sheila.' Most likely the names, both of them, are only hand-downs. She looks straight American to me." "She is pretty enough to look anything," I threw in, just to see how he would take it. "Right you are, Jimmie," he agreed. "I've been looking at the back of her neck all day. I don't know whether you've ever noticed it--you are only a boy and probably you haven't--but there are so many women who don't measure up to the promises they make when you see 'em from behind. You catch a glimpse of a pretty neck, and when you get around to the face you find out that the neck was only a bit of bluff." If I had been eating anything in the world but ice-cream I believe it would have choked me. What he said led up to the admission that he had been making these face-and-neck comparisons for goodness knows how long, and I couldn't surround that, all at once. You see, he was such a picture of a man's man in every sense of the word; a fighter and a hard-hitter, right from the jump. And for a man of that sort women are usually no more than fluffy little side-issues, as Eve said when they told her she was made out of Adam's rib. That ended the dining-car part of it. The sure-enough, knock-out round was fought at the rear end of our Pullman, which happened to be the last car in the train. As we walked back after dinner Mr. Norcross gave me a cigar and said we'd go out to the observation platform to smoke, because the smoking-room was full up with apple-raisers, and sheep-feeders and cattlemen, all talking at once. As we went down the aisle I noticed that Section Five was empty, and when we reached the door we found the young lady and the girl standing at the rear railing to watch the track unroll itself under the trucks and go sliding backwards into the starlight; or at least that was what they seemed to be doing. The young lady was wearing a coat with a storm collar, but the girl had a fur thing around her neck, and her stocky, chunky little arms were elbow deep in a big pillow muff to match, though the April night wasn't even half-way chilly. The boss growled out something about waiting until the ladies should go in; and then, for pure safety's sake, he stepped out on the platform to close the side trap door which, with the railing gate on that side, had been left open by a careless rear flagman. Just then the big "Pacific type" that was pulling us let out a whistle screech that would have waked the dead, and the air-brakes went on with a jerk that showed how beautifully reckless the railroading was on the Pioneer Short Line. Mr. Norcross was reaching for the catch on the floor trap and the jerk didn't throw him. But it snapped the young woman and the girl away from the railing so suddenly that the little one had to grab for hand-holds; and when she did that, of course the big muff went overboard. At this, a bunch of things happened, all in an eye-wink. The train ground and jiggled to a stop; the girl squealed, "Oh, my muff!" and skipped down the steps to disappear in the general direction of the Pacific Coast; the young woman shrieked after her, "Maisie _Ann_!--come back here--you'll be _left_!" and then took her turn at disappearing by the same route; and, on top of it all, the boss jumped off and sprinted after both of them, leaving a string of large, man-sized comments on the foolishness of women as a sex trailing along behind him as he flew. Right then it was my golden moment to play safe and sane. With three of them off and lost in the gathering night, somebody with at least a grain of sense ought to have stood by to pull the emergency cord if the train should start. But of course I had to take a chance and spill the gravy all over the tablecloth. The stop was at a blind siding in the edge of a mountain desert, and when I squinted up ahead and saw that the engine was taking water, it looked as if there were going to be plenty of time for a bit of a promenade under the stars. So I swung off and went to join the muff hunt. Amongst them, they had found the pillow thing before I had a chance to horn in. They were coming up the track, and the boss had each of the two by an arm and was telling them that they'd be left to a dead moral certainty if they didn't run. They couldn't run because their skirts were too fashionably narrow, and there were still three or four car-lengths to go when the tank spout went up with a clang and a clatter of chains and the old "Pacific type" gave a couple of hisses and a snort. "They're going!" gritted the boss, sort of between his teeth, and without another word he grabbed those two hobbled women folks up under his arms, just as if they'd been a couple of sacks of meal, and broke into a run. It wasn't a morsel of use, you know. Mr. Norcross stands six feet two in his socks, and I've heard that he was the best all-around athlete in his college bunch. But old Hercules himself couldn't have run very far or very fast with the handicap the boss had taken on, and in less than half a minute the "Pacific type" had caught her stride and the red tail lights of the train were vanishing to pin points in the night. We were like the little tad that went out to the garden to eat worms. Nobody loved us, and we were beautifully and artistically left. II A Tank Party When he saw that it was no manner of use, the boss quit on the handicap race and put his two armfuls down while he still had breath enough left to talk with. "Well," he said, in his best rusty-hinge rasp, "you've done it! Why, in the name of common sense, couldn't you have let me go back after that muff thing?" The young woman was panting as if she had been doing the running, and the girl was choking and making a noise that made me think that she was crying. If I had been as well acquainted with her as I got to be a little later on, I would have known that she was only trying to bottle up a laugh that was too beautifully big to be wasted upon just three people and a treeless desert. It was the young woman who answered the boss. "I--I didn't stop to think!" she fluttered, taking the blame as if she had been the one to head the procession. "Isn't there _any_ way we can stop that train?" The boss said there wasn't, and I know the only reason why he didn't say a lot of other things was because he was too much of a gentleman to say them in the presence of a couple of women. "But what shall we do?" the young woman went on, gasping a little. "Isn't there any telegraph station, or--or anything?" There wasn't. So far as we could see, the surroundings consisted of a short side-track, a spur running off into the hills, and the water tank. The siding switches had no lights, which argued that there wasn't even a pump-man at the tank--as there was not, the tank being filled automatically by a gravity pipe line running back to a natural reservoir in the mountains. Before the boss had a chance to answer her question about the telegraph office he got his eye on me, and then I knew that he hadn't noticed me before. "You here, too?" he ripped out, and I know it did him a lot of good to be able to unload on somebody in trousers. "Why in blue blazes didn't you stay on that train and keep it from running away from us?" That's it: why didn't I? What made the dog stop before he caught the rabbit? I was trying to frame up some sort of an excuse that would sound just a few degrees less than plumb foolish, when the young woman took up for me. She'd had the clatter of my typewriter dinned into her pretty ears all day, and she knew who I was, even if it was dark. "Don't take it out on the poor boy!" she said, kind of crisp, and yet sort of motherly. "If you feel obliged to bully some one, I'm the one who is to blame." "Indeed, you're not!" chipped in the stocky little girl. "_I_ was the one who jumped off first. And I don't care: I wasn't going to lose my perfectly good muff." By this time the boss was beginning to get a little better grip on himself and he laughed. "We've all earned the leather medal, I guess," he chuckled. "It's done now, and it can't be helped. We're stuck until another train comes along, and perhaps we ought to be thankful that we've got Jimmie Dodds along to chaperon us." "But isn't there anything else we can do?" said the young woman. "Can't we walk somewhere to where there is a station or a town with people in it?" I saw Mr. Norcross look down at her skirts and then at the girl's. "You two couldn't walk very far or very fast in those things you are wearing," he grunted. "Besides, we are in one of the desert strips, and it is probably miles to a night wire station in either direction." "And how long shall we have to wait for another train?" This time it was the little girl who wanted to know. "I wish I could tell you, but I can't," said the boss. "I'm not familiar with the Short Line schedules." Then to the young woman: "Shall we go and sit under the water tank? That seems to be about the nearest approach to a waiting-room that the place affords." We trailed off together up the track, two and two, the boss walking with the young woman. After we'd counted a few of the cross-ties, the girl said: "Is your name Jimmie Dodds?" And when I admitted it: "Mine is Maisie Ann. I'm Sheila's cousin on her mother's side. I think this is a great lark; don't you?" "I can tell better after it's over," I said. "Maybe we'll have to stay here all night." "I shouldn't mind," she came back airily. "I haven't been up all night since I was a little kiddie and our house burned down. You're just a boy, aren't you? You must excuse me; it's so dark that I can't see you very well." I told her I had been shaving for three years and more, and she let out a little gurgling laugh, as though I had said something funny. By that time we had reached the big water tank, and the boss picked out one of the square footing timbers for a seat. It seemed as if he were finding it a good bit harder to get acquainted with his half of the combination than I was with mine, but after a little the young women thawed out a bit and made him talk--to help pass away the time, I took it--and the little girl and I sat and listened. When the young woman finally got him started, the boss told her all about himself, how he'd been railroading ever since he left college, and a lot of things that I'd never even dreamed of. It's curious how a pretty woman can make a man turn himself inside out that way, just for her amusement. Maisie Ann and I sat on the end of the timber; not too near to be butt-ins, nor so far away that we couldn't hear all that was said. I still had the cigar the boss had given me, and I sure wanted to smoke mighty bad, only I thought it wouldn't look just right--me being the chaperon. Along in the middle of things, Mr. Norcross broke off short and begged the young woman's pardon for boring her with so much shop talk. "Oh, you're not boring me at all; I like to hear it," she protested. And then: "You have been telling me the story of a man who has done things, Mr. Norcross. It has been my misfortune to have to associate chiefly with men who only play at doing things." He switched off at that and asked her if she were warm enough, saying that if she were not, he and I would scrap up some sage-brush or something and make a fire. She replied that she didn't care for a fire, that the night wasn't at all cold--which it wasn't. Then she showed that she was human, clear down to the tips of her pretty fingers. "You may smoke if you want to," she told the boss. "I sha'n't mind it in the least." At that, my little girl turned on me and said, in exactly the same tone: "You may smoke if you want to, Mr. Dodds. I sha'n't mind it in the least." I heard a sort of smothered chuckle from the other end of the timber seat, and the boss lighted his cigar. Then there was more talk, in which it turned out that the young woman and her cousin were to have been met at Portal City by somebody she called "Cousin Basil," but there wouldn't be any scare, because she had written ahead to say that possibly they might stop over with some friends in one of the apple towns. Then Mr. Norcross said _he_ wouldn't miss anything by the drop-out but an appointment he had with an old friend, and he guessed that could wait. I listened, thinking maybe he would mention the name of the friend, and after a while he did. The forwarded Portal City telegram the boss had gotten just before we went to dinner in the dining-car was from "Uncle John" Chadwick, the Chicago wheat king, and that left me wondering what the mischief Mr. Chadwick was doing away out in the wild and woolly western country where they raise more apples than they do wheat, and more mining stock schemes than they do either. There was another thing that I listened for, too, but it didn't come. That was some little side mention of the young woman's husband. So far as that under-the-tank talk went, there needn't have been any "Mr. Macrae" at all, and I was puzzled. If she'd been wearing mourning--but she wasn't, so I told myself that she simply couldn't be a widow. Anyway, she was a lot too light-hearted for that. We had been marooned for nearly an hour when I struck a match and looked at my watch. Mr. Norcross was still doing his best to kill time for the young woman, and he was just in the exciting part of another railroad story, telling about a right-of-way fight on the Midland, where we had to smuggle in a few cases of Winchesters and arm the track-layers to keep from being shut out of the only canyon there was by the P. & S. F., when the little girl grabbed my arm and said: "Listen!" I did, and broke in promptly. "Excuse me," I called to the other two, "but I think there's a train coming." The boss cut his story short and we all listened. It seemed that I was wrong. The noise we heard was more like an auto running with the cut-out open than a train rumbling. "What do you make it, Jimmie?" came from the boss's end of the timber. "Motor car. It's out that way," I said, pointing in the darkness toward the east. My guess was right. In less than a minute we saw the lights of the car, which was turning in a wide circle to come up beside the main line track so it would head back to the east. It stopped a little way below the water tank and about a hundred yards north of the track, or maybe less; anyway, we could see it quite well even when the lamps were switched off and four men came tumbling out of it. If I had been alone on the job I should probably have called to the men as they came tramping over to the side-track. But Mr. Norcross had a different think coming. "Out of sight--quick, Jimmie!" he whispered, and in another second he had whipped the young woman over the big footing timber to a standing place under the tank among the braces, and I had done the same for the girl. What followed was as mysterious as a chapter out of an Anna Katherine Green detective story. After doing something to the switch of the unused spur track, the four men separated. One of them went back to the auto, and the other three walked down the main track to the lower switch of the short siding which was on the same side of the main line as the spur. Here the fourth man rejoined them, and the girl at my elbow told us what he had gone back to the car for. "He has lighted a red lantern," she whispered. "I saw it when he took it out of the auto." I guess it was pretty plain to all of us by this time that there was something decidedly crooked on the cards, but if we had known what it was, we couldn't very well have done anything to prevent it. There were only two of us men to their four; and, besides, there wasn't any time. The lantern-carrying man had barely reached the lower switch when we heard the whistle of a locomotive. There was a train coming from the west, and a few seconds later an electric headlight showed up on the long tangent beyond the siding. It was a bandit hold-up, all right. We saw the four men at the switch stop the train, which seemed to be a special, since it had only the engine and one passenger car. One of the men stood on the track waving the red lantern; we could see him plainly in the glare of the headlight. There wasn't much of a scrap. There were two or three pistol shots, and then, as near as we could make out, the hold-up men, or some of them, climbed into the engine. What they did next was as blind as a Chinese puzzle. Before you could count ten they had made a flying switch with the single car, kicking it in on the siding. Before the car had come fully to a stop, the engine was switched in behind it, coupled on, and the reversed train, with the engine pushing the car, rattled away on the old spur that led off into the hills; clattered away and was lost to sight and hearing in less than a minute. It was not until after the train was switched and gone that we discovered that two of the bandits had been left behind. These two reset the switches for the main track, leaving everything as they had found it, and then crossed over to the auto. Pretty soon we saw match flares, and two little red dots that appeared told us that they were smoking. "What are they doing, Jimmie?" asked the boss, under his breath. "They are waiting for the other two to come back," I ventured, taking a chance shot at it. Then I asked him if he knew where the old spur track led to. He said he didn't; that there used to be some bauxite mines back in the hills, somewhere in this vicinity, but he understood they had been worked out and abandoned. I was just thinking that all this mystery and kidnapping and gun play must be sort of hard on the young woman and the girl, but though my half of the allotment was shivering a little and snuggling up just a grain closer to me, she proved that she hadn't lost her nerve. "Did you see the name on that car when the engine went past to get in behind it?" she asked, turning the whispered question loose for anybody to answer. "No," said the boss; and I hadn't, either. "I did," she asserted, showing that her eyes, or her wits, were quicker than ours. "I had just one little glimpse of it. The name is 'A-l-e-x-a,'" spelling it out. Mr. Norcross started as if he had been shot. "The _Alexa_? That is Mr. Chadwick's private car--they've kidnapped him!" Then he whirled short on me. "Jimmie, are you man enough to go with me and try a tackle on those fellows over there in that auto?" I said I was; but I didn't add what I thought--that it would probably be a case of double suicide for us two to go up against a pair of armed thugs with our bare hands. The boss would have done it in the hollow half of a minute; he's built just that way. But now the young woman put in her word. "You mustn't think of doing such a thing!" she protested; and she was still telling him all the different reasons why he mustn't, when we heard the creak and grind of the stolen engine coming back down the old spur. After that there was nothing to do but to wait and see what was going to happen next. What did happen was as blind as all the rest. The engine was stopped somewhere in the gulch back of us and out of sight from our hiding-place, and pretty soon the two men who had gone with her came hurrying across out of the hill shadows, making straight for the auto. A minute or two later they had climbed into the machine, the motor had sputtered, and the car was gone. III Mr. Chadwick's Special Of course, as soon as the skip-out of the four hold-up men gave us a free hand we knew it was up to us to get busy and do something. It was a safe bet that the _Alexa_ was carrying her owner, and in that case Mr. John Chadwick and his train crew were somewhere back in the hills, without an engine, and with a good prospect of staying "put" until somebody should go and hunt them up. Mr. Norcross had our part in the play figured out before the retreating auto had covered its first mile. "We've got to find out what they've done with Mr. Chadwick," he broke out. And then: "It can't be very far to where they have left the engine, and if they haven't crippled it--" He stopped short and slung a question at the two women: "Will you two stay here with Jimmie while I go and see what I can find in that gulch?" They both paid me the compliment of saying that they'd stay with me, but the young woman suggested that it might be just as well if we should all go up the gulch together. So we piked out in the dark, the boss helping Mrs. Sheila to hobo along over the cross-ties of the spur, and the little girl stumbling on behind with me. She had got over her scare, if she had any, and when I asked her if she didn't want an arm to grab at, she laughed and said, No, and that it was grand; that she wouldn't miss a single stumble for worlds. "In all my life I've never had anything half as exciting as this happen to me," was the way she put it, and she sure acted as if she meant to make the most of it. We had followed the spur track up the gulch for maybe a short quarter of a mile when we came to the engine. There was nobody on it, and the brigands had been good-natured enough to leave the fire-door open so that the steam would run down gently and let the boiler cool off by degrees. Luckily for us, the boss was an expert on engines, just as he is on everything else belonging to a railroad, and he struck matches and looked our find over carefully before he tried to move it. As we had feared it might be, the big machine was crippled. There was a key gone out of one of the connecting-rod crank-pin straps; one miserable little piece of steel, maybe eight inches long and tapering one way, and half an inch or so thick the other; but that was a-plenty. We couldn't make a move without it. I thought we were done for, but Mr. Norcross chased me up into the cab for a lantern. With the light we began to hunt around in the short grass, all four of us down on our hands and knees doing the needle-in-the-haystack stunt. I had been sensible enough to show the little girl the other connecting-rod key, so she knew exactly what to look for, and it did me a heap of good when it turned out that she was the one who found the lost bit of steel. "I've got it--I've got it!" she cried; and sure enough she had. The hold-up people had merely taken it out and thrown it aside on the extremely probable chance that nobody would be foolish enough to look for it so near at hand, or, looking, would be able to find it in the dark. It didn't take more than a minute or two, with a wrench from the engineer's box, to put the key back in place. Then, with one to boost and the other to pull, we got our two passengers up into the high cab, and Mr. Norcross made them as comfortable as he could on the fireman's box, showing them how to brace and hang on when the machine should begin to bounce over the rough track of the old spur. While he was doing this, I threw a few shovelfuls of coal into the firebox and put the blower on; and when we were all set, the boss opened the throttle and we went carefully nosing ahead over the old track, feeling our way up the gulch and keeping a sharp lookout for the _Alexa_ as we ground and squealed around the curves. It must have been four or five miles back in the hills to the place where we found the private car, and a little way short of it we picked up Mr. Chadwick's conductor, walking the ties to try to get in touch with the civilized world once more. He looked a trifle suspicious when he found the engine in the hands of still another bunch of strangers, and two of them women; but as soon as he heard Mr. Norcross's name he quit being offish and got suddenly respectful. Young as he was for a top-rounder, the boss had a "rep," and I guess there were not very many railroad men west of the Rockies who didn't know him, or know of him. The conductor told us where we'd find the car, and we found it just as he said we would: pushed in on an old mine-loading track at the end of the spur. The other members of the crew were off and waiting for us; and standing out on the back platform, in the full glare of the headlight as we nosed up for a coupling, there was a big, gray-haired man, bareheaded and dressed in rough-looking old clothes like a mining prospector. The big man was "Uncle John" Chadwick, and if he was properly astonished at seeing us turn up with his lost engine, he didn't let it interfere with our welcome when we took our passengers around to the car and lifted them one at a time over the railing and climbed up after them. Mr. Chadwick seemed to know Mrs. Sheila; at any rate, he shook hands with her and called her by name. Then he grabbed for the boss and fairly shouted at him: "Well, well, Graham!--of all the lucky things this side of Mesopotamia! How the dev--how in thunder did you manage to turn up here?" And all that, you know. The explanations, such as they were, came later, after the young lady, confessing herself a bit excited and fussed up, had taken her cousin under her arm and they had both gone to lie down in one of the staterooms. With the women out of the way, the boss and Mr. Chadwick sat together in the open compartment while the train crew was trundling us back to the main line. Mr. Norcross had put me in right by telling the wheat king who I was, so they didn't pay any attention to me. As a matter of course, the talk jumped first to the mysterious hold-up and kidnapping and the reason why. All either of them could say didn't serve to throw any light on the mystery, not a single ray. There had been no violence--the pistol shots had been merely meant to scare the trainmen--and there had been no attempt at robbery; for that matter, Mr. Chadwick hadn't even seen the kidnappers, and hadn't known what was going on until after it was all over. Mr. Norcross told what we had seen, and how we had come to be where we were able to see it, but that didn't help out much, either. From any point of view it seemed perfectly foolish, and the boss made mention of that. If we hadn't happened to be there to bring the engine back, the worst that could have befallen Mr. Chadwick and the crew of the special would have been a few hours' bother and delay. In the course of time the conductor would have walked out and got to a wire station somewhere, though it might have taken him all night, and then some, to get another engine. Naturally, Mr. Chadwick was red-hot about it, on general principles. I guess he wasn't used to being kidnapped. But, after all, the thing that bothered him most was the fact that he couldn't account for it. "I can't help thinking that it is connected with what is due to happen to-morrow morning, Graham," he said, at the end of things. "There are some certain scoundrels in Portal City at the present moment who wouldn't stop at anything to gain their ends, and I am wondering now if Dawes wasn't mixed up in it." The boss laughed and said: "You'll have to begin at the beginning with me: I'm too new in this region to know even the names. Who is Dawes?" "Dawes is a mining man in Portal City, and before I'd been an hour in town yesterday he hunted me up and wanted me to go over to Strathcona to look at some gold prospects he's trying to finance. I said 'No' at first, because I was expecting you, and thought you'd reach Portal City this morning. When you didn't show up, I knew I had twelve hours more on my hands, and as Dawes was still hanging on, I had our trainmaster give me a special over to Strathcona, on a promise that I'd be brought back early this evening, ahead of the 'Flyer' from the west--the train you were on." Mr. Norcross nodded. "And the promise wasn't kept." "No promise is ever kept on the Pioneer Short Line," growled the big magnate. And then, with a beautiful disregard for the mixed figures of speech: "Once in a blue moon the chapter of accidents hits the bull's-eye whack in the middle, Graham. When Hardshaw wired me from Portland, I knew you couldn't reach Portal City before this morning, at the very earliest. That was going to cut my time pretty short, with the big gun due to be fired to-morrow morning, and you cut it still shorter by losing twelve hours somewhere along the road--they told me in the despatcher's office that your train was behind a wreck somewhere up in Oregon. But it has turned out all right, in spite of everything. You're here, and we've got the night before us." Again Mr. Norcross said something about beginning at the beginning. "Just remember that I am entirely in the dark," he went on. "I didn't see Hardshaw at all before leaving Portland; he merely forwarded your wire, asking me to stop over in Portal City, to me on the train--and it was handed to me just before dinner this evening. Of course, that was enough--from anybody who has been as good a friend to me as you have." "We'll see presently just how far that friendship rope is going to reach," returned the wheat king, and though my back was turned to them, I could easily imagine the quizzical twinkle of the shrewd old eyes that went with it. Then I suppose he nodded toward me, for the boss said: "Oh, Jimmie's all right; he knew what I had for dinner this evening, and he'll know what I'm going to have for breakfast to-morrow morning." With the bridle off, the big man went ahead abruptly, cutting out all the frills. "You finished your building contract on the Oregon Midland, Graham, and after the road was opened for business you refused an offer of the general managership. Would you mind telling me why you did that?" "Not in the least. I'm rather burnt out on trying to operate American railroads; at any rate, when it comes to trying to operate one of them for a legitimate profit. There is nothing in it. An operating head is now nothing more than a score-keeper for a national gambling game. The boss gamblers around the railroad post in the Stock Exchange tell him what he has to do and where he has to get off. Stock gambling, under whatever name it masquerades--boosting values, buying and selling margins, reorganizations, with their huge rake-offs for the underwriters--is the incubus which is crushing the life out of the nation's industries, especially in the railroad field. It makes me wish I'd never seen a railroad track." "Yet it is your trade, isn't it?" asked the wheat king. "It is; but luckily I can build railroads as well as operate them; and there are other countries besides the United States of America. I'm on my way home to Illinois for a little visit with my mother and sisters; and after that I think I shall close with an offer I've had from one of the Canadian companies." "Good boy!" chuckled the Chicago magnate. "In due time we might hope to be reading your name in the newspapers--'Sir Graham Norcross, D.S.O.,' or something of that sort." Then, with a sharp return to the sort of gritting seriousness: "You've been riding over the Pioneer Short Line since early this morning, Graham: what do you think of it?" I couldn't see the boss's smile, but I could figure it pretty well when he said: "There may be worse managed, worse neglected pieces of railroad track in some of the great transcontinental lines, but if there are I haven't happened to notice them. I suppose it is capitalized to death, like many of the others." "Fictitious values doubtless have something to do with it at the present stage of the game," Mr. Chadwick admitted. "The Pioneer Short Line is 'under suspicion' on the books of the commissions, both State and Interstate, as a heavily 'watered' corporation--which it is. Do you know the history of the road?" When I got up to get a match, Mr. Norcross was shaking his head and saying: "Not categorically; no." "Then I'll brief it for you," said the big man in the stuffed wicker chair. "It has always been a good earning property, being largely, even yet, without much local competition. But from the day it was completed its securities have figured in the market only for their speculative values. The property itself has never been considered, save as a means to an end; the end being to enable one bunch of the Wall Street gamesters you speak of to make a 'killing' and unload on another bunch." "The old story," said Mr. Norcross. "We are bumping over the net result, right now," Mr. Chadwick went on. "The property is bled white; there is no money for betterments; we are tied hand and foot by all sorts of legal restrictions and regulations; and, worse than all, the people we are supposed to serve hate us until you can smell it and taste it in every town and hamlet on the right-of-way." "So I have heard," put in the boss, calmly. "That brings us down to the nib of the matter. Pioneer Short Line is practically in the last ditch. The stock has slumped to forty and worse; Shaffer, the general manager and the only able man we have had for years, has resigned in disgust; and if something isn't done to-morrow morning in Portal City, I know of at least one minority stockholder who is going to throw the whole mess into the courts and try for a receivership." Mr. Norcross looked up quickly. "Are you the minority stockholder, Uncle John?" he asked, letting himself use the name by which Mr. Chadwick was best known in the wheat pit. "I am--more's the pity. I had a little lapse of sanity one fine morning a few years ago and bought in for an investment. I've done everything I could think of, Graham, to persuade Breck Dunton and his Wall Street accomplices to spend just one dollar in ten of their reorganization and recapitalization stealings on the road itself, but it's no good. All they want is to get one more rise out of the securities, so they can unload." "Is there to be a stockholders' meeting in Portal City to-morrow morning?" "No; a directors' meeting. Dunton has been making an inspection trip over the system with a dozen or so of his New York cronies. It's a junketing excursion, pure and simple, but while they're here they'll get together and go through the form of picking out a new general manager. I'm on the board and they had to send me notice, though it's an even bet they hoped I'd stay away. In fact, I think they scheduled the meeting out here on the chance that the distance from Chicago would keep me from attending it." All this talk had taken up a good bit of time, and just as Mr. Chadwick said that about the "even bet," our engineer was whistling for Portal City. From where I was sitting I could see the electric lights dotting the wide valley between the two gateway buttes from which the city gets its name. Mr. Norcross was looking at the lights, too, when he said: "Are you really going to spring the receivership on the Dunton people to-morrow?" "I'm going to give Dunton his chance. He can appoint the man I want appointed as general manager, with full power to act, and ratify a little plan I've got up my sleeve for providing a bit of working capital for the road, or--he can turn me down." "And if he does turn you down?" "Then, by George, I'll see if I can't persuade the courts to put the property into bankruptcy and install my man as receiver!" "I don't envy your man his job, either way around; not the least little morsel in the world," said the boss, quietly. And then: "Who is he, Uncle John?" The wheat king gave a great laugh. "Don't tell me you haven't guessed it," he chuckled. "You're the man, Graham." But now Mr. Norcross had something to say for himself, sitting up straight and shaking his head sort of sorrowfully at the big man in the padded chair. "No you don't, my good old friend; not in a thousand years! You'd lose out in the end, and I'd lose out; and besides, I'm not quite ready to commit suicide." And then to me: "Jimmie, suppose you go and tap on the door and tell the ladies we're pulling into Portal City." IV The Tipping of the Scale After all, it wasn't so very late in the night when our special pulled up to the Portal City station platform and I turned myself into a messenger-boy escort for the lady and the little girl whose muff had been responsible for so many different flip-flaps in the short space of a few hours. I hadn't hung around while the boss was telling Mrs. Sheila and Maisie Ann good-by. Our conductor had wired ahead from the first telegraph station we came to and had asked to have our dunnage--the two women's, the boss's, and mine--taken out of the "Flyer" Pullman and sent back to Portal City on a local, and I was in the baggage-room, digging up the put-off stuff, at the good-by minute. But I guess they didn't quarrel any--the boss and Mrs. Sheila. She was laughing a little to herself as I helped her down from the car, and when I asked her where she wanted to go, she said I might ask one of the porters to carry the traps, and we'd walk to the hotel, which was only a few blocks up the main street. She took Maisie Ann on the other side of her and let two of the blocks go by without saying anything more, and then she gave that quiet little laugh again and said, "Your Mr. Norcross amuses me, Jimmie. He says I have no business to travel without a guardian. What do you think about it?" I told her I hadn't any thinks coming, and she seemed to take that for a joke and laughed some more. Then she asked me if I'd ever been in New York, and I felt sort of small when I had to tell her that I had never been east of Omaha in all my life. With that, she told me not to worry; that if I stayed with Mr. Norcross I'd probably get to go anywhere I wanted to. Something in the way she said it made it sound like a little slam on the boss, and of course I wasn't going to stand for that. "There is one thing about it: the boss will make good wherever he goes," I hit back. "You can bet on that." "I like your loyalty," she flashed out. "It is a fine thing in a day that is much too careless of such qualities. And I agree with you that your Mr. Norcross is likely to succeed; more than likely, if he will only learn to combine a little gentle cleverness with the heavy hand." There was no doubt about it this time; she _was_ slamming the boss, and I meant to get at the bottom of it, right there and then. "I don't think you have any cause to blacklist Mr. Norcross," I said. "Hasn't he been right good and brotherly to both of you this evening?" "Oh, I didn't mean that," she said real earnestly. "But in the stateroom in Mr. Chadwick's car: the ventilator was open, you know, until Maisie Ann got up and shut it, and we couldn't very well help hearing what was said about the kidnapping. Neither Mr. Chadwick nor Mr. Norcross seemed to be able to account for it." "Can you account for it?" I asked, bluntly enough, I guess. At this she smiled and said, "It would be rather presumptuous for me to try where Mr. Norcross and Mr. Chadwick failed, wouldn't it? But maybe I can give you just a wee little hint. If you are not well enough acquainted with Mr. Chadwick to ask him yourself, you might tell Mr. Norcross to ask him if there isn't some strong reason why somebody, or perhaps a number of somebodies, wanted to keep him out of Portal City over Sunday night and possibly a part of the Monday." We were coming to the big electric sign that was winking out the letters to spell "Hotel Bullard," and I was bound to have it out with her before my chance was gone. "See here," I put in; "you saw something more than I did, and more than Mr. Norcross did. What was it?" This time she took the motherly tone with me again and told me I must learn not to be rude and masterful, like the boss. Then she gave me what I was reaching for. "You saw the two men who went over to the auto and smoked while they were waiting for the other two to come back?" I told her that I hadn't seen them very well; couldn't, with nothing but the starlight to help out. "Neither did I," she admitted. "But if I am not mistaken, I have seen them many times before, and they are very well known here in Portal City. One of them, the smaller one with the derby hat and the short overcoat, was either Mr. Rufus Hatch or his double; and the other, the heavy-set one, might have been Mr. Gustave Henckel, Mr. Hatch's partner in the Red Tower Company." This didn't help out much, but you can bet that I made a note of the two names. We were just going into the hotel, so I didn't have a chance to ask any more questions; and after I had paid the porter for lugging the grips, Mrs. Sheila had made whatever arrangement she wanted to with the clerk, and she and Maisie Ann were ready to take the elevator. "You are going back to Mr. Chadwick's car?" she asked, when she was telling me good-by and thanking me for coming up to the hotel with them. I told her I was, and then she came around to the kidnapping business again of her own accord. "You may give Mr. Norcross the hint I gave you, if you wish," she said; "only you must be a good boy, Jimmie, and not drag me into it. I couldn't be positively certain, you know, that the two men were really Mr. Hatch and Mr. Henckel. But if there is any reason why those two wouldn't want Mr. Chadwick to reach the city at the time he was counting on----" "I see," I nodded; "it just puts the weight of the inference over on that side. I'll tell the boss, when I get a good chance, and you can bet your last dollar he won't tangle you up in it--he isn't put together that way." "Well, then, good-night," she smiled, giving me her hand. And then: "Mr. Norcross says you'll be going on East to-morrow, and in that case it may be a long time before we meet again. After a while, after he has forgotten all about it, you may tell him from me--" She stopped and gave me that funny little laugh again that made her look so pretty, and said: "No, I guess you needn't, either." And with that she sort of edged the little girl into the elevator before we could get a chance to shake hands, and I heard her tell the boy to take them up to the mezzanine landing. Since I didn't have any reason to suppose that the boss was needing me, I took my own time about going back to hunt for Mr. Chadwick's car in the railroad yards, loafing for a while in the Bullard lobby to rubber and look on at the people coming and going. You can tell pretty well how a town stacks up for business if you hit it between ten and eleven o'clock of a Sunday night and hang around its best hotel. If the town is dead, there won't be anybody stirring around the hotel at that hour. But Portal City seemed to be good and alive. There were lots of people knocking about on the sidewalks and drifting in and out of the lobby. By and by, I went down to the station and began to hunt for the _Alexa_. The yard crew had side-tracked it on a spur down by the freight-house, and when I had stumbled over to it the negro porter remembered me well enough to let me in. The boss and Mr. Chadwick were facing each other across the table, which was all littered up with papers and maps and reports, and they hardly noticed me when I blew in and sat down a little to one side. I had known well enough, when Mr. Norcross had turned the new offer down, that Mr. Chadwick wasn't going to let it go at that. It seemed that he hadn't; he had got the boss sufficiently interested to go over the papers with him, anyhow. But just after I broke in, Mr. Norcross jumped up and began to pace back and forth before the table, with his hands in his pockets. "No, I can't see it, Uncle John," he said, still sort of stubborn and determined. "You are trying to make me believe that I ought to take the biggest job that has ever been set before the expert in any field: to demonstrate, on this rotten corpse of a railroad, the solution of a problem that has the entire country guessing at the present time; namely, the winning of success, and public--and industrial--approval for a carrier corporation which had continuously and persistently broken every commandment in all the decalogues--of business; of fair-dealing with its employees; of common honesty with everybody." Mr. Chadwick nodded. "That is about the size of it," he said. "I wouldn't say that it can't be done," the boss went on. "Perhaps it is possible, for the right man. But I'm not the right man. You need somebody who can combine the qualities of a pretty brutal slugger with those of a fine-haired, all-things-to-all-men, diplomatic peacemaker. I can do the slugging; I've proved it a time or two in the past. But I'm no good at the other end of the game. When it comes to handling the fellow with a 'pull,' I've either got to smash him or quit." At that Mr. Chadwick nodded again and said: "That is one of the reasons why I have reached out and picked you for the job. There will be a good bit of the slugging needed, at first, and I guess you can acquire the other things as you go along, can't you?" "Not at this late day, I'm afraid. People who know me best call me a scrapper, and I've been living up to my reputation. Yesterday, when we were held up behind the freight wreck at Widner, I got off to see what we were in for. The conductor of our train had spotted me from seeing my pass, and I happened to hear him docketing me for the wrecking boss. He said I was known on the Midland as 'Hell-and-repeat' Norcross; that it was a habit with me to have a man for breakfast every morning." "I can add a little something to that," Mr. Chadwick put in, quizzically. "Lepaige, your Oregon Midland president, says you need humanizing, and wonders why you haven't married some good woman who would knock the rough corners off. Why haven't you, Graham?" The boss gave a short laugh. "Too busy," he said. "Past that, we might assume that the good woman hasn't presented herself. Let it go. The facts still stand. I am too heavy-handed for this job of yours. I should probably mix up with some of these grafters you've been telling me about and get a knife in my back. That would be all in the day's work, of course, but it would leave you right where you are now. And as for this other thing--the industrial side of it: that's a large order; a whaling big order. I'm not even prepared to say, off-hand, that it's the right thing to do." "Right or wrong, it's a thing that is coming, Graham," was the sober reply. "If we don't meet it half-way--well, the time will come when we of the hiring-and-firing side won't be given any option in the matter. You may call it Utopian if you please, and add that I'm growing old and losing my grip. But that doesn't obliterate the fact that the days of the present master-and-man relations in the industries are numbered." The boss shook his head. "As I say, I can't go that far with you, off-hand; and if I could, I should still doubt that I am the man to head your procession." I thought that settled it, but that was because I didn't know Mr. Chadwick very well. The big wheat king just smiled up at the boss, sort of fatherly, and said: "We'll let it rest until morning and give you a chance to sleep on it. You have spoken only of the difficulties and the responsibilities, Graham; but there is another side to it. In a way, it's an opportunity, carrying with it the promise of the biggest kind of a reward." "I don't see it," said the boss, briefly. "Don't you? I do. I have an idea rambling around in my head that it is about time some bright young fellow was demonstrating that problem you speak of--showing the people of the United States that a railroad needn't be regarded as an outlaw among the industries; needn't have the enmity of everybody it serves; needn't be the prey of a lot of disloyal and dissatisfied employees who are interested only in the figure of the pay-day check; needn't be shot at as a wolf with a bounty on its scalp. Let it rest at that for the present. Get your hat and we'll walk up-town to the hotel. I want to have a word with Dunton to-night, if I can shake him loose from his junketing bunch long enough to listen to it. Beyond that, I want to get hold of the sheriff and put him on the track of those hold-ups." Here was a chance for me to butt in with the hint Mrs. Sheila had given me, but I didn't see how I was going to do it without giving her away. So I said the little end of nothing, just as hard as I could; and when we got out of the car, Mr. Norcross told me to go by the station and have our luggage sent to the hotel, and that killed whatever chance I might have had farther along. It was some time after eleven o'clock when I got around to the hotel with the traps. The stir in the lobby had quieted down to make it seem a little more like Sunday night, but an automobile party had just come in, and some of the men were jawing at the clerk because the house wasn't serving a midnight theater supper in the café on the Sunday. Mr. Chadwick had disappeared, but I saw the boss at the counter waiting for his chance at the clerk. The quarrelsome people melted away at last, all but one--a young swell who would have been handsome if he hadn't had the eyes of a maniac and a color that was sort of corpse-like with the pallor of a booze-fighter. He had his hat on the back of his head, and he was ripping it off at the clerk like a drunken hobo. His ravings were so cluttered up with cuss-words that I couldn't get any more than the drift of them, but it seemed that he had caught a glimpse of somebody he knew--a woman, I took it, because he said "she"--looking down from the rail of the mezzanine, and he wanted to go up to her. And it appeared that the clerk had told the elevator man not to take him up in his present condition. The boss was growing sort of impatient; I could tell it by the way the little side muscles on his jaw were working. When he got the ear of the clerk for a second or so between cusses, he asked what was the matter with the lunatic. I caught only broken bits of the clerk's half-whisper: "Young Collingwood ... President Dunton's nephew ... saw lady ... mezzanine ... wants to go up to her." The boss scowled at the young fellow, who was now handing himself around the corner of the counter to get at the clerk again, and said: "Why don't you ring for an officer and have him run in?" The night clerk was evidently scared of his job. "I wouldn't dare to do that," he chittered. "He's one of the New York crowd--the railroad people--President Dunton's nephew--guest of the house." The young fellow had pulled himself around to our side of the counter by this time and was hooking his arm to make a pass at Mr. Norcross, trimming things up as he came with a lot more language. The boss said, right short and sharp, to the clerk, "Get his room key and give it to a boy who can show me the way," and the next thing we knew he had bashed that lunatic square in the face and was cuffing him along to the nearest elevator. I guess it sort of surprised the clerk, and everybody else who happened to see it--but not me. It was just like the boss. He came back in a few minutes, looking as cool as a cucumber. "What did you do with him?" asked the clerk, kind of awed and half scared. "Got a couple of the corridor sweepers to put him in a bath and turn the cold water on him. That'll take the whiskey out of him. Now, if you have a minute to spare, I'd like to get my assignment." We hadn't more than got our rooms marked off for us when I saw Mr. Chadwick coming across from the farther of the three elevators. He was smiling sort of grim, as if he'd made a killing of some sort with Mr. Dunton, and instead of heading back for his car he took the boss over to a corner of the lobby and sat down to smoke with him. I circled around for a while, and after a bit Mr. Norcross held up a finger at me to bring him a match. They didn't seem to be talking anything private, so I sat down just beyond them, so sleepy that I could hardly see straight. Mr. Chadwick was telling about his early experiences in Portal City, how he blew in first on top of the Strathcona gold boom, and how he had known mighty near everybody in the region in those days. While he was talking, a taxi drove up and one of the old residenters came in from the street and crossed to the elevators; a mighty handsome, stately old gentleman, with fierce white mustaches and a goatee, and "Southern Colonel" written all over him. "There's one of them now; Major Basil Kendrick--Kentucky born and raised, as you might guess," Mr. Chadwick was saying. "Old-school Southern 'quality,' and as fine as they make 'em. He is a lawyer, but not in active practice: owns a mine or two in Strathcona Gulch, and is neither too rich nor too poor." I grabbed at the name, "Basil," right away: it isn't such a very common name, and Mrs. Sheila had said something--under the water tank, you recollect--about a "Cousin Basil" who was to have met her at the train. I was putting two or three little private guesses of my own together, when one of the elevators came down and here came our two, the young lady and the chunky little girl, with the major chuckling and smiling and giving an arm to each. They had apparently stopped at the Bullard only to wait until he could come after them and take them home. Mrs. Sheila was looking just as pretty as ever, only now there wasn't a bit of color in her face, and her eyes seemed a good deal brighter, some way. "Yes, indeed; the major is all right; as you'd find out for yourself if you'd make up your mind to stay in Portal City and get acquainted with him," Mr. Chadwick was going on; and by that time the major and the two pretty ones had come on to where the boss and Mr. Chadwick could see them. I saw the boss sit up in his chair and stare at them. Then he said: "That's Mrs. Macrae with him now. Is she a member of his family?" "A second cousin, or something of that sort," said Mr. Chadwick. "I met her once at the major's house out in the northern suburb last summer, and that's how I came to know her when you put her aboard of the _Alexa_ back yonder in the gulch." Mr. Norcross let the three of them get out and away, and we heard their taxi speed up and trundle off before he said, "She is married, I'm told. Where is her husband?" Mr. Chadwick looked up as if he'd already forgotten the three who had just crossed the lobby. "Who--Sheila Macrae? Yes, she has been married. But there isn't any husband--she's a widow." For quite a while the boss sat staring at his cigar in a way he has when he is thinking right hard, and Mr. Chadwick let him alone, being busy, I guess, with his own little scrap that lay just ahead of him in the coming directors' meeting. Then, all of a sudden, the boss got up and shoved his hands into his coat pockets. "I've changed my mind, Uncle John," he said, looking sort of absent-like out of the window to where the major's taxi had been standing. "If you can pull me into that deal to-morrow morning--with an absolutely free hand to do as I think best, mind you--I'll take the job." V The Directors' Meeting I was up bright and early the next morning--that is, a good bit brighter and earlier than Mr. Norcross was--and after breakfast I took a little sashay down Nevada Avenue to have a look at _our_ railroad. Of course, I knew, after what the boss had said to Mr. Chadwick the night before, just before we went to bed, that we weren't ever going to see Canada, or even Illinois. I'll have to admit that the look I got didn't make me feel as if we'd found a Cullinan diamond. Down in the yards everything seemed to be at the loosest kind of loose ends. A switching crew was making up a freight, and the way they slammed the boxes together, regardless of broken drawheads and the like, was a sin and a shame. Then I saw some grain cars with the ends started and the wheat running out all along the track, and three or four more with the air hose hanging so it knocked along on the ties, and a lot of things like that--and nobody caring a hoot. There was a big repair shop on the other side of the yard tracks, and though it was after seven o'clock, the men were still straggling over to go to work. Down at the round-house, a wiper was spotting a big freight-puller on the turn-table, and I'm blessed if he didn't actually run her forward pair of truck-wheels off the edge of the table, right while I was looking on, just as if it were all in the day's work. In the course of time I drifted back to the office headquarters, which were at the end of the passenger station and in a part of the same building, down-stairs and up. A few clerks were dribbling in, and none of them seemed to have life enough to get out of the way of an ox-team. One fellow recognized me for a member of the big railroad family, I guess, for he stopped and asked me if I was looking for a job. I told him I wasn't, and gave him a cigar--just on general principles. He took it, and right away he began to loosen up. "If you should change your mind about the job, you just make it a case of 'move on, Joey,' and don't stay here and try to hit this agglomeration," he said. "Why not?" I asked. "It's a frost. I'm off of the Pennsy myself, and I'm ashamed to look in the looking-glass since I came out here. The P. S. L. isn't a railroad, at all; it's just making a bluff at being one. Besides, we're slated to have a new general manager, and if he's any good he'll fire the last living man of us." "Maybe, if I change my mind, I might get a job with the new man," I said. "Who is he?" "Search me! I don't believe they've found anybody yet. The big people from New York are all here now, and maybe they'll pick somebody before they go away. If I had the nerve of a rabbit, I'd take the next train back for Pittsburgh." "What's your job?" I quizzed. He grinned at me sort of good-naturedly. "You wouldn't think it to look at me, but I'm head stenographer in the general super's office." "You haven't got much of a boss, if he can't command any more loyalty than you are giving him," I offered; and at that he spat on the platform and made a face like a kid that had been taking a dose of asafoetida. "Yah!" he snorted. "We haven't a man in the outfit, on any job where the pay amounts to anything, that isn't somebody's cousin or nephew or brother-in-law or something. They shoot 'em out here from New York in bunches. You may be a spotter, for all I know, but I don't care a hang. I'm quitting at the end of the month, anyhow--if I don't get fired this side of that." I grinned; I couldn't help it. "Tell me," I broke in, "are there many more like you in the Pioneer Short Line service?" "Scads of 'em," he retorted cheerfully. "I can round you up a couple of dozen fellows right here at headquarters who would go on a bat and paint this town a bright vermilion if the new G. M., whoever he is going to be, would clean out the whole rookery, cousins, nephews, and all." "I think I'll have to take your name," I told him, fishing out a pencil and a notebook--just to see what he would do. "Huh! so you _are_ a spotter, after all, are you? All right, Mr. Spotter. My name's May, Frederic G. May. And when you want my head, you can find it just exactly where I told you--in the general super's office. You're a stranger and you took me in. So long." Wouldn't that jar you? A man out of the general offices talking that way about his road and his own boss? I couldn't help seeing how rotten the thing must be if it smelled that way to the men on its own pay-rolls. After a while, after I'd loafed through the shops and around the yard and got a few more whiffs of the decay, I strolled on back to the hotel. Seen by daylight, Portal City seemed to be a right bright little burg, with a cut-stone post-office and a new court house built out of pink lava, and three or four office buildings big enough to be called sky-scrapers anywhere outside of a real city like Portland or Seattle. The streets were paved, and on the main one, Nevada Avenue, there was plenty of business. Also, I tipped off a mining exchange and two pretty nice-looking club-houses right in sight from the Bullard entrance. There wasn't much of a crowd in the lobby, and as I didn't see anything of Mr. Norcross or Mr. Chadwick, I sat down in a corner to wear out some more time. Though it was now after nine o'clock, there were still a good many people breakfasting in the café, the entrance to which was only a few feet away from my corner. I was wondering a little what had become of the boss--who was generally the earliest riser on the job--when two men came bulging through the screen doors of the café, picking their teeth and feeling in their pockets for cigars. Right on the dot, and in the face of knowing that it couldn't reasonably be so, I had a feeling that I'd seen those men before. One of them was short and rather stocky, and his face had a sort of hard, hungry look; and the other was big and barrel-bodied. The short one was clean-shaven, but the other had a reddish-gray beard clipped close on his fat jaws and trimmed to a point at the chin. After they had lighted up they came along and sat down three or four chairs away from me. They paid no attention to me, but for fear they might, I tried to look as sleepy as an all-night bell-hop in a busy hotel. "The Dunton bunch got together in one of the committee rooms up-stairs a little after eight o'clock," said the short man, in a low, rasping voice that went through you like a buzz-saw, and it was evident that he was merely going on with a talk which had been begun over the breakfast-table. "Thanks to those infernal blunderers Clanahan sent us last night, Chadwick was with them." "I think that was choost so," said the big man, speaking slowly and with something more than a hint of a German accent. "Beckler was choost what you call him--a tam blunderer." Like a flash it came over me that I was "listening in" to a talk between the same two men who had sat in the auto at Sand Creek Siding and smoked while they were waiting for the actual kidnappers to return. You can bet high that I made myself mighty small and unobtrusive. After a while the big man spoke again. "What has Uncle Chon Chadwick up his sleeve got, do you think?" "I don't think--I know!" was the snappy reply. "It's one of two things: a receivership--which will knock us into a cocked hat because we can't fool with an officer of the United States court--or a new deal all around in the management." "Vich of the two will it be that will come out of that commiddee room up-stairs?" "A new management. Dunton can't stand for a receivership, and Chadwick knows it. Apart from the fact that a court officer would turn up a lot of side deals that wouldn't look well for the New York crowd if they got into the newspapers, the securities would be knocked out and the majority holders--Dunton and his bunch--couldn't unload. Chadwick has got him by the neck and can dictate his own terms." "Vich will be?" "That he will name the man who is to take Shaffer's place as general manager of the railroad outfit. We might have stood it off for a while, just as I said yesterday, if we could have kept Chadwick from attending this meeting." "But now we don't could stand it off--what then?" "We'll have to wait and see, and size up the new man when he blows in. He'll be only human, Henckel. And if we get right down to it we can pull him over to our side--or make him wish he'd never been born." The big man got up ponderously and brushed the cigar ashes off of his bay-window. "You vait and see what comes mit the commiddee-room out. I go up to the ovvice." When I was left alone in the row of lobby chairs with the snappy one I was scared stiff for fear, now that he didn't have anything else to think of, he'd catch on to the fact that I might have overheard. But apart from giving me one long stare that made my blood run cold, he didn't seem to notice me much, and after a little he got up and went to sit on the other side of the big rotunda where he could watch the elevators going and coming. I guess he had lots of patience, for I had to have. It was after eleven o'clock, and I had been sitting in my corner for two full hours, when I saw the boss coming down the broad marble stair with Mr. Chadwick. I don't think the Hatch man saw them, or, if he did, he didn't let on. Mr. Norcross held up a finger for me, and when I jumped up he gave me a sheet of paper; a Pioneer Short Line president's letter-head with a few lines written on it with a pen and a sort of crazy-looking signature under them. "Take that to the _Mountaineer_ job office and have five hundred of them printed," was the boss's order. "Tell the foreman it's a rush job and we want it to-day. Then make a copy and take it to Mr. Cantrell, the editor, and ask him to run it in to-morrow's paper as an item of news, if he feels like it. When you are through, come down to Mr. Chadwick's car." Since the thing was going to be published, and I was going to make a copy of it, I didn't scruple to read it as I hurried out to begin a hunt for the _Mountaineer_ office. It was the printer's copy for an official circular, dated at Portal City and addressed to all officers and employees of the Pioneer Short Line. It read: "Effective at once, Mr. Graham Norcross is appointed General Manager of the Pioneer Short Line System, with headquarters at Portal City, and his orders will be respected accordingly. "BRECKENRIDGE DUNTON, "_President_." We had got our jolt, all right; and leaving the ladder and the Friday start out of the question, I grinned and told myself that the one other thing that counted for most was the fact that Mrs. Sheila Macrae was a widow. VI The _Alexa_ Goes East I chased like the dickens on the printing job, because, apart from wanting to absorb all the dope I could as I went along on the new job, I knew I would be needed every minute right at Mr. Norcross's elbow, now that the actual work was beginning. He and Mr. Chadwick were deep in reports and figures and plans of all sorts when I got back to the _Alexa_. Luncheon was served in the car, and they kept the business talk going like a house afire while they were eating, the hurry being that Mr. Chadwick wanted to start back for Chicago the minute he could find out if our connecting line east would run him special. I could tell by the way the boss's eyes were snapping that he was soaking up the details at the rate of a mile a minute; not that he could go much deeper than the totals into anything, of course, in such a gallop, but these were enough to give him his hand-holds. At two o'clock a boy came down from the headquarters with a wire saying that the private car could go east as a special at two-thirty, if Mr. Chadwick were ready, and he put his O.K. on the message and sent it back. "Now for a few unofficial things, Graham, and we'll call it a go," he said, after the boy had gone. "You are to have an absolutely free hand, not only in the management and the operating, but also in dictating the policy of the company. What you say goes as it lies, and Dunton has promised me that there shall be no appeal, not even to him." "I imagine he didn't say that willingly," the boss put in, which was the first intimation I had had that he wasn't present at the directors' meeting in the Bullard. "No, indeed; nothing was done willingly. I had to swing the big stick and swing it hard. But I had them where they couldn't wiggle. They had to swallow you whole or take the consequences--and the consequences were going to cost them money. Dunton got down when he had to, and he pulled the others into line. You are to set your own pace, and you are to have some money for betterments. I offered to float a new loan on short-time notes with the Chicago banks, and the board authorized it." The boss pushed that part of it aside abruptly, as he always does when he has got hold of the gist of a thing. "Now, about my staff," he said. "It's open gossip all over the West that the P. S. L. is officered by a lot of dummies and place-hunters and relatives. I'll have to clean house." "Go to it; that is a part of your 'free hand.' Have you the material to draw from?" "I know a few good men, if I can get them," said the boss thoughtfully. "There is Upton Van Britt; he was the only millionaire in my college, and he is simply a born operating chief. If I can persuade him to store his autos and lay up his yacht and sell off his polo ponies--I'll try it, anyhow. Then there is Charlie Hornack, who is the best all-around traffic man this side of the Missouri--only his present employers don't seem to have discovered it. I can get Hornack. The one man I can't place at sight is a good corporation counsel. I'm obliged to have a good lawyer, Uncle John." "I have the man for you, if you'll take him on my say so; a young fellow, named Ripley who has done some corking good work for me in Chicago. I'll wire him, if you like. Now a word or two about this local graft we touched upon last night. I don't know the ins and outs of it, but people here will tell you that a sort of holding corporation, called Red Tower Consolidated, has a strangle grip on this entire region. Its subsidiary companies control the grain elevators, the fruit packeries, the coal mines and distributing yards, the timber supply and the lumber yards, and even have a finger on the so-called independent smelters." The boss nodded. "I've heard of Red Tower. Also, I have heard that the railroad stands in with it to pinch the producers and consumers." A road engine was backing down the spur to take the _Alexa_ in tow for the eastward run, and what was said had to be said in a hurry. "Dig it out," barked the wheat king. "If you find that we are in on it, it's your privilege to cut loose. The two men who will give you the most trouble are right here in Portal City: Hatch, the president of Red Tower, and Henckel, its vice-president. They say either of them would commit murder for a ten-dollar bill, and they stand in with Pete Clanahan, the city boss, and his gang of political thugs. That's all, Graham; all but one thing. Write me after you've climbed into the saddle and have found out just what you're in for. If you say you can make it go, I'll back you, if it takes half of next year's wheat crop." A minute or so later the boss and I stood out in the yard and watched the _Alexa_ roll away toward the sunrise country, and perhaps we both felt a little bit lonesome, just for a second or two. At least, I know I did. But when the special had become a black smudge of coal smoke in the distance, Mr. Norcross turned on me with the grim little smile that goes with his fighting mood. "You are private secretary to the new general manager of the Pioneer Short Line, Jimmie, and your salary begins to-day," he said, briskly. "Now let's go up to the hotel and get our fighting clothes on." VII "Heads Off, Gentlemen!" Gosh all Friday--say! but the next few days did see a tear-up to beat the band on the old Short Line! With the printing of his appointment circular, Mr. Norcross took the offices in the headquarters building lately vacated by Mr. Shaffer, and it was something awful to see the way the heads went into the basket. One by one he called the Duntonites in; the traffic manager, the general superintendent, the roadmaster, the master-mechanic--clear on down to the round-house foreman and the division heads. Some few of them were allowed to take the oath of allegiance and stay, but the place-fillers and pay-roll parasites, the cousins and the nephews and the brothers-in-law, every last man of them had to walk under the axe. One instance will be enough to show how it went. Van Burgh, great-great-grandnephew of some Revolutionary big-wig and our figurehead general superintendent, was the first man called in, and Mr. Norcross shot him dead in half a minute. "Mr. Van Burgh, what railroad experience did you have before you came to the P. S. L.?" was the first bullet. Mr. Van Burgh, a heavy-faced, youngish man with sort of world-tired eyes, looked at his finger-nails. "I was in the president's office in New York for a time after I left Harvard," he drawled, a good deal as if the question bored him. "And how long have you been here?" "I came out lawst October." "H'm; only six months' actual experience, eh? I'm sorry, but you can't learn operative railroading at the expense of this management on the Pioneer Short Line. Your resignation, to take effect at once, will be accepted. Good-day." Van Burgh turned red in the face, but he had his nerve. "You're an entirely new kind of a brute," he remarked calmly. "I was appointed by President Dunton, and I don't resign until he tells me to." "Then you're fired!" snapped the boss, whirling his chair back to his desk. And that was all there was to it. Three days later, when the whole town was talking about the new "Jack, the ripper," as they called him, Kirgan, who had been our head machinery man on the Midland construction, tumbled in in answer to a wire. Mr. Norcross slammed him into place ten minutes after he hit the town. "Your office is across the tracks, Kirgan," he told him. "I've begun the house-cleaning over there by firing your predecessor and three or four of his pet foremen. Get in the hole and dig to the bottom. You have a lot of soreheads to handle, here and at the division shops, and it isn't all their fault, not by a long shot. I'll give you six months in which to make good as a model superintendent of motive power. Get busy." "That's me," said Kirgan, who knew the boss up one side and down the other. "You give me the engines, and I'll keep 'em out of the shop." And with that he went across the yard and took hold, before he had even hunted up a place to sleep in. Mr. Van Britt was the next man to show up. He was fine; a square-built, stocky little gentleman who looked as if he's always had the world by the ear and never meant to let go. Though it was a time when most men went clean-shaven, he wore a stubby little mustache, closely clipped, and while his jaw looked as if he could bite a nail in two, he had a pair of twinkling, good-natured eyes that sort of took the edge off the hard jaw. "Well, I'm here," he said, dropping into a chair and sitting with his legs wide apart. And then, ignoring me as if I hadn't been there: "Graham, what the devil have you got against me, that you should drag me out here on the edge of nowhere and make me go to work for a living?" The boss just grinned at him and said: "It's for the good of your soul, Upton. You've too much money. Your office is up at the end of the corridor and your chair is empty and waiting for you. Your appointment circular has already been mailed out." Mr. Hornack was the last of the new office staff to fall in, though he didn't have nearly as far to come as some of the others. He was red-headed and wore glasses. They used to say of him on the Overland Central that he fired his chief clerk regularly twice a week, and then hired him over again, which was merely a roundabout way of saying that he had a sort of meat-axe temper to go with his red hair. But they also used to say that he could make business grow where none ever grew before, and that's what a traffic man lives for. When the new staff was made up, Mr. Norcross gathered all the department heads together in his office and laid down the lines of the new policy. He put it in just eight words: "Clean house, and make friends for the company." Then he gave them a little talk on the conditions as he had found them, and told them that he wanted all these conditions reversed. It was a large order, and both Mr. Van Britt and Mr. Hornack said as much, but the boss said it had to go just that way. There would be a little money for betterments, but it must be spent as if every dollar were ten. Naturally, the big turn-over brought all sorts of disturbances at the send-off. Some of the relieved cousins and nephews stayed in town and jumped in to stir up trouble for the new management. The _Herald_, which was the other morning paper, took up for the down-and-outs, and there wasn't anything too mean for it to say about the boss and his new appointees. Then the employees got busy and the grievance committees began to pour in. Mr. Norcross never denied himself to anybody. The office-door stood wide open and the kickers were welcomed, as you might say, with open arms. "You men are going to get the squarest deal you have ever had, and a still squarer one a little farther along, if you will only stay on the job and keep your clothes on," was the way the boss went at the trainmen's committee. "We are out to make the P. S. L. the best line for service, and the best company to work for, this side of the Missouri River. I want your loyalty; the loyalty of every man in the service. I'll go further and say that the new management will stand if you and the other pay-roll men stand by it in good faith, or it will fall if you don't." "You'll meet the grievance committees and talk things over with them when there's a kick coming?" said old Tom McClure, the passenger conductor who was acting as spokesman. "Sure I will--every time. More than that, I'll take a leaf out of Colonel Goethal's book and keep open house here in this office every Sunday morning. Any man in the service who thinks he has a grievance may come here and state it, and if he has a case, he'll get justice." Naturally, a few little talks like this, face to face with the men themselves, soon began to put new life into the rank and file. Mr. Norcross's old pet name of "Hell-and-repeat" had followed him down from Oregon, as it was bound to, but now it began to be used in the sense that most railroad men use the phrase, "The Old Man," in speaking of a big boss that they like. This winning of the service _esprit de corps_--if that's the word--commenced to show results right away. The first time Mr. Norcross's special went over the line anybody could see with half an eye that the pay-roll men were taking a brace. Trains were running on better time, there was less slamming and more civility, and at one place we actually found a section foreman going along and picking up the spikes and bolts and fish-plates that the wasters ahead of him had strewn all along the right-of-way. There was so much crowded into these first few weeks that I've forgotten half of it. The work we did, pulling and hauling things into shape, was a fright, and my end of the job got so big that the boss had to give me help. Following out his own policy, he let me pick my man, and after I'd had a little talk with Mr. Van Britt, I picked May, the young fellow who had been so disgusted with his job under Van Burgh. Frederic of Pittsburgh was all right; a little too tonguey, perhaps, but a worker from away back, and that was what we were looking for. Out of this frantic hustle to get things started and moving right, anybody could have pulled a couple of conclusions that stuck up higher than any of the rest. The boss and Mr. Van Britt were steadily winning the rank and file over to something like loyalty on the one hand, and on the other, wherever we went, we found the people who were paying the freight a solid unit against us, hating us like blazes and entirely unwilling to believe that any good thing could come out of the Nazareth of the Pioneer Short Line. This hatred manifested itself in a million different ways, and all of them saw-toothed. On that first trip over the line I heard a Lesterburg banker tell the boss, flat-footed, that the country at large would never believe that any measure of reform undertaken by the Dunton management would be accepted as sincere. "You talk like an honest man, Mr. Norcross," he said, and he was saying it right in the boss's own private car, too, mind you, "but this region has suffered too long and too bitterly under Wall Street methods to be won over now by a little shoulder-patting in the way of better train schedules and things of that sort. You'll have to dig a good bit deeper, and that you won't be allowed to do." The boss just smiled at this, and offered the banker man a cigar--which he took. "When the time comes, Mr. Bigelow, I'm going to show you that I can dig as deep as the next fellow. Where shall I begin?" The banker laughed. "If you had a spade with a handle a mile long you might begin on the Red Tower people," he suggested. "But, of course, you can't do that: your New York people won't let you. There is the real nib of the thing, Mr. Norcross. What we need is a railroad line that will stick to its own proper business--the carrying of freight and passengers. What we have is a gigantic holding corporation which fathers every extortionate side-issue that can pay it a royalty!" "Excuse me," said the boss, still as pleasant as a basket of chips, "that may be what you have had in the past; we won't try to go behind the returns. But it is not what you have now. From this time on, the Short Line proposes to be just what you said it should be--a carrier corporation, pure and simple." "Do you mean to say that you are going to cut loose from Hatch and Henckel and their thousand-and-one robber subsidiary companies?" demanded the banker. At this the boss stood up and looked the big banker gentleman squarely in the eye. "Mr. Bigelow, at the present moment I represent Pioneer Short Line, in management and in its policy, as it stands to-day. I can assure you emphatically that the railroad management has nothing whatever to do with Red Tower Consolidated or any of its subsidiaries." "Then you've broken with Hatch?" "No; simply because there hasn't been anything to break, so far as I am concerned." The banker man dropped into the nearest chair. "But, man alive! you can't stay here if you don't pull with the Hatch crowd," he exclaimed; and then: "Somebody ought to have tipped you off beforehand and not let you come here to commit suicide!" After that they went out together; up-town to Mr. Bigelow's bank, I guess, and as they pushed the corridor door open I heard the banker say: "You don't know what you are up against, Mr. Norcross. That outfit will get you, one way or another, as sure as the devil's a hog. If it can't break you, it will hire a gang of gunmen--I wouldn't put it an inch beyond Rufus Hatch; not a single inch." There it was again; but as he went out the boss was laughing easily and saying that he was raised in a gun country, and that the fear of a fight was the least of his troubles at the present moment. VIII With the Strings Off As soon as we returned from the inspection trip, the boss pulled off his coat--figuratively speaking--and rolled up his sleeves. It wasn't his way to talk much about what he was going to do: he'd jump in and do it first, and then talk about it afterward--if anybody insisted on knowing the reason why. Mr. Van Britt was given swift orders to fill up his engineering staff and get busy laying new steel, building new bridges and modernizing the permanent way generally. Mr. Hornack was told to put on an extra office force to ransack the traffic records and make reports showing the fairness or unfairness of existing tariffs and rates, and a widespread invitation was given to shippers to come in and air their grievances--which you bet they did! Sandwiched in between, there were long private conferences with Mr. Ripley, the bright young lawyer Mr. Chadwick had sent us from Chicago, and with a young fellow named Juneman, an ex-newspaper man who was on the pay-rolls as "Advertising Manager," but whose real business seemed to be to keep the Short Line public fully and accurately informed of everything that most railroad companies try to keep to themselves. The next innovation that came along was another young Chicago man named Billoughby, and _his_ title on the pay-roll was "Special Agent." What he did to earn his salary was the one thing that Juneman didn't publish broadcast in the newspapers; it was kept so dark that not a line of it got into the office records, and even I, who was as close to the boss as anybody in our outfit, never once suspected the true nature of Billoughby's job until the day he came in to make his final report--and Mr. Norcross let him make it without sending me out on an errand. "Well, I think I'm ready to talk Johnson, now," was the way Billoughby began. "I've been into all the deals and side deals, and I've had it out with Ripley on the legal points involved. Red Tower is the one outfit we'll have to kill off and put out of business. Under one name or another, it is engineering every graft in this country; it is even backing the fake mining boom at Saw Horse--to which, by the way, this railroad company is now building a branch line." Mr. Norcross turned to me: "Jimmie, make a note to tell Mr. Van Britt to have the work stopped at once on the Saw Horse branch, and all the equipment brought in." And then to Billoughby: "Go on." "The main graft, of course, is in the grain elevators, the fruit packeries, the coal and lumber yards and the stock yards and handling corrals. In these public, or _quasi_-public, utilities Red Tower has everybody else shut out, because the railroad has given them--in fee simple, it seems--all the yard room, switches, track facilities, and the like. Wherever local competition has tried to break in, the railroad company has given it the cold shoulder and it has been either forced out or frozen out." "Exactly," said the boss. "Now tell me how far you have gone in the other field." "We are pretty well shaped up and are about ready to begin business. Juneman has done splendid work, and so has Ripley. Public sentiment is still incredulous, of course. It's mighty hard to make people believe that we are in earnest; that we have actually gone over to their side in the fight. They're all from Missouri, and they want to be shown." "Naturally," said Mr. Norcross. "We have succeeded, in a measure, though the opposition has been keeping up a steady bombardment. Hatch and his people haven't been idle. They have a strong commercial organization and a stout pull with the machine element, or rather the gang element, in politics. They own or control a dozen or more prominent newspapers in the State, and, as you know, they are making an open fight on you and your management through these papers. The net result so far has been merely to keep the people stirred up and doubtful. They know they can't trust Hatch and his crowd, and they're afraid they can't trust you. They say that the railroad has never played fair--and I guess it hasn't, in the past." "Not within a thousand miles," was the boss's curt comment. "But go on with your story." "We pulled the new deal off yesterday, simultaneously in eleven of the principal towns along the line. Meetings of the bankers and local capitalists were held, and we had a man at each one of them to explain our plan and to pledge the backing of the railroad. Notwithstanding all the doubt and dust that's been kicked up by the Hatch people, it went like wild-fire." "With money?" queried the boss. "Yes; with real money. Citizens' Storage & Warehouse was launched, as you might say, on the spot, and enough capital was subscribed to make it a going concern. Of course, there were some doubters, and some few greedy ones. The doubters wanted to know how much of the stock was going to be held by officials of the railroad company, and it was pretty hard to convince them that no Short Line official would be allowed to participate, directly or indirectly." "And the greedy ones?" "They kicked on that part of the plan which provides for the local apportionment of the stock to cover the local needs of each town only; they wanted more than their share. Also, they protested against the fixed dividend scheme; they didn't see why the new company shouldn't be allowed to cut a melon now and then if it should be fortunate enough to grow one." Mr. Norcross smiled. "That is precisely what the Hatch people have been doing, all along, and it is the chief grievance of these same people who now want a chance to outbid their neighbors. The lease condition was fully explained to them, wasn't it?" "Oh, yes; Ripley saw to that, and copies of the lease were in the exhibits. The new company is to have railroad ground to build on, and ample track facilities in perpetuity, conditioned strictly upon the limited dividend. If the dividend is increased, the leases terminate automatically." The boss drew a long breath. "You've done well, and better than well, Billoughby," he said. "Now we are ready to fire the blast. How was the proposal to take over the Red Tower properties at a fair valuation received?" "There was some opposition. Lesterburg, and three of the other larger towns, want to build their own plants. They are bitter enough to want to smash the big monopoly, root and branch. But they agreed to abide by a majority vote of the stock on that point, and my wire reports this morning say that a lump-sum offer will be made for the Red Tower plants to-day." Mr. Norcross sat back in his chair and blew a cloud of cigar smoke toward the ceiling. "Hatch won't sell," he predicted. "He'll be up here before night with blood in his eye. I'm rather glad it has come down to the actual give and take. I don't play the waiting game very successfully, Billoughby. Keep in touch, and keep me in touch. And tell Ripley to keep on pushing on the reins. The sooner we get at it, the sooner it will be over." After Billoughby had gone, Mr. Norcross dictated a swift bunch of letters and telegrams and had me turn my shorthand notes over to Fred May for transcription. With the desk cleaned up he came at me on a little matter that had been allowed to sleep ever since the day, now some time back, when I had given him Mrs. Sheila's hint about the identity of the two men who had sat and smoked in the auto that Sunday night at Sand Creek Siding, and about the talk between the same two that I had overheard the following morning. "We are going to have sharp trouble with a gentleman by the name of Hatch before very long, Jimmie," was the way he began. "I don't want to hit him below the belt, if I can help it; but on the other hand, it's just as well to be able to give the punch if it is needed. You remember what you told me about that Monday morning talk between Hatch and Henckel in the Bullard lobby. Would you be willing to go into court as a witness and swear to what you heard?" "Sure I would," I said. "All right. I may have to pull that little incident on Mr. Hatch before I get through with him. The train hold-up was a criminal act, and you are the witness who can convict the pair of them. Of course, we'll leave Mrs. Macrae and the little girl entirely out of it. Nobody knows that they were there with us, and nobody need know." I agreed to that, and this mention of Mrs. Sheila and Maisie Ann makes me remember that I've been leaving them out pretty severely for a good long while. They weren't left out in reality-not by a jugful. In spite of all the rush and hustle, the boss had found time to get acquainted with Major Basil Kendrick and had been made at home in the transplanted Kentucky mansion in the northern suburb. I'd been there too, sometimes to carry a box of flowers when the boss was suddenly called out of town, and some other evenings when I had to go and hunt him up to give him a bunch of telegrams. Of course, I didn't play the butt-in; I didn't have to. Maisie Ann usually looked out for me, and when she found out that I liked pumpkin pie, made Kentucky fashion, we used to spend most of those errand-running evenings together in the pantry. But to get back on the firing line. I wasn't around when Mr. Norcross had his "declaration of war" talk with Hatch. Mr. Norcross, being pretty sure he wasn't going to have that evening off, had sent me out to "Kenwood" with a note and a box of roses, and when I got back to the office about eight o'clock, Hatch was just going away. I met him on the stair. The boss was sitting back in his big swing chair, smoking, when I broke in. He looked as if he'd been mixing it up good and plenty with Mr. Rufus Hatch--and enjoying it. "We've got 'em going, Jimmie," he chuckled; and he said it without asking me how I had found Mrs. Sheila, or how she was looking, or anything. I told him I had met Mr. Hatch on the stair going down. "He didn't say anything to you, did he?" he asked. "Not a word." "I had to pull that Sand Creek business on him, and I'm rather sorry," he went on. "He and his people are going to fight the new company to a finish, and he merely came up here to tell me so--and to add that I might as well resign first as last, because, in the end, he'd get my goat. When I laughed at him he got abusive. He's an ugly beggar, Jimmie." "That's what everybody says of him." "It's true. He and his crowd have plenty of money--stolen money, a good deal of it--and they stand in with every political boss and gangster in the State. There is only one way to handle such a man, and that is without gloves. I told him we had the goods on him in the matter of Mr. Chadwick's kidnapping adventure. At first he said I couldn't prove it. Then he broke out cursing and let your name slip. I hadn't mentioned you at all, and so he gave himself away. He knows who you are, and he remembered that you had overheard his talk with Henckel in the Bullard lobby." I heard what he was saying, but I didn't really sense it because my head was ram jam full of a thing that was so pitiful that it had kept me swallowing hard all the way back from Major Kendrick's. It was this way. When I had jiggled the bell out at the house it was Maisie Ann who let me in and took the box of flowers and the boss's note. She told me that Aunt Mandy, the cook, hadn't made any pie that day, so we sat in the dimly lighted hall and talked for a few minutes. One thing she told me was that Mrs. Sheila had company and the name of it was Mr. Van Britt. That wasn't strictly news because I had known that Mr. Van Britt was dividing time pretty evenly with the boss in the Major Kendrick house visits. That wasn't anything to be scared up about. I knew that all Mr. Norcross asked, or would need, would be a fair field and no favor. But my chunky little girl didn't stop at that. "I think we can let Mr. Van Britt take care of himself," she said. "He has known Cousin Sheila for a long time, and I guess they are only just good friends. But there is something you ought to know, Jimmie--for Mr. Norcross's sake. He has been sending lots of flowers and things, and Cousin Sheila has been taking them because--well, I guess it's just because she doesn't know how not to take them." "Go on," I said, but my mouth had suddenly grown dry. "Such things--flowers, you know--don't mean anything in New York, where we've been living. Men send them to their women friends just as they pass their cigar-cases around among their men friends. But I'm afraid it's different with Mr. Norcross." "It is different," I said. Then she told me the thing that made me swell up and want to burst. "It mustn't be different, Jimmie. Cousin Sheila's married, you know." "I know she has been married," I corrected; and then she gave me the sure-enough knock-out. "She is married now, and her husband is still living." For a little while I couldn't do anything but gape like a chicken with the pip. It was simply fierce! I knew, as well as I knew anything, that the boss was gone on Mrs. Sheila; that he had fallen in love, first with the back of her neck and then with her pretty face and then with all of her; and that the one big reason why he had let Mr. Chadwick persuade him to stay in Portal City was the fact that he had wanted to be near her and to show her how he could make a perfectly good spoon out of the spoiled horn of the Pioneer Short Line. When I began to get my grip back a little I was right warm under the collar. "She oughtn't to be going around telling people she is a widow!" I blurted out. "She doesn't," was the calm reply. "People just take it for granted, and it saves a lot of talk and explanations that it wouldn't be pleasant to have to make. They've separated, you know--years ago, and Cousin Sheila has taken her mother's maiden name, Macrae. If we were going to live here always it would be different. But we are only visiting Cousin Basil, or I suppose we are, though we've been here now for nearly a year." There wasn't much more to be said, and pretty soon I had staggered off with my load and gone back to the office. And this was why I couldn't get very deep into the Hatch business with Mr. Norcross when he told me what he had been obliged to do about the Sand Creek hold-up. He didn't say anything further about it, except to tell me to be careful and not let any of the Hatch people tangle me up so that my evidence, if I should have to give it, would be made to look like a faked-up story; and a little before nine o'clock Mr. Ripley dropped in and he and the boss went up-town together. I might have gone, too. Fred May had got through and gone home, and there was nothing much that I could do beyond filing a few letters and tidying up a bit around my own desk. But I couldn't make up my mind either to work or to go to bed. I wanted a chance to think over the horrible thing Maisie Ann had told me; time to cook up some scheme by which the boss could be let down easy. If he had been like other men it wouldn't have been so hard. But I had a feeling that he had gone into this love business just as he did into everything--neck or nothing--burning his bridges behind him, and having no notion of ever turning back. I had once heard our Oregon Midland president, Mr. Lepaige, say that it was not good for a man always to succeed; never to be beaten; that without a setback, now and then, a man never learned how to bend without breaking. The boss had never been beaten, and Mr. Lepaige was talking about him when he said this. What was it going to do to him when he learned the truth about Mrs. Sheila? On top of this came the still harder knock when I saw that it was up to me to tell him. I remembered all the stories I'd ever heard about how the most cold-blooded surgeon that ever lived wouldn't trust himself to stick a knife into a member of his own family, and I knew now just how the surgeon felt about it. It was up to me to whet my old Barlow and stick it into the boss, clear up to the handle. While I was still sweating under the big load Maisie Ann had dumped upon me, the night despatcher's boy came in with a message. It was from Mr. Chadwick, and I read it with my eyes bugging out. This is what it said: "To G. NORCROSS, G. M., "Portal City. "P. S. L. Common dropped to thirty-four to-day, and banks lending on short time notes for betterment fund are getting nervous. Wire from New York says bondholders are stirring and talking receivership. General opinion in financial circles leans to idea that new policy is foregone failure. Are you still sure you can make it win? "CHADWICK." Right on the heels of this, and before I could get my breath, in came the boy again with another telegram. It was a hot wire from President Dunton, one of a series that he had been shooting in ever since Mr. Norcross had taken hold and begun firing the cousins and nephews. "To G. NORCROSS, G. M., "Portal City. RUSH. "See stock quotations for to-day. Your policy is a failure. Am advised you are now fighting Red Tower. Stop it immediately and assure Mr. Hatch that we are friendly, as we have always been. If something cannot be done to lift securities to better figure, your resignation will be in order. "DUNTON." They say that misfortunes never come singly. Here were two new griefs hurling themselves in over the wires all in the same quarter-hour, besides the one I had up my sleeve. But there was no use dallying. It was up to me to find the boss as quickly as I could and have the three-cornered surgical operation over with. I knew the telegrams wouldn't kill him--or I thought they wouldn't. I thought they'd probably make him take a fresh strangle hold on things and be fired--if he had to be fired--fighting it out grimly on his own line. But I wasn't so sure about the Mrs. Sheila business. That was a horse of another color. I had just reached for my hat and was getting ready to snap the electrics off when I heard footsteps in the outer office. At first I thought it was the despatcher's boy coming with another wire, but when I looked up, a stocky, hard-faced man in a derby hat and a short overcoat was standing in the doorway and scowling across at me. It was Mr. Rufus Hatch, and I had a notion that the hot end of his black cigar glared at me like a baleful red eye when he came in and sat down. IX And Satan Came Also "I saw your office lights from the street," was the way the Red Tower president began on me, and his voice took me straight back to the Oregon woods and a lumber camp where the saw-filers were at work. "Where is Mr. Norcross?" I told him that Mr. Norcross was up-town, and that I didn't suppose he would come back to the office again that night, now that it was so late. Instead of going away and giving it up, he sat right still, boring me with his little gray eyes and shifting the black cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. "My name is Hatch, of the Red Tower Company," he grated, after a minute or two. "You're the one they call Dodds, aren't you?" I admitted it, and he went on. "Norcross brought you here with him from the West, didn't he?" I nodded and wondered what was coming next. When it did come it nearly bowled me over. "What pay are you getting here?" It was on the tip of my tongue to cuss him out right there and then and tell him it was none of his business. But the second thought (which isn't always as good as it's said to be) whispered to me to lead him on and see how far he would go. So I told him the figures of my pay check. "I'm needing another shorthand man, and I can afford to pay a good bit more than that," he growled. "They tell me you are well up at the top in your trade. Are you open to an offer?" I let him have it straight then. "Not from you," I said. "And why not from me?" Here was where I made my first bad break. All of a sudden I got so angry at the thought that he was actually trying to buy me that I couldn't see anything but red, and I blurted out, "Because I don't hire out to work for any strong-arm outfit--not if I know it!" For a little while he sat blinking at me from under his bushy eyebrows, and his hard mouth was drawn into a straight line with a mean little wrinkle coming and going at the corners of it. When he got ready to speak again he said, "You're only a boy. You want to get on in the world, don't you?" "Supposing I do: what then?" I snapped. "I'm offering you a good chance: the best you ever had. You don't owe Norcross anything more than your job, do you?" "Maybe not." "That's better. Put on your hat and come along with me. I want to show you what I can do for you in a better field than railroading ever was, or ever will be. It'll pay you--" and he named a figure that very nearly made me fall dead out of my chair. Of course, it was all plain enough. The boss had him on the hip with that kidnapping business, with me for a witness. And he was trying to fix the witness. It's funny, but the only thing I thought of, just then, was the necessity of covering up the part that Mrs. Sheila and Maisie Ann had had in the hold-up affair that he was so anxious to bury and put out of sight. "I guess we needn't beat about the bushes any longer, Mr. Hatch," I said, bracing up to him. "I haven't told the sheriff, or anybody but Mr. Norcross, what I know about a certain little train hold-up that happened a few weeks ago down at Sand Creek Siding; but that isn't saying that I'm not going to." At this he flung the stump of the black cigar out of the window, found another in his pocket, and lighted it. If I had had the sense of a field mouse, I might have known that I was no match for such a man; but I lacked the sense--lacked it good and hard. "You're like your boss," he said shortly. "You'd go a long distance out of your way to make an enemy when there is no need of it. That hold-up business was a joke, from start to finish. I don't know how you and Norcross came to get in on it; the joke was meant to be on John Chadwick. The night before, at a little dinner we were giving him at the railroad club, he said there never was a railroad hold-up that couldn't have been stood off. A few of us got together afterward and put up a job on him; sent him over to Strathcona and arranged to have him held up on the way back." Again I lost my grip on all the common, every-day sanities. My best play--the only reasonable play--was to let him go away thinking that he had made me swallow the joke story whole. But I didn't have sense enough to do that. "Mr. Chadwick didn't take it as a joke!" I retorted. "I know he didn't; and that's why we're all anxious now to dig a hole and bury the thing decently. Perhaps we had all been taking a drop too much at the club dinner that night." At that I swelled up man-size and kicked the whole kettle of fat into the fire. "Of course, it was a joke!" I ripped out. "And your coming here to-night to try to hire me away from Mr. Norcross is another. The woods are full of good shorthand men, Mr. Hatch, but for the present I think I shall stay right where I am--where a court subpoena can find me when I'm wanted." "That's all nonsense, and you know it--if you're not too much of a kid to know anything," he snapped, shooting out his heavy jaw at me. "I merely wanted to give you a chance to get rid of the railroad collar, if you felt like it. And there'll be no court and no subpoena. The poorest jack-leg lawyer we've got in Portal City would make a fool of you in five minutes on the witness-stand. Nevertheless, my offer holds good. I like a fighting man; and you've got nerve. Take a night and sleep on it. Maybe you'll think differently in the morning." Here was another chance for me to get off with a whole skin, but by this time I was completely lost to any sober weighing and measuring of the possible consequences. Leaning across the desk end I gave him a final shot, just as he was getting up to go. "Listen, Mr. Hatch," I said. "You haven't fooled me for a single minute. Your guess is right; I heard every word that passed between you and Mr. Henckel that Monday morning in the Bullard lobby. As I say, I haven't told anybody yet but Mr. Norcross; but if you go to making trouble for him and the railroad company, I'll go into court and swear to what I know!" He was half-way out of the door when I got through, and he never made any sign that he heard what I said. After he was gone I began to sense, just a little, how big a fool I had made of myself. But I was still mad clear through at the idea that he had taken me for the other kind of a fool--the kind that wouldn't know enough to be sure that the president of a big corporation wouldn't get down to tampering with a common clerk unless there was some big thing to be stood off by it. Stewing and sizzling over it, I puttered around with the papers on my desk for quite a little while before I remembered the two telegrams, and the fact that I'd have to go and stick the three-bladed knife into Mr. Norcross. When I did remember, I shoved the messages into my pocket, flicked off the lights and started to go up-town and hunt for the boss. After closing the outer door of the office I don't recall anything particular except that I felt my way down the headquarters stair in the dark and groped across the lower hall to the outside door that served for the stair-case entrance from the street. When I had felt around and found the brass knob, something happened, I didn't know just what. In the tiny little fraction of a second that I had left, as you might say, between the hearse and the grave, I had a vague notion that the door was falling over on me and mashing me flat; and after that, everything went blank. X The Big Smash When I came to life out of what seemed like an endless succession of bad dreams it was broad daylight and the sun was shining brightly through some filmy kind of curtain stuff in a big window that looked out toward the west. I was in bed, the room was strange, and my right hand was wrapped up in a lot of cotton and bandaged. I hadn't more than made the first restless move before I saw a sort of pie-faced woman in a nurse's cap and apron start to get up from where she was sitting by the window. Before she could come over to the bed, somebody opened a door and tip-toed in ahead of nursey. I had to blink hard two or three times before I could really make up my mind that the tip-toer was Maisie Ann. She looked as if she might be the nurse's understudy. She had a nifty little lace cap on her thick mop of hair, and I guess her apron was meant to be nursey too, only it was frilled and tucked to a fare-you-well. I don't know whether or not I've mentioned it before, but she was always an awfully wholesome, jolly little girl, with a laugh so near the surface that it never took much of anything to make it come rippling up through. But now she was as sober as a deacon--and about fourteen times as pretty as I had ever seen her before. "You poor, poor boy!" she cooed, patting my pillow just like my grandmother used to when I was a little kid and had the mumps or the measles. "Are you still roaming around in the Oregon woods?" That brought my dream, or one of them, back; the one about wandering around in a forest of Douglas fir and having to jump and dodge to keep the big trees from falling on me and smashing me. "No more woods for mine," I said, sort of feebly. And then: "Where am I?" "You are in bed in the spare room at Cousin Basil's. They wanted to take you to the railroad hospital that night, but when they telephoned up here to try to find Mr. Norcross, Cousin Basil went right down and brought you home with him in the ambulance." "'That night,' you say?" I parroted. "It was last night that the door fell on me, wasn't it?" "I don't know anything about a door, but the night that they found you all burnt and crippled, lying at the foot of your office stairs, was three days ago. You have been out of your head nearly all the time ever since." "Burnt and crippled? What happened to me, Maisie Ann?" "Nobody knows; not even the doctors. We've been hoping that some day you'd be able to tell us. Can't you tell me now, Jimmie?" I told her all there was to tell, mumbling around among the words the best I could. When she saw how hard it was for me to talk, I could have sworn that I saw tears in the big, wide-open eyes, but maybe I didn't. Then she told me how the headquarters watchman had found me about midnight; with my right hand scorched black and the rest of me apparently dead and ready to be buried. The ambulance surgeon had insisted, and was still insisting, that I had been handling a live wire; but there were no wires at all in the lower hall, and nothing stronger than an incandescent light current in the entire office building. "And you say I've been here hanging on by my eyelashes for three days? What has been going on in all that time, Maisie Ann? Hasn't anybody been here to see me?" She gave a little nod. "Everybody, nearly. Mr. Van Britt has been up every day, and sometimes twice a day. He has been awfully anxious for you to come alive." "But Mr. Norcross?" I queried. "Hasn't he been up?" She shook her head and turned her face away, and she was looking straight out of the window at the setting sun when she asked, "When was the last time you saw Mr. Norcross, Jimmie?" I choked a little over a big scare that seemed to rush up out of the bed-clothes to smother me. But I made out to answer her question, telling her how Mr. Norcross had left the office maybe half an hour or so before I did, that night, going up-town with Mr. Ripley. Then I asked her why she wanted to know. "Because nobody has seen him since a little later that same night," she said, saying it very softly and without turning her head. And then: "Mr. Van Britt found a letter from Mr. Norcross on his desk the next morning. It was just a little typewritten note, on a Hotel Bullard letter sheet, saying that he had made up his mind that the Pioneer Short Line wasn't worth fighting for, and that he was resigning and taking the midnight train for the East." I sat straight up in bed; I should have had to do it if both arms had been burnt to a crisp clear to the shoulders. "Resigned?--gave up and ran away? I don't believe that for a single minute, Maisie Ann!" I burst out. She was shaking her head again, still without turning her face so that I could see it. "I--I'm afraid it's all true, Jimmie. There were two telegrams that came to Mr. Norcross the night he went away; one from Mr. Chadwick and the other from Mr. Dunton. I heard Mr. Van Britt telling Cousin Sheila what the messages were. He'd seen the copies of them that they keep in the telegraph office." It was on my tongue's end to say that Mr. Norcross never had seen those two telegrams, because I had them in my pocket and was on my way to deliver them when I got shot; but I didn't. Instead, I said: "And you think that was why Mr. Norcross threw up his hands and ran away?" "No; I don't think anything of the sort. I know what it was, and you know what it was," and at that she turned around and pushed me gently down among the pillows. "What was it?" I whispered, more than half afraid that I was going to hear a confirmation of my own breath-taking conviction. And I heard it, all right. "It was what I was telling you about, that same evening, you remember--down in the hall when you brought the flowers for Cousin Sheila? You told him what I told you, didn't you?" "No; I didn't have a chance--not any real chance." "Then somebody else told him, Jimmie; and that is the reason he has resigned and gone away. Mr. Van Britt thinks it was on account of the two messages from Mr. Chadwick and Mr. Dunton, and that is why he wants to talk to you about it. But you know, and I know, Jimmie, dear; and for Cousin Sheila's sake and Mr. Norcross's, we must never lisp it to a human soul. A new general manager has been appointed, and he is on his way out here from New York. Everything has gone to pieces on the railroad, and all of Mr. Norcross's friends are getting ready to resign. Isn't it perfectly heart-breaking?" It was; it was so heart-breaking that I just gasped once or twice and went off the hooks again, with Maisie Ann's frightened little shriek ringing in my ears as she tried to hold me back from slipping over the edge. XI What Every Man Knows I wasn't gone very long on this second excursion into the woozy-woozies, though it was night-time, and the shaded electric light was turned on when I opened my eyes and found Mrs. Sheila sitting by the bedside. The pie-faced nurse was gone; or at least I didn't see her anywhere; and the change in Mrs. Sheila sort of made me gasp. She wasn't any less pretty as she sat there with her hands clasped in her lap, but she was different; sober, and with the laugh all gone out of the big gray eyes, and a look in them as if she had suddenly become so wise that nobody could ever fool her. "You are feeling better now?" she asked, when she found me staring at her. I told her I guessed I was, but that my hand hurt me some. "You have had a great shock of some kind--besides the burn, Jimmie," she rejoined, folding up the bed covers so that the bandaged hand would rest easier. "The doctors are all puzzled. Does your head feel quite clear now--so that you can think?" "It feels as if I had a crazy clock in it," I said. "But the thinking part is all right. Have you heard anything from Mr. Norcross yet?" "Not a word. It is all very mysterious and perplexing. We have been hoping that you could tell us something when you should recover sufficiently to talk. Can't you, Jimmie?" Remembering what Maisie Ann had told me just before I went off the hooks, I thought I might tell her a lot if I dared to. But that wouldn't do. So I just said: "I told Maisie Ann all I knew about Mr. Norcross. He left the office some little time before I did--with Mr. Ripley. I didn't know where they were going." "They went to the hotel," she helped out. "Mr. Ripley says they sat in the lobby until after ten o'clock, and then Mr. Norcross went up to his rooms." Of course, I knew that Mr. Ripley knew all about the Hatch ruction; but if he hadn't told her, I wasn't going to tell her. She had got ahead of me, there, though; perhaps she had been talking with the major, who always knew everything that was going on. "There was some trouble in connection with Mr. Hatch that evening, wasn't there?" she asked. "Hatch had some trouble--yes. But I guess the boss didn't have any," I replied. "Tell me about it," she commanded; and I told her just as little as I could; how Hatch had had an interview with the boss earlier in the evening, while I was away. "It wasn't a quarrel?" she suggested. "Why should they quarrel?" I asked. She shook her head. "You are sparring with me, Jimmie, in some mistaken idea of being loyal to Mr. Norcross. You needn't, you know. Mr. Norcross has told me all about his plans; he has even been generous enough to say that I helped him make them. That is why I can not understand why he should do as he has done--or at least as everybody believes he has done." I saw how it was. She was trying to find some explanation that would clear the boss, and perhaps implicate the Hatch crowd. I couldn't tell her the real reason why he had run away. Maisie Ann had been right as right about that; we must keep it to our two selves. But I tried to let her down easy. "Mr. Van Britt has told you about those two telegrams that came after Mr. Norcross left the office," I said, still covering up the fact that the telegrams hadn't been delivered--that they were probably in the pocket of my coat right now, wherever that was. "They were enough to make any man throw up his hands and quit, _I_ should say." "No," she insisted, looking me straight in the eyes. "You are not telling the truth now, Jimmie. You know Mr. Norcross better than any of us, and you know that it isn't the least little bit like him to walk out and leave everything to go to wreck. Have you ever known of his doing anything like that before?" I had to admit that I hadn't; that, on the other hand, it was the very thing you'd least expect him to do. But at the same time I had to hang on to my sham belief that it was the thing he _had_ done: either that, or tell her the truth. "Every man reaches his limit, some time!" I protested. "What was Mr. Norcross to do, I'd like to know; with Mr. Chadwick getting scared out, and Mr. Dunton threatening to fire him?" "The thing he wouldn't do would be to go off and leave all of his friends, Mr. Van Britt and Mr. Hornack, and all the rest, to fight it out alone. You know that as well as I do, Jimmie Dodds!" There was actually a flash of fire in the pretty gray eyes when she said that, and her loyal defense of the boss made me love her good and hard. I wished, clear to the bottom of my heart, that I dared tell her just why it was that Mr. Norcross had thrown up his hands and dropped out, but that was out of the question. "If you won't take my theory, you must have one of your own," I said; not knowing what else to say. "I have," she flashed back, "and I want you to hurry and get well so that you can help me trace it out." "Me?" I queried. "Yes, you. The others are all so stupid! even Mr. Van Britt and Mr. Ripley. They insist that Mr. Norcross went east to see and talk with Mr. Chadwick. They have found out that Mr. Chadwick left Chicago the day after he sent that telegram, to go up into the Canadian woods to look at some mines, or something. They say that Mr. Norcross has followed him, and that is why they don't hear anything from him." "What do _you_ think?" I asked. She didn't answer right away, and in the little pause I saw a sort of frightened look come into her eyes. But all she said was, "I want you to hurry up and get well, Jimmie, so you can help." "I'm well enough now, if they'll let me get up." "Not to-night; to-morrow, maybe." Then: "Mr. Van Britt is down-stairs with Cousin Basil. He has been very anxious to talk with you as soon as you were able to talk. May I send him up?" Of course I said yes; and pretty soon after she went away, our one and only millionaire came in. He looked as he always did; just as if he had that minute stepped out of a Turkish bath where they shave and scrub and polish a man till he shines. "How are you, Jimmie?" he rapped out. "Glad to see you on earth again. Feeling a little more fit, to-night?" I told him I didn't think it would take more than half a dozen fellows of my size to knock me out, but I was gaining. Then he sat down and put me on the question rack. I gave him all I had--except that thing about the undelivered telegrams and two or three others that I couldn't give him or anybody, and at the end of it he said: "I've been hoping you could help out. I don't need to tell you that this new turn things have taken has us all fought to a standstill, Jimmie. I've known 'the boss', as you call him, ever since we were boys together, and I never knew him to do anything like this before." "We're in pretty bad shape, aren't we?" I suggested. "We couldn't be in worse shape," was the way he put it. Then he told me a little more than Maisie Ann had; how President Dunton had wired to stop all the betterment work on the Short Line until the new general manager could get on the ground; how the local capitalists at the head of the new Citizens' Storage & Warehouse organization were scared plumb out of their shoes and were afraid to make a move; and how the newspapers all over the State were saying that it was just what they had expected--that the railroad was crooked in root and branch, and that a good man couldn't stay with it long enough to get his breath. "Then the new general manager has been appointed?" I asked. He nodded. "Some fellow by the name of Dismuke. I don't know him, and neither does Hornack. He is on his way west now, they say." "And there is no word from Mr. Chadwick?" "Nothing direct. His secretary wires that he is somewhere up north of Lake Superior, in the Canadian mining country and out of reach of the telegraph." "Mr. Norcross hasn't shown up at Mr. Chadwick's Chicago offices?" I ventured. "No. The telegraph people have been wiring everywhere and can't get any trace of him." "Tell them to try Galesburg. That's where his people live." "I know," he said; and he made a note of the address on the back of an envelope. Then he came at me again, on the "direct," as a lawyer would say. "You've been closer to Norcross in an intimate way than any of us, Jimmie: haven't you seen or heard something that would help to turn a little more light on this damnable blow-up?" I hadn't--outside of the one thing I couldn't talk about--and I told him so, and at this he let me see a little more of what was going on in his own mind. "You're one of us, in a way, Jimmie, and I can talk freely to you. I'm new to this neck of woods, but the major tells me that the Hatch crowd is a pretty tough proposition. Mrs. Macrae goes farther and insists that there has been foul play of some sort. You say you weren't present when Hatch called on Norcross at the office that night?" "No; I came in just after Hatch went away." "Did Norcross say anything to make you think there had been a fight?" "He told me that Hatch was abusive and had made threats--in a business way." "In a business way? What do you mean by that?" I quoted the boss's own words, as nearly as I could recall them. "So Hatch did make a threat, then? He said that Norcross might as well resign one time as another?" "Something like that, yes." "Can you add anything more?" I could, but I didn't want to. Mr. Van Britt didn't know anything about the Sand Creek Siding hold-up, or I supposed he didn't, and I didn't want to be the first one to tell him. Besides, the whole business was beside the mark. Maisie Ann knew, and I knew, that the boss, strong and unbreakable as he was in other ways, had simply thrown up his hands and quit because somebody had told him that Mrs. Sheila had a husband living. So I just said: "Nothing that would help out," and after he had talked a little while longer our only millionaire went down-stairs again. It's funny how things change around for a person just by giving them time to sort of shake down into place and fit themselves together. Nobody came up any more that night; not even the pie-faced nurse; and I had a good chance to lie there looking up at the ceiling pattern of the wall paper and thinking things out to a finish. After a while the thin edge of the wedge that Mrs. Sheila had been trying to drive into me began to take hold, just a little, in spite of what I knew--or thought I knew. Was it barely possible, after all, that there had been foul play of some sort? There were plenty of mysteries to give the possibility standing-room. In the first place, something had been done to me by somebody: it was a sure thing that I hadn't crippled and half-killed myself all by my lonesome. Then they had said that the boss stayed up with Mr. Ripley that night until after ten o'clock, and had then gone up to go to bed. That being the case, how could anybody have got to him between that time and the leaving time of the midnight Fast Mail to tell him about Mrs. Sheila? Anyway it was stacked up, it made a three-cornered puzzle, needing somebody to tackle it right away; and when I finally went to sleep it was with the notion that, sick or no sick, I was going to turn out early in the morning and get busy. XII With the Wheels Trigged I was well enough to get up the next morning, and when I phoned to Mr. Van Britt he sent his car out to the major's to take me down to the office. Just before I left the house, Mrs. Sheila waylaid me, and after telling me that I must be careful and not take cold in the burnt hand, she put in another word about the boss's disappearance. "I want you to remember what I said last night, Jimmie, and not let the others talk you over into the belief that Mr. Norcross has gone away because he was either discouraged or afraid. He wouldn't do that: you know it, and I know it. We are his friends, you and I, and we must stand by him and defend him when he isn't here to defend himself." It did me good to hear her talk that way, and I wondered if she could be the same young woman who had jumped off the train to run skittering after Maisie Ann, and had afterward made the boss turn himself inside out under the water tank just for her pastime. It didn't seem possible; she seemed so many worlds older and wiser. I had been sort of getting ready to dislike her for letting the boss get in so deep and not telling him straight out that she was a married woman and he mustn't; but when I saw that she was trying to be just as loyal to him as I was, it pulled me over to her side again. So I promised to do all the things she told me to do, and to keep her posted as to what was going on; and then she made me feel kind of kiddish and feckless by coming out and helping me into Mr. Van Britt's auto. Though the boss's disappearance was now four days old, things were still in a sort of daze down at the railroad offices. Of course, the trains were running yet, and, so far as anybody could see, the Short Line was still a going proposition. But the heart was gone out of the whole business, and the entire push was acting as if it were just waiting for the roof to fall in--as I guess it was. Mr. Van Britt, being the general superintendent and next in command, had moved over into the boss's office, and Fred May was doing his shorthand work. They wouldn't let me do anything much--I couldn't do much with my right arm in a sling--so I had a chance to hang around and size up the situation. If you want to know how it sized up, you can take it from me that it was pretty bad. People all along the line were bombarding Mr. Van Britt with letters and telegrams wanting to know what was going to be done, and what the change in management was going to mean for the public, and all that. On top of this, the office ante-room was full of callers, some of them just merely curious, but most of them dead anxious. You see, Mr. Norcross had laid out a mighty attractive programme in the little time he had been at the wheel, and now it looked as if it was all going to be dumped into the ditch. Mr. Van Britt saw and talked with everybody, and when he could wedge off a minute or two of privacy, he'd go into the third room of the suite and thresh it out with Juneman, or Billoughby, or Mr. Ripley. From these private talks I found out that there was still some doubt in the minds of all four of them about the boss's drop-out--as to whether it was voluntary or not. Also, I found out what had been done during the four days. We had no "company detective" at that time, and Mr. Hornack had borrowed a man named Grimmer from his old company, the Overland Central, wiring for him and getting him on the ground within twenty-four hours of the time of Mr. Norcross's disappearance. Grimmer had gone to work at once, but everything he had turned up, so far, favored the voluntary runaway theory. Mr. Norcross's trunks were still in his rooms at the Bullard; but his two grips were gone. And the night clerk at the hotel, when he was pushed to it, remembered that the boss had paid his bill up to date, that night before going up to his rooms. Past that, the trace was completely lost. The conductor on the Fast Mail, eastbound, on the night in question, ought to have been the next witness. But he wasn't. He swore by all that was good and great that Mr. Norcross hadn't been a passenger on his train. And he would certainly have known it if he had been carrying his general manager. Besides that, the boss wasn't the kind of man to be lost in a crowd; he was too big and too well known by this time to the rank and file. Over in the other field there was absolutely nothing to incriminate the Hatch people. So far from it, Hatch had turned up at the railroad office, bright and early the morning after Mr. Norcross had gone. He had asked for the boss, and failing to find him, he had hunted up Mr. Van Britt. What he wanted, it seemed, was a chance to reopen the proposition that had been made to him the day before--the offer of the new Citizens' Storage & Warehouse Company to purchase the various Red Tower equipments and plants. Mr. Van Britt had referred him to Mr. Ripley, and to our lawyer Hatch had made what purported to be an open confession, admitting that he had gone to Mr. Norcross the night before, determined to fight the new company to a finish, and that there had been a good many things said that would better be forgotten. Now, however, he was willing to talk straight business and a compromise. He had called his board of directors together, and they had voted to sell their track-bordering plants to Citizens' Storage & Warehouse if a price could be amicably agreed upon. This was the way the matter still stood. With Mr. Norcross gone and a new general manager coming, Mr. Ripley was afraid to make a move, and Hatch was pressing him to get busy on the bargain and sale proposition; was apparently as anxious now to sell and withdraw as he had at first been to fight everything in sight. By the morning I came on the scene the man Grimmer had, as they say, just about done his do. He was only a sort of journeyman detective, and had run out of clues. When he came in and talked to Mr. Van Britt and Mr. Ripley, I could see that he fully believed in the drop-out theory, and even the lawyer and Mr. Van Britt had to admit that the facts were with him. The boss had written a letter saying definitely that he was quitting; he had paid his hotel bill, and his grips were gone; and two days later President Dunton had appointed a new general manager, which was proof positive, you'd say, that the boss _had_ resigned and had so notified the New York office. When the noon hour came along, Fred May took me out to luncheon, and we went to the Bullard café. It was pretty rich for our blood at two dollars per, but I guess Fred thought his job was gone, anyway, and felt reckless. Over the good things at our corner table we did a little threshing on our own account--and got a lot more chaff and no grain. Fred didn't want to agree with Grimmer and the facts, but there didn't seem to be any help for it. And as for me, I had that other thing in mind all the time--the big scary fear that somebody had got to the boss after he had left Ripley on the night of shockings, and had just bashed him in the face with the story of Mrs. Sheila's sham widowhood. By and by we got around to my burned hand, and Fred told me Grimmer had at least succeeded in clearing up whatever mystery there was about that. The wall switch for the electric light in the lower hall at the headquarters was right beside the outer door jamb--as I knew. It had burned out in some way, and that was why there was no light on when I went down-stairs. And in burning out it had short-circuited itself with the brass lock of the door; Fred didn't know just how, but Grimmer had explained it. I asked him if Grimmer had explained how a 110-volt light current could cook me like a fried potato, and he said he hadn't. The afternoon at the office was a sort of cut-and-come-again repeat of the morning, with lots of people milling around and things going crooked and cross-ways, as they were bound to with the boss gone and a new boss coming. Nobody had any heart for anything, and along late in the afternoon when word came of a freight wreck at Cross Creek Gulch, Mr. Van Britt threw up both hands and yipped and swore like a pirate. It just showed what a raw edge the headquarters' nerves were taking on. Though it wasn't his business, Mr. Van Britt went out with the wrecking train, and Fred May and I had it all to ourselves for the remaining hour or so up to closing time. Just before five, Mr. Cantrell, the editor of the _Mountaineer_, dropped in. He looked a bit disappointed when he found only us two. Fred turned him over to me, and he came on in to the private office when I asked him to, and smoked one of the boss's good cigars out of a box that I found in the big desk. I liked Cantrell. He was just the sort of man you expect an editor to be; tall and thin and kind of mild-eyed, with an absent way with him that made you feel as if he were thinking along about a mile ahead of you when you were striking the best think-gait you ever knew of. After the cigar was going he talked a little about my sore hand and then switched over to the big puzzle. "No word yet from Mr. Norcross, I suppose?" he said. I told him there wasn't. "It's very singular, don't you think, Jimmie?--or do you?" "It's as singular to me, and to all of us, as it is to you," I threw in. "Branderby"--he was one of the _Mountaineer_ reporters--"tells me that you people have had a detective on the job. Did he find out anything?" "Nothing worth speaking of. He is the Overland Central's 'special,' and I guess his best hold is train robberies and things of that sort." The editor smoked on for a full minute without saying anything more, and he seemed to be staring absently at a steamship picture on the wall. When he got good and ready, he began again. "You don't need any common plain-clothes man on this job, Jimmie; you need the best there is: a real, dyed-in-the-wool Sherlock Holmes, if there ever were such a miracle." "You think it is a case for a detective?" "I do," he replied, looking straight at me with his mild blue eyes. "If I were one of Mr. Norcross's close friends I should get the best help that could be found and not lose a single minute about it." Since there was nobody around who was any closer to the boss than I was, I jumped into the hole pretty quick. "Can you tell us anything that will help, Mr. Cantrell?" I asked. "Not specifically; I wish I could. But I can say this: I know Mr. Rufus Hatch and his associates up one side and down the other. They are hand-in-glove with the political pirates who control this State. From the little that has leaked out, and the great deal that has been published in the Hatch-controlled newspapers all over the State during the past few weeks, it is apparent that Mr. Norcross's removal was a thing greatly to be desired, not only by the Red Tower people, but also by the political bosses. That ought to be enough to make all of you suspicious--very suspicious, Jimmie." "It did, and does," I admitted. "But there isn't the slightest reason to think that the Hatch crowd has made away with Mr. Norcross--reason in fact, I mean. Hatch, himself, says that his directors are willing to sell out, and that if Mr. Norcross were here the deal could be closed in a day." The tall editor got up and made ready to go. "You remember the old saying, current in Europe in Napoleon's time, Jimmie: 'Beware of the Russians when they retreat.' If I were in your place, or rather in Mr. Van Britt's, I'd get an expert on this job--and I shouldn't let much grass grow under my feet while I was about it. Call me up at the _Mountaineer_ office if I can help." And with that he went away. It was just a little while after this that I put on my hat and strolled across the yard tracks to Kirgan's office in the shops. Kirgan was an old friend, as you might say: he had been on the Oregon building job with us and knew the boss through and through. I didn't have anything special to say, but I kind of wanted to talk to somebody who knew. So I loafed in on Kirgan. I wish I could show you Mart Kirgan just as he was. You'd pick him up anywhere for the toughest Bad Man from Bitter Creek that ever swaggered into a saloon to throw down on some poor tenderfoot and make him dance by shooting at his heels: big-jowled, black, with a hard jaw, sultry hot eyes, and a pair of drooping mustaches like the penny picture-makers used to put on One-Eyed Ike, the Terror of the Uintahs. Really, however, Mart wasn't half as savage as he looked; he didn't have to be, you know, looking that way. And he loved the boss like a brother. As soon as I came in, he fired his kid stenographer on some errand or other, and made me sit down and tell him all I knew. When I got through he was pulling at his long mustache and wrinkling his nose as I've seen a bulldog do when he was getting ready to bite something. "You haven't got all the drop-out business cornered over yonder in the general office, Jimmie," he said slowly, tilting back in his swing-chair and glowering at me with those sultry eyes of his. "On that same night that you're talkin' about, I stand to lose one perfectly good Atlantic-type locomotive. At ten o'clock she was set in on the spur below the coal chutes. At twelve o'clock, when the round-house watchman went down there to see if her fire was banked all right, she was gone." XIII The Lost 1016 When Kirgan told me he was shy a whole locomotive, I began to see all sorts of fireworks. Of course, there was nothing on earth to connect the boss's disappearance with that of the engine which had been left standing below the coal chutes, but the two things snapped themselves together for me like the halves of an automatic coupling, and I couldn't wedge them apart. "An engine--even a little old Atlantic-type--is a pretty big thing to lose, isn't it, Kirgan?" I asked. Kirgan righted his chair with a crash. "Jimmie, I've sifted this blamed outfit through an eighty-mesh screen!" he growled. "With all the devil-to-pay that's goin' on over at the headquarters, I didn't want to bother Mr. Van Britt, and I haven't been advertisin' in the newspapers. But it's a holy fact, Jimmie. That engine's faded away, and nobody saw or heard it go. I've had men out for four days, now, lookin' and pryin' 'round and askin' questions in every hole and corner of the three divisions. It ain't any use. The 'Sixteen's gone!" "But, listen," I broke in. "If anybody tried to steal it, it couldn't pass the first telegraph station east or west without being reported. And that isn't saying anything at all about the risk of hypering a wild engine over the main line without orders." "I know all that, Jimmie," he agreed. "But the fact's right here amongst us. The Ten-Sixteen's lost." I was still trying to pry myself loose from the notion that the loss of the engine, and the boss's disappearance at about the same time, were in some way connected with each other. It was no use; the idea refused to let go. "Look here, Kirgan," I shoved in; "can you think of any possible reason why Mr. Norcross should write Mr. Van Britt a letter saying that he had quit and was going east on the midnight train, and then should change his mind and come down here and go somewhere on that engine?" After I had said it, it sounded so foolish that I wanted to take it back. But Kirgan didn't seem to look at it that way. "Well, I'll be shot!" he exclaimed. "I never once thought of that! But where the devil would he go? And how would he get there without somebody findin' out? And why in Sam Hill would he do a thing like that, anyway? Why, sufferin' Moses! if he wanted to go anywhere, all he had to do was to order out his car and tell the despatcher, and _go_." "I can't figure it out any better than you can," I confessed. "At the same time, I can't break away from the notion. Mr. Norcross is gone, and the Ten-Sixteen is gone, and they both dropped out between ten and twelve o'clock on the same night. Mart, I don't believe Mr. Norcross went east at all! I believe, when we find that engine, we'll find _him_!" Kirgan got out of his chair and began to walk up and down in the little space between his desk and the drawing-board. Besides being the best boss mechanic in the West, he was a first-class fighting man, with a clear head and nerve to burn. When he had got as far as he could go alone he turned on me. "Jimmie, do you reckon this Red Tower outfit was far enough along in its scrap with the boss to put up a job to pass him out of the game?" he demanded. I told him it didn't seem to fit into any twentieth-century scheme of things, and past that I mentioned the fact that the Hatch people had taken the back track and were now offering to sell out and stop chocking the wheels of reform. "I know," he put in. "But I've been readin' the papers, Jimmie, and it ain't all Red Tower, not by a jugful. The big graft in this neck-a woods is political, and the Red Tower gang is only set-a cogs in the bull-wheel. Mr. Norcross was gettin' himself mighty pointedly disliked; you know that. The way he was aimin' to run things, it was beginnin' to look as if maybe the people of this State might wake up some day and turn in and help him." "I know all about that," I threw in. "But where are you trying to land, Mart?" "Right here. Mr. Norcross was the whole show. Take him out of it and the whole shootin'-match would fall to pieces--as it's doin', right now. They didn't need to slug him or shoot him up or anything like that: if it could be made to look as if he'd jumped the job, quit, chucked it all up, why there you are. A new boss would be sent out here, and you could bet your sweet life he wouldn't be anybody like Mr. Norcross. Not so you could notice it. The New York people would take blamed good care-a that." "You think the Dunton people are standing in with the graft?" "Nobody could've grabbed off the motive-power job on this railroad, as I did, Jimmie, and not think it--and be damn' sure of it. Why, Lord o' Heavens, the Red Tower bunch was usin' us just the same as if we belonged to 'em!--orderin' our men to do their machinery repairs, helpin' themselves to any railroad material that they happened to need, usin' our cars and engines on their loggin' roads and mine branches." "You stopped all this?" "You bet I did--between two days! They've been makin' seventeen different kinds of a roar ever since, but I've had Mr. Van Britt and the Big Boss behind me, so I just shoved ahead." What Kirgan said about the Red Tower people using our rolling stock on their private branch roads set a bee to buzzing in my brain. What if they had stolen the 1016 to use in that way? I let the bee loose, and Kirgan grabbed at it like a cat jumping for a grasshopper. "Say, Jimmie, boy--you've got a pretty middlin' long head on you when you give it room to play in," he grunted. "The string's tangled up about as bad as it was before, but I believe you're gettin' hold of the loose end." "You have a blue-print of the Portal Division here, haven't you?" I asked. "Dig it up and let's have a look at it." He didn't know where to look for the blue-print, but just then his boy stenographer came back and found it for us. The shop whistle had blown and it was quitting time, so Kirgan told the boy he could go on home. When we were alone again I unrolled the blue-print and we began to study it carefully with an eye to the possibilities. At first the facts threatened to bluff us. The blue-print engineers' map was an old one, but it showed the spurs and side-tracks, the stations and water tanks. Since the lost engine had been standing at the western end of the Portal City yards, we didn't try to trace it eastward. To get out in that direction it would have had to pass the round-house, the shops, the passenger station and the headquarters building, and, even at that time of night, somebody would have been sure to see it. Tracing the other way--westward--we had a clear track for ten miles to Arroyo. Arroyo had no night operator, so we agreed that the stolen engine might easily have slipped past there without being marked down. Eight miles beyond Arroyo we came to Banta, the first night station west of Portal City. Here, as we figured it, the wild engine must have been seen by the operator, if by no one else. Banta was an apple town, and the town itself might have been asleep, but the wire man at the station shouldn't have been. "Let's hold Banta in suspense a bit, and allow that by some means or other the thieves managed to get by," I suggested. "The next thing to be considered is the fact that the Ten-Sixteen must now have been running--without orders, we must remember--against the Fast Mail coming east. The Mail didn't pass her anywhere--not officially, at least; if it had, the fact would show up in some station's report to the despatcher's office." At this, we hunted up an official time-card and began to figure on the "meet" proposition. The Fast Mail was due at Portal City at twelve-twenty, and on the night in question it had been on time. Making due time allowances for inaccuracy in the yard watchman's story, the missing engine could hardly have left the Portal City yard much before ten-forty-five. The Fast Mail was scheduled at forty miles an hour. Its time at Banta was eleven-fifty-three. Allowing the 1016 the same rate of speed in the opposite direction, it would have passed Banta at eleven-twelve or thereabouts. Hence there would still be forty-one minutes running time to be divided between the eastbound train and the westbound engine. In other words, the meeting-point, with the two running at the same speed, would fall about twenty minutes west of Banta. When we tried to figure this meeting-point out we were stuck. Banta lay in the lap of an irrigated valley in the hogback, a valley which the diverted waters of Banta Creek had turned into an orchardist's paradise. West of the town the railroad ran through a hill country, winding around among the spurs of the Timber Mountain range and heading for the Sand Creek desert where Mr. Chadwick had had his adventure with the hold-ups. Tracing the line on the blue-print, we hunted for a possible passing point, which, according to the way we had things doped out, should have been not more than thirteen or fourteen miles west of Banta. There was a blind siding ten miles west, but beyond that, nothing east of Sand Creek, which was twenty-one miles farther along; at least, there was nothing that showed up on the map. The ten-mile siding might have served for the passing point, but in that case the crew of the Fast Mail would surely have seen the 1016 waiting on the siding as they came by. And they hadn't seen it; Kirgan said they had been questioned promptly the following morning. Though I had been over the road with Mr. Norcross in his private car any number of times since we had taken hold, I didn't recall the detail topographies very clearly, and I couldn't seem to remember anything about this siding ten miles west of Banta. So I asked Kirgan. "That siding isn't in any such shape that the Fast Mail could get by without seeing a 'meet' train on the side-track, is it?" The big master-mechanic shook his head. "Hardly, you'd think. I reckon we're up a stump, Jimmie. That siding is part of an old 'Y' at the mouth of a gulch that runs back into the mountains for maybe a dozen miles or so. They tell me the 'Y' was put in for the Timber Mountain Lumber outfit when they used the gulch mouth for their shipping point. They had one of their saw-mills up in the gulch somewhere, but the business died out when they got the timber all cut off." This time I was the one who did the cat-and-grasshopper act. "Tell me this, Mart," I put in quickly. "The Timber Mountain company is one of the Red Tower monopolies: did it have a railroad track up that gulch connecting with our 'Y'?" "Why, yes; I reckon so. I'm not right sure that there ain't one there yet. But if there is, it's been disconnected from the 'Y'. I'm sure of that, because I went in on that 'Y' one day with the wrecker." You'd think this would have settled it. But I hung on like a dog to a root. "Say, Mart," I insisted, "this 'Y' siding we're talking about is just around where the Ten-Sixteen ought to have met the Mail; so far as we can tell by this map it's the only place where it could have met it. And the old gulch track would have been a mighty good hiding-place for the stolen engine!" "There ain't any track there," said Kirgan, shaking his head; "or, leastwise, if there is, it hasn't any rail connection with our siding, just as I'm tellin' you. We'll have to look farther along." Somehow, I couldn't get it out of my head but that I was right. Our guesses all went as straight as a string to that 'Y' siding ten miles west of Banta, and I was sure that if I had been talking to Mr. Van Britt I could have convinced him. But Kirgan was awfully hard-headed. "It's supper time," he said, after we had mulled a while longer over the map. "To-morrow, if you like, we'll take an engine and run down there. But we ain't goin' to find anything. I can tell you that, right now." "Yes, and to-morrow we may have the new general manager, and then you and I and all the others will be hunting for some other railroad to work on," I retorted. I pretty nearly had him over the edge, but I couldn't push him the rest of the way to save my life. "If there was the least little scrap--a reason even to imagine that Mr. Norcross had gone off on that stolen eight-wheeler, it would be different, Jimmie," he protested. "But there ain't; and you know doggoned well there ain't. Let's go up-town and hunt up something to eat. You'll feel a heap clearer in your mind when you get a good square meal inside o' your clothes." We left the shop offices together, and got shut out, crossing the yard, by a freight that was pulling in from the West. There was a yard crew shifting on the other side of the incoming train, and rather than wait for the double obstruction to clear itself, we walked down the shop track, meaning to go around the lower end of things. This detour took us past the round-house, and when we reached the turn-table lead, the engine of the just-arrived freight came backing down the skip-track. Seeing Kirgan, the engineer swung down from the step at the lead switch, leaving the hostler to "spot" the engine on the table. I knew the engineer by sight. His name was Gorcher, and he was a reformed cow-punch'--with a record for getting out of more tight places with a heavy train than any other man on the division. "Here's lookin' at you, Mr. Kirgan," he said, with a sort of Happy Hooligan grin on his smutty face. "You been passin' the word, quiet, among the boys to keep an eye out f'r that Atlantic-type that got lost in the shuffle, ain't you? Well, I found her." "What's that--where?" snapped Kirgan, in a tone that made a noise like the pop of a whip-lash. "You know that old gravel pit that digs into the hill a mile west of the old 'Y' on the Timber Mountain grade? Well, she's there; plumb at the far end o' that gravel track, cold _and_ dead." "When did you see her?" "Just now--comin' in. We had to cut and double, comin' up Timber Mountain hill. 'Stead o' pullin' all the way up to the 'Y' and losin' more time, I doubled in on that old gravel track. There she was, as big as a house." "Crippled?" Kirgan rapped out. "Not as we could see; just dead. She's got her nose shoved a piece into the gravel bank, but she ain't off the rail." Kirgan nodded. "That counts one for you, Billy. Who else saw her?" "Nobody but the boys on our train, I reckon." "All right. Don't spread it. And get hold of the others and tell 'em not to spread it. Want to make a little overtime?" "I ain't kickin' none." "That's business. After you've had your supper, call up your fireman and report to me here at the round-house. We'll take a light engine and go down along and get that runaway." This seemed to settle Kirgan's half of the puzzle. We hadn't taken the gravel track into our calculations simply because it wasn't marked on the map we had been studying; but that merely meant that the pit had been opened some time after the map had been made. When Gorcher had gone into the round-house to wash up and tell his fireman to report back, Kirgan and I crossed the yard and headed for town. I left the master-mechanic at the door of a Greek eat-shop that he patronized and went on up to the Bullard. There had been nothing more said about connecting the boss's disappearance with that of the stolen engine, and the idea seemed too ridiculous to hold on to, anyway. Mr. Norcross had said, in the letter to Mr. Van Britt, that he was going to quit; and, so far as we knew--or didn't know, rather--he had done it and had taken his grips and gone to the midnight Mail. Against this, of course, there was the Mail conductor's positive assertion that he hadn't carried the boss. But conductors are no more infallible than other people, and once in a blue moon in going through a train they miss a passenger. I remembered the one thing that might have made the boss desperate. If somebody had slammed the Mrs. Sheila story at him there was reason enough for a blow-up. I was just getting around to my piece of canned pumpkin pie--which wasn't half as good as the kind Maisie Ann fed me out at the major's--when the kid from the despatcher's office came into the grill-room, stretching his neck as if he were looking for somebody. When he got his eye on me he came across to my corner and handed me a telegram. It was from Mr. Chadwick, under a Chicago date line, and it was addressed "To the General Manager's Office," just like that. There were only nine words in it, but they were all strictly to the point: "What's gone wrong? Where is Mr. Norcross? Answer quick." I saw in half a second at least a part of what had happened. Mr. Chadwick was back from his Canadian trip, and somebody--the New York people, perhaps--had wired him that a new general manager had been appointed for Pioneer Short Line. The old wheat king's quick shot at our office showed that he wasn't in the plot, and that, whatever else had become of him, _Mr. Norcross hadn't as yet turned up in Chicago_! Gee! but that brought on more talk--a whaling lot of it. I meant to find out, right away, if Mr. Van Britt had come back from the Cross Creek wreck. He was the man to answer Mr. Chadwick's wire. But an interruption butted in suddenly, just as I was signing the dinner check. The head waiter, who knew me from having seen me so often with the boss, came over to say that I was wanted quick at the telephone. It was Mrs. Sheila on the wire, and I could tell by the way her voice sounded that she was mightily excited. "I've been calling you on every phone I could think of," was the way she began; and then: "Where is Mr. Van Britt?" I told her about the wreck, and said I was afraid he hadn't got back yet. I heard something that sounded like a muffled and half-impatient, "Oh, dear!" and then she went on. "I have just had a phone message from Mr. Cantrell, the editor of the _Mountaineer_. He called the house to try to find Major Kendrick. He has heard something which may explain about Mr. Norcross. He said he didn't want to put it on the wire." That was enough for me. "I'll go right over to the _Mountaineer_ office," I told her; and in just about two shakes of a dead lamb's tail, I was standing at Mr. Cantrell's elbow in his little den on the third floor of the newspaper building across the Avenue. "Mrs. Macrae telephoned you?" he asked, pushing his bunch of copy paper aside. "Yes; just a minute ago." "I'll give you what I have, and you may do what you please with it. One of our young men--Branderby--has a clue; a very slight one. He has discovered--in some way that he didn't care to explain over the phone--that there was a plot of some kind concocted in the back room of a dive on lower Nevada Avenue on the night Mr. Norcross disappeared. From what Branderby says, I take it that the plot was overheard, in part, at least, by some habitue of the place who was too drunk to get it entirely straight and intelligible. The plotters were four of Clanahan's men, and, as Branderby got it, they were planning to steal a locomotive. Do you know anything about that?" "I do. The engine was stolen all right, that very night. Kirgan, our master-mechanic, has known it was gone, but he has been keeping quiet in hopes he'd be able to find the engine without making any public stir about it." "The story, as it has been handed on to Branderby, is pretty badly muddled," the editor went on. "There was something in it about an attempt to wreck and rob the Fast Mail, and something else about sending a note to somebody at the Bullard--a note that 'would do the business,' was the way it was put." "That note was sent to Mr. Norcross!" I broke in excitedly, taking a running jump at the guess. "If you will wait until Branderby comes in, he may be able to give you more of the particulars," Cantrell was beginning to say; but good gosh!--I couldn't wait. I was scared stiff for fear I shouldn't be able to get back to the round-house before Kirgan started out on that engine-rescuing trip. "That's enough," I gasped; "I'm gone!" and I tumbled down the two flights of stairs and sprinted for the railroad yard, reaching the round-house not one half-second too soon. Kirgan was there, with Gorcher and two firemen. They had a light engine out on the tank track and were filling her with water. It was Kirgan himself who gave me a hand up the steps to the high foot-plate. Gorcher was oiling around and the two firemen were up on the tender. "They took Mr. Norcross with them on the Ten-Sixteen!" was all I could say and then I guess my late electric knock-out got in its work to pay for the quick sprint down from the newspaper office, for I keeled over into Kirgan's arms and sort of half fainted, it seemed. Because, when I came to, right good again, Kirgan had me up on the fireman's box, with an arm around me to hold me there: Billy Gorcher was on the other side of the cab, niggling at the throttle; and the light engine was clicking it off about fifty miles an hour on the straight piece of track between Portal City and Arroyo. XIV A Close Call Billy Gorcher did some swift wheel-rolling on the stretch of straight track where our "betterment" campaign had already begun to get in its good work. We had orders against a fast freight coming eastward at Banta, and we made the eighteen miles in a little over twenty minutes, shooting in on the siding at Banta just as the headlight of the freight was showing up in the western hills beyond the town. From Banta on, we took it a bit easier--had to. The track was pretty crooked among the hills and Gorcher hit the curves like a man who knew his trade and didn't mean to put us into the ditch. At the "Y" siding we stopped--without going on to the gravel track where Gorcher had seen the lost 1016--and Kirgan and I got off with a lantern. This was because, on the way down, I had managed to tell the big master-mechanic about the Cantrell talk, though I hadn't succeeded in making him believe that it accounted for Mr. Norcross's drop-out. Just the same he humored me by having Billy Gorcher stop, and now he was trying to make me take it sort of slow and easy as we stumbled out toward the stem of the "Y." That was Kirgan's way. He was as hard as nails with a gang of men, but he could be as soft-hearted as any woman when a fellow was all in. And he knew I wasn't half "at myself" yet, physically. "Don't you get too much hope up, Jimmie," he was saying, as we humped along around the crooking track of the "Y." "We ain't goin' to find anything out yonder but a rusty loggin' track and that broken rail connection. You see, I've been here before, and I know." He was as right as could be. When we reached the end of the "Y" there was the broken connection, just as he'd said. The old saw-mill track was still there, leading off in the dark up the gulch, but the two switch rails had been taken out and the switch itself was as rusty as if it hadn't been used in years. "What you heard from Mr. Cantrell may have been all true enough," Kirgan said, while I stood swallowing hard and staring down at the broken rail connection, "only it didn't have anything to do with the Big Boss. Them thugs was probably plannin' to wreck the Mail, all right, and they came down here to do it. The Lord only knows why they didn't do it; p'raps there wasn't time enough, after they'd got the 'Sixteen in on the gravel track." I only just about half heard what he was saying. He had the lantern, and its light fell squarely upon a cross-tie a foot or two beyond where we were standing. It was the last tie in the empty string from which the two rails had been taken up to break the connection with the lighter saw-mill track steel, and what I was looking at was a fresh spike hole; fresh beyond all question of doubt because there was a clean new splinter of the wood sticking up beside it--a splinter that had been broken out when the spike was pulled. I took the lantern from Kirgan in my one good hand, and he stood there waiting for me while I walked on out to the chopped-off end of the saw-mill track, examining the loose ties as I went along. There were fresh spike holes in some of the others; just one here and there. But that was enough. After I had knelt to hold the lantern close to the rails of the rusty timber track I knew my hunch was all right. "Come here, Mart!" I called, and when he came, I showed him the new holes and new wheel-marks on the old rusty rails of the timber track that proved as clear as daylight that an engine or a train had been over them away this side of the rains and the snows that had rusted them. Kirgan didn't say a word--not to me. He just took one look at the rubbed rails and then yelled back to Gorcher to run out on the "Y." What followed went like clockwork. There were tools, a spike-puller and a driving-maul, on the light engine's tender, and while the two firemen were throwing them off, Kirgan made a couple of swift measurements with his pocket tape. "These two, right here, boys," he ordered, indicating a pair of rails in the other leg of the "Y," and in less than no time the two rails were up and relaid to bridge the gap of the broken connection. Gorcher moved the engine carefully over the temporary connection, with Kirgan watching to see that she didn't ditch herself. When the crossing was safely made we all climbed on, and Gorcher began to feel his way cautiously out over the saw-mill track. Kirgan hadn't explained anything, but that didn't matter. We didn't know where we were going, but we were on our way. I suppose we poked along into the black heart of the Timber range for as much as five or six miles before the engine headlight showed us the remains of the old saw-mill camp lying in a little pocket-like valley from the sides of which all the mill timber had been cut. The camp had been long deserted. There were perhaps a dozen shacks of all sizes and shapes, and with a single exception they were all dilapidated and dismantled, some with the roofs falling in. The one exception was the stout log building which had probably served as the mill-gang commissary and store. It stood a little back on the slope, and was on the opposite side of the creek from the mill site and sleeping-shacks. The ties at this end of the line were so rotten with age that our engine was grinding a good half of them to powder as she edged up, and a little below the switch that had formerly led in to the mill, Kirgan gave Gorcher the stop signal. After we had piled off, there wasn't any question raised as to what we should do. Kirgan had taken a hammer from Gorcher's tool-box, and he was the one who led the way straight across the little creek and up the hill to the commissary. I had the lantern, but it wasn't needed. From where the engine was standing, the headlight flooded the whole gulch basin with its electric beam, picking out every detail of the deserted saw-mill camp. When we reached the log commissary we found the windows all boarded up and the door fastened with a strong hasp and a bright new brass padlock--the only new thing in sight. Kirgan swung his hammer just once and the lock went spinning off down the slope and fell with a splash into the creek. Then he pushed the door open with his foot, and shoved in; and for just one half-second I was afraid to follow--afraid of what we might find in that gloomy looking log warehouse, with its blinded windows and locked door. I thank the good Lord I had my scare for nothing. While I was nerving myself and stumbling over the threshold behind Kirgan with the lantern, I heard the boss's voice, and it wasn't the voice of any dead man, not by a long shot! From what he said, and the way he was trimming it up with hot ones, it was evident that he took us for some other crowd that he'd been cussing out before. The light of the lantern showed us a long room, bare of furnishings, and dark and musty from having been shut up so tight. In the far end there were a couple of bunks built against the log wall. On what had once been the counter of the commissary there was a lot of canned stuff and a box of crackers that had been broken open, and on a bench by the door there was a bucket of water and a tin cup. The boss was sitting up in one of the bunks, and he was still tearing off language in strips at us when we closed in on him. He recognized Kirgan first, and then Gorcher. I guess he couldn't see me very well because I was holding the lantern. When he found out who we were, he stopped swearing and got up out of the bunk to put his hand on Mart Kirgan's shoulder. That was the only break he made to show that he was a man, like the rest of us. The next minute he was the Big Boss again, rapping out his orders as if he had just pushed his desk button to call us in. "You've got an engine here, I suppose?" he snapped, at Kirgan. "Then we'll get out of this quick. What day of the week is it?" I told him it was Friday, and by his asking that, I knew he must have been so roughly handled that he had lost count of time. The next order was shot at the two firemen. "You boys kick that packing-box to pieces and then pull the straw out of that bunk and touch a match to it. We'll make sure that they'll never lock anybody else up in this damned dog-hole." The two young huskies obeyed the order promptly. In half a minute the dry slab stuff that the bunks were built of was ablaze and the boss herded us to the door. In the open he stopped and looked around as if he had half a mind to burn the rest of the deserted lumber camp, but if he had any such notion he thought better of it, and a minute or so later we were all climbing into the cab of the waiting engine. I had one last glimpse of the commissary as Gorcher released the air and the backing engine slid away around the first curve. It was sweating smoke through the split-shingle roof, and the open door framed a square of lurid crimson. I guess the boss was right. "They," whoever they were, wouldn't ever lock anybody else up in that particular shack. We had to run so slowly down the old track to the "Y" that there was plenty of chance for the boss to talk, if he had wanted to. But apparently he didn't want to. He sat on the fireman's seat, with an arm back of me to hold me on, just as Kirgan had sat on the way up, and never opened his head except once to ask me what was the matter with my wrapped-up hand. When I told him, he made no comment, and didn't speak again until we had stopped on the leg of the "Y" to let Kirgan and his three helpers put the borrowed rails back into place. That left just the two of us in the cab, and I thought maybe he would tell me some of the particulars, but he didn't. Instead, he made me tell him. "You say it's Friday," he began abruptly. "What's been going on since Monday night, Jimmie?" I boiled it down for him into just as few words as possible; about the letter he had left for Mr. Van Britt, how everybody thought he had resigned, how Mrs. Sheila and the major were two of the few who weren't willing to believe it, how Mr. Chadwick had been out of reach, how the railroad outfit was flopping around like a chicken with its head chopped off, how President Dunton had appointed a new general manager who was expected now on any train, how Gorcher had discovered the lost 1016 on the old disused gravel-pit track a mile below us, and, to wind up with, I slipped him Mr. Chadwick's telegram which had come just as I was finishing my supper in the Bullard grill-room, and those two others that had come on the knock-out night, and which had been in my pocket ever since. He heard me through without saying a word, and when I gave him the telegrams he read them by the light of the gauge lamp--also without saying anything. But when the men had the "Y" rails replaced he took hold of things again with a jerk. "Kirgan, you'll want to see to getting that dead engine out of the gravel pit yourself. Take one of the firemen and go to it. It's a short mile and you can walk it. Jimmie and I want to get back to Portal City in a hurry, and Gorcher will take us." And then to Gorcher: "We'll run to Banta ahead of Number Eighteen and get orders there. Move lively, Billy; time's precious." The orders were carried out precisely as they were given. Kirgan took one of the huskies and tramped off in the darkness down the main line, and Gorcher, turning our engine on the "Y," headed back east. This time he wasn't so awfully careful of the curves and sags as he had been coming up, and we made Banta at a record clip. While he was in the Banta wire office, getting orders for Portal City, Mr. Norcross took the time-card out of its cage in the cab and fell to studying it by the light of the gauge lamp. Gorcher came back pretty soon with his clearance, which gave him the right to run to Arroyo as first section of Number Eighteen. The boss blew up like a Roman candle when he saw that train order. It meant that we were to take the siding at Arroyo with the freight that was just behind us, and wait there for the westbound "Flyer," the "Flyer" being due in Portal City from the east at 9:15, and due to leave there, coming west, at 9:20. I didn't realize at the moment why the boss was so sizzling anxious to cut out the delay which would be imposed on us by the wait at Arroyo, but the anxiety was there, all right. "Billy, it's eighteen miles to Portal, and you've got twenty minutes to make it against the 'Flyer's' leaving time," he ripped out. "Can you do it?" Gorcher said he could, if he didn't have to lose any more time getting his order changed. "Let her go!" snapped the boss. "I'm taking all the responsibility." That was enough for Gorcher, and the way we hustled out of the Banta yard was a caution. By the time we hit the last set of switches the old "Pacific-type" was lurching like a ship at sea, and once out on the long grass-country tangents she went like a shot out of a gun. Of course, with nothing to pull but her own weight she had plenty of steam, and all Gorcher had to do was to keep her from choking herself with too much of it. He did it to the queen's taste; and in exactly eight minutes out of Banta we tore over the switches at Arroyo. That left us ten miles to go, and twelve minutes in which to make them. It looked pretty easy, and it would have been if the night crew hadn't been switching in the lower Portal City yard when we finished the race and Gorcher was whistling for the town stop. There was a hold-out of perhaps two minutes while the shifter was getting out of our way, and when we finally went clattering up through the yard, the "Flyer," a few minutes late, was just pulling in from the opposite direction. A yardman let us in on the spur at the end of the headquarters building, and the boss was off in half a jiffy. "Come along with me, Jimmie," he commanded quickly, and I couldn't imagine why he was in such a tearing hurry. Pushing through the platform crowd, made up of people who were getting off the "Flyer" and those who were waiting to get on, he led the way straight up-stairs to our offices. Of course, there was nobody there at that time of night, and the place was all dark until we switched the electrics on. There was a little lavatory off the third room of the suite, and Mr. Norcross went in and washed his face and hands. In a minute or two he came out, put on his office coat, opened up his desk, lighted a cigar and sat down at the desk as though he had just come in from a late dinner at the club. And still he had me guessing. The guess didn't have to wait long. While I was making a bluff at uncovering my typewriter and getting ready for business there was a heavy step in the hall, and a red-faced, portly gentleman with fat eyes and little close-cropped English side-whiskers came bulging in. He had a light top-coat on his arm, and his tan gloves were an exact match for his spats. "Good evening," he said, nodding sort of brusquely at the boss. "I'm looking for the general manager's office." "You've found it," said the boss, crisply. The tan-gloved gentleman looked first at me and then at Mr. Norcross. "You are the chief clerk, perhaps?" he suggested, pitching the query in the general direction of the big desk. "Hardly," was the curt rejoinder. "My name is Norcross. What can I do for you?" If I didn't hate slang so bad, I should say that the portly man looked as if he were going to throw a fit. "Not--not Graham Norcross?" he stammered. "Well, yes; I am 'Graham'--to my friends. Anything else?" The portly gentleman subsided into a chair. "There is some misunderstanding about this," he said, his voice thickening a little--with anger, I thought. "My name is Dismuke, and I am the general manager of this railroad." "I wouldn't dispute the name, but your title is away off," said Mr. Norcross, as cool as a handful of dry snow. "Who appointed you, if I may ask?" "President Dunton and the board of directors, of course." "The same authority appointed me, something like three months ago," was the calm reply. "So far as I know, I am still at the head of the company's staff in Portal City." The gentleman who had named himself Dismuke puffed out his cheeks and looked as if he were about to explode. "This is a devil of a mess!" he rapped out. "I understood--we all understood in New York--that you had resigned!" "Well, I haven't," retorted the boss shortly. And then he stuck the knife in good and deep and twisted it around. "There is a commercial telegraph wire in the Hotel Bullard, where I suppose you will put up, Mr. Dismuke, and I'm sure you will find it entirely at your service. If you have anything further to say to me I hope it will keep until after this office opens in the morning. I am very busy, just now." I mighty nearly gasped. This Dismuke was the new general manager, appointed, doubtless in all good faith, by the president and sent out to take charge of things. And here was the boss practically ordering him out of the office--telling him that his room was better than his company! The portly man got out of his chair, puffing like a steam-engine. "We'll see about this!" he threatened. "You've been here three months and you haven't done anything but muddle things until the stock of the company isn't worth much more than the paper it's printed on! If I can get a clear wire to New York, you'll have word from President Dunton to-morrow morning telling you where you get off!" To this Mr. Norcross made no reply whatever, and the heavy-footed gentleman stumped out, saying things to himself that wouldn't look very well in print. When the hall door below gave a big slam to let us know that he was still going, the boss looked across at me with a sour grin wrinkling around his eyes. "Now you know why I made Gorcher break all the rules of the service getting here, Jimmie," he said. "From what you told me down yonder on the old 'Y,' I gathered that my successor was not yet on the ground, but that he was likely to be at any minute. That's why I wanted to beat the 'Flyer' in. Possession is nine points of the law, and in this case it was rather important that Mr. Dismuke shouldn't find the outfit without a head and these offices of ours unoccupied." He rose, stretched his arms over his head like a tired boy, and reached for the golf cap he kept to wear when he went out to knock around in the shops and yard. "Let's go up to the hotel and see if we can break into the café, Jimmie," he finished up. "Later on, we'll wire Mr. Chadwick; but that can wait. I haven't had a square meal in four days." XV The Machine With everybody supposing he had resigned and left the country, I guess there were all kinds of a nine-minutes' wonder in Portal City, and all along the Short Line, when the word went out that Mr. Norcross was back on the job and running it pretty much the same as if nothing had happened. We, of the general offices, didn't hear much of the comment, naturally, because we were all too busy to sit in on the gossip game, but no doubt there was plenty of it: the more since the boss--a bit grimmer than usual--hadn't much to say about his drop-out; little even to the members of his staff, and nothing at all for publication. I suppose he broke over to the major, to Cantrell, and, of course, to Mrs. Sheila; but these were all in the family, too, as you might say. After supper, on the night of his return from the hide-out, he had sent a long code message to Mr. Chadwick, and a short one to President Dunton; and though I didn't see the reply to either, I guess Mr. Chadwick's answer, as least, was the right kind, because our track-renewing campaign went into commission again with a slam, and all the reform policies took a sure-enough fresh start and began to hump themselves, with Juneman working the newspapers to a finish. We heard nothing further from Mr. Dismuke, the portly gentleman in the tan spats, though he still stayed on at the Bullard. We saw him occasionally at meal times, and twice he was eating at the same table with Hatch and Henckel. That placed him all right for us, though I guess he didn't need much placing. I kind of wished he'd go away. His staying on made it look as if there might be more to follow. I wondered a little at first that Mr. Norcross didn't take the clue that Branderby, the _Mountaineer_ reporter, had given us and tear loose on the gang that had trapped him. He didn't; or didn't seem to. From the first hour of the first day he was up to his neck pushing things for the new company formed for the purpose of putting Red Tower out of business, and he wouldn't take a minute's time for anything else. Of course, it says itself that Hatch never made any more proposals about selling the Red Tower plants to the Citizens' Storage & Warehouse people after the boss got back. That move went into the discard in a hurry, and the Consolidation outfit was busy getting into its fighting clothes, and trying to chock the wheels of the C. S. & W. with all sorts of legal obstacles. Franchise contracts with the railroad were flashed up, and injunctions were prayed for. Ripley waded in, and what little sleep he got for a week or two was in Pullman cars, snatched while he was rushing around and trying to keep his new clients, the C. S. & W. folks, out of jail for contempt of court. He did it. Little and quiet and smooth-spoken, he could put the legal leather into the biggest bullies the other side could hire. Luckily, we were an inter-state corporation, and when the local courts proved crooked, Ripley would find some way to jerk the case out of them and put it up to some Federal judge. Around home in Portal City things were just simmering. Between two days, as you might say, and right soon after Mr. Norcross got back, we acquired a new chum on the headquarters force. He was a young fellow named Tarbell, who looked and talked and acted like a cow-punch just in from riding line. He was carried on Mr. Van Britt's pay-roll as an "extra" or "relief" telegraph operator; though we never heard of his being sent out to relieve anybody. I sized this new young man up, right away, for a "special" of some sort, and the proof that I was right came one afternoon when Ripley dropped in and fell into a chair to fan himself with his straw hat like a man who had just put down a load that he had been carrying about a mile and a half farther than he had bargained to. "Thank the Lord, the last of those injunction suits is off the docket," he said, drawing a long breath and wagging his neat little head at the boss. "I'll say one thing for the Hatch people, Norcross; they're stubborn fighters. It makes me sweat when I remember that all this is only the preliminary; that the real fight will come when Citizens' Storage & Warehouse enters the field as a business competitor of the Consolidated. That is when the fur will fly." "We'll beat 'em," predicted the boss. "They've got to let go. How about our C. S. & W. friends? Are they still game?" "Fine!" asserted the lawyer. "That man Bigelow, at Lesterburg, is a host in himself. After he had pulled his own 'local' into shape, he went out and helped the others organize. The stock is over-subscribed everywhere, now, and C. S. & W. is a going concern. The building boom is on. I venture to say there are over two thousand mechanics at work at the different centers, rushing up the buildings for the new plants, at this moment. You ought to have a monument, Norcross. It's the most original scheme for breaking a monopoly that was ever devised." The boss was looking out of the window sort of absently, chewing on his cigar, which had gone out. "Ripley, I wonder what you'd say if I should tell you that the idea is not mine?" he said, after a little pause. "Not yours?" "No; it, or at least the germ of it, was given to me by a woman; a woman who knows no more about business details than you do about driving white elephants." "I'd like to be made acquainted with the lady," said Ripley, with a tired little smile. "Such germs are too valuable to be wasted on mere lumber yards and fruit packeries and grain elevators and the like." "You'll meet her some day," laughed the boss, with a sort of happy lilt in his voice that fairly made me sick--knowing what I did; and knowing that he didn't know it. Then he switched the subject abruptly: "About the other matter, Ripley: I know you've been pretty busy, but you've had Tarbell nearly a week. What have you found out?" "We've gone into it pretty thoroughly, and I think we've got at the bottom of it, finally. I can tell you the whole story now." The boss got up, closed the door leading to May's room, and snapped the catch against interruptions. "Let's have it," he directed. Ripley briefed the general situation as it stood on the night of the engine theft in a few terse sentences. Aside from the fight on Red Tower Consolidated, the new railroad policies were threatening to upset all the time-honored political traditions of the machine-governed State. An election was approaching, and the railroad vote and influence must be whipped into line. As the grafters viewed it, the threatened revolution was a one-man government, and if that man could be removed the danger would vanish. Beyond that, he gave the story of the facts, so far as they had been ferreted out by Tarbell. The orders had apparently come from political headquarters in the State capital, but the execution details had been turned over to Clanahan, the political boss of Portal City. Clanahan's gangsters and crooks had been at work for some time before the plot climaxed. They had tapped our wires and were thus enabled to intercept our messages and keep in touch. The plot itself was simple. At a certain hour of a given night an anonymous letter was to be sent to Mr. Norcross, telling him that a gang of noted train robbers was stealing an engine from the Portal City yard for the purpose of running down the line and wrecking the Fast Mail, which often carried a bullion express-car. If the boss should fall for it--as he did, when the time came--and go in person to stop the raid, he was to be overpowered and spirited away, a forged letter purporting to be a notice of his resignation was to be left for Mr. Van Britt, and a fake telegram, making the same announcement, was to be sent to President Dunton in New York. Nothing was left indefinite but the choosing of the night. "I suppose Hatch was to give the word," said the boss, who had been listening soberly while the lawyer talked. "That is the inference. Any night when you were in town would answer. The engine to be stolen was the one which brings the Strathcona accommodation in at eight-thirty each evening, and which always stands overnight in the same place--on the spur below the coal chutes. Hence, it was always available. Hatch probably gave the word after his talk with you, but the time was made even more propitious by the arrival of the two telegrams; the one from Mr. Chadwick, and the one from Mr. Dunton, both of which they doubtless intercepted by means of the tapped wires." Mr. Norcross looked up quickly. "Ripley, did Dunton know what was going to be done to me?" "Oh, I think not. It wasn't at all necessary that he should be taken in on it. He has been opposing your policies all along, and had just sent you a pretty savage call-down. He didn't want you in the first place, and he has been anxious to get rid of you ever since. The plotters knew very well what he would do if he should get a wire which purported to be your resignation. He would appoint another man, quick, and all they would have to do would be to make sure that you were well off stage, and would stay off until the other man could take hold." "It worked out like a charm," admitted the boss, with a wry smile. "I haven't been talking much about the details, partly because I wanted to find out if this young fellow, Tarbell, was as good as the major's recommendation of him, and partly because I'm honestly ashamed, Ripley. Any man of my age and experience who would swallow bait, hook, and line as I did that night deserves to get all that is coming to him." "You can tell me now, can't you?" queried the attorney. "Oh, yes; you have it all--or practically all. I fell for the anonymous letter about the Mail hold-up, and while I don't 'rattle' very easily, ordinarily, that was one time when I lost my head, just for the moment. The obvious thing to do--if any attention whatever was to be paid to the anonymous warning--was to telephone the police and the round-house. I did neither because I thought it might be too slow. The letter was urgent, of course; it said that Black Ike Bradley and his gang were already in the railroad yard, preparing to steal the engine." "So you made a straight shoot for the scene of action?" "I did; down the back streets and across the lower end of the plaza. As it appeared--or rather as it was made to appear--I was barely in time. There were men at the engine, and when I sprinted across the yard they were ready to move it out to the main line. I yelled at them and ran in." "You must have been beautifully rattled; to go up against a gang of thugs that way, alone and unarmed," was the lawyer's comment. "I was," the boss confessed soberly. "Of course, I didn't have a ghost of a show. Three of them tackled me the moment I came within reach. I got one of the three on the point of the jaw, and they had to leave him behind; but there were enough more of them. Before I fairly realized what was happening, they had me trussed up like a Christmas turkey, gagged with my own handkerchief, and loaded into the cab of the engine. From that on, it was all plain sailing." "Then they took you to the old lumber camp?" "As fast as the engine could be made to turn her wheels. They were running against the Mail, and they knew it. Arroyo has no night operator, and when we sneaked through the Banta yard and past the station, the operator there was asleep. I saw him, with his head in the crook of his arm, at the telegraph table in the bay window as we passed." Ripley grinned. "We've been giving that young fellow the third degree--Van Britt and I. He claims that he was doped; that somebody dropped something into his supper coffee at the station lunch counter. His story didn't hang together and Van Britt fired him. But go on." "We ran out to the Timber Mountain 'Y'," the boss resumed, "and from that on up the old saw-mill line. The rail connections were all in place, and I knew from this that preparations had been made beforehand. At the mill stop they untied my legs and made me walk up the hill to the commissary. When they took the gag out, I said a few things and asked them what they were going to do with me. They wouldn't tell me anything except that I was to be locked up for a few days." "You knew what that meant?" "Perfectly. My drop-out would be made to look as if I had jumped the job, and Dunton would appoint a new man. After that, I could come back, if I wanted to. Whatever I might do or try to do would cut no figure, and no explanation I could make would be believed. I had most obligingly dug my own official grave, and there could be no resurrection." "What then?" pressed Ripley, keenly interested, as anybody could see. "When they took the clothes-line from my arms there was another scrap. It didn't do any good. They got the door shut on me and got it locked. After that, for four solid days, Ripley, I was made to realize how little it takes to hold a man. I had my pocket-knife, but I couldn't whittle my way out. The floor puncheons were spiked down, and I couldn't dig out. They had taken all my matches, and I couldn't burn the place. I tried the stick-rubbing, and all those things you read about: they're fakes; I couldn't get even the smell of smoke." "The chimney?" "There wasn't any. They had heated the place, when it was a commissary, with a stove, and the pipe hole through the ceiling had a piece of sheet iron nailed over it. And I couldn't get to the roof at all. They had me." Ripley nodded and said, snappy-like: "Well, we've got them now--any time you give the word. Tarbell has a pinch on one of the Clanahan men and he will turn State's evidence. We can railroad every one of those fellows who carried you off." "And the men higher up?" queried the boss. "No; not yet." "Then we'll drop it right where it is. I don't want the hired tools; no one of them, unless you can get the devil that crippled Jimmie Dodds, here." They went on, talking about my burn-up. Listening in, I learned for the first time just how it had been done. Tarbell, through his hold upon the welshing Clanahan striker, had got the details at second-hand. Hatch's assassin--or Clanahan's--must have had it all doped out and made ready before Hatch had made the break at trying to bribe me. Anyway, a lead had been taken from a power wire at the corner of the street and hooked over the outer door-knob. And inside I had been given a sheet of copper to stand on for a good "ground," the copper itself being wired to a water pipe running up through the hall. Tarbell had afterward proved up on all this, it seemed, finding the insulated wire and the copper sheet with its connections hidden in a small rubbish closet under the hall stair, just where a fellow in a hurry might chuck them. "Tarbell is a striking success," Mr. Norcross put in, along at the end of things. "We'll keep him on with us, Ripley." "You'd better," said the level-eyed young attorney, significantly. "From the way things are stacking up, you'll presently need a personal body-guard. I suppose it's no use asking you to carry a gun?" "Hardly," laughed the boss. "I've never done it yet, and it's pretty late in the day to begin." Past this there was a little more talk about the C. S. & W. deal, and about what the Hatch crowd would be likely to try next; and when it was finished, and Ripley was reaching for his hat, the boss said: "There is no change in the orders: we've got 'em going now, and we'll keep 'em going. Drive it, Ripley; drive it for every ounce there is in you. Never mind the election talk or the stock quotations. This railroad is going to be honest, if it never earns another net dollar. We'll win!" "It's beginning to look a little that way, now," the lawyer admitted, with his hand on the door knob. "Just the same, Norcross, there is safety in numbers, and our numbers are precisely one; one man"--holding up a single finger. "As before, the pyramid is standing on its head--and you are the head. The other people have shown us once what happens when you are removed. For God's sake, be careful!" I don't know whether the boss took that last bit of advice to heart or not. If he didn't, he was a bigger man than even I had been taking him for--with the crooks of a whole State reaching out for him, and with the knowledge which he must have had, that the next time they came gunning for him they'd shoot to kill. It was late in the afternoon when Ripley made his visit, and pretty soon after he went away the boss and I closed up our end of the shop and left May pecking away at his typewriter on a lot of routine stuff. I don't know what made me do it, but as I was passing Fred's desk on the way out, stringing along behind the boss, I stopped and jerked open one of the drawers. I knew beforehand what was in the drawer, and pointed to it--a new .38 automatic. Fred nodded, and I slipped the gun into my left-hand pocket, wondering as I did it, if I could make out to hit the broad side of a barn, shooting with that hand, if I had to. A half-minute later I had caught up with Mr. Norcross, and together we left the building and went up to the Bullard for dinner. XVI In the Coal Yard I knew, just as well as could be--without being able to prove it--that we were shadowed on the trip up from the railroad building to the hotel, and it made me nervous. There could be only one reason now for any such dogging of the boss. The grafters were not trying to find out what he was doing; they didn't need to, because he was advertising his doings--or Juneman was--in the newspapers. What they were trying to do was to catch him off his guard and do him up--this time to stay done up. It was safe to assume that they wouldn't fumble the ball a second time. Mr. Ripley had stood the thing fairly on its feet when he said that our campaign was purely a one-man proposition, so far as it had yet gone. People who had met the boss and had done business with him liked him; but the old-time prejudice against the railroad was so widespread and so bitter that it couldn't be overcome all at once. Juneman, our publicity man, was doing his best, but as yet we had no party following in the State at large which would stand by us and see that we got justice. I was chewing these things over while we sat at dinner in the Bullard café, and I guess Mr. Norcross was, too, for he didn't say much. It isn't altogether comfortable to be a marked man in a more or less unfriendly country, and I shouldn't wonder if the boss, big and masterful as he was, felt the pressure of it. I don't know whether he knew anything about the shadowing business I speak of or not, but he might have. We hadn't more than given our dinner order when one of Hatch's clerks, a cock-eyed chap named Kestler, came in and took a table just far enough from ours to be out of the way, and near enough to listen in if we said anything. When we finished, Kestler was just getting his service of ice-cream; but I noticed that he left it untouched and got up and followed us to the lobby. It made me hot enough to want to turn on him and knock his crooked eye out, but of course, that wouldn't have done any good. After Mr. Norcross had bought some cigars at the stand he said he guessed he'd run out to Major Kendrick's for a little while; and with that he went up to his rooms. Though the major was the one he named, I knew he meant that he was going to see Mrs. Sheila. I remembered what he had said to Ripley about a woman's giving him germ ideas and such things, and I guess it was really so. Every time he spent an evening at the major's he'd come back with a lot of new notions for popularizing the Short Line. When he said that, about going out to the major's, Kestler was near enough to overhear it, and so he waited, lounging in the lobby and pretending to read a paper. About half-past seven the boss came down and asked me to call a taxi for him. I did it; and Kestler loafed around just long enough to see him start off. Then he lit out, himself, and something in the way he did it made me take out after him. I expected to see him turn up-town to the second cross street where the Red Tower had its general offices on the fourth floor of the Empire Building. But instead, he turned the other way, and the first thing I knew I was trailing him through the railroad yard and on down past the freight house toward the big, fenced-in, Red Tower coal yards. At the coal yard he let himself in through a wicket in the wagon gates, and I noticed that he used a key and locked the wicket after he got inside. I put my eye to a crack in the high stockade fence and saw that the little shack office that was used for a scale-house was lighted up. My burnt hand was healing tolerably well by this time and I could use it a little. There was a slack pile just outside of the big gate, and by climbing to the top of it I got over the fence and crept up to the scale-house. A small window in one end of the shack, opened about two inches at the bottom, answered well enough for a peep-hole. Three men were in the little box of a place--three besides Kestler; Hatch, his barrel-bodied partner, Henckel, and one other. The third man looked like a glorified barkeep'. He was of the type I have heard called "black Irish," fat, sleek, and well-fed, with little pin-point black eyes half buried in the flesh of his round face, and the padded jaw and double chin shaved to the blue. The night was warm and he had his hat off. Through the crack in the window I could smell the pomatum with which his hair was plastered into barkeep' waves to match the tightly curled black mustaches. I knew this third man well enough, by sight; everybody in Portal City knew him--decent people only too well when it came to an election tussle. He was the redoubtable Pete Clanahan, dive-keeper, and political boss. Kestler was talking when I glued eye and ear to the window crack; was telling the three how he had shadowed Mr. Norcross from the railroad headquarters to the Bullard, and how he stayed around until he had seen the boss take a taxi for Major Kendrick's. This seemed to be all that was wanted of him, for when he was through, Hatch told him he might go home. After the cock-eyed clerk was gone, Hatch lighted a fresh cigar and put it squarely up to the Irishman. "It's no use being mealy-mouthed over this thing, Pete," he grated in that saw-mill voice of his. "We've got to get rid of this man. You've asked us to shadow him and keep you posted, and we have--and you've done nothing. Every day's delay gives him that much better hold. We can choke him off by littles in the business game, of course; we have Dunton and the New Yorkers on our side, and this coöperative scheme he has launched can be broken down with money. Such things never hold together very long. But that doesn't help you political people out; and your stake in the game is even bigger than ours." Clanahan looked around the little dog-kennel of a place suspiciously. "'Tis not here that we can talk much about thim things, Misther Hatch," he said cautiously. "Why not?" was the rasping question. "There's nobody in the yard, and the gates are locked. It's a damned sight safer than a back room in one of your dives--as we know now to our cost." Clanahan threw up his head with a gesture that said much. "Murphy's the man that leaked on that engine job--and he'll leak no more." "Well," said Hatch, with growing irritation, "what are you holding back for now? We stood to win on the first play, and we would have won if your people hadn't balled it by talking too much. One more day and Dismuke would have been in the saddle. That would have settled it." "Yah; and Mister Dismuke still here in Portal City remains," put in Henckel. The dive-keeper locked his pudgy fingers across a cocked knee. "'Tis foine, brave gintlemen ye are, you two, whin ye've got somebody else to pull th' nuts out av th' fire for ye!" he said. "Ye'd have us croak this felly f'r ye, and thin ye'd stand back and wash yer hands while some poor divil wint to th' rope f'r it. Where do we come in, is what I'd like to know?" "You are already in," snapped Hatch. "You know what the Big Fellow at the capital thinks about it, and where you'll stand in the coming election if you don't put out this fire that Norcross is kindling. You're yellow, Clanahan. That's all that is the matter with you. Put your wits to work. There are more ways of killing a cat than by choking it to death with butter." "Tell me wan thing!" insisted the dive-keeper, boring the chief grafter with his pin-point eyes. "Do you stand f'r it if we do this thing up right?" Hatch's eyes fell, and Henckel's big body twisted uneasily in the chair that was groaning under his beer-barrel weight. There was silence for a little space, and I could feel the cold sweat starting out all over me. I hadn't dreamed of stumbling upon anything like this when I started out to shadow Kestler. They were actually plotting to murder the boss! It was Hatch who broke the stillness. "It's up to you, Clanahan, and you know it," he declared. "You've had your tip from the Big Fellow. The railroad people must be made to get into the fight in the coming election, and get in on the right side. If they don't; and if Norcross stays and keeps his fire burning; you fellows lose out. So shall we; but what we lose will be a mere drop in the bucket; and, as I have said, we stand to get it back, after this coöperative scheme has had time to burn itself out." Clanahan sat back in his chair and shoved his hands into his pockets. "Ye'd sthring me as if I was a boy!" he scoffed. "'Tis your own game fr'm first to last. D'ye think I'm not knowing that? 'Tis bread and butther and th' big rake-off for you, and little ye care how th' election goes. Suppose we'd croak this man in th' hot par-rt av th' p'litical fight; what happens? Half th' noospaypers in th' State'd play him up f'r a martyr to th' cause av good governmint, and we'd all go to hell in a hand-basket!" I was cramped and sore and one of my legs had gone to sleep, but I couldn't have moved if I had wanted to. My heart was skipping beats right along while I waited for Hatch's answer. When it came, the drumming in my ears pretty nearly made me lose it. "Clanahan," he began, as cold as an icicle. "I didn't get you down here to argue with you. We've got your number--all your different numbers--and they are written down in a book. You've bungled this thing once, and for that reason you've got it to do over again. We haven't asked you to 'croak' anybody, as you put it, and we are not asking it now." "'Tis domned little you lack av asking it," retorted the dive-keeper. "Listen," said Hatch, leaning forward with his hands on his knees. "Besides keeping cases on Norcross here, we've been digging back into his record a few lines. Every man has his sore spot, if you can only find it, Clanahan--just as you have yours. What if I should tell you that Norcross is wanted in another State--for a crime?" "Nobody would believe ut," was the prompt rejoinder. "If he's wanted he c'u'd be had." "Wait," Hatch went on. "Before he came here he was chief of construction on the Oregon Midland. There was a right-of-way fight back in the mountains--fifty miles from the nearest sheriff--with the P. & S. F. Norcross armed his track-layers, and in the bluffing there was a man killed." Though it was a warm night, as I have said, the cold chills began to chase themselves up and down my back. What Hatch said was perfectly true. In the right-of-way scrap he was talking about, there had been a few wild shots fired, and one of them had found a P. & S. F. grade laborer. I don't believe anybody had ever really blamed the boss for it. He had given strict orders that we were only to make a show of force; and, besides, the other fellows were armed, too, and had armed first. But there _had_ been a man killed. While I was shivering, Clanahan said: "Well, what av it?" "Norcross was responsible for that man's death. If he was having trouble over his right-of-way, his recourse was to the law, and he took the law into his own hands. Nothing was ever done about it, because nobody took the trouble to prosecute. A week ago we sent a man to Oregon to look up the facts. He succeeded in finding a brother of the dead man, and a warrant has now been sworn out for Norcross's arrest." "Well?" said Clanahan again. "Ye have the sthring in yer own hand; why don't ye pull it?" "That's where you come in," was the answer. "The Oregon justice issued the warrant because it was demanded, but he refused to incur, for his county, the expense of sending a deputy sheriff to another State, or to take the necessary steps to have Norcross extradited. If Norcross could be produced in court, he would try him and either discharge him or bind him over, as the facts might warrant. He took his stand upon the ground that Norcross was only technically responsible, and told the brother that in all probability nothing would come of an attempt to prosecute." "Thin ye've got nothing on him, after all," the Irishman grunted. "Yes," Hatch came back; "we have the warrant, and, in addition to that, we have you, Pete. A word from you to the Portal City police headquarters, and our man finds himself arrested and locked up--to wait for a requisition from the Governor of Oregon." "But you said th' requisition wouldn't come," Clanahan put in. Hatch was sitting back now and stroking his ugly jaw. "It might come, Pete, if it had to: there's no knowing. In the meantime we get delay. There'll be _habeas corpus_ proceedings, of course, to get him out of jail, but there's where you'll come in again; you've got your own man in for City Attorney. And, after all, the delay is all we need. With Norcross in trouble, and in jail on a charge of murder, the railroad ship'll go on the rocks in short order. The Norcross management is having plenty of trouble--wrecks and the like. With Norcross locked up, New York will be heard from, and Dismuke will step in and clean house. That will wind up the reform spasm." "'Tis a small chance," growled the chief of the ward heelers. "Th' high-brow vote is stirrin', and there'll be some to say it's persecution--and say it where it'll be heard. I'll talk it over with the Big Fellow." Again Hatch leaned forward and put his hands on his knees. "You'll do nothing of the sort, Pete. You'll act, and act on your own responsibility. If you don't, somebody may wire the sheriff of Silver Bow County, Montana, that the man he knew in Butte as Michael Clancy is...." The dive-keeper put up both hands as if to ward off a blow. "'Tis enough," he mumbled, speaking as if he had a bunch of dry cotton in his mouth. "Slip me th' warrant." Hatch went to a small safe and worked the combination. When the door was opened he passed a folded paper to Clanahan. Through all this talk, Henckel had said nothing, and I suspected that Hatch had him there solely for safety's sake, and to provide a witness. With the paper in his pocket, Clanahan got up to go. It was time for me to make a move. It's curious how an idea will sometimes lay hold of you and knock out reason and common sense and everything else. Clanahan had in his pocket a piece of paper that simply meant ruin to Mr. Norcross, and the blowing up of all the plans that had been made and all the work that had been done. If he should be allowed to get up-town with that warrant, the end of everything would be in sight. But how was I to prevent it? I saw where the Irishman had put the warrant; in the right-hand, outside pocket of his coat. The pocket wasn't deep enough, and about an inch of the folded paper showed white against the black of his coat. The three men were on their feet, and Hatch was reaching for the wall switch which controlled the single incandescent lamp hanging from the ceiling of the scale-house. If I could only think of some way to blow the place up and snatch the paper in the confusion. Up to that minute I had never thought once of the pistol I had taken from Fred May's drawer, though it was still sagging in my left hip pocket. When I did think of it I dragged it out with some silly notion of trying to hold the three men up at the door of the shack as they came out. Hatch's stop to light a cigar and to hand out a couple to the other two gave me time to chuck that notion and grab another. With the muzzle of the automatic resting in the crack of the opened window I took dead aim at the incandescent lamp in the ceiling and turned her loose for the whole magazineful. Since the first bullet got the lamp and left the place black dark, I couldn't see what was happening in the close little room. But whatever it was, there was plenty of it. I could hear them gasping and yelling and knocking one another down as they fought to get the door open. Sticking the empty pistol back into my pocket I jumped to get action, hurting my sore hand like the mischief in doing it. Hatch was the first man out, but the big German was so close a second that he knocked his smaller partner down and fell over him. Clanahan kept his feet. He had a gun in his hand that looked to me, in the darkness, as big as a cannon. I was flattened against the side of the scale shack, and when the dive-keeper tried to side-step around the two fallen men who were blocking the way, I snatched the folded paper from his pocket; snatched it and ran as if the dickens was after me. That was a bad move--the runaway. If I had kept still there might have been a chance for me to make a sneak. But when I ran, and fell over a pile of loose coal, and got up and ran again, they were all three after me, Clanahan taking blind shots in the dark with his cannon as he came. Naturally, I made straight for the wagon gate, and forgot, until I was right there, that it, and the wicket through one of the leaves, were both locked. As I shook the wicket, a bullet from Clanahan's gun spatted into the woodwork and stuck a splinter into my hand, and I turned and sprinted again, this time for the gates where the coal cars were pushed in from the railroad yard. These, too, were shut and locked, and when I ducked under the nearest gondola I realized that I was trapped. Before I could climb the high fence anywhere, they'd get me. They came up, all three of them, puffing and blowing, while I was hiding under the gondola. "It's probably that cow-boy spotter of Norcross's, but he can't get away," Hatch was gritting--meaning Tarbell, probably. "The gates are locked and we can plug him if he tries to climb the fence. There's a gun in the scale-house. You two look under these cars while I go and get it!" It was up to me to move again. Henckel was striking matches and holding them so that Clanahan could look under the cars, and I could feel, in anticipation, the shock of a bullet from the big gun in the dive-keeper's fat fist as I crawled cautiously out on the far side. Creeping along behind the string of coal cars I came presently to the great gantry crane used for unloading the fuel. It was a huge traveling machine, straddling the tracks and a good part of the yard, and the clam-shell grab-bucket was down, resting on its two lips on the ground. At first I thought of climbing to the frame-work of the crane and trying to hide on the big bridge beam. Then I saw that the two halves of the clam-shell bucket were slightly open, just wide enough to let me squeeze in. If they were looking for a full-sized man--Tarbell, for instance, who was as husky as a farm-hand--they'd never think of that crack in the bucket; and in another second I had wriggled through the V-shaped opening and was sitting humped up in one of the halves of the clam-shell. That was a mighty good guess. When Hatch came back with his gun, they combed that coal yard with a fine-tooth comb, using a lantern that Hatch had gotten from somewhere and missing no hole or corner where a man might hide, save and excepting only the one I had preempted. As it happened, the search wound up finally under the crane, with the three standing so near that I could have reached out of the crack between the bucket halves and touched them. "Der tuyfel has gone mit himself ofer der fence, yes?" puffed Henckel. And then: "Vot for iss he shoot off dem pistols, ennahow?" Clanahan confessed, I suppose because he knew he would have to, sooner or later. "It was a hold-up," he growled. "Th' warrant's gone out av my pocket." Hatch's comment on this was fairly blood-curdling in its profanity. And I could see, in imagination, just how he thrust that bad jaw of his out when he whirled upon the Irishman. "Then it's up to you to get him some other way, you blundering son of a thief!" he raged. "I don't care what you do, but if you don't make this country too hot to hold him, it's going to get too hot to hold you!" And what more he was going to say, I don't know, for at that moment a belated police patrol began pounding at the gates on the town side and wanting to know what all the shooting was about. It was after they had all gone away, leaving the big coal yard in silence and darkness, that I got mine, good and hard. Sitting all bunched up in the grab-bucket and waiting for my chance to climb out and make a get-away, the common sense reaction came and saw what I had done. With the best intentions in the world, in trying to kill off the chance offered to the enemy by the Oregon warrant and the trumped-up charge of murder, I had merely saved the boss an arrest and a possible legal tangle and had put him in peril of his life. XVII The Man at the Window Of course, the first thing I did, the morning after that adventure in the coal yard, was to tell the boss all about it, and I was just foxy enough to do it when Mr. Ripley was present. Mr. Norcross didn't say much; and, for that matter, neither did the lawyer, though he did ask the boss a question or two about the real facts in the Midland right-of-way squabble. But I noticed, after that, that our man Tarbell was continually turning up at all sorts of times, and in all sorts of odd places, so I took it that Ripley had given him his tip, and that he was sort of body-guarding Mr. Norcross on the quiet, though I am sure the boss didn't know anything about that part of it--he was such a square fighter himself that he probably wouldn't have stood for it if he had. Meanwhile, things grew warmer and warmer in the tussle we were making to pull the old Short Line out of the mud; warmer in a number of ways, because, in addition to the fight for the public confidence, we began just then to have a perfect epidemic of wrecks. The boss turned the material trouble over to Mr. Van Britt and devoted himself pretty strictly to the public side of things. Everywhere, and on every occasion--at dinners at the different chambers of commerce, and public banquets given to this, that, or the other visiting big-wig--he was always ready to get on his feet and tell the people that the true prosperity of the country carried with it the prosperity of the railroads; that the two things were one and inseparable; and that, when it came right down to basic facts, the railroads were really a part of the progress machinery of the country at large and should be regarded, not as alien tax-collectors, but as contributors to the general prosperity and welfare. I went with him on a good many of the trips he made to be "among those present" at these gatherings--and so, by the way, did Tarbell--and it was plain to be seen that the new idea was gradually gathering a little headway. By this time, also, Red Tower Consolidated was beginning to find out what it meant to have active competition. The C. S. & W. people were hammering their new plants into working shape, and they were getting the patronage, both of the producers and consumers, hand over fist. Engineered by Billoughby, the railroad was simply playing the part of the good big brother to these new middlemen. Track facilities and yard service were granted freely; and while no discrimination was permitted as against the Red Tower people, the friendly attitude of the road counted for something, as it was bound to; hence, the C. S. & W. got the business right from the jump, enlarging its field as it went along, and gathering in all the little side monopolies like the ice-plants, and city lighting installations, and so on. This, by the way, was in line with the new slogan put out by the boss and his boosters: "Own your own Utilities." As to the political struggle which was now ripping the State wide open from end to end, the boss was steel and iron on the side of non-interference. He never allowed himself to say a public word on either side; never spoke of the campaign at all except to assert everywhere and at all times that the railroad was not in politics, and never would be again. This was the key-word given to the different members of the staff to be passed on down the line to every official in authority. We were to be like Cæsar's wife--above suspicion. We were neither to make nor meddle in the campaign, and any department head or other officer or employee caught trying to swing the railroad vote would be fired on the spot. On one of our trips over the road we had a call from Mr. Anson Burrell, the gubernatorial candidate who was making the race against the machine. He was a cattle magnate of the modern sort; a big, viking-looking man, with a Yale degree, and with a record as clean as a hound's tooth. When he came into the private car he seemed to fill it, not only with his presence, but with the fresh keen air of the grazing uplands. "I'm glad to have a chance to meet you on your own ground, Mr. Norcross," he said, giving the boss a hand-grip that looked mighty hearty and sincere. "I've been waiting for an opportunity to tell you how much we appreciate the stand you have taken. For the first time in its history, the railroad is keeping out of the political fight; I know it, and the people are beginning to find it out, too. You may not mean it that way, but it is the strongest card you could play. You need just legislation, and there is no better way to get it than by not trying to influence it." The boss met him half-way on that, of course, and said what he ought to; and they talked along that line for the full half-hour that our special stopped in the town where Mr. Burrell had caught us. In a way, it was a sort of temptation to take sides. Mr. Burrell made it pretty plain that if the railroad continued to behave itself, and if the reform party got in, there would be easier legislation, and perhaps some of the old hard-and-fast intrastate rate laws repealed. But the boss wasn't the man to drop his candy in the dirt, and he kept right on laying down the law to everybody in the service; we were to let the campaign absolutely alone, and every man was to vote as he thought best. As time went on, I was a little surprised to see that Hatch and his gunmen side partners under Pete Clanahan made no further move; at least, not toward keeping cases on Mr. Norcross. Though Tarbell and I still went everywhere with him, we saw no more shadowers. I put it up that perhaps they were lying quiet because they knew that somebody had overheard their talk in the coal yard scale-house and they were waiting for the thing to blow over a little. All of us who were on the inside felt that the move was only postponed, and that when it did come it would be a center shot. But there was nothing we could do. We could only hang on and keep a sharp eye to windward. During those few pre-election weeks the New York end of us seemed to have petered out completely. We heard nothing more from President Dunton, worse than an occasional wire complaint about the number of wrecks we were having, though the stock was still going down, point by point, and, so far as a man up a tree could see, we were making no attempt to show net earnings--were turning all our money into betterments as fast as it came in. I knew that couldn't go on. Without a flurry of some sort, the New Yorkers would never be able to break even, to say nothing of a profit, and I looked every day for a howl that would tear things straight up the back. While all these threads were weaving along, I'm sorry to say that I hadn't yet drummed up the courage to tell the boss the truth about Mrs. Sheila. He kept on going to the major's every chance he had, and Maisie Ann was making life miserable for me because I hadn't told him--calling me a coward and everything under the sun. I told her to tell him herself, and she retorted that I knew she couldn't: that it was my job and nobody else's. We fussed over it a lot; and because I most always contrived some excuse to chase out to the Kendrick house at the boss's heels--merely to help Tarbell keep cases on him--there were plenty of chances for the fussing. It was on one of these chasing trips to "Kenwood" that the roof fell in. The major had gone out somewhere--to the theater, I guess--taking his wife and Maisie Ann, and the boss and Mrs. Sheila were sitting together in the major's den, with a little coal blaze in the basket grate because the nights were beginning to get a bit chilly. As usual when they were together, they made no attempt at privacy: the den doorway had no door, nothing but one of those Japanese curtains made out of bits of bamboo strung like beads on a lot of strings. I had butted in with a telegram--which might just as well have stood over until the next morning, if you want to know. After I had delivered it, Mrs. Sheila gave me that funny little laugh of hers and told me to go hunt in the pantry and see if I could find a piece of pie, and the boss added that if I'd wait, he'd go back to town with me pretty soon. I found the pie, and ate it in the dining-room, making noise enough about it so that they could know I was there if they wanted to. But they went right on talking, and paid no attention to me. "Do you know, Sheila"--they had long since got past the "Mr." and "Mrs."--"you've been the greatest possible help to me in this rough-house, all the way along," the boss was saying. "And I don't understand how you, or any woman, can plan so clearly and logically to a purely business end. I was just thinking to-night as I came out here: you have given me nearly every suggestion I have had that was worth anything; more than that, you have held me up to the rack, time and again, when I have been ready to throw it all up and let go. Why have you done it?" I heard the little laugh again, and she said: "It is worth something to have a friend. Odd as it may seem, Graham, I have been singularly poverty-stricken in that respect. And I have wanted to see you succeed. Though you are still calling it merely a 'business deal,' it is really a mission, you know, crammed full of good things to a struggling world. If you do succeed--and I am sure you are going to--you will leave this community, and hundreds of others, vastly the better for what you are doing and demonstrating." "But that is a man's point of view," the boss persisted. "How do you get it? You are all woman, you know; and your mixing and mingling--at least, since I have known you--has all been purely social. How do you get the big overlook?" "I don't know. I was foolish and frivolous once, like most young girls, I suppose. But we all grow older; and we ought to grow wiser. Besides, the woman has the advantage of the man in one respect; she has time to think and plan and reason things out as a busy man can't have. Your problem has seemed very simple to me, from the very beginning. It asked only for a strong man and an honest one. You were to take charge of a piece of property that had been abused and knocked about and used as a means of extortion and oppression, and you were to make it good." "Again, that is a man's point of view." "Oh, no," she protested quickly. "There is no sex in ethics. Women are the natural house-cleaners, perhaps, but that isn't saying that a man can't be one, too, if he wants to be." At this, the boss got up and began to tramp up and down the room; I could hear him. I knew she'd been having the biggest kind of a job to keep him shut up in this sort of abstract corral, when all the time he was loving her fit to kill, but apparently she had been doing it, successfully. There wasn't the faintest breath of sentiment in the air; not the slightest whiff. When she began again, I could somehow feel that she was just in time to prevent his breaking out into all sorts of love-making. I shouldn't wonder if that was the way it had been from the beginning. "The time has come, now, when you must take another leaf out of my book," she said, with just the proper little cooling tang in her voice. "Up to the present you have been hammering your way to the end like a strong man, and that was right. But you have been more or less reckless--and that isn't right or fair or just to a lot of other people." The tramping stopped and I heard him say: "I don't know what you mean." "I mean that matters have come to such a pass now that you can't afford to take any risks--personal risks. The enmity that caused you to be kidnapped and carried away into the mountains still exists, and exists in even greater measure. It hasn't stopped fighting you for a single minute, and if the plan it is now trying doesn't work, it will try another and a more desperate one." "You've been talking to Ripley," he laughed. "Ripley wants me to become a gun-toter and provide myself with a body-guard. I'd look well, wouldn't I? But what do you mean by 'the plan it is now trying'?" She hesitated a little, and then said: "I shall make no charges, because I have no proof. But I read the newspapers, and Mr. Van Britt tells me something, now and then. You are having a terrible lot of wrecks." "That is merely bad luck," he rejoined easily, adding: "And the wrecks have nothing to do with my personal safety." "Rashness is no part of true courage," she interpolated, calmly. "As a private individual you might say that your life is your own, and that you have a perfect right to risk it as you please. But as the general manager of the railroad, with a lot of your friends holding office under you, you can't say that. Besides, you are fighting for a cause, and that cause will stand or fall with you." "You ought to be a member of this new reform legislature that some of our good friends think is coming up the pike," he chuckled; but she ignored the good-natured gibe and made him listen. "I was visiting a day or two at the capital last week, and there are influences at work that you don't know about. It has grown away past and beyond any mere fight with the Hatch people. If the opposition can't make your administration a failure, it won't hesitate to get rid of you in the easiest way that offers." There was silence in the major's den for a minute or so, and then the boss said: "As usual, you know more than you are willing to tell me." "Perhaps not," was the prompt answer. "Perhaps I am only the onlooker--who can usually see things rather better than the persons actually involved. Hitherto I have urged you to be bold, and then again to be bold. Now I am begging you to be prudent." "In what way?" "Careful for yourself. For example: you walked out here this evening; don't do that any more. Come in a taxi--and don't come alone." I couldn't see his frown of disagreement, but I knew well enough it was there. "There spoke the woman in you," he said. "If I should show the white feather that way, they'd have some excuse for potting me." There was a silence again, and I got up quietly and crossed the dining-room to the big recessed window where I stood looking out into the darkness of the tree-shaded lawn. It was pretty evident that Mrs. Sheila knew a heap more than she was telling the boss, just as he had said, and I couldn't help wondering how she came to know it. What she said about the increased number of wrecks looked like a pointer. Was she in touch with the enemy in some way? I knew that Major Kendrick heard all the gossip of the streets and the clubs, and that he carried a good bit of it home; but that wouldn't account for much inside knowledge of the real thing in Mrs. Sheila. Then my mind went back in a flash to what Maisie Ann had told me. Was the husband who ought to be dead, and wasn't, mixed up in it in any way? Could it be possible that he was one of those who were in the fight on the other side, and that she was still keeping in touch with him? Pretty soon I heard the murmur of their voices again, but now I was so far away from the bamboo-screened door that I couldn't hear what they were saying. I wished they would break it off so the boss could go. It was getting late, and there had been enough said to make me wish we were both safely back in the hotel. It's that way sometimes, you know, in spite of all you can do. You hear a talk, and you can't help reading between the lines. I knew, as well as I knew that I was alive, that Mrs. Sheila meant more than she had said: perhaps more than she had dared to say. It was while I was standing there in the big window, sweating over the way the talk in the other room was dragging itself out, that I saw the man on the lawn. At first I thought it was Tarbell, who was never very far out of reach when the boss was running loose. But the next minute I saw I was mistaken. The man under the trees looked as if he might be an English tourist. He had on a long traveling coat that came nearly to his heels, and his cap was the kind that has two visors, one in front and the other behind. Realizing that it wasn't Tarbell, I stood perfectly still. The house was lighted with gas, and the dining-room chandelier had been turned down, so there was a chance that the skulker under the trees wouldn't see me standing in the corner of the box window. To make it surer, I edged away until the curtain hid me. I was just in time. The man had crept out of his hiding-place and was coming up to the window on the outside. As he passed through the dim beam of light thrown by the turned-down chandelier, I saw that he had a pistol in his hand, or a weapon of some kind; anyway, I caught the glint of the gas-light on dull steel. That stirred me up good and plenty. I still had the gun I had taken out of Fred May's drawer; I had carried it ever since the night when it had mighty nearly got me killed off in the Red Tower coal yard. I fished it out and made ready, thinking, of course, that the skulker must certainly be one of Clanahan's gunmen. I still had that idea when I felt, rather than saw, that the man was pulling himself up to the window so that he could take a look into the dining-room. The look satisfied him, apparently, for the next second I heard him drop among the bushes; and when I stood up and looked out again I could just make him out going around toward the back of the house. Thanks to Maisie Ann and the pantry excursions, I knew the house like a book, and without making any noise about it I slipped through the butler's pantry and got a look out of a rear window. My man was there, and he was working his way sort of blindly around to the den side of the place. I guess maybe I ought to have given the alarm. But I knew there was only one window in the major's den room, and that was nearly opposite the screened doorway. So I ducked back into the dining-room and took a stand where I could see the one window through the door-curtain net-work of bamboo beads. I was so excited that I caught only snatches of what Mrs. Sheila was saying to the boss, but the bits that I heard were a good deal to the point. "No, I mean it, Graham ... it is as I told you at first ... there is no standing room for either of us on that ground ... and you must not come here again when you know that I am alone.... No, Jimmie _isn't_ enough!" I wrenched the half-working ear-sense aside and jammed it into my eyes, concentrating hard on the window at which I expected every second to see a man's face. If the man was a murderer, I thought I could beat him to it. He would have to look in first before he could fire; and the boss and Mrs. Sheila were at the other end of the room, sitting before the little blaze in the grate. The suspense didn't last very long. A hand came up first to push the window vines aside. It was a white hand, long and slender, more like a woman's than a man's. Then against the glass I saw the face, and it gave me such a turn that I thought I must be going batty. Instead of the ugly mug of one of Clanahan's gunmen, the haggard face framed in the window sash was a face that I had seen once--and only once--before; on a certain Sunday night in the Bullard when the loose-lipped mouth belonging to it had been babbling drunken curses at the night clerk. The man at the window was the dissipated young rounder who had been pointed out as the nephew of President Dunton. XVIII The Name on the Register So long as I was holding on to the notion that the man outside was one of Clanahan's thugs, hanging around to do the boss a mischief, I thought I knew pretty well what I should do when it came to the pinch. Would I really have hauled off and shot a man in cold blood? That's a tough question, but I guess maybe I could have screwed myself up to the sticking point, as the fellow says, with a sure-enough gunman on the other side of that window--and the boss's life at stake. But when I saw that it was young Collingwood, that was a horse of another color. What on earth was the President's nephew doing, prowling around Major Kendrick's house after eleven o'clock at night, lugging a pistol and peeking into windows? I could see him quite plainly now, in spite of the beaded bamboo thing in the intervening doorway. He had both hands on the sill and was trying to pull himself up so that he could see into the end of the room where the fireplace was. Just for the moment, there wasn't any danger of a blow-up. Unless he should break the glass in the window, he couldn't get a line on either the boss or Mrs. Sheila--if that was what he was aiming to do. All the same, I kept him covered with the automatic, steadying it against the door-jamb. There had been enough said in that room to set anybody's nerves on edge; or, if it hadn't been said, it had been meant. While the strain was at its worst, with the man outside flattening his cheek against the window-pane to get the sidewise slant, I heard the boss get out of his chair and say: "I'm keeping you out of bed, as usual; look at that clock! I'll go and wake Jimmie, and we'll vanish." Just as he spoke, two things happened: a taxi chugged up to the gate and stopped, and the man's face disappeared from the window. I heard a quick padding of feet as of somebody running, and the next minute came the rattle of a latch-key and voices in the hall to tell me that the major and his folks were getting home. I had barely time to pocket the pistol and to drop into a chair where I could pretend to be asleep, when I felt the boss's hand on my shoulder. "Come, Jimmie," he said. "It's time we were moving along," and in a minute or two, after he had said good-night to the major and Mrs. Kendrick, we got out. At the gate we found the taxi driver doing something to his motor. With the scare from which I was still shaking to make my legs wobble, I grabbed at the chance which our good angel was apparently holding for us. "Let's ride," I suggested; and when we got into the cab, I saw a man stroll up from the shadow of the sidewalk cottonwoods and say something to the driver; something that got him an invitation to ride to town on the front seat with the cabby when the car was finally cranked and started. I had a sight of our extra fare's face when he climbed up and put his back to us, and I knew it was Tarbell. But Mr. Norcross didn't. When we reached the Bullard the boss went right up to his rooms, but I had a little investigation to make, and I stayed in the lobby to put it over. On the open page of the hotel register, in the group of names written just after the arrival of our train from the West at 7:30, I found the signature that I was looking for, "Howard Collingwood, N. Y." Putting this and that together, I concluded that our young rounder had come in from the West--which was a bit puzzling, since it left the inference that he wasn't direct from New York. Waiting for a good chance at the night clerk, I ventured a few questions. They were answered promptly enough. Young Mr. Collingwood _had_ come in on the 7:30. But he had been in Portal City a week earlier, too, stopping over for a single day. Yes, he was alone, now, but he hadn't been on the other occasion. There was a man with him on the earlier stop-over, and he, also, registered from New York. The clerk didn't remember the other man's name, but he obligingly looked it up for me in the older register. It was Bullock, Henry Bullock; and from the badness of the hand-writing the clerk said, jokingly, that he'd bet Mr. Bullock was a lawyer. I suppose it was up to me to go to bed. It was late enough, in all conscience, and nobody knew better than I did the early-rising, early-office-opening habits of Mr. Graham Norcross, G.M. Just the same, after I had marked that Mr. Collingwood's room-key was still in its box, I went over to a corner of the lobby and sat down, determined to keep my eyes open, if such a thing were humanly possible, until our rounder should show up. That determination let me in for a stubborn fight against the sleep habit which ran along to nearly one o'clock. But finally my patience, or whatever you care to call it, was rewarded. Just after the baggage porter had finished sing-songing his call for the night express westbound, my man came in on the run. He was still wearing the cap with two visors, and the long traveling coat was flapping about his legs. When he rushed over to the counter and began to talk fast to the night clerk, I wasn't very far behind him. He was telling the clerk to get his grips down from the room, adjectively quick, and to hold the hotel auto so that he could catch the midnight westbound. While the boy was gone for the grips, my man made a straight shoot for the bar, and when I next got a sight of him--from behind one of the big onyx-plated pillars of the bar-room colonnade--he was pouring neat liquor down his throat as if it were water and he on fire inside. That was about all there was to it. By the time Collingwood got back to the clerk's counter, the boy was down with the bags. The regular train auto had gone to the station with some other guests, but the clerk had found a stray taxi, and it was waiting. Collingwood looked up sort of nervously at the big clock, and paid his bill. And while the clerk was getting his change, he grabbed the pen out of the counter inkstand, and made out as if he was shading in a picture, or something, on the open register. A half-minute later he was gone, striding out after the grip-carrying lobby boy as straight as if he had been walking a tight-rope, and never showing his recent bar visit by so much as the shudder of an eye-lash. When the taxi purred away I turned to the open register to see what our maniac had been drawing in it. What he had done was completely to obliterate his signature. He had scratched it over until the past master of all the hand-writing experts that ever lived couldn't have told what the name was. XIX The Hoodoo It was while we were eating breakfast the next morning in the Bullard café--the boss and I--that we got our first news of the Petrolite wreck. The story was red-headlined in the _Morning Herald_--the Hatch-owned paper--and besides being played up good and strong in the news columns, there was an editorial to back the front-page scream. At two o'clock in the morning a fast westbound freight had left the track in Petrolite Canyon, and before they could get the flagman out, a delayed eastbound passenger had collided with the ruins. There were no lives lost, but a number of people, including the engineman, the postal clerks and the baggageman on the passenger, were injured. The editorial, commenting on the wire stuff, was sharply critical of the Short Line management. It hinted broadly that there had been no such thing as discipline on the road since Mr. Shaffer had left it; that the rank and file was running things pretty much as it pleased; and with this there was a dig at general managers who let old and time-tried department heads go to make room for their rich and incompetent college friends--which was meant to be a slap at Mr. Van Britt, our own and only millionaire. Unhappily, this fault-finding had a good bit to build on, in one way. As I have said, we were having operating troubles to beat the band. With the rank and file apparently doing its level best to help out in the new "public-be-pleased" program, it seemed as if we couldn't worry through a single week without smashing something. Latterly, even the newspapers that were friendly to the Norcross management were beginning to comment on the epidemic of disasters, and nothing in the world but the boss's policy of taking all the editors into his confidence when they wanted to investigate kept the rising storm of criticism somewhere within bounds. Mr. Norcross had read the paper before he handed it over to me, and afterward he hurried his breakfast a little. When he reached the office, Mr. Van Britt was waiting for the chief. "We've got it in the neck once more," he gritted, flashing up his own copy of the _Herald_. "Did you read that editorial?" The boss nodded and said: "It's inspired, of course; everything you see in that sheet takes its color from the Red Tower offices." "I know; but it bites, just the same," was the brittle rejoinder. "Never mind the newspaper talk," the boss interjected. "How bad is the trouble this time?" "Pretty bad. I've just had Brockman on the wire from Alicante. The freight is practically a total loss; a good half of it is in the river. Kirgan says he can pick the freight engine up and rebuild it; but the passenger machine is a wreck." "How did it happen?" "It's like a good many of the others. Nobody seems to know. Brockman put the freight engine crew on the rack, and they say there was a small boulder on the track--that it rolled down the canyon slope just ahead of them as they were turning a curve. They struck it, and both men say that the engine knocked it off into the river apparently without hurting anything. But two seconds later the entire train left the track and piled up all over the right-of-way." "The engineer and fireman weren't hurt?" "No; they both jumped on the high side. But, of course, they were pretty badly shaken up. Riggs, the fireman, got out of the raffle first and tried to flag the passenger train, but he was too late." The boss was sitting back in his chair and making little rings on the desk blotter with the point of his letter-opener. "Upton, these knock-outs have got to be stopped." "Good Lord!" exclaimed the little millionaire; "you don't have to tell me that! If we can't stop 'em, Uncle Dunton will have plenty of good reasons for cleaning us all out, lock, stock, and barrel! I was talking with Carter, in the claim office, this morning. Our loss and damage account for the past month is something frightful!" "It is," said the boss gravely. And then: "Upton, we're not altogether as bright as we might be. Has it never occurred to you that we are having too much bad luck to warrant us in charging it all up to the chapter of accidents?" Mr. Van Britt blew his cheeks out until the stubby, cropped mustache bristled like porcupine quills. "So you've been getting your pointer, too, have you?" he threw in. Mr. Norcross didn't answer the question directly. "Put Tarbell on the job, and if he needs help, let him pick his own men," he directed. "We want to know why that boulder tumbled down ahead of Number Seventeen, and I want to see Tarbell's report on it. Keep at it night and day, Upton. The infection is getting into the rank and file and it's spreading like a sickness. You've railroaded long enough to know what that means. If it becomes psychological, we shall have all the trouble we need." "I know," nodded the superintendent. "I went through a siege of that kind on the Great Southwestern, one winter. It was horrible. Men who had been running trains year in and year out, and never knowing that they had any nerves, went to pieces if you'd snap your fingers at them." "That's it," said the boss. "We don't want to fall into that ditch. Things are quite bad enough, as they are." This ended it for the time. The Petrolite Canyon wreck was picked up, the track was cleared, and once more our trains were moving on time. But anybody could see that the entire Short Line had a case of "nerves." Kirgan, Kirgan the cold-blooded, showed it one afternoon when I went over to his office to return a bunch of blue-prints sent in for the boss's approval. The big master-mechanic had a round-house foreman "on the carpet" and was harrying him like the dickens for letting an engine go out with one of her truck safety chains hanging loose. Ever since we had gone together on the rescue run to Timber Mountain, Mart and I had been sort of chummy, and after the foreman had gone away with his foot in his hand, I joshed Kirgan a little about the way he had hammered the round-house man. "Maybe I did, Jimmie," he said, half as if he were already sorry for the cussing out. "But the shape we're getting into is enough to make an angel bawl. Why, Great Moses! a crew can't take an engine out here in the yard to do a common job o' switchin' without breakin' something 'r hurtin' somebody!" "Bad medicine," I told him. "It's worrying the bosses, too. What's doing it, Mart?" "Maybe you can tell," he growled. "It's a hoodoo--that's what _it_ is. Seven engines in the shops in the last nine days, and three more that haven't been fished out-a the ditch yet. I wish Mr. Van Britt 'd fire the whole jumpy outfit!" It didn't seem as though firing was needed so much as a dose of nerve tonic of some sort. Tarbell was working hard on the problem, quietly, and without making any talk about it, and Kirgan was giving him all the men he asked for from the shops; quick-witted fellows who were up in all the mechanical details, and who made better spotters than outsiders would because they knew the road and the ropes. But it was no use. I saw some of Tarbell's reports, and they didn't show any crookedness. It seemed to be just bad luck--one landslide after another of it. Meanwhile, New York had waked up again. President Dunton had been off the job somewhere, I guess, but now he was back, and the things he wired to the boss were enough to make your hair stand on end. I looked every day to see Mr. Norcross pitch the whole shooting-match into the fire and quit, cold. He'd never taken anything like Mr. Dunton's abuse from anybody before, and he couldn't seem to get hardened to it. But he was loyal to Mr. Chadwick; and, of course, he knew that Mr. Dunton's hot wires were meant to nag him into resigning. Then there was Mrs. Sheila. I sort of suspected she was holding him up to the rack, every day and every minute of the day. No doubt she was. It was one evening after he had been out to the major's for just a little while, and had come back to the office, that he sent for Mr. Van Britt, who was also working late. There was blood on the moon, and I saw it in the way the boss's jaw was working. "Upton," he began, as short as pie-crust, "have you thought of any way to break this wreck hoodoo yet?" Mr. Van Britt sat down and crossed his solid little legs. "If I had, I shouldn't be losing sleep at the rate of five or six hours a night," he rasped. "There's one thing that we haven't tried," the boss shot back. "We've been advertising it as bad luck, keeping our own suspicions to ourselves and letting the men believe what they pleased. We'll change all that. I want you to call your trainmen in as fast as you can get at them. Tell them--from me, if you want to--that there isn't any bad luck about it; that the enemies of this management are making an organized raid on the property itself for the purpose of putting us out of the fight. Tell them the whole story, if you want to: how we're trying our best to make a spoon out of a spoiled horn, and how there is an army of grafters and wreckers in this State which is doing its worst to knock us out of the box." Mr. Van Britt uncrossed his legs and sat staring for a second or two. Then he whistled and said: "By Jove! Have you caught 'em with the goods, at last?" "No," was the curt reply. "Call it a ruse, if you like: it's justifiable, and it will work. If you give the force something tangible to lay hold of, it will work the needed miracle. It is only the mysterious that terrifies. Railroad employees, as a whole, are perfectly intelligent human beings, open to conviction. The management which doesn't profit by that fact is lame. If you do this and appeal to the loyalty of the men, you will make a private detective out of every man in the train service, and every one of them keen to be the first to catch the wreckers. You can add a bit of a reward for that, if you like, and I'll pay it out of my own bank account." For a full minute our captive millionaire didn't say a word. Then he grinned like a good-natured little Chinese god. "Who gave you this idea of taking the pay-roll into your confidence, Graham?" he asked softly. For the first time in all the weeks and months I'd been knowing him, the boss dodged; dodged just like any of us might. "I've been talking to Major Kendrick," he said. "He is a wise old man, Upton, and he hears a good many things that don't get printed in the newspapers." I could see that this excuse didn't fool Mr. Van Britt for a single instant, and there was a look in his eye that I couldn't quite understand. Neither could I make much out of what he said. "We'll go into that a little deeper some day, Graham--after this epileptic attack has been fought off. This idea--which you confess isn't your own--is a pretty shrewd one, and I shouldn't wonder if it would work, if we can get it in motion before the hoodoo breaks us wide open. And, as you say, the accusation is justifiable, even if we can't prove up against the Hatch outfit. That turned-over rail in Petrolite Canyon, for example, might have been helped along by----" It was Kelso, Mr. Van Britt's stenographer, who smashed in with the interruption. He was in his shirt-sleeves, as if he'd just got up from his typewriter, and he rushed in with his mouth open and his eyes like saucers. "They--they want you in the despatcher's office!" he panted, jerking the words out at Mr. Van Britt. "Durgin has let Number Five get by for a head-ender with the 'Flyer,' and he's gone crazy!" XX The Helpless Wires When Bobby Kelso shot his news at us we all made a quick break for the despatcher's office, the boss in the lead. It was a big bare room flanking Mr. Van Britt's quarters at the western end of the second floor corridor and the windows looked out upon the yard twinkling with its red and yellow and green switch lights. Durgin, the night despatcher, had been alone on the train desk, and the only other operators on duty were the car-record man and the young fellow who acted as a relief on the commercial wire. When we got there, we found that Tarbell had happened to be in the office when Durgin blew up. He was sitting in at the train key, trying to get the one intermediate wire station between the two trains that had failed to get their "meet" orders, and this was the first I knew that he really was the expert telegraph operator that his pay-roll description said he was. Durgin looked like a tortured ghost. He was a thin, dark man with a sort of scattering beard and limp black hair; one of the clearest-headed despatchers in the bunch, and the very last man, you'd say, to get rattled in a tangle-up. Yet here he was, hunched in a chair at the car-record table in the corner, a staring-eyed, pallid-faced wreck, with the sweat standing in big drops on his forehead and his hands shaking as if he had the palsy. Morris, the relief man, gave us the particulars, such as they were, speaking in a hushed voice as if he was afraid of breaking in on Tarbell's steady rattling of the key in the Crow Gulch station call. "Number Four"--Four was the eastbound "Flyer"--"is five hours off her time," he explained. "As near as I can get it, Durgin was going to make her 'meet' with Number Five at the blind siding at Sand Creek tank. She ought to have had her orders somewhere west of Bauxite Junction, and Five ought to have got hers at Banta. Durgin says he simply forgot that the 'Flyer' was running late: that she was still out and had a 'meet' to make somewhere with Five." Brief as Morris's explanation was, it was clear enough for anybody who knew the road and the schedules. The regular meeting-point for the two passenger trains was at a point well east of Portal City, instead of west, and so, of course, would not concern the Desert Division crew of either train, since all crews were changed at Portal City. From Banta to Bauxite Junction, some thirty-odd miles, there was only one telegraph station, namely, that at the Crow Gulch lumber camp, seven miles beyond the Timber Mountain "Y" and the gravel pit where the stolen 1016 had been abandoned. Unluckily, Crow Gulch was only a day station, the day wires being handled by a young man who was half in the pay of the railroad and half in that of the saw-mill company. This young man slept at the mill camp, which was a mile back in the gulch. There was only one chance in a thousand that he would be down at the railroad station at ten o'clock at night, and it was on that thousandth chance that Tarbell was rattling the Crow Gulch call. If Five were making her card time, she was now about half-way between Timber Mountain "Y" and Crow Gulch. And Four, the "Flyer," had just left Bauxite--with no orders whatever. Which meant that the two trains would come together somewhere near Sand Greek, one of them, at least, running like the mischief to make up what time she could. Mr. Van Britt was as good a wire man as anybody on the line, but it was the boss who took things in hand. "There is a long-distance telephone to the Crow Gulch saw-mill; have you tried that?" he barked at Tarbell. The big young fellow who looked like a cow-boy--and had really been one, they said--glanced up and nodded: "The call's in," he responded. "'Central' says she can't raise anybody." "What was Four's report from Bauxite?" "Four hours and fifty-two minutes off time." "That will bring them together somewhere in the hill curves this side of Sand Creek," the boss said to Mr. Van Britt; "just where there is the least chance of their seeing each other before they hit." Then to Tarbell: "Try Bauxite and find out if there is a pusher engine there that can be sent out to chase the 'Flyer'." Tarbell nodded without breaking his monotonous repetition of the Crow Gulch call. "I did that first," he put in. "There's an engine there, and they're getting her out. But it's a slim chance; the 'Flyer' has too good a start." For the next three or four minutes the tension was something fierce. The boss and Mr. Van Britt hung over the train desk, and Tarbell kept up his insistent clatter at the key. I had an eye on Durgin. He was still hunched up in the record-man's chair, and to all appearances had gone stone-blind crazy. Yet I couldn't get rid of the idea that he was listening--listening as if all of his sealed-up senses had turned in to intensify the one of hearing. Just about the time when the suspense had grown so keen that it seemed as if it couldn't be borne a second longer, Morris, who was sitting in at the office phone, called out sharply: "Long-distance says she has Crow Gulch lumber camp!" Mr. Van Britt jumped to take the phone, and we got one side of the talk--our side--in shot-like sentences: "That you, Bertram? All right; this is Van Britt, at Portal City. Take one of the mules and ride for your life down the gulch to the station! Get that? Stop Number Five and make her take siding quick. Report over your own wire what you do. _Hurry!_" By the time Mr. Van Britt got back to the train desk, the boss had his pencil out and was figuring on Bertram's time margin. It was now ten-twelve, and Five's time at Crow Gulch was ten-eighteen. The Crow Gulch operator had just six minutes in which to get his mule and cover the rough mile down the gulch. "He'll never make it," said Tarbell, who knew the gulch road. "Our only chance on that lay is that Five may happen to be a few minutes late--and she was right on the dot at Banta." There was nothing to do but wait, and the waiting was savage. Tarbell had a nerve of iron, but I could see his hand shake as it lay on the glass-topped table. The boss was cool enough outwardly, but I knew that in his brain there was a heart-breaking picture of those two fast passenger trains rushing together in the night among the hills with no hint of warning to help them save themselves. Mr. Van Britt couldn't keep still. He had his hands jammed in the side pockets of his coat and was pacing back and forth in the little space between the train desk and the counter railing. At the different tables in the room the sounders were clicking away as if nothing were happening or due to happen, and above the spattering din and clatter you could hear the escapement of the big standard-time clock on the wall, hammering out the seconds that might mean life or death to two or three hundred innocent people. In that horrible suspense the six minutes pulled themselves out to an eternity for that little bunch of us in the despatcher's office who could do nothing but wait. On the stroke of ten-eighteen, the time when Five was due at Crow Gulch on her schedule, Tarbell tuned his relay to catch the first faint tappings from the distant day-station. Another sounder was silent. There was hope in the delay, and Morris voiced it. "He's there, and he's too busy to talk to us," he suggested, in a hushed voice; and Disbrow, the car-record man, added: "That's it; it'd take a minute or two to get them in on the siding." The second minute passed, and then a third, and yet there was no word from Bertram. "Call him," snapped the boss to Tarbell, but before the ex-cowboy's hand could reach the key, the sounder began to rattle out a string of dots and dashes; ragged Morse it was, but we could all read it only too plainly. "Too late--mule threw me and I had to crawl and drag a game leg--Five passed full speed at ten-nineteen--I couldn't make it." I saw the boss's hands shut up as though the finger nails would cut into the palms. "That ends it," he said, with a sort of swearing groan in his voice; and then to Tarbell: "You may as well call Kirgan and tell him to order out the wrecking train. Then have Perkins make up a relief train while you're calling the doctors. Van Britt, you go and notify the hospital over your own office wire. Have my private car put into the relief, and see to it that it has all the necessary supplies. And you'd better notify the undertakers, too." Great Joash! but it was horrible--for us to be hustling around and making arrangements for the funeral while the people who were to be gathered up and buried were still swinging along live and well, half of them in the crookings among the Timber Mountain foot-hills and the other half somewhere in the desert stretches below Sand Creek! Tarbell had sent Disbrow to the phone to call Kirgan, and Mr. Van Britt was turning away to go to his own office, when the chair in the corner by the car-record table fell over backwards with a crash and Durgin came staggering across the room. He was staring straight ahead of him as if he had gone blind, and the sweat was running down his face to lose itself in the straggling beard. When he spoke his voice seemed to come from away off somewhere, and he was still staring at the blank wall beyond the counter-railing. "Did I--did I hear somebody say you're sending for the undertakers?" he choked, with a dry rattle in his throat; and then, without waiting for an answer: "While you're at it, you'd better get one for me ... there's the money to pay him," and he tossed a thick roll of bank bills, wrapped around with a rubber band, over to Tarbell at the train desk. Naturally, the little grand-stand play with the bank roll made a diversion, and that is why the muffled crash of a pistol shot came with a startling shock to everybody. When we turned to look, the mischief was done. Durgin had crumpled down into a misshapen heap on the floor and the sight we saw was enough to make your blood run cold. You see, he had put the muzzle of the pistol into his mouth, and--but it's no use: I can't tell about it, and the very thought of that thing that had just a minute before been a man, lying there on the floor makes me see black and want to keel over. What he had said about sending for an extra undertaker was right as right. With the top of his head blown off, the poor devil didn't need anything more in this world except the burying. XXI Billy Morris Explains Somebody has said, mighty truthfully, that even a death in the family doesn't stop the common routine; that the things that have to be done will go grinding on, just the same, whether all of us live, or some of us die. Disbrow had jumped from the telephone at the crash of Durgin's shot, and for just a second or so we all stood around the dead despatcher, nobody making a move. Then Mr. Norcross came alive with a jerk, telling Disbrow to get back on his job of calling out the wreck wagons and the relief train, and directing Bobby Kelso to go to another 'phone and call an undertaker to come and get Durgin's body. Tarbell turned back to the train desk to keep things from getting into a worse tangle than they already were in, and to wait for the dreadful news, and the boss stood by him. This second wait promised to be the worst of all. The collision was due to happen miles from the nearest wire station; the news, when we should get it, would probably be carried back to Bauxite Junction by the pusher engine which had gone out to try to overtake the "Flyer." But even in that case it might be an agonizing hour or more before we could hear anything. In a little while Disbrow had clicked in his call to Kirgan, and when the undertaker's wagon came to gather up what was left of the dead despatcher, the car-record man was hurriedly writing off his list of doctors, and Mr. Van Britt had gone down to superintend the making up of the relief train. True to his theory, which, among other things, laid down the broad principle that the public had a right to be given all the facts in a railroad disaster, Mr. Norcross was just telling me to call up the _Mountaineer_ office, when Tarbell, calmly inking time reports upon the train sheet, flung down his pen and snatched at his key to "break" the chattering sounder. Mr. Van Britt had come up-stairs again, and he and the boss were both standing over Tarbell when the "G-S" break cleared the wire. Instantly there came a quick call, "G-S" "G-S," followed by the signature, "B-J" for Bauxite Junction. Tarbell answered, and then we all heard what Bauxite had to say: "_Pusher overtook Number Four three miles west of Sand Creek and has brought her back here. What orders for her?_" Somebody groaned, "Oh, thank God!" and Mr. Van Britt dropped into a chair as if he had been hit by a cannon ball. Only the boss kept his head, calling out sharply to Disbrow to break off on the doctors' list and to hurry and stop Kirgan from getting away with the wrecking train. Then, as curtly as if it were all merely a matter of routine, he told Tarbell what to do; how he was to give the "Flyer" orders to wait at Bauxite for Number Five, and then to proceed under time-card regulations to Portal City. When it was all over, and Tarbell had been given charge of the despatching while a hurry call was sent out for the night relief man, Donohue, to come down and take the train desk, there was a little committee meeting in the general manager's office, with the boss in the chair, and Mr. Van Britt sitting in for the other member. "Of course, you've drawn your own conclusions, Upton," the boss began, when he had asked me to shut the door. "I guess so," was the grave rejoinder. "I'm afraid it is only too plain that Durgin was hired to do it. What became of the money?" "I have it here," said the boss, and he took the blood-money bank-roll from his pocket and removed the rubber band. "Count it, Jimmie," he ordered, passing it to me. I ran through the bunch. It was in twenties and fifties, and there was an even thousand dollars. "That is the price of a man's life," said Mr. Van Britt, soberly, and then Mr. Norcross said, "Who knows anything about Durgin? Was he a married man?" Mr. Van Britt shook his head. "He had been married, but he and his wife didn't live together. He had no relatives here. I knew him in the southwest two years ago. He'd had domestic trouble of some kind, and didn't mix or mingle much with the other men. But he was a good despatcher, and two months ago, when we had an opening here, I sent for him." "You think there is no doubt but that he was bribed to put those trains together to-night?" "None in the least--only I wish we had a little better proof of it." "Where did he live?" "He boarded at Mrs. Chandler's, out on Cross Street. Morris boards there, too, I believe." The boss turned to me. "Jimmie, go and get Morris." I carried the call and brought Morris back with me. He was a cheerful, red-headed fellow, and everybody liked him. "It isn't a 'sweat-box' session, Morris," said the boss, quietly, when we came in and the relief operator sat down, sort of half scared, on the edge of a chair. "We want to know something more about Durgin. He roomed at your place, didn't he?" Morris admitted it, but said he'd never been very chummy with the despatcher; that Durgin wasn't chummy with anybody. Then the boss went straight to the point, as he usually did. "You were present and saw all that happened in the other room. Can you tell us anything about that money?" pointing to the pile of bills on my desk. Billy Morris wriggled himself into a little better chair-hold. "Nothing that would be worth telling, if things hadn't turned out just as they have," he returned. "But now I guess I know. I left Mrs. Chandler's this evening about seven o'clock to come on duty, and Durgin was just ahead of me. Some fellow--a man in a snuff-colored overcoat and with a soft hat pulled down so that I couldn't see his face--stopped Durgin on the sidewalk, and they talked together." "Go on," said Mr. Van Britt. "I didn't hear what was said; I was up on the stoop, trying to make Mrs. Chandler's broken door latch work to hold the door shut. But I saw the overcoated man pass something to Durgin, and saw Durgin put whatever it was into his pocket. Then the other man dodged and went away, and did it so quick that I didn't see which way he went or what became of him. I walked on down the steps after I had got the door to stay shut and tried to overtake Durgin--just to walk on down here with him. But I guess he must have run after he left the corner, for I didn't see anything more of him until I got to the office." "He was there when you came in?" It was Mr. Norcross who wanted to know. "Yes. He had his coat off and was at work on the train sheet." "That was a little after seven," said Mr. Van Britt. "What happened between that and ten o'clock?" "Nothing. Disbrow was busy at his table, and I had some work to do, though not very much. I don't think Durgin left his chair, or said anything to anybody until he jumped up and began to walk the floor, taking on and saying that he'd put Four and Five together on the single track. Just then, Tarbell came in and jumped for the train key, and I ran out to give the alarm." There was silence for a little time, and then the boss said, "That's all, Morris; all but one thing. Do you think you would recognize the man in the snuff-colored overcoat, if you should see him again?" "Yes, I might; if he had on the same coat and hat." "That will do, then. Keep this thing to yourself, and if the newspaper people come after you, send them to Mr. Van Britt or to me." After Morris had gone, Mr. Van Britt shook his head sort of savagely. "It's hell, Graham!" he ripped out, bouncing to his feet and beginning to tramp up and down the room. "To think that these devils would take the chance of murdering a lot of totally innocent people to gain their end! What are you going to do about it?" "I don't know yet, Upton; but I am going to do something. This state of affairs can't go on. The simplest thing is for me to throw up the job and let the Short Line drop back into the old rut. I'm not sure that it wouldn't save a good many lives in the end if I should do it. And yet it seems such a cowardly thing to do--to resign under fire." Mr. Van Britt had his hand on the door-knob, and what he said made me warm to my finger-tips. "We're all standing by you, Graham; all, you understand--to the last man and the last ditch. And you're not going to pitch it up; you're going to stay until you have thrown the harpoon into these high-binders, clear up to the hitchings. That's my prophecy. The trouble's over for to-night, and you'd better go up to the hotel and turn in. There is another day coming, or if there isn't, it won't make any difference to any of us. Good-night." XXII What the Pilot Engine Found For a time after the suicide of the off-trick-despatcher the wreck epidemic paused. Acting upon Mr. Norcross's suggestion, Mr. Van Britt called his trainmen in, a crew at a time, and gave them the straight tip; and after that the hoodoo died a natural death, and a good many pairs of eyes all along the Short Line were keeping a sharp lookout for the trouble-makers. In the meantime, Tarbell, still digging faithfully, managed to turn up a few facts that were worth something. In the Petrolite case he found a lone prospector living in a shack high up on the farther side of the canyon who told him that late in the evening of the day preceding the wreck he had seen two men climbing the slope from which the boulder had been dislodged, and that one of them was carrying a pick. Also, further investigation seemed to prove that the rail which the blow of the rock was supposed to have knocked loose had been previously weakened, either by drawing some of the spikes, or by unscrewing the nuts on the bolts at the joints. In another field, and this time under Ripley's instructions, our ex-cow-punch' had been able to set and bait a trap. By diligent search he had found the man Murphy, the Clanahan henchman, who, under pressure, had given away the Timber Mountain plot which had climaxed in the kidnapping of the boss. This man had been deliberately shot in a bar-room brawl and left for dead. But he had crawled away and had got out of town to live and recover at a distant cattle ranch in the Limberton Hills. When Tarbell discovered him he had cut out the booze, had grown a beard, and was thirsting for vengeance. Tarbell brought him back to Portal City, and presently there began to be developments. Murphy knew all the ropes. In a little time, Ripley, with Tarbell's help, was loaded for bear. One chilly October afternoon the lawyer came down to our office to tell Mr. Norcross that the game was cornered. "All you have to do now is to give the word," was the way Ripley wound up. "You refused to do it on a former occasion because we couldn't get the men higher up. This time we can nail Clanahan, and a good few of the political gangsters and bosses in the other towns along the line. What do you say?" The boss looked up with the little horse-shoe frown wrinkling between his eyes. "Can we get Hatch and Henckel?" "No; not yet." "Very well; then you may lock those papers up in your safe and we'll wait. When you can see your way clear to a criminal trial, with Rufus Hatch and Gustave Henckel in the prisoner's dock, we'll start the legal machinery: but not before." By now we were right on the eve of the State election. As far as anybody could see, the railroad had stayed free and clear of the political fight. The boss had kept his promise to maintain neutrality and was still keeping it. At the appointed time the big day dawned, and the political wind-up held the center of the stage. So far as we were concerned, it passed off very quietly. From the wire gossip that dribbled in during the day it appeared that the railroad vote was heavy, though there were neither charges nor counter-charges to indicate which way it had been thrown. Along in the afternoon the newspaper offices began to put out bulletins, and by evening the result was no longer doubtful. For the first time in years the power of the political machine had been smashed decisively at the polls, and on the following morning the _Mountaineer_ announced the election of Governor Burrell, with a safe working majority in both houses of the Legislature for the Independents. Naturally, there was all sorts of a yell from the other side of the fence. Charges were freely made, now, that the railroad had deliberately ditched its friends, and all that. Also there were the bluest kind of predictions for the future, most of them winding up with the assertion that there could be no such thing as true prosperity for the country while the Short Line continued under its present management. It was on the third day after the election, rather late in the afternoon, that the boss had a call from a mining promoter named Dawes, representing a bunch of mine owners at Strathcona who were having trouble with the smelter. I was busy at the time and didn't pay much attention to what was said, but I got the drift of it. The smelter, one of the few Hatch monopolies which hadn't been shaken loose as yet, was located in the gulch six miles below Strathcona, and it was served exclusively by its own industrial railroad, which it was using as a lever to pry an excessive hauling charge out of the mine owners. Wouldn't Mr. Norcross try to do something about it? The boss said he'd do anything he could, and asked what the mine owners wanted. Dawes said they wanted help; that they were going to hold a mass meeting in Strathcona the following morning at nine o'clock. Would it, or wouldn't it, be possible for Mr. Norcross to be present at that meeting? Of course, the boss said he'd go. It meant the better part of a night's run, special, in the private car, but that didn't make any difference. Dawes went away, and before we broke off to go to dinner at the railroad club, I was given a memorandum order for the special. At the club I found that Mr. Norcross had an invited guest--Major Kendrick. For a week or two Mrs. Sheila had been visiting at the State capital, and the major's wife and Maisie Ann were with her. So the good old major was sort of unattached, and glad enough, I took it, to be a guest at anybody's table. For a while the table talk--in which, of course, Jimmie Dodds hadn't any part whatever--circled around the late landslide election, and what Governor Burrell's party would do, now that it had the say-so. But by and by it got around to the railroad situation. "You're putting up a mighty good fight, Graham, my son, but it isn't over yet--not by a jugful, suh"--this isn't just the way the major said it, but it's as near as I can come to his soft Southern drawl with the smothered "r's." "I've known Misteh Rufus Hatch for a good many yeahs, and he has the perseve'ance of the ve'y devil. With all that has been done, you must neveh forget, for a single hou'uh, that youh admirable reform structchuh stands, as yet, upon the life of a single man. Don't lose sight of that, Graham." The boss looked up kind of curiously. "You and Sheila seem to think that that point needs emphasizing more than any other," he commented. The major's fine old eyes twinkled gravely. "You are mighty safe in payin' strict attention to whatever the little gyerl tells you, Graham, my boy," he asserted. "She has a way of gettin' at the heart of things that puts us meah men to shame--she has, for a fact, suh." "She has been very helpful to me," the boss put in, with his eyes in his plate. "In fact, I may say that she has herself suggested a good many of the moves in the railroad game. It's marvelous, and I can't understand how she can do it." They went on for a while, singing Mrs. Sheila's praises over in a good many different ways, and I thought, wherever she might happen to be just then, her pretty little ears ought to be burning good and hard. To hear them talk you would have thought she was another Portia-person, and then some. The dinner wore itself out after a while, and when the waiter brought the cigars, the boss was looking at his watch. "I'm sorry I can't stay and smoke with you, major," he said, pushing his chair back. "But the business grind never lets up. I'm obliged to go to Strathcona to-night." I don't know what the major was going to say to this abrupt break-away: the after-dinner social cigar was a sort of religious ceremony with him. But whatever he was going to say, he didn't say it, for at that moment a telegraph boy came in and handed him a message. He put on his other glasses and read the telegram, with his big goatee looking more than ever like a dagger and the fierce white mustaches twitching. At the end of things he folded the message and put it into his pocket, saying, sort of soberly: "Graham, there are times when Sheila's intuhferences are mighty neah uncanny; they are, for a fact, suh. This wire is from her. What do you suppose it says?" Of course, the boss said he couldn't suppose anything about it, and the major went on. "She tells me, in just seven words, not to let you go to Strathcona to-night. Now what do you make of that? How on top of God's green earth did she know, away off yondeh at the capital, that you were meaning to go to Strathcona to-night?" Mr. Norcross shook his head. Then he said: "There are wires--both kinds--though I don't know why anybody should telegraph or telephone the capital that I expect to attend a mine-owners' meeting to-morrow morning in the big gold camp. That's why I'm going, you know." "But this warning," the major insisted. "There's a reason for it, Graham, as sure as you are bawn!" Again the boss shook his head. "Between you two, you and Sheila, I'm due to acquire a case of nerves. I don't know what she has heard, but I can't afford to dodge a business appointment. I have wired the Strathcona people that I shall be there to-morrow morning, and it is too late to make other arrangements. Sheila has merely overheard an echo of the threats that are constantly being made by the Hatch sympathizers. It's the aftermath of the election, but it's all talk. They're down and out, and they haven't the nerve to strike back, now." That ended matters at the club, and the boss and I walked down to the headquarters. The special, with Buck Chandler on the smart little eight-wheeler that we always had for the private-car trips, was waiting, and at the last minute I thought I wasn't going to get to go. "There's no need of your putting in a night on the road, Jimmie," said the boss, with the kindly thought for other people's comfort that never failed him. But after I had begged a little, telling him that he'd need somebody to take notes in the mine meeting, he said, "All right," and we got aboard and gave the word to Maclise, the conductor, to get his clearance and go. A few minutes later we pulled out and the night run was begun. Like every other car the boss had ever owned, the "05" was fitted up as a working office, and since he had me along, he opened up a lot of claim papers upon which the legal department was giving him the final say-so, and we went to work. For the next two hours I was so busy that I didn't know when we passed the various stations. There were no passenger trains to meet, and the despatcher was apparently giving us "regardless" rights over everything else, since we made no stops. At half-past nine, Mr. Norcross snapped a rubber band over the last of the claim files, lighted a pipe, and told me I might go to bed if I wanted to; said that he was going himself after he'd had a smoke. Just then, Chandler whistled for a station, and, looking out of a window, I saw that we were pulling into Bauxite, the little wind-blown junction from which the Strathcona branch led away into the northern mountains. Wanting a bite of fresh air before turning in, I got off when we made the stop and strolled up to the engine. Maclise was in the office, getting orders for the branch, and Chandler was squatting in the gangway of the 815 and waiting. Up ahead of us, and too far away for me to read the number on her tender, there was a light engine. I thought at first it was the pusher which was kept at Bauxite to help heavy freights up the branch grades, and I wondered what it was doing out on the branch "Y" and in our way. "What's the pusher out for, Buck?" I asked. Chandler grinned down at me. "You ain't so much of a railroad man as you might be, Jimmie," he said. "That ain't the pusher." "What is it, then?" "It's our first section, runnin' light to Strathcona." Maybe Chandler was right, that I wasn't much of a railroad man, but I savvied the Short Line operating rules well enough to know that it wasn't usual to run a light engine, deadheading over the road, as a section of a special. Also, I knew that Buck knew it. With that last little talk over the club dinner-table fresh in mind, I began to wonder, but instead of asking Chandler any more questions about the engine out ahead, I asked him if I might ride a piece with him up the branch; and when he said "Sure," I climbed up and humped myself on the fireman's box. Maclise got his orders in due time and we pulled out. I noticed that when he gave Chandler the word, he also made motions with his lantern to the engine up ahead and it promptly steamed away, speeding up until it had about a half-mile lead and then holding it. That seemed funny, too. Though it is a rule that is often broken on all railroads, the different sections of a train are supposed to keep at least five minutes apart, and our "first" wasn't much more than a minute away from us at any time. Another thing that struck me as being funny was the way Chandler was running. It was only sixty mountain miles up the branch to the big gold camp, and we ought to have been able to make it by one o'clock, taking it dead easy. But the way Buck was niggling along it looked as if it might be going to take us all night. Just the same, nothing happened. The first ten miles was across a desert stretch with only a slightly rising grade, and it was pretty much all tangent--straight line. Beyond the ten-mile station of Nippo we hit the mountain proper, climbing it through a dry canyon, with curves that blocked off everything fifty feet ahead of the engine, and grades that would have made pretty good toboggan slides. The night was fine and starlit, but there was no moon and the canyon shadows loomed like huge walls to shut us in. On the reverse curves I could occasionally get a glimpse of the red tail lights of the engine which ought, by rights, to have been five full minutes ahead of us. It was still holding its short lead, jogging along as leisurely as we were. With nothing to do and not much to see, I got sleepy after a while, and about the time when I was thinking that I might as well climb back over the tender and turn in, I dozed off right there on the fireman's box--which was safe enough, at the snail's pace we were running. When I awoke it was with the feeling that I hadn't been asleep more than a minute or two, but the facts were against me. It was nearly one o'clock in the morning, and we had worried through the thirty-five miles of canyon run and were climbing the steep talus of Slide Mountain. At first I didn't know what it was that woke me. On my side of the engine the big mountain fell away, miles it seemed, on a slope on which a man could hardly have kept his footing, and where a train, jumping the track, would roll forever before it would stop in the gorges at the bottom. While I was rubbing my eyes, the eight-wheeler gave another little jerk, and I saw that Chandler was slowing for a stop; saw this and got a glimpse of somebody on the track ahead, flagging us down with a lantern. A minute later the brakes had been set and Buck and I were off. As we swung down from the engine step, Maclise joined us, and we went to meet the man with the lantern. He was the fireman of the engine ahead, and when we got around on the track I saw that our "first section" was stopped just a little way farther on. "What is it, Barty?" said Maclise, when we came up to the fireman. "It's them hell-fired wreckers again," was the gritting reply. "Rail joint disconnected and sprung out so's to let us off down the mountain." I thought it was up to me to go back and tell the boss, but there wasn't any need of it. The stop or the slow running or something had roused him, and he was up and dressed and coming along beside the engine. When he came up, Maclise told him why we were stopping. He didn't say anything about the rail break, but he did ask, sort of sharp and quick, what engine that was up ahead. I don't know what Maclise told him. Chandler turned to go back to his engine, and the rest of us were moving along the other way, the boss setting the pace with Maclise at his elbow. Three rail-lengths ahead of the stopped light engine we came to the break. The head engineer and another man were down on their hands and knees examining it, and when they stood up at our coming, I saw that the other man was Mr. Van Britt. "What?" said the boss; "you here?" Our only millionaire nodded. "I ride the line once in a while--just to see how things are going," he returned crisply. The boss didn't say anything more, but he knelt to look at the break. It was a trap, all right, set, beyond all question of doubt, to catch the private-car special. The fish-plates had been removed from a joint in the left-hand rail and the end of the downhill rail had been sprung out to make a derailing switch, which was held in position by the insertion of one of the fish-plates between the rail-webs. If we had hit the trap, going at even ordinary mountain-climbing speed, there would have been nothing left to tell the tale but a heap of scrap at the bottom of the thousand-foot dump. There wasn't very much talk made by anybody. Under Mr. Van Britt's directions the engineer and fireman of the pilot engine brought tools and the break was repaired. All they had to do was to spring the bent rail back into place and spike it, and bolt the fish-plates on again. While they were doing it the boss stood aside with Mr. Van Britt, and I heard what was said. Mr. Van Britt began it by saying, "We don't need any detectives this time. You are on your way to Strathcona to put a crimp in the smelter squeeze--the last of the Red Tower monopolies--so Dawes told me. He was probably foolish enough to tell others, and the word was pasted to scrag you before you could get to it. This trap was set to catch your special." "Evidently," barked the boss; and then: "How did you happen to be here on that engine, Upton?" "I've been ahead of you all the way up from Portal City," was the calm reply. "I thought it might be safer if you had a pilot to show you the way. I guess I must have had a hunch." The boss turned on him like a flash. "You had something more than a hunch: what was it--a wire?" Mr. Van Britt gritted his teeth a little, but he told the truth. "Yes; a friend of ours tipped me off--not about the broken track, of course, but just in a general way. I knew you'd bully me if I should tell you that I was going to run a pilot ahead of you, so I didn't tell you." The break was repaired and the men were taking the tools back to the engine. As we turned to follow them, Mr. Norcross said: "Just one more question, Upton. Did your wire come from the capital?" But at this Mr. Van Britt seemed to forget that he was talking to his general manager. "It's none of your damned business where it came from," he snapped back; and that ended it. XXIII The Major's Premonition Notwithstanding the slow run and the near-disaster on Slide Mountain, we had our meeting with the Strathcona mine owners the following morning; and that much of the special train trip served its purpose, anyway. The boss met the miners a good bit more than half-way, and gave them their relief--and the Hatch-owned smelter its knock-out--by promising that our traffic department would make an ore tariff to the independent smelter on the other side of the range low enough to protect the producers. They tried to give him an ovation for that--the Strathcona men--did give him a banquet luncheon at the Shaft-House Grill, a luxurious club fitted up with rough beams and rafters to make it look like its name. And on account of the banquet it was nearly three o'clock in the afternoon before we got away for the return to Portal City. We had seen nothing of Mr. Van Britt during the day, and until we came to start out I thought maybe he had gone back to Portal City on the regular train. But at the station I saw the pilot engine just ahead of us again, and though I couldn't be quite sure, I thought I caught a glimpse of our athletic little general superintendent on the fireman's box. The boss was pretty quiet all the way on the run down the mountain to Bauxite, and, for a wonder, he didn't pitch into the work at the desk. Instead, he sat in one of the big wicker chairs facing a rear window, smoking, and apparently absorbed in watching the crooked track of the branch unreel itself and race backward as we slid down the grades. I could tell pretty well what he was thinking about. For six months he had been working like a horse to pull the Short Line out of the mudhole of contempt and hostility into which a more or less justly aroused public enmity had dumped it; and now, just as he was beginning to get it up over the edge, he had been plainly notified that he was going to be killed if he didn't let go. On the reverse curves he could see the pilot engine feeling its way down the mountain ahead of us, and I guess that gave him another twinge. It's tough on a man to think that he can't ride over his own railroad without being hedged up and guarded. But the really tough part of it was not so much the mere fact of getting killed. It was the other and sharper fact that, just as the way seemed to be opening out to better things for the Short Line, a mis-set switch or a bullet in the dark would knock the entire hard-built reform experiment into a cocked hat. There was every reason, now, to hope that the experiment was going to be a success, at least, at our end of it, if it could go on just a little farther. Slowly but surely the new policy was winning its way with the public. Traffic was booming, and almost from the first the Interstate Commerce inspectors had let us alone, just as the police will let a man alone when there is reason to believe that he has taken a brace and is trying his best to walk straight. Also, for the drastic intrastate regulations--the laws about headlights, and safety devices, and grade crossings, and full crews, and the making of reports to this, that, and the other State official; laws which, if enforced to the letter would have left the railroad management with little to do but to pay the bills; for these something better was to be substituted. We had Governor-elect Burrell's assurance for this. He had met the boss in the lobby of the Bullard the day after the election, and I had heard him say: "You have kept your promise, Norcross. For the first time in its history, your railroad has let a State campaign take its course without bullying, bribery, or underhanded corruption. You'll get your reward. We are going to have new laws, and a Railroad Commission with authority to act both ways--for the people when it's needed, and for the carriers when they need it. If you can show that the present laws are unjust to your earning powers, you'll get relief and the people of this commonwealth will cheerfully pay the bills." Past all this, though, and even past the murderous machinations of the disappointed grafters, there was the old sore: the original barrier that no amount of internal reform could break down. There could be no permanent prosperity for the Short Line while its majority stock was controlled by men who cared absolutely nothing for the property as a working factor in the life and activities of the region it served. That was the way Mrs. Sheila had put it to the boss, one evening along in the summer when they were sitting out on the Kendricks' porch, and I had butted in, as usual, with a bunch of telegrams that didn't matter. She had said that the experiment _couldn't_ be a success unless the conditions could be changed in some way; that so long as the railroads were owned or controlled by men of the Mr. Dunton sort and used as counters in the money-making game, there would never be any real peace between the companies and the people at large. I knew that the boss had taken that saying of hers for another of the inspirations, and that he believed it clear through to the bottom. But I guess he didn't see any way as yet in which the Duntons could be shaken out, or just what could be made to happen if they were shaken out. It was at Bauxite Junction that we picked up Mr. Hornack. He had been down in the sugar-beet country on a business trip, and had come up as far as Bauxite on a freight, after the Sedgwick operator had told him that our special was on the way home from Strathcona, and that he could catch it at the Junction. I was glad when I saw him come in. I had just been thinking that it wasn't healthy for the boss to be grilling there at the car window so long alone, and I knew Mr. Hornack would keep him talking about something or other all the rest of the way in. For a little while they talked business, and I took my chance to stretch out on the leather lounge behind their chairs and kind of half doze off. By and by the business talk wound itself up and I heard Mr. Hornack say: "I saw Ripley going in on Number Six this morning, and he had company; Mrs. Macrae, and the major's wife, and the husky little-girl cousin. They've been visiting at the capital, so they told me, and I expect the major will be mighty glad to see them back." I didn't hear what Mr. Norcross said, if he said anything at all, but if I had been stone deaf I think I should have heard the thing that Mr. Hornack said when he went on. "I heard something the other day in Portal City that seems pretty hard to believe, Norcross. It was at one of Mrs. Stagford's 'evenings,' and I was sitting out a dance with a certain young woman who shall be nameless. We were speaking of the Kendricks, and she gave me a rather broad hint that Mrs. Macrae isn't a widow at all; that her husband is still living." My heavens! I had figured out a thousand ways in which the boss might get wised up to the dreadful truth, but never anything like this; to have it dropped on him that way out of a clear sky! For a minute or two he didn't say anything, but when he did speak, I saw that the truth wasn't going to take hold. "That is gossip, pure and simple, Hornack. The Kendricks are my friends, and I have been as intimate in their household as any outsider could be. It's merely idle gossip, I can assure you." "Maybe so," said Mr. Hornack, sort of drawing in his horns when he saw how positive the boss was about it. "I'm not beyond admitting that the young woman who told me is a little inclined that way. But the story was pretty circumstantial: it went so far as to assert that 'Macrae' wasn't Mrs. Sheila's married name at all, and to say that her long stay with her Western cousins was--and still is--really a flight from conditions that were too humiliating to be borne." "I don't care what was said, or who said it," the boss cut in brusquely. "It's ridiculous to suppose that any woman, and especially a woman like Sheila Macrae, would attempt to pass herself off as a widow when she wasn't one." "I know," said the traffic manager, temporizing a little. "But on the other hand, I've never heard the major, or any one else, say outright that she was a widow. It seems to be just taken for granted. It stirred me up a bit on Van Britt's account. You don't go anywhere to mix and mingle socially, but it's the talk of the town that Upton is in over his head in that quarter." I shut my eyes and held my breath. Mr. Hornack hadn't the slightest idea what thin ice he was skating over, or how this easy mention of Mr. Van Britt might be just like rubbing salt into a fresh cut. By this time it was growing dark, and we were running into Portal City, and I was mighty glad that it couldn't last much longer. The boss didn't speak again until the yard switches were clanking under the car, and then he said: "Upton is well able to take care of himself, Hornack, and I don't think we need worry about him," and then over his shoulder to me: "Jimmie, it's time to wake up. We're pulling in." As he always did on a return from a trip, Mr. Norcross ran up to his office to see if there was anything pressing, before he did anything else. May was still at his desk, and in answer to the boss's question he shook his head. "No; nobody that couldn't wait," he said, referring to the day's callers. "Mr. Hatch was up with a couple of men that I didn't know, but he only wanted to inquire if you would be in the office this evening after dinner. I told him I'd find out when you came, and let him know by 'phone." I thought, after all that had happened, Hatch certainly had his nerve to want to come and make a talk with the man his hired assassins were trying to murder. But if Mr. Norcross took that view of it, he didn't show it. On the contrary, he told Fred it would be all right to telephone Hatch; that he was coming down after dinner and the office would be open, as usual. When things got that far along I slipped out and went to Mr. Van Britt's office at the other end of the hall. Bobby Kelso was there, holding the office down, and I asked him where I could find Tarbell. Luckily, he was able to tell me that Tarbell was at that moment down in the station restaurant, eating his supper; so down I went and butted in with my story of the Hatch call, and how it was to be repeated a little later on. "I'll be there," said Tarbell; and with that load off my mind, I mogged off up-town to the club to get my own dinner. When I broke into the grill-room at the railroad club, I found that Mr. Norcross had beaten me to it by a few minutes; that he had already ordered his dinner at a table with Major Kendrick. I suppose, by good rights, I ought to have gone off into a corner by myself, but I saw that the boss had tipped a chair at the end of the table where I usually sat, so I just went ahead and took it. Coming in late, that way, I didn't get the first of the talk, but I took it that the boss had been saying something about his rare good luck in having the major for a table-mate two days in succession. "The honoh is mine, my deah boy," the genial old Kentuckian was telling him as I sat down. "They told me in the despatchuh's office that youh special was expected in, so I telephoned Sheila and the madam not to wait for me." "Then you stayed down town purposely to see me?" asked the boss. "In a manneh, yes. I was by way of picking up a bit of information late this afte'noon that I thought ought to be passed on to you without any great delay." The boss looked up quickly. "What is it, Major?" he inquired. "Are you going to tell me that something new has broken loose?" "I wish I might be that he'pfully definite--I do so, Graham. But I can't. It's me'uhly a bit of street talk. They're telling it, oveh at the Commercial Club, that Hatch and John Marshall--you know him,--that Sedgwick stock jobbeh who has been so active in this Citizens' Storage & Warehouse business--have finally come togetheh." "In a business way, you mean?" The major gave a right and left twist to his big mustaches and shrugged one shoulder. "They are most probably calling it business," he rejoined. The boss nodded. "I know what has happened. In spite of the fact that the local people know that their economic salvation depends upon a wide and even distribution of their C. S. & W. stock, there has been a good bit of buying and selling and swapping around. I remember you prophesied that in a little while we'd have another trust in the hands of a few men. You may recollect that I didn't dispute your prediction. I merely said that our ground leases--the fact that all of the C. S. & W. plants and buildings are on railroad land--would still give us the whip-hand over any new monopoly that might be formed." "Yes, suh; I remember you said that," the major allowed. "Very good. Marshall and his pocket syndicate may have acquired a voting control in C. S. & W., and they may be willing now to patch up an alliance with Hatch. But in that case the new monopoly will still lack the one vital ingredient: the power to fix prices. If there is a new combine, and it tries to make the producers and merchants pay more than the agreed percentages for storage and handling----" "I know," the major cut in. "You-all will rise up in the majesty of youh wrath and put it out of business by terminating the leases. I hope you may: I sutt'inly do hope you may. But you'll recollect that I didn't advise you on that point, suh. You took Misteh Ripley's opinion. Maybe the cou'ts will hold with you, but, candidly, Graham, I doubt it--doubt it right much." The boss didn't seem to be much scared up over the doubt. He just smiled and said we'd be likely to find out what was in the wind, and that before very long. Then he spoke of Hatch's afternoon call at our offices, and mentioned the fact that the Red Tower president would probably try again, later in the evening. The major let the business matter drop, and he was working his way patiently through the salad course when he looked up to say: "Was there anything in youh trip to Strathcona to warrant Sheila's little telegraphic dangeh signal, Graham?" "Nothing worth mentioning," said the boss, without turning a hair; doing it, as I made sure, because he didn't want Mrs. Sheila to be mixed up in the plotting business, even by implication. The major didn't press the inquiry any farther, and when he spoke again it was of an entirely different matter. "Away along in the beginning, somebody--I think it was John Chadwick--spoke of you as a man with a sawt of raw-head-and-bloody-bones tempeh, Graham: what have you done with that tempeh in these heah latteh days?" This time the boss's smile was a good-natured grin. "Temper is not always a matter of temperament, Major. Sometimes it is only a means to an end. Much of my experience has been in the construction camps, where I have had to deal with men in the raw. Just the same, there have been moments within the past six months when I have been sorely tempted to burn the wires with a few choice words of the short and ugly variety and throw up my job." "Which, as you may say, brings us around to President Dunton," put in the old lawyer shrewdly. "He is still opposing youh policies?" "Up to a few weeks ago he was still hounding me to do something that would boost the stock, regardless of what the something should be, or of its effect upon the permanent value of the property." Again the major held his peace, as if he were debating some knotty point with himself--the table-clearing giving him his chance. "Did I undehstand you to say that these--ah--suggestions from Dunton had stopped?" he inquired, after the little coffees had been served. "Temporarily, at least. I haven't heard anything from New York--not lately." "Then Dunton's nephew hasn't made himself known to you?" "Collingwood? Hardly. I'm not in Mr. Howie Collingwood's set--which is one of the things I have to be thankful for. But this is news: I didn't know he was out here." The news-giver bent his head gravely in confirmation of the fact. "He's heah, I'm sorry to say, Graham. He has been heah quite some little time, vibratin' round with the Grigsbys and the Gannons and a lot mo' of the new-rich people up at the capital." It was the boss's turn to go silent, and I could guess pretty well what he was thinking. The presence of President Dunton's nephew in the West might mean much or nothing. But I could imagine the boss was thinking that his own single experience with Collingwood was enough to make him wish that the nephew of Big Money would stay where he belonged--among the high-rollers and spenders of his own set in the effete East. "I can't quite get the proper slant on men of the Collingwood type," he remarked, after the pause. "The only time I ever saw him was on the night before the directors' meeting last spring. He was here with his uncle's party in the special train, and that night at the Bullard he had been drinking too much and made a braying ass of himself. I had to knock him silly before I could get him up to his room." "You did that, Graham?--for a strangeh?" "I did it for the comfort of all concerned. As I say, he was making an ass of himself." There was another break, and then the major looked up with a little frown. "That was befo' you had met Sheila?" he asked, thoughtfully. "Why, no; not exactly. It was the same night--the night we all dropped off the 'Flyer' and got left behind at Sand Creek. You may remember that we came in later on Mr. Chadwick's special." The major made no reply to this, and pretty soon the boss was on his feet and excusing himself once more on the after-dinner smoking stunt, saying that he was obliged to go back to the office. The major got up and shook hands with him as if he were bidding him good-by for a long journey. "You are going down to keep that appointment with Misteh Rufus Hatch?" he said. "You take an old man's advice, Graham, my boy, and keep youh hand--figuratively speaking, of cou'se--on youh gun. It runs in my mind, somehow, that you are going to be hit--and hit right hard. No, don't ask me why. Call it a rotten suspicion, and let it go at that. Come up to the house, afte'wards, if you have time, and tell me I'm a false prophet, suh; I hope you may." The boss promised plenty cheerfully as to the calling part, as you'd know he would since he hadn't seen Mrs. Sheila for I don't know how long; and a few minutes later we were on our way, walking briskly, to keep the Fred-May-made engagement with the chief of the grafters. XXIV The Dead-Line We found the three disappointed afternoon callers already on hand when we reached the headquarters. Fred May was back from his dinner, and he had let them in as far as the ante-room. The boss said, "Good evening, gentlemen," as pleasant as a basket of chips; told Fred he might go, and invited the waiting bunch into the private office, snapping on the lights as he opened the door. In the big room he indicated the sitting possibilities, and the three callers planted themselves in a semicircle at the desk end. No introductions were needed. One of the pair Hatch had brought with him was a lawyer named Marrow, whose home town was Sedgwick; a sharp-nosed, ferret-eyed man who figured as one of the many "local counsels" for Red Tower. The other, Dedmon, was a political place-hunter who had once been sheriff of Arrowhead County. "You've kept us cooling our heels in your waiting-room for just about the last time, Mr. Norcross!" was the spiteful way in which Hatch opened fire. "We've come to talk straight business with you this trip, and it will be more to your interest than ours if you'll send your clerk away." While they had been dragging up their chairs and sitting down, I had heard Fred May lock up his typewriter and go, and had been listening anxiously for some noise that would tell me Tarbell was on deck. I thought I heard the door of the outer office open again just as Hatch spoke and it comforted me a whole lot. The boss didn't pay any attention to Hatch's suggestion about sending me away; acted as if he hadn't heard it. Opening his desk he took a box of cigars from a drawer and passed it. Dedmon, the ex-sheriff, helped himself, but the lawyer and Hatch both refused. With this concession to the small hospitalities the boss swung his chair to face the trio. "My time is yours, gentlemen," he said; and Hatch jumped in like a man fairly spoiling for a fight. "For six months, Norcross, you've been mowing a pretty wide swath out here in the tall hills. You've been posing as a little tin god before the people of this State, and all the while you've been knifing and slugging and black-jacking private capital and private business wherever and whenever they have happened to get in your way. Now, at the end of the lane, by Jupiter, we've got you dead to rights--you and your damned railroad!" "Cut out as many of the personalities as you can, and come to the point," suggested the boss quietly. "You think I haven't any point to come to?" barked the grafter, with rising anger. "I'll show you! You've beaten us in the courts, and your imported lawyers have----" "Excuse me, Mr. Hatch," was the curt interruption. "Abuse isn't argument. State your case, if you have one." "Oh, I've got the case, all right. You've been keeping your finger on the pulse, or you think you have, but I can wise you up to a few things that have got away from you. You thought you were the only original trust-buster when you started your scheme of locally owned elevators and warehouses and coal- and lumber-yards and ran us out of business. But I'm here to tell you that your fine-haired little deal to rob us began to die about as soon as it was born." "How so?" inquired the boss, just as though Major Kendrick hadn't already given him his pointer about the how. "In the way that everything of that kind is bound to die. It wasn't a month before your little local stockholders began to get together and swap stock and sell it. In a very short time the control of the whole string of local plants was in the hands of a hundred men. To-day it's in the hands of less than twenty, with John Marshall at the head of them." This time the boss let out a notch. "So far, you haven't told me anything new. Go on." "If I should name Marshall's bunch, you'd know what's coming to you. But we needn't go into statistics. Citizens' Storage & Warehouse is now a consolidated property, and John Marshall, Henckel and I control a majority of its stock. How does that strike you?" "It strikes me that the people most deeply interested have been exceedingly foolish to sell their birthright. But that is strictly their own business, and not mine or the railroad company's." "Wait!" Hatch snarled. "It's going to be both yours and the railroad company's business, before you are through with it. Marrow, here, represents Marshall, and I represent Henckel and myself. What are you going to do about those ground leases?" "Nothing at all, except to insist upon the condition under which they were granted by the railroad company." "Meaning that you are going to try to hold us to the fixed percentage charge for handling, packing, loading, and transferring?" "Meaning just that. If you raise the proportional market-price charge on the producers and merchants, the leases will terminate." "I thought that was about where you'd land. Now listen: we're It--Marshall and Henckel and I--and what we say, goes as it lies. We are going to use the present C. S. & W. plants and equipment, charging our own storage and handling percentages, based on anything we see fit. If you pull that ground-lease business on us and try to drive us out, we'll fight you all the way up to the Supreme Court. If you beat us there, we'll merely move over to the other side of your tracks to our old Red Tower houses and yards and go on doing business at the old stand." The boss sat back in his chair, and I could tell by the set of his jaw that he was refusing to be panic-stricken. "You are taking altogether too much for granted, aren't you?" he put in mildly. "You are assuming that the courts will eventually nullify the terms of the ground-leases, or, if they do not, that the railroad company will do nothing to save its patrons from falling into this new graft trap." Hatch snapped his fingers. "Now you are coming to the milk in the cocoanut!" he rapped out. "That is exactly what we're assuming. You are going to let go, once for all, Norcross. You are not going to fight us in the courts, and neither are you going to harass us out of existence with short cars, over-charges, and the thousand and one petty persecutions that you railroad buccaneers make use of to line your own pockets!" "But if we refuse to lie down and let you walk over us and our patrons--what then?" the boss inquired. That brought the explosion. Hatch's eyes blazed and he smacked fist into palm. "Then we'll knife you, and we'll do it to a velvet finish! After so long a time, we've got you where you can't side-step, Norcross. You thought you played it pretty damned fine in that election deal; but we got the goods on you, just the same!" Again the boss refused to be panic-stricken; or, anyhow, he looked that way. "We have heard that kind of talk many times in the past," he said. "The way to make it effective is to produce the goods." "That's just what we're here to do!" snapped the Red Tower president vindictively. "You, and the Big Fellows in New York, want a lot of the State railroad laws repealed or amended. If you can't get that string untied, you can't gamble any more with your stock. Well and good. You came here six months ago and set out to manufacture public sentiment in favor of the railroad. You ran up your 'public-be-pleased' flag and beat the tom-tom and blew the hewgag until you got a lot of dolts and chuckle-heads and easy marks to believe that you really meant it." "Well, go on." "With all this humbug and hullaballoo you still couldn't be quite certain that you had made your point; that your measures would carry through the incoming Legislature. After the primaries you counted noses among the candidates and found it was going to be a tight squeak--a damned tight squeak. Then you did what you railroad people always do; you slipped out quietly and bought a few men--just to be on the safe side." So it was sprung at last. Hatch was accusing us of the one thing that we hadn't done; that the boss knew we hadn't done. "I'm afraid you'll have to try again, Mr. Hatch," he said, with a sour little smile. Then he added: "Anybody can make charges, you know." Hatch jumped to his feet and he was almost foaming at the mouth. "Right there is where we've got you!" he shouted. "You were too cautious to put one of your own men in the field, so you sent outside for your briber. He was fly, too; he never came near you nor any of your officials--to start curious talk. But he was a stranger, and he had to have help in finding the right men to buy. Dedmon, here, was out of a job--thanks to you and your meddling--and the steering stunt offered good pay. Do you want any more?" The boss shook his head. "It is a matter of complete indifference to me. I don't know in the least what you are talking about, and you'll pardon me, I hope, if I say that it doesn't greatly interest me." "By heavens--I'll make it interest you! The easy-mark candidates were found and bought and paid for--and maybe they'll stay bought, and maybe they won't. But that isn't the point. For a little more money--my money, this time--each of these men has made an affidavit to the fact that railroad money was offered him. They don't say whether or not they accepted it, mind you, and that doesn't cut any figure. They have sworn that the money was tendered. That lets them out and lets you in. You don't believe it? I'll show you," and Hatch whipped a list of names from his pocket and slapped it upon the boss's desk. "Go to those men and ask them; if you want to carry it that far. They'll tell you." I could see that the boss barely glanced at the list. The glib story of the bribery was like the bite of a slipping crane-hitch--slow to take hold. So far as we were concerned, of course, the charge fell flat; and upon any other hypothesis it was blankly incredible, unbelievable, absurd. "The affidavits themselves would be much more convincing," I heard the boss say, "though even then I should wish to have reasonable proof that they were genuine." Hatch was sitting down again and his grin showed his teeth unpleasantly. "Do you think for a minute that I'd bring the papers here and trust them in your hands?" he rapped out insultingly. "Not much! But we've got them all right, as you'll find out if you balk and force us to use them." At this point I could see that something in the persistent assurance of the man was getting under the boss's skin and giving him a cold chill. What if it were not the colossal bluff it had looked like in the beginning? What if.... Like a blaze of lightning out of a clear sky a possible explanation hit me under the fifth rib, and I guess it hit the boss at about the same instant. What if President Dunton and the New York stock-jobbers, believing as they did that nothing but legislative favor would give them their trading capital in the depressed stock, had cut in and done this thing without consulting us? The boss stirred uneasily in his chair and picked up the paper-knife--a little unconscious trick of his when he wanted time to gather himself. "Perhaps you would be willing to give me the name of this briber, Mr. Hatch?" he said, after a little pause. "As if you didn't know it!" was the scoffing retort. "You drive us to the newspapers and everybody'll know it." "But I _don't_ know it," the boss insisted patiently. Then he seemed to take a sort of fresh grip on himself, for he added: "And I don't believe you do, either, Mr. Hatch. You are a pretty good bluffer, but----" Hatch broke in with a short laugh. "There were two of them; one who was hired to do the talking while the real wire-puller stood aside and held the coin bag. We'll skip the hired man." Then he turned to the ex-sheriff: "Write out the name of the bag-holder for him, Dedmon," he commanded, tearing a leaf from his pocket notebook and thrusting it, with a stubby pencil, into Dedmon's hands. The man from Arrowhead County bent over his knee and wrote a name on the slip of paper, laying the slip on the drawn-out slide of the boss's desk when he had finished the slow penciling. The effect of the thing was all that any plotter could have desired. I saw the boss's face go gray, saw him stare at the slip and heard him say, half to himself, "_Howard Collingwood!_" Hatch followed up his advantage promptly. He was afoot and struggling into his overcoat when he said: "You've got what you were after, Norcross, and it has got your goat. We've known all along that you were only bluffing and sparring to gain time. We've nailed you to the cross. You let this deal with Marshall and his people stand as it's made, or we'll show you up for what you are. That's the plain English of it." "You mean that you will go to the newspapers with this?" said the boss, and it was no wonder that his voice was a bit husky. "Just that. We'll give you plenty of time to think it over. The joint deal with C. S. & W. goes into effect to-morrow, and it's up to you to sit tight in the boat and let us alone. If you don't--if you butt in with the ground-leases, or in any other way--the story will go to the newspapers and every sucker on the line of the P. S. L. will know how you've been pulling the wool over his eyes with all this guff about 'justice first,' and 'the public be pleased.' You're no fool, Norcross. You know they won't lay it to Dunton and the New Yorkers. You've taken pains to advertise it far and wide that you are running this railroad on your own responsibility, and the people are going to take you at your word." Dedmon, and the lawyer--who hadn't spoken a single word in all the talk--were edging toward the door. I heard just the faintest possible little noise in the ante-room, betokening Tarbell's withdrawal. The boss didn't make any answer to Hatch's wind-up except to say, "Is that all?" The other two were out, now, and Hatch turned to stick his ugly jaw out at the boss, and to say, just as if I hadn't been there to look on and hear him: "No, by Jupiter--it isn't all! In the past six months you've made Gus Henckel and me lose a cold half-million, Norcross. For a less provocation than that, many a man in this neck of woods has been sent back east in the baggage-car, wearing a wooden overcoat. You climb down, and do it while you can stay alive!" For some little time after the three men went away the boss sat staring at the slip of paper on the desk slide. At the long last he got up, sort of tired-like, I thought, and said to me: "Jimmie, you go down and see if you can find a taxi, and we'll drive out to Major Kendrick's. I promised him I'd go out to the house, you remember." XXV Flagged Down When our taxi stopped at the major's gate, somebody was coming out just as we were getting ready to go in. The light from the street arc was broken a good bit by the sidewalk trees, and the man had the visor of his big flat golf cap pulled down well over his eyes, but I knew him just the same. It was Collingwood! This looked like more trouble. What was the president's nephew doing here? I wondered about that, and also, if the boss had recognized Collingwood. If he had, he made no sign, and a moment later I had punched the bell-push and Maisie Ann was opening the door for us. "Both of you? oh, how nice!" she said, with a smile for the boss and a queer little grimace for me. "Come in. This is our evening for callers. Cousin Basil is out, but he'll be back pretty soon, and he left word for you to wait if you got here before he did." That message was for the boss, and I lagged behind in the dimly lighted hall while she was showing him into the back parlor. I heard her wheel up a chair for him before the fire, and go on chattering to him about nothing, and by that I knew that there wasn't anybody else in the parlor and that she was just filling in the time until something else should happen. It wasn't long until the something happened. I had dropped down on the hall settee, in the end of it next to the coat-rack, and when Mrs. Sheila came down-stairs and went through the hall, she didn't see me. A second later I heard the boss jump up and say, "At last! It seems as if you had been gone a year rather than a fortnight," and then Maisie Ann came dodging out and plunked herself down on the settee beside me. You needn't tell me that we had no right to sit there listening; I know it well enough. On the other hand, I was just shirky enough to shift the responsibility to Maisie Ann. She didn't make any move to duck, so I didn't. "You came out to see Cousin Basil?" Mrs. Sheila was saying to the boss. And then: "He had a telephone call from the Bullard, and he asked me to tell you to wait." After that, I guess she sat down to help him wait, for pretty soon we heard her say: "Cousin Basil has told me a little about the new trouble: have you been having another bad quarter of an hour?" "The worst of the lot," the boss said gravely, and from that he went on to tell her about the Hatch visit and what had come of it; how the grafters had a new claw hold on him, now, made possible by an unwarranted piece of meddling on the part of the New York people in the political game. It was while he was talking about this that Maisie Ann grabbed me by the wrist and dragged me bodily into the darkened front parlor, the door to which was just on the other side of the coat rack. I thought she had come to her right senses, at last, and was making the shift to break off the eavesdropping. That being the case, I was simply horrified when I found that she was merely fixing it so that we could both _see_ and hear. The sliding doors between the two parlors were cracked open about an inch, and before I realized what she was doing she had pulled me down on the floor beside her, right in front of that crack. "If you move or make a noise, I'll scream and they'll come in here and find us both!" she hissed in my ear; and because I didn't know what else to do with such a kiddish little termagent, I sat still. It was dastardly, I know; but what was I to do? The first thing we saw was that the two in the other room were sitting at opposite sides of the fire. Mrs. Sheila was awfully pretty; prettier than I had ever seen her, because she had a lot more color in her face, and her eyes had that warm glow in them that even the grayest eyes can get when there is a human soul behind them, and the soul has got itself stirred up about something. When the boss finished telling her about the Hatch talk, she said: "You mean that Mr. Dunton and his associates sent somebody out here to influence the election?" The boss looked up sort of quick. "Yes; that is it, precisely. But how did you know?" "You made the inference perfectly plain," she countered. "I have a reasoning mind, Graham; haven't you discovered it before this?" The boss nodded soberly. "I have discovered a good many things about you during the past six months: one of them is that there was never another woman like you since the world began." Knowing, as I did, that she had a husband alive and kicking around somewhere, it seemed as if I just couldn't stay there and listen to what a break of that kind on the boss's part was likely to lead up to. But Maisie Ann gripped my wrist until she hurt. "You _must_ listen!" she whispered fiercely. "You're taking care of him, and you've _got_ to know!" As on many other earlier occasions, Mrs. Sheila slid away from the sentimental side of things just as easy as turning your hand over. "You are too big a man to let an added difficulty defeat you now," she remarked calmly, going back to the business field. "You are really making a miraculous success. I have just spent two weeks in the capital, as you know, and everybody is talking about you. They say you are in a fair way to solve the big problem--the problem of bringing the railroads and the people together in a peaceable and profitable partnership--which is as it should be." "It can be done; and I could do it right here on the Pioneer Short Line if I didn't have to fight so many different kinds of devils at the same time," said the boss, scowling down at the fire in the grate. And then with a quick jerk of his head to face her: "You sent the major a wire from the capital last night, telling him to persuade me not to go to Strathcona. Why did you do it? And how did you know I was thinking of going?" For the first time in the whole six months I saw Mrs. Sheila get a little flustered, though she didn't show it much, only in a little more color in her cheeks. "Some day, perhaps, I may tell you, but I can't now," she said sort of hurriedly. And then: "You mustn't ask me." "But you did send the wire?" "Yes." "And you also sent another to Upton Van Britt?" "I did." The boss smiled. "That second message was an after-thought. You were afraid I'd be stubborn and go, anyway. That was some more of your marvelous inner reasoning. Tell me, Sheila, did you know that there was going to be a broken rail-joint set to kill me on that trip?" That got her in spite of her heavenly calm and I could see her press her pretty lips together hard. "Was that what they did?" she asked, a bit trembly. He nodded. "Van Britt was on the pilot engine ahead of my car, and he found it. There was no harm done. It was bad enough, God knows, to set a trap that would have killed everybody on my train; but this other thing that has been pulled off to-night is even worse. Mr. Dunton and his unprincipled followers have set a thing on foot here which is due to grind us all to powder. Past that, they have contrived to handcuff me so that I can't make a move without pulling down consequences of a personal nature upon President Dunton, himself." "Now my 'marvelous inner reasoning' has gone quite blind," she said, with a queer little smile. "You'll have to explain." "It's simple enough," said the boss shortly. "If Mr. Dunton had sent only hired emissaries out here to bribe the members of the Legislature--but he didn't; he included a member of his own family." I was looking straight at Mrs. Sheila as he spoke, and I saw a sudden frightened shock jump into the slate-gray eyes. Just for a second. Before you could count one, it was gone and she was saying quietly: "A member of his own family? That is very singular, isn't it?" "It is, and it isn't. The man who was sent with the bribe money has every qualification for the job, I should say, save one--discretion. And I'm not sure that he may not be discreet enough, when he isn't drunk." Again I saw the curious look in her eyes, and this time it was almost like the shrinking from a blow. "Was there--was this thing that was done actually criminal?" she asked, just breathing it at him. "It was, indeed. The election laws of this State have teeth. It is a penitentiary offense to bribe either the electorate or the law-makers." There was silence for a little time, and she was no longer looking at him; she was staring into the heart of the glowing coals in the grate basket. By and by she said: "You haven't told me this man's name--the one who did the bribing; may I know it?" I knew just what the boss was going to do, and he did it; took the slip of paper that Dedmon had written on from his pocket and passed it across to her. If there was another shock for her none of us could see it. She had her face turned away when she looked at the name on the paper. Pretty soon she said, sort of drearily: "Once you told me that the true test of any human being came when he was asked to eliminate the personal factor; to efface himself completely in order that his cause might prosper. Do you still believe that?" "Of course. It's all in the day's work. Any cause worth while is vastly bigger than any man who is trying to advance it." "Than any man, yes; but for a woman, Graham; wouldn't you allow something for the woman?" "I thought we had agreed long ago that there is no double standard, either in morals or ethics--one thing for the man and another for the woman. That is your own attitude, isn't it?" She didn't say whether it was or not. She was holding the bit of paper he had given her so that the light from the fire fell upon it when she said: "I suppose your duty is quite clear. In the slang of the street, you must 'beat Mr. Hatch to it.' You must be the first to denounce this bribery, clearing yourself and letting the axe fall where it will. You owe that much to yourself, to the men who have fought shoulder to shoulder with you, and to that wider circle of the public which is beginning to believe that you are honest and sincere, don't you?" The boss was shaking his head a bit doubtfully. "It isn't quite so simple as that," he objected. "I don't know that I'd have any compunctions about sending Collingwood to the dump. If the half of what they say of him is true, he is a spineless degenerate and hardly worth saving. But to do as you suggest would be open rebellion, you know; while Dunton remains president, I am his subordinate, and if I should expose him and his nephew, the situation here would become simply impossible." "Well?" she prompted. "Such a move would rightly and properly bring a wire demand for my resignation, of a nature that couldn't be ignored--only it wouldn't, because I should anticipate it by resigning first. That is a small matter, introducing the personal element which we have agreed should be eliminated. But the results to others; to the men of my staff and the rank and file, and to the public, which, as you say, is just beginning to realize some of the benefits of a real partnership with its principal railroad; these things can't be so easily ignored." "You have thought of some other expedient?" "No; I haven't got that far yet. But I am determined that Hatch shall not be allowed to work his graft a second time upon the people who are trusting me. I believe in the new policy we are trying out. I'd fling my own fortune into the gap if I had one, and, more than that, I'd pull in every friend I have in the world if by so doing I could stand the Pioneer Short Line upon a solid foundation of honest ownership. That is all that is needed in the present crisis--absolutely all." He was on his feet now and tramping back and forth on the hearth rug. At one of his back-turnings I saw Mrs. Sheila reach out quickly and lay the bit of paper with its accusing scrawl on the glowing coals. Then she said, quite calm again: "In time to come you will accomplish even that, Graham--this change of ownership that we have talked of and dreamed about. It is the true solution of the problem; not Government ownership, but ownership by the people who have the most at stake--the public and the workers. You are a strong man, and you will bring it about. But this other man--who is not strong; the man whose name was written upon the bit of paper I have just thrown into the fire...." He wheeled quickly, and what he said made me feel as if a cold wind were blowing up the back of my neck, because I hadn't dreamed that he would remember Collingwood well enough to recognize him in that passing moment on the sidewalk. "That man," he muttered, sort of gratingly: "I had completely forgotten. He was here just a little while ago. I met him as I was coming in. Did he come to see your cousin--the major?" "No," she said, matching his low tone; "he came to see me." "You?" "Yes. Finding himself in a pitfall which he has digged with his own hands, he is like other men of his kind; he would be very glad to climb out upon the shoulders of a woman." I guess the boss saw red for a minute, but the question he asked had to come. "By what right did he come to you, Sheila?" "By what he doubtless thinks is the best right in the world. He is my husband." It was out at last, and the boss's poor little house of cards that I knew he had been building all these months had got its knock-down in just those four quietly spoken words. Maisie Ann was still gripping my wrist, and I felt a hot tear go splash on my hand. "Oh, I could _kill_ him!" she whispered, meaning Collingwood, I suppose. As well as I knew him, I couldn't begin to guess what the boss would do or say. But he was such a splendid fighter that I might have known. "I heard, no longer ago than this afternoon, that you were not--that your husband was still living," he said, speaking very gently. "I didn't believe it--not fully--though I saw that there might easily be room for the belief. It makes no difference, Sheila. You are my friend, and you are blameless. But before we go any farther I want you to believe that I wouldn't have been brutal enough to give you that bit of paper if I had remotely suspected that Collingwood was the man." She didn't make any answer to that, and after a while he said: "Having told me so much, can't you tell me a little more?" "There isn't much to tell, and even the little is commonplace and--and disgraceful," she replied, with a touch of weariness that was fairly heart-breaking. "Don't ask me why we were married; I can't explain that, simply because I don't know, myself. It was arranged between the two families, and I suppose Howie and I always took it for granted. I can't even plead ignorance, for I have known him all my life." "Go on," said the boss, still speaking as gently as a brother might have. "Howie was a spoiled child, an only son, and he is a spoiled man. I stood it as long as I could--I hope you will believe that. But there are some things that a woman cannot stand, and----" "I know," he broke in. "So you came out here to be free." "It is four years since we have lived together," she went on, "and for a long time I hoped he would never find out where I was. There was no divorce: I couldn't endure the thought of the publicity and the--the disgrace. When I came here to Cousin Basil's there was no attempt made to hide the facts; or at least the one chief fact that I was a married woman. But on the other hand, I had taken my mother's name, and only Cousin Basil and his wife knew that I was not what perhaps every one else took me to be,--a widow with a dead husband instead of a living one." "Did Collingwood try to find you?" "No, I think not. But when he was here last spring with his Uncle Breckenridge he saw me and found out that I was living here with Cousin Basil." "Did he try to persecute you?" "No, not then. I was afraid of only one thing: that he might drink too much and--and talk. Part of the fear was realized. He saw me that Sunday night in the Bullard. That was why he was trying to fight the hotel people--because they wouldn't let him come up-stairs. I saw what you did, and I was sorry. I couldn't help feeling that in some way it would prove to be the beginning of a tragedy." "You saw no more of him then?" "No; I neither saw him nor heard of him until about a month ago when he came west with a man named Bullock--a New York attorney. I didn't know why he came, but I thought it was to annoy me." "And he has annoyed you?" "Until this night he has never missed an opportunity of doing so when he could dodge Cousin Basil. Caring nothing for me himself, he has taken violent exceptions to my friendship with you and with Upton Van Britt, though that is chiefly when he has been drinking too much. It was his taunting boast yesterday at the capital that led me to telegraph Cousin Basil and Upton Van Britt about your trip to Strathcona. He knew that you were going to the gold camp, and he declared to me that you'd never come back alive." "But to-night," the boss persisted. "What did he want to-night?" "He wanted to--to use me. He said that he had 'put something across' for his uncle, that he had gotten into trouble for it, and that--to use his own phrase again, you were the man who would try to 'get his goat.'" "And his object in telling you this?" "Was entirely worthy of the man. He asked me, or rather I should say, commanded me, to 'choke you off.' And, of course, he added the insult. He said I was the one who could do it." The boss had gone to tramping again and when he stopped to face her I could see that he had threshed his way around to some sort of a conclusion. "Without intending to, you have tied my hands," he said gravely. "I wasn't meaning to spare Collingwood if there were any way in which I could use him as a club to knock Hatch out of the game." "But now you won't use him?" "You might justly write me down as a pretty poor friend of yours if I should--after what you have told me." "I haven't asked you to spare him." "No, I know you haven't. But the fact remains that he is your husband. I----" The interruption was the opening and closing of the front door and the heavy tread of the major in the hall. In a flash Mrs. Sheila was up and getting ready to vanish through the door that led to the dining-room. With her hand on the door-knob she shot a quick question at the boss. "How much will you tell Cousin Basil?" "Nothing of what you have told me." "Thank you," she whispered back; "you are as big in your friendship as you are in other ways." And with that she was gone. It was right along in the same half-minute, while the boss was standing with his back to the fire and the major was going in to talk to him, that I lost Maisie Ann. I don't know where she went, or how. She had let go of my wrist, and when I groped for her she was gone. Since I didn't see any good reason why I should stay and spy upon the boss and the major, I slipped out to the hall and curled up on the big settee beyond the coat rack; curled up, and after listening a while to the drone of voices in the farther room, went to sleep. It was away deep in the night when the boss took hold of me and shook me awake. The long talk was just getting itself finished, and the major had come to the door with his guest. "We must manage to pull Collingwood out of it in some way," the major was saying. "I don't love the damn' scoundrel any betteh than you do, Graham; but thah's a reason--a fam'ly reason, as you might say." Then he switched off quickly. "You haven't asked me yet why I ran away from home this evenin' when I was expecting you." "No," said the boss. "Sheila told me that you had a telephone call to the Bullard." The old Kentuckian chuckled. "Yes, suh; and you'd neveh guess in a thousand yeahs who sent the call, or what was wanted. It was ouh friend Hatch, and no otheh. And he had the face to offeh me ten thousand dollahs a yeah to act as consulting counsel for him against the railroad company!" "Of course you accepted," said the boss, meaning just the opposite. The major chuckled again. "I talked with him long enough to find out about where he stood. He thinks he's got you by the neck, but, like most men of his breed, he's a paltry coward, suh, at heart." The boss laughed. "What is he afraid of?" "He's afraid of his life. He told me, with his eyes buggin' out, that thah was one man heah in Portal City who would kill him to get possession of certain papehs that were locked up in the cash vault of the Security National." The boss was pulling on his gloves. "I didn't give him any reason to think that I was anxious to murder him," he said. "Oh, no, my deah boy; it isn't you, at all. It's Howie Collingwood. Thah's where we land afteh all is said and done. Youh hands are tied, and we've got this heah young maniac to deal with. If Collingwood gets about three fingehs of red likkeh under his belt, why, thah's one murder in prospect. And if Hatch has any reason to think that you can still get the underholt on him, why, thah's another. I'm glad you've seen fit to take Ripley's advice at last, and got you a body-guard." "What's that?" queried the boss. But the query was answered a minute later when we hit the sidewalk for the tramp back to town and Tarbell fell in to walk three steps behind us all the way to the door of the railroad club. It sure did look as if things were just about as bad as they could ever be, now. Hatch once more on top, the whole bottom knocked out of the railroad experiment, our good name for political honesty gone glimmering, and, worst of all, perhaps, the boss's big heart broken right in two over those four little words that nothing could ever rub out--"he is my husband." I didn't wonder that the boss said never a word in all that long walk down-town, or that he forgot to tell me good-night when he locked himself up in his room at the club. XXVI The Dipsomaniac In a day when bunched money, however arrogant it may be, has been taught to go sort of softly, the Hatch people were careful not to make any public announcement of the things they were doing or going to do. But bad news has wings of its own. Mr. Norcross was still in the midst of his mail dictation to me the morning after the bottom--all the different bottoms--fell out, when Mr. Hornack came bulging in. "What's all this fire-alarm that's been sprung about a new elevator trust?" he demanded, chewing on his cigar as if it were something he were trying to eat. "It's all over town that C. S. & W. has been secretly reorganized, with the Hatch crowd in control. I'm having a perfect cyclone of telephone calls asking what, and how, and why." The boss's reply ignored the details. "We're in for it again," he announced briefly. "The local companies couldn't hold on to a good thing when they had it. The stock has been swept up, first into little heaps, and then into big ones, and now the Hatch people have forced a practical consolidation." "Is that the fact?--or only the way you are doping it out?" queried the traffic manager. "It is the fact. Hatch came here last night to tell me about it; also, to tell me where we were to get off." Hornack bit off a piece of the chewed cigar and took a fresh hold on it. "Does he think for one holy half minute that we're going to sit down quietly and let him undo all the good work that's been done?" he rasped. "He does--just that. He's putting us in the nine-hole, Hornack, and up to the present moment I haven't found the way to climb out of it." "But the ground leases?" Hornack began. "Why can't we pull them on him?" "We might, if we hadn't been shot dead in our tracks by the very men who ought to be backing us to win," said the boss soberly. And then he went on to tell about the new grip Hatch had on us. Of course, Hornack blew up at that, and what he said wasn't for publication. For a minute or so the air of the office was blue. When he got down to common, ordinary English again he was saying, between cusses: "But you can't let it stand at that, Norcross; you simply _can't_!" "I don't intend to," was the even-toned rejoinder. "But anything we can do will always lack the element of finality, Hornack, while Wall Street owns us. I've said it a hundred times and I'll say it again: the only hope for the public service corporation to-day lies in a distribution of its securities among the people it actually serves." Hornack's teeth met in the middle of the chewed cigar. "That's excellent logic--bully good logic, if anybody should ask you! But we're fighting a condition, not a theory. Nobody wants P. S. L. Common even at thirty-two. You wouldn't advise your worst enemy to buy it at that figure." "I don't know," said the boss, kind of musingly. "You're forgetting the water that's been put into it from time to time by the speculators and reorganizers; there has been a good deal of that, first and last. Nevertheless, value for value, you know, and I know, that the property is worth more than thirty-two, including the bonds. What I mean is that if anybody would buy the control at that figure,--the control, mind you, and not merely a minority--and handle the road purely as a dividend-earning business proposition, he wouldn't lose money; he'd make money--a lot of it." "All of which doesn't get us anywhere in the present pinch," returned the traffic manager. "I suppose we'll have to wait until Hatch makes his first move, and I've still got fight enough left in me to hope that he'll make it suddenly. Punch the button for me if anything new develops. I'm going back to swing on to my telephone." Following this talk with Hornack there was a try-out with Billoughby and Juneman, but as this three-cornered conference was held in the private room of the suite, I don't know what was said. A little farther along, when the boss was once more whittling at the dictation, Mr. Van Britt strolled in. Mr. Norcross told me to take my bunch of notes to May and then he gave Mr. Van Britt his inning, starting off with: "Well, how is the general superintendent this fine morning?" Mr. Van Britt wrinkled his nose. "The general superintendent is wondering, one more time, why under the starry heavens he is out here in this country that God has forgotten, scrapping for a living on this one-horse railroad of yours when he might be in good little old New York, living easy and clipping coupons in the safety-deposit room of a Broad Street bank." The boss laughed at that, and I'm telling you right now that I was glad to know that he was still able to laugh. "You've never seen the day when you wanted to renege, Upton, and you know it," he hit back. "Think of the perfectly good technical education you were wasting when I took hold of you and jerked you out here." "Huh!" said our millionaire; "I've got other things to think of. I've just had two enginemen on the carpet for running over an old ranchman's pet cow. They said they couldn't help it; but I told them that under the 'public-be-pleased' policy, they'd got to help it." Again the boss chuckled. "I believe you'd joke at your own funeral, Upton. You didn't come here to tell me about the ranchman's pet cow." "Not exactly. I came to tell you that Citizens' Storage & Warehouse is due to have a strike on its hands. The management--which seems to have got itself consolidated in some way--shot out a lot of new bosses all along the line on the through train last night, and this morning the entire works, elevators, packeries, coal yards, lumber millers, and everything, are posted with notices of a blanket cut in wages; twenty per cent, flat, for everybody. The news has been trickling in over the wires all morning; and the last word is that a general strike of all C. S. & W. employees will go on at noon to-morrow." "That is move number one," said the boss. And then: "You have heard that the Hatch people have reached out and taken in the C. S. & W.?" "Hornack was telling me something about it; yes." "It is true; and the fight is on. You see what Hatch is doing. At one stroke he gets rid of all the local employees of C. S. & W., who have been drawing good pay and who might make trouble for him a little later on, and fills their places with strike-breakers who have no local sympathizers." "But there will be another result which he may not have counted upon," Mr. Van Britt put in. "The blanket cut serves notice upon everybody that once more the old strong-arm monopoly is in the saddle. The newspapers will tell us about it to-morrow morning. Also, a good many of them will be asking us what _we_ are going to do about it; whether we are going to fight the new monopoly as we did in the old, or stand in with the graft, as our predecessors did." "We needn't go over that ground again--you and I, Upton," said Mr. Norcross. "You know where I stand. But the conditions have changed. We have been knifed in the back." And with that he gave the stocky little operating chief a crisp outline of the new situation precipitated by the Dunton-Collingwood political bribery. Mr. Van Britt took it quietly, as he did most things, sitting with his hands in his pockets and smiling blandly where Hornack had exploded in wrathful profanity. At the wind-up he said: "Old Uncle Breckenridge is one too many for you, Graham. You can't stand the gaff--this new gaff of Hatch's; and neither can you go before the people as the accuser of your president--and hope to hold your job. The one thing for you to do is to lock up your office and walk out." "Upton, if I thought you meant that--but I never know when to take you seriously." "The two enginemen who ran over the ranchman's pet cow had no such difficulty, I assure you. And isn't it good advice? You know, as well as I do, that Chadwick is holding you here by main strength; that you can never accomplish anything permanent while Dunton and his cronies are at the steering-wheel. It might be different if you had the local backing of your constituency--the people served by the Short Line. But you haven't that; up to date, the people are merely interested spectators." "Go on," said the boss, frowning again. "They have a stake in the game--the biggest of the stakes, as a matter of fact--but it isn't sufficiently apparent to make them climb in and fight for you. They are saying, with a good bit of reason, that, after all is said and done, Big Money--Wall Street--still has the call, and any twenty-four hours may see the whole thing slump back into graft and crooked politics." "It is so true that you might be reading it out of a book," was the boss's comment. And then: "What's the answer?" Mr. Van Britt shook his head. "I don't know. If you had money enough to buy the voting control in P. S. L. you might get somewhere; but as it is, you're like a cat in Hades without claws." "Tell me," said Mr. Norcross, after a little pause: "You're a native New Yorker: do you know this man Collingwood?" "Only by hearsay. He is what our English friends call a 'blooming bounder'; fast yachts, fast motor-cars, the fast set generally. It's a pretty bad case of money-spoil, I fancy. They say he wasn't always a total loss." "Did you ever hear that he was married?" "Oh, yes; he married a Kentucky girl some years ago: I don't remember her name. They say she stood him for about six months and then dropped out. I suppose he needs killing for that." At this the boss went a step farther, saying: "He does, indeed, Upton. I happen to know the young woman." That was when Mr. Van Britt fired his own little bomb-shell. "So do I," he answered quietly. "But you said you had forgotten her name!" "So I have--her married name. And what's more, I mean to keep on forgetting it." There was no mistake about the boss's frown this time. "That won't do, Upton," he said, kind of warningly. "It will do well enough for the present. I'd marry her to-morrow, Graham, if she were free, and there were no other obstacles. Unhappily, there are two--besides the small legal difficulty; she doesn't care for my money--having a little of her own; and she happens to be in love with the other fellow." I guess the boss was remembering what Mrs. Sheila had told him in that confidence before the back-parlor fire, about its being all off between her and Collingwood, for he said: "I think you are mistaken as to that last." "No, I'm not mistaken. But that's neither here nor there. Neither you nor I can send Collingwood to the penitentiary--that's a cinch. Wherefore, I'm advising you to quit, walk out, jump the job." At that the boss took a fresh brace, righting his swing chair with a snap. "You know very little about me, Upton, if you think I'm going to throw up my hands now, when the real pinch has come. A while back I might have done it, but now I'll fight until I'm permanently killed. I have a scheme--if it could only be worked. But it can't be worked on a rising market. I suppose you have seen the morning's quotations. By some trick or other, the Dunton people are boosting the stock again. It went up three points yesterday." Mr. Van Britt grinned. "They're discounting the effect of this little political deal--which will at least rope your reform scheme down, if it doesn't do anything else. What you need is a good, old-fashioned cataclysm of some sort; something that would fairly knock the tar out of P. S. L. securities and send them skittering down the toboggan slide in spite of anything Uncle Breckenridge could do to stop them; down to where they could be safely and profitably picked up by the dear public. Unfortunately, those things don't happen outside of the story books. If they did, if the earthquake should happen along our way just now, I don't know but I'd be disloyal enough to get out and help it shake things up a bit." After Mr. Van Britt had gone, the boss put in the remainder of the day like a workingman, skipping the noon luncheon as he sometimes did when the work drive was extra heavy. Meanwhile, as you'd suppose, rumor was plentifully busy, on the railroad, and also in town. By noon it was well understood that there had been a radical change in the management of C. S. & W., and that there was going to be a general strike in answer to the slashing cut in wages. I slipped up-town to get a bite while Fred May was spelling me at the dictation desk, and I heard some of the talk. It was pretty straight, most of it--which shows how useless it is to try to keep any business secrets, nowadays. For example: the three men at my table in the Bullard grill-room--they didn't know me or who I was--knew that a council of war had been called in the railroad headquarters, and that Ripley had been pulled in by wire from Lesterburg, and that we were rushing around hurriedly to provide storage room for the wheat shippers in case of a tie-up, and that we were arranging to distribute railroad company coal in case the tie-up should bring on a fuel famine--knew all these things and talked about them. They were facts, as far as they went--these things. The boss hadn't been idle during the forenoon, and he kept up the drive straight through to quitting time. Word was brought in during the afternoon by Tarbell that the Hatch people were wiring the Kansas City and Omaha employment agencies and placing hurry orders for strike-breakers. The boss's answer to this was a peremptory wire to our passenger agents at both points to make no rate concessions whatever, of any kind, for the transportation of laborers under contract. It was a shrewd little knock. Labor of that kind is mighty hard to move unless it can get free transportation or a low rate of fare, and I could see that Mr. Norcross was hoping to keep the strike-breakers away. When six o'clock came, the boss asked May to stay and keep the office open while I could go down-stairs and get my dinner in the station restaurant, and he went off up-town--to the club, I suppose. After I'd had my bite, I let May go. Everything was moving along all right, so far as anybody could see. We had five extra fuel trains loading at the company's chutes at Coalville, and the despatcher was instructed to work them out on the line during the night, distributing them to the towns that had reported shortages. They were not to be turned over to the regular coal yards; they were to be side-tracked and held for emergencies. Mr. Norcross came back about eight o'clock, and I gave him my report of how things were going on the line. A little later Mr. Cantrell dropped in, and there was a quiet talk about the situation, and what it was likely to develop. The _Mountaineer_ editor was given all the facts, except the one big one about Hatch's death-grip on us, and in turn Mr. Cantrell promised the help of his paper to the last ditch--though, of course, he had no idea of how deep that last ditch was going to be. I had a lot of filing and indexing to do, and I kept at work while they were talking, wondering all the time if the boss would venture to tell the editor about the depth of that "last ditch." He didn't. I guess he thought he wouldn't until he had to. It was pretty nearly nine o'clock when the editor went away, and Mr. Norcross was just saying to me that he guessed we'd better knock off for the night, when we both heard a step in May's room. A second later the door was pushed open and a man came in, making for the nearest chair and flinging himself into it as if he'd reached the limit. It was Collingwood. He was chewing on a dead cigar and his face was like the face of a corpse. But he was sober. Naturally, I supposed he had come to make trouble with the boss on Mrs. Sheila's account, and I quietly edged open the drawer of my desk where I kept Fred May's automatic, so as to be ready. He didn't waste much time. "I saw you as I was coming away from Kendrick's last night," he began, with a bickering rasp in his voice. "Did you go up against the gun I had loaded for you?" Mr. Norcross cut straight through to the bottom of that little complication at a single stroke. "What Mrs. Collingwood said to me, or what I said to her, can have no possible bearing upon anything that you may have to say to me, or that I can consent to listen to, Mr. Collingwood." The derelict sat up in his chair. "But you've got to keep hands off, just the same; at Kendrick's, and in this other business, too. If you don't, there is going to be blood on the moon! Get me?" The boss never batted an eye. "I'm taking it for granted that you are sober, Mr. Collingwood," he said. "If you are, you must surely know that threats are about the poorest possible weapons you can use just now." "It's a plant, from start to finish!" gritted the man in the chair. "I haven't done a damned thing more than to cash a few checks for--for expenses, and turn the money over to Bullock. Now Hatch tells me that I was working with a spotter--his spotter--and that he can send me up for bribery. It's a lie. I don't know what Bullock did with the money, and I don't want to know." "But you had orders to give it to him when he required it, didn't you?" Mr. Norcross cut in. "That's none of your business. I want you to choke this man Hatch off of me!" The boss had picked up his paper-knife. "I don't know why you should come to me for help," he said. "You have been hand-in-glove with these conspirators ever since you came out here. You have known what they were doing to destroy the railroad property and wreck our trains, and two days ago you knew that they had set a trap for my special train on the Strathcona branch--a trap that was meant to kill me." It was a random shot, and I knew that Mr. Norcross was just guessing at where it might land when he fired it. But it went home; oh, you bet it went home! "Damn you!" gurgled the bounder, half starting to his feet. "Why shouldn't I want to see you killed? And what do I care what becomes of your cursed railroad? Haven't you done enough to me?" "No!" the word was slammed at him like a bullet. And then: "As I told you in the beginning, we won't go into any phase of it that involves Mrs. Collingwood. Get back into your own boat. Are you trying to tell me now that Hatch is threatening you?" "He's played me for a come-on. He says he's got the whole business down in black and white, with affidavits, and all that. He had the nerve to tell me less than an hour ago that he'd burn me alive if I didn't toe the mark." "What does he want you to do?" "He wants me to stick around here so that he can use me against you. He knows how you're mixed up with Sheila and that you can't turn a wheel without making it look as if you were going after me on your own personal account." There was silence for a little time, and the crackle of the match with which Mr. Norcross relighted his cigar smashed into the stillness like a tiny pistol shot. It was an awful muddle, with bloody murder sticking out of it on every side. "If you have come here with the idea that I can force Hatch's hand, you are very much misled," said the boss, at the close of the electric pause. And then: "Has he made it appear to you that he was merely trying to help you avenge your own fancied wrongs?" "He said I ought to get you; that any man who would make love to a married woman ought to be got." My chief was looking past the derelict and out through the darkened window. "You don't know me, Mr. Collingwood, but you do know your wife; and you know that she is as far above suspicion as the angels in heaven. Let that part of it go. Hatch was merely using you for his own ends. If he could persuade you to kill me off out of the way, it would be merely that much gained in the business fight. You haven't done it thus far, and now he is using your check-cashing excursion as a club with which he proposes to brain the entire railroad management, your uncle included, if we interfere with his plans." Collingwood scowled up at the ceiling, shifting the dead cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. "So that's the way of it, is it?" he commented. "He was working for his own pocket all the time, and Uncle Breck stands pat and slips him the ace he was needing to make his hand a winner. Between you and me, Norcross, I believe this damned piker needs killing a few times, himself." The boss sat back in his swing chair and I could just imagine that he was trying to get some sort of proper angle on this young fellow who, in addition to his other scoundrelisms, big and little, had wrecked the life of Sheila Macrae. I knew what he was thinking. He had a theory that no man that was ever born was either all angel or all devil, and he was hunting for the redeeming streak in this one. When you looked right hard at the haggard face you could see something sort of half-appealing in it; something to make you think that perhaps, away back yonder before the spoiling began, there used to be a man; never a strong man, I guess, but one that might have been generous and free-hearted, maybe. I got a fleeting little glimpse of that back-number man when he turned suddenly and said: "One night a few weeks ago when I was full up, Hatch got hold of me and told me you were out at the Kendrick place with Sheila. He made me believe that I ought to go out there and kill you, and I started to do it. Do you know why I didn't do it?" "No," said the chief, mighty quietly. "Well, I'll tell you. One night last spring up at the Bullard you slammed me one in the face and dragged me off to my room to keep me from making a bigger ass of myself than I'd already made. I haven't forgotten that. In all these crooked years, nobody else has ever taken the trouble to chuck me decently out of sight and give me a chance to brace. Drunk as I was, I remembered it that night when I was climbing up to a window in the major's house and trying to get a shot at you." Mr. Norcross shook his head, more than half sympathetically, I thought. "Let that part of it go and tell me about this other trouble," he said. "How badly are you tangled up in this political business?" "I've given it to you straight on the bribing proposition. Uncle Breck used me as a money carrier because--well, maybe it was because he couldn't trust Bullock. I didn't know definitely what Bullock was doing with the checks I cashed for him, though I supposed, of course, it was something that wouldn't stand daylight. It was only a side issue with me. I was coming out here anyway. I knew Sheila had made up her mind--God knows she's had cause enough; but I had a crazy notion that I'd like to be on the same side of the earth with her again for just a little while. Then this--" he trailed off in a babble of maledictions poured out upon the man who had trapped him and used him. The boss straightened himself in his chair, but he still was speaking gently when he said: "You are not asking my advice, and I don't owe you anything, personally, Mr. Collingwood. But I'll say to you what I might say to a better man in like circumstances. You have done all the harm you can, but, as I see it, there doesn't seem to be any need of your staying here to suffer the consequences. Why don't you go back to New York, taking your wife with you, if she will go?" Collingwood's smile was a mere teeth-baring grimace. "Sheila made her wedding journey with me once, when she was just eighteen. The next time she rides with me it will be at my funeral. Oh, I've earned it, and I'm not kicking. And about this other thing: I can't duck. You know what Hatch is holding me for. He told me just a little while ago that if I stepped aboard of a train, I'd be arrested before the train could pull out." It was a handsome little precaution on the part of the chief of the grafters. If a fight should be precipitated--if the boss should try to checkmate the C. S. & W. gobble--the arrest and indictment of President Dunton's nephew would serve bully good and well as a dramatic bit of side play to keep the newspapers from printing too much about the other thing. "If you really want to go, I think it can be arranged in some way, in spite of Hatch and his bluffing," Mr. Norcross put in quietly. "So far as our railroad troubles are concerned it will neither help nor hinder for you to stay on here, now." As if the helpful suggestion had been a lighted match to fire a hidden mine of rage, Collingwood sprang to his feet with his dull eyes ablaze. "No, by God!" he swore. "I'm going to make him come across with those affidavit papers first! You wait right here, Norcross. You think I'm all cur, but I'll show you. There isn't much left of me but hound dog, but even a hound dog will bite if you kick him hard enough. Lend me a gun, if you've got one and I'll----" "Hold on--none of that!" the boss broke in sternly, jumping out of his chair to enforce the command. But before he could make the grabbing move the corridor door slammed noisily and the madman was gone. XXVII The Deserter Mr. Norcross chased out and tried to overtake Collingwood, going as far as the foot of the stairs. I went, too, but got only far enough to meet the boss coming up again. There was nothing doing. The station policeman had seen the crazy rounder jump into a taxi and go spinning off up-town. That settled the Collingwood business for the time being, but there was another jolt waiting for us when we got back to the office. While we were both out, Mr. Van Britt had blown in from his room at the foot of the hall and we found him lounging comfortably in the chair that Collingwood had just vacated. "I thought maybe you'd turn up again pretty soon, since you'd left the doors all open," was the way he started out. Then: "Sit down, Graham; I want to talk a few lines." Mr. Norcross took his own chair and twirled it to face the general superintendent. "Say it," he commanded briefly. Mr. Van Britt hooked his thumbs in his armholes. "I've just been figuring a bit on the general outlook: you have a decently efficient operating outfit here, what with Perkins and Brant and Conway handling the three divisions as self-contained units. You don't need a general superintendent any more than a monkey needs two tails." "What are you driving at?" was the curt demand. "Well, suppose we say retrenchment, for one thing. As I size it up, you might just as well be saving my salary. It would buy a good many new cross-ties in the course of a year." "That's all bunk, and you know it," snapped the boss. "The organization as it stands hasn't a single stick of dead wood in it. You know very well that a railroad the size of the Short Line can't run without an individual head of the operating department." Mr. Van Britt laughed a little at that. "If you should get some one of these new efficiency experts out here he would probably tell you that you could cut your staff right in two in the middle." I could see that the boss was getting mighty nearly impatient. "You are merely turning handsprings around the edges of the thing you have come to say, Upton," he barked out. "Come to the point, can't you? What have you got up your sleeve?" "Nothing that I could make you understand in a month of Sundays. I'm sore on my job and I want to quit." "Nonsense! You don't mean that?" "Yes, I do. I'm tired of wearing the brass collar of a soulless corporation. What's the use, anyway? I found a bunch of dividend checks from my bank at home in the mail to-day, and what good does the money do me? I can't spend it out here; can't even tip the servants at the hotel without everlastingly demoralizing them. I'm like the little boy who wanted to go out in the garden and eat worms." The boss was frowning thoughtfully. "You're not giving me a show, Upton," he protested. "Can't you blow the froth off and let me see what's in the bottom of the stein?" "Pledge you my word, it's all froth, Graham. I want to climb up on the mesa behind the shops and take a good deep breath of free air and shake my fist at your blamed old cow-track of a railroad and tell it to go to the devil. You shouldn't deny me a little pleasure like that." It was getting under the boss's skin at last. "I can't believe that you really want to resign," he broke out, sort of hopelessly. "It's simply preposterous!" "Pull it down out of the future and put it in the present, and you've got it," said Mr. Van Britt. "I _have_ resigned. I wrote it out on a piece of paper and dropped it into your mail box as I came through the outer office. It's signed, sealed, and delivered. You'll give me a testimonial, or something of that sort, 'To Whom It May Concern,' won't you? I've been obedient and faithful and honest and efficient, and all that, haven't I?" "I'd like to know first where you got your liquor, Upton. That is the most charitable construction I can put upon all this. Why, man alive! you're quitting me in the thick of the toughest fight the grafters have put up!" "Yes, I know; but a man's got only one life to live, and I've always had a sneaking sympathy for the high private in the front rank who didn't want to stand up and get himself shot full of holes. I'm running, and if you should ask me why, I'd tell you what the retreating soldier told Stonewall Jackson; he said he was running only because he couldn't fly." Once more the boss grew silently thoughtful. Out of the digging mental inquiry he brought this: "Has this sudden notion of yours anything to do with Sheila Macrae, Upton?" "Pledge you my word again. I met Sheila on the street to-day and promised her that I wouldn't so much as tip my hat to her while Collingwood is on this side of the Missouri River." "But if you quit, you'll go East yourself, won't you?" "Maybe, after a while. For the time being, I'd like to loaf on you for a week or so and watch the wheels go around without my having to prod them. It's running in my mind that this newest phase of the C. S. & W. business is going to stir up a mighty pretty shindy, and I had a foolish notion that I'd like to stick around and look on--as an innocent bystander." "The innocent bystander usually gets shot in the leg," the boss ripped out, with the brittlest kind of humor. And then: "I suppose I shall have to let you do what you want to--and let you pick your own time for giving me the real reason. But you're crippling me most savagely, Upton--and at a time when I am least able to stand it." Mr. Van Britt got up and edged his way toward the door. "It's a good reason, Graham; and sometime--say when we are walking through the pearly gates of the New Jerusalem together--maybe I'll tell you about it. If I were really a good scrapper, I'd stay and help you fight it out with Hatch; but you know the old saying--capital is always cowardly; and my present credit at the Portal City National is pretty well up to a quarter of a million, thanks to the dividends I deposited to-day. Good-night. I'll see you in the morning--if by that time you haven't decided to cut me cold." I kept right busy over the indexes after Mr. Van Britt went away, just to give the boss a little chance to catch up with himself. He sure was catching it hot and heavy on all sides. The way things had turned out, he couldn't go to the major's any more, and now his railroad organization was beginning to go to pieces on him. It certainly was tough. All we needed now was for President Dunton to come smashing in with one more good jolt and it would be all over but the obsequies, the monument and the epitaph. At least, that is the way it looked to me. It was along about ten o'clock when the boss closed his desk with a bang and said we'd better saw it off for the night. I walked up-town with him and as we were passing the Bullard he turned in to ask the night clerk if Collingwood was in his room. The answer was nix; that the young New Yorker hadn't been seen since dinner. On the way out we saw Mr. Van Britt at the telegraph alcove. He had apparently been making good use of his first half-hour or so of freedom. He was handing in a thick bunch of telegrams for transmission, and he rather pointedly turned the sheaf face down upon the marble slab when we came along, as much as to say "it's none of your business what I'm doing." It struck me as sort of curious that he should have so much wire correspondence when he claimed to be taking a rest, and why he was so careful not to let us get a glimpse of what it was all about. But the whole thing was now so horribly muddled that a little mystery more or less on anybody's part couldn't make much difference; and that was the thought I took to bed with me a little later after we reached our rooms in the railroad club. XXVIII The Beginning of the End However much the Hatch people may have wanted to avoid publicity regarding the change of ownership and policies in the Storage & Warehouse reorganization, the prompt announcement of a general strike of the employees was enough to make every newspaper in the State sit up and take notice. We had the _Mountaineer_ at the breakfast-table in the club grill-room on the morning of the day when the strike was advertised to go into effect. There was a news story, with big headlines in red ink, and also an editorial. Cantrell didn't say anything against the railroad company. His comments were those of an observer who wished to be straight-forward and fair to all concerned, but his editorial did not spare the silly local stockholders whose swapping and selling had made the _coup_ possible. Cantrell himself, mild-eyed and looking as if he'd got out of bed about three hours too early, drifted into the grill-room and took a seat at our table before we were through. "I wanted to be decent about it, Norcross," he said, forestalling anything that the boss might be going to say about the editorial in the _Mountaineer_. "I'm trying to believe that the men higher up in your railroad councils haven't fathered this Hatch scheme of consolidation--which is more than some of the other pencil-pushers will do for you, I'm afraid. Thanks to your publicity measures, everybody believes that you still hold the whip-hand over the combination with your ground leases. I'm not asking what you propose to do; I am merely taking it for granted that you are going to stick to your policy, and hoping that you will come and tell me about it when you are ready to talk." "I shall do just that," the boss promised; and I guess he would have been glad to let the matter drop at this, only Cantrell wouldn't. "I lost three good hours' sleep this morning on the chance of catching you here at table," the editor went on. "A little whisper leaked in over the wires last night, or, rather, early this morning, that set me to thinking. You haven't been having any trouble with your own employees lately, have you, Norcross?" "Not a bit in the world. Why?" "There is some little excitement, with the public taking a hand in it. There were indignation meetings held last night in a number of the towns along your lines, and resolutions were passed protesting against the action of the new combination in cutting wages, and asserting that public sentiment would be with the C. S. & W. employees if they are forced to carry out their threat of striking at noon to-day. The whisper that I spoke of intimated that the protest might extend to the railroad employees." "There's nothing in it," said the boss decisively. "I suppose you mean in the way of a sympathetic strike, and that is entirely improbable. I imagine very few of the C. S. & W. employees belong to any of the labor unions." "A strike on the railroad would hit you pretty hard just now, wouldn't it?" Cantrell asked. Mr. Norcross dodged the question. "We're not going to have a strike," he averred; and since we had finished our breakfast, he made a business excuse and we slid out. When we reached the office we found Fred May already there and at work, and in the middle room Mr. Van Britt was on hand, reading the morning paper. "You don't get around as early as you might," was the little millionaire's comment when the boss walked in and opened up his desk. "I've been waiting nearly a half-hour for you to show up. Seen the paper?" The boss nodded. "I don't mean the strike business; I mean the market quotations." "No; I didn't look at them." "They are interesting. P. S. L. Common went up another three points yesterday. It closed at 38 and a fraction. Do you know what that means, Graham?" "No." "It means that Uncle Breckenridge and his crowd are already joyfully discounting your coming resignation. Somebody has given them a wire tip that you are as good as down and out, and unless a miracle of some sort can be pulled off, I guess the tip is a straight one. Strong as he is, Chadwick can't carry you alone." "Drop it," snapped the boss irritably. And then: "Have you come to tell me that you have reconsidered that fool letter you wrote me last night?" "Not in a million years," returned the escaped captive airily. "I am here this morning as a paying patron of the Pioneer Short Line. I want to hire a special train to go--well, anywhere I please on your jerkwater railroad." "You don't mean it?" "Oh, yes, I do. I want a car and a good, smart engine. The Eight-Fifteen will do, with Buck Chandler to run it." "Pshaw! take your own car and any crew you please. We are not selling transportation to you." "Yes you are; I'm going to pay for that train, and what's more, I want your written receipt for the money. I need it in my business. Then, if Chandler should happen to get gay and dump me into the ditch somewhere, I can sue you for damages." "All right; if you will persist in joking with me it's going to cost you something. How far do you want your train to run?" "Oh, I don't know; anywhere the notion prods me--say to the west end and back, with as many stops as I see fit to make, and perhaps a run over the branches." I saw the boss make a few figures on a pad under his hand. "It would cost anybody else, roughly, something like five hundred dollars. On account of your little joke it's going to cost you a cold thousand." Mr. Van Britt took out his check-book and a fountain pen and solemnly made out the check. "Here you are," he said, flipping the check over to the boss's desk. "Now shell out that receipt, so that I'll have it to show if anybody wants to know how much you've gouged me. Since you're making the accommodation cost me a dollar a minute, how long have I got to wait?" The chief's answer was a push at Fred May's call button, and when Frederic of Pittsburgh came in: "Have Mr. Perkins order out my private car for Mr. Van Britt, with the Eight-Fifteen and Chandler, engineer. Tell Mr. Perkins to give Chandler and his conductor orders to run as Mr. Van Britt may direct, giving the special right-of-way over everything except first-class trains in the opposite direction." Then to Van Britt: "Will that do?" "Admirably; only I'm waiting for that receipt." Mr. Norcross said something that sounded like "damn," scribbled a memorandum of the thousand-dollar payment on a sheet of the scratch-pad and handed it over, saying: "The order for the car includes my cook and porter, and something to eat; we'll throw these in with the transportation, and if the car is ditched and you sue for damages, we'll file a cross-bill for hotel accommodations. Now go away and work off your little attack of lunacy. I'm busy." We had an easier day in the office than I had dared hope for, whatever the boss thought about it, though it was an exceedingly busy one. With the strike news in the papers, it seemed as if everybody in town wanted to interview the general manager of the railroad, and to ask him what he was going to do about it. Following his hard-and-fast rule, Mr. Norcross didn't deny himself to anybody. Patiently he told each fresh batch of callers that the railroad company had nothing whatever to do with the change in ownership of C. S. & W.; that the railroad's attitude was unaltered; and that, so far as it could be done legally, the Pioneer Short Line would stand firmly between its patrons and any extortion which might grow out of the new conditions. The C. S. & W. strike--as our wires told us--went into effect promptly on the stroke of noon, and a train from the west, arriving late in the afternoon, brought Ripley. For the first time that day, Mr. Norcross told me to snap the catch on the office door for privacy and then he told Ripley to talk. Our neat little general counsel was fresh from the actual fighting line, and his news amply confirmed the wire reports which had been trickling in. "The conditions all along the line are almost revolutionary," was Ripley's summing-up of the situation. "Generally speaking, the public is not holding us responsible as yet, though of course there are croakers who are saying that it is entirely a railroad move, and predicting that we won't do anything to interfere with the new graft." "Cantrell says that public sentiment is altogether on the side of the C. S. & W. strikers," the boss put in. "It is; angrily so. There is hot talk of a boycott to be extended to everything sold or handled by the Hatch syndicate. I hope there won't be any effort made to introduce strike-breakers. In the present state of affairs that would mean arson and rioting and bloody murder. You can starve a dog without driving him mad, but when you have once given him a bone it's a dangerous thing to take it away from him." "I wired you because I wanted to consult you once more about those ground leases, Ripley. Do you still think you can make them hold?" "If Hatch breaks the conditions, we'll give him the fight of his life," was the confident rejoinder. "But that will mean a long contest in the courts. Hatch will give bond and go on charging the people anything he pleases. The Supreme Court is a full year behind its docket, and the delay will inevitably multiply your few 'croakers' by many thousands. But that isn't the worst of it. Hatch has a better hold on us than the law's delay." And to this third member of his staff Mr. Norcross told the story of the political trap into which Collingwood and the New York stock-jobbers had betrayed the railroad management. Ripley's comment was a little like Hornack's; less profane, perhaps, but also less hopeful. "Good Lord!" he ejaculated. "So that is what Hatch has had up his sleeve? I don't know how you feel about it, but I should say that it is all over but the shouting. If the Dunton crowd had been deliberately trying to wreck the property, they couldn't have gone about it in any surer way. They haven't left us so much as a gnawed rat-hole to crawl out of." "That is the way it looked to me, Ripley, at first; but I've had a chance to sleep on it--as you haven't. The gun that can't be spiked in some way has never yet been built. I have the names of the eleven men who were bribed. Hatch was daring enough to give them to me. Holding the affidavits which they were foolish enough to give him, Hatch can make them swear to anything he pleases. But if I could get hold of those papers----" "You'd destroy them, of course," the lawyer put in. "No, hold on; let me finish. If I had those affidavits I'd go to these men separately and make each one tell me how much he had been paid by Bullock for his vote." "Well, what then?" "Then I should make every mother's son of them come across with the full amount of the bribe, on pain of an exposure which the dirtiest politician in this State couldn't afford to face. That would settle it. Hatch couldn't work the same game a second time." Ripley let it go at that and spoke of something else. "I suppose you have seen how our stock is climbing. Has the new situation here anything to do with it?" Mr. Norcross said he thought not, and rather lamented that we didn't have better information about what was going on at the New York end of things. Also, he told Ripley something that I hadn't known; that he had wired Mr. Chadwick asking the wheat king to give him a line on what the stock-kiting meant. Then Ripley asked for orders. "There is nothing to be done until Hatch begins to raise his prices," he was told. "But I wanted to have you here in case anything should break loose suddenly." And at that Ripley went away. We were closing our desks to go to dinner when Fred May came in to say that a delegation of the pay-roll men was outside and wanting to have a word with the "Big Boss." Mr. Norcross stopped with his desk curtain half drawn down. "What is it, Fred?" he asked. "I don't know," said the Pittsburgher. "I should call it a grievance committee, if it wasn't so big. And they don't seem to be mad about anything. Bart Hoskins is doing the talking for them." "Send them in," was the curt command, and a minute later the inner office was about three-fourths filled up with a shuffling crowd of P. S. L. men. The chief looked the crowd over. There was a bunch of train- and engine-men, a squad from the shops, and a bigger one from the yards. Also, the wire service had turned out a gang of linemen and half a dozen operators. "Well, men, let's have it," said Mr. Norcross, not too sharply. "My dinner's getting cold." "We'll not be keepin' you above the hollow half of a minute, Mister Norcross," said the big, bearded freight conductor who acted as spokesman. "About this C. S. & W. strike that went on to-day: we'd like to know, straight from you, if it's anything in the railroad company's pocket to have all these old men fired out and a lot of scabs put in on starvation wages to ball us all up when we try to work with 'em." "It's nothing to us; or rather, I should say, we are on the other side," was the short reply. "You probably all know that C. S. & W. has changed hands, and the old Red Tower syndicate, with Mr. Rufus Hatch at its head, is now in control." Hoskins nodded. "That's about what we allowed, and we've come up here to say that we're almighty sorry for these poor cusses that have been dumped out o' their jobs. We ain't got no kick comin' with you, n'r with the company, Mister Norcross, but it looks like it's up to us to do somethin', and we didn't want to do it without hittin' square out from the shoulder." "I'm listening," said the chief. "The union locals have called a meetin' f'r to-night. There ain't nobody knows yet what's goin' to be done, but whatever it is, we want you to know that it ain't done ag'inst you n'r the railroad company." The boss had handled wage earners too long not to be able to suspect what was in the wind. "You men don't want to let your sympathies carry you too far," he cautioned. "When you take up another fellow's quarrel you want to be pretty sure that you're not going to hit your friends in the scrap." Hoskins grinned understandingly, and I guess the boss was a little puzzled by the nods and winks that went around among the silent members of the delegation; at least, I know I was. "That's all right," Hoskins said. "Bein' the Big Boss, you've got to talk that way. They might reach out and grab you fr'm New York if you didn't. But what I was aimin' to say is that there'll be a train-load 'r two of strike-breakers a-careerin' along here in a day 'r so, and we ain't figurin' on lettin' 'em get past Portal City, if that far." "That's up to you," said Mr. Norcross brusquely. "If you start anything in the way of a riot----" "Excuse _me_. There ain't goin' to be no riotin', and no company property mashed up. Mr. Van Britt, he----" It was right here that an odd thing happened. Con Corrigan, a big two-fisted freight engineer standing directly behind Hoskins, reached an arm around the speaker's neck and choked him so suddenly that Hoskins's sentence ended in a gasping chuckle. When the garroting arm was withdrawn the conductor looked around sort of foolishly and said: "I'm thinking that's about all we wanted to say, ain't it, boys?" and the deputation filed out as solemnly as it had come in. I guess Mr. Norcross wasn't left wholly in the dark when the tramping footfalls of the committee died away in the corridor. That unintentional mention of Mr. Van Britt's name looked as if it might open up some more possibilities, though what they were I couldn't imagine, and I don't believe the general manager could, either. After that, things rocked along pretty easy until after dinner. Instead of going right back to the office from the club, Mr. Norcross drifted into the smoking-room and filled a pipe. In the course of a few minutes, Major Kendrick dropped in and pulled up a chair. I don't know what they talked about, but after a little while, when the boss got up to go, I heard him say something that gave the key to the most of what had gone before, I guess. "Have you seen or heard anything of Collingwood since yesterday?" The good old major shook his head. "I haven't seen, but I have heard," he said, sort of soberly. "They're tellin' me that he's oveh in his rooms at the Bullard, drinkin' himself to death. If he wasn't altogetheh past redemption, suh, he would have had the decency to get out of town befo' he turned loose all holts that way; he would, for a fact, Graham." At that, Mr. Norcross explained in just a few words why Collingwood hadn't gone--why he couldn't go. Whereupon the old Kentuckian looked graver than ever. "That thah spells trouble, Graham. Hatch is simply invitin' the unde'takeh. Howie isn't what you'd call a dangerous man, but he is totally irresponsible, even when he's sobeh." "We ought to get him away from here," was the boss's decision. "He is an added menace while he stays." I didn't hear what the major said to that, because little Rags, Mr. Perkins's office boy, had just come in with a note which he was asking me to give to Mr. Norcross. I did it; and after the note had been glanced at, the chief said, kind of bitterly, to the major: "You can never fall so far that you can't fall a little farther; have you ever remarked that, major?" And then he want on to explain: "I have a note here from Perkins, our Desert Division superintendent. He says that the 'locals' of the various railroad labor unions have just notified him of the unanimous passage of a strike vote--the strike to go into effect at midnight." "A strike?--on the _railroad_? Why, Graham, son, you don't mean it!" "The men seem to mean it--which is much more to the purpose. They are striking in sympathy with the C. S. & W. employees. I fancy that settles our little experiment in good railroading definitely, major. We'll go out of business as a common carrier at midnight, and it's the final straw that will break the camel's back. Dunton doesn't want a receivership, but he'll have to take one now." "Oh, my deah fellow!" protested the major. "Let's hope it isn't going to be so bad as that!" "It will. The bottom will drop out of the stock and break the market when this strike news gets on the wire, and that will end it. I wish to God there were some way in which I could save Mr. Chadwick: he has trusted me, major, and I--I've failed him!" XXIX The Murder Madman I knew what we were up against when we headed down to the railroad lay-out, the chief and I, leaving the good old major thoughtfully puffing his cigar in the club smoking-room. With a strike due to be pulled off in a little more than three hours there were about a million things that would have to be jerked around into shape and propped up so that they could stand by themselves while the Short Line was taking a vacation. And there was only a little handful of us in the headquarters to do the jerking and propping. But it was precisely in a crisis like this that the boss could shine. From the minute we hit the tremendous job he was all there, carrying the whole map of the Short Line in his head, thinking straight from the shoulder, and never missing a lick; and I don't believe anybody would ever have suspected that he was a beaten man, pushed to the ropes in the final round with the grafters, his reputation as a successful railroad manager as good as gone, and his warm little love-dream knocked sky-winding forever and a day. Luckily, we found Fred May still at his desk, and he was promptly clamped to the telephone and told to get busy spreading the hurry call. In half an hour every relief operator we had in Portal City was in the wire-room, and the back-breaking job of preparing a thousand miles of railroad for a sudden tie-up was in full swing. Mr. Perkins, as division superintendent, was in touch with the local labor unions, and a conference was held with the strike leaders. Persuading and insisting by turns, Mr. Norcross fought out the necessary compromises with the unions. All ordinary traffic would be suspended at midnight, but passenger trains _en route_ were to be run through to our connecting line terminals east and west, live-stock trains were to be laid out only where there were feeding corrals, and perishable freight was to be taken to its destination, wherever that might be. In addition to these concessions, the strikers agreed to allow the mail trains to run without interruption, with our promise that they would not carry passengers. Hoskins and his committee bucked a little at this, but got down when they were shown that they could not afford to risk a clash with the Government. This exception admitted, another followed, as a matter of course. If the mail trains were to be run, some of the telegraph operators would have to remain on duty, at least to the extent of handling train orders. With these generalities out of the way, we got down to details. "Fire-alarm" wires were sent to the various cities and towns on the lines asking for immediate information regarding food and fuel supplies, and the strike leaders were notified that, for sheer humanity's sake, they would have to permit the handling of provision trains in cases where they were absolutely needed. By eleven o'clock the tangle was getting itself pretty well straightened out. Some of the trains had already been abandoned, and the others were moving along to the agreed-upon destinations. Kirgan had taken hold in the Portal City yard, and by putting on extra crews was getting the needful shifting and car sorting into shape; and the Portal City employees, acting upon their own initiative, were picketing the yard and company buildings to protect them from looters or fire-setters. Mr. Van Britt's special, so the wires told us, was at Lesterburg, and it was likely to stay there; and Mr. Van Britt, himself, couldn't be reached. It was at half-past eleven that we got the first real yelp from somebody who was getting pinched. It came in the shape of a wire from the Strathcona night operator. A party of men--"mine owners" the operator called them--had just heard of the impending railroad tie-up. They had been meaning to come in on the regular night train, but that had been abandoned. So now they were offering all kinds of money for a special to bring them to Portal City. It was represented that there were millions at stake. Couldn't we do something? Mr. Norcross had kept Hoskins and a few of the other local strike leaders where he could get hold of them, and he put the request up to them as a matter that was now out of his hands. Would they allow him to run a one-car special from the gold camp to Portal City after midnight? It was for them to say. Hoskins and his accomplices went off to talk it over with some of the other men. When the big freight conductor came back he was alone and was grinning good-naturedly. "We ain't aimin' to make the company lose any good money that comes a-rolling down the hill at it, Mister Norcross," he said. "Cinch these here Strathcona hurry-boys f'r all you can get out o' them, and if you'll lend us the loan of the wires, we'll pass the word to let the special come on through." It was sure the funniest strike I ever saw or heard of, and I guess the boss thought so, too--with all this good-natured bargaining back and forth; but there was nothing more said, and I carried the word to Mr. Perkins directing him to have arrangements made for the running of a one-car special from Strathcona for the hurry folks. Past that, things rocked along until the hands of the big standard-time clock in the despatcher's room pointed to midnight. Mr. Norcross and I were both at Donohue's elbow when the men at the wires, east and west, clicked in their "Good-night," which was the signal that the Pioneer Short Line had laid down on the job and gone out of business. I couldn't compare it to anything but a funeral bell, and that's about what it was. No matter how short the strike might be, it was going to smash us good and plenty. And whatever else might come of it, it was a cinch that it would squeeze the last little breath of life out of the Norcross management for good and all. As if to confirm that sort of doleful foreboding of mine, Norris, who was holding down the commercial wire, came over to the counter railing just then with a New York message. I saw the boss's eyes flash and the little bunchy muscle-swellings of anger come and go on the edge of his jaw as he read it, and then he handed it to me. "You may endorse that 'No Answer' and file it when you go back to the office," he said shortly, and then he went on talking to Donohue, telling him how to handle the trains which were still out and moving to their tie-up destinations. Of course, I read the message; I knew there was nothing private about it so far as I was concerned, since it had been given me to put away in the files. It was dated from the Waldorf-Astoria at midnight, which, allowing for the difference in time between New York and Portal City, meant that it had been sent at nine o'clock by our time. Somebody in our neck of woods was evidently keeping in close wire touch with Mr. Dunton, for though the strike vote was only a little more than an hour old when he sent the telegram, he evidently knew all about it. This is what I read: "To G. NORCROSS, G. M., "Portal City. "Your administration has been a conspicuous failure from the beginning. Compromise with employees on any terms offered and prevent strike at all costs. That done, you are hereby directed to wire your resignation to take effect one week from to-day. "B. DUNTON, _President_." It had hit us at last; not a decent request, mind you, but a blunt, brutal demand. The boss was fired. No word had come from Mr. Chadwick, and there could be but one reason for his silence. In some way, perhaps through the late boosting of the stock, the New Yorkers had squeezed him out. We were shot dead in the trenches. I didn't understand how the chief could take it so quietly, unless it was because he had been hammered so long and so hard that nothing mattered any more. Anyhow, he was just standing there, talking soberly to Donohue, when once more the Strathcona branch sounder began to click furiously, snipping out the headquarters call. Donohue cut in and we all heard the Strathcona man's new bleat. The way he told it, it seemed that one member of the party that had chartered the special to come to Portal City had got left, and this man was now in the Strathcona wire office, bidding high for an engine to chase the train and put him aboard. At first the boss said, "No," short off, just like that; adding that it wouldn't be keeping faith with the strike committee. But at that moment Hoskins blew in again, and when he was told what was on the cards, he took a little responsibility of his own. "Go to it, Mister Norcross, if there's any more money in it f'r the railroad," he told the boss. "I'll stand f'r it with the boys." And then to Donohue: "Who'll be runnin' this chaser engine?" "It'll be John Hogan and the Four-Sixteen," said Donohue. "There's nobody else at that end of the branch." The arrangement, such as it was, was fixed up quickly. The man who was putting up the money seemed to have plenty of it. He was offering five hundred dollars for the engine, and a thousand if it should overtake the special that side of Bauxite Junction. I guess the bleat unravelled itself pretty clearly for all of us; or at least, it seemed plain enough. A mining deal of some kind was on, and this man who was left behind was going to be left in another sense of the word if he couldn't butt in soon enough to break whatever combination the others were stacking up against him. In just a few minutes we got the word from the Strathcona operator that the money was paid and the chaser engine was out and gone. The special train had fully a half-hour's start, and with the hazardous grades of Slide Mountain and Dry Canyon to negotiate, it didn't seem probable that the light engine could overtake it anywhere north of Bauxite. That wasn't up to us, however. Kirgan had come in to say that our good-natured strikers had thrown a guard into the shops and were patroling the yard, when Fred May showed up, making signals to me. I heard him when he edged up to the boss and said: "There's a lady in the office, wanting to see you, Mr. Norcross." "Holy Smoke!" said I to myself. I knew it couldn't be anybody but Mrs. Sheila, at that time of night, and I saw seventeen different kinds of bloody murder looming up again when I tagged along after the boss on the trip down the hall to our offices. The guess was right, both ways around. It was Mrs. Sheila, and she had the major with her. And the air of the private office was so thick with tragedy that it made the very electrics look dim and ghostly. Mrs. Sheila didn't have a bit of color in her face, and her eyes had a big horror in them that was enough to make your flesh creep. I won't attempt to tell all that was said, partly by the good old major and partly by Mrs. Sheila. But the gist of it was this: Collingwood had continued his booze fight in his rooms at the Bullard until he had worked himself up to the crazy murder pitch. Then he had gone on the warpath, hunting for Hatch. Just how he had contrived to dodge Hatch's spotters, who were doubtless keeping cases on him, did not appear. But that was a detail. He had dodged them, had learned that Hatch and a bunch of his Red Tower backers had gone to Strathcona on a mining deal, and had started to drive to the gold camp in an auto to get his man. Before leaving Portal City he had written a letter to Mrs. Sheila, telling her what he was going to do, and that when he got through with it, she would be free. The letter, which had been left at the hotel, had been delayed in delivery--had, in fact, just been sent out to the major's house by the night clerk who had found it. Long before the story could get itself fully told, the different gaps in it were filling themselves up for me--and for Mr. Norcross, as well, I guess. When Mrs. Sheila came to the auto-drive part of it, the boss whirled and shot an order at me. "Jimmie, chase into the despatcher's office and find out the name of the man who chartered that following engine!" he snapped; and I went on the run, remembering that in the strike excitement and hustle it hadn't occurred to anybody to ask the man's name or that of the particular "mine owner" who had chartered the special train. Donohue got the Strathcona operator in less than half a minute after I fired my order at him, and the answer came almost without a break: "Charter of special train was to R. Hatch, of Portal City, and of engine 416 to man named Collingwood." Gosh! but this did settle it! I didn't run back to the office with the news--I flew. It was like firing a gun in amongst the three who were waiting, but it had to be done. The major groaned and said, "Oh, good God!" and Mrs. Sheila sat down and put her face in her hands. The boss was the only one who knew what to do and he did it: vanished like a shot in the direction of the despatcher's office. In about fifteen of the longest minutes I ever lived he came back, shaking his head. I knew what he had been doing, or trying to do. There was one night telegraph station on the branch--at a mining-camp half-way down the grade on Slide Mountain--and he had been trying to get word there to stop the wild engine. "He has either bribed or bullied his engine crew," he told the major. "I wired and had a stop signal set for them at the Antonio Mine, but they overran it, going at full speed down the hill." It was plain enough now what Collingwood was trying to do. The murder mania had got a firm hold of its weapon. Collingwood knew that Hatch was on the special, and he was going to chase that one-car train until it made a stop somewhere and then smash into it for blood. After Mr. Norcross had talked hurriedly for a minute or two with the major he went back to the despatcher's room and I went with him. There was a word for Donohue, telling him to call all night stations ahead of the special. The operators were to give the special the "go-ahead," and after it had passed, to set their signals against the following engine. As Donohue cut in on the branch wire, Nippo, at the canyon mouth, broke in to say that the special had gone by fifteen minutes earlier, and that the following engine was now coming down the canyon. Donohue grabbed his key. "Throw signal against engine 416," he clicked; and a few seconds later we got the reply: "No good. Engine 416 overran signal." "Never mind," said the boss to Donohue; "keep it up at the other stations. That engine has got to be stopped. It's carrying a madman." This is what he said, but I knew well enough what he was thinking. He was remembering that the special now had a lead of only fifteen minutes, and that it would be obliged to stop at Bauxite for its orders over the main line. He did what he could to cut out the Bauxite stop for the special, ordering Donohue to tell the junction man to set his signals at "clear" for the train, and at "stop" for the 416. It was only a make-shift. In the natural order of things the engineer of the special would make the Bauxite stop anyway, signal or no signal, since it is a nation-wide railroad rule that no train shall pass a junction without stopping. Past that the boss grabbed up an official time-card and began to study it hurriedly and to jot down figures. I wondered if he wasn't tempted--just the least little bit in the world, you know. Here was a thing shaping itself up--a thing for which he wasn't in the least responsible--and if it should work out to the catastrophe that nobody seemed to be able to prevent, the chief of the grafters, and probably a number of his nearest backers, would be wiped off the books; and Collingwood's death, which, in all human probability, was equally certain, would set Mrs. Sheila free. He must be thinking of it, I argued; he couldn't be a human man and not be thinking of it. But he never stopped his hasty figuring for a single instant until he broke off to bark out at Kirgan, who was standing by: "Quick, Mart! I want a light engine, and somebody to run it! Jump for it, man!" Kirgan, big and slow-motioned at most times, was off like a shot. Then the boss hurried back down the hall to his own offices, and again I tagged him. The old major was standing at a window with his hands behind him, and Mrs. Sheila was sitting just as we had left her, with the big terror still in her eyes and her face as white as a sheet. "We can't stop him without throwing a switch in front of him, and that would mean death to him and his two enginemen," said the boss, talking straight at the major, and as if he were trying to ignore Mrs. Sheila. "I'm going to take a long chance and run down the line to meet them. There's a bare possibility that I can contrive to get between the train and the engine, and if I can----" Mrs. Sheila was on her feet and she had her hands clasped as if she were going to make a prayer to the boss. And it was pretty nearly that. "Take me!" she begged; "oh, _please_ take me. It's my _right_ to go!" Kirgan had found an engine somewhere in the yard and was backing it up to the station platform. We could hear it. I saw that the chief was going to turn Mrs. Sheila down--which was, of course, exactly the right thing to do. But just then the major shoved in. "Sheila knows what she's talking about, Graham," he said quietly. "When you-all find Howie, you'll have a madman on your hands--and she's the only one who can control him at such times--God pity her! Take us both, suh." I suppose Mr. Norcross thought there wasn't any time to stand there arguing about it. "As you will," he snapped at the major; and then to me: "Break for it, Jimmie, and tell Kirgan to get a car--any car--the first one he can find!" I broke, and came pretty near breaking my blessed neck tumbling down the stairs. Kirgan had found his engine and had picked up a yard man to fire it. I told him what was wanted, and in less than no time he had pulled out an empty day-coach from the washing track. While he was backing in with it, Mr. Norcross came down the platform with the major and Mrs. Sheila. He let the major help Mrs. Sheila up the steps of the coach and ran forward to call out to Kirgan: "Donohue is clearing for you, and there'll be nothing in the way. Run regardless to Timber Mountain 'Y.' You have six minutes on the special's time to that point, if you run like the devil!" And then, as he was climbing to the cab, he ripped out at me: "Jimmie, you go back and stay with them in the car. Hurry or you'll be left!" XXX Under the Wide and Starry Sky I sure had to be quick about obeying that "get-aboard" order of Mr. Norcross's. Kirgan had jerked the throttle open the minute the word was given. I missed the forward end of the car, and when the other end came along my grab at the hand-rod slammed me head over heels up the steps. Kirgan was holding his whistle valve open, and the guarding strikers in the yard gave us room and a clear track. By the time we had passed the "limit" switches we were going like a blue streak, and I could hardly keep my balance on the back platform of the day-coach. You can guess that I didn't stay out there very long. The night was clear as a bell and pretty coolish, with the stars burning like white diamonds in the black inverted bowl of the sky. It was mighty pretty scenery, but just the same, after Kirgan had fairly struck his gait on the long western tangent, I clawed my way inside. It was a lot too blustery and unsafe on that back platform. The major and Mrs. Sheila were sitting together, near the middle of the car. I staggered up and took the seat just ahead of them, and the major asked me if Mr. Norcross was on the engine. I told him he was, and that ended it. What with the rattle and bang of the coach, the howling of the speed-made wind in the ventilators, and the shrill scream of the spinning wheels, there wasn't any room for talk during the whole of that breath-taking race to the old "Y" in the hills beyond Banta. Knowing, from what Mr. Norcross had said, the point at which we were going to side-track and wait for the special and the wild engine, I grew sort of nervous and worked-up after we had crashed through the Banta yard and the day-coach began to sway and lurch around the hill curves. What if the special had been making better time than the boss had counted upon? In that case, we'd probably hit her in a head-ender somewhere on one of those very curves. And with the time we were making, and the time she'd be making, there wouldn't be enough left of either train to be worth picking up. A mile or so short of the "Y" siding I went up ahead and handed myself out to the forward platform to see if I couldn't get a squint past the storming engine. I got it now and then, on the swing of the curves, but there was nothing in sight. Just the same, it was mighty scary, and I took a relief breath so deep that it nearly made me sick at my stomach when I finally realized that Kirgan had shut off and was slowing for the stop at the farther switch of the old "Y." What was done at the switch was done swiftly, as men work when they have the fear of death gripping at them. If the special should come up while we were making the back-in, the result would be just about the same as it would have been if we had met it on the curves. The jerking tug of the self-preservation instinct is pretty strong, sometimes, and I tumbled off the steps of the car as it was backing in around the western curve of the "Y." Our picked-up fireman was at the switch, setting it again for the main line. With our own engine silent, I could hear a faint sound like the far-away fluttering of a safety-valve. We were not ten seconds too soon. The special was coming. Mr. Norcross, who was still in the engine cab, shot an order at Kirgan. "Fling your coat over the headlight, and then be ready to snatch it and get off!" he shouted. "If they see it as they come up, it may stop them!" Then, catching a glimpse of me on the ground: "Break the coupling on the coach, Jimmie--quick!" As I jumped to obey I understood what was to be done. The fireman at the switch was to let the special go by, and then the boss--just the boss alone on the engine--was to be let out on the main track to put himself between the chaser and the chased. It was a hair-raising proposition, but perhaps--just perhaps--not quite so suicidal as it looked. With skilful handling the interposed engine might possibly be kept out of the way by backing, and its warning headlight shining full into the eyes of the men in the 416's cab would surely be enough to stop them--if anything would. I got the coupling broken on the car to set our engine free before the distant flutter noise had grown to anything more than a humming like that of an overhead swarm of angry bees. Kirgan was standing on the front end, with his coat thrown over the headlight, ready to jerk it off and jump when he got the word. Out at the switch, our fireman was keeping out of sight so that the engineer of the special shouldn't see him, and maybe get rattled and stop. As usual, the boss had covered every little detail in his instructions, and had remembered that the sight of a man standing at a switch in a lonesome place like this might give an engineer a fit of "nerves" and make him shut off steam. I had just finished uncoupling the day-coach and the boss was easing our engine ahead a bit to make sure that she was loose, when the car-door opened behind me and the major and Mrs. Sheila came out in the front vestibule. It was Mrs. Sheila who spoke to me, and her voice had borrowed some of the big terror that I had seen in her eyes while she was sitting in the office at Portal City. "Where--whereabouts are we, Jimmie?" she asked. I didn't get a chance to tell her. Before I could open my mouth the black shadows of the crooked valley beyond the switch were shot through with the white, shimmering glow of a headlight beam, and a second later the special flicked into view on the curve of approach. When we first saw it, the engine was working steam, and she was running like a streak of lightning. But as we looked, there was a short, sharp whistle yelp, the brakes gripped the wheels, the one-car train, with fire grinding from every brake-shoe, came to a jerking stop a short car-length on our side of the switch, and a man dropped from the engine step to go sprinting to the rear. And it was plain that neither the engineer nor the man who was running back saw our outfit waiting on the leg of the old "Y." Kirgan was the first one to understand. With a shout of warning, he jumped and ran toward the stopped train, yelling at the engineer for God's sake to pull out and go on. Back in the hills beyond the curve of approach another hoarse murmur was jarring upon the air, and the special's fireman, who was the man we had seen jump off and go running back, and who, of course, didn't know that we had our man there, was apparently trying to reach the switch behind his train to throw it against the following engine to shoot it off on the "Y." By this time the boss was off of our engine and racing across the angle of the "Y" only a little way behind Kirgan. He realized that his plan was smashed by the stopping of the special, and that the very catastrophe we had come out to try to prevent was due to happen right there and then. Whatever our man waiting at the switch might do, there was bound to be a collision. If he left the points set for the main line, the wild engine would crash into the rear end of the stopped special; and if he did the other thing, our engine and coach standing on the "Y" would get it. "Get the people out of that car!" I heard the boss bellow, but even as he said it the pop-valve of the stopped engine went off with a roar, filling the shut-in valley with clamorings that nothing could drown. Two minutes, two little minutes more, and the sleep-sodden bunch of men in the special's car might have been roused and turned out and saved. But the minutes were not given us. While the racing fireman was still a few feet short of the switch the throwing of which would have saved the one-car train only to let the madman's engine in on our engine and coach, and our man--already at the switch--was too scared to know which horn of the dilemma to choose, the end came. There was the flash of another headlight on the curve, another whistle shriek, and I turned to help the Major take Mrs. Sheila off our car and run with her, against the horrible chance that we might get it instead of the special. But we didn't get it. Ten seconds later the chasing engine had crashed headlong into the standing train, burying itself clear up to the tender in the heart of the old wooden sleeper, rolling the whole business over on its side in the ditch, and setting the wreckage afire as suddenly as if the old Pullman had been a fagot of pitch-pine kindlings and only waiting for the match. If I could write down any real description of the way things stacked up there in that lonesome valley for the little bunch of us who stood aghast at the awful horror, I guess I wouldn't need to be hammering the keys of a typewriter in a railroad office. But never mind; no soldier sees any more of a battle than the part he is in. There were seven of us men, including the engineer and fireman of the special, who were able to jump in and try to do something, and, looking back at it now, it seems as if we all did what we could. That wasn't much. About half of the people in the sleeping-car--six by actual count, as we learned afterward--were killed outright in the crash or so badly hurt that they died pretty soon afterward; and the fire was so quick and so hot that after we had got the wounded ones out we couldn't get all of the bodies of the others. As you'd imagine, the boss was the head and front of that fierce rescue fight. He had stripped off his coat, and he kept on diving into the burning wreck after another and yet another of the victims until it seemed as if he couldn't possibly do it one more time and come out alive. He didn't seem to remember that these very men were the ones who had been trying to ruin him--that at least once they had set a trap for him and tried to kill him. He was too big for that. After we had got out all the victims we could reach, there was still one more left who wasn't dead; we could hear him above the hissing of the steam and the crackling of the flames, screaming and begging us to break in the side of the car and kill him before the fire got to him. Kirgan had found an axe in the emergency box of our day-coach, and was chopping away like a madman. The minute he got a hole big enough, the big master-mechanic dropped his axe and climbed down into the choking hell where the screams were coming from. Our fireman picked up the axe and ran around to the other side of the wreck where Jones, the engineer of the special, and his fireman were trying to break into the crushed cab of the 416. The old major, the boss, and I stood by to help Kirgan, and the minute his head came up through the chopped hole we saw that he needed help. He had pried the screaming man loose, somehow, and was trying to drag him up out of the smoking furnace. It was done, amongst us, some way or other. Kirgan had wrapped the man up in a Pullman blanket to keep the fire from getting at him any worse than it already had, and as we were taking him out the blanket slipped aside from his face and I saw who it was that the master-mechanic had risked his life for. It was Hatch, himself, and he died in our arms, the major's and mine, while we were carrying him out to where Mrs. Sheila was tearing one of the Pullman sheets that I had got hold of into strips to make bandages for the wounded. With the chance of saving maybe another one or two, we couldn't stay to help the brave little woman who was trying to be doctor and nurse to half a dozen poor wretches at once. But she took time to ask me one single breathless question: "Have they found him yet?--you know the one I mean, Jimmie?" "No," I said. "They're digging away at that side now," and then I ran back to jump in again. Though the fire was now licking at everything in sight, Kirgan, who had taken the axe from our fireman, had managed to cut some of the car timbers out of the way so that we could see down into the tangle of things where the cab of the 416 ought to have been. There wasn't much left of the cab. The water-gauge was broken, along with everything else, but in spite of the reek of smoke and steam we could see that Hogan and his fireman were not there. But down under the coal that had shifted forward at the impact of the collision we could make out the other man--the murder-maniac--lying on his back, black in the face and gasping. That was enough for the boss. It looked like certain death for anybody to crawl down into that hissing steam-bath, but he did it, wriggling through the hole that Kirgan had chopped, while two or three of us ran to the little creek that trickled down on the far side of the "Y" and brought back soaking Pullman blankets to try to delay the encroaching fire and smother the steam-jets. I couldn't see very well what the boss was doing; the smoke and steam were so blinding. But when I did get a glimpse I saw that he was digging frantically with his bare hands at the shifted coal, and that he had succeeded in freeing the head and shoulders of the buried man, who was still alive enough to choke and gasp in the furnace-like heat. Kirgan stood it as long as he could--until the licking flames were about to drive us all away. "You'll be burnt alive--come up out of that!" he yelled to the boss; but I knew it wouldn't do any good. With Collingwood still buried down there and still with the breath of life in him, the boss was going to stay and keep on trying to dig him out, even if he, himself, got burned to a crisp doing it. Loving Mrs. Sheila the way he did, he couldn't do any less. It was awful, those next two or three minutes. We were all running frantically back and forth, now, between the wreck and the creek, soaking the blankets and doing our level best to beat the fire back and keep it from cutting off the only way there was for the boss to climb out. But we could only fight gaspingly on the surface of things, as you might say. Down underneath, the fire was working around in front and behind in spite of all we could do. Some of it had got to the coal, and the heavy sulphurous smoke was oozing up to make us all choke and strangle. Honestly, you couldn't have told that the boss was a white man when he crawled up out of that pit of death, tugging and lifting the crushed and broken body of the madman, and making us take it out before he would come out himself. We got them both away from the fire as quickly as we could and around to the other side of things, Kirgan and Jones carrying Collingwood. The poor little lady we had left alone with the rescued ones had done all she could, and she was waiting for us. When we put Collingwood down, she sat down on the ground and took his head in her lap and cried over him just like his mother might have, and when the boss knelt down beside her I heard what he said: "That's right, little woman; that's just as it should be. Death wipes out all scores. I did my best--you must always believe that I did my best." She choked again at that, and said: "There is no hope?" and he said: "I'm afraid not. He was dying when I got to him." I tried to swallow the big lump in my throat and turned away, and so did everybody else but the major, who went around and knelt down on the other side of Mrs. Sheila. The wreck was blazing now like a mighty bonfire, lighting up the pine-clad hills all around and snapping and growling like some savage monster gloating over its prey. In the red glow we saw a man limping up the track from the west, and Kirgan and I went to meet him. It was Hogan, the missing engineer of the 416. He told us what there was to tell, which wasn't very different from the way we'd been putting it up. They--Hogan and his fireman--hadn't suspected that they were carrying a maniac until after they had passed Bauxite and Collingwood had told them both that what he wanted to do was to overtake the special and smash it. Then there had been a fight on the engine, but Collingwood had a gun and he had threatened to kill them both if they didn't keep on. "I kep' her goin'," said the Irishman, "thinkin' maybe Jonesy'd keep out of my way, or that at the lasht I'd get a chanst to shut the 'Sixteen off an' give her the brake. He kep' me fr'm doin' it, and whin I saw the tail-lights, I pushed Johnnie Shovel off an' wint afther him because there was nawthin' else to do. Johnnie's back yondher a piece, wid a broken leg." Just then Jones, the special's engineer, came up, and he pieced out Hogan's story. The wire to Bauxite had warned him that a crazy man was chasing him and overrunning stop-signals. He had thought to side-track the chaser at the old "Y" and that was what he had stopped for. Thereupon the three of us went after the crippled fireman, and when we got back to the "Y" with him it was all over. Collingwood had died with his head in Mrs. Sheila's lap, and the boss, fagged out and half dead as he must have been, was up and at work, getting the wreck victims into our day-coach, which had been backed up and taken around to the other leg of the "Y" to head for Portal City. When it came time for us to move Collingwood, Mrs. Sheila pulled her veil down and walked behind the body, with the good old major locking his arm in hers, and that choking lump came again in my throat when I remembered what Collingwood had said to the boss the night he came to our office: "Sheila made her wedding journey with me once, when she was just eighteen. The next time she rides with me it will be at my funeral." I guess there's no use stretching the agony out by telling about that mournful ride back to Portal City with the dead and wounded. We left the wreck blazing and roaring in the shut-in valley at the gulch mouth because there wasn't anything else to do; Kirgan and Jones and one of the firemen handled the engine and pulled out, while the rest of us rode in the day-coach and did what we could for the suffering. At Banta we made a stop long enough to let the boss send a wire to Portal City, turning out the doctors and the ambulances--and the undertakers; and though it was after three o'clock in the morning when we pulled in, it seemed as if the whole town had got the word and was down at the station to meet us. I couldn't see Mrs. Sheila's face when the major helped her off at the platform; her veil was still down. But I did hear her low-spoken word to the boss, whispered while they were carrying Collingwood and Hatch, and two of the others who were past help, out to the waiting string of dead-wagons. "I shall go East with the body to-morrow--to-day, I mean--if the strikers will let you run a train, and Cousin Basil will go with me. We may never meet again, Graham, and for that reason I must say what I have to say now. Your opportunity has come. The man who could do the most to defeat you is dead, and the strike will do the rest. If I were you, I should neither eat nor sleep until I had thought of some way to take the railroad out of the hands of those who have proved that they are not worthy to own it." I didn't know, just then, how much or little attention Mr. Norcross was paying to this mighty good, clear-headed bit of business advice. What he said went back to that saying of hers that they might never meet again. "We must meet again--sometime and somewhere," he said. And then: "I did my best: God knows I did my best, Sheila. I would have given my own life gladly if the giving would have saved Collingwood's. Don't you believe that?" "I shall always believe that you are one of God's own gentlemen, Graham," she said, soft and low; and then the major came to take her away. XXXI P. S. L. Comes Home I didn't get more than five hours' sleep after the excitement was all over, and we had ourselves driven, Mr. Norcross and I, up to the club. But by nine o'clock the next morning, as soon as I'd swallowed a hurried bite of breakfast in the grill-room I swiped a camp-stool and a magazine out of the lounge and trotted up-stairs to plant myself before the boss's door, determined that nobody should disturb him until he was good and ready to get up. He turned out a little before twelve, looking sort of haggard and drawn, of course, and having some pretty bad burns on the side of his neck and on the backs of both hands. But he was all there, as usual, and he laid a good, brotherly hand on my shoulder when he saw what I was doing. "They don't make many of them like you, Jimmie," he said. And then: "Have you any news?" I had, a little, and I gave it to him. Fred May had come tip-toeing up into my sentry corridor about ten o'clock to tell me that Mr. Perkins had arranged with the strikers to have a special go east with the major and Mrs. Sheila and Collingwood's body to catch the Overland at Sedgwick; and I told the boss this, and that the train had been gone for an hour or more. Also, I gave him a sealed package that a strange boy had brought up just a little while after May went away. We took the elevator to the grill-room for something to eat, and at table Mr. Norcross opened the package. It contained a bunch of affidavits, eleven of them in all, and there was no letter or anything to tell where they had come from. He handed the papers over to me, after he had seen what they were, and told me to take care of them, and, when the waiter was bringing our bite--or rather after he had brought it and was gone--he sort of frowned across the table at me and said: "Do you know what it means--this surrender of those bribe affidavits, Jimmie?" I said I guessed I did; that Hatch being dead, and Collingwood, too, there wasn't nerve enough left in the Red Tower outfit to keep up the fight; that the surrender of the affidavits was kind of a plea for a let-up on our part. "We'll begin to show them, in just about fifteen minutes, Jimmie," was the short comment. "Reach over and get that telephone and tell Mr. Ripley and Mr. Billoughby that I want them to meet me at my office at half-past twelve. Any news from the strike?" "Nothing," I told him, while "Central" was getting me Mr. Ripley's number. "Fred May said it was going on just the same; everything quiet and nothing doing, except that the wrecking train had gone out to pick up the scraps at Timber Mountain 'Y'. Kirgan is bossing it, and the strikers manned it for him." Nothing more was said until after I had sent the two phone messages, and then the boss broke out in a new spot. "Has anything been heard from Mr. Van Britt?" he asked. "Not that I know of." Again he gave me that queer little scowl across the table. "Jimmie, have you found out yet why Mr. Van Britt insisted on quitting the service?" I guess I grinned a little, though I tried not to. "Mr. Van Britt is one of the best friends you've got," I said. "He thought you needed this strike, and he wanted to go out among the pay-roll men and sort of help it along. He couldn't do a thing like that while he was an officer of the company and drawing his pay like the rest of us." "I might have known--he as good as told me," was the reply, made kind of half-absently; and then, short and quick: "How's the stock market? Have you seen a paper?" I had seen both papers, at breakfast-time, but of course they had nothing startling in them except a last-minute account of the wreck at Timber Mountain "Y," grabbed off just before they went to press. They couldn't have anything later from New York than the day before. But Fred May had tipped me off when he came up to tell me about the Major Kendrick special. The newspaper offices were putting out bulletins by that time. I told Mr. Norcross about the bulletins and was brash enough to add: "We're headed for the receivership all right, I guess; our stock has tumbled to twenty-nine, and there's a regular dog-fight going on over it at the railroad post in the Exchange. Wall Street's afire and burning up, so they say." The chief hadn't eaten enough to keep a cat alive, but at that he pushed his chair back and reached for his hat. "Come on, Jimmie," he snapped. "We've got to get busy. And there isn't going to be any receivership." We reached the railroad headquarters--which were as dead and quiet as a graveyard--a little before Mr. Ripley and Billoughby got down. But Mr. Editor Cantrell was there, waiting to shoot an anxious question at the boss. "Well, Norcross, are you ready to talk now?" "Not just yet; to-morrow, maybe," was the good-natured rejoinder. "All right; then perhaps you will tell me this: Do you, yourself, believe that four or five thousand railroad men have gone on strike out of sheer sympathy for a few hundred C. S. & W. employees, most of whom are merely common laborers?" The boss spread his hands. "You have all the facts that anybody has, Cantrell." "Can you look me in the eye and tell me that you haven't fomented this eruption on the quiet to get the better of the Red Tower crowd in some way?" demanded the editor. "I can, indeed," was the smiling answer. Cantrell looked as if he didn't more than half believe it. "Being a newspaper man, I'm naturally suspicious," he put in. "There are big doings down underneath all this that I can smell, but can't dig up. Everything about this strike is too blamed good-natured. I've talked with half a dozen of the leaders, and with any number of the rank and file. They all grin and give me the wink, as if it were the best joke that was ever pulled off." Again Mr. Norcross smiled handsomely. "If you push me to it, Cantrell, I may say that this is exactly their attitude toward me!" "Well," said the editor, getting up to go; "it's doing one thing to you, good and proper. Your railroad stock is tumbling down-stairs so fast that it can't keep up with itself." "I hope it will tumble still more," said the boss, pleasantly, with another sort of enigmatic smile; and with that Mr. Cantrell had to be content. As the editor went out, Fred May brought in the bunch of forenoon telegrams and laid them on the desk. They were quickly glanced at and tossed over to me as fast as they were read. Most of them were plaintive little yips from a strike-stricken lot of people along the Short Line who seemed to think that the world had come to an end, but there were three bearing the New York date line and signed "Dunton." The earliest had been sent shortly after the opening of the Stock Exchange, and it ran thus: "Morning papers announce strike and complete tie-up on P. S. L. Why no report from you of labor troubles threatening? Compromise at any cost and wire emphatic denial of strike. Answer quick." The second of the series had been filed for transmission an hour later and it was still more saw-toothed. "Later reports confirm newspaper story. Your failure to compromise instantly with employees will break stock market and subject you to investigation for criminal incompetency. Answer." The third message had been sent still later. "Your continued silence inexcusable. If no favorable report from you by six o'clock you may consider yourself discharged from the company's service and criminal proceedings on charge of conspiracy will be instituted at once." There was no mention of Collingwood, and I could only imagine that Major Kendrick's telegram had not yet reached the president. I thought things were beginning to look pretty serious for us if Mr. Dunton was going to try to drag us into the courts, but Mr. Norcross was still smiling when he handed me the last and latest telegram in the bunch that May had brought in. It was from Mr. Chadwick, and was good-naturedly laconic. "To G. NORCROSS, G. M., "Portal City. "Just returned from trip to Seattle. What's doing on the Short Line? "CHADWICK." "A couple of telegrams, Jimmie," said the chief, as he passed this last wire over, and I got my notebook ready. "To B. Dunton, New York. Strike is sympathetic and not subject to compromise. Mails moving regularly, but all other traffic suspended indefinitely. My office closes to-day, and my resignation, effective at once, goes to you on Fast Mail to-night." "Now one to Mr. Chadwick, and you may send it in code," he directed crisply. Then he dictated: "See newspapers for account of strike. Hatch and eight of his associates were killed last night in railroad wreck. Dunton has demanded my resignation and I have given it. Have plan for complete reorganization along lines discussed in beginning, and need your help. At market opening to-morrow sell P. S. L. large blocks and repurchase in driblets as price goes down. Repeat until I tell you to stop. Wire quick if you are with us." Just as I was taking the last sentence, Mr. Ripley and Billoughby came in, and Mr. Norcross took them both into the third room of the suite and shut the door. An hour later when the door opened and they came out, the boss was summing up the new orders to Billoughby: "There's a lot to do, and you have my authority to hire all the help you need. See the bankers yourself, personally, and get them to interest other local buyers along the line, the more of them, and the smaller they are, the better. I'll take care of Portal City, myself. I've had Van Britt on the wire and he is taking care of the employees--yes, that goes as it lies, and is a part of the original plan; every man who works for P. S. L. is going to own a bit of stock, if we have to carry him for it and let him pay a dollar a week. More than that, they shall have representation on the board if they want it. And while you're knocking about, take time to show these C. S. & W. folks how they can climb back into the saddle. Red Tower is down and out, now, and they can keep it out if they want to." * * * * * I suppose I might rattle this old type-machine of mine indefinitely and tell the story of the financial fight that filled the next few days; of how the boss and Mr. Ripley and Billoughby got the bankers and practically everybody together all along the Short Line and sprung the big plan upon them, which was nothing less than the snapping up, on a tumbling stock market, of the opportunity now presented to them of owning--actually _owning_ in fee simple--their own railroad, the buying to be done quietly through Mr. Chadwick's brokers in Chicago and New York. There was some opposition and jangling and see-sawing back and forth, of course, but the newspapers, led by the _Mountaineer_, took hold, and then, pretty soon, everybody took hold; after which the only trouble was to keep people--our own rank and file among them--from buying P. S. L. Common so fast that the New Yorkers would catch on and run the price up. They didn't catch on--not until after it was too late; and the minute Mr. Chadwick wired us from Chicago that we were safe, the strike went off, as you might say, between two minutes, and Mr. Norcross called a meeting of stockholders, the same to be held--bless your heart!--in Portal City, the thriving metropolis of the region in which, counting Mr. Chadwick in as one of us, a good, solid voting majority of the stock was now held. The _Mountaineer_ printed the call, and it spoke of the railroad as "_our_ railroad company"! The meeting was held in due time, and Mr. Chadwick was there to preside. He made a cracking good chairman, and the way he dilated on the fact that now the country--and the employees--had a railroad of their own, and that the whole nation would be looking to see how we would demonstrate the problem we had taken over, actually brought cheers--think of it; cheers in a railroad stockholders' meeting. Following Mr. Chadwick's talk there was the usual routine business; reports were read and it was shown that the Short Line, notwithstanding all the stealings and mismanagements was still a good going proposition at the price at which it had been bought in. A new board of directors was chosen, and as soon as the new board got together, Mr. Norcross went back to his office in the headquarters, not as general manager, this time--not on your life!--but as the newly elected president of Pioneer Short Line. And by the same token, the first official circular that came out--a copy of which I sent, tied up with a blue ribbon, to Maisie Ann--read like this: "To all Employees: "Effective this day, Mr. James F. Dodds is appointed Assistant to the President with headquarters in Portal City. "G. NORCROSS, _President_." That's all; all but a little talk between the boss and Mr. Upton Van Britt that took place in our office on the day after Mr. Van Britt, still kicking about the hard work that the boss was always piling upon him, had been appointed general manager. "You've made the riffle, Graham--just as I said you would," said our own and only millionaire, after he had got through abusing the fates that wouldn't let him go back East and play with his coupon shears and his yachts and polo ponies. "You're going to be the biggest man this side of the mountains, some day; and the day isn't so very far off, either." It was just here that the boss got out of his chair and walked to the other end of the room. When he came back it was to say: "You think I have won out, Upton, and so does everybody else. I suppose it looks that way to the man in the street. But I haven't, you know. I have lost the one thing for which I would gladly give all the business success I have ever made or hope to make." Mr. Van Britt's smile was more than half a grin. "It isn't lost, Graham: it's only gone before. Can't you wait a decent little while?" "If I should wait all my life it wouldn't be long enough, Upton," was the reply. "What you said to me--that time when we first spoke of Collingwood--was true. You said she loved the other man--and so she did." This time Mr. Van Britt's smile was a whole grin. "I said it, and I'll say it again. She didn't realize it or admit it, even to herself you know; she's too good and clean-hearted for anything like that. But I could see it plainly enough, and so could everybody else except the two people most nearly concerned. I didn't mean Howie Collingwood: you were the 'other man,' Graham." At this the boss whirled short around and tramped to the other end of the room again, standing for quite a little while with one foot on the low window-sill and making out like he was looking down at the traffic clattering along in Nevada Avenue. But I'll bet a quarter he never saw a single wheel of it. When he came back our way his eyes were shining and he put his hand on Mr. Van Britt's shoulder. "It ought to have been you, Uppy," he said, dropping back to the old college nickname. "You're by long odds the better man. When--when do you think I might venture to take a little run across to New York?" At that, Mr. Van Britt laughed out loud. "Ho! ho!" he said. "I suppose I ought to say a year. You can wait one little year, can't you, Graham?" "Not on your life!" rasped the boss. And then: "I'll tell you what I'll do; I'll compromise with the proprieties, or whatever it is that you're insisting on, and make it six months. But that's the limit--the absolute limit!" And so it was. * * * * * _BY FRANCIS LYNDE_ THE WRECKERS DAVID VALLORY BRANDED STRANDED IN ARCADY AFTER THE MANNER OF MEN THE REAL MAN THE CITY OF NUMBERED DAYS THE HONORABLE SENATOR SAGE-BRUSH SCIENTIFIC SPRAGU� THE PRICE THE TAMING OF RED BUTTE WESTERN A ROMANCE IN TRANSIT 
5076	----	THE SPOILERS By REX BEACH Author of "THE AUCTION BLOCK" "RAINBOW'S END" "THE IRON TRAIL" Etc. Illustrated THIS BOOK IS LOVINGLY DEDICATED TO MY MOTHER CONTENTS CHAPTER I. THE ENCOUNTER II. THE STOWAWAY III. IN WHICH GLENISTER ERRS IV. THE KILLING V. WHEREIN A MAN APPEARS VI. AND A MINE IS JUMPED VII. THE "BRONCO KID'S" EAVESDROPPING VIII. DEXTRY MAKES A CALL IX. SLUICE ROBBERS X. THE WIT OF AN ADVENTURESS XI. WHEREIN A WRIT AND A RIOT FAIL XII. COUNTERPLOTS XIII. IN WHICH A MAN IS POSSESSED OF A DEVIL XIV. A MIDNIGHT MESSENGER XV. VIGILANTES XVI. IN WHICH THE TRUTH BEGINS TO BARE ITSELF XVII. THE DRIP OF WATER IN THE DARK XVIII. WHEREIN A TRAP IS BAITED XIX. DYNAMITE XX. IN WHICH THREE GO TO THE SIGN OF THE SLED AND BUT TWO RETURN XXI. THE HAMMER-LOCK XXII. THE PROMISE OF DREAMS CHAPTER I THE ENCOUNTER Glenister gazed out over the harbor, agleam with the lights of anchored ships, then up at the crenelated mountains, black against the sky. He drank the cool air burdened with its taints of the sea, while the blood of his boyhood leaped within him. "Oh, it's fine--fine," he murmured, "and this is my country--my country, after all, Dex. It's in my veins, this hunger for the North. I grow. I expand." "Careful you don't bust," warned Dextry. "I've seen men get plumb drunk on mountain air. Don't expand too strong in one spot." He went back abruptly to his pipe, its villanous fumes promptly averting any danger of the air's too tonic quality. "Gad! What a smudge!" sniffed the younger man. "You ought to be in quarantine." "I'd ruther smell like a man than talk like a kid. You desecrate the hour of meditation with rhapsodies on nature when your aesthetics ain't honed up to the beauties of good tobacco." The other laughed, inflating his deep chest. In the gloom he stretched his muscles restlessly, as though an excess of vigor filled him. They were lounging upon the dock, while before them lay the Santa Maria ready for her midnight sailing. Behind slept Unalaska, quaint, antique, and Russian, rusting amid the fogs of Bering Sea. Where, a week before, mild-eyed natives had dried their cod among the old bronze cannon, now a frenzied horde of gold-seekers paused in their rush to the new El Dorado. They had come like a locust cloud, thousands strong, settling on the edge of the Smoky Sea, waiting the going of the ice that barred them from their Golden Fleece--from Nome the new, where men found fortune in a night. The mossy hills back of the village were ridged with graves of those who had died on the out-trip the fall before, when a plague had gripped the land--but what of that? Gold glittered in the sands, so said the survivors; therefore men came in armies. Glenister and Dextry had left Nome the autumn previous, the young man raving with fever. Now they returned to their own land. "This air whets every animal instinct in me," Glenister broke out again. "Away from the cities I turn savage. I feel the old primitive passions--the fret for fighting." "Mebbe you'll have a chance." "How so?" "Well, it's this way. I met Mexico Mullins this mornin'. You mind old Mexico, don't you? The feller that relocated Discovery Claim on Anvil Creek last summer?" "You don't mean that 'tin-horn' the boys were going to lynch for claim-jumping?" "Identical! Remember me tellin' you about a good turn I done him once down Guadalupe way?" "Greaser shooting-scrape, wasn't it?" "Yep! Well, I noticed first off that he's gettin fat; high-livin' fat, too, all in one spot, like he was playin' both ends ag'in the centre. Also he wore di'mon's fit to handle with ice-tongs. "Says I, lookin' at his side elevation, 'What's accented your middle syllable so strong, Mexico?' "'Prosperity, politics, an' the Waldorf-Astorier,' says he. It seems Mex hadn't forgot old days. He claws me into a corner an' says, 'Bill, I'm goin' to pay you back for that Moralez deal.' "'It ain't comin' to me,' says I. 'That's a bygone!' "'Listen here,' says he, an', seein' he was in earnest, I let him run on. "'How much do you value that claim o' yourn at?' "'Hard tellin',' says I. 'If she holds out like she run last fall, there'd ought to be a million clear in her." "'How much'll you clean up this summer?' "''Bout four hundred thousand, with luck.' "'Bill,' says he, 'there's hell a-poppin' an' you've got to watch that ground like you'd watch a rattle-snake. Don't never leave 'em get a grip on it or you're down an' out.' "He was so plumb in earnest it scared me up, 'cause Mexico ain't a gabby man. "'What do you mean?' says I. "'I can't tell you nothin' more. I'm puttin' a string on my own neck, sayin' THIS much. You're a square man, Bill, an' I'm a gambler, but you saved my life oncet, an' I wouldn't steer you wrong. For God's sake, don't let 'em jump your ground, that's all.' "'Let who jump it? Congress has give us judges an' courts an' marshals--' I begins. "'That's just it. How you goin' to buck that hand? Them's the best cards in the deck. There's a man comin' by the name of McNamara. Watch him clost. I can't tell you no more. But don't never let 'em get a grip on your ground.' That's all he'd say." "Bah! He's crazy! I wish somebody would try to jump the Midas; we'd enjoy the exercise." The siren of the Santa Maria interrupted, its hoarse warning throbbing up the mountain. "We'll have to get aboard," said Dextry. "Sh-h! What's that?" the other whispered. At first the only sound they heard was a stir from the deck of the steamer. Then from the water below them came the rattle of rowlocks and a voice cautiously muffled. "Stop! Stop there!" A skiff burst from the darkness, grounding on the beach beneath. A figure scrambled out and up the ladder leading to the wharf. Immediately a second boat, plainly in pursuit of the first one, struck on the beach behind it. As the escaping figure mounted to their level the watchers perceived with amazement that it was a young woman. Breath sobbed from her lungs, and, stumbling, she would have fallen but for Glenister, who ran forward and helped her to her feet. "Don't let them get me," she panted. He turned to his partner in puzzled inquiry, but found that the old man had crossed to the head of the landing ladder up which the pursuers were climbing. "Just a minute--you there! Back up or I'll kick your face in." Dextry's voice was sharp and unexpected, and in the darkness he loomed tall and menacing to those below. "Get out of the way. That woman's a runaway," came from the one highest on the ladder. "So I jedge." "She broke qu--" "Shut up!" broke in another. "Do you want to advertise it? Get out of the way, there, ye damn fool! Climb up, Thorsen." He spoke like a bucko mate, and his words stirred the bile of Dextry. Thorsen grasped the dock floor, trying to climb up, but the old miner stamped on his fingers and the sailor loosened his hold with a yell, carrying the under men with him to the beach in his fall. "This way! Follow me!" shouted the mate, making up the bank for the shore end of the wharf. "You'd better pull your freight, miss," Dextry remarked; "they'll be here in a minute." "Yes, yes! Let us go! I must get aboard the Santa Maria. She's leaving now. Come, come!" Glenister laughed, as though there were a humorous touch in her remark, but did not stir. "I'm gettin' awful old an' stiff to run," said Dextry, removing his mackinaw, "but I allow I ain't too old for a little diversion in the way of a rough-house when it comes nosin' around." He moved lightly, though the girl could see in the half-darkness that his hair was silvery. "What do you mean?" she questioned, sharply. "You hurry along, miss; we'll toy with 'em till you're aboard." They stepped across to the dockhouse, backing against it. The girl followed. Again came the warning blast from the steamer, and the voice of an officer: "Clear away that stern line!" "Oh, we'll be left!" she breathed, and somehow it struck Glenister that she feared this more than the men whose approaching feet he heard. "YOU can make it all right," he urged her, roughly. "You'll get hurt if you stay here. Run along and don't mind us. We've been thirty days on shipboard, and were praying for something to happen." His voice was boyishly glad, as if he exulted in the fray that was to come; and no sooner had he spoken than the sailors came out of the darkness upon them. During the space of a few heart-beats there was only a tangle of whirling forms with the sound of fist on flesh, then the blot split up and forms plunged outward, falling heavily. Again the sailors rushed, attempting to clinch. They massed upon Dextry only to grasp empty air, for he shifted with remarkable agility, striking bitterly, as an old wolf snaps. It was baffling work, however, for in the darkness his blows fell short or overreached. Glenister, on the other hand, stood carelessly, beating the men off as they came to him. He laughed gloatingly, deep in his throat, as though the encounter were merely some rough sport. The girl shuddered, for the desperate silence of the attacking men terrified her more than a din, and yet she stayed, crouched against the wall. Dextry swung at a dim target, and, missing it, was whirled off his balance. Instantly his antagonist grappled with him, and they fell to the floor, while a third man shuffled about them. The girl throttled a scream. "I'm goin' to kick 'im, Bill," the man panted hoarsely. "Le' me fix 'im." He swung his heavy shoe, and Bill cursed with stirring eloquence. "Ow! You're kickin' me! I've got 'im, safe enough. Tackle the big un." Bill's ally then started towards the others, his body bent, his arms flexed yet hanging loosely. He crouched beside the girl, ignoring her, while she heard the breath wheezing from his lungs; then silently he leaped. Glenister had hurled a man from him, then stepped back to avoid the others, when he was seized from behind and felt the man's arms wrapped about his neck, the sailor's legs locked about his thighs. Now came the girl's first knowledge of real fighting. The two spun back and forth so closely entwined as to be indistinguishable, the others holding off. For what seemed many minutes they struggled, the young man striving to reach his adversary, till they crashed against the wall near her and she heard her champion's breath coughing in his throat at the tightening grip of the sailor. Fright held her paralyzed, for she had never seen men thus. A moment and Glenister would be down beneath their stamping feet--they would kick his life out with their heavy shoes. At thought of it, the necessity of action smote her like a blow in the face. Her terror fell away, her shaking muscles stiffened, and before realizing what she did she had acted. The seaman's back was to her. She reached out and gripped him by the hair, while her fingers, tense as talons, sought his eyes. Then the first loud sound of the battle arose. The man yelled in sudden terror; and the others as suddenly fell back. The next instant she felt a hand upon her shoulder and heard Dextry's voice. "Are ye hurt? No? Come on, then, or we'll get left." He spoke quietly, though his breath was loud, and, glancing down, she saw the huddled form of the sailor whom he had fought. "That's all right--he ain't hurt. It's a Jap trick I learned. Hurry up!" They ran swiftly down the wharf, followed by Glenister and by the groans of the sailors in whom the lust for combat had been quenched. As they scrambled up the Santa Maria's gang-plank, a strip of water widened between the boat and the pier. "Close shave, that," panted Glenister, feeling his throat gingerly, "but I wouldn't have missed it for a spotted pup." "I've been through b'iler explosions and snowslides, not to mention a triflin' jail-delivery, but fer real sprightly diversions I don't recall nothin' more pleasin' than this." Dextry's enthusiasm was boylike. "What kind of men are you?" the girl laughed nervously, but got no answer. They led her to their deck cabin, where they switched on the electric light, blinking at each other and at their unknown guest. They saw a graceful and altogether attractive figure in a trim, short skirt and long, tan boots. But what Glenister first saw was her eyes; large and gray, almost brown under the electric light. They were active eyes, he thought, and they flashed swift, comprehensive glances at the two men. Her hair had fallen loose and crinkled to her waist, all agleam. Otherwise she showed no sign of her recent ordeal. Glenister had been prepared for the type of beauty that follows the frontier; beauty that may stun, but that has the polish and chill of a new-ground bowie. Instead, this girl with the calm, reposeful face struck a note almost painfully different from her surroundings, suggesting countless pleasant things that had been strange to him for the past few years. Pure admiration alone was patent in the older man's gaze. "I make oration," said he, "that you're the gamest little chap I ever fought over, Mexikin, Injun, or white. What's the trouble?" "I suppose you think I've done something dreadful, don't you?" she said. "But I haven't. I had to get away from the Ohio to-night for--certain reasons. I'll tell you all about it to-morrow. I haven't stolen anything, nor poisoned the crew--really I haven't." She smiled at them, and Glenister found it impossible not to smile with her, though dismayed by her feeble explanation. "Well, I'll wake up the steward and find a place for you to go," he said at length. "You'll have to double up with some of the women, though; it's awfully crowded aboard." She laid a detaining hand on his arm. He thought he felt her tremble. "No, no! I don't want you to do that. They mustn't see me to-night. I know I'm acting strangely and all that, but it's happened so quickly I haven't found myself yet. I'll tell you to-morrow, though, really. Don't let any one see me or it will spoil everything. Wait till to-morrow, please." She was very white, and spoke with eager intensity. "Help you? Why, sure Mike!" assured the impulsive Dextry, "an', see here, Miss--you take your time on explanations. We don't care a cuss what you done. Morals ain't our long suit, 'cause 'there's never a law of God or man runs north of Fifty-three,' as the poetry man remarked, an' he couldn't have spoke truer if he'd knowed what he was sayin'. Everybody is privileged to 'look out' his own game up here. A square deal an' no questions asked." She looked somewhat doubtful at this till she caught the heat of Glenister's gaze. Some boldness of his look brought home to her the actual situation, and a stain rose in her cheek. She noted him more carefully; noted his heavy shoulders and ease of bearing, an ease and looseness begotten of perfect muscular control. Strength was equally suggested in his face, she thought, for he carried a marked young countenance, with thrusting chin, aggressive thatching brows, and mobile mouth that whispered all the changes from strength to abandon. Prominent was a look of reckless energy. She considered him handsome in a heavy, virile, perhaps too purely physical fashion. "You want to stowaway?" he asked. "I've had a right smart experience in that line," said Dextry, "but I never done it by proxy. What's your plan?" "She will stay here to-night," said Glenister quickly. "You and I will go below. Nobody will see her." "I can't let you do that," she objected. "Isn't there some place where I can hide?" But they reassured her and left. When they had gone, she crouched trembling upon her seat for a long time, gazing fixedly before her. "I'm afraid!" she whispered; "I'm afraid. What am I getting into? Why do men look so at me? I'm frightened. Oh, I'm sorry I undertook it." At last she rose wearily. The close cabin oppressed her; she felt the need of fresh air. So, turning out the lights, she stepped forth into the night. Figures loomed near the rail and she slipped astern, screening herself behind a life-boat, where the cool breeze fanned her face. The forms she had seen approached, speaking earnestly. Instead of passing, they stopped abreast of her hiding-place; then, as they began to talk, she saw that her retreat was cut off and that she must not stir. "What brings her here?" Glenister was echoing a question of Dextry's. "Bah! What brings them all? What brought 'the Duchess,' and Cherry Malotte, and all the rest?" "No, no," said the old man. "She ain't that kind--she's too fine, too delicate--too pretty." "That's just it--too pretty! Too pretty to be alone--or anything except what she is." Dextry growled sourly. "This country has plumb ruined you, boy. You think they're all alike--an' I don't know but they are--all but this girl. Seems like she's different, somehow--but I can't tell." Glenister spoke musingly: "I had an ancestor who buccaneered among the Indies, a long time ago--so I'm told. Sometimes I think I have his disposition. He comes and whispers things to me in the night. Oh, he was a devil, and I've got his blood in me--untamed and hot--I can hear him saying something now--something about the spoils of war. Ha, ha! Maybe he's right. I fought for her to-night--Dex--the way he used to fight for his sweethearts along the Mexicos. She's too beautiful to be good--and 'there's never a law of God or man runs north of Fifty-three.'" They moved on, his vibrant, cynical laughter stabbing the girl till she leaned against the yawl for support. She held herself together while the blood beat thickly in her ears, then fled to the cabin, hurling herself into her berth, where she writhed silently, beating the pillow with hands into which her nails had bitten, staring the while into the darkness with dry and aching eyes. CHAPTER II THE STOWAWAY She awoke to the throb of the engines, and, gazing cautiously through her stateroom window, saw a glassy, level sea, with the sun brightly agleam on it. So this was Bering? She had clothed it always with the mystery of her school-days, thinking of it as a weeping, fog-bound stretch of gray waters. Instead, she saw a flat, sunlit main, with occasional sea-parrots flapping their fat bodies out of the ship's course. A glistening head popped up from the waters abreast, and she heard the cry of "seal!" Dressing, the girl noted minutely the personal articles scattered about the cabin, striving to derive therefrom some fresh hint of the characteristics of the owners. First, there was an elaborate, copper-backed toilet-set, all richly ornamented and leather-bound. The metal was magnificently hand-worked and bore Glenister's initial. It spoke of elegant extravagance, and seemed oddly out of place in an Arctic miner's equipment, as did also a small set of De Maupassant. Next, she picked up Kipling's Seven Seas, marked liberally, and felt that she had struck a scent. The roughness and brutality of the poems had always chilled her, though she had felt vaguely their splendid pulse and swing. This was the girl's first venture from a sheltered life. She had not rubbed elbows with the world enough to find that Truth may be rough, unshaven, and garbed in homespun. The book confirmed her analysis of the junior partner. Pendent from a hook was a worn and blackened holster from which peeped the butt of a large Colt's revolver, showing evidence of many years' service. It spoke mutely of the white-haired Dextry, who, before her inspection was over, knocked at the door, and, when she admitted him, addressed her cautiously: "The boy's down forrad, teasin' grub out of a flunky. He'll be up in a minute. How'd ye sleep?" "Very well, thank you," she lied, "but I've been thinking that I ought to explain myself to you." "Now, see here," the old man interjected, "there ain't no explanations needed till you feel like givin' them up. You was in trouble--that's unfortunate; we help you--that's natural; no questions asked--that's Alaska." "Yes--but I know you must think--" "What bothers me," the other continued irrelevantly, "is how in blazes we're goin' to keep you hid. The steward's got to make up this room, and somebody's bound to see us packin' grub in." "I don't care who knows if they won't send me back. They wouldn't do that, would they?" She hung anxiously on his words. "Send you back? Why, don't you savvy that this boat is bound for Nome? There ain't no turnin' back on gold stampedes, and this is the wildest rush the world ever saw. The captain wouldn't turn back--he couldn't--his cargo's too precious and the company pays five thousand a day for this ship. No, we ain't puttin' back to unload no stowaways at five thousand per. Besides, we passengers wouldn't let him--time's too precious." They were interrupted by the rattle of dishes outside, and Dextry was about to open the door when his hand wavered uncertainly above the knob, for he heard the hearty greeting of the ship's captain. "Well, well, Glenister, where's all the breakfast going?" "Oo!" whispered the old man--"that's Cap' Stephens." "Dextry isn't feeling quite up to form this morning," replied Glenister easily. "Don't wonder! Why weren't you aboard sooner last night? I saw you--'most got left, eh? Served you right if you had." Then his voice dropped to the confidential: "I'd advise you to cut out those women. Don't misunderstand me, boy, but they're a bad lot on this boat. I saw you come aboard. Take my word for it--they're a bad lot. Cut 'em out. Guess I'll step inside and see what's up with Dextry." The girl shrank into her corner, gazing apprehensively at the other listener. "Well--er--he isn't up yet," they heard Glenister stammer; "better come around later." "Nonsense; it's time he was dressed." The master's voice was gruffly good-natured. "Hello, Dextry! Hey! Open up for inspection." He rattled the door. There was nothing to be done. The old miner darted an inquiring glance at his companion, then, at her nod, slipped the bolt, and the captain's blue bulk filled the room. His grizzled, close-bearded face was genially wrinkled till he spied the erect, gray figure in the corner, when his cap came off involuntarily. There his courtesy ended, however, and the smile died coldly from his face. His eyes narrowed, and the good-fellowship fell away, leaving him the stiff and formal officer. "Ah," he said, "not feeling well, eh? I thought I had met all of our lady passengers. Introduce me, Dextry." Dextry squirmed under his cynicism. "Well--I--ah--didn't catch the name myself." "What?" "Oh, there ain't much to say. This is the lady--we brought aboard last night--that's all." "Who gave you permission?" "Nobody. There wasn't time." "There wasn't TIME, eh? Which one of you conceived the novel scheme of stowing away ladies in your cabin? Whose is she? Quick! Answer me." Indignation was vibrant in his voice. "Oh!" the girl cried--her eyes widening darkly. She stood slim and pale and slightly trembling. His words had cut her bitterly, though through it all he had scrupulously avoided addressing her. The captain turned to Glenister, who had entered and closed the door. "Is this your work? Is she yours?" "No," he answered quietly, while Dextry chimed in: "Better hear details, captain, before you make breaks like that. We helped the lady side-step some sailors last night and we most got left doing it. It was up to her to make a quick get-away, so we helped her aboard." "A poor story! What was she running away from?" He still addressed the men, ignoring her completely, till, with hoarse voice, she broke in: "You mustn't talk about me that way--I can answer your questions. It's true--I ran away. I had to. The sailors came after me and fought with these men. I had to get away quickly, and your friends helped me on here from gentlemanly kindness, because they saw me unprotected. They are still protecting me. I can't explain how important it is for me to reach Nome on the first boat, because it isn't my secret. It was important enough to make me leave my uncle at Seattle at an hour's notice when we found there was no one else who could go. That's all I can say. I took my maid with me, but the sailors caught her just as she was following me down the ship's ladder. She had my bag of clothes when they seized her. I cast off the rope and rowed ashore as fast as I could, but they lowered another boat and followed me." The captain eyed her sharply, and his grim lines softened a bit, for she was clean-cut and womanly, and utterly out of place, He took her in, shrewdly, detail by detail, then spoke directly to her: "My dear young lady--the other ships will get there just as quickly as ours, maybe more quickly. To-morrow we strike the ice-pack and then it is all a matter of luck." "Yes, but the ship I left won't get there." At this the commander started, and, darting a great, thick-fingered hand at her, spoke savagely: "What's that? What ship? Which one did you come from? Answer me." "The Ohio," she replied, with the effect of a hand-grenade. The master glared at her. "The Ohio! Good God! You DARE to stand there and tell me that?" He turned and poured his rage upon the others. "She says the Ohio, d'ye hear? You've ruined me! I'll put you in irons--all of you. The Ohio!" "What d'ye mean? What's up?" "What's up? There's small-pox aboard the Ohio! This girl has broken quarantine. The health inspectors bottled up the boat at six o'clock last night! That's why I pulled out of Unalaska ahead of time, to avoid any possible delay. Now we'll all be held up when we get to Nome. Great Heavens! do you realize what this means--bringing this hussy aboard?" His eyes burned and his voice shook, while the two partners stared at each other in dismay. Too well they knew the result of a small-pox panic aboard this crowded troop-ship. Not only was every available cabin bulging with passengers, but the lower decks were jammed with both humanity and live stock all in the most unsanitary conditions. The craft, built for three hundred passengers, was carrying triple her capacity; men and women were stowed away like cattle. Order and a half-tolerable condition were maintained only by the efforts of the passengers themselves, who held to the thought that imprisonment and inconvenience would last but a few days longer. They had been aboard three weeks and every heart was aflame with the desire to reach Nome--to reach it ahead of the pressing horde behind. What would be the temper of this gold-frenzied army if thrown into quarantine within sight of their goal? The impatient hundreds would have to lie packed in their floating prison, submitting to the foul disease. Long they must lie thus, till a month should have passed after the disappearance of the last symptom. If the disease recurred sporadically, that might mean endless weeks of maddening idleness. It might even be impossible to impose the necessary restraint; there would be violence, perhaps mutiny. The fear of the sickness was nothing to Dextry and Glenister, but of their mine they thought with terror. What would happen in their absence, where conditions were as unsettled as in this new land; where titles were held only by physical possession of the premises? During the long winter of their absence, ice had held their treasure inviolate, but with the warming summer the jewel they had fought for so wearily would lie naked and exposed to the first comer. The Midas lay in the valley of the richest creek, where men had schemed and fought and slain for the right to inches. It was the fruit of cheerless, barren years of toil, and if they could not guard it--they knew the result. The girl interrupted their distressing reflections. "Don't blame these men, sir," she begged the captain. "I am the only one at fault. Oh! I HAD to get away. I have papers here that must be delivered quickly." She laid a hand upon her bosom. "They couldn't be trusted to the unsettled mail service. It's almost life and death. And I assure you there is no need of putting me in quarantine. I haven't the smallpox. I wasn't even exposed to it." "There's nothing else to do," said Stephens. "I'll isolate you in the deck smoking-cabin. God knows what these madmen on board will do when they hear about it, though. They're apt to tear you to shreds. They're crazy!" Glenister had been thinking rapidly. "If you do that, you'll have mutiny in an hour. This isn't the crowd to stand that sort of thing." "Bah! Let 'em try it. I'll put 'em down." The officer's square jaws clicked. "Maybe so; but what then? We reach Nome and the Health Inspector hears of small-pox suspects, then we're all quarantined for thirty days; eight hundred of us. We'll lie at Egg Island all summer while your company pays five thousand a day for this ship. That's not all. The firm is liable in damages for your carelessness in letting disease aboard." "MY CARELESSNESS!" The old man ground his teeth. "Yes; that's what it amounts to. You'll ruin your owners, all right. You'll tie up your ship and lose your job, that's a cinch!" Captain Stephens wiped the moisture from his brow angrily. "My carelessness! Curse you--you say it well. Don't you realize that I am criminally liable if I don't take every precaution?" He paused for a moment, considering. "I'll hand her over to the ship's doctor." "See here, now," Glenister urged. "We'll be in Nome in a week--before the young lady would have time to show symptoms of the disease, even if she were going to have it--and a thousand to one she hasn't been exposed, and will never show a trace of it. Nobody knows she's aboard but we three. Nobody will see her get off. She'll stay in this cabin, which will be just as effectual as though you isolated her in any other part of the boat. It will avoid a panic--you'll save your ship and your company--no one will be the wiser--then if the girl comes down with small-pox after she gets ashore, she can go to the pest-house and not jeopardize the health of all the people aboard this ship. You go up forrad to your bridge, sir, and forget that you stepped in to see old Bill Dextry this morning. Well take care of this matter all right. It means as much to us as it does to you. We've GOT to be on Anvil Creek before the ground thaws or we'll lose the Midas. If you make a fuss, you'll ruin us all." For some moments they watched him breathlessly as he frowned in indecision, then-- "You'll have to look out for the steward," he said, and the girl sank to a stool while two great tears rolled down her cheeks. The captain's eyes softened and his voice was gentle as he laid his hand on her head. "Don't feel hurt over what I said, miss. You see, appearances don't tell much, hereabouts--most of the pretty ones are no good. They've fooled me many a time, and I made a mistake. These men will help you through; I can't. Then when you get to Nome, make your sweetheart marry you the day you land. You are too far north to be alone." He stepped out into the passage and closed the door carefully. CHAPTER III IN WHICH GLENISTER ERRS "Well, bein' as me an' Glenister is gougin' into the bowels of Anvil Creek all last summer, we don't really get the fresh-grub habit fastened on us none. You see, the gamblers down-town cop out the few aigs an' green vegetables that stray off the ships, so they never get out as far as the Creek none; except, maybe, in the shape of anecdotes. "We don't get intimate with no nutriments except hog-boosum an' brown beans, of which luxuries we have unstinted measure, an' bein' as this is our third year in the country we hanker for bony fido grub, somethin' scan'lous. Yes, ma'am--three years without a taste of fresh fruit nor meat nor nuthin'--except pork an' beans. Why, I've et bacon till my immortal soul has growed a rind. "When it comes time to close down the claim, the boy is sick with the fever an' the only ship in port is a Point Barrow whaler, bound for Seattle. After I book our passage, I find they have nothin' aboard to eat except canned salmon, it bein' the end of a two years' cruise, so when I land in the States after seventeen days of a fish diet, I am what you might call sated with canned grub, and have added salmon to the list of things concernin' which I am goin' to economize. "Soon's ever I get the boy into a hospital, I gallop up to the best restarawnt in town an' prepare for the huge pot-latch. This here, I determine, is to be a gormandizin' jag which shall live in hist'ry, an' wharof in later years the natives of Puget Sound shall speak with bated breath. "First, I call for five dollars' worth of pork an' beans an' then a full-grown platter of canned salmon. When the waiter lays 'em out in front of me, I look them vittles coldly in their disgustin' visages, an' say in sarcastic accents: "'Set there, damn you! an' watch me eat REAL grub,' which I proceed to do, cleanin' the menu from soda to hock. When I have done my worst, I pile bones an' olive seeds an' peelin's all over them articles of nourishment, stick toothpicks into 'em, an' havin' offered 'em what other indignities occur to me, I leave the place." Dextry and the girl were leaning over the stern-rail, chatting idly in the darkness. It was the second night out and the ship lay dead in the ice-pack. All about them was a flat, floe-clogged sea, leprous and mottled in the deep twilight that midnight brought in this latitude. They had threaded into the ice-field as long as the light lasted, following the lanes of blue water till they closed, then drifting idly till others appeared; worming out into leagues of open sea, again creeping into the shifting labyrinth till darkness rendered progress perilous. Occasionally they had passed herds of walrus huddled sociably upon ice-pans, their wet hides glistening in the sunlight. The air had been clear and pleasant, while away on all quarters they had seen the smoke of other ships toiling through the barrier. The spring fleet was knocking at the door of the Golden North. Chafing at her imprisonment, the girl had asked the old man to take her out on deck under the shelter of darkness; then she had led him to speak of his own past experiences, and of Glenister's; which he had done freely. She was frankly curious about them, and she wondered at their apparent lack of interest in her own identity and her secret mission. She even construed their silence as indifference, not realizing that these Northmen were offering her the truest evidence of camaraderie. The frontier is capable of no finer compliment than this utter disregard of one's folded pages. It betokens that highest faith in one's fellow-man, the belief that he should be measured by his present deeds, not by his past. It says, translated: "This is God's free country where a man is a man, nothing more. Our land is new and pure, our faces are to the front. If you have been square, so much the better; if not, leave behind the taints of artificial things and start again on the level--that's all." It had happened, therefore, that since the men had asked her no questions, she had allowed the hours to pass and still hesitated to explain further than she had explained to Captain Stephens. It was much easier to let things continue as they were; and there was, after all, so little that she was at liberty to tell them. In the short time since meeting them, the girl had grown to like Dextry, with his blunt chivalry and boyish, whimsical philosophy, but she avoided Glenister, feeling a shrinking, hidden terror of him, ever since her eavesdropping of the previous night. At the memory of that scene she grew hot, then cold--hot with anger, icy at the sinister power and sureness which had vibrated in his voice. What kind of life was she entering where men spoke of strange women with this assurance and hinted thus of ownership? That he was handsome and unconscious of it, she acknowledged, and had she met him in her accustomed circle of friends, garbed in the conventionalities, she would perhaps have thought of him as a striking man, vigorous and intelligent; but here he seemed naturally to take on the attributes of his surroundings, acquiring a picturesque negligee of dress and morals, and suggesting rugged, elemental, chilling potentialities. While with him--and he had sought her repeatedly that day--she was uneasily aware of his strong personality tugging at her; aware of the unbridled passionate flood of a nature unbrooking of delay and heedless of denial. This it was that antagonized her and set her every mental sinew in rigid resistance. During Dextry's garrulous ramblings, Glenister emerged from the darkness and silently took his place beside her, against the rail. "What portent do you see that makes you stare into the night so anxiously?" he inquired. "I am wishing for a sight of the midnight sun or the aurora borealis," she replied. "Too late for one an' too fur south for the other," Dextry interposed. "We'll see the sun further north, though." "Have you ever heard the real origin of the Northern Lights?" the young man inquired. "Naturally, I never have," she answered. "Well, here it is. I have it from the lips of a great hunter of the Tananas. He told it to me when I was sick, once, in his cabin, and inasmuch as he is a wise Indian and has a reputation for truth, I have no doubt that it is scrupulously correct. "In the very old days, before the white man or corned beef had invaded this land, the greatest tribe in all the North was the Tananas. The bravest hunter of these was Itika, the second chief. He could follow a moose till it fell exhausted in the snow and he had many belts made from the claws of the brown bear which is deadly wicked and, as every one knows, inhabited by the spirits of 'Yabla-men,' or devils. "One winter a terrible famine settled over the Tanana Valley. The moose departed from the gulches and the caribou melted from the hills like mist. The dogs grew gaunt and howled all night, the babies cried, the women became hollow-eyed and peevish. "Then it was that Itika decided to go hunting over the saw-tooth range which formed the edge of the world. They tried to dissuade him, saying it was certain death because a pack of monstrous white wolves, taller than the moose and swifter than the eagle, was known to range these mountains, running madly in chase. Always, on clear, cold nights, could be seen the flashing of the moonbeams from their gleaming hungry sides, and although many hunters had crossed the passes in other years, they never returned, for the pack slew them. "Nothing could deter Itika, however, so he threaded his way up through the range and, night coming, burrowed into a drift to sleep in his caribou-skin. Peering out into the darkness, he saw the flashing lights a thousand times brighter than ever before. The whole heavens were ablaze with shifting streamers that raced and writhed back and forth in wild revel. Listening, he heard the hiss and whine of dry snow under the feet of the pack, and a distant noise as of rushing winds, although the air was deathly still. "With daylight, he proceeded through the range, till he came out above a magnificent valley. Descending the slope, he entered a forest of towering spruce, while on all sides the snow was trampled with tracks as wide as a snow-shoe. There came to him a noise which, as he proceeded, increased till it filled the woods. It was a frightful din, as though a thousand wolves were howling with the madness of the kill. Cautiously creeping nearer, he found a monstrous white animal struggling beneath a spruce which had fallen upon it in such fashion as to pinion it securely. "All brave men are tender-hearted, so Itika set to work with his axe and cleared away the burden, regardless of the peril to himself. When he had released it, the beast arose and instead of running away addressed him in the most polite and polished Indian, without a trace of accent. "'You have saved my life. Now, what can I do for you?' "'I want to hunt in this valley. My people are starving,' said Itika, at which the wolf was greatly pleased and rounded up the rest of the pack to help in the kill. "Always thereafter when Itika came to the valley of the Yukon the giant drove hunted with him. To this day they run through the mountains on cold, clear nights, in a multitude, while the light of the moon flickers from their white sides, flashing up into the sky in weird, fantastic figures. Some people call it Northern Lights, but old Isaac assured me earnestly, toothlessly, and with the light of ancient truth, as I lay snow-blind in his lodge, that it is nothing more remarkable than the spirit of Itika and the great white wolves." "What a queer legend!" she said. "There must be many of them in this country. I feel that I am going to like the North." "Perhaps you will," Glenister replied, "although it is not a woman's land." "Tell me what led you out here in the first place. You are an Eastern man. You have had advantages, education--and yet you choose this. You must love the North." "Indeed I do! It calls to a fellow in some strange way that a gentler country never could. When once you've lived the long, lazy June days that never end, and heard geese honking under a warm, sunlit midnight; or when once you've hit the trail on a winter morning so sharp and clear that the air stings your lungs, and the whole white, silent world glistens like a jewel; yes--and when you've seen the dogs romping in harness till the sled runners ring; and the distant mountain-ranges come out like beautiful carvings, so close you can reach them--well, there's something in it that brings you back--that's all, no matter where you've lost yourself. It means health and equality and unrestraint. That's what I like best, I dare say--the utter unrestraint. "When I was a school-boy, I used to gaze at the map of Alaska for hours. I'd lose myself in it. It wasn't anything but a big, blank corner in the North then, with a name, and mountains, and mystery. The word 'Yukon' suggested to me everything unknown and weird--hairy mastodons, golden river bars, savage Indians with bone arrow-heads and seal-skin trousers. When I left college I came as fast as ever I could--the adventure, I suppose.... "The law was considered my destiny. How the shades of old Choate and Webster and Patrick Henry must have wailed when I forswore it. I'll bet Blackstone tore his whiskers." "I think you would have made a success," said the girl, but he laughed. "Well, anyhow, I stepped out, leaving the way to the United States Supreme bench unobstructed, and came North. I found it was where I belonged. I fitted in. I'm not contented--don't think that. I'm ambitious, but I prefer these surroundings to the others--that's all. I'm realizing my desires. I've made a fortune--now I'll see what else the world has." He suddenly turned to her. "See here," he abruptly questioned, "what's your name?" She started, and glanced towards where Dextry had stood, only to find that the old frontiersman had slipped away during the tale. "Helen Chester," she replied. "Helen Chester," he repeated, musingly. "What a pretty name! It seems almost a pity to change it--to marry, as you will." "I am not going to Nome to get married." He glanced at her quickly. "Then you won't like this country. You are two years too early; you ought to wait till there are railroads and telephones, and tables d'hote, and chaperons. It's a man's country yet." "I don't see why it isn't a woman's country, too. Surely we can take a part in taming it. Yonder on the Oregon is a complete railroad, which will be running from the coast to the mines in a few weeks. Another ship back there has the wire and poles and fixings for a telephone system, which will go up in a night. As to tables d'hote, I saw a real French count in Seattle with a monocle. He's bringing in a restaurant outfit, imported snails, and pate de joies gras. All that's wanting is the chaperon. In my flight from the Ohio I left mine. The sailors caught her. You see I am not far ahead of schedule." "What part are you going to take in this taming process?" he asked. She paused long before replying, and when she did her answer sounded like a jest. "I herald the coming of the law," she said. "The law! Bah! Red tape, a dead language, and a horde of shysters! I'm afraid of law in this land; we're too new and too far away from things. It puts too much power in too few hands. Heretofore we men up here have had recourse to our courage and our Colts, but we'll have to unbuckle them both when the law comes. I like the court that hasn't any appeal." He laid hand upon his hip. "The Colts may go, but the courage never will," she broke in. "Perhaps. But I've heard rumors already of a plot to prostitute the law. In Unalaska a man warned Dextry, with terror in his eye, to beware of it; that beneath the cloak of Justice was a drawn dagger whetted for us fellows who own the rich diggings. I don't think there's any truth in it, but you can't tell." "The law is the foundation--there can't be any progress without it. There is nothing here now but disorder." "There isn't half the disorder you think there is. There weren't any crimes in this country till the tenderfeet arrived. We didn't know what a thief was. If you came to a cabin you walked in without knocking. The owner filled up the coffee-pot and sliced into the bacon; then when he'd started your meal, he shook hands and asked your name. It was just the same whether his cache was full or whether he'd packed his few pounds of food two hundred miles on his back. That was hospitality to make your Southern article look pretty small. If there was no one at home, you ate what you needed. There was but one unpardonable breach of etiquette--to fail to leave dry kindlings. I'm afraid of the transitory stage we're coming to--that epoch of chaos between the death of the old and the birth of the new. Frankly, I like the old way best. I love the license of it. I love to wrestle with nature; to snatch, and guard, and fight for what I have. I've been beyond the law for years and I want to stay there, where life is just what it was intended to be--a survival of the fittest." His large hands, as he gripped the bulwark, were tense and corded, while his rich voice issued softly from his chest with the hint of power unlimited behind it. He stood over her, tall, virile, and magnetic. She saw now why he had so joyously hailed the fight of the previous night; to one of his kind it was as salt air to the nostrils. Unconsciously she approached him, drawn by the spell of his strength. "My pleasures are violent and my hate is mighty bitter in my mouth. What I want, I take. That's been my way in the old life, and I'm too selfish to give it up." He was gazing out upon the dimly lucent miles of ice; but now he turned towards her, and, doing so, touched her warm hand next his on the rail. She was staring up at him unaffectedly, so close that the faint odor from her hair reached him. Her expression was simply one of wonder and curiosity at this type, so different from any she had known. But the man's eyes were hot and blinded with the sight of her, and he felt only her beauty heightened in the dim light, the brush of her garments, and the small, soft hand beneath his. The thrill from the touch of it surged over him--mastered him. "What I want--I take," he repeated, and then suddenly he reached forth and, taking her in his arms, crushed her to him, kissing her softly, fiercely, full upon the lips. For an instant she lay gasping and stunned against his breast, then she tore her fist free and, with all her force, struck him full in the face. It was as though she beat upon a stone. With one movement he forced her arm to her side, smiling into her terrified eyes; then, holding her like iron, he kissed her again and again upon the mouth, the eyes, the hair--and released her. "I am going to love you--Helen," said he. "And may God strike me dead if I ever stop HATING you!" she cried, her voice coming thick and hoarse with passion. Turning, she walked proudly forward towards her cabin, a trim, straight, haughty figure; and he did not know that her knees were shaking and weak. CHAPTER IV THE KILLING For four days the Santa Maria felt blindly through the white fields, drifting north with the spring tide that sets through Behring Strait, till, on the morning of the fifth, open water showed to the east. Creeping through, she broke out into the last stage of the long race, amid the cheers of her weary passengers; and the dull jar of her engines made welcome music to the girl in the deck state-room. Soon they picked up a mountainous coast which rose steadily into majestic, barren ranges, still white with the melting snows; and at ten in the evening under a golden sunset, amid screaming whistles, they anchored in the roadstead of Nome. Before the rumble of her chains had ceased or the echo from the fleet's salute had died from the shoreward hills, the ship was surrounded by a swarm of tiny craft clamoring about her iron sides, while an officer in cap and gilt climbed the bridge and greeted Captain Stephens. Tugs with trailing lighters circled discreetly about, awaiting the completion of certain formalities. These over, the uniformed gentleman dropped back into his skiff and rowed away. "A clean bill of health, captain," he shouted, saluting the commander. "Thank ye, sir," roared the sailor, and with that the row-boats swarmed inward pirate-like, boarding the steamer from all quarters. As the master turned, he looked down from his bridge to the deck below, full into the face of Dextry, who had been an intent witness of the meeting. With unbending dignity, Captain Stephens let his left eyelid droop slowly, while a boyish grin spread widely over his face. Simultaneously, orders rang sharp and fast from the bridge, the crew broke into feverish life, the creak of booms and the clank of donkey-hoists arose. "We're here, Miss Stowaway," said Glenister, entering the girl's cabin. "The inspector passed us and it's time for you to see the magic city. Come, it's a wonderful sight." This was the first time they had been alone since the scene on the after-deck, for, besides ignoring Glenister, she had managed that he should not even see her except in Dextry's presence. Although he had ever since been courteous and considerate, she felt the leaping emotions that were hidden within him and longed to leave the ship, to fly from the spell of his personality. Thoughts of him made her writhe, and yet when he was near she could not hate him as she willed--he overpowered her, he would not be hated, he paid no heed to her slights. This very quality reminded her how willingly and unquestioningly he had fought off the sailors from the Ohio at a word from her. She knew he would do so again, and more, and it is hard to be bitter to one who would lay down his life for you, even though he has offended--particularly when he has the magnetism that sweeps you away from your moorings. "There's no danger of being seen," he continued, "The crowd's crazy, and, besides, we'll go ashore right away. You must be mad with the confinement--it's on my nerves, too." As they stepped outside, the door of an adjacent cabin opened, framing an angular, sharp-featured woman, who, catching sight of the girl emerging from Glenister's state-room, paused with shrewdly narrowed eyes, flashing quick, malicious glances from one to the other. They came later to remember with regret this chance encounter, for it was fraught with grave results for them both. "Good evening, Mr. Glenister," the lady said with acid cordiality. "Howdy, Mrs. Champian?" He moved away. She followed a step, staring at Helen. "Are you going ashore to-night or wait for morning?" "Don't know yet, I'm sure." Then aside to the girl he muttered, "Shake her, she's spying on us." "Who is she?" asked Miss Chester, a moment later. "Her husband manages one of the big companies. She's an old cat." Gaining her first view of the land, the girl cried out, sharply. They rode on an oily sea, tinted like burnished copper, while on all sides, amid the faint rattle and rumble of machinery, scores of ships were belching cargoes out upon living swarms of scows, tugs, stern-wheelers, and dories. Here and there Eskimo oomiaks, fat, walrus-hide boats, slid about like huge, many-legged water-bugs. An endless, ant-like stream of tenders, piled high with freight, plied to and from the shore. A mile distant lay the city, stretched like a white ribbon between the gold of the ocean sand and the dun of the moss-covered tundra. It was like no other in the world. At first glance it seemed all made of new white canvas. In a week its population had swelled from three to thirty thousand. It now wandered in a slender, sinuous line along the coast for miles, because only the beach afforded dry camping ground. Mounting to the bank behind, one sank knee-deep in moss and water, and, treading twice in the same tracks, found a bog of oozing, icy mud. Therefore, as the town doubled daily in size, it grew endwise like a string of dominoes, till the shore from Cape Nome to Penny River was a long reach of white, glinting in the low rays of the arctic sunset like foamy breakers on a tropic island. "That's Anvil Creek up yonder," said Glenister. "There's where the Midas lies. See!" He indicated a gap in the buttress of mountains rolling back from the coast. "It's the greatest creek in the world. You'll see gold by the mule-load, and hillocks of nuggets. Oh, I'm glad to get back. THIS is life. That stretch of beach is full of gold. These hills are seamed with quartz. The bed-rock of that creek is yellow. There's gold, gold, gold, everywhere--more than ever was in old Solomon's mines--and there's mystery and peril and things unknown." "Let us make haste," said the girl. "I have something I must do to-night. After that, I can learn to know these things." Securing a small boat, they were rowed ashores the partners plying their ferryman with eager questions. Having arrived five days before, he was exploding with information and volunteered the fruits of his ripe experience till Dextry stated that they were "sourdoughs" themselves, and owned the Midas, whereupon Miss Chester marvelled at the awe which sat upon the man and the wondering stare with which he devoured the partners, to her own utter exclusion. "Sufferin' cats! Look at the freight!" ejaculated Dextry. "If a storm come up it would bust the community!" The beach they neared was walled and crowded to the high-tide mark with ramparts of merchandise, while every incoming craft deposited its quota upon whatever vacant foot was close at hand, till bales, boxes, boilers, and baggage of all kinds were confusedly intermixed in the narrow space. Singing longshoremen trundled burdens from the lighters and piled them on the heap, while yelling, cursing crowds fought over it all, selecting, sorting, loading. There was no room for more, yet hourly they added to the mass. Teams splashed through the lapping surf or stuck in the deep sand between hillocks of goods. All was noise, profanity, congestion, and feverish hurry. This burning haste rang in the voice of the multitude, showed in its violence of gesture and redness of face, permeated the atmosphere with a magnetic, electrifying energy. "It's somethin' fierce ashore," said the oarsman. "I been up fer three days an' nights steady--there ain't no room, nor time, nor darkness to sleep in. Ham an' eggs is a dollar an' a half, an' whiskey's four bits a throw." He wailed the last, sadly, as a complaint unspeakable. "Any trouble doin'?" inquired the old man. "You KNOW it!" the other cried, colloquially. "There was a massacree in the Northern last night." "Gamblin' row?" "Yep. Tin-horn called 'Missou' done it." "Sho!" said Dextry. "I know him. He's a bad actor." All three men nodded sagely, and the girl wished for further light, but they volunteered no explanation. Leaving the skiff, they plunged into turmoil. Dodging through the tangle, they came out into fenced lots where tents stood wall to wall and every inch was occupied. Here and there was a vacant spot guarded jealously by its owner, who gazed sourly upon all men with the forbidding eye of suspicion. Finding an eddy in the confusion, the men stopped. "Where do you want to go?" they asked Miss Chester. There was no longer in Glenister's glance that freedom with which he had come to regard the women of the North. He had come to realize dully that here was a girl driven by some strong purpose into a position repellent to her. In a man of his type, her independence awoke only admiration and her coldness served but to inflame him the more. Delicacy, in Glenister, was lost in a remarkable singleness of purpose. He could laugh at her loathing, smile under her abuse, and remain utterly ignorant that anything more than his action in seizing her that night lay at the bottom of her dislike. He did not dream that he possessed characteristics abhorrent to her; and he felt a keen reluctance at parting. She extended both hands. "I can never thank you enough for what you have done--you two; but I shall try. Good-bye!" Dextry gazed doubtfully at his own hand, rough and gnarly, then taking hers as he would have handled a robin's egg, waggled it limply. "We ain't goin' to turn you adrift this-a-way. Whatever your destination is, we'll see you to it." "I can find my friends," she assured him. "This is the wrong latitude in which to dispute a lady, but knowin' this camp from soup to nuts, as I do, I su'gests a male escort." "Very well! I wish to find Mr. Struve, of Dunham & Struve, lawyers." "I'll take you to their offices," said Glenister. "You see to the baggage, Dex. Meet me at the Second Class in half an hour and we'll run out to the Midas." They pushed through the tangle of tents, past piles of lumber, and emerged upon the main thoroughfare, which ran parallel to the shore. Nome consisted of one narrow street, twisted between solid rows of canvas and half-erected frame buildings, its every other door that of a saloon. There were fair-looking blocks which aspired to the dizzy height of three stories, some sheathed in corrugated iron, others gleaming and galvanized. Lawyers' signs, doctors', surveyors', were in the upper windows. The street was thronged with men from every land--Helen Chester heard more dialects than she could count. Laplanders in quaint, three-cornered, padded caps idled past. Men with the tan of the tropics rubbed elbows with yellow-haired Norsemen, and near her a carefully groomed Frenchman with riding-breeches and monocle was in pantomime with a skin-clad Eskimo. To her left was the sparkling sea, alive with ships of every class. To her right towered timberless mountains, unpeopled, unexplored, forbidding, and desolate--their hollows inlaid with snow. On one hand were the life and the world she knew; on the other, silence, mystery, possible adventure. The roadway where she stood was a crush of sundry vehicles from bicycles to dog-hauled water-carts, and on all sides men were laboring busily, the echo of hammers mingling with the cries of teamsters and the tinkle of music within the saloons. "And this is midnight!" exclaimed Helen, breathlessly. "Do they ever rest?" "There isn't time--this is a gold stampede. You haven't caught the spirit of it yet." They climbed the stairs in a huge, iron-sheeted building to the office of Dunham. "Anybody else here besides you?" asked her escort of the lawyer. "No. I'm runnin' the law business unassisted. Don't need any help. Dunham's in Wash'n'ton, D. C., the lan' of the home, the free of the brave. What can I do for you?" He made to cross the threshold hospitably, but tripped, plunged forward, and would have rolled down the stairs had not Glenister gathered him up and borne him back into the office, where he tossed him upon a bed in a rear room. "Now what, Miss Chester?" asked the young man, returning. "Isn't that dreadful?" she shuddered. "Oh, and I must see him to-night!" She stamped impatiently. "I must see him alone." "No, you mustn't," said Glenister, with equal decision. "In the first place, he wouldn't know what you were talking about, and in the second place--I know Struve. He's too drunk to talk business and too sober to--well, to see you alone." "But I MUST see him," she insisted. "It's what brought me here. You don't understand." "I understand more than he could. He's in no condition to act on any important matter. You come around to-morrow when he's sober." "It means so much," breathed the girl. "The beast!" Glenister noted that she had not wrung her hands nor even hinted at tears, though plainly her disappointment and anxiety were consuming her. "Well, I suppose I'll have to wait, but I don't know where to go--some hotel, I suppose." "There aren't any. They're building two, but to-night you couldn't hire a room in Nome for money. I was about to say 'love or money.' Have you no other friends here--no women? Then you must let me find a place for you. I have a friend whose wife will take you in." She rebelled at this. Was she never to have done with this man's favors? She thought of returning to the ship, but dismissed that. She undertook to decline his aid, but he was half-way down the stairs and paid no attention to her beginning--so she followed him. It was then that Helen Chester witnessed her first tragedy of the frontier, and through it came to know better the man whom she disliked and with whom she had been thrown so fatefully. Already she had thrilled at the spell of this country, but she had not learned that strength and license carry blood and violence as corollaries. Emerging from the doorway at the foot of the stairs, they drifted slowly along the walk, watching the crowd. Besides the universal tension, there were laughter and hope and exhilaration in the faces. The enthusiasm of this boyish multitude warmed one. The girl wished to get into this spirit--to be one of them. Then suddenly from the babble at their elbows came a discordant note, not long nor loud, only a few words, penetrating and harsh with the metallic quality lent by passion. Helen glanced over her shoulder to find that the smiles of the throng were gone and that its eyes were bent on some scene in the street, with an eager interest she had never seen mirrored before. Simultaneously Glenister spoke: "Come away from here." With the quickened eye of experience he foresaw trouble and tried to drag her on, but she shook off his grasp impatiently, and, turning, gazed absorbed at the spectacle which unfolded itself before her. Although not comprehending the play of events, she felt vaguely the quick approach of some crisis, yet was unprepared for the swiftness with which it came. Her eyes had leaped to the figures of two men in the street from whom the rest had separated like oil from water. One was slim and well dressed; the other bulky, mackinawed, and lowering of feature. It was the smaller who spoke, and for a moment she misjudged his bloodshot eyes and swaying carriage to be the result of alcohol, until she saw that he was racked with fury. "Make good, I tell you, quick! Give me that bill of sale, you--." The unkempt man swung on his heel with a growl and walked away, his course leading him towards Glenister and the girl. With two strides he was abreast of them; then, detecting the flashing movement of the other, he whirled like a wild animal. His voice had the snarl of a beast in it. "Ye had to have it, didn't ye? Well, there!" The actions of both men were quick as light, yet to the girl's taut senses they seemed theatrical and deliberate. Into her mind was seared forever the memory of that second, as though the shutter of a camera had snapped, impressing upon her brain the scene, sharp, clear-cut, and vivid. The shaggy back of the large man almost brushing her, the rage-drunken, white shirted man in the derby hat, the crowd sweeping backward like rushes before a blast, men with arms flexed and feet raised in flight, the glaring yellow sign of the "Gold Belt Dance Hall" across the way--these were stamped upon her retina, and then she was jerked violently backward, two strong arms crushed her down upon her knees against the wall, and she was smothered in the arms of Roy Glenister. "My God! Don't move! We're in line!" He crouched over her, his cheek against her hair, his weight forcing her down into the smallest compass, his arms about her, his body forming a living shield against the flying bullets. Over them the big man stood, and the sustained roar of his gun was deafening. In an instant they heard the thud and felt the jar of lead in the thin boards against which they huddled. Again the report echoed above their heads, and they saw the slender man in the street drop his weapon and spin half round as though hit with some heavy hand. He uttered a cry and, stooping for his gun, plunged forward, burying his face in the sand. The man by Glenister's side shouted curses thickly, and walked towards his prostrate enemy, firing at every step. The wounded man rolled to his side, and, raising himself on his elbow, shot twice, so rapidly that the reports blended--but without checking his antagonist's approach. Four more times the relentless assailant fired deliberately, his last missile sent as he stood over the body which twitched and shuddered at his feet, its garments muddy and smeared. Then he turned and retraced his steps. Back within arm's-length of the two who pressed against the building he came, and as he went by they saw his coarse and sullen features drawn and working pallidly, while the breath whistled through his teeth. He held his course to the door they had just quitted, then as he turned he coughed bestially, spitting out a mouthful of blood. His knees wavered. He vanished within the portals and, in the sickly silence that fell, they heard his hob-nailed boots clumping slowly up the stairs. Noise awoke and rioted down the thoroughfare. Men rushed forth from every quarter, and the ghastly object in the dirt was hidden by a seething mass of miners. Glenister raised the girl, but her head rolled limply, and she would have slipped to her knees again had he not placed his arm about her waist. Her eyes were staring and horror-filled. "Don't be frightened," said he, smiling at her reassuringly; but his own lips shook and the sweat stood out like dew on him; for they had both been close to death. There came a surge and swirl through the crowd, and Dextry swooped upon them like a hawk. "Be ye hurt? Holy Mackinaw! When I see 'em blaze away I yells at ye fit to bust my throat. I shore thought you was gone. Although I can't say but this killin' was a sight for sore eyes--so neat an' genteel--still, as a rule, in these street brawls it's the innocuous bystander that has flowers sent around to his house afterwards." "Look at this," said Glenister. Breast-high in the wall against which they had crouched, not three feet apart, were bullet holes. "Them's the first two he unhitched," Dextry remarked, jerking his head towards the object in the street. "Must have been a new gun an' pulled hard--throwed him to the right. See!" Even to the girl it was patent that, had she not been snatched as she was, the bullet would have found her. "Come away quick," she panted, and they led her into a near-by store, where she sank upon a seat and trembled until Dextry brought her a glass of whiskey. "Here, Miss," he said. "Pretty tough go for a 'cheechako.' I'm afraid you ain't gettin' enamoured of this here country a whole lot." For half an hour he talked to her, in his whimsical way, of foreign things, till she was quieted. Then the partners arose to go. Although Glenister had arranged for her to stop with the wife of the merchant for the rest of the night, she would not. "I can't go to bed. Please don't leave me! I'm too nervous. I'll go MAD if you do. The strain of the last week has been too much for me. If I sleep I'll see the faces of those men again." Dextry talked with his companion, then made a purchase which he laid at the lady's feet. "Here's a pair of half-grown gum boots. You put 'em on an' come with us. We'll take your mind off of things complete. An' as fer sweet dreams, when you get back you'll make the slumbers of the just seem as restless as a riot, or the antics of a mountain-goat which nimbly leaps from crag to crag, and--well, that's restless enough. Come on!" As the sun slanted up out of Behring Sea, they marched back towards the hills, their feet ankle-deep in the soft fresh moss, while the air tasted like a cool draught and a myriad of earthy odors rose up and encircled them. Snipe and reed birds were noisy in the hollows and from the misty tundra lakes came the honking of brant. After their weary weeks on shipboard, the dewy freshness livened them magically, cleansing from their memories the recent tragedy, so that the girl became herself again. "Where are we going?" she asked, at the end of an hour, pausing for breath. "Why, to the Midas, of course," they said; and one of them vowed recklessly, as he drank in the beauty of her clear eyes and the grace of her slender, panting form, that he would gladly give his share of all its riches to undo what he had done one night on the Santa Maria. CHAPTER V WHEREIN A MAN APPEARS In the lives of countries there are crises where, for a breath, destinies lie in the laps of the gods and are jumbled, heads or tails. Thus are marked distinctive cycles like the seven ages of a man, and though, perhaps, they are too subtle to be perceived at the time, yet, having swung past the shadowy milestones, the epochs disclose themselves. Such a period in the progress of the Far Northwest was the nineteenth day of July, although to those concerned in the building of this new empire the day appealed only as the date of the coming of the law. All Nome gathered on the sands as lighters brought ashore Judge Stillman and his following. It was held fitting that the Senator should be the ship to safeguard the dignity of the first court and to introduce Justice into this land of the wild. The interest awakened by His Honor was augmented by the fact that he was met on the beach by a charming girl, who flung herself upon him with evident delight. "That's his niece," said some one. "She came up on the first boat--name's Chester--swell looker, eh?" Another new-comer attracted even more notice than the limb of the law; a gigantic, well-groomed man, with keen, close-set eyes, and that indefinable easy movement and polished bearing that come from confidence, health, and travel. Unlike the others, he did not dally on the beach nor display much interest in his surroundings; but, with purposeful frown strode through the press, up into the heart of the city. His companion was Struve's partner, Dunham, a middle-aged, pompous man. They went directly to the offices of Dunham & Struve, where they found the white-haired junior partner. "Mighty glad to meet you, Mr. McNamara," said Struve. "Your name is a household word in my part of the country. My people were mixed up in Dakota politics somewhat, so I've always had a great admiration for you and I'm glad you've come to Alaska. This is a big country and we need big men." "Did you have any trouble?" Dunham inquired when the three had adjourned to a private room. "Trouble," said Struve, ruefully; "well, I wonder if I did. Miss Chester brought me your instructions O.K. and I got busy right off. But, tell me this--how did you get the girl to act as messenger?" "There was no one else to send," answered McNamara. "Dunham intended sailing on the first boat, but he was detained in Washington with, me, and the Judge had to wait for us at Seattle. We were afraid to trust a stranger for fear he might get curious and examine the papers. That would have meant--" He moved his hand eloquently. Struve nodded. "I see. Does she know what was in the documents?" "Decidedly not. Women and business don't mix. I hope you didn't tell her anything." "No; I haven't had a chance. She seemed to take a dislike to me for some reason, I haven't seen her since the day after she got here." "The Judge told her it had something to do with preparing the way for his court," said Dunham, "and that if the papers were not delivered before he arrived it might cause a lot of trouble--litigation, riots, bloodshed, and all that. He filled her up on generalities till the girl was frightened to death and thought the safety of her uncle and the whole country depended on her." "Well," continued Struve, "it's dead easy to hire men to jump claims and it's dead easy to buy their rights afterwards, particularly when they know they haven't got any--but what course do you follow when owners go gunning for you?" McNamara laughed. "Who did that?" "A benevolent, silver-haired old Texan pirate by the name of Dextry. He's one half owner in the Midas and the other half mountain-lion; as peaceable, you'd imagine, as a benediction, but with the temperament of a Geronimo. I sent Galloway out to relocate the claim, and he got his notices up in the night when they were asleep, but at 6 A.M. he came flying back to my room and nearly hammered the door down. I've seen fright in varied forms and phases, but he had them all, with some added starters. "'Hide me out, quick!' he panted. "'What's up?' I asked. "'I've stirred up a breakfast of grizzly bear, smallpox, and sudden death and it don't set well on my stummick. Let me in.' "I had to keep him hidden three days, for this gentle-mannered old cannibal roamed the streets with a cannon in his hand, breathing fire and pestilence." "Anybody else act up?" queried Dunham. "No; all the rest are Swedes and they haven't got the nerve to fight. They couldn't lick a spoon if they tried. These other men are different, though. There are two of them, the old one and a young fellow. I'm a little afraid to mix it up with them, and if their claim wasn't the best in the district, I'd say let it alone." "I'll attend to that," said McNamara. Struve resumed: "Yes, gentlemen, I've been working pretty hard and also pretty much in the dark so far. I'm groping for light. When Miss Chester brought in the papers I got busy instanter. I clouded the title to the richest placers in the region, but I'm blamed if I quite see the use of it. We'd be thrown out of any court in the land if we took them to law. What's the game--blackmail?" "Humph!" ejaculated McNamara. "What do you take me for?" "Well, it does seem small for Alec McNamara, but I can't see what else you're up to." "Within a week I'll be running every good mine in the Nome district." McNamara's voice was calm but decisive, his glance keen and alert, while about him clung such a breath of power and confidence that it compelled belief even in the face of this astounding speech. In spite of himself, Wilton Struve, lawyer, rake, and gentlemanly adventurer, felt his heart leap at what the other's daring implied. The proposition was utterly past belief, and yet, looking into the man's purposeful eyes, he believed. "That's big--awful big--TOO big," the younger man murmured. "Why, man, it means you'll handle fifty thousand dollars a day!" Dunham shifted his feet in the silence and licked his dry lips. "Of course it's big, but Mr. McNamara's the biggest man that ever came to Alaska," he said. "And I've got the biggest scheme that ever came north, backed by the biggest men in Washington," continued the politician. "Look here!" He displayed a type-written sheet bearing parallel lists of names and figures. Struve gasped incredulously. "Those are my stockholders and that is their share in the venture. Oh, yes; we're incorporated--under the laws of Arizona--secret, of course; it would never do for the names to get out. I'm showing you this only because I want you to be satisfied who's behind me." "Lord! I'm satisfied," said Struve, laughing nervously. "Dunham was with you when you figured the scheme out and he met some of your friends in Washington and New York. If he says it's all right, that settles it. But say, suppose anything went wrong with the company and it leaked out who those stockholders are?" "There's no danger. I have the books where they will be burned at the first sign. We'd have had our own land laws passed but for Sturtevant of Nevada, damn him. He blocked us in the Senate. However, my plan is this." He rapidly outlined his proposition to the listeners, while a light of admiration grew and shone in the reckless face of Struve. "By heavens! you're a wonder!" he cried, at the close, "and I'm with you body and soul. It's dangerous--that's why I like it." "Dangerous?" McNamara shrugged his shoulders. "Bah! Where is the danger? We've got the law--or rather, we ARE the law. Now, let's get to work." It seemed that the Boss of North Dakota was no sluggard. He discarded coat and waistcoat and tackled the documents which Struve laid before him, going through them like a whirlwind. Gradually he infected the others with his energy, and soon behind the locked doors of Dunham & Struve there were only haste and fever and plot and intrigue. As Helen Chester led the Judge towards the flamboyant, three-storied hotel she prattled to him light-heartedly. The fascination of a new land already held her fast, and now she felt, in addition, security and relief. Glenister saw them from a distance and strode forward to greet them. He beheld a man of perhaps threescore years, benign of aspect save for the eyes, which were neither clear nor steady, but had the trick of looking past one. Glenister thought the mouth, too, rather weak and vacillating; but the clean-shaven face was dignified by learning a acumen and was wrinkled in pleasant fashion. "My niece has just told me of your service to her," the old gentleman began. "I am happy to know you, sir." "Besides being a brave knight and assisting ladies in distress, Mr. Glenister is a very great and wonderful man," Helen explained, lightly. "He owns the Midas." "Indeed!" said the old man, his shifting eyes now resting full on the other with a flash of unmistakable interest. "I hear that is a wonderful mine. Have you begun work yet?" "No. We'll commence sluicing day after to-morrow. It has been a late spring. The snow in the gulch was deep and the ground thaws slowly. We've been building houses and doing dead work, but we've got our men on the ground, waiting." "I am greatly interested. Won't you walk with us to the hotel? I want to hear more about these wonderful placers." "Well, they ARE great placers," said the miner, as the three walked on together; "nobody knows HOW great because we've only scratched at them yet. In the first place the ground is so shallow and the gold is so easy to get, that if nature didn't safeguard us in the winter we'd never dare leave our claims for fear of 'snipers.' They'd run in and rob us." "How much will the Anvil Creek mines produce this summer?" asked the Judge. "It's hard to tell, sir; but we expect to average five thousand a day from the Midas alone, and there are other claims just as good." "Your title is all clear, I dare say, eh?" "Absolutely, except for one jumper, and we don't take him seriously. A fellow named Galloway relocated us one night last month, but he didn't allege any grounds for doing so, and we could never find trace of him. If we had, our title would be as clean as snow again." He said the last with a peculiar inflection. "You wouldn't use violence, I trust?" "Sure! Why not? It has worked all right heretofore." "But, my dear sir, those days are gone. The law is here and it is the duty of every one to abide by it." "Well, perhaps it is; but in this country we consider a man's mine as sacred as his family. We didn't know what a lock and key were in the early times and we didn't have any troubles except famine and hardship. It's different now, though. Why, there have been more claims jumped around here this spring than in the whole length and history of the Yukon." They had reached the hotel, and Glenister paused, turning to the girl as the Judge entered. When she started to follow, he detained her. "I came down from the hills on purpose to see you. It has been a long week--" "Don't talk that way," she interrupted, coldly. "I don't care to hear it." "See here--what makes you shut me out and wrap yourself up in your haughtiness? I'm sorry for what I did that night--I've told you so repeatedly. I've wrung my soul for that act till there's nothing left but repentance." "It is not that," she said, slowly. "I have been thinking it over during the past month, and now that I have gained an insight into this life I see that it wasn't an unnatural thing for you to do. It's terrible to think of, but it's true. I don't mean that it was pardonable," she continued, quickly, "for it wasn't, and I hate you when I think about it, but I suppose I put myself into a position to invite such actions. No; I'm sufficiently broad-minded not to blame you unreasonably, and I think I could like you in spite of it, just for what you have done for me; but that isn't all. There is something deeper. You saved my life and I'm grateful, but you frighten me, always. It is the cruelty in your strength, it is something away back in you--lustful, and ferocious, and wild, and crouching." He smiled wryly. "It is my local color, maybe--absorbed from this country. I'll try to change, though, if you want me to. I'll let them rope and throw and brand me. I'll take on the graces of civilization and put away revenge and ambition and all the rest of it, if it will make you like me any better. Why, I'll even promise not to violate the person of our claim-jumper if I catch him; and Heaven knows THAT means that Samson has parted with his locks." "I think I could like you if you did," she said, "but you can't do it. You are a savage." There are no clubs nor marts where men foregather for business in the North--nothing but the saloon, and this is all and more than a club. Here men congregate to drink, to gamble, and to traffic. It was late in the evening when Glenister entered the Northern and passed idly down the row of games, pausing at the crap-table, where he rolled the dice when his turn came. Moving to the roulette-wheel, he lost a stack of whites, but at the faro "lay-out" his luck was better, and he won a gold coin on the "high-card." Whereupon he promptly ordered a round of drinks for the men grouped about him, a formality always precedent to overtures of general friendship. As he paused, glass in hand, his eyes were drawn to a man who stood close by, talking earnestly. The aspect of the stranger challenged notice, for he stood high above his companions with a peculiar grace of attitude in place of the awkwardness common in men of great stature. Among those who were listening intently to the man's carefully modulated tones, Glenister recognized Mexico Mullins, the ex-gambler who had given Dextry the warning at Unalaska. As he further studied the listening group, a drunken man staggered uncertainly through the wide doors of the saloon and, gaining sight of the tall stranger, blinked, then approached him, speaking with a loud voice: "Well, if 'tain't ole Alec McNamara! How do, ye ole pirate!" McNamara nodded and turned his back coolly upon the new-comer. "Don't turn your dorsal fin to me; I wan' to talk to ye." McNamara continued his calm discourse till he received a vicious whack on the shoulder; then he turned for a moment to interrupt his assailant's garrulous profanity: "Don't bother me. I am engaged." "Ye won' talk to me, eh? Well, I'm goin' to talk to YOU, see? I guess you'd listen if I told these people all I know about you. Turn around here." His voice was menacing and attracted general notice. Observing this, McNamara addressed him, his words dropping clear, concise, and cold: "Don't talk to me. You are a drunken nuisance. Go away before something happens to you." Again he turned away, but the drunken man seized and whirled him about, repeating his abuse, encouraged by this apparent patience. "Your pardon for an instant, gentlemen." McNamara laid a large white and manicured hand upon the flannel sleeve of the miner and gently escorted him through the entrance to the sidewalk, while the crowd smiled. As they cleared the threshold, however, he clenched his fist without a word and, raising it, struck the sot fully and cruelly upon the jaw. His victim fell silently, the back of his head striking the boards with a hollow thump; then, without even observing how he lay, McNamara re-entered the saloon and took up his conversation where he had been interrupted. His voice was as evenly regulated as his movements, betraying not a sign of anger, excitement, or bravado. He lit a cigarette, extracted a note-book, and jotted down certain memoranda supplied him by Mexico Mullins. All this time the body lay across the threshold without a sign of life. The buzz of the roulette-wheel was resumed and the crap-dealer began his monotonous routine. Every eye was fixed on the nonchalant man at the bar, but the unconscious creature outside the threshold lay unheeded, for in these men's code it behooves the most humane to practise a certain aloofness in the matter of private brawls. Having completed his notes, McNamara shook hands gravely with his companions and strode out through the door, past the bulk that sprawled across his path, and, without pause or glance, disappeared. A dozen willing, though unsympathetic, hands laid the drunkard on the roulette-table, where the bartender poured pitcher upon pitcher of water over him. "He ain't hurt none to speak of," said a bystander; then added, with enthusiasm: "But say! There's a MAN in this here camp!" CHAPTER VI AND A MINE IS JUMPED "Who's your new shift boss?" Glenister inquired of his partner, a few days later, indicating a man in the cut below, busied in setting a line of sluices. "That's old 'Slapjack' Simms, friend of mine from up Dawson way." Glenister laughed immoderately, for the object was unusually tall and loose-jointed, and wore a soiled suit of yellow mackinaw. He had laid off his coat, and now the baggy, bilious trousers hung precariously from his angular shoulders by suspenders of alarming frailty. His legs were lost in gum boots, also loose and cavernous, and his entire costume looked relaxed and flapping, so that he gave the impression of being able to shake himself out of his raiment, and to rise like a burlesque Aphrodite. His face was overgrown with a grizzled tangle that looked as though it had been trimmed with button-hole scissors, while above the brush heap grandly soared a shiny, dome-like head. "Has he always been bald?" "Naw! He ain't bald at all. He shaves his nob. In the early days he wore a long flowin' mane which was inhabited by crickets, tree-toads, and such fauna. It got to be a hobby with him finally, so that he growed superstitious about goin' uncurried, and would back into a corner with both guns drawed if a barber came near him. But once Hank--that's his real name--undertook to fry some slapjacks, and in givin' the skillet a heave, the dough lit among his forest primeval, jest back of his ears, soft side down. Hank polluted the gulch with langwidge which no man had ought to keep in himself without it was fumigated. Disreppitableness oozed out through him like sweat through an ice-pitcher, an' since then he's been known as Slapjack Simms, an' has kept his head shingled smooth as a gun bar'l. He's a good miner, though; ain't none better--an' square as a die." Sluicing had begun on the Midas. Long sinuous lengths of canvas hose wound down the creek bottom from the dam, like gigantic serpents, while the roll of gravel through the flumes mingled musically with the rush of waters, the tinkle of tools, and the song of steel on rock. There were four "strings" of boxes abreast, and the heaving line of shovellers ate rapidly into the creek bed, while teams with scrapers splashed through the tail races in an atmosphere of softened profanity. In the big white tents which sat back from the bluffs, fifty men of the night shift were asleep; for there is no respite here--no night, no Sunday, no halt, during the hundred days in which the Northland lends herself to pillage. The mine lay cradled between wonderful, mossy, willow-mottled mountains, while above and below the gulch was dotted with tents and huts, and everywhere, from basin to hill crest, men dug and blasted, punily, patiently, while their tracks grew daily plainer over the face of this inscrutable wilderness. A great contentment filled the two partners as they looked on this scene. To wrest from reluctant earth her richest treasures, to add to the wealth of the world, to create--here was satisfaction. "We ain't robbin' no widders an' orphans doin' it, neither," Dextry suddenly remarked, expressing his partner's feelings closely. They looked at each other and smiled with that rare understanding that exceeds words. Descending into the cut, the old man filled a gold-pan with dirt taken from under the feet of the workers, and washed it in a puddle, while the other watched his dexterous whirling motions. When he had finished, they poked the stream of yellow grains into a pile, then, with heads together, guessed its weight, laughing again delightedly, in perfect harmony and contentment. "I've been waitin' a turrible time fer this day," said the elder. "I've suffered the plagues of prospectin' from the Mexicos to the Circle, an' yet I don't begretch it none, now that I've struck pay." While they spoke, two miners struggled with a bowlder they had unearthed, and having scraped and washed it carefully, staggered back to place it on the cleaned bed-rock behind. One of them slipped, and it crashed against a brace which held the sluices in place. These boxes stand more than a man's height above the bed-rock, resting on supporting posts and running full of water. Should a sluice fall, the rushing stream carries out the gold which has lodged in the riffles and floods the bed-rock, raising havoc. Too late the partners saw the string of boxes sway and bend at the joint. Then, before they could reach the threatened spot to support it, Slapjack Simms, with a shriek, plunged flapping down into the cut and seized the flume. His great height stood him in good stead now, for where the joint had opened, water poured forth in a cataract, He dived under the breach unhesitatingly and, stooping, lifted the line as near to its former level as possible, holding the entire burden upon his naked pate. He gesticulated wildly for help, while over him poured the deluge of icy, muddy water. It entered his gaping waistband, bulging out his yellow trousers till they were fat and full and the seams were bursting, while his yawning boot-tops became as boiling springs. Meanwhile he chattered forth profanity in such volume that the ear ached under it as must have ached the heroic Slapjack under the chill of the melting snow. He was relieved quickly, however, and emerged triumphant, though blue and puckered, his wilderness of whiskers streaming like limber stalactites, his boots loosely "squishing," while oaths still poured from him in such profusion that Dextry whispered: "Ain't he a ring-tailed wonder? It's plumb solemn an' reverent the way he makes them untamed cuss-words sit up an' beg. It's a privilege to be present. That's a GIFT, that is." "You'd better get some dry clothes," they suggested, and Slapjack proceeded a few paces towards the tents, hobbling as though treading on pounded glass. "Ow--w!" he yelled. "These blasted boots is full of gravel." He seated himself and tugged at his foot till the boot came away with a sucking sound, then, instead of emptying the accumulation at random, he poured the contents into Dextry's empty gold-pan, rinsing it out carefully. The other boot he emptied likewise. They held a surprising amount of sediment, because the stream that had emerged from the crack in the sluices had carried with it pebbles, sand, and all the concentration of the riffles at this point. Standing directly beneath the cataract, most of it had dived fairly into his inviting waistband, following down the lines of least resistance into his boot-legs and boiling out at the knees. "Wash that," he said. "You're apt to get a prospect." With artful passes Dextry settled it in the pan bottom and washed away the gravel, leaving a yellow, glittering pile which raised a yell from the men who had lingered curiously. "He pans forty dollars to the boot-leg," one shouted. "How much do you run to the foot, Slapjack?" "He's a reg'lar free-milling ledge." "No, he ain't--he's too thin. He's nothing but a stringer, but he'll pay to work." The old miner grinned toothlessly. "Gentlemen, there ain't no better way to save fine gold than with undercurrents an' blanket riffles. I'll have to wash these garments of mine an' clean up the soapsuds 'cause there's a hundred dollars in gold-dust clingin' to my person this minute." He went dripping up the bank, while the men returned to their work singing. After lunch Dextry saddled his bronco. "I'm goin' to town for a pair of gold-scales, but I'll be back by supper, then we'll clean up between shifts. She'd ought to give us a thousand ounces, the way that ground prospects." He loped down the gulch, while his partner returned to the pit, the flashing shovel blades, and the rumbling undertone of the big workings that so fascinated him. It was perhaps four o'clock when he was aroused from his labors by a shout from the bunk-tent, where a group of horsemen had clustered. As Glenister drew near, he saw among them Wilton Struve, the lawyer, and the big, well-dressed tenderfoot of the Northern--McNamara--the man of the heavy hand. Struve straightway engaged him. "Say, Glenister, we've come out to see about the title to this claim." "What about it?" "Well, it was relocated about a month ago." He paused. "Yes. What of that?" "Galloway has commenced suit." "The ground belongs to Dextry and me. We discovered it, we opened it up, we've complied with the law, and we're going to hold it." Glenister spoke with such conviction and heat as to nonplus Struve, but McNamara, who had sat his horse silently until now, answered: "Certainly, sir; if your title is good you will be protected, but the law has arrived in Alaska and we've got to let it take its course. There's no need of violence--none whatever--but, briefly, the situation is this: Mr. Galloway has commenced action against you; the court has enjoined you from working and has appointed me as receiver to operate the mine until the suit is settled. It's an extraordinary procedure, of course, but the conditions are extraordinary in this country. The season is so short that it would be unjust to the rightful owner if the claim lay idle all summer--so, to avoid that, I've been put in charge, with instructions to operate it and preserve the proceeds subject to the court's order. Mr. Voorhees here is the United States Marshal. He will serve the papers." Glenister threw up his hand in a gesture of restraint. "Hold on! Do you mean to tell me that any court would recognize such a claim as Galloway's?" "The law recognizes everything. If his grounds are no good, so much the better for you." "You can't put in a receiver without notice to us. Why, good Lord! we never heard of a suit being commenced. We've never even been served with a summons and we haven't had a chance to argue in our own defence." "I have just said that this is a remarkable state of affairs and unusual action had to be taken," McNamara replied, but the young miner grew excited. "Look here--this gold won't get away. It's safe in the ground. We'll knock off work and let the claim lie idle till the thing is settled. You can't really expect us to surrender possession of our mine on the mere allegation of some unknown man. That's ridiculous. We won't do it. Why, you'll have to let us argue our case, at least, before you try to put us off." Voorhees shook his head. "We'll have to follow instructions. The thing for you to do is to appear before the court to-morrow and have the receiver dismissed. If your title is as good as you say it is, you won't have any trouble." "You're not the only ones to suffer," added McNamara. "We've taken possession of all the mines below here." He nodded down the gulch. "I'm an officer of the court and under bond--" "How much?" "Five thousand dollars for each claim." "What! Why, heavens, man, the poorest of these mines is producing that much every day!" While he spoke, Glenister was rapidly debating what course to follow. "The place to argue this thing is before Judge Stillman," said Struve--but with little notion of the conflict going on within Glenister. The youth yearned to fight--not with words nor quibbles nor legal phrases, but with steel and blows. And he felt that the impulse was as righteous as it was natural, for he knew this process was unjust, an outrage. Mexico Mullins's warning recurred to him. And yet--. He shifted slowly as he talked till his back was to the door of the big tent. They were watching him carefully, for all their apparent languor and looseness in saddle; then as he started to leap within and rally his henchmen, his mind went back to the words of Judge Stillman and his niece. Surely that old man was on the square. He couldn't be otherwise with her beside him, believing in him; and a suspicion of deeper plots behind these actions was groundless. So far, all was legal, he supposed, with his scant knowledge of law; though the methods seemed unreasonable. The men might be doing what they thought to be right. Why be the first to resist? The men on the mines below had not done so. The title to this ground was capable of such easy proof that he and Dex need have no uneasiness. Courts do not rob honest people nowadays, he argued, and moreover, perhaps the girl's words were true, perhaps she WOULD think more of him if he gave up the old fighting ways for her sake. Certainly armed resistance to her uncle's first edict would not please her. She had said he was too violent, so he would show her he could lay his savagery aside. She might smile on him approvingly, and that was worth taking a chance for--anyway it would mean but a few days' delay in the mine's run. As he reasoned he heard a low voice speaking within the open door. It was Slapjack Simms. "Step aside, lad. I've got the big un covered." Glenister saw the men on horseback snatch at their holsters, and, just in time, leaped at his foreman, for the old man had moved out into the open, a Winchester at shoulder, his cheek cuddling the stock, his eyes cold and narrow. The young man flung the barrel up and wrenched the weapon from his hands. "None of that, Hank!" he cried, sharply. "I'll say when to shoot." He turned to look into the muzzles of guns held in the hands of every horseman--every horseman save one, for Alec McNamara sat unmoved, his handsome features, nonchalant and amused, nodding approval. It was at him that Hank's weapon had been levelled. "This is bad enough at the best. Don't let's make it any worse," said he. Slapjack inhaled deeply, spat with disgust, and looked over his boss incredulously. "Well, of all the different kinds of damn fools," he snorted, "you are the kindest." He marched past the marshal and his deputies down to the cut, put on his coat, and vanished down the trail towards town, not deigning a backward glance either at the mine or at the man unfit to fight for. CHAPTER VII THE "BRONCO KID'S" EAVESDROPPING Late in July it grows dark as midnight approaches, so that the many lights from doorway and window seem less garish and strange than they do a month earlier. In the Northern there was good business doing. The new bar fixtures, which had cost a king's ransom, or represented the one night's losings of a Klondike millionaire, shone rich, dark, and enticing, while the cut glass sparkled with iridescent hues, reflecting, in a measure, the prismatic moods, the dancing spirits of the crowd that crushed past, halting at the gambling games, or patronizing the theatre in the rear. The old bar furniture, brought down by dog team from "Up River," was established at the rear extremity of the long building, just inside the entrance to the dancehall, where patrons of the drama might, with a modicum of delay and inconvenience, quaff as deeply of the beaker as of the ballet. Now, however, the show had closed, the hall had been cleared of chairs and canvas, exposing a glassy, tempting surface, and the orchestra had moved to the stage. They played a rollicking, blood-stirring two-step, while the floor swam with dancers. At certain intervals the musicians worked feverishly up to a crashing crescendo, supported by the voices of the dancers, until all joined at the top note in a yell, while the drummer fired a .44 Colt into a box of wet sawdust beside his chair--all in time, all in the swinging spirit of the tune. The men, who were mostly young, danced like college boys, while the women, who were all young and good dancers, floated through the measures with the ease of rose-leaves on a summer stream. Faces were flushed, eyes were bright, and but rarely a voice sounded that was not glad. Most of the noise came from the men, and although one caught, here and there, a hint of haggard lines about the girlish faces, and glimpsed occasional eyes that did not smile, yet as a whole the scene was one of genuine enjoyment. Suddenly the music ceased and the couples crowded to the bar. The women took harmless drinks, the men, mostly whiskey. Rarely was the choice of potations criticised, though occasionally some ruddy eschewer of sobriety insisted that his lady "take the same," avowing that "hootch," having been demonstrated beneficial in his case, was good for her also. Invariably the lady accepted without dispute, and invariably the man failed to note her glance at the bartender, or the silent substitution by that capable person of ginger-ale for whiskey or of plain water for gin. In turn, the mixers collected one dollar from each man, flipping to the girl a metal percentage-check which she added to her store. In the curtained boxes overhead, men bought bottles with foil about the corks, and then subterfuge on the lady's part was idle, but, on the other hand, she was able to pocket for each bottle a check redeemable at five dollars. A stranger, straight from the East, would have remarked first upon the good music, next upon the good looks of the women, and then upon the shabby clothes of the men--for some of them were in "mukluk," others in sweaters with huge initials and winged emblems, and all were collarless. Outside in the main gambling-room there were but few women. Men crowded in dense masses about the faro lay-out, the wheel, craps, the Klondike game, pangingi, and the card-tables. They talked of business, of home, of women, bought and sold mines, and bartered all things from hams to honor. The groomed and clean, the unkempt and filthy jostled shoulder to shoulder, equally affected by the license of the goldfields and the exhilaration of the New. The mystery of the North had touched them all. The glad, bright wine of adventure filled their veins, and they spoke mightily of things they had resolved to do, or recounted with simple diffidence the strange stories of their accomplishment. The "Bronco Kid," familiar from Atlin to Nome as the best "bank" dealer on the Yukon, worked the shift from eight till two. He was a slender man of thirty, dexterous in movement, slow to smile, soft of voice, and known as a living flame among women. He had dealt the biggest games of the early days, and had no enemies. Yet, though many called him friend, they wondered inwardly. It was a strong play the Kid had to-night, for Swede Sam, of Dawson, ventured many stacks of yellow chips, and he was a quick, aggressive gambler. A Jew sat at the king end with ten neatly creased one-thousand-dollar bills before him, together with piles of smaller currency. He adventured viciously and without system, while outsiders to the number of four or five cut in sporadically with small bets. The game was difficult to follow; consequently the lookout, from his raised dais, was leaning forward, chin in hand, while the group was hedged about by eager on-lookers. Faro is a closed book to most people, for its intricacies are confusing. Lucky is he who has never persevered in solving its mysteries nor speculated upon the "systems" of beating it. From those who have learned it, the game demands practice, dexterity, and coolness. The dealer must run the cards, watch the many shifting bets, handle the neatly piled checks, figure, lightning-like, the profits and losses. It was his unerring, clock like regularity in this that had won the Kid his reputation. This night his powers were taxed. He dealt silently, scowlingly, his long white fingers nervously caressing the cards. This preoccupation prevented his noticing the rustle and stir of a new-comer who had crowded up behind him, until he caught the wondering glances of those in front and saw that the Israelite was staring past him, his money forgotten, his eyes beady and sharp, his rat-like teeth showing in a grin of admiration. Swede Sam glared from under his unkempt shock and felt uncertainly towards the open collar of his flannel shirt where a kerchief should have been. The men who were standing gazed at the new-comer, some with surprise, others with a half smile of recognition. Bronco glanced quickly over his shoulder, and as he did so the breath caught in his throat--but for only an instant. A girl stood so close beside him that the lace of her gown brushed his sleeve. He was shuffling at the moment and dropped a card, then nodded to her. speaking quietly, as he stooped to regain the pasteboard: "Howdy, Cherry?" She did not answer--only continued to look at the "lay-out." "What a woman!" he thought. She was not too tall, with smoothly rounded bust and hips, and long waist, all well displayed by her perfectly fitting garments. Her face was oval, the mouth rather large, the eyes of dark, dark-blue, prominently outlined under thin, silken lids. Her dull-gold hair was combed low over the ears, and her smile showed rows of sparkling teeth before it dived into twin dimples. Strangest of all, it was an innocent face, the face and smile of a school-girl. The Kid finished his shuffling awkwardly and slid the cards into the box. Then the woman spoke: "Let me have your place, Bronco." The men gasped, the Jew snickered, the lookout straightened in his chair. "Better not. It's a hard game," said the Kid, but her voice was imperious as she commanded him: "Hurry up. Give me your place." Bronco arose, whereupon she settled in his chair, tucked in her skirts, removed her gloves, and twisted into place the diamonds on her hands. "What the devil's this?" said the lookout, roughly. "Are you drunk, Bronco? Get out of that chair, miss." She turned to him slowly. The innocence had fled from her features and the big eyes flashed warningly. A change had coarsened her like a puff of air on a still pool. Then, while she stared at him, her lids drooped dangerously and her lip curled. "Throw him out, Bronco," she said, and her tones held the hardness of a mistress to her slave. "That's all right," the Kid reassured the lookout. "She's a better dealer than I am. This is Cherry Malotte." Without noticing the stares this evoked, the girl commenced. Her hands, beautifully soft and white, flashed over the board. She dealt rapidly, unfalteringly, with the finish of one bred to the cards, handling chips and coppers with the peculiar mannerisms that spring from long practice. It was seen that she never looked at her check-rack, but, when a bet required paying, picked up a stack without turning her head; and they saw further that she never reached twice, nor took a large pile and sized it up against its mate, removing the extra disks, as is the custom. When she stretched forth her hand she grasped the right number unerringly. This is considered the acme of professional finish, and the Bronco Kid smiled delightedly as he saw the wonder spread from the lookout to the spectators and heard the speech of the men who stood on chairs and tables for sight of the woman dealer. For twenty minutes she continued, until the place became congested, and never once did the lookout detect an error. While she was busy, Glenister entered the front-door and pushed his way back towards the theatre. He was worried and distrait, his manner perturbed and unnatural. Silently and without apparent notice he passed friends who greeted him. "What ails Glenister to-night?" asked a by-stander. "He acts funny," "Ain't you heard? Why, the Midas has been jumped. He's in a bad way--all broke up." The girl suddenly ceased without finishing the deck, and arose. "Don't stop," said the Kid, while a murmur of dismay came from the spectators. She only shook her head and drew on her gloves with a show of ennui. Gliding through the crowd, she threaded about aimlessly, the recipient of many stares though but few greetings, speaking with no one, a certain dignity serving her as a barrier even here. She stopped a waiter and questioned him. "He's up-stairs in a gallery box." "Alone?" "Yes'm. Anyhow, he was a minute ago, unless some of the rustlers has broke in on him." A moment later Glenister, watching the scene below, was aroused from his gloomy absorption by the click of the box door and the rustle of silken skirts. "Go out, please," he said, without turning. "I don't want company." Hearing no answer, he began again, "I came here to be alone"--but there he ceased, for the girl had come forward and laid her two hot hands upon his cheeks. "Boy," she breathed--and he arose swiftly. "Cherry! When did you come?" "Oh, DAYS ago," she said, impatiently, "from Dawson. They told me you had struck it. I stood it as long as I could--then I came to you. Now, tell me about yourself. Let me see you first, quick!" She pulled him towards the light and gazed upward, devouring him hungrily with her great, languorous eyes. She held to his coat lapels, standing close beside him, her warm breath beating up into his face. "Well," she said, "kiss me!" He took her wrists in his and loosed her hold, then looked down on her gravely and said: "No--that's all over. I told you so when I left Dawson." "All over! Oh no, it isn't, boy. You think so, but it isn't--it can't be. I love you too much to let you go." "Hush!" said he. "There are people in the next box." "I don't care! Let them hear," she cried, with feminine recklessness. "I'm proud of my love for you. I'll tell it to them--to the whole world." "Now, see here, little girl," he said, quietly, "we had a long talk in Dawson and agreed that it was best to divide our ways. I was mad over you once, as a good many other men have been, but I came to my senses. Nothing could ever result from it, and I told you so." "Yes, yes--I know. I thought I could give you up, but I didn't realize till you had gone how I wanted you. Oh, it's been a TORTURE to me every day for the past two years." There was no semblance now to the cold creature she had appeared upon entering the gambling-hall. She spoke rapidly, her whole body tense with emotion, her voice shaken with passion. "I've seen men and men and men, and they've loved me, but I never cared for anybody in the world till I saw you. They ran after me, but you were cold. You made me come to you. Perhaps that was it. Anyhow, I can't stand it. I'll give up everything--I'll do anything just to be where you are. What do you think of a woman who will beg? Oh, I've lost my pride--I'm a fool--a fool--but I can't help it." "I'm sorry you feel this way," said Glenister. "It isn't my fault, and it isn't of any use." For an instant she stood quivering, while the light died out of her face; then, with a characteristic change, she smiled till the dimples laughed in her cheeks. She sank upon a seat beside him and pulled together the curtains, shutting out the sight below. "Very well"--then she put his hand to her cheek and cuddled it. "I'm glad to see you just the same, and you can't keep me from loving you." With his other hand he smoothed her hair, while, unknown to him and beneath her lightness, she shrank and quivered at his touch like a Barbary steed under the whip. "Things are very bad with me," he said. "We've had our mine jumped." "Bah! You know what to do. You aren't a cripple--you've got five fingers on your gun hand." "That's it! They all tell me that--all the old-timers; but I don't know what to do. I thought I did--but I don't. The law has come into this country and I've tried to meet it half-way. They jumped us and put in a receiver--a big man--by the name of McNamara. Dex wasn't there and I let them do it. When the old man learned of it he nearly went crazy. We had our first quarrel. He thought I was afraid--" "Not he," said the girl. "I know him and he knows you." "That was a week ago. We've hired the best lawyer in Nome--Bill Wheaton--and we've tried to have the injunction removed. We've offered bond in any sum, but the Judge refuses to accept it. We've argued for leave to appeal, but he won't give us the right. The more I look into it the worse it seems, for the court wasn't convened in accordance with law, we weren't notified to appear in our own behalf, we weren't allowed a chance to argue our own case--nothing. They simply slapped on a receiver, and now they refuse to allow us redress. From a legal stand-point, it's appalling, I'm told--but what's to be done? What's the game? That's the thing. What are they up to? I'm nearly out of my mind, for it's all my fault. I didn't think it meant anything like this or I'd have made a fight for possession and stood them off at least. As it is, my partner's sore and he's gone to drinking--first time in twelve years. He says I gave the claim away, and now it's up to me and the Almighty to get it back. If he gets full he'll drive a four-horse wagon into some church, or go up and pick the Judge to pieces with his fingers to see what makes him go round." "What've they got against you and Dextry--some grudge?" she questioned. "No, no! We're not the only ones in trouble; they've jumped the rest of the good mines and put this McNamara in as receiver on all of them, but that's small comfort. The Swedes are crazy; they've hired all the lawyers in town, and are murdering more good American language than would fill Bering Strait. Dex is in favor of getting our friends together and throwing the receiver off. He wants to kill somebody, but we can't do that. They've got the soldiers to fall back on. We've been warned that the troops are instructed to enforce the court's action. I don't know what the plot is, for I can't believe the old Judge is crooked--the girl wouldn't let him." "Girl?" Cherry Malotte leaned forward where the light shone on the young man's worried face. "The girl? What girl? Who is she?" Her voice had lost its lazy caress, her lips had thinned. Never was a woman's face more eloquent, mused Glenister as he noted her. Every thought fled to this window to peer forth, fearful, lustful, hateful, as the case might be. He had loved to play with her in the former days, to work upon her passions and watch the changes, to note her features mirror every varying emotion from tenderness to flippancy, from anger to delight, and, at his bidding, to see the pale cheeks glow with love's fire, the eyes grow heavy, the dainty lips invite kisses. Cherry was a perfect little spoiled animal, he reflected, and a very dangerous one. "What girl?" she questioned again, and he knew beforehand the look that went with it. "The girl I intend to marry," he said, slowly, looking her between the eyes. He knew he was cruel--he wanted to be--it satisfied the clamor and turmoil within him, while he also felt that the sooner she knew and the colder it left her the better. He could not note the effect of the remark on her, however, for, as he spoke, the door of the box opened and the head of the Bronco Kid appeared, then retired instantly with apologies. "Wrong stall," he said, in his slow voice. "Looking for another party." Nevertheless, his eyes had covered every inch of them--noted the drawn curtains and the breathless poise of the woman--while his ears had caught part of Glenister's speech. "You won't marry her," said Cherry, quietly. "I don't know who she is, but I won't let you marry her." She rose and smoothed her skirts. "It's time nice people were going now." She said it with a sneer at herself. "Take me out through this crowd. I'm living quietly and I don't want these beasts to follow me." As they emerged from the theatre the morning air was cool and quiet, while the sun was just rising. The Bronco Kid lighted a cigar as they passed, nodding silently at their greeting. His eyes followed them, while his hands were so still that the match burned through to his fingers--then when they had gone his teeth met and ground savagely through the tobacco so that the cigar fell, while he muttered: "So that's the girl you intend to marry? We'll see, by God!" CHAPTER VIII DEXTRY MAKES A CALL The water front had a strong attraction for Helen Chester, and rarely did a fair day pass without finding her in some quiet spot from which she could watch the shifting life along its edge, the ships at anchor, and the varied incidents of the surf. This morning she sat in a dory pulled high up on the beach, bathed in the bright sunshine, and staring at the rollers, while lines of concentration wrinkled her brow. The wind had blown for some days till the ocean beat heavily across the shallow bar, and now, as it became quieter, longshoremen were launching their craft, preparing to resume their traffic. Not until the previous day had the news of her friends' misfortune come to her, and although she had heard no hint of fraud, she began to realize that they were involved in a serious tangle. To the questions which she anxiously put to her uncle he had replied that their difficulty arose from a technicality in the mining laws which another man had been shrewd enough to profit by. It was a complicated question, he said, and one requiring time to thrash out to an equitable settlement. She had undertaken to remind him of the service these men had done her, but, with a smile, he interrupted; he could not allow such things to influence his judicial attitude, and she must not endeavor to prejudice him in the discharge of his duty. Recognizing the justice of this, she had desisted. For many days the girl had caught scattered talk between the Judge and McNamara, and between Struve and his associates, but it all seemed foreign and dry, and beyond the fact that it bore on the litigation over the Anvil Creek mines, she understood nothing and cared less, particularly as a new interest had but recently come into her life, an interest in the form of a man--McNamara. He had begun with quiet, half-concealed admiration of her, which had rapidly increased until his attentions had become of a singularly positive and resistless character. Judge Stillman was openly delighted, while the court of one like Alec McNamara could but flatter any girl. In his presence, Helen felt herself rebelling at his suit, yet as distance separated them she thought ever more kindly of it. This state of mind contrasted oddly with her feelings towards the other man she had met, for in this country there were but two. When Glenister was with her she saw his love lying nakedly in his eyes and it exercised some spell which drew her to him in spite of herself, but when he had gone, back came the distrust, the terror of the brute she felt was there behind it all. The one appealed to her while present, the other pled strongest while away. Now she was attempting to analyze her feelings and face the future squarely, for she realized that her affairs neared a crisis, and this, too, not a month after meeting the men. She wondered if she would come to love her uncle's friend. She did not know. Of the other she was sure--she never could. Busied with these reflections, she noticed the familiar figure of Dextry wandering aimlessly. He was not unkempt, and yet his air gave her the impression of prolonged sleeplessness. Spying her, he approached and seated himself in the sand against the boat, while at her greeting he broke into talk as if he was needful only of her friendly presence to stir his confidential chords into active vibration. "We're in turrible shape, miss," he said. "Our claim's jumped. Somebody run in and talked the boy out of it while I was gone, and now we can't get 'em off. He's been tryin' this here new law game that you-all brought in this summer. I've been drunk--that's what makes me look so ornery." He said the last, not in the spirit of apology, for rarely does your frontiersman consider that his self-indulgences require palliation, but rather after the manner of one purveying news of mild interest, as he would inform you that his surcingle had broken or that he had witnessed a lynching. "What made them jump your claim?" "I don't know. I don't know nothin' about it, because, as I remarked previous, I 'ain't follered the totterin' footsteps of the law none too close. Nor do I intend to. I simply draws out of the game fer a spell, and lets the youngster have his fling; then if he can't make good, I'll take the cards and finish it for him. "It's like the time I was ranchin' with an Englishman up in Montana. This here party claimed the misfortune of bein' a younger son, whatever that is, and is grubstaked to a ranch by his people back home. Havin' acquired an intimate knowledge of the West by readin' Bret Harte, and havin' assim'lated the secrets of ranchin' by correspondence school, he is fitted, ample, to teach us natives a thing or two--and he does it. I am workin' his outfit as foreman, and it don't take long to show me that he's a good-hearted feller, in spite of his ridin'-bloomers an' pinochle eye-glass. He ain't never had no actual experience, but he's got a Henry Thompson Seton book that tells him all about everything from field-mice to gorrillys. "We're troubled a heap with coyotes them days, and finally this party sends home for some Rooshian wolf-hounds. I'm fer pizenin' a sheep carcass, but he says: "'No, no, me deah man; that's not sportsman-like; we'll hunt 'em. Ay, hunt 'em! Only fawncy the sport we'll have, ridin' to hounds!' "'We will not,' says I. 'I ain't goin' to do no Simon Legree stunts. It ain't man's size. Bein' English, you don't count, but I'm growed up.' "Nothin' would do him but those Uncle Tom's Cabin dogs, however, and he had 'em imported clean from Berkshire or Sibeery or thereabouts, four of 'em, great, big, blue ones. They was as handsome and imposin' as a set of solid-gold teeth, but somehow they didn't seem to savvy our play none. One day the cook rolled a rain bar'l down-hill from the kitchen, and when them blooded critters saw it comin' they throwed down their tails and tore out like rabbits. After that I couldn't see no good in 'em with a spy-glass. "'They 'ain't got no grit. What makes you think they can fight?' I asked one day. "'Fight?' says H'Anglish. 'My deah man, they're full-blooded. Cost seventy pun each. They're dreadful creatures when they're roused--they'll tear a wolf to pieces like a rag--kill bears--anything. Oh! Rully, perfectly dreadful!' "Well, it wasn't a week later that he went over to the east line with me to mend a barb wire. I had my pliers and a hatchet and some staples. About a mile from the house we jumped up a little brown bear that scampered off when he seen us, but bein' agin' a bluff where he couldn't get away, he climbed a cotton-wood. H'Anglish was simply frothin' with excitement. "'What a misfortune! Neyther gun nor hounds.' "'I'll scratch his back and talk pretty to him,' says I, 'while you run back and get a Winchester and them ferocious bull-dogs.' "'Wolf-hounds,' says he, with dignity, 'full-blooded, seventy pun each. They'll rend the poor beast limb from limb. I hate to do it, but it 'll be good practice for them.' "'They may be good renders,' says I, 'but don't forgit the gun.' "Well, I throwed sticks at the critter when he tried to unclimb the tree, till finally the boss got back with his dogs. They set up an awful holler when they see the bear--first one they'd ever smelled, I reckon--and the little feller crawled up in some forks and watched things, cautious, while they leaped about, bayin' most fierce and blood-curdlin'. "'How you goin' to get him down?' says I. "'I'll shoot him in the lower jaw,' says the Britisher, 'so he cawn't bite the dogs. It 'll give 'em cawnfidence.' "He takes aim at Mr. Bear's chin and misses it three times runnin', he's that excited. "'Settle down, H'Anglish,' says I. 'He 'ain't got no double chins. How many shells left in your gun?'" When he looks he finds there's only one more, for he hadn't stopped to fill the magazine, so I cautions him. "'You're shootin' too low. Raise her.' "He raised her all right, and caught Mr. Bruin in the snout. What followed thereafter was most too quick to notice, for the poor bear let out a bawl, dropped off his limb into the midst of them ragin', tur'ble, seventy-pun hounds, an' hugged 'em to death, one after another, like he was doin' a system of health exercises. He took 'em to his boosum as if he'd just got back off a long trip, then, droppin' the last one, he made at that younger son an' put a gold fillin' in his leg. Yes, sir; most chewed it off. H'Anglish let out a Siberian-wolf holler hisself, an' I had to step in with the hatchet and kill the brute though I was most dead from laughin'. "That's how it is with me an' Glenister," the old man concluded. "When he gets tired experimentin' with this new law game of hisn, I'll step in an' do business on a common-sense basis." "You talk as if you wouldn't get fair play," said Helen. "We won't," said he, with conviction. "I look on all lawyers with suspicion, even to old bald-face--your uncle, askin' your pardon an' gettin' it, bein' as I'm a friend an' he ain't no real relation of yours, anyhow. No, sir; they're all crooked." Dextry held the Western distrust of the legal profession--comprehensive, unreasoning, deep. "Is the old man all the kin you've got?" he questioned, when she refused to discuss the matter. "He is--in a way. I have a brother, or I hope I have, somewhere. He ran away when we were both little tads and I haven't seen him since. I heard about him, indirectly, at Skagway--three years ago--during the big rush to the Klondike, but he has never been home. When father died, I went to live with Uncle Arthur--some day, perhaps, I'll find my brother. He's cruel to hide from me this way, for there are only we two left and I've loved him always." She spoke sadly and her mood blended well with the gloom of her companion, so they stared silently out over the heaving green waters. "It's a good thing me an' the kid had a little piece of money ahead," Dextry resumed later, reverting to the thought that lay uppermost in his mind, "'cause we'd be up against it right if we hadn't. The boy couldn't have amused himself none with these court proceedings, because they come high. I call 'em luxuries, like brandied peaches an' silk undershirts. "I don't trust these Jim Crow banks no more than I do lawyers, neither. No, sirree! I bought a iron safe an' hauled it out to the mine. She weighs eighteen hundred, and we keep our money locked up there. We've got a feller named Johnson watchin' it now. Steal it? Well, hardly. They can't bust her open without a stick of 'giant' which would rouse everybody in five miles, an' they can't lug her off bodily--she's too heavy. No; it's safer there than any place I know of. There ain't no abscondin' cashiers an' all that. Tomorrer I'm goin' back to live on the claim an' watch this receiver man till the thing's settled." When the girl arose to go, he accompanied her up through the deep sand of the lane-like street to the main, muddy thoroughfare of the camp. As yet, the planked and gravelled pavements, which later threaded the town, were unknown, and the incessant traffic had worn the road into a quagmire of chocolate-colored slush, almost axle-deep, with which the store fronts, show-windows, and awnings were plentifully shot and spattered from passing teams. Whenever a wagon approached, pedestrians fled to the shelter of neighboring doorways, watching a chance to dodge out again. When vehicles passed from the comparative solidity of the main street out into the morasses that constituted the rest of the town, they adventured perilously, their horses plunging, snorting, terrified, amid an atmosphere of profanity. Discouraged animals were down constantly, and no foot-passenger, even with rubber boots, ventured off the planks that led from house to house. To avoid a splashing team, Dextry pulled his companion close in against the entrance to the Northern saloon, standing before her protectingly. Although it was late in the afternoon the Bronco Kid had just arisen and was now loafing preparatory to the active duties of his profession. He was speaking with the proprietor when Dextry and the girl sought shelter just without the open door, so he caught a fair though fleeting glimpse of her as she flashed a curious look inside. She had never been so close to a gambling-hall before, and would have liked to peer in more carefully had she dared, but her companion moved forward. At the first look the Bronco Kid had broken off in his speech and stared at her as though at an apparition. When she had vanished, he spoke to Reilly: "Who's that?" Reilly shrugged his shoulders, then without further question the Kid turned back towards the empty theatre and out of the back door. He moved nonchalantly till he was outside, then with the speed of a colt ran down the narrow planking between the buildings, turned parallel to the front street, leaped from board to board, splashed through puddles of water till he reached the next alley. Stamping the mud from his shoes and pulling down his sombrero, he sauntered out into the main thoroughfare. Dextry and his companion had crossed to the other side and were approaching, so the gambler gained a fair view of them. He searched every inch of the girl's face and figure, then, as she made to turn her eyes in his direction, he slouched away. He followed, however, at a distance, till he saw the man leave her, then on up to the big hotel he shadowed her. A half-hour later he was drinking in the Golden Gate bar-room with an acquaintance who ministered to the mechanical details behind the hotel counter. "Who's the girl I saw come in just now?" he inquired. "I guess you mean the Judge's niece." Both men spoke in the dead, restrained tones that go with their callings. "What's her name?" "Chester, I think. Why? Look good to you, Kid?" Although the other neither spoke nor made sign, the bartender construed his silence as acquiescence and continued, with a conscious glance at his own reflection while he adjusted his diamond scarf-pin: "Well, she can have ME! I've got it fixed to meet her." "BAH! I guess not," said the Kid, suddenly, with an inflection that startled the other from his preening. Then, as he went out, the man mused: "Gee! Bronco's got the worst eye in the camp! Makes me creep when he throws it on me with that muddy look. He acted like he was jealous." At noon the next day, as he prepared to go to the claim, Dextry's partner burst in upon him. Glenister was dishevelled, and his eyes shone with intense excitement. "What d'you think they've done now?" he cried, as greeting. "I dunno. What is it?" "They've broken open the safe and taken our money." "What!" The old man in turn was on his feet, the grudge which he had felt against Glenister in the past few days forgotten in this common misfortune. "Yes, by Heaven, they've swiped our money--our tents, tools, teams, books, hose, and all of our personal property--everything! They threw Johnson off and took the whole works. I never heard of such a thing. I went out to the claim and they wouldn't let me go near the workings. They've got every mine on Anvil Creek guarded the same way, and they aren't going to let us come around even when they clean up. They told me so this morning." "But, look here," demanded Dextry, sharply, "the money in that safe belongs to us. That's money we brought in from the States. The court 'ain't got no right to it. What kind of a damn law is that?" "Oh, as to law, they don't pay any attention to it any more," said Glenister, bitterly. "I made a mistake in not killing the first man that set foot on the claim. I was a sucker, and now we're up against a stiff game. The Swedes are in the same fix, too. This last order has left them groggy." "I don't understand it yet," said Dextry. "Why, it's this way. The Judge has issued what he calls an order enlarging the powers of the receiver, and it authorizes McNamara to take possession of everything on the claims--tents, tools, stores, and personal property of all kinds. It was issued last night without notice to our side, so Wheaton says, and they served it this morning early. I went out to see McNamara, and when I got there I found him in our private tent with the safe broken open." "'What does this mean?' I said. And then he showed me the new order. "'I'm responsible to the court for every penny of this money,' said he, 'and for every tool on the claim. In view of that I can't allow you to go near the workings.' "'Not go near the workings?' said I. 'Do you mean you won't let us see the clean-ups from our own mine? How do we know we're getting a square deal if we don't see the gold weighed?' "'I'm an officer of the court and under bond,' said he, and the smiling triumph in his eyes made me crazy. "'You're a lying thief,' I said, looking at him square. 'And you're going too far. You played me for a fool once and made it stick, but it won't work twice.' "He looked injured and aggrieved and called in Voorhees, the marshal. I can't grasp the thing at all; everybody seems to be against us, the Judge, the marshal, the prosecuting attorney--everybody. Yet they've done it all according to law, they claim, and have the soldiers to back them up." "It's just as Mexico Mullins said," Dextry stormed; "there's a deal on of some kind. I'm goin' up to the hotel an' call on the Judge myself. I 'ain't never seen him nor this McNamara, either. I allus want to look a man straight in the eyes once, then I know what course to foller in my dealings." "You'll find them both," said Glenister, "for McNamara rode into town behind me." The old prospector proceeded to the Golden Gate Hotel and inquired for Judge Stillman's room. A boy attempted to take his name, but he seized him by the scruff of the neck and sat him in his seat, proceeding unannounced to the suite to which he had been directed. Hearing voices, he knocked, and then, without awaiting a summons, walked in. The room was fitted like an office, with desk, table, type-writer, and law-books. Other rooms opened from it on both sides. Two men were talking earnestly--one gray-haired, smooth-shaven, and clerical, the other tall, picturesque, and masterful. With his first glance the miner knew that before him were the two he had come to see, and that in reality he had to deal with but one, the big man who shot at him the level glances. "We are engaged," said the Judge, "very busily engaged, sir. Will you call again in half an hour?" Dextry looked him over carefully from head to foot, then turned his back on him and regarded the other. Neither he nor McNamara spoke, but their eyes were busy and each instinctively knew that here was a foe. "What do you want?" McNamara inquired, finally. "I just dropped in to get acquainted. My name is Dextry--Joe Dextry--from everywhere west of the Missouri--an' your name is McNamara, ain't it? This here, I reckon, is your little French poodle--eh?" indicating Stillman. "What do you mean?" said McNamara, while the Judge murmured indignantly. "Just what I say. However, that ain't what I want to talk about. I don't take no stock in such truck as judges an' lawyers an' orders of court. They ain't intended to be took serious. They're all right for children an' Easterners an' non compos mentis people, I s'pose, but I've always been my own judge, jury, an' hangman, an' I aim to continue workin' my legislatif, executif, an' judicial duties to the end of the string. You look out! My pardner is young an' seems to like the idee of lettin' somebody else run his business, so I'm goin' to give him rein and let him amuse himself for a while with your dinky little writs an' receiverships. But don't go too far--you can rob the Swedes, 'cause Swedes ain't entitled to have no money, an' some other crook would get it if you didn't, but don't play me an' Glenister fer Scandinavians. It's a mistake. We're white men, an' I'm apt to come romancin' up here with one of these an' bust you so you won't hold together durin' the ceremonies." With his last words he made the slightest shifting movement, only a lifting shrug of the shoulder, yet in his palm lay a six-shooter. He had slipped it from his trousers band with the ease of long practice and absolute surety. Judge Stillman gasped and backed against the desk, but McNamara idly swung his leg as he sat sidewise on the table. His only sign of interest was a quickening of the eyes, a fact of which Dextry made mental note. "Yes," said the miner, disregarding the alarm of the lawyer, "you can wear this court in your vest-pocket like a Waterbury, if you want to, but if you don't let me alone, I'll uncoil its main-spring. That's all." He replaced his weapon and, turning, walked out the door. CHAPTER IX SLUICE ROBBERS "We must have money," said Glenister a few days later. "When McNamara jumped our safe he put us down and out. There's no use fighting in this court any longer, for the Judge won't let us work the ground ourselves, even if we give bond, and he won't grant an appeal. He says his orders aren't appealable. We ought to send Wheaton out to 'Frisco and have him take the case to the higher courts. Maybe he can get a writ of supersedeas." "I don't rec'nize the name, but if it's as bad as it sounds it's sure horrible. Ain't there no cure for it?" "It simply means that the upper court would take the case away from this one." "Well, let's send him out quick. Every day means ten thousand dollars to us. It 'll take him a month to make the round trip, so I s'pose he ought to leave tomorrow on the Roanoke." "Yes, but where's the money to do it with? McNamara has ours. My God! What a mess we're in! What fools we've been, Dex! There's a conspiracy here. I'm beginning to see it now that it's too late. This man is looting our country under color of law, and figures on gutting all the mines before we can throw him off. That's his game. He'll work them as hard and as long as he can, and Heaven only knows what will become of the money. He must have big men behind him in order to fix a United States judge this way. Maybe he has the 'Frisco courts corrupted, too." "If he has, I'm goin' to kill him," said Dextry. "I've worked like a dog all my life, and now that I've struck pay I don't aim to lose it. If Bill Wheaton can't win out accordin' to law, I'm goin' to proceed accordin' to justice." During the past two days the partners had haunted the court-room where their lawyer, together with the counsel for the Scandinavians, had argued and pleaded, trying every possible professional and unprofessional artifice in search of relief from the arbitrary rulings of the court, while hourly they had become more strongly suspicious of some sinister plot--some hidden, powerful understanding back of the Judge and the entire mechanism of justice. They had fought with the fury of men who battle for life, and had grown to hate the lines of Stillman's vacillating face, the bluster of the district-attorney, and the smirking confidence of the clerks, for it seemed that they all worked mechanically, like toys, at the dictates of Alec McNamara. At last, when they had ceased, beaten and exhausted, they were too confused with technical phrases to grasp anything except the fact that relief was denied them; that their claims were to be worked by the receiver; and, as a crowning defeat, they learned that the Judge would move his court to St. Michael's and hear no cases until he returned, a month later. Meanwhile, McNamara hired every idle man he could lay hand upon, and ripped the placers open with double shifts. Every day a stream of yellow dust poured into the bank and was locked in his vaults, while those mine-owners who attempted to witness the clean-ups were ejected from their claims. The politician had worked with incredible swiftness and system, and a fortnight after landing he had made good his boast to Struve, and was in charge of every good claim in the district, the owners were ousted, their appeals argued and denied, and the court gone for thirty days, leaving him a clear field for his operations. He felt a contempt for most of his victims, who were slow-witted Swedes, grasping neither the purport nor the magnitude of his operation, and as to those litigants who were discerning enough to see its enormity, he trusted to his organization to thwart them. The two partners had come to feel that they were beating against a wall, and had also come squarely to face the proposition that they were without funds wherewith to continue their battle. It was maddening for them to think of the daily robbery that they suffered, for the Midas turned out many ounces of gold at every shift; and more maddening to realize the receiver's shrewdness in crippling them by his theft of the gold in their safe. That had been his crowning stroke. "We MUST get money quick," said Glenister. "Do you think we can borrow?" "Borrow?" sniffed Dextry. "Folks don't lend money in Alaska." They relapsed into a moody silence. "I met a feller this mornin' that's workin' on the Midas," the old man resumed. "He came in town fer a pair of gum boots, an' he says they've run into awful rich ground--so rich that they have to clean up every morning when the night shift goes off 'cause the riffles clog with gold." "Think of it!" Glenister growled. "If we had even a part of one of those clean-ups we could send Wheaton outside." In the midst of his bitterness a thought struck him. He made as though to speak, then closed his mouth; but his partner's eyes were on him, filled with a suppressed but growing fire. Dextry lowered his voice cautiously: "There'll be twenty thousand dollars in them sluices to-night at midnight." Glenister stared back while his pulse pounded at something that lay in the other's words. "It belongs to us," the young man said. "There wouldn't be anything wrong about it, would there?" Dextry sneered. "Wrong! Right! Them is fine an' soundin' titles in a mess like this. What do they mean? I tell you, at midnight to-night Alec McNamara will have twenty thousand dollars of our money--" "God! What would happen if they caught us?" whispered the younger, following out his thought. "They'd never let us get off the claim alive. He couldn't find a better excuse to shoot us down and get rid of us. If we came up before this Judge for trial, we'd go to Sitka for twenty years." "Sure! But it's our only chance. I'd ruther die on the Midas in a fair fight than set here bitin' my hangnails. I'm growin' old and I won't never make another strike. As to bein' caught--them's our chances. I won't be took alive--I promise you that--and before I go I'll get my satisfy. Castin' things up, that's about all a man gets in this vale of tears, jest satisfaction of one kind or another. It'll be a fight in the open, under the stars, with the clean, wet moss to lie down on, and not a scrappin'-match of freak phrases and law-books inside of a stinkin' court-room. The cards is shuffled and in the box, pardner, and the game is started. If we're due to win, we'll win. If we're due to lose, we'll lose. These things is all figgered out a thousand years back. Come on, boy. Are you game?" "Am I game?" Glenister's nostrils dilated and his voice rose a tone. "Am I game? I'm with you till the big cash-in, and Lord have mercy on any man that blocks our game to-night." "We'll need another hand to help us," said Dextry. "Who can we get?" At that moment, as though in answer, the door opened with the scant ceremony that friends of the frontier are wont to observe, admitting the attenuated, flapping, dome-crowned figure of Slapjack Simms, and Dextry fell upon him with the hunger of a wolf. It was midnight and over the dark walls of the valley peered a multitude of stars, while away on the southern horizon there glowed a subdued effulgence as though from hidden fires beneath the Gold God's caldron, or as though the phosphorescence of Bering had spread upward into the skies. Although each night grew longer, it was not yet necessary to light the men at work in the cuts. There were perhaps two hours in which it was difficult to see at a distance, but the dawn came early, hence no provision had been made for torches. Five minutes before the hour the night-shift boss lowered the gates in the dam, and, as the rush from the sluices subsided, his men quit work and climbed the bluff to the mess tent. The dwellings of the Midas, as has already been explained, sat back from the creek at a distance of a city block, the workings being thus partially hidden under the brow of the steep bank. It is customary to leave a watchman in the pit during the noon and midnight hours, not only to see that strangers preserve a neutral attitude, but also to watch the waste-gates and water supply. The night man of the Midas had been warned of his responsibility, and, knowing that much gold lay in his keeping, was disposed to gaze on the curious-minded with the sourness of suspicion. Therefore, as a man leading a pack-horse approached out of the gloom of the creek-trail, his eyes were on him from the moment he appeared. The road wound along the gravel of the bars and passed in proximity to the flumes. However, the wayfarer paid no attention to them, and the watchman detected an explanatory weariness in his slow gait. "Some prospector getting in from a trip," he thought. The stranger stopped, scratched a match, and, as he undertook to light his pipe, the observer caught the mahogany shine of a negro's face. The match sputtered out and then came impatient blasphemy as he searched for another. "Evenin', sah! You-all oblige me with a match?" He addressed the watcher on the bank above, and, without waiting a reply, began to climb upward. No smoker on the trail will deny the luxury of a light to the most humble, so as the negro gained his level the man reached forth to accommodate him. Without warning, the black man leaped forward with the ferocity of an animal and struck the other a fearful blow. The watchman sank with a faint, startled cry, and the African dragged him out of sight over the brow of the bank, where he rapidly tied him hand and foot, stuffing a gag into his mouth. At the same moment two other figures rounded the bend below and approached. They were mounted and leading a third saddle-horse, as well as other pack-animals. Reaching the workings, they dismounted. Then began a strange procedure, for one man clambered upon the sluices and, with a pick, ripped out the riffles. This was a matter of only a few seconds; then, seizing a shovel, he transferred the concentrates which lay in the bottom of the boxes into canvas sacks which his companion held. As each bag was filled, it was tied and dumped into the cut. They treated but four boxes in this way, leaving the lower two-thirds of the flume untouched, for Anvil Creek gold is coarse and the heart of the clean-up lies where it is thrown in. Gathering the sacks together, they lashed them upon the pack-animals, then mounted the second string of sluices and began as before. Throughout it all they worked with feverish haste and in unbroken silence, every moment flashing quick glances at the figure of the lookout who stood on the crest above, half dimmed in the shadow of a willow clump. Judging by their rapidity and sureness, they were expert miners. From the tent came the voices of the night shift at table, and the faint rattle of dishes, while the canvas walls glowed from the lights within like great fire-flies hidden in the grass. The foreman, finishing his meal, appeared at the door of the mess tent, and, pausing to accustom his eyes to the gloom, peered perfunctorily towards the creek. The watchman detached himself from the shadow, moving out into plain sight, and the boss turned back. The two men below were now working on the sluices which lay close under the bank and were thus hidden from the tent. McNamara's description of Anvil Creek's riches had fired Helen Chester with the desire to witness a clean-up, so they had ridden out from town in time for supper at the claim. She had not known whither he led her, only understanding that provision for her entertainment would be made with the superintendent's wife. Upon recognizing the Midas, she had endeavored to question him as to why her friends had been dispossessed, and he had answered, as it seemed, straight and true. The ground was in dispute, he said--another man claimed it--and while the litigation pended he was in charge for the court, to see that neither party received injury. He spoke adroitly, and it satisfied her to have the proposition resolved into such simplicity. She had come prepared to spend the night and witness the early morning operation, so the receiver made the most of his opportunity. He showed her over the workings, explaining the many things that were strange to her. Not only was he in himself a fascinating figure to any woman, but wherever he went men regarded him deferentially, and nothing affects a woman's judgment more promptly than this obvious sign of power. He spent the evening with her, talking of his early days and the things he had done in the West, his story matching the picturesqueness of her canvas-walled quarters with their rough furnishings of skins and blankets. Being a keen observer as well as a finished raconteur, he had woven a spell of words about the girl, leaving her in a state of tumult and indecision when at last, towards midnight, he retired to his own tent. She knew to what end all this was working, and yet knew not what her answer would be when the question came which lay behind it all. At moments she felt the wonderful attraction of the man, and still there was some distrust of him which she could not fathom. Again her thoughts reverted to Glenister, the impetuous, and she compared the two, so similar in some ways, so utterly opposed in others. It was when she heard the night shift at their meal that she threw a silken shawl about her head, stepped into the cool night, and picked her way down towards the roar of the creek. "A breath of air and then to bed," she thought. She saw the tall figure of the watchman and made for him. He seemed oddly interested in her approach, watching her very closely, almost as though alarmed. It was doubtless because there were so few women out here, or possibly on account of the lateness of the hour. Away with conventions! This was the land of instinct and impulse. She would talk to him. The man drew his hat more closely about his face and moved off as she came up. Glenister had been in her thoughts a moment since, and she now noted that here was another with the same great, square shoulders and erect head. Then she saw with a start that this one was a negro. He carried a Winchester and seemed to watch her carefully, yet with indecision. To express her interest and to break the silence, she questioned him, but at the sound of her voice he stepped towards her and spoke roughly. "What!" Then he paused, and stammered in a strangely altered and unnatural voice: "Yass'm. I'm the watchman." She noted two other darkies at work below and was vaguely surprised, not so much at their presence, as at the manner in which they moved, for they seemed under stress of some great haste, running hither and yon. She saw horses standing in the trail and sensed something indefinably odd and alarming in the air. Turning to the man, she opened her mouth to speak, when from the rank grass under her feet came a noise which set her a-tingle, and at which her suspicions leaped full to the solution. It was the groan of a man. Again he gave voice to his pain, and she knew that she stood face to face with something sinister. Tales of sluice robbers had come to her, and rumors of the daring raids into which men were lured by the yellow sheen--and yet this was incredible. A hundred men lay within sound of her voice; she could hear their laughter; one was whistling a popular refrain. A quarter-mile away on every hand were other camps; a scream from her would bring them all. Nonsense, this was no sluice robbery--and then the man in the bushes below moaned for the third time. "What is that?" she said. Without reply the negro lowered the muzzle of his rifle till it covered her breast and at the same time she heard the double click of the hammer. "Keep still and don't move," he warned. "We're desperate and we can't take any chances, Miss." "Oh, you are stealing the gold--" She was wildly frightened, yet stood still while the lookout anxiously divided his attention between her and the tents above until his companions signalled him that they were through and the horses were loaded. Then he spoke: "I don't know what to do with you, but I guess I'll tie you up." "What!" she said. "I'm going to tie and gag you so you can't holler." "Oh, don't you DARE!" she cried, fiercely. "I'll stand right here till you've gone and I won't scream. I promise." She looked up at him appealingly, at which he dipped his head, so that she caught only a glimpse of his face, and then backed away. "All right! Don't try it, because I'll be hidden in those bushes yonder at the bend and I'll keep you covered till the others are gone." He leaped down the bank, ran to the cavalcade, mounted quickly, and the three lashed their horses into a run, disappearing up the trail around the sharp curve. She heard the blows of their quirts as they whipped the pack-horses. They were long out of sight before the girl moved or made sound, although she knew that none of the three had paused at the bend. She only stood and gazed, for as they galloped off she had heard the scrap of a broken sentence. It was but one excited word, sounding through the rattle of hoofs--her own name--"Helen"; and yet because of it she did not voice the alarm, but rather began to piece together, bit by bit, the strange points of this adventure. She recalled the outlines of her captor with a wrinkle of perplexity. Her fright disappeared entirely, giving place to intense excitement. "No, no--it can't be--and yet I wonder if it IS!" she cried. "Oh, I wonder if it could be!" She opened her lips to cry aloud, then hesitated. She started towards the tents, then paused, and for many moments after the hoof-beats had died out she stayed undecided. Surely she wished to give the signal, to force the fierce pursuit. What meant this robbery, this defiance of the law, of her uncle's edicts and of McNamara? They were common thieves, criminals, outlaws, these men, deserving punishment, and yet she recalled a darker night, when she herself had sobbed and quivered with the terrors of pursuit and two men had shielded her with their bodies. She turned and sped towards the tents, bursting in through the canvas door; instantly every man rose to his feet at sight of her pallid face, her flashing eyes, and rumpled hair. "Sluice robbers!" she cried, breathlessly. "Quick! A hold-up! The watchman is hurt!" A roar shook the night air, and the men poured out past her, while the day shift came tumbling forth from every quarter in various stages of undress. "Where? Who did it? Where did they go?" McNamara appeared among them, fierce and commanding, seeming to grasp the situation intuitively, without explanation from her. "Come on, men. We'll run 'em down. Get out the horses. Quick!" He was mounted even as he spoke, and others joined him. Then turning, he waved his long arm up the valley towards the mountains. "Divide into squads of five and cover the hills! Run down to Discovery, one of you, and telephone to town for Voorhees and a posse." As they made ready to ride away, the girl cried: "Stop! Not that way. They went DOWN the gulch--three negroes." She pointed out of the valley, towards the dim glow on the southern horizon, and the cavalcade rode away into the gloom. CHAPTER X THE WIT OF AN ADVENTURESS Up creek the three negroes fled, past other camps, to where the stream branched. Here they took to the right and urged their horses along a forsaken trail to the head-waters of the little tributary and over the low saddle. They had endeavored to reach unfrequented paths as soon as possible in order that they might pass unnoticed. Before quitting the valley they halted their heaving horses, and, selecting a stagnant pool, scoured the grease paint from their features as best they could. Their ears were strained for sounds of pursuit, but, as the moments passed and none came, the tension eased somewhat and they conversed guardedly. As the morning light spread they crossed the moss-capped summit of the range, but paused again, and, removing two saddles, hid them among the rocks. Slapjack left the others here and rode southward down the Dry Creek Trail towards town, while the partners shifted part of the weight from the overloaded pack-mules to the remaining saddle-animals and continued eastward along the barren comb of hills on foot, leading the five horses. "It don't seem like we'll get away this easy," said Dextry, scanning the back trail. "If we do, I'll be tempted to foller the business reg'lar. This grease paint on my face makes me smell like a minstrel man. I bet we'll get some bully press notices to-morrow." "I wonder what Helen was doing there," Glenister answered, irrelevantly, for he had been more shaken by his encounter with her than at his part in the rest or the enterprise, and his mind, which should have been busied with the flight, held nothing but pictures of her as she stood in the half darkness under the fear of his Winchester. "What if she ever learned who that black ruffian was!" He quailed at the thought. "Say, Dex, I am going to marry that girl." "I dunno if you be or not," said Dextry. "Better watch McNamara." "What!" The younger man stopped and stared. "What do you mean?" "Go on. Don't stop the horses. I ain't blind. I kin put two an' two together." "You'll never put those two together. Nonsense! Why, the man's a rascal. I wouldn't let him have her. Besides, it couldn't be. She'll find him out. I love her so much that--oh, my feelings are too big to talk about." He moved his hands eloquently. "You can't understand." "Um-m! I s'pose not," grunted Dextry, but his eyes were level and held the light of the past. "He may be a rascal," the old man continued, after a little; "I'll put in with you on that; but he's a handsome devil, and, as for manners, he makes you look like a logger. He's a brave man, too. Them three qualities are trump-cards and warranted to take most any queen in the human deck--red, white, or yellow." "If he dares," growled Glenister, while his thick brows came forward and ugly lines hardened in his face. In the gray of the early morning they descended the foot-hills into the wide valley of the Nome River and filed out across the rolling country to the river bluffs where, cleverly concealed among the willows, was a rocker. This they set up, then proceeded to wash the dirt from the sacks carefully, yet with the utmost speed, for there was serious danger of discovery. It was wonderful, this treasure of the richest ground since the days of '49, and the men worked with shining eyes and hands a-tremble. The gold was coarse, and many ragged, yellow lumps, too large to pass through the screen, rolled in the hopper, while the aprons bellied with its weight. In the pans which they had provided there grew a gleaming heap of wet, raw gold. Shortly, by divergent routes, the partners rode unnoticed into town, and into the excitement of the hold-up news, while the tardy still lingered over their breakfasts. Far out in the roadstead lay the Roanoke, black smoke pouring from her stack. A tug was returning from its last trip to her. Glenister forced his lathered horse down to the beach and questioned the longshoremen who hung about. "No; it's too late to get aboard--the last tender is on its way back," they informed him. "If you want to go to the 'outside' you'll have to wait for the fleet. That only means another week, and--there she blows now." A ribbon of white mingled with the velvet from the steamer's funnel and there came a slow, throbbing, farewell blast. Glenister's jaw clicked and squared. "Quick! You men!" he cried to the sailors. "I want the lightest dory on the beach and the strongest oarsmen in the crowd. I'll be back in five minutes. There's a hundred dollars in it for you if we catch that ship." He whirled and spurred up through the mud of the streets. Bill Wheaton was snoring luxuriously when wrenched from his bed by a dishevelled man who shook him into wakefulness and into a portion of his clothes, with a storm of excited instructions. The lawyer had neither time nor opportunity for expostulation, for Glenister snatched a valise and swept into it a litter of documents from the table. "Hurry up, man," he yelled, as the lawyer dived frantically about his office in a rabbit-like hunt for items. "My Heavens! Are you dead? Wake up! The ship's leaving." With sleep still in his eyes Wheaton was dragged down the street to the beach, where a knot had assembled to witness the race. As they tumbled into the skiff, willing hands ran it out into the surf on the crest of a roller. A few lifting heaves and they were over the bar with the men at the oars bending the white ash at every swing. "I guess I didn't forget anything," gasped Wheaton as he put on his coat. "I got ready yesterday, but I couldn't find you last night, so I thought the deal was off." Glenister stripped off his coat and, facing the bow, pushed upon the oars at every stroke, thus adding his strength to that of the oarsmen. They crept rapidly out from the beach, eating up the two miles that lay towards the ship. He urged the men with all his power till the sweat soaked through their clothes and, under their clinging shirts, the muscles stood out like iron. They had covered half the distance when Wheaton uttered a cry and Glenister desisted from his work with a curse. The Roanoke was moving slowly. The rowers rested, but the young man shouted at them to begin again, and, seizing a boat-hook, stuck it into the arms of his coat. He waved this on high while the men redoubled their efforts. For many moments they hung in suspense, watching the black hull as it gathered speed, and then, as they were about to cease their effort, a puff of steam burst from its whistle and the next moment a short toot of recognition reached them. Glenister wiped the moisture from his brow and grinned at Wheaton. A quarter of an hour later, as they lay heaving below the ship's steel sides, he thrust a heavy buckskin sack into the lawyer's hand. "There's money to win the fight, Bill. I don't know how much, but it's enough. God bless you. Hurry back!" A sailor cast them a whirling rope, up which Wheaton clambered; then, tying the gripsack to its end, they sent it after. "Important!" the young man yelled at the officer on the bridge. "Government business." He heard a muffled clang in the engine-room, the thrash of the propellers followed, and the big ship glided past. As Glenister dragged himself up the beach, upon landing, Helen Chester called to him, and made room for him beside her. It had never been necessary to call him to her side before; and equally unfamiliar was the abashment, or perhaps physical weariness, that led the young man to sink back in the warm sand with a sigh of relief. She noted that, for the first time, the audacity was gone from his eyes. "I watched your race," she began. "It was very exciting and I cheered for you." He smiled quietly. "What made you keep on after the ship started? I should have given up--and cried." "I never give up anything that I want," he said. "Have you never been forced to? Then it is because you are a man. Women have to sacrifice a great deal." Helen expected him to continue to the effect that he would never give her up--it was in accordance with his earlier presumption--but he was silent; and she was not sure that she liked him as well thus as when he overwhelmed her with the boldness of his suit. For Glenister it was delightful, after the perils of the night, to rest in the calm of her presence and to feel dumbly that she was near. She saw him secretly caress a fold of her dress. If only she had not the memory of that one night on the ship. "Still, he is trying to make amends in the best way he can," she thought. "Though, of course, no woman could care for a man who would do such a thing." Yet she thrilled at the thought of how he had thrust his body between her and danger; how, but for his quick, insistent action, she would have failed in escaping from the pest ship, failed in her mission, and met death on the night of her landing. She owed him much. "Did you hear what happened to the good ship Ohio?" she asked. "No; I've been too busy to inquire. I was told the health officers quarantined her when she arrived, that's all." "She was sent to Egg Island with every one aboard. She has been there more than a month now and may not get away this summer." "What a disappointment for the poor devils on her!" "Yes, and only for what you did, I should be one of them," Helen remarked. "I didn't do much," he said. "The fighting part is easy. It's not half so hard as to give up your property and lie still while--" "Did you do that because I asked you to--because I asked you to put aside the old ways?" A wave of compassion swept over her. "Certainly," he answered. "It didn't come easy, but--" "Oh, I thank you," said she. "I know it is all for the best. Uncle Arthur wouldn't do anything wrong, and Mr. McNamara is an honorable man." He turned towards her to speak, but refrained. He could not tell her what he felt certain of. She believed in her own blood and in her uncle's friends--and it was not for him to speak of McNamara. The rules of the game sealed his lips. She was thinking again, "If only you had not acted as you did." She longed to help him now in his trouble as he had helped her, but what could she do? The law was such a confusing, intricate, perplexing thing. "I spent last night at the Midas," she told him, "and rode back early this morning. That was a daring hold-up, wasn't it?" "What hold-up?" "Why, haven't you heard the news?" "No" he answered, steadily. "I just got up." "Your claim was robbed. Three men overcame the watchman at midnight and cleaned the boxes." His simulation of excited astonishment was perfect and he rained a shower of questions upon her. She noted with approval that he did not look her in the eye, however. He was not an accomplished liar. Now McNamara had a countenance of iron. Unconsciously she made comparison, and the young man at her side did not lose thereby. "Yes, I saw it all," she concluded, after recounting the details. "The negro wanted to bind me so that I couldn't give the alarm, but his chivalry prevented. He was a most gallant darky." "What did you do when they left?" "Why, I kept my word and waited until they were out of sight, then I roused the camp, and set Mr. McNamara and his men right after them down the gulch." "DOWN the gulch!" spoke Glenister, off his guard. "Yes, of course. Did you think they went UP-stream?" She was looking squarely at him now, and he dropped his eyes. "No, the posse started in that direction, but I put them right." There was an odd light in her glance, and he felt the blood drumming in his ears. She sent them down-stream! So that was why there had been no pursuit! Then she must suspect--she must know everything! Glenister was stunned. Again his love for the girl surged tumultuously within him and demanded expression. But Miss Chester, no longer feeling sure that she had the situation in hand, had already started to return to the hotel. "I saw the men distinctly," she told him, before they separated, "and I could identify them all." At his own house Glenister found Dextry removing the stains of the night's adventure. "Miss Chester recognized us last night," he announced. "How do you know?" "She told me so just now, and, what's more, she sent McNamara and his crowd down the creek instead of up. That's why we got away so easily." "Well, well--ain't she a brick? She's even with us now. By-the-way, I wonder how much we cleaned up, anyhow--let's weigh it." Going to the bed, Dextry turned back the blankets, exposing four moose-skin sacks, wet and heavy, where he had thrown them. "There must have been twenty thousand dollars with what I gave Wheaton," said Glenister. At that moment, without warning, the door was flung open, and as the young man jerked the blankets into place he whirled, snatched the six-shooter that Dextry had discarded, and covered the entrance. "Don't shoot, boy!" cried the new-comer, breathlessly. "My, but you're nervous!" Glenister dropped his gun. It was Cherry Malotte; and, from her heaving breast and the flying colors in her cheeks, the men saw she had been running. She did not give them time to question, but closed and locked the door while the words came tumbling from her: "They're on to you, boys--you'd better duck out quick. They're on their way up here now." "What!" "Who?" "Quick! I heard McNamara and Voorhees, the marshal, talking. Somebody has spotted you for the hold-ups. They're on their way now, I tell you. I sneaked out by the back way and came here through the mud. Say, but I'm a sight!" She stamped her trimly booted feet and flirted her skirt. "I don't savvy what you mean," said Dextry, glancing at his partner warningly. "We ain't done nothin'." "Well, it's all right then. I took a long chance so you could make a get-away if you wanted to, because they've got warrants for you for that sluice robbery last night. Here they are now." She darted to the window, the men peering over her shoulder. Coming up the narrow walk they saw Voorhees, McNamara, and three others. The house stood somewhat isolated and well back on the tundra, so that any one approaching it by the planking had an unobstructed view of the premises. Escape was impossible, for the back door led out into the ankle-deep puddles of the open prairie; and it was now apparent that a sixth man had made a circuit and was approaching from the rear. "My God! They'll search the place," said Dextry, and the men looked grimly in each other's faces. Then in a flash Glenister stripped back the blankets and seized the "pokes," leaping into the back room. In another instant he returned with them and faced desperately the candid bareness of the little room that they lived and slept in. Nothing could be hidden; it was folly to think of it. There was a loft overhead, he remembered, hopefully, then realized that the pursuers would search there first of all. "I told you he was a hard fighter," said Dextry, as the quick footsteps grew louder. "He ain't no fool neither. 'Stead of our bein' caught in the mountains, I reckon we'll shoot it out here. We should have cached that gold somewhere." He spun the cylinder of his blackened Colt, while his face grew hard and vulture-like. Meanwhile, Cherry Malotte watched the hunted look in Glenister's face grow wilder and then stiffen into the stubbornness of a man at bay. The posse was at the door now, knocking. The three inside stood rigid and strained. Then Glenister tossed his burden on the bed. "Go into the back room, Cherry; there's going to be trouble." "Who's there?" inquired Dextry through the door, to gain time. Suddenly, without a word, the girl glided to the hot-blast heater, now cold and empty, which stood in a corner of the room. These stoves, used widely in the North, are vertical iron cylinders into which coal is poured from above. She lifted the lid and peered in to find it a quarter full of dead ashes, then turned with shining eyes and parted lips to Glenister. He caught the hint, and in an instant the four sacks were dropped softly into the feathery bottom and the ashes raked over. The daring manoeuvre was almost as quick as the flash of woman's wit that prompted it, and was carried through while the answer to Dextry's question was still unspoken. Then Glenister opened the door carelessly and admitted the group of men. "We've got a search-warrant to look through your house," said Voorhees. "What are you looking for?" "Gold-dust from Anvil Creek." "All right--search away." They rapidly scoured the premises, covering every inch, paying no heed to the girl, who watched them with indifferent eyes, nor to the old man, who glared at their every movement. Glenister was carelessly sarcastic, although he kept his right arm free, while beneath his sang-froid was a thoroughly trained alertness. McNamara directed the search with a manner wholly lacking in his former mock courtesy. It was as though he had been soured by the gall of defeat. The mask had fallen off now, and his character showed--insistent, overbearing, cruel. Towards the partners he preserved a contemptuous silence. The invaders ransacked thoroughly, while a dozen times the hearts of Cherry Malotte and her two companions stopped, then lunged onward, as McNamara or Voorhees approached, then passed the stove. At last Voorhees lifted the lid and peered into its dark interior. At the same instant the girl cried out, sharply, flinging herself from her position, while the marshal jerked his head back in time to see her dash upon Dextry. "Don't! Don't!" She cried her appeal to the old man. "Keep cool. You'll be sorry, Dex--they're almost through." The officer had not seen any movement on Dextry's part, but doubtless her quick eye had detected signs of violence. McNamara emerged, glowering, from the back room at that moment. "Let them hunt," the girl was saying, while Dextry stared dazedly over her head. "They won't find anything. Keep cool and don't act rash." Voorhees's duties sat uncomfortably upon him at the best, and, looking at the smouldering eyes of the two men, he became averse to further search in a powdery household whose members itched to shoot him in the back. "It isn't here," he reported; but the politician only scowled, then spoke for the first time directly to the partners: "I've got warrants for both of you and I'm tempted to take you in, but I won't. I'm not through yet--not by any means. I'll get you--get you both." He turned out of the door, followed by the marshal, who called off his guards, and the group filed back along the walk. "Say, you're a jewel, Cherry. You've saved us twice. You caught Voorhees just in time. My heart hit my palate when he looked into that stove, but the next instant I wanted to laugh at Dextry's expression." Impulsively Glenister laid his hands upon her shoulders. At his look and touch her throat swelled, her bosom heaved, and the silken lids fluttered until she seemed choked by a very flood of sweet womanliness. She blushed like a little maid and laughed a timid, broken laugh; then pulling herself together, the merry, careless tone came into her voice and her cheeks grew cool and clear. "You wouldn't trust me at first, eh? Some day you'll find that your old friends are the best, after all." And as she left them she added, mockingly: "Say, you're a pair of 'shine' desperadoes. You need a governess." CHAPTER XI WHEREIN A WRIT AND A RIOT FAIL A Raw, gray day with a driving drizzle from seaward and a leaden rack of clouds drifting low matched the sullen, fitful mood of Glenister. During the last month he had chafed and fretted like an animal in leash for word of Wheaton. This uncertainty, this impotent waiting with folded hands, was maddening to one of his spirit. He could apply himself to no fixed duty, for the sense of his wrong preyed on him fiercely, and he found himself haunting the vicinity of the Midas, gazing at it from afar, grasping hungrily for such scraps of news as chanced to reach him. McNamara allowed access to none but his minions, so the partners knew but vaguely of what happened on their property, even though, under fiction of law, it was being worked for their protection. No steps regarding a speedy hearing of the case were allowed, and the collusion between Judge Stillman and the receiver had become so generally recognized that there were uneasy mutterings and threats in many quarters. Yet, although the politician had by now virtually absorbed all the richest properties in the district and worked them through his hirelings, the people of Nome as a whole did not grasp the full turpitude of the scheme nor the system's perfect working. Strange to say, Dextry, the fire-eater, had assumed an Oriental patience quite foreign to his peppery disposition, and spent much of his time in the hills prospecting. On this day, as the clouds broke, about noon, close down on the angry horizon a drift of smoke appeared, shortly resolving itself into a steamer. She lay to in the offing, and through his glasses Glenister saw that it was the Roanoke. As the hours passed and no boat put off, he tried to hire a crew, but the longshoremen spat wisely and shook their heads as they watched the surf. "There's the devil of an undertow settin' along this beach," they told him, "and the water's too cold to drownd in comfortable." So he laid firm hands upon his impatience. Every day meant many dollars to the watcher, and yet it seemed that nature was resolute in thwarting him, for that night the wind freshened and daylight saw the ship hugging the lee of Sledge Island, miles to the westward, while the surf, white as boiling milk, boomed and thundered against the shore. Word had gone through the street that Bill Wheaton was aboard with a writ, or a subpoena, or an alibi, or whatever was necessary to put the "kibosh" on McNamara, so public excitement grew. McNamara hoarded his gold in the Alaska Bank, and it was taken for granted that there would lie the scene of the struggle. No one supposed for an instant that the usurper would part with the treasure peaceably. On the third morning the ship lay abreast of the town again and a life-boat was seen to make off from her, whereupon the idle population streamed towards the beach. "She'll make it to the surf all right, but then watch out." "We'd better make ready to haul 'em out," said another. "It's mighty dangerous." And sure enough, as the skiff came rushing in through the breakers she was caught. She had made it past the first line, soaring over the bar on a foamy roller-crest like a storm-driven gull winging in towards the land. The wiry figure of Bill Wheaton crouched in the stern while two sailors fought with their oars. As they gathered for their rush through the last zone of froth, a great comber rose out of the sea behind them, rearing high above their heads. The crowd at the surf's edge shouted. The boat wavered, sucked back into the ocean's angry maw, and with a crash the deluge engulfed them. There remained nothing but a swirling flood through which the life-boat emerged bottom up, amid a tangle of oars, gratings, and gear. Men rushed into the water, and the next roller pounded them back upon the marble-hard sand. There came the sound of splitting wood, and then a group swarmed in waist-deep and bore out a dripping figure. It was a hempen-headed seaman, who shook the water from his mane and grinned when his breath had come. A step farther down the beach the by-standers seized a limp form which the tide rolled to them. It was the second sailor, his scalp split from a blow of the gunwale. Nowhere was Wheaton. Glenister had plunged to the rescue first, a heaving-line about his middle, and although buffeted about he had reached the wreck, only to miss sight of the lawyer utterly. He had time for but a glance when he was drawn outward by the undertow till the line at his waist grew taut, then the water surged over him and he was hurled high up on the beach again. He staggered dizzily back to the struggle, when suddenly a wave lifted the capsized cutter and righted it, and out from beneath shot the form of Wheaton, grimly clutching the life-ropes. They brought him in choking and breathless. "I got it," he said, slapping his streaming breast. "It's all right, Glenister, I knew what delay meant so I took a long chance with the surf." The terrific ordeal he had undergone had blanched him to the lips, his legs wabbled uncertainly, and he would have fallen but for the young man, who thrust an arm about his waist and led him up into the town. "I went before the Circuit Court of Appeals in 'Frisco," he explained later, "and they issued orders allowing an appeal from this court and gave me a writ of supersedeas directed against old Judge Stillman. That takes the litigation out of his hands altogether, and directs McNamara to turn over the Midas and all the gold he's got. What do you think of that? I did better than I expected." Glenister wrung his hand silently while a great satisfaction came upon him. At last this waiting was over and his peaceful yielding to injustice had borne fruit; had proven the better course after all, as the girl had prophesied. He could go to her now with clean hands. The mine was his again. He would lay it at her feet, telling her once more of his love and the change it was working in him. He would make her see it, make her see that beneath the harshness his years in the wild had given him, his love for her was gentle and true and all absorbing. He would bid her be patient till she saw he had mastered himself, till he could come with his soul in harness. "I am glad I didn't fight when they jumped us," he said. "Now we'll get our property back and all the money they took out--that is, if McNamara hasn't salted it." "Yes; all that's necessary is to file the documents, then serve the Judge and McNamara. You'll be back on Anvil Creek to-morrow." Having placed their documents on record at the court-house, the two men continued to McNamara's office. He met them with courtesy. "I heard you had a narrow escape this morning, Mr. Wheaton. Too bad! What can I do for you?" The lawyer rapidly outlined his position and stated in conclusion: "I filed certified copies of these orders with the clerk of the court ten minutes ago, and now I make formal demand upon you to turn over the Midas to Messrs. Glenister and Dextry, and also to return all the gold-dust in your safe-deposit boxes in accordance with this writ." He handed his documents to McNamara, who tossed them on his desk without examination. "Well," said the politician, quietly, "I won't do it." Had he been slapped in the face the attorney would not have been more astonished. "Why--you--" "I won't do it, I said," McNamara repeated, sharply. "Don't think for a minute that I haven't gone into this fight armed for everything. Writs of supersedeas! Bah!" He snapped his fingers. "We'll see whether you'll obey or not," said Wheaton and when he and Glenister were outside he continued: "Let's get to the Judge quick." As they neared the Golden Gate Hotel they spied McNamara entering. It was evident that he had slipped from the rear door of his office and beaten them to the judicial ear. "I don't like that," said Glenister. "He's up to something." So it appeared, for they were fifteen minutes in gaining access to the magistrate and then found McNamara with him. Both men were astounded at the change in Stillman's appearance. During the last month his weak face had shrunk and altered until vacillation was betrayed in every line, and he had acquired the habit of furtively watching McNamara's slightest movement. It seemed that the part he played sat heavily upon him. The Judge examined the papers perfunctorily, and, although his air was deliberate, his fingers made clumsy work of it. At last he said: "I regret that I am forced to doubt the authenticity of these documents." "My Heavens, man!" Wheaton cried. "They're certified copies of orders from your superior court. They grant the appeal that you have denied us and take the case out of your hands altogether. Yes--and they order this man to surrender the mine and everything connected with it. Now, sir, we want you to enforce these orders." Stillman glanced at the silent man in the window and replied: "You will, of course, proceed regularly and make application in court in the proper way, but I tell you now that I won't do anything in the matter." Wheaton stared at him fixedly until the old man snapped out: "You say they are certified copies. How do I know they are? The signatures may all be false. Maybe you signed them yourself." The lawyer grew very white at this and stammered until Glenister drew him out of the room. "Come, come," he said, "we'll carry this thing through in open court. Maybe his nerve will go back on him then. McNamara has him hypnotized, but he won't dare refuse to obey the orders of the Circuit Court of Appeals." "He won't, eh? Well, what do you think he's doing right now?" said Wheaton. "I must think. This is the boldest game I ever played in. They told me things while I was in 'Frisco which I couldn't believe, but I guess they're true. Judges don't disobey the orders of their courts of appeal unless there is power back of them." They proceeded to the attorney's office, but had not been there long before Slapjack Simms burst in upon them. "Hell to pay!" he panted. "McNamara's taking your dust out of the bank." "What's that?" they cried. "I goes into the bank just now for an assay on some quartz samples. The assayer is busy, and I walk back into his room, and while I'm there in trots McNamara in a hurry. He don't see me, as I'm inside the private office, and I overhear him tell them to get his dust out of the vault quick." "We've got to stop that," said Glenister. "If he takes ours, he'll take the Swedes', too. Simms, you run up to the Pioneer Company and tell them about it. If he gets that gold out of there, nobody knows what'll become of it. Come on, Bill." He snatched his hat and ran out of the room, followed by the others. That the loose-jointed Slapjack did his work with expedition was evidenced by the fact that the Swedes were close upon their heels as the two entered the bank. Others had followed, sensing something unusual, and the space within the doors filled rapidly. At the disturbance the clerks suspended their work, the barred doors of the safe-deposit vault clanged to, and the cashier laid hand upon the navy Colt's at his elbow. "What's the matter?" he cried. "We want Alec McNamara," said Glenister. The manager of the bank appeared, and Glenister spoke to him through the heavy wire netting. "Is McNamara in there?" No one had ever known Morehouse to lie. "Yes, sir." He spoke hesitatingly, in a voice full of the slow music of Virginia. "He is in here. What of it?" "We hear he's trying to move that dust of ours and we won't stand for it. Tell him to come out and not hide in there like a dog." At these words the politician appeared beside the Southerner, and the two conversed softly an instant, while the impatience of the crowd grew to anger. Some one cried: "Let's go in and drag him out," and the rumble at this was not pleasant. Morehouse raised his hand. "Gentlemen, Mr. McNamara says he doesn't intend to take any of the gold away." "Then he's taken it already." "No, he hasn't." The receiver's course had been quickly chosen at the interruption. It was not wise to anger these men too much. Although he had planned to get the money into his own possession, he now thought it best to leave it here for the present. He could come back at any time when they were off guard and get it. Beyond the door against which he stood lay three hundred thousand dollars--weighed, sacked, sealed, and ready to move out of the custody of this Virginian whose confidence he had tried so fruitlessly to gain. As McNamara looked into the angry eyes of the lean-faced men beyond the grating, he felt that the game was growing close, and his blood tingled at the thought. He had not planned on a resistance so strong and swift, but he would meet it. He knew that they hungered for his destruction and that Glenister was their leader. He saw further that the man's hatred now stared at him openly for the first time. He knew that back of it was something more than love for the dull metal over which they wrangled, and then a thought came to him. "Some of your work, eh, Glenister?" he mocked. "Were you afraid to come alone, or did you wait till you saw me with a lady?" At the same instant he opened a door behind him, revealing Helen Chester. "You'd better not walk out with me, Miss Chester. This man might--well, you're safer here, you know. You'll pardon me for leaving you." He hoped he could incite the young man to some rash act or word in the presence of the girl, and counted on the conspicuous heroism of his own position, facing the mob single-handed, one against fifty. "Come out," said his enemy, hoarsely, upon whom the insult and the sight of the girl in the receiver's company had acted powerfully. "Of course I'll come out, but I don't want this young lady to suffer any violence from your friends," said McNamara. "I am not armed, but I have the right to leave here unmolested--the right of an American citizen." With that he raised his arms above his head. "Out of my way!" he cried. Morehouse opened the gate, and McNamara strode through the mob. It is a peculiar thing that although under fury of passion a man may fire even upon the back of a defenceless foe, yet no one can offer violence to a man whose arms are raised on high and in whose glance is the level light of fearlessness. Moreover, it is safer to face a crowd thus than a single adversary. McNamara had seen this psychological trick tried before and now took advantage of it to walk through the press slowly, eye to eye. He did it theatrically, for the benefit of the girl, and, as he foresaw, the men fell away before him--all but Glenister, who blocked him, gun in hand. It was plain that the persecuted miner was beside himself with passion. McNamara came within an arm's-length before pausing. Then he stopped and the two stared malignantly at each other, while the girl behind the railing heard her heart pounding in the stillness. Glenister raised his hand uncertainly, then let it fall. He shook his head, and stepped aside so that the other brushed past and out into the street. Wheaton addressed the banker: "Mr. Morehouse, we've got orders and writs of one kind or another from the Circuit Court of Appeals at 'Frisco directing that this money be turned over to us." He shoved the papers towards the other. "We're not in a mood to trifle. That gold belongs to us, and we want it." Morehouse looked carefully at the papers. "I can't help you," he said. "These documents are not directed to me. They're issued to Mr. McNamara and Judge Stillman. If the Circuit Court of Appeals commands me to deliver it to you I'll do it, but otherwise I'll have to keep this dust here till it's drawn out by order of the court that gave it to me. That's the way it was put in here, and that's the way it'll be taken out." "We want it now." "Well, I can't let my sympathies influence me" "Then we'll take it out, anyway," cried Glenister. "We've had the worst of it everywhere else and we're sick of it. Come on, men." "Stand back!--all of you!" cried Morehouse. "Don't lay a hand on that gate. Boys, pick your men." He called this last to his clerks, at the same instant whipping from behind the counter a carbine, which he cocked. The assayer brought into view a shot-gun, while the cashier and clerks armed themselves. It was evident that the deposits of the Alaska Bank were abundantly safeguarded. "I don't aim to have any trouble with you-all," continued the Southerner, "but that money stays here till it's drawn out right." The crowd paused at this show of resistance, but Glenister railed at them: "Come on--come on! What's the matter with you?" And from the light in his eye it was evident that he would not be balked. Helen felt that a crisis was come, and braced herself. These men were in deadly earnest: the white-haired banker, his pale helpers, and those grim, quiet ones outside. There stood brawny, sun-browned men, with set jaws and frowning faces, and yellow-haired Scandinavians in whose blue eyes danced the flame of battle. These had been baffled at every turn, goaded by repeated failure, and now stood shoulder to shoulder in their resistance to a cruel law. Suddenly Helen heard a command from the street and the quick tramp of men, while over the heads before her she saw the glint of rifle barrels. A file of soldiers with fixed bayonets thrust themselves roughly through the crowd at the entrance. "Clear the room!" commanded the officer. "What does this mean?" shouted Wheaton. "It means that Judge Stillman has called upon the military to guard this gold, that's all. Come, now, move quick." The men hesitated, then sullenly obeyed, for resistance to the blue of Uncle Sam comes only at the cost of much consideration. "They're robbing us with our own soldiers," said Wheaton, when they were outside. "Ay," said Glenister, darkly. "We've tried the law, but they're forcing us back to first principles. There's going to be murder here." CHAPTER XII COUNTERPLOTS Glenister had said that the Judge would not dare to disobey the mandates of the Circuit Court of Appeals, but he was wrong. Application was made for orders directing the enforcement of the writs--steps which would have restored possession of the Midas to its owners, as well as possession of the treasure in bank--but Stillman refused to grant them. Wheaton called a meeting of the Swedes and their attorneys, advising a junction of forces. Dextry, who had returned from the mountains, was present. When they had finished their discussion, he said: "It seems like I can always fight better when I know what the other feller's game is. I'm going to spy on that outfit." "We've had detectives at work for weeks," said the lawyer for the Scandinavians; "but they can't find out anything we don't know already." Dextry said no more, but that night found him busied in the building adjoining the one wherein McNamara had his office. He had rented a back room on the top floor, and with the help of his partner sawed through the ceiling into the loft and found his way thence to the roof through a hatchway. Fortunately, there was but little space between the two buildings, and, furthermore, each boasted the square fronts common in mining-camps, which projected high enough to prevent observation from across the way. Thus he was enabled, without discovery, to gain the roof adjoining and to cut through into the loft. He crept cautiously in through the opening, and out upon a floor of joists sealed on the lower side, then lit a candle, and, locating McNamara's office, cut a peep-hole so that by lying flat on the timbers he could command a considerable portion of the room beneath. Here, early the following morning, he camped with the patience of an Indian, emerging in the still of that night stiff, hungry, and atrociously cross. Meanwhile, there had been another meeting of the mine-owners, and it had been decided to send Wheaton, properly armed with affidavits and transcripts of certain court records, back to San Francisco on the return trip of the Santa Maria, which had arrived in port. He was to institute proceedings for contempt of court, and it was hoped that by extraordinary effort he could gain quick action. At daybreak Dextry returned to his post, and it was midnight before he crawled from his hiding-place to see the lawyer and Glenister. "They have had a spy on you all day, Wheaton," he began, "and they know you're going out to the States. You'll be arrested to-morrow morning before breakfast." "Arrested! What for?" "I don't just remember what the crime is--bigamy, or mayhem, or attainder of treason, or something--anyway, they'll get you in jail and that's all they want. They think you're the only lawyer that's wise enough to cause trouble and the only one they can't bribe." "Lord! What 'll I do? They'll watch every lighter that leaves the beach, and if they don't catch me that way, they'll search the ship." "I've thought it all out," said the old man, to whom obstruction acted as a stimulant. "Yes--but how?" "Leave it to me. Get your things together and be ready to duck in two hours." "I tell you they'll search the Santa Maria from stem to stern," protested the lawyer, but Dextry had gone. "Better do as he says. His schemes are good ones," recommended Glenister, and accordingly the lawyer made preparation. In the mean time the old prospector had begun at the end of Front Street to make a systematic search of the gambling-houses. Although it was very late they were running noisily, and at last he found the man he wanted playing "Black Jack," the smell of tar in his clothes, the lilt of the sea in his boisterous laughter. Dextry drew him aside. "Mac, there's only two things about you that's any good--your silence and your seamanship. Otherwise, you're a disreppitable, drunken insect." The sailor grinned. "What is it you want now? If it's concerning money, or business, or the growed-up side of life, run along and don't disturb the carousals of a sailorman. If it's a fight, lemme get my hat." "I want you to wake up your fireman and have steam on the tug in an hour, then wait for me below the bridge. You're chartered for twenty-four hours, and--remember, not a word." "I'm on! Compared to me the Spinks of Egyp' is as talkative as a phonograph." The old man next turned his steps to the Northern Theatre. The performance was still in progress, and he located the man he was hunting without difficulty. Ascending the stairs, he knocked at the door of one of the boxes and called for Captain Stephens. "I'm glad I found you, Cap," said he. "It saved me a trip out to your ship in the dark." "What's the matter?" Dextry drew him to an isolated corner. "Me an' my partner want to send a man to the States with you." "All right." "Well--er--here's the point," hesitated the miner, who rebelled at asking favors. "He's our law sharp, an' the McNamara outfit is tryin' to put the steel on him." "I don't understand." "Why, they've swore out a warrant an' aim to guard the shore to-morrow. We want you to--" "Mr. Dextry, I'm not looking for trouble. I get enough in my own business." "But, see here," argued the other, "we've GOT to send him out so he can make a pow-wow to the big legal smoke in 'Frisco. We've been cold-decked with a bum judge. They've got us into a corner an' over the ropes." "I'm sorry I can't help you, Dextry, but I got mixed up in one of your scrapes and that's plenty." "This ain't no stowaway. There's no danger to you," began Dextry, but the officer interrupted him: "There's no need of arguing. I won't do it." "Oh, you WON'T, eh?" said the old man, beginning to lose his temper. "Well, you listen to me for a minute. Everybody in camp knows that me an' the kid is on the square an' that we're gettin' the hunk passed to us. Now, this lawyer party must get away to-night or these grafters will hitch the horses to him on some phony charge so he can't get to the upper court. It 'll be him to the bird-cage for ninety days. He's goin' to the States, though, an' he's goin'--in--your--wagon! I'm talkin' to you--man to man. If you don't take him, I'll go to the health inspector--he's a friend of mine--an' I'll put a crimp in you an' your steamboat, I don't want to do that--it ain't my reg'lar graft by no means--but this bet goes through as she lays. I never belched up a secret before. No, sir; I am the human huntin'-case watch, an' I won't open my face unless you press me. But if I should, you'll see that it's time for you to hunt a new job. Now, here's my scheme." He outlined his directions to the sailor, who had fallen silent during the warning. When he had done, Stephens said: "I never had a man talk to me like that before, sir--never. You've taken advantage of me, and under the circumstances I can't refuse. I'll do this thing--not because of your threat, but because I heard about your trouble over the Midas--and because I can't help admiring your blamed insolence." He went back into his stall. Dextry returned to Wheaton's office. As he neared it, he passed a lounging figure in an adjacent doorway. "The place is watched," he announced as he entered. "Have you got a back door? Good! Leave your light burning and we'll go out that way." They slipped quietly into an inky, tortuous passage which led back towards Second Street. Floundering through alleys and over garbage heaps, by circuitous routes, they reached the bridge, where, in the swift stream beneath, they saw the lights from Mac's tug. Steam was up, and when the Captain had let them aboard Dextry gave him instructions, to which he nodded acquiescence. They bade the lawyer adieu, and the little craft slipped its moorings, danced down the current, across the bar, and was swallowed up in the darkness to seaward. "I'll put out Wheaton's light so they'll think he's gone to bed." "Yes, and at daylight I'll take your place in McNamara's loft," said Glenister. "There will be doings to-morrow when they don't find him." They returned by the way they had come to the lawyer's room, extinguished his light, went to their own cabin and to bed. At dawn Glenister arose and sought his place above McNamara's office. To lie stretched at length on a single plank with eye glued to a crack is not a comfortable position, and the watcher thought the hours of the next day would never end. As they dragged wearily past, his bones began to ache beyond endurance, yet owing to the flimsy structure of the building he dared not move while the room below was tenanted. In fact, he would not have stirred had he dared, so intense was his interest in the scenes being enacted beneath him. First had come the marshal, who imported his failure to find Wheaton. "He left his room some time last night. My men followed him in and saw a light in his window until two o'clock this morning. At seven o'clock we broke in and he was gone." "He must have got wind of our plan. Send deputies aboard the Santa Maria; search her from keel to topmast, and have them watch the beach close or he'll put off in a small boat. You look over the passengers that go aboard yourself. Don't trust any of your men for that, because he may try to slip through disguised. He's liable to make up like a woman. You understand--there's only one ship in port, and--he mustn't get away." "He won't," said Voorhees, with conviction, and the listener overhead smiled grimly to himself, for at that moment, twenty miles offshore, lay Mac's little tug, hove to in the track of the outgoing steamship, and in her tiny cabin sat Bill Wheaton eating breakfast. As the morning wore by with no news of the lawyer, McNamara's uneasiness grew. At noon the marshal returned with a report that the passengers were all aboard and the ship about to clear. "By Heavens! He's slipped through you," stormed the politician. "No, he hasn't. He may be hidden aboard somewhere among the coal-bunkers, but I think he's still ashore and aiming to make a quick run just before she sails. He hasn't left the beach since daylight, that's sure. I'm going out to the ship now with four men and search her again. If we don't bring him off you can bet he's lying out somewhere in town and we'll get him later. I've stationed men along the shore for two miles." "I won't have him get away. If he should reach 'Frisco--Tell your men I'll give five hundred dollars to the one that finds him." Three hours later Voorhees returned. "She sailed without him." The politician cursed. "I don't believe it. He tricked you. I know he did." Glenister grinned into a half-eaten sandwich, then turned upon his back and lay thus on the plank, identifying the speakers below by their voices. He kept his post all day. Later in the evening he heard Struve enter. The man had been drinking. "So he got away, eh?" he began. "I was afraid he would. Smart fellow, that Wheaton." "He didn't get away," said McNamara. "He's in town yet. Just let me land him in jail on some excuse! I'll hold him till snow flies." Struve sank into a chair and lit a cigarette with wavering hand. "This's a hell of a game, ain't it, Mac? D'you s'pose we'll win?" The man overhead pricked up his ears. "Win? Aren't we winning? What do you call this? I only hope we can lay hands on Wheaton. He knows things. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, but more is worse. Lord! If only I had a MAN for judge in place of Stillman! I don't know why I brought him." "That's right. Too weak. He hasn't got the backbone of an angleworm. He ain't half the man that his niece is. THERE'S a girl for you! Say! What'd we do without her, eh? She's a pippin!" Glenister felt a sudden tightening of every muscle. What right had that man's liquor-sodden lips to speak so of her? "She's a brave little woman all right. Just look how she worked Glenister and his fool partner. It took nerve to bring in those instructions of yours alone; and if it hadn't been for her we'd never have won like this. It makes me laugh to think of those two men stowing her away in their state-room while they slept between decks with the sheep, and her with the papers in her bosom all the time. Then, when we got ready to do business, why, she up and talks them into giving us possession of their mine without a fight. That's what I call reciprocating a man's affection." Glenister's nails cut into his flesh, while his face went livid at the words. He could not grasp it at once. It made him sick--physically sick--and for many moments he strove blindly to beat back the hideous suspicion, the horror that the lawyer had aroused. His was not a doubting disposition, and to him the girl had seemed as one pure, mysterious, apart, angelically incapable of deceit. He had loved her, feeling that some day she would return his affection without fail. In her great, unclouded eyes he had found no lurking-place for double-dealing. Now--God! It couldn't be that all the time she had KNOWN! He had lost a part of the lawyer's speech, but peered through his observation-hole again. McNamara was at the window gazing out into the dark street, his back towards the lawyer, who lolled in the chair, babbling garrulously of the girl. Glenister ground his teeth--a frenzy possessed him to loose his anger, to rip through the frail ceiling with naked hands and fall vindictively upon the two men. "She looked good to me the first time I saw her," continued Struve. He paused, and when he spoke again a change had coarsened his features, "Say, I'm crazy about her, Mac. I tell you, I'm crazy--and she likes me--I know she does--or, anyway, she would--" "Do you mean that you're in love with her?" asked the man at the window, without shifting his position. It seemed that utter indifference was in his question, although where the light shone on his hands, tight-clinched behind his back, they were bloodless. "Love her? Well--that depends--ha! You know how it is--" he chuckled, coarsely. His face was gross and bestial. "I've got the Judge where I want him, and I'll have her--" His miserable words died with a gurgle, for McNamara had silently leaped and throttled him where he sat, pinning him to the wall. Glenister saw the big politician shift his fingers slightly on Struve's throat and then drop his left hand to his side, holding his victim writhing and helpless with his right despite the man's frantic struggles. McNamara's head was thrust forward from his shoulders, peering into the lawyer's face. Strove tore ineffectually at the iron arm which was squeezing his life out, while for endless minutes the other leaned his weight against him, his idle hand behind his back, his legs braced like stone columns, as he watched his victim's struggles abate. Struve fought and wrenched while his breath caught in his throat with horrid, sickening sounds, but gradually his eyes rolled farther and farther back till they stared out of his blackened visage, straight up towards the ceiling, towards the hole through which Glenister peered. His struggles lessened, his chin sagged, and his tongue protruded, then he sat loose and still. The politician flung him out into the room so that he fell limply upon his face, then stood watching him. Finally, McNamara passed out of the watcher's vision, returning with a water-bucket. With his foot he rolled the unconscious wretch upon his back, then drenched him. Replacing the pail, he seated himself, lit a cigar, and watched the return of life into his victim. He made no move, even to drag him from the pool in which he lay. Struve groaned and shuddered, twisted to his side, and at last sat up weakly. In his eyes there was now a great terror, while in place of his drunkenness was only fear and faintness--abject fear of the great bulk that sat and smoked and stared at him so fishily. He felt uncertainly of his throat, and groaned again. "Why did you do that?" he whispered; but the other made no sign. He tried to rise, but his knees relaxed; he staggered and fell. At last he gained his feet and made for the door; then, when his hand was on the knob, McNamara spoke through his teeth, without removing his cigar. "Don't ever talk about her again. She is going to marry me." When he was alone he looked curiously up at the ceiling over his head. "The rats are thick in this shack," he mused. "Seems to me I heard a whole swarm of them." A few moments later a figure crept through the hole in the roof of the house next door and thence down into the street. A block ahead was the slow-moving form of Attorney Struve. Had a stranger met them both he would not have known which of the two had felt at his throat the clutch of a strangler, for each was drawn and haggard and swayed as he went. Glenister unconsciously turned towards his cabin, but at leaving the lighted streets the thought of its darkness and silence made him shudder. Not now! He could not bear that stillness and the company of his thoughts. He dared not be alone. Dextry would be down-town, undoubtedly, and he, too, must get into the light and turmoil. He licked his lips and found that they were cracked and dry. At rare intervals during the past years he had staggered in from a long march where, for hours, he had waged a bitter war with cold and hunger, his limbs clumsy with fatigue, his garments wet and stiff, his mind slack and sullen. At such extreme seasons he had felt a consuming thirst, a thirst which burned and scorched until his very bones cried out feverishly. Not a thirst for water, nor a thirst which eaten snow could quench, but a savage yearning of his whole exhausted system for some stimulant, for some coursing fiery fluid that would burn and strangle. A thirst for whiskey--for brandy! Remembering these occasional ferocious desires, he had become charitable to such unfortunates as were too weak to withstand similar temptations. Now with a shock he caught himself in the grip of a thirst as insistent as though the cold bore down and the weariness of endless heavy miles wrapped him about. It was no foolish wish to drown his thoughts nor to banish the grief that preyed upon him, but only thirst! Thirst!--a crying, trembling, physical lust to quench the fires that burned inside. He remembered that it had been more than a year since he had tasted whiskey. Now the fever of the past few hours had parched his every tissue. As he elbowed in through the crowd at the Northern, those next him made room at the bar for they recognized the hunger that peers thus from men's faces. Their manner recalled Glenister to his senses, and he wrenched himself away. This was not some solitary, snow-banked road-house. He would not stand and soak himself, shoulder to shoulder with stevedores and longshoremen. This was something to be done in secret. He had no pride in it. The man on his right raised a glass, and the young man strangled a madness to tear it from his hands. Instead, he hurried back to the theatre and up to a box, where he drew the curtains. "Whiskey!" he said, thickly, to the waiter. "Bring it to me fast. Don't you hear? Whiskey!" Across the theatre Cherry Malotte had seen him enter and jerk the curtains together. She arose and went to him, entering without ceremony. "What's the matter, boy?" she questioned. "Ah! I am glad you came. Talk to me." "Thank you for your few well-chosen remarks," she laughed. "Why don't you ask me to spring some good, original jokes? You look like the finish to a six-day go-as-you please. What's up?" She talked to him for a moment until the waiter entered, then, when she saw what he bore, she snatched the glass from the tray and poured the whiskey on the floor. Glenister was on his feet and had her by the wrist. "What do you mean?" he said, roughly. "It's whiskey, boy," she cried, "and you don't drink." "Of course it's whiskey. Bring me another," he shouted at the attendant. "What's the matter?" Cherry insisted. "I never saw you act so. You know you don't drink. I won't let you. It's booze--booze, I tell you, fit for fools and brawlers. Don't drink it, Roy. Are you in trouble?" "I say I'm thirsty--and I will have it! How do you know what it is to smoulder inside, and feel your veins burn dry?" "It's something about that girl," the woman said, with quiet conviction. "She's double-crossed you." "Well, so she has--but what of it? I'm thirsty. She's going to marry McNamara. I've been a fool." He ground his teeth and reached for the drink with which the boy had returned. "McNamara is a crook, but he's a man, and he never drank a drop in his life." The girl said it, casually, evenly, but the other stopped the glass half-way to his lips. "Well, what of it? Goon. You're good at W. C. T. U. talk. Virtue becomes you." She flushed, but continued, "It simply occurred to me that if you aren't strong enough to handle your own throat, you're not strong enough to beat a man who has mastered his." Glenister looked at the whiskey a moment, then set it back on the tray. "Bring two lemonades," he said, and with a laugh which was half a sob Cherry Malotte leaned forward and kissed him. "You're too good a man to drink. Now, tell me all about it." "Oh, it's too long! I've just learned that the girl is in, hand and glove, with the Judge and McNamara--that's all. She's an advance agent--their lookout. She brought in their instructions to Struve and persuaded Dex and me to let them jump our claim. She got us to trust in the law and in her uncle. Yes, she hypnotized my property out of me and gave it to her lover, this ward politician. Oh, she's smooth, with all her innocence! Why, when she smiles she makes you glad and good and warm, and her eyes are as honest and clear as a mountain pool, but she's wrong--she's wrong--and--great God! how I love her!" He dropped his face into his hands. When she had pled with him for himself a moment before Cherry Malotte was genuine and girlish but now as he spoke thus of the other woman a change came over her which he was too disturbed to note. She took on the subtleness that masked her as a rule, and her eyes were not pleasant. "I could have told you all that and more." "More! What more?" he questioned. "Do you remember when I warned you and Dextry that they were coming to search your cabin for the gold? Well, that girl put them on to you. I found it out afterwards. She keeps the keys to McNamara's safety vault where your dust lies, and she's the one who handles the Judge. It isn't McNamara at all." The woman lied easily, fluently, and the man believed her. "Do you remember when they broke into your safe and took that money?" "Yes." "Well, what made them think you had ten thousand in there?" "I don't know." "I do. Dextry told her." Glenister arose. "That's all I want to hear now. I'm going crazy. My mind aches, for I've never had a fight like this before and it hurts. You see, I've been an animal all these years. When I wanted to drink, I drank, and what I wanted, I got, because I've been strong enough to take it. This is new to me. I'm going down-stairs now and try to think of something else--then I'm going home." When he had gone she pulled back the curtains, and, leaning her chin in her hands, with elbows on the ledge, gazed down upon the crowd. The show was over and the dance had begun, but she did not see it, for she was thinking rapidly with the eagerness of one who sees the end of a long and weary search. She did not notice the Bronco Kid beckoning to her nor the man with him, so the gambler brought his friend along and invaded her box. He introduced the man as Mr. Champian. "Do you feel like dancing?" the new-comer inquired. "No; I'd rather look on. I feel sociable. You're a society man, Mr. Champian. Don't you know anything of interest? Scandal or the like?" "Can't say that I do. My wife attends to all that for the family. But I know there's lots of it. It's funny to me, the airs some of these people assume up here, just as though we weren't all equal, north of Fifty-three. I never heard the like." "Anything new and exciting?" inquired Bronco, mildly interested. "The last I heard was about the Judge's niece, Miss Chester." Cherry Malotte turned abruptly, while the Kid slowly lowered the front legs of his chair to the floor. "What was it?" she inquired. "Why, it seems she compromised herself pretty badly with this fellow Glenister coming up on the steamer last spring. Mighty brazen, according to my wife. Mrs. Champian was on the same ship and says she was horribly shocked." Ah! Glenister had told her only half the tale, thought the girl. The truth was baring itself. At that moment Champian thought she looked the typical creature of the dance-halls, the crafty, jealous, malevolent adventuress. "And the hussy masquerades as a lady," she sneered. "She IS a lady," said the Kid. He sat bolt upright and rigid, and the knuckles of his clinched hands were very white. In the shadow they did not note that his dark face was ghastly, nor did he say more except to bid Champian good-bye when he left, later on. After the door had closed, however, the Kid arose and stretched his muscles, not languidly, but as though to take out the cramp of long tension. He wet his lips, and his mouth was so dry that the sound caused the girl to look up. "What are you grinning at?" Then, as the light struck his face, she started. "My! How you look! What ails you? Are you sick?" No one, from Dawson down, had seen the Bronco Kid as he looked to-night. "No. I'm not sick," he answered, in a cracked voice. Then the girl laughed harshly. "Do YOU love that girl, too? Why, she's got every man in town crazy." She wrung her hands, which is a bad sign in a capable person, and as Glenister crossed the floor below in her sight she said, "Ah-h--I could kill him for that!" "So could I," said the Kid, and left her without adieu. CHAPTER XIII IN WHICH A MAN IS POSSESSED OF A DEVIL For a long time Cherry Malotte sat quietly thinking, removed by her mental stress to such an infinite distance from the music and turmoil beneath that she was conscious of it only as a formless clamor. She had tipped a chair back against the door, wedging it beneath the knob so that she might be saved from interruption, then flung herself into another seat and stared unseeingly. As she sat thus, and thought, and schemed, harsh and hateful lines seemed to eat into her face. Now and then she moaned impatiently, as though fearing lest the strategy she was plotting might prove futile; then she would rise and pace her narrow quarters. She was unconscious of time, and had spent perhaps two hours thus, when amid the buzz of talk in the next compartment she heard a name which caused her to start, listen, then drop her preoccupation like a mantle. A man was speaking of Glenister. Excitement thrilled his voice. "I never saw anything like it since McMaster's Night in Virginia City, thirteen years ago. He's RIGHT." "Well, perhaps so," the other replied, doubtfully, "but I don't care to back you. I never 'staked' a man in my life." "Then LEND me the money. I'll pay it back in an hour, but for Heaven's sake be quick. I tell you he's as right as a golden guinea. It's the lucky night of his life. Why, he turned over the Black Jack game in four bets. In fifteen minutes more we can't get close enough to a table to send in our money with a messenger-boy--every sport in camp will be here." "I'll stake you to fifty," the second man replied, in a tone that showed a trace of his companion's excitement. So Glenister was gambling, the girl learned, and with such luck as to break the Black Jack game and excite the greed of every gambler in camp. News of his winnings had gone out into the street, and the sporting men were coming to share his fortune, to fatten like vultures on the adversity of their fellows. Those who had no money to stake were borrowing, like the man next door. She left her retreat, and, descending the stairs, was greeted by a strange sight. The dance-hall was empty of all but the musicians, who blew and fiddled lustily in vain endeavor to draw from the rapidly swelling crowd that thronged the gambling-room and stretched to the door. The press was thickest about a table midway down the hall. Cherry could see nothing of what went on there, for men and women stood ten deep about it and others perched on chairs and tables along the walls. A roar arose suddenly, followed by utter silence; then came the clink and rattle of silver. A moment, and the crowd resumed its laughter and talk. "All down, boys," sounded the level voice of the dealer. "The field or the favorite. He's made eighteen straight passes. Get your money on the line." There ensued another breathless instant wherein she heard the thud of dice, then followed the shout of triumph that told what the spots revealed. The dealer payed off. Glenister reared himself head and shoulders above the others and pushed out through the ring to the roulette-wheel. The rest followed. Behind the circular table they had quitted, the dealer was putting away his dice, and there was not a coin in his rack. Mexico Mullins approached Cherry, and she questioned him. "He just broke the crap game," Mullins told her; "nineteen passes without losing the bones." "How much did he win?" "Oh, he didn't win much himself, but it's the people betting with him that does the damage! They're gamblers, most of them, and they play the limit. He took out the Black Jack bank-roll first, $4,000, then cleaned the 'Tub.' By that time the tin horns began to come in. It's the greatest run I ever see." "Did you get in?" "Now, don't you know that I never play anything but 'bank'? If he lasts long enough to reach the faro lay-out, I'll get mine." The excitement of the crowd began to infect the girl, even though she looked on from the outside. The exultant voices, the sudden hush, the tensity of nerve it all betokened, set her a-thrill. A stranger left the throng and rushed to the spot where Cherry and Mexico stood talking. He was small and sandy, with shifting glance and chinless jaw. His eyes glittered, his teeth shone rat-like through his dry lips, and his voice was shrill. He darted towards them like some furtive, frightened little animal, unnaturally excited. "I guess that isn't so bad for three bets!" He shook a sheaf of bank-notes at them. "Why don't you stick?" inquired Mullins. "I am too wise. Ha! I know when to quit. He can't win steady--he don't play any system." "Then he has a good chance," said the girl. "There he goes now," the little man cried as the uproar arose. "I told you he'd lose." At the voice of the multitude he wavered as though affected by some powerful magnet. "But he won again," said Mexico. "No! Did he? Lord! I quit too soon!" He scampered back into the other room, only to return, hesitating, his money tightly clutched. "Do you s'pose it's safe? I never saw a man bet so reckless. I guess I'd better quit, eh?" He noted the sneer on the woman's face, and without waiting a reply dashed off again. They saw him clamorously fight his way in towards a post at the roulette-table. "Let me through! I've got money and I want to play it!" "Pah!" said Mullins, disgustedly. "He's one of them Vermont desperadoes that never laid a bet till he was thirty. If Glenister loses he'll hate him for life." "There are plenty of his sort here," the girl remarked; "his soul would fit in a flea-track." She spied the Bronco Kid sauntering back towards her and joined him. He leaned against the wall, watching the gossamer thread of smoke twist upward from his cigarette, seemingly oblivious to the surroundings, and showing no hint of the emotion he had displayed two hours before. "This is a big killing, isn't it?" said the girl. The gambler nodded, murmuring indifferently. "Why aren't you dealing bank? Isn't this your shift?" "I quit last night." "Just in time to miss this affair. Lucky for you." "Yes; I own the place now. Bought it yesterday." "Good Heavens! Then it's YOUR money he's winning." "Sure, at the rate of a thousand a minute." She glanced at the long trail of devastated tables behind Glenister and his followers. At that instant the sound told that the miner had won again, and it dawned upon Cherry that the gambler beside her stood too quietly, that his hand and voice were too steady, his glance too cold to be natural. The next moment approved her instinct. The musicians, grown tired of their endeavors to lure back the dancers, determined to join the excitement, and ceased playing. The leader laid down his violin, the pianist trailed up the key-board with a departing twitter and quit his stool. They all crossed the hall, headed for the crowd, some of them making ready to bet. As they approached the Bronco Kid, his lips thinned and slid apart slightly, while out of his heavy-lidded eyes there flared unreasoning rage. Stepping forward, he seized the foremost man and spun him about violently. "Where are you going?" "Why, nobody wants to dance, so we thought we'd go out front for a bit." "Get back, damn you!" It was his first chance to vent the passion within him. A glance at his maddened features was sufficient for the musicians, and they did not delay. By the time they had resumed their duties, however, the curtains of composure had closed upon the Kid, masking his emotion again; but from her brief glimpse Cherry Malotte knew that this man was not of ice, as some supposed. He turned to her and said, "Do you mean what you said up-stairs?" "I don't understand." "You said you could kill Glenister." "I could." "Don't you love--" "I HATE him," she interrupted, hoarsely. He gave her a mirthless smile, and spying the crap-dealer leaving his bankrupt table, called him over and said: "Toby, I want you to 'drive the hearse' when Glenister begins to play faro. I'll deal. Understand?" "Sure! Going to give him a little 'work,' eh?" "I never dealt a crooked card in this camp," exclaimed the Kid, "but I'll 'lay' that man to-night or I'll kill him! I'll use a 'sand-tell,' see! And I want to explain my signals to you. If you miss the signs you'll queer us both and put the house on the blink." He rapidly rehearsed his signals in a jargon which to a layman would have been unintelligible, illustrating them by certain almost imperceptible shiftings of the fingers or changes in the position of his hand, so slight as to thwart discovery. Through it all the girl stood by and followed his every word and motion with eager attention. She needed no explanation of the terms they used. She knew them all, knew that the "hearse-driver" was the man who kept the cases, knew all the code of the "inside life." To her it was all as an open page, and she memorized more quickly than did Toby the signs by which the Bronco Kid proposed to signal what card he had smuggled from the box or held back. In faro it is customary for the case-keeper to sit on the opposite side of the table from the dealer, with a device before him resembling an abacus, or Chinese adding-machine. When a card is removed from the faro-box by the dealer, the "hearse-driver" moves a button opposite a corresponding card on his little machine, in order that the players, at a glance, may tell what spots have been played or are still in the box. His duties, though simple, are important, for should he make an error, and should the position of his counters not tally with the cards in the box on the "last turn," all bets on the table are declared void. When honestly dealt, faro is the fairest of all gambling games, but it is intricate, and may hide much knavery. When the game is crooked, it is fatal, for out of the ingenuity of generations of card sharks there have been evolved a multitude of devices with which to fleece the unsuspecting. These are so carefully masked that none but the initiated may know them, while the freemasonry of the craft is strong and discovery unusual. Instead of using a familiar arrangement like the "needle-tell," wherein an invisible needle pricks the dealer's thumb, thus signalling the presence of certain cards, the Bronco Kid had determined to use the "sand-tell." In other words, he would employ a "straight box," but a deck of cards, certain ones of which had been roughened or sand-papered slightly, so that, by pressing more heavily on the top or exposed card, the one beneath would stick to its neighbor above, and thus enable him to deal two with one motion if the occasion demanded. This roughness would likewise enable him to detect the hidden presence of a marked card by the faintest scratching sound when he dealt. In this manipulation it would be necessary, also, to shave the edges of some of the pasteboards a trifle, so that, when the deck was forced firmly against one side of the box, there would be exposed a fraction of the small figure in the left-hand corner of the concealed cards. Long practice in the art of jugglery lends such proficiency as to baffle discovery and rob the game of its uncertainty as surely as the player is robbed of his money. It is, of course, vital that the confederate case-keeper be able to interpret the dealer's signs perfectly in order to move the sliding ebony disks to correspond, else trouble will accrue at the completion of the hand when the cases come out wrong. Having completed his instructions, the proprietor went forward, and Cherry wormed her way towards the roulette-wheel. She wished to watch Glenister, but could not get near him because of the crowd. The men would not make room for her. Every eye was glued upon the table as though salvation lurked in its rows of red and black. They were packed behind it until the croupier had barely room to spin the ball, and although he forced them back, they pressed forward again inch by inch, drawn by the song of the ivory, drunk with its worship, maddened by the breath of Chance. Cherry gathered that Glenister was still winning, for a glimpse of the wheel-rack between the shoulders of those ahead showed that the checks were nearly out of it. Plainly it was but a question of minutes, so she backed out and took her station beside the faro-table where the Bronco Kid was dealing. His face wore its colorless mask of indifference; his long white hands moved slowly with the certainty that betokened absolute mastery of his art. He was waiting. The ex-crap dealer was keeping cases. The group left the roulette-table in a few moments and surrounded her, Glenister among the others. He was not the man she knew. In place of the dreary hopelessness with which he had left her, his face was flushed and reckless, his collar was open, showing the base of his great, corded neck, while the lust of the game had coarsened him till he was again the violent, untamed, primitive man of the frontier. His self-restraint and dignity were gone. He had tried the new ways, and they were not for him. He slipped back, and the past swallowed him. After leaving Cherry he had sought some mental relief by idly risking the silver in his pocket. He had let the coins lie and double, then double again and again. He had been indifferent whether he won or lost, so assumed a reckless disregard for the laws of probability, thinking that he would shortly lose the money he had won and then go home. He did not want it. When his luck remained the same, he raised the stakes, but it did not change--he could not lose. Before he realized it, other men were betting with him, animated purely by greed and craze of the sport. First one, then another joined till game after game was closed, and each moment the crowd had grown in size and enthusiasm so that its fever crept into him, imperceptibly at first, but ever increasing, till the mania mastered him. He paid no attention to Cherry as he took his seat. He had eyes for nothing but the "lay-out." She clenched her hands and prayed for his ruin. "What's your limit, Kid?" he inquired. "One hundred, and two," the Kid answered, which in the vernacular means that any sum up to $200 be laid on one card save only on the last turn, when the amount is lessened by half. Without more ado they commenced. The Kid handled his cards smoothly, surely, paying and taking bets with machine-like calm. The on-lookers ceased talking and prepared to watch, for now came the crucial test of the evening. Faro is to other games as war is to jackstraws. For a time Glenister won steadily till there came a moment when many stacks of chips lay on the deuce. Cherry saw the Kid "flash" to the case-keeper, and the next moment he had "pulled two." The deuce lost. It was his first substantial gain, and the players paid no attention. At the end of half an hour the winnings were slightly in favor of the "house." Then Glenister said, "This is too slow. I want action." "All right," smiled the proprietor. "We'll double the limit." Thus it became possible to wager $400 on a card, and the Kid began really to play. Glenister now lost steadily, not in large amounts, but with tantalizing regularity. Cherry had never seen cards played like this. The gambler was a revelation to her--his work was wonderful. Ill luck seemed to fan the crowd's eagerness, while, to add to its impatience, the cases came wrong twice in succession, so that those who would have bet heavily upon the last turn had their money given back. Cherry saw the confusion of the "hearse-driver" even quicker than did Bronco. Toby was growing rattled. The dealer's work was too fast for him, and yet he could offer no signal of distress for fear of annihilation at the hands of those crowded close to his shoulder. In the same way the owner of the game could make no objection to his helper's incompetence for fear that some by-stander would volunteer to fill the man's part--there were many present capable of the trick. He could only glare balefully across the table at his unfortunate confederate. They had not gone far on the next game before Cherry's quick eye detected a sign which the man misinterpreted. She addressed him, quietly, "You'd better brush up your plumes." In spite of his anger the Bronco Kid smiled. Humor in him was strangely withered and distorted, yet here was a thrust he would always remember and recount with glee in years to come. He feared there were other faro-dealers present who might understand the hint, but there was none save Mexico Mullins, whose face was a study--mirth seemed to be strangling him. A moment later the girl spoke to the case-keeper again. "Let me take your place; your reins are unbuckled." Toby glanced inquiringly at the Kid, who caught Cherry's reassuring look and nodded, so he arose and the girl slid into the vacant chair. This woman would make no errors--the dealer knew that; her keen wits were sharpened by hate--it showed in her face. If Glenister escaped destruction to-night it would be because human means could not accomplish his downfall. In the mind of the new case-keeper there was but one thought--Roy must be broken. Humiliation, disgrace, ruin, ridicule were to be his. If he should be downed, discredited, and discouraged, then, perhaps, he would turn to her as he had in the by-gone days. He was slipping away from her--this was her last chance. She began her duties easily, and her alertness stimulated Bronco till his senses, too, grew sharper, his observation more acute and lightning-like. Glenister swore beneath his breath that the cards were bewitched. He was like a drunken man, now as truly intoxicated as though the fumes of wine had befogged his brain. He swayed in his seat, the veins of his neck thickened and throbbed, his features were congested. After a while he spoke. "I want a bigger limit. Is this some boy's game? Throw her open." The gambler shot a triumphant glance at the girl and acquiesced. "All right, the limit is the blue sky. Pile your checks to the roof-pole." He began to shuffle. Within the crowded circle the air was hot and fetid with the breath of men. The sweat trickled down Glenister's brown skin, dripping from his jaw unnoticed. He arose and ripped off his coat, while those standing behind shifted and scuffed their feet impatiently. Besides Roy, there were but three men playing. They were the ones who had won heaviest at first. Now that luck was against them they were loath to quit. Cherry was annoyed by stertorous breathing at her shoulder, and glanced back to find the little man who had been so excited earlier in the evening. His mouth was agape, his eyes wide, the muscles about his lips twitching. He had lost back, long since, the hundreds he had won and more besides. She searched the figures walling her about and saw no women. They had been crowded out long since. It seemed as though the table formed the bottom of a sloping pit of human faces--eager, tense, staring. It was well she was here, she thought, else this task might fail. She would help to blast Glenister, desolate him, humiliate him. Ah, but wouldn't she! Roy bet $100 on the "popular" card. On the third turn he lost. He bet $200 next and lost. He set out a stack of $400 and lost for the third time. Fortune had turned her face. He ground his teeth and doubled until the stakes grew enormous, while the dealer dealt monotonously. The spots flashed and disappeared, taking with them wager after wager. Glenister became conscious of a raging, red fury which he had hard shift to master. It was not his money--what if he did lose? He would stay until he won. He would win. This luck would not, could not, last--and yet with diabolic persistence he continued to choose the losing cards. The other men fared better till be yielded to their judgment, when the dealer took their money also. Strange to say, the fickle goddess had really shifted her banner at last, and the Bronco Kid was dealing straight faro now. He was too good a player to force a winning hand, and Glenister's ill-fortune became as phenomenal as his winning had been. The girl who figured in this drama was keyed to the highest tension, her eyes now on her counters, now searching the profile of her victim. Glenister continued to lose and lose and lose, while the girl gloated over his swift-coming ruin. When at long intervals he won a bet she shrank and shivered for fear he might escape. If only he would risk it all--everything he had. He would have to come to her then! The end was closer than she realized. The throng hung breathless upon each move of the players, while there was no sound but the noise of shifting chips and the distant jangle of the orchestra. The lookout sat far forward upon his perch, his hands upon his knees, his eyes frozen to the board, a dead cigar clenched between his teeth. Crowded upon his platform were miners tense and motionless as statues. When a man spoke or coughed, a score of eyes stared at him accusingly, then dropped to the table again. Glenister took from his clothes a bundle of bank-notes, so thick that it required his two hands to compass it. On-lookers saw that the bills were mainly yellow. No one spoke while he counted them rapidly, glanced at the dealer, who nodded, then slid them forward till they rested on the king. He placed a "copper" on the pile. A great sigh of indrawn breaths swept through the crowd. The North had never known a bet like this--it meant a fortune. Here was a tale for one's grandchildren--that a man should win opulence in an evening, then lose it in one deal. This final bet represented more than many of them had ever seen a one time before. Its fate lay on a single card. Cherry Malotte's fingers were like ice and shook till the buttons of her case-keeper rattled, her heart raced till she could not breathe, while something rose up and choked her. If Glenister won this bet he would quit; she felt it. If he lost, ah! what could the Kid there feel, the man who was playing for a paltry vengeance, compared to her whose hope of happiness, of love, of life hinged on this wager? Evidently the Bronco Kid knew what card lay next below, for he offered her no sign, and as Glenister leaned back he slowly and firmly pushed the top card out of the box. Although this was the biggest turn of his life, he betrayed no tremor. His gesture displayed the nine of diamonds, and the crowd breathed heavily. The king had not won. Would it lose? Every gaze was welded to the tiny nickelled box. If the face-card lay next beneath the nine-spot, the heaviest wager in Alaska would have been lost; if it still remained hidden on the next turn, the money would be safe for a moment. Slowly the white hand of the dealer moved back; his middle finger touched the nine of diamonds; it slid smoothly out of the box, and there in its place frowned the king of clubs. At last the silence was broken. Men spoke, some laughed, but in their laughter was no mirth. It was more like the sound of choking. They stamped their feet to relieve the grip of strained muscles. The dealer reached forth and slid the stack of bills into the drawer at his waist without counting. The case-keeper passed a shaking hand over her face, and when it came away she saw blood on her fingers where she had sunk her teeth into her lower lip. Glenister did not rise. He sat, heavy-browed and sullen, his jaw thrust forward, his hair low upon his forehead, his eyes bloodshot and dead. "I'll sit the hand out if you'll let me bet the 'finger,'" said he. "Certainly," replied the dealer. When a man requests this privilege it means that he will call the amount of his wager without producing the visible stakes, and the dealer may accept or refuse according to his judgment of the bettor's responsibility. It is safe, for no man shirks a gambling debt in the North, and thousands may go with a nod of the head though never a cent be on the board. There were still a few cards in the box, and the dealer turned them, paying the three men who played. Glenister took no part, but sat bulked over his end of the table glowering from beneath his shock of hair. Cherry was deathly tired. The strain of the last hour had been so intense that she could barely sit in her seat, yet she was determined to finish the hand. As Bronco paused before the last turn, many of the by-standers made bets. They were the "case-players" who risked money only on the final pair, thus avoiding the chance of two cards of like denomination coming together, in which event ("splits" it is called) the dealer takes half the money. The stakes were laid at last and the deal about to start when Glenister spoke. "Wait! What's this place worth, Bronco?" "What do you mean?" "You own this outfit?" He waved his hand about the room. "Well, what does it stand you?" The gambler hesitated an instant while the crowd pricked up its ears, and the girl turned wondering, troubled eyes upon the miner. What would he do now? "Counting bank rolls, fixtures, and all, about a hundred and twenty thousand dollars. Why?" "I'll pick the ace to lose, my one-half interest in the Midas against your whole damned lay-out!" There was an absolute hush while the realization of this offer smote the on-lookers. It took time to realize it. This man was insane. There were three cards to choose from--one would win, one would lose, and one would have no action. Of all those present only Cherry Malotte divined even vaguely the real reason which prompted the man to do this. It was not "gameness," nor altogether a brutish stubbornness which would not let him quit, It was something deeper. He was desolate and his heart was gone. Helen was lost to him--worse yet, was unworthy, and she was all he cared for. What did he want of the Midas with its lawsuits, its intrigues, and its trickery? He was sick of it all--of the whole game--and wanted to get away. If he won, very well. If he lost, the land of the Aurora would know him no more. When he put his proposition, the Bronco Kid dropped his eyes as though debating. The girl saw that he studied the cards in his box intently and that his fingers caressed the top one ever so softly during the instant the eyes of the rest were on Glenister. The dealer looked up at last, and Cherry saw the gleam of triumph in his eye; he could not mask it from her, though his answering words were hesitating. She knew by the look that Glenister was a pauper. "Come on," insisted Roy, hoarsely. "Turn the cards." "You're on!" The girl felt that she was fainting. She wanted to scream. The triumph of this moment stifled her--or was it triumph, after all? She heard the breath of the little man behind her rattle as though he were being throttled, and saw the lookout pass a shaking hand to his chin, then wet his parched lips. She saw the man she had helped to ruin bend forward, his lean face strained and hard, an odd look of pain and weariness in his eyes. She never forgot that look. The crowd was frozen in various attitudes of eagerness, although it had not yet recovered from the suspense of the last great wager. It knew the Midas and what it meant. Here lay half of it, hidden beneath a tawdry square of pasteboard. With maddening deliberation the Kid dealt the top card. Beneath it was the trey of spades. Glenister said no word nor made a move. Some one coughed, and it sounded like a gunshot. Slowly the dealer's fingers retraced their way. He hesitated purposely and leered at the girl, then the three-spot disappeared and beneath it lay the ace as the king had lain on that other wager. It spelled utter ruin to Glenister. He raised his eyes blindly, and then the deathlike silence of the room was shattered by a sudden crash. Cherry Malotte had closed her check-rack violently, at the same instant crying shrill and clear: "That bet is off! The cases are wrong!" Glenister half rose, overturning his chair; the Kid lunged forward across the table, and his wonderful hands, tense and talon-like, thrust themselves forward as though reaching for the riches she had snatched away. They worked and writhed and trembled as though in dumb fury, the nails sinking into the oil-cloth table-cover. His face grew livid and cruel, while his eyes blazed at her till she shrank from him affrightedly, bracing herself away from the table with rigid arms. Reason came slowly back to Glenister, and understanding with it. He seemed to awake from a nightmare. He could read all too plainly the gambler's look of baffled hate as the man sprawled on the table, his arms spread wide, his eyes glaring at the cowering woman, who shrank before him like a rabbit before a snake. She tried to speak, but choked. Then the dealer came to himself, and cried harshly through his teeth one word: "Christ!" He raised his fist and struck the table so violently that chips and coppers leaped and rolled, and Cherry closed her eyes to lose sight of his awful grimace. Glenister looked down on him and said: "I think I understand; but the money was yours, anyhow, so I don't mind." His meaning was plain. The Kid suddenly jerked open the drawer before him, but Glenister clenched his right hand and leaned forward. The miner could have killed him with a blow, for the gambler was seated and at his mercy. The Kid checked himself, while his face began to twitch as though the nerves underlying it had broken bondage and were dancing in a wild, ungovernable orgy. "You have taught me a lesson," was all that Glenister said, and with that he pushed through the crowd and out into the cool night air. Overhead the arctic stars winked at him, and the sea smells struck him, clean and fresh. As he went homeward he heard the distant, full-throated plaint of a wolf-dog. It held the mystery and sadness of the North. He paused, arid, baring his thick, matted head, stood for a long time gathering himself together. Standing so, he made certain covenants with himself, and vowed solemnly never to touch another card. At the same moment Cherry Malotte came hurrying to her cottage door, fleeing as though from pursuit or from some hateful, haunted spot. She paused before entering and flung her arms outward into the dark in a wide gesture of despair. "Why did I do it? Oh! WHY did I do it? I can't understand myself." CHAPTER XIV A MIDNIGHT MESSENGER "My dear Helen, don't you realize that my official position carries with it a certain social obligation which it is our duty to discharge?" "I suppose so, Uncle Arthur; but I would much rather stay at home." "Tut, tut! Go and have a good time." "Dancing doesn't appeal to me any more. I left that sort of thing back home. Now, if you would only come along--" "No--I'm too busy. I must work to-night, and I'm not in a mood for such things, anyhow." "You're not well," his niece said. "I have noticed it for weeks. Is it hard work or are you truly ill? You're nervous; you don't eat; you're growing positively gaunt. Why--you're getting wrinkles like an old man." She rose from her seat at the breakfast-table and went to him, smoothing his silvered head with affection. He took her cool hand and pressed it to his cheek, while the worry that haunted him habitually of late gave way to a smile. "It's work, little girl--hard and thankless work, that's all. This country is intended for young men, and I'm too far along." His eyes grew grave again, and he squeezed her fingers nervously as though at the thought. "It's a terrible country--this--I--I--wish we had never seen it." "Don't say that," Helen cried, spiritedly. "Why, it's glorious. Think of the honor. You're a United States judge and the first one to come here. You're making history--you're building a State--people will read about you." She stooped and kissed him; but he seemed to flinch beneath her caress. "Of course I'll go if you think I'd better," she said, "though I'm not fond of Alaskan society. Some of the women are nice, but the others--" She shrugged her dainty shoulders. "They talk scandal all the time. One would think that a great, clean, fresh, vigorous country like this would broaden the women as it broadens the men--but it doesn't." "I'll tell McNamara to call for you at nine o'clock," said the Judge as he arose. So, later in the day she prepared her long unused finery to such good purpose that when her escort called for her that evening he believed her the loveliest of women. Upon their arrival at the hotel he regarded her with a fresh access of pride, for the function proved to bear little resemblance to a mining-camp party. The women wore handsome gowns, and every man was in evening dress. The wide hall ran the length of the hotel and was flanked with boxes, while its floor was like polished glass and its walls effectively decorated. "Oh, how lovely!" exclaimed Helen as she first caught sight of it. "It's just like home." "I've seen quick-rising cities before," he said, "but nothing like this. Still, if these Northerners can build a railroad in a month and a city in a summer, why shouldn't they have symphony orchestras and Louis Quinze ballrooms?" "I know you're a splendid dancer," she said. "You shall be my judge and jury. I'll sign this card as often as I dare without the certainty of violence at the hands of these young men, and the rest of the time I'll smoke in the lobby. I don't care to dance with any one but you." After the first waltz he left her surrounded by partners and made his way out of the ballroom. This was his first relaxation since landing in the North. It was well not to become a dull boy, he mused, and as he chewed his cigar he pictured with an odd thrill, quite unusual with him, that slender, gray-eyed girl, with her coiled mass of hair, her ivory shoulders, and merry smile. He saw her float past to the measure of a two-step, and caught himself resenting the thought of another man's enjoyment of the girl's charms even for an instant. "Hold on, Alec," he muttered. "You're too old a bird to lose your head." However, he was waiting for her before the time for their next dance. She seemed to have lost a part of her gayety. "What's the matter? Aren't you enjoying yourself?" "Oh, yes!" she returned, brightly. "I'm having a delightful time." When he came for his third dance, she was more distraite than ever. As he led her to a seat they passed a group of women, among whom were Mrs. Champian and others whom he knew to be wives of men prominent in the town. He had seen some of them at tea in Judge Stillman's house, and therefore was astonished when they returned his greeting but ignored Helen. She shrank slightly, and he realized that there was something wrong; he could not guess what. Affairs of men he could cope with, but the subtleties of women were out of his realm. "What ails those people? Have they offended you?" "I don't know what it is. I have spoken to them, but they cut me." "Cut YOU?" he exclaimed. "Yes." Her voice trembled, but she held her head high. "It seems as though all the women in Nome were here and in league to ignore me. It dazes me--I do not understand." "Has anybody said anything to you?" he inquired, fiercely. "Any man, I mean?" "No, no! The men are kind. It's the women." "Come--we'll go home." "Indeed, we will not," she said, proudly. "I shall stay and face it out. I have done nothing to run away from, and I intend to find out what is the matter." When he had surrendered her, at the beginning of the next dance, McNamara sought for some acquaintance whom he might question. Most of the men in Nome either hated or feared him, but he espied one that he thought suited his purpose, and led him into a corner. "I want you to answer a question. No beating about the bush. Understand? I'm blunt, and I want you to be." "All right." "Your wife has been entertained at Miss Chester's house. I've seen her there. To-night she refuses to speak to the girl. She cut her dead, and I want to know what it's about." "How should I know?" "If you don't know, I'll ask you to find out." The other shook his head amusedly, at which McNamara flared up. "I say you will, and you'll make your wife apologize before she leaves this hall, too, or you'll answer to me, man to man. I won't stand to have a girl like Miss Chester cold-decked by a bunch of mining-camp swells, and that goes as it lies." In his excitement, McNamara reverted to his Western idiom. The other did not reply at once, for it is embarrassing to deal with a person who disregards the conventions utterly, and at the same time has the inclination and force to compel obedience. The boss's reputation had gone abroad. "Well--er--I know about it in a general way, but of course I don't go much on such things. You'd better let it drop." "Go on." "There has been a lot of talk among the ladies about--well, er--the fact is, it's that young Glenister. Mrs. Champian had the next state-room to them--er--him--I should say--on the way up from the States, and she saw things. Now, as far as I'm concerned, a girl can do what she pleases, but Mrs. Champian has her own ideas of propriety. From what my wife could learn, there's some truth in the story, too, so you can't blame her." With a word McNamara could have explained the gossip and made this man put his wife right, forcing through her an elucidation of the silly affair in such a way as to spare Helen's feelings and cover the busy-tongued magpies with confusion. Yet he hesitated. It is a wise skipper who trims his sails to every breeze. He thanked his informant and left him. Entering the lobby, he saw the girl hurrying towards him. "Take me away, quick! I want to go home." "You've changed your mind?"' "Yes, let us go," she panted, and when they were outside she walked so rapidly that he had difficulty in keeping pace with her. She was silent, and he knew better than to question, but when they arrived at her house he entered, took off his overcoat, and turned up the light in the tiny parlor. She flung her wraps over a chair, storming back and forth like a little fury. Her eyes were starry with tears of anger, her face was flushed, her hands worked nervously. He leaned against the mantel, watching her through his cigar smoke. "You needn't tell me," he said, at length. "I know all about it." "I am glad you do. I never could repeat what they said. Oh, it was brutal!" Her voice caught and she bit her lip. "What made me ask them? Why didn't I keep still? After you left, I went to those women and faced them. Oh, but they were brutal? Yet, why should I care?" She stamped her slippered foot. "I shall have to kill that man some day," he said, flecking his cigar ashes into the grate. "What man?" She stood still and looked at him. "Glenister, of course. If I had thought the story would ever reach you, I'd have shut him up long ago." "It didn't come from him," she cried, hot with indignation. "He's a gentleman. It's that cat, Mrs. Champian." He shrugged his shoulders the slightest bit, but it was eloquent, and she noted it. "Oh, I don't mean that he did it intentionally--he's too decent a chap for that--but anybody's tongue will wag to a beautiful girl! My lady Malotte is a jealous trick." "Malotte! Who is she?" Helen questioned, curiously. He seemed surprised. "I thought every one knew who she is. It's just as well that you don't." "I am sure Mr. Glenister would not talk of me." There was a pause. "Who is Miss Malotte?" He studied for a moment, while she watched him. What a splendid figure he made in his evening clothes! The cosey room with its shaded lights enhanced his size and strength and rugged outlines. In his eyes was that admiration which women live for. He lifted his bold, handsome face and met her gaze. "I had rather leave that for you to find out, for I'm not much at scandal. I have something more important to tell you. It's the most important thing I have ever said to you, Helen." It was the first time he had used that name, and she began to tremble, while her eyes sought the door in a panic. She had expected this moment, and yet was not ready. "Not to-night--don't say it now," she managed to articulate. "Yes, this is a good time. If you can't answer, I'll come back to-morrow. I want you to be my wife. I want to give you everything the world offers, and I want to make you happy, girl. There'll be no gossip hereafter--I'll shield you from everything unpleasant, and if there is anything you want in life, I'll lay it at your feet. I can do it." He lifted his massive arms, and in the set of his strong, square face was the promise that she should have whatever she craved if mortal man could give it to her--love, protection, position, adoration. She stammered uncertainly till the humiliation and chagrin she had suffered this night swept over her again. This town--this crude, half-born mining-camp--had turned against her, misjudged her cruelly. The women were envious, clacking scandal-mongers, all of them, who would ostracize her and make her life in the Northland a misery, make her an outcast with nothing to sustain her but her own solitary pride. She could picture her future clearly, pitilessly, and see herself standing alone, vilified, harassed in a thousand cutting ways, yet unable to run away, or to explain. She would have to stay and face it, for her life was bound up here during the next few years or so, or as long as her uncle remained a judge. This man would free her. He loved her; he offered her everything. He was bigger than all the rest combined. They were his playthings, and they knew it. She was not sure that she loved him, but his magnetism was overpowering, and her admiration intense. No other man she had ever known compared with him, except Glenister--Bah! The beast! He had insulted her at first; he wronged her now. "Will you be my wife, Helen?" the man repeated, softly. She dropped her head, and he strode forward to take her in his arms, then stopped, listening. Some one ran up on the porch and hammered loudly at the door. McNamara scowled, walked into the hall, and flung the portal open, disclosing Struve. "Hello, McNamara! Been looking all over for you. There's the deuce to pay!" Helen sighed with relief and gathered up her cloak, while the hum of their voices reached her indistinctly. She was given plenty of time to regain her composure before they appeared. When they did, the politician spoke, sourly: "I've been called to the mines, and I must go at once." "You bet! It may be too late now. The news came an hour ago, but I couldn't find you," said Struve. "Your horse is saddled at the office. Better not wait to change your clothes." "You say Voorhees has gone with twenty deputies, eh? That's good. You stay here and find out all you can." "I telephoned out to the Creek for the boys to arm themselves and throw out pickets. If you hurry you can get there in time. It's only midnight now." "What is the trouble?" Miss Chester inquired, anxiously. "There's a plot on to attack the mines to-night," answered the lawyer. "The other side are trying to seize them, and there's apt to be a fight." "You mustn't go out there," she cried, aghast. "There will be bloodshed." "That's just why I MUST go," said McNamara. "I'll come back in the morning, though, and I'd like to see you alone. Good-night!" There was a strange, new light in his eyes as he left her. For one unversed in woman's ways he played the game surprisingly well, and as he hurried towards his office he smiled grimly into the darkness. "She'll answer me to-morrow. Thank you, Mr. Glenister," he said to himself. Helen questioned Struve at length, but gained nothing more than that secret-service men had been at work for weeks and had to-day unearthed the fact that Vigilantes had been formed. They had heard enough to make them think the mines would be jumped again to-night, and so had given the alarm. "Have you hired spies?" she asked, incredulously. "Sure. We had to. The other people shadowed us, and it's come to a point where it's life or death to one side or the other. I told McNamara we'd have bloodshed before we were through, when he first outlined the scheme--I mean when the trouble began." She wrung her hands. "That's what uncle feared before we left Seattle. That's why I took the risks I did in bringing you those papers. I thought you got them in time to avoid all this." Struve laughed a bit, eying her curiously. "Does Uncle Arthur know about this?" she continued. "No, we don't let him know anything more than necessary; he's not a strong man." "Yes, yes. He's not well." Again the lawyer smiled. "Who is behind this Vigilante movement?" "We think it is Glenister and his New Mexican bandit partner. At least they got the crowd together." She was silent for a time. "I suppose they really think they own those mines." "Undoubtedly." "But they don't, do they?" Somehow this question had recurred to her insistently of late, for things were constantly happening which showed there was more back of this great, fierce struggle than she knew. It was impossible that injustice had been done the mine-owners, and yet scattered talk reached her which was puzzling. When she strove to follow it up, her acquaintances adroitly changed the subject. She was baffled on every side. The three local newspapers upheld the court. She read them carefully, and was more at sea than ever. There was a disturbing undercurrent of alarm and unrest that caused her to feel insecure, as though standing on hollow ground. "Yes, this whole disturbance is caused by those two. Only for them we'd be all right." "Who is Miss Malotte?" He answered, promptly: "The handsomest woman in the North, and the most dangerous." "In what way? Who is she?" "It's hard to say who or what she is--she's different from other women. She came to Dawson in the early days--just came--we didn't know how, whence, or why, and we never found out. We woke up one morning and there she was. By night we were all jealous, and in a week we were most of us drivelling idiots. It might have been the mystery or, perhaps, the competition. That was the day when a dance-hall girl could make a homestake in a winter or marry a millionaire in a month, but she never bothered. She toiled not, neither did she spin on the waxed floors, yet Solomon in all his glory would have looked like a tramp beside her." "You say she is dangerous?" "Well, there was the young nobleman, in the winter of '98, Dane, I think--fine family and all that--big, yellow-haired boy. He wanted to marry her, but a faro-dealer shot him. Then there was Rock, of the mounted police, the finest officer in the service. He was cashiered. She knew he was going to pot for her, but she didn't seem to care--and there were others. Yet, with it all, she is the most generous person and the most tender-hearted. Why, she has fed every 'stew bum' on the Yukon, and there isn't a busted prospector in the country who wouldn't swear by her, for she has grubstaked dozens of them. I was horribly in love with her myself. Yes, she's dangerous, all right--to everybody but Glenister." "What do you mean?" "She had been across the Yukon to nurse a man with scurvy, and coming back she was caught in the spring break-up. I wasn't there, but it seems this Glenister got her ashore somehow when nobody else would tackle the job. They were carried five miles down-stream in the ice-pack before he succeeded." "What happened then?" "She fell in love with him, of course." "And he worshipped her as madly as all the rest of you, I suppose," she said, scornfully. "That's the peculiar part. She hypnotized him at first, but he ran away, and I didn't hear of him again till I came to Nome. She followed him, finally, and last week evened up her score. She paid him back for saving her." "I haven't heard about it." He detailed the story of the gambling episode at the Northern saloon, and concluded: "I'd like to have seen that 'turn,' for they say the excitement was terrific. She was keeping cases, and at the finish slammed her case-keeper shut and declared the bet off because she had made a mistake. Of course they couldn't dispute her, and she stuck to it. One of the by-standers told me she lied, though." "So, in addition to his other vices, Mr. Glenister is a reckless gambler, is he?" said Helen, with heat. "I am proud to be indebted to such a character. Truly this country breeds wonderful species." "There's where you're wrong," Struve chuckled. "He's never been known to bet before." "Oh, I'm tired of these contradictions!" she cried, angrily. "Saloons, gambling-halls, scandals, adventuresses! Ugh! I hate it! I HATE it! Why did I ever come here?" "Those things are a part of every new country. They were about all we had till this year. But it is women like you that we fellows need, Miss Helen. You can help us a lot." She did not like the way he was looking at her, and remembered that her uncle was up-stairs and asleep. "I must ask you to excuse me now, for it's late and I am very tired." The clock showed half-past twelve, so, after letting him out, she extinguished the light and dragged herself wearily up to her room. She removed her outer garments and threw over her bare shoulders a negligee of many flounces and bewildering, clinging looseness. As she took down her heavy braids, the story of Cherry Malotte returned to her tormentingly. So Glenister had saved HER life also at risk of his own. What a very gallant cavalier he was, to be sure! He should bear a coat of arms--a dragon, an armed knight, and a fainting maiden. "I succor ladies in distress--handsome ones," should be the motto on his shield. "The handsomest woman in the North," Struve had said. She raised her eyes to the glass and made a mouth at the petulant, tired reflection there. She pictured Glenister leaping from floe to floe with the hungry river surging and snapping at his feet, while the cheers of the crowd on shore gave heart to the girl crouching out there. She could see him snatch her up and fight his way back to safety over the plunging ice-cakes with death dragging at his heels. What a strong embrace he had! At this she blushed and realized with a shock that while she was mooning that very man might be fighting hand to hand in the darkness of a mountain-gorge with the man she was going to marry. A moment later some one mounted the front steps below and knocked sharply. Truly this was a night of alarms. Would people never cease coming? She was worn out, but at the thought of the tragedy abroad and the sick old man sleeping near by, she lit a candle and slipped down-stairs to avoid disturbing him. Doubtless it was some message from McNamara, she thought, as she unchained the door. As she opened it, she fell back amazed while it swung wide and the candle flame flickered and sputtered in the night air. Roy Glenister stood there, grim and determined, his soft, white Stetson pulled low, his trousers tucked into tan half-boots, in his hand a Winchester rifle. Beneath his corduroy coat she saw a loose cartridge-belt, yellow with shells, and the nickelled flash of a revolver. Without invitation he strode across the threshold, closing the door behind him. "Miss Chester, you and the Judge must dress quickly and come with me." "I don't understand." "The Vigilantes are on their way here to hang him. Come with me to my house where I can protect you." She laid a trembling hand on her bosom and the color died out of her face, then at a slight noise above they both looked up to see Judge Stillman leaning far over the banister. He had wrapped himself in a dressing-gown and now gripped the rail convulsively, while his features were blanched to the color of putty and his eyes were wide with terror, though puffed and swollen from sleep. His lips moved in a vain endeavor to speak. CHAPTER XV VIGILANTES On the morning after the episode in the Northern, Glenister awoke under a weight of discouragement and desolation. The past twenty-four hours with their manifold experiences seemed distant and unreal. At breakfast he was ashamed to tell Dextry of the gambling debauch, for he had dealt treacherously with the old man in risking half of the mine, even though they had agreed that either might do as he chose with his interest, regardless of the other. It all seemed like a nightmare, those tense moments when he lay above the receiver's office and felt his belief in the one woman slipping away, the frenzied thirst which Cherry Malotte had checked, the senseless, unreasoning lust for play that possessed him later. This lapse was the last stand of his old, untamed instincts. The embers of revolt in him were dead. He felt that he would never again lose mastery of himself, that his passions would never best him hereafter. Dextry spoke. "We had a meeting of the 'Stranglers' last night." He always spoke of the Vigilantes in that way, because of his early Western training. "What was done?" "They decided to act quick and do any odd jobs of lynchin', claim-jumpin', or such as needs doin'. There's a lot of law sharps and storekeepers in the bunch who figure McNamara's gang will wipe them off the map next." "It was bound to come to this." "They talked of ejectin' the receiver's men and puttin' all us fellers back on our mines." "Good. How many can we count on to help us?" "About sixty. We've kept the number down, and only taken men with so much property that they'll have to keep their mouths shut." "I wish we might engineer some kind of an encounter with the court crowd and create such an uproar that it would reach Washington. Everything else has failed, and our last chance seems to be for the government to step in; that is, unless Bill Wheaton can do something with the California courts." "I don't count on him. McNamara don't care for California courts no more 'n he would for a boy with a pea-shooter--he's got too much pull at headquarters. If the 'Stranglers' don't do no good, we'd better go in an' clean out the bunch like we was killin' snakes. If that fails, I'm goin' out to the States an' be a doctor." "A doctor? What for?" "I read somewhere that in the United States every year there is forty million gallons of whiskey used for medical purposes." Glenister laughed. "Speaking of whiskey, Dex--I notice that you've been drinking pretty hard of late--that is, hard for you." The old man shook his head. "You're mistaken. It ain't hard for me." "Well, hard or easy, you'd better cut it out." It was some time later that one of the detectives employed by the Swedes met Glenister on Front Street, and by an almost imperceptible sign signified his desire to speak with him. When they were alone he said: "You're being shadowed." "I've known that for a long time." "The district-attorney has put on some new men. I've fixed the woman who rooms next to him, and through her I've got a line on some of them, but I haven't spotted them all. They're bad ones--'up-river' men mostly--remnants of Soapy Smith's Skagway gang. They won't stop at anything." "Thank you--I'll keep my eyes open." A few nights after, Glenister had reason to recall the words of the sleuth and to realize that the game was growing close and desperate. To reach his cabin, which sat on the outskirts of the town, he ordinarily followed one of the plank walks which wound through the confusion of tents, warehouses, and cottages lying back of the two principal streets along the water front. This part of the city was not laid out in rectangular blocks, for in the early rush the first-comers had seized whatever pieces of ground they found vacant and erected thereon some kind of buildings to make good their titles. There resulted a formless jumble of huts, cabins, and sheds, penetrated by no cross streets and quite unlighted. At night, one leaving the illuminated portion of the town found this darkness intensified. Glenister knew his course so well that he could have walked it blindfolded. Nearing a corner of the warehouse this evening he remembered that the planking at this point was torn up, so, to avoid the mud, he leaped lightly across. Simultaneously with his jump he detected a movement in the shadows that banked the wall at his elbow and saw the flaming spurt of a revolver-shot. The man had crouched behind the building and was so close that it seemed impossible to miss. Glenister fell heavily upon his side and the thought flashed over him, "McNamara's thugs have shot me." His assailant leaped out from his hiding-place and ran down the walk, the sound of his quick, soft footfalls thudding faintly out into the silence. The young man felt no pain, however, so scrambled to his feet, felt himself over with care, and then swore roundly. He was untouched; the other had missed him cleanly. The report, coming while he was in the act of leaping, had startled him so that he had lost his balance, slipped upon the wet boards, and fallen. His assailant was lost in the darkness before he could rise. Pursuit was out of the question, so he continued homeward, considerably shaken, and related the incident to Dextry. "You think it was some of McNamara's work, eh?" Dextry inquired when he had finished. "Of course. Didn't the detective warn me to-day?" Dextry shook his head. "It don't seem like the game is that far along yet. The time is coming when we'll go to the mat with them people, but they've got the aige on us now, so what could they gain by putting you away? I don't believe it's them, but whoever it is, you'd better be careful or you'll be got." "Suppose we come home together after this," Roy suggested, and they arranged to do so, realizing that danger lurked in the dark corners and that it was in some such lonely spot that the deed would be tried again. They experienced no trouble for a time, though on nearing their cabin one night the younger man fancied that he saw a shadow glide away from its vicinity and out into the blackness of the tundra, as though some one had stood at his very door waiting for him, then became frightened at the two figures approaching. Dextry had not observed it, however, and Glenister was not positive himself, but it served to give him the uncanny feeling that some determined, unscrupulous force was bent on his destruction. He determined to go nowhere unarmed. A few evenings later he went home early and was busied in writing when Dextry came in about ten o'clock. The old miner hung up his coat before speaking, lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, then, amid mouthfuls of smoke, began: "I had my own toes over the edge to-night. I was mistook for you, which compliment I don't aim to have repeated." Glenister questioned him eagerly. "We're about the same height an' these hats of ours are alike. Just as I come by that lumber-pile down yonder, a man hopped out an throwed a 'gat' under my nose. He was quicker than light, and near blowed my skelp into the next block before he saw who I was; then he dropped his weepon and said: "'My mistake. Go on.' I accepted his apology." "Could you see who he was?" "Sure. Guess." "I can't." "It was the Bronco Kid." "Lord!" ejaculated Glenister. "Do you think he's after me?" "He ain't after nobody else, an', take my word for it, it's got nothin' to do with McNamara nor that gamblin' row. He's too game for that. There's some other reason." This was the first mention Dextry had made of the night at the Northern. "I don't know why he should have it in for me--I never did him any favors," Glenister remarked, cynically. "Well, you watch out, anyhow. I'd sooner face McNamara an' all the crooks he can hire than that gambler." During the next few days Roy undertook to meet the proprietor of the Northern face to face, but the Kid had vanished completely from his haunts. He was not in his gambling-hall at night nor on the street by day. The young man was still looking for him on the evening of the dance at the hotel, when he chanced to meet one of the Vigilantes, who inquired of him: "Aren't you late for the meeting?" "What meeting?" After seeing that they were alone, the other stated: "There's an assembly to-night at eleven o'clock. Something important, I think. I supposed, of course, you knew about it." "It's strange I wasn't notified," said Roy. "It's probably an oversight. Ill go along with you." Together they crossed the river to the less frequented part of town and knocked at the door of a large, unlighted warehouse, flanked by a high board fence. The building faced the street, but was enclosed on the other three sides by this ten-foot wall, inside of which were stored large quantities of coal and lumber. After some delay they were admitted, and, passing down through the dim-lit, high-banked lanes of merchandise, came to the rear room, where they were admitted again. This compartment had been fitted up for the warm storage of perishable goods during the cold weather, and, being without windows, made an ideal place for clandestine gatherings. Glenister was astonished to find every man of the organization present, including Dextry, whom he supposed to have gone home an hour since. Evidently a discussion had been in progress, for a chairman was presiding, and the boxes, kegs, and bales of goods had been shoved back against the walls for seats. On these were ranged the threescore men of the "Stranglers," their serious faces lighted imperfectly by scattered lanterns. A certain constraint seized them upon Glenister's entrance; the chairman was embarrassed. It was but momentary, however. Glenister himself felt that tragedy was in the air, for it showed in the men's attitudes and spoke eloquently from their strained faces. He was about to question the man next to him when the presiding officer continued: "We will assemble here quietly with our arms at one o'clock. And let me caution you again not to talk or do anything to scare the birds away." Glenister arose. "I came late, Mr. Chairman, so I missed hearing your plan. I gather that you're out for business, however, and I want to be in it. May I ask what is on foot?" "Certainly. Things have reached such a pass that moderate means are useless. We have decided to act, and act quickly. We have exhausted every legal resource and now we're going to stamp out this gang of robbers in our own way. We will get together in an hour, divide into three groups of twenty men, each with a leader, then go to the houses of McNamara, Stillman, and Voorhees, take them prisoners, and--" He waved his hand in a large gesture. Glenister made no answer for a moment, while the crowd watched him intently. "You have discussed this fully?" he asked. "We have. It has been voted on, and we're unanimous." "My friends, when I stepped into this room just now I felt that I wasn't wanted. Why, I don't know, because I have had more to do with organizing this movement than any of you, and because I have suffered just as much as the rest. I want to know if I was omitted from this meeting intentionally." "This is an embarrassing position to put me in," said the chairman, gravely. "But I shall answer as spokesman for these men if they wish." "Yes. Go ahead," said those around the room. "We don't question your loyalty, Mr. Glenister, but we didn't ask you to this meeting because we know your attitude--perhaps I'd better say sentiment--regarding Judge Stillman's niece--er--family. It has come to us from various sources that you have been affected to the prejudice of your own and your partner's interest. Now, there isn't going to be any sentiment in the affairs of the Vigilantes. We are going to do justice, and we thought the simplest way was to ignore you in this matter and spare all discussion and hard feeling in every quarter." "It's a lie!" shouted the young man, hoarsely. "A damned lie! You wouldn't let me in for fear I'd kick, eh? Well, you were right. I will kick. You've hinted about my feelings for Miss Chester. Let me tell you that she is engaged to marry McNamara, and that she's nothing to me. Now, then, let me tell you, further, that you won't break into her house and hang her uncle, even if he is a reprobate. No, sir! This isn't the time for violence of that sort--we'll win without it. If we can't, let's fight like men, and not hunt in a pack like wolves. If you want to do something, put us back on our mines and help us hold them, but, for God's sake, don't descend to assassination and the tactics of the Mafia!" "We knew you would make that kind of a talk," said the speaker, while the rest murmured grudgingly. One of them spoke up. "We've talked this over in cold blood, Glenister, and it's a question of their lives or our liberty. The law don't enter into it." "That's right," echoed another at his elbow. "We can't seize the claims, because McNamara's got soldiers to back him up. They'd shoot us down. You ought to be the last one to object." He saw that dispute was futile. Determination was stamped on their faces too plainly for mistake, and his argument had no more effect on them than had the pale rays of the lantern beside him, yet he continued: "I don't deny that McNamara deserves lynching, but Stillman doesn't. He's a weak old man"--some one laughed derisively--"and there's a woman in the house. He's all she has in the world to depend upon, and you would have to kill her to get at him. If you MUST follow this course, take the others, but leave him alone." They only shook their heads, while several pushed by him even as he spoke. "We're going to distribute our favors equal," said a man as he left. They were actuated by what they called justice, and he could not sway them. The life and welfare of the North were in their hands, as they thought, and there was not one to hesitate. Glenister implored the chairman, but the man answered him: "It's too late for further discussion, and let me remind you of your promise. You're bound by every obligation that exists for an honorable man--" "Oh, don't think that I'll give the snap away!" said the other; "but I warn you again not to enter Stillman's house." He followed out into the night to find that Dextry had disappeared, evidently wishing to avoid argument. Roy had seen signs of unrest beneath the prospector's restraint during the past few days, and indications of a fierce hunger to vent his spleen on the men who had robbed him of his most sacred rights. He was of an intolerant, vindictive nature that would go to any length for vengeance. Retribution was part of his creed. On his way home, the young man looked at his watch, to find that he had but an hour to determine his course. Instinct prompted him to join his friends and to even the score with the men who had injured him so bitterly, for, measured by standards of the frontier, they were pirates with their lives forfeit. Yet, he could not countenance this step. If only the Vigilantes would be content with making an example--but he knew they would not. The blood hunger of a mob is easy to whet and hard to hold. McNamara would resist, as would Voorhees and the district-attorney, then there would be bloodshed, riot, chaos. The soldiers would be called out and martial law declared, the streets would become skirmish-grounds. The Vigilantes would rout them without question, for every citizen of the North would rally to their aid, and such men could not be stopped. The Judge would go down with the rest of the ring, and what would happen to--her? He took down his Winchester, oiled and cleaned it, then buckled on a belt of cartridges. Still he wrestled with himself. He felt that he was being ground between his loyalty to the Vigilantes and his own conscience. The girl was one of the gang, he reasoned--she had schemed with them to betray him through his love, and she was pledged to the one man in the world whom he hated with fanatical fury. Why should he think of her in this hour? Six months back he would have looked with jealous eyes upon the right to lead the Vigilantes, but this change that had mastered him--what was it? Not cowardice, nor caution. No. Yet, being intangible, it was none the less marked, as his friends had shown him an hour since. He slipped out into the night. The mob might do as it pleased elsewhere, but no man should enter her house. He found a light shining from her parlor window, and, noting the shade up a few inches, stole close. Peering through, he discovered Struve and Helen talking. He slunk back into the shadows and remained hidden for a considerable time after the lawyer left, for the dancers were returning from the hotel and passed close by. When the last group had chattered away down the street, he returned to the front of the house and, mounting the steps, knocked sharply. As Helen appeared at the door, he stepped inside and closed it after him. The girl's hair lay upon her neck and shoulders in tumbled brown masses, while her breast heaved tumultuously at the sudden, grim sight of him. She stepped back against the wall, her wondrous, deep, gray eyes wide and troubled, the blush of modesty struggling with the pallor of dismay. The picture pained him like a knife-thrust. This girl was for his bitterest enemy--no hope of her was for him. He forgot for a moment that she was false and plotting, then, recalling it, spoke as roughly as he might and stated his errand. Then the old man had appeared on the stairs above, speechless with fright at what he overheard. It was evident that his nerves, so sorely strained by the events of the past week, were now snapped utterly. A human soul naked and panic-stricken is no pleasant sight, so Glenister dropped his eyes and addressed the girl again: "Don't take anything with you. Just dress and come with me." The creature on the stairs above stammered and stuttered, inquiringly: "What outrage is this, Mr. Glenister?" "The people of Nome are up in arms, and I've come to save you. Don't stop to argue." He spoke impatiently. "Is this some r-ruse to get me into your power?" "Uncle Arthur!" exclaimed the girl, sharply. Her eyes met Glenister's and begged him to take no offence. "I don't understand this atrocity. They must be mad!" wailed the Judge. "You run over to the jail, Mr. Glenister, and tell Voorhees to hurry guards here to protect me. Helen, 'phone to the military post and give the alarm. Tell them the soldiers must come at once." "Hold on!" said Glenister. "There's no use of doing that--the wires are cut; and I won't notify Voorhees--he can take care of himself. I came to help you, and if you want to escape you'll stop talking and hurry up." "I don't know what to do," said Stillman, torn by terror and indecision. "You wouldn't hurt an old man, would you? Wait! I'll be down in a minute." He scrambled up the stairs, tripping on his robe, seemingly forgetting his niece till she called up to him, sharply: "Stop, Uncle Arthur! You mustn't RUN AWAY." She stood erect and determined, "You wouldn't do THAT, would you? This is our house. You represent the law and the dignity of the government. You mustn't fear a mob of ruffians. We will stay here and meet them, of course." "Good Lord!" said Glenister. "That's madness. These men aren't ruffians; they are the best citizens of Nome. You don't realize that this is Alaska and that they have sworn to wipe out McNamara's gang. Come along." "Thank you for your good intentions," she said, "but we have done nothing to run away from. We will get ready to meet these cowards. You had better go or they will find you here." She moved up the stairs, and, taking the Judge by the arm, led him with her. Of a sudden she had assumed control of the situation unfalteringly, and both men felt the impossibility of thwarting her. Pausing at the top, she turned and looked down. "We are grateful for your efforts just the same. Good-night." "Oh, I'm not going," said the young man. "If you stick I'll do the same." He made the rounds of the first-floor rooms, locking doors and windows. As a place of defence it was hopeless, and he saw that he would have to make his stand up-stairs. When sufficient time had elapsed he called up to Helen: "May I come?" "Yes," she replied. So he ascended, to find Stillman in the hall, half clothed and cowering, while by the light from the front chamber he saw her finishing her toilet. "Won't you come with me--it's our last chance?" She only shook her head. "Well, then, put out the light. I'll stand at that front window, and when my eyes get used to the darkness I'll be able to see them before they reach the gate." She did as directed, taking her place beside him at the opening, while the Judge crept in and sat upon the bed, his heavy breathing the only sound in the room. The two young people stood so close beside each other that the sweet scent of her person awoke in him an almost irresistible longing. He forgot her treachery again, forgot that she was another's, forgot all save that he loved her truly and purely, with a love which was like an agony to him. Her shoulder brushed his arm; he heard the soft rustling of her garment at her breast as she breathed. Some one passed in the street, and she laid a hand upon him fearfully. It was very cold, very tiny, and very soft, but he made no move to take it. The moments dragged along, still, tense, interminable. Occasionally she leaned towards him, and he stooped to catch her whispered words. At such times her breath beat warm against his cheek, and he closed his teeth stubbornly. Out in the night a wolfdog saddened the air, then came the sound of others wrangling and snarling in a near-by corral. This is a chickless land and no cock-crow breaks the midnight peace. The suspense enhanced the Judge's perturbation till his chattering teeth sounded like castanets. Now and then he groaned. The watchers had lost track of time when their strained eyes detected dark blots materializing out of the shadows. "There they come," whispered Glenister, forcing her back from the aperture; but she would not be denied, and returned to his side. As the foremost figures reached the gate, Roy leaned forth and spoke, not loudly, but in tones that sliced through the silence, sharp, clean, and without warning. "Halt! Don't come inside the fence." There was an instant's confusion; then, before the men beneath had time to answer or take action, he continued: "This is Roy Glenister talking. I told you not to molest these people and I warn you again. We're ready for you." The leader spoke. "You're a traitor, Glenister." He winced. "Perhaps I am. You betrayed me first, though; and, traitor or not, you can't come into this house." There was a murmur at this, and some one said: "Miss Chester is safe. All we want is the Judge. We won't hang him, not if he'll wear this suit we brought along. He needn't be afraid. Tar is good for the skin." "Oh, my God!" groaned the limb of the law. Suddenly a man came running down the planked pavement and into the group. "McNamara's gone, and so's the marshal and the rest," he panted. There was a moment's silence, and then the leader growled to his men, "Scatter out and rush the house, boys." He raised his voice to the man in the window. "This is your work--you damned turncoat." His followers melted away to right and left, vaulted the fence, and dodged into the shelter of the walls. The click, click of Glenister's Winchester sounded through the room while the sweat stood out on him. He wondered if he could do this deed, if he could really fire on these people. He wondered if his muscles would not wither and paralyze before they obeyed his command. Helen crowded past him and, leaning half out of the opening, called loudly, her voice ringing clear and true: "Wait! Wait a moment. I have something to say. Mr. Glenister didn't warn them. They thought you were going to attack the mines and so they rode out there before midnight. I am telling you the truth, really. They left hours ago." It was the first sign she had made, and they recognized her to a man. There were uncertain mutterings below till a new man raised his voice. Both Roy and Helen recognised Dextry. "Boys, we've overplayed. We don't want THESE people--McNamara's our meat. Old bald-face up yonder has to do what he's told, and I'm ag'in' this twenty-to-one midnight work. I'm goin' home." There were some whisperings, then the original spokesman called for Judge Stillman. The old man tottered to the window, a palsied, terror-stricken object. The girl was glad he could not be seen from below. "We won't hurt you this time, Judge, but you've gone far enough. We'll give you another chance, then, if you don't make good, we'll stretch you to a lamp-post. Take this as a warning." "I--s-shall do my d-d-duty," said the Judge. The men disappeared into the darkness, and when they had gone Glenister closed the window, pulled down the shades, and lighted a lamp. He knew by how narrow a margin a tragedy had been averted. If he had fired on these men his shot would have kindled a feud which would have consumed every vestige of the court crowd and himself among them. He would have fallen under a false banner, and his life would not have reached to the next sunset. Perhaps it was forfeit now--he could not tell. The Vigilantes would probably look upon his part as traitorous; and, at the very least, he had cut himself off from their support, the only support the Northland offered him. Henceforth he was a renegade, a pariah, hated alike by both factions. He purposely avoided sight of Stillman and turned his back when the Judge extended his hand with expressions of gratitude. His work was done and he wished to leave this house. Helen followed him down to the door and, as he opened it, laid her hand upon his sleeve. "Words are feeble things, and I can never make amends for all you've done for us." "For US!" cried Roy, with a break in his voice. "Do you think I sacrificed my honor, betrayed my friends, killed my last hope, ostracized myself, for 'US'? This is the last time I'll trouble you. Perhaps the last time I'll see you. No matter what else you've done, however, you've taught me a lesson, and I thank you for it. I have found myself at last. I'm not an Eskimo any longer--I'm a man!" "You've always been that," she said. "I don't understand as much about this affair as I want to, and it seems to me that no one will explain it. I'm very stupid, I guess; but won't you come back to-morrow and tell it to me?" "No," he said, roughly. "You're not of my people. McNamara and his are no friends of mine, and I'm no friend of theirs." He was half down the steps before she said, softly: "Good-night, and God bless you--friend." She returned to the Judge, who was in a pitiable state, and for a long time she labored to soothe him as though he were a child. She undertook to question him about the things which lay uppermost in her mind and which this night had half revealed, but he became fretful and irritated at the mention of mines and mining. She sat beside his bed till he dozed off, puzzling to discover what lay behind the hints she had heard, till her brain and body matched in absolute weariness. The reflex of the day's excitement sapped her strength till she could barely creep to her own couch, where she rolled and sighed--too tired to sleep at once. She awoke finally, with one last nervous flicker, before complete oblivion took her. A sentence was on her mind--it almost seemed as though she had spoken it aloud: "The handsomest woman in the North...but Glenister ran away." CHAPTER XVI IN WHICH THE TRUTH BEGINS TO BARE ITSELF It was nearly noon of the next day when Helen awoke to find that McNamara had ridden in from the Creek and stopped for breakfast with the Judge. He had asked for her, but on hearing the tale of the night's adventure would not allow her to be disturbed. Later, he and the Judge had gone away together. Although her judgment approved the step she had contemplated the night before, still the girl now felt a strange reluctance to meet McNamara. It is true that she knew no ill of him, except that implied in the accusations of certain embittered men; and she was aware that every strong and aggressive character makes enemies in direct proportionate the qualities which lend him greatness. Nevertheless, she was aware of an inner conflict that she had not foreseen. This man who so confidently believed that she would marry him did not dominate her consciousness. She had ridden much of late, taking long, solitary gallops beside the shimmering sea that she loved so well, or up the winding valleys into the foot-hills where echoed the roar of swift waters or glinted the flash of shovel blades. This morning her horse was lame, so she determined to walk. In her early rambles she had looked timidly askance at the rough men she met till she discovered their genuine respect and courtesy. The most unkempt among them were often college-bred, although, for that matter, the roughest of the miners showed abundant consideration for a woman. So she was glad to allow the men to talk to her with the fine freedom inspired by the new country and its wide spaces. The wilderness breeds a chivalry all its own. Thus there seemed to be no danger abroad, though they had told the girl of mad dogs which roamed the city, explaining that the hot weather affects powerfully the thick-coated, shaggy "malamoots." This is the land of the dog, and whereas in winter his lot is to labor and shiver and starve, in summer he loafs, fights, grows fat, and runs mad with the heat. Helen walked far and, returning, chose an unfamiliar course through the outskirts of the town to avoid meeting any of the women she knew, because of that vivid memory of the night before. As she walked swiftly along she thought that she heard faint cries far behind her. Looking up, she noted that it was a lonely, barren quarter and that the only figure in sight was a woman some distance away. A few paces farther on the shouts recurred--more plainly this time, and a gunshot sounded. Glancing back, she saw several men running, one bearing a smoking revolver, and heard, nearer still, the snarling hubbub of fighting dogs. In a flash the girl's curiosity became horror, for, as she watched, one of the dogs made a sudden dash through the now subdued group of animals and ran swiftly along the planking on which she stood. It was a handsome specimen of the Eskimo malamoot--tall, gray, and coated like a wolf, with the speed, strength, and cunning of its cousin. Its head hung low and swung from side to side as it trotted, the motion flecking foam and slaver. The creature had scattered the pack, and now, swift, menacing, relentless, was coming towards Helen. There was no shelter near, no fence, no house, save the distant one towards which the other woman was making her way. The men, too far away to protect her, shouted hoarse warnings. Helen did not scream nor hesitate--she turned and ran, terror-stricken, towards the distant cottage. She was blind with fright and felt an utter certainty that the dog would attack her before she could reach safety. Yes--there was the quick patter of his pads close up behind her; her knees weakened; the sheltering door was yet some yards away. But a horse, tethered near the walk, reared and snorted as the flying pair drew near. The mad creature swerved, leaped at the horse's legs, and snapped in fury. Badly frightened at this attack, the horse lunged at his halter, broke it, and galloped away; but the delay had served for Helen, weak and faint, to reach the door. She wrenched at the knob. It was locked. As she turned hopelessly away, she saw that the other woman was directly behind her, and was, in her turn, awaiting the mad animal's onslaught, but calmly, a tiny revolver in her hand. "Shoot!" screamed Helen. "Why don't you shoot?" The little gun spoke, and the dog spun around, snarling and yelping. The woman fired several times more before it lay still, and then remarked, calmly, as she "broke" the weapon and ejected the shells: "The calibre is too small to be good for much." Helen sank down upon the steps. "How well you shoot!" she gasped. Her eyes were on the gray bundle whose death agonies had thrust it almost to her feet. The men had run up and were talking excitedly, but after a word with them the woman turned to Helen. "You must come in for a moment and recover yourself," she said, and led her inside. It was a cosey room in which the girl found herself--more than that--luxurious. There was a piano with scattered music, and many of the pretty, feminine things that Helen had not seen since leaving home. The hostess had stepped behind some curtains for an instant and was talking to her from the next room. "That is the third mad dog I have seen this month. Hydrophobia is becoming a habit in this neighborhood." She returned, bearing a tiny silver tray with decanter and glasses. "You're all unstrung, but this brandy will help you--if you don't object to a swallow of it. Then come right in here and lie down for a moment and you'll be all right." She spoke with such genuine kindness and sympathy that Helen flashed a grateful glance at her. She was tall, slender, and with a peculiar undulating suggestion in her movements, as though she had been bred to the clinging folds of silken garments. Helen watched the charm of her smile, the friendly solicitude of her expression, and felt her heart warm towards this one kind woman in Nome. "You're very good," she answered; "but I'm all right now. I was badly frightened. It was wonderful, your saving me." She followed the other's graceful motion as she placed her burden on the table, and in doing so gazed squarely at a photograph of Roy Glenister. "Oh--!" Helen exclaimed, then paused as it flashed over her who this girl was. She looked at her quickly. Yes, probably men would consider the woman beautiful, with that smile. The revelation came with a shock, and she arose, trying to mask her confusion. "Thank you so much for your kindness. I'm quite myself now and I must go." Her change of face could not escape the quick perceptions of one schooled by experience in the slights of her sex. Times without number Cherry Malotte had marked that subtle, scornful change in other women, and reviled herself for heeding it. But in some way this girl's manner hurt her worst of all. She betrayed no sign, however, save a widening of the eyes and a certain fixity of smile as she answered: "I wish you would stay until you are rested, Miss--" She paused with out-stretched hand. "Chester. My name is Helen Chester. I'm Judge Stillman's niece," hurried the other, in embarrassment. Cherry Malotte withdrew her proffered hand and her face grew hard and hateful. "Oh! So you are Miss Chester--and I--saved you!" She laughed harshly. Helen strove for calmness. "I'm sorry you feel that way," she said, coolly. "I appreciate your service to me." She moved towards the door. "Wait a moment. I want to talk to you." Then, as Helen paid no heed, the woman burst out, bitterly: "Oh, don't be afraid! I know you are committing an unpardonable sin by talking to me, but no one will see you, and in your code the crime lies in being discovered. Therefore, you're quite safe. That's what makes me an outcast--I was found out. I want you to know, however, that, bad as I am, I'm better than you, for I'm loyal to those that like me, and I don't betray my friends." "I don't pretend to understand you," said Helen, coldly. "Oh yes, you do! Don't assume such innocence. Of course it's your role, but you can't play it with me." She stepped in front of her visitor, placing her back against the door, while her face was bitter and mocking. "The little service I did you just now entitles me to a privilege, I suppose, and I'm going to take advantage of it to tell you how badly your mask fits. Dreadfully rude of me, isn't it? You're in with a fine lot of crooks, and I admire the way you've done your share of the dirty work, but when you assume these scandalized, supervirtuous airs it offends me." "Let me out!" "I've done bad things," Cherry continued, unheedingly, "but I was forced into them, usually, and I never, deliberately, tried to wreck a man's life just for his money." "What do you mean by saying that I have betrayed my friends and wrecked anybody's life?" Helen demanded, hotly. "Bah! I had you sized up at the start, but Roy couldn't see it. Then Struve told me what I hadn't guessed. A bottle of wine, a woman, and that fool will tell all he knows. It's a great game McNamara's playing and he did well to get you in on it, for you're clever, your nerve is good, and your make-up is great for the part. I ought to know, for I've turned a few tricks myself. You'll pardon this little burst of feeling--professional pique. I'm jealous of your ability, that's all. However, now that you realize we're in the same class, don't look down on me hereafter." She opened the door and bowed her guest out with elaborate mockery. Helen was too bewildered and humiliated to make much out of this vicious and incoherent attack except the fact that Cherry Malotte accused her of a part in this conspiracy which every one seemed to believe existed. Here again was that hint of corruption which she encountered on all sides. This might be merely a woman's jealousy--and yet she said Struve had told her all about it--that a bottle of wine and a pretty face would make the lawyer disclose everything. She could believe it from what she knew and had heard of him. The feeling that she was groping in the dark, that she was wrapped in a mysterious woof of secrecy, came over her again as it had so often of late. If Struve talked to that other woman, why wouldn't he talk to her? She paused, changing her direction towards Front Street, revolving rapidly in her mind as she went her course of action. Cherry Malotte believed her to be an actress. Very well--she would prove her judgment right. She found Struve busy in his private office, but he leaped to his feet on her entrance and came forward, offering her a chair. "Good-morning, Miss Helen. You have a fine color, considering the night you passed. The Judge told me all about the affair; and let me state that you're the pluckiest girl I know." She smiled grimly at the thought of what made her cheeks glow, and languidly loosened the buttons of her jacket. "I suppose you're very busy, you lawyer man?" she inquired. "Yes--but not too busy to attend to anything you want." "Oh, I didn't come on business," she said, lightly. "I was out walking and merely sauntered in." "Well, I appreciate that all the more," he said, in an altered tone, twisting his chair about. "I'm more than delighted." She judged she was getting on well from the way his professionalism had dropped off. "Yes, I get tired of talking to uncle and Mr. McNamara. They treat me as though I were a little girl." "When do you take the fatal step?" "What step do you mean?" "Your marriage. When does it occur? You needn't hesitate," he added. "McNamara told we about it a month ago." He felt his throat gingerly at the thought, but his eyes brightened when she answered, lightly: "I think you are mistaken. He must have been joking." For some time she led him on adroitly, talking of many things, in a way to make him wonder at her new and flippant humor. He had never dreamed she could be like this, so tantalizingly close to familiarity, and yet so maddeningly aloof and distant. He grew bolder in his speech. "How are things going with us?" she questioned, as his warmth grew pronounced. "Uncle won't talk and Mr. McNamara is as close-mouthed as can be, lately." He looked at her quickly. "In what respect?" She summoned up her courage and walked past the ragged edge of uncertainty. "Now, don't you try to keep me in short dresses, too. It's getting wearisome. I've done my part and I want to know what the rest of you are doing." She was prepared for any answer. "What do you want to know?" he asked, cautiously. "Everything. Don't you think I can hear what people are saying?" "Oh, that's it! Well, don't you pay any attention to what people say." She recognized her mistake and continued, hurriedly: "Why shouldn't I? Aren't we all in this together? I object to being used and then discarded. I think I'm entitled to know how the scheme is working. Don't you think I can keep my mouth shut?" "Of course," he laughed, trying to change the subject of their talk; but she arose and leaned against the desk near him, vowing that she would not leave the office without piercing some part of this mystery. His manner strengthened her suspicion that there WAS something behind it all. This dissipated, brilliant creature knew the situation thoroughly; and yet, though swayed by her efforts, he remained chained by caution. She leaned forward and smiled at him. "You're just like the others, aren't you? You won't give me any satisfaction at all." "Give, give, give," said Struve, cynically. "That's always the woman's cry. Give me this--give me that. Selfish sex! Why don't you offer something in return? Men are traders, women usurers. You are curious, hence miserable. I can help you, therefore I should, do it for a smile. You ask me to break my promises and risk my honor on your caprice. Well, that's woman-like, and I'll do it. I'll put myself in your power, but I won't do it gratis. No, we'll trade." "It isn't curiosity," she denied, indignantly. "It is my due." "No; you've heard the common talk and grown suspicious, that's all. You think I know something that will throw a new light or a new shadow on everything you have in the world, and you're worked up to such a condition that you can't take your own people's word; and, on the other hand, you can't go to strangers, so you come to me. Suppose I told you I had the papers you brought to me last spring in that safe and that they told the whole story--whether your uncle is unimpeachable or whether he deserved hanging by that mob. What would you do, eh? What would you give to see them? Well, they're there and ready to speak for themselves. If you're a woman you won't rest till you've seen them. Will you trade?" "Yes, yes! Give them to me," she cried, eagerly, at which a wave of crimson rushed up to his eyes and he rose abruptly from his chair. He made towards her, but she retreated to the wall, pale and wide-eyed. "Can't you see," she flung at him, "that I MUST know?" He paused. "Of course I can, but I want a kiss to bind the bargain--to apply on account." He reached for her hand with his own hot one, but she pushed him away and slipped past him towards the door. "Suit yourself," said he, "but if I'm not mistaken, you'll never rest till you've seen those papers. I've studied you, and I'll place a bet that you can't marry McNamara nor look your uncle in the eye till you know the truth. You might do either if you KNEW them to be crooks, but you couldn't if you only suspected it--that's the woman. When you get ready, come back; I'll show you proof, because I don't claim to be anything but what I am--Wilton Struve, bargainer of some mean ability. When they come to inscribe my headstone I hope they can carve thereon with truth, 'He got value received.'" "You're a panther," she said, loathingly. "Graceful and elegant brute, that," he laughed. "Affectionate and full of play, but with sharp teeth and sharper claws. To follow out the idea, which pleases me, I believe the creature owes no loyalty to its fellows and hunts alone. Now, when you've followed this conspiracy out and placed the blame where it belongs, won't you come and tell me about it? That door leads into an outer hall which opens into the street. No one will see you come or go." As she hurried away she wondered dazedly why she had stayed to listen so long. What a monster he was! His meaning was plain, had always been so from the first day he laid eyes upon her, and he was utterly conscienceless. She had known all this; and yet, in her proud, youthful confidence, and in her need, every hour more desperate and urgent, to know the truth, she had dared risk herself with him. Withal, the man was shrewd and observant and had divined her mental condition with remarkable sagacity. She had failed with him; but the girl now knew that she could never rest till she found an answer to her questions. She MUST kill this suspicion that ate into her so. She thought tenderly of her uncle's goodness to her, clung with despairing faith to the last of her kin. The blood ties of the Chesters were close and she felt in dire need of that lost brother who was somewhere in this mysterious land--need of some one in whom ran the strain that bound her to the weak old man up yonder. There was McNamara; but how could he help her, how much did she know of him, this man who was now within the darkest shadow of her new suspicions? Feeling almost intolerably friendless and alone, weakened both by her recent fright and by her encounter with Struve, Helen considered as calmly as her emotions would allow and decided that this was no day in which pride should figure. There were facts which it was imperative she should know, and immediately; therefore, a few minutes later, she knocked at the door of Cherry Malotte. When the girl appeared, Helen was astonished to see that she had been crying. Tears burn hottest and leave plainest trace in eyes where they come most seldom. The younger girl could not guess the tumult of emotion the other had undergone during her absence, the utter depths of self-abasement she had fathomed, for the sight of Helen and her fresh young beauty had roused in the adventuress a very tempest of bitterness and jealousy. Whether Helen Chester were guilty or innocent, how could Glenister hesitate between them? Cherry had asked herself. Now she stared at her visitor inhospitably and without sign. "Will you let me come in?" Helen asked her. "I have something to say to you." When they were inside, Cherry Malotte stood and gazed at her visitor with inscrutable eyes and stony face. "It isn't easy for me to come back," Helen began, "but I felt that I had to. If you can help me, I hope you will. You said that you knew a great wrong was being done. I have suspected it, but I didn't know, and I've been afraid to doubt my own people. You said I had a part in it--that I'd betrayed my friends. Wait a moment," she hurried on, at the other's cynical smile. "Won't you tell me what you know and what you think my part has been? I've heard and seen things that make me think--oh, they make me afraid to think, and yet I can't find the TRUTH! You see, in a struggle like this, people will make all sorts of allegations, but do they KNOW, have they any proof, that my uncle has done wrong?" "Is that all?" "No. You said Struve told you the whole scheme. I went to him and tried to cajole the story out of him, but--" She shivered at the memory. "What success did you have?" inquired the listener, oddly curious for all her cold dislike. "Don't ask me. I hate to think of it." Cherry laughed cruelly. "So, failing there, you came back to me, back for another favor from the waif. Well, Miss Helen Chester, I don't believe a word you've said and I'll tell you nothing. Go back to the uncle and the rawboned lover who sent you, and inform them that I'll speak when the time comes. They think I know too much, do they?--so they've sent you to spy? Well, I'll make a compact. You play your game and I'll play mine. Leave Glenister alone and I'll not tell on McNamara. Is it a bargain?" "No, no, no! Can't you SEE? That's not it. All I want is the truth of this thing." "Then go back to Struve and get it. He'll tell you; I won't. Drive your bargain with him--you're able. You've fooled better men--now, see what you can do with him." Helen left, realizing the futility of further effort, though she felt that this woman did not really doubt her, but was scourged by jealousy till she deliberately chose this attitude. Reaching her own house, she wrote two brief notes and called in her Jap boy from the kitchen. "Fred, I want you to hunt up Mr. Glenister and give him this note. If you can't find him, then look for his partner and give the other to him." Fred vanished, to return in an hour with the letter for Dextry still in his hand. "I don' catch dis feller," he explained. "Young mans say he gone, come back mebbe one, two, 'leven days." "Did you deliver the one to Mr. Glenister?" "Yes, ma'am." "Was there an answer?" "Yes, ma'am." "Well, give it to me." The note read: "DEAR MISS CHESTER,--A discussion of a matter so familiar to us both as the Anvil Creek controversy would be useless. If your inclination is due to the incidents of last night, pray don't trouble yourself. We don't want your pity. I am, "Your servant, "ROY GLENISTER." As she read the note, Judge Stillman entered, and it seemed to the girl that he had aged a year for every hour in the last twelve, or else the yellow afternoon light limned the sagging hollows and haggard lines of his face most pitilessly. He showed in voice and manner the nervous burden under which he labored. "Alec has told me about your engagement, and it lifts a terrible load from me. I'm mighty glad you're going to marry him. He's a wonderful man, and he's the only one who can save us." "What do you mean by that? What are we in danger of?" she inquired, avoiding discussion of McNamara's announcement. "Why, that mob, of course. They'll come back. They said so. But Alec can handle the commanding officer at the post, and, thanks to him, we'll have soldiers guarding the house hereafter." "Why--they won't hurt us--" "Tut, tut! I know what I'm talking about. We're in worse danger now than ever, and if we don't break up those Vigilantes there'll be bloodshed--that's what. They're a menace, and they're trying to force me off the bench so they can take the law into their own hands again. That's what I want to see you about. They're planning to kill Alec and me--so he says--and we've got to act quick to prevent murder. Now, this young Glenister is one of them, and he knows who the rest are. Do you think you could get him to talk?" "I don't think I quite understand you," said the girl, through whitening lips. "Oh yes, you do. I want the names of the ring-leaders, so that I can jail them. You can worm it out of that fellow if you try." Helen looked at the old man in a horror that at first was dumb. "You ask this of me?" she demanded, hoarsely, at last. "Nonsense," he said, irritably. "This isn't any time for silly scruples. It's life or death for me, maybe, and for Alec, too." He said the last craftily, but she stormed at him: "It's infamous! You're asking me to betray the very man who saved us not twelve hours ago. He risked his life for us." "It isn't treachery at all, it's protection. If we don't get them, they'll get us. I wouldn't punish that young fellow, but I want the others. Come, now, you've got to do it." But she said "No" firmly, and quietly went to her own room, where, behind the locked door, she sat for a long time staring with unseeing eyes, her hands tight clenched in her lap. At last she whispered: "I'm afraid it's true. I'm afraid it's true." She remained hidden during the dinner-hour, and pleaded a headache when McNamara called in the early evening. Although she had not seen him since he left her the night before, bearing her tacit promise to wed him, yet how could she meet him now with the conviction growing on her hourly that he was a master-rogue? She wrestled with the thought that he and her uncle, her own uncle who stood in the place of a father, were conspirators. And yet, at memory of the Judge's cold-blooded request that she should turn traitress, her whole being was revolted. If he could ask a thing like that, what other heartless, selfish act might he not be capable of? All the long, solitary evening she kept her room, but at last, feeling faint, slipped down-stairs in search of Fred, for she had eaten nothing since her late breakfast. Voices reached her from the parlor, and as she came to the last step she froze there in an attitude of listening. The first sentence she heard through the close-drawn curtains banished all qualms at eavesdropping. She stood for many breathless minutes drinking in the plot that came to her plainly from within, then turned, gathered up her skirts, and tiptoed back to her room. Here she made haste madly, tearing off her house clothes and donning others. She pressed her face to the window and noted that the night was like a close-hung velvet pall, without a star in sight. Nevertheless, she wound a heavy veil about her hat and face before she extinguished the light and stepped into the hall. Hearing McNamara's "Good-night" at the front-door, she retreated again while her uncle slowly mounted the stairs and paused before her chamber. He called her name softly, but when she did not answer continued on to his own room. When he was safely within she descended quietly, went out, and locked the front-door behind her, placing the key in her bosom. She hurried now, feeling her way through the thick gloom in a panic, while in her mind was but one frightened thought: "I'll be too late. I'll be too late." CHAPTER XVII THE DRIP OF WATER IN THE DARK Even after Helen had been out for some time she could barely see sufficiently to avoid collisions. The air, weighted by a low-hung roof of clouds, was surcharged with the electric suspense of an impending storm, and seemed to sigh and tremble at the hint of power in leash. It was that pause before the conflict wherein the night laid finger upon its lips. As the girl neared Glenister's cabin she was disappointed at seeing no light there. She stumbled towards the door, only to utter a half-strangled cry as two men stepped out of the gloom and seized her roughly. Something cold and hard was thrust violently against her cheek, forcing her head back and bruising her. She struggled and cried out. "Hold on--it's a woman!" ejaculated the man who had pinioned her arms, loosing his hold till only a hand remained on her shoulder. The other lowered the weapon he had jammed to her face and peered closely. "Why, Miss Chester," he said. "What are you doing here? You came near getting hurt." "I am bound for the Wilsons', but I must have lost my way in the darkness. I think you have cut my face." She controlled her fright firmly. "That's too bad," one said. "We mistook you for--" And the other broke in, sharply, "You'd better run along. We're waiting for some one." Helen hastened back by the route she had come, knowing that there was still time, and that as yet her uncle's emissaries had not laid hands upon Glenister. She had overheard the Judge and McNamara plotting to drag the town with a force of deputies, seizing not only her two friends, but every man suspected of being a Vigilante. The victims were to be jailed without bond, without reason, without justice, while the mechanism of the court was to be juggled in order to hold them until fall, if necessary. They had said that the officers were already busy, so haste was a crying thing. She sped down the dark streets towards the house of Cherry Malotte, but found no light nor answer to her knock. She was distracted now, and knew not where to seek next among the thousand spots which might hide the man she wanted. What chance had she against the posse sweeping the town from end to end? There was only one; he might be at the Northern Theatre. Even so, she could not reach him, for she dared not go there herself. She thought of Fred, her Jap boy, but there was no time. Wasted moments meant failure. Roy had once told her that he never gave up what he undertook. Very well, she would show that even a girl may possess determination. This was no time for modesty or shrinking indecision, so she pulled the veil more closely about her face and took her good name into her hands. She made rapidly towards the lighted streets which cast a skyward glare, and from which, through the breathless calm, arose the sound of carousal. Swiftly she threaded the narrow alleys in search of the theatre's rear entrance, for she dared not approach from the front. In this way she came into a part of the camp which had lain hidden from her until now, and of the existence of which she had never dreamed. The vices of a city, however horrible, are at least draped scantily by the mantle of convention, but in a great mining-camp they stand naked and without concealment. Here there were rows upon rows of crib-like houses clustered over tortuous, ill-lighted lanes, like blow-flies swarming to an unclean feast. From within came the noise of ribaldry and debauch. Shrill laughter mingled with coarse, maudlin songs, till the clinging night reeked with abominable revelry. The girl saw painted creatures of every nationality leaning from windows or beckoning from doorways, while drunken men collided with her, barred her course, challenged her, and again and again she was forced to slip from their embraces. At last the high bulk of the theatre building loomed a short distance ahead. Panting and frightened, she tried the door with weak hands, to find it locked. From behind it rose the blare of brass and the sound of singing. She accosted a man who approached her through the narrow alley, but he had cruised from the charted course in search of adventure and was not minded to go in quest of doormen; rather, he chose to sing a chantey, to the bibulous measures of which he invited her to dance with him, so she slipped away till he had teetered past. He was some longshoreman in that particular epoch of his inebriety where life had no burden save the dissipation of wages. Returning, she pounded on the door, possessed of the sense that the man she sought was here, till at last it was flung open, framing the silhouette of a shirt-sleeved, thick-set youth, who shouted: "What 'n 'ell do you want to butt in for while the show's on? Go round front." She caught a glimpse of disordered scenery, and before he could slam the door in her face thrust a silver dollar into his hand, at the same time wedging herself into the opening. He pocketed the coin and the door clicked to behind her. "Well, speak up. The act's closin'." Evidently he was the directing genius of the performance, for at that moment the chorus broke into full cry, and he said, hurriedly: "Wait a minute. There goes the finally," and dashed away to tend his drops and switches. When the curtain was down and the principals had sought their dressing-rooms he returned. "Do you know Mr. Glenister?" she asked. "Sure. I seen him to-night. Come here." He led her towards the footlights, and, pulling back the edge of the curtain, allowed her to peep past him out into the dance-hall. She had never pictured a place like this, and in spite of her agitation was astonished at its gaudy elegance. The gallery was formed of a continuous row of compartments with curtained fronts, in which men and women were talking, drinking, singing. The seats on the lower floor were disappearing, and the canvas cover was rolling back, showing the polished hardwood underneath, while out through the wide folding-doors that led to the main gambling-room she heard a brass-lunged man calling the commencement of the dance. Couples glided into motion while she watched. "I don't see him," said her guide. "You better walk out front and help yourself." He indicated the stairs which led up to the galleried boxes and the steps leading down on to the main floor, but she handed him another coin, begging him to find Glenister and bring him to her. "Hurry; hurry!" she implored. The stage-manager gazed at her curiously, remarking, "My! You spend your money like it had been left to you. You're a regular pie-check for me. Come around any time." She withdrew to a dark corner and waited interminably till her messenger appeared at the head of the gallery stairs and beckoned to her. As she drew near he said, "I told him there was a thousand-dollar filly flaggin' him from the stage door, but he's got a grouch an' won't stir. He's in number seven." She hesitated, at which he said, "Go on--you're in right;" then continued, reassuringly: "Say, pal, if he's your white-haired lad, you needn't start no roughhouse, 'cause he don't flirt wit' these dames none whatever. Naw! Take it from me." She entered the door her counsellor indicated to find Roy lounging back watching the dancers. He turned inquiringly--then, as she raised her veil, leaped to his feet and jerked the curtains to. "Helen! What are you doing here?" "You must go away quickly," she gasped. "They're trying to arrest you." "They! Who? Arrest me for what?" "Voorhees and his men--for riot, or something about last night." "Nonsense," he said. "I had no part in it. You know that." "Yes, yes--but you're a Vigilante, and they're after you and all your friends. Your house is guarded and the town is alive with deputies. They've planned to jail you on some pretext or other and hold you indefinitely. Please go before it's too late." "How do you know this?" he asked, gravely. "I overheard them plotting." "Who?" "Uncle Arthur and Mr. McNamara." She faced him squarely as she said it, and therefore saw the light flame up in his eyes as he cried: "And you came here to save me--came HERE at the risk of your good name?" "Of course. I would have done the same for Dextry." The gladness died away, leaving him listless. "Well, let them come. I'm done, I guess. I heard from Wheaton to-night. He's down and out, too--some trouble with the 'Frisco courts about jurisdiction over these cases. I don't know that it's worth while to fight any longer." "Listen," she said. "You must go. I am sure there is a terrible wrong being done, and you and I must stop it. I have seen the truth at last, and you're in the right. Please hide for a time at least." "Very well. If you have taken sides with us there's some hope left. Thank you for the risk you ran in warning me." She had moved to the front of the compartment and was peering forth between the draperies when she stifled a cry. "Too late! Too late! There they are. Don't part the curtains. They'll see you." Pushing through the gambling-hall were Voorhees and four others, seemingly in quest of some one. "Run down the back stairs," she breathed, and pushed him through the door. He caught and held her hand with a last word of gratitude. Then he was gone. She drew down her veil and was about to follow when the door opened and he reappeared. "No use," he remarked, quietly. "There are three more waiting at the foot." He looked out to find that the officers had searched the crowd and were turning towards the front stairs, thus cutting off his retreat. There were but two ways down from the gallery and no outside windows from which to leap. As they had made no armed display, the presence of the officers had not interrupted the dance. Glenister drew his revolver, while into his eyes came the dancing glitter that Helen had seen before, cold as the glint of winter sunlight. "No, not that--for God's sake!" she shuddered, clasping his arm. "I must for your sake, or they'll find you here, and that's worse than ruin. I'll fight it out in the corridors so that you can escape in the confusion. Wait till the firing stops and the crowd gathers." His hand was on the knob when she tore it loose, whispering hoarsely: "They'll kill you. Wait! There's a better way. Jump." She dragged him to the front of the box and pulled aside the curtains. "It isn't high and they won't see you till it's too late. Then you can run through the crowd." He grasped her idea, and, slipping his weapon back into its holster, laid hold of the ledge before him and lowered himself down over the dancers. He swung out unhesitatingly, and almost before he had been observed had dropped into their midst. The gallery was but twice the height of a man's head from the floor, so he landed on his feet and had drawn his Colts even while the men at the stairs were shouting at him to halt. At sight of the naked weapons there was confusion, wherein the commands of the deputies mingled with the shrieks of the women, the crash of overturned chairs, and the sound of tramping feet, as the crowd divided before Glenister and swept back against the wall in the same ominous way that a crowd in the street had once divided on the morning of Helen's arrival. The trombone player, who had sunk low in his chair with closed eyes, looked out suddenly at the disturbance, and his alarm was blown through the horn in a startled squawk. A large woman whimpered, "Don't shoot," and thrust her palms to her ears, closing her eyes tightly. Glenister covered the deputies, from whose vicinity the by-standers surged as though from the presence of lepers. "Hands up!" he cried, sharply, and they froze into motionless attitudes, one poised on the lowest step of the stairs, the other a pace forward. Voorhees appeared at the head of the flight and rushed down a few steps only to come abruptly into range and to assume a like rigidity, for the young man's aim shifted to him. "I have a warrant for you," the officer cried, his voice loud in the hush. "Keep it," said Glenister, showing his teeth in a smile in which there was no mirth. He backed diagonally across the hall, his boot-heels clicking in the silence, his eyes shifting rapidly up and down the stairs where the danger lay. From her station Helen could see the whole tableau, all but the men on the stairs, where her vision was cut off. She saw the dance girls crouched behind their partners or leaning far out from the wall with parted lips, the men eager yet fearful, the bartender with a half-polished glass poised high. Then a quick movement across the hall suddenly diverted her absorbed attention. She saw a man rip aside the drapery of the box opposite and lean so far out that he seemed in peril of falling. He undertook to sight a weapon at Glenister, who was just passing from his view. At her first glance Helen gasped--her heart gave one fierce lunge, and she cried out. The distance across the pit was so short that she saw his every line and lineament clearly; it was the brother she had sought these years and years. Before she knew or could check it the blood call leaped forth. "Drury!" she cried, aloud, at which he whipped his head about, while amazement and some other emotion she could not gauge spread slowly over his features. For a long moment he stared at her without movement or sign while the drama beneath went on, then he drew back into his retreat with the dazed look of one doubting his senses, yet fearful of putting them to the test. For her part, she saw nothing except her brother vanishing slowly into the shadows as though stricken at her glance, the curtains closing before his livid face--and then pandemonium broke loose at her feet. Glenister, holding his enemies at bay, had retreated to the double doors leading to the theatre. His coup had been executed so quickly and with such lack of turmoil that the throng outside knew nothing of it till they saw a man walk backward through the door. As he did so he reached forth and slammed the wide wings shut before his face, then turned and dashed into the press. Inside the dance-hall loud sounds arose as the officers clattered down the stairs and made after their quarry. They tore the barrier apart in time to see, far down the saloon, an eddying swirl as though some great fish were lashing through the lily-pads of a pond, and then the swinging doors closed behind Glenister. Helen made her way from the theatre as she had come, unobserved and unobserving, but she walked in a dream. Emotions had chased each other too closely to-night to be distinguishable, so she went mechanically through the narrow alley to Front Street and thence to her home. Glenister, meanwhile, had been swallowed up by the darkness, the night enfolding him without sign or trace. As he ran he considered what course to follow--whether to carry the call to his comrades in town or to make for the Creek and Dextry. The Vigilantes might still distrust him, and yet he owed them warning. McNamara's men were moving so swiftly that action must be speedy to forestall them. Another hour and the net would be closed, while it seemed that whichever course he chose they would snare one or the other--either the friends who remained in town, or Dex and Slapjack out in the hills. With daylight those two would return and walk unheeding into the trap, while if he bore the word to them first, then the Vigilantes would be jailed before dawn. As he drew near Cherry Malotte's house he saw a light through the drawn curtains. A heavy raindrop plashed upon his face, another followed, and then he heard the patter of falling water increasing swiftly. Before he could gain the door the storm had broken. It swept up the street with tropical violence, while a breath sighed out of the night, lifting the litter from underfoot and pelting him with flying particles. Over the roofs the wind rushed with the rising moan of a hurricane while the night grew suddenly noisy ahead of the tempest. He entered the door without knocking, to find the girl removing her coat. Her face gladdened at sight of him, but he checked her with quick and cautious words, his speech almost drowned by the roar outside. "Are you alone?" She nodded, and he slipped the bolt behind him, saying: "The marshals are after me. We just had a 'run in' at the Northern, and I'm on the go. No--nothing serious yet, but they want the Vigilantes, and I must get them word. Will you help me?" He rapidly recounted the row of the last ten minutes while she nodded her quick understanding. "You're safe here for a little while," she told him, "for the storm will check them. If they should come, there's a back door leading out from the kitchen and a side entrance yonder. In my room you'll find a French window. They can't corner you very well." "Slapjack and Dex are out at the shaft house--you know--that quartz claim on the mountain above the Midas." He hesitated. "Will you lend me your saddle-horse? It's a black night and I may kill him." "What about these men in town?" "I'll warn them first, then hit for the hills." She shook her head. "You can't do it. You can't get out there before daylight if you wait to rouse these people, and McNamara has probably telephoned the mines to send a party up to the quartz claim after Dex. He knows where the old man is as well as you do, and they'll raid him before dawn." "I'm afraid so, but it's all I can offer. Will you give me the horse?" "No! He's only a pony, and you'd founder him in the tundra. The mud is knee-deep. I'll go myself." "Good Heavens, girl, in such a night! Why, it's worth your life! Listen to it! The creeks will be up and you'll have to swim. No, I can't let you." "He's a good little horse, and he'll take me through." Then, coming close, she continued: "Oh, boy! Can't you see that I want to help? Can't you see that I--I'd DIE for you if it would do any good?" He gazed gravely into her wide blue eyes and said, awkwardly: "Yes, I know. I'm sorry things are--as they are--but you wouldn't have me lie to you, little woman?" "No. You're the only true man I ever knew. I guess that's why I love you. And I do love you, oh, so much! I want to be good and worthy to love you, too." She laid her face against his arm and caressed him with clinging tenderness, while the wind yelled loudly about the eaves and the windows drummed beneath the rain. His heavy brows knit themselves together as she whispered: "I love you! I love you! I love you!" with such an agony of longing in her voice that her soft accents were sharply distinguishable above the turmoil. The growing wildness seemed a part of the woman's passion, which whipped and harried her like a willow in a blast. "Things are fearfully jumbled," he said, finally. "And this is a bad time to talk about them. I wish they might be different. No other girl would do what you have offered to-night." "Then why do you think of that woman?" she broke in, fiercely. "She's bad and false. She betrayed you once; she's in the play now; you've told me so yourself. Why don't you be a man and forget her?" "I can't," he said, simply. "You're wrong, though, when you think she's bad. I found to-night that she's good and brave and honest. The part she played was played innocently, I'm sure of that, in spite of the fact that she'll marry McNamara. It was she who overheard them plotting and risked her reputation to warn me." Cherry's face whitened, while the shadowy eagerness that had rested there died utterly. "She came into that dive alone? She did that?" He nodded, at which she stood thinking for some time, then continued: "You're honest with me, Roy, and I'll be the same with you. I'm tired of deceit, tired of everything. I tried to make you think she was bad, but in my own heart I knew differently all the time. She came here to-day and humbled herself to get the truth, humbled herself to me, and I sent her away. She suspected, but she didn't know, and when she asked for information I insulted her. That's the kind of a creature I am. I sent her back to Struve, who offered to tell her the whole story." "What does that renegade want?" "Can't you guess?" "Why, I'd rather--" The young man ground his teeth, but Cherry hastened. "You needn't worry; she won't see him again. She loathes the ground he walks on." "And yet he's no worse than that other scoundrel. Come, girl, we have work to do; we must act, and act quickly." He gave her his message to Dextry, then she went to her room and slipped into a riding-habit. When she came out he asked: "Where is your raincoat? You'll be drenched in no time." "I can't ride with it. I'll be thrown, anyway, and I don't want to be all bound up. Water won't hurt me." She thrust her tiny revolver into her dress, but he took it and upon examination shook his head. "If you need a gun you'll need a good one." He removed the belt from his own waist and buckled his Colts about her. "But you!" she objected. "I'll get another in ten minutes." Then, as they were leaving, he said: "One other request, Cherry. I'll be in hiding for a time, and I must get word to Miss Chester to keep watch of her uncle, for the big fight is on at last and the boys will hang him sure if they catch him. I owe her this last warning. Will you send it to her?" "I'll do it for your sake, not for her--no, no; I don't mean that. I'll do the right thing all round. Leave it here and I'll see that she gets it to-morrow. And--Roy--be careful of yourself." Her eyes were starry and in their depths lurked neither selfishness nor jealousy now, only that mysterious glory of a woman who makes sacrifice. Together they scurried back to the stable, and yet, in that short distance, she would have been swept from her feet had he not seized her. They blew in through the barn door, streaming and soaked by the blinding sheets that drove scythe-like ahead of the wind. He struck a light, and the pony whinnied at recognition of his mistress. She stroked the little fellow's muzzle while Glenister cinched on her saddle. Then, when she was at last mounted, she leaned forward: "Will you kiss me once, Roy, for the last time?" He took her rain-wet face between his hands and kissed her upon the lips as he would have saluted a little maid. As he did so, unseen by both of them, a face was pressed for an instant against the pane of glass in the stable wall. "You're a brave girl and may God bless you," he said, extinguishing the light. He flung the door wide and she rode out into the storm. Locking the portal, he plunged back towards the house to write his hurried note, for there was much to do and scant time for its accomplishment, despite the helping hand of the hurricane. He heard the voice of Bering as it thundered on the Golden Sands, and knew that the first great storm of the fall had come. Henceforth he saw that the violence of men would rival the rising elements, for the deeds of this night would stir their passions as AEolus was rousing the hate of the sea. He neglected to bolt the house door as he entered, but flung off his dripping coat and, seizing pad and pencil, scrawled his message. The wind screamed about the cabin, the lamp flared smokily, and Glenister felt a draught suck past him as though from an open door at his back as he wrote: "I can't do anything more. The end has come and it has brought the hatred and bloodshed that I have been trying to prevent. I played the game according to your rules, but they forced me back to first principles in spite of myself, and now I don't know what the finish will be. To-morrow will tell. Take care of your uncle, and if you should wish to communicate with me, go to Cherry Malotte. She is a friend to both of us. "Always your servant, ROY GLENISTER." As he sealed this he paused, while he felt the hair on his neck rise and bristle and a chill race up his spine. His heart fluttered, then pounded onward till the blood thumped audibly at his ear-drums and he found himself swaying in rhythm to its beat. The muscles of his back cringed and rippled at the proximity of some hovering peril, and yet an irresistible feeling forbade him to turn. A sound came from close behind his chair--the drip, drip, drip of water. It was not from the eaves, nor yet from a faulty shingle. His back was to the kitchen door, through which he had come, and, although there were no mirrors before him, he felt a menacing presence as surely as though it had touched him. His ears were tuned to the finest pin-pricks of sound, so that he heard the faint, sighing "squish" of a sodden shoe upon which a weight had shifted. Still something chained him to his seat. It was as though his soul laid a restraining hand upon his body, waiting for the instant. He let his hand seek his hip carelessly, but remembered where his gun was. Mechanically, he addressed the note in shaking characters, while behind him sounded the constant drip, drip, drip that he knew came from saturated garments. For a long moment he sat, till he heard the stealthy click of a gun-lock muffled by finger pressure. Then he set his face and slowly turned to find the Bronco Kid standing behind him as though risen from the sea, his light clothes wet and clinging, his feet centred in a spreading puddle. The dim light showed the convulsive fury of his features above the levelled weapon, whose hammer was curled back like the head of a striking adder, his eyes gleaming with frenzy. Glenister's mouth was powder dry, but his mind was leaping riotously like dust before a gale, for he divined himself to be in the deadliest peril of his life. When he spoke the calmness of his voice surprised himself. "What's the matter, Bronco?" The Kid made no reply, and Roy repeated, "What do you want?" "That's a hell of a question," the gambler said, hoarsely. "I want you, of course, and I've got you." "Hold up! I am unarmed. This is your third try, and I want to know what's back of it." "DAMN the talk!" cried the faro-dealer, moving closer till the light shone on his features, which commenced to twitch. He raised the revolver he had half lowered. "There's reason enough, and you know it." Glenister looked him fairly between the eyes, gripping himself with firm hands to stop the tremor he felt in his bones. "You can't kill me," he said. "I am too good a man to murder. You might shoot a crook, but you can't kill a brave man when he's unarmed. You're no assassin." He remained rigid in his chair, however, moving nothing but his lips, meeting the other's look unflinchingly. The Kid hesitated an instant, while his eyes, which had been fixed with the glare of hatred, wavered a moment, betraying the faintest sign of indecision. Glenister cried out, exultantly: "Ha! I knew it. Your neck cords quiver." The gambler grimaced. "I can't do it. If I could, I'd have shot you before you turned. But you'll have to fight, you dog. Get up and draw." Roy refused. "I gave Cherry my gun." "Yes, and more too," the man gritted. "I saw it all." Even yet Glenister had made no slightest move, realizing that a feather's weight might snap the gambler's nervous tension and bring the involuntary twitch that would put him out swifter than a whip is cracked. "I have tried it before, but murder isn't my game." The Kid's eye caught the glint of Cherry's revolver where she had discarded it. "There's a gun--get it." "It's no good. You'd carry the six bullets and never feel them. I don't know what this is all about, but I'll fight you whenever I'm heeled right." "Oh, you black-hearted hound," snarled the Kid. "I want to shoot, but I'm afraid. I used to be a gentleman and I haven't lost it all, I guess. But I won't wait the next time. I'll down you on sight, so you'd better get ironed in a hurry." He backed out of the room into the semi-darkness of the kitchen, watching with lynx-like closeness the man who sat so quietly under the shaded light. He felt behind him for the outer door-knob and turned it to let in a white sheet of rain, then vanished like a storm wraith, leaving a parched-lipped man and a zigzag trail of water, which gleamed in the lamplight like a pool of blood. CHAPTER XVIII WHEREIN A TRAP IS BAITED Glenister did not wait long after his visitor's departure, but extinguished the light, locked the door, and began the further adventures of this night. The storm welcomed him with suffocating violence, sucking the very breath from his lips, while the rain beat through till his flesh was cold and aching. He thought with a pang of the girl facing this tempest, going out to meet the thousand perils of the night. And it remained for him to bear his part as she bore hers, smilingly. The last hour had added another and mysterious danger to his full measure. Could the Kid be jealous of Cherry? Surely not. Then what else? The tornado had driven his trailers to cover, evidently, for the streets were given over to its violence, and Roy encountered no hostile sign as he was buffeted from house to house. He adventured cautiously and yet with haste, finding certain homes where the marshals had been before him peopled now only by frightened wives and children. A scattered few of the Vigilantes had been taken thus, while the warring elements had prevented their families from spreading the alarm or venturing out for succor. Those whom he was able to warn dressed hurriedly, took their rifles, and went out into the drifting night, leaving empty cabins and weeping women. The great fight was on. Towards daylight the remnants of the Vigilantes straggled into the big blank warehouse on the sand-spit, and there beneath the smoking glare of lanterns cursed the name of McNamara. As dawn grayed the ragged eastern sky-line, Dextry and Slapjack blew in through the spindrift, bringing word from Cherry and lifting a load from Glenister's mind. "There's a game girl," said the old miner, as he wrung out his clothes. "She was half gone when she got to us, and now she's waiting for the storm to break so that she can come back." "It's clearing up to the east," Slapjack chattered. "D'you know, I'm gettin' so rheumatic that ice-water don't feel comfortable to me no more." "Uriatic acid in the blood," said Dextry. "What's our next move?" he asked of his partner. "When do we hang this politician? Seems like we've got enough able-bodied piano-movers here to tie a can onto the whole outfit, push the town site of Nome off the map, and start afresh." "I think we had better lie low and watch developments," the other cautioned. "There's no telling what may turn up during the day." "That's right. Stranglers is like spirits--they work best in the dark." As the day grew, the storm died, leaving ramparts of clouds hanging sullenly above the ocean's rim, while those skilled in weather prophecy foretold the coming of the equinoctial. In McNamara's office there was great stir and the coming of many men. The boss sat in his chair smoking countless cigars, his big face set in grim lines, his hard eyes peering through the pall of blue at those he questioned. He worked the wires of his machine until his dolls doubled and danced and twisted at his touch. After a gusty interview he had dismissed Voorhees with a merciless tongue-lashing, raging bitterly at the man's failure. "You're not fit to herd sheep. Thirty men out all night and what do you get? A dozen mullet-headed miners. You bag the mud-hens and the big game runs to cover. I wanted Glenister, but you let him slip through your fingers--now it's war. What a mess you've made! If I had even ONE helper with a brain the size of a flaxseed, this game would be a gift, but you've bungled every move from the start. Bah! Put a spy in the bull-pen with those prisoners and make them talk. Offer them anything for information. Now get out!" He called for a certain deputy and questioned him regarding the night's quest, remarking, finally: "There's treachery somewhere. Those men were warned." "Nobody came near Glenister's house except Miss Chester," the man replied. "What?" "The Judge's niece. We caught her by mistake in the dark." Later, one of the men who had been with Voorhees at the Northern asked to see the receiver and told him: "The chief won't believe that I saw Miss Chester in the dance-hall last night, but she was there with Glenister. She must have put him wise to our game or he wouldn't have known we were after him." His hearer made no comment, but, when alone, rose and paced the floor with heavy tread while his face grew savage and brutal. "So that's the game, eh? It's man to man from now on. Very well, Glenister, I'll have your life for that, and then--you'll pay, Miss Helen." He considered carefully. A plot for a plot. If he could not swap intrigue with these miners and beat them badly, he deserved to lose. Now that the girl gave herself to their cause he would use her again and see how well she answered. Public opinion would not stand too great a strain, and, although he had acted within his rights last night, he dared not go much further. Diplomacy, therefore, must serve. He must force his enemies beyond the law and into his trap. She had passed the word once; she would do so again. He hurried to Stillman's house and stormed into the presence of the Judge. He told the story so artfully that the Judge's astonished unbelief yielded to rage and cowardice, and he sent for his niece. She came down, white and silent, having heard the loud voices. The old man berated her with shrewish fury, while McNamara stood silent. The girl listened with entire self-control until her uncle made a reference to Glenister that she found intolerable. "Hush! I will not listen!" she cried, passionately. "I warned him because you would have sacrificed him after he had saved our lives. That is all. He is an honest man, and I am grateful to him. That is the only foundation for your insult." McNamara, with apparent candor, broke in: "You thought you were doing right, of course, but your action will have terrible consequences. Now we'll have riot, bloodshed, and Heaven knows what. It was to save all this that I wanted to break up their organization. A week's imprisonment would have done it, but now they're armed and belligerent and we'll have a battle to-night." "No, no!" she cried. "There mustn't be any violence." "There is no use trying to check them. They are rushing to their own destruction. I have learned that they plan to attack the Midas to-night, and I'll have fifty soldiers waiting for them there. It is a shame, for they are decent fellows, blinded by ignorance and misled by that young miner. This will be the blackest night the North has ever seen." With this McNamara left the house and went in search of Voorhees, remarking to himself: "Now, Miss Helen--send your warning--the sooner the better. If I know those Vigilantes, it will set them crazy, and yet not crazy enough to attack the Midas. They will strike for me, and when they hit my poor, unguarded office, they'll think hell has moved North." "Mr. Marshal," said he to his tool, "I want you to gather forty men quietly and to arm them with Winchesters. They must be fellows who won't faint at blood--you know the kind. Assemble them at my office after dark, one at a time, by the back way. It must be done with absolute secrecy. Now, see if you can do this one thing and not get balled up. If you fail, I'll make you answer to me." "Why don't you get the troops?" ventured Voorhees. "If there's one thing I want to avoid, it's soldiers, either here or at the mines. When they step in, we step out, and I'm not ready for that just yet." The receiver smiled sinisterly. Helen meanwhile had fled to her room, and there received Glenister's note through Cherry Malotte's messenger. It rekindled her worst fears and bore out McNamara's prophecy. The more she read of it the more certain she grew that the crisis was only a question of hours, and that with darkness, Tragedy would walk the streets of Nome. The thought of the wrong already done was lost in the lonely girl's terror of the crime about to happen, for it seemed to her she had been the instrument to set these forces in motion, that she had loosed this swift-speeding avalanche of greed, hatred, and brutality. And when the crash should come--the girl shuddered. It must not be. She would shriek a warning from the house-tops even at cost of her uncle, of McNamara, and of herself. And yet she had no proof that a crime existed. Although it all lay clear in her own mind, the certainty of it arose only from her intuition. If only she were able to take a hand--if only she were not a woman. Then Cherry Malotte's words anent Struve recurred to her, "A bottle of wine and a woman's face." They brought back the lawyer's assurance that those documents she had safeguarded all through the long spring-time journey really contained the proof. If they did, then they held the power to check this impending conflict. Her uncle and the boss would not dare continue if threatened with exposure and prosecution. The more she thought of it, the more urgent seemed the necessity to prevent the battle of to-night. There was a chance here, at least, and the only one. Adding to her mental torment was the constant vision of that face in the curtains at the Northern. It was her brother, yet what mystery shrouded this affair, also? What kept him from her? What caused him to slink away like a thief discovered? She grew dizzy and hysterical. Struve turned in his chair as the door to his private office opened, then leaped to his feet at sight of the gray-eyed girl standing there. "I came for the papers," she said. "I knew you would." The blood went out of his cheeks, then surged back up to his eyes. "It's a bargain, then?" She nodded. "Give them to me first." He laughed unpleasantly. "What do you take me for? I'll keep my part of the bargain if you'll keep yours. But this is no place, nor time. There's riot in the air, and I'm busy preparing for to-night. Come back to-morrow when it's all over." But it was the terror of to-night's doings that led her into his power. "I'll never come back," she said. "It is my whim to know to-day--yes, at once." He meditated for a time. "Then to-day it shall be. I'll shirk the fight, I'll sacrifice what shreds of duty have clung to me, because the fever for you is in my bones, and it seems to me I'd do murder for it. That's the kind of a man I am, and I have no pride in myself because of it. But I've always been that way We'll ride to the Sign of the Sled. It's a romantic little road-house ten miles from here, perched high above the Snake River trail. We'll take dinner there together." "But the papers?" "I'll have them with me. We'll start in an hour." "In an hour," she echoed, lifelessly, and left him. He chuckled grimly and seized the telephone. "Central--call the Sled road-house--seven rings on the Snake River branch. Hello! That you, Shortz? This is Struve. Anybody at the house? Good. Turn them away if they come and say that you're closed. None of your business. I'll be out about dark, so have dinner for two. Spread yourself and keep the place clear. Good-bye." Strengthened by Glenister's note, Helen went straight to the other woman and this time was not kept waiting nor greeted with sneers, but found Cherry cloaked in a shy dignity, which she clasped tightly about herself. Under her visitor's incoherence she lost her diffidence, however, and, when Helen had finished, remarked, with decision: "Don't go with him. He's a bad man." "But I MUST. The blood of those men will be on me if I don't stop this tragedy. If those papers tell the tale I think they do, I can call off my uncle and make McNamara give back the mines. You said Struve told you the whole scheme. Did you see the PROOF?" "No, I have only his word, but he spoke of those documents repeatedly, saying they contained his instructions to tie up the mines in order to give a foothold for the lawsuits. He bragged that the rest of the gang were in his power and that he could land them in the penitentiary for conspiracy. That's all." "It's the only chance," said Helen. "They are sending soldiers to the Midas to lie in ambush, and you must warn the Vigilantes." Cherry paled at this and ejaculated: "Good Lord! Roy said he'd lead an attack to-night." The two stared at each other. "If I succeed with Struve I can stop it all--all of this injustice and crime--everything." "Do you realize what you're risking?" Cherry demanded. "That man is an animal. You'll have to kill him to save yourself, and he'll never give up those proofs." "Yes, he will," said Helen, fiercely, "and I defy him to harm me. The Sign of the Sled is a public roadhouse with a landlord, a telephone, and other guests. Will you warn Mr. Glenister about the troops?" "I will, and bless you for a brave girl. Wait a moment." Cherry took from the dresser her tiny revolver. "Don't hesitate to use this. I want you to know also that I'm sorry for what I said yesterday." As she hurried away, Helen realized with a shock the change that the past few months had wrought in her. In truth, it was as Glenister had said, his Northland worked strangely with its denizens. What of that shrinking girl who had stepped out of the sheltered life, strong only in her untried honesty, to become a hunted, harried thing, juggling with honor and reputation, in her heart a half-formed fear that she might kill a man this night to gain her end? The elements were moulding her with irresistible hands. Roy's contact with the primitive had not roughened him more quickly than had hers. She met her appointment with Struve, and they rode away together, he talkative and elated, she silent and icy. Late in the afternoon the cloud banks to the eastward assumed alarming proportions. They brought with them an early nightfall, and when they broke let forth a tempest which rivalled that of the previous night. During the first of it armed men came sifting into McNamara's office from the rear and were hidden throughout the building. Whenever he descried a peculiarly desperate ruffian the boss called him aside for private instruction and gave minute description of a wide-shouldered, erect, youth in white hat and half-boots. Gradually he set his trap with the men Voorhees had raked from the slums, and when it was done smiled to himself. As he thought it over he ceased to regret the miscarriage of last night's plan, for it had served to goad his enemies to the point he desired, to the point where they would rush to their own undoing. He thought with satisfaction of the role he would play in the United States press when the sensational news of this night's adventure came out. A court official who dared to do his duty despite a lawless mob. A receiver who turned a midnight attack into a rout and shambles. That is what they would say. What if he did exceed his authority thereafter? What if there were a scandal? Who would question? As to soldiers--no, decidedly no. He wished no help of soldiers at this time. The sight of a ship in the offing towards dark caused him some uneasiness, for, notwithstanding the assurance that the course of justice in the San Francisco courts had been clogged, he knew Bill Wheaton to be a resourceful lawyer and a determined man. Therefore, it relieved him to note the rising gale, which precluded the possibility of interference from that source. Let them come to-morrow if they would. By that time some of the mines would be ownerless and his position strengthened a hundredfold. He telephoned the mines to throw out guards, although he reasoned that none but madmen would think of striking there in the face of the warning which he knew must have been transmitted through Helen. Putting on his rain-coat he sought Stillman. "Bring your niece over to my place to-night. There's trouble in the air and I'm prepared for it." "She hasn't returned from her ride yet. I'm afraid she's caught in the storm." The Judge gazed anxiously into the darkness. During all the long day the Vigilantes lay in hiding, impatient at their idleness and wondering at the lack of effort made towards their discovery, not dreaming that McNamara had more cleverly hidden plans behind. When Cherry's note of warning came they gathered in the back room and gave voice to their opinions. "There's only one way to clear the atmosphere," said the chairman. "You bet," chorussed the others. "They've garrisoned the mines, so let's go through the town and make a clean job of it. Let's hang the whole outfit to one post." This met with general approval, Glenister alone demurring. Said he: "I have reasoned it out differently, and I want you to hear me through before deciding. Last night I got word from Wheaton that the California courts are against us. He attributes it to influence, but, whatever the reason, we are cut off from all legal help either in this court or on appeal. Now, suppose we lynch these officials to-night--what do we gain? Martial law in two hours, our mines tied up for another year, and who knows what else? Maybe a corrupter court next season. Suppose, on the other hand, we fail--and somehow I feel that we will, for that boss is no fool. What then? Those of us who don't find the morgue will end in jail. You say we can't meet the soldiers. I say we can and must. We must carry this row to them. We must jump it past the courts of Alaska, past the courts of California, and up to the White House, where there's one honest man, at least. We must do something to wake up the men in Washington. We must get out of politics, for McNamara can beat us there. Although he's a strong man he can't corrupt the President. We have one shot left, and it must reach the Potomac. When Uncle Sam takes a hand we'll get a square deal, so I say let us strike at the Midas to-night and take her if we can. Some of us will go down, but what of it?" Following this harangue, he outlined a plan which in its unique daring took away their breaths, and as he filled in detail after detail they brightened with excitement and that love of the long chance which makes gamblers of those who thread the silent valleys or tread the edge of things. His boldness stirred them and enthusiasm did the rest. "All I want for myself," he said, "is the chance to run the big risk. It's mine by right." Dextry spoke, breathlessly, to Slapjack in the pause which ensued: "Ain't he a heller?" "We'll go you," the miners chimed to a man. And the chairman added: "Let's have Glenister lead this forlorn hope. I am willing to stand or fall on his judgment." They acquiesced without a dissenting voice and with the firm hands of a natural leader the young man took control. "Let's hurry up," said one. "It's a long 'mush' and the mud is knee-deep." "No walking for us," said Roy. "We'll go by train." "By train? How can we get a train?" "Steal it," he answered, at which Dextry grinned delightedly at his loose-jointed companion, and Slapjack showed his toothless gums in answer, saying: "He sure is." A few more words and Glenister, accompanied by these two, slipped out into the whirling storm, and a half-hour later the rest followed. One by one the Vigilantes left, the blackness blotting them up an arm's-length from the door, till at last the big, bleak warehouse echoed hollowly to the voice of the wind and water. Over in the eastern end of town, behind dark windows upon which the sheeted rain beat furiously, other armed men lay patiently waiting--waiting some word from the bulky shadow which stood with folded arms close against a square of gray, while over their heads a wretched old man paced back and forth, wringing his hands, pausing at every turn to peer out into the night and to mumble the name of his sister's child. CHAPTER XIX DYNAMITE Early in the evening Cherry Malotte opened her door to find the Bronco Kid on her step. He entered and threw off his rubber coat. Knowing him well, she waited for his disclosure of his errand. His sallow skin was without trace of color, his eyes were strangely tired, deep lines had gathered about his lips, while his hands kept up constant little nervous explorations as though for days and nights he had not slept and now hovered on the verge of some hysteria. He gave her the impression of a smouldering mine with the fire eating close up to the powder. She judged that his body had been racked by every passion till now it hung jaded and weary, yielding only to the spur of his restless, revengeful spirit. After a few objectless remarks, he began, abruptly: "Do you love Roy Glenister?" His voice, like his manner, was jealously eager, and he watched her carefully as she replied, without quibble or deceit: "Yes, Kid; and I always shall. He is the only true man I have ever known, and I'm not ashamed of my feelings." For a long time he studied her, and then broke into rapid speech, allowing her no time for interruption. "I've held back and held back because I'm no talker. I can't be, in my business; but this is my last chance, and I want to put myself right with you. I've loved you ever since the Dawson days, not in the way you'd expect from a man of my sort, perhaps, but with the kind of love that a woman wants. I never showed my hand, for what was the use? That man outheld me. I'd have quit faro years back only I wouldn't leave this country as long as you were a part of it, and up here I'm only a gambler, fit for nothing else. I'd made up my mind to let you have him till something happened a couple of months ago, but now it can't go through. I'll have to down him. It isn't concerning you--I'm not a welcher. No, it's a thing I can't talk about, a thing that's made me into a wolf, made me skulk and walk the alleys like a dago. It's put murder into my heart. I've tried to assassinate him. I tried it here last night--but--I was a gentleman once--till the cards came. He knows the answer now, though, and he's ready for me--so one of us will go out like a candle when we meet. I felt that I had to tell you before I cut him down or before he got me." "You're talking like a madman, Kid," she replied, "and you mustn't turn against him now. He has troubles enough. I never knew you cared for me. What a tangle it is, to be sure. You love me, I love him, he loves that girl, and she loves a crook. Isn't that tragedy enough without your adding to it? You come at a bad time, too, for I'm half insane. There's something dreadful in the air to-night--" "I'll have to kill him," the man muttered, doggedly, and, plead or reason as she would, she could get nothing from him except those words, till at last she turned upon him fiercely. "You say you love me. Very well--let's see if you do. I know the kind of a man you are and I know what this feud will mean to him, coming just at this time. Put it aside and I'll marry you." The gambler rose slowly to his feet. "You do love him, don't you?" She bowed her face, and he winced, but continued: "I wouldn't make you my wife that way. I didn't mean it that way." At this she laughed bitterly, "Oh, I see. Of course not. How foolish of me to expect it of a man like you. I understand what you mean now, and the bargain will stand just the same, if that is what you came for. I wanted to leave this life and be good, to go away and start over and play the game square, but I see it's no use. I'll pay. I know how relentless you are, and the price is low enough. You can have me--and that--marriage talk--I'll not speak of again. I'll stay what I am for his sake." "Stop!" cried the Kid. "You're wrong. I'm not that kind of a sport." His voice broke suddenly, its vehemence shaking his slim body. "Oh, Cherry, I love you the way a man ought to love a woman. It's one of the two good things left in me, and I want to take you away from here where we can both hide from the past, where we can start new, as you say." "You would marry me?" she asked. "In an hour, and give my heart's blood for the privilege; but I can't stop this thing, not even if your own dear life hung upon it. I MUST kill that man." She approached him and laid her arms about his neck, every line of her body pleading, but he refused steadfastly, while the sweat stood out upon his brow. She begged: "They're all against him, Kid. He's fighting a hopeless fight. He laid all he had at that girl's feet, and I'll do the same for you." The man growled savagely. "He got his reward. He took all she had--" "Don't be a fool. I guess I know. You're a faro-dealer, but you haven't any right to talk like that about a good woman, even to a bad one like me." Into his dark eyes slowly crept a hungry look, and she felt him begin to tremble the least bit. He undertook to speak, paused, wet his lips, then carefully chose these words: "Do you mean--that he did not--that she is--a good girl?" "Absolutely." He sat down weakly and passed a shaking hand over his face, which had begun to twitch and jerk again as it had on that night when his vengeance was thwarted. "I may as well tell you that I know she's more than that. She's honest and high-principled. I don't know why I'm saying this, but it was on my mind and I was half distracted when you came. She's in danger to-night, though--at this minute. I don't dare to think of what may have happened, for she's risked everything to make reparation to Roy and his friends." "What?" "She's gone to the Sign of the Sled alone with Struve." "Struve!" shouted the gambler, leaping to his feet. "Alone with Struve on a night like this?" He shook her fiercely, crying: "What for? Tell me quick!" She recounted the reasons for Helen's adventure, while the man's face became terrible. "Oh, Kid, I am to blame for letting her go. Why did I do it? I'm afraid--afraid." "The Sign of the Sled belongs to Struve, and the fellow who runs it is a rogue." The Bronco looked at the clock, his eyes bloodshot and dull like those of a goaded, fly-maddened bull. "It's eight o'clock now--ten miles--two hours. Too late!" "What ails you?" she questioned, baffled by his strange demeanor. "You called ME the one woman just now, and yet--" He swung towards her heavily. "She's my sister." "Your--sister? Oh, I--I'm glad. I'm glad--but don't stand there like a wooden man, for you've work to do. Wake up. Can't you hear? She's in peril!" Her words whipped him out of his stupor so that he drew himself somewhat under control. "Get into your coat. Hurry! Hurry! My pony will take you there." She snatched his garment from the chair and held it for him while the life ran back into his veins. Together they dashed out into the storm as she and Roy had done, and as he flung the saddle on the buckskin, she said: "I understand it all now. You heard the talk about her and Glenister; but it's wrong. I lied and schemed and intrigued against her, but it's over now. I guess there's a little streak of good in me somewhere, after all." He spoke to her from the saddle. "It's more than a streak, Cherry, and you're my kind of people." She smiled wanly back at him under the lantern-light. "That's left-handed, Kid. I don't want to be your kind. I want to be his kind--or your sister's kind." Upon leaving the rendezvous, Glenister and his two friends slunk through the night, avoiding the life and lights of the town, while the wind surged out of the voids to seaward, driving its wet burden through their flapping slickers, pelting their faces as though enraged at its failure to wash away the purposes written there. Their course brought them to a cabin at the western outskirts of the city, where they paused long enough to adjust something beneath the brims of their hats. Past them ran the iron rails of the narrow-gauged road which led out across the quaking tundra to the mountains and the mines. Upon this slender trail of steel there rolled one small, ungainly teapot of an engine which daily creaked and clanked back and forth at a snail's pace, screaming and wailing its complaint of the two high-loaded flat-cars behind. The ties beneath it were spiked to planks laid lengthwise over the semi-liquid road-bed, in places sagging beneath the surface till the humpbacked, short-waisted locomotive yawed and reeled and squealed like a drunken fish-wife. At night it panted wearily into the board station and there sighed and coughed and hissed away its fatigue as the coals died and the breath relaxed in its lungs. Early to bed and early to rise was perforce the motto of its grimy crew, who lived near by. To-night they were just retiring when stayed by a summons at their door. The engineer opened it to admit what appeared to his astonished eyes to be a Krupp cannon propelled by a man in yellow-oiled clothes and white cotton mask. This weapon assumed the proportions of a great, one-eyed monster, which stared with baleful fixity at his vitals, giving him a cold and empty feeling. Away back beyond this Cyclops of the Sightless Orb were two other strangers likewise equipped. The fireman arose from his chair, dropping an empty shoe with a thump, but, being of the West, without cavil or waste of wind, he stretched his hands above his head, balancing on one foot to keep his unshod member from the damp floor. He had unbuckled his belt, and now, loosened by the movement, his overalls seemed bent on sinking floorward in an ecstasy of abashment at the intrusion, whereupon with convulsive grip he hugged them to their duty, one hand and foot still elevated as though in the grand hailing-sign of some secret order. The other man was new to the ways of the North, so backed to the limit of his quarters, laid both hands protectingly upon his middle, and doubled up, remarking, fervidly: "Don't point that damn thing at my stomach." "Ha, ha!" laughed the fireman, with unnatural loudness. "Have your joke boys." "This ain't no joke," said the foremost figure, its breath bellying out the mask at its mouth. "Sure it is," insisted the shoeless one. "Must be--we ain't got anything worth stealing." "Get into your clothes and come along. We won't hurt you." The two obeyed and were taken to the sleeping engine and there instructed to produce a full head of steam in thirty minutes or suffer a premature taking off and a prompt elision from the realms of applied mechanics. As stimulus to their efforts two of the men stood over them till the engine began to sob and sigh reluctantly. Through the gloom that curtained the cab they saw other dim forms materializing and climbing silently on to the cars behind; then, as the steam-gauge touched the mark, the word was given and the train rumbled out from its shelter, its shrill plaint at curb and crossing whipped away and drowned in the storm. Slapjack remained in the cab, gun in lap, while Dextry climbed back to Glenister. He found the young man in good spirits, despite the discomfort of his exposed position, and striving to light his pipe behind the shelter of his coat. "Is the dynamite aboard?" the old man questioned. "Sure. Enough to ballast a battle-ship." As the train crept out of the camp and across the river bridge, its only light or glimmer the sparks that were snatched and harried by the blast, the partners seated themselves on the powder cases and conversed guardedly, while about them sounded the low murmur of the men who risked their all upon this cry to duty, who staked their lives and futures upon this hazard of the hills, because they thought it right. "We've made a good fight, whether we win or lose to-night," said Dextry. Roy replied, "MY fight is made and won." "What does that mean?" "My hardest battle had nothing to do with the Midas or the mines of Anvil. I fought and conquered myself." "Awful wet night for philosophy," the first remarked. "It's apt to sour on you like milk in a thunder-storm. S'pose you put overalls an' gum boots on some of them Boston ideas an' lead 'em out where I can look 'em over an' find out what they're up to." "I mean that I was a savage till I met Helen Chester and she made a man of me. It took sixty days, but I think she did a good job. I love the wild things just as much as ever, but I've learned that there are duties a fellow owes to himself, and to other people, if he'll only stop and think them out. I've found out, too, that the right thing is usually the hardest to do. Oh, I've improved a lot." "Gee! but you're popular with yourself. I don't see as it helps your looks any. You're as homely as ever--an' what good does it do you after all? She'll marry that big guy." "I know. That's what rankles, for he's no more worthy of her than I am. She'll do what's right, however, you may depend upon that, and perhaps she'll change him the way she did me. Why, she worked a miracle in my attitude towards life--my manner--" "Oh, your manners are good enough as they lay," interrupted the other. "You never did eat with your knife." "I don't believe in hara-kiri," Glenister laughed. "No, when it comes to intimacies with decorum, you're right on the job along with any of them Easterners. I watched you close at them 'Frisco hotels last winter, and, say--you know as much as a horse. Why, you was wise to them tablewares and pickle-forks equal to a head-waiter, and it give me confidence just to be with you. I remember putting milk and sugar in my consomme the first time. It was pale and in a cup and looked like tea--but not you. No, sir! You savvied plenty and squeezed a lemon into yours--to clean your fingers, I reckon." Roy slapped his partner's wet back, for he was buoyant and elated. The sense of nearing danger pulsed through him like wine. "That wasn't just what I meant, but it goes. Say, if we win back our mine, we'll hit for New York next--eh?" "No, I don't aim to mingle with no higher civilization than I got in 'Frisco. I use that word 'higher' like it was applied to meat. Not that I wouldn't seem apropos, I'm stylish enough for Fifth Avenue or anywheres, but I like the West. Speakin' of modes an' styles, when I get all lit up in that gray woosted suit of mine, I guess I make the jaded sight-seers set up an' take notice--eh? Somethin' doin' every minute in the cranin' of necks--what? Nothin' gaudy, but the acme of neatness an' form, as the feller said who sold it to me." Their common peril brought the friends together again, into that close bond which had been theirs without interruption until this recent change in the younger had led him to choose paths at variance with the old man's ideas; and now they spoke, heart to heart, in the half-serious, half-jesting ways of old, while beneath each whimsical irony was that mutual love and understanding which had consecrated their partnership. Arriving at the end of the road, the Vigilantes debouched and went into the darkness of the canon behind their leader, to whom the trails were familiar. He bade them pause finally, and gave his last instructions. "They are on the alert, so you want to be careful. Divide into two parties and close in from both sides, creeping as near to the pickets as possible without discovery. Remember to wait for the last blast. When it comes, cut loose and charge like Sioux. Don't shoot to kill at first, for they're only soldiers and under orders, but if they stand--well, every man must do his work." Dextry appealed to the dim figures forming the circle. "I leave it to you, gents, if it ain't better for me to go inside than for the boy. I've had more experience with giant powder, an' I'm so blamed used up an' near gone it wouldn't hurt if they did get me, while he's right in his prime--" Glenister stopped him. "I won't yield the privilege. Come now--to your places, men." They melted away to each side while the old prospector paused to wring his partner's hand. "I'd ruther it was me, lad, but if they get you--God help 'em!" He stumbled after the departing shadows, leaving Roy alone. With his naked fingers, Glenister ripped open the powder cases and secreted the contents upon his person. Each cartridge held dynamite enough to devastate a village, and he loaded them inside his pockets, inside his shirt, and everywhere that he had room, till he was burdened and cased in an armor one-hundredth part of which could have blown him from the face of the earth so utterly as to leave no trace except, perhaps, a pit ripped out of the mountain-side. He looked to his fuses and saw that they were wrapped in oiled paper, then placed them in his hat. Having finished, he set out, walking with difficulty under the weight he carried. That his choice of location had been well made was evidenced by the fact that the ground beneath his feet sloped away to a basin out of which bubbled a spring. It furnished the drinking supply of the Midas, and he knew every inch of the crevice it had worn down the mountain, so felt his way cautiously along. At the bottom of the hill where it ran out upon the level it had worn a considerable ditch through the soil, and into this he crawled on hands and knees. His bulging clothes handicapped him so that his gait was slow and awkward, while the rain had swelled the streamlet till it trickled over his calves and up to his wrists, chilling him so that his muscles cramped and his very bones cried out with it. The sharp schist cut into his palms till they were shredded and bleeding, while his knees found every jagged bit of bed-rock over which he dragged himself. He could not see an arm's-length ahead without rising, and, having removed his slicker for greater freedom of movement, the rain beat upon his back till he was soaked and sodden and felt streamlets cleaving downward between his ribs. Now and again he squatted upon his haunches, straining his eyes to either side. The banks were barely high enough to shield him. At last he came to a bridge of planks spanning the ditch and was about to rear himself for another look when he suddenly flattened into the stream bed, half damming the waters with his body. It was for this he had so carefully wrapped his fuses. A man passed over him so close above that he might have touched him. The sentry paused a few paces beyond and accosted another, then retraced his steps over the bridge. Evidently this was the picket-line, so Roy wormed his way forward till he saw the blacker blackness of the mine buildings, then drew himself dripping out from the bank. He had run the gauntlet safely. Since evicting the owners, the receiver had erected substantial houses in place of the tents he had found on the mine. They were of frame and corrugated-iron, sheathed within and suited to withstand a moderate exposure. The partners had witnessed the operation from a distance, but knew nothing about the buildings from close examination. A thrill of affection for this place wanned the young man. He loved this old mine. It had realized the dream of his boyhood, and had answered the hope he had clung to during his long fight against the Northland. It had come to him when he was disheartened, bringing cheer and happiness, and had yielded itself like a bride. Now it seemed a crime to ravage it. He crept towards the nearest wall and listened. Within was the sound of voices, though the windows were dark, showing that the inhabitants were on the alert. Beneath the foundations he made mysterious preparations, then sought out the office building and cook-house, doing likewise. He found that back of the seeming repose of the Midas there was a strained expectancy. Although suspense had lengthened the time out of all calculation, he judged he had been gone from his companions at least an hour and that they must be in place by now. If they were not--if anything failed at this eleventh hour--well, those were the fortunes of war. In every enterprise, however carefully planned, there comes a time when chance must take its turn. He made his way inside the blacksmith-shop and fumbled for a match. Just as he was about to strike it he heard the swish of oiled clothes passing, and waited for some time. Then, igniting his punk and hiding it under his coat, he opened the door to listen. The wind had died down now and the rain sang musically upon the metal roofs. He ran swiftly from house to house, and, when he had done, at the apices of the triangle he had traced three glowing coals were sputtering. The final bolt was launched at last. He stepped down into the ditch and drew his .45, while to his tautened senses it seemed that the very hills leaned forth in breathless pause, that the rain had ceased, and the whole night hushed its thousand voices. He found his lower jaw set so stiffly that the muscles ached. Levelling his weapon at the eaves of the bunk-house, he pulled trigger rapidly--the bang, bang, bang, six times repeated, sounding dull and dead beneath the blanket of mist that overhung. A shout sounded behind him, and then the shriek of a Winchester ball close over his head. He turned in time to see another shot stream out of the darkness, where a sentry was firing at the flash of his gun, then bent himself double and plunged down the ditch. With the first impact overhead the men poured forth from their quarters armed and bristling, to be greeted by a volley of gunshots, the thud of bullets, and the dwindling whine of spent lead. They leaped from shelter to find themselves girt with a fitful hoop of fire, for the "Stranglers" had spread in the arc of a circle and now emptied their rifles towards the centre. The defenders, however, maintained surprising order considering the suddenness of their attack, and ran to join the sentries, whose positions could be determined by the nearer flashes. The voice of a man in authority shouted loud commands. No demonstration came from the outer voids, nothing but the wicked streaks that stabbed the darkness. Then suddenly, behind McNamara's men, the night glared luridly as though a great furnace-door had opened and then clanged shut, while with it came a hoarse thudding roar that silenced the rifle play. They saw the cook-house disrupt itself and disintegrate into a thousand flying timbers and twisted sheets of tin which soared upward and outward over their heads and into the night. As the rocking hills ceased echoing, the sound of the Vigilantes' rifles recurred like the cracking of dry sticks, then everywhere about the defenders the earth was lashed by falling debris while the iron roofs rang at the fusillade. The blast had come at their very elbows, and they were too dazed and shaken by it to grasp its significance. Then, before they could realize what it boded, the depths lit up again till the raindrops were outlined distinct and glistening like a gossamer veil of silver, while the office building to their left was ripped and rended and the adjoining walls leaped out into sudden relief, their shattered windows looking like ghostly, sightless eyes. The curtain of darkness closed heavier than velvet, and the men cowered in their tracks, shielding themselves behind the nearest objects or behind one another's bodies, waiting for the sky to vomit over them its rain of missiles. Their backs were to the Vigilantes now, their faces to the centre. Many had dropped their rifles. The thunder of hoofs and the scream of terrified horses came from the stables. The cry of a maddened beast is weird and calculated to curdle the blood at best, but with it arose a human voice, shrieking from pain and fear of death. A wrenched and doubled mass of zinc had hurtled out of the heavens and struck some one down. The choking hoarseness of the man's appeal told the story, and those about him broke into flight to escape what might follow, to escape this danger they could not see but which swooped out of the blackness above and against which there was no defence. They fled only to witness another and greater light behind them by which they saw themselves running, falling, grovelling. This time they were hurled from their balance by a concussion which dwarfed the two preceding ones. Some few stood still, staring at the rolling smoke-bank as it was revealed by the explosion, their eyes gleaming white, while others buried their faces in their hollowed arms as if to shut out the hellish glare, or to shield themselves from a blow. Out in the heart of the chaos rang a voice loud and clear: "Beware the next blast!" At the same instant the girdle of sharp-shooters rose up smiting the air with their cries and charged in like madmen through the rain of detritus. They fired as they came, but it was unnecessary, for there was no longer a fight. It was a rout. The defenders, feeling they had escaped destruction only by a happy chance in leaving the bunk-house the instant they did, were not minded to tarry here where the heavens fell upon their heads. To augment their consternation, the horses had broken from their stalls and were plunging through the confusion. Fear swept over the men--blind, unreasoning, contagious--and they rushed out into the night, colliding with their enemies, overrunning them in the panic to quit this spot. Some dashed off the bluff and fell among the pits and sluices. Others ran up the mountain-side, and cowered in the brush like quail. As the "Stranglers" assembled their prisoners near the ruins, they heard wounded men moaning in the darkness, so lit torches and searched out the stricken ones. Glenister came running through the smoke pall, revolver in hand, crying: "Has any one seen McNamara?" No one had, and when they were later assembled to take stock of their injuries he was greeted by Dextry's gleeful announcement: "That's the deuce of a fight. We 'ain't got so much as a cold sore among us." "We have captured fourteen," another announced, "and there may be more out yonder in the brush." Glenister noted with growing surprise that not one of the prisoners lined up beneath the glaring torches wore the army blue. They were miners all, or thugs and ruffians gathered from the camp. Where, he wondered, were the soldiers. "Didn't you have troops from the barracks to help you?" he asked. "Not a troop. We haven't seen a soldier since we went to work." At this the young leader became alarmed. Had this whole attack miscarried? Had this been no clash with the United States forces, after all? If so, the news would never reach Washington, and instead of accomplishing his end, he and his friends had thrust themselves into the realms of outlawry, where the soldiers could be employed against them with impunity, where prices would rest upon their heads. Innocent blood had been shed, court property destroyed. McNamara had them where he wanted them at last. They were at bay. The unwounded prisoners were taken to the boundaries of the Midas and released with such warnings as the imagination of Dextry could conjure up; then Glenister assembled his men, speaking to them plainly. "Boys, this is no victory. In fact, we're worse off than we were before, and our biggest fight is coming. There's a chance to get away now before daylight and before we're recognized, but if we're seen here at sun-up we'll have to stay and fight. Soldiers will be sent against us, but if we hold out, and the struggle is fierce enough, it may reach to Washington. This will be a different kind of fighting now, though. It will be warfare pure and simple. How many of you will stick?" "All of us," said they, in unison, and, accordingly, preparations for a siege were begun. Barricades were built, ruins removed, buildings transformed into blockhouses, and all through the turbulent night the tired men labored till ready to drop, led always by the young giant, who seemed without fatigue. It was perhaps four hours after midnight when a man sought him out. "Somebody's callin' you on the Assay Office telephone--says it's life or death." Glenister hurried to the building, which had escaped the shock of the explosions, and, taking down the receiver, was answered by Cherry Malotte. "Thank God, you're safe," she began. "The men have just come in and the whole town is awake over the riot. They say you've killed ten people in the fight--is it true?" He explained to her briefly that all was well, but she broke in: "Wait, wait! McNamara has called for troops and you'll all be shot. Oh, what a terrible night it has been! I haven't been to bed. I'm going mad. Now, listen, carefully--yesterday Helen went with Struve to the Sign of the Sled and she hasn't come back." The man at the end of the wire cried out at this, then choked back his words to hear what followed. His free hand began making strange, futile motions as though he traced patterns in the air. "I can't raise the road-house on the wire and--something dreadful has happened, I know." "What made her go?" he shouted. "To save you," came Cherry's faint reply. "If you love her, ride fast to the Sign of the Sled or you'll be too late. The Bronco Kid has gone there--" At that name Roy crashed the instrument to its hook and burst out of the shanty, calling loudly to his men. "What's up?" "Where are you going?" "To the Sign of the Sled," he panted. "We've stood by you, Glenister, and you can't quit us like this," said one, angrily. "The trail to town is good, and we'll take it if you do." Roy saw they feared he was deserting, feared that he had heard some alarming rumor of which they did not know. "We'll let the mine go, boys, for I can't ask you to do what I refuse to do myself, and yet it's not fear that's sending me. There's a woman in danger and I MUST go. She courted ruin to save us all, risked her honor to try and right a wrong--and--I'm afraid of what has happened while we were fighting here. I don't ask you to stay till I come back--it wouldn't be square, and you'd better go while you have a chance. As for me--I gave up the old claim once--I can do it again." He swung himself to the horse's back, settled into the saddle, and rode out through the lane of belted men. CHAPTER XX IN WHICH THREE GO TO THE SIGN OF THE SLED AND BUT TWO RETURN As Helen and her companion ascended the mountain, scarred and swept by the tempest of the previous night, they heard, far below, the swollen torrent brawling in its bowlder-ridden bed, while behind them the angry ocean spread southward to a blood-red horizon. Ahead, the bleak mountains brooded over forbidding valleys; to the west a suffused sun glared sullenly, painting the high-piled clouds with the gorgeous hues of a stormy sunset. To Helen the wild scene seemed dyed with the colors of flame and blood and steel. "That rain raised the deuce with the trails," said Struve, as they picked their way past an unsightly "slip" whence a part of the overhanging mountain, loosened by the deluge, had slid into the gulch. "Another storm like that would wash out these roads completely." Even in the daylight it was no easy task to avoid these danger spots, for the horses floundered on the muddy soil. Vaguely the girl wondered how she would find her way back in the darkness, as she had planned. She said little as they approached the road-house, for the thoughts within her brain had begun to clamor too wildly; but Struve, more arrogant than ever before, more terrifyingly sure of himself, was loudly garrulous. As they drew nearer and nearer, the dread that possessed the girl became of paralyzing intensity. If she should fail--but she vowed she would not, could not, fail. They rounded a bend and saw the Sign of the Sled cradled below them where the trail dipped to a stream which tumbled from the comb above into the river twisting like a silver thread through the distant valley. A peeled flag-pole topped by a spruce bough stood in front of the tavern, while over the door hung a sled suspended from a beam. The house itself was a quaint structure, rambling and amorphous, from whose sod roof sprang blooming flowers, and whose high-banked walls were pierced here and there with sleepy windows. It had been built by a homesick foreigner of unknown nationality whom the army of "mushers" who paid for his clean and orderly hospitality had dubbed duly and as a matter of course a "Swede." When travel had changed to the river trail, leaving the house lonesome and high as though left by a receding wave, Struve had taken it over on a debt, and now ran it for the convenience of a slender traffic, mainly stampeders, who chose the higher route towards the interior. His hireling spent the idle hours in prospecting a hungry quartz lead and in doing assessment work on near-by claims. Shortz took the horses and answered his employer's questions curtly, flashing a curious look at Helen. Under other conditions the girl would have been delighted with the place, for this was the quaintest spot she had found in the north country. The main room held bar and gold-scales, a rude table, and a huge iron heater, while its walls and ceiling were sheeted with white cloth so cunningly stitched and tacked that it seemed a cavern hollowed from chalk. It was filled with trophies of the hills, stuffed birds and animals, skins and antlers, from which depended, in careless confusion, dog harness, snow-shoes, guns, and articles of clothing. A door to the left led into the bunk-room where travellers had been wont to sleep in tiers three deep. To the rear was a kitchen and cache, to the right a compartment which Struve called the art gallery. Here, free reign had been allowed the original owner's artistic fancies, and he had covered the place with pictures clipped from gazettes of questionable repute till it was a bewildering arrangement of pink ladies in tights, pugilists in scanty trunks, prize bulldogs, and other less moral characters of the sporting world. "This is probably the worst company you were ever in," Struve observed to Helen, with a forced attempt at lightness. "Are there no guests here?" she asked him, her anxiety very near the surface. "Travel is light at this time of the year. They'll come in later, perhaps." A fire was burning in this pink room where the landlord had begun spreading the table for two, and its warmth was grateful to the girl. Her companion, thoroughly at his ease, stretched himself on a fur-covered couch and smoked. "Let me see the papers, now, Mr. Struve," she began, but he put her off. "No, not now. Business must wait on our dinner. Don't spoil our little party, for there's time enough and to spare." She arose and went to the window, unable to sit still. Looking down the narrow gulch she saw that the mountains beyond were indistinct for it was growing dark rapidly. Dense clouds had rolled up from the east. A rain-drop struck the glass before her eyes, then another and another, and the hills grew misty behind the coming shower. A traveller with a pack on his back hurried around the corner of the building and past her to the door. At his knock, Struve, who had been watching Helen through half-shut eyes, arose and went into the other room. "Thank Heaven, some one has come," she thought. The voices were deadened to a hum by the sod walls, till that of the stranger raised itself in such indignant protest that she distinguished his words. "Oh, I've got money to pay my way. I'm no dead-head." Shortz mumbled something back. "I don't care if you are closed. I'm tired and there's a storm coming." This time she heard the landlord's refusal and the miner's angry profanity. A moment later she saw the traveller plodding up the trail towards town. "What does that mean?" she inquired, as the lawyer re-entered. "Oh, that fellow is a tough, and Shortz wouldn't let him in. He's careful whom he entertains--there are so many bad men roaming the hills." The German came in shortly to light the lamp, and, although she asked no further questions, Helen's uneasiness increased. She half listened to the stories with which Struve tried to entertain her and ate little of the excellent meal that was shortly served to them. Struve, meanwhile, ate and drank almost greedily, and the shadowy, sinister evening crept along. A strange cowardice had suddenly overtaken the girl; and if, at this late hour, she could have withdrawn, she would have done so gladly and gone forth to meet the violence of the tempest. But she had gone too far for retreat; and realizing that, for the present, apparent compliance was her wisest resource, she sat quiet, answering the man with cool words while his eyes grew brighter, his skin more flushed, his speech more rapid. He talked incessantly and with feverish gayety, smoking numberless cigarettes and apparently unconscious of the flight of time. At last he broke off suddenly and consulted his watch, while Helen remembered that she had not heard Shortz in the kitchen for a long time. Suddenly Struve smiled on her peculiarly, with confident cunning. As he leered at her over the disorder between them he took from his pocket a flat bundle which he tossed to her. "Now for the bargain, eh?" "Ask the man to remove these dishes," she said, as she undid the parcel with clumsy fingers. "I sent him away two hours ago," said Struve, arising as if to come to her. She shrank back, but he only leaned across, gathered up the four corners of the tablecloth, and, twisting them together, carried the whole thing out, the dishes crashing and jangling as he threw his burden recklessly into the kitchen. Then he returned and stood with his back to the stove, staring at her while she perused the contents of the papers, which were more voluminous than she had supposed. For a long time the girl pored over the documents. The purport of the papers was only too obvious; and, as she read, the proof of her uncle's guilt stood out clear and damning. There was no possibility of mistake; the whole wretched plot stood out plain, its darkest infamies revealed. In spite of the cruelty of her disillusionment, Helen was nevertheless exalted with the fierce ecstasy of power, with the knowledge that justice would at last be rendered. It would be her triumph and her expiation that she, who had been the unwitting tool of this miserable clique, would be the one through whom restitution was made. She arose with her eyes gleaming and her lips set. "It is here." "Of course it is. Enough to convict us all. It means the penitentiary for your precious uncle and your lover." He stretched his chin upward at the mention as though to free his throat from an invisible clutch. "Yes, your lover particularly, for he's the real one. That's why I brought you here. He'll marry you, but I'll be the best man." The timbre of his voice was unpleasant. "Come, let us go," she said. "Go," he chuckled, mirthlessly. "That's a fine example of unconscious humor." "What do you mean?" "Well, first, no human being could find his way down to the coast in this tempest; second--but, by-the-way, let me explain something in those papers while I think of it." He spoke casually and stepped forward, reaching for the package, which she was about to give up, when something prompted her to snatch it behind her back; and it was well she did, for his hand was but a few inches away. He was no match for her quickness, however, and she glided around the table, thrusting the papers into the front of her dress. The sudden contact with Cherry's revolver gave her a certain comfort. She spoke now with determination. "I intend to leave here at once. Will you bring my horse? Very well, I shall do it myself." She turned, but his indolence vanished like a flash, and springing in front of the door he barred her way. "Hold on, my lady. You ought to understand without my saying any more. Why did I bring you here? Why did I plan this little party? Why did I send that man away? Just to give you the proof of my complicity in a crime, I suppose. Well, hardly. You won't leave here to-night. And when you do, you won't carry those papers--my own safety depends on that and I am selfish, so don't get me started. Listen!" They caught the wail of the night crying as though hungry for sacrifice. "No, you'll stay here and--" He broke off abruptly, for Helen had stepped to the telephone and taken down the receiver. He leaped, snatched it from her, and then, tearing the instrument loose from the wall, raised it above his head, dashed it upon the floor, and sprang towards her, but she wrenched herself free and fled across the room. The man's white hair was wildly tumbled, his face was purple, and his neck and throat showed swollen, throbbing veins. He stood still, however, and his lips cracked into his ever-present, cautious smile. "Now, don't let's fight about this. It's no use, for I've played to win. You have your proof--now I'll have my price--or else I'll take it. Think over which it will be, while I lock up." Far down the mountain-side a man was urging a broken pony recklessly along the trail. The beast was blown and spent, its knees weak and bending, yet the rider forced it as though behind him yelled a thousand devils, spurring headlong through gully and ford, up steep slopes and down invisible ravines. Sometimes the animal stumbled and fell with its master, sometimes they arose together, but the man was heedless of all except his haste, insensible to the rain which smote him blindingly, and to the wind which seized him savagely upon the ridges, or gasped at him in the gullies with exhausted malice. At last he gained the plateau and saw the road-house light beneath, so drove his heels into the flanks of the wind-broken creature, which lunged forward gamely. He felt the pony rear and drop away beneath him, pawing and scrambling, and instinctively kicked his feet free from the stirrups, striving to throw himself out of the saddle and clear of the thrashing hoofs. It seemed that he turned over in the air before something smote him and he lay still, his gaunt, dark face upturned to the rain, while about him the storm screamed exultantly. The moment Struve disappeared into the outer room Helen darted to the window. It was merely a single sash, nailed fast and immovable, but seizing one of the little stools beside the stove she thrust it through the glass, letting in a smother of wind and water. Before she could escape, Struve bounded into the room, his face livid with anger, his voice hoarse and furious. But as he began to denounce her he paused in amazement, for the girl had drawn Cherry's weapon and levelled it at him. She was very pale and her breast heaved as from a swift run, while her wondrous gray eyes were lit with a light no man had ever seen there before, glowing like two jewels whose hearts contained the pent-up passion of centuries. She had altered as though under the deft hand of a master-sculptor, her nostrils growing thin and arched, her lips tight pressed and pitiless, her head poised proudly. The rain drove in through the shattered window, over and past her, while the cheap red curtain lashed and whipped her as though in gleeful applause. Her bitter abhorrence of the man made her voice sound strangely unnatural as she commanded: "Don't dare to stop me." She moved towards the door, motioning him to retreat before her, and he obeyed, recognizing the danger of her coolness. She did not note the calculating treachery of his glance, however, nor fathom the purposes he had in mind. Out on the rain-swept mountain the prostrate rider had regained his senses and now was crawling painfully towards the road-house. Seen through the dark he would have resembled some misshapen, creeping monster, for he dragged himself, reptile-like, close to the ground. But as he came closer the man heard a cry which the wind seemed guarding from his ear, and, hearing it, he rose and rushed blindly forward, staggering like a wounded beast. Helen watched her captive closely as he backed through the door before her, for she dared not lose sight of him until free. The middle room was lighted by a glass lamp on the bar and its rays showed that the front-door was secured by a large iron bolt. She thanked Heaven there was no lock and key. Struve had retreated until his back was to the counter, offering no word, making no move, but the darting brightness of his eyes showed that he was alert and planning. But when the door behind Helen, urged by the wind through the broken casement, banged to, the man made his first lightning-like sign. He dashed the lamp to the floor, where it burst like an eggshell, and darkness leaped into the room as an animal pounces. Had she been calmer or had time for an instant's thought Helen would have hastened back to the light, but she was midway to her liberty and actuated by the sole desire to break out into the open air, so plunged forward. Without warning, she was hurled from her feet by a body which came out of the darkness upon her. She fired the little gun, but Struve's arms closed about her, the weapon was wrenched from her hand, and she found herself fighting against him, breast to breast, with the fury of desperation. His wine-burdened breath beat into her face and she felt herself bound to him as though by hoops, while the touch of his cheek against hers turned her into a terrified, insensate animal, which fought with every ounce of its strength and every nerve of its body. She screamed once, but it was not like the cry of a woman. Then the struggle went on in silence and utter blackness, Strove holding her like a gorilla till she grew faint and her head began to whirl, while darting lights drove past her eyes and there was the roar of a cataract in her ears. She was a strong girl, and her ripe young body, untried until this moment, answered in every fibre, so that she wrestled with almost a man's strength and he had hard shift to hold her. But so violent an encounter could not last. Helen felt herself drifting free from the earth and losing grip of all things tangible, when at last they tripped and fell against the inner door. This gave way, and at the same moment the man's strength departed as though it were a thing of darkness and dared not face the light that streamed over them. She tore herself from his clutch and staggered into the supper-room, her loosened hair falling in a gleaming torrent about her shoulders, while he arose from his knees and came towards her again, gasping: "I'll show you who's master here--" Then he ceased abruptly, cringingly, and threw up an arm before his face as if to ward off a blow. Framed in the window was the pallid visage of a man. The air rocked, the lamp flared, and Struve whirled completely around, falling back against the wall. His eyes filled with horror and shifted down where his hand had clutched at his breast, plucking at one spot as if tearing a barb from his bosom. He jerked his head towards the door at his elbow in quest of a retreat a shudder ran over him, his knees buckled and he plunged forward upon his face, his arm still doubled under him. It had happened like a flash of light, and although Helen felt, rather than heard, the shot and saw her assailant fall, she did not realize the meaning of it till a drift of powder smoke assailed her nostrils. Even so, she experienced no shock nor horror of the sight. On the contrary, a savage joy at the spectacle seized her and she stood still, leaning slightly forward, staring at it almost gloatingly, stood so till she heard her name called, "Helen, little sister!" and, turning, saw her brother in the window. That which he witnessed in her face he had seen before in the faces of men locked close with a hateful death and from whom all but the most elemental passions had departed--but he had never seen a woman bear the marks till now. No artifice nor falsity was there, nothing but the crudest, intensest feeling, which many people live and die without knowing. There are few who come to know the great primitive, passionate longings. But in this black night, fighting in defence of her most sacred self, this girl's nature had been stripped to its purely savage elements. As Glenister had predicted, Helen at last had felt and yielded to irresistibly powerful impulse. Glancing backward at the creature sprawled by the door, Helen went to her brother, put her arms about his neck, and kissed him. "He's dead?" the Kid asked her. She nodded and tried to speak, but began to shiver and sob instead. "Unlock the door," he begged her. "I'm hurt, and I must get in." When the Kid had hobbled into the room, she pressed him to her and stroked his matted head, regardless of his muddy, soaking garments. "I must look at him. He may not be badly hurt," said the Kid. "Don't touch him!" She followed, nevertheless, and stood near by while her brother examined his victim. Struve was breathing, and, discovering this, the others lifted him with difficulty to the couch. "Something cracked in here--ribs, I guess," the Kid remarked, gasping and feeling his own side. He was weak and pale, and the girl led him into the bunk-room, where he could lie down. Only his wonderful determination had sustained him thus far, and now the knowledge of his helplessness served to prevent Helen's collapse. The Kid would not hear of her going for help till the storm abated or daylight came, insisting that the trails were too treacherous and that no time could be saved by doing so. Thus they waited for the dawn. At last they heard the wounded man faintly calling. He spoke to Helen hoarsely. There was no malice, only fear, in his tones: "I said this was my madness--and I got what I deserved, but I'm going to die. O God--I'm going to die and I'm afraid." He moaned till the Bronco Kid hobbled in, glaring with unquenched hatred. "Yes, you're going to die and I did it. Be game, can't you? I sha'n't let her go for help until daylight." Helen forced her brother back to his couch, and returned to help the wounded man, who grew incoherent and began to babble. A little later, when the Kid seemed stronger and his head clearer, Helen ventured to tell him of their uncle's villany and of the proof she held, with her hope of restoring justice. She told him of the attack planned that very night and of the danger which threatened the miners. He questioned her closely and, realizing the bearing of her story, crept to the door, casting the wind like a hound. "We'll have to risk it," said he. "The wind is almost gone and it's not long till daylight." She pleaded to go alone, but he was firm. "I'll never leave you again, and, moreover, I know the lower trail quite well. We'll go down the gulch to the valley and reach town that way. It's farther but it's not so dangerous." "You can't ride," she insisted. "I can if you'll tie me into the saddle. Come, get the horses." It was still pitchy dark and the rain was pouring, but the wind only sighed weakly as though tired by its violence when she helped the Bronco into his saddle. The effort wrenched a groan from him, but he insisted upon her tying his feet beneath the horse's belly, saying that the trail was rough and he could take no chance of falling again; so, having performed the last services she might for Struve, she mounted her own animal and allowed it to pick its way down the steep descent behind her brother, who swayed and lurched drunkenly in his seat, gripping the horn before him with both hands. They had been gone perhaps a half-hour when another horse plunged furiously out of the darkness and halted before the road-house door. Its rider, mud-stained and dishevelled, flung himself in mad haste to the ground and bolted in through the door. He saw the signs of confusion in the outer room, chairs upset and broken, the table wedged against the stove, and before the counter a shattered lamp in a pool of oil. He called loudly, but, receiving no answer, snatched a light which, he found burning and ran to the door at his left. Nothing greeted him but the empty tiers of bunks. Turning, he crossed to the other side and burst through. Another lamp was lighted beside the couch where Struve lay, breathing heavily, his lids half closed over his staring eyes. Roy noted the pool of blood at his feet and the broken window; then, setting down his lamp, he leaned over the man and spoke to him. When he received no answer he spoke again loudly. Then, in a frenzy, Glenister shook the wounded man cruelly, so that he cried out in terror: "I'm dying--oh, I'm dying." Roy raised the sick man up and thrust his own face before his eyes. "This is Glenister. I've come for Helen--where is she?" A spark of recognition flickered into the dull stare. "You're too late--I'm dying--and I'm afraid." His questioner shook Struve again. "Where is she?" he repeated, time after time, till by very force of his own insistence he compelled realization in the sufferer. "The Kid took her away. The Kid shot me," and then his voice rose till it flooded the room with terror. "The Kid shot me and I'm dying." He coughed blood to his lips, at which Roy laid him back and stood up. So there was no mistake, after all, and he had arrived too late. This was the Kid's revenge. This was how he struck. Lacking courage to face a man's level eyes, he possessed the foulness to prey upon a woman. Roy felt a weakening physical sickness sweep over him till his eye fell upon a sodden garment which Helen had removed from her brother's shoulders and replaced with a dry one. He snatched it from the floor and in a sudden fury felt it come apart in his hands like wet tissue-paper. He found himself out in the rain, scanning the trampled soil by light of his lamp, and discerned tracks which the drizzle had not yet erased. He reasoned mechanically that the two riders could have no great start of him, so strode out beyond the house to see if they had gone farther into the hills. There were no tracks here, therefore they must have doubled back towards town. It did not occur to him that they might have left the beaten path and followed down the little creek to the river; but, replacing the light where he had found it, he remounted and lashed his horse into a stiff canter up towards the divide that lay between him and the city. The story was growing plainer to him, though as yet he could not piece it all together. Its possibilities stabbed him with such horror that he cried out aloud and beat his steed into faster time with both hands and feet. To think of those two ruffians fighting over this girl as though she were the spoils of pillage! He must overtake the Kid--he WOULD! The possibility that he might not threw him into such ungovernable mental chaos that he was forced to calm himself. Men went mad that way. He could not think of it. That gasping creature in the road-house spoke all too well of the Bronco's determination. And yet, who of those who had known the Kid in the past would dream that his vileness was so utter as this? Away to the right, hidden among the shadowed hills, his friends rested themselves for the coming battle, waiting impatiently his return, and timing it to the rising sun. Down in the valley to his left were the two he followed, while he, obsessed and unreasoning, now cursing like a madman, now grim and silent, spurred southward towards town and into the ranks of his enemies. CHAPTER XXI THE HAMMER-LOCK Day was breaking as Glenister came down the mountain. With the first light he halted to scan the trail, and having no means of knowing that the fresh tracks he found were not those of the two riders he followed, he urged his lathered horse ahead till he became suddenly conscious that he was very tired and had not slept for two days and nights. The recollection did not reassure the young man, for his body was a weapon which must not fail in the slightest measure now that there was work to do. Even the unwelcome speculation upon his physical handicap offered relief, however, from the agony which fed upon him whenever he thought of Helen in the gambler's hands. Meanwhile, the horse, groaning at his master's violence, plunged onward towards the roofs of Nome, now growing gray in the first dawn. It seemed years since Roy had seen the sunlight, for this night, burdened with suspense, had been endlessly long. His body was faint beneath the strain, and yet he rode on and on, tired, dogged, stony, his eyes set towards the sea, his mind a storm of formless, whirling thoughts, beneath which was an undeviating, implacable determination. He knew now that he had sacrificed all hope of the Midas, and likewise the hope of Helen was gone; in fact, he began to realize dimly that from the beginning he had never had the possibility of winning her, that she had never been destined for him, and that his love for her had been sent as a light by which he was to find himself. He had failed everywhere, he had become an outlaw, he had fought and gone down, certain only of his rectitude and the mastery of his unruly spirit. Now the hour had come when he would perform his last mission, deriving therefrom that satisfaction which the gods could not deny. He would have his vengeance. The scheme took form without conscious effort on his part and embraced two things--the death of the gambler and a meeting with McNamara. Of the former, he had no more doubt than that the sun rising there would sink in the west. So well confirmed was this belief that the details did not engage his thought; but on the result of the other encounter he speculated with some interest. From the first McNamara had been a riddle to him, and mystery breeds curiosity. His blind, instinctive hatred of the man had assumed the proportions of a mania; but as to what the outcome would be when they met face to face, fate alone could tell. Anyway, McNamara should never have Helen--Roy believed his mission covered that point as well as her deliverance from the Bronco Kid. When he had finished--he would pay the price. If he had the luck to escape, he would go back to his hills and his solitude; if he did not, his future would be in the hands of his enemies. He entered the silent streets unobserved, for the mists were heavy and low. Smoke columns arose vertically in the still air. The rain had ceased, having beaten down the waves which rumbled against the beach, filling the streets with their subdued thunder. A ship, anchored in the offing, had run in from the lee of Sledge Island with the first lull, while midway to the shore a tender was rising and falling, its oars flashing like the silvered feelers of a sea insect crawling upon the surface of the ocean. He rode down Front Street heedless of danger, heedless of the comment his appearance might create, and, unseen, entered his enemy's stronghold. He passed a gambling-hall, through the windows of which came a sickly yellow gleam. A man came out unsteadily and stared at the horseman, then passed on. Glenister's plan was to go straight to the Northern and from there to track down its owner relentlessly, but in order to reach the place his course led him past the office of Dunham & Struve. This brought back to his mind the man dying out there ten miles at his back. The scantiest humanity demanded that assistance be sent at once. Yet he dared not give word openly, thus betraying his presence, for it was necessary that he maintain his liberty during the next hour at all hazards. He suddenly thought of an expedient and reined in his horse, which stopped with wide-spread legs and dejected head while he dismounted and climbed the stairs to leave a note upon the door. Some one would see the message shortly and recognize its urgency. In dressing for the battle at the Midas on the previous night he had replaced his leather boots with "mukluks," which are waterproof, light, and pliable footgear made from the skin of seal and walrus. He was thus able to move as noiselessly as though in moccasins. Finding neither pencil nor paper in his pocket, he tried the outer door of the office, to find it unlocked. He stepped inside and listened, then moved towards a table on which were writing materials, but in doing so heard a rustle in Struve's private office. Evidently his soft soles had not disturbed the man inside. Roy was about to tiptoe out as he had come when the hidden man cleared his throat. It is in these involuntary sounds that the voice retains its natural quality more distinctly even than in speaking, A strange eagerness grew in Glenister's face and he approached the partition stealthily. It was of wood and glass, the panes clouded and opaque to a height of some six feet; but stepping upon a chair he peered into the room beyond. A man knelt in a litter of papers before the open safe, its drawers and compartments removed and their contents scattered. The watcher lowered himself, drew his gun, and laid soft hand upon the door-knob, turning the latch with firm fingers. His vengeance had come to meet him. After lying in wait during the long night, certain that the Vigilantes would spring his trap, McNamara was astounded at news of the battle at the Midas and of Glenister's success. He stormed and cursed his men as cowards. The Judge became greatly exercised over this new development, which, coupled with his night of long anxiety, reduced him to a pitiful hysteria. "They'll blow us up next. Great Heavens! Dynamite! Oh, that is barbarous. For Heaven's sake, get the soldiers out, Alec." "Ay, we can use them now." Thereupon McNamara roused the commanding officer at the post and requested him to accoutre a troop and have them ready to march at daylight, then bestirred the Judge to start the wheels of his court and invoke this military aid in regular fashion. "Make it all a matter of record," he said. "We want to keep our skirts clear from now on." "But the towns-people are against us," quavered Stillman. "They'll tear us to pieces." "Let 'em try. Once I get my hand on the ringleader, the rest may riot and be damned." Although he had made less display than had the Judge, the receiver was no less deeply worried about Helen, of whom no news came. His jealousy, fanned to red heat by the discovery of her earlier defection, was enhanced fourfold by the thought of this last adventure. Something told him there was treachery afoot, and when she did not return at dawn he began to fear that she had cast in her lot with the rioters. This aroused a perfect delirium of doubt and anger till he reasoned further that Struve, having gone with her, must also be a traitor. He recognized the menace in this fact, knowing the man's venality, so began to reckon carefully its significance. What could Struve do? What proof had he? McNamara started, and, seizing his hat, hurried straight to the lawyer's office and let himself in with the key he carried. It was light enough for him to decipher the characters on the safe lock as he turned the combination, so he set to work scanning the endless bundles within, hoping that after all the man had taken with him no incriminating evidence. Once the searcher paused at some fancied sound, but when nothing came of it drew his revolver and laid it before him just inside the safe door and close beneath his hand, continuing to run through the documents while his uneasiness increased. He had been engaged so for some time when he heard the faintest creak at his back, too slight to alarm and just sufficient to break his tension and cause him to jerk his head about. Framed in the open door stood Roy Glenister watching him. McNamara's astonishment was so genuine that he leaped to his feet, faced about, and prompted by a secretive instinct swung to the safe door as though to guard its contents. He had acted upon the impulse before realizing that his weapon was inside and that now, although the door was not locked, it would require that one dangerous, yes, fatal, second to open it. The two men stared at each other for a time, silent and malignant, their glances meeting like blades; in the older man's face a look of defiance, in the younger's a dogged and grim-purposed enmity. McNamara's first perturbation left him calm, alert, dangerous; whereas the continued contemplation of his enemy worked in Glenister to destroy his composure, and his purpose blazed forth unhidden. He stood there unkempt and soiled, the clean sweep of jaw and throat overgrown with a three days' black stubble, his hair wet and matted, his whole left side foul with clay where he had fallen in the darkness. A muddy red streak spread downward from a cut above his temple, beneath his eyes were sagging folds, while the flicker at his mouth corners betrayed the high nervous pitch to which he was keyed. "I have come for the last act, McNamara; now we'll have it out, man to man." The politician shrugged his shoulders. "You have the drop on me. I am unarmed." At which the miner's face lighted fiercely and he chuckled. "Ah, that's almost too good to be true. I have dreamed about such a thing and I have been hungry to feel your throat since the first time I saw you. It's grown on me till shooting wouldn't satisfy me. Ever had the feeling? Well, I'm going to choke the life out of you with my bare hands." McNamara squared himself. "I wouldn't advise you to try it. I have lived longer than you and I was never beaten, but I know the feeling you speak about. I have it now." His eyes roved rapidly up and down the other's form, noting the lean thighs and close-drawn belt which lent the appearance of spareness, belied only by the neck and shoulders. He had beaten better men, and he reasoned that if it came to a physical test in these cramped quarters his own great weight would more than offset any superior agility the miner might possess. The longer he looked the more he yielded to his hatred of the man before him, and the more cruelly he longed to satisfy it. "Take off your coat," said Glenister. "Now turn around. All right! I just wanted to see if you were lying about your gun." "I'll kill you," cried McNamara. Glenister laid his six-shooter upon the safe and slipped off his own wet garment. The difference was more marked now and the advantage more strongly with the receiver. Though they had avoided allusion to it, each knew that this fight had nothing to do with the Midas and each realized whence sprang their fierce enmity. And it was meet that they should come together thus. It had been the one certain and logical event which they had felt inevitably approaching from long back. And it was fitting, moreover, that they should fight alone and unwitnessed, armed only with the weapons of the wilderness, for they were both of the far, free lands, were both of the fighter's type, and had both warred for the first, great prize. They met ferociously. McNamara aimed a fearful blow, but Glenister met him squarely, beating him off cleverly, stepping in and out, his arms swinging loosely from his shoulders like whalebone withes tipped with lead. He moved lightly, his footing made doubly secure by reason of his soft-soled mukluks. Recognizing his opponent's greater weight, he undertook merely to stop the headlong rushes and remain out of reach as long as possible. He struck the politician fairly in the mouth so that the man's head snapped back and his fists went wild, then, before the arms could grasp him, the miner had broken ground and whipped another blow across; but McNamara was a boxer himself, so covered and blocked it. The politician spat through his mashed lips and rushed again, sweeping his opponent from his feet. Again Glenister's fist shot forward like a lump of granite, but the other came on head down and the blow finished too high, landing on the big man's brow. A sudden darting agony paralyzed Roy's hand, and he realized that he had broken the metacarpal bones and that henceforth it would be useless. Before he could recover, McNamara had passed under his extended arm and seized him by the middle, then, thrusting his left leg back of Roy's, he whirled him from his balance, flinging him clear and with resistless force. It seemed that a fatal fall must follow, but the youth squirmed catlike in the air, landing with set muscles which rebounded like rubber. Even so, the receiver was upon him before he could rise, reaching for the young man's throat with his heavy hands. Roy recognized the fatal "strangle hold," and, seizing his enemy's wrists, endeavored to tear them apart, but his left hand was useless, so with a mighty wrench he freed himself, and, locked in each other's arms, the men strained and swayed about the office till their neck veins were bursting, their muscles paralyzed. Men may fight duels calmly, may shoot or parry or thrust with cold deliberation; but when there comes the jar of body to body, the sweaty contact of skin to skin, the play of iron muscles, the painful gasp of exhaustion--then the mind goes skittering back into its dark recesses while every venomous passion leaps forth from its hiding-place and joins in the horrid war. They tripped across the floor, crashing into the partition, which split, showering them with glass. They fell and rolled in it; then, by consent, wrenched themselves apart and rose, eye to eye, their jaws hanging, their lungs wheezing, their faces trickling blood and sweat. Roy's left hand pained him excruciatingly, while McNamara's macerated lips had turned outward in a hideous pout. They crouched so for an instant, cruel, bestial--then clinched again. The office-fittings were wrecked utterly and the room became a litter of ruins. The men's garments fell away till their breasts were bare and their arms swelled white and knotted through the rags. They knew no pain, their bodies were insensate mechanisms. Gradually the older man's face was beaten into a shapeless mass by the other's cunning blows, while Glenister's every bone was wrenched and twisted under his enemy's terrible onslaughts. The miner's chief effort, it is true, was to keep his feet and to break the man's embraces. Never had he encountered one whom he could not beat by sheer strength till he met this great, snarling creature who worried him hither and yon as though he were a child. Time and again Roy beat upon the man's face with the blows of a sledge. No rules governed this solitary combat; the men were deaf to all but the roaring in their ears, blinded to all but hate, insensible to everything but the blood mania. Their trampling feet caused the building to rumble and shake as though some monster were running amuck. Meanwhile a bareheaded man rushed out of the store beneath, bumping into a pedestrian who had paused on the sidewalk, and together they scurried up the stairs. The dory which Roy had seen at sea had shot the breakers, and now its three passengers were tracking through the wet sand towards Front Street, Bill Wheaton in the lead. He was followed by two rawboned men who travelled without baggage. The city was awakening with the sun which reared a copper rim out of the sea--Judge Stillman and Voorhees came down from the hotel and paused to gaze through the mists at a caravan of mule teams which trotted into the other end of the street with jingle and clank. The wagons were blue with soldiers, the early golden rays slanting from their Krags, and they were bound for the Midas. Out of the fogs which clung so thickly to the tundra there came two other horses, distorted and unreal, on one a girl, on the other a figure of pain and tragedy, a grotesque creature that swayed stiffly to the motion of its steed, its face writhed into lines of suffering, its hands clutching cantle and horn. It was as though Fate, with invisible touch, were setting her stage for the last act of this play, assembling the principals close to the Golden Sands where first they had made entrance. The man and the girl came face to face with the Judge and marshal, who cried out upon seeing them, but as they reined in, out from the stairs beside them a man shot amid clatter and uproar. "Give me a hand--quick!" he shouted to them. "What's up?" inquired the marshal. "It's murder! McNamara and Glenister!" He dashed back up the steps behind Voorhees, the Judge following, while muffled cries came from above. The gambler turned towards the three men who were hurrying from the beach, and, recognizing Wheaton, called to him: "Untie my feet! Cut the ropes! Quick!" "What's the trouble?" the lawyer asked, but on hearing Glenister's name bounded after the Judge, leaving one of his companions to free the rider. They could hear the fight now, and all crowded towards the door, Helen with her brother, in spite of his warning to stay behind. She never remembered how she climbed those stairs, for she was borne along by that hypnotic power which drags one to behold a catastrophe in spite of his will. Reaching the room, she stood appalled; for the group she had joined watched two raging things that rushed at each other with inhuman cries, ragged, bleeding, fighting on a carpet of debris. Every loose and breakable thing had been ground to splinters as though by iron slugs in a whirling cylinder. To this day, from Dawson to the Straits, from Unga to the Arctics, men tell of the combat wherever they foregather at flaring camp-fires or in dingy bunkhouses; and although some scout the tale, there are others who saw it and can swear to its truth. These say that the encounter was like the battle of bull moose in the rutting season, though more terrible, averring that two men like these had never been known in the land since the days of Vitus Bering and his crew; for their rancor had swollen till at feel of each other's flesh they ran mad and felt superhuman strength. It is true, at any rate, that neither was conscious of the filling room, nor the cries of the crowd, even when the marshal forced himself through the wedged door and fell upon the nearest, which was Glenister. He came at an instant when the two had paused at arm's-length, glaring with rage-drunken eyes, gasping the labored breath back into their lungs. With a fling of his long arms the young man hurled the intruder aside so violently that his head struck the iron safe and he collapsed insensible. Then, without apparent notice of the interruption, the fight went on. It was seen during this respite that McNamara's mouth was running water as though he were deathly sick, while every retch brought forth a groan. Helen heard herself crying: "Stop them! Stop them!" But no one seemed capable of interference. She heard her brother muttering and his breath coming heavily like that of the fighters, his body swaying in time to theirs. The Judge was ashy, imbecile, helpless. McNamara's distress was patent to his antagonist, who advanced upon him with the hunger of promised victory; but the young man's muscles obeyed his commands sluggishly, his ribs seemed broken, his back was weak, and on the inner side of his legs the flesh was quivering. As they came together the boss reached up his right hand and caught the miner by the face, burying thumb and fingers crab like into his cheeks, forcing his slack jaws apart, thrusting his head backward, while he centred every ounce of his strength in the effort to maim. Roy felt the flesh giving way and flung himself backward to break the hold, whereupon the other summoned his wasting energy and plunged towards the safe, where lay the revolver. Instinct warned Glenister of treachery, told him that the man had sought this last resource to save himself, and as he saw him turn his back and reach for the weapon, the youth leaped like a panther, seizing him about the waist, grasping McNamara's wrist with his right hand. For the first time during the combat they were not face to face, and on the instant Roy realized the advantage given him through the other's perfidy, realized the wrestler's hold that was his, and knew that the moment of victory was come. The telling takes much time, but so quickly had these things happened that the footsteps of the soldiers had not yet reached the door when the men were locked beside the safe. Of what happened next many garbled accounts have gone forth, for of all those present, none but the Bronco Kid knew its significance and ever recounted the truth concerning it. Some claim that the younger man was seized with a fear of death which multiplied his enormous strength, others that the power died in his adversary as reward for his treason; but it was not so. No sooner had Roy encompassed McNamara's waist from the rear than he slid his damaged hand up past the other's chest and around the back of his neck, thus bringing his own left arm close under his enemy's left armpit, wedging the receiver's head forward, while with his other hand he grasped the politician's right wrist close to the revolver, thus holding him in a grasp which could not be broken. Now came the test. The two bodies set themselves rocklike and rigid. There was no lunging about. Calling up the final atom of his strength, Glenister bore backward with his right arm and it became a contest for the weapon which, clutched in the two hands, swayed back and forth or darted up and down, the fury of resistance causing it to trace formless patterns in the air with its muzzle. McNamara shook himself, but he was close against the safe and could not escape, his head bowed forward by the lock of the miner's left arm, and so he strained till the breath clogged in his throat. Despite the grievous toil his right hand moved back slightly. His feet shifted a bit, while the blood seemed bursting from his eyes, but he found that the long fingers encircling his wrist were like gyves weighted with the strength of the hills and the irresistible vigor of youth which knew no defeat. Slowly, inch by inch, the great man's arm was dragged back, down past his side, while the strangling labor of his breath showed at what awful cost. The muzzle of the gun described a semicircle and the knotted hands began to travel towards the left, more rapidly now, across his broad back. Still he struggled and wrenched, but uselessly. He strove to fire the weapon, but his fingers were woven about it so that the hammer would not work. Then the miner began forcing upward. The white skin beneath the men's strips of clothing was stretched over great knots and ridges which sunk and swelled and quivered. Helen, watching in silent terror, felt her brother sinking his fingers into her shoulder and heard him panting, his face ablaze with excitement, while she became conscious that he had repeated time and again: "It's the hammer-lock--the hammer-lock." By now McNamara's arm was bent and cramped upon his back, and then they saw Glenister's shoulder dip, his elbow come closer to his side, and his body heave in one final terrific effort as though pushing a heavy weight. In the silence something snapped like a stick. There came a deafening report and the scream of a strong man overcome with agony. McNamara went to his knees and sagged forward on to his face as though every bone in his huge bulk had turned to water, while his master reeled back against the opposite wall, his heels dragging in the litter, bringing up with outflung arms as though fearful of falling, swaying, blind, exhausted, his face blackened by the explosion of the revolver, yet grim with the light of victory. Judge Stillman shouted, hysterically: "Arrest that man, quick! Don't let him go!" It was the miner's first realization that others were there. Raising his head he stared at the faces close against the partition, then groaned the words: "I beat the traitor and--and--I broke him with--my hands!" CHAPTER XXII THE PROMISE OF DREAMS Soldiers seized the young man, who made no offer at resistance, and the room became a noisy riot. Crowds surged up from below, clamoring, questioning, till some one at the head of the stairs shouted down: "They've got Roy Glenister. He's killed McNamara," at which a murmur arose that threatened to become a cheer. Then one of the receiver's faction called: "Let's hang him. He killed ten of our men last night." Helen winced, but Stillman, roused to a sort of malevolent courage, quieted the angry voices. "Officer, hold these people back. I'll attend to this man. The law's in my hands and I'll make him answer." McNamara reared himself groaning from the floor, his right arm swinging from the shoulder strangely loose and distorted, with palm twisted outward, while his battered face was hideous with pain and defeat. He growled broken maledictions at his enemy. Roy, meanwhile, said nothing, for as the savage lust died in him he realized that the whirling faces before him were the faces of his enemies, that the Bronco Kid was still at large, and that his vengeance was but half completed. His knees were bending, his limbs were like leaden bars, his chest a furnace of coals. As he reeled down the lane of human forms, supported by his guards, he came abreast of the girl and her companion and paused, clearing his vision slowly. "Ah, there you are!" he said, thickly, to the gambler, and began to wrestle with his captors, baring his teeth in a grimace of painful effort; but they held him as easily as though he were a child and drew him forward, his body sagging limply, his face turned back over his shoulder. They had him near the door when Wheaton barred their way, crying: "Hold up a minute--it's all right, Roy--" "Ay, Bill--it's all right. We did our--best, but we were done by a damned blackguard. Now he'll send me up--but I don't care. I broke him--with my naked hands. Didn't I, McNamara?" He mocked unsteadily at the boss, who cursed aloud in return, glowering like an evil mask, while Stillman ran up dishevelled and shrilly irascible. "Take him away, I tell you! Take him to jail." But Wheaton held his place while the room centred its eyes upon him, scenting some unexpected denouement. He saw it, and in concession to a natural vanity and dramatic instinct, he threw back his head and stuffed his hands into his coat-pockets while the crowd waited. He grinned insolently at the Judge and the receiver. "This will be a day of defeats and disappointments to you, my friends. That boy won't go to jail because you will wear the shackles yourselves. Oh, you played a shrewd game, you two, with your senators, your politics, and your pulls; but it's our turn now, and we'll make you dance for the mines you gutted and the robberies you've done and the men you've ruined. Thank Heaven there's ONE honest court and I happened to find it." He turned to the strangers who had accompanied him from the ship, crying, "Serve those warrants," and they stepped forward. The uproar of the past few minutes had brought men running from every direction till, finding no room on the stairs, they had massed in the street below while the word flew from lip to lip concerning this closing scene of their drama, the battle at the Midas, the great fight up-stairs, and the arrest by the 'Frisco deputies. Like Sindbad's genie, a wondrous tale took shape from the rumors. Men shouldered one another eagerly for a glimpse of the actors, and when the press streamed out, greeted it with volleys of questions. They saw the unconscious marshal borne forth, followed by the old Judge, now a palsied wretch, slinking beside his captor, a very shell of a man at whom they jeered. When McNamara lurched into view, an image of defeat and chagrin, their voices rose menacingly. The pack was turning and he knew it, but, though racked and crippled, he bent upon them a visage so full of defiance and contemptuous malignity that they hushed themselves, and their final picture of him was that of a big man downed, but unbeaten to the last. They began to cry for Glenister, so that when he loomed in the doorway, a ragged, heroic figure, his heavy shock low over his eyes, his unshaven face aggressive even in its weariness, his corded arms and chest bare beneath the fluttering streamers, the street broke into wild cheering. Here was a man of their own, a son of the Northland who labored and loved and fought in a way they understood, and he had come into his due. But Roy, dumb and listless, staggered up the street, refusing the help of every man except Wheaton. He heard his companion talking, but grasped only that the attorney gloated and gloried. "We have whipped them, boy. We have whipped them at their own game. Arrested in their very door-yards--cited for contempt of court--that's what they are. They disobeyed those other writs, and so I got them." "I broke his arm," muttered the miner. "Yes, I saw you do it! Ugh! it was an awful thing. I couldn't prove conspiracy, but they'll go to jail for a little while just the same, and we have broken the ring." "It snapped at the shoulder," the other continued, dully, "just like a shovel handle. I felt it--but he tried to kill me and I had to do it." The attorney took Roy to his cabin and dressed his wounds, talking incessantly the while, but the boy was like a sleep-walker, displaying no elation, no excitement, no joy of victory. At last Wheaton broke out: "Cheer up! Why, man, you act like a loser. Don't you realize that we've won? Don't you understand that the Midas is yours? And the whole world with it?" "Won?" echoed the miner. "What do you know about it, Bill? The Midas--the world--what good are they? You're wrong. I've lost--yes--I've lost everything she taught me, and by some damned trick of Fate she was there to see me do it. Now, go away; I want to sleep." He sank upon the bed with its tangle of blankets and was unconscious before the lawyer had covered him over. There he lay like a dead man till late in the afternoon, when Dextry and Slapjack came in from the hills, answering Wheaton's call, and fell upon him hungrily. They shook Roy into consciousness with joyous riot, pommelling him with affectionate roughness till he rose and joined with them stiffly. He bathed and rubbed the soreness from his muscles, emerging physically fit. They made him recount his adventures to the tiniest detail, following his description of the fight with absorbed interest till Dextry broke into mournful complaint: "I'd have give my half of the Midas to see you bust him. Lord, I'd have screeched with soopreme delight at that." "Why didn't you gouge his eyes out when you had him crippled?" questioned Slapjack, vindictively. "I'd 'a' done it." Dextry continued: "They tell me that when he was arrested he swore in eighteen different languages, each one more refreshin'ly repulsive an' vig'rous than the precedin'. Oh, I have sure missed a-plenty to-day, partic'lar because my own diction is gettin' run down an' skim-milky of late, showin' sad lack of new idees. Which I might have assim'lated somethin' robustly original an' expressive if I'd been here. No, sir; a nose-bag full of nuggets wouldn't have kept me away." "How did it sound when she busted?" insisted the morbid Simms, but Glenister refused to discuss his combat. "Come on, Slap," said the old prospector, "let's go down-town. I'm so het up I can't set still, an' besides, mebbe we can get the story the way it really happened, from somebody who ain't bound an' gagged an' chloroformed by such unbecomin' modesties. Roy, don't never go into vawdyville with them personal episodes, because they read about as thrillin' as a cook-book. Why, say, I've had the story of that fight from four different fellers already, none of which was within four blocks of the scrimmage, an' they're all diff'rent an' all better 'n your account." Now that Glenister's mind had recovered some of its poise he realized what he had done. "I was a beast, an animal," he groaned, "and that after all my striving. I wanted to leave that part behind, I wanted to be worthy of her love and trust even though I never won it, but at the first test I am found lacking. I have lost her confidence, yes--and what is worse, infinitely worse, I have lost my own. She's always seen me at my worst," he went on, "but I'm not that kind at bottom, not that kind. I want to do what's right, and if I have another chance I will, I know I will. I've been tried too hard, that's all." Some one knocked, and he opened the door to admit the Bronco Kid and Helen. "Wait a minute, old man," said the Kid. "I'm here as a friend." The gambler handled himself with difficulty, offering in explanation: "I'm all sewed up in bandages of one kind or another." "He ought to be in bed now, but he wouldn't let me come alone, and I could not wait," the girl supplemented, while her eyes avoided Glenister's in strange hesitation. "He wouldn't let you. I don't understand." "I'm her brother," announced the Bronco Kid. "I've known it for a long time, but I--I--well, you understand I couldn't let her know. All I can say is, I've gambled square till the night I played you, and I was as mad as a dervish then, blaming you for the talk I'd heard. Last night I learned by chance about Struve and Helen and got to the road-house in time to save her. I'm sorry I didn't kill him." His long white fingers writhed about the arm of his chair at the memory. "Isn't he dead?" Glenister inquired. "No. The doctors have brought him in and he'll get well. He's like half the men in Alaska--here because the sheriffs back home couldn't shoot straight. There's something else. I'm not a good talker, but give me time and I'll manage it so you'll understand. I tried to keep Helen from coming on this errand, but she said it was the square thing and she knows better than I. It's about those papers she brought in last spring. She was afraid you might consider her a party to the deal, but you don't, do you?" He glared belligerently, and Roy replied, with fervor: "Certainly not. Go on." "Well, she learned the other day that those documents told the whole story and contained enough proof to break up this conspiracy and convict the Judge and McNamara and all the rest, but Struve kept the bundle in his safe and wouldn't give it up without a price. That's why she went away with him--She thought it was right, and--that's all. But it seems Wheaton had succeeded in another way. Now, I'm coming to the point. The Judge and McNamara are arrested for contempt of court and they're as good as convicted; you have recovered your mine, and these men are disgraced. They will go to jail--" "Yes, for six months, perhaps," broke in the other, hotly, "but what does that amount to? There never was a bolder crime consummated nor one more cruelly unjust. They robbed a realm and pillaged its people, they defiled a court and made Justice a wanton, they jailed good men and sent others to ruin; and for this they are to suffer--how? By a paltry fine or a short imprisonment, perhaps, by an ephemeral disgrace and the loss of their stolen goods. Contempt of court is the accusation, but you might as well convict a murderer for breach of the peace. We've thrown them off, it's true, and they won't trouble us again, but they'll never have to answer for their real infamy. That will go unpunished while their lawyers quibble over technicalities and rules of court. I guess it's true that there isn't any law of God or man north of Fifty-three; but if there is justice south of that mark, those people will answer for conspiracy and go to the penitentiary." "You make it hard for me to say what I want to. I am almost sorry we came, for I am not cunning with words, and I don't know that you'll understand," said the Bronco Kid, gravely, "We looked at it this way: you have had your victory, you have beaten your enemies against odds, you have recovered your mine, and they are disgraced. To men like them that last will outlive and outweigh all the rest; but the Judge is our uncle and our blood runs in his veins. He took Helen when she was a baby and was a father to her in his selfish way, loving her as best he knew how. And she loves him." "I don't quite understand you," said Roy. And then Helen spoke for the first time eagerly, taking a packet from her bosom as she began: "This will tell the whole wretched story, Mr. Glenister, and show the plot in all its vileness. It's hard for me to betray my uncle, but this proof is yours by right to use as you see fit, and I can't keep it." "Do you mean that this evidence will show all that? And you're going to give it to me because you think it is your duty?" "It belongs to you. I have no choice. But what I came for was to plead and to ask a little mercy for my uncle, who is an old, old man, and very weak. This will kill him." He saw that her eyes were swimming while the little chin quivered ever so slightly and her pale cheeks were flushed. There rose in him the old wild desire to take her in his arms, a yearning to pillow her head on his shoulder and kiss away the tears, to smooth with tender caress the wavy hair, and bury his face deep in it till he grew drunk with the madness of her. But he knew at last for whom she really pleaded. So he was to forswear this vengeance, which was no vengeance after all, but in verity a just punishment. They asked him--a man--a man's man--a Northman--to do this, and for what? For no reward, but on the contrary to insure himself lasting bitterness. He strove to look at the proposition calmly, clearly, but it was difficult. If only by freeing this other villain as well as her uncle he would do a good to her, then he would not hesitate. Love was not the only thing. He marvelled at his own attitude; this could not be his old self debating thus. He had asked for another chance to show that he was not the old Roy Glenister; well, it had come, and he was ready. Roy dared not look at Helen any more, for this was the hardest moment he had ever lived. "You ask this for your uncle, but what of--of the other fellow? You must know that if one goes free so will they both; they can't be separated." "It's almost too much to ask," the Kid took up, uncertainly. "But don't you think the work is done? I can't help but admire McNamara, and neither can you--he's been too good an enemy to you for that--and--and--he loves Helen." "I know--I know," said Glenister, hastily, at the same time stopping an unintelligible protest from the girl. "You've said enough." He straightened his slightly stooping shoulders and looked at the unopened package wearily, then slipped the rubber band from it, and, separating the contents, tore them up--one by one--tore them into fine bits without hurry or ostentation, and tossed the fragments away, while the woman began to sob softly, the sound of her relief alone disturbing the silence. And so he gave her his enemy, making his offer gamely, according to his code. "You're right--the work is done. And now, I'm very tired." They left him standing there, the glory of the dying day illumining his lean, brown features, the vision of a great loneliness in his weary eyes. He did not rouse himself till the sky before him was only a curtain of steel, pencilled with streaks of soot that lay close down above the darker sea. Then he sighed and said, aloud: "So this is the end, and I gave him to her with these hands"--he held them out before him curiously, becoming conscious for the first time that the left one was swollen and discolored and fearfully painful. He noted it with impersonal interest, realizing its need of medical attention--so left the cabin and walked down into the city. He encountered Dextry and Simms on the way, and they went with him, both flowing with the gossip of the camp. "Lord, but you're the talk of the town," they began. "The curio hunters have commenced to pull Struve's office apart for souvenirs, and the Swedes want to run you for Congress as soon as ever we get admitted as a State. They say that at collar-an'-elbow holts you could lick any of them Eastern senators and thereby rastle out a lot of good legislation for us cripples up here." "Speakin' of laws goes to show me that this here country is gettin' too blamed civilized for a white man," said Simms, pessimistically, "and now that this fight is ended up it don't look like there would be anything doin' fit to claim the interest of a growed-up person for a long while. I'm goin' west." "West! Why, you can throw a stone into Bering Strait from here," said Roy, smiling. "Oh, well, the world's round. There's a schooner outfittin' for Sibeery--two years' cruise. Me an' Dex is figgerin' on gettin' out towards the frontier fer a spell." "Sure!" said Dextry. "I'm beginnin' to feel all cramped up hereabouts owin' to these fillymonarch orchestras an' French restarawnts and such discrepancies of scenery. They're puttin' a pavement on Front Street and there's a shoe-shinin' parlor opened up. Why, I'd like to get where I could stretch an' holler without disturbin' the pensiveness of some dude in a dress suit. Better come along, Roy; we can sell out the Midas." "I'll think it over," said the young man. The night was bright with a full moon when they left the doctor's office. Roy, in no mood for the exuberance of his companions, parted from them, but had not gone far before he met Cherry Malotte. His head was low and he did not see her till she spoke. "Well, boy, so it's over at last!" Her words chimed so perfectly with his thoughts that he replied: "Yes, it's all over, little girl." "You don't need my congratulations--you know me too well for that. How does it feel to be a winner?" "I don't know. I've lost." "Lost what?" "Everything--except the gold-mine." "Everything except--I see. You mean that she--that you have asked her and she won't?" He never knew the cost at which she held her voice so steady. "More than that. It's so new that it hurts yet, and it will continue to hurt for a long time, I suppose--but to-morrow I am going back to my hills and my valleys, back to the Midas and my work, and try to begin all over. For a time I've wandered in strange paths, seeking new gods, as it were, but the dazzle has died out of my eyes and I can see true again. She isn't for me, although I shall always love her. I'm sorry I can't forget easily, as some do. It's hard to look ahead and take an interest in things. But what about you? Where shall you go?" "I don't know. It doesn't really matter--now." The dusk hid her white, set face and she spoke monotonously. "I am going to see the Bronco Kid. He sent for me. He's ill." "He's not a bad sort," said Roy. "And I suppose he'll make a new start, too." "Perhaps," said she, gazing far out over the gloomy ocean. "It all depends." After a moment, she added, "What a pity that we can't all sponge off the slate and begin afresh and--forget." "It's part of the game," said he. "I don't know why it's so, but it is. I'll see you sometimes, won't I?" "No, boy--I think not." "I believe I understand," he murmured; "and perhaps it's better so." He took her two soft hands in his one good right and kissed them. "God bless you and keep you, dear, brave little Cherry." She stood straight and still as he melted into the shadows, and only the moonlight heard her pitiful sob and her hopeless whisper: "Good-bye, my boy, my boy." He wandered down beside the sea, for his battle was not yet won, and until he was surer of himself he could not endure the ribaldry and rejoicing of his fellows. A welcome lay waiting for him in every public place, but no one there could know the mockery of it, no one could gauge the desolation that was his. The sand, wet, packed, and hard as a pavement, gave no sound to his careless steps; and thus it was that he came silently upon the one woman as she stood beside the silver surf. Had he seen her first he would have slunk past in the landward shadows; but, recognizing his tall form, she called and he came, while it seemed that his lungs grew suddenly constricted, as though bound about with steel hoops. The very pleasure of her sight pained him. He advanced eagerly, and yet with hesitation, standing stiffly aloof while his heart fluttered and his tongue grew dumb. At last she saw his bandages and her manner changed abruptly. Coming closer she touched them with caressing fingers. "It's nothing--nothing at all," he said, while his voice jumped out of all control. "When are you--going away?" "I do not know--not for some time." He had supposed she would go to-morrow with her uncle and--the other, to be with them through their travail. With warm impetuosity she began: "It was a noble thing you did to-day. Oh, I am glad and proud." "I prefer you to think of me in that way, rather than as the wild beast you saw this morning, for I was mad, perfectly mad with hatred and revenge, and every wild impulse that comes to a defeated man. You see, I had played and lost, played and lost, again and again, till there was nothing left. What mischance brought you there? It was a terribly brutal thing, but you can't understand." "But I can understand. I do. I know all about it now. I know the wild rage of desperation; I know the exultation of victory; I know what hate and fear are now. You told me once that the wilderness had made you a savage, and I laughed at it just as I did when you said that my contact with big things would teach me the truth, that we're all alike, and that those motives are in us all. I see now that you were right and I was very simple. I learned a great deal last night." "I have learned much also," said he. "I wish you might teach me more." "I--I--don't think I could teach you any more," she hesitated. He moved as though to speak, but held back and tore his eyes away from her. "Well," she inquired, gazing at him covertly. "Once, a long time ago, I read a Lover's Petition, and ever since knowing you I have made the constant prayer that I might be given the purity to be worthy the good in you, and that you might be granted the patience to reach the good in me--but it's no use. But at least I'm glad we have met on common ground, as it were, and that you understand, in a measure. The prayer could not be answered; but through it I have found myself and--I have known you. That last is worth more than a king's ransom to me. It is a holy thing which I shall reverence always, and when you go you will leave me lonely except for its remembrance." "But I am not going," she said. "That is--unless--" Something in her voice swept his gaze back from the shimmering causeway that rippled seaward to the rising moon. It brought the breath into his throat, and he shook as though seized by a great fear. "Unless--what?" "Unless you want me to." "Oh, God! don't play with me!" He flung out his hand as though to stop her while his voice died out to a supplicating hoarseness. "I can't stand that." "Don't you see? Won't you see?" she asked. "I was waiting here for the courage to go to you since you have made it so very hard for me--my pagan." With which she came close to him, looking upward into his face, smiling a little, shrinking a little, yielding yet withholding, while the moonlight made of her eyes two bottomless, boundless pools, dark with love, and brimming with the promise of his dreams. THE END 
7931	----	ALL-WOOL MORRISON _Time:_ Today _Place:_ The United States _Period of Action:_ Twenty-four Hours by HOLMAN DAY Author of _"The Rider of King Log" "The Red Lane" "King Spruce" "Where Your Treasure Is"_ To PERCIVAL P. BAXTER A Consistent and Courageous Champion in the Protection of "The People's White Coal." With the Author's Sincere Friendship and High Regard. _CONTENTS_ I. HOW "THE MORRISON" BROKE ST. RONAN'S RULE II. THE THREAT OF WHAT THE NIGHT MAY BRING III. THE MORRISON ASSUMES SOME CONTRACTS IV. ANSWERING THE FIRST ALARM V. THE MEN WHO WERE WAITING TO BE SHOWN VI. THE MAN'S WORD OF THE MAYOR OF MARION VII. THE THIN CRUST OVER BOILING LAVA VIII. A ROD IN PICKLE IX. MAKING IT A SQUARE BREAK X. A SENATOR SIZES UP A FOE XI. FLAREBACKS IN THE CASE OF LOVE AND A MOB XII. RIFLES RULE IN THE PEOPLE'S HOUSE XIII. THE LINE-UP FORMS IN THE PEOPLE'S HOUSE XIV. THE IMPENDING SHAME OF A STATE XV. THE BOSS OF THE JOB XVI. THE CITY OF MARION SEEKS ITS MAYOR XVII. THE CAPITOL IN SHADOW XVIII. THE CAPITOL ALIGHT XIX. LANA CORSON HAS HER DOUBTS XX. IN THE COLD AND CANDID DAYLIGHT XXI. A WOMAN CHOOSES HER MATE _All-Wool Morrison_ I HOW "THE MORRISON" BROKE ST. RONAN'S RULE On this crowded twenty-four-hour cross-section of contemporary American life the curtain goes up at nine-thirty o'clock of a January forenoon. Locality, the city of Marion--the capital of a state. Time, that politically throbbing, project-crowded, anxious, and expectant season of plot and counterplot--the birth of a legislative session. Disclosed, the office of St. Ronan's Mill of the city of Marion. From the days of old Angus, who came over from Scotland and established a woolen mill and handed it down to David, who placed it confidently in the possession of his son Stewart, the unalterable rule was that "The Morrison" entered the factory at seven o'clock in the morning and could not be called from the mill to the office on any pretext whatsoever till he came of his own accord at ten o'clock in the forenoon. In the reign of David the old John Robinson wagon circus paraded the streets of Marion early on a forenoon and the elephant made a break in a panic and ran into the mill office of the Morrisons through the big door, and Paymaster Andrew Mac Tavish rapped the elephant on the trunk with a penstock and, only partially awakened from abstraction in figures, stated that "Master Morrison willna see callers till he cooms frae the mill at ten." To go into details about the Morrison manners and methods and doggedness in attending to the matter in hand, whatever it might be, would not limn Stewart Morrison in any clearer light than to state that old Andrew, at seventy-two, was obeying Stewart's orders as to the ten-o'clock rule and was just as consistently a Cerberus as he had been in the case of Angus and David. He was a bit more set in his impassivity--at least to all appearances--because chronic arthritis had made his neck permanently stiff. It may be added that Stewart Morrison was thirty-odd, a bachelor, dwelt with his widowed mother in the Morrison mansion, was mayor of the city of Marion, though he did not want to be mayor, and was chairman of the State Water Storage Commission because he particularly wanted to be the chairman; he was, by reason of that office, in a position where he could rap the knuckles of those who should attempt to grab and selfishly exploit "The People's White Coal," as he called water-power. These latter appertaining qualifications were interesting enough, but his undeviating observance of the mill rule of the Morrisons of St. Ronan's served more effectively to point the matter of his character. Stewart Morrison when he was in the mill was in it from top to bottom, from carder to spinner and weaver, from wool-sorter to cloth-hall inspector, to make sure that the manufacturing principles for which All-Wool Morrison stood were carried out to the last detail. On that January morning, as usual, he was in the mill with his sleeves rolled up. On his high stool in the office was Andrew Mac Tavish, his head framed in the wicket of his desk, and the style of his beard gave him the look of a Scotch terrier in the door of a kennel. The office was near the street, a low building of brick, having one big room; a narrow, covered passage connected the room with the mill. A rail divided the office into two small parts. According to his custom in the past few months, Mac Tavish, when he dipped his pen, stabbed pointed glances beyond the rail and curled his lips and made his whiskers bristle and continually looked as if he were going to bark; he kept his mouth shut, however. But his silence was more baleful than any sounds he could have uttered; it was a sort of ominous, canine silence, covering a hankering to get in a good bite if the opportunity was ever offered. It was the rabble o' the morning--the crowd waiting to see His Honor the Mayor--on the other side of the rail. It was the sacrilegious invasion of a business office in the hours sacred to business. It was like that every morning. It was just as well that the taciturn Mac Tavish considered that his general principle of cautious reserve applied to this situation as it did to matters of business in general, otherwise the explosion through that wicket some morning would have blown out the windows. Mac Tavish did not understand politics. He did not approve of politics. Government was all right, of course. But the game of running it, as the politicians played the game! Bah! He had taken it upon himself to tell the politicians of the city that Stewart Morrison would never accept the office of mayor. Mac Tavish had frothed at the mouth as he rolled his r's and had threshed the air with his fist in frantic protest. Stewart Morrison was away off in the mountains, hunting caribou on the only real vacation he had taken in half a dozen years--and the city of Marion took advantage of a good man, so Mac Tavish asserted, to shove him into the job of mayor; and a brass band was at the station to meet the mayor and the howling mob lugged him into City Hall just as he was, mackinaw jacket, jack-boots, woolen Tam, rifle and all--and Mac Tavish hoped the master would wing a few of 'em just to show his disapprobation. In fact, it was allowed by the judicious observers that the new mayor did display symptoms of desiring to pump lead into the cheering assemblage instead of being willing to deliver a speech of acceptance. He did not drop, as his manner indicated, all his resentment for some weeks--and then Mac Tavish picked up the resentment and loyally carried it for the master, in the way of outward malevolence and inner seething. The regular joke in Marion was built around the statement that if anybody wanted to get next to a hot Scotch in these prohibition times, step into the St. Ronan's mill office any morning about nine-thirty. Up to date Mac Tavish had not thrown any paper-weights through the wicket, though he had been collecting ammunition in that line against the day when nothing else could express his emotions. It was in his mind that the occasion would come when Stewart Morrison finally reached the limit of endurance and, with the Highland chieftain's battle-cry of the old clan, started in to clear the office, throwing his resignation after the gang o' them! Mac Tavish would throw the paper-weights. He wondered every day if that would be the day, and the encouraging expectation helped him to endure. Among those present was a young fellow with his chaps tied up; there was a sniveling old woman who patted the young man's shoulder and evoked protesting growls. There were shifty-eyed men who wanted to make a touch--Mac Tavish knew the breed. There was a fat, wheezy, pig-farm keeper who had a swill contract with the city and came in every other day with a grunt of fresh complaint. There were the usual new faces, but Mac Tavish understood perfectly well that they were there to bother a mayor, not to help the woolen-goods business. There was old Hon. Calvin Dow, a pensioner of David Morrison, now passed on to the considerately befriending Stewart, and Mac Tavish was deeply disgusted with a man who was so impractical in his business affairs that, though he had been financially busted for ten years, he still kept along in the bland belief, based on Stewart's assurances, that money was due him from the Morrisons. Whenever Mac Tavish went to the safe, obeying Stewart's word, he expressed _sotto voce_ the wish that he might be able to drop into the Hon. Calvin Dow's palm red-hot coins from the nippers of a pair of tongs. It was not that Mac Tavish lacked the spirit of charity, but that he wanted every man to know to the full the grand and noble goodness of the Morrisons, and be properly grateful, as he himself was. Dow's complacency in his hallucination was exasperating! But there was no one in sight that morning who promised the diversion or the effrontery that would make this the day of days, and there seemed to be no excuse that would furnish the occasion for the battle-cry which would end all this pestiferous series of levees. The muffled rackelty-chackle of the distant looms soothed Mac Tavish. The nearer rick-tack of Miss Delora Bunker's typewriter furnished obbligato for the chorus of the looms. It was all good music for a business man. But those muttering, mumbling mayor-chasers--it was a tin-can, cow-bell discord in a symphony concert. Mac Tavish, honoring the combat code of Caledonia, required presumption to excuse attack, needed an upthrust head to justify a whack. Patrolman Cornelius Rellihan, six feet two, was lofty enough. He marched to and fro beyond the rail, his heavy shoes flailing down on the hardwood floor. Every morning the bang of those boots started the old pains to thrusting in Mac Tavish's neck. But Officer Rellihan was the mayor's major-domo, officially, and Stewart's pet and protégé and worshiping vassal in ordinary. An intruding elephant might be evicted; Rellihan could not even receive the tap of a single word of remonstrance. It promised only another day like the others, with nothing that hinted at a climacteric which would make the affairs of the mill office of the Morrisons either better or worse. Then Col. Crockett Shaw marched in, wearing a plug-hat to mark the occasion as especial and official, but taking no chances on the dangers of that unwonted regalia in frosty January; he had ear-tabs close clamped to the sides of his head. Mac Tavish took heart. He hated a plug-hat. He disliked Col. Crockett Shaw, for Shaw was a man who employed politics as a business. Colonel Shaw was carrying his shoulders well back and seemed to be taller than usual, his new air of pomposity making him a head thrust above the horde. Colonel Shaw offensively banged the door behind himself. Mac Tavish removed a package of time-sheets that covered a pile of paper-weights. Colonel Shaw came stamping across the room, clapping his gloved hands together, as if he were as cold under the frosty eyes of Mac Tavish as he had been in the nip of the January chill outdoors. "Mayor Morrison! Call him at once!" he commanded, at the wicket. Mac Tavish closed his hand over one of the paper-weights. He opened his mouth. But Colonel Shaw was ahead of him with speech! "This is the time when that fool mill-rule goes bump!" The colonel's triumphant tone hinted that he had been waiting for a time like this. His entrance and his voice of authority took all the attention of the other waiters off their own affairs. "Call out Mayor Morrison." "Haud yer havers, ye keckling loon! Whaur's yer een for the tickit gillie?" The old paymaster jabbed indignant thumb over his shoulder to indicate the big clock on the wall. "I can't hear what you say on account of these ear-pads, and it doesn't make any difference what you say, Andy! This is the day when all rules are off." He was fully conscious that he had the ears of all those in the room. He braced back. With an air of a functionary calling on the multitude to make way for royalty he declaimed, "Call His Honor Mayor Morrison at once to this room for a conference with the Honorable Jodrey Wadsworth Corson, United States Senator. I am here to announce that Senator Corson is on the way." Mac Tavish narrowed his eyes; he whittled his tone to a fine point to correspond, and the general effect was like impaling a puffball on a rat-tail file. "If ye hae coom sunstruck on a January day, ye'd best stick a sopped sponge in the laft o' yer tar-pail bonnet. Sit ye doon and speir the hands o' the clock for to tell when the Morrison cooms frae the mill." The colonel banged the flat of his hand on the ledge outside the wicket. "It isn't an elephant this time, Mac Tavish. It's a United States Senator. Act on my orders, or into the mill I go, myself!" The old man slid down from the stool, a paperweight in each hand. "Only o'er my dead body will ye tell him in yer mortal flesh. Make the start to enter the mill, and it's my thocht that ye'll tell him by speeritual knocks or by tipping a table through a meejum!" "Lay off that jabber, old bucks, the two of ye!" commanded Officer Rellihan, swinging across the room. "I'm here to kape th' place straight and dacint!" "I hae the say. I'll gie off the orders," remonstrated Mac Tavish; there was grim satisfaction in the twist of his mouth; it seemed as if the day of days had arrived. "On that side your bar ye may boss the wool business. But this is the mayor's side and the colonel is saying he's here to see His Honor. Colonel, ye'll take your seat and wait your turn!" He cupped his big hand under the emissary's elbow. Mac Tavish and Rellihan, by virtue of jobs and natures, were foes, but their team-work in behalf of the interests of the Morrison was comprehensively perfect. "What's the matter with your brains, Rellihan?" demanded the colonel, hotly. "I don't kape stirring 'em up to ask 'em, seeing that they're resting aisy," returned the policeman, smiling placidly. "And there's nothing the matter with my muscle, is there?" He gently but firmly pushed the colonel down into a chair. "Don't you realize what it means to have a United States Senator come to a formal conference?" "No! I never had one call on me." "Rellihan, Morrison will fire you off the force if it happens that a United States Senator has to wait in this office." The officer pulled off his helmet and plucked a card from the sweatband. "It says here, 'Kape 'em in order, be firm but pleasant, tell 'em to wait in turn, and'--for meself--'to do no more talking than necessary.' If there's to be a new rule to fit the case of Senators, the same will prob'bly be handed to me as soon as Senators are common on the calling-list." He put up a hand in front of the colonel's face--a broad and compelling hand. "Now I'm going along on the old orders and the clock tells ye that ye have a scant twinty minutes to wait. And if I do any more talking, of the kind that ain't necessary, I'll break a rule. Be aisy, Colonel Shaw!" He resumed his noisy promenade. Mac Tavish was back on the stool and he clashed glances with Colonel Shaw with alacrity. "There'll be an upheaval in this office, Mac Tavish." "Aye! If ye make one more step toward the mill door ye'll not ken of a certainty whaur ye'll land when ye're upheaved." After a few minutes of the silence of that armed truce, Miss Bunker tiptoed over to Mac Tavish, making an excuse of a sheet of paper which she laid before him; the paper was blank. "Daddy Mac!" Miss Bunker enjoyed that privilege in nomenclature along with other privileges usually won in offices by young ladies who know how to do their work well and are able to smooth human nature the right way. She went on in a solicitous whisper. "We must be sure that we're not making any office mistake. This being Senator Corson!" "I still hae me orders, lassie!" "But listen, Daddy Mac! When I came from the post-office the Senator's car went past me. Miss Lana was with him. Don't you think we ought to get a word to Mr. Morrison?" "Word o' what?" The old man wrinkled his nose, already sniffing what was on the way. "Why, that Miss Lana may be calling, along with her father." "What then?" "Mr. Morrison is a gentleman, above all things," declared the girl, nettled by this supercilious interrogation. "If Miss Corson calls with her father and is obliged to wait, Mr. Morrison will be mortified. Very likely he will be angry because he wasn't notified. I understand the social end of things better than you, Daddy Mac. I think it's my duty to take in a word to him." "Aye! Yus! Gude! And tell him the music is ready, the flowers are here, and the tea is served! Use the office for all owt but the wool business. To Auld Hornie wi' the wool business! Politeeks and socieety! Lass, are ye gone daffie wi' the rest?" "Hush, Daddy Mac! Don't raise your voice in your temper. What if he should still be in love with Miss Lana, spite of her being away among the great folks all this long time?" Mac Tavish was holding the paper-weights. He banged them down on his desk and shoved his nose close to hers. "Fash me nae mair wi' your silly talk o' love, in business hours! If aye he wanted her when she was here at hame and safe and sensible, the Morrison o' the Morrisons had only to reach his hand to her and say, 'Coom, lass!' But noo that she is back wi' head high and notions alaft, he'd no accept her! She's nowt but a draft signed by Sham o' Shoddy and sent through the Bank o' Brag and Blaw! No! He'd no' accept her! And now back wi' ye to yer tickety-tack! I hae my orders, and the Queen o' Sheba might yammer and be no' the gainer!" Miss Bunker swept up the sheet of blank paper with a vicious dab and went back to her work, crumpling it. Passing the hat-tree, she was tempted to grab the Morrison's coat and waistcoat and run into the mill with them, dodging Mac Tavish and his paper-weights in spite of what she knew of his threats regarding the use he proposed to make of them in case of need. She believed that Miss Lana Corson would come to the office with the others who were riding in the automobile. She had her own special cares and a truly feminine apprehension in this matter, and she believed that the young man, who was one of the guests at the reopened Corson mansion on Corson Hill, was a suitor, just as Marion gossip asserted he was. Miss Bunker had two good eyes in her head and womanly intuitiveness in her soul, and she had read three times into empty air a dictated letter while Stewart Morrison looked past her in the direction which the Corson car had taken that first day when Lana Corson had shown herself on the street. And here was that stiff-necked old watch-dog callously laying his corns so that Stewart Morrison would appear to be boor enough to allow a young lady to wait along with that unspeakable rabble; and when he did come he would arrive in his shirt-sleeves to be matched up against a handsome young man in an Astrakhan top-coat! Under those circumstances, what view would Miss Lana Corson take of the man who had stayed in Marion? Miss Bunker was profoundly certain that Mac Tavish did not know what love was and never did understand and could not be enlightened at that period in his life. But he might at least put the matter on a business basis, she reflected, incensed, and show some degree of local pride in grabbing in with the rest of Mr. Morrison's friends to assist in a critical situation. And right then the situation became pointedly critical. The broad door of the office was flung open by a chauffeur. It was the Corson party. Colonel Shaw was not in a mood to apologize for anybody except himself. He rose and saluted. "Coming here to herald your call, Senator Corson, I have been insulted by a bumptious understrapper and held in leash by an ignorant policeman. They say it's according to a rule of the Morrison mills. I suppose that when Mayor Morrison comes out of the mill at ten o'clock, following his own rule, he can explain to you why he maintains that insulting custom of his and continues this kind of an office crew to enforce it." Miss Bunker flung the sheet of paper that she had crumpled into a ball and it struck Mac Tavish on the side of the head that he bent obtrusively over his figures. The old man snapped stiffly upright and distributed implacable stare among the members of the newly arrived party. He was not softened by Miss Corson's glowing beauty, nor impressed by the United States Senator's dignity, nor won by the charming smile of Miss Corson's well-favored squire, nor daunted by the inquiring scowl of a pompous man whose mutton-chop whiskers mingled with the beaver fur about his neck; a stranger who was patently prosperous and metropolitan. Furthermore, Mac Tavish, undaunted, promptly dared to exchange growls with "Old Dog Tray," himself. The latter, none else than His Excellency, Lawrence North, Governor of the state, marched toward the wicket, wagging his tail, but the wagging was not a display of amiability. The politicians called North "Old Dog Tray" because his permanent limp caused his coattails to sway when he walked. "Be jing! I've been on the job here at manny a deal of a morn," confided Officer Rellihan to Calvin Dow, "but here's the first natural straight flush r'yal, dealt without a draw." He tagged the Corson party with estimating squints, beginning with the Governor. "Ace, king, queen, John-jack, and the ten-spot! They've caught the office, this time, with a two-spot high!" Mac Tavish played it pat! "And 'tis the mill rule; it lacks twal' meenutes o' the hour--and the clock yon on the wall is richt!" Thus referring all responsibility to the clock, the paymaster dipped his pen and went on with his figures. The Governor cross-creased the natural deep furrows in his face with ridges which registered indignant amazement. "You have lost your wits, but you seem to have your eyes! Use them!" "It's the mill rule!" "But we are not here on mill business!" "Then it canna concern me." "Officer, do you know what part of the mill Mayor Morrison is in?" The Governor turned from Mac Tavish to Rellihan. "He is nae sic thing as mayor till ten o' the clock and till he cooms here for the crackin wi' yon corbies!" declared the old paymaster, pointing derogatory penstock through the wicket at "the crows" who were ranged along the settees. Rellihan shook his head. "Well, at any rate, go hunt him up," commanded His Excellency. Rellihan shook his head again; this seemed to be an occasion where unnecessary talking fell under interdiction; for that matter, Rellihan possessed only a vocabulary to use in talking down to the proletariat; he was debarred from telling these dignitaries to "shut up and sit aisy!" "A blind man, now a dumb man--Colonel Shaw, go and hunt up the man we're here to see!" The colonel feigned elaborately not to hear. "And finally a deaf one! Take off those ear-tabs! Go and bring the mayor here!" Mac Tavish dropped from his stool, armed himself with two paper-weights, and took up a strategic position near the door which led into the passage to the mill. "Roderick Dhu at bay! Impressive tableau!" whispered the young man of the Corson party in Lana's ear, displaying such significant and wonted familiarity that Miss Bunker, employing her vigilance exclusively in the direction in which her fears and her interest lay, sighed and muttered. The door of the corridor was flung open suddenly! The staccato of the orchestra of the looms sounded more loudly and provided entrance music. Astonishment rendered Mac Tavish _hors de combat_. He dropped his weights and his lower jaw sagged. It was the Morrison--breaking the ancient rule of St. Ronan's--ten minutes ahead of time! II THE THREAT OF WHAT THE NIGHT MAY BRING All the Morrisons were upstickit chiels in point of height. Stewart had appeared so abruptly, he towered so dominantly, that a stranger would have expected a general precipitateness of personality and speech to go with his looks. But after he had closed the door he stood and stroked his palm slowly over his temple, smoothing down his fair hair--a gesture that was a part of his individuality; and his smile, while it was not at all diffident, was deprecatory. He began to roll down the sleeves of his shirt. There was the repressed humor of his race in the glint in his eyes; he drawled a bit when he spoke, covering thus the Scotch hitch-and-go-on in the natural accent that had come down to him from his ancestors. "I saw your car arrive, Senator Corson, and I broke the sprinting record." "And the mill rule!" muttered Mac Tavish. "It's only an informal call, Stewart," explained the Senator, amiably, walking toward the rail. "And you have caught me in informal rig, sir!" He pulled his coat and waistcoat from the hooks and added, while he tugged the garments on, "So I'll say, informally, I'm precious glad to see old neighbors home again and to know the Corson mansion is opened, if only for a little while." "Lana came down with the servants a few days ago. I couldn't get here till last evening. I have some friends with me, Stewart, who have come along in the car to join me in paying our respects to the mayor of Marion." Morrison threw up the bar of the rail and stepped through. He clutched the hand of the Senator in his big, cordial grip. "And now, being out in the mayor's office, I'll extend formal welcome in the name of the city, sir." He looked past the father toward the daughter. "But I must interrupt formality long enough to present my most respectful compliments to Miss Corson, even walking right past you, Governor North, to do so!" explained Stewart, marching toward Lana, smiling down on her. Their brief exchange of social commonplaces was perfunctory enough, their manner suggested nothing to a casual observer; but Miss Bunker was not a casual observer. "She's ashamed," was her mental conviction. "Her eyes give her away. She don't look up at him like a girl can look at any man when there's nothing on her conscience. Whatever it was that happened, she's the one who's to blame--but if she can't be sorry it doesn't excuse her because she's ashamed." Possibly Miss Corson was covering embarrassment with the jaunty grandiloquence that she displayed. "I have dared to intrude among the mighty of the state and city, Mister Mayor, in order to impress upon you by word of mouth that your invitation to the reception at our home this evening isn't merely an invitation extended to the chief executive of the city. It's for Stewart Morrison himself," ran her little speech. "I hoped so. This word from you certifies it. And Stewart Morrison will strive to behave just as politely as he used to behave at other parties of Lana Corson's when he steeled his heart against a second helping of cake and cream." She forestalled her father. "Allow me to make you acquainted with Coventry Daunt, Stewart." Morrison surveyed the young stranger with frank and appraising interest. Then the big hand went out with no hint of any reservation in cordiality. "I'm sure you two are going to be excellent friends!" prophesied Lana. "You're so much alike." The florid giant and the dapper, dark young man swapped apologies in a faint flicker of a mutual grin. "I mean in your tastes! Mr. Daunt is tremendously interested in water-power," Miss Corson hastened to say. "But father is waiting for you, Stewart." So, however, was the sniveling old woman waiting! She had not presumed to break in on a conference with another of her sex--but when the mayor turned from the lady and started to be concerned with mere men, the old woman asserted her prerogative. "Out of me way. Con Rellihan, ye omadhaun, that I have chased manny the time out o' me patch! I'm a lady and I have me rights first!" She struggled and squalled when the officer set his palms against her to push her away. Morrison dropped the Governor's hand, broke off his "duty speech," and with rueful smile pleaded for tolerance from the Corson party. "Hush, Mother Slattery!" he remonstrated. "Ah, that's orders from him as has the grand right to give 'em! Niver a wor-rd from me mouth, Your 'Anner, till I may say me say at your call!" A prolonged, still more deprecatory smile was bestowed by the mayor on the élite among his guests! "I was out of town when I was elected mayor, and they hadn't taken the precaution to measure me for an office room at the city building. I didn't fit anything down there. Some day they're going to build the place over and have room for the mayor to transact business without holding callers on his knee. In the mean time, what mayoralty business I don't do out of my hat on the street I attend to here where I can give a little attention to my own business as well. Now, just a moment please!" he pleaded, turning from them. He went to the old woman, checking the outburst with which she flooded him when he approached. "I know! I know, Mother Slattery! No need to tell me about it. As a fellow-martyr, I realize just how Jim has been up against it--again!" He slid something into her hand "Rellihan will speak to the judge!" He passed hastily from person to person, the officer at his heels with ear cocked to receive the orders of his master as to the disposition of cases and affairs. Then Rellihan marshaled the retreat of the supplicants from the presence. "I do hope you understand why I attended to that business first," apologized the mayor. "Certainly! It's all in the way of politics," averred the Senator, out of his own experience. "I have been mayor of Marion, myself!" "With me it's business instead of politics," returned Morrison, gravely. "I don't know anything about politics. Mac Tavish, there, says I don't. And Tavish knows me well. But when I took this job--" "Ye didna tak' it," protested Mac Tavish, determined then, as always, that the Morrison should be set in the right light. "They scrabbled ye by yer scruff and whamped ye into a--" "Yes! Aye! Something of the sort! But I'm in, and I feel under obligations to attend to the business of the city as it comes to hand. And business--I have made business sacred when I have taken on the burden of it." "I fully understand that, Stewart, and my friend Daunt will be glad to hear you say what I know is true. For he is here in our state on business--business in your line," affirmed the Senator. He put his hand on the arm of the elderly man with the assertive mutton-chop whiskers. "Silas Daunt, Mayor Morrison! Mr. Daunt of the banking firm of Daunt & Cropley." "Business in my line, you say, sir?" demanded Morrison, pursuing a matter of interest with characteristic directness. "Development of water-power, Mister Mayor. We are taking the question up in a broad and, I hope, intelligent way." "Good! You touch me on my tenderest spot, Mr. Daunt." "Senator Corson has explained your intense interest in the water-power in this state. And this state, in my opinion, has more wonderful possibilities of development than any other in the Union." Morrison did not drawl when he replied. His demeanor corroborated his statement as to his tenderest spot. "It's a sleeping giant!" he cried. "It's time to wake it up and put it to work," stated Daunt. "Exactly!" agreed Senator Corson. "I'm glad I'm paying some of the debt I owe the people of this state by bringing two such men as you together. I have wasted no time, Stewart!" "Round and round the wheels of great affairs begin to whirl!" declaimed Lana. "The grain of sand must immediately eliminate itself from this atmosphere; otherwise, it may fall into the bearings and cause annoying mischief. I'll send the car back, father. I mustn't bother a business meeting." A grimace that hinted at hurt wrinkled the candor of the Morrison's countenance. "I hoped it wasn't mere business that brought you--all!" He dwelt on the last word with wistful significance, staring at Lana. "No, no!" said the Senator, hastily. "Not business--not business, wholly. A neighborly call, Stewart! The Governor, Mr. Daunt, Lana--all of us to pay our respects. But"--he glanced around the big room--"now that we're here, and the time will be so crowded after the legislature assembles, why not let Daunt express some of his views on the power situation? Without you and your support nothing can be done. We must develop our noble old state! Where is your private office?" "I have never needed one," confessed Stewart; it was a pregnant hint as to the Morrison methods. "I never expected to be honored as I am to-day." The Hon. Calvin Dow was posted near a window in a big chair, comfortably reading one of Stewart's newspapers. Several other citizens of Marion, sheep of such prominence that they could not be shooed away with the mere goats who had been excluded, were waiting an audience with the mayor. "You understand, of course, that there is no secrecy--that is to say, no secrecy beyond the usual business precautions involved," protested the Senator. The frank query in Stewart's eyes had been a bit disconcerting. "But to have matters of business bandied ahead of time by the mouth of gossip, on half-information, is as damaging as all this ridiculous talk that's now rioting through the city regarding politics." "It's all an atrocious libel on my administration," exploded Governor North. "It's damnable nonsense!" "Old Dog Tray," when he had occasion to bark, was not noted for polite reticence. Lana took Coventry Daunt's arm and started off with an elaborate display of mock terror. "And now politics goes whirling, too! My, how the ground shakes! Mister Mayor, I'll promise you more serene conditions on Corson Hill this evening." There was an unmistakable air of proprietorship in her manner with the young man who accompanied her. The Governor shook his finger before the mayor's face and, in his complete absorption in his own tribulation, failed to remark that he was not receiving undivided attention. "I'm depending on men like you, Morrison. I have dropped in here to-day to tell you that I'm depending on you." Senator Corson had apparently convinced himself that the mill office of St. Ronan's was too much of an open-faced proposition; it seemed more like an arena than a conference-room. Dow and the waiting gentlemen of Marion showed that they were frankly interested in the Governor's outbreak. Right then there were new arrivals. The Senator hastily made himself solitaire manager of that particular chess-game and ordered moves: "Lana, wait with Coventry in the car. We'll be only a moment. At my house this evening it will be a fine opportunity for you and Daunt to have your little chat, Stewart, and get together to push the grand project for our good state." "Yes," agreed Morrison; "I'll be glad to come." He was giving the young woman and her escort his close attention and spoke as if he meant what he said. He blinked when the door closed behind them. "And what say if you wait till then, Governor, to confer with the mayor--if you really find that there is need of a conference?" suggested the director of moves. "But I want to tell you right now, Morrison, seeing that you're mayor of the city where our state Capitol is located, that I expect your full co-operation in case of trouble to-night or to-morrow," His Excellency declared, with vigor. "Oh, there will be no trouble," asserted the Senator, airily. "Coming in fresh from the outside--from a wider horizon--I can estimate the situation with a better sense of proportion than you can, North, if you'll allow me to say so. We can always depend on the sane reliability of our grand old state!" The Governor was not reassured or placated. "And you can always depend on a certain number of sore-heads to make fools of themselves here--you could depend on it in the old days; it's worse in these times when everybody is ready to pitch into a row and clapper-claw right and left simply because they're aching for a fight." The closed door had no more revelations to offer to Morrison; he turned his mystified gaze on the Senator and the Governor as if he desired to solve at least one of the problems that had come to hand all of a sudden. "I can take care of things up on Capitol Hill, Morrison! I'm the Governor of this state and I have been re-elected to succeed myself, and that ought to be proof that the people are behind me. But I want you to see to it that the damnation mob-hornets are kept at home in the city here, where they belong." "When father kept bees I used to save many a hiveful for him by banging on mother's dishpan when they started to swarm. As to the hornets--" "I don't care what you bang on," broke in His Excellency. "On their heads, if they show them! But do I have your co-operation in the name of law and order?" "You may surely depend on me, even if I'm obliged to mobilize Mac Tavish and his paper-weights," said the mayor, and for the first time in the memory of Miss Bunker, at least, Mac Tavish flushed; the paymaster had been hoping that the laird o' St. Ronan's had not noted the full extent of the belligerency that had been displayed in making mill rules respected. But the abstraction that had marked Morrison's demeanor when he had looked over the Governor's head at the closed door and the later glint of jest in his eyes departed suddenly. The eyes narrowed. "You talk of trouble that's impending this night, Governor North!" "There'll be no trouble," insisted the Senator. "Fools can always stir a row," declared His Excellency, with just as much emphasis. "Fools who are led by rascals! Rascals who would wreck an express train for the chance to pick pocketbooks off corpses! There's been that element behind every piece of political hellishness and every strike we've had in this country in the last two years since the Russian bear stood up and began to dance to that devil's tune! On the eve of the assembling of this legislature, Morrison, you're probably hearing the blacklegs in the other party howl 'state steal' again!" "No, I haven't heard any such howl--not lately--not since the November election," said Morrison. "Why are they starting it now?" "I don't know," retorted the Governor. But the mayor's stare was again wide-open and compelling, and His Excellency's gaze shifted to Mac Tavish and then jumped off that uncomfortable object and found refuge on the ceiling. "The licked rebels know! They're the only ones who do know," asserted the Senator. Col. Crockett Shaw, practical politician, felt qualified to testify as an expert. "Those other fellows won't play the game according to the rules, Morrison! They sit in and draw cards and then beef about the deal and rip up the pasteboards and throw 'em on the floor and try to grab the pot. They won't play the game!" "That's it exactly!" the Governor affirmed. Senator Corson patted Morrison's arm. "Now that you're in politics for yourself, Stewart, you can see the point, can't you?" "I don't think I'm in politics, sir," demurred the mayor, smiling ingenuously. "At any rate, there isn't much politics in _me!_" "But the game must be played by the rules!" Senator Corson spoke with the finality of an oracle. "If you don't think that way," persisted Governor North, nettled by Morrison's hesitancy in jumping into the ring with his own party, "what _do_ you think?" "I wouldn't presume," drawled Stewart, "to offer political opinions to gentlemen of your experience. However, now that you ask me a blunt question, I'm going to reply just as bluntly--but as a business man! I believe that running the affairs of the people on the square is business--it ought to be made good business. Governor North, you're at the head of the biggest corporation in our state. That corporation is the state itself. And I don't believe the thing ought to be run as a game--naming the game politics." "That's the only way the thing can be run--and you've got to stand by your own party when it's running the state. You need a little lesson in politics, Morrison, and I'm going to show you--" The mayor of Marion raised a protesting hand. "I never could get head nor tail out of a political oration, sir. But I do understand facts and figures. Let's get at facts! Is this trouble you speak of as imminent--is it due to the question of letting certain members of the House and Senate take their seats to-morrow?" "I must go into that matter with you in detail!" "It has been gone into with detail in the newspapers till I'm sick of it, with all due respect to you, Governor North. It has been played back and forth like a game--and I don't understand games. There has been no more talk of trouble since you and your executive council let it be known that all the members were to walk into the State House and take their seats and settle among themselves their rights." "We never deliberately and decisively let that be known." "Then it has been guessed by your general attitude, sir. That's the common talk--and the common talk comes to me like it does to all others. That talk has smoothed things. Why not keep things smooth?" "Breaking election laws to keep sore-heads smooth? Is that your idea of politics?" "You cannot get me into any argument over politics, sir! I'm talking about the business of the state. I have found that I could do business openly in this office. It has served me even though it has no private room. I say nothing against you and your council because you have done the state's business behind closed doors at the State House. However--" "The law obliges us to canvass returns in executive session, Morrison." "I say nothing against the business you have done there," proceeded Morrison, inexorably. "I can't say anything. I don't know what has been done. I'm in no position, therefore, to criticize. If I did know I'd probably have, good reason to praise you state managers as good and faithful servants of our people. But the people don't know. You have left 'em to guess. It's their business. It's bad policy to keep folks guessing when their own business is concerned. What's the matter with throwing wide the doors to-morrow and saying 'Come along in, people, and we'll talk this over'?" "That's admitting the mob to riot, to intimidate, to rule!" "Impractical--wholly impractical, Stewart," the Senator chided. Calvin Dow came toward the group, stuffing his spectacles back into their case. Given a decoration for his coat lapel, the Hon. Calvin Dow, with his white mustache and his imperial, would have served for an excellent model in a study of a marshal of France. His intrusion, if such it was, was not resented; with his old-school manners and his gentle voice he was the embodiment of apology that demanded acceptance. "Jodrey, you never said a truer word. As old politicians, you and I, we understand just how impractical such an idea is. But I must be allowed to put the emphasis very decidedly on the word 'old.' There seems to be something new in the air all of a sudden." "Yes, a fresh crop of moonshiners in politics," was the Senator's acrid response. "And the stuff they're putting out is as raw and dangerous as this prohibition-ducking poison." "The trouble is, Jodrey," pursued the old man, gently, but undeterred, "those honest folks who really do own the country show signs of waking up and wanting to pay off the mortgage the politicians hold on it; and those radicals who think they're going to own the country right soon, now, believe they can turn the trick overnight by killing off the politicians and browbeating the proprietors. It looks to me as if the politicians and the real owners better hitch up together on a clean, business basis." "Excellent! Excellent!" declared Banker Daunt, who had been shifting uneasily from foot to foot, chafing his heavy neck against the beaver collar, perceiving that his own projects were only marking time. "Hitch up on a better business basis! It should be the slogan of the times. Eh, Mister Mayor?" "Right you are! crisply agreed Stewart, complimenting Daunt with a cheery smile that promised excellent understanding. "And harmony among the progressive leaders of city and state! Eh, Mister Mayor? What say, Governor North?" The metropolitan Mr. Daunt was not disposed to allow his commercial proposition to be run away with by a stampeding political team. "That's what I'm asking for--the co-operation that will fetch harmony," admitted the Governor, grudgingly. "But--" However, when His Excellency turned to the mayor with the plain intent of getting down to a working understanding, Mr. Daunt broke up what threatened to be an embarrassing clinch. As if carried away by enthusiasm in meeting one of his own kind in business affairs, Daunt grabbed Morrison's hand and pulled the mayor away with him toward the door, assuring him that he was glad to pitch in, heart and soul, with a man who had the best interests of a grand state to conserve and develop in the line of water-power. Then he went on as if quoting from a prospectus. "When the veins and the arteries of old Mother Earth have been drained of the coal and oil, Mr. Morrison, God's waters will still be flowing along the valleys, roaring down the cliffs, ready to turn the wheels of commerce. On the waters we must put our dependence. They are the Creator's best heritage to His people, in lifting and making light the burden of labor!" was the promoter's pompous declaration. "You cannot shout that truth too loudly, sir! I have been crying it, myself. But I always add with my cry the warning that if the people don't look sharp, the folks who hogged the other heritages, grabbed the iron, hooked onto the coal, and have posted themselves at the tap o' the nation's oil-can, will have the White Coal, too! God will still make water run downhill, but it will run for the profit of the men who peddle what it performs. I'll be glad to have you help me in that warning!" "Exactly!" agreed Mr. Daunt. "When you and I are thoroughly _en rapport_, we can accomplish wonders." His rush of the willing Morrison to the door had accomplished one purpose: he had created a diversion that staved off further political disagreement for the moment. "You must pardon my haste in being off, Mister Mayor. Senator Corson has promised to motor me along the river as far as possible before lunch, so that I may inspect the water-power possibilities. Come, Governor North!" he called. Daunt again addressed Morrison. "The Senator tells me that your mill privilege is the key power on the river." "Aye, sir! The Morrison who was named Angus built the first dam," stated Stewart, with pride. "But we have never hoarded the water nor hampered the others who have come after us. We use what we need--only that--and let the water flow free--and we're glad to see it go down to turn other wheels than our own. Without the many wheels a-turning there would not have been the many homes a-building!" "Exactly! Development--along the broadest lines! Do you promise me your aid and your co-operation?" "I do," declared Stewart. "You're the kind of a man who makes a spoken word of that sort more binding than a written pledge with a notarial seal." Again Daunt shook the Morrison hand. "I consider it settled!" Daunt's wink when he grabbed Morrison had tipped off Senator Corson, and the latter collaborated with alacrity; he hustled the Governor toward the door. "We must show Daunt all we can before lunch, Your Excellency! All the possibilities of the grand old state!" "I haven't got your promise for myself, Morrison," snapped North over his shoulder. "But I reckon I can depend on you to do as much for your party and for law and order as you'll do for the sake of a confounded mill-dam. And we'll leave it that way!" "There'll be no trouble, I repeat," promised Senator Corson, making himself file-closer. "North has been sticking too close to politics on Capitol Hill, and he has let it make him nervous. But we'll put festivity ahead of everything else on Corson Hill, to-night, and the girls will be on hand to make the boys all sociable. Come early, Stewart!" The mayor flung up his hand--a boyish gesture of faith in the best. "Hail to you as a peacemaker! We have been needing you! We're glad you're home again, sir." For a few moments he turned his back on the business of the city, as it awaited him in the persons of the citizens. He went to the front window and gazed at the Corson limousine until it rolled away; Lana had Coventry Daunt with her in the cozy intimacy afforded by the twin seats forward in the tonneau. "They make a smart-looking couple, bub," commented Calvin Dow, feeling perfectly free to stand at Stewart's elbow to inspect any object that the younger man found of interest. "Is it to be a hitch, as the gossip runs?" "There seems to be some gossip that's running ahead of my ken in this city just now, Calvin!" The mayor frowned, his eyes fixed on the departing car. His demeanor hinted that his thoughts were wholly absorbed by the persons in that car. "I hope you're spry enough to catch it. Go find out for me, will you, what the blue mischief they're up to?" "In politics? Or--" "In politics! Yes!" returned Morrison, tartly. "What other kind of gossip would I be interested in, this day?" He snapped himself around on his heels and started toward the men who were waiting. He singled one and clapped brisk hands smartly with the air of a man who wanted to wake himself from the abstraction of bothersome visions. "Well, Mister Public Works, how about the last lap of paving on McNamee Avenue? Can we open up to-morrow? I plan on showing our arriving legislative cousins clean thoroughfares on Capitol Hill, you know!" "I'm losing fourteen men off the job at noon today, Your Honor! Grabbed off without notice," grumbled the superintendent. "Grabbed off for what?" "Well, maybe, to keep our paving-blocks from being thrown through the windows of the State House!" "Who is taking those men from their work?" "The adjutant-general. They're Home Guard boys." "Something busted out in Patagonia needing the attention of a League of Nations army?" inquired the mayor, putting an edge of satire on his astonishment. The superintendent shot a swift stare past the mayor. "Perhaps Danny Sweetsir, there, can tell you--_Captain_ Daniel Sweetsir." The public works man copied the mayor's sarcasm by dwelling on the title he applied to Sweetsir. The mayor took a look, too. A young man in overalls and jumper had hurried into the office from the private passage; he was trotting toward a closet in one corner. He had the privileges of the office because he was "a mill student," studying the textile trade, and was a son of the Morrison's family physician. Sweetsir shucked off his jumper, leaped out of his overalls, threw them in at the closet door, and was revealed in full uniform of O. D. except for cap and sword. He secured those two essentials of equipment from the closet and strode toward the rail, buckling on his sword. Miss Bunker was surveying him with telltale and proprietary pride that was struggling with an expression of utter amazement. "The deil-haet ails 'em a' this day!" exploded Mac Tavish. The banked fires of his smoldering grudges blazed forth in a sudden outburst of words that revealed the hopes he had been hiding. His natural cautiousness in his dealings with the master went by the board. "Noo it's yer time, chief! I'll hae at 'em--the whole fause, feth'rin' gang o' the tykes, along wi' ye! Else it's heels o'er gowdie fer the woolen business." Morrison flicked merely a glance of mystification at Mac Tavish. The master's business was with his mill student. "What's wrong with you, Danny? Hold yourself for a moment on that side of the rail where you're still a man of the mill! I'm afraid of a soldier, like you'll be when you're out here in the mayor's office," he explained, softening the situation with humor. "What does it mean?" "The whole company of the St. Ronan's Rifles has been ordered to the armory, sir. The adjutant-general just informed me over the mill 'phone." "What's amiss?" Captain Sweetsir saluted stiffly. "I am not allowed to ask questions of a superior officer, sir, or to answer questions put by a civilian. I am now a soldier on duty, sir!" "Come through the rail." The officer obeyed and stood before Morrison. "Now, Captain, you're in the office of the mayor of Marion, and the mayor officially asks you why the militia has been ordered out in his city?" Again Captain Sweetsir saluted. "Mister Mayor, I refer you to my superior officer, the adjutant-general of the state." Morrison promptly shook the young man cordially by the hand. "That's the talk, Captain Sweetsir! Attend honestly to whatever job you're on! It's my own motto." "I try to do it, Mr. Morrison. You have always set me the example!" Mac Tavish groaned. He saw mill discipline going into the garbage along with everything else that had been sane and sensible and regular at St. Ronan's. And the Morrison himself had come from the mill that day ten minutes ahead of the hour! "So, on with you, lad, and do your duty!" Stewart forwarded Sweetsir with a commendatory clap of the palm on the barred shoulder. Calvin Dow was lingering. "We mustn't let the youngsters shame us, Calvin," Morrison murmured in the old man's ear. "We all seem to have our jobs cut out for us--and I can't tend to mine in an understanding way till you have attended to yours." The veteran saluted as smartly as had the soldier and trudged away on the heels of Sweetsir. "Ain't there any way of your making that infernal old tin soldier up at the State House lay his paws off our paving crew?" asked the superintendent. "Hush, Baldwin!" chided the mayor, unruffled, speaking indulgently. "We seem to have a new war on the board! Have you forgotten, after all that has been happening in this world, that in time of war we must sacrifice public improvements and private enterprises? Go on and do your best with the paving." "Hell is paved with good intentions, but I can't put 'em down on McNamee Avenue." "Of course not, Baldwin! That would be using war material that will be urgently needed, if I'm any judge of these times." "How's that, Mister Mayor?" "Why, the hell architects seem to be planning an extension of the premises," drawled Morrison. III THE MORRISON ASSUMES SOME CONTRACTS In the past, each day after lunch, Mac Tavish had been enabled to get back to the sanity of a well-conducted woolen-mill business; in the peace that descended on the office afternoons he put out of his mind the nightmare of the forenoons and tried not to think too much of what the morrows promised. Stewart Morrison had caused it to be known in Marion that he reserved afternoons for the desk affairs of St. Ronan's mill. Mac Tavish always brought his lunch; he cooked it himself in his bachelor apartment and warmed it up in the office over a gas-burner at high noon. While he was brushing the crumbs of an oaten cake off his desk, six men filed in. He knew them well. They were from the Marion Chamber of Commerce; they made up the Industrial Development Committee. "I'm afraid we're a bit too early to see the mayor," suggested Chairman Despeaux. "Ye are! Nigh twenty-two hours too early to see the mayor!" "But we 'phoned the house and were told he had left to come to the office!" "The mayor--mind ye, the _mayor_--he cooms frae the mill at--" Mac Tavish remembered the crashing blow to his proud pronunciamiento that forenoon, and his natural caution regarding statements caused him to hesitate. "He is supposed to coom frae the mill at ten o'clock, antemeridian! Postmeridian, Master Morrison, of St. Ronan's--not the mayor--he cooms to his desk yon--well, when he cooms isna the concern o' those who are speirin for a mayor." The gentlemen of the committee exchanged wise grins, suggestively sardonic grins, and sat down. Mac Tavish, bristling in silence over his figures, was comforted by the ever-springing hope that this intrusion might serve as the last straw on the overloaded Morrison endurance. He perked up expectantly when Stewart came striding in. Then he wilted despondently, because Morrison greeted the gentlemen with breezy hospitality, led them beyond the rail, and gave them chairs near his desk. "Command me! I am at your service!" "We're on our way to Senator Corson's. We have been invited to meet Mr. Daunt at lunch," said Despeaux; a thin veneer of suavity suited his thin lips. "Fine!" "I'm glad to hear you say so. We felt that we'd like your opinion of him and his plans before we commit ourselves." "I like his personality," stated Stewart, heartily. "But I have only a general notion of his plans." "Same here," admitted the chairman, though not in a tone of convincing sincerity. "The Senator brought him into my office for a minute or so before they started up-river. Told me to get the boys together and come for lunch. But if it's to put the water-power of this state on a bigger and broader basis, you and the storage commission are with us, aren't you?" Despeaux demanded rather than queried; his air was a bit offensive. "I'm a citizen of Marion and a native of this state, body and soul for all the good that can come to us, by our own efforts or through the aid of outsiders," declared Morrison, spacking his palm upon the arm of his chair. "Well, I guess we don't need any better promise than that, for a starter, at any rate. Of course, we knew it--but there's nothing like having a right-out word of mouth." Despeaux rose and pulled out his watch. "We'd better move on toward the eats, boys!" "Just a moment, however, Despeaux! My father was a Morrison and my mother a Mac Dougal. I can't help what's in me!" "What is it that's in you?" inquired Despeaux, pausing in the act of putting back his watch. "Scotch cautiousness!" "You don't suspect that a man like the big Silas Daunt, of Daunt and Cropley--" "I don't suspect. I haven't got as far as that! But I want to know exactly what he means by coming into this state. I have a man out getting me some facts about what kind of a devil's mess is being stirred up all of a sudden to-day in politics. Suppose you get under Daunt's hide and find out whether he wants to _do_ us or do _for_ us, on the water-power matter." An observant bystander would have perceived a queer sort of crispness in Morrison's manner from the outset of the interview; the same perspicacity would have detected something hard under the smooth surface of Despeaux's early politeness. Mr. Despeaux was not so elaborately polite when he retorted that he did not propose to play the spy on a guest while eating a host's victuals. Mr. Morrison promptly put more of a snap into his crispness. "Having balanced to partners, for politeness's sake, Despeaux, we'll take hold of hands and swing, with both feet on the floor. That was a good job you did in the legislative lobby two years ago for the crowd that called itself 'The Consolidated Development Company.' You're a smart lawyer and we had hard work beating you." "I'll tell you what you franchise-owners did, Morrison! You beat a grand and comprehensive plan that was going to take in the whole state." "It did take in a lot of folks for a time, but, thank God, it didn't take in a few of us who were wise to the scheme. I know why you have called on me to-day. But you haven't put me on record. Let no man of you think I have made a pledge or have committed myself till I know what's what!" "You're Scotch, all right, Morrison. You're canny! You're for yourself and the main chance. Now let me tell you! You caught us foul two years ago because you jumped the newspapers into coming out with broadsides about a thing they didn't understand. Their half-baked scare stuff made the state think somebody was trying to steal the whole water-power." "According to that general franchise bill, as it was framed, somebody was!" "Morrison, in the last two years the people have been educated to understand that broad-gaged consolidation of water-power is what we must have." "You have put out good propaganda. That fellow you have hired is a mighty fine press-agent," admitted Morrison, smiling ingenuously. "And the men who get in the way and try to trig development this year will be ticketed before an understanding public for what they are," declared Despeaux. "Try me as a part of the public, and see whether I'll understand! Ticketed as what, Brother Despeaux?" "As profiting dogs in the manger of manufacturing, sir!" There were expostulatory murmurs in the group. "We're rather non-committal as a body on this matter, Despeaux," protested a committeeman. "We're waiting to be shown. In the mean time, we don't like to have a man like Morrison here called any hard names." "Oh, I don't mind being called a watch-dog, boys! That's what I am. So you think I'm wholly selfish, do you, Despeaux?" "The water-power franchises of this state were grabbed away from the people years ago, like the timber-lands were, by first-comers, and the state got nothing! The waters belong to the people. The people have a right to realize on their property! Morrison, considering what kind of a free gift you had handed to you, you've got to be careful about the position you take in these enlightened days when the people propose to profit from their own. It's mighty easy to shift public opinion these days!" "Yes, I have seen tons of sand shifted in no time by a stream from a squirt-gun," confessed Morrison, placidly. "And that leaves it a fifty-fifty break between us on the name-calling proposition," rejoined Despeaux, "I'll bid you a kind good day!" He strode away and his group trailed him. A deprecating committeeman turned back, however. "I know you are honest, Morrison. But a lot of us are beginning to think that the general policy in the state regarding outside capital has been a bit too conservative. These are new times." "Very!" said the mayor, pleasantly. "They're creaking about as loud as Squire Despeaux's new shoes." There was a snarl of ire from the shoes every time the retreating chairman lifted a foot. "I hope they won't pinch us, Doddridge! Good day!" He sat down at his desk. Mac Tavish held his place on his stool in silence for a long time. The stiffness of his neck seemed to embrace all his members, even his tongue. Miss Bunker came in from her lunch, bringing the afternoon mail. Mac Tavish maintained his silence while Morrison picked out what were patently his personal letters before surrendering the others to the girl to be opened and assorted. Mac Tavish waited till his master had gone through his personal mail. The paymaster maintained a demeanor of what may be termed hopeful apprehension; this baiting, this impugning of honesty must needs turn the trick! No Morrison would stand for it! Mac Tavish found the laird's suppression of all comment promisingly bodeful. The fuse must be sizzling. There would be an explosion! But Morrison began to play a lively tattoo on his desk with the knob of a paper-slitter and whistled "The Campbells Are Coming, Hurrah, Hurrah!" with the cheery gusto of a man who had not a care to trouble him. "Snoolin' and snirtlin' o'er it!" spat the old man. "Eh?" queried Stewart, amiably. "Do ye let whigmaleeries flimmer in yer noddle at a time like this?" "Why, Andy, speaking of a day like this, you'd have the crochets whiffed from your head if you'd go out for your lunch in the pep of the air instead of penning yourself in the office." Mac Tavish leaped from his stool and marched toward this non-combatant. "Whaur's the fire o' yer spunk, Stewart Morrison?" "Go on, Andy!" permitted the master, leaning back in his chair. "Do ye allow such feckless loons to coom and beard ye in yer ain castle?" "Andy, if I were playing their game, as they call it, I'd say that I'm going to give 'em all a chance to lay their cards, face up, on the table. But, putting it in a way you and I understand, I'm touching a match to their goods." Mac Tavish nodded approvingly. He did understand that metaphor. A burning match will not ignite pure wool; threads of shoddy will catch fire. "Aye! The fire test o' the fabric! Well and gude! But the toe o' yer boot for 'em. Such was ca'd for when he said ye set yer ainsel' in the way for muckle profeet!" "Soft! Soft and slow, Andy," reproved the master. "There may be some truth in what he said. I'll have to stop right here and do some thinking about it! A chap gets to slamming ahead in his own line, you know. All of us ought to stop short once in a while and make a cold, calm estimate. Take account of stock! Balance the books! Discover how much of it is for ourselves, personally, and how much for the other fellow! No telling how the figures of debit and credit may surprise us!" He spun around in his swivel chair. "Lora, get Mr. Blanchard of the Conawin Mills on the 'phone, that's the girl!" "Yes, Andy, I'm going to get down to the figures in my case! I hope there's a balance in my favor--but we never can tell!" He set his elbows on his desk and clutched his hands into the hair above his temples. Mac Tavish tiptoed away. Morrison had apparently prostrated himself in the fane of figures; in the case of Mac Tavish figures were holy. "Mr. Blanchard on the 'phone, Mr. Morrison," reported Miss Bunker. Morrison put questions, quickly, emphatically, searchingly. He listened. He hung up. "Memo., Miss Bunker." He was curt. His eyes were hard. One observing his manner and hearing his tone would have realized that quarry had broken cover and that Mr. Blanchard had not been able to confuse the trail by dragging across it an anise-bag; in fact, Morrison had said so over the telephone just before he hung up. "Get me Cooper of the Waverly, Finitter of the Lorton Looms, Labarre of the Bleachery, Sprague of the Bates." He named four of the great textile operators of the river. "One after the other, as I finish with each!" After he had finished with all, pondering while he waited between calls, he strode to Mac Tavish and brought the old man around on his stool by a clap on the shoulder. "A devil of a mouser, I am! I've been sitting purring on the top and they have hollowed it out underneath me." "Eh? What?" "The cheese, Andy, the water-power cheese! They have been playing me for the cat in the case! Left me till the last, left me sitting on an empty shell! The mice have made away with the cheese from under me. They have engineered a combine! There's a syndicate a-forming! It's for me to tumble down among 'em when the shell caves. I was right about Despeaux!" "He's Auld Bartie, wi'out the horns!" "Oh no! Not as smart as Satan, Andy! But smart, nevertheless! Very smart. He has shown 'em a good thing. They're ready to run in! And the devil take the hindmost. I'm the hindmost and I'd better get a gait on." "But the company ye'll be keeping!" "You don't suppose that I'll run away from the mice instead of after 'em, do you?" "A thoct has been wi' me, Master Morrison! May I speak it?" "Out with it!" "Ye'll ne'er find a better chance to break from the kin o' Auld Cloven Cootie and mind yer ain wi' the claith business! Resign!" "It's good advice, backed up by a good excuse, Andy!" "And noo that I may speak freely," rattled on the old man, after a gasp of delight, "I can tell ye how I hae been list'nin' for yer interests till ten o' the clock each forenoon, and the dyvor loons--deil tak' it, and here cooms back one o' the waurst o' the widdifu's." It was the Hon. Calvin Dow and Morrison hurried to meet him. "Sum it short, Uncle Calvin!" "They're going to play straight politics, Stewart." "God save the state--in times like these!" "They're going to admit to seats only the Senators and Representatives who are clearly and indisputably elected by the face of the returns." "The picked and the chosen!" scoffed Morrison. "The matter of the right to take seats is going to be referred to the full bench instead of being left to the legislature--taken out of politics, they say." "Going to be put into cold storage, with all due respect to our eminent justices!" "It means the careful weighing of evidence--and the courts are obliged to move with judicial slowness, Stewart!" "And in the mean time those picked and chosen ones will elect the state officers whom the legislature has the power to name, will have the machinery to distribute all state patronage and to make the legislative committees safe for the big measures. There's no telling when the bench will hand down a decision." "No telling, Stewart!" admitted the sage. "After it has been done, it will be hard to undo it, no matter what the judges may decide as to members." "But we can't throw the law out of the window, my son! On the outside of the thing, the Big Boys on Capitol Hill are playing the game strictly according to the legal rules. The legal rules, understand! On the outside!" Dow's emphasis on certain words was significant. He put up his hand and drew Morrison's head down close to his mouth. He began to whisper. "Talk out loud, Calvin!" commanded Stewart, jerking away. "Keep in the habit of talking out loud with me! I won't even talk politics in a whisper." "It really shouldn't be talked out, not at this time," expostulated Dow, wedded to the old ways. "I have had to burrow deep for it. It ought to be saved carefully--to do business with later! To win a stroke in politics it's necessary to jump the people with a sensation!" "Try it on me! I'm one of the people. See if it will work," insisted Morrison, after the manner of his methods with Despeaux. "They propose to go according to the strict letter of the law." "Important but not sensational." Dow was plainly having hard work to keep his voice above a whisper. "Returns not properly sworn to or not attested in due form by city clerks, returns not signed in open town meeting or otherwise defective on account of strictly technical errors, no matter how plainly the intent of the voters was registered, have been finally and definitely thrown out by North and his executive council, acting as a canvassing board." "Damn'd picayune hair-splitting! Why can't they use business horse-sense?" "I'll tell you what they've used! They've used Tim Snell and Waddy Sturges and a few other safe hounds with muffled paws to run around and lug back to cities and towns deficient returns and have 'em quietly and secretly corrected where it was a case of adding a safe man to the legislature. I know that, Stewart. I know how to make some of my close friends brag to me. I know it, but I can't prove it. Clean-scrubbed are the faces of those returns. They'll show up to-morrow like the faces of the good boys on the first day at school." "That's North's idea of that game he was talking about, is it?" Morrison exploded. "I don't believe that Senator Corson knows about those dirty details, or is a party to 'em." "Well," asserted the Hon. Calvin Dow, stroking his nose contemplatively, "Jodrey and I used to cut sharp corners on two wheels of the four of the old wagon, in past times when he was a politician. But now that he's a statesman he doesn't like to be bothered by details." "Do you see any joke to this, Calvin?" demanded Morrison, not relishing the veteran's chuckle. "I can't help seeing the humor," confessed Dow, blandly. "The other, boys would be grinding the same grist if they had control of the machinery. It's only what I myself used to do." Then his face became grave. "But, confound it! in these days there seems to be an element that can't take a joke in politics. There's trouble in the air!" "Probably!" agreed Morrison, dryly. Dow walked to the window and looked out with the air of a man who wanted proof to confirm a statement. "I reckon I'll let you be informed direct from Trouble Headquarters, Stewart. Headquarters was at the Soldiers' Memorial in the park when I came past. I gathered that they were picking out a delegation to call on you. Post-Commander Lanigan of the American Legion was doing the picking. He's heading the bunch that I see coming across the street." "Resign!" barked Mac Tavish through his wicket. But the mayor of Marion did not appear to hear, nor Calvin Dow to understand. Morrison faced the door of his office. Lanigan led in his companions with the marching stride of an overseas veteran and halted them with a top-sergeant's yelp. Click o' heels and snap o' the arm! The salute made Captain Sweetsir's previous effort seem torpid by comparison. That a further comparison with Home Guard methods and morale was in Commander Lanigan's mind became promptly evident. "Your Honor the Mayor, we represent John P. Dunn Post, American Legion, and the independent young men of this city in general. May we have a word with you?" "Certainly, Mr. Commander!" In the stress of his emotions Lanigan immediately sloughed off his official air. "It's a hell of a note when a bunch of sissy slackers can keep real soldiers ten feet from the door of the city armory at the end of a bayonet." The mayor strolled over and placed a placatory palm on the shoulder of the spokesman. "What's, all the row, Joe? Let's not get excited!" "I have been away fighting for liberty and justice and I don't know what's been going on in politics at home. I don't know anything about politics." "Nor I, Joe, so let's not try to discuss 'em. What else?" "They've got three machine-guns up in our State House. What for? They are going to put in them sissy slackers--" "Let's not call names, Joe. Those boys would have followed you across if you boys hadn't been so all-fired smart that you cleaned it all up in a hurry! What else?" "Why have a gang of politicians got to barricade our State House against the people?" "Let's keep cool, Joe, my boy, and find out." "They won't let us in to find out. How are we going to find out?" "Why, I was thinking of doing something in that line--thinking about it just before you came in." Lanigan looked relieved, also a bit ashamed. "Excuse me for being pretty hot, Mr. Morrison. But the boys have been saying we couldn't depend on anybody to stand up for the people. By gad! I told 'em we'd come to you. Says I, 'All-Wool Morrison is our kind!'" "I hope the name fits the goods, Joe! Suppose you boys keep all quiet and calm for the good name of the city and let me find out how the thing stands?" He was assured of support and compliance by a chorus of voices. Lanigan trailed the chorus in solo. "Does that settle it? I'll say it does. It's up to you--the whole thing. You've given us the word of a square man! We can depend on you. And we thank you for taking the full responsibility for seeing to it that the people get theirs--and not in the neck, either!" But the mayor looked like a man who had stretched forth his hand to take a kitten and had had an elephant tossed at him. "It's a pretty big contract, that! See here, Joe--" "You're good for any contract you take on, sir! We should worry after what you promise!" He whirled on his heels. "'Bout face! Forward, march!" He followed them and turned at the door. "All the rest of the Big Ones seem to be too almighty busy to bother with the common folks to-day, sir! The Governor with his politics, the adjutant-general with his tin soldiers, and the high and mighty Senator Corson with that party he's giving to-night so as to spout socially the news that his daughter is engaged to marry a millionaire dude. Thank God, we've got a man who 'ain't taken up with anything of that sort and can put all his mind on to a square deal!" Morrison did not turn immediately to face the three persons, his familiars in the office of St. Ronan's. He clasped his hands behind him and went to the window, as if to survey the departure of the delegation. "What with one thing and another, they're loading the boy up--they're piling it on," observed Dow to Mac Tavish in sympathetic undertone. "He'll resign out o' the meeser-r-rable pother," growled Mac Tavish. "The word he just gied the gillies! It was as much as to say, 'I'll be coomin' along wi' ye from noo on.'" The old man's hankerings were helping his persistent hope, in spite of his respect for the Morrison trait of devotion to duty. "Resign, Andy! Confound it, he's only nailing his grit to the mast and planning on what end of the row to tackle first. You'll see!" Stewart walked slowly, meditating deeply, went through the opening in the rail, sat down at his desk and fumbled in a drawer and sought deeply under many papers. He brought out a book, a worn volume. Calvin Dow, daring to peer more closely than Miss Bunker or Mac Tavish had the courage to venture, noted that the place to which Morrison opened was marked by a slip of paper, a snapshot photograph. "Miss Bunker!" called the master. "A memo.!" She came with her note-book and sat at the lid of the desk, facing him. "His resignation, I tell ye," whispered Mac Tavish. "I ken the look o' detar-rmination!" "I want it typed on a narrow strip that I can slip into my pocketbook," stated Stewart. Then, to all appearances entirely unconcerned with the listening veterans, he dictated: "Meanwhile I was thinking of my first love, As I had not been thinking of aught for years. Till over my eyes there began to move Something that felt like tears." Mac Tavish bent on Dow a wild look and swapped with the old pensioner of the Morrisons a stare of amazement for one of bewildered concern. "I thought of the dress that she wore last time When we stood 'neath the cypress-tree together In that lost land, in that soft clime, In the crimson evening weather. "Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot) And her warm white neck in its golden chain, And her full, soft hair, just tied in a knot, And falling loose again. "I thought of our little quarrels and strife, And the letter that brought me back my ring. And it all seemed then, in the waste of life, Such a very little thing." The girl dabbed up her hand under pretense of fixing a lock of hair; she scrubbed away tears that were trickling. So this was it! The powwow over business and politics had not been stirring even languid interest in her. Now her emotions were rioting. Here seemed to be something worth while in the life of the master! "But I will marry my own first love With her primrose face; for old things are best. And the flower in her bosom I prize it above-- "My God!" Mac Tavish gasped. "Next he'll be playing jiggle-ma-ree wi' dollies on his desk! His wits hae gane agley!" In the horror of his discovery he flung his arms and knocked off the desk his full stock of paperweight ammunition. Then he was convinced beyond doubt that the Morrison was daft. Stewart did not even raise his eyes from the book; he kept on dictating above the clatter of the rolling weights; his intentness on the matter in hand was that of a business man putting a proposition on paper for the purpose of making it definite and cogent and clear. But Stewart's thoughts were not at all clear, he was confessing to himself; in spite of his assumed indifference, he was embarrassed by the focused stares of Dow and Mac Tavish. He wondered what sudden, devil-may-care whimsy was this that was galloping him away from business and politics and every other sane subject! He was conscious that there was in him a freakish and juvenile hankering to astonish his friends. He heard Dow say: "Oh, don't worry about the boy, Andy! We do strange things in big times! Even Nero fiddled when Rome was burning!" Stewart finished the dictation and closed the book. "Losh! I canna understand!" mourned Mac Tavish, not troubling to hush his tones. The girl hesitated, her gaze on her notes. Then she looked full into Morrison's face, all her woman's intuitive and long-repressed sympathy in her brimming eyes. "But I understand, sir!" She arose. She extended her hand and when he took it she put into her clasp of his fingers what she did not presume to say in words. "Thank you!" said Morrison. Then he left his chair and strolled across to the old men, while Miss Bunker rattled her typewriter. "It begins to look, boys, like we're going to have quite a large evening!" he remarked, sociably. IV ANSWERING THE FIRST ALARM After his dinner with his mother, Stewart went to the library-den, his own room, the habitat consecrated to the males of the Morrison menage. He was in formal garb for the reception at Senator Corson's. He removed and hung up his dress-coat and pulled on his house-jacket; he was prompted to make this precautionary change by a woolen man's innate respect for honest goods as much as he was by his desire for homely comfort when he smoked. He lighted a jimmy-pipe and marched up and down the room. He was determined to give the situation a good going-over in his mind. He had settled many a problem in that old room! He was always helped by Grandfather Angus and Father David. When he walked in one direction he was looking at the portrait of Angus on the end wall of the long narrow room; Angus bored him with eyes as hard as steel buttons and out from the close-set lips seemed to issue many an aphorism to put the grit into a man. From the opposite wall, when Morrison whirled on his heels, David looked down. David's eyes had little, softening scrolls at the corners of them; the artist had painted from life, in the case of David, and had caught the glint of humor in the eyes. The picture of Angus had been enlarged from a daguerreotype and seemed to lack some of the truly human qualities of expression. But it was a strong face, the face of a pioneer who had come into a strange land to make his way and to smooth that way for the children who were to have life made easier for them. "Tak' it! Wi' all the strength o' ye, reach oot and tak' it for yer ainsel' else ithers will gr-rasp ahead and snigger at ye!" So said Angus from the wall, whenever Stewart pondered on problems. But David, though the pictured countenance was resolute enough, always put in a shrewd and cautionary amendment, whenever Stewart came down the room, stiffened by the counsel of Angus, "Mind ye, laddie, when ye tak', that the mon wha tak's slidd'ry serpents to tussle wi' 'em, he haes nae hand to use for his ainsel' whilst the slickit beasties are alive; and a deid snake serves nae guid." That evening Stewart was distinctly getting no help from either Angus or David. They did not appear to understand his new and peculiar mood. He had been in the habit of fusing their clashing arbitraments by a humor of his own which he knew was fantastic, yet helpful according to his whimsical custom, welding their judgments twain into one dominant counsel of determination, softened by the spirit of fairness. But after he had plucked a certain slip of paper from his waistcoat pocket, squinting at it through the pipe smoke, as he walked to and fro, mumbling as if he were engaged in the task of memorizing, he ceased to look up to Angus and David for assistance. He was sure they would not know! Here were warp and woof of a fabric beyond their ken. He would not admit to himself that he understood in full measure this emotion that had come surging up in him, overwhelming and burying all the ordinarily steadfast landmarks by which he regulated his daily thoughts and actions. "I had built a dam," he muttered, using the metaphor that was natural, "and I've been thinking it was safe and sure. Whether it wasn't strong enough--whether it was undermined, I don't know. It has given way." There was a tap on the door and he hastily tucked the paper back into his pocket. He knew it was his mother, trained in the way of the Morrisons to respect the sanctuary of the family lairds when they were paying their devotions at the shrine of business. "I'm saying my gude nicht to ye, bairnie, for ye're telling me ye'll no' be hame till late," she said when he flung open the door. He copied affectionately her Scotch "braidness" of dialect when they were alone together. "No, wee mither, not till late." He stepped out into the corridor and kissed her. She patted his cheek and walked on. More of that whimsy into which he had been allowing his troubled emotions to lead him! He realized it fully! His brow wrinkled, he shook his head, but he called to her. He went to meet her when she returned. "It's like it is at the office, these days! I'm Morrison of St. Ronan's on one side o' the rail; I'm the mayor of Marion on t'other! Here in the corridor, ye're wee mither!" He put his arm about her and lifted her into the library. "Coom awa' wi' ye, noo!" he cried. He threw himself into a big chair and pulled her upon his knee. "Ye're Jeanie Mac Dougal--only a woman. I need to talk wi' a woman. I canna talk wi' Mac Tavish or sic as he. He thinks I'm daft. He said so. I canna get counsel frae grands'r or sire yon on the walls. They don't understand, Jeanie Mac Dougal. I'm in love!" "Aye! Wi' the lass o' the Corsons!" "But ye shouldna sigh when ye say it, Jeanie Mac Dougal." "A gashing guidwife sat wi' me to-day in the ben, bairnie, and said the lass brings her ain laddie wi' her frae the great town." "I tak' no gossip for my guide!" he protested. "In business I tak' my facts only frae the lips o' the one I ask. I'll do the same in love." She did not speak. "I know, Jeanie Mac Dougal! Ye canna forget ye are wee mither and it's hard for ye to be only woman richt noo. I know the kind of wife ye hae in mind for me. The patient wife, the housewife, the meek wife wi' only her een for back-and-ben, for kitchen and parlor. But I love Lana." "She promised and she took her promise back! Again she promised, and again she took it back!" The proud resentment of a mother flamed. "And I'm no' content wi' the lass who once may win my laddie's word and doesna treasure it and be thankfu' and proud for all the years to come." "Oh, I know, mither! But she was young. She must needs wonder what there was in the world outside Marion. I loved her just the same." "But noo that she is hame they tell me that her heid 'tis held perkit and her speech is high and the polished shell is o'er all." Stewart looked away from his mother's frank eyes. He was too honest to argue or dispute. "I love her just the same!" "She ca'd wi' her father at the mill this day, eh? The guidwife said as much." "Aye, in the way o' politeness!" He remembered that the politeness seemed too elaborate, too florid, altiloquent to the extent of insincerity. "To see her again is to love her the more," he insisted. "I have never been to Washington. Probably I'd be able to understand better the manners one is obliged to put on there, if I had been to Washington. I ought to have gone there on my vacation, instead of into the woods. I'm afraid I have been keeping in the woods too much!" "But did she talk high and flighty to you, bairnie?" "It meant nowt except it's the way one must talk when great folks stand near to hear. The Governor was there!" he said, lamely. "That was unco trouble to mak' for hersel' in the hearing o' that auld tyke whose tongue is as rough as his gruntle!" "Still, he's the Governor in spite of his phiz, and that shows her tact in getting on well with the dignitaries, Jeanie Mac Dougal, and you're a woman and must praise the wit of the sex. She has seen much. She has been obliged to do as the others do. But good wool is ne'er the waur for the finish of it! My faith is in her from what I know of the worth o' her in the old days. And now that she has seen, she can understand better. Yes, back here at home she'll be able to understand better. Listen, Jeanie Mac Dougal!" He fumbled in his pocket. "Here's a bit of a poem. I have loved it ever since she recited it at the festival when she was a little girl. You have forgotten--I remember! And here's one verse: "And I think, in the lives of most women and men, There's a moment when all would go smooth and even, If only the dead could find out when To come back and be forgiven." "But I would change it to read, 'If only we all could find out when,'" he proceeded. "It wasn't all her fault, mother. I was younger, then. I'm old enough now to be humble. She is home again, and I'm going to ask to be forgiven!" Then the telephone-bell called. He lifted her gently off his knee and stood up. "As to the lad who is here with his father! Gossip is playing all sorts of capers this day, wee mither! And do not be worried if gossip of another sort comes to you after I'm gone this evening. There may be matters in the city for me to attend to as mayor. If I'm not home you'll know that I'm attending to them." He went to the telephone, replied to an inquiring voice and listened intently, and then he assented with heartiness. "It's Blanchard of the Conawin Mills! He has a bit of business with me and offers to take me along with him to the reception. Tell Jock he'll not have to bother with my car!" he said, coming to her where she waited at the door. She had picked up the slip of paper which he had dropped in his haste to attend to the telephone. "I daured to peep at yer bit poem, Stewart, so that my ear might not seem to be put to o'erhearing your business discourse," she apologized, stanch in her adherence to the rules of the Morrisons. "And I'll tell ye that Jeanie Mac Dougal says aye to one sentiment I hae found in it." "Good! Read it aloud to me, that's my own girlie!" He folded his arms and shut his eyes. She read in tones that thrilled with conviction: "The world is filled with folly and sin And love must cling where it can, I say; For Beauty is easy enough to win, But one isn't loved every day." She tucked the paper into the fingers of his hand that lay lightly along his arm. He opened his eyes and gazed down into her straightforward ones. "Whoever may be the lass my bairnie loves will be honored by that love; aye, and sanctified by that love! And sic a lass will deserve from Jeanie Mac Dougal a smile at our threshold and respect in our hame." She went away. Her eyes were dim with unshed tears; but she held her chin high and trailed her bit of a train with dignity. Morrison folded the paper and put it away. He took a turn up and down the long room, confronting the portrait faces in turn. He eyed them as if he were approaching them on a matter where there now could be a better understanding than on the subject suggested by the slip of paper. "I don't know whether Blanchard ought to be kicked or coddled," he confessed. "He's a fair sample of the rest. They don't kick so often in these days, Grands'r Angus, as you did in yours. On the other hand, Daddy David, there has been too much coddling in this country, lately, by the cowardice of men who ought to know better and the coddling has continued to the hurt of all of us!" He sat down and looked at the clock; the face of that would, at least, tell him something definite: Blanchard said that he was talking from the club, around the corner, and would be along in five minutes. And Blanchard arrived on time! "I suppose I ought to be offended by what you said to me over the 'phone to-day, Morrison. I was hurt, at any rate!" "So was I!" retorted Stewart, promptly. "Hurt and offended, both! So we start from the scratch, neck and neck!" "But why do you assume that attitude on account of what I told you?" "I was obliged to put questions to you in order to get the news that you propose to hitch up with a dominating water-power syndicate!" "Only following out your proposition that we must get down to development in this state." "The development is taking care of itself, Brother Blanchard. As chairman of the water-power commission, I shall submit my report to the incoming legislature. And in that report I propose to make conservation the corollary of development." Blanchard blinked inquiringly. "What do you mean?" "Why, I mean just this! Putting it in business terms, I propose to ask for legislation that will make the public the partners of the men who handle and control the water-power." "I don't know how you're going about to do that in any sensible way," grumbled the other. "There have been a good many rumors about that forthcoming report of yours, Morrison. What's the big notion in keeping it so secret?" "I have been ordered to report to the legislature, Blanchard! I have prepared my case for that general court, and customary deference and common politeness in such matters oblige me to hold my mouth till I do report officially." "Nothing to be hidden, then?" probed the magnate. "Not a thing--not when the proper time comes!" "But we have been left guessing--and I don't like the sound of the rumors. You must expect big interests to get an anchor out to windward. There's no telling what a damphool legislature will do in case a theory is put up and there are no sensible business arguments to contradict it." "As owners of water-power, Blanchard--you and I--let's bring our business arguments into the open this year, in the committee-rooms and on the floor of the House and Senate, instead of in the buzzing-corners of the lobby or down in the hotel button-holing boudoirs! Now we'll get right down to cases! You have been leaving me out of your conferences ever since I refused to drop my coin into the usual pool to hire lobbyists. I take the stand that these times are more enlightened and that we can begin to trust the people's business to the people's general court in open sessions." Blanchard showed the heat of a man whose conscience was not entirely comfortable. "Just what is this _people_ idea that you're making so much of all of a sudden, Morrison? People as partners, people as judges--people--people--" Blanchard hitched over the word wrathfully. "People be damned?" inquired Stewart, with a provocative grin. "There's too much of this soviet gabble loose these days. It all leads to the same thing, and you've got to choke it for the good of this government!" "Right you are to a big extent, Blanchard! But just now we are talking of a vital problem in our own state and it has nothing to do with sovietism." "But you spoke of making the people our partners!" "I merely put the matter to you in a nutshell, for we'll need to be moving on pretty quick!" He glanced at the clock. He threw off his jacket and pulled on his coat. "Partners how?" "It will be explained in my official report, as chairman of the power and storage commission." "I don't relish the rumors about what that report is likely to recommend." "Rumors are prevalent, are they?" "Prevalent, Morrison, and devilish pointed, too!" "I suppose that's why the old horned stags of the lobby are whetting their antlers," surmised Morrison, giving piquant emphasis to his remark by a gesture toward a caribou head, a trophy of his vacation chase. "I have heard a rumor, too, Blanchard. Are they going to introduce legislation to abolish my commission and turn the whole water-power matter over to the public utilities commission?" Blanchard flushed and said he knew nothing about any such move. "I'm sorry that syndicate isn't taking you into their confidence," sympathized Morrison. "I know just how you feel. The boys who ought to train with me are not taking me into their conferences, either!" "You spoke of coming down to cases!" snapped Blanchard, his uneasy conscience getting behind the mask of temper. "I don't ask you to reveal any official report. But can you tell me what this 'people-partners' thing is?" "I can, Blanchard, because it isn't anything that is specifically a part of the report. It's principle, and principle belongs in everything. I merely apply it to the case of water-power in this state." He went close to his caller and beamed down on him in a sociable manner. "I rather questioned my own good taste and the propriety of my effort to get on to the commission and be made its chairman. As an owner of power and of an important franchise I might be considered a prejudiced party. But I hoped I had established a bit of a reputation for square-dealing in business and I wanted to feel that my own kind were in touch with me and would have faith that I was working hard for all interests. You and I can both join in damning these demagogues and radicals and visionaries and Bolshevists. We must be practical even when we're progressive, Blanchard." "Now you're talking sense!" "I hope so!" But his next statement, made while the millman glared and muttered oaths, fell far short of sanity in Blanchard's estimation. "I'm fully convinced that one of the inalienable rights of the people is ownership of water-power. We franchise-proprietors ought to content ourselves with being custodians, managers, lessees of that power that comes from the lakes that God alone owns." "Are you putting that notion in your confounded report?" "I am." "Are you sticking in something about confiscating the coal and the oil and the iron and--" "Oh no!" broke in Morrison, calm in the face of fury. "Those particular packages all seem to be nicely tied up and laid on the shelf out of the people's reach. And whether they are or not is not my concern now. I'm only a little fellow up here in a small puddle, Brother Blanchard. I'm not undertaking the reorganization of the world. I'll say frankly that I don't know just what kind of legislation in regard to the already developed water-power in this state can be passed and be made constitutional. But now when coal is scarcer and high, or monopolized, at any rate, to make it high and scarce in the market, the exploiters are turning to water-power possibilities with hearty hankering, and the people are turning with hope." "I'm afraid I'm getting hunks out of that report of yours, ahead of official time." "You're getting the principle underlying it--and you're welcome." "Morrison, the idea that the people have any overhead right and ownership in franchise-granted and privately developed water-power is ridiculous and dangerous nonsense." "It does sound a bit that way, considering the fact that the people of this state have never even taxed water-power, as such. The ideas of the fathers, who gave away the power for nothing, seem to have come down to the sons, who haven't even woke up to the fact that it's worth taxing--yes, Blanchard, taxing even to the extent that the people will get enough profits from the taxation to make 'em virtual partners! And as to the millions of horse-power yet to be developed, let the profits be called lease-money instead of taxation. Then we'll be going on a business basis without having the matter everlastingly muddled and mixed and lobbied in politics!" Blanchard knew inflexibility when he saw it; and he knew Stewart Morrison when it came to matters of business. He did not attempt argument. "Well, I'll be good and cahootedly condemned!" he exploded. "No, you'll be helped and I'll be helped by putting this on a business basis where the radicals, if they grab off more political power, won't be able to rip it up by crazy methods; the radicals don't know when to stop when they get to reforming." "Radicals! Confound it, it looks to me as if we had one of 'em at the head of that power commission! Morrison, have you turned Bolshevik?" "My friend," expostulated Stewart, gently, "when you opposed the principle of prohibition the fanatics called you 'Rummy.' The name hurt your feelings." "They had no right to impugn my motives!" "Certainly not! It's all wrong to try to turn a trick by sticking a slurring name on to conscientiousness." "You're turning around and hammering your friends and associates, no matter what name you put on it." "It has always been considered perfectly proper to lobby for the big interests in this state for pay! Why shouldn't I lobby for the people for nothing?" "You and I are the people! The business men are the people. The enterprising capitalists who pay wages are the people. The people are--" He halted; the telephone-bell had broken in on him. Morrison apologized with a smile and answered the call. He sprawled in his chair, his elbow on the table, and listened for a few moments. "But don't stutter so, Joe!" he adjured. "Take your time, now, boy! Say it again!" He attended patiently on the speaker. "They won't take your word on the matter, you say? Why, Joe, that's not courteous in the case of an American Legion commander! Hold on! I can't come down there! I have to attend the reception at Senator Corson's." He listened again to what was evidently expostulation and entreaty, and, while he listened, he gazed at the sullen Blanchard with an expression of mock despair. "Joe, just a word for myself," he broke in. "I'm afraid you have pledged me a little too strongly. You went off half cocked this afternoon! Oh no! I don't take it back. I'm not a quitter to that extent. But I really didn't undertake to run the whole state government, you know! Those folks up on Capitol Hill don't need my advice, they think!" With patience unabated he listened again. "If it's that way, Joe, I'll have to come down. I'll certainly never put an honest chap in bad or leave him in wrong, when a word can straighten the thing. Hold 'em there! I'll be right along!" He hung up. "As I was saying," persisted Blanchard, "the people--" Morrison put up his hand and shook his head. "I guess we'd better hang up the joint debate on the people right here, Blanchard! What say if you come along with me and pick up a few facts? The facts may give you a new light on your theories." He hastened to a closet and secured his top-coat and his silk hat. "Come where?" "Down to the Central Labor Union hall. There's a big crowd waiting there." Blanchard surveyed his own evening apparel in a mirror. "I'm headed for a reception--not the kind I'd get as the head of the Conawin corporation from a labor crowd." "Nevertheless, I urge you to come with me. I believe that a little contact with the people in this instance will clear your thoughts." "Another one of your riddles!" snorted the manufacturer. "What's it all about?" "Blanchard," declared Morrison, setting his jaws grimly while he pondered for a moment and then coming out explosively, "it's about what we may expect from the people when damned fools try to play politics according to the old rules in these new times. It's about what we may expect of the people when they're denied a showdown by men at the head of public affairs. There's trouble brewing in the city of Marion to-night. What would you do if you happened to glance out of your office window and saw a leak spurting big as a lead-pencil from the base of the Conawin dam? You'd know the leak would be as big as a hogshead in a few minutes, wouldn't you?" "Yes!" admitted the other. "You'd get to that leak and plug it mighty quick, wouldn't you?" "No need to ask!" "Well, this is a hurry call and I need your help." "I don't stand in well with the labor crowd--" demurred Blanchard. "I know all that! You're hiring too many aliens and Red radicals in your mill! But you ought to have some influence with your own gang, such as they are! I suspect that they're the leading trouble-makers down in that hall. Blanchard, if you're not afraid of your own men, come along!" He clapped the millman on the shoulder and led the way toward the door. "If there are scalawags starting that 'state steal' howl again somebody ought to tell 'em that there are three machine-guns and plenty of loaded rifles on Capitol Hill to-night, and the men behind 'em propose to shoot to kill," stated Blanchard, vengefully, shaking his silk hat. Morrison whirled on him. "You're just the man to go down there and tell 'em so! You probably have inside information. All I know is hearsay! I'll advise 'em and you threaten 'em. Come along, Blanchard! We'll make a good team!" V THE MEN WHO WERE WAITING TO BE SHOWN While Commander Lanigan talked with the mayor from a telephone-booth in a drug-store under Central Labor Union hall, Post-Adjutant Demeter stood with his nose pressed against the glass door, waiting anxiously. Lanigan pushed open the door with one hand while he hung up the receiver with the other, and by his precipitate exit nigh bowled his adjutant over; Mr. Lanigan, it was plain to be seen, was wound up tightly that evening and his mainspring was operating him by jumps. "He's the boy! He's coming! Tell the world so! And I'll go back up-stairs and tell them blistered sons o' seefo that there are such things as truth and a bar o' soap in this country, spite o' the fact they have never used either one!" Demeter followed his commander into the street. In spite of his haste, Lanigan was halted; he gazed up into the heavens, his breath streaming on the crackly-cold air. The skies were blazing with shuttlings of lambent flame. From nadir to zenith the mystic light shivered and sheeted. Never had Lanigan beheld a more vivid display of the phenomenon of the aurora borealis. He seemed to be waiting for something. He sighed and shook his head. "Peter, my heart jumped at first glimpse! 'Tis like the flash of the Argonne big guns! Thank God, the thunder of 'em isn't following!" "Yes, thank God!" murmured Demeter, his soul in his tones! They stood there for a few minutes, shoulder to shoulder, the contact of arm with arm serving for an exchange of thoughts between those veterans in a silence that would have been profaned by words. The phantasmagoria overhead was shifting infinitely and rapidly; there were flashes that seemed to presage a thunderous roar of an explosion and were more bodeful because the hush aloft in the heavenly spaces remained unbroken; then the filaments and streamers of light made one mighty oriflamme across the skies, an expanse of woven hues, wavering and lashing as if a great wind were threshing across the main fabric and flinging its attendant bannerets. "It's in the air; it's in the nerves! It puts hell into a man, doesn't it, Peter?" "Yes!" "It was in that telephone back there! It crackled and snapped! A lot of it may be in those poor fools up in that hall--and they ain't knowing what the matter is with 'em! You and I have been over in the Big Bow-wow, boy, and we have had some good lessons in how to handle rattled nerves. I guess it's up to us to hold things steady, as experts. Soothe 'em and smooth 'em! It was All-Wool Morrison's lesson to me to-day! Soft and careful with 'em, seeing that they're full of what's in the air this night, and don't know just what ails 'em!" He lowered his gaze from the skies. A man was passing on his way toward the door of the hall. Lanigan had just laid down a general rule of diplomatic conduct for the evening, but he made a prompt exception. He leaped on the man, struggled with him for a moment, and yanked off a red necktie, taking with it the man's collar and a part of his shirt, "But some stuff that they're full of can't be smoothed out--it's got to be whaled out!" panted Lanigan. He did not release his captive. "The nerve o' ye, parading your red wattles on a night like this, ye Tom Gobbler of a Bullshevist!" "I have the right to pick the color of my own necktie!" snarled the man. "Not for the reason why you picked it! Not to wear it up into that hall, my bucko boy!" When the man expostulated with oaths, Lanigan tripped him and held him on the sidewalk. "Hush your yawp! You can't fool me about your taste in ties! I know what's behind that color like I'd know what's behind an Orangeman's yellow! I don't need to wait for him to hooray for the battle o' the Boyne ere I get my brick ready! Peter, frisk his pockets!" Demeter obeyed. A crowd was collecting. Through the press rushed a young man. "Need help, Commander?" "Only keep your eye peeled to see that another Bullshevist don't sneak up and kick me from behind, after the like o' the breed!" Demeter's exploration produced a bulldog revolver, a slungshot, a packet of pamphlets, and several small red flags. "What's your name?" demanded the commander. "No business of yours!" Lanigan kneeled on the captive and roweled cruel thumbs into the man's neck. "Out with it before I dig deeper for it." "Nicolai Krylovensky!" "I knew it must be bad, but I didn't think it was as bad as that! I don't blame ye for trying to keep it mum! And ye look as though it tasted bitter coming up. I'll not poison me own mouth." He stood up and yanked the man to his feet. "So I'll call ye Bill the Bomber! Where do ye work, or don't ye work?" "Conawin!" "I thought so! One of that bunch down there that's trying to undermine the best government on the face of the earth. Come along! I've got a bit o' business on hand right now and I need you in it." Then he turned, pushing the man ahead of him. Lanigan became aware that the young fellow who had proffered aid was muttering in a derogatory fashion. "What's on your mind, Jeff?" demanded the commander, recognizing a member of the post. "Nothing!" "I'm in an inquiring turn o' mind right now," rasped Lanigan. "And ye have just seen me go after information. I heard ye damning something. Ye'd best make me understand that you wasn't damning _me_!" "I sure wasn't, sir! But as for this government being the best, I want to say--" Lanigan's yelp broke in like an explosion. "Hold this Bullshevist, Peter! I want both hands free!" "I wasn't saying anything against our government, Commander Lanigan! Not a word!" wailed the overseas man. "So help me!" "I'm in a soothing frame of mind this night," returned the ex-sergeant. "I have been having some good lessons in soothing from the mayor of Marion, God bless him! I was nigh making a fool of myself till he showed me that the soothing way is the best way. And I shall keep right on soothing. But this is a night when the plain truth and the word of man-to-man have got to operate to prevent trouble! And I want the truth out o' ye, Jeff Tolson, or else ye'll be calling for toast, well soaked, in the hospital in the morning!" "I went up to one of them sissy slackers--" "Mind the kind of a name ye stick on to a soldier of the government! Do ye see who's listening?" He grabbed his prisoner again and shook him. "Be careful of what you say as an American citizen in the hearing of rats like this, Tolson! It encourages 'em. They think we mean it. Get the bile out of your system in a strictly family fuss! Spit out a lot you don't mean, if it's going to make you feel better! But first slam down the windows so that the outsiders can't overhear. I'll see you later!" "But I want you to get me right, Commander," Tolson pleaded. "I went up to one of the boys to show him how to hold his gun and he banged me with the butt of it!" "He did!" Lanigan clicked his teeth and showed that he was having hard work to control his own resentment. "I was only trying to be helpful. I tried to take his gun and show him. And he insulted an overseas veteran!" Lanigan had himself in hand again. "Tried to take away his gun, you say! You in civics and he in uniform and on duty! Jeff, if it's that hard to wake up and know that you're no longer a soldier, I reckon your wrist-watch is acting too much like a reminder-string around a Jane's finger! Better hang it from the end of your nose. It's a wonder he didn't give you the bayonet!" "The butt was aplenty, sir!" "I can stand it better to be banged on the knob by a gun-butt by a good American than batted in the eye by this color on a Bullshevist!" asserted Lanigan, waving the red necktie that he still retained in his clutch. He gave the owner of it another push. "Along with you, Bill the Bomber." Tolson trailed. "But what are they trying to do up on Capitol Hill, sir? What does it all mean?" "I don't know," confessed the commander. He drove his way through the bystanders. "You see, boys, I have started in along the way of telling the truth to-night. So I own up that I don't know! We're going to find out what it means!" He kept on toward the door of the hall with his prisoner. "I've arranged to have a man come down here and tell us what it means and tell us how to act." "Well, he'll know more than anybody else I have tackled on the subject to-night," said Tolson, sourly. "He's a wonder, if he does know!" "He's All-Wool Morrison--and that's your answer, buddie," retorted Lanigan. And that answer did seem to suffice for Tolson. There were many men on the stairs leading up to the hall, and the elbowing throng at the door of the auditorium furnished further evidence of the overflowing nature of the gathering. "Gangway!" commanded Lanigan at the top of his voice. "Make way, there! I'm bringing something straight in my mouth and something crooked in my mit, and neither one of 'em will ye have till free passage is made to the platform." The crowd's curiosity served effectively to clear that passage. Lanigan's captive went along, sullenly unresisting. There was no opportunity for rebellion in that mob that opened a narrow passage grudgingly, only to pack together again in a solid mass. But certain men whom Krylovensky passed or men who caught his eye by swift motions spat whispers at him in a language that Lanigan did not understand. "Is it three cheers that your brother rattlesnakes are giving ye in the natural hissing way of 'em?" inquired the captor. "They're a fine bunch!" With his hand twisted tightly into the slack of the man's coat and the torn shirt, the ex-sergeant forced the prisoner up the short stairs that conducted to the platform; Demeter followed. Tobacco smoke streamed up in whirls from the banked faces that filled the hall from side to side, and the eddying clouds floated in strata above the rows of heads. Lanigan peered sternly at the crowd through the haze. "Here I am back! And I'm thanking the good saints for the few mouthfuls of fresh air I got outside and the news I got, and for this here I found and fetched along. I need him. I was on a jury once, in a murder case, and they had the tool that done the job and the lawyers tagged it Exhibit A. This is it! He's got a name, but if I tried to say it, it would cramp my jaws and hold my mouth open so long that I'd get assifixiated with this smoke. This is Bill the Bomber! Demeter, hold up the goods we found on him!" The post-adjutant obeyed the order. "Now, Bill the Bomber," demanded Lanigan, "tell me and the bunch what's the big idea of the arsenal, in a peaceful American city?" "Is it peaceful?" screamed the captive, at bay. "There are soldiers marching with guns. There are men threatening and cursing! There are--" "Hold right on--right where you are! Are you naturalized?" "No!" "Well, let me tell you, you red-gilled Bullshevist, that till you're a voting American citizen, our private and personal and strictly family rows are none of your damn' business! All American citizens kindly applaud!" He was answered by cheers, stamping feet, and clapping hands. "Contrary-minded?" he invited in the silence that followed. "Hiss a few hisses, you snakes!" he urged. "Or show those red flags you're carrying in your pockets!" There was no demonstration, either by act or by word. Lanigan pushed his captive to the rear of the platform and jolted him down into a chair behind which, on the wall, was draped a large United States flag. "Set there and see if you can't absorb a little of the white and blue into your system, along with the red that's already there," counseled the patriot. "You're going to hear some man-talk in a little while, and I hope 'twill do you good!" A man in the audience rose to his feet when Lanigan marched back to the front of the rostrum. "I am a voter here, yet I was born in another country. Will you allow me to ask a question, Commander Lanigan?" "Sure! But let's start even on names. What's yours?" "Otto Weisner!" Lanigan made a grimace. "But even at that I'm going to keep my word and I call on all present to back me up." "See here!" bawled a voice from a far corner. "Let that Hun wait! How about your word to us in another matter? Where's the mayor of Marion?" "The mayor of Marion is on his way to this hall!" The soldier's face was set into a grim expression and deep ridges lined his jaws. "I gave you all once to-night his word to me that he'd stand up for us on Capitol Hill, whatever it is they're trying to put over. I got the hoot from you when I said it. You wouldn't take my word and I just told him so. Now he's coming down here for himself! I say it. If some gent would like to hoot another hoot on that subject will he kindly step up here and hoot?" He doubled his fists. There was no indication that anybody wanted to accept the invitation. "Very well, then!" proceeded Lanigan. "I'm in a soothing frame of mind, myself, and I hope you're all soothed, too. And so that we won't be wasting any time on a busy evening I'll state that the meeting is now open for that question, Mister Weisner. Shoot!" VI THE MAN'S WORD OF THE MAYOR OF MARION Commander Lanigan had constituted himself the presiding officer of the assemblage that had been gathered under no special auspices and by no formal call. It was a flocking together of those uneasy persons who had been informing one another that they wanted to be shown! Mr. Lanigan's unconventional methods in the chair were tolerated because he had displayed much alacrity in putting the mob in the way of securing information from such high authority as the mayor of Marion. Chairman Lanigan's compelling methods in pumping this time-filler kept up the interest of the auditors. "I belong to der Socialist party," stated Weisner. "We don't want no Boche speeches!" warned a voice. In his absorption in affairs, Lanigan was still hanging on to the captured red necktie. He noted that fact and held the danger signal aloft. "I don't approve of this color at this time," he remarked. "But when I have seen it waved in times past I have known that it meant a blast going off or a train coming on, and I have never taken foolish chances. Does the objecting gent down there in the corner need any further instruction from here, or shall I come down and whisper in his ear?" Silence assured him and again he ordered Mr. Weisner to ask his question. The querist ceased from showing deference to the volunteer in the chair; Weisner turned his back on Lanigan and addressed all in hearing, shaking his fist over his head: "Who tells me dis vhat I don'd know? Does Karl Trimbach his seat haf in der State House vhere der Socialists haf elected him?" "If he has been elected, sure he'll have his seat," declared Lanigan, loyally. "That's the way we do things in this country! Why shouldn't he have his seat?" "Den vhere--vhere is dot zertificate dot should show to Karl Trimbach dot he shall valk into der State House und sit on his seat? He don't get it. Why don'd dey send it?" Weisner bellowed his questions. He threshed his arms wildly about him. "This is no time to be starting anything, Weisner! Don't stand there and be a Dutch windmill--be an American citizen! Soothe yourself!" Another gentleman arose. He was distinctly Hibernian. He wore an obtrusive ribbon-knot of green, white, and yellow, the colors of the flag of the Irish Republic. "Lanigan, ye may not be able to reply satisfact'rily to th' questions o' the sour-krauters, but when I ask ye whether or not the Hon'rable Danyel O'Donnell, riprisent'thive-ilict, put in that high office be th' votes o' th' Marion pathrits of a free Ireland, takes his sate, what does th' blood o' yer race say to me?" Lanigan blinked and hesitated. He felt the sudden Celtic surging of a natural impulse to run with his kind, to swing the cudgel valiantly for the cause, and to ask questions after the shindy was over. "You know th' principles o' th' Hon'rable O'Donnell," insisted the speaker in loud tones. "Tis his intint to raise his voice in th' halls o' state and shout ear-rly and late, 'Whativer it is ye're about, gents, it all may be very well, but what will ye be doing for the cause o' free Ireland?' That's th' kind of a hero we're putting in th' State House en the hill." "Putting a pest there, ye mean!" returned Lanigan. "Is that the blood o' yer race speaking?" "No, it's the common sense up here," declared the commander, tapping his knuckles against the side of his head. "Look, here, Mulcahy, my man! You're spouting about a subject that's too big for me to understand or you to explain. And that's why you're muddling yourself and mixing up the minds of others with your questions. I ask you no questions. I'm going to tell you something--and it's so! If the kids in your family was down with the measles, and the missus was all snarled up with the tickdoolooroo and you wasn't feeling none too well yourself, what with a hold-over, a black eye, and a lot o' bumps, what would you--Hold on! I say, I ask no questions! I know the answer. If Tommy O'Rourke came howling and whooping into your back door and asked you to go out and shin up a tree and fetch down his tomcat, ye'd tell Tommy to bounce along and mind his own matters till ye'd settled your own--and if he didn't go you'd kick him out." "I'm discussing th' rights and wrongs of a suffering people." "And playing safe for yourself because the subject is so big--and putting others in wrong because they can't settle all the troubles of the universe offhand to suit ye! My family is America, Mulcahy! It ought to be yours, first, last, and all the time. But we've got our own aches to mind, right now! And the way I'm putting it, a plain man can understand. If the tomcat don't know enough to come down all by himself, leave him be up there till the doctor tells us we can be out and about." Weisner put his demand again and Mulcahy made the affair a vociferous duet; other men were on their feet, shouting. But a top sergeant has a voice of his own and a manner to go with the voice: Lanigan yelled the chorus into silence. While he was engaged in this undertaking a diversion at the door assisted him. The crowd parted. Men shouted, pleading, "Make way for the mayor!" Morrison came up the aisle toward the platform, Blanchard at his heels. There were cheers--plenty of them! But sibilantly, steadily, ominously the derogatory hisses were threaded with the frank clamor of welcome; hisses whose sources were concealed. The mayor ran up the steps of the platform and marched to Lanigan, doffing the silk hat and extending his hand cordially. With his forearm the commander scrubbed off the sweat that was streaming down into his eyes. "It's been like hauling a seventy-five into action with mules, Your Honor! For the love o' Mike, shoot!" The hisses continued along with the applause when Stewart faced the throng. Lanigan leaped off the platform, not bothering with the stairs. "I'm going to wade through this grass," he yelped. "God pity the rattlesnake I locate!" A shrill voice from somewhere dared to taunt, "Pipe the dude!" Morrison smiled. He had unbuttoned his top-coat, and his evening garb, in that congress of the rough and ready, made him as conspicuous as a bird of paradise in a rookery. "I seem to be double-crossed by my scenic effects, Blanchard," he stated in an aside to the magnate, who had stepped upon the platform because that elevation seemed safer than a position on the floor. "We must fix that! Furthermore, it's hot up here!" He pulled off his top-coat. He realized that the full display of his formal dress only aggravated the situation. In St. Ronan's mill he mingled with men in his shirt-sleeves. He turned and saw Nicolai Krylovensky in the chair where Lanigan had thrust him. There was no other chair on the platform. Stewart hastily laid the coat across the alien's knees. "Keep 'em out of the dirt for me, will you, brother? I'm notional about good cloth!" He pushed his silk hat into the man's hand and then he stripped off the claw-hammer and white waistcoat, piled them upon the overcoat; and whirled to face his audience. All eyes were engaged with the mayor. Krylovensky, unobserved, let the garments slip to the floor and dropped the hat. "Now, boys, we'll get down to business together in an understanding way! What's it all about?" Stewart invited, cheerily. "Just a minute!" cried Lanigan, heading off all the possibilities that were threatening by a general powwow. "I've just been up against the bunch here, Mister Mayor, and they're trying to turn it into a congress-of-nations debate, and it ain't nothing of the kind. And I know you're in a hurry, and we don't expect a speech!" "You won't get one!" retorted the mayor, tartly. "I have dropped down here merely in a business way to find out what's wanted of me as the executive head of this city." "Your Honor, I have been preaching the notion of telling the truth to-night, and I'm going to come across with something about myself," confessed Lanigan, manfully. "I've gone off half cocked twice to-day. I've been thinking it over and I realize it. In your office I grabbed in on a word or two you said and took it for granted that you were going to lift the whole load of the people's case up at the State House and stop anything being put over on the people, whatever it is the Big Boys are planning. But you didn't promise me to do it." "I did not, Joe!" "And I've been telling this gang that you did promise me and that I'd get you down here to back up my word. I don't ask you to back up my lie. You're too square a proposition, Mayor Morrison!" "After that man-talk, Joe, I've just naturally got to make a little of my own. And the boys can't help seeing that both you and I mean all right. I did give you good reasons for jumping at conclusions as you say you did, Joe! Understand that, boys! But my head isn't swelled to the extent that I believe I can settle everything. "Now that I'm down here I'll say this. I'll do everything I can, as mayor of Marion, to straighten things out to-night so that the people won't be left guessing. Guessing starts gabble and gabble starts trouble! Don't do any more shouting about 'state steal,' and don't allow others to shout. Most of us don't know what it means, anyway, and others don't care, so long as it gives 'em a chance to stir up riots and grab off something for themselves under cover of the trouble. There are a lot of outsiders in this country, standing ready to make just such plays! Don't let your ears be scruffed by mischief-makers, boys. Let's have our city come through with a clean name! I'm going to do my part as best I can. But you've all got to do yours--understand that!" He smacked his fist down into his palm. "Do you bromise me dot Karl Trimbach gets dot seat?" boomed Mr. Weisner. "The same question goes as to th' Hon'rable Danyel O'Donnell," said Adherent Mulcahy. "I cannot promise." Then sounded that voice of the unknown troublemaker, sneeringly shrill, the senseless, passion-provoking common, human fife of the mob spirit, persistently present and consistently cowardly in concealment. "Of course you don't promise anything to the people! Dudes stand together! Go back and dance!" Lanigan began to claw a passage for himself. "Stand where you are, Joe!" commanded Stewart. "Don't flatter a fool by making any account of him!" "Those kinds of fools are going to make trouble in this city before the night is over, Your Honor!" "That's the trouble with politics," declared Mulcahy. "Ye can't get a square promise in politics fr'm th' Big Boys!" Morrison put up a monitory forefinger. "But you can get a square promise from me in business--and I can see that it's time to give that promise and make it specific. That's the way a business contract must be drawn. Hear me, then! It's the business of this city to see that no man abuses its good name or its hospitality, no matter whether he's a resident or comes here because it's the capital of the state. And I'll see to it that the men up at the State House end understand that they must play fair for the good of all of us. You must understand the same at this end. I'll take no sides in politics. The men who are entitled to their seats in this legislature will have those seats. I'm only one man, boys! But one man who is perfectly honest and is depending on the right will find the whole law of the land behind him--and wise men and good men have attended to the law. Will you take my word and let it stand that way between us?" A chorused yell of assent greeted him. "All right! It's a contract! Mind your end of it!" He turned sharply from them and faced Krylovensky. The alien leaped up and kicked the mayor's garments to one side. "Say! See here, my friend!" expostulated Stewart. "Down with rulers!" screamed the man. "I'll be a martyr, but not a hat-rack!" The mayor walked toward the frantic person. "I'm sorry! I was thoughtless!" "You and your kind think of nothing but yourselves. You try to make slaves of free citizens of the world!" Krylovensky had been buffeted and had controlled himself. But the fires of his narrow fanaticism were now whirling in his brain; sitting there on high before the eyes of his fellows, the men to whom he had been preaching the doctrines of soviet sovereignty--the supremacy of the people--he had just suffered what his distorted views held as the enormity of ignominy; he had been used as a clothes-tree for discarded garments. Used by a ruler! When Morrison, not realizing that the man had become little short of a maniac, stooped to pick up the garments Krylovensky dove forward and struck the mayor's face with open hand. "Now throw me to your dogs! I'll die a martyr to my cause!" he squalled. The mayor snapped upright and laid restraining hands on the man who was threatening him with doubled fists. A roaring mob came milling toward the platform. "I'll be a martyr!" insisted the alien. "I can't humor you to that extent," replied Morrison, in the tone of a father denying indulgence in the case of a wilful child. He got between the man and the mob. He held Krylovensky from him with one hand and put up the other protestingly, authoritatively. "No man that's a real man lets another man bang him in the face," declared Lanigan with fury. "That's a nice point, to be argued later by us when things are quieter, Joe. Stand back!" "I'm going to kill him even if you haven't got the grit to do it." Lanigan was showing the bitter disappointment of a worshiper kicking among the fragments of a shattered idol. "I won't allow you to do that, Joe! A dead man can't answer questions. Stand back, all of you, I say!" He twisted the grip of his hand in the man's collar until Krylovensky ceased his struggles. "Do you work in this city?" asked the mayor. "He works in the Conawin," shouted Lanigan. "And I shook him down this evening for a gun, a knob-knocker, and a lot of red flags." Blanchard was backed against the big Stars and Stripes, apprehensively seeking refuge from the crowd massing on the platform. Morrison caught his eye. "Seems to be one of your patriots, Blanchard! Shall I hand him over to you?" "I never saw the renegade before." "I'm sorry you don't get into your mill the way I do into mine. I'd like to know something about this gentleman who doesn't show any inclination to speak for himself." "I'm not afraid to speak," declared the captive, all cautiousness burned out of him by the fires of his martyr zeal. "I'm an ambassador of the grand and good Soviet Government of Russia." The mayor preserved his serenity. "Ah, I think I understand! One of the estimable gentlemen who have been coming to us by the way of the Mexican border of late! When you picked up such a good command of our language, my friend, it's too bad you didn't pick up a better understanding of our country. I haven't any time just now to give you an idea of it, sir. I'll have a talk with you to-morrow." The mayor had seen Officer Rellihan at the door of the hall. As a satellite, Rellihan was constant in his attendance on his controlling luminary in public places, even though the luminary issued no special orders to that effect; Morrison's intended visit to the hall had been quickly advertised down-town. Stewart glanced about him and found Rellihan at his elbow. "Here's the honorable ambassador of Soviet Russia, Rellihan," said his chief. "Take him along with you, keep harm from him on the way, and see that he is well lodged for the night in a place where enemies can't get at him." "I know just the right place, Your Honor," stated the policeman, pulling his club from his belt and waving it to part the throng. Morrison broke in upon Lanigan's mumbled threats. "Mind your manners, Joe!" "But he hit you!" The mayor picked up his garments, one by one, inspected them, and dusted them with his palm; then he pulled them on. The crowd gazed at him. "He hit you!" Lanigan insisted, bellicosely. "When a man hits me, I lick him!" "You're a good fighter, Joe," agreed His Honor, running his forearm about his silk hat to smooth the nap. "But let me tell you something! Unless you put yourself in better shape there'll be a fellow some day that you'll want to lick, and you won't be able to lick him, and you'll be almighty sorry because you can't turn the trick." "Show me the feller, Mister Mayor!" "Go look in the glass, Joe." "Lick myself--is that what you mean, sir?" "Sure! If you can do it when it ought to be done, you'll have the right to feel rather proud of yourself." He invited Blanchard with a side wag of his head and led the way from the hall. "Morrison, let me say this," blurted the mill magnate, when they were on their way in the limousine. "By reason of this people-side-partner notion of yours, you have gone to work and got yourself into an infernal fix. How do you expect to make good that promise?" "I suppose I did sound rather boastful, but I had to put it strong. A mealy-mouthed promise wouldn't hold them in line!" "But that promise only encourages such muckers in the belief that they have a right to demand, to boss their betters, to call for accountings and concessions. You have put the devil into 'em!" "I hope not! Faith in a contract--that's what I tried to put into 'em. They'll wait and let me operate!" "Operate! You're one man against the whole state government and you're defying single-handed the political powers! You can't deliver the goods! That gang down-town will wait about so long and then 'twill be hell to pay to-night!" Morrison had found his pipe in his overcoat pocket. He was soothing himself with a smoke on the way toward the Corson mansion. "But why worry so much when the night is still young?" he queried, placidly. VII THE THIN CRUST OVER BOILING LAVA Senator Corson, at the head of the receiving-line, attended strictly to the task in hand as an urbane and assiduous host. Wonted by long political usage to estimate everything on the basis of votes for and against, he was entirely convinced, by the face of the returns that evening, that the reception he was tendering was a grand success, unanimously indorsed; he would have been immensely surprised to learn that under his roof there was a bitterly incensed, furiously resentful minority that was voting "No!" The "Yes!" was by the applausive, open, _viva voce_ vote of all those who filed past him and shook his hand and thronged along toward the buffet that was operated in _de luxe_ style by a metropolitan caterer's corps of servants. The Senator's mansion was spacious and luxuriously appointed, and the millions from the products of his timber-land barony were lavishly behind his hospitality. Consoled by the knowledge that Corson could well afford the treat, his guests, after that well-understood quality in human nature, relished the hospitality more keenly. At the buffet all the plates were piled high. In the smoking-room men took handfuls of the Senator's cigars from the boxes. And the pleasantry connected with Governor Lawrence North's custom in campaigning was frequently heard. It was related of North that he always thriftily passed his cigars by his own hand and counseled the recipient: "Help yourself! Take all you want! Take two!" The guests adopted the comfortable attitude that Corson had dropped down home to Marion to pay a debt which he owed to his constituents, and they all jumped in with alacrity to help him pay it. While the orchestra played and the ware of the buffet clattered, the joyous voices of the overwhelming majority gave Senator Corson to understand that he was the idol of his people and the prop of the state. The minority kept her mouth closed and her teeth were set hard. The minority was racked by agony that extended from finger-tips to shoulder. The minority was distinctly groggy. This minority was compassed in the person of a single young and handsome matron who was Mrs. J. Warren Stanton in her home city Blue Book, and Doris in the family register of Father Silas Daunt, and "Dorrie" in the good graces of Brother Coventry Daunt. In addition she was the close friend, the social mentor, the volunteer chaperon for Lana Corson, whose mother had become voicelessly and meekly the mistress of the Corson mausoleum, as she had been meekly and unobtrusively the mistress of the Corson mansion. Miss Lana had suddenly observed warning symptoms in the case of Mrs. Stanton. Mrs. Stanton, according to a solicitous friend's best judgment, was no longer assisting in the receiving-line; Mrs. Stanton needed assistance! Therefore, sooner than the social code might have permitted in an affair of more rigorously formal character, Lana left the receiving job to her father and the Governor and the aides, and rescued Mrs. Stanton and accompanied the young matron to the sanctuary of a boudoir above-stairs. Mrs. Stanton extended to the tender touch of her maid a wilted hand, lifted by a stiffened arm, the raising of which pumped a groan from the lady. The white glove which incased the hand and arm was smutched liberally in telltale fashion. "Pull it off, Hibbert! But careful! Don't pull off my fingers unless they are very loose and beyond hope. But hurry! Let me know the worst as soon as possible." "I realize that the reception--" began Lana. "Reception!" Mrs. Stanton snapped her head around to survey her youthful hostess. The flame on the matron's cheeks matched the fire in her tones. "Reception, say you? Lana Corson, don't you know the difference between a reception and a political rally?" "I'm sorry, Doris! But father simply must do this duty thing when the legislature meets. The members expect it. It keeps up his fences, he says. It's politics!" "I'm glad my father is a banker instead of a United States Senator. If this is what a Senator has to do when he comes back to his home, I think he'd better stay in Washington and send down a carload of food and stick a glove on the handle of the town pump and let his constituents operate that! At any rate, the power wouldn't be wasted in a dry time!" Lana surveyed her own hand. The glove was not immaculate any more, but it covered a firm hand that was unweary. "Father has given me good advice. It's to shake the hand of the other chap, not let yours be shaken." "Those brutes gave me no chance!" "I noticed that they were very enthusiastic, Doris. I'm afraid you're too handsome!" But that flattery did not placate Mrs. Stanton. "It's only a rout and a rabble, Lana! The feminine element does not belong in it. My father dines his gentlemen and accomplishes his objects. And I think you have become one of these political hypocrites! You actually looked as if you were enjoying that performance down-stairs." "I was enjoying it, Doris! I was helping my father as best I could, and at the same time I was meeting many of my old, true friends. I'm glad to be home again." The girl was unaffectedly sincere in her statement. The glove was off and Mrs. Stanton was surveying her hand, wriggling the fingers tentatively. "And they all seemed so glad to see me that I'm a bit penitent," Lana went on. "I'm ashamed to own up to myself that I have allowed California and Palm Beach to coax me away from Marion these last two winters. I ought to have come down here with father. I'm not talking like a politician now, Doris. Honestly, I'm stanch for old friends!" "I trust you don't think I'm an ingrate in the case of my own old friends, Lana!" Mrs. Stanton, unappeased, was willing to take issue right then with anybody, on that topic. "But the main trouble with old friends is, they take too many liberties. Your old friends certainly did take liberties with my poor hand, and they took liberties with your own private business in my hearing." "How--in what way?" "I overheard persons say distinctly, over and over again, that one feature of this--no, I'll not muddle my own ideas of society functions by calling it a reception--they declared that your father proposes to announce to-night in his home town your engagement to Coventry." The question that she did not put into words she put into the searching, quizzical stare she gave Lana. "Ah!" remarked Miss Corson, revealing nothing either by tone or countenance. "It looks to me as if you've been receiving other lessons from your father, outside of the hand-shaking art. You are about as non-committal as the best of our politicians, Lana dear!" For reply the Senator's daughter smiled. The smile was so ingenuous that it ought to have disarmed the young matron of her petulance. But Mrs. Stanton went on with the sharp insistence of one who had discovered an opportunity and proposed to make the most of it. "Seeing that the matter has come up in this way--quite by chance--" Mrs. Stanton did not even blink when she said it--"though I never would have presumed to speak of it to you, Lana, without good and sufficient provocation--I think that you and Coventry should have confided in me, first of all. Of course, I know well enough how matters stand! I really believe I do! But I think I'm entitled to know, officially, to put it that way, as much as your highly esteemed old friends here in Marion know." "Yes," agreed Miss Corson. "But _first_, Lana dear! To know it first--as a sister should! I'm not blaming you! I realize that you met some of those aforesaid old, true friends while you were out around the city to-day. One does drop confidences almost without realizing how far one goes, when old friends are met. I'm sure such reports as I overheard couldn't be made up out of whole cloth." Mrs. Stanton's air and tone were certainly provoking, but Miss Corson's composure was not ruffled. "Out of the knowledge that you profess in regard to old friends, Doris, you must realize that they are energetic and liberal guessers." She turned toward the door. "Where are you going?" "To my room for a fresh pair of gloves, dear." "Do you mean to tell me that you're going back for another turn among those jiu-jitsu experts?" "We're to have dancing later." "For myself, I'd as soon dance with performing bears. I must be excused. I'll do anything in reason, but I have reached my limit!" Lana walked back to her, both hands extended. "You have been a dear martyr to the cause of politics. But now you are going to be the queen of our little festival. Listen, Doris! All the political buzzing bees will be thinning out, right soon. Those elderly gentlemen from the country who shook hands with a good Grange grip--they'll be wanting to get plenty of sleep so as to be wide awake to-morrow to hear the Governor's inaugural address. The other vigorous gentlemen who are so deeply in politics will be hurrying back to their hotels for their caucuses, or whatever it is they have to attend to in times like these. And the younger folks, who have no politics on their minds, will stay and enjoy themselves. There are some really dear folks in Marion!" "I thank you for the information," returned Mrs. Stanton, dryly. "It's important if true. But there's other information that's more important in my estimation just now and you don't allow me the opportunity to thank you for it." "I have been thinking, Doris! I really don't feel in the mood, when all those friends are under my roof, to stand here and brand them as prevaricators. Mayn't we let the matter stand till later?" "Until after it has been officially announced?" queried Mrs. Stanton, sarcastically. "I'm afraid that father's lessons have trained me better in political methods than I have realized," said Lana, meekly apologetic. "Because, right now, I'm obliged to run the risk of offending you, Doris, by quoting him and making his usual statement my rule of conduct." "Well?" "'Nothing can be officially declared until all the returns are in.'" "What am I to understand from that?" "It isn't so awfully clear, I know! But let's not talk any more about it." Lana had dropped her friend's hands. She took them again in her grasp and swung Mrs. Stanton's arms to and fro in girlish and frolicsome fashion. "Now go ahead and be your own jolly Doris Stanton! You're going to meet folks who'll understand you and appreciate all your wit. One especially I'll name. I don't know why he's so late in coming, for he had a special invitation from my own mouth. He's the mayor of Marion!" "What?" demanded Mrs. Stanton, irefully, pulling away from the girl who was trying to coax back good nature. "Picking out another politician for my special consideration, after what I have been through?" "Oh, he's not a politician, Doris dear! Father says he isn't one; he says so himself and his party newspaper here in the city says regularly that he isn't, in a complimentary way, and the opposition paper says so in a sneering way--and I suppose that makes the thing unanimous. He is one of my oldest friends; he was my hero when I was a little girl in school; he is tall and big and handsome and--" Mrs. Stanton narrowed her eyes. She broke in impatiently on the panegyric. "I'm so thoroughly disgusted with the ways of politics, Lana, that I draw the line at a speech of nomination. You said you'd name him! Who is he?" "Stewart Morrison." "I thought so!" Mrs. Stanton's tone was vastly significant. Lana flushed. The composure that she had been maintaining was losing its serenity and her friend noted that fact and became more irritable. "My dear Lana, I gathered so much enlightenment from the twittering of those old friends of yours down-stairs that you'll not be obliged, I think, to break your most excellent rule of reticence in order to humor my impertinent curiosity in this instance!" "Don't be sarcastic with me, Doris! I don't find it as funny as when you're caustic with other folks." "There does seem to be a prevailing lack of humor in the affairs of this evening," acknowledged Mrs. Stanton. "We'll drop the subject, dear!" "I don't like you to feel that I'm putting you to one side as my dearest friend--not in anything." "If you haven't felt like being candid with me in a matter where I'd naturally be vitally interested, I can hardly expect you to pour out your heart about a dead-and-gone love-affair with a rustic up in these parts. I understood from the chatter of your old friends that it _is_ dead and gone. I can congratulate you on that proof of your newer wisdom, Lana. It shows that my counsels haven't been entirely wasted on you." "It was dead and gone before you began to counsel me, Doris. It's not a matter of withholding confidence from you. Why should I talk about such things to anybody?" "Oh, a discreet display of scalp-locks decorates a boudoir and interests one's friends," vouchsafed the worldly matron. "Such confidences are atrocious!" Miss Corson displayed spirit. "Now both of us are getting peppery, dear Lana, and I always reserve that privilege exclusively for myself in all my friendly relations. I have to keep a sharp edge on my tongue because folks expect me to perform the social taxidermy in my set, and it's only brutal and messy if done with a dull tool. Run and get your gloves! But take your own time in returning to me. There are still two of my fingers that need a further period of convalescence." Mrs. Stanton promptly neglected her duties as a finger nurse the moment Miss Corson was out of the room. "Hibbert, ask one of the servants to find my brother and tell him I want to see him here. He will undoubtedly be located in some group where there is a rural gentleman displaying the largest banner of beard. My brother has an insatiable mania for laying bets with sporting young men that he can fondle any set of luxuriant whiskers without giving the wearer cause for offense." Coventry answered his sister's call with promptitude. "I'll keep you only a moment from your whisker-parterres, Cov! When you go back into that down-stairs garden please give some of those beards a good hard yank for my sake." But young Mr. Daunt was serious and rebuked her. "This isn't any lark we're on up here, Dorrie! Dad needs to have everybody's good will and I'm doing my little best on the side-lines for him. And he isn't tickled to pieces by your quitting. It's a big project we're gunning through this legislature!" "It may be so! It probably is! But I'm not sacrificing four fingers, a thumb, and a perfectly good arm for the cause and I'm not allowing public affairs to take my mind wholly off private matters. So here's at it! Are you and Lana formally engaged?" "Well, I must say you're not abrupt or anything of the sort!" "Certain semi-coaxing methods haven't seemed to succeed, and therefore I'm shooting the well, as our oil friend Whitaker puts it!" "Simply for the sake of keeping our affectionate brother-and-sister relations on the safe and approved plane, I'll say it's none of your blamed business," declared Coventry. "On the other hand, in a purely tolerant and friendly way, I'll say that Lana and I are proceeding agreeably, I think, and dad told me the other day that the Senator talked as if the matrimonial bill might receive favorable consideration when duly reported from committee--meaning Lana and myself and--" "Gas!" broke in Mrs. Stanton. "I shot and I get only gas! I'm looking for oil! Is there an actual and formal engagement, I ask?" "Oh, say!" expostulated her brother, registering disgust. "The motion pictures have spoiled that sort of thing. They have to propose bang outright in the films because the fans can't be bothered by the nuances of courtship. But for a chap to get down on his knees these days in real life would make the girl laugh as loud as the fans would whoop if the hero in reel life stood on his head and popped the question. Nothing of that kind of formal stuff in my case, sis! Of course not!" "There better be! You go ahead this very night and attend to it!" "Where do you get your appointment as general manager of the matter, Dorrie? You certainly don't get it from me!" "Leaving it to be inferred--" "I leave nothing to be inferred," declared her brother, righteously indignant. "Dorrie, you absolutely must get off that habit of carving your own kin in order to keep up the edge of your tongue. I wouldn't as much as intimate it, by denying it, that you get your meddling commission from Lana. If this is all you wanted to talk about, I'll have to be going. This is my busy evening!" "Just one moment! It's always the busiest man who has time to attend to one thing more! I'm assuming that you love Lana." "Conceded! You always did have a good eye in that line, Dorrie!" "Then my advice, as an expert, ought to be respected. You go ahead and get a promise from Lana Corson. Then you'll have somebody working for your interests day and night." "Who?" "Her New England conscience!" Young Mr. Daunt gave his sister a long, searching, and sophisticated stare. "I think I have a little the advantage of you, Dorrie. I met to-day this Mr. Stewart Morrison you're speaking of!" "I haven't spoken of him! I haven't mentioned his name!" "Oh, didn't you?" purred the brother. "Then I must have anticipated what you were going to say, or else I read your mind for the name--and that only shows that the Daunt family's members are thoroughly _en rapport_, to use dad's favorite phrase when he's showing the strawberry mark on ideas and making the other fellow adopt 'em as his own children. And I have heard how Lana and Morrison have been twice engaged and twice estranged. So, how about her New England conscience in the matter of a promise in love?" "As I understand it, the New England conscience grows up with the possessor and comes of age and asserts itself. You can't expect an infant or juvenile conscience to boss and control like a grown-up conscience. Coventry, what kind of a man is Morrison?" "A big, opinionated ramrod of a Scotchman who'd drive any girl to break her engagement a dozen times if she had promised as often as that." Mrs. Stanton relaxed in her chair and sighed with relief. "Oh, from what she said about him--But no matter! I think you do know men very well, Cov! I'll do no more worrying where he's concerned. Forgive me for advising you so emphatically." "He'd boss any girl into breaking her engagement," continued Coventry, with conviction. "Any dreaming, wondering, restless girl, curious to find out for herself and afraid of restraint." "I know the type. Impossible as husbands," averred Mrs. Stanton, a caustic and unwearying counselor of sex independence. "But there are some girls who grow up into real women, though you probably have hard work to believe that," said her brother, equally caustic in stating his opinions, "and they are waiting for the right man to come along and take sole possession of them, body and soul and affairs--when they are women! Then it isn't bossing any more! It's love, glorified! Letting 'em have their own way would seem like neglect and indifference, and their hearts would be broken. They eat it up, sis, eat it up, that kind of love!" His sister leaped from her chair. "How anybody with an ounce of brains can take stock in this caveman nonsense is more than I can understand!" "It has nothing to do with brains, sis! It's in here!" He tapped his finger on his breast. "It was put in when the first heart started beating." "But you listen to reason! No woman wants a--" He put his hand up and broke in on her furious remonstrance. "If I listen to reason, sis, you'll have me against the ropes in thirty seconds. I admit that there's no reason why a woman should want it that way! Brains can argue us right out of the notion. I won't argue. But I don't want you to think I'm keeping anything away from you that a sister ought to know. As my sister and as Lana's good friend, I'm sure you'll be glad to know that I love her with all my heart and I hope I haven't misunderstood her feelings in regard to me. I don't want to be too complacent, but I think she's still girl enough to welcome my kind of love and to take me for what I am." He and his sister were thoroughly absorbed in their dialogue. Having summed up the situation in his final declaration, he turned hastily to leave the room and was assured, to his dismay, that Miss Corson had heard the declaration; she was at the threshold, her lips apart; she was plainly balancing a desire to flee against a more heroic determination to step in and ignore the situation and the words which had accompanied it. Young Mr. Daunt manfully did his best to get that situation out of the chancery of embarrassing silence. "Lana, the three of us are too good friends to allow this foozle to make us feel altogether silly. Despite present appearances I don't go around making speeches on a certain subject. Nor will I lay it all on Dorrie by saying, 'The woman tempted me and I fell.'" "Yes, we may as well be sensible," affirmed Mrs. Stanton. In spite of her momentary embarrassment her countenance was displaying bland satisfaction. This was an occasion to be grasped. "I'll say right out frankly that I consider I'm one too many in this room just now!" Lana retreated across the threshold. She was distinctly frightened. Young Mr. Daunt laughed and his merriment helped to relieve the situation still more. "Oh, I say, Lana! This isn't a trap set by the Daunts. You come right in! I'm leaving!" "I didn't mean to overhear," the girl faltered. "You and I have nothing to apologize for--either of us! I take nothing back, but this is no kind of a time to go forward. I'd be taking advantage of your confusion." "Well, of all the mincing minuets!" blurted the young matron. "One word will settle it all. I tell you, I'm going!" But Daunt rushed to the door, seized Lana's hands, and swung her into the room. "This is a political night, and we'll go by the rules. The gentleman has introduced the bill and on motion of the lady it has been tabled. But it will be taken from the table on a due and proper date and assigned at the head of the calendar. I think that's the way the Senator would state it. It ought to be good procedure." He released her hands. "And speaking of the calendar, Lana, may I have a peep at your dance-list?" She gave him the engraved card. "All the waltzes for me, eh?" he queried, wistfully. "I note that you're free." "One, please, Coventry--for now! No, please select some of the new dances. You know them all! Some of my Marion friends are old-fashioned and I must humor them with the waltzes." Her hands were trembling. She laughed nervously. "I feel free to task your good nature." "Thank you," he returned, gratefully, accepting the implied compliment she paid him. He dabbed on his initials here and there and hurried away. Mrs. Stanton had plenty of impetuous zeal for all her quests, but she had also abundance of worldly tact. "One does get so tremendously interested in friends and family, Lana! Affection makes nuisances of us so often! But no more about it! I feel quite happy now. I'm even so kindly disposed toward politics that I'm ready to go down and dance for the cause, whatever it is your father and mine are going after. These men in politics--they always seem to me to be like small boys building card houses. Piling up and puffing down! Putting in little tin men and pulling out little tin men. And to judge by the everlasting faultfinding, nobody is ever satisfied by what is accomplished." Miss Corson plainly welcomed this consoling shift from an embarrassing topic. And, in order to get as far from love as possible, she turned to business. When she and her friend descended the broad stairway of the mansion Lana was discoursing on the need of coaxing men of big commercial affairs into politics. Her views were rather immature and her fervor was a bit hysterical, but the subject was plainly more to her taste than that on which Mrs. Stanton had been dwelling. The crowd below them, as they stood for a moment on the landing, half-way down the stairs, gave comforting evidence that it had thinned, according to Lana's prophecy. The receiving-line was broken. Senator Corson was sauntering here and there, saying a word to this one or that in more intimate manner than his formal post in the line permitted. Governor North, also released from conventional restrictions as a hand-shaker, was on his rounds and wagged his coattails and barked and growled emphatically. The word "Law," oft repeated, fitted itself to his growls; when he barked he ejaculated, "Election statutes!" "It's a pity your state is wasting such excellent material on the mere job of Governor, Lana. What a perfectly wonderful warden he would make for your state prison," suggested Mrs. Stanton, sweetly. But she did not provoke a reply from the girl and noted that Lana was frankly interested in somebody else than the Governor. It was a new arrival; his busy exchange of greetings revealed that fact. "Ah! Your dilatory mayor of Marion!" said the matron, needing no identification. Nor did Stewart require any word to indicate the whereabouts of the hostess of the Corson mansion. His eyes had been searching eagerly. As soon as he saw Lana he broke away from the group of men who were engaging him. The Governor accosted Morrison sharply, when the mayor hurried past on the way to the stairway. But again, within a few hours, Stewart slighted the chief executive of the state. "I am late, I fear," he called to Lana, leaping up the stairs. "And after my solemn promise to come early! But you excused me this morning when I was obliged to attend to petty affairs. Same excuse this time! Do I receive the same pardon?" The girl displayed greater ease in his presence at this second meeting. She received him placidly. There were no more of those disconcerting and high-flown forensics in her greeting. There was the winning candor of old friendship in her smile and he flushed boyishly in his frank delight. She presented him to Mrs. Stanton and that lady's modish coolness did not dampen his spirits, which had become plainly exuberant. In fact, he paid very little attention to Mrs. Stanton. "It has got to you, Lana--this coming home again, hasn't it?" he demanded, with an unconventionality of tone and phraseology that caused the metropolitan matron to express her startled emotions by a blink. "I knew it would!" "I am glad to be home, Stewart. But I have been tiring Mrs. Stanton by my enthusiasm on that subject," was her suggestive move toward another topic. "You're in time for the dancing. That's the important feature of the evening." "Certainly!" he agreed. "May I be pardoned, Mrs. Stanton, for consulting my hostess's card first?" He secured Lana's program without waiting for the matron's indifferent permission. "A waltz--two waltzes, anyway!" he declared. "They settle arrearages in your accounts, Lana, for the two winters you have been away. And why not another?" He was scribbling with the pencil. "It will settle the current bill." "It is a business age," murmured Mrs. Stanton, "and collections cannot be looked after too sharply." "Will you not permit me to go in debt to you, madam?" he asked. "I'll be truly obligated if you'll allow me to put my name on your card." "As a banker's daughter, I'll say that the references that have been submitted by Miss Corson in regard to your standing are excellent," said Mrs. Stanton, with a significance meant for Lana's confusion. But while she was detaching the tassel from her girdle Governor North interrupted. He was standing on the stairs, just below the little group. "Excuse me for breaking in on the party, but I'm due at the State House. I'll bother you only a second, Morrison. Then you won't have a thing to do except be nice to the ladies." "I know I'll be excused by them for a few moments, Governor." He started to descend. His Excellency put up his hand. "We can attend to it right here, Mister Mayor!" "But I have a word or two--" "That's all I have!" was the blunt retort. "And I'm in a hurry. Have you got 'em smoothed down, according to our understanding?" "I have, I think! But whether they'll stay smooth depends on you, Governor North!" "And I can be depended on! I told you so at the office." He turned away. "I think I ought to have a few words with you in private, however," Morrison insisted. "That general understanding is all right. But I need to know something specific." The Governor was well down the stairs; he trudged energetically, his coattails wagging in wide arcs. It was not premeditated insolence; it was the usual manner of Lawrence North when he did not desire an interview prolonged to an extent that might commit him. "I'll be at the State House in case there's any need of my attention to something specific. I'll attend to it over the telephone--over the telephone, understand!" The diversion on the stairs had attracted a considerable audience and produced a result that interfered further with Stewart's immediate social plans. Senator Corson came across the reception-hall, beckoning amiably, and the three descended obediently. "Stewart, before you get too deep into the festivities with the girls, I want you to have a bit of a chat with Mr. Daunt. We arranged it, you know." "But Stewart isn't up here to attend to business, father," protested the daughter, with a warmth that the subject of the controversy welcomed with a smile of gratitude. "There is an urgent reason why Mr. Daunt should have a few words with Stewart to-night--before the legislature assembles." The Senator assumed an air of mock autocratic dignity. "I command the obedience of my daughter!" He saw the banker approaching. "I call on you, sir, to put down rebellion in your own family! These daughters of ours propose to spirit away this young gentleman." "I'll keep you from the merrymaking only a few moments, Mayor Morrison," apologized Daunt. "But I feel that it is quite essential for us to get together on that matter we mentioned in the forenoon. I'm sure that only a few words will put us thoroughly _en rapport_." Mrs. Stanton lifted her eyebrows. "That phrase means that father will do the talking, Mister Mayor. I recommend that you go along with him. You won't have to do a thing except listen. You can come later and dance with us with all your energy unimpaired." "Yes!" urged Lana. "The waltzes will be waiting!" "Use my den, Daunt! If I can get away from my gang, here, I'll run in on you," stated the Senator. He smacked his palm on Stewart's shoulder. "I know you always put business ahead of pleasure, though it may be hard to do it in this case, my boy! But after you and my friend Daunt get matters all tied up snug you won't have a thing to do for the rest of the night but enjoy yourself and be nice to the girls--not another thing, Stewart." VIII A ROD IN PICKLE With great promptitude Attorney Despeaux fastened upon Blanchard, of the Conawin, the moment the latter left the company of Mayor Morrison on the arrival of the twain at the Corson mansion; and Mr. Blanchard seemed alertly willing to break off his companionship with the passenger he had brought in his limousine. "What's that bull-headed fool been stirring up down-town?" demanded Despeaux when he had Blanchard safely to himself in a corner. "Have you heard something about it?" "I was called on the 'phone a few minutes ago." "Who called you?" "No matter! But hold on, Blanchard! I may as well tell you that I'm using a part of our fund to have Morrison shadowed. I suppose the reason you went along was to get a line on him. But it was imprudent. It looked like lending your countenance." Blanchard explained sullenly why he did accompany Morrison to the meeting. "Well, I'm glad you were there and heard him inflaming the mob," admitted the syndicate's lobbyist and lawyer. "I want to have Senator Corson fully informed on the point and it will come better from you than from a paid detective. Give it to Corson, and give it to him strong!" "I don't know that I can justly say that he was inflaming the mob," demurred Blanchard. "But you've got to say it! You must make it appear that way! Blanchard, it has come to a clinch and we must smash Morrison's credit in every direction. I didn't realize till to-day that he is out to blow up the whole works. Didn't he preach to you on the text of that infernal people-partner notion of his?" "Yes! He's crazy!" "The people own the moon, if you want to put it that way! But they can't do anything sensible with it, any more than they can with ownership of the state's water-power." The Conawin magnate exhibited bewilderment. "Despeaux, I'm a business man. I suppose you lawyers go to work in a different way than we do in business. But as I have read the propaganda you're putting out--as I understand it--_you_ are shouting for the people's rights, too!" "I am! Strongly! Right out open! I even preached on people's rights to Morrison this very day--and looked him right in that canny Scotch eye of his while I preached. I like to keep in good practice!" "Then why is Morrison so dangerous, if he's only doing what you do?" inquired the business man, with an artlessness that the attorney greeted with an oath. "Because the infernal ramrod means what he says, Blanchard!" "But if you don't mean it--if you have put yourself on record--and if you're obliged to step up and honor the draft you've sanctioned--what's going to happen in the showdown?" Attorney Despeaux moderated his mordancy and became tolerantly patient in enlightening the ignorance of one of his employers. "The people are hungry for some kind of fodder in this water-power proposition. I've been telling all you power-owners so! We'll have to admit it, Blanchard! The time is played out when you can drive the people in this country. You've got to be a nice, kind shepherd and get their confidence and lead 'em. I'm a shepherd! See?" He patted himself on the breast. "There are two cribs!" "You'll have to name 'em to me, Despeaux. I'm apt to be pretty dull outside of matters in my own line." "I guess I'd do better to designate the chaps who are managing the cribs." The two men were in a window embrasure. Despeaux pointed to one side of the niche. "Over there, behold Morrison and his 'storage and power' crowd, made up of pig-headed engineers and scientific experts who are thinking only of how much power can be developed for the people as proprietors; over here, the public utilities commission made up of safe men, judiciously appointed, tractable in politics, consistently on the side of vested interests and right on the job to see to it that the state keeps its contracts with capital. I propose to be something of a shepherd and lead the people to the public utilities crib! And I'm going to show folks that they'll be eating poison-ivy out of the Morrison crib--even if I have to put the poison-ivy in there myself. This is no time to be squeamish, Blanchard! You've got to do your part in nailing a disturber like Morrison to the cross. Speak like a business man and say that he is dangerous in good business. We've got a Governor who is safe; we've got to have a legislature that will see to it that the committees are all right. And that's why we're standing no monkey business from any mob up on Capitol Hill to-night! Down at that hall, so my man told me, Morrison talked as if he's going to take hold and run the state! Didn't he?" "Well, one might draw some such conclusions, I suppose, by stretching his words!" "Blanchard, you must stretch words when you talk to Senator Corson and to all others who need to be stirred up and can help us. If that wild Scotchman butts into this plan he's inviting trouble, and we've got to see that he gets it. He's got to be choked now or never! Don't have any mercy! Just look at it this way! Talk it this way! He's turning on his own, if he does what he threatens! He played the sneak, he, a mill-owner, getting on to that commission! And he proposes to shove in a report that will smother development by outside capital. Play up the reason for his interest in the thing along that line! A hog for himself! It's easy to turn public sentiment by the right kind of talk! If I really start out to go the limit I can have him tarred and feathered as a chief conspirator, rigging a scheme to have our big industries knocked in the head." Despeaux spoke low, but his tone conveyed the malice and the menace of a man who had been nursing a grudge for a long time. "Two years ago his newspaper letters and his rant killed that Consolidated project, and I had a contingent fee of fifty thousand dollars at stake; as it was, I got only a little old regular lobby fee and my expense money. And the power hasn't been developed by the infernal, dear, protected people, has it?" he sneered. "If the Consolidated folks had been let alone and given their franchise, we'd now be marketing over our high-tension wires two millions of horse-power in big centers two or three hundred miles from this state." "Well, I'm not so awfully strong, myself, for making a mere power station of our own state, and letting outsiders ship our juice over the border." "But you ought to be devilish strong against a man who is proposing to have the state break existing contracts, take back power rights and franchises and make you simply a lessee of what you already own! You've got yours! Give the outsiders a show! It's all snarled up together, Blanchard, and you've got to kill him and his crowd and their whole mushy, socialistic scheme and eliminate him from the proposition. Then we can go ahead and do something sensible in this state!" affirmed Mr. Despeaux, with the lustful ardor of one who foresaw the possibility of eliminating, also, the hateful word "contingent" in the case of fees. But Business-man Blanchard was displaying symptoms of worriment. The lawyer viewed with concern this evidence of backsliding, but his attention was suddenly diverted from his companion; then Despeaux nudged Blanchard and directed the latter's gaze by a thumb jerk. They saw Morrison hurry up the stairs to greet Lana Corson when she appeared with her house guest. The attorney seemed to be vastly interested in the scene. "I don't mean to scare you," went on Despeaux, his manner milder. "I'm not planning to commit murder or steal a state! It's Morrison right now! He's the one we're after! This whole thing may be taken care of in another way--so easily that it may make us smile. I've been keeping my eyes open, Blanchard--ears, too! Did you see Morrison rush to the Senator's daughter? A fellow can work himself into a terrible state of worry over the dear, unprotected people, when he has nothing else better to take up his mind. But after a Scotchman goes crazy over a girl--well, when the whole of 'em hold Poet Bobby Burns up as the type of their race, they know what they're talking about!" "I can hardly conceive of Morrison being a poet or relishing poetry or the ways of a poet," returned Blanchard, dryly. "And he probably has never read a line of it in his whole life," agreed Despeaux. "But that isn't the point! You may think I've gone off on a queer tack, all of a sudden, but I know human nature! That girl is back here with a slick young fellow, and he's the pepper in a certain mess of Scotch broth that has been heated up all over again, if I'm any guesser. That girl has been living in Washington, Blanchard. It's a great school! I've been watching her shake hands. You saw her just now when she shook with our friend, the mayor. That girl isn't down here on this trip simply to see whether the care-takers have been looking after the Corson mansion in good shape," opined the cynical Mr. Despeaux, having excellent personal reasons to distrust everybody else in the matter of motives. "That sort of a trick is beneath Senator Corson and his daughter." "Well," drawled the lawyer, "that all depends how closely he and Silas Daunt are tied up in a common interest in this water-power question and other matters. I suspect everybody in this world. I go on that principle. It eases my mind about slipping something over on the other fellow when I get the chance. I'm talking out pretty frankly, Blanchard, to a man who has his money in the syndicate pool, as you have! But I play square with the crowd I take money from, so long's I'm with 'em. The fee makes me yours to command, heart and soul! There's something--some one thing--that can control every man, according to his tastes. Stewart Morrison can be controlled right now by that black-eyed Corson girl more effectually than he can by any other person or consideration on God's earth. I've known him ever since he was a boy--I have watched the thing between 'em--and now that she's back here where he can see her, be near her, and be worried by the sight of another fellow trailing her, he'll be doing more thinking about her than he will about the partner-people, as he calls that dream of his about something that isn't so! I wish I could know just how sly the Senator is! I wish I could get a line on what's underneath that girl's curly topknot," he said, fervently. Apparently absorbed by that speculation, Lawyer Despeaux again gave close attention to the tableau on the landing presented by Lana, Mrs. Stanton, and Morrison. When Governor North marched up the stairs, said his vociferous say, and marched down again Despeaux grunted his satisfaction. "That's the talk, old boy! Show him where he gets off!" The manner in which Senator Corson handed Morrison over to Silas Daunt elicited further commendation from the lawyer. "He's being pulled into camp smoothly and scientifically, Blanchard! The Senator is on to his job, but did you see Morrison's mug when he had to leave the girl?" "I'll admit that it's the first time I ever saw him make up a face when he was called on to tend to business!" "The Senator is a wise old bird! He knows human nature down to the ground. He's got the right kind of a daughter to help him, and he's making her useful. It's a case of shutting Morrison's mouth, and Corson is hep to the right play. I don't think the Senator needs any advice from us, but a little of the proper kind of information about Morrison's latest demfoolishness will make Corson understand that he needs to put some hot pep as well as sugar into his politeness. We'll get to him as soon as we can. Make it strong, Blanchard, make it strong!" As soon as opportunity offered, Blanchard did make it strong. He was harboring a pretty large-sized grudge of his own in the case of Morrison, and it was easy to put malice into the report he gave the Senator. "But hold on!" protested Corson. "You're making Stewart out to be a radical as red as any of them!" "I can't help that, Senator," retorted the millman. "He dragged me down to his cursed meeting over my protest and he made a speech that put himself in hand in glove with 'em." Corson pursed his lips and displayed the concern of a friend who had heard bad news regarding a favorite. "I always found the boy a bit inclined to mix high-flown notions in with the business practicality of his family. But I didn't realize that he was going so far wrong in his theories. That's the danger in permitting even one unsound doctrine to get into a level-headed chap's apple-basket, gentlemen! First thing you know, it has affected all the fruit. I'm glad you told me. I'm not surprised that your arguments have had no effect, Despeaux. He's naturally headstrong. Do you know, these fellows with poetic, chivalrous natures are hard boys to bring to reason in certain practical matters?" "I was just telling Despeaux that I never saw much poetry sentiment in Stewart Morrison," affirmed the millman. Senator Corson's condescending smile assured Mr. Blanchard that he was all wrong. "He was much in our family as a boy. Very sentimental if approached from the right angle! Very! And I think this is a matter to be handled wholly by Stewart's closest friends. Sentiment has led him off on a wrong slant. He'll only fight harder if he's tackled by a man like you, Despeaux. That's the style of him. But in his case sentiment can be guided by sentiment. And all for his best good! He mustn't run wild in this folly! I believe there's no one who can approach him with more tact than my daughter Lana." Despeaux found an opportunity to dig his thumb suggestively into Blanchard's side. "They have been extremely good friends, I believe, in boy-and-girl fashion; between us three old townsmen, I'll go as far as to say they were very much interested in each other. But in the case of both of 'em their horizons are naturally wider these days; however, first-love affairs, even if rather silly, are often the basis for really sensible and enduring friendships. And friendship must handle this thing. We'll leave it to Lana. I'll speak to her." He went on his way toward the ballroom, pausing to chat with this or that group of constituents. "There!" exclaimed the lawyer, relieving his high pressure by a vigorous exhalation of breath. "What did I tell you?" "It's mighty kind and sensible of the Senator! Morrison is making a big mistake and the way to handle him is by friendship." "Friendship hell!" "Say, look here, Despeaux, I don't believe in spoiling my teeth by biting every coin that's handed to me in this world." "Are you as devilish green as you pretend to be, Blanchard? If you had ever hung around in Washington as I have, you'd have wisdom teeth growing so fast that they'd keep your jaws propped open like a country yap's unless you kept 'em filed by biting all the coin of con! Now I know what's in the Senator's dome and what's under his girl's topknot! But let's not argue about that. Let's take a look at the probabilities in regard to the water-power matter--that's of more importance just now. I doubt that even friendship"--he dwelt satirically on the word--"can shut Morrison up on the storage report that he will shove into the legislature. But we're going to have safe committees this year, thanks to the election laws and guns, and that report will be pocketed. Then if Morrison keeps still about making the dear people millionaires by having 'em peddle their puddles to the highest bidders, capital can go ahead and do business in this state. I think his mouth is going to be effectively shut! The right operators are on the job!" Despeaux took a peep at his watch. "Time slipped by while we were waiting to get at Corson. Daunt has had half an hour for laying down the law to Morrison. And Daunt can do a whole lot of business in half an hour." "He'll only stir up Morrison's infernal scrapping spirit by laying down the law," objected Blanchard, sourly. Despeaux took both of the millman's coat lapels in his clutch. "He'll lay down in front of Morrison the prospect of the profits to be made by the deal that is proposed. And if you had ever heard Silas Daunt talk profits as a promoter you would reckon just as I'm reckoning, Blanchard--to see our Scotch friend come out of that conference walking like the man who broke the bank at Monte Carlo, instead of bobbing around astraddle of that damnation hobby-goat of his! Daunt can talk money in the same tone that a Holy Roller revivalist talks religion, Blanchard! And he makes converts, he sure does!" A moment later the mayor of Marion strode across the reception-hall. Lawyer Despeaux, giving critical attention, was not ready to affirm that Morrison's gait was that of a man who had broken a bank. But the manner in which he marched, shoulders back and chin up, and the dabs of color on his cheeks, would have suggested to a particularly observant person that the mayor had broken something. He pushed past those who addressed him and went on toward the ballroom, staring straight ahead; the music was pulsing in the ballroom; he seemed to be thoroughly entranced by the strains; at any rate, he was attending strictly to the business of going somewhere! He passed Senator Corson, who was returning to the reception-hall; the mayor gave his host only a nod. While the Senator stood and gazed at the precipitate young man, Banker Daunt, following on Morrison's trail, arrived in front of Corson. Lawyer Despeaux stepped from the window embrasure to get a good view and was not at all reassured by Daunt's looks. The banker displayed none of the symptoms of a victor. There was more of choler than complacency in his air. He hooked his arm inside the Senator's elbow and they went away together. "Blanchard," said the lawyer, after a period of pondering, "that infernal Scotch idiot says that he isn't interested in politics and now he seems to have put promoting in the same class. Our hope is that he's interested in something else. Suppose we stroll along and see just how much interested he is." By the time they reached the ballroom Morrison was waltzing with Lana. He was distinctly another person from that tense, saturnine, defiant, brusk person who strode through the reception-hall. He was radiantly and boyishly happy. He was clasping the girl tenderly. He directed her steps in a small circle outside the throng of dancers, and waltzed as slowly as the tempo would allow. He was talking earnestly. "Look at him! There you have it!" whispered Despeaux, recovering his confidence. "Every man has his price--but it's a mistake to think that the price must always be counted down in cash. Daunt didn't act as if he had captured our friend. He's dancing to a girl's tune now. Corson will whistle a jig when he gets ready and Morrison will dance to that tune, too!" IX MAKING IT A SQUARE BREAK In the privacy of Senator Corson's study Mr. Daunt had allowed himself to raise his voice and express some decided opinions by the way of venting his emotions. In his heat he disregarded the amenities that should govern a guest in the presence of his host. In fact, Mr. Daunt asserted that the host was partly responsible for the awkward position in which Mr. Daunt found himself. The Senator, whenever he was able to make himself heard, put in protesting "buts." Mr. Daunt, riding his grievance wildly, hurdled every "but" and kept right on. "Confound it, Corson, I accepted him as your friend, as your guest, as a gentleman under the roof of a mutual friend. Most of all, I accepted him as a safe and sane business man. I talked to him as I would to the gentlemen who put their feet under my table. I know how to be cautious in the case of men I meet in places of business. But you bring this man to your house and you put me next to him with the assurance that he is all right--and I go ahead with him on that basis. I was perfectly and entirely honest with him. I disregarded all the rules that govern me in ordinary business offices," the banker added, too excited to appreciate the grim humor flashed by the flint and the steel of his last, juxtaposed sentences. "You say you told him all your plans in full?" suggested Corson, referring to the outburst with which Daunt began his arraignment of the situation. "Of course I told him! You gave me no warning. I dealt with him, gentleman with gentleman, under your roof!" "I didn't think it was necessary to counsel a man like you about the ordinary prudence required in all business matters." "I had his word in his own office that he was heartily with me. You told me he was as square as a brick when it came to his word. I went on that basis, Corson!" "I'm sorry," admitted the Senator. "I thought I knew Stewart through and through. But I haven't been keeping in touch as closely as I ought. I have heard things this evening--" He hesitated. "You have heard things--and still you allowed me to go on and empty my basket in front of him?" "I heard 'em only after you were closeted here with him, Daunt. And I can't believe it's as bad as it has been represented to me. And even as it stands, I think I know how to handle him. I have already taken steps to that end." "How?" "Please accept my say-so for the time being, Daunt! It isn't a matter to be canvassed between us." "I suppose you learn that sort of reticence in politics, even in the case of a friend, Corson," growled the banker. "I wish I had taken a few lessons from you before talking with one of your friends this evening." "Was it necessary for you to do so much talking before you got a line on his opinions?" "Confound it, Corson, with that face of his--with that candor in his countenance--he looks as good and reliable as a certified check--and in addition I had your indorsement of him." "I felt that I had a right to indorse him." The Senator showed spirit. "Daunt, I don't like to hear you condemn Stewart Morrison so utterly." "Not utterly! He has qualities of excellence! For instance, he's a damnation fine listener," stated the disgusted banker. "But he couldn't have thrown down your whole proposition--he couldn't have done that, after the prospects you held out to him, as you outlined them to me when we first discussed the matter," Corson insisted. "Morrison has a good business head on him. He comes of business stock. He has made a big success of his mill. He must be on the watch for more opportunities. All of us are." "Well, here was the offer I made to him, seeing that he is a _friend_ of yours," said Banker Daunt, dilating his nostrils when he dwelt on the word "friend." "I offered to double his own appraisal of his properties when we pay him in the preferred stock of the consolidation. I told him that he would receive, like the others, an equal amount of common stock for a bonus. I assured him that we would be able to pay dividends on the common. And he asked me particularly if I was certain that dividends would be paid on the common. I gave him that assurance as a financier who knows his card." Daunt had been attempting to curb his passion and talk in a business man's tone while on the matter of figures. But he abandoned the struggle to keep calm. He cracked his knuckles on the table and shouted: "But do you know--can you imagine what he said after I had twice assured him as to those dividends on common, replying to his repeated questions? Can you?" "No," admitted Corson, having reason to be considerably uncertain in regard to Stewart Morrison's newly developed notions about affairs in general. "He told me I ought to be ashamed of myself--then he pulled out his watch and apologized for monopolizing me so long on a gay evening, hoped I was enjoying it, and said he must hurry away and dance with Miss Corson. What did he mean by saying that I ought to be ashamed of myself? What did he mean by that gratuitous insult to a man who had made him a generous proposition in straight business--to a guest under your roof, Senator Corson?" "By gad! I'll find out what it means!" snapped the Senator, pricked in his pride and in his sense of responsibility as a go-between. He pushed a button in the row on his study table. "This new job as mayor seems to be playing some sort of a devil's trick with Stewart. I'll admit, Daunt, that I didn't relish some of the priggish preachment on politics mouthed by him in his office when we were there. But I didn't pay much attention--any more than I did to his exaggerated flourish in the way he attended to city business. The new brooms! You know!" "Yes, I know!" The banker was sardonic. "I could overlook his display of importance when he neglected gentlemen in order to parade his tuppenny mayor's business. I paid no attention to his vaporings on the water question. I've heard plenty of franchise-owners talk that way for effect! He's an especially avaricious Scot, isn't he? Confound him! How much more shall I offer him?" "I'll admit that Stewart seems to be different these days in some respects, but unless he has made a clean change of all his nature in this shift of some of his ideas, you'd better not offer him any more!" warned the Senator. "I never detected any 'For Sale' sign on him!" The Senator's secretary stepped into the study. "Find Mayor Morrison in the ballroom and tell him I want to see him here." "Corson, you're a United States Senator," proceeded the banker when the man had departed, "and your position enables you to take a broad view of business in general. But naturally you're for your own state first of all." "Certainly! Loyally so!" "I think you thoroughly understand my play for consolidated development of the water-power here. Every single unit should be put at work for the good of the country. Isn't that so?" "Yes, decidedly." "To set up such arbitrary boundaries as state lines in these matters of development is a narrow and selfish policy," insisted Daunt. "It would be like the coal states refusing to sell their surplus to the country at large. If this Morrison proposes to play the bigoted demagogue in the matter, exciting the people to attempt impractical control that will paralyze the whole proposition, he must be stepped on. You can show due regard for the honor and the prosperity of your own state, but as a statesman, working for the general welfare of the country at large, you've got to take a broader view than his." "I do. I can make Stewart understand." Daunt paced up and down the room, easing his turgid neck against a damp collar. The Senator pondered. The secretary, after a time, tapped and entered. "Mayor Morrison is not in the ballroom, sir. And I could not find him." "You should have inquired of Miss Corson." "I could not find Miss Corson." The Senator started for the door. He turned and went back to Daunt. "It's all right! I gave her a bit of a commission. It's in regard to Morrison. She seems to be attending to it faithfully. Be easy! I'll bring him." The father went straight to the library. He knew the resources of his own mansion in the matter of nooks for a tete-a-tete interview; now he was particularly assisted by remembrance of Stewart's habits in the old days. He found his daughter and the mayor of Marion cozily ensconced among the cushions of a deep window-seat. Stewart was listening intently to the girl, his chin on his knuckles, his elbow propped on his knee. His forehead was puckered; he was gazing at her with intent seriousness. "Senator Corson," warned the girl, "we are in executive session." "I see! I understand! But I need Stewart urgently for a few moments." "I surrendered him willingly a little while ago. But this conference must not be interrupted, sir!" "Certainly not, Senator Corson!" asserted Stewart, with a decisive snap in his tone. "We have a great deal of ground to go over." "I'll allow you plenty of time--but a little later. There is a small matter to be set straight. 'Twill take but a few moments." "It's undoubtedly either business or politics, sir," declared Lana, with a fine assumption of parliamentary dignity. "But I have the floor for concerns of my own, and I'll not cede any of my time." "It is hardly business or politics," returned the Senator, gravely. "It concerns a matter of courtesy between guests in my home, and I'm anxious to have the thing straightened out at once. I beg of you, Stewart!" The mayor rose promptly. "I suppose I must consider it a question of privilege and yield," consented Lana, still carrying on her little play of procedure. "But do I have your solemn promise, Senator Corson, that this gentleman will be returned to me by you at the earliest possible moment?" "I promise." "And I want your promise that you will hurry back," said the girl, addressing Stewart. "I'll wait right here!" "But, Lana, remember your duties to our guests," protested her father. "I have been fulfilling them ever since the reception-line was formed." She waved her hand to draw their attention to the distant music. "The guests are having a gorgeous time all by themselves. I'll be waiting here," she warned. "Remember, please, both of you that I am waiting. That ought to hurry your settlement of that other matter you speak of." "I'll waste no time!" Morrison assured her. He marched away with the Senator. In the study Corson took his stand between his two guests. Daunt was bristling; Morrison displayed no emotion of any sort. "Mr. Daunt, I think you'd better state your grievance, as you feel it, so that Mr. Morrison can assure both of us that it arises from a misunderstanding." The banker took advantage of that opportunity with great alacrity. "Now that Senator Corson is present--now that we have a broad-minded referee, Mr. Morrison, I propose to go over that matter of business." "Exactly on the same lines?" inquired Stewart, mildly. "Exactly! And for obvious reasons--so that Corson may understand just how much your attitude hurt my feelings." "Pardon me, Mr. Daunt. I have no time to listen to the repetition. It will gain you nothing from me. My mind remains the same. And Miss Corson is waiting for me. I have promised to return to her as soon as possible." "But it will take only a little while to go over the matter," pleaded Corson. "It will be time wasted on a repetition, sir. I have no right to keep Miss Corson waiting, on such an excuse." "You give me an almighty poor excuse for unmannerly treatment of my business, Morrison," Daunt stated, with increasing ire. "I really must agree in that," chided the Senator. "Sir, you gave your daughter the same promise for yourself," declared Stewart. "Now let's not be silly, Stewart. Lana was playing! You can go right on with her from where you left off." "Perhaps!" admitted the mayor. "I hope so, at any rate. But I don't propose to break my promise." He added in his own mind that he did not intend to allow a certain topic between him and Lana Corson to get cold while he was being bullyragged by two elderly gentlemen in that study. "By the gods! you'll have to talk turkey to me on one point!" asserted Daunt, his veneer of dignity cracking wide and showing the coarser grain of his nature. "I made you a square business proposition and you insulted me--under the roof of a gentleman who had vouched for both of us." "Thank you! Now we are not retracing our steps, as you threatened to do. We go on from where we left off. Therefore, I can give you a few moments, sir. What insult did I offer you?" "You told me that I ought to be ashamed of myself." "That was not an insult, Mr. Daunt. I intended it to be merely a frank expression of opinion. Just a moment, please!" he urged, breaking in on violent language. He brought his thumb and forefinger together to make a circle and poised his hand over his head. "I don't wear one of these. I have no right to wear one. Halo, I mean! I'm no prig or preacher--at least, I don't mean to be. But when I talk business I intend to talk it straight and use few words--and those words may sound rather blunt, sometimes. Just a moment, I say!" He leaned over the table and struck a resounding blow on it with his knuckles. "This is a nutshell proposition and we'll keep it in small compass. You gave me a layout of your proposed stock issue. No matter what has been done by the best of big financiers, no matter what is being done or what is proposed to be done, in this particular case your consolidation means that you've got to mulct the people to pay unreasonably high charges on stock. It isn't a square deal. My property was developed on real money. I know what it pays and ought to pay. I won't put it into a scheme that will oblige every consumer of electricity to help pay dividends on imaginary money. And if you're seriously attempting to put over any consolidation of that sort on our people, Mr. Daunt, I repeat that you ought to be ashamed of yourself." "And now you have heard him with your own ears," clamored the banker. "What do you say to that, Mr. Corson?" "All capitalization entails a fair compromise--values to be considered in the light of new development," said the Senator. "Let's discuss the proposition, Stewart." "Discussion will only snarl us up. I'm stating the principle. You can't compromise principle! I refuse to discuss." "Have you gone crazy over this protection-of-the-people idea?" demanded Corson, with heat. "Maybe so! I'm not sure. I may be a little muddled. But I see a principle ahead and I'm going straight at it, even though I may tread on some toes. I believe that the opinion doesn't hold good, any longer, as a matter of right, that because a man has secured a franchise, and his charter permits him to build a dam across a river or the mouth of a lake, he is thereby entitled to all the power and control and profit he can get from that river or lake without return in direct payment on that power to the people of the state. We know it's by constitutional law that the people own the river and the lake. I'm putting in a report on this whole matter to the incoming legislature, Senator Corson." "Good Heavens! Morrison, you're not advocating the soviet doctrine that the state can break existing contracts, are you?" shouted the Senator. "I take the stand that charters do not grant the right for operators of water-power to charge anything their greed prompts 'em to charge on ballooned stock. I assert that charters are fractured when operators flagrantly abuse the public that way! I'm going to propose a legislative bill that will oblige water-power corporations to submit in public reports our state engineers' figures on actual honest profit-earning valuation; to publish complete lists of all the men who own stock so that we may know the interests and the persons who are secretly behind the corporations." Corson displayed instant perturbation. "Such publication can be twisted to injure honest investors. It can be used politically by a man's enemies. Stewart, I am heavily interested financially in Daunt's syndicate, because I believe in developing our grand old state. I bring this personal matter to your attention so that you may see how this general windmill-tilting is going to affect your friends." "I'm for our state, too, sir! And I'll mention a personal matter that's close to me, seeing that you have broached the subject. St. Ronan's mill is responsible for more than two hundred good homes in the city of Marion, built, owned, and occupied by our workers. And in order to clean up a million profit for myself, I don't propose to go into a syndicate that may decide to ship power out of this state and empty those homes." "You are leaping at insane conclusions," roared Daunt. He shook his finger under Morrison's nose. "I'll admit that I have arrived at some rather extreme conclusions, sir," admitted Stewart, putting his threatened nose a little nearer Daunt's finger. "I based the conclusions on your own statement to me that you proposed to make my syndicate holdings more valuable by a legislative measure that would permit the consolidation to take over poles and wires of existing companies or else run wires into communities in case the existing companies would not sell." "That's only the basic principle of business competition for the good of the consuming public. Competition is the demand, the right of the people," declared Daunt. "I'm a bit skeptical--still basing my opinion on your own statements as to common-stock dividends--as to the price per kilowatt after competitors shall have been sandbagged according to that legislative measure," drawled the mayor. He turned to the Senator. "You see, sir, your guest and myself are still a good ways apart in our business ideas!" "We'll drop business--drop it right where it is," said the Senator, curtly. "Mr. Daunt has tried to meet you more than half-way in business, in my house, taking my indorsement of you. When I recommended you I was not aware that you had been making radical speeches to a down-town mob. I am shocked by the change in you, Stewart. Have you any explanation to give me?" "I'm afraid it would take too long to go over it now in a way to make you understand, sir. I don't want to spoil my case by leaving you half informed. Mr. Daunt and I have reached an understanding. Pardon me, but I insist that I must keep my promise to Miss Corson." The father did not welcome that announcement. "I trust that the understanding you mention includes the obligation to forget all that Mr. Daunt has said under my roof this evening." "I have never betrayed confidences in my personal relations with any man, Senator Corson," returned Morrison. "Then your honor naturally suggests your course in this peculiar situation." "Let's not stop to split hairs of honor! What do you expect me to do?" demanded Morrison, bruskly business-like. "I'll tell you what I expect," volunteered Daunt. "You have possession of facts----" "I did not solicit them, sir. I was practically forced into an interview with you when I much rather would have been enjoying myself in the ballroom." "Nevertheless, you have the facts. Under the circumstances you have no right to them. I expect you to show a gentleman's consideration and keep carefully away from my affairs." "I, also, must ask that much, as your mutual host," put in Corson. "Gentlemen," declared Stewart, setting back his shoulders, "by allowing myself to stretch what you term 'honor' to that fine point I would be held up in a campaign I have started--prevented from going on with my work, simply because Mr. Silas Daunt is among the men I'm fighting. I'm exactly where I was before Mr. Daunt talked to me. I propose to lick a water-power monopoly in this state if it's in my humble power to do it. If you stay in that crowd, Mr. Daunt, you've got to take your chances along with the rest of 'em." "Stewart, your position is outrageous," blazed Corson. "You're not only throwing away a wonderful business opportunity on lines wholly approved by general usage--simply to indulge an impractical whim for which you'll get no thanks--taking a nonsensical stand for a mere dream in the way of public ownership--but you're insulting me, myself, by the inference that may be drawn." "I don't understand, sir." "Well, then, understand!" said the Senator, carried far by his indignation. "You know how I made my fortune!" "I do!" "Was I not justified in buying in all the public timber-lands at the going price?" "Yes, seeing that the people of the state were fools enough to stay asleep and let lands go for a dollar or so an acre--lands to-day worth thousands of dollars an acre for the timber on 'em!" "I paid the price that was asked. That's as far as a business man is expected to go." "Certainly, Senator. I'm glad for you. But, I repeat, the people were asleep! Now I'm going to wake 'em up to guard their last great heritage--the water-power that they still own! I'll keep 'em awake, if I've got strength enough in this arm to keep on drumming and breath enough to keep the old trumpet sounding!" "The corporations in this state are organized, they will protect their charters, they will make you let go of your wild scheme," bellowed the banker. "By the jumped-up Jehoshaphat, they will make you let go, Morrison! By the great--" "Hush!" pleaded their host. "They can hear outside. No profanity!" Stewart had started toward the door; he paused for a moment when he had his hand on the knob. "We will not let go!" he said, calmly. "We won't let go--and this is not profanity, Senator Corson--we won't let go of as much as one dam-site!" X A SENATOR SIZES UP A FOE After Stewart had closed the door behind himself Senator Corson rose hastily. For a few moments he surveyed the panels of the oaken portal with the intentness of one who was studying a problem on a printed page. Then, plainly, his thoughts went traveling beyond the closed door. But he appeared to be receiving no satisfaction from his scrutiny or from his thoughts. He scowled and muttered. He stared into the palms of his soiled gloves; the suggestion they offered did not improve his temper. He ripped them from his hands. "What the mischief ails 'em, down here? They're all more or less slippery, Daunt! I've been sensing it all the evening! I feel as if I'd been handling eels." Banker Daunt was calming himself by a patrol of the room. "I can view matters like a statesman when I'm in the Senate Chamber," Corson asserted, "but down here at home these days I can't see the forest on account of the trees! I don't know what tree to climb first, Daunt, I swear I don't! What with North getting the party into this scrape it's in, and playing his sharp politics, and this power question fight and--and--" He gazed at the door again. It now suggested a definite course of procedure, apparently. He crumpled his gloves into a ball and threw them on the table. There was a hint in that action; the Senator was showing his determination to handle matters without gloves for the rest of the evening. "There's one thing about it, Daunt, a man can't do his best in public concerns till he has freed his mind of his private troubles. You wait here. I'll be right back." "Where are you going, Senator?" "I'm going to regain my self-respect! I'm going to assert myself as master of my own home. I'm going to tell Stewart Morrison that I have business with him, and that I'll attend to it in a strictly business office, later, where he can't insult my friends and abuse my hospitality!" "Wait a minute! I've had an acute attack of it, too, this evening--the same ailment, but I'm getting over it. Don't lose your head and your temper, both at the same time. You're not in the right trim just now to go against that bullhead. Let's estimate him squarely. That's always my plan in business." Mr. Daunt plucked a cigar from a box on the table and lighted up leisurely, soothing himself into a matter-of-fact mood. Corson waited with impatience, but his politician's caution began to tug on the bits, moderating the rush of his passion, and he took a cigar for himself. "Outside of this petty mayor business, does Morrison cut any figure--have any special power in state politics?" the banker asked. "Not a particle--not as a politician. He doesn't know the A B C's of the game." "How much influence can he wield as an agitator, as he threatens to become?" Corson's declaration was less emphatic. "We're conservative, the mass of us, in these parts. Starting trouble isn't wielding influence, Daunt. He'll be going up against the political machine that has always handled this state safely and sanely--and we know what to do with trouble-makers." "This communistic stand of his certainly discredits him with the corporations, also. Despeaux has been doing good work, and practically all of 'em have come over to the Consolidated camp. Of course, Morrison is antagonizing the banking interests, too. Is he a heavy borrower?" "He doesn't borrow. He works on his own capital. St. Ronan's is free and clear," admitted the Senator, crossly. "That's too bad! Calling loans is always effective in improving a radical's opinions. Then this friend, whom you have held up to me as so important in our plans----" "I did consider him important, Daunt! I do now. I know him. I have seen him go after things, ever since he was a boy. That storage-commission scheme is his own device and, as the head of it, he occupies a strategic position." "But it's only a scheme; he has no actual organization of the people behind it." "Confound it! I'm afraid he will have!" "It's an impractical dream--trying to establish such shadowy ownership of what vested capital under private control must naturally possess and develop. We have sound business on our side." "It may not seem so much like a dream after he puts that report into the legislature," complained the Senator. "I tell you, I know Stewart Morrison. He indulges in visions, but he'll back this particular one up with so many facts and figures that it will make a treasury report look like a ghost-story by comparison. Talk about sound business! That's Morrison's other name!" "What's going to be done with that report, Corson?" The Senator hesitated a few moments. "Understand that I'm no kin of old Captain Teach, the buccaneer, either in politics or business, Daunt. But I'm not fool enough to believe that the millennium has arrived in this world, even if the battle of Armageddon has been fought, as the parsons are preaching. We still must deal with human conditions. The tree is full of good ideas, I'll admit. But we've got to let 'em ripen. Eat 'em now--and it's a case of the gripes for business and politics, both. Therefore"--the Senator paused and squinted at the end of his cigar. "Well, Daunt, we'll have to apply a little common sense to conditions, even though the opposition may squeal. That ownership of the water-power by the people isn't ripe. The legislative committee will pocket Morrison's report, or will refer the thing to the public utilities commission." "Both plans meaning the same thing?" "I won't put it as coarsely as that. It only means handling the situation with discretion. Discretion by those in power is going to save us a lot of trouble in times like these." "You are sure of the right legislative committee, are you?" "Certainly! North is on the job up at the State House. I'll admit that he isn't tactful. He's very old-fashioned in his political ideas. But he doesn't mind clamor and criticism, and he isn't afraid of the devil himself. Between you and me, I think," continued the Senator, judicially, "that North is skating pretty near the edge this time. I would not have allowed him to go so far if I had been in better touch with conditions down here. But it's too late to modify his plans much at this hour. He must bull the thing through as he's going. I can undo the mischief to the party by the selection of a smooth diplomat for the gubernatorial nomination next year. But jumping back to the main subject--Stewart Morrison! Seeing what he is, in the water-power matter, I hoped I could smooth things by your getting next to him. I'm sorry you have been so much annoyed, Daunt! He may make it uncomfortable by his mouth, but he cannot control anything by direct political influence. Absolutely not!" The Senator was recovering his confidence in himself as a leader; he started up from his chair and stamped down an emphatic foot. "He is a nonentity in that direction. Politics will handle the thing! The legislature will be all right! The situation on Capitol Hill is safe. However, I think I'll pass a word or two with North!" He went to the wall of the study, slipped aside a small panel, and lifted out a telephone instrument. "A little precaution I've held over from the old days," Corson informed his guest, with a smile. "A private line to the Executive Chamber." From where he sat Daunt could hear the Governor's voice. The tones rasped and rattled and jangled in the receiver, which, for the sake of his eardrum, Senator Corson held away from his head. The puckers on his countenance indicated that he was annoyed, both by the news and by the discordant violence of its delivery. "But it's not as threatening as all that! It can't be!" the listener kept insisting. "Well, I'll come up," he promised, at last. "I'll come, but I think you're over-anxious, North!" There was a sound as if somebody were banging on a tin pan at the other end of the line; His Excellency had merely put more vigor into his voice. "I think--I'm quite sure that he's still here--in my house," Corson replied. "Yes--yes--I certainly will!" He hung up. "You seemed to think, Daunt, that I didn't have a good and a sufficient reason for saying a few words to Morrison when I started to hunt him up a few minutes ago. However, this time you'll have to excuse me. I'm going to him." "But you're not intending to make him of any especial importance in affairs, are you? You said he could be ignored." "Yes! But I don't propose to ignore his efforts to stir up the mob spirit in a city of which he happens to be mayor. He has been up to that mischief! I have heard straight reports from various sources this evening. The Governor has been posted and he is very emphatic on the point." Corson rubbed the ear that was still reminding him of that emphasis. "That's the trouble with men like Morrison, when they begin to talk people's rights these days, Senator! They go up in the air and jump all the way over into Bolshevism. I'm sorry now because I counseled you to smooth your temper. Go at him. I'll sit here and finish my smoke." At the head of the broad staircase Senator Corson came upon Mrs. Stanton and Coventry Daunt. They wore expressions of bewilderment that would have fitted the countenances of explorers who had missed their quest and had lost their reckoning. Mrs. Stanton put out her fan, and the striding father halted at the polite barrier with a greeting, but evinced anxiety to be on the way. "I'm so glad to see you, Senator Corson!" This with delight. "But isn't Lana with you?" this with anxiety. "I mean, hasn't she been with you?" "My dance contracts with Miss Corson have been shot quite all to pieces," said Coventry. "I have searched everywhere for her--I think I have," supplemented the sister. "But we guessed she must be with you, and we didn't venture to intrude." "And you are sure she is not in the ballroom?" "Absolutely!" Young Mr. Daunt plainly knew what he was talking about. "Coventry, if you and Mrs. Stanton will go there and wait a few moments, I am positive that Lana will come to you very promptly!" Senator Corson also seemed to know what he was talking about! XI FLAREBACKS IN THE CASE OF LOVE AND A MOB Again was Stewart a close listener, his chin resting on his knuckles, his serious eyes searching Lana's face while she talked. A cozy harbor was afforded by the bay of the great window in the library. When Stewart had returned to the girl he noticed that she had provided the harbor with a breakwater--a tall Japanese screen; waiting there she had found the room draughty, she informed him. He was placid when he returned. His demeanor was so untroubled and his air so eagerly invited her to go on from where she had left off that she did not bother her mind about the errand which had called him away. "I'm really glad because we adjourned the executive session for a recess," she confided. "I've had a chance to think over what I was saying to you, Stewart. While I talked I found myself getting a bit hysterical. I realized that I was presumptuous, but I couldn't seem to stop. But I have been going over it in my mind and I'm glad now that my feelings did carry me away. Friendship has a right to be impetuous on some occasions. I never tried to advise you in the old days. You wouldn't have listened, anyway." "I've always been glad to listen to you," he corrected. "But it makes a friend so provoked to have one listen and then go ahead and do just as one likes. I want to ask you--while you have been away from me have you been reflecting on what I said?" He stammered a bit, and there was not absolute candor in his eyes. "To tell the truth, Lana, I allowed myself to be taken up considerably with other matters. But I did remember my promise to hurry back to you, just the minute I could break away," he added, apologetically. "I'm a little disappointed in you, just the same, Stewart! I've been hoping that you were putting your mind on what I said to you. I was hoping that when you came back----" "Well, go on, Lana!" he prompted, gently, when she paused. "It's so hard for me to say it so it will sound as I mean it," she lamented. "To make my interest appear exactly what it is. To find the words to fit my thoughts just now! I know what they're saying about me these days in Marion. I know our folks so well! I don't need to hear the words; I have been studying their faces this evening. You, also, know what they're saying, Stewart!" He confined his assent to a significant nod; Jeanie MacDougal's few words on the subject had been, for him, a comprehensive summary of the general gossip. "When I was speechifying to you in St. Ronan's office you thought I had come back here filled with airs and lofty notions. I knew how you felt!" He shook his head and allowed the extent of his negation to be limited to that! "I'll tell you how I felt--some time--but now I'll listen to you." "I was putting all that on for show, Stewart! I felt so--so--I don't know! Embarrassed, perhaps! And I felt that you--" her color deepened then in true embarrassment. "And--and--they were all there!" It was naïve confession, and he smiled. "So I said to my wee mither, Lana, by way of setting her right as to meddlesome tongues." "I am sincere and honest still, Stewart, where my real friends are concerned. I've just complained because I can't find words to express my thoughts to you. Well, I never was at a loss when we were boy and girl together." She paused and they heard the sound of music. "There's a frilly style of talk that belongs with that--down there," she went on. There was a hint of contempt in her gesture. "But you and I used to get along better--or worse--with plain speech." The flash of a smile of her own softened her _moue_. "I make it serve me well in my affairs," agreed Morrison. "Do you think I'm airy and notional and stuck up?" "No!" "Do you think I'm posing as a know-it-all because I have been about in the world and have seen and heard?" "No!" "But you do think I'm broader and wiser and more open-minded and have better judgment on matters in general than I had when I was penned up here in Marion, don't you?" "Yes!" "Stewart, you're not helping me much, staring at me and popping those noes and yesses at me! You make me feel like--but, honestly, I'm not! I don't intend to seem like that!" "Eh?" "Why, like an opinionated lecturer, laying down the law of conduct to you! I don't mean to do all the talking." "You'd better, Lana--for the present," he advised, seriously; "If you have something to say to me, take care and not let me get started on what I want to say to you." She flushed. She drew away from him slightly. In her apprehensiveness she hurried on for her own protection. "I hoped you were coming back just now, Stewart, and put out your hand to me as your friend, a good pal who had given sensible advice, and say to me, 'Lana, you have used your wits to good advantage while you have been out and about in the world, and your suggestions to me are all right.' Aren't you going to say so, Stewart?" "As I understand it, putting all you said to me awhile back in that plain language we have agreed on, you tell me that I'm missing my opportunities, have gone to sleep down here in Marion, am allowing myself to be everlastingly tied up by petty business details that keep me away from real enjoyment of a bigger and better life, and that there's not the least need of my spending my best years in that fashion." "You state it bluntly, but that is the gist of it!" "Yes, I was blunt. I'm going to be even more blunt! What do I get out of this prospective, bigger life, Lana?" He drew a deep breath. "Do I get--you?" "Stewart, hush! Wait!" He had spread his hands to her appealingly. "I am talking to you as your friend--I'm talking of your business, your outlook. I must say something further to you!" He set as firm a grip on his emotions as he had on his anger earlier in the evening when Krylovensky's hand had dealt him a blow. Her demeanor had thrust him away effectually. The fire died in his eyes. "Go on, Lana! I have promised to allow you to have your say. And, once I start, only a 'Yes!' can stop me." She displayed additional apprehension and plunged into a strictly commercial topic with desperate directness. "I'm positive that you have no further need of making yourself a slave to details of business. I know that you can be free to devote yourself to the higher things that are worthy of your real self and your talents, Stewart. Father says that through Mr. Daunt there will come to you the grandest opportunity of your life. I suppose that's what Mr. Daunt explained to you when you were with him this evening. Even though you may not consider me wise in men's business affairs, Stewart, you must admit that my father and Mr. Daunt know. You haven't any silly notions, have you? You're ready to seize every opportunity to make a grand success in business, the way the great men do, aren't you?" There was a very different light in Morrison's eyes than had flamed in them a few moments before. He stared at her appraisingly, wonderingly. His demanding survey of her was disconcerting, but his somberness was that of disappointment rather than of any distrust. "Has your father asked you to talk to me on the subject of that business?" She did not reply promptly. But his challenge was too direct. "I confess that father did intimate that there'd be no need of mentioning him in the matter." "He asked you to talk to me, then?" "Yes, Stewart!" "And I thought you were talking only for yourself when you begged me to step up into that broader life!" His voice trembled. She did not appear to understand his emotion. "But I _am_ talking for myself," protested the girl. "You're talking only your father's views, his plans, his ambition, his scheme of life--talking Daunt's project for his own selfish ends!" "I don't understand!" "I hope you don't! For the sake of my love for you, I hope so!" He was striving to control himself. "In the name of what we have been to each other in days past, I hope you are not their--that you don't realize they are making you a----But I can't say it! I want proof from you now by word o' mouth! I don't want any more prattle of business! I want you to show me that you are talking for yourself. Lana Corson, say to me some word from your own heart--something for me alone--something from old times--to prove that you are what I want you to be! I love you. You are mine! I don't believe their gossip. I have never given you up. I've been waiting patiently for you to come back to me. Can't you go back to the old times--and speak from your own soul?" The intensity of his appeal carried her along in the rush of his emotion. "Stewart, I have been speaking for myself, as best I knew how! I'm back to the old times! If you need further words from me, you shall have them." Senator Corson stepped around the end of the screen. "You will postpone any further words to Mr. Morrison! I have some words of my own for him! Lana, Coventry Daunt is waiting for you in the ballroom and I have told him that you will be there at once." "Mr. Daunt must continue to wait, father. I have something to tell Stewart, and you must allow me to say it--say it to him, alone." "You shall never speak another word to him on any subject with my permission. I have been listening and--" "Father, do you confess that you have been eavesdropping?" "My present code of manners is perfectly suited to the tactics of this fellow who has flouted me and insulted an honored guest under my roof this evening. Morrison, leave the house!" "He shall stay at the request of his hostess," declared the girl, defiantly. "On with you to your guests--that's where your hostess duties are!" Corson reached to take her arm. Stewart hastily raised Lana's hand and bent over it. "I am indebted to you for a charming evening." He stood erect and his demeanor of manly sincerity removed every suggestion of sarcasm from the conventional phrase he had spoken quietly. "The charm, Senator Corson, has outweighed all the unpleasantness." When he turned to retire Corson halted him with a curt word. "Lana, I command you to go and join your partner." But Miss Corson persisted in her rebelliousness. She did not relish the ominous threat that she perceived in the situation. "I shall stay with you till you're in a better state of temper, father." "You'll hear nothing to this man's credit if you do stay," said the Senator, acridly. "I have just talked on the 'phone with the Governor, Mayor Morrison. He asked me to notify you that your mob which you have stirred up in your own city, by your devilish speeches this evening, is evidently on the war-path. He, expects you to undo the mischief, seeing that your tongue is the guilty party!" Lana turned startled gaze from her father to Morrison; amazement struggled with her indignation. Her amazement was deepened by the mayor's mild rejoinder. "Very well, Senator. I have an excellent understanding with that mob." "Making speeches to a mob!" Lana gasped. "I'll not allow even my father to say that about you, Stewart, and leave it undisputed." "Your father is angry just now, Lana! Any discussion will provoke further unpleasantness!" "Confound you! Don't you dare to insult me by your condescending airs," thundered Corson. "You have your orders. Go and mix with your rabble and continue that understanding with 'em, if you can make 'em understand that law and order must prevail in this city to-night." The library was in a wing of the mansion, far from the street, and the three persons behind the screen had been entirely absorbed in their troubled affairs. They had heard none of the sounds from the street. Somebody began to call in the corridor outside the library. The voice sounded above the music from the ballroom, and quavered with anxious entreaty as it demanded, over and over: "Senator Corson! Where are you, Senator Corson?" "Here!" replied the Senator. The secretary rushed in. "There's a mob outside, sir! A threatening mob!" "Ah! Morrison, your friends are looking you up!" "They are radicals--anarchists. They must be!" panted the messenger. "They are yelling: 'Down with the capitalists! Down with the aristocrats!' I ordered the shades pulled. The men seemed to be excited by looking in through the windows at the dancers in the ballroom!" "There'll be no trouble. I'll answer for that," promised the Mayor, marching away. Before he reached the door the crash of splintered glass, the screams of women and shouts of men; drowned the music. Stewart went leaping down the stairs. When he reached the ballroom he found the frightened guests massed against the wall, as far from the windows as they could crowd. A wild battle of some sort was going on outside in the night, so oaths and cries and the grim thudding of battering fists revealed. Before Stewart could reach a window--one of those from which the glass had been broken--Commander Lanigan came through the aperture with a rush, skating to a standstill along the polished floor. Blood was on his hands. His sleeves hung in ribbons. In that scene of suspended gaiety he was a particularly grisly interloper. "They sneaked it over on us, Mister Mayor!" he yelled. "I got a tip and routed out the Legion boys and chased 'em, but the dirty, Bullshevists beat us to it up the hill. But we've got 'em licked!" "Keep 'em licked for the rest of the night," Morrison suggested. "I'll be down-town with you, right away!" But Lanigan, in his raging excitement, was not amenable to hints or orders, nor was he cautious in his revelations. "We can handle things down-town, Your Honor! What we want to know is, what about up-town--up on Capitol Hill?" "You've had my promise of what I'll do. And I'll do it!" Senator Corson and his daughter had arrived in the ballroom. The Senator was promptly and intensely interested in this cocksure declaration by Morrison. "Your promise is the same as hard cash for me and the level-headed ones," retorted Commander Lanigan. "But whether it's the Northern Lights in the skies or plain hellishness in folks or somebody underneath stirring and stirring trouble and starting lies, I don't know! Lots of good boys have stopped being level-headed! I'll hold the gang down if I can, sir. But what I want to know is, can we depend on you to tend to Capitol Hill? Are you still on the job? Can I tell 'em that you're still on the job?" "You can tell 'em all that I'm on the job from now till morning," shouted the mayor. He was heard by the men outside. They gave his declaration a howl of approval. "The people will be protected," shouted an unseen admirer. Stewart hurried to Senator Corson and was not daunted by that gentleman's blazing countenance. "I'm sorry, sir. This seems to be a flareback of some sort. I'll have police on guard at once!" "You'll protect the people, eh? There's a flatterer in your mob, Morrison! You can't even give window-glass in this city suitable protection--a mayor like you! I'll have none of your soviet police around my premises." He turned to his secretary. "Call the adjutant-general at the State House and tell him to send a detachment of troops here." "I trust they'll co-operate well with the police I shall send," stated the Mayor, stiffly. He hastened from the room. When Stewart had donned hat and overcoat and was about to leave the mansion by the main door, Lana stepped in front of him. "Stewart, you must stop for a moment--you must deny it, what father has been saying to me about you just now!" "Your father is angry--and in anger a man says a whole lot that he doesn't mean. I'm in a hurry--and a man in a hurry spoils anything he tries to tell. We must let it wait, Lana." "But if you go on--go on as you're going--crushing Mr. Daunt's plans--spoiling your own grand prospects--antagonizing my father--paying no heed to my advice!" The girl's sentences were galloping breathlessly. "We'll have time to talk it over, Lana!" "What! Talk it over after you have been reckless enough to spoil everything? You must stand with your friends, I tell you! Father is wiser than you! Isn't he right?" "I--I guess he thinks he is--but I can't talk about it." He was backing toward the door. "You must know what it means--for us two--if you go headlong against him. I stand stanchly for my father--always!" "I reckon you'll have to be sort of loyal to your father--but I can't talk about it! Not now!" he repeated. He was uncomfortably aware that he had no words to fit the case. "But if you don't stand with him, you're in with the rabble--the rabble," she declared, indignantly. "He says you are! Stewart, I know you won't insult his wisdom and deny my prayer to you! Only a few moments ago I was ready----But I cannot say those words to you unless----You understand!" This interview had been permitted only because Senator Corson's attention had been absorbed by Mrs. Stanton's hysterical questions. But the lady's fears did not affect her eyesight. She had noted Lana's departure and she caught a glimpse of the mayor when he strode past the ballroom door with his hat in his hand. "Yes, I'll be calm, Senator! I'm sure that we'll be perfectly protected. Lana followed the mayor just now, and I suppose she is insisting on a double detail of police." The Senator promptly followed, too, to find out more exactly what Lana was insisting on. "Haven't you joined your rabble yet, Morrison?" Corson queried, insolently, when he came upon the two. "I'm going, sir--going right along!" Lana set her hands together, the fingers interlaced so tightly that the flesh was as white as her cheeks. "'Your rabble!' Stewart! Oh! Oh!" In spite of her thinly veiled threat of a few moments ago, there was piteous protest in her face and voice. "According to suggestions from all quarters, I don't seem to fit any other kind of society just now," he replied, ruefully. He marched out into the night. "Call my car," Senator Corson directed a servant. In the reception-hall he encountered Silas Daunt, "Slip on your hat and coat. Come along with me to the State House. I'll show you how practical politics can settle a rumpus, after a visionary has tumbled down on his job!" XII RIFLES RULE IN THE PEOPLE'S HOUSE At eleven o'clock Adj.-Gen. Amos Totten set up the cinch of his sword-belt by a couple of holes and began another tour of inspection of the State House. He considered that the parlous situation in state affairs demanded full dress. During the evening he had been going on his rounds at half-hour intervals. On each trip he had been much pleased by the strict, martial discipline and alertness displayed by his guardsmen. The alertness was especially noticeable; every soldier was tautly at 'tention when the boss warrior hove in sight. General Totten was portly and came down hard on his heels with an elderly man's slumping gait, and his sword clattered loudly and his movements were as well advertised as those of a belled cat in a country kitchen. In the interims, between the tours of General Totten, Captain Danny Sweetsir did his best to keep his company up to duty pitch. But he was obliged to admit to himself that the boys were not taking the thing as seriously as soldiers should. Squads were scattered all over the lower part of the great building, guarding the various entrances. While Captain Sweetsir was lecturing the tolerant listeners of one squad, he was irritably aware that the boys of the squads that were not under espionage were doing nigh about everything that a soldier on duty should not do, their diversions limited only by their lack of resources. Therefore, when General Totten complimented him at eleven o'clock, Captain Sweetsir had no trouble at all in disguising his gratification and in assuming the approved, sour demeanor of military gravity. Even then his ears, sharpened by his indignation, caught the clicking of dice on tiles. "Of course, there will be no actual trouble to-night," said the general, removing his cap and stroking his bald head complacently. "I have assured the boys that there will be no trouble. But this experience is excellent military training for them, and I'm pleased to note that they're thoroughly on the _qui vive_." Captain Sweetsir, on his own part, did not apprehend trouble, either, but the A.-G.'s bland and unconscious encouragement of laxity was distinctly irritating, "Excuse me, sir, but I have been telling 'em right along that there will be a rumpus. I was trying to key 'em up!" "Remember that you're a citizen as well as a soldier!" The general rebuked his subaltern sternly. "Don't defame the fair name of your city and state, sir! The guard has been called out by His Excellency, the Commander-in-Chief, merely as a precaution. The presence of troops in the State House--their mere presence here--has cleared the whole situation. Mayor Morrison agrees with me perfectly on that point." "He does?" demanded the captain, eagerly, showing relief. "Why, I was afraid--" He checked himself. "Of what, sir?" "He didn't look like giving three cheers when I told him in the mill office that we had been ordered out." "Mayor Morrison called me on the telephone in the middle of the day and I explained to him why it was thought necessary to have the State House guarded." "And what did he say?" urged the captain, still more eagerly. Again he caught himself. He saluted. "I beg your pardon, General Totten. I have no right to put questions to my superior officer." But General Totten was not a military martinet. He was an amiable gentleman from civil life, strong with the proletariat because he had been through the chairs in many fraternal organizations and, therefore, handy in politics; and he was strong with the Governor on account of another fraternal tie--his sister was the Governor's wife. General Totten, as a professional mixer, enjoyed a chat. "That's all right, Captain! What did the mayor say, you ask? He courteously made no comment. Official tact! He is well gifted in that line. His manner spoke for him--signified his complete agreement. He was cordially polite! Very!" The general put on his cap and slanted it at a jaunty angle. "And he still approves. Is very grateful for the manner in which I'm handling the situation. He called me only a few minutes ago. From his residence! I informed him that all was serene on Capitol Hill." "And what did he say when he called you this time?" "Nothing! Oh, nothing by way of criticism! Distinctly affable!" Captain Sweetsir did not display the enthusiasm that General Totten seemed to expect. "Let's see, Captain! You are employed by him?" "Not quite that way! I'm a mill student--learning the wool business at St. Ronan's." "Aren't you and Mayor Morrison friendly?" "Oh yes! Certainly, sir! But--" Captain Sweetsir appeared to be having much difficulty in completing his sentences, now that Stewart Morrison had become the topic of conversation. "But what?" "He didn't say anything, you tell me?" "His cordiality spoke louder than words. And, of course, I was glad to meet him half-way. I have invited him to call at the State House, if he cares to do so, though the hour is late. And now I come to the matter of my business with you, Captain Sweetsir," stated the general, putting a degree of official sanction on his garrulity in the case of this subordinate. "If Mayor Morrison does come to the State House to-night, by any chance, you may admit him." "Did he say anything about coming?" "Mayor Morrison understands that I am handling everything so tactfully that an official visit by him might be considered a reflection on my capability. His politeness equals mine, Captain. Undoubtedly he will not trouble to come. If he should happen to call unofficially you will please see to it that politeness governs." "Yes, sir! But the other orders hold good, do they, politeness or no politeness?" "For mobs and meddling politicians, certainly! I put them all in the same class in a time like this." General Totten clucked a stuffy chuckle and clanked on his official way. Captain Sweetsir heard a sound that was as fully exasperating as the click of dice; somebody, somewhere in the dimly lighted rotunda, was snoring. He had previously found sluggards asleep on settees; he went in search of the latest offender. But his thoughts were occupied principally by reflection on that peculiar reticence of the Morrison of St. Ronan's; Mill-student Sweetsir was assailed by doubts of the correctness of General Totten's comfortable conclusions. Mr. Sweetsir, in the line of business, had had opportunity on previous occasions to observe the reaction of the Morrison's reticence. The adjutant-general did not bother with the elevator. He marched up the middle of the grand stairway. The State House was only partially illuminated with discreet stint of lights. All the outside incandescents of dome, _porte-cochère_, and vestibules had been extinguished. The inside lights were limited to those in the corridors and the lobbies. The great building on Capitol Hill seemed like a cowardly giant, clumsily intent on being inconspicuous. General Totten did not harmonize with the hush. He was distinctly an ambulatory noise in the corridor which led to the executive department. He was announced informally, therefore, to His Excellency. There was no way of announcing oneself formally to the Governor at that hour, except by rapping on the door of the private chamber. The reception-room was empty, the private secretary was not on duty, the messenger of the Governor and of the Executive Council had been informed by Governor North that his services would not be required for the rest of the evening. Being both adjutant-general and brother-in-law, Totten did not bother to knock. The Governor was at his broad table in the center of the room; the big chandelier above the table was ablaze, and the shadows of the grooves on North's face were accentuated. He was staring at the opening door with an expectancy that had been fully apprised as to the caller's identity, and he was not cordial. "You make a devilish noise lugging that meat-cleaver around, Amos. What's the use of all the full-dress nonsense?" "Official example _and_"--the general bore down hard on the conjunction--"the absolute necessity of a civilian officer getting into uniform when he exercises authority. I know human nature!" "All right! Maybe you do. But don't trip yourself up with that sword and fall down and break your neck," advised the Governor, satirically solicitous as one of the family. "Anything stirring down-stairs?" "The situation is being handled perfectly. Everybody alert. It's wonderful training for the guards." "I haven't liked the sound of reports from the city. Has any news come to you lately?" "Nothing of special importance. Only a little disturbance, or the threat of one, in the vicinity of Senator Corson's residence. His secretary called up. I sent a few boys down there." "A disturbance?" barked North. "I didn't quite gather the details. The man ran his words together." General Totten helped himself to one of his brother-in-law's cigars. "This sounds serious. Why the infernal blazes don't you wake up?" "An officer commanding troops mustn't be thrown off his poise by every flurry. What would happen if I didn't keep my head?" "When was this?" "Oh, maybe half an hour ago," replied the adjutant-general, with martial indifference to any mere rumblings of popular discontent. "That's probably the reason why Corson hasn't got along yet. I'm expecting him. I sent for him." North twitched his nose; his eye-glasses dropped off and dangled at the end of their cord. "I have sent explicit orders to Mayor Morrison to tend to that mob that he has been coddling. He's letting 'em get away from him, if what you say is so." "Oh, the mayor and I are in perfect accord and are handling the situation. I have just been talking with him on the telephone." Totten settled his cigar into the corner of his mouth. "Where is he?" "At his residence! Showing that he isn't any more worried than I am." "Well, if he has got the thing in hand again, I hope he'll stay at his residence. If reports are anything to go by, he didn't help matters by going down-town and making speeches to that rabble." "Politeness wins in the long run, Lawrence, whether you're talking to the mob or the masters. I make it my principle in life. Tact and diplomacy. Harmony and--" "Hell and repeat!" stormed North. "You and Morrison are not taking this thing the way you ought to! In accord, say you! He is torching 'em up and you are grinning while the fire burns! Fine team-work! Amos, you get in accord with me and my orders. You keep away from Morrison till I can make sure that he stands clean in his party loyalty." His Excellency was stuttering in his wrath and the general determined to be discreetly silent as to his recent tender of politeness to Morrison through the captain of the guards. Furthermore, Totten's self-complacency assured him that the mayor of Marion was leaving the affairs on Capitol Hill in the hands of the accredited commander on Capitol Hill. Governor North pulled open a drawer of the table. He threw a bunch of keys to his brother-in-law. "I had the messenger leave these with me. Lock up all the doors of the Council Chamber. Leave only my private door unlocked." The adjutant-general caught the keys. "But you certainly don't expect any trouble up here, with my guards--" "It's plenty enough of a job for a cat to watch one rat-hole! Lock up, I tell you!" XIII THE LINE-UP FORMS IN THE PEOPLE'S HOUSE While General Totten was bruising his dignity in the menial work of a turnkey, Governor North received two visitors. They were furred gentlemen who entered abruptly by the private door--the before-mentioned rat-hole--but the waiting cat did not pounce. On the contrary, one of the furred intruders did the pouncing. It was Senator Corson and he was furiously angry. "What kind of a damnable fool has been giving off orders to those soldiers? I have been tramping around outside this State House from door to door, held up everywhere and insulted by those young whelps." "I don't see how that could happen," protested the Governor. "Who gave off such orders?" "There were no orders, not in your case. I didn't think it was necessary to specify anything in regard to you, Senator. Do you mean to tell me that there's a man down there who didn't recognize you--who refused to allow you to pass without question?" "They all know me! Of course they know me. And that's the whole trouble. They made that the reason why they wouldn't let me in here." "How in the devil's name could that be?" The Governor's anger that promised punishment for the offenders served Senator Corson in lieu of apology. "I was informed that there were strict orders not to admit politicians. According to those lunkheads at the doors I came under that classification." The Senator threw off his coat. "And Daunt, here, was penalized on account of the company he was keeping. Find out who gave those orders." General Totten had locked the doors and was nervously jangling the keys. "Amos, what kind of a fool have you been making yourself with your orders?" the Governor demanded. "I--I think some instructions of mine in regard to admitting any of those persons whose seats are in dispute--probably those orders were misconstrued. My guards are very zealous--very alert," affirmed the adjutant-general, putting as good a face on the matter as was possible. He fully realized that this was no time to mention that exception in favor of Mayor Morrison, or to explain that he had intended to have Captain Sweetsir accept humorously instead of literally the more recent statement about politicians. "There are two of those alert patriots who have had their zeal dulled for the time being," stated the Senator, showing his teeth with a grim smile. "I stood the impertinence as long as I could and then I cuffed the ears of the fools and walked in." "We did issue strict instructions, as Amos has intimated," the Governor pleaded. "Some of those Socialists and Progressives who are claiming their seats have hired counsel and they proposed to force their way into the House and Senate chambers and make a test case, inviting forcible expulsion. I'm reckoning that my plan of forcible exclusion leaves us in cleaner shape." "I'm not sure just how clean the whole thing is going to leave us, North." The Senator tossed his coat upon a huge divan at one side of the chamber and invited Daunt to dispose of his own coat in like fashion. Corson came to the table and sat sidewise on one corner of it. "You know how I feel about your pressing the election statutes to the extent you have. But we've got the old nag right in the middle of the river, and we've got to attend to swimming instead of swapping. I think, in spite of all their howling, the other crowd will take their medicine, as the courts hand it to them, when the election cases go up for adjudication. But there's a gang in every community that always takes advantage of any signs of a mix-up in high authority. My house got merry hell from a mob a little while ago. There's no political significance in the matter, however!" The Governor queried anxiously for details and Corson gave them. He bitterly arraigned Morrison's stand. North came to his feet and banged his fist on the table. "What? Take that attitude toward a mob in his own city? Strike hands with a ringleader of a riot--do it under a violated roof? Do it after what he promised me in the way of co-operation for law and order? Has he completely lost his mind, Senator Corson?" "I think so," stated the Senator, with sardonic venom. "I'll admit that the thing isn't exactly clear to me--what he's trying to do--what he's thinking. A crazy man's actions and whims seldom are understandable by a sane man. But, so I gather, after showing us, as he has this evening, a sample of his work in running municipal government, he now proposes to take full charge of state matters." "What?" yelled the Governor. "Yes! Promised the ringleader of the mob to come up here and run everything on Capitol Hill. In behalf of the people--as the people's protector!" The Senator's irony rasped like a file on metal. Banker Daunt was provoked to add his evidence. "It's exactly as my friend Corson says, Governor. I have been hearing some fine soviet doctrines from the mouth of Morrison this evening. Not at all stingy about giving his help to all those who need it! Gave his pledge of assistance to the fellow in the ballroom, as Corson says. Understood him to say that he is coming up here to help you, too!" "I rather expected to find him here," pursued the Senator. "He went away in a great hurry to go somewhere. But after my experience with your alert soldiers down-stairs, Totten, I'm afraid our generous savior is going to be bothered about getting in." The adjutant-general pulled off his cap and scrubbed his palm nervously over the glossy surface that was revealed. "You might give some special orders to admit him," suggested Corson. "He'll be a great help in an emergency." "This settles it with me as to Morrison and his conception of law and order," affirmed Governor North. "I have been depending on him to handle his city. I'd as soon depend on Lenin and the kind of government he's running in Russia." "According to the samples furnished by both, I think Lenin would rank higher as help," said the Senator. "At least he has shown that he knows how to handle a mob. But we may as well calm down, North, and attend to our own business. We are making altogether too much account of a silly nincompoop. Daunt and I let our feelings get away from us this evening on the same subject. But we woke up promptly. Morrison was in a position to help his friends and to amount to something as an aid in that line. Now that he is running with the rabble, for some purpose of his own, he can be ignored. He amounts to nothing--to that!" He snapped a derogatory finger into his palm. "We can handle that rabble, Morrison included." He turned to the adjutant-general. "Your men seem to be alert enough in keeping out gentlemen who ought to be let in. Do you think you can depend on them to keep out real intruders?" "Oh yes!" faltered Totten, absent-mindedly. He was trying to clear his troubled thoughts in regard to the matter of Morrison, who was now presented in a light where politeness might not be allowed to govern the situation. "Have they been put to any test of their courage and reliability? Have they been up against any actual threats from the outside, this evening?" "No, but I can depend on them to the limit, Senator Corson. I have been on regular tours of inspection. They are a cool and nervy set of young men and I have impressed on them a sense of what a soldier on duty should be." "Very well, Totten! Nevertheless, let us hope that the mob fools have gone home to bed, including our friend Morrison. He needs his sleep; I believe he still follows the family rule of being in his mill at seven in the morning. He's a good millman, even if he isn't much of a politician." "And I don't look for any trouble, anyway," declared General Totten, adding in his thoughts, for his further consolation, the assurance that, at half past eleven, so the clock on the wall revealed to his gaze, such an early riser as Morrison must be abed and asleep; therefore, the exception for the sake of politeness did not threaten to complicate affairs! But at that instant something else did threaten. Through the arches and corridors of the State House rang the sounds of tumult, breaking on the hush with terrifying suddenness. One voice, shouting with frenzied violence, prefaced the general uproar; there was the crashing of shattered wood. The rifles barked angrily. "My God, North! I've been afraid of it!" Corson lamented. "You have crowded 'em too hard!" "I'm going by the law, Corson! The election law! The statute law! And the riot laws of this state! The law says a mob must be put down!" An immediate and reassuring silence suggested that the law had prevailed and that a mob had been put down in this instance. Corson, whose face was white and whose eyes were distended, voiced that conviction. "If a gang had been able to get in they'd be howling their heads off. But it was quick over!" The men in the Executive Chamber stood in their tracks and exchanged troubled glances in silence. "Amos, what are you waiting for?" demanded His Excellency. "For a report--an official report on the matter," mumbled the adjutant-general, steadying his trembling hands by shoving them inside his sword-belt. "Go down and find out what it all means." "I can save time by telephoning to the watchman's room," demurred Totten. "Incidentally saving your skin!" the Governor rapped back. "But I don't care how you get the information, if only you get it and get it sudden!" Totten went to the house telephone in the private secretary's room and called and waited; he called again and waited. "Nobody is on his job in this State House to-night!" His Excellency's fears had wire-edged his temper. "By gad! you go down there and tend to yours, as I have told you to do, Amos, or I'll take that sword and race you along the corridor on the point of it!" "We must be informed on what this means," insisted the Senator. There was a rap on the private door. Again the men in the Executive Chamber swapped uneasy glances. Corson's demeanor invited the Governor to assume the responsibility. His Excellency was manifestly shirking. He looked over his shoulder in the direction of the fireplace, as if he felt an impulse to arm himself with the ornamental poker and tongs. "May I come in?" The voice was that of the mayor of Marion. The voice was deprecatory. "Come in!" invited North. Morrison entered. He greeted them with a wide smile that did not fit the seriousness of the situation, as they viewed it. There was humor behind the smile; it suggested suppressed hilarity; it hinted that he had something funny to tell them. But their grim countenances did not encourage him. "If I am intruding on important business----" "Shut the door behind you! What is it? What happened?" demanded North. Before shutting the door Morrison reached into the gloom behind him and pulled in a soldier. Stewart had put off his evening garb. He wore a business suit of the shaggy gray mixture that was one of the staples among the products of St. Ronan's mill. His matter-of-fact attire was not the only element that set him out in sharp contrast among the claw-hammers and uniforms in the room; he was bubbling with undisguised merriment; Corson, Daunt, and the Governor were sullenly anxious; even the young soldier looked flustered and frightened. "I have brought along Paul Duchesne so that you may have it from his own mouth! Go ahead, Duchesne! Let 'em in on the joke! Gentlemen, get ready for a laugh!" Stewart set an example for them by a suggestive chuckle. "Your arrival in the State House seems to have been attended by considerable of a demonstration," commented Senator Corson, recovering himself sufficiently to indulge in his animosity. "Judging from your success in starting other riots this evening, I ought to have guessed that you were in the neighborhood." "My arrival had nothing whatever to do with the demonstration, Senator. Go on, Duchesne!" "I jomped myself," stammered the soldier, a particularly crestfallen Canuck. "I see you don't grasp the idea," Morrison hastened to put in. "We mustn't have the flavor of the joke spoiled. I know Paul, here. He works in my mill. He has a little affliction that's rather common among French Canadians. He's a jumper." He suddenly clapped the youth on the shoulder and yelled "Hi!" so loudly that all the auditors leaped in trepidation. The soldier leaped the highest, flung his arms about wildly, and let out a resounding yelp. "That's the idea!" explained Stewart. "A congenital nervous trouble. Jumpers, they are called!" "What the devil is this all about?" raged the Governor. "Tell 'em, Paul. Hurry up!" "I gone off on de nap on a settee," muttered Duchesne, twisting his fingers together. General Totten winced. "Dere ban whole lot o' dem gone off on de nap, too," asserted the guard, offering defense for himself. "By way of showing alertness, Totten!" growled the Senator. "So I ban dream somet'ing! Ba gar! I dream dat t'ree or two bobcat he come--" "Never mind the details of the dream, Paul!" interposed Morrison. "These gentlemen have business! Get 'em to the laugh, quick!" "Ma big button on ma belt she caught on de crack between de slat of dat settee. And when I fight all dat bobcat dat jomp on maself, ba gee! it was de settee dat fall on me and I fight dat all over de floor. Dat's all! Oh yes! Dey all wake up and shoot!" "And nobody hurt!" stated Morrison. He gazed at the sour faces of the listeners. "Great Scott! Doesn't Duchesne's battle to the death with a settee get even a grin? What's the matter with all of you?" "We seem to be quite all right--in our normal senses," returned the Senator, icily. "I believe there are persons who gibber and giggle at mishaps to others--but I also believe that such a peculiar sense of humor is confined largely to institutions for the refuge of the feeble-minded." "You may go back to your nap, Duchesne!" The mayor turned on the soldier and spoke sharply. He followed the young man to the door and closed it behind Duchesne. He marched across the chamber and faced the surly Governor. "I brought the boy here, Your Excellency, so that you might get the thing straight. I hope you believe him, even if you don't take much stock in me!" Morrison's face matched the others in gravity. There was an incisive snap in his tone. "I happened to be in the rotunda when the--" "How did you happen to be in the rotunda, sir--past the guards?" "I walked in." "By whose permission?" "Why, I reckoned it must have been yours," returned Stewart, calmly. "I gave no such permission." "Well, at any rate, I was informed by the guards that a special exception had been made in my case. Furthermore, Governor North, you told me this evening that if I needed any specific information I could find you at the State House." "By telephone, sir! By telephone! I distinctly stipulated that!" "I'm sorry! I was considerably engrossed by other matters just then. Perhaps I didn't get you straight. However, telephone conferences are apt to be unsatisfactory for both parties. I'm glad I came up. I assure you it's no personal inconvenience to me, sir!" "There's a fine system of military guard here, and a fine bunch to enforce it. That's what I've got on my mind to say!" whipped out the Senator. "If one man and a settee can show up your soldiers in that fashion, Totten, what will a real affair do to them?" "Nobody sent for you, Mayor Morrison. Nobody understands why you're here," stated Governor North. "You're not needed." The intruder hesitated for a few moments. His eyes found no welcome in any of the faces in the Executive Chamber. He swapped a whimsical smile for their frowns. "Well, at all events, I'm here," he said, mildly. He was carrying his overcoat on his arm, his hat in his hand. He went across the room and laid the garment carefully on the divan, smoothing its folds. His manner indicated that he felt that the coat might be lying there for some little time, and consideration for good cloth was ingrained in a Morrison. XIV THE IMPENDING SHAME OF A STATE Morrison, returning from the shadows, standing in the light-flood from the great chandelier, confronted three men who were making no effort to disguise their angry hostility. The adjutant-general, nervously neutral, dreading incautious words that would reveal his unfortunate policy of politeness, tiptoed to the table and laid there the bunch of keys. "I'm needed officially down-stairs, Your Excellency!" "By Judas! I should think you were!" Stewart placed a restraining hand on Totten's arm. "I beg your pardon, Governor, but we need the adjutant-general of the state in our conference." "Conference about _what_?" "About the situation that's developing outside, sir." "I'm principally interested in the situation that has developed inside. In just what capacity do you appear here?" There was offensive challenge in every intonation of North's voice. His eyes protruded, purple circlets made his cheek-bones look like little knobs, he shoved forward his eye-glasses as far as the cord permitted and waggled them with a hand that trembled. Morrison's good humor continued; his calmness was giving him a distinct advantage, and North, still shaken by the panic of a few moments before, was forced farther off his poise by realization of that advantage. "Allow me to be present simply as an unprejudiced constituent of yours, Governor North." "Judging from all reports, I'm not sure whether you are a constituent or not. I'm considerably doubtful about your politics, Morrison." "I hope you don't intend to read me out of the party, sir! But if that question is in doubt, please permit me to be here as the mayor of the city of Marion. There's no doubt about my being that!" "Let me remind you that this is the State House, not City Hall." "But tolerate me for a few minutes! I beg of you, sir! Both of us are sworn executives!" "Your duties lie where you belong--down in your city. This is the State House, I repeat!" "Do you absolutely refuse to give me a courteous hearing?" "Under the circumstances, after your actions this evening, after your public alliance with the mob and your boasts of what you were coming up here to do, I'm taking no chances on you. You're only an intruder. Again, this is the State House!" Morrison dropped his deference. He shot out a forefinger that was just as emphatic as the Governor's eye-glasses. "I accept your declaration as to what this place is! It is the State House. It is the Big House of the People. I'm a joint owner in it. I'm here on my own ground as a citizen, as a taxpayer in this state. I have personal business here. Let me inform you, Governor North, that I'm going to stay until I finish that business." "That poppycock kind of reasoning would allow every mob-mucker in this state to rampage through here at his own sweet will. General Totten, call a corporal and his squad. Put this man out." Senator Corson grunted his indorsement and went to a chair and sat down. His Excellency was pursuing his familiar tactics in an emergency--the rough tactics that were characteristic of him. In this case Senator Corson approved and allowed the Governor to boss the operation. "I--I think, Mayor Morrison," ventured the adjutant-general, "considering that recent perfect understanding we had on the matter, that we'd do well to keep this on the plane of politeness." "So do I," Stewart agreed. "Then I hazard the guess that you'll accompany me down-stairs to the door. Calling a guard would be mutually embarrassing." "It sure would," asserted Stewart, agreeing still. "Then--" The general crooked a polite arm and offered it. "But your guess was too much of a hazard! You don't win!" However, Morrison turned on his heel and ran toward the private door. He appeared to be solving all difficulties by flight. It was plain that those in the room supposed so; their tension relaxed; the mayor of Marion was manifestly avoiding the ignominy of ejection from the Capitol by the militia--and that would be a fine piece of news to be bruited on the streets next day, if he had remained to force that issue! Stewart flung open the door. But instead of stepping through he stepped back. "Come in," he called. Paymaster Andrew Mac Tavish led the way, plodding stolidly, his neck particularly rigid. Delora Bunker, stenographer at St. Ronan's mill, followed. Last came Patrolman Rellihan, his bulk nigh filling the door, his helmeted head almost scraping the lintel. He carried a night-stick that resembled a flail-handle rather than the usual locust club. Morrison slammed the door and Rellihan put his back against it. There was a profound hush in the Executive Chamber. The feet of those who entered made no sound on the thick carpet. Those who were in the chamber offered evidence of the truism that there are situations where words fail to do justice to the emotions. Morrison was the first to speak. He walked to the table before uttering a word; on his way across the room his eyes were on the keys. When he leaned on the table he put one hand over them. "This invasion seems outrageous, gentlemen. Undoubtedly it is. But I have tried another plan with you and it did not succeed. I had hoped that I would not need these assistants whom I have just called in." "Totten, go bring the guard!" North's voice was balefully subdued. Rellihan looked straight ahead and twirled his stick. "I apologize for stretching my special exception a bit, and introducing these guests past the boys at the door," Stewart went on. "I'm breaking the rules of politeness--and the rules of everything else, I'm afraid. But all rules seem to be suspended to-night!" "Totten!" the Governor roared, pounding his fist on the arm of his chair. Morrison gave the policeman a side-glance as if to inform himself that all was right with Rellihan. Then he pulled a handy chair to the table and motioned to Miss Bunker. She sat down and opened her note-book. "I have come here on business, gentlemen, and you must allow me to follow some of my business methods. The heat of argument often causes men to forget what has been said. I'm willing to leave what I may say to the record, and, in view of the fact that all this is public business, I trust I'll have your co-operation along the same line. And there's a young lady present," he added. "That fact will help us to get along wonderfully well together." "What's that devilish policeman doing at my door?" demanded the Governor, finding that his frantic gestures were not starting the adjutant-general on his way. "Insuring complete privacy!" The mayor beamed on the Governor. "Nothing gets in--nothing gets out!" North grabbed the telephone instrument on his desk. One of Stewart's hands was covering the keys; with the fingers of the other hand he had been fumbling under the edge of the desk. He suddenly pulled wires from the confining staples; he yanked a big mill-knife from his trousers pocket and cut the wires. North flung a dead instrument clattering on the broad table and found only oaths fit to apply to this perfectly amazing effrontery. "You need not take, Miss Bunker!" The quiet dignity of Morrison and the rebuke the Governor found in the girl's contemplative eyes choked off the profanity as effectively as would gripping fingers at his throat. "I realize that all this is absolutely unprecedented--has never been done before--is unadulterated gall on my part, Governor North. Perhaps I haven't a leg to stand on." "Morrison, this infernal nonsense must cease!" Senator Corson shouted, leaping from his chair and shaking both fists. "You need not take, Miss Bunker!" Corson gulped and surveyed the young lady, and found her eyes as disconcertingly rebuking as they had proved in the case of North. "Not especially on account of the style of your language, Senator! But you are merely a visitor here, the same as I! At the present time your comments on the business between the Governor and myself can scarcely have any weight in the record." "What in blazes is that business? Get it out of you!" commanded the other principal in the controversy. "With pleasure! Thank you for coming down to the matter in hand. You may take, Miss Bunker. "Governor North, I have been about among people this evening and--" "You have been making incendiary speeches, and I demand to know what you have said and why you have said it!" "I have no time now to go into those details. My business is more pressing, sir." "You're in cahoots with a mob! I saw you operating, with my own eyes, under my own roof," asserted Senator Corson, violently. "I have no time for discussing that matter." Morrison looked up at the clock on the wall. "This other business, I assert, is urgent." Banker Daunt had been holding his peace, growling anathema to himself in the depths of a big chair. He struggled to the edge of that chair. "I am in this building right now to warn the Governor of this state that you are playing your own selfish game to stifle enterprise and development and to discourage outside capital--hundreds of thousands of it--waiting to come in here." "Pardon me, sir! I have no time to discuss water-power, either! Right now I'm submitting news instead of theories!" He faced the Governor again. "That's why I'm here--I'm bringing news. That news must put everything else to one side. We have minutes only to deal with the matter. And if we don't use those minutes with all the wisdom that's in us, the shame of our state will be on the wires of the world inside of an hour!" His vehemence intimidated them. His manner as the bearer of ill tidings won what his appeals had not secured--an instant hearing. "What I say will be a matter of record, and the blame will be placed where it belongs. You can't claim that you didn't have facts. I have been among the people. I have sent others among 'em and I have received reports and I know what I am talking about. There's a mob massing down-town--a mob made up of many different elements! That kind of mob can't be handled by mere arguments or by machine-guns. That mob must be shown! Talking won't do any good. Just a moment! You won't do what you ought to do, Governor, unless you have this thing driven straight at you! In that mob are the men who have voted for various members of the legislature who claim seats and whose seats are threatened. It's a personal matter with those men. You can't soft-soap 'em to-night with promises of what the courts will do. Several hundred huskies are on the way over here from the Agawam quarries Those men don't care about this or that candidate. They have been paid to grab in on general principles--and they're bringing sledge-hammers. In that mob, also, are the Red aliens who keep under cover till a row breaks out; any kind of trouble suits their purpose--and you know what their purpose is in regard to this government of ours. They're coming, I tell you. They're coming on to Capitol Hill!" "And what have you been doing to stop 'em, after all your promises of what you'd do?" raged North. "I've been doing the best I could, with what loyal boys I could depend on. But I want to know now what _you're_ going to do?" "Shoot every damnation thug of 'em who gets in range of our machine-guns. Totten, hustle yourself down-stairs and see that it's done!" "Genera! Totten will not leave this room--not now! You're all wrong, Governor." "That's the way a mob was handled in one state in this Union not so very long ago, and the Governor was right! He was hailed from one end of the country to the other as right!" "The principle behind him was right--that's what you mean, Governor North. That was just the point he made!" "Do you dare to stand there and intimate that I haven't got principle behind me? Statute law, election law?" Morrison glanced again at the clock; then he tossed a bomb into the argument. "The principle in this instance is a pretty wabbly backing, sir. I'm afraid that even my loyal boys will join the mob if the news gets out about those election returns in certain districts--the returns that were sent back secretly to be corrected." The bomb had all the effect that Morrison hoped for. His Excellency slumped back in his chair and "pittered" his lips wordlessly. "I don't think the news has actually got out among the general public, but it's apt to leak any minute, sir. You can't afford to take chances." "Such slander is preposterous!" Corson asserted. "What used to be done--reviving old stories--I say that our party will not lend its countenance to any such tricks." In his excitement he had dropped an admission as to the past in politics while offering a disclaimer as to the present. "There's no time now for any political discussions," retorted Morrison, curtly. "It's a matter right now of side-tracking a fight. If that fight comes off, Governor North, the truth will come out. And you can't point to a principle in your case as an excuse for bloodshed!" "If a mob attacks this State House there's got to be a fight." "It takes two to make a fight, sir. Order General Totten to march his troops out of the State House. Machine-guns and all! Tell 'em to go home and go to bed." That audacious advice was a second bomb! After a few moments Senator Corson leaped out of his chair, strode across the room, and plucked his coat and hat from the divan. "Come along, Daunt!" he counseled, his voice cracking hoarsely. "Hold on, Senator!" expostulated the Governor. "I need your help!" "I won't allow myself to be mixed into this mess, North. I can't afford to help shoulder the blame where I have not been fully informed. And I won't allow a lunatic to endanger my life. Come on, Daunt, I tell you!" "If you're bound to go, I'll go along, too," proffered the Governor, rising hastily. "This thing can be handled. It's got to be handled. We'll go where this infernal, clattering loom from St. Ronan's mill can't break up a gentlemen's conference." Stewart did not suggest that the gentlemen remain; nor did he offer to go; nor did he plead for a decision. He stood quietly and watched them pull on their overcoats. The Senator led the retreat toward the private door. Morrison dropped the captured bunch of keys into his pocket. Rellihan held his club horizontally in front of him with both hands. "Get out of the way!" yelped Corson. The officer shook his head. "General Totten, open that door." "No chance!" Rellihan growled. North wagged his way close to the barring "fender" and shook an admonitory finger under the policeman's nose. "I'm the Governor of this state! I order you to move away from that door." "I can't help what ye are! I'm taking me orders on'y fr'm the mayor o' Marion." "You see, gentlemen!" suggested Morrison. "It looks as if we'd be obliged to settle our business right where we are--in this room. Time is short. Won't you come back here to the table?" There was absolute silence in the Executive Chamber--a silence that continued. The dignitaries at the door deigned to accord to Morrison neither glance nor word; they would not indulge his incredible audacity to that extent. As to Rellihan, they did not feel like stooping so low as to waste words on the impassive giant who personified an ignorant insolence that made no account of personalities. They adventured in no move against that obstacle in their path, either by concerted attack or individual effort to pass. They looked like wakened sleepers who were struggling with the problems proposed in a nightmare. It was a situation which seemed beyond solution by the ordinary sensible methods. After a time Governor North voiced in a coarse manner, inadequately, some expression of the emotion that was dominating the group. "What in hell is the matter with us, anyway?" Again there was a prolonged silence. "Seeing that nobody else seems to want to express an opinion on the subject, I'll tell you what the matter is, as I look at it," ventured Stewart, chattily matter-of-fact. "We're all native-born Americans in this room. Right down deep in our hearts we're not afraid of our soldiers. We good-naturedly indulge the boys when they are called on to exercise authority. But from the time an American youngster begins to steal apples and junk and throw snowballs and break windows a healthy fear of a regular cop is ingrained in him. It's a fear he doesn't stop to analyze. It's just there, that's all he knows. Even a perfectly law-abiding citizen walking home late feels a little tingle of anxiety in him when he marches past a cop. Puts on an air as much as to say, 'I hope you think I'm all right, officer--tending right to my own business!' So, in this case, it's only your ingrained American nature talking to you, gentlemen! You're all right! Nothing is the matter with you! It ought to please you because you feel that way! Proves you are truly American. 'Don't monkey with the cop!' Just as long as we obey that watchword we've got a good government!" Senator Corson was more infuriated by that bland preachment than he would have been by vitriolic insult. While he marched back to the table he prefaced his arraignment of Morrison by calling him an impudent pup. He dwelt on that subject with all his power of invective for some minutes. "I agree with you, Senator," admitted Morrison when Corson stopped to gather more ammunition of anathema. "But what are you going to do about it?" He asked the same question after the Senator had finished a statement of his opinion on the obstinacy of the lunkhead at the door. The Senator kept on in his objurgation. But whenever he looked at the door he found the policeman there, an immovable obstacle. Whenever Corson looked at Morrison he met everlastingly that hateful query. Both the question and the cop were impossible, impassable. Corson found the thing too outrageously ridiculous to be handled by sane argument; his insanity in declamation was getting him nowhere. "There's only one subject before the meeting," insisted Stewart. "We've got to keep this state from being ashamed of itself when it wakes up to-morrow morning!" Somewhere, in some hidden place in the room, a subdued buzzing began and continued persistently. The understanding that passed between Corson and North in the glance which they exchanged was immediate and highly informative, even had the observer been obtuse. But in that crisis Stewart Morrison was not obtuse. Whether it was deference, one to the other, or caution in general that was dominating the Senator and the Governor was not clearly revealed by their countenance. At any rate, they made no move. "Pardon me, Senator Corson," said Stewart. "I'm quite sure I know where the other end of that telephone line is. I think your daughter is calling!" His inquisitive eyes were searching the walls of the chamber; the source of the buzzing was not easily to be located by the sound. The Governor suddenly dumped himself out of his chair and started across the room. Morrison strode into His Excellency's path and extended a restraining arm that was as authoritative as Rellihan's club. "I beg your pardon, too, Governor! But that call is undoubtedly for Senator Corson. I happen to know quite a lot about the conveniences in his residence!" "And all the evening you have been using that knowledge to help you in violating my hospitality! Morrison, you're not much else than a sneak!" affirmed Corson. The Governor struck his fist against the rigid arm and spat an oath in Morrison's face, "Get out of my way! I'm in my own office--I'll tend to that call!" "No, you'll not!" was Morrison's quick rejoinder. "Senator Corson, if you want to inform your daughter that you're all safe--if you want to ask her not to worry, you'd better answer. But I must insist that a private line shall not be used to convey out of this room any of our public business!" Corson then became the only moving figure in the tableau; he went to the wall, pushed aside a huge frame which held the state's coat of arms, and pulled from a niche a telephone on an extension arm. He proceeded to display his utter contempt for commands issuing from the absurd interloper who was presuming in such dictation to dignity "Yes! Lana! Call High-sheriff Dalton! As quickly as possible! Tell him to secure a posse. Tell him I'm in the State House, threatened by a lunatic. Tell him--" By that time Morrison was at Corson's side and was wresting the instrument from the wall. He broke off the arm and the wires and flung them across the room. "There's fight enough on the docket, as the thing stands, without calling in another bunch to make it three-sided, sir! Rellihan, open the door for Mac Tavish! Andy, run to the public booth in the corridor and call Dalton and tell him to pay no attention to any hullabaloo by hysterical women. Tell him I said so! Ask him to keep that to himself. And rush back!" He turned on the Senator and the Governor. There was no longer apology or compromise in the demeanor of the mayor of Marion. "I know I'm a rank outsider! You needn't try to tell me what I know myself. I didn't think I'd need to be so rank! But I'm just what you're forcing me to be. I have jumped in here to stop something that there's no more sense in than there is in a dog-fight. They may fight in spite of all I can do! But, by the gods! I'm not going to stand by and see men like you rub their ears! Senator Corson, I advise you and Governor North to go and sit down. You're only making spectacles of yourselves!" XV THE BOSS OF THE JOB After Senator Corson had recovered his poise his dignity asserted itself and he sat down and assumed an attitude that suggested the frigidity of a statue on an ice-cake. He checked Governor North with an impatient flap of the hand. "You have had your innings as a manager, North!" He proceeded frostily with Morrison. "There was never a situation in state history like this one you have precipitated, sir, and if I have made an ass of myself I was copying current manners." "It is a strange situation, I'll admit, Senator," Morrison agreed. "As a newsmonger, you say, do you, that minutes are valuable?" "Yes, sir!" "Well, we'd better find out how valuable they are. Will you send General Totten below to investigate?" Morrison surveyed appraisingly the panoplied adjutant-general. "I'd never think of making General Totten an errand-boy, sir, if I'm to imply that I have any say in affairs just now." "You have assumed all say! You have put gentlemen in a position where they can't help themselves." The Senator scowled in the direction of Rellihan. But Rellihan did not mind; right then he was opening the door to the returning Mac Tavish. "I routed Mac Tavish out of bed and brought him along to attend to errands. He will go and see how matters are below, and outside," proffered Morrison, courteously. The self-appointed manager gave Mac Tavish his new orders and added: "Inquire, please, if any telegrams have arrived for me. I'm expecting some." Rellihan again deferentially opened the door for the messenger of the mayor of Marion; Mac Tavish had knocked and given his name. "It's all richt, sir!" he had reported on his arrival from his mission to the telephone. The exasperated Governor viewed that free ingress and muttered. Mac Tavish's unimpeded egress on the second errand provoked the Governor more acutely. "Morrison, I'm now talking strictly for myself," went on the Senator. "I shall use plain words. By your attitude you directly accuse me of being a renegade in politics. To all intents and purposes I am under arrest, as a person dangerous to be at large in the affairs that are pressing." "Senator Corson, I don't believe you ever did a deliberately wrong or wicked thing in your life, as an individual." "I thank you!" "But deliberately political methods can be wicked in their general results, even if those methods are sanctioned by usage. It's wicked to start a fight here to-night by allowing political misunderstandings to play fast and loose with the people." "You're a confounded imbecile, that's what you are," shouted Governor North. The mayor turned on him. "Replying in the same sort of language, so that you may understand right where you and I get off in our relations, I'll tell you that you're the kind of man who would use grandmothers in a matched fight to settle a political grudge--if the other fellow had a grandmother and you could borrow one. Now let me alone, sir! I am talking with Senator Corson!" The Senator squelched the Governor with another gesture. "We have our laws, Morrison. We must abide by 'em. And the political game must be played according to the law." "I think I have already expressed my opinion to you about that game, sir. I'll say again that in this country politics is no longer a mere game to be played for party advantage and the aggrandizement of individuals. The folks won't stand for that stuff any longer." "I think you and North, both of you, are overexcited. You're going off half cocked. You are exaggerating a tempest in a teapot." "If every community in this country gets right down to business and stops the teapot tempests by good sense in handling them when they start, we'll be able to prevent a general tornado that may sweep us all to Tophet, Senator Corson." "Legislation on broad lines will remedy our troubles. We are busy in Washington on such matters." "Good luck to the cure-all, sir! But in the mean time we need specific doses, right at home, in every community, early and often. That's what we ought to be tending to to-night, here in Marion. If every city and town does the same thing, the country at large won't have to worry." Senator Corson kept his anxious gaze on the private door. "Well, let's have it, Morrison! You seem to be bossing matters, just as you threatened to do. What's your dose in this case?" "I wasn't threatening! I was promising." "Promising what?" "That the people would get a square deal in this legislative matter." "You don't underrate your abilities, I note!" "Oh, I was not promising to do it myself. I have no power in state politics. I was promising that Governor North and his Executive Councilors who canvassed the election returns would give the folks a square deal." In his rage the Governor, defying such presumptuous interference, was not fortunate in phrasing his declaration that Morrison had no right to promise any such thing. The big millman surveyed His Excellency with a whimsical expression of distress. "Why, I supposed I had the right to promise that much on behalf of our Chief Executive. You aren't going to deny 'em a square deal--you don't mean that, do you, sir?" "Confound your impudence, you have no right to twist my meaning. I'm going by the law--strictly by the statutes! The question will be put up to the court." "Certainly!" affirmed Senator Corson. "It must go to the court." Just then Rellihan slammed the private door with a sort of official violence. Mac Tavish had entered. He marched straight to Morrison with the stiff jerkiness of an automaton. He carried a sealed telegram and held it as far in front of himself as possible. Stewart seized upon it and tore the envelope. "I'm glad to hear you say that about the court, gentlemen. I have taken a liberty this evening. Will you please wait a moment while I glance at this?" It was plainly, so his manner indicated, something that had a bearing on the issue. They leaned forward and attended eagerly on him when he began to read aloud: "My opinion hastily given for use if emergency is such as you mention is that mere technicalities, clerical errors that can be shown to be such or minor irregularities should not be allowed to negative will of voter when same has been shown beyond reasonable doubt. Signed, Davenport, Judge Supreme Judicial Court." Morrison waited a few moments, gazing from face to face. Then he leaned across the table and gave the telegram into the hands of Miss Bunker. "Make it a part of the record, please," he directed. "Well, I'll be eternally condemned!" roared the Governor. "You're a rank outsider. You don't know what you're talking about. How do you dare to involve the judges? They don't know what they're talking about, either, on a point of law, in this case." "Perhaps Judge Davenport isn't talking law, wholly, in that telegram. He may be saying a word as an honest man who doesn't want to see his state disgraced by riot and bloodshed to-night." The mayor addressed Mac Tavish with eager emphasis. "What do you find down below, Andy?" "Nae pairticular pother withindoors. Muckle powwow wi'out," reported the old man, tersely. "Then you got a look outside?" "Aye! When I took the message frae the telegraph laddie at the door." "Was Joe Lanigan in sight?" "Aye!" "It's all right so far, gentlemen," the mayor assured his involuntary conferees. "Joe is on the job with his American Legion boys, as he promised me he'd be. Now I'm going to be perfectly frank and inform you that I have made a promise of my own in this case. I haven't meant to be presumptuous. I don't want you to feel that I've got a swelled head. I'm merely trying to keep my word and carry out a contract on a business oasis. It's only a matter of starting right; then everything can be kept right." He whirled on Mac Tavish. "Trot down again, Andy. I'm expecting more messages. And keep us posted on happenings!" "Are such humble persons as North and I are entitled to be let in on any details of your contract, Mister Boss-in-Chief?" inquired the Senator. "I think the main contract is your own, sir--yours and the Governor's. I don't like to seem too forward in suggesting what it is." "Nothing you can say or do from now on will seem forward, Morrison. Even if you should order that Hereford steer, there, at the door, to bang us over our heads with his shillalah, it would seem merely like an anticlimax, matched with the rest of your cheek! What's the contract?" "You and North stated the terms of it, yourselves, when you were campaigning last election. You said that if you were elected you'd be the servants of the people." "What in the devil do you claim we are now?" "I make no assertion. But when I was down with the bunch this evening I was able to get into the spirit of the crowd. I found myself, feeling, just as they said they felt, that it's a queer state of affairs when servants barricade themselves in a master's castle and use other paid servants to threaten with rifles and machine-guns when the master demands entry." "I'd be carrying out my contract, would I, by disbanding that militia and opening this State House to the mob?" demanded North. "This is a peculiar emergency, sir," Morrison insisted. "Outside are massing all the elements of a know-nothing, rough-house mêlée. Even the Legion boys don't know just where they're at till there's a showdown. I can depend on 'em right now while they're waiting for that showdown. They'll fight their finger-nails off to hold the plain rowdies in line. Such boys have been showing their mettle in one city in this country, haven't they? But a mere licking, no matter which side wins, doesn't last long enough for any general good unless the licking is based on principle and the principle is thereby established as right! Now let me tell you, Governor North. You can't fool those Legion boys outside. They have come home with new conceptions of what is a square deal. They're plumb on to the old-fashioned tricks in cheap politics. They're not letting officeholders play checkers with 'em any longer. "Governor--and you, Senator Corson--this is now a question of to-night--an emergency--an exigency! I have told those boys that they will be shown! You've got to show 'em. Show 'em that this State House is always open to decent citizens. Show 'em that you, as officeholders, don't need machine-guns to back you up in your stand." He emphasized each declaration by a resounding thump of his fist on the table. "Show 'em that it's a square deal, and that your cuffs are rolled up when you deal! Show 'ern that you're not bluffing honestly elected members of this incoming legislature out of their seats by closing the doors on 'em to-morrow. That's your contract! Are you going to keep it?" Mac Tavish returned. He brought another telegram. Morrison ripped the inclosure from the envelope. "It's of the same purport as the other," he reported. "Signed, 'Madigan, Justice Supreme Judicial Court.' Back to the door, Mac Tavish. Here, Miss Bunker, insert this in the record." "This is simply preposterous!" exploded the Senator. "Rather irregular, certainly," Stewart confessed. "But I didn't ask 'em for red tape! I asked 'em for quick action to prevent bloodshed!" Senator Corson's fresh fury did not allow him to reason with himself or argue with this interloper, this lunatic who was flailing about in that sanctuary of vested authority, knocking down hallowed procedure, sacred precedents--all the gods of the fane! "Morrison, no such an outrage as this was ever perpetrated in American politics!" "It surely does seem to be a new wrinkle, Senator! I'll confess that I don't know much about politics. It's all new to me. I apologize for the mistakes I'm making. Probably I'll know more when I've been in politics a little longer." "You will, sir!" Governor North agreed with that dictum, heartily, irefully. "I do seem to be finding out new things every minute or so," went on Stewart, making the agreement unanimous. "Taking your opinion as experts, perhaps I may qualify as an expert, too, before the evening is over." "Where is this infernal folly of yours heading you?" Corson permitted his wrath to dominate him still farther. He shook his fist under Morrison's nose. "Straight toward a Bright Light, Senator! I'm putting no name on it. But I'm keeping my eyes on it. And I can't stop to notice what I'm knocking down or whose feet I'm treading on." The Senator went to Governor North and struck his fist down on His Excellency's shoulder. "I've been having some doubts about your methods, sir, but now I'm with you, shoulder to shoulder, to save this situation. Pay no attention to those telegrams. There's no telling what that idiot has wired to the justices. This man has not an atom of authority. You cannot legally share your authority with him. To defer to one of his demands will be breaking your oath to preserve order and protect state property." "Exactly! I don't need that advice, Corson, but I do need your support. I shall go ahead strictly according to the constitution and the statutes." "I am glad to hear you say that, Governor," stated Morrison. "Did you expect that I was going to join you and your mob of lawbreakers?" "Your explicit statement pleases me, I say. Shall you follow the constitution absolutely, in every detail?" "Absolutely! In every detail." "Right down to the last technical letter of it?" "Good gad! what do you mean by asking me such fool questions?" "I'm getting a direct statement from you on the point. For the record!" He pointed to the stenographer. "I shall observe the constitution of this state to the last letter of it, absolutely, undeviatingly. And now, as Governor of this state, I shall proceed to exert my authority. Put that statement in the record! I order you to leave the State House immediately. Record that, too! Otherwise I shall prefer charges before the courts that will put you in state prison, Morrison!" "Do you know exactly the provisions of the constitution relating to your office, sir?" "I do." "Don't you realize that, according to the technical stand you take, you have no more official right in this Capitol than I have, just now?" His Excellency's silence, his stupefaction, suggested that his convictions as to Morrison's lunacy were finally clinched. "The constitution, that you have invoked, expressly provides that a Governor's term of office expires at midnight, on the day preceding the assembling of the first session of the legislature. You will be Governor in the morning at ten-thirty o'clock, when you take your oath before the joint session. But by your own clock up there you ceased to be Governor of this state five minutes ago!" Morrison drawled that statement in a very placid manner. His forefinger pointed to the clock on the wall of the Executive Chamber. Governor North did know the constitution, even if he did not know the time o' night until his attention had been drawn to it. He was disconcerted only for a moment; then he snorted his disgust, roused by this attempt of a tyro to read him a lesson in law. Senator Corson expressed himself. "Don't bother us with such nonsense! Such a ridiculous point has never been raised." "But this is a night of new wrinkles, as we have already agreed," insisted the mayor of Marion. "I'm right along with the Governor, neck and neck, in his observance of the letter of the law." "Well, then, we'll stick to the letter," snapped His Excellency. "I have declared this State House under martial law. The adjutant-general, here, is in command of the troops and the situation." "I'm glad to know that. I'll talk with General Totten in a moment!" Again Mac Tavish came trotting past Rellihan. Morrison snatched away the telegram that his agent proffered; but the master demanded news before proceeding to open the missive. "There's summat in the air," reported Andrew. "Much blust'ring; the square is crowded! Whilst I was signing the laddie's book Lanigan cried me the word for ye to look sharp and keep the promise, else he wouldna answer for a'!" "Gentlemen, I'll let you construe your own contracts according to your consciences. I have one of my own to carry out. Mac Tavish has just handed me a jolt on it! "Governor North, seeing that your contract with the state is temporarily suspended, I suppose we'll have to excuse you to some extent, after all! Mac Tavish, step here, close to me!" The old man obeyed; the two stood in the full glare of the chandelier. Stewart held up his right hand. "You're a notary public, Andrew. Administer an oath! Like that one you administered to me when I was sworn in as mayor of Marion. You can remember the gist of it." "In what capaceety do you serve, Master Morrison?" inquired Mac Tavish, stolidly. Stewart hesitated a moment, taking thought. "I'm going to volunteer as a sort of an Executive, gentlemen," he explained, deferentially. "The exigency seems to need one. I have heard that a good Executive is one who acts quickly and is right--part of the time! I'm indebted to Senator Corson for a suggestion he made a little while ago. I think, Mac Tavish, you'd better swear me in as Boss of the Job." XVI THE CITY OF MARION SEEKS ITS MAYOR Gaiety's glaring brilliancy on Corson Hill had been effectually snuffed by the onslaught of the mob. The mansion hid its lights behind shades and shutters. The men of the orchestra had packed their instruments; the dismayed guests put on their wraps and called for their carriages. In the place of lilting violins and merry tongues, hammers clattered and saws rasped; the servants were boarding up the broken windows. Lana Corson, closeted with Mrs. Stanton, found the discord below-stairs peculiarly hateful; it suggested so much, replacing the music. The rude hand of circumstance had been laid so suddenly on the melody of life! "And I'll say again--" pursued Mrs. Stanton, breaking a silence that had lain between the two. "Don't say it again! Don't! Don't!" It was indignant expostulation instead of supplication and the matron instantly exhibited relief. "Thank goodness, Lana! Your symptoms are fine! You're past the crisis and are on the mend. Get angrier! Stay angry! It's a healthy sign in any woman recovering from such a relapse as has been threatening you since you came back home." "Will you not drop the topic?" demanded Miss Corson, with as much menace as a maiden could display by tone and demeanor. "As your nurse in this period of convalescence," insisted the imperturbable lady, "I find your temperature encouraging. The higher the better, in a case like this! But I'd like to register on your chart a hard-and-fast declaration from you that you'll never again expose yourself to infection from the same quarter!" Lana did not make that declaration; she did not reply to her friend. The two were in the Senator's study. Lana had led the retreat to that apartment; its wainscoted walls and heavy door shut out in some measure the racket of hammers and saws. She walked to the window and pulled aside the curtain and looked out into the night. Between Corson Hill and Capitol Hill, in the broad bowl of a valley, most of the structures of the city of Marion were nested. The State House loomed darkly against the radiance of the winter sky. She was still wondering what that blood-stained intruder had meant when he declaimed about the job waiting on Capitol Hill, and she found disquieting suggestiveness in the gloom which wrapped the distant State House. Even the calm in the neighborhood of the Corson mansion troubled her; the scene of the drama, whatever it was all about, had been shifted; the talk of men had been of prospective happenings at the State House, and that talk was ominous. Her father was there. She was fighting an impulse to hasten to the Capitol and she assured herself that the impulse was wholly concerned with her father. "I'll admit that the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts, just as that poet has said they are," Mrs. Stanton went on, one topic engrossing her. "But I'm assuming that there's an end to 'em, just as there is to the much-talked-of long lane. In poems there's a lot of nonsense about marrying one's own first love--and I suppose the thing is done, sometimes. Yes, I'm quite sure of it, because it's written up so often in the divorce cases. If I had married any one of the first five fellows I was engaged to, probably my own case would have been on record in the newspapers before this. Lana dear, why don't you come here and sit down and confide in a friend and assure her that you're safe and sane from now on?" Miss Corson, as if suddenly made aware that somebody in the room was talking, snapped herself 'bout face. "Doris, what are you saying to me?" "I'm giving you a little soothing dissertation on love--the right kind of love--the sensible kind--" "How do you dare to annoy me with such silliness in a time like this?" "Why, because this is just the right moment for you to tell me that you are forever done with the silly kind of love. Mushy boy-and-girl love is wholly made up of illusions. This Morrison man isn't leaving you any illusions in regard to himself, is he?" Miss Corson came away from the window with a rush; her cheeks were danger-flags. "You seem to be absolutely determined to drive me to say something dreadful to you, Doris! I've been trying so hard to remember that you're my guest." "Your friend, you mean!" "You listen to me! I'm making my own declarations to myself about the men in this world--the ones I know. If I should say out loud what I think of them--or if I should say what I think of friends who meddle and maunder on about love--_love_--I'd be ashamed if I were overheard. Now not another word, Doris Stanton!" She stamped her foot and beat her hand hard on the table in a manner that smacked considerably of the Senator's violence when his emotions were stirred. "I'm ashamed of myself for acting like this. I hate such displays! But I mean to protect myself. And now keep quiet, if you please. I have something of real importance to attend to, even if you haven't." She went to a niche in the wall and pulled out the private telephone instrument; the pressure of a button was required to put in a call. After the prolonged wait, Senator Corson's voice sounded, high-pitched, urgent. His appeal was broken short off. Lana stared at Mrs. Stanton while making futile efforts to get a reply to frantic questions; fear paled the girl's face and widened her eyes. "What has happened, Lana?" "It's father! He asked for help! It's something--some danger--something dreadful." She clung to the telephone for several minutes, demanding, listening, hoping for further words--the completion of his orders to her. Then, abandoning her efforts, she made haste to call the sheriff of the county, using the study extension of the regular telephone. The customary rattle informed her that the line was in use, after she had called for the number, looking it up in the directory. When she finally did succeed in getting the ear of the sheriff she was informed in placatory orotund by that official that all her fears were groundless. "I have been talking with the State House just before you called me, Miss Corson. I am assured on the best of authority that everything is all right, there." He was plainly indulging what he accepted as the vagaries of hysteria--having been apprised by the matter-of-fact Mac Tavish that some nonsensical news might come through an excited female. "I think you must have misconstrued what your father said. My informant is known to me as reliable. Oh no, Miss Corson, I cannot give you his name. It's a rule of the sheriff's office that individuals who give information have their identities respected. If the Senator is at the State House you can undoubtedly reach him by 'phone in the Executive Chamber." He placidly bade her good night. But Miss Corson was unable to communicate with the Executive Chamber. After many delays she was informed that central had tried repeatedly and directly through the State House exchange, as was the custom after the departure of the exchange operators for the night; central officially reported, "Line out of order." During her efforts to communicate, Coventry Daunt hastened into the study; he had tapped and he obeyed his sister's admonition, "Come in!" "I tell you something terrible is the matter," Lana declared, giving up her efforts to get news over the wire. "Coventry, your looks tell me that you have heard bad news of some sort!" "I don't want to be an alarmist," admitted young Daunt, "but all sorts of whip-whap stuff seem to be in the air all of a sudden. I just took a run down to the foot of the hill. The bees are buzzing a little livelier there than they are in the neighborhood of the house. Up here some soldier boys are waving their bayonets and fat cops are swinging clubs. We're all right, ladies, but there are all sorts of stories about what's likely to happen up at the State House. I've come to tell you that if you can do without me I think I'll take a swing over to Capitol Hill. I don't want to miss anything good, and I'll bring back straight news." "I can't endure to wait here for news, Coventry," Lana said. "Order the car; I'll go along with you." "It's absolute folly!" declared Mrs. Stanton, aghast, "Haven't you had enough experience with mobs for one evening?" "I am going to my father, mobs or no mobs! I know his voice and I know he's in trouble, no matter what that idiot of a sheriff tells me." She hurried to the door. "Order the car, I say! I'll get my wraps." Mrs. Stanton divided rueful gaze between her own evening gown and Lana's. "Are you going with that dress on?" "I certainly am!" Lana called from the corridor, running toward her apartments. "Well," Mrs. Stanton informed her brother, "this gown has served me all evening during the political rally that somebody tried to pass off as a reception. Probably it will do very well for the mob-affair. I'll go for my furs." "That's a brick!" was her brother's indorsement. "She needs us both. But don't be frightened, sis! It's only a political flurry, and such fusses are usually more fizz than fight. I'll have the car around to the door in a jab of a jiffy!" By the time the limousine swung under the _porte-cochère_ Lana was down and waiting; Mrs. Stanton came hurrying after, ready to defy a January midnight in a cocoon of kolinsky. Coventry had ridden from the garage with the chauffeur. "I have been talking with Wallace. He thinks he'd better drive to the State House by detour through the parkway." "Go straight down through the city," commanded the mistress. "I'm not afraid of my hometown folks. Besides, I have an errand. Stop at the Marion _Monitor_ office, Wallace!" The city certainly offered no cause for alarm when they traversed the streets of the business district. Nobody was in sight; they did not see even a patrolman. "The bees seem to have hived all of a sudden," remarked young Daunt. "All fizz, as I told you, and now the fizz has fizzled." When the car stopped in front of the newspaper office Lana asked her guests to wait in the automobile. "That is, if you don't mind!" Then Miss Corson revealed a bit of nerve strain; she allowed herself to copy some of the sarcasm that was characteristic of Doris Stanton. "One of those old friends whom we have been discussing so pleasantly this evening, Doris, is the city editor of the _Monitor_. Gossipy, of course, from the nature of his business. But I'm sure that he'll gossip more at his ease if there are no strangers present." Coventry had opened the door of the car. Lana hastened past him and disappeared in the building. "Dorrie, I'm afraid you are overtraining Lana," the brother complained. "I have never heard her speak like that before." "I'm giving her special training for a special occasion which will present itself very soon, I hope. When she talks to a certain man I want to feel that my efforts haven't been thrown away." "Oh, Morrison has botched everything for himself--all around!" "Thank you! I'm glad to hear you admit that a caveman can be too much of a good thing with his stone hatchet or club or whatever he uses to bang and whack all heads with!" Mrs. Stanton impatiently invited Coventry to step in and shut the door and make sure that the electric heater was doing business. City Editor Tasper had a pompadour like a penwiper, round eyes, and a wide smile. He trotted out to Lana in the reception-room and gave her comradely greeting. "Any other night but this, Lana Corson, and I'd have been up to your house to pat Juba on the side-lines even if I couldn't squeeze in one assignment on your dance order. But as a Marionite you know what we're up against in this office the night before an inauguration. Afraid the reception-spread will be squeezed? Don't worry. It's a big night, but I'm giving you a first-page send-off just the same." "Billy, I'm not here to talk about that reception. I don't care if there isn't a word about it." "Oh, I get you! Don't worry about that fracas, either! I'm killing all mention of it. We're not advertising that Marion has Bolshevists. Hurts!" "But I'm not trying to tell you your business about the paper!" the girl protested. "I'm here after news. What is the trouble at the State House?" "I don't know," he confessed. "That is to say, I'm not on to the real inside of the proposition. We can't get our boys in and we can't get any news out! Those soldiers won't even admit the telephone crew to restore connection with the Executive Chamber." "My father is there! He's there with the Governor." "Well, I should say for a guess that the Senator is in the safest place in the city, judging from the way Danny Sweetsir and his warriors are on their jobs at those doors." "Billy, who else is there with the Governor?" she questioned, anxiously, harrowed by that memory of her father's tone when he shouted the word "lunatic!" "No know! No can tell!" returned Tasper. "But why all the excitement? There's a crowd outside the State House, but all my reports say that it's still orderly. It's only the old 'state steal' stuff warmed over by the sore-heads. But we're printing a statement from Governor North in the morning. The whole matter is going up to the full bench in the usual way. If the opposition starts any rough-stuff to-night, the gang hasn't got a Pekingese's chance in a bulldog convention. There are three machine-guns in that State House!" A young chap who was trying hard to be professionally _blasé_ bolted into the reception-room in search of his chief. "Excuse me! But four truck-loads of men from the Agawam quarries just went through toward the State House. They had crowbars and sledge-hammers!" "So? Warson is making a demonstration, is he? I'll be back there in a minute, Jack!" Tasper turned to Lana again. "Warson was turned down by North on the state-prison-wing stone contract. If Warson is setting up stone-cutters to be shot as rowdies, Warson and his party will be the ones who'll get hurt." "But our state will be hurt most of all, Billy," the girl declared, with passionate earnestness. "We'll be ashamed and disgraced from one end of the country to the other. Just think of our own good state making a hideous exhibition when we're all trying so hard to get back to peace!" "Must have law and order," Tasper insisted. "Will Governor North tell those soldiers to shoot and kill?" "Sure thing! His oath of office obliges him to protect state property. I've just been reading proof of an interview he gave us this afternoon." Lana walked up and down the room, beating her hands together. "I'll explain to you, Lana. There's quite a story goes with it. You haven't been in touch with conditions here at home. The election statutes provide that the Governor and his Council--" "I haven't any time to listen to explanations! My father is in that State House! In the name of Heaven, Billy Tasper, isn't there some man in this state big enough, broad enough, honest enough to get between the fools who are threatening this thing?" "He doesn't seem to be in sight--at any rate, just now." She paused in her walk, hesitated, and then blurted, "What part is Stewart Morrison playing in all this?" "I see you have some news about him, too!" Mr. Tasper fenced, eying her with some curiosity. "Dealing in news is your business, not mine," she said, tartly. "But I did hear him declare in public to-night that he would give the people a square deal--or that he would see to it that it is done--or--or something!" She showed the embarrassment of a person who was dealing with affairs in the details of which she was not well informed. "All right, I'll give you news as we get it in the office, here. Morrison has gone nuts over this People thing. He is bucking the corporations in this water-power dream of his. Playing to the people! I think it's bosh. Holds capital out of the state! But I see you're in a hurry! He made a speech to a hit-or-miss gang down-town to-night. It was snapped as a surprise and we didn't have our men there. But from what we gather he incited feeling against the State House crowd. Told his merry men he'd grab in and fix it for 'em. Bad foozle, Lana! Bad! When a mayor of a city talks like that he's putting a fool notion into the heads of unthinking irresponsibles, making 'em believe that there is really something to be fixed. He ought to have told 'em that everything was all right and to go home and go to bed. Your father would have told 'em that. That's good politics. But you and I know Stewart from the ground up! He is about as much a politician as I am parson--and I'd wreck a well-established parish in less than five minutes by the clock. He's taking a little more time as a wrecker in his line--but he's making a thorough job of it!" When Tasper mentioned "job" he suggested a natural question to Miss Corson. "Where is he right now?" This time the stare that the city editor gave the girl was distinctly peculiar. "According to what we can get in the way of reports, Lana, the last time Morrison was seen in public he was talking with you. If he has talked with anybody since then the folks he has talked with are keeping mighty mum about it. Perhaps he has told you where he was going." Miss Corson exhibited an emotion that was more profound than mere embarrassment. "Pardon me! But I'd like to know, Lana! It's mighty important to me in the line of my business right now." "What? Can't you find the mayor of the city in a time like this?" "He's not at home! He's not at City Hall. The chief of police won't say a word. And he's not in the crowd outside the State House." Lana did not disclose the fact that she had suggested to the mayor, in a way, the rabble as Morrison's probable destination, and that he had agreed with her. "And a fine chance he has of being let inside the State House," Tasper went on, with conviction, "after the attitude he has taken in regard to the administration!" "He may be there, nevertheless!" Whether hope that he was there or fear that he might be there prompted Lana's suggestion was not clear from her manner. "You'll sooner find a rat down the back of my neck than find Stewart Morrison inside that State House after the brags he has been making around this city in the past few hours," declared Tasper, with the breezy freedom of long friendship with the caller. "He is A Number One in the list of those who can't get in!" "But Captain Sweetsir is his mill-student!" "Captain Sweetsir, in this new importance of his, is leaning so far backward, in trying to stand straight, that he's scratching the back of his head on his heels. His own brother is one of our reporters and what Dan did to Dave when Dave made a holler at the door is a matter of record on the emergency-hospital blotter. That's straight! Inch of sword-blade. Not dangerous, but painful!" All through this interview Lana had maintained the demeanor of one who was poised on tiptoes, ready to run. She gathered her coat's broad collar more tightly in its clasp of her throat, and started for the door. But she whirled and ran back to Tasper. "You say that Stewart Morrison is no politician! But I noticed the queer flash in your eyes, Billy Tasper! Do you think he is a coward and has run away?" "Tut, tut! Not so strong!" The newspaper man put up a protesting palm. "I simply state that His Honor the Mayor is under-somewhere! I never saw any signs of his being a coward--but a lot of us have never been tested by a real crisis, you know!" "You say he has no power in politics! Could he do anything in a case like this?" Tasper clawed his hand over his head and the crest of his pompadour bristled more horrently. "He could at least try to undo some of the trouble he has caused by his tongue. He could be at City Hall, where he belongs. The fact that he isn't there--that he can't be found--speaks a whole lot to the people of this city, Lana Corson! Why, there isn't a policeman to be seen on the streets of Marion to-night! We can't get any explanation from police headquarters. A devil of a mayor, say I!" She turned and fled to the door. "Lana!" called the editor. "He has made promises that he can't back up--and he has ducked. That's the story! We're going to say so in the _Monitor_. We can't say anything else!" She made no reply. She did not wait for the elevator to take her down the single flight of stairs; she ran, holding her wrap about her. Coventry Daunt, on the watch for her, opened the limousine's door and she plunged in. "Wallace! To the State House! Quick!" she commanded. When Tasper returned to the city-room he was told that somebody was waiting on the telephone. It was one of the men assigned to the matter on Capitol Hill; he was calling from a drug-store booth in that neighborhood. "Boss, it looks as if they're going to mix it. The tough mutts are ready to grab any excuse and they won't listen to men like Commander Lanigan of the Legion." "If there's a fight pulled off all we can do is to see that we have a good story. What else?" "I think I've located the mayor. I can't get anything at all out of those tin Napoleons at the doors, but Lanigan says that Morrison is in the State House--'on his job,' so Lanigan puts it." "Lanigan is a liar!" the city editor yelped. "He has been a two-legged Hurrah-for-Morrison ever since his high-school days. I like a good lie when it's told to help a friend! This one isn't good enough! Stewart Morrison is in that State House like tissue-paper napkins are in Tophet." "But sha'n't I send in what Lanigan says?" "We won't have any room for the joke column in the morning," returned the city editor, hanging up. XVII THE CAPITOL IN SHADOW Capitol Square was choked with men. The gathering was characteristically a mob made up of diverse elements. It was not swayed by a set purpose and a common motive. It was not welded by coherence of intent. Its eddies rushed here or filtered there, according as arguments or protests gained attention by sharp clamor above the continuous diapason of voices. One who was versed in the natures and the moods of mobs would have found that mass particularly menacing by reason of the lack of unanimity. Too many men of the component elements did not know what it was all about! The arguments pro and con were developing animosities that were new, fresh, of the moment, creating factions, collecting groups that were ready to jump into an affray that would enable them to avoid embarrassing explanations of why they were there. A mob of that sort is easily stampeded! Some men who captained the factions did know why they were there! A few of them harangued; others went about, whispering and muttering, inciting malice by their counsel. The scum of that yeasty gallimaufry was on the outskirts. When the Corson limousine rolled into the square and sought to part its way through that scum somebody in the crowd made a proposition that was promptly favored as far as the votes by voices went: "Tip the lapdog kennel upside down!" Chauffeur Wallace met the emergency with quick tactics. He reversed and drove the car backward. The fingers of the attackers slipped from the smooth varnish and the wheels threatened those who tried to grab the running-boards. Men who seized the fender-bar were dragged off their feet. When Coventry Daunt showed a praiseworthy inclination to jump out and whip a few hundred of them, so he declared in his ire, he was pushed back into a corner by his sister. The chauffeur made a long drive in reverse, circling, and then put the car ahead with a rush and they escaped into a side-street. "Wallace, get us home as quick as the good Lord will let you!" Mrs. Stanton's command was hysterically shrill. "Wallace, take the first turn to the left," countermanded the mistress. "Then around the State House to the west portico." "You crazy girl, what--after that--why--what are you trying to do?" demanded Mrs. Stanton, fear making her furious. "I'm trying to get into that building--and I'm going to get in!" "You can't get in! They won't let you in! Lana Corson, you sha'n't endanger our lives again!" "Here, Wallace! This turn!" The driver obeyed. Doris set rude hands upon Lana and shook her. "There's nothing sensible you can do if you do get in!" "Perhaps not! But my father is there; he has asked me to help and I'm going to explain to him how I did my best. Doris, I must tell him, so that he won't get into worse danger by waiting and depending on that idiot of a sheriff." "You are the idiot!" "I may be. But I'm going in there!' "Coventry, you are sitting like a prune glacé! Help me to prevail on this girl to use some common sense!" "You'll help me very much if you'll do some prevailing with your sister, Coventry," affirmed Miss Corson, resentfully, trying to unclasp the chaperon's vigorous hands. "After what has been happening, I don't think Lana needs any more shaking, Dorrie," the brother remonstrated. "Everything having been well shaken, it's time to do a little taking. Won't you take some advice, Lana?" "If it's advice about going home and deserting my father I'll not take it." "I was afraid you wouldn't. But do you really think you can get into the State House?" The girl did not disclose the discouraging information given to her by Editor Tasper on the subject of effecting an entrance. "I'm going to try! And I warn you, Doris, that I'm about at the end of my endurance." Mrs. Stanton sat back and gritted her teeth. The car traversed a boulevard; the arc-lights showed that it was deserted. A narrow street, empty of humankind, led to the west portico. That entrance, so Lana knew, was used almost wholly by the State House employees. The door was closed; nobody was in sight. "If you insist on the venture, I'll go with you, of course," offered the young man. When the car stopped he stepped out. "I'm afraid you'll only make it harder for me, Coventry. I know the captain of the guard. But it will never do for me to bring a stranger." She hurried into the shadow of the portico. "Get back into the car! You must! Wallace, drive Mrs. Stanton and Mr. Daunt to the house." When Coventry protested indignantly she broke in: "I haven't any time to argue with you. We may be watched. Wait at the corner yonder with the car. If you see me go in, take Doris home and send the car back. Wallace, I'll find you down there at the fountain!" She designated with a toss of her hand the statuary, gleaming in the starlight, and when the car moved on she ran up the steps of the State House. The big door had neither bell nor knocker. She turned her back on it and kicked with the heel of her slipper. The voice that inquired "Who's there?" revealed that the warder was not wholly sure of his nerves. "I am Senator Corson's daughter!" She received no reply. "I tell you I am Senator Corson's daughter! I want to come in. My father is there!" She was answered by a different voice; she recognized it. It was the unmistakable drawl and nasal twang of Perley Wyman. Her girlhood memories of Perley's voice had been freshened very recently because he had been assigned to the Corson mansion by Thompson the florist as her chief aide in decorating for the reception. "Wal, I should say he was here--and then some! This was the door he came in through." "Open it! Open it at once, Perley Wyman!" "I dunno about that, Miss Corson! We've got orders about politicians and mobbers--" "I'm neither. I command you to open this door." "Who else is there?" "I'm alone." Soldier Wyman pulled the bolts and opened. "I ain't feeling like taking any more chances with the Corson family this evening," he admitted, with a grin that set his long jaw awry. "Your father nigh cuffed my head up to a peak when I tried to tell him what my orders were." Miss Corson was not interested in the troubles of Guard Wyman. He was talking through a narrow crack; she set her hands against the door and pushed her way in. "Where is my father? What trouble is he in?" "I reckon it can't be any kind of trouble but what he'll be capable of taking care of himself in it all right," opined the guard, fondling his cheek with the back of his hand. "But there ain't any trouble in here, Miss Corson. It's all serene as a canned sardine that was canned for the siege of Troy, as it said in the opery the High School Cadets put on that year you was in the--" "There's a mob in front of the State House!" "It'll stay there," stated Wyman, remaining as serene as the comestible he had mentioned. "The St. Ronan's Rifles can't be backed down by any mob. We have been ordered to shoot, and that kind of a gang in this city might as well learn its lesson to-night as any other night. It's getting time to do a lot of law-and-order shooting in this country." The girl, harrowed by her apprehensions, was not in the mood to discuss affairs with this amateur belligerent. But his complacency in his bloodthirsty attitude was peculiarly exasperating in her case. He seemed to typify that unreasonable spirit of slaughter that disdained to employ the facilities of good sense first of all. This florist's clerk, whom she had last seen on a step-ladder with his mouth full of tacks, was talking of shooting down his fellow-civilians as if there were no other alternative. "My father may be in danger in this State House, but I'm glad he is here. He is not condoning this! He is not allowing this shame! Who is the lunatic who is threatening my father and bringing disgrace on this state?" She remembered the Senator's assertion over the telephone and, in her eagerness for news, she was willing to start with the humble Soldier Wyman. She realized suddenly that her spirit of fiery protest was provoking her into an argument that might seem rather ridiculous if somebody in real authority should overhear her talking to Wyman and his mate. The portico door opened into a remote corridor. "The only lunatic, up to date, Miss Corson, has been a Canuck who had a knock-down and drag-out with a settee and--" Lana was not finding Wyman's statement especially convincing in the way of establishing faith in his sanity. "I thank you for letting me in! I must find my father." The interior of the Capitol building was familiar ground to her. It occurred to her sense of discretion that it might be well to avoid Captain Sweetsir in his new exaltation as a military martinet. She found a narrow, curving stairway which served employees. On the second floor, hastening along the dimly lighted corridors, turning several corners, she reached the spacious hall outside the Senate lobby. She paused for a moment. From the hall she could look down the broad, main stairway which conducted to the rotunda. The rumble of trucks had attracted her attention. Soldiers were moving a machine-gun; they lined it up with two others that were already facing the great doors of the main entrance. She had half hoped that her father was in the rotunda, using his influence and his wisdom, now that the mob was threatening the building outside those great doors. She did not understand just how the Senator would be able to operate, she admitted to herself, but she felt that his manly advice could prevail in keeping his fellow-citizens from murdering one another! In the gloom below her she saw only soldiers and uniformed Capitol watchmen. Across from her in the upper hall where she waited there was the entrance to the wing which contained the Executive Chambers. Two men, one of whom was talking earnestly, came along the corridor from the direction of the chambers. Still mindful of what Tasper had said about the State House rules of that evening, she did not want to take chances with others who might be less amenable than Florist-Clerk Wyman. There were high-backed chairs in the corners of the hall; she hid herself behind the nearest chair. Her dark fur coat and the twilight concealed her effectually. "General Totten, if you don't fully comprehend your plain duty in this crisis, you'd better stop right here with me until you do. We can't afford to have those soldiers overhear. Are you going to order them to march out of this State House?" This peremptory gentleman was Stewart Morrison! Lana choked back what threatened to be an exclamation. "I refuse to take that responsibility on myself." "You must! Such a command to state troops must come from you, the adjutant-general." "This is a political exigency, Mister Mayor!" "It seems like that to me!" "It requires martial law." "But not civil war." "This building is threatened by a mob." "That's because you have put it in a state of siege against citizens." "There's no telling what those men will do if they are allowed to enter." "They'll do worse if they are kept out by guns." "It means wreck and rampage if they are permitted to come through those doors." "Look here, Totten, this State House has stood here for a good many years, with the citizens coming and going in it at will. I don't see any dents!" "This is an exigency, and it's different, sir. The state must assert its authority." "I'll not argue against the state and authority with you, Totten, for you're right and there's no time for argument. But when you said political exigency you said a whole lot--and we'll let this particular skunk cabbage go under that name. Don't try that law-and-order and state-authority bluff with me in such a case as this is. You're right in with the bunch and you know just as well as I do what the game is this time. Probably those folks outside there don't know what they want, but they do know that something is wrong! Something is almighty wrong when elected servants are obliged to get behind closed doors to transact public affairs. I'm putting this on a business basis because business is my strong point. These red-tape fellows go to war and use the people for the goats to settle a matter that could be settled peaceably by hard-headed every-day men in five minutes. Now with these few words, and admitting that I'm all that you want to tell me I am--and confessing to a whole lot more that I personally know about my unadulterated brass cheek in the whole thing--we'll close debate. Order those militia boys to march out!" "I--" Morrison held a little sheaf of papers in his hand. He flapped the papers violently under General Totten's nose. "Do you dare to ignore these telegrams--the opinions of the justices of the supreme judicial court of this state?" "I don't--" The papers flicked the end of the general's nose and he shuffled slowly backward. "Do you dare, I say?" "This exigency--" "That's the name we've agreed on--for a dirty political trick without an atom of principle behind it. These telegrams will make great reading on the same page with the list of names in the hospitals and the morgue!" General Totten was retreating more rapidly, but the vibrating papers inexorably kept pace with his nose. "But to leave this State House unguarded--" "I have already shown you what I can do with one single cop! I gave you a little lecture on cops in general back yonder. You fully understand how one cop handled the adjutant-general of a state. I'll answer for the guarding of this State House. Send away your militia!" "I'm afraid to do it!" wailed Totten. "Then you're afraid of a shadow, sir! But I'll tell you what you may well be afraid of. I'm giving you your chance to save your face and your dignity. Order away those boys or I'll go and stand on the main stairway and tell 'em just how they're being used as tools by political tricksters. And then even your tricksters will land on your back and blame you for forcing an exposure. I'll tell the boys! I swear I'll do it! And I'll bet you gold-dust against sawdust that they'll refuse to commit murder. Totten, this exigency is now working under a full head of steam. You can hear that mob now! This thing is getting down to minutes, I'll give you just one of those minutes to tramp down into that rotunda and issue your orders." "But what--" The general's tone unmistakably indicated surrender; the Governor had already shifted the onus; Totten knew his brother-in-law's nature; the Governor would just as soon shift the odium after such an explosion as this wild Scotchman threatened. "You needn't bother about the what, sir. You give the order. And as soon as the thing is on a business basis I'll tend to it." Stewart took the liberty of hooking his arm inside the general's. The officer seemed to be experiencing some difficulty in getting his feet started. The two hurried along and trudged down the middle of the main stairway. Lana followed. She halted at the gallery rail and surveyed the scene below. Even in her absorption in the affair between Stewart and the adjutant-general she had been aware of the rising tumult outside. The bellow of voices had settled into a sort of chant of, "Time's up--time's up!" Captain Sweetsir had deployed his men across the rotunda behind the machine-guns. When he beheld the mayor and the general on the stairs he saluted nervously. "They're getting ready to use sledge-hammers, sir. Shall I hand 'em the rifle-fire first or let loose with the machine-guns?" Stewart still held to the general's arm. Totten hesitated. His face was white and his lips quivered. Morrison's gaze was set straight ahead, but a twist of his face indicated that he said something through the corner of his mouth. The general made his plunge. "Captain Sweetsir, instruct your men to empty their magazines, assemble accoutrements, and stand at ease in marching order." The captain came onto his tiptoes in order to elongate himself as a human interrogation-point. "Captain Sweetsir, order your bugler to sound retreat!" The officer forced an amazed croak out of his throat by way of a command, and on the hush within the rotunda the clarion of the bugle rang out. It echoed in the high arches. Its sharp notes cut into the clamor outdoors. Morrison recognized a voice that was keyed to a pitch almost as high as the bugle's strains. "Hold your yawp! Don't you hear that?" Lanigan screamed. "Don't you know the difference between that and a fish-peddler's horn? That's the tune we fellers heard the Huns play just before Armistice Day. That's retreat! Come on, Legion!" he urged, frantically. "Ram back those sledge-hammers!" Morrison grinned and released the general's arm. "You hear that, do you, sir? When you can convince fair men that you're on the right slant, the fair men will proceed to show rough-necks where they get off if they go to trying on the wrong thing!" "There's going to be the devil to pay!" insisted the adjutant-general. "You're going to let that mob into the State House, and they'll fight all over the place." "We'll see what they'll do after the showdown, sir! And you can't make much of a showdown in the dark." He left General Totten on the stairs, leaped down the remaining steps, and ran to a group of watchmen and night employees of the State House who were bulwarking the soldiers. "I'm beginning to see that it's some advantage, after all, to be the mayor of this city," Stewart informed himself. One of Marion's aldermen was chief electrician of the Capitol building and was in the group, very much on duty on a night like that. "Torrey has always backed me in the city government meetings, at any rate!" The alderman came out of the ranks, obeying the mayor's gesture. "Alderman, I'm in the minority here, right now, but I hope you're going to vote with me for more light on the subject." Torrey did not understand what this quick shift in all plans signified, and said so, showing deference to the mayor at the same time. "If we've got to fight that gang we need these soldiers, Mayor Morrison!" "Our kind of men, Alderman, fight best in the light; the cowards like the dark so that they can get in their dirty work. Do you get me? Yes! Thanks! Excuse me for hurrying you. But get to that switchboard! We need quick action. You and I represent the city of Marion right now. Must keep her name clean! I'll explain later. But give 'er the juice! Jam on every switch. Dome to cellar! Lots of it! Put their night-beetle eyes out with it." He was hustling along with Torrey toward the electrician's room. He was clapping his hand on the alderman's shoulder. "I'm going outside there, Torrey! Touch up the old dome and give me all the front lights. If the bricks begin to whiz I want to see who's throwing 'em!" XVIII THE CAPITOL ALIGHT First of all, within the State House, there was burgeoning of the separate lights of the wall brackets and then the great chandeliers burst into bloom. Electrician Torrey possessed a quick understanding and was in the habit of doing a thorough job whenever he tackled anything. He threw in the switches as rapidly as he could operate them. Story by story the great building was flooded with glory that mounted to the upper windows and overflowed into the night with a veritable cascade of brilliancy when the thousand bulbs of the dome's circlet flashed their splendor against the sky. The lamps of the broad front portico and its approaches added the final, dazzling touch to the general illumination. From a sullen, gloomy hulk of a building, with its few lights showing like glowering eyes in ambush, the State House was transformed into a temple of glory, thrust into the heavens from the top of Capitol Hill, a torch that signaled comforting candor, a reassuring beacon. The surprise of the happening stilled the uproar. Neither Morrison, inside, nor the mob, outside, was bothering with the mental analysis of the psychology of the thing! Something had happened! There was The Light! It threw into sharp relief every upturned face in the massed throng. Their voices remained hushed. Commander Lanigan, standing above them on a marble rail, his figure outlined against a pergola column, did his best to put some of his emotions into speech. He shouted, "_Some_ night-blooming cereus, I'll tell the world!" The great doors swung open slowly. They remained open. Now curiosity replaced astonishment and held the rioters in their tracks; their mouths were wide, the voices mute. The mayor of Marion walked into view. The columns of the _porte-cochère_ were supported on a broad base, and he climbed up and was elevated in the radiance high above their heads. He smiled hospitably. "Boys, it's open house, and the house is yours. Hope you like its looks! But what's the big idea of the surprise party?" No one took it on himself to reply. He waited tolerantly. "Well, out with it!" he suggested. Somebody with a raucous voice ventured. "You probably know what they've been trying to hide away from the people inside there. Suppose you do the talking." "I'm not here to make a speech." "Well, answer a question, then!" This was a shrill voice. "What about those soldiers and those machine-guns in there?" "Not a word!" With yells, oaths, and catcalls the crowd offered comment on that declaration. His demeanor as a statue of patience was more effective than remonstrance in quieting them. "Any other gentlemen wish to offer more remarks? Get it all out of you!" He utilized the hush. "Boys, I'm going to give you something better than words. Hearing can't always be trusted. But seeing is believing!" He pulled a police whistle from his pocket and shrilled a signal. For a time there was no answer or demonstration of any sort. Then the tramp of marching feet was heard on the pavement of the square. It was Marion's police force, issuing from some point of mobilization near at hand; it was the force in full strength, led by the chief; he was in dress-parade garb and the radiance of the square was reflected in imposing high-lights by his gold braid. The crowd was shaken by eddies and was convulsed by quickly formed vortices. Morrison was studying that mob with his keen gaze, watching the movements as they sufficed to reveal an expression of emotions. "Hold on, boys! Don't run away!" he counseled. "Wait for the big show! No arrests intended! Only cowards and guilty men will run!" The light that was shed from the State House was pitilessly revealing; men could not hide their movements. Morrison reiterated his promise and dwelt hard on the "coward and guilty" part of his declaration. The chief of police waved his hand and the crowd parted obediently and the officers marched up the lane, four abreast. "Hold open that passage as you stand, fellow-citizens!" the mayor commanded. "There's more to this show! You haven't seen all of it! Hold open, I tell you!" Men whom he recognized as Lanigan's Legion members were jumping in on the side-lines as the policemen passed. With arms extended the veterans held back those whom Morrison's commands were not restraining. "That's good team-work, Joe," Stewart informed Lanigan when the latter hurried past to take his place as a helper. The advent of the police had provoked a flurry; their movements after their arrival caused a genuine surprise. They gave no indication of being interested in the crowd that was packed into Capitol Square. The ears of the mob were out for orders of dispersal! Eyes watched to see the officers post themselves and operate according to the usual routine in such matters. But the policemen marched straight into the State House, preserving their solid formation. The bugle sounded again within. With a promptness that indicated a good understanding of the procedure to be followed, the St. Ronan's Rifles came marching out. Captain Sweetsir saluted smartly as he passed the place where the mayor of Marion was perched. "How about three cheers for the boys?" Morrison shouted. "What's the matter with you down there?" He led them off as cheer-leader. He marked the sullen groups, the voiceless malcontents as best he was able. The Legion boys were vehemently enthusiastic in their acclaim. The guards marched briskly. The machine-guns clanged along the pavement, bringing up the rear. "That's all!" Stewart declared, when the soldiers were well on their way. "Now you don't need any words, do you? I'll merely state that your State House is open to the people!" "Like blazes it is," bawled somebody. He pointed to the open doors, his reply to that challenge. "How about those cops?" demanded somebody else. "Your State House is open, I tell you. If you want to go in, go ahead. It's open for straight business, and it will stay open. There are no dark corners for dirty tricks or lying whispers. It's your property. If there's any whelp mean enough to damage his own property, he'll be taken care of by a policeman. That's why they're in there. That's what you're paying taxes for, to have policemen who'll take care of sneaks who can't be made decent in any other way. Some other gentleman like to ask a question?" Morrison realized that he had not won over the elements that were determined to make trouble. His searching eyes were marking the groups of the rebels. He directed an accusatory finger at one man, a Marion politician. "Matthewson, what's on your mind? Don't keep it all to yourself and those chaps you're buzzing with!" Matthewson, thus singled out, was embarrassed and incensed at the same time. "What have they been trying to put over with that militia, anyway?" "Put protection over state property because such mouths as yours have been making threats ever since election. But just as soon as it was realized that good citizens, like the most of these here, were misunderstanding the situation and were likely to be used as tools of gangsters, out went the militia! You saw it go, didn't you?" "I'd like to know who did all that realizing you're speaking of!" "It's not in good taste for an errand-boy of my caliber to gossip about the business of those for whom he is doing errands. I'll merely say, Matthewson, that the people of this state can always depend on the broad-gaged good sense of United States Senator Corson to suggest a solution of a political difficulty. And you may be sure that the state government will back him up. Go down-town and ask the boys of the guard who it was that gave the command for them to leave the State House. After that you'd better go home to bed. That's good advice for all of you." A shrill voice from the center of the massed throng cut in sharply. "Go home like chickens and wait to have your necks wrung! Go home like sheep and wait for the shearer and the butcher." The mayor leaned forward and tried to locate the agitator. "Hasn't the gentleman anything to say about goats? He's missing an excellent opportunity!" Morrison showed the alert air of a hunter trying to flush game in a covert. The provoking query had its effect. "Yes, that's what you call us-all you rulers call us the goats!" A brandished fist marked the man's position in the mob. "Ah, there you are, my friend! What else have you on your mind?" "I'll tell you what you have on your face. You have the mark of an honest man's hand there! I saw him plant that mark!" "And what's the answer?" asked Stewart, pleasantly. "You're a coward! You're not fit to advise real men what to do!" "I'm afraid you have me sized up all too well!" There was something like wistful apology in Morrison's smile. Lanigan had forced his way close to the foot of the plinth where the mayor was elevated. The commander's head was tipped back, his goggling eyes were full of anguished rebuke, and his mouth was wide open. The man in the crowd yelped again, encouraged by his distance and by Morrison's passivity under attack. "You think you own a mill. Your honest workmen own it. You are a thief!" "My Gawd!" Lanigan squawked, hoarsely. "Ain't it in you? Ain't a spark of it in you?" Morrison delivered sharp retort in an undertone. "Don't you know better than to tangle my lines when I'm playing a fish? Shut up!" He tossed his hand at the individual in the crowd, inviting him to speak further. "You're a liar, tool," responded the disturber. "That's a tame epithet, my friend. Commonly used in debate. I'm afraid you're running out of ammunition. Haven't you anything really important to say, now that I'm giving you the floor?" Men were beginning to remonstrate and to threaten in behalf of the mayor of the city. "Hold on, boys!" Morrison entreated. "We must give our friend a minute more if he really has anything to say. Otherwise we'll adjourn--" The bait had been dangled ingratiatingly; a movement had been made to jerk it away--the "fish" bit, promptly and energetically. "I'll say it--I'll say what ought to be said--I'll shame the cowards here!" "Let Brother What's-his-name come along, boys! Please! Please!" The mayor stretched forth his arms and urged persuasively. "Keep your hands off him! Let him come!" "They're going over him for a gat, Mister Mayor," called Lanigan. "I've given 'em one lesson in that line this evening, already!" The volunteers who were patting the disturber released him. The patting had not been in the way of encouragement. "Nothing on him! Let him go!" commanded one of the searchers. The man who came forcing his way through the press, his clinched fists waving over his head, was young, pallid, typically an academic devotee of radicalism, a frenetic disciple, obsessed by _furor loquendi_ He was calling to the mob, trying to rouse followers. "You have been standing here, freezing in the night, damning tyrants, boasting what you would do. Why don't you do it? Do you let a smirking ruler bluff all the courage of real men out of you? He's only doing the bidding of those higher up. He admits it! He's a tool, too! He's a fool, along with you, if he tries to excuse tyranny. You have your chance, now, and all the provocation that honest men need. The rulers tried to scare you with guns. But you have called the bluff. Their hired soldiers have run away. Now is your time! Take your government into your hands! Down with aristocrats! Smash 'em like we smash their windows. They hold up an idol and ask you to bow down and be slaves to it; but you're only bowing to the drivers of slaves! They hide behind that idol and work it for all it's worth. They point to it and tell you that you must empty your pockets to add to their wealth, and work your fingers off for their selfish ends." He halted a short distance from the plinth, declaiming furiously. Morrison broke in, snapping out his words. "Down to cases, now! What is the idol?" "A patchwork of red, white, and blue rags!" Morrison whirled, crouched on his hands and knees, set his fingers on the edge of the plinth, and slid down the side. He swung for an instant at the end of his arms and dropped the rest of the way to the pavement. Lanigan had started for the man, but Stewart overtook the commander, seized him by the collar and coattail slack, and tossed him to one side. "Here's a case at last where I don't need any help or advice from you, Joe!" "Punch the face offn him!" adjured Lanigan, even while he was floundering among the legs of the men against whom he had been thrown. The mayor plunged through the crowd in the direction of the vilifier. The man did not attempt to escape. "Strike me! Strike me down. I offer myself for my cause to shame these cowards!" But Morrison did not use his fists, though Lanigan continued to exhort. "There are altogether too many of you would-be martyrs around this city to-night. I can't accommodate you all!" Stewart made the same tackle he had used in the case of Lanigan and Spanish-walked his captive back toward the _porte-cochère_. "I reckon I do need your help, after all, Joe!" confessed Morrison, noting that Lanigan was on his feet again. "Give me your back and a boost!" Then the captor suddenly tripped the captive and laid him sprawling at Lanigan's feet; before the fallen man was up, Morrison, using the commander's sturdy shoulders and the thrust of the willing arms of his helper, had swung himself back to the top of the plinth. He kneeled and reached down his hands. "Up with him, Joe! Toss! I won't miss him!" Lanigan was helped by a comrade in making the toss. Morrison grasped the man and yanked him upright and held him in a firm clutch. The mayor was receiving plenty of advice from the crowd by that time. The gist of the counsel followed Lanigan's suggestion about punching off the fellow's face. But the mob was by no means unanimous. Men were daring to voice threats against Morrison. As it had availed before that evening, Morrison's imperturbable silence secured quiet on the part of others. "The opinion of the meeting seems to be divided," he said. He had recovered his poise along with his breath. "But no matter! I shall not adopt the advice of either side. I shall not let this fellow go until I have finished my business with him. I shall not punch his face off him. I'll not flatter him to that extent. A good American reserves his fists for a man-fight with a real man." He shook the captive, holding him at arm's-length. "Here's a young fool who has been throwing stones at windows. Here's a fresh rowdy who has been sticking out his tongue at authority. I know exactly what he needs!" "He insulted the flag of this country! Turn him over to the police!" somebody insisted, and a roar of indorsement hailed the demand. "Citizens, that would be like giving a mongrel cur a court trial for sheep-killing! This perverted infant simply needs--_dingbats!_" He shouted the last word. He twisted the radical off his feet, stooped, and laid the victim across a knee that was as solid as a tree-trunk, and with the flat of a broad hand began to whale the culprit with all his might. The onlookers were silent for a few moments. Then there was a chorus of jeering approbation. When the shamed, humiliated, agonized radical--thus made a mark for gibes instead of winning honor as a martyr for the cause--began to wail and plead the men who were nearest the scene of flagellation started to laugh. The laughter spread like a fire through dry brambles. It ran crackling from side to side of the great square. It mounted into higher bursts of merriment. It became hilarity that was expended by a swelling roar that split wide the night silence and came beating back in riotous echoes from the façade of the State House. That amazing method of handling anarchy had snapped the tense strain of a situation which had been holding men's emotions in leash for hours. The ludicrousness of the thing was heightened by the nervous solemnity immediately preceding. Men beat their neighbors on the back in instant comradeship of convulsed, rollicking jubilation. "Always leave 'em laughing when you say good-by!" Morrison advised the chap whom he was manhandling. He held the fellow over the edge of the plinth by the collar and dropped him, wilted and whimpering, into the waiting arms of the appreciative Lanigan. "Dry his eyes, Joe, and wipe his nose, and see that he gets started for home all right." Morrison stood straight and secured a hearing after a time. "Boys, those of you who are in the right mind--and I hope all of you are that way now, after a good laugh--I've given you a sample of how to handle the Bolshevist blatherskites when you come across 'em in this country. Look around and if you find any more of 'em in the crowd go ahead and dose 'em with dingbats! Fine remedy for childish folly! I reckon all of us have found out that much for ourselves in the old days. I won't keep you standing in the cold here any longer. Good night!" He leaped down on to the porch and went into the State House. General Totten was near the big door. The men outside were guffawing again. Morrison was dusting his palms with the air of a man who had finished a rather unpleasant job. "Do you hear 'em, Totten? Sounds better than howls of a crowd bored by machine-gun bullets, eh? How much chance do you think there is of starting a civil war among men who are laughing like that?" XIX LANA CORSON HAS HER DOUBTS The chief of police had distributed his officers to posts of duty and was patrolling the rotunda. He saluted the mayor when Morrison came hurrying in through the main entrance. "All is fine, Chief! I thank you for your work. I don't look for anything out of the way, after this. But keep your men on till further orders." At the foot of the grand stairway Stewart's self-possession left him. Lana Corson was standing half-way up the stairs. Her furs were thrown back, revealing her festival attire. Her beauty was heightened by the flush on her cheeks and by the vivid animation in her luminous eyes. He paused for a moment, his gaze meeting hers, and then he hastened to her. "How did it happen--that you're here, Lana?" "I'm here--let that be an answer for now. But this, Stewart--this what I have been seeing and hearing! Does it mean what it seems to mean?" "I'll have to admit that I don't know exactly how it does show up from the side-lines. Suppose you say!" "I heard you talk to General Totten. I heard you talk to that mob. I saw what you did. But I heard you give all the credit to my father." She searched Stewart's face with more earnest stare. "You have saved the state from disgracing itself, haven't you? Isn't that what you have done--you yourself?" "Oh, nonsense! Tell me! How did you get in and who came with you?" "I'm here alone, Stewart, and it's of no importance how I got in. The question I have asked you is the important one just now." Her insistence was disconcerting; he had not recovered from the astonishment of the sudden meeting; he felt that he ought to lie to that daughter, in the interests of her family pride, but he was conscious of his inability to lie glibly just then. "Where is your car?" "Waiting for me in the little park." "Lana, there'll be no more excitement here--not a bit. Nothing to see! Suppose you allow me to take you to the car. Come!" He put out his arm. "Certainly not! Not till I see my father! He is in danger!" "I assure you he is not. I left him with the Governor only a few minutes ago, and the Senator was never better in his life--nor safer!" In spite of his best endeavor to be consolatory and matter-of-fact he was not able to keep a certain significance out of his tone. From where she stood she could look across the rotunda and down into the square. The glare of the lights made all movements visible. The crowd was melting away. "Stewart, brains and tact have accomplished wonders here to-night. I want to know all the truth. Why shouldn't you be as candid to me as you seemed to be with those men when you were talking to them? I want to give my gratitude to somebody! The name of our good state has been kept clean. You're not fair to me if you leave me in the dark any longer." "I did my little bit, that's all! I'm only one of the cogs!" "I know how I'll make you tell. I propose to give you all the credit. And I never knew you to keep anything that didn't belong to you." "Now you're not fair yourself, Lana! We just put our heads together--the whole of us--that's all! Put our heads together! You know! As men will!" His stammering eagerness did not satisfy her feminine penetration. Her daughterly interest in the Senator's political standing was stirred as she reflected. "My father is down here to see that his fences are in good shape," she declared, with true Washington sapience. "I think it was his duty and privilege to step out there and make the speech. I'm surprised because he let such an opportunity slip. With all due respect to the mayor of Marion, you were not at all dignified, Stewart. They laughed at you--and I didn't blame them!" "I can't blame 'em, either," he confessed. "I--I--I guess I lost my head. I'm not used to making speeches. I have made two since supper, and both of 'em have seemed to stir up a lot of trouble for me." "I think, myself, that you're rather unfortunate as a speechmaker," she returned, dryly. "I suppose you're going back to report to father. I'll go with you." In her manner there was implied promise that she would proceed to learn more definitely in what quarters her especial gratitude ought to be expended. "Lana," he urged, "I wish you'd go home and wait for your talk with your father when he comes. He'll be coming right along. I'll see that he does. There's nothing--not much of anything to keep him here. But I need to have a little private confab with him." "So private that I mustn't listen? I hope that we're still old friends, Stewart, you and I, though your attitude in regard to father's affairs has made all else between us impossible." He did not pursue the topic she had broached. There was a certain finality about her deliverance of the statement, a decisiveness that afforded no hint that she would consider any compromise or reconsideration. His face was very grave. "I have a little business--a few loose ends to take up with the Senator. Once more I beg that you will defer--" "I will go with you to the Executive Chamber. I'll be grateful for your escort. If you don't care to have me go along with you, I can easily find my way there alone." Her manner left no opportunity for further appeal. He bowed. He did not offer his arm. They walked together up the stairway. With side-glances she surveyed his countenance wonderingly; in his expression true distress was mingled with apprehensiveness. He had the air of an unwilling guide detailed to conduct an unsuspecting innocent to be shocked by the revelations of a chamber of horrors; she put it that way to herself in jesting hyperbole. The newspaper men, who had followed Mayor Morrison into the State House, had been holding aloof, politely, from a conference which seemed to have no bearing on the political situation. They hurried behind and overtook Stewart and the young lady at the head of the stairway; their spokesman asked for a statement. "I made it! Out there a few minutes ago! Boys, you heard what I said, didn't you?" "Yes." "Well, I talked more than I intended to! Boil it down to a few lines and let it go at that!" "We want to get the matter just right, Mister Mayor, and give credit where it's due." "I covered the matter of credit. There's nothing more to say," replied Stewart, curtly. The reporters surveyed him with considerable wonderment; his manner in times past had always been distinguished by frank graciousness. "We'd like to see Senator Corson and Governor North." That request seemed to provoke the mayor's irritability still more. "I'm not the guardian of those gentlemen or of this State House!" He turned on his heel abruptly. "Miss Corson!" She was waiting a few paces away. He rejoined her and by a gesture invited her to walk along. "I'm sorry! I did not mean to delay you!" The newspaper men followed on as far as the door of the Executive Chamber. Morrison faced them there. "I don't mean to interfere with you, boys, in any way. And you mustn't interfere with me. As soon as the Senator and the Governor finish with me they'll give you all the time you want, no doubt! Please wait outside!" He tapped on the door and gave his name. Rellihan opened. Morrison seized the officer's arm and pulled him outside. "Keep everybody away from the door for a few moments--till further orders." Stewart escorted Miss Corson into the chamber with almost as much celerity as he had employed in escorting Rellihan out; and he promptly banged the door. He walked slowly across the room toward the big table, following Lana, who hastened toward her father. The Senator was standing behind the table, flanked by North and Daunt. The three of them formed a portentous battery. Morrison did not speak. His expression indicated humility. He drooped his shoulders. There was appeal in his eyes. "Here I am!" the eyes informed the glowering Senator. But a side-glance hinted: "Here is your daughter, too. Use judgment!" Lana was manifestly perplexed by what she saw. Three distinguished gentlemen were presenting the visages of masculine Furies. She looked away from them and received a little comfort from the placid countenances of Andrew Mac Tavish and Delora Bunker, but their presence in that place and at that hour only made her mystification more complete. She had been allowing her imagination to paint pictures before she stepped into the Executive Chamber; she had expected to find her father virtuously triumphant, serenely a successful molder of pacific plans. His scowl was so forbidding that she stopped short. "Father, it's wonderful--perfectly wonderful, isn't it?" She tried to speak joyously, but she faltered. "I saw it all! I saw how your plan succeeded." "Damn you, Morrison! What has happened?" The Senator did not merely demand--he exploded. The silence which followed became oppressive. Miss Corson was too thoroughly horrified to proceed. Apparently Governor North and Daunt had selected their spokesman and had nothing to say for themselves. Morrison seemed to be especially helpless as an informant; he wagged his head and pointed to Lana. "Answer my question, Morrison!" "I think Miss Corson better tell you, sir. She was an impartial observer." "Perhaps she _had_ better tell me! You're right! After this night I wouldn't take your word as to the wetness of water. Lana, speak out!" "I don't know what I can tell you--you have been right here all the time in the State House--" The Senator jammed a retort between the links of her stammering speech. "Yes, I have been right here! What has happened below, I ask you?" "Why, the troops marched out. They went away! Right through the mob! And it's all calm and quiet." Governor North stamped his way a half-dozen paces to the rear, and whirled and marched back into line. "Morrison, have you--have you--" Senator Corson choked. Not knowing exactly what to say, he shook his fist. "Father, what's the matter? It was only carrying out your orders." "Orders--my orders?" "Stewart Morrison, why don't you say something?" she demanded. "I'm sure your father prefers to hear from you." "Confound it! I do want to hear, and hear immediately!" Lana displayed some of the paternal ire. "Stewart, I asked you to be candid with me. You're leaving me to flounder around disgracefully in this matter." The Senator advanced on his daughter and seized her arm. "I don't want that renegade to say another word to me as long as I live--and he knows it. I'll tell you later what has been going on here. But now tell me to what orders of mine you are referring! Quick and short!" "Mayor Morrison made a little speech to the mob and said that you thought it was best to send away the troops to prevent bad feelings and misunderstanding, and said you were backed up by the Governor." The Senator swapped looks with the goggling North over Lana's head. "And the mob has gone home, and the State House is thrown wide open, and the policemen are on duty, and I say again that it's wonderful," insisted the girl. "Morrison, did you say that? Have you done that?" Stewart was fully aware that he had allowed the men in the square to draw an inference from a compliment that he had paid to Senator Corson's sagacity, and had refrained from making a direct declaration. But he was not minded to embarrass the girl any further. He bowed. "I thank Miss Corson for giving the gist of the thing so neatly." "I know I don't understand it all yet, father!" Lana was both frightened and wistful. The Senator had turned from her and was striding to and fro, scuffing his feet hard on the carpet. "If you're blaming Mayor Morrison for revealing confidences, I'm sorry. But you can't help being proud when it is spread abroad how your handling of the dreadful affair prevented bloodshed and shame in this state." "Spread abroad!" Senator Corson brought down his feet more violently. The situation, if it remained bottled up there in the Executive Chamber any longer, threatened to explode in still more damaging fashion, was Stewart's uncomfortable thought. The Senator's remark suggested a diversion in the way of topics, at any rate. "That reminds me that the newspaper boys are waiting outside in the corridor, Senator Corson. I asked them to be patient for a few minutes. Please allow me to say that I have added no statement to what I said to the crowd in the square. I shall not add any." "I don't see how you could add anything!" retorted the Senator with venom. He continued his promenade. Again the silence in the room became oppressive. Morrison was scrutinizing Governor North with especial intentness. His Excellency was giving unmistakable evidence that he was surcharged. He was working his elbows and was whispering to himself with a fizzling sound. He had turned his back on Lana Corson as if he were resolved to ignore the fact of her presence. Stewart, exhibiting deference while a United States Senator was pondering, strolled leisurely across the room to North and fondled the lapel of the Governor's coat. "I beg your pardon, and I hope you'll excuse curiosity in a chap who makes cloth, Governor. But this is as fine a piece of worsted as I've seen in many a day." North lifted his arm as if to knock the presumptuous hand away; but Stewart slowly clenched his fist, holding the fabric in his close clutch, exerting a strength that dominated the man upon whom his hold was fastened. The mayor went on in an undertone, as if anxious to show additional deference in the presence of the senatorial ponderings. "Governor, petty politics haven't been allowed to make a bad mess of what has been turned into an open proposition. Now don't allow your tongue to make a mess of this new development as it stands right now. Humor Miss Corson's notions! And let me tell you! My policemen are going to stay on the job until after the legislature assembles." "Morrison, you're a coward!" grated North. "You brought Corson's girl here so that you can sneak behind her petticoats." Stewart released his hold, clapped His Excellency on the shoulder, raised his voice, and cried, heartily: "Thank you. Governor! You're right. You have an excellent idea of a piece of goods, yourself." Senator Corson arrived at a decision which he did not confide to anybody. He spoke to Daunt and the two of them went to the divan and dragged on the overcoats which they had discarded when Rellihan's obstinacy had been found to be unassailable. Lana, studying the faces of the men, drew her furs about her. "The car is waiting near the west portico, father," she ventured to say. Corson took his time about buttoning his coat. Lana had her heritage of dark eyes from her father; his wrath had settled into cold malevolence and his eyes above his white cheeks were not pleasant objects. He surveyed the various persons in the room. He took his time in that process, too! "For the present--for now--for to-night," he said, quietly, elaborating his mention of the moment with significance, "we seem to have cleaned up all the business before us. In view of that interregnum, Governor, of which you have been so kindly reminded, I suppose you feel that you can go to your hotel and rest for the remainder of the night so as to be in good trim for the inaugural ceremonies. Allow me to offer you a lift in my car." The Governor trudged toward, a massive wardrobe in a corner of the chamber. "I do not presume to offer you the convenience of my car, Mayor Morrison," the Senator went on. "I take it that your recent oath as supreme Executive during the aforesaid interregnum obliges you to stay on the job. Ah--er--do we require a countersign in order to get out of the building?" The mayor was walking toward the private door. "No, sir!" he said, mildly. "I hope you hear that, Governor North! I was compelled to give countersigns to your soldiers--quite emphatic countersigns. The new regime is to be complimented." Morrison threw open the door. "That's all, Rellihan! Report to the chief!" The newspaper men came crowding to the threshold. "You have interviewed Mayor Morrison on the situation, haven't you?" demanded the Senator, breaking in on their questions. "Yes!" "To-night--for the time being--for now," returned Corson, dwelling on the point as emphatically as he had when he spoke before, "Mayor Morrison seems to be doing very well in all that has been undertaken. I have no statement to make--absolutely no word to say!" He stepped back and allowed the Governor to lead the retreat; His Excellency collided with two of the more persistent news-gatherers. With volleyed "No! Nothing!" he marked time for the thudding of his feet. Apparently Lana had entered into the spirit of that armed truce which, so her father's manner informed her, was merely a rearrangement of the battle-front. She hurried out of the chamber without even a glance in Morrison's direction. Stewart's grim countenance intimidated the reporters; they went away. For a long time the mayor paced up and down the Executive Chamber, his hands clasped behind him. Miss Bunker thumbed the leaves of her note-book, putting on an air of complete absorption in that matter. Mac Tavish studied the mayor's face; Morrison was wearing that expression which indicated a mood strange for him. Mac Tavish had seen it on the master's face altogether too many times since the Morrison had come from the mill in the forenoon. It was not the look he wore when matters of business engrossed him. The old paymaster liked to see Morrison pondering on mill affairs; it was meditation that always meant solution of difficulties, and the solution was instantly followed by a laugh and good cheer. But it was plain that Morrison had not solved anything when he turned to Mac Tavish. "Not much like honest, real business--this, eh, Andy?" "Naething like, sir!" "Doesn't seem to be a polite job, either--politics--if you go in and fight the other fellow on his own ground." "I've e'er hated the sculch and the scalawags!" "Totten calls this a political exigency." "I'll no name it for mysel' in the hearing o' the lass!" "Seems to need a lot of fancy lying when a greenhorn like me starts late and is obliged to do things in a hurry. Gives business methods an awful wrench, Andy!" "Aye!" The old Scotchman was emphatic. "In fact, in a political exigency, according to what I've found out this evening, the quickest liar wins!" He walked to Miss Bunker's side. "You might jot that down as sort of summing the thing up and consider the record closed." "Do ye think it's all closed and that ye're weel out of it?" inquired Mac Tavish, anxiously. "I think, Andy," drawled the mayor, a wry smile beginning to twist at the corners of his mouth, "that I may have the militia and the people and the politicians well out of it, but considering the mess, as it concerns me, myself, I'm only beginning to be good and properly in it." "Ye hae the record, as jotted by the lass, and I heard ye say naething but what was to your credit. And the words o' the high judges! Ye're well backed!" "Oh, that reminds me, Andy. That boy who brought the telegrams to the door! He'll come to the mill in the morning. Pay him ten dollars. I didn't have the money in my clothes when I hired him." "And that reminds me, too, Mr. Morrison!" said Miss Bunker. "Do you want me to keep the telegrams with the record? You remember you took them when you went out with the general." Morrison reached into his breast pocket for the papers, tore them slowly across, and stuffed the scraps back into a side-pocket. "I reckon they won't do the record much good. It's more of the political exigency stuff, Andy! I wrote 'em myself!" His hands had touched his pipe when he had shoved the bits of paper into his pocket. He took it out and peered into the bowl. There was tobacco there and he fumbled for a match. "Andy, usually I like to have morning come, for there's always business waiting for me in the mornings and honest daylight helps any matter of clean business. But I'm not looking ahead to this next sunrise with a great deal of relish. Those telegrams were clinchers in the case of Totten, but I don't know what the judges will say. What I said about Senator Corson to the mob helped a lot--but I don't know what the Senator is going to say in the morning. And I don't know what Governor North proposes to say. Or what--" He checked himself and shook his head. "Well, there's considerable going to be said, at any rate! I'll run over the thing in my mind right now while I have time and everything is quiet. Mac Tavish, take Miss Bunker to the car and tell Jock to carry you and her home and to come back here for me." After they had gone he lighted his pipe and sat down in the Governor's big chair and smoked and pondered. Every little while he thrust his forefinger and thumb into his vest pocket and ransacked without avail. "I must have left it in my dress clothes," he muttered. "But no matter! I'm not in the right frame of mind to enjoy poetry. However, merely in the way of taking a new clinch on the proposition I do remember this much, 'But I will marry my own first love!' There's truth in poetry if you go after it hard enough. And, on second thought, I'd better keep my mind on poetry as closely as I can! I certainly don't dare to think of politics right now!" XX IN THE COLD AND CANDID DAYLIGHT For the first time in his life Governor North had his breakfast served to him in his room at his hotel; he ate alone, chewing savagely and studying newspapers. He did not welcome this method of breakfasting as a pleasing indulgence. Rugged Lawrence North was no sybarite; he hated all assumptions of exclusiveness; he loved to mingle and mix, and his morning levees in the hotel breakfast-room catered to all his vanity as a public functionary. He did not own up squarely to himself that he was afraid to go down and face men and answer questions. He had ordered the hotel telephone exchange to give him no calls; he had told the desk clerk to state to all inquirers that the Governor was too busy to be seen; he paid no attention to raps on his door. His self-exculpation in this unwonted privacy was that he could not afford to allow himself to be bothered by questioners until he and Senator Corson could arrange for effectual team-work by another conference. When he and the Senator parted they agreed to get together at the Corson mansion the first thing after breakfast. While the Governor ground his food between his teeth he also chewed on the savage realization that he had nothing sensible to say in public on the situation, considering his uncompromising declarations of the day before; there were those declarations thrusting up at him from the newspaper page like derisive fingers; by the reports in parallel columns he was represented as saying one thing and doing another! And a bumptious, blundering, bull-headed Scotchman had put the Governor of a state in that tongue-tied, skulking position on the proud day of inauguration! His Excellency slashed his ham, and stabbed his eggs, making his food atone vicariously. He did not order his car over the hotel telephone. The hotel _attachés_ were obsequious and would be waiting to escort him in state across the main office. The politicians would surround the car. And he was perfectly sure that some of the big men of an amazed State House lobby might step into that car along with him and seek to know what in the name o' mischief had happened overnight to change all the sane and conservative plans in the way of making a legislature safe! He bundled himself and his raw pride into his overcoat, turned the fur collar up around his head, and went down a staircase. He was sneaking and he knew it and no paltering self-assurance that he was handling a touchy situation with necessary tact helped his feelings in the least. He stepped into a taxicab and was glad because the breath of previous passengers that morning had frosted the windows. That consolation was merely a back-fire in the rest of the conflagration that raged in him. It was a dull morning, somber and cold. When he stamped up the broad walk from the gate of the Corson mansion he beheld the boarded windows of the ballroom, and the spectacle added to his sense of chill. But his anger was not cooled. Senator Corson's secretary was waiting in the hall; he showed the Governor up to the Senator's study. Either because the outdoors was not cheerful that morning or because the Senator had been too much engrossed in meditation to remember that daylight would serve him, the curtains of the study were drawn and the electric lamps were on. Corson was walking up and down the room, chewing on one end of a cigar and making a soggy torch of the other end. He continued to pace while North pulled off his coat. "I have sent word to Morrison to come here," reported the host. The mantel clock reported the hour as nine; His Excellency scowled at the clock's face. "And you got word back, I suppose, that after he has come out of his mill at ten o'clock and has washed his hands and--" "He's at City Hall," snapped Corson, with an acerbity that matched the Governor's. "I called the mill and was referred to Morrison at City Hall. He's on his way up here! At any rate, he said he'd start at once." "Did he condescend to intimate in what capacity he proposes to land on us this time?" "I'm going to allow you to draw your own conclusions. I've been trying to draw some of my own from what he said." "What did he say?" "Apologized because I was put to any trouble in locating him. Said he was expecting to be called by me and thought he would go to City Hall and await my summons in order to put himself and the whole situation on a strictly official basis." The Senator delivered that information sullenly. "What kind of a devilish basis does he think he's been operating on?" "Look here, North! If you have come up here to fight with me after the row you have been having down-town this morning I warn you--" "I have had no row down-town. I wouldn't see anybody. I wouldn't talk with anybody. Blast it! Corson, I don't know what to say to anybody!" "Well, that's one point, at least, on which you and I can get together even if we can't agree on anything else. If you have been so cursedly exclusive as all that, North, perhaps you haven't been in touch with any of the justices of the supreme court, as I have." "You have, eh?" "I called Davenport and Madigan on the telephone." "What excuse could they give for sending their snap opinions over the wire on the inquiry of a fool?" "They offered no excuse. They couldn't. They knew nothing about any telegrams till I informed 'em. They received no inquiry. They sent no replies, naturally." "That--that--Did that--" The Governor pawed at his scraggly neck. "He faked all that stuff?" "Absolutely!" Comment which could not have been expressed in long speeches and violent denunciation was put into the pregnant stare exchanged by the two men. Then the Senator took another grip on his cigar with bared teeth and began to march again. "Corson, what's going to be done with that blue-blazed understudy of Ananias?" "Depend on the wrath of Heaven, perhaps," said the Senator, sarcastically. "I haven't had time to look in Holy Writ this morning and ascertain just what kind of a lie Ananias told. But whatever it was, it was tame beside what Morrison told that mob about me last night." "You've had your fling at me about my exclusiveness! What are you putting out yourself this morning in the way of statements?" The Governor banged his fist down on the newspapers which littered the study table. "Nothing! Not yet!" "I've got to have my self-respect with me when I deliver my inaugural address this forenoon. The only way I can possess it is by ramming Morrison into jail." "On what ground, may I ask?" "Interference with the Chief Executive of this state! Inciting the mob against the militia! Putting state property in danger. Forgery--contempt of court! I'll appeal to the judges to act. I'll call in the attorney-general. You and I were forcibly detained!" "Yes, we might allege abduction," was Corson's dry rejoinder. "Our helplessness in the hands of a usurper would win a lot of public sympathy." "I tell you, we would have the sympathy of the people," asserted the Governor, too angry to be anything else than literal. "And they'd express it by giving us the biggest laugh ever tendered to two public men in this state, North. We've got to look this thing straight in the eye. I told Morrison last night that no such preposterous thing was ever put over in American politics, and he agreed with me. You must agree, too! That makes us unanimous on one point, and that's something gained, because it's an essential point. We can't afford to let the public know just how preposterous the situation was. A man in American public life can get away with almost any kind of a fix, if it's taken seriously. But the right sort of a general laugh will snuff him like that!" He snapped his finger. "We're not dealing with politics and procedure in the case of Morrison." "We're dealing with a fool and his folly!" the Governor shouted. It was another of those cases where the expected guest under discussion becomes an eavesdropper at just the wrong moment; Morrison was not deliberately an eavesdropper. He had followed the instructed secretary to the study door, and the Governor had declared himself with a violence that was heard outside the room. The mayor stepped in when the secretary opened the door After the secretary had closed the door and departed Morrison stepped forward. "Governor North, you're perfectly right, and I agree with you without resenting your remark. I did make quite a fool of myself last night. Perhaps you are not ready to concede that the ends justify the means." "I do not, sir!" "A result built on falsehoods is a pretty poor proposition," declared the Senator. "I refer especially to those fake telegrams and to your impudent assertion to the mob that I said this or that!" "Yes, that telegram job was a pretty raw one, sir," Morrison admitted. "But I really didn't lie straight out to those men in the square about your participation. I let 'em draw an inference from the way I complimented your fairness and good sense. I was a little hasty last night--but I didn't have much time to do advance thinking." "I'm going to express myself about last night," stated Senator Corson. "Will you wait a moment, sir?" Morrison had not removed his overcoat; he had not even unbuttoned it; he afforded the impression of a man who intended to transact business and be on his way with the least possible delay. He glanced at the electric lights and at the shaded windows. "This seems too much like last night. Won't you allow me? It's a little indulgence to my state of mind!" He hurried across the room and snapped up the shades and pulled apart the curtains. He reached his hand to the wall-switch and turned off the lights. "This isn't last night--it's this morning--and there's nothing like honest daylight on a proposition, gentlemen! Nothing like it! Last night things looked sort of tragic. This morning the same things will look comical if"--he raised his forefinger--"if the inside of 'em is reported. If the real story is told, the people in this state will laugh their heads off." Again the Governor and the Senator put a lot of expression into the look which they exchanged. "I got that mob to laughing last night and, as I told General Totten, that settled the civil war. If the people get to laughing over what happened when Con Rellihan took his orders only from the mayor of Marion, it will--well, it'll be apt to settle some political hash." "Do you threaten?" demanded North. He was blinking into the matter-of-fact daylight where Morrison stood, framed in a window. "Governor North, take a good look at me. I'm not a pirate chief. I'm merely a business man up here to do a little dickering. I can't trade on my political influence, because I haven't any. You have all the politics on your side. I propose to do the best I can with the little stock in trade I have brought." He walked to the table and flapped on it his hand, palm up. "You are two almighty keen and discerning gentlemen. I don't need to itemize the stock in trade I have laid down here. You see what I've got!" He paused and, his eyes glinting with a suppressed emotion that the discerning gentlemen understood, he glanced from one to the other of them. "You've got a cock-and-bull yarn in which you are shown up as a liar and a lawbreaker," the Governor declared. "You've got some guess--so about errors in returns--" "Hold on! Hold on, North!" protested Senator Corson. "It's just as Morrison says--we don't need to itemize his stock in trade. I can estimate it for myself. Morrison, you say you're ready to dicker. What do you want?" "A legislature that's organized open and above-board, with all claimants in their seats and having their word to say as to the sort of questions that will be sent up to the court. Staying in their seats, gentlemen, till the decisions are handed down! Let the legislature, as a whole, draft the questions about the status of its membership. I've got my own interest in this--and I'll be perfectly frank in stating it. I have a report on water-power to submit. I don't want that report to go to a committee that has been doctored up by a hand-picked House and Senate." "You don't expect that Governor North and myself are going to stand here and give you guaranties as to proposed legislation, do you?" "You are asking me, as an executive, to interfere with the legislative branch," expostulated His Excellency. "Gentlemen, I don't expect to settle the problems of the world here this morning, or even this water-power question. I'm simply demanding that the thing be given a fair start on the right track." There was a great deal of significance in his tone when he added: "I hope there'll be no need of going into unpleasant details, gentlemen. All three of us know exactly what is meant." Senator Corson was distinctly without enthusiasm; he maintained his air of chilly dignity. "What legislation is contemplated under that report that you will submit?" "Some of the lawyers say that a general law prohibiting the shipping of power over wires out of the state must be backed by a change in our constitution. Until we can secure that change there must be a prohibitive clause on every water-power charter granted by the legislature--a clause that restricts all the developed power for consumption in this state." "A policy of selfishness, sir." "No, Senator Corson, a policy that protects our own development until we can create a surplus of power. Sell our surplus, perhaps! That's a sound rule of business. If you'll allow me to volunteer a word or two more as to plans, I'll say that eventually I hope to see the state pay just compensation and take back and control the water-power that was given away by our forefathers. "As to power that is still undeveloped, I consider it the heritage of the people, and I refuse to be a party to putting a mortgage on it. My ideas may be a little crude just now--I say again that everything can't be settled and made right in a moment, but I have stated the principle of the thing and we fellows who believe in it are going ahead on that line. I realize perfectly well, sir, that this plan discourages the kind of capital that Mr. Daunt represents, but if there is one thing in this God's country of ours that should not be put into the hands of monopoly it's the power in the currents of the rivers that are fed by the lakes owned by the people. I'm a little warm on the subject, Senator Corson, I'll confess. I have been stubbing my toes around in pretty awkward shape. But I had to do the best I could on short notice." "You have been very active in the affair," was the Senator's uncompromising rejoinder. Governor North continued to be frankly a skeptic and had been expressing his emotions by wagging his head and grunting. In the line of his general disbelief in every declaration and in everybody, he pulled his watch from his pocket as if to assure himself as to the real time; he had scowled at the Senator's mantel clock as if he suspected that even the timepiece might be trying to put something over on him. "I must be moving on toward the State House." He wore the air of a defendant headed for the court-room instead of a Governor about to be inaugurated. "I must know where I stand! Morrison, what's it all about, anyway?" The Governor was convincingly sincere in his query. He had the manner of one who had decided, all of a sudden, to come into the open. There was something almost wistful in this new candor. Stewart's poise was plainly jarred. "What's it all about?" He blinked with bewilderment. "Why, I have been telling you, Governor!" "Do you think for one minute that I believe all that Righteous Rollo rant?" "I have been stating my principles and--" "Hold on! I've had all the statements that I can absorb. What's behind 'em? That's what I want to know. Wait, I tell you! Don't insult my intelligence any more by telling me it's altruism, high-minded unselfishness in behalf of the people! I have heard others and myself talk that line of punk to a finish. Are you going to run for Governor next election?" "Absolutely not!" "Are you grooming a man?" "No, sir!" "Building up a political machine?" "Certainly I am not," "Going to organize a water-power syndicate of your own after you get legislation that will give you a clear field against outside capital?" "No--no, most positively!" "Senator Corson, you claim you know Morrison better than I do. How much is he lying?" "I think he means what he says." North picked up his overcoat and plunged his arms into the sleeves. "If I should think so--if I should place implicit faith in any man who talks that way--I'd be ashamed of my weakness--and I've got too many things about myself to be ashamed of, all the way from table manners to morals! There's one thing that I'm sort of holding on to, and that's the fact that my intellect seems to be unimpaired in my old age. Morrison, I don't believe half what you say." The mayor of Marion made no reply for some moments. Corson, surveying him, showed uneasiness. A retort that would fit the provocation was likely to lead to results that would embarrass the host of the two Executives. "Oh, by the way, Governor," said Stewart, quietly, "I just came from City Hall. I really did not intend to drift so far from strictly official business when I came up here. I want to assure you that there will be no expense to the state connected with the police guard at the Capitol. They are at your service till after the inaugural ceremonies. Do you think you will need the officers on duty at your residence any longer, Senator Corson?" "No, sir!" "I agree with you that everything seems to have quieted down beautifully. Governor, you have my best wishes for your second term. I'm sorry I'll not be able to go to the State House to hear your address." He went to the Governor and put out his hand, an act which compelled response in kind. "I'm much obliged!" His Excellency was curt and caustic. "After the vaudeville show of last night there won't be much to-day at the State House to suit anybody who is fond of excitement." Before North, departing, reached the door Senator Corson's secretary tapped and entered. He gave several telegrams into the hand of his employer. "Pardon me, gentlemen!" apologized the Senator, tearing open an envelope. "Wait a moment, North. These messages may bear on the situation." He read them in silence one after the other, his face betraying nothing of his thoughts. He stacked the sheets on the table. "Evidently several notable gentlemen in our state rise early, read the newspapers before breakfast, and are handy to telegraph offices," he remarked, leveling steady gaze at Stewart. "These telegrams are addressed to me, but by good rights they belong to you, Mister Mayor, I'm inclined to believe." There was irony in the Senator's tone; Morrison offered no reply. "They're all of the same tenor, North," explained Senator Corson. "I'm bracketed with you. You'll probably find some of your own waiting at the State House for you. And more to come!" "Well, what are they--what are they?" "Compliments for the sane, safe, and statesmanlike way we handled a crisis and saved the good name of the state." "Now, Morrison," raged the Governor, "you can begin to understand what kind of a damnable mess you've jammed me into along with Corson, here! That steer of a policeman will blab, that Scotchman will snarl, and that loose-mouthed girl will babble!" "Governor, I haven't resented anything you have said to me, personally. You can go ahead and say a lot more to me, and I'll not resent it. But let me tell you that I can depend on the business loyalty of the folks who serve me; and if you go to classing my kind of helpers in with the cheap politicians with whom you have been associating, I shall say something to you that will break up this friendly party. My folks will not talk! Save your sarcasm for your agents who have been running around getting you into a real scrape by telling about those election returns." He snapped about face, on his heels, and walked out of the door. XXI A WOMAN CHOOSES HER MATE The haste displayed by Mayor Morrison in getting away from the study door suggested that he was glad to escape and was not fishing for any invitation to return for further parley. But when he approached the head of the stairway he moved more slowly. His demeanor hinted that he would welcome some excuse, outside of politics, to keep him longer in the Corson mansion. He paused on the stairs and made an elaborate arrangement of a neck muffler as if he expected to confront polar temperature outside. He pulled on his gloves, inspected them critically as if to assure himself that there were no crevices where the cold could enter. He looked over the banisters. There was nobody in the reception-hall. He arranged the muffler some more. Step by step, very slowly, he descended as far as the landing where he had met Lana Corson joyously the night before. Not expectantly, with visage downcast, he looked behind him. Lana was framed in the library door at the head of the stairs. "I was trying to make up my mind to call to you. But you seemed to be in so much of a hurry! I suppose you have a great deal to attend to this morning." "The principal rush seems to be over. Was it anything--Did you want to speak to me?" "Perhaps it isn't of much importance. It did seem to be, for a moment. But it's something of a family matter. I think, after all, it will be imprudent to mention it." He waited for her to go on. "Probably under the circumstances you'll not be especially interested," she ventured. "The trouble is, I'm afraid I'll show too much interest and seem to be prying." "Will you please step up here where I'll not be obliged to shout at you?" He obeyed so promptly that he fairly scrambled up the stairs. "You said down there in the hall last evening that my father was angry and that an angry man says a great deal that he doesn't mean. My father was very, very angry when he and. I arrived home last night." "I reckoned he would be." "In his anger he talked to me very freely about you. The question is, should I believe anything he said?" "I--I don't know," he stammered, "You're not going back on your own statement about an angry man, are you?" "I don't think it's fair to accept all his statements." "I'm sorry you still hold that opinion. You see I drew some conclusions of my own from what my father said to me, and those conclusions urge me to apologize to you for the Corson family. I'm afraid you didn't find my father in an apologetic mood this morning." "Not exactly." "Doris tells me that I have a New England conscience. I'm not sure. At any rate, I'm feeling very uncomfortable about something! It may be because you're misunderstood by our family. Do I seem forward?" "No! Of course you don't. But you're putting me in a terrible position. I don't know what to say. I don't want any apologies. They'd make me feel like a fool--more of a fool than I have been." "Are you admitting now that you were wrong in the stand you took about the water-power and--and--well, about everything?" He had been listening in distress and perplexity, striving to understand her, groping for the meaning she was hiding behind her quiet manner. But her question struck fire from the flint of his resolution. "That power matter is a principle, and I am not wrong in it. As to the means I used last night, it was brass and blunder and I'm ashamed of acting that way." "There's no need of going into the matter. I received a great deal of information from my father--when he was angry. And I woke up early this morning and began to consider the evidence. I was hard at it when you drove up in your car. I have been waiting for you to come from your talk with my father and the Governor. I want to say, Stewart, that when I stood up last night, like a fool, and lectured you about neglecting your opportunities in life I was considering you only as the boss of St. Ronan's mill. But my father told me what you really are. I have always respected him as a very truthful man, even when he is well worked up by any subject. I must take his word in this matter, though he didn't realize just how complimentary he was in your case. And if you can spare me a few moments, I want you to come into the library." She walked ahead of him toward the door. "I think I'll leave the Corson family right out of it, Stewart. I'm a loyal daughter of this state. I'm home again and I've waked up. Humor me in a little conceit, won't you? Let me make believe that I'm the state and listen to me while I tell you what a big, brave, unselfish--" They were inside the door and he put his arm about her and led her toward the big screen and broke in on her little speech that she was making tremulously, apprehensively, with a sob in her voice, trying to hide her deeper emotions under her mock-dramatics. "Hush, dear! I don't want to hear any state talk to me! I want to hear only Lana Corson talk. I didn't understand her last night! Now, bless her honest, true heart, I do understand her." Speech, long repressed, was rushing from his mouth. Then he struggled with words; his excitement choked him. He looked down at her through his tears. "The bit poem, lassie! You remember it. The poem you recited, and when I sent you the big basket o' posies! All the time since yesterday it has been running in my head. I sat alone in the State House last night and all I could remember was, 'But I will marry my own first love!' I tried to say it out like a man, believing that God has meant you for me. But I couldn't think I'd be forgiven!" Lana took his hand between her palms and stopped him at the edge of the screen. She quoted, meeting his adoring eyes with full understanding: "And I think, in the lives of most women and men, There's a moment when all would go smooth and even--" She drew him gently with her when she stepped backward. She had heard the Senator's voice in the corridor; he was escorting Governor North. On the panels of the screen were embroidered some particularly grotesque Japanese countenances. Those pictured personages seemed to be making up faces at the dignitaries who passed the open door. "But I must go to your father, sweetheart," Stewart insisted. "I'd best do it this morning and have it all over with." This declaration as to duty and deference was not made while Senator Corson was passing the door; nor was it made with anything like the promptitude the Senator might have expected in a matter which was so vitally concerned with a father's interests. In fact it was a long, long time before Stewart had anything to say on that subject. If Senator Corson had been listening again on the other side of the screen, he, no doubt, would have been mightily offended by a delay which seemed to make the father an afterthought in the whole business. If he had been eavesdropping he would not have heard much, anyway, of an informing nature. He would have heard two voices, tenderly low and incoherent, interrupting eagerly, breaking in on each other to explain and protest and plead. If Stewart's protracted neglect of the interests of a father would have availed to rouse resentment, Lana's reply to Stewart's rueful declaration more surely would have exasperated the Senator; she emphatically commanded Stewart to say not one word on the subject to her father. "Why, Stewart Morrison, for twenty-four hours you have been taking away my breath by doing the unexpected! You have been grand. Now are you going to spoil everything by dropping right back into the conventional, every-day way of doing things? You shall not! You shall not spoil my new worship of a hero!" "Well, I won't seem much like a hero if I act as though I'm afraid of your father!" She raised her voice in amazed query. "For mercy's sake, haven't you been proving that you're not afraid of him?" Once more, jubilantly, teasingly, wrought upon by the revived spirit of the intimacy of the old days, she assumed a playful pose with him, but this time her sincerity of soul was behind the situation. "Don't you realize, sir, that the calendar of the Hon. Jodrey Wadsworth Corson, on this day and date, is crowded with strictly new business? He is due at the State House very soon. Do you think he can afford to be bothered with unfinished business?" He worshiped her with silence and a smile. "Yes, Mister Mayor of Marion, unfinished business--yours and mine! Our business of the old days. But the honorable Senator is perfectly well aware that the business aforesaid is on the calendar. He had been supposing that we had forgotten it. I see a big question in your eyes, Stewart dear! Well, now that you're a party to the action and interested in the matter to be presented, I'll say that after Senator Corson had done his talking to me last evening, or very early this morning, to be more exact, I called on my family grit of which he's so proud and I did a little talking to Senator Corson. And he knows that the business is unfinished--he knows it will be brought duly to his attention--and he'll be in a better frame of mind after his present petulance has worn off." "Petulance!" Morrison was rather skeptical. "Exactly! He's just as much of a big child as most men are when another big child tries to take away a plaything. Oh, he was furious, Stewart! But let me tell you something for your comfort. He dwelt most savagely on the fact that you had grabbed in single-handed and beaten a Governor and a United States Senator at their own game! Wonderful, isn't it--admission like that? He has always patronized you as a countryman who knew how to make good cloth and who didn't amount to anything else in the world. Why, in a few days he'll be admitting that he admires you and respects you!" She paused. After a few moments she went on, her tones low and thrilling. "I've been trying to explain myself to you, Stewart. You know, now, that I have always loved you. I have told you so in a way that leaves no doubts in a man such as you are. You have forgiven me for being simply human and silly before I woke up to understand you. And you don't misunderstand me any more, do you?" she pleaded, wistfully. "Last night I saw--your big _self_!" "Lana, it was a wonderful night--more wonderful than I realized till now!" After a time they became aware of a stir below-stairs and they came out from behind the screen where the Japanese faces grinned knowingly. "Please obey me, Stewart; you must! It's really my trial of you to see if you're obedient when I know it's for your own good. Go down and wait for me." She left him in the corridor and ran away. He marched down the stairs with as much self-possession as he could command. Below him he saw Senator Corson, Mrs. Stanton, Silas Daunt, and the banker's son. All were garbed for outdoors and the Senator was inquiring of Mrs. Stanton why Lana was not ready. From the landing down to the hall Stewart found the ordeal an exacting one. Those below surveyed him with an open astonishment that was more disconcerting than hostility; he was in a mood to fight for himself and his own; but to deal in mere polite explanations, after Lana's imperious command to keep silent on an important matter, was beyond any sagacity he possessed in that period of abashed wonder what to say or do. It was his thought that Miss Corson, in her efforts to avoid an anticlimax of conventional procedure, was making a rather too severe test of him in forcing him to endure the unusual. He did manage to say, "Good morning!" and smiled at them in a deprecatory way. Coventry Daunt amiably responded as a spokesman for the group; but he had waited deferentially for his elders to make some response. The Senator held a packet of telegrams in his hand. After Stewart had halted in the hall, putting on the best face he could and evincing a determination to stick the thing out, Senator Corson walked over and offered to give the mayor the telegrams. "They're beginning to arrive from Washington, sir. Better read 'em. They'll afford you a great deal of joy, I'm sure." Stewart shook his head, declining to receive the missives. He wanted to tell the Senator that more joy right at that moment would overtask the Morrison capacity. "I wish I were younger and more of an opportunist," Corson avowed. "In these guessing times among the booms, here is gas enough to inflate a pretty good-sized presidential balloon." He waved the papers. The Senator's tone was still rather ironical, but Stewart was seeking for straws to buoy his new hopes; whether he was so recently away from Lana's dark eyes that the encouragement in them lingered with him, he was not sure. He felt, however, that the Senator's eyes did seem a little less hard than the polished ebony they had resembled. An awkward silence ensued. The Senator stood in front of the caller and queried uncompromisingly with those eyes. The caller, having been enjoined from babbling about the business that had been transacted behind the screen in the library, had no excuse to offer for hanging around there. "I--I suppose you're going to the State House," he suggested, after he decided that the weather called for no comments. "We are! We are waiting for my daughter," stated Corson, with a severity which indicated that he was determined, then and there, to rebuke the cause of her delay. "I'm so sorry you have waited!" Lana called to them from the landing, and came hurrying down, fastening the clasp of her furs. She went to Mrs. Stanton, her face expressing apologetic distress. "It's so comforting, Doris, to know that you and I don't need to bother with all these guest and hostess niceties. You'll understand--because you're a dear friend! Father will make the doors of the Capitol fly open for his party--and you'll be looked after wonderfully." She bestowed her gracious glances on the others of the Daunt family, "I know you'll all forgive me if I don't come along." She did not allow her amazed father to embarrass the situation by the outburst that he threatened. She fled past him, patting his arm with a swift caress. "I'm going with Stewart--over to Jeanie Mac Dougal Morrison's house. It's really dreadfully important. You know why, father. I'll tell you all about it later. Come, Stewart! We must hurry!" Young Mr. Daunt was near the door. He opened it for her. When Stewart passed, following the girl closely, the volunteer door-tender qualified as a good sport. He whispered, "Good luck, old man!" When Coventry closed the door he gave his sister a prolonged and pregnant stare of actual triumph. It was only a look, but he put into it more significance than sufficed for Doris's perspicacity. He had confided to his sister, the evening before, his hopeful reliance on a girl's heart. But the Lana Corson who came down the stairs, who confronted them, who had fearlessly chosen her mate before their hostile eyes, was a woman. And Coventry's gaze told his sister boastingly that he had made good in one respect--he had called the turn in his estimate of a woman. THE END 
43103	----	Transcriber's Note Footnotes have been gathered at the end of each chapter. There are numerous apparent spelling or typographical errors, including those that appear in the copious quoted material. These have been corrected, and are noted in the detailed notes at the end of this text. Italics are represented here using the underscore character as _italic_. Bold text uses the equal character as =bold=. "THE SYSTEM" AS UNCOVERED BY The San Francisco Graft Prosecution BY FRANKLIN HICHBORN (Author of "The Story of the California Legislature of 1909"; "The Story of the California Legislature of 1911"; and "The Story of the California Legislature of 1913.") "It is well enough, my fellow-citizens, to meet as we do to-night, and to applaud the sentiments of patriotism, and to echo the voice of indignation uttered upon this rostrum. But another and more imperative duty devolves upon every one of us individually, and that is to give his and her moral support to the officers of the law. We must not content ourselves by merely adopting a set of resolutions, and then going home and forgetting about it, placing all responsibility upon the constituted authorities. This is not a case of the constituted authorities. It is the case of the people of San Francisco. And unless the people of San Francisco do their individual duty in supporting the prosecution, the officials of the courts and of the law must fail in their efforts."--_Walter Macarthur at the mass meeting called at the time of the attempted assassination of Heney._ COPYRIGHT, 1915 by FRANKLIN HICHBORN San Francisco Press of The James H. Barry Company 1915 FRANKLIN HICHBORN'S BOOKS ON CALIFORNIA POLITICS Story of the California Legislature of 1909 $1.25 Story of the California Legislature of 1911 1.50 Story of the California Legislature of 1913 1.50 "The System," as Uncovered by the San Francisco Graft Prosecution 1.50 CONTENTS Chapter Page I. The Union Labor Party Movement 11 II. The Ruef Board of Supervisors 22 III. The San Francisco Ruef Ruled 30 IV. San Francisco After the Fire of 1906 49 V. Graft Prosecution Opens 73 VI. Ruef's Fight to Take the District Attorney's Office 87 VII. Oliver Grand Jury Impaneled 96 VIII. Ruef Loses Fight for District Attorney's Office 107 IX. Ruef and Schmitz Indicted 110 X. Fight to Evade Trial 121 XI. Ruef a Fugitive 130 XII. The Trapping of the Supervisors 139 XIII. Confessions of the Bribe-taking Supervisors 154 XIV. The Source of the Bribe Money 168 XV. Ruef Pleads Guilty to Extortion 186 XVI. Schmitz Convicted of Extortion 208 XVII. Schmitz Ousted from Office 215 XVIII. The Real Fight Begins 240 XIX. The Glass Trials and Conviction 269 XX. The Ford Trials and Acquittals 279 XXI. The San Francisco Election of 1907 300 XXII. Higher Courts Free Schmitz and Ruef 320 XXIII. The Defense Becomes Arrogant 335 XXIV. Jury Fixing Uncovered 357 XXV. The Shooting of Heney 370 XXVI. The Calhoun Trial 388 XXVII. The San Francisco Election of 1909 405 XXVIII. Dismissal of the Graft Cases 425 XXIX. Ruef's Last Refuge Fails 440 XXX. Conclusion 455 APPENDIX. Judge Lawlor's Ruling in Motion to Dismiss Graft Cases i How the Supervisors Were Bribed vii Gallagher's Order Removing Langdon from Office of District Attorney xii The Ruef "Immunity Contract" xix "Immunity Contract" Given Supervisors xxi District Attorney Langdon's Plan for Reorganizing the Municipal Government xxii Roosevelt's Letter to Spreckels on the Graft Situation xxv Governor Johnson's Statement Regarding Ruef's Imprisonment xxviii Schmitz's Attempt to Control San Francisco's Relief Funds xxxiii Receipts and Disbursements of the Graft Prosecution xxxiv PREFACE. A tethered bull does not know that he is tied until he attempts to go beyond the rope's limits. A community does not feel the grip of the "System" until it attempts resistance. Then it knows. San Francisco during the Ruef-Schmitz regime was no more under the heel of the "System" than when other "bosses" dominated; no more so than to-day; no more so than other communities have been and are. The political "boss" is merely the visible sign of the "System's" existence. However powerful he may appear, he is, after all, but agent for the "System." The "boss" develops power, does the "System's" work until he is repudiated by the people, when another "boss," usually in the name of "reform," takes his place. But the second "boss" serves the same "System." Ruef entered San Francisco politics as a "reformer." He supplanted other "bosses." But Ruef in his turn served the "System" they had served. San Francisco, when Ruef had reached his point of greatest possible power, rose against him. The "System" was not immediately concerned. Ruef had lived his day; the hour for another "boss" to succeed him had come. But San Francisco proposed to get at those back of the "boss"; to get at the "System." And then San Francisco found the "System" more powerful than herself; more powerful than the State of California. And San Francisco was beaten down, humiliated, made to understand that within her borders the laws could not be enforced against those to whom the "System" granted immunity from punishment. To secure evidence against bribe-givers, the State granted immunity to bribe-takers who confessed their crimes and joined with the State to bring larger criminals to justice. And the "System's" agents cried outrage that bribe-takers should go free of punishment. But the "System" granted immunity from punishment to those who had bribed. And the apologists for the "System" will tolerate no criticism of this sort of immunity. Other communities have risen against the "System's" agents, the "bosses," and the "bosses" have given place to other agents. But few communities, if any, have attacked the "System" as did San Francisco. Had they done so, unquestionably they would have found themselves as ineffective against corruption as San Francisco has been shown to be. The "System" is confined to no particular State or locality; it permeates our entire public life. Judge Lindsey in Colorado calls it "The Beast." In California we call it "The Southern Pacific Machine," for in California the Southern Pacific Company was its chief beneficiary. Other communities call it the "Organization." The bull does not discover his rope until he strains at it; the community knows little or nothing of the overpowering "System" until it resists. San Francisco resisted and discovered. The mere bribing of a board of supervisors was not extraordinary. Our newspapers furnish us daily with sorry recital of bribe-taking public officials discovered in other communities. But the effective, searching resistance to bribe-giving which San Francisco offered was extraordinary. It was a new thing in American politics. It compelled the "System" to show its real strength, and that, too, was new in American politics, and extraordinary, also. The "System" at San Francisco had taken the usual precautions which ordinarily ensure it against successful opposition, or even question. It had, through its agents, selected the candidates for public office, including the District Attorney. With the District Attorney loyal to the "System" the "System" was secure against attack. And even were the District Attorney to resist the "System," still was the "System" secure, for the "System" could deny the District Attorney, through the public officials it controlled, the funds necessary for successful opposition. But here again extraordinary circumstances worked for the "System's" confusion. Not only had the "System" been mistaken in the caliber of the man whom it had permitted to be nominated for District Attorney, but patriotic citizens guaranteed the expenses of effective attack through the District Attorney's office. Nevertheless, the "System" would ordinarily have been able to laugh at the attack, and render it abortive, by compelling the citizens who were backing the District Attorney to withdraw their support. Even at San Francisco, the supporters of the District Attorney felt the force of such attack. Those who supported the Prosecution found themselves harassed in their business ventures, and snubbed in the social circles in which they had moved. When Heney, stricken down in the discharge of his duty, lay at the point of death, a minister of the gospel prayed for the wounded Prosecutor's recovery. Immediately from the pews came silent expression of disapproval. That pastor refused to be intimidated, refused to join with his fashionable congregation against the Prosecution. He was eventually compelled to resign his pastorate. Rudolph Spreckels, while accounting for every dollar that the Graft Prosecution had expended, asked to be excused from naming those who had subscribed to the fund, lest they be attacked. Ordinarily, those citizens whose instincts had led them to guarantee the District Attorney their support, would have been forced to abandon him. But at San Francisco, a few citizens, in spite of ridicule, abuse, social ostracism and business opposition, stood firm for civic righteousness. This made San Francisco's attack upon the "System" possible and stirred the "System" to extraordinary resistance. The "System," seeing itself threatened, went to the relief of the "boss," its agent, whom even its chief beneficiaries despised. The "boss," through his puppet in the Mayor's chair, declared the office of the District Attorney vacant, and appointed himself to fill the vacancy. The boldness of the move startled the whole community. But the act merely demonstrated the extremes to which the "System" was prepared to go. It was not extraordinary in comparison with what was to follow. Later on, witnesses were to be concealed, intimidated, gotten out of the State; their kidnaping even being attempted. The managing editor of a newspaper opposing the "System" was to be taken on the street in daylight, hurried across the country to a suburban town, forced into a stateroom of an outgoing train, and sent on his way to a distant city. The home of the pivotal witness against the "System"-protected defendants was to be dynamited, the witness and other inmates of the building miraculously escaping with their lives. A public prosecutor was, while conducting one of the "System"-attacking trials, to be shot down in open court. A prisoner at the bar was to arise to denounce the judge on the bench as a partisan and a scoundrel. Thugs were to invade court-rooms while trials were going on, to intimidate "System"-threatening prosecutors and witnesses; men were to be trapped as they offered bribes to trial jurors; agents of the Prosecution were to be bribed to turn over to the defending element the Prosecution's papers and reports. An agent of the Prosecution in the employ of the Defense, working in the interest of the Defense, was to sit at the Prosecutor's side during the selection of a trial jury, to advise the Prosecutor of the character of the men under examination for jurors, and with such advice mislead and confuse. No; bribe-giving at San Francisco was not so extraordinary as the events which grew out of attempt to punish for bribe-giving. And now, as we look upon San Francisco beaten, and retarded in her development because of that beating, the hopelessness of her opposition to the "System" is the most startling thing of all. We see now, that with a District Attorney intent upon doing his duty, with funds ample for vigorous prosecution guaranteed, with trial judges of integrity and ability on the bench, none of the accused, so long as he remained loyal to the "System"--so long as he did not "snitch"--was in real danger of suffering the law-provided punishment for the crimes uncovered against him. Ruef carefully weighed the ability of the Prosecution to save him, against the power of the "System" to punish or to save, and knowing the power of the "System" as few other men knew it, Ruef betrayed the Prosecution and cast his lot with the "System." The outcome would have justified his judgment but for a series of unusual events which none could have foreseen. The most extraordinary incident of the whole Graft Prosecution, we can now, with the "System" uncovered before us, see, was that Abe Ruef went to the penitentiary. With full knowledge of the power, resources and methods of the "System," it is not at all extraordinary that guilty men under its protection should escape punishment. But it is extraordinary--due only to a chain of extraordinary happenings--that one of its agents, who continued faithful, who didn't "snitch," finds himself in prison and unable to get out. The San Francisco Graft Prosecution uncovered the "System" as it has been uncovered in no other American city, for San Francisco made the hardest, most persistent, and longest continued attack that a municipality has ever made upon it. California has profited greatly because of the uncovering, for while uncovered, the "System" may be proceeded against intelligently, not in the courts, but at the ballot-box. California has been quick to profit by the opportunity which the uncovering of the "System" has offered. In preparing this volume for the press it is my purpose--so far as lies in my power to do so--_to keep the cover off_. _FRANKLIN HICHBORN._ Santa Clara, Calif., Dec. 25, 1912. CHAPTER I. THE UNION LABOR PARTY MOVEMENT. Eugene E. Schmitz[1] was elected Mayor of San Francisco in November, 1901. He had been nominated by the Union-Labor party. This party was organized after labor disturbances which had divided San Francisco into militant factions, with organized labor on the one side and organized capital on the other.[2] The convention which had nominated Schmitz was made up in the main of delegates who had affiliations with labor unions and were in close sympathy with the labor-union movement. But this did not mean that the new party had the unanimous approval of the labor unions, or of the rank and file of organized labor. A considerable faction, with P. H. McCarthy, president of the State Building Trades Council, even then a dominating figure in San Francisco labor circles, at its head, advised against the movement, and opposed the new party candidates not only in 1901, but in 1903 when Schmitz was a candidate for re-election. On the other hand, the new party had in the beginning the support of the Coast Seamen's Journal, published at San Francisco, and one of the most influential labor publications on the Pacific Coast. It had, too, the advocacy of several earnest Labor leaders. Very frankly, such leaders questioned the ultimate consequences of the movement, expressing fears which time was to justify. But to them the situation offered no alternative. Their support and influence went to the new party as an expedient of the times, not as the beginning of a permanent political organization. But the movement, once started, got beyond their control. During the first five years of Union-Labor party activities in San Francisco many of these original supporters were forced, first into silence and finally into open repudiation of the methods of the Union-Labor party administration. In the meantime, members of the McCarthy faction, which had resisted the organization of the party, and had opposed it at the 1901 and 1903 elections, became its strong partisans. This element supported the party ticket at the 1905 election; and in 1907, and again in 1909, when McCarthy was himself the Union-Labor party candidate for Mayor. But the Union-Labor party ticket which McCarthy headed did not have the united support of labor leaders who had organized the movement. Indeed, labor leaders whom the McCarthy faction in 1901 called "scabs" for organizing the Union-Labor party, were, by the same men who had condemned them in 1901, denounced as "scabs" during the 1909 campaign for not supporting the Union-Labor party candidates. From the beginning, the Union-Labor party had the support of elements outside the labor-union movement. Much of this support came from citizens who, regardless of their attitude on trade-unionism, were dissatisfied with the old parties. The situation offered exceptional opportunity for the political manipulator. But the one man with the political vision to see the possibilities of the third-party movement, was not a member of a labor union. He was a lawyer who had already attained some prominence in San Francisco politics--Abraham Ruef.[3] Ruef was quick to see the potentialities of the political Frankenstein which groping labor leaders had brought into being. He knew that _they_ could not control their creation; he knew that _he_ could. He did not overestimate his powers. He managed the new party's 1901 campaign.[4] Under his direction, success was won for a cause that had been deemed hopeless. The genius of Abraham Ruef made Eugene E. Schmitz Mayor of San Francisco.[5] In practical acknowledgment of Ruef's services, Schmitz issued an open letter, in which he stated himself privileged to consider Ruef his friendly counsellor.[6] The issuance of that letter made Ruef the recognized political representative of the Union-Labor party administration, a position which he held until the estrangement of himself and Schmitz under the strain of the graft prosecution.[7] But the government of San Francisco did not pass entirely under control of the Union-Labor party until four years after Schmitz's elevation to the Mayoralty. During the era of Union-Labor party power in San Francisco, the Mayor and the eighteen members of the Board of Supervisors were elected every two years.[8] Schmitz, under Ruef's management, was re-elected in 1903. But the Union-Labor party failed at that election, as it had in 1901, to elect a majority of the Board of Supervisors. Many of the commissions, on the other hand, through appointments by the mayor, had, by 1903, passed completely under Union-Labor party control. Gradually, the opinion grew in San Francisco that the management of the departments was unsatisfactory, if not corrupt. This opinion, in 1905, when Schmitz was for a third time the Union-Labor party candidate for Mayor, found expression in fusion of the Republican and Democratic parties to bring about the defeat of the Union-Labor party nominees. This fusion was in the name of municipal reform. The organizers of the movement were in the main opposed to machine political methods. When, however, the movement gave evidence of vitality and strength, the political agents of public service corporations became identified with its leadership.[9] The new leaders were soon in practical control. Public-service corporations were largely instrumental in financing the movement. Testimony was brought out before the Grand Jury which conducted the graft investigations, that nearly every public-service corporation in San Francisco contributed to the fusion fund, the average of the contributions being $2,500 for each corporation.[10] On the other hand, the public-service corporations contributed liberally toward the election of the Ruef-backed, Union-Labor party candidates.[11] Ruef was already on the pay-roll of the law departments of many of them. Thus, generally speaking, it made little difference to the corporations whether the "reform" fusion candidates or the Ruef Union-Labor party candidates were elected. The corporations had captained each side, and in a large measure had financed each side. The inevitable difficulties of a campaign, financed and officered by public-service corporations, to correct municipal ills for which the corporations were in large measure responsible, were encountered from the beginning. For the head of the reform or fusion ticket, men who had been prominent in the organization of the anti-Ruef crusade were suggested, only to be rejected by the corporation allies who had after the reform group's preliminary successes become identified with the movement. Finally, after several names had been canvassed, John S. Partridge, an attorney of good ability, and repute, but scarcely known outside the immediate circle in which he moved, was agreed upon as Mr. Schmitz's opponent. Both the Democrat and the Republican party nominated Mr. Partridge, and with him a complete fusion ticket, including supervisors. Partridge had a clear field against Schmitz, but his candidacy failed to carry the confidence, or to awake the enthusiasm which brings success at the polls. The Union-Labor administration was openly denounced as corrupt. Francis J. Heney,[12] fresh from his success in prosecuting the Oregon land fraud cases, went so far as to declare in a speech before one of the largest political gatherings ever assembled in San Francisco that he knew Ruef to be corrupt,[13] and, given opportunity, could prove it. The public generally believed Heney's charges to be justified. But of approximately 98,000 registered voters only 68,878 voted for Mayor, and of these, 40,191 voted for Schmitz. Partridge received only 28,687[14] votes, being defeated by a majority of 11,504. Not only was Schmitz re-elected by overwhelming majority, but the entire Ruef-selected Union-Labor party ticket was elected with him. Ruef, as Mayor Schmitz's recognized political adviser, and political agent for the Union-Labor party, found himself in control of every branch and department of the San Francisco municipal government. FOOTNOTES: [1] Schmitz, previous to his election, was employed as a musician in a San Francisco theater. His connection with organized labor came through membership in the Musicians' Union. He had no intention of aspiring to the Mayor's chair until Ruef suggested it to him. [2] The San Francisco labor strike of 1901 arose out of the refusal of the organized teamsters to deliver goods to a non-union express agency. The Employers' Association refused to treat with the men collectively. Other organizations went out in sympathy. James D. Phelan, who was then Mayor, was the intermediary between the teamsters and their employees. He advocated recognition. The negotiations failed. During the progress of the strike there were constant disturbances. A steamship company, for example, employed prizefighters in the guise of workingmen to seek positions as strikebreakers, and when interfered with to belabor the pickets. Assaults were made upon non-union teamsters carrying supplies to and from railway stations. The Chief of Police, in order to preserve peaceful traffic, placed two policemen upon each truck. Labor leaders asked not only that the police be withdrawn from the trucks, but from the waterfront. This action the Mayor refused to take, on the ground that it was his duty to preserve public order, and that it was in the interest of all to avert rather than suppress trouble. A meeting of representatives of the several factions was held at the Mayor's office, September 23, 1901. The story was circulated that the Mayor had said at the meeting that if the workmen did not want to be clubbed let them go to work. Both sides now admit the statement was not made. Joseph S. Tobin, Henry U. Brandenstein, Lawrence J. Dwyer and Peter J. Curtis, who were present, have set forth in affidavit that "Mayor Phelan did not say at said conference, as has been alleged, referring to the workingmen's strike, that 'if they don't want to be clubbed let them go to work,' nor did he make any statement of like import." At the time, however, feeling was running so high at San Francisco that the most extravagant stories were believed. Opponents of the administration--those representing capital as well as those advocating recognition of the unions--seized upon every opportunity to discredit. Crafty adventurers of the type of Abe Ruef lost no chance to work distrust and confusion. Out of the turmoil came the Union Labor party. [3] Ruef graduated from the University of California and from the University of California law school with exceptional honors. He was at twenty-one a practicing attorney. With Franklin K. Lane, the present Secretary of the Interior, Dean John H. Wigmore of the Northwestern University, and others, he organized a club for civic reform. His first political convention, he tells us in his Confessions, showed him that representative government was a farce. He resolved to devote himself to his law practice. But almost immediately we find him an "errand boy" for Martin Kelly and Phil Crimmins, powerful "bosses" in their day, but now practically forgotten. Ruef continued with Kelly and Crimmins for ten years. He drifted with the machine, securing excellent training for his future career. His opportunity came in 1901, when, in its effort to throw off the yoke of the bosses, the State secured the enactment of a new primary law. Under this law Ruef took his first step to secure control of the State political machine. He seized upon the new law as a vehicle to organize a "reform" movement. His organization took the name Republican Primary League. He secured a large following. He was becoming powerful. He tells us in his Confessions that during this period he was invited to dine at the homes of men of political and social importance, among them William F. Herrin, chief counsel of the Southern Pacific Company, and Patrick Calhoun, president of the United Railroads. But as yet, Ruef had little real influence in the "organization." Then came the labor unrest, and the Union Labor party movement. Ruef managed to combine the Republican Primary League with the Union Labor party movement. This combination was the basis of his campaign for the election of Schmitz. [4] Ruef also provided much of the funds employed in the first Schmitz campaign. In a statement published May 16, 1907, Ruef said: "When Schmitz first ran for Mayor I made his campaign for him, and put up $16,000. My friends told me I was a fool. I guess I was." [5] Out of the 52,168 votes cast for Mayor, at the 1901 election, Schmitz received 21,776. His opponents--Wells (Republican) and Tobin (Democrat)--divided 30,392 between them, Wells receiving 17,718 and Tobin 12,674. Up to the present time (1914) the Union-Labor party has four times been successful in San Francisco mayoralty elections. But only once, in 1905, has its candidate been elected by majority vote. Changes in the San Francisco Charter, ratified at the 1911 session of the State Legislature, place the election of municipal officials on a non-partisan basis, and prevent election by plurality vote. Henceforth all officials must be elected by majority vote. [6] Schmitz's letter announcing his obligation to Ruef was as follows: "My Dear Ruef: Now that the election is over and I am to be the Mayor of our native city, I wish to express to you and through you to all your loyal friends and the faithful Republicans who supported my cause, my profound appreciation of the generous, whole-souled, substantial and effective support accorded me in the exciting campaign which has just closed. Viewed from your prominent position in the Republican party, I know the seriousness of the step which you took when you voluntarily and unconditionally offered me your valuable aid, and I cannot in words properly give utterance to my deep feeling in this regard. I can only say that your action is worthy of yourself, and that no higher praise can be accorded you. "I have now for some fifteen years enjoyed your acquaintance and friendship and your services as my attorney in many capacities, and I say without hesitation or flattery that I have yet to find a more honorable, a more loyal, a more able attorney, or a truer friend. "I feel that I owe a great deal of my success in this campaign to you and your friends, and I shall not permit myself at any time to forget it. "Though you have never asked or even suggested it, I shall, with the utmost confidence and with a sentiment of absolute security, feel myself privileged at all times to consider you as my friendly counsellor and to call upon you whenever I may require assistance in the solution of any of the perplexing and complicated questions which must necessarily arise in the conduct of so vast and important an office. "I trust that you will not hesitate to say that I may do so. Again and again thanking you and your friends, I am, "Very sincerely yours, "E. E. SCHMITZ." [7] Ruef at once availed himself of the opportunities which his position offered. He accepted regular "retainers" from public-service corporations. He testified before the Grand Jury that he was employed by the United Railroads through Tirey L. Ford, just after the first election of Schmitz, at $500 per month, and that he gave receipts to Ford for this money, during Schmitz's first term of office, but received the money always in Ford's office in currency; but that after the second election of Schmitz, he (Ruef) refused to give any more receipts for this money, although he continued to receive it from Ford the same as before with receipts, and that after the third election his salary was increased to $1,000 per month, which was paid in the same way by Ford without any receipts. Ruef further testified that he was employed by the Pacific States Telephone and Telegraph Company, immediately after Schmitz's first election, through T. V. Halsey, and that Halsey paid him $1,200 per month in currency without any receipt. E. S. Pillsbury, general counsel of the Pacific States Telephone and Telegraph Company, testified that he never heard of Ruef's employment until after the indictments were returned against Halsey, and that he, Pillsbury, attended to all of the legal business of the company during the entire time Ruef was under employment. Pillsbury received only $1,000 per month for his own services, and testified that he would have objected to the payment to Ruef of a larger salary than he was getting. Pillsbury was a stockholder to the amount of $500,000 in his own right, and was a member of the executive committee of the board of directors of the company. At the trial of The People vs. Tirey L. Ford, No. 817, I. W. Hellman, one of the most prominent of California bankers and at one time a director of the United Railroads, testified: "Some five years ago (the Ford trial was in 1907, which would make the date about 1902) Mr. Holland, who was then the president of the United Railways, came to me to ask my advice whether Mr. Ruef should be employed as an attorney for the United Railways, stating that by employing him peace could be secured with the labor unions, that he had great influence with them, and there would be general peace, and it was to the benefit of the railways company to have such peace. Mr. Ruef then was an attorney of high repute, recognized as a good lawyer, and I said if that could be accomplished it would be for the benefit of the railway company as well as for the public, and I advised yes. Whether he has been employed or not I do not know, because I afterward sold my interest in the company and I never have inquired whether he had been employed or not." In this connection, it is interesting to note that Ruef in his latest confession, the publication of which was begun in the San Francisco Bulletin in May, 1912, states that his employment by corporations as attorney did not begin until after the second Schmitz election--that is to say, in 1903. Hellman's testimony would indicate that his employment by the United Railroads dates from 1902. Compare with footnote 77, page 74. [8] Under amendments to the San Francisco Charter, ratified by the Legislature of 1911, the Mayor and Supervisors are now elected to four-year terms. [9] George F. Hatton, Southern Pacific lobbyist and politician, and political manager for United States Senator George C. Perkins, was one of the principal leaders of the 1905 "reform" movement. He was at one time retained as an attorney by the Empire Construction Company, affiliated with the Home Telephone Company, which was seeking a franchise to establish a telephone system in San Francisco in competition with the Pacific States Telephone and Telegraph Company. The Home Telephone Company contributed to the "reform" campaign fund. Through the "reform" Board of Supervisors, who were to be elected, and whose campaign was thus financed, the Home Company was to get its franchise. But the "reform" candidates were defeated, the Schmitz-Ruef Union-Labor party candidates were elected. The Home Telephone Company thereupon proceeded to secure its franchise by employing Ruef. [10] William Thomas, of the law firm of Thomas, Gerstle & Frick, attorneys for the Home Telephone Company, testified before the Grand Jury that his company had contributed $8,000 to the "reform" campaign fund. The testimony indicated that this money was used at the primaries. Louis Sloss, one of the leaders of the "reform" movement, testified that after the primaries, Detweiler, who was at the head of the Home Telephone Company enterprise, sent his personal check for $800 additional. Fairfax H. Wheelan, one of the leaders of the "reform" movement, testified before the Grand Jury that the Pacific States Telephone and Telegraph Company, in the name of T. V. Halsey, subscribed $2,000 to the fund; and the United Railroads, concealing its identity under the name "Cash," $2,000 more. [11] Dr. Charles Boxton was one of the Union-Labor party Supervisors elected in 1905. At the second trial of Louis Glass, vice-president of the Pacific States Telephone and Telegraph Company, for bribery, Boxton testified that during the campaign, T. V. Halsey, political agent for the company, met him on the street and gave him a sealed envelope, saying: "If that will be of any use to you use it." Boxton found the envelope to contain $1,000 in United States currency. [12] Francis J. Heney when five years old went to San Francisco with his parents. He was educated at the public schools of that city, the University of California, and Hastings Law School. After being admitted to practice he lived for a time in Arizona, where he served as Attorney-General. On his return to San Francisco in 1895, he confined himself to civil practice until, at the solicitation of United States Attorney-General Knox, he undertook the prosecution of the Oregon Land Fraud cases. He was at the close of successful prosecution of these cases, when invited by Rudolph Spreckels, Phelan and others, to participate in the prosecution of the San Francisco graft cases. [13] Heney's statement was prophetic. The published account of his speech (see Chronicle, November 6, 1905) was as follows: "If I had control of the District Attorney's office, I would indict Abe Ruef for felony and send him to the penitentiary, where he belongs, for I have personal knowledge that he is corrupt. "If you elect these people, the graft of this city will become so great that the citizens of San Francisco will ask me to come back and prosecute him. When the time comes I will do as the people request as a matter of civic duty." Heney's charge brought caustic reply from Ruef. In an open letter to Heney, published November 7, 1905, Ruef said: "Francis J. Heney:--In the published reports of your speech at Mechanics Pavilion last Saturday night you are represented as saying: 'I say to you, moreover, that I personally know that Abraham Ruef is corrupt, and I say to you that whenever he wants me to prove it in court I will do so.' "I am not a candidate for office, but as a man I do not propose to leave your false statement undenied. "In the past I have paid little attention to anything said by hostile papers concerning myself, feeling that the public fully understood the despicable motives underlying the utterances of their proprietors. In your case a different situation presents itself. You have recently acquired considerable repute as a prosecuting attorney for the United States Government. Your statements, if unchallenged, may be given some credence by those not familiar with the true condition of affairs. "In making the statement that you personally know that I am corrupt you lied. You cannot personally know that which does not exist. "In making the statement at a time and place which allowed no opportunity for a legal showing before the date of the election which you seek to influence, you showed the same courage which put a bullet into the body of Dr. J. C. Handy of Tucson, Ariz., in 1891, for whose killing you were indicted for murder, and upon trial were acquitted because you were the only witness to the deed. "You say whenever I want you to prove it in court you will do so. "I want you to try to prove it, and at once. I demand that you begin at once. I know you cannot prove what does not exist. Why you should wait upon my desire, why you should depend upon my wish to proceed with the performance of what must be to every good citizen a public duty, I do not know. "But as you declare that you will proceed only with my consent, I give you here and now full consent and authority to proceed, and I go further and ask that you do so. "I regret that your recent identification with the Citizens' Alliance and with the corporations anxious to encompass the defeat of a candidate in a political campaign should have made you so far forget the regard for truth, justice and decency which should characterize men in our profession, as to have induced you to take the chance of ruining for life the reputation and standing of one who is not rightfully amenable to your charge, and who has not otherwise heretofore given you the slightest private or personal provocation for your savage and mendacious attack. "A. RUEF. "San Francisco, November 6th." [14] To hold that only 28,687 electors of San Francisco wished a change in the administration of San Francisco would be unjust. Many who were opposed to Ruef's domination remained away from the polls, through dissatisfaction with the management of the fusion movement. Of the more than 40,000 who voted for the Union Labor ticket, were thousands of union men who were opposed to the Schmitz-Ruef element. But Ruef cleverly injected the Citizens' Alliance issue, and the organized labor element was, because of this, made to vote practically solidly for the Ruef-selected candidates. The fact that voting machines were used in every precinct in San Francisco for the first time contributed to this. Members of labor unions did not understand the working of the machines, and were afraid to attempt to vote anything but the straight ticket. This dissatisfied organized labor element, two years later, contributed in no small degree to the election of Mayor E. R. Taylor and the re-election of District Attorney William H. Langdon, thereby making possible continuation until 1910 of the graft prosecution. CHAPTER II. THE RUEF BOARD OF SUPERVISORS. No observer of San Francisco politics, not even Ruef himself, had expected the entire Union-Labor party ticket to be elected. The election of the Supervisors was the greatest surprise of all. Ruef, with his political intimates, had selected the Supervisorial candidates, but more with a view to hold the organized labor vote for Schmitz than with idea of the fitness of the candidates for the duties involved in managing the affairs of a municipality of 500,000 population.[15] Not one of the eighteen elected was a man of strong character.[16] Several were of fair, but by no means exceptional ability. Of this type were Gallagher, an attorney of some prominence who acted as go-between between Ruef and the Supervisors; Wilson, who was a sort of second man to Gallagher, and Boxton, a dentist. But for the most part they were men who had led uneventful lives as drivers of delivery wagons, bartenders and clerks. Without an exception, they saw in their unexpected elevation to the Board of Supervisors opportunity to better their condition. Some of them would not, perhaps, have sought bribes; few of them knew just how they could employ their office to their best advantage; but from the hour of their election the idea of personal advancement was uppermost in the minds of the majority of the members of the Schmitz-Ruef Board of Supervisors.[17] Their ignorance of the requirements of their office, their failure to appreciate their large responsibilities, and above all their ill-defined ambitions made them promise of easy prey for the agents of the public-service corporations, who were playing for special privileges worth millions. None realized this better than Ruef. From the beginning, he recognized that the likelihood of individual members of the board yielding to temptation to petty gain[18] threatened his own larger purposes. He let it be known that he would himself personally prosecute any one of them whom he discovered to be "grafting." Ruef was emphatic in his position that the Supervisors should have no financial dealings with those seeking special-privilege advantages. He even defined regular procedure for dealing with persons and corporations that might elect to catch the easiest way to accomplish their purposes by the use of bribe money. To this end he arranged: (1) That Supervisor James L. Gallagher[19] should represent him on the board. The Supervisors at once accepted Gallagher, and dealt with him as Ruef's recognized agent. (2) Finally Ruef arranged for a regular weekly caucus[20] to be held each Sunday night, on the eve of the regular meeting day of the board, Monday. The public was not admitted to these caucuses. Those who were admitted were Ruef, Mayor Schmitz, George B. Keane,[21] clerk of the Board of Supervisors, who also acted as secretary of the caucus, and the eighteen Supervisors. At these meetings, which were held every Sunday evening, Ruef was the dominating figure. Supervisor Wilson, testifying at the graft trials, stated that Ruef took the position of "chief counsel and adviser for the board in matters that were to come before the board." Keane, as secretary of the caucus, took full notes[22] of the proceedings and sent written notices[23] of the meetings to each of those who were admitted. The first of these caucuses was held shortly before the Schmitz-Ruef board took office. The organization of the board was provided by the Supervisors authorizing Ruef and Schmitz to make up the committees. Ruef undertook the task. He prepared the committee lists, and submitted his selections to Schmitz and Gallagher. Schmitz and Gallagher suggested unimportant changes. The committees were then announced to the Supervisors at the next caucus. There were objections raised, but these objections, with one exception, were denied in all important particulars. The organization of the Schmitz-Ruef Board of Supervisors was thus perfected. Ruef's way seemed clear. The committee organization of the Board of Supervisors was his own. The Supervisors were to hold no open meeting until they had met with him in secret caucus to ascertain his wishes. The official clerk of the board, who was also secretary of the caucus, was his tried henchman. Gallagher, the ablest of the Supervisors, flattered at being made his representative, and further bound by mercenary ties, was ready to do his slightest bidding. And never had entrenched boss more fruitful field for exploitation. But scarcely had the new administration been installed, than a weak point developed in Ruef's position. District Attorney William H. Langdon, who had been elected on the Ruef ticket, gave evidence that he proposed to enforce the law, regardless of the effect upon the administration of which he was a part, or upon Ruef's plans and interests. The first intimation the public had of Langdon's independent attitude came when gambling games in which Ruef was popularly supposed to be interested were raided under the personal direction of the District Attorney. Langdon had first attempted to close the places through the police department. Failing, he had attended to the matter himself.[24] The gamblers appealed to Ruef, but Ruef was helpless. Langdon would not be turned from his purpose. The gamblers and capitalists interested in gambling establishments charged Langdon with political ingratitude. But those who were laboring for the development, and were opposing the exploitation of San Francisco, saw in Langdon's course the first sign that Abraham Ruef was not to have undisputed sway in San Francisco.[25] With Langdon in the District Attorney's office it was still possible that the laws could be enforced--even against Abraham Ruef. The raiding of the gambling dens marked the beginning of the division in San Francisco, with those who approached the Ruef administration with bribe money on the one side, and those who resisted with the check of law enforcement on the other. FOOTNOTES: [15] At Ruef's trial for offering a bribe to Supervisor Furey, Supervisor James L. Gallagher testified that conferences for selecting the Union Labor party ticket, from Sheriff down, were held at Ruef's office. Gallagher testified of one of these conferences: "The matter of the nominees for Supervisors was mentioned, and all that I recollect about it is that it was stated that there should be a good representation of prominent Union-Labor men on the ticket, and Mr. Ruef stated that he had that in mind, and that that would be done, and it was also stated that the members on the Board of Supervisors that were Union-Labor adherents should be nominated." See The People vs. Abraham Ruef, No. 1437--Transcript on Appeal, Part 3, Vol. 3, page 1278. [16] The eighteen members of the Ruef-Schmitz Board of Supervisors were James L. Gallagher, attorney at law; Cornelius J. Harrigan, grocer; James T. Kelly, piano polisher; Thomas F. Lonergan, driver of a bakery delivery wagon; Max Mamlock, electrician; P. M. McGushin, saloonkeeper; F. P. Nicholas, carpenter; Jennings J. Phillips, employed in newspaper circulation department; L. A. Rea, painter; W. W. Sanderson, employed in grocery store; E. I. Walsh, shoemaker; Andrew M. Wilson, employing drayman; George Duffey, contracting plumber; Charles Boxton, dentist; M. W. Coffey, hackman; Daniel G. Coleman, clerk; Sam Davis, orchestra musician; John J. Furey, blacksmith and saloonkeeper. At the time the graft prosecution opened, Wilson had resigned his position as Supervisor to take up his work as State Railroad Commissioner, an office to which he was elected in 1906; and Duffey to be president of the Municipal Commission of Public Works, to which office he was appointed by Mayor Schmitz. [17] Supervisor E. I. Walsh in a sworn statement made to Heney, March 8, 1907, testified: "Q. And what was agreed upon there (in caucus) as to programme? A. I couldn't say what was agreed upon with them. "Q. Wasn't it arranged that every man should be treated alike as to money? A. It wasn't openly suggested that way; it might have been said among the members that way. "Q. That was the understanding you had. A. Yes, sir. "Q. That you would be all treated equally and fairly? A. I presume that was the way it was understood." Supervisor Lonergan had been promised by Supervisor Wilson $8000 for voting to give the United Railroads a permit to operate its lines under the trolley system. At a second meeting Wilson stated the amount would be $1000 only. Of the scene on this occasion, Lonergan testified at the trial in the case of the People vs. Ford. No. 817: "Q. What did he (Wilson) say on that occasion? A. There was only $4000 in it for me. "Q. What did you say. A. I asked him what the hell kind of work that was and what did he mean by it. And he shook his head and said that if I didn't like it, all right; something to that effect." [18] Evidence of Ruef's distrust of his Supervisors was brought out at many points in the graft trials. When he discovered that individual Supervisors were, without his knowledge, taking bribes from the Pacific States Telephone and Telegraph Company, he stated to Dr. Joseph S. Poheim: "I see they have been trying to take my Supervisors away from me, but I have fixed them; I would like to see one of them throw me down." (See Transcript, People vs. Ruef, 1437, Part 3, Vol. 9, p. 4018.) In the midst of the troubles brought upon him by the graft prosecution, Ruef complained that "These fellows (the Supervisors) would eat the paint off a house, and in order to hold them together I had to descend to their level and take them in with me." Ruef was also jealous of Schmitz's activity. When he learned that Schmitz had promised franchises independent of him, he directed Supervisor Wilson to oppose them. "Butt in on this Parkside business," he said to Wilson. "Mr. Schmitz has promised the Ocean Shore and the Parkside; he is destroying my political influence; these people ought to be made to come and see me." [19] Gallagher was by far the ablest member of the Ruef-Schmitz Board of Supervisors. He was by profession an attorney at law. In that capacity he had served first as Assistant City Attorney, and finally as City Attorney. For a time he was law partner with Hon. James G. Maguire, whose opposition, as member of Congress from California, to the Pacific railroads refunding measures, won him a national reputation. Maguire was candidate for Governor on the Democratic ticket in 1898, but was defeated. Gallagher had served as Supervisor previous to his election in 1905, and was one of the most experienced members of the Schmitz-Ruef board. At Ruef's trial on the charge of offering a bribe to Supervisor Furey, Gallagher testified that soon after his election in 1905, Ruef told him there would be a number of matters coming before the Board of Supervisors in which the corporations and other large concerns would be interested; that there would be a number of large deals coming before the board in which he wanted him (Gallagher) to represent him on the board. Gallagher accepted the agency. [20] Gallagher testified before the Oliver Grand Jury of the nature of these caucuses. From his testimony the following is taken: "Q. They (the Supervisors) voted in the caucus and you knew how the vote would be. A. Yes, sir. "Q. And they would be bound by the caucus vote. A. That was understood that a man would vote at the caucus in the way he would vote at the meeting. "Q. You were understood to represent Mr. Ruef and Mr. Ruef's views. A. That was generally understood by members of the board. "Q. And whatever way you went meant programme. A. I believe Mr. Ruef told a number of them so, and that circulated among the others; it was generally understood by them." [21] Keane's lasting loyalty to Ruef makes him one of the most interesting characters of the graft cases. He entered Ruef's employ in 1898 as a law clerk. He remained in Ruef's office until January, 1902, when Mayor Schmitz took office. Keane was then made secretary to the Mayor. He served in that capacity until January, 1906, when Ruef gained control of the Board of Supervisors. Ruef then made him clerk of the board. At Ruef's trial for offering a bribe to Supervisor Furey, Gallagher testified that Ruef told him that Keane should be clerk. Gallagher notified the other members of Ruef's decision, and that closed the incident. Keane was, however, much more than a mere clerk. Supervisor Wilson testified at the Ruef trial for offering a bribe to Furey, that he (Wilson) owed his nomination to Keane. Keane was elected to the State Senate where his loyalty to Ruef in foul as well as fair weather made him a conspicuous and somewhat notorious character. At present writing, Keane is foremost in the movement to bring about Ruef's release from State prison. [22] At Ruef's trial on the charge of offering a bribe to Supervisor Furey, Keane testified that these notes had been destroyed in the great fire of April 18-19-20, 1906. Keane testified further that Ruef was a constant attendant at the caucuses; that Schmitz was an occasional visitor; that Supervisor Gallagher presided. [23] Notices of the caucus meetings were sent to Ruef precisely as though he had been a member of the Board of Supervisors. At Ruef's trial for offering a bribe to Supervisor Furey, the following letter of notification was introduced as evidence: "San Francisco, June 21st, 1906. "Hon. A. Ruef, San Francisco--Dear Sir: I respectfully beg leave to notify you that the Board of Supervisors will meet in caucus on Sunday evening, June 24th, at 8 o'clock p. m., at Hamilton Hall, Steiner street, near Geary. Your attendance is respectfully requested. "Yours truly, GEORGE B. KEANE, Clerk." [24] The San Francisco Chronicle in its issue of March 8, 1906, said of the District Attorney's raids on the gamblers: "The political push and the underworld generally are astonished at District Attorney Langdon's unexpected outbreak. He has descended upon them like a thunderbolt out of a clear sky. For the moment even wrath is less in evidence than surprise. It was not expected. It is not what was paid for. It is like being murdered by one's dearest friend. There is a complete reversal of the usual experience of mankind. In most cities the lid is on and weighed down before election but lifted and thrown away as soon as the votes are counted. To be allowed to run wide open before election and to be closed down and nailed up as soon as the new official is fairly seated is outside of all precedent. And all that after the most liberal contributions. There is a feeling in criminal circles that somebody is guilty of obtaining money under false pretenses. The District Attorney is the one official for whose friendship the lawbreakers have the most earnest longings, and behind their closed doors the idle gamblers are trying to figure out what 'lay' this dreadful Langdon is really on, and by what trade he has been induced to ignore all the promises expressed or implied, which those assumed to be able to speak for him dispersed so freely when votes were in demand. "As for the public, it was for none of these things. Among the decent portion of society the 'motives' of the District Attorney do not arouse even passing curiosity. What does interest them is the present vigor of his work, and the probability of his keeping it up." [25] Ruef had consented to Langdon's nomination for District Attorney, because he considered that Langdon's intimate acquaintance with the teachers and pupils of the San Francisco public schools would help the ticket. For the three years preceding the campaign Langdon had been Superintendent of Schools at San Francisco. Ruef told Langdon after the election that he had no idea that any one other than Schmitz could be elected on the Union-Labor party ticket that year. When during the campaign Langdon began to develop strength in the contest for District Attorney, Ruef sent him a check for $200 for "campaign expenses," saying that the money had been contributed by Tirey L. Ford of the United Railroads. Langdon returned the check to Ruef with the statement that he preferred to pay his own campaign expenses. During the campaign at every meeting he addressed, Langdon made the statement: "The laws are on the statute books; all may know them. I pledge myself to the enforcement of these laws." To be sure, few if any paid much attention to what Langdon meant, but that was no fault of Langdon's. Everybody was to learn from the hour that he assumed the duties of his office that he meant just what he said. Rudolph Spreckels testified at the Calhoun trial that when Langdon's raids on the gambling dens were made public he felt that "we had a District Attorney who was desirous of doing his duty." The raids were made in February, 1906. Spreckels, Heney, Phelan, Older and others were already considering plans for the exposure and check of the reign of Ruef. CHAPTER III. THE SAN FRANCISCO RUEF RULED. The decade ending 1910 was for California an era of extraordinary enterprise and development. A third transcontinental railroad, the Western Pacific, was completed; vast land-holdings as large as 40,000 acres in a body were cut up into small tracts and sold to settlers; waters brought to the land by vast irrigation enterprises increased the land's productiveness three and even ten fold; petroleum fields, enormously rich, were opened up and developed; the utilization of the falling waters of mountain streams to generate electric power, brought cheap light and power and heat to farm as well as to city factory. The Spanish war had brought thousands of troops to the coast. Practically all of them passed through San Francisco. This particular activity had its influence on local conditions. The State's population increased from 1,485,053 in 1900 to 2,377,549 in 1910. Up to the time of the San Francisco fire, April 18, 1906, San Francisco, of the cities of the State, profited most by this development. San Francisco bank clearances, for example, increased from $1,029,582,594.78 for the year ending December 31, 1900, to $1,834,549,788.51 for the year ending December 31, 1905, a gain of 80 per cent. San Francisco's increase in population during those five years, can, of course, only be estimated. On the basis of the registration for the 1905 municipal election, approximately 98,000, San Francisco had, at the time of the 1906 disaster, a population of about 500,000, an increase from the population of 342,782 shown by the 1900 census of practically 50 per cent. in five years.[26] The rapid increase in population, the sustained prosperity of the community, and its prospective development made San Francisco one of the most promising fields for investment in the country. The public service corporations were quick to take advantage of the San Francisco opportunity. Those corporations already established sought to strengthen their position; new corporations strove for foothold in the promising field. Thus, we find the Home Telephone Company, financed by Ohio and Southern California capitalists, seeking a franchise to operate a telephone system in opposition to the Pacific States Telephone and Telegraph Company, which was already established. And we find the Pacific States Company taking active part in municipal politics to prevent the Home franchise or any other opposition telephone franchise being granted. The corporation holding the light and power monopoly, the Pacific Gas and Electric Company, had by the time of the third Schmitz inaugural, practical control of the San Francisco field. But it was face to face with a clamor for reduction of gas rates. The company was charging one dollar a thousand for gas. The Union-Labor party platform of 1905 pledged the Board of Supervisors to a seventy-five-cents-per-thousand rate. Another matter of tremendous importance to the growing municipality was that of the supply of water. The Spring Valley Water Company had a monopoly of this necessity, but demand for municipal water to be brought from the Sierras was strong. A committee of experts had been appointed to pass upon the various sources of supply. Ruef appeared before them as spokesman for the Supervisors. The experts resigned when it was made clear to them that instead of being permitted to make an adequate study of all available sources of supply they were to report upon the Bay Cities project alone.[27] After the ousting of the Schmitz-Ruef administration the Bay Cities project was ignored and bonds authorized to bring water from Hetch-Hetchy valley. The Spring Valley Water Company, however, has been successful in blocking this project, and in 1914, San Francisco seems almost as far away from realizing her ambition for a supply of pure water as in 1905-6 when Ruef and his followers were at the height of their power. The public-service problem which was attracting the most attention at the time of the great fire, was that of street-car transportation. The principal lines had passed into the hands of the United Railroads.[28] The corporation had, at the time of Schmitz's election in 1905, practically a monopoly of the San Francisco street-car service. The company's principal lines were operated by the cable system. But fully five years before the fire, all traction officials as well as the general public, recognized that San Francisco had outgrown the cable road. It was admitted that electric lines must be substituted for the cable, but there was sharp division as to the character of the electric lines which should be installed. The officials of the United Railroads proposed the overhead trolley method of propulsion; the public, so far as it could find expression, declared for the underground conduit system.[29] In taking this position, the public was in reality backing up the municipal engineers, who had been sent to Eastern States to investigate electric transportation systems, and who had found in favor of the conduit and against the trolley.[30] The San Francisco Merchants' Association, however, apparently dissatisfied with the reports of the engineers employed by the municipality, employed Mr. William Barclay Parsons to report on the relative merits of the trolley and the conduit systems. Mr. Parsons took issue with the city's engineers, and recommended the trolley as against the conduit.[31] The directors of the Merchants' Association thereupon declared for the trolley system. Criticism of this action of the directors was followed by submission of the question to a referendum vote of the Association membership. The members voted in opposition to the directors, declaring against the trolley and for the conduit.[32] But the most determined opposition to the installation of the trolley system came from improvement clubs, whose purpose was to promote the best development of San Francisco. Prominent among these organizations were the Improvement and Adornment Association,[33] the Sutter Street Improvement Club[34] and the Pacific Avenue Improvement Club. The membership of these organizations consisted of some of the largest owners of San Francisco properties. The leaders were comparatively young men, natives of San Francisco, whose interests were inseparably wrapped up in the community, and who aimed to promote the best possible development of the city of their birth and fortunes. Prominent in this group were Rudolph Spreckels[35] and James D. Phelan,[36] rated among the heaviest property-owners of San Francisco. These men were ready to join with the United Railroads in any plan which proposed the highest development of the street-car service.[37] On the other hand, they were prepared to oppose any attempt to exploit the service to the detriment of San Francisco.[38] A conference of the directors of the Improvement and Adornment Association with officials of the United Railroads was finally arranged.[39] The meetings were held in March, 1906, less than a month before the great fire. There were, before the attempted adjustment was abandoned, several sessions. The citizens urged Patrick Calhoun, president of the United Railroads, to give up his trolley design for Market and Sutter streets. As a compromise, he substantially agreed to build the underground conduit as far as Powell on Sutter, and as far as Valencia on Market, picking up the trolley on Valencia, McAllister, Hayes and Haight streets. The Adornment Committee directors wanted the conduit system on Sutter street extended as far as possible, and held out for Van Ness avenue. Calhoun would not consent to install the conduit beyond Powell. In the midst of this deadlock, the San Francisco Chronicle published what purported to be reports of the several conferences. Up to that time there had been no publication of the meetings. Following the Chronicle publication, Calhoun, in a letter to members of the Adornment Association, declared the information contained in the Chronicle article to be inaccurate,[40] and offered to let the people decide whether they wanted a conduit system on Market street to Valencia, and on Sutter street to Powell, or a uniform all-trolley system throughout the city. Mr. Calhoun's suggestion seemed reasonable until he stated in an interview that by the people he meant the Board of Supervisors. He was asked how he proposed to ascertain the wishes of the people. "I should suggest," he is reported as replying, "that the matter be referred to the decision of the Board of Supervisors. The Board of Supervisors is a public body selected by the people, and represents the ideas and wishes of the people of the city." The reply was not well received. The Supervisors were even then under suspicion of corruption. Less than a fortnight before, March 10, the Examiner had called the board's action on an ordinance which was supported by the Home Telephone Company "suspicious," and had stated that the board had "made the mistake of acting as a bribed Board of Supervisors would have acted."[41] Later on, the Supervisors themselves confessed to having been bribed to grant the telephone franchise. The public, not at all blind to what was going on, believed, even at the time Mr. Calhoun made his suggestion, although there was no proof, that the Supervisors had been bribed. San Francisco was opposed to any plan that would put trolley cars on the city's best streets. Submission of the issue to the people would have been popular. Mr. Calhoun's proposal that it be left to the Supervisors was met with suspicion, and open distrust of Mr. Calhoun's motives. In answer to the criticism which Mr. Calhoun's suggestion had aroused, Mr. Calhoun, in a second letter to the Adornment Association, withdrew his offer to submit the question to the people, and announced the intention of his company to proceed with preparation of a plan for a uniform trolley system to be installed wherever the grades would permit.[42] This second letter was made public in March, 1906, less than a month before the fire. The position taken by the United Railroads was generally condemned.[43] But the opposition took more practical form than mere denunciation. A group of capitalists, headed by Claus Spreckels, father of Rudolph Spreckels, Rudolph Spreckels and James D. Phelan, announced their intention to organize a street-railroad company, to demonstrate the practicability of operating electric cars in San Francisco, under the conduit system. The plan was given immediate endorsement both by press and general public. The project was explained in detail to Mayor Schmitz, who in a published statement gave the enterprise his unqualified approval.[44] But when the incorporators sought further interview with Mayor Schmitz, they found themselves unable to secure a hearing. The company, under the name of the Municipal Street Railways of San Francisco, was formed with Claus Spreckels, James D. Phelan, George Whittell, Rudolph Spreckels and Charles S. Wheeler as incorporators. The capital stock of the company was fixed at $14,000,000. Of this, $4,500,000 was subscribed, ten per cent. of which, $450,000, was paid over to the treasurer.[45] With this $450,000 an experimental line, under the conduit system, was to be built on Bush street.[46] The articles of incorporation provided that the franchises acquired under them should contain provisions for the acquisition by the City and County of San Francisco of the roads thus built.[47] The new company filed its articles of incorporation with the Secretary of State at Sacramento on April 17, 1906. In the early morning of the day following, April 18, came the San Francisco earthquake and fire. For the moment the public forgot all differences in the common disaster. But the lines of division between exploiter and builder could not be wiped out, not even by the destruction of the city. The contest, which had, without any one realizing its full significance, been fast coming to a head before the fire, was to take definite shape after the disaster. FOOTNOTES: [26] Patrick Calhoun, in a letter to the press, dated March 21, 1906--less than a month before the great fire--stated that the time was near when the San Francisco street-car system would have to serve a million people. The 1910 census, taken four years after the fire, gave San Francisco a population of 416,912. [27] Ruef testified before the Grand Jury that the water deal would have been the most important pulled off by the Board of Supervisors. He testified that he had told Gallagher to tell the members of the Board there would be more money in it than had been received in any other deal. Ruef gave Gallagher to understand that the amount to be divided would be as much as $1,000,000. [28] The United Railroads was controlled by Eastern capital. Before the entrance of the United Railroads into the San Francisco field, California capital had dominated in purely local public utilities. [29] The public's opposition to the overhead trolley system was that the poles and wires would be a disfigurement of what were regarded as the best streets; that the wires were dangerous, and would interfere with the work of firemen in fighting fires; that San Francisco was as much entitled as Washington and New York to the best system. Rudolph Spreckels at the trial of Patrick Calhoun for offering a bribe, testified as to his own opposition: "I believed that the overhead trolley was unsightly; that it increased the risk of fire; that it was dangerous; that it was noisy and unsightly. I believed from my own observation of the operation of the underground conduit system in other cities that it was preferable, that it was more sightly, just as rapid, and in every way more in keeping with a city of the size and importance of San Francisco. Having been born here, and having large property interests I felt it my duty, as I always have, and hope I always shall, to protect the interests of this community and to protect the interests of its citizens and its property owners. That was my purpose in opposing that franchise and that grant." [30] As early as 1901, C. E. Grunsky, at that time City Engineer, was directed by the Board of Supervisors to gather data on the operation of electric roads under the conduit system. Grunsky's findings were to the effect that conduit-electric roads were rapidly replacing other types of street railroads. The city also employed J. C. H. Stutt as consulting engineer, and sent him to New York and Washington to inspect and report upon the conduit systems in operation in those cities. He reported that the system was giving satisfaction in both cities, and in many cases was being substituted for the trolley. Engineer Stutt in comparing the two systems said: "As between the overhead system and the conduit-electric system, it is natural for private corporations to prefer the overhead trolley system on account of the first cost of roadbed construction, which is more than twice as great for the conduit system. The conduit system leaves the street open with the view unobstructed by poles, conductors, feed, guard and supporting wires and without the menace to the public and especially to the firemen, always inherent in the bare overhead electric conductor." This report was widely quoted during the overhead-trolley-conduit agitation that was a feature of a greater part of Mayor Schmitz's administrations. [31] Mr. Parsons found for the overhead trolley on the following general grounds: (1) That a uniform system was necessary. (2) That the lines must be extended to the suburbs. (3) That operation by overhead trolley is more satisfactory than by the conduit system. (4) That the greater part of the roads could be operated under trolley only. [32] Several questions were presented. The following is the vote as given in the Merchants' Association Review, the organization's official publication, for February, 1906: "TOTAL VOTE OF MEMBERS, 364. "1--Do you favor Mr. Parsons's view of a uniform system of overhead trolley lines throughout the entire city, including a central line of ornamental trolley poles, with lights furnished by the Railroad company between the tracks on Market Street, and a trolley line with ornamental poles and lights furnished by the Railroad upon Sutter Street? "Votes received--Yes, 121; No, 204. "2--Do you favor an overhead trolley system throughout the city except on Market Street? "Votes received--Yes, 67; No, 212. "3--Do you favor an underground conduit system for Market Street and for the streets with cable lines leading into Market Street in the central downtown district and in the adjacent residence district, the remainder of the system to be overhead trolley? "Votes received--Yes, 198; No, 84. "4--Irrespective of what shall be done on any other streets, which system do you favor for Sutter Street: (a) an underground conduit, or (b) an overhead trolley line if equipped with ornamental poles and lights furnished free by the Railroad company, or (c) an improved cable system? Underground Conduit Trolley Cable "First Choice 217 93 5 "Second Choice 42 83 62 "Third Choice 7 14 94 "5--Do you favor changing the cable lines on Nob Hill to electric lines by tunneling the hill and constructing a winding driveway with parks on California Street, as proposed in Mr. Parsons's report? "Votes received--Yes, 158; No, 140." This vote was taken after an extended debate at a banquet given by the Association in which Patrick Calhoun, president of the United Railroads, argued for the trolley system, and Frank J. Sullivan, president of the Sutter Street Improvement Club, spoke for the conduit. [33] The Improvement and Adornment Association employed D. H. Burnham to draw plans for the development of San Francisco. These plans, while drawn to attain a maximum of utility, were intended to secure a maximum of beauty as well. Streets were to be widened, boulevards built, parks established. The carrying out of these plans would have made San Francisco one of the most beautiful cities of the world. Their preparation cost the association $17,500. Mr. Burnham volunteered his own services. [34] The objection of the Sutter Street Improvement Club to the overhead trolley was set forth in the following statement, issued less than a month before the great fire of 1906: "The Sutter Street Improvement Club is unalterably opposed to the construction of an overhead trolley line on the Sutter Street system. We desire that the public should have no misconception of our position. We propose to contest to the end any attempt to get an overhead trolley on the entire Sutter Street system, and for that purpose we pledge ourselves, and promise to provide the necessary counsel to maintain our position in the courts. We want the public with us in this fight, as the fight is being made in the interests of the whole people. "Our own investigations make us absolutely certain that if the public understands the true situation, it will not be misled by the specious arguments of the United Railroads. The conduit electric system, despite what the United Railroads and its representatives may say, is practicable, safe, efficient and superior to an overhead trolley. We are further satisfied that the company is seeking, by an offer of $200,000 which they offer to the people, to save itself an expense of several million dollars, which the conduit electric system would cost, if it should be required to reconstruct all its lines using the conduits; but we believe--and we are certain that the citizens of San Francisco will agree with us in this--that since the United Railroads, through the watering of its stock, has already made many millions of dollars out of its properties, and is now taking, and will take many millions of profits from our people, that it can afford to contribute to San Francisco the cost of the most attractive and efficient system of electric railroads. The United Railroads has put forward many arguments which have been and are easily met: "First: It contended, as the public will remember, that the conduit electric system was impracticable on account of the accumulation of rain water in its conduits. This claim it has been forced to abandon. "Second: It proclaimed loudly that the added cost of construction of an electric conduit was such that the life of its franchise would not justify the outlay. Now, they have abandoned this claim, and assert that it is not the cost of construction, but that there are other reasons. "Third: They have declared that a uniform system was desirable. They now admit that a completely uniform system is impracticable, owing to grades, making it necessary to operate some lines by cable. Their only contention now is that the overhead trolley system is more efficient than either the cable or conduit electric system. "Mr. C. E. Grunsky is our authority for the statement that in making the change from the conduit electric to the trolley, in passing from city to suburbs, there are no objectionable features, nor danger. Sir Alex. B. W. Kennedy, consulting engineer to the London County Council, in recommending the adoption of the conduit electric system for London's municipal street railways, said: 'There is no difficulty in arranging the cars so that they can be run from the underground (conduit) to the overhead and vice versa, either with no stoppage at all at the point of change, or with a stopping of only a few seconds. There is no engineering difficulty whatever in using a mixed tramway system, i.e., partly underground (conduit) and partly overhead.' "We would suggest that the public compare the present overhead trolley system, operated by the United Railroads these many years in this city and county, with the service rendered by the California Cable Railway. There is no overhead trolley system in San Francisco to-day which surpasses the service given by the California Street Company. "It is claimed that the public will be given a speedier and more efficient service if the overhead trolley is permitted. We ask the thousands of citizens who have been compelled to wait for overhead trolley cars, and to stand up in those overhead vehicles, whether or not the overhead trolley has thus afforded them satisfactory service? If we may judge the future by the experience with the overhead trolley of the past, it means fewer cars (hence less expense to the United Railroads), overcrowding and discomfort of passengers. The only advantage which thus far has come from the system seems to be to the company itself. It employs fewer men as a result of that system, but the comfort and convenience of the public have not been substantially bettered by it as against the cable. "Before asking our people to give them an overhead trolley system throughout the whole city, the United Railroads would do well to show on some one of their overhead trolley lines now in operation a frequent, efficient and satisfactory service to the public. We do not want for San Francisco an extension and perpetuation of the unsightly, noisy, dangerous, uncomfortable and inefficient system of overhead trolleys as operated by the United Railroads to-day. "Citizens of San Francisco: Be not deceived by the selfish and specious arguments put forward by the United Railroads. If the public will stand together, we will win out in this fight; and, if it should be necessary to that end, the supporters of our organization will put before our citizens a plan for building a complete conduit electric system of railroads for San Francisco, to be built, in the first instance, by our people, but with a provision giving to the city an option to purchase the same at any time in the future at actual cost and interest, so that municipal ownership of the said system may result just as soon as the city is ready for it. "All that we ask is that the people stand fast, and save their city from what we believe would be a calamity from which it would not recover in the next twenty-five years. "Respectfully. "Frank J. Sullivan, Rudolph Spreckels, Julius Rosenstirn, Geo. W. Merritt, W. D. McCann, Houghton Sawyer. Edward P. E. Troy, Secretary." [35] Rudolph Spreckels is a native of San Francisco. At seventeen he was employed in his father's (Claus Spreckels) sugar refinery at Philadelphia. The Spreckels refinery was at the time in a life-and-death struggle with the "Sugar Trust." Young Spreckels was given his first lessons in the methods employed by the "trust" elements to crush competition. His Philadelphia training in large degree prepared him for the work which later he was to do at San Francisco. At twenty-two he became president of the Hawaiian Commercial and Sugar Company, owners of one of the largest sugar plantations of the Hawaiian Islands. The venture had been a losing one. Spreckels put it on a paying basis within a year, and sold it at large profit. Before he was twenty-five he had become a millionaire in his own right. He has been engaged in business at San Francisco for many years, but only when moved by corrupt conditions to take up the fight for honest government did he become active in politics. He financed the graft prosecution. He has since taken active part in California politics, but has steadfastly refused to accept public office, preferring to do his work as a private citizen. [36] James D. Phelan is a native of San Francisco. He is one of the largest owners of real estate in San Francisco and in California. From his youth he has taken keen interest in public affairs. He was chairman of the Charter convention of 1900 which framed San Francisco's present municipal Charter. He was Mayor of San Francisco from 1896 to 1902. After the San Francisco fire he headed the Relief Committee and was largely instrumental in directing the work of rehabilitation. President Roosevelt designated him by proclamation to receive funds for the relief work, and to use the United States Mint as depository. In 1900 the Democratic minority in the State Legislature gave him complimentary vote for United States Senator. In 1914 he was elected to the United States Senate, being the first Federal Senator from California to be elected by direct vote of The People. Senator Phelan has for many years been close friend and business associate of Rudolph Spreckels. He was one of the heaviest backers of the graft prosecution. [37] Rudolph Spreckels testified at the trial of Patrick Calhoun: "I suggested to Mr. Calhoun one thing, that if it was a question of the length of the franchise, of the length of life of the present franchise, standing between the people getting the system which I believed it was entitled to, I would personally be glad to do whatever was in my power to have the Charter amended so that they might enjoy a longer term of franchise, to work out the difference in cost; but that I believed it was all important that San Francisco should have the very best of street-car service obtainable." United Railroads officials objected to the conduit system on the ground that the conduits would fill with water. Spreckels suggested that property owners agree to drain the conduits without expense to the United Railroads, thus demonstrating their practicability, on the understanding that if the conduit system were found to be practical it should be installed. But in this the United Railroad officials would not acquiesce. (See testimony taken at the Calhoun trial.) The following is taken from Charles S. Wheeler's testimony given at the Calhoun trial: "Mr. Heney: Q. Did not the property owners on Sutter street and the property owners on Pacific avenue, Mr. Rudolph Spreckels and Mr. Phelan in particular, state that they would not oppose the United Railroads obtaining a franchise or permit for the underground conduit on Sutter street? "Mr. Stanley Moore: That is objected to, if your Honor please, as calling for the conclusion of the witness and the mental mind and statement and hearsay of other persons. "Mr. Heney. I am not asking for their mental mind. I am asking about direct statements at these meetings of committees of the Board of Supervisors. "The Court: I will overrule the objection. "Mr. Stanley Moore. We take an exception. "A. I have [heard] both of them make such statements; Mr. Phelan in substance before the Board of Supervisors, and I have heard Mr. Spreckels make it in the Supervisors' chambers." (See Transcript of Testimony, page 3197.) [38] Patrick Calhoun, president of the United Railroads, had several conferences with Rudolph Spreckels on the questions involved in the street-car situation. Of these conferences Spreckels testified at the Calhoun trial: "Mr. Calhoun stated that he was very anxious to obtain the overhead trolley privilege, that he understood that I was actively opposing it, and he wanted to know whether I was open to conviction on the subject. I told him that my mind was entirely free, that if he could prove to my satisfaction that the underground conduit was not feasible that I would have no objection. I told him that the arguments that he had presented, namely, that the Sutter street system could not be converted into an underground conduit system because of the accumulation of water at some number of points--I think 16 were mentioned--was hardly worth while urging since Mr. Holland, a former president of the United Railroads, had, together with Mr. Chapman, urged that reason, and I related to Mr. Calhoun that I had questioned Mr. Chapman and Mr. Holland at length in regard to it and had satisfied myself that their reasons then urged were not legitimate or reasonable; that during the conversation with Mr. Holland I had asked him to state all of the reasons that he had for desiring the overhead and urging against the installation of the underground conduit; that Mr. Holland and Mr. Chapman had both assured me that the only reason was the fact that it was an engineering impossibility; that the accumulation of water in the conduits during the rainy season would prevent the successful operation of the cars, that there would be repeated interruptions and general dissatisfaction as the result. I then proposed to Mr. Holland, I said: 'If that is the only reason and you can convince me that that is true I have no objection to withdrawing my opposition, but I want to propose this: Suppose I, or the property owners on the system involved, agree to pay the expense of the proper drainage of those conduits, and succeed for a period of twelve months in treating the conduit drained at those points you indicate, and succeed during that entire term to keep them free from water, so that you and your engineers will be obliged to admit that there was not one hour during the twelve months during which you could not successfully operate an underground system, will you then agree to install that system?' Mr. Holland and Mr. Chapman looked at one another and finally said 'Well, no, we cannot do that.' Then I said: 'Gentlemen, you are wasting my time and your own because your argument is not the truth and is not the only reason you are urging, or that is prompting you to object to putting in that system.' "Mr. Holland then proceeded and asked me how I proposed to insure that result and I told him I was not an engineer, but that common sense told me and indicated to me that it might be possible to carry off the water at those points through an ordinary stone sewer-pipe and distribute the accumulated waters to the various streets running parallel to Sutter street, and in that way carrying it off and keeping the conduits free from water. Mr. Calhoun said: 'Well, there are other reasons--the question of a uniform system.' He urged very strongly that it would be a very desirable thing to avoid transferring, or it would be an exceedingly nice thing if a man could go to his home without transferring, and have a uniform system of cars operating over all of the system. I told Mr. Calhoun it was hardly a possible thing, that no man would want to stand at any street corner and wait for fifteen or twenty cars to go by until some one car of a particular brand would come along which would take him to the particular part of the city he cared to go to. Then Mr. Calhoun wanted to know if the matter couldn't be compromised, whether I would be satisfied, if the United Railroads would agree to construct an underground conduit system on Sutter street from Market to Powell. He wanted to know also about constructing an underground conduit on Market street, and I told him no, that this did not enter into my calculations, that I was looking to the welfare of the city of San Francisco, that it did not involve merely getting what I wanted in front of the particular properties in which I was personally interested, and I told him that the reasons that had been urged against the granting of an overhead trolley--that it was unsightly, dangerous and noisy and not the most modern system, was my objection, and that it held good for the entire city and not alone on the streets in which I was interested as a property owner. Mr. Calhoun urged further the desirability of the overhead trolley, that it had given satisfaction elsewhere, and I suggested that he might first make the street cars then operated by the overhead trolley in San Francisco a success and satisfactory to the people; that I felt that it was far from a success, and personally, as one of the largest property-owners on Ellis street, I would emphatically prefer the ordinary cable system to the electric lines that they were then operating. Mr. Calhoun asked for another appointment and it was had I think on the following morning, a meeting at the same place, at the Canadian Bank of Commerce; I think our meeting on that occasion was held in the office of the manager, Mr. Kains. "Q. What was said there? A. I will not be absolutely certain as to whether all that I have related occurred at the first interview, or whether some that I will relate as having occurred now, did not occur on the first interview. The two meetings were close together, and the subjects that I will relate may have occurred, some of them in the previous meeting and some in the latter. Mr. Calhoun proceeded to ask me about Pacific avenue. He said: 'Would you be satisfied if we agreed to operate the underground conduit system on Sutter to Powell, on Market to Valencia, running it, if we changed the system on the Pacific avenue line--to agree to put in the conduit there, otherwise maintaining the cable?' And he also proposed that it might be a nice thing to withdraw the entire street railway system from Pacific avenue, making of that street a boulevard, and placing overhead trolley on Broadway where there was no car line. He said, 'Of course, Mr. Spreckels, you are an owner of carriages and automobiles, and I suppose you don't use the street-cars, and it would be more desirable from the standpoint of a property owner to have your residence under those circumstances on a boulevard than on a street having a street-car service with the attending objections.' I told Mr. Calhoun that my fight was not a selfish one, that I did have carriages and automobiles, that I did not use the street-cars and had no need for them, but that I had in mind the rights of other people living on the street--that there were many people living on the street who were not so fortunate as I, who did not own carriages and did not own automobiles and had undoubtedly been brought to buy their property on Pacific avenue because of the fact that it had a street-car service there. Mr. Calhoun also in one of these interviews said that he would tunnel Powell street hill commencing at Sutter and make that the most important transferring point in San Francisco. I asked Mr. Calhoun at the time whether it was because I was interested in property at the corner of Sutter and Powell. Mr. Calhoun expressed surprise and said he didn't know that I was an owner of property there. I think that in substance was the conversation as I remember it." [39] Patrick Calhoun, Tirey L. Ford and Thornwell Mullally were among the officials representing the United Railroads at the conference. At the meeting, first mention of $200,000 in connection with the proposed chance in the street-car system was made. Citizens had contended that the objection of the United Railroads in opposing the conduit system was the difference in the initial cost of installation. This point came up, and President Calhoun stated that he would, if the trolley system were allowed, give the difference between the cost of installing the two systems, for any public purpose. This difference, Calhoun stated, would be about $200,000. Turning to James D. Phelan, of the Adornment Committee, Calhoun stated that the money could be used in extending the so-called Park Panhandle, part of the Burnham plans, and a matter in which Phelan was greatly interested. Phelan replied that San Francisco would not accept money for any such purpose, and was able to construct the Park Panhandle if the people wanted it. (See testimony of James D. Phelan at the trial of The People vs. Patrick Calhoun for offering a bribe, page 2750.) [40] The Chronicle in its issue of March 23, in referring to Mr. Calhoun's letter practically charged him with lack of good faith. The Chronicle said: The alleged 'inaccuracy' of the Chronicle's interesting report of the compromise reached by the United Railroads and the Society for the Adornment of the City proves to be that the electric conduit in Sutter street is to stop at Powell street instead of extending to Polk street, as proposed, and which is the least which should have been accepted if any compromise whatever was to be made. We shall be greatly surprised if when the changes are finally made there is not a great deal less conduit than Mr. Calhoun now seems to agree to. We gravely doubt whether Mr. Calhoun expects to construct a foot of conduit in this city. However, he does agree to do so under certain conditions and we shall see what we shall see.... It does look as though some settlement of the matter would be reached, as the United Railroads have receded from their iron-clad determination not to consider the electric conduit at all. When that is accomplished we shall speedily see the last of the cables south of California street, a consummation as devoutly wished by the people as was the introduction of the cable in place of the horse-car a quarter of a century ago." [41] It was openly charged that money had been used to put this franchise through the preliminary steps necessary for its granting. The Examiner in its issue of March 10, some five weeks before the fire, said: "The Supervisors owe it to themselves to bring back the telephone franchise order for further consideration. Since the hasty vote on the ordinance last Monday ugly rumors have been the measure. The regard of the Supervisors for the good name of the Board demands that they should clear the record of the SUSPICIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES that surround the vote on the order. "The present Board of Supervisors was elected on a platform that pledged its members to a municipal ownership programme. Among the purposes specifically announced was the ACQUISITION OF A TELEPHONE PLANT to be owned and operated by the city. "Yet the FIRST ACT OF THE BOARD in dealing with a public utility question is to favor an ordinance granting a franchise for fifty years to a private corporation without proper compensation to the city and WITHOUT ANY CONTRACT that would enable the city to buy out the plant at a just appraisement when the time comes to acquire a municipal telephone system. "The bill was introduced after a brief hearing and passed to print on the 26th of February. On the 5th of March it was passed to a vote in the Board of Supervisors without discussion. One of the members of the Board who rose to explain his vote was shut off with such indignity that he left the Supervisors' chamber. Nor, indeed, did all the members know what they were voting on; for one of the Supervisors later in the session asked if the telephone franchise was not to be called up, and was surprised to be told that it had already been passed upon. "This sort of 'gum-shoe' legislation will not do for San Francisco. It inevitably rouses the suspicions of crookedness that have been hawked about the streets since Monday last. "A telephone franchise is not a matter to be treated lightly. It is an affair of more moment than passing a street or even of fixing a water rate. It deserves the deepest consideration, for the division of service between two companies creates a confusion in business that should be taken carefully into account. It is only the wretched service given by the old company that has brought the backing of a certain popular support to the advent of a new company. The manner in which the obvious evils of a division of service can be lessened requires much more thought than has yet been given, and many changes in the ordinance should be made unless the last state of the San Francisco telephone service is to be worse than the first. "It is the duty of the Supervisors to recall the ordinance, answer the rumors of crooked work by seeing that everything is carried on above board and in the open, and treat the franchise in accordance with their anti-election pledges to the people. They cannot afford to rest under appearance of evil that now surrounds the late vote on the order. "We do not wish to believe that any undue influence was used, but the Supervisors must have heard the rumors that are frequent in the streets, and they must realize that they have made the mistake of acting as a bribed Board of Supervisors would have acted. They have broken their pledge, but happily it is not too late for them to correct the gross error." [42] Mr. Calhoun's second letter, as introduced as evidence at his trial for offering a bribe (page 2775, Transcript, The People vs. Calhoun), was as follows: "San Francisco, March 23.--Messrs. James D. Phelan, R. B. Hale, Herbert E. Law, Rufus P. Jennings and others--My dear Sirs: You will recall that the only condition on which I consented to even consider the introduction of an underground conduit on Market street from the ferries to Valencia, and on Sutter from Market to Powell, was to secure harmony and unanimity of action in the development of San Francisco. You will further recall that I distinctly stated that 'if all sides to this controversy are not willing to faithfully and loyally abide by what the people of San Francisco may determine on this subject, the United Railroads prefers to urge, in the interest of the development of San Francisco, a uniform system of overhead trolley operation.' "The development of the last few days, the threatened litigation against my company, and the action of the Sutter-Street Improvement Club, demonstrate that harmony and unanimity of action, so much to be desired, cannot be obtained, and that the United Railroads cannot expect all parties to the controversy 'to faithfully and loyally abide by what the people of San Francisco may determine on this subject.' On the contrary, if the people should elect to put an overhead on Sutter street, the address of the Sutter-Street Improvement Club distinctly states 'we pledge ourselves and promise to provide the necessary counsel to maintain our position in the courts.' "In view of these facts, I desire to inform you that the United Railroads will proceed to prepare a plan for the improvement of the transportation of San Francisco. The essential feature of which plan will be a modern, up-to-date, efficient and uniform system of electric propulsion, through the introduction of the overhead trolley system wherever the grades of the streets of the city will permit. When this plan is perfected it will be presented to the proper authorities of the city for their consideration. We will be very glad to go over it with you. Under the circumstances, it will be useless for me now to furnish the preliminary plan of which we spoke. "In conclusion, permit me to express my appreciation of the motives which led you to seek a conference with me, and the earnest desire of every gentleman who participated in that conference to reach a basis of harmonious action in order that the development of San Francisco might not be obstructed and delayed. "Very truly yours, PATRICK CALHOUN, President." [43] The Chronicle commented upon Mr. Calhoun's new position as follows: "The letter written by Patrick Calhoun of the United Railroads to the committee of citizens who have sought to induce him to change his attitude on the subject of overhead trolleys was not in good taste. It exhibited corporative arrogance in its most exasperating form. Mr. Calhoun is too well bred, or perhaps too cautious a man to tell the public to be damned, but every line of his communication breathes the spirit of the insolent utterance of William K. Vanderbilt, and the community will take it that way.... "There is an ill-concealed menace in Mr. Calhoun's declaration that the United Railroads has a plan in preparation which, when perfected, 'will be presented to the proper authorities of the city for their consideration.' As he plainly tells us that this plan provides for an 'efficient and uniform system of electric propulsion through the introduction of the overhead trolley system wherever the grades of the city will permit,' the announcement is equivalent to a notification that 'the proper authorities of the city' will be appealed to for permission to carry out such a scheme, whether the people like it or not. His defiant attitude suggests that he feels pretty sure that the authorities will be on the side of the United Railroads against the people, but he may be mistaken on that score. There is a point beyond which even complaisant authorities would not wish to press the matter to oblige a corporation which shows so little regard for the desires and needs of a community from which it extracts over eight million dollars annually." (See San Francisco Chronicle, March 25, 1906.) [44] Mayor Schmitz in his statement, said: "If Claus Spreckels can see his way clear to carry out his great purpose, the fact stands that he must be known more than ever as he has been known in the past, as the greatest public benefactor of the West. I will say, if he can see his way clear, reservedly, for I doubt that any citizen of this city or State can point to any understanding that he has announced he would accomplish, that he has failed to accomplish. Not only is his determination, but within his control is the money to carry out his determination, and I have yet failed to find the man that can say that any object can fail of accomplishment when determination and money walk hand in hand. "If Mr. Spreckels can carry out his announced desire to network San Francisco with railroads operated by the underground conduit system, I can only say that through his wonderful ambitions of purpose San Francisco will take a stride forward that is wonderful to contemplate. Such action upon the part of Mr. Spreckels would place San Francisco not only in advance of any city in America, but would place it in advance of any city in the world in the battle for public control of utilities operated for the public benefit. The offer of Mr. Spreckels is not only one that must awaken the amazement, but the approbation of every public-spirited citizen. While the rest of the great cities of the world (as well as San Francisco before Mr. Spreckels made his offer) are puzzling to find means through which they can accomplish the great purpose of municipal ownership, Mr. Spreckels has come forward and has offered, for the good of the people, to demonstrate the efficiency of a system that will mean that not only shall the beauty of San Francisco be not sacrificed, but that the public desire for rapid transit shall be fulfilled. Backed with the millions he controls, his offer is significant, and is one that we cannot contemplate lightly. "As Chief Executive of the city I can only express the hope that something will happen that will permit Mr. Spreckels to carry out his object. At one stride this would place San Francisco at the head of the world in the titanic struggle now waging between the people and the corporations for the control of those utilities in which the people are interested for comfort and the corporations for profit. Great as is his offer, it adds not only enthusiasm, but rekindles hope in my always expressed desire that my administration would mark the first victory of the municipality in its fight to control those things that are theirs. "The people are on the eve of winning for themselves those things that are theirs. If the offer of Mr. Spreckels can be carried out, and I see no reason why it cannot, the battle is ended. Not only will San Francisco be the victor, but from the battle she will emerge, her beauty unmarred and her railways standing as exemplifications of the fact that what in science is possible is capable of actual and practical accomplishment." (See San Francisco Call, March 24, 1906.) But in spite of this approval, after the organization of the new company was assured, Rudolph Spreckels found the Mayor's door closed to him when he attempted to secure an interview. (See Rudolph Spreckels' testimony at the Calhoun trial.) [45] The purposes of the incorporators were brought out at the graft trials. At the Calhoun trial, when James D. Phelan, former Mayor of San Francisco, and one of the incorporators, was under cross-examination, Calhoun's attorney referred to other public utility ventures in which Claus Spreckels had been interested, and asked: "Q. You knew of the matter of the rival gas or competing gas lines, and the rival and competing electric lines, and the rival and competing steam railroads down the valley at the time you went into the corporation to put in the People's Street Railroad? A. I knew, and I know the effect they had; they reduced rates in both cases; and if our system accomplished the purpose of bringing Mr. Calhoun's railroad to a realization of the public desire to have a conduit system, our purpose would have been accomplished. It was the last resort. I looked upon it, as an incorporator, as the last resort. We had negotiated in a friendly way for months, and I saw the fruit of all the conferences fade away and believed that arrangements had been made by Mr. Calhoun with the city administration, and the only resort left to us to do was to build a road of our own to demonstrate that it was practicable and possibly profitable--a conduit system." [46] As early as April 3, 1906, a petition was circulated for signatures among residents and property owners on Bush street, asking the Board of Supervisors to grant a franchise to operate street-cars on Bush street under the electric-conduit system. [47] The San Francisco Examiner of March 31, 1906, set forth that "an important feature (of the plans for competing street railways) was that the city should have the right at the end of ten years or any shorter period that might be preferred, to take over the system and operate the same itself, the terms of the transfer to be such as would be just both to the builders and to the municipality." Among the purposes for which the Municipal Street Railways of San Francisco was formed, was set forth in the articles of incorporation the following: "To accept and acquire franchises for street railroads, elevated railroads and subways, containing provisions for the acquisition thereof by the City and County of San Francisco, or such other conditions as may be lawfully inserted therein." CHAPTER IV. SAN FRANCISCO AFTER THE FIRE. The great San Francisco fire was brought under control Friday, April 20, 1906. The Sunday following, the first step was taken toward getting the scattered Board of Supervisors together. George B. Keane, clerk of the board, is authority for the statement that the meeting place was in a room back of Supervisor McGushin's saloon.[48] The ashes of the burned city were still hot; the average citizen was thinking only of the next meal and shelter for the night for himself and dependents. But the public-service corporations were even then active in furthering plans which had been temporarily dropped while San Francisco was burning. At the McGushin-saloon meeting, Keane found with the Supervisors Mr. Frick of the law firm of Thomas, Gerstle & Frick. Mr. Frick was on hand to represent the petitioners for the Home Telephone franchise, which, at the time of the disaster was pending before the board. For months previous to the fire, no subject affecting a San Francisco public-service corporation had, with the single exception of the United Railroads' scheme for substituting electric for cable service, created more discussion than the Home Telephone application for franchise. There had been allegations that the progress which, previous to the fire, the Home Company had made toward securing its franchise, had been paid for,[49] but for weeks after the fire few citizens had time to think about it. The people forgot for the time the issues which had before the disaster divided the city. But the agents for the public-service corporations did not forget. We find a representative of the Home Telephone Company picking his way over the hot ashes of the burned city to McGushin's saloon to meet the Supervisors that the interests of his company might be preserved. The developments of the graft prosecution indicate that even as the Home Company was seeking out the Supervisors, the United Railroads was getting into touch with Ruef.[50] But if the corporations were quick to avail themselves of the situation to secure privileges denied them before the fire, they were also active in the work of rehabilitation--so far as such activity served their plans and purposes. This was well illustrated by the course of the United Railroads. Within a fortnight after the fire, that corporation had established efficient service over a number of its electric lines. For a time, passengers were carried without charge. On April 29 and 30, however, fares were collected from men, but not from women and children. With the beginning of May, fares were collected from all persons. For a time, in a glare of much publicity, the United Railroads contributed these collections to the fund for the relief of the stricken city. The Home Telephone Company had no plant to restore nor authority to establish one; but on Ruef's suggestion it, too, contributed to the fund for the relief of the stricken city--$75,000.[51] The United Railroads' activity in restoring its electric roads, was in curious contrast to its failure to take advantage of the possibilities offered by its cable systems. As some excuse for this inactivity, the corporation's representatives alleged that the cable slots had been closed by the earthquake, making restoration of the cable roads impractical. The alleged closing of the slots was even used as argument against the conduit electric system.[52] But as a matter of fact, there were many to testify that the damage done the cable slots was not from the earthquake, although the slots in the burned district had been warped more or less by the heat of the fire. But this damage was easily remedied. On the Geary-street road, for example, cars were run for an hour or more after the earthquake. The fire warped the Geary-street cable slot, but this was easily and cheaply remedied by a force of men with cold chisels and hammers.[53] Statements from officials of the United Railroads, now of record, indicate that the company's cable lines suffered no greater damage than did other cable systems. An affidavit of Frank E. Sharon, for example, who before the fire was superintendent of cables and stables belonging to the United Railroads, made in the adjustment of fire losses sustained by that corporation, sets forth that the company's principal cable power house and repair shops situate on Valencia street were damaged but little by the earthquake.[54] Although the buildings were damaged by the fire, the damage to the contents, including the machinery by which the cable cars were operated, was, according to statements made by the United Railroads in fire-loss adjustment, comparatively small. The company placed the sound value upon this machinery and contents, after the earthquake, but preceding the fire, at $70,308.80. The salvage was placed at $60,933.80, leaving a total fire loss of $9,375.[55] The cable cars, with few exceptions, were saved. The most serious loss of cars was on the Powell-street system, where sixty-four were destroyed. Only one Valencia-street car was burned. After both earthquake and fire, the United Railroads had available at least 150 cable cars for its Market and Powell-street systems. This does not include the cable cars available on the Hayes and McAllister roads. The power-houses of these two last-named systems were not destroyed by fire. The allegation has been made that the McAllister-street cable was kept running for several hours after the earthquake. But whatever the possibilities for the restoration of the United Railroads' cable properties, no steps were taken toward that end. Instead, trolley wires were strung over the tracks of cable systems. Street-car service was one of the greatest needs of the first few weeks following the fire. Statements that cable properties could not be restored were generally believed; the trolley service was accepted as a matter of expediency; few thought, however, that it was to be permanent.[56] Within two weeks after the fire, the United Railroads had trolley wires strung over the cable tracks on Market street. The little objection made to this course went unheeded. The Market-street trolley cars, two weeks after the fire, were as welcome to The People of San Francisco as were the temporary shacks which were being erected upon the sites of the old city's finest buildings. Market-street trolley cars gave as sorely-needed transportation as the shacks gave needed shelter. The opening of the Market-street trolley line was made subject for rejoicing throughout the city. In the midst of this good feeling toward his company, President Calhoun gave out that if allowed to place overhead wires on Sutter and Larkin streets, he would place 2,000 men at work and have both these lines in operation within thirty days.[57] But the era of good feeling was not of long duration. On May 14, less than a month after the fire, the Supervisors received a communication signed by President Calhoun as President of the United Railroads, setting forth that if the board would permit the use on the cable lines of the standard electric system in use on the company's other lines, the United Railroads would be glad to put all of their lines in commission as rapidly as could be accomplished by the most liberal expenditure of money and the largest possible employment of men.[58] That very day, the Supervisors took the initial step toward granting to the United Railroads a blanket permit, authorizing that corporation to substitute the trolley system for all its cable lines. Immediately, San Francisco's opposition to the trolley system was revived. All classes joined in condemning the action of the board. The Sutter Street Improvement Club, representing large down-town interests and property holders, adopted resolutions demanding that the Supervisors refuse to grant the permit. The San Francisco Labor Council, representing over 100 affiliated unions, with a membership of more than 30,000 wage earners, declared as strongly against such action. The press charged the United Railroads with taking advantage of the city's distress to force the trolley upon her.[59] Then came explanations and defense. Mayor Schmitz in public interviews set forth that the proposed permit was not a permanent measure, nor under its provisions could the United Railroads indefinitely operate trolley cars in Market street.[60] The Labor Council which had at first adopted resolutions condemning the policy of granting the permit, adopted resolutions of confidence in the "present city administration." President Calhoun himself solicited citizens to attend the meeting of the board at which a vote was to be taken on the proposed permit, to urge action favorable to the United Railroads.[61] Long before the board met to take final action it was recognized that in spite of opposition the permit would be granted.[62] And it was granted. On May 21, the Supervisors passed the ordinance which gave the United Railroads authority to convert its cable systems, wherever grades would permit, into trolley lines. For this privilege, no money compensation, nor promise of compensation, was made the city.[63] Demand that Mayor Schmitz veto the ordinance granting these extraordinary privileges followed. Nevertheless, the Mayor affixed his signature to the trolley permit-granting ordinance. Fair expression of the feeling this action engendered will be found in the San Francisco papers of the latter part of May, 1906. "Mayor Eugene E. Schmitz," said the Examiner, for example, "has betrayed the trust reposed in him by the people, violated his solemn pledge in favor of an underground conduit system, and joined Abe Ruef and the United Railroads in the shameless work of looting the city at the time of her greatest need." The Ruef-Schmitz administration protested at the criticism. The eighteen Supervisors, seventeen of whom were within a year to confess that they had accepted bribes and all of whom were to be involved in the scandal, joined in a letter[64] to the Examiner, announcing that such criticism was unwarranted, and injured the city. The letter contained veiled threat that questioning of the Supervisors' motives would not be tolerated. The threat, however, intimidated nobody. Criticism of Ruef and the administration continued. But in spite of the hostility toward him, Ruef controlled the San Francisco delegates who were named that year to attend the Republican State convention. The convention met at Santa Cruz. Ruef held the balance of power. He was the most sought man there. He had the nomination for Governor in his hands. He gave it to James N. Gillett.[65] While the convention was in session, a dinner was given the State leaders of the Republican party at the home of Major Frank McLaughlin, then Chairman of the Republican State Central Committee. Ruef was one of the select few present. A flash-light picture of that banquet board shows him seated in the place of honor at the center of the table, the remaining guests with the exception of the host, McLaughlin, who is seated at Ruef's side, standing. At Ruef's back stands James N. Gillett, who had just received, with Ruef's assistance, the party nomination for Governor, his hand resting upon Ruef's shoulder. Others in this flash-light group are George Hatton, political manipulator, whose connection with the 1905 mayoralty campaign in San Francisco has already been noted; J. W. McKinley, head of the Southern Pacific Law Department at Los Angeles, who was chairman of the convention; Rudolph Herold, a politician prominent in the counsels of the old "Southern Pacific machine"; Justice F. W. Henshaw of the California Supreme Bench, who was nominated at the convention for re-election;[66] Walter F. Parker, political agent for the Southern Pacific Company; Warren R. Porter, who had just received the nomination for Lieutenant-Governor; Congressman J. R. Knowland, prominent in the counsels of the "machine" that at the time dominated the State, and Judge F. H. Kerrigan of the Appellate Bench, whose decision in favor of the Southern Pacific Company while on the Superior Bench, in the so-called San Joaquin Valley railroad rate case, made him a conspicuous figure in California public life.[67] The group represented the most effective forces at the time in California politics. Ruef, at the Santa Cruz convention, reached the height of his power. He left Santa Cruz planning a State organization that would make him as great a factor in State politics as he was at the metropolis. But on his return to San Francisco, Ruef found himself harassed by criticism and beset by opposition. At every point in the municipal administration, with the exception of the District Attorney's office, was suggestion of graft and incompetency. The police department could not, or would not, control the criminal element. Merchants, in the middle of the day, were struck down at their places of business and robbed. Several were fatally injured in such attacks, being found dying and even dead behind their counters. Street robberies were of daily occurrence. In the acres of ash-strewn ruins, was junk worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. The police seemed utterly powerless to protect this property. It became the loot of unchecked bands of thieves. A reign of terror prevailed. Citizens feared to appear on the streets at night. Merchants charged that their business was seriously injured by these conditions. On all sides, blame was placed upon the Schmitz administration which Ruef was known to control.[68] Then again, Ruef's toll from the tolerated gambling, saloon and social evil interests was getting too heavy for his own safety.[69] The public was given hint of this when the newspapers quoted George Renner, a prominent businessman, as asserting that a liquor license could be secured if the applicant "put the matter into Ruef's hands and paid a fat little fee." Ruef, in his reply, stated that the liquor people were nuisances anyhow. Ruef had long acted as attorney for the California Liquor Dealers' Association. The Association, after Ruef's flippant characterization of the liquor people, boldly dispensed with his services and employed another attorney, Herbert Choynski, in his stead. Choynski made no effort to placate Ruef. On the contrary, he gave out interviews to the press charging that Ruef had received $500,000 for the trolley permit, and that each Supervisor had been given $4000 or $5000 for his vote. This story was given some credit, although few realized the amount of truth it contained. The Supervisors were spending money freely. Men, who in private life had earned less than $100 a month, and as Supervisors were receiving only that amount, gave evidence of being generously supplied with funds. Supervisor Coffey, a hack driver, took a trip to Chicago. Lonergan, driver of a delivery wagon, announced plans for a tour of Ireland with his wife and children. Wilson planned a trip through the Eastern States. The official head of the administration, Mayor Schmitz, left on a trip to Europe, leaving Supervisor Gallagher as acting Mayor.[70] Reports printed in San Francisco papers of Schmitz, the orchestra player, as guest of the most expensive European hotels, did not tend to lessen the opposition to the administration. The general dissatisfaction with the administration finally found expression in a mass meeting intended to inaugurate a movement to rid the community of Ruef's influence.[71] The meeting was called in the name of various promotion associations and improvement clubs. It was to have been held in the rooms of the California Promotion Association, a temporary shack that had been erected in Union Square, a public park in the business district. But the crowd which gathered was so great that the meeting had to be held in the park itself. When the committee in charge met to complete final preparations, preliminary to calling the meeting to order, Ruef and Acting Mayor Gallagher, with astonishing assurance, appeared before the committee and offered their co-operation in the work in hand. Their presence does not appear to have been welcome. Nevertheless, before the resolutions which the committee had under consideration were read before the crowd, all harsh references to Ruef and the municipal administration had been expurgated. In effect, the expurgated resolutions called upon commercial organizations, clubs, labor unions and similar bodies to form a committee of 100 for public safety. In the meeting which followed the expurgation of the resolutions, the organizers of the movement lost control. Their counsel was for moderation in a situation where all elements were at work. The crowd was made up of Ruef claquers who shouted everybody down; members of Labor Unions who had been led to believe that the purpose of the gathering was to break down the unions; and of radicals who were for proceeding immediately to clean up the town. Those responsible for the gathering appeared appalled at its magnitude, and showed themselves unable to cope with the situation. William A. Doble presided. Samuel M. Shortridge, an attorney who was to play a prominent part in the graft trials, stood at Doble's side and acted as a sort of director of the proceedings. The expurgated resolutions were read by the President of the Merchants' Association, E. R. Lillienthal. The ayes were called for and the resolutions declared to have been adopted. The next moment announcement was made that the meeting stood adjourned. An angry demonstration followed. The people had met to discuss lawlessness. They refused to be put off. The adjourned meeting refused to adjourn. There were cries of =Drive Ruef out of Town=. One speaker, A. B. Truman, denounced Ruef as a grafter. For the moment an outbreak seemed imminent. At this crisis, Acting Mayor Gallagher appeared. "I would suggest," he announced,[72] "that you disperse to your respective homes." Citizens who did not care to participate in what threatened to become a riot began leaving the park. But Ruef's henchmen did not leave. Ruef, who had cowered in fright when the crowd was denouncing him, was concealed in a room in the so-called Little St. Francis Hotel, which after the fire had been erected in Union Square Park. From his hiding place he could see the crowd without being seen. At the right time, he appeared on the steps of the building which were used for the speaker's stand. His followers, now in a majority, cheered him wildly. The next moment, Ruef was in control of the meeting which had been called to protest against the conditions in San Francisco, for which the administration, of which he was the recognized head, was held to be accountable.[73] The first serious attempt to oust Ruef from his dictatorship had failed. But while the protestants against prevailing conditions were hot with the disappointments of this failure, District Attorney Langdon issued a statement that he had determined to seize the opportunity presented by the impanelment of a new Grand Jury to inaugurate a systematic and thorough investigation into charges of official graft and malfeasance in office. To assist in this work, he announced, Francis J. Heney had been requested to become a regular deputy in the District Attorney's office, and had accepted. That the investigation might not be handicapped by lack of funds, Mr. Langdon stated Rudolph Spreckels had guaranteed that he would personally undertake the collection from public-spirited citizens of a fund to provide for the expenses necessary to make the investigation thorough.[74] It became known that William J. Burns, who had been associated with Heney in the Oregon land-fraud cases, had been retained to direct the investigation, and that for several months his agents had been quietly at work. The effect of these announcements was immediate. All talk of "vigilante committee" and "lynching" ceased. The case of The People of San Francisco vs. the Schmitz-Ruef Administration was to be presented in an orderly way in the courts. And the united press of San Francisco, legitimate business interests, and a great majority of the people welcomed the alternative. FOOTNOTES: [48] See Keane's testimony in The People vs. Ruef, No. 1437, Part 3, vol. 1, page 455. [49] See footnote 41, page 43. [50] Supervisor Gallagher testified in the case of The People vs. Ruef, No. 1437, that about a week before the fire "Mr. Ruef stated that the United Railroads wanted to secure a permit to use electricity upon their lines and asked me to speak to the members of the Board of Supervisors about it and let him know whether it could go through the Board, and about what amount of money it would take. I told him that I would do so." (See Transcript on Appeal, page 850.) Similar testimony, to show that the United Railroads was dealing with Ruef during the month preceding the fire, was brought out at trials of other defendants in the "graft" cases. This would make the date of Ruef's activity on behalf of the United Railroads about the time of Mr. Calhoun's announcement that he would proceed to present plans for the trolley system, to the "proper representatives" of the People (the Supervisors), who were even then, through Ruef, receiving bribe money from public-service corporations. Gallagher testified further (see same transcript, page 853) that within a week after the fire Ruef stated to him that the United Railroads still wanted its electric permit, and directed that Gallagher find out whether such a permit could be put through the Board. Gallagher testified that he saw members, put the question to them, and reported back to Ruef that in his judgment the permit could be put through by paying each member of the Board the amount which Ruef had specified, $4,000. [51] Supervisor Gallagher testified at graft trials that Ruef had told him the payment of this $75,000 to the Relief Fund was a good thing, as it would tend to shut off adverse criticism. But the Home Company people had asked that the money be not turned over to the Relief Fund until such time as the ordinance granting the franchise had been approved or the matter definitely determined. [52] As early as May 5, C. E. Loss, a railroad contractor, came out with the proposition that the city should abandon all idea of conduit systems, because the cable slots had been closed by the earthquake. In this, Loss was disputed by City Engineer Thomas P. Woodward. Woodward, in an interview printed in the Examiner on May 5, 1906, said: "I think Mr. Loss was mistaken when he said the earthquake closed the cable slots. I have not made a careful examination of the various roadbeds in San Francisco, but from what I have seen as I have gone about the city, I am inclined to think that no injury was done the cable slots by the earthquake. "The lines on Sacramento, California, Geary, Sutter and Haight streets appear to be all right outside the burned district. Where the metal was subjected to the intense heat, the slots are warped out of shape, and in some places closed." Loss's allegations called forth the following editorial comment in the Examiner of May 5th: "Even an earthquake shock and a conflagration do not long obscure the vision of certain wealthy gentlemen where there is a chance to turn a calamity to their individual account. "Before the catastrophe, San Francisco had indicated with great emphasis to the United Railroads that it would not permit the reconstruction of the cable system into an overhead trolley, but would insist upon a modern up-to-date conduit electric railroad, the safety, utility and efficiency of which had been demonstrated in New York and other Eastern cities. "The emergency created by the destruction of the traffic systems in the city has compelled permission for a temporary trolley line because it could be constructed more quickly than any other. "It is not intended, and the United Railroads must be made to realize that it will not be permitted, that the unsightly poles and dangerous wires will be allowed to cumber the new and more beautiful San Francisco, any more than it will be permitted that the rough shacks and sheds which temporarily shelter the people in parks and streets and otherwise vacant lots shall remain after the emergency which called them into being has ceased." [53] A. D. Shepard, vice-president and secretary of the Geary-street Railroad Company, gave the following statement to the Examiner as to the condition of the Geary-street roadbed: "We can run cars as far as the road goes, but the power-house is not ready for business. The smokestack at Geary and Buchanan streets must be built up to comply with the ordinance of the city before we can get a permit to build fires under the boilers. The smokestack should be repaired by the end of this week, and cars will probably be run over the road then. I cannot say just what day we will begin to run cars. All depends upon the smokestack and the Board of Public Works. "Our line was not injured by the earthquake, and we ran cars for some time after the shake. It was the fire that drove us out of business. The heat warped the slot, making it narrow in places and wide in other spots, but this is easily remedied." (See Examiner, May 30, 1906.) [54] Sharon's affidavit was introduced at the graft trials. It was as follows: "State of California, City and County of San Francisco--ss. "Frank E. Sharon, being first duly sworn according to law, deposes and says: That he was for many years prior to April 18, 1906, the superintendent of cables and stables belonging to the United Railroads of San Francisco, and situate at the corner of Market and Valencia streets; that on the property situate at said Market and Valencia streets were located what is known as the Market and Valencia Power House and Shops, consisting of power-house, stables, machine shops, special machine shops, mill, offices, store-rooms, sheds, etc.; that he was such superintendent on April 18, 1906; that on the morning of April 18, 1906, immediately following the earthquake he proceeded to the above described premises, arriving there at about 8 a. m.; that none of the buildings above described were materially damaged by the earthquake; that the walls of all the buildings were standing and intact; that the roofs of all the buildings were on and uninjured by the earthquake, with the exception of the roof of a portion of what is known as the power-house, which was damaged by reason of a small portion of the chimney adjoining the power-house on the west falling thereon; that the greater portion of said brick from the top of said chimney fell toward the south or east into the driveway; that extending from the base of said chimney to the crown thereof and on the east and west side thereof are cracks which were in said chimney for many years prior to the earthquake of April 18, 1906, which cracks were opened somewhat by said earthquake; and the boilers in said power-house were not injured to any extent and steam was kept under said boilers for some time after the earthquake; that in his judgment the building as a whole was intact and the machinery not injured in any material part of the earthquake; that the building caught fire from the adjoining buildings on the east and southeast late in the afternoon of April 18, 1906; said buildings were not dynamited nor backfired for any purpose. "F. E. SHARON. "Subscribed and sworn to before me this 10th day of August, A. D. 1906. "CHARLES R. HOLTON. "Notary Public in and for the City and County of San Francisco, State of California." [55] The loss included $25 damage to two engines which cost new $24,000; $2,000 damage to six boilers, new cost $30,000; $210 water-tank, cost new $350; $500 damage to pipes, valves and fittings, which cost new $10,500; material in store-room worth $2,000, a total loss; $4,800 loss of two tension carriages used for taking up slack of the cable. These tension carriages could very easily have been restored. This loss, $4,800, and the $2,000 stock loss, deducted from the total of $9,375, leaves a total loss of $2,575 to the machinery of a plant estimated to have cost $115,842. [56] As late as November 13, 1906, seven months after the fire, the San Francisco Call published an editorial article on the trolley permits which showed that even then their nature was not fully understood. The Call said: "The insolent disregard of public rights in the streets by the United Railroads is inspired, of course, by ulterior purpose to entrench the corporation in the possession of privileges, permits or franchises granted at a time of stress and confusion whose legality may and probably will be questioned later. "The Call does not desire to assume an attitude of hindering or hampering progress. We recognize fully that every new street-car line adds materially to the value of property within its tributary territory. In a word, the growth of a city or a neighborhood is, to a considerable degree, dependent on facilities for urban transit. "But it does not follow from these considerations that franchises should be granted for nothing to any and every applicant who is able to construct a street railway. The right to use the streets is the most valuable privilege possessed by a municipality. It should be made to yield a corresponding revenue. "All this might seem so obvious as scarcely to require statement, but in practice the principles here laid down have been virtually disregarded in San Francisco. In no instance was there more flagrant disregard of public rights than in the wholesale grants of permits or franchises to construct overhead trolley lines made after the fire. "The United Railroads at the time professed to regard these permits as merely temporary, but that profession was not very long maintained. The company now declares that many, if not all, of these permits amount to absolute franchises in view of the capital invested in making the necessary changes. That is the explanation of the outrageous disregard of public rights shown in tearing up some five or six miles of streets at once and in different parts of town. This process is obviously wasteful as a financial proposition, and is calculated besides to arouse general indignation. We find these weighty considerations disregarded on the advice of the corporation's lawyers, to bolster up an invalid claim to the possession of franchises obtained by trick and device in an hour of public confusion. "What the extent of the corporation's claim under these permits may be we are not advised, and there is no immediate means of finding out as long as the administration which granted these hole-and-corner permits remains in power. The same influences that made the Mayor and Supervisors so complaisant to the will of the United Railroads are still operative. It was only the other day that another permit for a street-car line was granted, and granted illegally. This administration stays bought. "Therefore, the streets are torn up in a dozen different parts of town and left in that condition untouched for months with the full consent of the administration. But this political condition is not permanent. Some of these people will go to jail. They will all be ousted at the next election. San Francisco has had enough of them. "The United Railroads is endeavoring to fortify one wrong by committing another. These things will not be forgotten in a hurry. We are convinced that the corporation is pursuing a shortsighted policy. Costly litigation must ensue to test the validity and extent of the overhead trolley permits. The people will not consent to see their most valuable property traded away by a lot of conscienceless boodlers, and if it should prove that the United Railroads has been able to make two wrongs constitute one right, it is very certain that a movement of irresistible force will follow for a reduction of street-car fares. "We are convinced that it will pay the United Railroads to be fair and decent with the people of San Francisco. The present policy is neither fair nor decent. The service is bad, public rights in the streets are outraged, and, worst of all, the corporation is the most malign, corrupting influence in the politics of our municipal government. There will come a reckoning." [57] See statement printed in San Francisco Examiner, May 4, 1906. [58] Calhoun's letter to the Supervisors read: "United Railroads of San Francisco. "President's Office. "San Francisco, May 14, 1906. "To the Honorable Board of Supervisors of the City of San Francisco--Gentlemen: The United Railroads of San Francisco respectfully represents that, notwithstanding its urgent and earnest efforts to provide adequate street railway transportation on the lines being operated, constant pressure is being applied and innumerable requests are being presented to it to increase its transportation facilities. "The company is anxious to please the people, and is willing to do its part in the immediate upbuilding of the Greater San Francisco, but owing to the unavailability of material and machinery for operating its cable systems, as well as the great length of time necessary to rebuild destroyed power-houses and reconstruct its cable conduits, a long time would necessarily elapse before the cable systems could be operated so as to give the required relief to traffic congestion. "If your Honorable Board will permit the use on the cable lines of a standard electric system such as is now used on the company's other lines, we will be glad to put all of our lines in commission, and will agree to have them in complete operation wherever grades will permit as rapidly as the most liberal expenditure of money and the largest possible employment of men will accomplish. The necessary expenditure for labor and materials to do this work will run into the millions, and will afford much-needed employment to several thousand deserving men. "We believe the prompt reconstruction of your lines of transportation will inspire confidence in all investing capital and greatly aid in the prompt rebuilding of your city. "We submit these suggestions for your consideration at the request of many of our citizens from every walk of life. "Respectfully, "PAT. CALHOUN, President." [59] The trolley permit was passed to print on May 14. The Examiner, in its issue of May 15, said: "The United Railroads, with the rapacity for which it has ever been noted, is seeking to capitalize the city's woe to its own advantage. "Before the disaster of April 18 it had been balked in its purpose to make San Francisco a trolley town. The protests of citizens who knew that the underground system is better than the cheap, unsightly trolley system and had been proved safer, had blocked the United Railroads project. And it seemed certain that the scheme to cumber Market street and Sutter street with poles and wires was definitely stopped. "The emergency which demanded the swiftest possible establishment of a transportation system, gave the United Railroads its opportunity to revive the discreditable scheme. As an emergency service nobody could object to the overhead trolleys. But it was understood that the service was absolutely temporary in its character and should only obtain during the pendency of present conditions. "Yesterday, however, there appeared out of the void of forbidden things an ordinance that was hastily passed to print, granting a franchise to the United Railroads to trolleyize its whole system. "It was expected evidently that this iniquitous measure could be sneaked through under cover of the present stress and excitement without people realizing until it was too late what had been done. "When the scheme was flushed it was still attempted to make it appear that this was a temporary measure, a representation absolutely varying with the language of the ordinance. "But the scheme has not succeeded yet. "It was to be expected that, like the looters who have to be kept from other people's property by soldiers and police, San Francisco's misfortune would bring out a horde of corporate ghouls eager to snatch privileges during the time of disorder. But it was likewise to be expected that the city administration, which has been so alert to protect private property, would be equally alert to protect the precious possessions of the city. "The railroads can only do what the city permits, and a strong official scrutiny of the ordinance which was yesterday passed to print should result in its final defeat. "No matter what other claims an administration may have to the gratitude and respect of the citizens of San Francisco, it cannot afford to be known as the administration that put trolley poles on Market street." [60] The day that the ordinance granting the trolley permit was ordered printed, Mayor Schmitz stated in an interview as published in the Examiner: "The proposed franchise is merely a temporary measure. It does not mean that the United Railroads can indefinitely operate their cars by the overhead trolley in Market street, or in the streets formerly occupied by cable roads. It is necessary now to have transportation. The cable roads cannot be repaired, I am told, for some time. Meanwhile, the franchise to string overhead wires has been granted. It can be revoked." [61] At the Calhoun trial, William H. Sanderson testified to having been introduced to Calhoun by Ruef at a public meeting, a few days before the trolley permit was granted. He was then asked: "Q. What, if any, conversation then ensued between yourself, Mr. Ruef and Mr. Calhoun? A. Well, I stated--Mr. Calhoun was at that time sitting at a large table in the room, where the committee had held its session, and he rose out of his seat, and the three of us held a conversation following that introduction. I stated to Mr. Calhoun--I asked him when the people of North Beach were or might expect railroad facilities, that the population was coming back to that portion of the city, and that other portions of the city were provided with facilities, and that we were compelled to walk through miles of burned district in order to get anywhere; and Mr. Calhoun said in reply, that if the people of San Francisco desired railroad facilities, they should co-operate with the railroad company that was here to provide them with the same; and I said to Mr. Calhoun that I thought that we were ready to do anything that the company desired us to do, and asked him what in particular he wished us to do, and he said: 'There is that trolley privilege matter before the Supervisors; that comes up next Monday, and you people of San Francisco ought to come down before that Board, that the people of San Francisco, or you, are vitally interested in the matter of this trolley permit.' Mr. Ruef then said: 'Come down before the Board next Monday, Sanderson, and make a talk on behalf of your organization in favor of the trolley permit. We will see that you get the privilege of the floor. A number of citizens of San Francisco will be there, and we propose to show the press that the people of San Francisco are behind this permit.' I said to Mr. Calhoun: 'The papers tell me that this is a very valuable franchise and you ought to pay the city something for it.' And Mr. Calhoun said in substance that he thought that the company would be paying all that the privileges was worth if it built the road. Then I suggested to him that perhaps that sentiment which objected to the disfigurement of Market street and Sutter street by the erection of poles and wires, ought to be placated to some extent, and I asked him why he would not at least put the feed-wires under ground; and he said that that would entail an expense which the company at that time was not or did not think it advisable to meet. And then I asked him why he would not put the poles 200 feet apart instead of 100 as--or 200 feet apart, as was done in European cities, and he said that the 100-foot system was the more advisable in his opinion. And then Mr. Ruef said to me: 'The passage of this permit will mean immediate work for 5,000 men. We will be able to take them out of the camps and put them at work.' And I said to Mr. Ruef: 'That is all very well, Mr. Ruef, but it seems to me that there is another side to this question--a political side. The people of San Francisco are at last all behind your administration. What they need in this crisis is leadership, and we will have to take such leadership as you give us; and now that everybody is with you, and even the Bulletin has quit, it is not good policy on your part to stir up another newspaper war. The Examiner has been your friend ever since Schmitz was first elected, and it will not swallow the trolley proposition in its present form, and it is charging your administration with corruption. If it persists in its fight it will eventually break your back. It seems to me that it would be a comparatively easy matter to placate this opposition by exacting some compensation for this permit, either in the way of cash or by way of a percentage of the proceeds of the road, or you might limit it as to time; give them a permit for five or ten years. You have them at your mercy and they are bound to accept whatever terms you prescribe.' Mr. Ruef then said: 'To hell with the Examiner, no public man can afford to swallow that paper. This thing will go through on Monday. It is all settled.' And then I said: 'You don't need me then,' and Mr. Calhoun said: 'I don't think we do, Mr. Sanderson.' That is all the conversation, or that is substantially all the conversation that took place in regard to that matter." [62] Said the Examiner in its issue of May 16, 1906: "It looks very much as if Patrick Calhoun, Thornwell Mullally and their pals of the United Railroads had sneaked up behind San Francisco just as she lay wounded from earthquake and conflagration. In the guise of helping her, they were caught picking her pocket. If the Supervisors aid and abet them, the people will be warranted in setting up their effigies in lasting bronze, a group of everlasting infamy, with the inscription: 'THESE MEN LOOTED SAN FRANCISCO AT THE TIME OF THE GREAT FIRE OF 1906.'" [63] Of the failure to exact pay for the franchise, the Examiner of May 17, 1906, said: "Mayor Schmitz and the Board of Supervisors must know, and if they do not know they are now informed, that the franchises they propose to give away to the United Railroads are worth a great deal of money to the city of San Francisco, and they certainly do know that the city never was so greatly in need of money as now. To give away so much of value at such a time is so hideous a crime that it will leave a scar upon the reputation of everybody concerned in it, no matter what that reputation has been up to the time of the infamy." [64] The Supervisors' letter to the Examiner was as follows: "San Francisco, Cal., May 26, 1906. "To 'The San Francisco Examiner,' City--Gentlemen: The Board of Supervisors of the City and County of San Francisco, regretting the hostile stand which your journal has in these distressing times assumed toward the rebuilding of our destroyed city, by indiscriminately attacking every vested interest and all intending investments of capital in this city, respectfully submits for your consideration the propriety of joining with instead of assailing those who are in good faith and with their energy and ability striving to restore and rebuild our beloved city. "Irrespective of any personal feeling caused by your wanton attacks on his Honor the Mayor, and on this Board, we ask of you, as citizens of San Francisco and as the legislative branch of our government, to cease your thoughtless and dangerous efforts to drive away from our city every interest which has expressed its intention to assist in our rebuilding and which has manifested a practical confidence in our future. Otherwise, the day will certainly not be far distant when the people, realizing the result of your course, will seek to protect the city against its further continuance. "In all good faith for the city's interests and without any personal rancor, these suggestions are submitted to your careful attention. "Respectfully, James L. Gallagher, Max Mamlock, Chas. Boxton, L. A. Rea, F. P. Nicholas, Andrew M. Wilson, Geo. F. Duffey, J. J. Furey. M. W. Coffey, Daniel G. Coleman, C. J. Harrigan, J. J. Phillips, P. M. McGushin, E. I. Walsh, Sam Davis, Jas. T. Kelly, Thomas F. Lonergan, W. W. Sanderson." [65] Ruef, in his story of his political career, "The Road I Traveled," states that in an interview with William F. Herrin, chief of the Southern Pacific law department, previous to the primary campaign, the necessary expenses of the primary campaign and of the primary election were discussed. Herrin, according to Ruef's account, agreed not to oppose the Ruef tickets. "As agreed prior to the primary," Ruef goes on to say in his narrative: "Herrin paid me $14,000 for the purpose of securing for his organization the certainty of the votes of the San Francisco delegation." See San Francisco Bulletin, August 31, 1912. [66] Henshaw was re-elected. After Ruef had been convicted and the Appellate Court had refused to grant him a new trial, Henshaw, before the briefs had been filed in the matter of the appeal from the Appellate to the Supreme Court, signed an order granting Ruef a new hearing. See Chapter XXIX. [67] See decisions in Edson vs. The Southern Pacific Co., 133 Cal. Reports and 144 Cal. Reports. [68] Nor was this criticism confined to San Francisco; it was general throughout the State. The Sacramento Bee, in describing the conditions prevailing at San Francisco, said: "In the hold-ups which are now terrorizing the people of San Francisco the citizens are seeing the effects of a loose or dishonest municipal administration. The form of lawlessness now prevailing in San Francisco follows upon bad local government as inevitably as night follows day." [69] Definite figures, alleged to be the graft schedule enforced in the San Francisco tenderloin after the fire, were published. The Chronicle of April 24, 1907, said on this score: "After the great disaster of last April, or so soon as the new tenderloin began to build up and the Barbary Coast district began to establish itself, a schedule of prices for protected vice was formulated. This schedule has been rigidly adhered to. In the case of houses of ill-fame, the proprietors were required to pay the policemen on the beat the sum of $5, the sergeants $15, the captains $25, and the chief of police $75 to $100 every week for the privilege of conducting their nefarious business. The gambling houses were assessed according to their ability to pay, but the average price for police protection, according to Heney, was about the same as the houses of prostitution. The dives along Pacific street and in the Barbary Coast district were required to pay $50 every week to the police captain and the chief, those two functionaries presumably dividing the money. The sporting saloons where women of the night life congregate were taxed a similar amount." [70] Ruef advised strongly against Schmitz leaving San Francisco. In an interview printed in the San Francisco Call, May 16, 1907, the day after he had plead guilty to a charge of extorting money from French restaurant dives, Ruef said: "The great mistake of this whole thing began with the Mayor's trip to Europe. The Mayor had been proclaimed as the man of the hour after the disaster of last April. He was suddenly seized with the desire of making a trip to Europe, where he expected to be received as one of the crowned heads. He thought his fame would spread throughout the world and he hoped to be lionized abroad and, incidentally, gain social prestige. The whole thing was a mistake. I begged him not to go. I pointed out to him that the city was in ruins and the place for the Mayor was at home. He persisted, and all my pleadings were in vain." [71] At a preliminary meeting of the organizers of this movement, held in the office of the California Canners, October 10, 1906, responsibility for the state of affairs in San Francisco was charged to Ruef. It was stated at this meeting, and given out to the press, that convincing evidence had been secured against Ruef which warranted his prosecution. [72] Acting Mayor Gallagher was emphatic in declaring that no vigilance committee should disgrace San Francisco. The interior press, which was following the San Francisco situation closely and from an independent standpoint, advised Mayor Gallagher that the best way to prevent organization of such a committee would be to enforce the laws. Said the Stockton Record: "If Acting Mayor Gallagher and his associates wish to abate the agitation in favor of a committee of safety for San Francisco, they should do less talking and take more energetic action against the thug element. The police department of the afflicted city is now virtually on trial. It is even under suspicion of offenses graver than that of inefficiency. One or two more crimes of violence with well-known people as victims will fire the public indignation of San Francisco to a point where incapable officers will be forced aside and an authority created to meet the grave emergency confronting respectable citizenry." The Stockton Independent went even further. Said that paper of the San Francisco situation: "Acting Mayor Gallagher of San Francisco declares there shall be no vigilance committee and no lynching in San Francisco. If he and the police are unable to prevent daily murders, or attempted murders, by single criminals, how can he prevent good citizens in hundreds of thousands from lynching those criminals if they catch them? Perhaps some of the purblind members of the police force may be among the first to be lynched." [73] After Ruef's capture of the Union Square meeting, Rev. P. C. Macfarlane, pastor of the First Christian Church at Alameda, said in a sermon (October 21, 1906) of the San Francisco situation: "Let a few resolute, clean-handed business men of San Francisco who are not cowards, who are not quitters or grafters, get together and make a purse of twenty, fifty or a hundred thousand dollars, then employ the ablest attorney to be had and set quietly to work to find the graft and punish the grafters. They could make chapel exercises on Sunday afternoon in San Quentin look like a political rally in San Francisco inside of two years. "Thus Eugene E. Schmitz stands before the world as a man who tried to reform and could not. He is a moral inebriate. He is a welcher. He is a wanderer on the face of the globe, a man without country, expatriated by his own cowardice. This is Dr. Jekyll. "But there are some who see in Schmitz Mr. Hyde. These do not give the Mayor credit for even a spasm of virtue and say that the great work of the morning of April 18 was done by General Funston and prominent citizens of their own volition. These people say that he has now gone from San Francisco, taking with him vast sums of money gained through the granting of the trolley franchise, plotted even while the embers smoldered, and that he will never return. "The United Railroads is universally believed to have acquired its trolley franchises by corrupt means. It is said that prominent merchants will crane and crook and bow and scrape to get a nod of recognition from Abe Ruef. Ruef has used the advantages given him by the state of affairs to corrupt the greatest city in California. Ruef owns the Board of Supervisors. The Police Commissioners belong to him. The saloon-keeper who wants a license, a corporation that wants a favor from the Board of Supervisors, has only to retain Ruef as an attorney at a fee sufficiently large." Dr. Macfarlane gave expression to what many thoughtful men were thinking, but of which few with interests at San Francisco dared to admit openly. [74] Mr. Langdon's statement was published October 21, 1906. It was in full as follows: "In view of the present extraordinary conditions prevalent in the City and County of San Francisco, the unusual increase in crime, which threatens to grow worse as the winter sets in, and in view of the numerous charges of official graft and malfeasance in office, I have determined to seize the opportunity presented, by the impanelment of a new grand jury, which has been set down for next Wednesday by Hon. Thomas F. Graham, the Presiding Judge of the Superior Court in the City and County of San Francisco, to inaugurate a systematic and thorough investigation into these conditions. It is my official duty to do so, and in pursuance of that duty and in view of the magnitude of the task, I have decided to seek the best assistance obtainable. It is my purpose to set at rest these charges of official graft by either proving them false or convicting those who are guilty. If the charges be untrue, their falsity should be demonstrated to the world, so as to remove the impressions which have been circulated to the injury of the credit and fair name of the city. If they be true we should show to the country that there is enough strength, virtue and civic pride in our people to enable the regularly constituted machinery of justice to re-establish conditions on a clean, righteous and just basis, without resort to any extraordinary expedients outside the law. This is to be an honest, fair, thorough and searching investigation. We shall protect no man. We shall persecute no man, but we shall prosecute every man who is guilty, regardless of position or standing in the city. In order that we may have the benefit of expert services in this work I have requested Mr. Francis J. Heney, who has won national fame for his work in the prosecution of the Oregon land fraud cases, to become a regular deputy in my office. Mr. Heney has accepted. It is unfortunate that this work should be commenced during a political campaign, but the conditions in San Francisco to-day require that radical action be taken at once, and though I may be charged with instituting this investigation at this particular juncture for political advantage, I must ask the public to judge me by the results attained, which will be the best answer. "I am not unmindful of the great difficulties involved in this investigation. It will be both laborious and costly. The money available under the appropriations made to the District Attorney's office and the grand jury is, of course, utterly inadequate. Often previous investigations by other grand juries have been made abortive because of this lack of necessary funds to meet expenses. In the present instance we shall not suffer this severe handicap. I am authorized to announce that Mr. Rudolph Spreckels has guaranteed that he will personally undertake the collection from public-spirited citizens of a fund to provide for the expenses necessary to make the investigation thorough and so that good results may ensue. The city is in deep affliction consequent upon the dreadful calamities of last spring; it is in danger from certainly increasing invasion of desperate criminals from all over the world; some of the public departments are undoubtedly in bad hands, and I appeal to my fellow-citizens to give this investigation their moral support, so that the innocent may be protected, so that the guilty may be punished, and so that San Francisco may be helped to her feet and started again on the high road of prosperity in her material conditions, and have restored decency, efficiency, honesty and honor in her public affairs. "WILLIAM H. LANGDON, District Attorney." CHAPTER V. GRAFT PROSECUTION OPENS. Three days after the announcement of his plans, District Attorney Langdon appointed Heney to a regular deputyship. But even before Langdon had taken office, as early as December, 1905, Fremont Older, editor of the San Francisco Bulletin, had suggested to Heney that he undertake the prosecution of those responsible for conditions in San Francisco. The Bulletin had been the most fearless and consistent of the opponents of the Schmitz-Ruef regime.[75] After Ruef's complete triumph at the November election in 1905, he boasted that he would break the Bulletin with libel suits. With every department of government in his control, Ruef appeared to be in a position where, even though he might not be able to make good his threat, he could cause the Bulletin much annoyance if not great financial loss. Older went on to Washington to engage Heney to defend the paper, should Ruef attempt to make his boast good. Heney gave Ruef's threats little credence. "I would be very glad to defend you," he told Older, "but I am afraid I'll never get a chance to earn that fee."[76] Incidentally Older stated that he believed a fund could be raised to prosecute the corrupters of the San Francisco municipal government, and asked Heney if he would undertake the prosecution, if such a fund could be secured. Heney replied that he would be glad to undertake it, but stated that at least $100,000 would be required. And even with this amount, Heney pointed out to Older, all efforts would be futile, unless the District Attorney were genuinely in sympathy with the movement to better conditions. On Heney's return to California early in 1906, Older brought him and Rudolph Spreckels[77] and James D. Phelan together. Heney and Spreckels met for the first time. Phelan vouched for Langdon's[78] integrity and honesty of purpose. Indeed, Langdon was already giving evidence of his independence of the Ruef organization. Up to that time no attempt had been made to raise the funds necessary to conduct a practical investigation. Phelan stated that he would subscribe $10,000 and Spreckels agreed to give a like amount. Spreckels undertook to look the field over and expressed confidence that he could get twenty men who would subscribe $5000 each, making the $100,000 which Heney had declared to be necessary for the undertaking. The question of Heney's fee was then raised.[79] "If there be anything left out of the $100,000 we will talk about fee," Heney replied. "But I don't think there will be anything left and I will put up my time against your money." It was practically settled at this meeting that Heney should devote himself to the prosecution of corruptionists against whom evidence might be secured. He returned to Washington early in March to wind up his affairs there. Before he could return to San Francisco, came the earthquake and fire. Heney got back to San Francisco April 25, one week after the disaster. He had another conference with Spreckels.[80] Spreckels told him that he wanted the investigation begun at the earliest possible moment, and that he (Spreckels) would himself guarantee the expenses which might be incurred.[81] Heney notified Burns, and as early as June[82] Burns had begun the investigation that was to result in the downfall of Ruef, and the scattering of his forces. By the middle of the following October, Heney had so arranged his affairs as to be free to devote himself to the San Francisco investigation. His appointment as Deputy District Attorney followed. In view of one of the principal defenses advanced by Ruef and his allies, namely, that the graft prosecution was undertaken to injure the United Railroads, these dates are important. The services for which the bribe money which got the United Railroads into difficulties was paid, were not rendered until May 21, 1906, long after final arrangements had been made for Burns to conduct the investigation and Heney to assist in the prosecution. The actual passing of the United Railroads bribe money was not completed until late in August[83] of that year. Burns was at work, and had received pay for his services before the bribe-giving for which United Railroad officials were prosecuted had taken place.[84] Langdon's announcement that he would appoint Heney as a Deputy District Attorney, to assist in investigating into charges of official corruption, brought upon him the condemnation of the municipal administration and of the leaders of the Union-Labor party. P. H. McCarthy and O. A. Tveitmoe, who, from opposing the Union-Labor party movement in 1901-3 had, by the time the Graft Prosecution opened, become prominent in its councils, were particularly bitter in their denunciations. At a Ruef-planned mass meeting held at the largest auditorium in the city October 31, 1906, for the purpose of organizing a league for the protection of the administration, Langdon was dubbed "traitor to his party," a man "who has gone back on his friends," "the Benedict Arnold of San Francisco." Heney was denounced as "the man from Arizona." On the other hand Mayor Schmitz was called "the peerless champion of the people's rights," and Ruef, "the Mayor's loyal, able and intrepid friend." Thomas Egan, one of the organizers of the Union-Labor party, stated of the graft prosecution: "This movement, led by Rudolph Spreckels and engineered by James D. Phelan, conceived in iniquity and born in shame, is for the purpose of destroying the labor organizations and again to gain control of the government of our fair city." Ruef, in an earnest address, insisted upon his innocence of wrongdoing. "As sure as there is a God in heaven," he announced solemnly, "they have no proof as they claim."[85] Acting Mayor Gallagher issued a statement in which he took the same ground as had Egan at the Dreamland Rink mass meeting, that the prosecution was a movement on the part of the Citizens' Alliance to disrupt the labor unions.[86] From another angle, officials of public service corporations charged those identified with the investigation with being in league with the labor unions. In one of his statements to the public, Patrick Calhoun, president of the United Railroads, set forth that, "I confidently expect to defeat alike the machinations of Rudolph Spreckels, his private prosecutor, with his corps of hired detectives, and Mr. Cornelius, president of the Carmen's Union, the leader of anarchy and lawlessness, and to see fairly established in this community the principles of American liberty, and the triumphs of truth and justice."[87] Then, too, there were points at which the two supposed extremes, corporation magnates and Labor-Union politicians, touched in their opposition to the prosecution. At a meeting held on November 2, 1906, less than two weeks after Heney's appointment, John E. Bennett, representing the Bay Cities Water Company, read a paper in which Heney and Langdon were denounced as the agents of the Spring Valley Water Company. The Chronicle, in its issue of November 3, charged that the paper read by Mr. Bennett was type proof of a pamphlet that was to be widely distributed, and that the proof sheets had been taken to the meeting by George B. Keane, secretary of the Board of Supervisors.[88] On the other hand, practically the entire press of the city,[89] the general public and many of the labor unions gave the prosecution unqualified endorsement, welcoming it as opportunity, in an orderly way, either to establish beyond question, or to disprove, the charges against the administration of incompetency and corruption.[90] Rudolph Spreckels's statement, that "this is no question of capital and labor, but of dishonesty and justice,"[91] was generally accepted as true expression of the situation. Those directly connected with allegations or suggestion of irregular practices, issued statements disclaiming any knowledge of irregularity or corruption. General Tirey L. Ford, chief counsel of the United Railroads, in a published interview,[92] stated that no political boss nor any person connected with the municipal administration had benefited financially to the extent of one dollar in the trolley permit transaction, and that had any one profited thereby, he (Ford) in his official capacity would have known of it. Those connected with the administration were as vigorous in their denials.[93] Many of them expressed satisfaction at the prospect of an investigation. Supervisor Kelly went so far as to suggest that the municipality give $5000 to assist in the inquiry. "Let us," said Supervisor Lonergan, "get to the bottom of this thing. These cracks about graft have been made right along, and we should have them proved or disproved at once." But in spite of this brave front, the developments of the years of resistance of the graft prosecution show the few days following Heney's appointment as Assistant District Attorney to have been a period of intense anxiety to Ruef and his immediate advisers. Ruef held daily consultations with Acting Mayor Gallagher, Clerk Keane, and his attorney, Henry Ach. The public knew little of these consultations, but a rumor became current that Mayor Gallagher would suspend District Attorney Langdon from office. Little credence was given this, however. Nevertheless, on the night of October 25 Acting Mayor Gallagher suspended Langdon from office, and appointed Abraham Ruef to be District Attorney to conduct the graft investigations.[94] The following morning the San Francisco Call, under a large picture of Ruef, printed the words: "THIS MAN'S HAND GRIPS THE THROAT OF SAN FRANCISCO." FOOTNOTES: [75] The persecution of the Bulletin during this period was characteristic of Ruef's methods and reflected the state of lawlessness which prevailed in San Francisco. R. A. Crothers, proprietor of the paper, was assaulted and badly beaten. The newsboys organized into a union. The boys were sincere enough, but the movement was in reality engineered from the tenderloin. Soon a strike of newsboys against the Bulletin was inaugurated. Copies of the paper were snatched from the hands of citizens who purchased it. Bulletin carriers and agents were assaulted. Tugs of its delivery wagons were cut. When the paper was delivered to stores, sticks and stones were thrown in after it. The police did not interfere. The manifestations of lawlessness went unchecked. Libel suits were brought against the Bulletin. Business boycotts were attempted against it. [76] See address made by Heney before Citizens' League of Justice in October, 1908. [77] Rudolph Spreckels, although connected with large enterprises, had steadfastly refused to employ Ruef as an attorney, or to join with him in any way. Given control of the San Francisco Gas Company, for example, although he was importuned to do so, Spreckels refused to employ Ruef as attorney for that company. Spreckels testified at the trial of The People vs. Patrick Calhoun, that he had first realized the necessity of proceeding against Ruef and the Ruef-Schmitz administration when Ruef proposed to him to organize a syndicate to purchase San Francisco municipal bonds. Spreckels testified that Ruef set forth his plan as follows: "He (Ruef) asked me if I would get together a syndicate for the purpose of bidding on these bonds; that he would guarantee that if I did get up such a syndicate, our bid would be a successful bid; that we would not be obliged to bid above par, and that he would guarantee that we would be the successful bidders. My reply to Mr. Ruef was that I could not understand how anybody could make such an agreement or promise, and how did he propose to make such a statement--to carry out what he had stated. He said: 'Why, that is a simple matter. You know my connection with the Labor Unions and the Labor Union party. Just at the time that the bids are about to come in, I will arrange to tie up this town; we will have the biggest strike that the community has ever known, and I would like to see any of your bankers or your capitalistic friends bid on the bonds under those circumstances, excepting yourself, those that are in the know'--words to that effect, was his expression. I said to Mr. Ruef: 'Do you mean to say, Mr. Ruef, that for the purpose of making money you would bring about a strike which might entail even bloodshed, for the mere sake of making money?' And Mr. Ruef flushed up and said: 'Oh, no; I was only joking.' And he soon withdrew from my office." It is interesting to compare Spreckels' attitude toward Ruef with that of I. W. Hellman, as shown by Hellman's testimony at the trial of Tirey L. Ford. See footnote 7, page 15. [78] Heney, in his address on the work of the Graft Prosecution, October, 1908, paid Langdon the following high tribute: "Mr. Langdon, as soon as we laid the matter before him and convinced him it was in good faith and not to serve private interests, said: 'Yes, I will appoint Mr. Heney assistant in my office and give him full sway to make a thorough investigation, on one condition, and that is that I am kept personally in touch with everything going on at all times. I am District Attorney and I propose to be District Attorney and to act upon my own judgment.' And there never has been a time that Mr. Langdon didn't have absolute sway over all matters, and did not wholly consent to what was done, and he has had the final say in everything, and I wish to say that there is more credit due to him than to any of us. He had a greater personal sacrifice to make. "The first thing he had to take into consideration was that he had gone into office as the candidate of the Labor party, and he knew he would be called a traitor and denounced if it appeared that any man who had been on the same ticket as he had been elected upon had been grafting. He had to possess more moral than physical courage, and a higher kind of moral courage, and that courage was exercised to the credit of San Francisco as well as to the credit of Mr. Langdon." [79] The Graft Defense labored without success to make it appear that Heney was compensated for his service. Out of the Prosecution fund, the expenses--rental, clerical hire, etc.--of offices, so far as they were maintained especially for the work of the Graft Prosecution, were paid. These were known as "Heney's offices." When Rudolph Spreckels was on the stand at the Calhoun trial, he testified under Heney's announcement that the Defense could ask him any question it chose and no objection would be made. Earl Rogers, for Calhoun, endeavored to make it appear that Heney was getting pay. "Mr. Spreckels," Rogers asked, "in addition to paying Mr. Heney's office expenses, amounting to five or six hundred dollars a month, have you paid other expenses for Mr. Heney?" "No, sir," Spreckels replied. Heney, the testimony all through shows, received not a dollar to compensate him for his services to the city; moreover, it shows that he had given up business which would have brought him large fees, that he might be free to conduct the Graft Prosecution. See transcript Calhoun trial, pages 3837 and on, 3746, 3743, etc. The efforts of well-compensated attorneys for the Defense to make it appear that Heney was paid for his work, furnish one of the amusing features of the graft trials. [80] The conference was held on May 10 or 11. This was four days before the Supervisors took the preliminary steps toward granting the United Railroads its overhead trolley permit, and several months before the bribe money was paid. [81] See testimony of Rudolph Spreckels at trial of The People vs. Patrick Calhoun, No. 1436. [82] Al McKinley was the first detective put to work for the Graft Prosecution. On May 25, 1906, Chief Burns detailed him to watch Ruef. Later, June 19, 1906, Burns directed Robert Perry to shadow Ruef. Perry did so until nearly a year later, when Ruef was placed in the custody of an elisor. [83] That prosecution of officials of the United Railroads was not thought of when the graft prosecution was begun, was brought out at the trial of The People vs. Patrick Calhoun, No. 1436. The following, for example, is taken from Rudolph Spreckels' testimony: "Mr. Heney--Q. At the time that Mr. Phelan agreed to contribute the $10,000, Mr. Spreckels, what did you say, if anything, about contributing yourself? A. That was in the first meeting, I think, Mr. Heney, and I told him that I was ready and willing to contribute a similar amount: that I believed it would be possible to get others to join and contribute. "Q. At that time was anything said by any person about prosecuting Mr. Calhoun? A. Absolutely no. "Q. Or any person connected with the United Railroads Company? A. The discussion was entirely confined to the administration, the corrupt "Q. At that time did you have any purpose or intention of prosecuting Mr. Calhoun? A. I had not. "Q. Did you have any reason to believe that Mr. Calhoun at that time had committed any crime? A. I had no indication of such a crime. "Mr. Moore--Was that time fixed, Mr. Heney? "Mr. Heney--Yes, it was fixed; the first conversation, and he has fixed it as nearly as he could. "The Court--Have you in mind the testimony on that point, Mr. Moore? There was some reference to it in an earlier part of the examination. "Mr. Heney--Q. When you had the talk with Mr. Heney in April, 1906, did you say anything about prosecuting Mr. Calhoun, or anybody connected with the United Railroads? A. I did not. "Q. Did you at any time tell Mr. Heney that you desired to have him prosecute Mr. Patrick Calhoun? A. I did not, at any time. "Q. Did you tell him at any time that you desired to have him prosecute any person connected with the United Railroads Company? A. I did not." See transcript The People vs. Patrick Calhoun, No. 1436, page 3730. [84] Rudolph Spreckels testified at the trial of The People vs. Patrick Calhoun, No. 1436: "Mr. Perry was employed to get information in regard to Mr. Abraham Ruef and the city administration as early as June, 1906, and his efforts and of one other man employed at that time were directed toward that and that only." [85] See San Francisco newspapers, November 1, 1906. [86] Gallagher's statement was in full as follows: It seems to me that these assaults that are being made upon Mayor Schmitz are exceedingly reprehensible. It is strange that the gentlemen who are making the attacks did not see fit to make them while Mayor Schmitz was here. Especially does this apply to Langdon, who, by reason of past association with Mayor Schmitz, and favors received by him from the Mayor, should have been the last man to attempt to besmirch the Mayor in his absence. I am satisfied that all these attacks upon the administration officials have their origin in the long-continued attempt on behalf of the Citizens' Alliance to disrupt the labor organizations of the city. An administration that is friendly to organized labor is an impassable obstacle in the way of such a purpose. The enormous amount of labor of all kinds that will have to be performed in this city during the next few years has undoubtedly prompted the organizers of the old Citizens' Alliance to renew their assaults upon the officials elected by the Union Labor party in the hope that they may thereby themselves secure control of the municipal administration and thus work out their own will in the matter of the conditions under which labor shall perform the task of rebuilding this city. "So far as I am concerned personally, I consider that the disruption of the labor organization would be a great sacrifice of the interests of all of the people. The city must be built up; but the Citizens' Alliance and all organizations and individuals in sympathy with it may as well understand, first as last, that the work will only be done through organized labor, and not by the employment of pauper labor in competition with the mechanics and artisans of the labor unions. "That this view of the situation is well recognized by the labor organizations of the city is shown by the action of the Building Trades Council last night in approving and indorsing my action in removing Mr. Langdon." [87] Contained in a statement published May 18, 1907. See San Francisco papers of that date. [88] The nature of the attacks upon the supporters of the Prosecution is shown by the proceedings in the libel suit brought by the San Francisco First National Bank against the Oakland Tribune. Rudolph Spreckels was president of the bank; the Tribune was one of the stanchest of the opponents of the prosecution. The Tribune charged that the Graft Prosecution had for one of its objects the unloading of the Spring Valley Water Company's plant upon San Francisco, and that the First National Bank was burdened with Spring Valley securities. Among other things the article set forth: "The recent disclosures of the methods by which it was sought to unload Spring Valley's old junk, called a distributing system, together with its inadequate supply of inferior water, on the city at an outrageous figure by the swinging of the 'big stick' has not enhanced the value of the securities of the corporation in the view of the national examiners. Even the efforts to cloud the real purposes of the promoters of the Spring Valley job by calling it a civic uprising to stamp out municipal graft is said to have failed to mislead the Federal experts. The suggestion that the 'big stick' would force the city to purchase the plant of the decrepit corporation for $28,000,000 after its real estimate was appraised by an expert at $5,000,000 and held by the bondholders to be worth, as realty speculation, $15,000,000, has not enthused the Federal bank examiners in relation to the value of Spring Valley bonds as security for a national bank." The First National Bank did not hold Spring Valley Company securities. As the Tribune's charges were calculated to injure the bank, action for libel followed. At the hearings, it developed that the articles had been furnished the Tribune by the political editor of the San Francisco Chronicle, who testified that he was paid fifty dollars a week for his Tribune articles. This was more than his salary as political editor of the Chronicle. He admitted on the stand that he had heard what he stated in his article, "only as a matter of gossip." [89] The San Francisco Call, in an editorial article, printed October 22, expressed the general sentiment in San Francisco. The Call said: "San Francisco will welcome the undertaking by Mr. Francis J. Heney of the duty to search out and bring to justice the official boodlers and their brokers that afflict the body politic. Public opinion is unanimous in the belief that Supervisors have been bribed and that administrative functions such as those of the Board of Works and the Health Board have been peddled in secret market. Even the Board of Education is not exempted from suspicion. "These convictions, prevailing in the public mind, call for verification or refutation. The sudden affluence of certain members of the Board of Supervisors, the current and generally credited reports that the United Railroads paid upward of $500,000 in bribes to grease the way of its overhead trolley franchise, the appearance of public officials in the guise of capitalists making large investments in skating rinks and other considerable enterprises--these and other lines of investigation demand the probe. If there has been no dishonesty in office the officials should be the first to insist on a thorough inquiry. "If it is true, as we believe, that official boodling has been the practice, a systematic inquiry will surely uncover the crimes. It is impossible to commit such offenses where so many are concerned without leaving some trace that can be followed and run to earth. The crimes of the gaspipe thugs seemed for the moment hidden in impenetrable mystery, but patient search discovers the trail that leads to conviction. Criminals are rarely men of high intelligence. They betray themselves at one or other turn of their windings. We are convinced that some of our Supervisors and not a few of the executive officials appointed by Schmitz are in no degree superior in point of intelligence and moral sense to the gaspipe robbers. "Mr. Heney's record as a remorseless and indefatigable prosecutor of official rascals is known. He will have the assistance in his new work of Mr. William J. Burns, who did so much to bring to light the Oregon land frauds. Those crimes were surrounded and protected by fortifications of political influence that were deemed impregnable. When the inquiry was first undertaken nobody believed it would ever come to anything. It was a slow business, even as the mills of the gods grind slowly, but if fine the grist of the criminal courts of Oregon is large and satisfying. "The people of San Francisco have been sorely tried. Fire and earthquake we cannot help, but the unhappy city has been made the prey of a set of conscienceless thieves who have done nothing since our great calamity beyond promoting schemes to fill their own pockets. Our streets, our sewers, our schools and our public buildings have been neglected, but the sale of permits and franchises, the working of real estate jobs and the market for privileges of every variety have been brisk and incessant. Officials have grown rich: Some of them are spending money like a drunken sailor. It is time for housecleaning and a day of reckoning. Heney and Burns will put the question: 'Where did they get it?'" [90] Bishop Montgomery, of the Roman Catholic Church, in an interview in the San Francisco Call, October 20, 1906, said in reference to the San Francisco graft prosecution: "Mere accusations have been so long and so persistently made that the public has a right to know the truth; and, above all, those who are innocently so charged have a right to a public and complete vindication. Nothing now but a thorough and honest investigation can clear the atmosphere and set us right before the world and with ourselves. "I have such confidence in the courts of California that I believe no innocent man needs to fear that he will suffer from them, and no guilty man has any just right to complain. "I believe the investigation has been undertaken in good faith for the best interests of the city, and that it will be conducted thoroughly and honestly." [91] Mr. Spreckels' statement was contained in an interview printed in the San Francisco Call, October 28, 1906. It was as follows: "This is no question of capital and labor," he said, "but of dishonesty and justice. There is no association of men, capitalists or others, behind what we have undertaken, and it cannot be made a class question. No one knows that better than Ruef. And it will be impossible for him to fool the workingman by these insinuations. "I want the workingmen of this city to recall that meeting which was recently held in Union Square. I was asked to attend that meeting and be its chairman. I refused to preside, to speak or go there unless I could be assured that it was not to be a movement of the capitalistic class on the one hand against the workingmen on the other. And because I did not receive that assurance I did not attend. Mr. Heney stayed away for the same reason. "Now, who was it that originated that meeting? Sam Shortridge. Who was it who drew the resolutions; who was it who prompted the speakers and the chairman? It was Sam Shortridge. "Mr. Ruef says that meeting was dominated and arranged by the Citizens' Alliance. Very well. Then let Mr. Ruef explain to the workingmen why it was that a few days afterward he hired Sam Shortridge as his attorney. "I believe that it is impossible to fool the laboring men of this city now. Absolutely and definitely I want to say to them that there is nothing behind this movement but the desire for a clean city. It is absolutely regardless of class. Every man who owns a home, who has a family, is as much interested in what we have undertaken as is the wealthiest citizen." [92] See San Francisco Examiner, October 28, 1906, from which the following is taken: "=Of course there was no bribery= (said General Ford), =nor offer to bribe, nor was there anything done except upon clean and legitimate lines=." "Q. General, if any bribe, or offer to bribe, had been made by your company to any person connected with the San Francisco municipal administration, or to any political boss having control of the same, or if any member of the Board of Supervisors, or of the municipal government had benefited to the extent of one dollar financially by the agreement to grant to the United Railroads the privilege desired, you, in your official capacity, would undoubtedly be aware of it, would you not? A. I am certain that I would; I am, therefore, equally certain that no such thing was ever done or contemplated." [93] The following are excerpts from interviews published in the San Francisco Examiner, October 23, 1906: Abraham Ruef: "I am satisfied that if Mayor Schmitz had known that this investigation was afoot he would have postponed his trip abroad and would have remained here to disprove all allegations of graft." Supervisor Andrew Wilson: "I shall be glad to welcome any investigation as to my official acts or as to my official conduct. I never took a dishonest dollar in my life." Supervisor Patrick McGushin: "The more they investigate, the better I shall like it. I do not believe Mr. Heney has any evidence of graft. Speaking for myself, he can investigate me or my bank account if he likes." Acting Mayor James L. Gallagher: "So far as the administration is concerned from the statements I have received, everything is straight. So far as the Police Department is concerned no one can tell. I can not tell." Supervisor Jennings Phillips: "This investigation will be a good thing. There has been so much talk of graft and so many accusations that it all will be settled once and for all. If Mr. Heney has any evidence I know nothing of its nature nor against what part of the administration it is directed." Supervisor Edward Walsh: "As a Supervisor I have tried to do my best. I court an investigation. I do not pay much attention to Mr. Heney's statements. I have been here thirty-seven years and I can hold up my head, as can every other member of this Board." Supervisor Michael Coffey: "Nothing would afford me more pleasure than to have them investigate my integrity and my official acts. I hope they'll make a full and thorough investigation and clear us all of the slurs that have been cast upon us." Supervisor S. Davis: "I think there is nothing to this whole thing. If Mr. Heney can find out anything let him do it. It is hard to have insinuations cast at you. My personal connection with the administration has been straight." Supervisor F. P. Nicholas: "There has been so much noise about graft that it will be a good thing to go thoroughly into the matter. Personally I court an investigation of my official acts. If Mr. Heney has any evidence of corruption I know nothing of it." Supervisor Daniel Coleman: "These loud cries of graft that have been current of late will be silenced through this investigation. It should be thoroughly gone into so that the purity of the administration cannot hereafter be questioned." Supervisor Max Mamlock: "I do not think it is worth my while to think about this investigation. I do not see where Mr. Burns or Mr. Heney could get any evidence of graft." [94] Acting-Mayor Gallagher's order removing Langdon is printed in full in the appendix. One of the charges alleged against Langdon was that he had appointed Francis J. Heney to be his deputy for ulterior purposes. Of Heney it was alleged that he had "in a public speech in said city and county (San Francisco), aspersed the character and good name of a prominent citizen of this community (Abe Ruef), and stated that he knew him to be corrupt, etc." Acting-Mayor Gallagher's order of removal was made in persuance of Sections 18 and 19 of Article XVI of the San Francisco Charter, which read as follows: "Sec. 18. Any elected officer, except Supervisor, may be suspended by the Mayor and removed by the Supervisors for cause; and any appointed officer may be removed by the Mayor for cause. The Mayor shall appoint some person to discharge the duties of the office during the period of such suspension. "Sec. 19. When the Mayor shall suspend any elected officer he shall immediately notify the Supervisors of such suspension and the cause therefor. If the Board is not in session, he shall immediately call a session of the same in such manner as shall be provided by ordinance. The Mayor shall present written charges against such suspended officer to the Board and furnish a copy of the same to said officer, who shall have the right to appear with counsel before the Board in his defense. If by an affirmative vote of not less than fourteen members of the Board of Supervisors, taken by ayes and noes and entered on its record, the action of the Mayor is approved, then the suspended officer shall thereby be removed from office; but if the action of the Mayor is not so approved such suspended officer shall be immediately reinstated." CHAPTER VI. RUEF'S FIGHT TO TAKE THE DISTRICT ATTORNEY'S OFFICE. The impaneling of the Grand Jury was to have been completed on October 26. Heney was appointed Assistant District Attorney on October 24. Ruef, to secure control of the District Attorney's office before the Grand Jury could be sworn, had little time to act. But he was equal to the emergency. Gallagher removed Langdon and named Ruef as District Attorney the day after Heney's appointment and the day before the impaneling of the Grand Jury was to have been completed. Ruef had, however, considered Langdon's suspension from the day of the District Attorney's announcement of his plans for investigating graft charges. Gallagher testified at the graft trials that Ruef had, several days before Langdon's suspension, notified him it might be necessary to remove Langdon from office[95]. The Acting Mayor expressed himself as ready to carry out whatever Ruef might want done. Gallagher testified that the names of several attorneys, including that of Henry Ach, Ruef's attorney and close associate, were canvassed as eligible for appointment as Langdon's successor. Nothing definite was decided upon, however, until the day that Langdon's position was declared vacant. On that day, Gallagher received word from Ruef to call at his office. There, according to Gallagher's statement, he found Thomas V. Cator, a member of the municipal Board of Election Commissioners. Henry Ach came in later. Ruef told Gallagher that he had decided it was necessary to remove Langdon, and that he had decided to take the place himself. Gallagher assured Ruef that whatever Ruef decided in the matter he, the Acting Mayor, would stand by. The papers removing Langdon had already been prepared. Gallagher read them over, for typographical errors, he states in his testimony, and signed them. The Board of Supervisors was to have met that day at 2:30 P. M. in regular weekly session. Gallagher, as Acting Mayor, was to preside. But it was well after 6 P. M. when Gallagher arrived, from Ruef's office, at the council chamber. He appeared worried and disturbed. The Supervisors, who had been waiting for him for nearly four hours, were called to order. The communication removing Langdon was read and adopted without debate or opposition.[96] Gallagher then announced that he had appointed Ruef to be Langdon's successor. How completely Ruef dominated the municipal departments was shown by the fact that he filed his bond, his oath of office, and his certificate of appointment at the various municipal offices without hint of what was going on reaching the public. Ruef had commanded secrecy, and secrecy was observed. After Gallagher had announced Ruef's appointment in open meeting of the Supervisors, the filing of the papers was made public. Although the Supervisors, in open board meeting, endorsed Gallagher's action without apparent hesitation, nevertheless the abler among them did so with misgivings. Supervisor Wilson went straight from the meeting of the board to Ruef's office. He told Ruef that in his judgment a mistake had been made; that the papers would call the removal of Langdon confession of guilt.[97] But Ruef laughed at his fears, and to cheer him up, took him to a popular restaurant for dinner. But before leaving his office, Ruef performed his first act as District Attorney. He wrote a curt note to Heney, dismissing him from the position of assistant.[98] Later in the evening he appointed as Heney's successor Marshall B. Woodworth. The order of dismissal was delivered to Heney within ten minutes. Heney's answer reached Ruef as he sat at dinner with Supervisor Wilson and Henry Ach, who had joined the group. Heney's reply was quite as pointed as Ruef's letter of dismissal. Heney stated he did not recognize Ruef as District Attorney. The battle between the two forces was fairly on. Ruef and his associates, as they sat at dinner, discussed the advisability of taking possession of the District Attorney's office that night, but concluded to wait until morning. In this Ruef suffered the fate of many a general who has consented to delay. When morning came, District Attorney Langdon had his office under guard, and San Francisco was aroused as it had not been in a generation. Supervisor Wilson had not misjudged the interpretation that would be placed upon Langdon's suspension. The Call the following morning denounced Ruef as "District Attorney by usurpation; a prosecuting officer to save himself from prosecution." The Chronicle set forth, in a biting editorial article, that "as long as they (the Ruef-Schmitz combine) felt safe from prosecution, they jauntily declared that they would like to see the accusations fully justified, but the instant they began to realize the possibility of being sent to San Quentin, they turned tail and resorted to a trick which every man in the community with gumption enough to form a judgment in such matters will recognize as a confession of guilt." The Examiner called the removal of Langdon and the appointment of Ruef, "the last stand of criminals hunted and driven to bay." "They have," said the Examiner, "come to a point where they will stop at nothing.... William H. Langdon, the fearless District Attorney, and Francis J. Heney, the great prosecutor, have driven the bribe-seekers and the bribe-takers to a condition of political madness. In hysterical fear they last night attempted their anarchistic method of defense." The Bulletin devoted its entire editorial page to Ruef's new move, heading the article, "Ruef's Illegal Action is Confession of Guilt." "Nothing," said the Bulletin, "in the history of anarchy parallels in cool, deliberate usurpation of authority this latest exhibition of lawlessness in San Francisco.... Government is seized to overthrow government. Authority is exercised in defiance of authority. The office of the District Attorney is seized deliberately, with malice aforethought, with strategy and cunning and used as a fort for thieves to battle down the forces of citizenship. The criminals, accused of felony, after inviting investigation and pretending to assist, have shown their hypocrisy by committing an act of anarchy which, while it might be tolerated for the time being in San Francisco, would result in the execution of these men in any government of Europe." Gallagher's action, while upheld by the Union-Labor party leaders, and by the unions which these leaders dominated, was condemned by independent labor organizations. The Building Trades Council, with which all the building trades unions were affiliated, dominated by P. H. McCarthy, promptly endorsed Gallagher's action in removing Langdon. But many of the affiliated unions not only withheld endorsement, but some of them repudiated the action of the central body. The Bricklayers and Masons' Union, for example, with 800 members present, and without a dissenting vote, adopted resolutions declaring that "the President and Secretary[99] of the Building Trades Council are not fit persons to be at the head of the Union movement in San Francisco," and denouncing the course of the municipal administration, which the Building Trades Council had approved, as "high-handed defiance of the law."[100] In spite of this repudiation by the unions, Ruef issued a statement in which he denounced the prosecution as a movement "to destroy the Union Labor organization and to control the situation in San Francisco in the interest of those who are opposed to the success of the wage-earning classes." He announced further, "I have accepted this office, the first political position I ever held in my life, because I believe it to be my duty to the public to bring to an end this constant defamation and to stop the publication of matter detrimental to the city's growth and material interest." "I do not intend," he said, "to make any changes in the personnel of the District Attorney's office until it is determined what fate Mr. Langdon shall meet, with the exception that Mr. Heney will not be retained. I will not have Mr. Heney in my office because I do not believe that his moral standing is equal to the position."[101] District Attorney Langdon was out of the city when Acting Mayor Gallagher announced his suspension from office. Langdon hurried back prepared to resist the executive's action.[102] Even while Ruef and his associates were debating the advisability of taking possession of the District Attorney's office that night, attorneys for the prosecution were at work on papers in injunction proceedings to restrain Acting Mayor Gallagher, the Supervisors and Ruef from interfering with the District Attorney in the discharge of his duties. The papers were not ready before 5 o'clock of the morning of the 26th. At that hour, Superior Judge Seawell signed an order temporarily restraining Ruef from installing himself as District Attorney, and from interfering with Langdon in the discharge of his duties as District Attorney. By eight o'clock that morning, Presiding Judge Graham of the Superior Court had assigned the case to Judge Seawell's department; a police officer and two deputy sheriffs had been installed in the District Attorney's office with instructions to enforce the restraining order. For the time, at least, District Attorney Langdon was secure in his office. Ruef appeared two hours later. He was that morning to have represented the defendant in a murder trial, The People vs. Denike, but began the day by formally withdrawing from the case on the ground that as District Attorney he could not appear for the defense. He appeared in the police courts ready to prosecute a libel suit which he had brought against the proprietor of the San Francisco Bulletin, but the justice had been served with Judge Seawell's restraining order and the libel-case hearing was postponed. In Judge Dunne's department of the Superior Court, Ruef received something of a setback. The Court made a special order permitting one of Langdon's deputies to prosecute in a criminal action then pending, regardless of who might be District Attorney. The restraining order kept Ruef and Woodworth out of the District Attorney's office. By noon it was evident that at the big event of that eventful day, the impaneling of the Grand Jury, Langdon, and not Ruef, would, as District Attorney, represent The People. FOOTNOTES: [95] Gallagher testified at the trial of The People vs. Ruef, No. 1437, to the conversation at Ruef's law offices when Ruef first broached the matter of Langdon's removal, as follows: "The substance of the conversation was that Mr. Ruef stated that it might become necessary to remove Mr. Langdon from the office of District Attorney, and to appoint somebody else. I replied that that was a matter for him to make up his mind on; if he determined it had to be done. I would do it; words to that effect. I cannot give the exact language." [96] The San Francisco Chronicle, in its issue of October 26, thus describes the proceedings attending Langdon's removal: "Gallagher took the chair at 6:30 p. m. and there was ten minutes' perfunctory business. "His honor seemed uneasy, but at the careful prompting of Secretary Keane, he called for 'communications from executive officers.' "Keane then announced, 'From his honor, the Mayor,' and read Gallagher's letter suspending District Attorney Langdon 'for neglect of duty' and sundry other charges. "During the reading of the long document there was no sound In the hall save the hoarse voice of Secretary Keane, and on its completion Supervisor Sanderson arose. "Gallagher explained that Langdon would 'be given an opportunity next Thursday afternoon at 2:30 o'clock to appear before the board and defend himself against the charges.' "He then recognized Sanderson, who offered a motion accepting the communication from the Mayor and directing that Langdon be directed to appear to answer. "Supervisor Wilson seconded the motion. "Upon the call for the 'ayes,' although the Supervisors usually let silence Indicate their consent, there was a chorus of approval, and upon the call for the 'noes' there was dead silence. "Supervisors L. A. Rea and J. J. Furey were not present." [97] At the trial of The People vs. Ruef, No. 1437, page of Transcript 2654, Wilson testified: "I told him (Ruef) that I thought it was a bad move at this time and that the papers in the morning would state it was simply a confession of guilt; and I said that I had stood there and taken my program on the matter, but I felt it would ruin my chances in the face of an election, running for Railroad Commissioner, and he said I would feel better after I had something to eat, and we went over to Tait's and had supper. On the way over he (Ruef) sent Charlie Hagerty in to notify Mr. Heney of his removal." [98] Ruef's order dismissing Heney was as follows: "Mr. Francis J. Heney: You are hereby removed from the position of Assistant District Attorney of the City and County of San Francisco. "Dated. October 25, 1906. "(Signed) A. RUEF, "Acting District Attorney." [99] P. H. McCarthy and O. A. Tveitmoe, respectively president and secretary of the Building Trades Council. [100] The resolutions adopted by Bricklayers' and Masons' International Union No. 7, were as follows: "Whereas, The office of District Attorney of San Francisco County has been declared vacant by the Acting Mayor and Supervisors at a time when the said District Attorney was preparing an investigation into the official acts of the said Supervisors and others; and "Whereas, One of the persons accused by the said District Attorney of being guilty of criminal acts, has been appointed by the Acting Mayor and Supervisors to fill the office thus vacated; and "Whereas, The Building Trades Council of San Francisco has indorsed the action of the administration, and the president and secretary of said Council has aided and abetted said usurpation of power to the utmost of their ability; therefore, be it "Resolved, That this Union condemn the action of the Council in this matter, and that we condemn the president and secretary of the Council for lending or selling their aid to help to prevent the investigation of the public acts of officials who have thrown themselves open to suspicion, and thereby placing the honest union men of San Francisco in the false light of indorsing such high-handed defiance of the law; and be it "Resolved, That we deny that the proposed prosecution of the present administration is an attack on organized labor; and further, be it "Resolved, That it is the sense of this Union that the president and secretary of the Building Trades Council are not fit persons to be at the head of the Union movement in San Francisco, and that the delegates representing this Union in the Council are hereby instructed to use every honorable means to carry out the spirit of this resolution; and further, be it "Resolved, That a copy of these resolutions be furnished by the corresponding secretary to each and every Union affiliated with the Council, so that they will consider this an invitation from this Union to assist in ridding the central body of officers whom we believe have done all in their power to bring unionism into disrepute." Similar resolutions were adopted by Journeymen Plumbers, Gas and Steam Fitters' Local, No. 442. [101] See Ruef's statement as published in the San Francisco Chronicle, October 26, 1906. [102] Mr. Langdon, on arriving in San Francisco, issued the following statement: "No person in California believes that my alleged suspension is due to neglect or inefficiency. No dissent is necessary before the people. It is plain that my removal is deemed necessary by Ruef and Gallagher to prevent an honest, searching investigation of conditions that prevail in municipal affairs in San Francisco. Their plan will come to naught, however. "As District Attorney I shall pursue this investigation to the end. I deny the legal right of the Mayor or the Board of Supervisors to suspend or dismiss me. The provision of the Charter purporting to give that authority is clearly unconstitutional. The citizens must determine whether or not they will countenance this high-handed proceeding in a community which is supposed to be governed by the law, and not by the will of a boss and his puppet." CHAPTER VII. OLIVER GRAND JURY IMPANELED. The hard fight of the morning of October 26th to prevent Ruef taking possession of the District Attorney's office had been carried on practically without the general public being aware of the proceedings. Langdon had been suspended early in the evening of the previous day. The temporary order restraining Ruef from interfering with the District Attorney had been signed at 5 o'clock in the morning. The general public found by the morning papers that Ruef had attempted to seize the office, but of the steps taken to stay his hand the papers had nothing. The question on every man's lip was: Will Judge Graham recognize Ruef or Langdon as District Attorney at the impaneling of the Grand Jury? The court was to meet at 2 o'clock. Long before that hour arrived, the halls of Temple Israel, a Jewish synagogue in which several departments of the Superior Court met during the months following the great fire, were packed with citizens. The street in front of the building soon became jammed with a struggling mass of men demanding entrance. The crowd became so great that none could enter or leave the building. Plain-clothes men were on all sides, and succeeded in clearing a space about the entrance. The work of clearing the building of all who could not show that they had business there, then began. In this work, deference was shown Ruef's adherents. Notorious saloon-keepers, ex-prize fighters and strong-arm men friendly to Ruef were permitted to remain. Opponents of the administration who protested against removal were unceremoniously thrown out. Although little groups of partisans of the administration appeared in the crowd, the citizens assembled were in the main clearly in sympathy with the prosecution.[103] The arrival of Langdon, Heney and Spreckels was signal for outbursts of applause. Ruef apparently appreciated the feeling against him. He appeared guarded by two detectives of the regular police department,[104] and a body-guard of partisans. The crowd began to press about him. Several of his followers made motions as though to draw revolvers. Ruef hurried into the building. To add to the confusion, there was, planned or without planning, misunderstanding as to the room in which the hearing was to be held. The representatives of District Attorney Langdon's office finding themselves misinformed as to the meeting place, forced their way from hall to hall seeking reliable information. When the room was finally located, it was found to be packed with Ruef followers. The sheriff ordered the doors closed. The Court's attention was called to this. District Attorney Langdon insisted that the doors be opened and the crowd permitted to enter to the capacity of the room. He pointed out that some had been admitted and others kept out, and insisted there should be no discrimination. This course was taken. The crowd poured in until every available foot of standing room was occupied.[105] Eighteen of the nineteen citizens required under the California law for Grand Jury service had already been drawn at former sessions of the court. As soon as order had been secured, the name of the nineteenth was taken from the jury box. This detail over, Heney called the Court's attention to the provision of the California law, that no person whose name does not appear on the assessment roll of the county in which he serves is eligible for Grand Jury service, and that the courts have held further, that bias or prejudice of a Grand Juror against a person indicted is sufficient grounds for setting aside the indictment. Heney then stated that he wished to examine the nineteen men as to their qualifications as Grand Jurors. Ruef, announcing himself as an officer of the court, arose to speak. Heney objected to Ruef appearing, if by officer of the court he meant District Attorney or Acting District Attorney. Ruef answered that he appeared only in his capacity as member of the bar. On this showing he was allowed to proceed. Ruef contended that the procedure proposed by Heney was irregular; that if followed the validity of the Grand Jury would be imperiled. He stated that he did not want to see the Grand Jury made an illegal body. Heney replied that he intended, as Assistant District Attorney, to present felony charges against Ruef, and desired to examine the prospective Grand Jurors as to their bias for or against Ruef. Furthermore, Heney insisted, the Court had authority to excuse a juror if he were not on the assessment roll. To accept as Grand Jurors men whose names were not on the assessment roll, or men biased or prejudiced against Ruef would, Heney insisted, make the proceedings a farce.[106] In reply to Heney, Ruef defied him to produce any evidence "in open court before an untutored Grand Jury for an indictment." Ruef charged Heney further with employing abuse "to make the Grand Jury illegal so that nothing might come of any indictment." At this point, the Attorney General of the State, U. S. Webb,[107] addressed the Court. At his suggestion the Grand Jurors were excused for the day. General Webb then stated that he knew of no law for the procedure which Mr. Heney suggested. He admitted, however, that such procedure would be desirable, and advised that no hasty action be taken in coming to a decision. Heney in reply read from California decisions to show that The People have the authority to make examination of Grand Jurors, and continued: "The only question remaining is as to when this examination shall be made. Suppose the foreman of the Grand Jury is biased or prejudiced. Does it require any argument that now is the time to make this examination instead of waiting until we have presented our evidence to the Grand Jury? Shall we first have to give those whom we accuse time to bribe witnesses and get them out of the country? Shall we let the defendant come in and quash the indictment, if there is any bias or prejudice, and then be enabled to protect himself against prosecution? "After the miserable fiasco (the attempted removal of Langdon) which occurred last night," Heney went on, "what more important duty for this Court to perform than to say immediately that the law is more powerful than any man or any set of men in San Francisco?" As Heney concluded, the packed courtroom burst into applause. The crowd outside heard, took it up and cheered wildly. As soon as order was restored, Henry Ach, one of the attorneys appearing for Ruef, suggested that Heney, the Attorney General and himself, get together to present the question of whether Langdon or Ruef were District Attorney to the Supreme Court. Ach stated that he feared if Langdon or Heney attended a session of the Grand Jury and Ruef were to be found to be District Attorney, then the acts of the Grand Jury might be invalidated. Heney replied that in acting as prosecutor it had been his rule "to have no conferences, treaties or alliances with persons charged with crime, or with their attorneys." On this ground, Heney declined Mr. Ach's proposition. Judge Graham made no rulings that day on any of the points raised, but ordered a continuance until the following Monday. After adjournment of court, the appearance of Langdon and Heney at the entrance of the building brought forth cheers from the crowd that all through the proceedings had waited outside. A speech was demanded of Langdon. "My friends," he replied, "we have no speeches to make. We have a duty to perform and we will perform that duty." Immediately behind Langdon came Ruef, closely guarded by police and detectives. He was pale and worn and clearly frightened. The crowd pressed about him. Threats came from his followers to shoot into the crowd if it pressed too closely. Ruef finally reached his automobile and was driven away.[108] The topic of discussion of the two days that elapsed before Judge Graham decided the questions that had been raised by Heney's proposal to proceed with the examination of the Grand Jurors, was whether Graham would allow such examination. It was alleged that no less than four of the citizens drawn for Grand Jury service were not on the assessment roll. There were, too, charges that Ruef controlled several of them. Some of the papers printed the names of those whom it was alleged were either under obligations to Ruef or connected with his political organization. A second crowd filled courtroom, building and street when Judge Graham's court was called to order the following Monday. Mounted policemen, plain-clothes men and detectives, directed by two captains of police, were, however, on hand to preserve order.[109] There were no demonstrations. Judge Graham announced from the bench that after due deliberation, he had concluded that the District Attorney had the right to interrogate the Grand Jurors as to their qualifications. He stated further that inasmuch as Langdon was the de facto District Attorney, Langdon would conduct the examination. The prosecution had won the first skirmish in the years-long fight upon which San Francisco was entering for the enforcement of the law. The next move came from Attorney Samuel M. Shortridge. Shortridge appeared with Ruef's attorney, Henry Ach, and Marshall B. Woodworth. Ruef had named Woodworth, it will be remembered, as Heney's successor in the District Attorney's office. Mr. Shortridge read Acting Mayor Gallagher's order suspending Langdon and appointing Ruef, and also called the Court's attention to the fact that Ruef had filed his official bond as District Attorney. Shortridge stated that the matter was pending before Judge Seawell, and asked the Court, "in deference to Judge Seawell," to postpone proceedings until the District-Attorney controversy should be decided. Shortridge expressed himself as fearful that, if the examination of the Grand Jurors went on, Judge Seawell's decision might invalidate the Grand Jury proceedings. W. T. Baggett, Assistant City Attorney,[110] followed Shortridge. Mr. Baggett read a letter from the Acting Mayor, setting forth the fact of Langdon's removal, and joined with Shortridge in pleading for delay. But the pleas of both gentlemen were denied. Judge Graham repeated his opinion given earlier in the day that Langdon should be recognized as the de facto District Attorney, and ordered the impaneling of the Grand Jury to continue. Shortridge thereupon announced his desire to participate in the examination of the Grand Jurors. Heney objected to Shortridge appearing as a representative of the District Attorney's office. Shortridge replied that he respected Judge Seawell's order, and had no intention of violating it. He asked if he would be permitted to act in the capacity of amicus curiæ[111] in examining jurors. This privilege was accorded him. The examination of the Grand Jurors occupied more than a week. Several of the nineteen were excused, it being found that their names were not on the assessment roll. The examination was concluded[112] on November 7th and the Grand Jurors sworn. B. P. Oliver was appointed foreman. From him the body received its name of Oliver Grand Jury. The Grand Jury organized by electing C. G. Burnett secretary. But one important question remained to be decided, namely--Was Ruef or Langdon to represent The People at the investigation into graft charges which the Grand Jury was ready to begin? FOOTNOTES: [103] The San Francisco Chronicle in its issue of October 27 thus described the crowd: "Every man the police put out of the building was cheered by the crowd and every time policemen laid hands on anyone they were hissed. However, it was evident that the citizens who gathered outside the Temple Israel yesterday afternoon did not come prepared to fight with the police force. In the crowd standing outside almost every man prominent in the business and professional life of the city could be seen. Manufacturers, merchants, lawyers, doctors, men engaged in all the various lines of wholesale and retail business, and all the professions, included among the latter being many Protestant ministers, Catholic priests and Jewish rabbis. Here and there in the great concourse of people were scattered little groups of men of the type that may be seen hanging around the tenderloin." [104] Detectives Steve Bunner and Tim Riordan. These men accompanied Ruef for nearly a month. Late in November, after Ruef had been indicted, they were sent back to active duty. [105] While the crowd was pressing into the room, a deputy sheriff undertook to search Heney for concealed weapons. Heney complained of the officer's conduct, protested vigorously. "That is the man standing there," cried Heney, "he did so at the request of Abe Ruef." "Who was informed that Mr. Heney was armed," responded Ruef. It developed that Heney was not armed, and the incident went no further. But it indicated the sharpness of the division between the two factions. [106] The Chronicle of October 27, 1906, contains the following account of Heney's reply to Ruef: "'I now announce to the court,' said Heney fervently, 'that I intend as Assistant District Attorney, to present charges of felony and misdemeanor against Abraham Ruef, and I desire to examine the members of this panel to determine if any member entertains bias or prejudice for or against Abraham Ruef in the matter of the charges which are to be presented by the District Attorney's office. I understand that there is no question as to Abraham Ruef's right to have the indictment set aside if any member of the Grand Jury is biased or prejudiced against him. It would be a farce,' Heney went on, his voice swelling, 'it would be adding to the comedy of errors enacted last night (the attempted removal of Langdon from office), if we have a Grand Jury which is biased or prejudiced. It has become public through the newspapers--to some extent, at least--that Abraham Ruef is to be investigated. The People have the same right as the defendant to examine the members of the panel as to their qualifications. I know that a number of the members do not possess the qualifications provided by the statute, as they are not on the assessment roll, and I desire to question them on that point. The Court has the right to excuse a juror if he is not on the assessment roll. The Supreme Court has decided that a man has the right to be investigated by a Grand Jury of nineteen men who are qualified according to the statute and none others. It is not necessary to take for grand jurors the nineteen whose names are first drawn from the box. We should examine them, so that a member who has a bias or prejudice as to a particular person may be instructed that he shall not participate in the investigation of that person.'" [107] Under the California law, the Attorney-General may at his discretion, take the prosecution of a criminal case out of the hands of a District Attorney. It was within General Webb's province to have taken charge of the San Francisco graft trials. In a statement given wide publicity at the time, General Webb stated that he had no intention of taking charge of the graft trials unless Ruef succeeded in seizing the District Attorney's office. Long after, however, Heney, in an affidavit filed in the case of The People vs. Patrick Calhoun, Thornwell Mullally, Tirey L. Ford, William M. Abbott, Abraham Ruef and Eugene E. Schmitz, No. 823, set forth a statement made to him by Ruef when Ruef was pleading for immunity, in which Webb's presence at the impaneling of the Grand Jury was touched upon as follows: "Ruef said in reply in substance, 'You are prejudiced against me, Heney, ever since we had that quarrel during last election. You know that the public-service corporations are responsible for the conditions which exist in San Francisco and that I can help you send some of the officials of those corporations to the penitentiary, and I can also help you to clean up this city and make it impossible for corruption to get a foothold here again for a long time. You are afraid to trust me, but you are making a mistake. The moment it becomes known that I have gone over to the prosecution the most powerful influences in this State will all be arrayed against us, and particularly against me. The moment you attack Pat Calhoun you in fact attack Herrin. You don't know the relation between these parties and the corporation as well as I do. I am very fond of Tirey Ford, but I don't care a rap about Pat Calhoun, and would just as soon testify against him as not. But the moment it becomes known that I am ready to do so my life will no longer be safe. I will have to stick to the prosecution from the moment I start in with it. You don't know what desperate means these people are capable of resorting to. My life will not be safe. If they keep me in the county jail with O'Neil as Sheriff they will kill me to a certainty. You don't know how many influential people are involved in this thing. You and Burns think you know, but there are a lot of people whom you don't know anything about who are mixed up in it. I tell you that the combined influence of all these people will make it next to impossible to secure convictions, and will make it very dangerous for all of us. It will not do to lessen the weight of my testimony any by having me plead guilty in that extortion case. Besides that, the Court would not allow me bail after I had pleaded guilty, and the Supreme Court may knock out the elisor, and then I would be absolutely in the hands of the other people, and they would surely kill me. Sheriff O'Neil is loyal to me now, but the moment he knew I was going to testify against Schmitz he would be very bitter against me, and would do whatever those people wanted him to do. Moreover, Herrin will get Attorney-General Webb to come down and take these cases out of the hands of Langdon and yourself, and he will declare the immunity contract off upon the ground that the District Attorney has no power to make one and will prosecute me on some of the bribery cases now pending against me, and if they convict me Herrin will see to it that I am not pardoned by the Governor. He now controls the Governor and the chances are he will continue to name the Governor and control him for the next twenty years. Webb was a deputy in Ford's office when Ford was Attorney-General, and it was Ford who got him to come down here and 'butt in' at the time you were impaneling the Grand Jury. I know you fellows thought it was I who got him to come down here, but as a matter of fact I did not know any more about it than you did until he appeared there, and I am sure it was Ford who did it." [108] While Ruef was struggling through the crowd to reach his automobile Dr. Shadwick O. Beasley, Instructor in Anatomy at the Cooper Medical College, was assaulted by some unidentified person. Dr. Beasley turned, shook his fist at Ruef and hissed him. The doctor was immediately placed under arrest. Dr. Beasley, on his part, swore out a warrant charging an unknown deputy sheriff with battery. Beasley was then made subject of petty persecution. He was, for example, held up on the street by a deputy sheriff and charged with carrying a concealed weapon. He was searched by two men, but nothing more deadly than a case of surgical instruments was found upon him. Dr. Beasley complained bitterly of the rough treatment from the officers. The San Francisco Chronicle, in its issue of October 27, 1906, thus describes the scene which followed Ruef's appearance before the crowd: "With fists and clubs Chief of Police Dinan and his squad from the Central Police Station fought off the crowd of angry citizens assembled about the Temple Israel who sought to lay violent hands on Abe Ruef when the curly-headed usurper of the functions of the municipal government was leaving the scene of the Grand Jury meeting yesterday afternoon. And in the wake of the police were the Ruef heelers from the tenderloin with their hands on their pistols, threatening to shoot down the citizens of the city of San Francisco who should dare to approach too near the sacred person of their tenderloin idol. "It was one of the most remarkable scenes ever witnessed in any city of this country. Stung with the outrageous assumption of the powers of the public prosecutor when he was about to be placed on trial himself for crime, the citizens of the city, among whom are names that stand highest in business and professional circles, sought to make him realize the impudence of his conduct. That he escaped a swift punishment for his arrogant seizure of the office of the District Attorney is solely due to the presence and strenuous efforts of the police." [109] In sending his officers to handle this crowd, Chief of Police Dinan gave the following instructions: "The captains, sergeants and officers so detailed are instructed that they are sent to the place designated for the purpose of doing strict police duty. They will see that the streets and sidewalks are not obstructed, and that no violations of the law are permitted." [110] Under the San Francisco municipal charter, the District Attorney has charge of criminal cases, and the City Attorney of civil cases in which the city is concerned. The City Attorney also acts as adviser to the Mayor and Board of Supervisors. The two are independent offices. [111] Shortridge stated that as amicus curiae, it was his duty to see that the proceedings were without flaw. Heney refused to take him seriously, however, referred to him facetiously as the "curious friend of the Court." and suggested that the Court unassisted might be able to determine what was competent evidence. [112] The following nineteen citizens composed the Grand Jury that conducted the investigation of San Francisco "graft" charges: E. J. Gallagher, photographic supply dealer; Frank A. Dwyer, real estate; Herman H. Young, baker and restaurant proprietor; Mendle Rothenburg, liquor dealer; James E. Gordon, merchant; Alfred Greenebaum, merchant; Wallace Wise, haberdasher; Jeremiah Deasy, insurance agent; Rudolph Mohr, brewer; C. G. Burnett, capitalist; Charles Sonntag, merchant; Morris A. Levingston, liquor dealer; B. P. Oliver, real estate; W. P. Redington, druggist; Christian P. Rode, drayman; Ansel C. Robinson, merchant; Dewey Coffin, real estate; F. G. Sanborn, law book publisher; Maurice Block, merchant. CHAPTER VIII. RUEF LOSES THE DISTRICT ATTORNEY'S OFFICE. While the impaneling of the Grand Jury was going on before Judge Graham, Ruef was disputing Langdon's title to the office of District Attorney before Judge Seawell. In these proceedings Samuel M. Shortridge appeared with Ruef's attorney, Ach, and Deputy City Attorney Baggett, not as amicus curiæ, but as Ach's associate in the legal contest to force Langdon out of office. The principal feature of Ruef's case was the introduction of affidavits, signed by sixteen members[113] of the Board of Supervisors, in which the Supervisors denied committing felony of any character. Later, after the Supervisors had confessed, these affidavits were to be used by the defense at practically all the graft trials in efforts to break down their testimony against the bribe-givers. During the examination, Ach endeavored to force from Langdon and his deputies a statement of what evidence they had against Ruef. In this Ach failed. On the other hand, the prosecution sought to bring out testimony that Ruef had directed Gallagher to suspend Langdon.[114] To this end Heney placed Ruef on the stand. But Judge Seawell stated[115] that he did not at that time wish to go into question of motive and the point was not pressed. The outcome of the proceedings was a second victory for the prosecution. The injunction against Ruef was granted;[116] Langdon was left in peaceful possession of the District Attorney's office.[117] Later, Judge Seawell issued a permanent writ of prohibition against the Board of Supervisors restraining that body from removing Langdon from office. Langdon and his deputies, after a three-weeks fight, were free to proceed with the graft investigation. FOOTNOTES: [113] The Supervisors who signed the affidavits exonerating Ruef and themselves were: Charles Boxton, Jennings J. Phillips, W. W. Sanderson, F. P. Nicholas, L. A. Rea, Edward I. Walsh, Andrew M. Wilson, J. J. Furey, Sam Davis, C. J. Harrigan, James T. Kelly, P. M. McGushin, Thomas F. Lonergan, Daniel G. Coleman, Max Mamlock and M. W. Coffey. Each of them made declaration as follows: "This affiant has never committed a felony of any kind or character, and has never been a party thereto, and there is not and can be no evidence presented of or concerning any felony committed by the undersigned or threatened by the undersigned. It is not true that this affiant has ever been party to the commission of any crime or any misdemeanor. "This affiant further says that any and all charges, assertions and innuendoes contained in the complaint and contained in the public press of and concerning any alleged felonies, misdemeanors or wrongful acts committed or alleged to have been committed by this defendant are absolutely untrue and false, and this affiant has never been guilty of any violation of the law, and, so far as the knowledge of this affiant is concerned, each and all of the other defendants named herein are absolutely innocent of the commission of any crime or felony or offense against the laws of the State of California; and this affiant further says that he has no knowledge, direct or indirect, of the commission of any felony or of any misdemeanors or of any violations of the laws of the State of California, or any thereof, or of the City and County of San Francisco, by either or any of the defendants named herein." At the graft trials it developed that the Supervisors had signed this affidavit without reading it. At the trial of The People vs. Glass, No. 675, Supervisor Michael Coffey testified that "On the afternoon that affidavit was signed, I came down late to a meeting of the board and the members of the board were in the Notary Public's office. I went over there and met Mr. Keane, and Mr. Keane produced that paper and asked me to sign it, and I signed it and gave him a dollar to pay the Notary fees. I did not read the affidavit at that time. It was not read aloud to me while I was there. I did not talk with any person about what was in this affidavit before it was prepared. I did not know who prepared it." See page 237 of transcript on appeal. Supervisor Wilson testified: "Mr. Ruef got up that affidavit, I believe. I signed it because there was a rumor going about that some of the Supervisors had gone over to the prosecution. It was so stated in the public press and there was a little excitement among the members of the board and we understood this was sent down by Mr. Ruef to stiffen them up and to find out if that was so. It was not read at the notary's office while I was there. I did not read it before signing it." See Transcript on Appeal The People vs. Glass, page 278. Supervisor Boxton testified: "I signed the affidavit just shown me at the request of the clerk of the Board of Supervisors, Mr. George Keane. I do not know who prepared the affidavit. No one had talked with me as to the facts that were to be put in it. I knew nothing about its contents at all. It was supposed generally amongst the members there was some talk about it, that there was some of the members there that were a bit weak-kneed, and would probably tell all they knew, so this affidavit was framed up, as I understand it, to tie them down a little tighter." See Transcript on Appeal, The People vs. Glass, page 251. Practically the same testimony was given by other Supervisors at the various graft trials. [114] See footnote 95, page 87. [115] The passage between Heney and Ruef's lawyers which followed Judge Seawell's ruling is thus set forth in the San Francisco Chronicle of November 3rd: "'You can ask Mr. Ruef if he is guilty of any crimes or felonies,' Ach suggested to Heney. "'I suppose he'll plead guilty here?' responded Heney skeptically. "Samuel M. Shortridge, of Ruef's legal staff, took this remark to heart and hotly said to Heney, 'You'll plead guilty before he does.' The Judge informed Shortridge that Heney obviously spoke in jest, but Shortridge thought it a poor joke. Ruef considered Heney's whole proceeding a joke." [116] Judge Seawell in his decision said: "I am clearly of the opinion that the Charter, in so far as it relates to removal and suspension, does not apply to the District Attorney. I am firmly convinced that neither the Mayor nor the Board of Supervisors has any power to remove or suspend him. The District Attorney should not be left to the investigation of the municipal authorities. I can conceive how he might be compelled to proceed against the very persons who might be conducting an inquiry. I will grant the injunction as prayed for against Mr. Ruef." [117] A movement to secure Heney's dismissal from the District Attorney's office, on the ground that he had accepted a fee in addition to his salary as Assistant District Attorney, to act as prosecutor was started. But the allegation was not sustained and another failure was scored by the defense. CHAPTER IX. RUEF AND SCHMITZ INDICTED. Within twenty-four hours after organizing, the Grand Jury had begun investigation into graft charges. Tenderloin extortion, especially in connection with the so-called "French Restaurants," was the first matter taken up. The inquiry involved both Schmitz and Ruef. The term "French Restaurant" in San Francisco is used in connection with a particular type of assignation house. These establishments contain a restaurant on the ground floor, and sometimes banquet hall and private rooms without assignation accompaniments. The stories overhead are devoted to private supper bedrooms. Some of these assignation places are several stories in height. Before the fire, among the establishments alleged to be "French Restaurants" were Marchand's, Delmonico's, the New Poodle Dog, the Bay State and the Pup. The extent of the business conducted by these places is indicated by the testimony of A. B. Blanco, who stated under oath at the graft trials that he had $200,000 invested in the New Poodle Dog, while Joe Malfanti testified that he had about $400,000 invested in Delmonico's.[118] French Restaurants had long been a scandal in San Francisco. Toward the close of 1904, the Police Commission, then absolutely under domination of Schmitz and Ruef, gave evidence of proceeding against such places. The commission, as a beginning, revoked the liquor license of a "French Restaurant" known as Tortoni's. Without a license to sell liquor a "French Restaurant" could not continue in business. These licenses had to be renewed once every three months. The Police Commission had arbitrary power to grant, or to refuse, application for renewal. One by one renewal applications of other French Restaurants were held up. It became a matter of common report that all the "French Restaurants" were to be treated as Tortoni's had been, namely, driven out of business by having their licenses to sell liquors revoked. And then Abe Ruef appeared before the Police Commissioners as attorney for the "French Restaurant" keepers.[119] Ruef asked that consideration of the French Restaurant cases be postponed for two weeks. This was accorded him. But his request that during those two weeks the places be permitted to conduct their business as before, namely, that they be allowed to sell liquors in the private supper bedrooms, was denied by a tie vote, two commissioners of the four voting for Ruef and two against him. Before the two weeks' extension of time which Ruef had secured had expired, Mayor Schmitz had removed from office one of the commissioners who had opposed[120] Ruef's request that the sale of liquors in "French Restaurant" bedrooms be continued. The opposing commissioner out of the way, the board by a vote of two to one, adopted certain rules submitted by Ruef for the management of French Restaurants.[121] By the same vote, the commission then granted the French-Restaurant licenses, action upon which had so long been delayed. All this was done before the public. There were, of course, charges of graft and extortion, which most people, although without definite proof, believed. Heney, nearly a year later, in his speech in the Partridge campaign, referred to in a previous chapter, charged graft. A Grand Jury had made[122] an honest attempt to get to the bottom of the scandal. The efforts of this early Grand Jury came to nothing. The Oliver Grand Jury had not been in session a fortnight, however, before the whole miserable story of Ruef's connection with the French Restaurant cases had been spread before it. Thomas Regan, who had served as Police Commissioner during the Schmitz administration, testified that as early as the summer of 1904 Schmitz had told him that the "French Restaurants" were bad places and should not be permitted to exist. When Tortoni's was closed, Schmitz stated to Regan, according to Regan's testimony, that the French Restaurants were all run alike, and should all be closed. Acting upon the Mayor's suggestion, the Police Commission ordered the investigation into the methods of the French Restaurants which created such a sensation in San Francisco during the closing months of 1904. Licenses were denied in some cases. In others, hearings of applications for renewals were postponed from time to time. Some proprietors were called upon to show cause why their licenses should not be revoked. Of all of which, Commissioner Regan testified, he kept Mayor Schmitz informed. The course of the commission threw the keepers of the French Restaurants into a panic. Their attorneys found themselves helpless and could give their clients no encouragement. Marcus Rosenthal, for example, who appeared before the commission on January 3, 1905, on behalf of the Bay State Restaurant, testified at the Schmitz trial, that he was not permitted to say anything; that the commissioners would not listen to him, nor hear testimony. After that meeting he had advised his client, and a little group of "French Restaurant" keepers who had gathered about him, that it would be useless for them to appeal to any court, because under the law there could be no review of the action of the Police Commissioners; that the commission could arbitrarily dispose of any saloon-keeper, and he could not seek remedy in the courts. And then, having explained the situation fully, Rosenthal told them, what every observer in San Francisco knew, "There is only one man who could help you, and that is Mr. Ruef."[123] The French Restaurant keepers received this advice from all sides. Joe Malfanti testified at the Schmitz trial that "numerous friends advised me to see Ruef." And to Mr. Ruef the "French Restaurant" keepers finally found themselves compelled to go--at the urgent suggestion of a fellow French Restaurant keeper, Jean Loupy. Loupy was proprietor of the French Restaurant known as the "Pup." At Loupy's place Ruef maintained a sort of headquarters. There he took his dinner practically every night, entertained friends and received his henchmen. Ruef had from time to time acted as Loupy's attorney. He had also loaned Loupy money. At the time of the French Restaurant troubles, Loupy, according to his testimony, owed Ruef $1000. When the closing of the French Restaurants seemed inevitable, this Loupy brought word to the French Restaurant proprietors that Ruef would represent them all before the Police Commission for $7000 a year,[124] on a contract for two years. The sum was finally cut to $5000,[125] $10,000 for the two years. For the first year "Marchand's," "Delmonico's," "The New Poodle Dog" and the "Bay State" paid $1175 each. Loupy for the "Pup," on the grounds that he had been put to considerable expense and was a poorer man than the others, paid only $300.[126] The money being paid over to Ruef,[127] Ruef appeared before the Police Commissioners, as has already been told, with his plan for regulating the French Restaurant business in San Francisco. Ruef's arrangements with the French Restaurant keepers were concluded during the first week in January. Police Commissioner Regan testified that sometime after January 3, Mayor Schmitz asked him to vote to restore the French Restaurant licenses.[128] Regan objected on the ground that it was not right to ask him to vote first one way and then another. With Commissioners Regan and Hutton voting against issuing the licenses, the licenses could not be granted. Either Hutton or Regan had to change their attitude, or one of them had to be removed from office. Police Commissioner F. F. Poheim testified at the Schmitz trial that at a conference on the French Restaurant problem held early in January, 1905, which he and Schmitz attended, Schmitz announced: "We will have to give these people (the French Restaurant proprietors) their licenses if we can. If we cannot do anything else we will have to remove Hutton." And during the week following Ruef's first appearance before the commissioners as representative of the French Restaurants, Mayor Schmitz removed Hutton.[129] The licenses were then issued to the "French Restaurant" keepers.[130] Much of the story of these transactions was presented to the Grand Jury. But the evidence was not secured without effort. Many of the witnesses were unfriendly; others afraid of the consequences of frank statement of facts. Witnesses disappeared and could not be found. Several known to have testified were threatened and even assaulted. One French Restaurant keeper, before the investigation had been concluded, had been indicted for perjury. Three attorneys who were more or less in touch with the tenderloin situation had been cited for contempt for refusing to answer questions put to them in the Grand Jury room. But point by point the evidence was presented. The Grand Jury, on the evidence, indicted Schmitz and Ruef on five counts for extortion.[131] Bonds were fixed at $10,000 on each charge, $50,000 for each defendant. Ruef[132] was released on $50,000 bail. Schmitz, the day after the indictments were brought, was reported to have started for home from Europe. Schmitz's probable reception on his arrival at New York apparently gave keen anxiety at San Francisco. Heney states that Justice F. W. Henshaw called at his (Heney's) office and asked Heney, as a favor, to tell him whether Schmitz would be arrested upon his arrival in New York, as William J. Dingee of the Contra Costa Water Company, wanted to arrange for Schmitz's bail in New York City. William F. Herrin of the Southern Pacific Company is credited with interesting himself in Schmitz's behalf in arranging for the bond that was furnished when Schmitz reached San Francisco. Schmitz's bond was furnished by Dingee and Thomas Williams, president of the New California Jockey Club. The New California Jockey Club operated the notorious Emeryville racing and gambling establishment. Mr. Dingee was at the time one of California's most prominent capitalists. FOOTNOTES: [118] See Transcript on Appeal The People of the State of California vs. Eugene E. Schmitz, pp. 500 and 557. [119] Ruef stated that he appeared as attorney for the French Restaurant Keepers' Association. But those who paid him the money for his efforts in this instance testified at the trial of The People vs. Eugene E. Schmitz that they held membership in no such organization, nor had they heard of it. In May, 1907, Ruef stated to Heney that he had closed the bargain with the French-restaurant keepers to represent them on JANUARY 6, 1905. He insisted that he had at first flatly refused to represent them; that he had had no intention whatever of so doing until the San Francisco Bulletin denounced him for having had the licenses held up and challenged him to take the cases and to attempt to defend himself upon the theory that the money so obtained by him was received as an attorney's fee. Heney examined the Bulletin files and found that the first time the Bulletin had mentioned the French-restaurant hold-up as an attempt on the part of Ruef to extort money from the restaurant proprietors was in the last edition of The Bulletin for JANUARY 7. 1905. (See Heney's affidavit in the case of The People vs. Patrick Calhoun, et als., No. 823, pp. 141 to 143, inclusive.) [120] Commissioner Harry W. Hutton. [121] These Ruef-provided rules directed that no liquors be served in supper bedrooms on the first and second floors of the establishments, and required the French restaurants to take out hotel licenses and to keep registers the same as hotels. What the keepers of the places thought of the regulations came out at the Schmitz trial. Joe Malfanti of Delmonico's, for example, testified: "They (the Ruef rules) made no change in the running of my business--not a single change. I had a hotel license for years before and I always had a register, so there was no change in my place whatever." [122] The Andrews Grand Jury, named from its foreman, T. P. Andrews. The work of the Andrews Grand Jury was not lost, however. It served as basis for much of the investigation conducted by the Oliver Grand Jury. [123] Rosenthal testified at the Schmitz trial: "I told them from my observations and how things were going in the city and had been going for some years, that there was only one man who could help them--it was a question of life and death with them--and I said there is only one man who could help you, and that is Mr. Ruef." Rosenthal, when examined on this point before the Grand Jury, refused to testify on the ground that conversation between attorney and client was privileged. Adler got into trouble with the Grand Jury over his testimony on this point. Both Rosenthal and Adler, however, testified at Schmitz's trial. [124] N. M. Adler, proprietor of the Bay State Restaurant, testified at the Schmitz trial as to Loupy's negotiations. Loupy called upon him twice. "The first time he came," Adler testified, "he told me that things were very serious, and we would have to put up some money and hire Mr. Ruef; that he was the only man that could help us. I told him that I could not understand the proposition; that I had run my business for twenty years, and didn't think that they could do me any harm. At that time Ruef was making his headquarters at the Pup restaurant. I could see that from my place across the street. He went there regularly." Then Adler testified to the meeting before the Police Commissioners at which his attorney, Rosenthal, had not been permitted to speak, and continued: "Afterwards, Loupy came to me again, and told me that Tortoni had closed up, and that we should put up the money or we would be all closed. This was after we had been to the meeting of the Police Commissioners." [125] The testimony brought out at the graft trials showed that Ruef received $8500 from the French restaurants, $5000 the first year from the five in the combine; $3000 the second, and $500 additional from Camille Mailhebeau. Ruef stated to Heney later and so testified at the Schmitz trial, that half of the $8000 received from the combine he turned over to Schmitz. [126] The five restaurant keepers were asked at the Schmitz trial whether they had employed Ruef because he was a lawyer or because of his recognized power as political boss. They testified as follows: A. B. Blanco of the "New Poodle Dog"--"Well, being a political boss we thought he had influence enough to get our licenses." N. M. Adler, of the "Bay State"--"Well, the way I took it, Mr. Ruef is a boss. He had an influence over the commission. He was the only man who could help us." On cross-examination: "I understood that if I did not employ Ruef I would not get my license. I understood that Mr. Ruef was the only man who could get my license." Michel Debret of "Marchand's"--"Well, I agreed to (pay the money to Ruef) because having consulted we saw we had no way to get out of it unless we paid Ruef, as he was a political boss, to protect ourselves." "Because we thought--we thought if we didn't pay the money we would be treated like Tortoni's, we would be closed; we had no way to get out of it." "I believed that Ruef and the Mayor controlled the Police Commissioners." Joe Malfanti of "Delmonico's"--"I did not pay this $1175 for fun; I had to save my license. I had about $400,000 invested there. I never figured on what effect it would have upon my business if I did not get a license. If it was for myself alone I would close the place, but I figured on my partners, what they had paid. They had a lease for five years and could not go through with it and I did it as a favor. If I was alone I would close. I would not make any fight. Numerous friends advised me to see Ruef." "I went to Ruef--Ruef was the man that controlled the administration--Ruef was the one that could do the thing. His relation with the Mayor was so he could do what he pleased." Jean Loupy was asked by Heney: "Did you go to him (Ruef) because he was a lawyer or because he was a political boss?" "Because he was a political boss," replied Loupy. [127] Ruef would not take a check, neither would he accept gold--he insisted upon having currency--neither would he give a receipt. The money was taken to him by Pierre Priet, a French-restaurant keeper. Regarding the transfer of the money, Joe Malfanti, at the Schmitz trial, gave the following testimony: "Mr. Heney--Q. What did he say you were to get for the five thousand dollars, Priet? A. Yes. "Q. Yes, what did Priet say you were to get for your money? A. We were going to get the license. "Q. For two years? A. No, we were going to have no trouble for two years about a license. "Q. Five thousand dollars a year? A. Yes, sir. "Q. Now, then, what was said about how the money was to be paid? What did Priet say about how the money was to be paid? A. In currency. "Mr. Campbell--That is under the same objection and exception. "The Witness--And that two people, not three, only two people, not three. "Mr. Heney--Q. What do you mean, that no one was to go with him to Ruef? A. Yes. "The Witness--Priet said the money should be brought there in currency and paid with two people. "Q. Did Priet get you a receipt? A. I don't think he ever looked for any. I asked him about that when he came back. He said: 'Well, you should be glad to get his word of honor.' That is what I got from Priet." [128] Regan testified at the Schmitz trial: "The Mayor asked me to vote for the French liquor licenses. The first time he did so he put it on political grounds. He requested me to vote for them, saying it would hurt him politically if the license was not granted; and that they had so many friends and so many rich people frequented those places that it would be a very unpopular thing to take the licenses away, and he requested me to vote for them. That it would be unpopular to take them, the licenses, away, as they, the restaurants, had so many friends and so many rich people frequented the places. I said I didn't think it was right, that he knew he got me to close those places up. That I could not vote for them, as they were immoral and should be closed. The second conversation was all of the same tenor." [129] Commissioner Poheim took papers from Ruef's office to the Mayor on the day of Hutton's removal. Poheim testified at the Schmitz trial: "I took papers from Mr. Ruef's office that I believe were the papers of removal. He told me that they were. That was the day of Hutton's removal." [130] The Chronicle in its issue of February 1, 1907, thus summarized the evidence against Schmitz and Ruef, and the nature of their defense: "Those operations are these: There are in this as in all other cities certain dens of vice, ranging from the very fashionable down to those patronized by the dregs of society, which can exist only when licensed to sell liquor. To give or withhold the license is within the discretion of the Police Commissioners, and from their action there is no effectual appeal. Since Ruef got control of the majority of these commissioners they have been mere puppets, giving or withholding the licenses of these places as directed by Schmitz. That being the case, when renewals of licenses were necessary, the applicants were refused. That meant the ruin of their business. In the end, either from their general knowledge, or because as advised, they applied to Ruef. When the fee was settled and paid--in the case of the French restaurants $5,000 a year--Ruef notified Schmitz, who, as the prosecution is evidently prepared to prove, then directed the licenses to issue, and they were issued. In the aggregate, enormous sums were annually collected from these places by Ruef or his agents, and without that payment they could not have continued business. The revenues thus obtained were evidently the sources of Schmitz's suddenly acquired wealth. Presumably some small share was paid to the subordinates. "Certainly that is extortion, and extortion of the most villainous kind. To the ordinary reader it is completely covered by the language of the statute. The contention of Ruef and Schmitz is not that they did not get the money, or that it was not a villainous thing, but merely that it was not a villainy expressly forbidden by statute, and that therefore to indict them for it is 'persecution.' If there are any people in the city who uphold or condone such things they are no better than Ruef or Schmitz themselves." [131] The press throughout the State was a unit in approving the Grand Jury's action. The San Francisco Chronicle fairly expressed the general sentiment. It said: "Every decent man in San Francisco breathes freer to-day. The fact cannot be concealed that there was an uneasy feeling in the community that the machinations of the boss would again secure immunity for himself and those who were with him in the grafting business. The facility with which he turned the Grand Jury preceding the present one into an instrument to accomplish his own purposes inspired the fear that by hook or crook he may have obtained control of the one now sitting; but the promptitude with which the first indictment was brought allays all apprehension and converts it into confidence that the body now in session is in deadly earnest and that it will earn the gratitude of its fellow citizens and cover itself with glory by striking an effective blow which will put an end to flagrant venality in office and restore the good name of San Francisco." The San Francisco Examiner said of the indictment of Schmitz and Ruef: "The light breaks, the reign of political terror seems at an end. Mayor Eugene E. Schmitz and Abe Ruef, his mentor and master, have been indicted for extortion. The move of political regeneration and civic reform that has been sweeping the country has hit San Francisco with the force of all the other successes behind it. In other cities and other States the powerful rascals as well as their satellites have been sent to prison. Evidently San Francisco and California are to rid themselves of the arch political criminals.... Thursday, November 15, 1906 (the day on which Ruef and Schmitz were indicted), is a day to be remembered. It marks the beginning of San Francisco's regeneration. It is a day of heroic events to be told to children and grandchildren. It is the day of the declaration of independence of California's great metropolis." [132] Ruef denounced his indictment as absurd, insisting that he had merely taken fees for services rendered. In an interview published in the San Francisco Chronicle of November 16, 1906, he said: "The whole thing is absurd. I was simply acting in the relation of attorney to a client. I took my fee for rendering legal services. I was retained by a contract as attorney by the restaurant keepers. If it is extortion for an attorney to accept a fee from his client, we all might as well go out of business. This is exactly the same charge that was made against me once before and was found baseless. I have nothing to fear." On November 17 the Chronicle, touching upon Ruef's defense, said: "Every branch of the city government which is controlled by Ruef men is known to be utterly rotten. The only question has been whether under the advice and direction of low legal cunning, the grafters have kept themselves immune from the law. And the question is about to be settled." CHAPTER X. FIGHT TO EVADE TRIAL. The indictments against Schmitz and Ruef were returned November 15. Schmitz reached San Francisco on his return from Europe on November 29.[133] He at once joined with Ruef in the fight to prevent the issue raised by his indictment being presented to a trial jury. The two defendants were to have been arraigned on December 3, but at their earnest solicitation arraignment[134] was continued until December 6. On that day the plans of the defendants became apparent. It was seen that they would divide the defense, demanding separate trials; and it was quite as evident that their first move would be an attack upon the validity of the Grand Jury. Attorneys Frank C. Drew and John J. Barrett appeared for Schmitz, while Ruef was represented by Samuel M. Shortridge and Henry Ach. At the close of the proceedings, Ach asked that subpoenas be issued for the members of the Grand Jury to appear in court the following Monday to testify for the defendants. This meant the examination of the Grand Jurors for bias. The long technical fight to disqualify the Grand Jury had opened.[135] In the attack upon the Grand Jury, Joseph C. Campbell joined with Schmitz's attorneys, Drew and Barrett, while Frank J. Murphy and Charles H. Fairall appeared with Shortridge and Ach for Ruef. Ach, in moving to set aside or quash the indictments, stated that the motion was made for Schmitz and Ruef jointly, but that the defendants reserved the right to plead and to be tried separately. Ach's motion was based on nineteen counts. The point most insisted upon was that Grand Juror Wallace Wise was disqualified because of his having been on a petty trial jury panel during the current year. Wise, being thus disqualified, Ach argued, the whole indictment failed as much as though the whole nineteen Grand Jurors were disqualified.[136] Judge Dunne, after a three days' hearing, swept aside the multitude of technical objections which the various attorneys for the defense had advanced. In particular did he refuse to declare the whole nineteen Grand Jurors disqualified, because of the alleged disqualification of Juror Wise. The prosecution had gained another point in its fight to bring the defendants to trial on the merits of their cases. But the attack upon the Grand Jury had scarcely begun. After Judge Dunne's ruling, the nineteen Grand Jurors were to be put on the stand and examined one by one for bias.[137] The defense went further, and had Rudolph Spreckels up to question him as to his motives in guaranteeing a fund for the investigation of graft conditions.[138] District Attorney Langdon was also placed on the stand to be examined as to his motive in appointing Heney his assistant. He denied most emphatically that he had appointed Heney for the sole purpose of instituting criminal proceedings against Ruef and Schmitz. The examination of Grand Jurors, prosecutors and citizens lasted from December 17 until January 22. On the last named date, Judge Dunne denied the motion to set aside the indictments for bias. The prosecution had gained another step toward bringing the defendants to trial. Judge Dunne stated that he was ready to set the cases for trial the next day. But the defendants had another delaying play. They demurred to the indictments. The demurrers were not disposed of until February 18. In the meantime, the defense had made several complicating moves. The first of these was an application to Judge Graham to have the case against Schmitz transferred from Judge Dunne's court. At the same time Schmitz surrendered himself to the Sheriff, and applied to the Supreme Court for a writ of habeas corpus, and a writ of prohibition, setting up the points already raised in Judge Dunne's court against the indictments. The Supreme Court finally decided against Schmitz. But there remained another way of having the case transferred from Judge Dunne's court. The law governing changes of venue could be changed by the Legislature. The 1907 Legislature had convened early in January. A measure was introduced in both Senate and Assembly under the terms of which a defendant in a criminal action was permitted to secure a transfer of his case from one court to another by merely filing affidavit of his belief that he could not get fair trial in the court in which his case was pending.[139] The measure was known as the "Change of Venue Bill." Its chief supporter in the Legislature was George B. Keane. Keane was not only clerk of the Board of Supervisors, but he was a member of the State Senate representing a San Francisco district. Keane championed the "Change of Venue Bill."[140] The measure passed the Assembly, but failed of passage in the Senate. Ruef in his efforts to escape trial before Judge Dunne had lost again. Early in February, when the efforts of Schmitz and Ruef to evade trial were being pressed the hardest, agitation against the Japanese gave Schmitz opportunity not only to absent himself from the State, thus bringing the proceedings so far as they applied to him, to a standstill, but to restore his prestige. Schmitz was quick to avail himself of the situation. The question of admitting Japanese to California schools was then under consideration at Washington. A request was extended the San Francisco Board of Education, through California Congressmen, that the members of the board go to Washington for conference with the government authorities. Members of the board held consultation with Schmitz, after which word was circulated about the State that in defense of the public schools against the Japanese, Schmitz must, on behalf of San Francisco and California, go to Washington. A telegram was received from Congressman Julius Kahn, a close supporter of Ruef and Schmitz, who represented a San Francisco district in Congress, stating that "at the request of the President and Secretary of State we ask you to come here immediately for a conference with them and the California delegation." Schmitz started for Washington on February 3.[141] He was absent from San Francisco until March 6. He did not, however, as had been predicted, return amid popular acclaim. The outcome of the Washington negotiations was not satisfactory to California. There was popular belief that the Mayor's mission had failed. At the State line Schmitz received the startling word that Ruef was a fugitive from justice; that Sheriff O'Neil had failed to discover the fugitive's whereabouts and had been disqualified. During the month of his absence from San Francisco, the Mayor was soon to learn, events of tremendous importance to himself and to his administration had occurred. FOOTNOTES: [133] On his arrival in New York after being indicted for extortion in the French Restaurant cases, Mayor Schmitz in an interview widely published at the time gave his attitude toward the French Restaurants. The Mayor explained that these restaurants had existed so long in the city that they had become a recognized adjunct of a gay life of a gay town. He had not favored their suppression, and whenever the Police Commissioners agitated the revoking of their liquor licenses, he had opposed them. "The French restaurants did no great harm," he is quoted as saying, "and to destroy them would be to ruin the men who had invested money in them." The character of some of the heavy investors in these establishments was brought out in the report of the commission appointed by Mayor E. R. Taylor to ascertain causes of municipal corruption in San Francisco, as disclosed by the investigations of the Oliver Grand Jury. The report set forth: "The business (of the French restaurants) is very prosperous, and, as is usual, the landlord shares in its prosperity. People of social prominence were known to accept a portion of the profits of such establishments, through the extremely liberal rentals paid, and the system is received with easy toleration. One of the largest of these assignation places was located on a prominent corner of the downtown shopping district where hundreds of women daily passed its doors. The building, five stories in height, had four stories devoted to the private supper bedrooms. The land was owned in trust by one of the largest, if not the largest, trust company in the West. A lease was sought and obtained by a man notorious in the line of business above described; the building was constructed by the trust company according to plans satisfactory to him for this purpose, and the enterprise was conducted there for seven years until the building was destroyed by fire. The significant thing about such a transaction is, not that there are people who are willing to accept money from such a source, or financiers willing to put trust moneys to such uses, but that the facts, though well known, did not seem to detract in the slightest from the social recognition accorded to the persons so taking a share of the profits, while the officer of the trust company which made the lease of that particular house situated in the shopping district, was appointed a regent of the State University." [134] During the reading of the first of the five indictments, Schmitz stood, but Ruef remained seated. When the second indictment was read, both the defendants kept their seats. Heney demanded to know what was going on. Judge Dunne announced that the arraignment must proceed as in ordinary cases. During the reading of the remaining indictments both defendants remained standing, but Ruef kept his back turned toward the court. Commenting upon this incident, the Chronicle, in its issue of December 8, 1906, said in an editorial article: "In Judge Dunne's court a rogue on trial insolently refused to stand and be arraigned like any other criminal, apparently on the assumption that a political boss was above the courts. He was finally compelled to stand and let his shame be seen. He sat, however, through one arraignment, and the people have reason to complain that the trial Judge did not earlier enforce the respect due to the majesty of the law. In another instance there is a more grave offense. A lawyer presumed to bandy words with the Judge on the bench, and is reported to have said to the Court in a loud and insolent tone, evincing evident disrespect, 'And I have heard considerable oratory from you.' Nothing was done about it, and Judge Dunne owes it to the people to explain why he did not promptly commit the insolent fellow to jail. The Judge on the bench represents the majesty of the law. He sits for the people in solemn judgment on offenders. He is expected to enforce due respect for the tribunal, and for that purpose is invested with the power of summary punishment for contempt. Our alleged administration of criminal justice is disgraceful, and the evil permeates the entire machinery, from the policeman on his beat to the highest tribunal." [135] The attack upon the Grand Jury had, however, been begun the day before, and was progressing in another department of the court even as Ruef and Schmitz were arraigned. Investigation into graft conditions had by this time got beyond the tenderloin. Several minor indictments had been brought. Supervisor Fred P. Nicholas had been indicted for accepting a bribe of $26.10. As chairman of the Public Building and Grounds Committee, the Grand Jury found he had accepted a 10 per cent. commission on $261 worth of furniture purchased for the city. Several witnesses had been indicted for perjury in connection with the graft investigation. That the investigation was going far was now conceded. The defense concentrated to disqualify the Grand Jury. On behalf of Nicholas and Duffy, the Grand Jurors were haled into Judge William P. Lawlor's court December 5, the day before Schmitz and Ruef were arraigned. The defendants were represented by Frank J. Murphy, who was to play a prominent part in the graft defense. The following taken from the examination of Foreman B. P. Oliver, as printed in the San Francisco Chronicle of December 7, is a fair sample of the nature of the inquiry: "Did you say to anyone that this is just the beginning of the investigation of municipal corruption?" "I have said that from the statements I have heard in the Grand Jury room that the corruption of the municipal administration was so great that the present Grand Jury could hardly expect to make any impression upon it. As to when and where I made that statement I cannot tell," replied Oliver, who proceeded: "As to myself, the mere testimony I have heard in the Grand Jury room has filled me with horror and disgust." "Does it fill you with such horror that you believe everyone connected with the administration is corrupt?" asked Lawyer Fairall of counsel for the defense. "I do not believe anyone to be corrupt until he is proved to be so." "Could you act fairly and impartially, as a Grand Juror, while having your present feeling of horror and disgust?" "Yes, absolutely so, for I have a conscience." "You feel that your conscience would enable you to act fairly?" "I do. If I erred at all it would be on the other side, so as to be sure that I did the accused no injustice." This examination went on for several days. The same examination of the Grand Jurors followed in the case of Ruef and Schmitz, and was repeated for the third time on behalf of public-service corporation agents who were indicted later. [136] The question of the eligibility of Grand Juror Wise was finally decided by the State Supreme Court in the matter of the application of A. Ruef for a writ of habeas corpus (150 California, p. 665.) The Court held that the presence on the Grand Jury of a member who had served and been discharged as a juror by a court of record within a year of the time that he had been summoned and impaneled to act as a grand juror does not affect the validity of an indictment found by the Grand Jury. [137] The Chronicle, in its issue of December 18, 1906, said of the attack upon the Grand Jury: "The fact that the felons whom we are trying to convict are officials has nothing to do with their demonstration of the fact that it is impossible, under the laws, to put thieves in the penitentiary, when there is a large band rounded up at one time and they all fight. Under our laws the half-dozen rascals who have already been indicted for their share in the orgy of official plunder in this city can block our criminal courts. The disgraceful farce of putting the Grand Jurors and the District Attorney on trial instead of the scoundrels who have been indicted can apparently be protracted for weeks. Happily the Legislature meets early next month, and if it does not put a speedy end to it we are mistaken. We are getting an object lesson which, perhaps, was needed. The whole miserable machinery of obstruction must be swept away. Whoever is indicted by a Grand Jury must go to trial, unless, in the opinion of the trial Judge, extraordinary conditions indicate that some inquiry should be made to be conducted solely by himself. The public will be satisfied with nothing short of that, nor will it be satisfied with that. The abuses of appeal must be ended." [138] Mr. Spreckels testified in part as follows: "I am not interested in the downfall of any man, either Eugene E. Schmitz or Abraham Ruef. I did guarantee the sum of $100,000 to detect any wrongdoing whatsoever in the city of San Francisco. I indicated that to Mr. Heney. I cannot recollect as to dates, but I think it was a short while before the commencement of these proceedings. It was since the calamity of April 18. I had been interested for a long while before that in starting an investigation.... I did not guarantee to Mr. Heney $100,000, but I did guarantee that for the purpose of investigation for the collection of evidence, I would personally guarantee $100,000 for the expenses.... My object was merely to ascertain the truth or falsity of things that had been generally stated. Some of the things I had known of myself. I knew there was an effort made in the city here of doing things in the past. Mr. Ruef, himself, had had a conversation with me which indicated that he was in a position to do certain things, and knowing these things I was willing that an investigation should proceed to the bottom, and to furnish the money necessary to collect the evidence. I have stated publicly relative to this fund of $100,000." [139] The San Francisco Chronicle, in its issue of January 17, 1907, said of the Change of Venue bill: "Assemblyman Grove L. Johnson of Sacramento, and Senator L. A. Wright of San Diego, have introduced identical bills which provide in brief, that in any criminal trial the accused may displace the Judge upon his mere affidavit that he 'believes he cannot have a fair and impartial trial.' Upon the filing of such an affidavit the services of some other Judge must be secured, provided that in counties having more than one department of the Superior Court the case shall be transferred to some other department of the same county. The bill provides that the act shall take effect immediately upon its passage. The obvious intent of the law is to enable the indicted boodlers of this city to select the Judge who shall try them, to set aside all that has thus far been done to get them before a jury and have their cases retried from the beginning." [140] Ruef had, as early as 1904, secured a hold on the State Legislature, by putting up and electing a Union Labor party legislative ticket. "I told the legislators," said Ruef in a statement published after he had entered San Quentin prison, "to vote on all labor questions and legislation directly involving labor interests always for the labor side. I told them on all other questions to follow the Herrin program. Herrin was appreciative. He expressed his sense of obligation."--Abraham Ruef's "The Road I Traveled," published in San Francisco Bulletin, July 6, 1912. Keane, at the trial of The People vs. Ruef, No. 1437, admitted that he had supported "The Assembly bill providing for changes of place of trial in certain cases," at the special request of Ruef. See transcript on appeal, part 3, book 1, pages 442-3. Keane was also active in the advocacy of other measures changing the law governing criminal cases. One of these practically forbade public comment on a criminal trial from the impaneling of the Grand Jury until the rendering of the verdict. Commenting upon this anti-publicity bill, E. H. Hamilton, in a dispatch from Sacramento to the San Francisco Examiner, published in that paper March 5, 1907, said: "This bill had been sneaked through the Senate the other night when no one was paying any attention, but Senator Boynton moved to reconsider the vote by which the bill was passed, and brought up the matter to-day, asking that the bill be given a free discussion before it was acted upon. He showed that it was directly in opposition to the Constitution of the United States and the Constitution of the State, because it was aimed directly at the freedom of the press and intended to prevent newspapers from publishing accounts of criminal trials. "Senator Sanford of Mendocino said that it was an attempt to muzzle the press and to prevent people from ascertaining what was going on in criminal lawsuits, but the Senate refused to reconsider the vote by which it had passed the unconstitutional bill." Keane also pressed an amendment to the codes to prevent stenographers and bookkeepers testifying against their employers. During the discussion in the Senate Committee on the Change of Venue bill, Keane offered an amendment to make this measure take effect immediately. [141] On the way across San Francisco Bay to take the train at Oakland, in the words of newspaper reports of the incident, members of Mayor Schmitz's personal following who accompanied him, "were frankly delighted with the prospect of the indicted Mayor returning from the national capital covered with glory, and acclaimed the savior of the country from a war with Japan." Ruef regarded the incident cynically. "As soon as Schmitz got aboard that train," said Ruef on the day of the Mayor's departure, "the nation was saved." CHAPTER XI. RUEF A FUGITIVE. Three months[142] after his indictment in the "French Restaurant" extortion cases--three months of continuous fighting to evade the issue--Ruef found his last technical obstruction, as far as the State courts were concerned, swept away, and was forced to enter his plea to the charge contained in the indictment. He pleaded "not guilty." His trial was set for March 5. Up to the day before the date fixed for the trial to begin, nothing had come up to indicate further delay. On March 4, however, Ruef's bondsmen surrendered him into the custody of the Sheriff. Ruef then applied to Superior Judge J. C. B. Hebbard for a writ of habeas corpus. The application was based on the allegation dealt with in a previous chapter, that Grand Juror Wise was ineligible, because he had been drawn as a trial juror within a year before the impanelment of the Grand Jury of which he was a member. On the ground that Wise was ineligible for Grand Jury service, Ruef's attorneys contended, their client's restraint was in violation of the Fifth and Fourteenth amendments to the Federal Constitution, thereby raising a Federal issue and paving the way for appeal to the Federal courts. In opposing Ruef's new move, Hiram W. Johnson,[143] who had been employed to assist the District Attorney in the "graft" prosecution, pointed out that the cases named in the petition were pending in a co-ordinate branch of the Superior Court; that they were set for trial the following day; that the points, including the Federal points, had been made subject of extensive arguments before Hebbard's colleague, Judge Dunne, and in the course of those arguments every question presented in the proceedings had been passed upon. Ach, representing Ruef, denied that the Federal question had been presented. Johnson insisted that it had. An unfortunate scene followed.[144] Hebbard showed symptoms of intoxication. Johnson, Langdon and Heney finally refused to participate further in the proceedings and walked out of the courtroom.[145] The withdrawal of the District Attorney and his assistants did not delay Judge Hebbard's decision. He denied the writ Ruef prayed for, but he allowed an appeal from his order to the Supreme Court of the United States, and admitted Ruef to bail pending that appeal. One of Ruef's attorneys filed the writ of error issued by Judge Hebbard with the clerk of the Federal Circuit Court. May 2 was set as the date for the appearance on the writ of error before the United States Supreme Court at Washington.[146] The Aetna Indemnity Company had furnished Ruef's bond. This company surrendered Ruef to the Sheriff in the forenoon. In the afternoon it furnished the bail that had been imposed by Judge Hebbard. Ruef, in Hebbard's order granting him opportunity to take his case to the Federal Courts, had basis for further struggle in the courts to evade trial. But he undertook a new move. After leaving Hebbard's courtroom on the afternoon of March 4, Ruef dropped out of sight as completely as though the earth had opened and swallowed him. For three days the regular peace officers of San Francisco searched San Francisco for him but they did not find him. When Ruef's case was called for trial in Judge Dunne's department on the morning following the proceedings in Judge Hebbard's court, Ruef's attorney, Samuel M. Shortridge, was present, but not the defendant. Shortridge was in the position of an attorney in court without a client.[147] After a wait of four hours, to give Ruef every opportunity to make his appearance, Heney moved that the bonds of the absent defendant be declared forfeited, specifying the bonds originally given as well as those furnished in the proceedings before Hebbard. Judge Dunne, in ruling upon Heney's motion, stated that he was proceeding as though the proceedings before Judge Hebbard had not occurred. Those proceedings, he announced, he felt were under a species of fraud. He ordered Ruef's original bonds forfeited and took the question of the forfeiture of the bonds in the proceedings before Judge Hebbard under advisement. He considered it his duty, he said, to proceed with the trial of the case until ordered to desist by the Supreme Court or by the Court of Appeals. Attorney Shortridge announced to Judge Dunne that in proceeding with the hearing he might find himself in contempt of the Supreme Court of the United States. Judge Dunne stated that that would not embarrass him, and in any event, he would not proceed with the matter until the defendant was in court. The day passed without the defendant's whereabouts being discovered. Sheriff O'Neil reported that he had been unable to find the fugitive, but expressed his belief that he would be able to do so eventually. With that understanding court adjourned for the day. The day following, Ruef's attorneys appealed to the State Appellate Court[148] for a writ of prohibition to prevent Judge Dunne and others from further proceeding against Ruef in the extortion cases, and to show cause why the writ should not be made permanent. Ruef being in hiding, the application was not signed by the petitioner. The Appellate Court, after twenty-four hours, denied the petition. Ruef's representatives then went before the State Supreme Court with the same representations. And here, again, eventually, Ruef lost. In the meantime, Ruef had not been found. The day following his disappearance, Judge Dunne disqualified the Sheriff and named the next officer in authoritative sequence in such matters, the Coroner, W. J. Walsh, as elisor, to arrest Ruef and bring him into court. Coroner Walsh had no better success than had Sheriff O'Neil. Ruef had disappeared on the night of Monday, March 4. On Friday, March 8, after three days of unavailing search by O'Neil and Walsh,[149] Judge Dunne disqualified Walsh and appointed William J. Biggy[150] as elisor to arrest the fugitive. Within two hours Biggy, accompanied by Detective William J. Burns, had located Ruef at a road-house in the San Francisco suburbs and had placed him under arrest.[151] Having taken his man,[152] the elisor was at a loss to know what to do with him. To put him in the city prison was to turn him over to the police; to put him in the county jail was to turn him over to the Sheriff. The Chief of Police was even then under indictment with Ruef, a co-defendant; the Sheriff had been disqualified. The only alternative was for Biggy himself to hold Ruef until the court could act. Biggy accordingly secured suitable quarters at the Hotel St. Francis, and there held Ruef a prisoner until the following Monday, when he was taken before Judge Dunne. Judge Dunne refused to admit Ruef to bail, remanded him to Elisor Biggy's custody, and continued his trial until the following morning, Tuesday, March 12. Ruef immediately made application to the Supreme Court for a writ of habeas corpus, asking to be released from the custody of Elisor Biggy and placed in charge of the Sheriff. But here again Ruef was defeated. Elisor Biggy continued his keeper for many months following. Ruef, after his appeal to the Federal Supreme Court, had exhausted every legal device known to himself and his attorneys to escape trial in the extortion case pending before Judge Dunne.[153] His last recourse gone, Ruef found himself brought face to face with trial before a jury. On March 13 the selecting of jurors to try Ruef began in Judge Dunne's court. But events of far greater moment than petty extortion had the attention of San Francisco. Even as Ruef was in hiding, Detective Burns and his assistants had trapped three members of the Board of Supervisors in bribery. This opened up the most fruitful field of the graft prosecution, and immediately the extortion cases became of comparative unimportance. The trapping of the three Supervisors led to confessions from fourteen others, which involved not only Ruef in enormous bribery transactions, but also prominent members of the bar, and leaders in the social, financial and industrial life of California. FOOTNOTES: [142] Ruef and Schmitz were indicted November 15, 1906. The date of Ruef's plea of "Not guilty" was February 18, 1907. [143] Hiram W. Johnson is a native of California, having been born at Sacramento. He was educated at the Sacramento public schools and the University of California. At twenty-one he had been admitted to practice at the California bar. He was active for years against the corrupt political conditions in California before he came into prominence as one of the prosecutors at the graft trials. In 1910 he was selected to lead the movement against the political machine which dominated the State. As primary candidate for Republican nomination for Governor, he visited practically every community in California, making one pledge to be carried out in the event of his election, "to kick the Southern Pacific out of political control of the State." He was nominated and elected. His election resulted in political revolution in California. (See "Story of the California Legislature of 1911" and "Story of the California Legislature of 1913.") He was one of the founders of the Progressive party at Chicago in 1912, and was that year candidate for Vice-President with Roosevelt on the National Progressive ticket. In 1914 he was re-elected Governor of California with overwhelming vote. Johnson is the first Governor since 1853 to secure re-election in California. [144] See Heney's affidavit in The People vs. Ruef, No. 823. [145] "Again we protest," said Johnson when the final break came, "in behalf of the District Attorney of this city and county, and in the name of the people of California. We do not believe in this; we will not participate in it; and we take our leave of this court. We will not participate in any proceeding which does not, according to our ideas, comport with the dignity of justice, the dignity of this court, or our own dignity." [146] On March 25, 1907, Ruef's appeal in the habeas corpus matter was dismissed by the Supreme Court of the United States. Of this move, Frank J. Murphy, one of Ruef's attorneys, is quoted in a published interview: "We have instructed our representative in Washington to withdraw the writ of error filed by us. This decision was reached on account of the decision of the State Supreme Court to the effect that the participation of an incompetent juror does not affect the validity of an indictment." This action left the Prosecution free to proceed with Ruef's trial without any possibility of the proceedings being questioned later. [147] Judge Dunne ruled that Ruef, being a fugitive from justice, and his trial one for felony, at which the defendant must be present at every stage of the proceedings, there was no trial before the court. Shortridge was in the position of counsel without a client. During the examination of Coroner Walsh, after his failure to find Ruef, Shortridge insisted upon interrupting the examination. Judge Dunne after repeated warnings, found Shortridge guilty of contempt of court, and sentenced him to serve twenty-four hours in jail. The Chronicle of March 9, 1907, contains the following account of the incident: "Have you not said," Walsh was asked by Heney, "that you hoped he (Ruef) would be acquitted and that you would do all you could for him? Are you not in sympathy with him?" Again the Coroner quibbled and Judge Dunne ordered: "Answer the question. Do you sympathize with him or not?" Still the witness hesitated, and again the Judge asked with vigor: "Are you in sympathy with him?" "If he is innocent I am in sympathy with him, if he is guilty I am not." "I suppose you wish it to appear that you are not in sympathy with him so that you may take charge of the jury," suggested Heney. Samuel M. Shortridge, one of Ruef's lawyers, here said that he objected on behalf of his client to the line of examination. Heney proceeded without paying any attention to Shortridge's interruption. Shortridge again entered an objection, and Judge Dunne ordered him to take his seat. "But I wish to be heard on behalf of my client," persisted Shortridge. "Take your seat, Mr. Shortridge, or I will order the Sheriff to cause you to do so or remove you from the court room," declared Judge Dunne. "Am I to understand that I am not to be heard in this court?" demanded Shortridge with play of great indignation. "Mr. Shortridge, your conduct is boisterous and offensive and tends to interfere with the orderly conduct of the court. I declare you guilty of contempt and sentence you to be confined in the County Jail for twenty-four hours. Mr. Sheriff, take him into custody." [148] The two principal points on which the defense based their applications for writs of habeas corpus and of prohibition were: (1) That Juror Wise, having sat on a petty jury within a year, was disqualified to act as a Grand Juror, and hence the indictments were fatally defective. (2) That the matter was before the Supreme Court of the United States on a writ of error. [149] Heney, in his affidavit in contention that an Elisor should be appointed to bring Ruef into court, indicated the conditions which were handicapping the prosecution. [150] Biggy afterwards became Chief of Police of San Francisco. [151] Ruef was with one of his henchmen, Myrtile Cerf, when arrested. Long after, when he had plead guilty to one of the extortion charges, Ruef stated in an interview published in the San Francisco Call, May 16, 1907, that it had been his purpose "to wait until the Legislature had acted on the Change of Venue Bill," which was considered in a previous chapter, and which at the time of Ruef's flight was being engineered through the Senate by George Keane in his capacity as Senator. Ruef, in his interview, stated further: "We had expected that this bill would go through. Naturally we were surprised when we learned that Campbell, the Mayor's (Schmitz's) attorney, was at Sacramento lobbying against the bill. What his object was I do not know. He even went to George Keane, who had charge of the bill, and tried to switch him to the other side." During the period of Ruef's disappearance, his attorneys had insisted that they were unaware of his whereabouts. Myrtile Cerf, his companion in flight, refused to say before the Grand Jury with whom he had telephonic communication while at the roadhouse, on the ground that such testimony might incriminate him. [152] Ruef's arrest threw the administration into the greatest confusion. Supervisor Wilson testified at the trial of The People vs. Ruef, No. 1437, Part 3, Vol. 7, p. 3175, that at 2 o'clock of the morning following Ruef's capture, he went down to Henry Ach's apartment to ascertain if the rumor that Ruef had been found were true. [153] Of the procedure which made possible Ruef's long technical fight to escape trial, the San Francisco Chronicle on November 10, 1906, said: "The disgraceful condition of our criminal laws permits guilty men to put off their doom almost without limit. Where money makes unscrupulous talent available that course is invariably taken by those caught in the toils of justice. There are many objects to be gained by these delays. Witnesses may die or be spirited away. Most important of all the public becomes wearied and finally forgets or loses its zest for the enforcement of the law. When that stage is reached the 'pull' comes into play. By the connivance of the District Attorney, and especially of the Judge, continuance after continuance can be granted until proof becomes impossible and the case is dismissed. The adoption of such a course by any accused person of bad reputation is moral evidence of guilt which is conclusive with the public. We have had in this city many disgraceful criminal trials. We have had many obvious miscarriages of justice. There have been wealthy men whom everybody feels should be in the penitentiary who have hardly ceased for a day to flaunt their faces in decent society. We have never had a case in which the obstruction to the cause of justice began so early as Ruef began it, or was conducted with such brazen effrontery. It is not within our recollection that any accused person of whose guilt there was reasonable doubt had adopted such a course. Its adoption is the recognized sign of guilt. "But while our laws affecting court practice are very bad, they do afford the means of ultimately bringing criminals to trial and convicting them if the evidence is sufficient and the jury unbiased and uncorrupted. It only requires that the public maintains its interest and thereby sustains its officials in their efforts to secure justice. In this case the advantage is with the public. There is no possibility of a 'pull' with the District Attorney. His assistant, Mr. Heney, is himself a master of the criminal law and in notable cases elsewhere has triumphed over similar efforts for delay made in behalf of criminals of far higher social and political standing than Ruef. In fact Ruef has no standing of any kind in the community in any way different from that possessed by other political bosses supposed to be corrupt. The indignation of this community is a righteous indignation and it will never abate until under the due processes of law the truth in respect to Ruef and his roustabouts is dragged out in open court." CHAPTER XII. TRAPPING OF THE SUPERVISORS. Months before the Oliver Grand Jury was convened, it was common gossip in San Francisco that the members of the Board of Supervisors were taking money from the public service corporations.[154] Belief of this had got beyond the stage of mere newspaper accusation. It had become the firmly-settled conviction of the law-abiding element of the community. For this reason, as the months wore away in technical wrangling in the "French Restaurant" extortion cases, the public became impatient that time and energy should be expended in comparatively unimportant matters, while big graft went unprobed. Partisans of the administration took advantage of this sentiment to belittle the prosecution. Under this sort of hammering, the prosecution, during the months of February and March, 1907, unquestionably lost ground in public opinion. But with Ruef holding the Supervisors to rigid accounting, and agents of public-service corporations lynx-eyed[155] to detect any weakness in their position, and quick to report with warning and advice to Ruef at any suggestion of danger, Burns and his associates were able to make little headway in securing evidence of big graft that would justify indictment or warrant trial. The Supervisors looked to Ruef absolutely. Some of them took bribe money from others than himself in spite of his warning, but when they scented a trap they hurried to Ruef for advice. When he directed them to return the bribe money they promised to do so, and in some cases actually returned it. Ruef was a competent captain over men who had all confidence in his ability to keep them out of trouble. So long as he was in touch with the Supervisors his position so far as the Supervisors was concerned was almost impregnable. When, however, Ruef was caught in a position where he could no longer consult freely with his men, advise them and reassure them, his organization went to pieces in a wild scramble of every member thereof to save himself. This occurred when Ruef was placed in the custody of Elisor Biggy. Ruef fully appreciated this weak point in his position. He realized from the beginning of the Graft Prosecution the danger of members of the Board of Supervisors being trapped in independent bribery, and himself becoming involved through their confessions. Even before his flight from trial in the extortion case, he knew that his fears bade fair to be realized. Some fortnight before Ruef's flight, Supervisor Lonergan had been to Ruef with confession of having taken $500 from Golden M. Roy. Roy was proprietor of a well-known cafe and was counted by men in Lonergan's position as one of the supporters of the administration. But the more astute Ruef at once suspected betrayal. Ruef bluntly informed Lonergan that he had been trapped, directed him to return the money Roy had given him and warned him of the risk he ran in accepting bribes. Ruef's fears were well founded. Roy, in his dealings with Lonergan, was acting for Detective William J. Burns. The trap which Burns had prepared for the eager Lonergan was plausibly baited. Roy was a restaurant keeper with several side enterprises, among them interests in a skating-rink. An ordinance regulating skating-rinks was pending before the Supervisors. Roy, acting under direction of the District Attorney, approached Lonergan with a statement that he wished the ordinance defeated. Lonergan accordingly met Roy at the skating-rink office. In an adjoining room, placed so they could see and hear, were Detective William J. Burns and two others. From their places of concealment the three men heard the bargain, and saw Roy pay Lonergan $500 to defeat the skating-rink ordinance. Roy, acting for the District Attorney, then attempted to trap Gallagher. He offered Gallagher $1000 for his work on the skating-rink ordinance. Gallagher refused to take any money and said that Roy was a friend of the administration and it should not cost him anything. Roy urged Gallagher to accept the money, alleging that it came from a pool; that Gallagher was entitled to it; that he, Roy, had given money to several Supervisors already. Gallagher asked him to tell which ones. Roy refused, saying, "You would not expect me to tell on you." Gallagher immediately suspected Lonergan and told his suspicions to Wilson, and the two hunted up Lonergan and charged him with getting the money. Gallagher hurried Lonergan to Ruef much the same as they would have rushed a man showing the symptoms of a deadly malady to a physician. Ruef warned him and advised him. The thoroughly frightened Supervisor assured Ruef that he would be careful in the future, and that he would return the money he had received from Roy.[156] But even as Ruef was dealing with Lonergan, Supervisor Edward I. Walsh was walking into a trap set in duplication of that into which Lonergan had fallen. Walsh, at the skating-rink, with the eyes of Burns and others upon him, accepted $500 from Roy--who was working as before under direction of the District Attorney--as the price of his vote on the skating-rink ordinance. The third Supervisor to fall into the District Attorney's trap was Dr. Charles Boxton. Dr. Boxton[157] was a different type from Lonergan and Walsh. He had had the advantage of superior education and training. A specially prepared trap was set for him at Roy's house. Boxton was introduced into the front room separated from the dining-room by folding doors. The dining-room had been darkened, and the folding doors left slightly ajar. Burns, with his assistants, was concealed in the dining-room, where they could see all that took place in the front room, as well as hear what was said. They saw Roy offer Boxton the money; heard him tell Boxton that the ordinance was to be defeated; saw Boxton take the money. The trap was to be sprung once more, with Lonergan, for the second time,[158] the victim. Lonergan, instead of returning the $500 he had accepted in the skating-rink transaction, as he had promised Ruef he would do, accepted an additional $500 from Roy. As before, Burns and his men witnessed the transaction. Roy had told Lonergan of an ordinance authorizing the establishing of an oil refinery in which Roy claimed to be interested. He promised Lonergan $500 to support the measure. The ordinance had been cleverly prepared, with an acrostic in the title, spelling the word "Fake."[159] Roy had interested Boxton in the measure as well as Lonergan. Boxton had introduced it at a regular meeting of the Board of Supervisors. On March 7, while Ruef was a fugitive, Lonergan went to Roy's house to get the money to be paid him for the support of the "Fake" ordinance. The same arrangements had been made for Lonergan as for Boxton. Burns and his men were concealed in the darkened dining-room; the folding doors were ajar. Lonergan took the money. "What," he demanded of Roy, "have you in the next room?" and advanced toward the partially-open folding doors. At that Burns threw the doors open. "You see," said Burns, "what he has in there." "I want you to arrest this man," cried Lonergan, indicating Roy. "He bribed a Supervisor." "Yes, I saw him do it," replied Burns. "But you did not tell me to arrest him when he bribed you down at the skating-rink." Lonergan at first denied the skating-rink incident, but finally admitted it. Langdon and Heney were sent for, and joined the party at Roy's house. Lonergan was urged to tell what he knew of graft of the Schmitz-Ruef administration. He finally consented. It was not a long story. Supervisor James L. Gallagher had acted as go-between, Lonergan stated, from Ruef to the Supervisors. From Gallagher, Lonergan testified, he had received $475 to influence his vote in the ordinance granting permits to the organized prize fight promoters to hold fights once a month; $750 to influence his vote in fixing gas rates at 85 cents per thousand instead of 75 cents, as had been pledged in the Union Labor party platform on which he had been elected; $3500 in the matter of granting the Home Telephone Company's franchise; $4000 for his vote in granting the United Railroads its permit to establish the overhead trolley system. Lonergan stated further that Gallagher had promised him $750, and later $1000, to influence his vote in the matter of passing an ordinance for the sale of a franchise applied for by the Parkside Realty Company, with the "biggest thing yet" to come, when the deal was consummated, by which the city would accept the plans of the Bay Cities Water Company. In addition to the sums received from Gallagher, Lonergan confessed to receiving $5000 from T. V. Halsey, representing the Pacific States Telephone and Telegraph Company. Halsey had paid Lonergan the money, the Supervisor said, to oppose the granting of a franchise to the Home Telephone Company. Walsh and Boxton were sent for. On their arrival at Roy's house they were closely questioned, and urged to confess, but neither would make a statement that night. Boxton insisted that he would admit nothing unless the other Supervisors made statements. But on the following day, March 8, Walsh made a statement under oath to the District Attorney and Heney, in which he confessed to receiving bribes from Gallagher, except in the Home Telephone bribery, in the same amount and under like conditions that Lonergan had stated bribes had been paid him. Startling as these confessions were, they as a matter of fact involved none but Lonergan, Walsh, Gallagher and Halsey. At no point did they touch Ruef, or Schmitz, or those who had furnished the bribe money. Boxton with Walsh and Lonergan had been trapped in bribery. Two had confessed to receiving money from Gallagher, but even though the third, Boxton, added his confession to theirs, it would not have provided sufficient to convict. The confessions of the three were uncorroborated as to each bribe. The remaining fifteen Supervisors would to a certainty have sworn they voted for the several measures without inducement. With such testimony from the fifteen, no motive could have been shown for Gallagher to bribe Lonergan, Walsh and Boxton; the measures could, with the votes of the fifteen, have been passed without the votes of the three Supervisors trapped. To make out even a fairly good case against Ruef, it was absolutely essential to have Gallagher's testimony, and in addition thereto, the testimony of a majority of the members of the Board of Supervisors.[160] The prosecution had made progress in trapping the three Supervisors, and in getting confession out of two of them. But at best it was only an opening wedge. The least slip would have lost all the ground gained. The three trapped Supervisors might be sent to State Prison. Had they been, Schmitz with the fifteen Supervisors remaining would have filled their places by appointment. The situation would then be more difficult for the prosecution than ever. While the agents of the District Attorney were dealing with the complicated problems which the first break in the line of the graft defense brought upon them, Ruef continued a fugitive. Gallagher, Ruef's immediate representative, realized the seriousness of the situation. He had no real loyalty for Ruef. His one thought was for Gallagher. He could for the moment see no hope for himself, except in the defeat of the prosecution. He accordingly exerted himself to block Burns, and to prevent the conditions of graft in the Board of Supervisors from becoming public.[161] Supervisor Wilson was assisting him. As encouragement, the anxious Ruef had sent Gallagher word by his sister to remain firm. But the leader was gone; Ruef's grip was loosened. From Gallagher down to the wretched Lonergan, the Supervisors were thinking of saving themselves alone. Ruef's word, sent by his sister to Gallagher, was for Gallagher "to sit on the lid." Gallagher soon after observed to Wilson that "the lid was getting a little warm"; that he thought he would get in touch with the prosecution to see what could be done with the other side. Wilson assured Gallagher that he considered such a move would be a wise one. Gallagher's first definite word that as many as three Supervisors had been trapped reached him through Dr. Boxton's attorney, H. M. Owens. Owens told Gallagher that Boxton had made full statement of the situation to him and that he was convinced, and so was Boxton, that if Boxton went to trial he would be convicted. The effect of this information upon Gallagher can be appreciated when it is realized that Gallagher, acting as Ruef's go-between, had himself paid Boxton money. Owens stated further that the question of giving the Supervisors immunity, provided they made complete confession, had been broached, and the suggestion had been made that Gallagher meet some member of the prosecution to discuss this point. The names of Langdon and Burns were suggested, but Gallagher did not care to meet them. He finally agreed, however, to an appointment with Rudolph Spreckels. Before the meeting between Gallagher and Spreckels took place, Langdon, Heney, Spreckels and Burns had a conference. It was suggested that Spreckels might indicate to Gallagher that the prosecution would like to have his confession and statement, and that the District Attorney would unquestionably be able to extend to him immunity[162] on the strength of his giving full and free, truthful testimony concerning crimes in which he was involved while acting as a Supervisor in connection with the public service corporations and others. Three meetings were held between Spreckels and Gallagher before the matter was concluded. The meeting-place was in the grounds of the Presidio, the military reservation at San Francisco. The first of the three meetings was preliminary only. Spreckels explained to Gallagher the aims and purposes of the prosecution.[163] Gallagher would make no admissions, and indicated that under no circumstances would he consider the District Attorney's immunity proposition unless all the Supervisors were included within its provisions. After this preliminary meeting, Spreckels conferred with Langdon and Heney. It was agreed that Gallagher's testimony was essential. He was, indeed, the pivotal witness. The confessions of Lonergan, Boxton and Walsh showed that he had carried the bribe money from Ruef to the Supervisors. Furthermore, the testimony of a majority of the Supervisors would be necessary. Under the circumstances it was decided that immunity could very properly be extended to all the Supervisors. This decision Spreckels took back to Gallagher. Gallagher called his leaderless associates together. By this time it was generally known among the Supervisors that Lonergan, Walsh and Boxton had been trapped, that at least two of them had made statements to the prosecution. Furthermore, there were rumors that other members had been to the prosecution and made confessions. Gallagher explained the seriousness of the situation.[164] He explained to them the immunity proposition which the prosecution had made, and stated that the matter rested in their hands. He said that he was willing to sacrifice himself, if necessary, but that the whole matter was with them to decide. Wilson and Boxton urged that the terms offered by the prosecution be accepted.[165] The Supervisors present were at first divided. Some of them announced that they would take the attitude of denying all graft. "Very well," replied Gallagher, "any one who wants to take that attitude will be excused from further discussion." But none of the troubled officials left the room. Boxton stated that he would involve Gallagher in a statement, and that Gallagher would have to testify to all the money transactions he had had with the board. The Supervisors knew, even then, that Gallagher had already been involved by the confessions of Walsh and Lonergan. Under the urging of Gallagher, Wilson and Boxton, they finally decided to make confession. Ruef was not present at that last secret caucus of the Schmitz-Ruef Board of Supervisors. Gallagher took back word to Spreckels that he had communicated to the Supervisors the message which Spreckels had delivered to him from the District Attorney, to the effect that immunity would be granted to the Supervisors, provided they would make sworn declaration of the crimes in which they were involved, giving a truthful account of all matters. The Supervisors, Gallagher told Spreckels, had decided to accept the proposition, and would meet the District Attorney for the purpose of making their statements. Gallagher rather tardily asked immunity for Ruef, but Spreckels stated that he had not discussed this feature with the District Attorney, and that Gallagher would himself have to take the matter up with the authorities directly. In considering this immunity arrangement with the bribed Supervisors, the fact should not be overlooked that during the five months which had passed since the opening of the graft prosecution, Spreckels and Heney had been meeting officials of the public service corporations involved practically every day at luncheon. But the corporation officials would give no assistance in exposing the corruption which was undermining the community.[166] FOOTNOTES: [154] At the trial of The People vs. Ruef, No. 1437, Supervisor Andrew M. Wilson testified to a conversation which he had had with Ruef at Ruef's office early in September, 1906. He was asked to state what he had said to Ruef on that occasion. Wilson replied: "A. I told him Mr. Choynski was across the street; I pulled the blind aside at his office, and showed him Mr. Choynski talking to Jesse Marks; that he had stated to Marks the exact amount on the trolley proposition. "Mr. Sullivan: Q. Who had stated to Marks the exact amount on the trolley proposition? A. Mr. Choynski, and that I had advised him a few weeks before that not to continue that fight for the attorneyship of the Liquor Dealers. "Q. Advised who? A. Mr. Ruef; and that Mr. Choynski was telling him what he had said to McGushin at one of the meetings regarding the $4,000 on the trolley. "Q. That who had said what he had told Mr. McGushin? A. Yes, sir. "Q. That who had said it? A. That Mr. Choynski had said that McGushin looked paralyzed when he mentioned the exact amount, but denied it; and I says to Mr. Ruef, 'He has the correct amount on the trolley,' and he stated that there must be a leak somewhere in the Board; and I told him I thought---- "Q. (Interrupting). Who stated that there must be a leak somewhere in the Board? A. Mr. Ruef; and I stated that I thought it came through Morris Levy, and that possibly he got his information through Supervisor Kelly, as they were very friendly. "Mr. Ach: Q. Who said that, you or Ruef? "Mr. Sullivan: Q. Who said that? A. I stated that to Mr. Ruef, that I thought the source of the leak was through Supervisor Kelly telling Morris Levy, and Morris Levy telling Choynski."--See Transcript, page 2643. [155] Supervisor James L. Gallagher testified at the trial of The People vs. Ruef, No. 1437, of a note which had been delivered to him by Mr. Abbott, attorney for the United Railroads, from Tirey L. Ford, head of the United Railroads law department, to be delivered to Ruef. The substance of the note, Gallagher testified, was that "The Grand Jury is taking up the investigation of the charges concerning the United Railroads permit; not much headway has been made; it is intended to endeavor to trap some of the Supervisors." Gallagher, unable to find Ruef, went back to Ford, according to Gallagher's testimony, and asked if the note were so important that Ruef should be hunted up. Ford had directed him to open the envelope and read the note. Gallagher did this, made a shorthand memorandum of it, and read the message to Ruef later. See transcript, The People vs. Ruef, Part 3, Vol. 2, pp. 976 to 983. [156] An interesting incident of this transaction grew out of word being carried to Roy, that Ruef had told Lonergan that Roy was a stool pigeon for Burns. Roy went to Ruef's office with a show of great indignation, demanding to know what Ruef meant by such a charge. Ruef apologized and denied. [157] Boxton is thus described by Ruef, in his account of the graft cases: "Dr. Boxton was a dentist; he held the position of dean and professor of dentistry in an established medical and dental college. He was a popular man about town; had been one of the grand officers of the Native Sons' organization; an officer of the First California Regiment in the Philippines, and had been several times elected Supervisor by large and popular votes." [158] The reason for springing the trap on Lonergan the second time was that the plan of Burns's had miscarried on the first trap. Burns had put a man in partnership with Lonergan, who was to induce Lonergan to cash a draft for $200, shortly after Lonergan had received the $500 in marked currency. When Lonergan was asked to cash the draft, he said all right, but that he would have to go home and get the money. He went home and brought back gold. About this time the Chronicle published a story to the effect that several Supervisors had been trapped. [159] The acrostic was made by skipping two lines to the third, the first word of which began with "F," then skipping two lines to the sixth, skipping two lines to the ninth, and finally skipping two lines to the twelfth; the first letter of the first word of each of these lines spelt the word "Fake." [160] With the testimony of all the Supervisors, including Gallagher, the prosecution subsequently found great difficulty in convicting Ruef. In the Parkside case, all the Supervisors testified in regard to two promises made to them, and all the officials of the Parkside Company testified to negotiations with Ruef and to the payment of money to him. In addition thereto, William J. Dingee, who was an entirely disinterested party, testified to a conversation with Ruef, which was highly incriminating in its character, and which amounted to an admission on the part of Ruef that he was receiving money in the Parkside matter. With all this evidence before it, the jury stood six for acquittal and six for conviction. [161] Wilson testified at the trial of The People vs. Ruef, No. 1437, of the anxiety of the Supervisors during this period. Although Wilson had resigned from the board to accept the office of State Railroad Commissioner to which he had been elected, he went to a conference of the Supervisors to decide what should be done. The following is from Wilson's testimony: "Q. You were not then a Supervisor, were you? A. No, sir. "Q. Who told you to go there? A. I was helping Mr. Gallagher. "Q. Helping Gallagher do what? Don't you know? A. Sit on the lid, that is what we called it. "Q. Helping Gallagher sit on the lid? A. Yes, sir. "Q. What does 'sitting on the lid' mean? That is a bit of the vernacular that I am not acquainted with. "Mr. Dwyer: That is vernacular authorized by the President-elect of the United States, I suppose it is good English? "Mr. Ach: Well, he is a big man; I suppose he might sit on something that might be a lid. The Court: Finish your answer. "Mr. Ach: Q. What do you mean? A. Trying to keep the facts of the condition of the Board of Supervisors from becoming public. "Q. What do you mean by that? A. The condition of the Board, the graft matters." [162] At the trial of The People vs. Patrick Calhoun, No. 1436, Spreckels testified to his own attitude on the question of immunity. He said: "I would be willing to grant immunity to any man who would bring to bar a man of great wealth who would debauch a city government, and who would use his wealth to corrupt individuals and tempt men of no means to commit a crime in order that he might make more money."--See transcript of testimony, page 3326. [163] At the trial of The People vs. Ruef, No. 1437, Gallagher testified that Spreckels told him in substance as follows: "Mr. Spreckels then stated that he was not actuated by vindictiveness in the matter, that he did not wish to make any more trouble or cause any more distress than was necessary in carrying out what he had undertaken, and that his purpose was to endeavor to stop the unlawful transactions,--dealings of corporations and large interests in this city with public officials; that his reason, that his view of the matter was that in order to accomplish that, that it would be necessary, or that he did not desire unnecessarily to injure anyone, and that the members of the Board of Supervisors and those who were engaged with them in the matter, outside of those who represented the corporations and big interests, were not as important from his standpoint as those who had, as those in control of those interests, because the members of the--the public officials and political bosses would come and go, but that the corporations and big interests remained; that they were, as he thought, the source of the trouble, and therefore, he did not consider it important, or so important, to punish the officials as to reach those that were in his judgment primarily responsible for the conditions, that he felt that the District Attorney would grant immunity to the members of the Board of Supervisors if they would tell the whole truth of their transactions with the corporations and other persons, large interests, that had had any dealings with them of an unlawful character. I think I then said to him I would consider the matter and would talk with the members of the Board of Supervisors about it." [164] Gallagher at the trial of The People vs. Ruef, No. 1437, made the following statement of what he said to the Supervisors: "My best recollection of the statement is that I said to them that some of the members of the Board of Supervisors had been trapped in accepting money on some matters before the Board, and that they had made statements to the prosecution, as I understood, or were about to do so, and that I had seen Mr. Spreckels and talked with him concerning the other members of the Board of Supervisors, and that Mr. Spreckels had stated to me that the purpose was not to prosecute the members of the Board of Supervisors provided they would make statements, full and true statements, of their relations in the transactions with the quasi-public corporations and large interests in the city that they may have had unlawful dealings with; that Mr. Spreckels had stated that the public officials were coming and going, and that the political bosses were coming and going; his object was to reach the source of the condition that he was trying to eradicate; that the corporations and these other interests remained all the time, and that he felt that they were the ones that should be the object of his efforts at eradicating that condition in the city. Mr. Spreckels stated that he was not actuated by vindictiveness in the matter; in other words, Mr. Ach, as nearly as I could, I repeated the statements of Mr. Spreckels to me." See Transcript on Appeal, page 1471. [165] "I told them," said Wilson in his testimony in the case of The People vs. Ruef, No. 1437, "that I had always taken orders from Mr. Ruef, that I looked upon him as the political captain of the ship, that I had followed out his orders; that I did not feel that I should sacrifice myself, or ask Mr. Gallagher to sacrifice himself through the condition that had been brought about; that I thought it would be unreasonable for any Supervisor to ask Mr. Gallagher to sacrifice himself, that some of the others might walk the streets and feel that they were honest men; that I did not feel he should be sacrificed alone in the matter." [166] The public service corporation officials were encouraged by Spreckels and Heney to give information which would lead to the indictment and conviction of Ruef and Schmitz, and thus clean up the city. Instead of giving such information, they pretended that the rumors in regard to bribery were all baseless. At the Pacific Union Club, where they generally lunched, Spreckels and Heney were the recipients of many kind words of encouragement and of congratulation, up to the time that Ruef plead guilty in the French-restaurant case. Immediately thereafter the atmosphere commenced to change. The indictment of some of the prominent members of the club was not pleasing. During the first trial of Glass, he and his attorneys constantly lunched at the Pacific Union Club, and many men, prominent in finance, would stop and chat ostentatiously with Glass and his lawyers, and would then ignore Spreckels and Heney, who would be sitting at a near-by table. An attempt to keep Rudolph Spreckels out of membership in the Bohemian Club was almost successful about this time, while Drum was elected a director of the Pacific Union Club while still under indictment, and Thomas Williams, of the New California Jockey Club, one of the bondsmen for Schmitz, was elected President. CHAPTER XIII. CONFESSIONS OF THE SUPERVISORS. The resignation of Supervisor Duffey to take charge of the municipal department of public works, and of Supervisor Wilson[167] to take the office of State Railroad Commissioner, left sixteen members of the elected Schmitz-Ruef Board of Supervisors at the time of the exposures of the graft prosecution. The sixteen, after the surrender at their last secret caucus, made full confession of their participation in the gains of the organized betrayal of the city. Supervisor Wilson added his confession to the sixteen. Thus, of the eighteen Union Labor party Supervisors elected in 1905, four years after the organization of that party, seventeen[168] confessed to taking money from large combinations of capital, the very interests which the party had been brought into being to oppose. The public service corporations, confronting a party organized primarily to control municipal government to the end that equitable conditions in San Francisco might be guaranteed those who labor, by the simple process of support before election and bribery after election, secured as strong a hold upon the community as their most complete success at the polls could have given. These large interests, approaching the new order with bribe-money, found politicians operating in the name of organized labor, ostensibly to promote the best interests of labor, to be not at all formidable. And when the exposure came, and the bribe-giving corporation magnates were placed on their defense, their most potent allies in the campaign which they carried on to keep out of the penitentiary, were found in the entrenched leaders of the Union-Labor party. The Supervisors' confessions corroborated the statements previously made by Lonergan, Walsh and Boxton. The bribery transactions to which the seventeen Supervisors confessed, came naturally under two heads: The first class included the briberies carried on through Ruef, who dealt directly with those who furnished the bribe money. Ruef employed Gallagher as agent to deal with the Supervisors. Thus Gallagher did not come in contact with those who furnished the money, while the Supervisors were removed still further from connection with them. Ruef, on his part, in passing the money, did not come into immediate contact with the Supervisors except in Gallagher's case. It was bribery reduced to a fine art. In this group of transactions were included the bribery of the Supervisors to grant to the United Railroads its trolley permit; to the Home Telephone Company, its franchise; to the Pacific Gas and Electric Company, an 85-cent gas rate; to the prize fight combine, monopoly of the pugilistic contests in San Francisco. In this class, too, is properly included the Parkside Transit Company, which had, at the time the exposure came, paid Ruef $15,000 to secure a street railroad franchise, with a promise of $15,000 more when the franchise had been actually granted. The Supervisors received nothing in this transaction, but they had been told by Ruef's agent, Gallagher, there would be, first $750 each for them in the Parkside matter. Later on they were told the sum would be $1000 each. The second class of bribes included those which were paid directly to the Supervisors. They included the bribes paid by T. V. Halsey, agent of the Pacific States Telephone and Telegraph Company to a majority of the Supervisors to prevent their awarding the Home Telephone Company its franchise. Gallagher did not participate in these bribery transactions, and could only indirectly throw light upon them. But in the other cases Gallagher was the pivotal witness. He received the bribe money from Ruef, and, after taking out his share, he paid the balance to the other Supervisors. With a wealth of detail, Gallagher told how he had received the money, when and where, and went into the particulars of its distribution among his associates. He had received from Ruef in all, $169,350.[169] Of this, he had retained $27,275 for himself; the balance, $142,075, he had divided among his associates on the board. This enormous corruption fund which Gallagher divided with the Supervisors had come from four sources. The so-called prize-fight trust had furnished $9,000 of it; the Pacific Gas and Electric Company, $13,350; the Home Telephone Company, $62,000, and the United Railroads, $85,000. The first money that passed from Ruef to Gallagher and from Gallagher on to the Supervisors, the confessions showed, was for the prize-fight monopoly. This particular bribery seems to have been intended as a trying-out of the several members to ascertain which of them would take money in connection with the discharge of their duties as Supervisors. Every member of the board accepted the package of bills which Gallagher tendered him. Indeed, several of them displayed surprising alertness to secure all that was their due. Ruef, it became known among them, had given Gallagher $9000, which evenly divided, meant $500 for each of the eighteen Supervisors. But Gallagher gave them only $475 each. An explanation was demanded of him. He stated that he had taken out 5 per cent. as his commission. So strong was the dissatisfaction created by the holding out of this 5 per cent. that Ruef arranged to pay Gallagher a larger amount than the others received to compensate him, no doubt, for his extra services as bribe-carrier. The new arrangement for the compensation of Gallagher was followed when the Supervisors were paid after fixing gas rates at 85 cents per thousand cubic feet, instead of 75 cents,[170] the sum pledged in their party platform. One of the Supervisors, McGushin, refused to break his platform pledge, and held out for the 75-cent rate. In distributing the gas money, Gallagher paid nothing to McGushin.[171] But to each of the remaining sixteen Supervisors, Gallagher confessed to giving $750. Following the new rule that he was to have extra compensation, Gallagher kept for himself $1350. At the time of the gas-rate bribery, Supervisor Rea was making it unpleasant for his associates. Mr. Rea had accepted $475 prize-fight money from Gallagher, without, he testified before the Grand Jury, knowing what it was for. A few days later he told Schmitz of the matter. Schmitz contended that no such work was going on. Rea, when he received his $750 in the gas-rate case, went to Schmitz with a statement that money was used to have the gas rate fixed at 85 cents. Rea asked Schmitz what he was to do with the money. He testified before the Grand Jury that Schmitz replied: "You keep quiet. I will let you know." That was the last Rea heard from Schmitz on the subject. Rea testified before the Grand Jury that he still had the money Gallagher had paid him in the prize-fight and gas-rate cases. Rea's trip to Schmitz seems to have kept him out of the division of the Telephone and the United Railroads money. The Telephone bribery was somewhat complicated by the fact that rival companies were in the field bidding for Supervisorial favor. It developed that eleven of the Supervisors[172] had accepted from T. V. Halsey, representing the Pacific States Telephone and Telegraph Company, bribes to block the granting of a franchise to the Home Telephone Company. On the other hand, the Home Telephone Company had paid Ruef $125,000[173] to be used in getting favorable action on its application for a franchise. Ruef gave Gallagher $62,000 for the Supervisors. Ruef states that he divided the remainder with Schmitz. In this way, the administration was bribed to grant the Home Telephone franchise, while eleven[174] of the Supervisors, a majority of the board, were bribed not to grant it. The complications which this created almost disrupted the Ruef-Schmitz combine. The difficulty was threshed out in a Sunday night caucus. Those who had received money from the Pacific States people, with Supervisor Boxton at their head, insisted that the Home franchise should not be granted. On the other hand, Ruef and Schmitz, with the thousands of the Home Company in view, insisted that it should be. Both Ruef and Schmitz warned the Supervisors that they were perhaps at the dividing of the ways. "Well," replied Boxton significantly, "if men cannot get a thing through one way they might try and get it through in another." Mayor Schmitz demanded of Boxton what he meant by that. "Well," Boxton replied vaguely but defiantly, "you know there are other ways of reaching the matter."[175] But Boxton was unable to prevail against the support which Ruef and Schmitz were giving the Home Telephone Company. Although eleven of the Supervisors had taken money from the Pacific States Company to oppose the granting of a franchise to the rival Home Telephone Company, all but four of those present at the caucus decided to stand by Ruef and Schmitz, and voted in caucus to grant the Home Company its franchise.[176] The next day, in open board meeting, with Boxton still leading the opposition, the franchise was awarded to the Home Telephone Company. The division of the money received from the Home Telephone Company people was one of the hardest problems in bribe distribution which Ruef and Gallagher were called upon to face. The first plan was to pay the Supervisors who had at the last supported the Home Telephone franchise, $3500. At once those Supervisors who had, from the beginning remained faithful to the administration's support of the Home Company and had refused to accept money from Halsey, pointed out that they would receive $3500 only, while the Supervisors whom Halsey had bribed would get in all $8500; that is to say, $3500 from Gallagher for voting to grant the franchise and $5000 from Halsey not to grant it. It was, those who had remained true contended, inequitable that Supervisors who had been faithful to Ruef and Schmitz from the beginning should receive only $3500; while those who had been temporarily bought away from the administration received $8500. The "justness" of this contention appealed to all. A compromise was finally arranged, under which those who had stood out to the end against granting the Home franchise, should receive no part of the Home Telephone bribe money; those who had received $5000 from Halsey but finally voted for the Home franchise, were to return $2500 of the $5000 to Halsey, and receive $3500 from Gallagher, making the total of the telephone bribe money for each $6000; those who had received nothing from Halsey were each to be allowed $6000 of the Home Telephone money. In this way each Supervisor who had voted for the Home franchise would get $6000 for his vote. In the case of four of the Supervisors the entire $6000 came from the Home Company. Gallagher, too, was one of this class, all his compensation being Home Telephone money. But Gallagher received $10,000. Eight of the Supervisors had received money from Halsey, and yet voted to give the Home Company its franchise. These received $3500 Home Company money from Gallagher and were allowed to keep $2500 of the Pacific States Telephone and Telegraph Company money that Halsey had given them. Thus the Pacific States was forced to pay the Supervisors part of the bribe money they received for granting its rival a franchise. Incidentally, some of the Supervisors did not return half the $5000 to Halsey. But this is a phase of the ethics of bribery upon which it is unnecessary to touch. Ruef regarded this unique discipline of the Pacific States as just punishment for its offense of trying to buy his Supervisors away from him.[177] Following the telephone bribery, came that of the United Railroads to secure the much-opposed over-head trolley permit. On account of this permit, Gallagher testified, Ruef had given him $85,000 to be distributed among the Supervisors. Of this $85,000, Gallagher kept $15,000 for himself, gave Wilson $10,000,[178] and to each of the other Supervisors with the exception of Rea,[179] $4000. Gallagher's testimony relative to the offer of a bribe in the matter of the Parkside Realty Company franchise was quite as explicit. He swore that Ruef had stated to him there ought to be $750 for each Supervisor in this. Later on, with a change in the proposed route,[180] Ruef had told Gallagher that the amount would be $1000 to each Supervisor. Gallagher had conveyed this information to the Supervisors. At the time of Ruef's flight, arrest and the attending breaking up of his organization, the Supervisors were impatiently waiting for this money to be paid.[181] One by one, sixteen of Gallagher's associates went before the District Attorney and made full confession. In every detail they bore out Gallagher's statements. When they had done, the District Attorney had statements from seventeen[182] of the eighteen Supervisors, that they had received large sums of bribe money to influence their votes in matters in which public service corporations were concerned; he knew the purposes for which the bribe money had been paid; he had a statement from Gallagher, corroborated at many points by the testimony of the other Supervisors, that the money had been furnished by Ruef. Ruef's testimony would bring the bribery transactions directly to the doors of those who had bribed. This testimony could have been had, had the prosecution agreed to give Ruef complete immunity. Ruef was a prisoner in charge of an elisor. He knew that the Supervisors had confessed. In an agony of indecision he sent for Gallagher and Wilson to learn from them all that had occurred.[183] They told him that full statements had been made to the District Attorney. Ruef complained that Gallagher should have tried to get into touch with him before making statements. To which Gallagher replied that such a course would have been impossible.[184] Both Gallagher and Wilson advised Ruef to make terms with the District Attorney. Ruef replied that he would think it over. Little came of the conference. The statements of the two Supervisors, however, must have shown Ruef how thorough the undoing of his organization had been, and how hopeless was his own case. But Ruef, sparring for time, and pleading for complete immunity, did not make immediate confession and, as a matter of fact has not, up to the present writing, told the full story of his connection with the public service corporations.[185] After the confessions of the Supervisors, the District Attorney left Ruef to himself and hastened the Supervisors before the Grand Jury, where they repeated their miserable stories.[186] And then the Grand Jury took up the task of tracing the bribe money from those who had received it, to those who had paid it. FOOTNOTES: [167] To the places thus vacated, Mayor Schmitz appointed O. A. Tveitmoe and J. J. O'Neil. Tveitmoe and O'Neil assumed their duties as Supervisors after the bribery transactions were completed. They did not become involved in the graft exposures, but served to the end of the terms for which they had been appointed. [168] The eighteenth Supervisor, who made no confession, was Duffey. Duffey, according to Gallagher's confession, participated with the others in the graft distributions. In the hurry of the final arrangements for the confessions, however, Gallagher gained the impression that confession was not to be required of Duffey. Rather than give appearance of lack of good faith, the prosecution decided to abide by the impression which Gallagher claimed he had formed. [169] This was the amount that Ruef turned over to the Supervisors. It represented a comparatively small part of what he received from the Public Service corporations. From the United Railroads alone, because of the granting of the trolley permit, he received $200,000. In addition he was drawing a regular fee of $1,000 a month from the United Railroads. The Supervisors were not always satisfied with the amount Gallagher gave them. There were times when they entertained the idea that Ruef had sent more than Gallagher gave. They accordingly delegated Supervisor Wilson to ascertain from Ruef whether all the money intended for them was reaching them. Ruef refused to discuss the matter with Wilson. Wilson, at the trial of The People vs. Ruef, No. 1437, testified: "I told him (Ruef) that the Supervisors had asked me to call and see him; that they wanted other information to confirm Mr. Gallagher's reports to the Board on these money matters. He said that he did not care to discuss that with anyone other than Mr. Gallagher; that it took up time and that whatever Mr. Gallagher did on the Board was with his full knowledge and consent; that the matters were being handled satisfactorily by Mr. Gallagher, and when anything arose, any other condition confronted him, he would look elsewhere for a leader, but he did not want to go in at that time and discuss those matters with anyone." [170] About the time the 85-cent gas rate was fixed, one of the Pacific Gas and Electric Company's stations was burned. Ruef stated to Gallagher that the fire would be used as one of the reasons for fixing the 85-cent rate: that it would probably appeal to the public as an excuse for fixing the rate at 85 cents when the platform of the party had mentioned 75 cents. See Transcript, The People vs. Ruef, No. 1437, page 784. [171] When McGushin refused to follow directions and give the Pacific Gas and Electric Company an 85-cent gas rate, Gallagher went to Ruef about it. At the trial of The People vs. Ruef, No. 1437, Gallagher testified: "I told him (Ruef) that McGushin was rather demurring at receiving the money, at taking the money, and that I had told Mr. McGushin that he had better go down and talk with Mr. Ruef. He (Ruef) said, 'All right, if he comes around I will talk with him.'" [172] The Supervisors who accepted money from Halsey, acting for the Pacific States Telephone and Telegraph Company, to prevent a franchise being awarded an opposition company were: Boxton, Walsh, Wilson, Coleman, Nicholas, Furey, Mamlock, Phillips, Lonergan, Sanderson and Coffey. The amount paid in each instance was $5,000. Halsey promised several of the bribed members from $2,500 to $5,000 in addition to be paid them, if they remained faithful, after their terms had expired. The money, the several members testified, had been paid to them by Halsey in an unfurnished room in the Mills Building which had been temporarily engaged for Mr. Halsey's use by Frank C. Drum, a director of the Pacific States Telephone and Telegraph Company. Examples of the methods employed to corrupt the laboringmen Supervisors who suddenly found themselves placed in a position of trust and responsibility will be found in the appendix. [173] This is the amount given by Ruef in his "confession." He states that he received $25,000 when he agreed that the Home Telephone Company should have the franchise; and $100,000 when the franchise was granted. According to his statement he gave $65,000 to Gallagher for the Supervisors; $30,000 he gave Schmitz; $30,000 he kept himself. Gallagher testified on several occasions that he received but $62,000 from Ruef. The details of Ruef's confessions are not dependable. On Ruef's own statement of the basis of division of this particular bribe money among the Supervisors, Gallagher received only $62,000 of Home Telephone money from him. [174] Ruef was himself to blame for the complication, for he had given certain of the Supervisors to understand that the purpose of the Pacific Telephone and Telegraph Company was to prevail, and that the Home Telephone Company would not be granted its franchise. The Supervisors in taking the Pacific Telephone and Telegraph Company's money, not unreasonably supposed they were taking from the favored of the administration. Supervisor Wilson in his confession said: "The first conversation I had with Mr. Ruef, affecting money matters, was on the Pacific States Telephone matters. I told him that I had been out to dinner with Mr. Halsey, and I understood that everything was going to be satisfactory with their company. He (Ruef) said that it would terminate that way." Acting upon this hint, Wilson accepted $5,000 from Halsey. Later he told Ruef of having got the money. Ruef told him that he should not have taken it. Wilson has testified that he offered to return it. "No," he claims Ruef replied, "don't do that just now. Wait and see. I will let you know later. You might get into a trap by giving it back; you had better wait." Ruef claims, however, that he advised Wilson to return the money. [175] For description of this "dividing of the ways" scene, see testimony of Supervisor Wilson, Transcript on Appeal, The People vs. Ruef, page 2843. [176] Gallagher in his confession said of the decision of the Supervisors to stand by Ruef and Schmitz: "Mr. Wilson talked to a number of those boys (Supervisors who had taken money from the Pacific States's agent), he being one of those who had taken this money, and he told me that notwithstanding the fact that they had taken this money that he didn't feel that he wanted to stand out from the leadership of Mr. Ruef and wanted to act with him and myself in the matter and said that he would talk to the other boys about it, and see how they felt about the proposition of voting for the Home Telephone franchise anyhow." [177] In his confession, Gallagher stated that under this arrangement he paid $3,500 each to Coffey, Coleman, Furey, Lonergan, Mamlock, Nicholas, Phillips and Wilson; $6,000 each to Davis, Duffey, Harrigan and Kelley, reserving $10,000 for himself. Those who received no part of the Home Telephone Company money were Boxton, Sanderson, Walsh, McGushin and Rea. Of the five, Boxton and Sanderson received $5,000 each from Halsey of the Pacific Company, and Walsh, according to his recollection, $3,500. McGushin and Rea received none of the bribe money paid by the two telephone companies. [178] Gallagher testified before the Grand Jury, that the additional compensation had been given Wilson because he was more useful than any other member, besides himself, in keeping the Supervisors in line and in passing information regarding prospective bribe money. [179] Gallagher testified before the Grand Jury that he had paid Rea nothing, because he had no confidence in Rea's judgment and self-control. "I told Mr. Ruef," Gallagher testified, "I did not care to, that I wouldn't take the responsibility of dealing with Mr. Rea. I believe he was talking and had talked about matters dealing with me and did not care to have any dealings with him. He (Ruef) said, 'Very well, I'll attend to him,' or 'I will see to that myself,' or some such expression as that." [180] The original plan was to have this road on Twentieth Avenue. But to grade Twentieth Avenue would take time, and cost upwards of $100,000. On the other hand, Nineteenth Avenue had been graded, macadamized, and accepted as a boulevard. The Parkside people asked a change in the purchased franchise, to give them the boulevard. But the Charter prohibited grants of franchises over declared boulevards. Ruef concluded this provision could be overcome by ordinance. He feared criticism, but finally yielded to the Parkside people's request. Then went word to the Supervisors of increase in compensation in this particular transaction. [181] Gallagher's testimony before the Grand Jury regarding the promised bribes in the Parkside franchise undertaking was as follows: "Q. Now, then, the Parkside trolley, was there an understanding in regard to money being paid on that? A. The Parkside realty company's franchise for street railway on Twentieth Avenue, that is what you refer to--on Nineteenth Avenue, that is correct; it was originally intended for Twentieth, afterward changed to Nineteenth; that is right there was nothing paid to any member of the Board upon that that I know of. There were some rumors about it and Mr. Ruef spoke to me about it and said there ought to be a payment of $750 to each member on it and afterward said that if the thing was changed from Twentieth Avenue to the Nineteenth Avenue, that there ought to be $1,000 each paid. "Q. About when did he say it ought or he would be able to pay them? A. He said that he expected to, yes, sir. He did not say he was ready to do so, on the contrary, has always denied that he had the money to pay it with. "Q. He never said he had the money before on the other matters? A. No. "Q. He would just say there will be this much coming? A. Yes, sir. "Q. And the same way in regard to this also? A. Yes, sir. "Q. $1,000? A. Yes, sir. "Q. And you passed it out in the same way? A. Yes, sir. "Q. And it was put through with that understanding? A. Yes, sir. "Q. The only definite, was it, it hasn't come? A. Not yet. "Q. Do you know why the money hasn't been given to you yet by Ruef? A. No, sir. "Q. Has he given you any reason? A. Mr. Ruef said that the amount has not been paid to him. "Q. You heard complaints from the members that they had been so long about coming through? A. Yes, indeed. "Q. Did you make complaint to Ruef about it? A. Yes, sir. "Q. What did he say? A. He made that excuse consequently that he didn't have it. "Q. Never said that he did not expect it? A. Did not." [182] The anxiety on the part of the confessing Supervisors to tell the truth was pathetic. When McGushin began his story he was asked: "Of course this statement you make is free and voluntary." "Yes," replied McGushin, simply, "Mr. Gallagher himself told me to tell the truth." [183] "I want to learn from your own lips," he told Wilson, "if what I have already heard is true regarding your making a statement to the prosecution." "I have been thoroughly informed," said Ruef in an interview given out later, "of everything that the members of the Board of Supervisors are reported to have told the Grand Jury, and I have no comment to make upon their alleged confessions at this time. Later, however, I will issue a statement which will furnish more sensations in connection with municipal graft than anything that has been made public." [184] Gallagher left the conference first. Wilson testified at the graft trials that after Gallagher had gone Ruef stated that "had he been in Gallagher's place he wouldn't have made those statements to the prosecution." "You can never tell what one will do until he is placed in Mr. Gallagher's position," replied Wilson, "we discussed the matter fully for two or three days before he took that step." [185] The nearest Ruef has come to a statement of his connection with the public service corporations is contained in his story, "The Road I Traveled," which appeared In the San Francisco Bulletin. The account is inaccurate and incomplete. Nothing, for example, is told by Mr. Ruef, of the proposed Bay Cities Water Company deal, which at one time he claimed to be the most important of all he had in view. [186] The Supervisors were all examined before the Grand Jury on the same day. Heney in an affidavit, filed in the case of The People vs. Calhoun et al., No. 823, states that "one of the reasons which actuated me to examine all of said Supervisors on the same day was that the newspapers had discovered that they had made confessions on the preceding Saturday, and I wanted to make sure that no one of them was tampered with by anyone who might be interested in changing his testimony before I succeeded in getting his testimony recorded by a stenographer in the Grand Jury room." CHAPTER XIV. THE SOURCE OF THE BRIBE MONEY. After the confessions of the Supervisors, the Grand Jurors had definite, detailed knowledge of the corruption of the Union-Labor party administration. The Grand Jurors knew: (1) That bribes aggregating over $200,000 had been paid the Supervisors. (2) That of this large amount, $169,350 passed from Ruef to Gallagher and by Gallagher had been divided among members of the board. The balance, the evidence showed, had been paid to the Supervisors direct by T. V. Halsey of the Pacific States Telephone Company. (3) The amount of each bribe; the circumstances under which it was paid; even the character of the currency used in the transaction. (4) The names of the corporations benefited by the bribery transactions, as well as the character of the special privileges which their money had bought. With the exception of the Home Telephone Company, the names of the directors of these benefiting corporations were readily obtainable.[187] With this data before them, the Grand Jurors proceeded to trace the source of the bribe money. Naturally, men who had long held places of respectability in the community were slow to admit having given Ruef vast sums, even under the transparent subterfuge of paying him attorney's fees.[188] Some of them, when haled before the Grand Jury, testified reluctantly, and only under the closest questioning. Others frankly stood upon their constitutional rights, and with pitiful attempt to smooth out with studied phrases the harshness of the only acceptable reason for their refusal, declined to testify on the ground that their testimony would tend to incriminate them. Nevertheless, the Grand Jury succeeded in wringing from the officials of the several corporations involved, damaging admissions; admissions, in fact, quite as startling as had been the confessions of the Supervisors. The refusal of some of those not unreasonably under suspicion, to testify was, too, quite as significant. In the matter of the bribery of the Supervisors by T. V. Halsey, agent of the Pacific States Telephone and Telegraph Company, the Grand Jury had information that eleven Supervisors had been paid over $50,000 to oppose the granting of a franchise to the Home Telephone Company. A majority of the payments were made in an unfurnished suite of three rooms in the Mills Building. Frank Drum, a director of the company, admitted having engaged the rooms at Halsey's request. E. J. Zimmer, auditor for the company, testified that Halsey held the position of General Agent of the company. Halsey's duties, the testimony showed, were assigned him by Louis Glass, vice-president and general manager, and for a time acting president of the company. Halsey, under the company's organization, reported to Glass. Zimmer testified that Halsey could not spend the company's money except on the proper approval of the executive officer of the company. From October, 1905, when President Sabin of the company died, until February, 1906, when Henry T. Scott, Sabin's successor, was elected, Glass acted as president and as executive officer. He had, according to Auditor Zimmer, authority to approve expenditures made by Halsey. After Scott's elevation to the presidency, either Glass or Scott could have approved such expenditures. Zimmer testified further to giving Halsey, at Glass's order,[189] as high as $10,000 at a time. Halsey[190] gave no vouchers for these large sums; they did not appear on the books;[191] they were carried on tags. Zimmer stated that he did not know for what the funds were used; had merely followed out Glass's instruction, and given Halsey the money. The testimony of Thomas Sherwin threw some light upon the bookkeeping methods followed. Sherwin had been traveling auditor for the American Bell Telephone Company, which concern owned 51 per cent. of the stock of the Pacific States Telephone and Telegraph Company. Later he took Zimmer's place as auditor of the Pacific States Company. Mr. Sherwin admitted that some of Mr. Halsey's "special expenses," at least, were finally charged to the company's legal department.[192] Passing from the investigation of the bribery transactions of the Pacific States Telephone and Telegraph Company to the activities of the Home Telephone Company, the Grand Jury examined prominent business men of Los Angeles as well as of San Francisco. The plan of operation followed by the capitalists behind this enterprise was to organize a construction company, whose part was to establish the plants, put them into operation and turn them over to the operating companies, taking their pay in the securities of the local operating company. Thus, at San Francisco, the Empire Construction Company played an important part in the Home Telephone Company enterprise. As Heney put it, the Empire Construction Company received the most benefit from the granting of the Home Telephone franchise. The Empire Construction Company furnished at least part of the money that went into the fusion campaign fund in 1905. Investigation showed that 25 per cent. of the stock of the Empire Construction Company belonged to men who were in the construction solely, while 75 per cent. was in the hands of men who were financing the enterprise. This last block of stock at the time of the investigation was divided among James H. Adams and Thomas W. Phillips of the Adams-Phillips Company, A. B. Cass, Gerald S. Torrance and A. K. Detweiler. Detweiler could not be found. Adams, Cass and Torrance, after answering some of the questions put to them, availed themselves of their constitutional privilege, and refused to make further answers. The books of the Adams-Phillips Company disappeared and employees of that company undertook to evade answering questions regarding the disappearance, on the ground that they might incriminate themselves. But a sharp order from the Superior Court brought out their testimony. However, none of them gave testimony that led to the discovery of the missing volumes. But the general trend of the testimony went to show that the responsible agent for the Empire Construction Company and the Home Telephone Company in San Francisco was A. K. Detweiler. The testimony showed Detweiler to have been at Ruef's office in consultation with Ruef and Supervisor Gallagher; he was active in every move that was made on behalf of the Empire Construction Company and of the Home Telephone Company in San Francisco, and had the disbursing of the funds. Incidentally, through the testimony of Dr. Fred Butterfield, a representative of Adolphus Busch, the brewer, the Grand Jury learned that a third telephone company, the United States Independent, seeking a franchise to do business in San Francisco, would have bid for the franchise which the Home Company received, had not the franchise been so worded that only the telephone system controlled by the Home people could be operated under it. Butterfield stated that his company, made up of responsible capitalists, considered the franchise worth something over a million dollars, and was prepared to bid up to a million dollars, if necessary, to get it. The Home Company paid San Francisco $25,000 for the franchise. Butterfield testified that his company had intended to invest $4,500,000 in the San Francisco enterprise, and that Ruef knew of the extent of the company's plans. With such testimony, the assertions of Ruef's partisans that opposition to the Ruef-Schmitz administration retarded development of the community compare curiously.[193] The Grand Jury could not secure the attendance of Mr. Detweiler, for about the time of the investigation Mr. Detweiler mysteriously disappeared. The investigation into the affairs of the Home Company had, therefore, to be concluded without Mr. Detweiler's testimony. Following the policy of the stockholders of the Empire Construction Company, the officials of the United Railroads refused to testify. President Patrick Calhoun[194] and Thornwell Mullally, assistant to the president, when given opportunity to state their side of the case under oath, stood upon their constitutional rights, and declined to give evidence that might incriminate them.[195] They were accordingly excused from the Grand Jury room. But the employees of the company did not escape so easily. When, for example, George Francis, William M. Abbott, George B. Willcutt and Celia McDermott refused to answer questions put to them in the Grand Jury room, they were haled before the Superior Court, where they were informed that they must testify. In spite of the hostility of these witnesses, the prosecution succeeded in securing a wealth of data regarding $200,000 which passed into the hands of Tirey L. Ford and, according to the theory of the prosecution, from Ford to Ruef. The prosecution established the fact that two days before Mayor Schmitz signed the trolley permit, that is to say, on May 22, 1906, Patrick Calhoun, as president of the United Railroads, received by telegraphic transfer from the East to the United States Mint at San Francisco, $200,000.[196] Two days later, the day the trolley permit was signed, President Calhoun took Ford to the Mint and instructed Superintendent of the Mint Leach to give Ford $50,000 of the $200,000. Ford told Leach that he wanted currency. The currency was finally secured by exchanging gold for bills at the Mint headquarters of the relief work then being carried on in San Francisco. These bills, it was shown, were all in small denominations, having been sent to San Francisco from all parts of the country by individual subscribers to the relief fund. This money was taken away from the Mint, the testimony showed, by Ford and William M. Abbott. Soon after, Ruef loaned Supervisor Rea[197] $3500. By a curious trick of fate Rea had leased a piece of property from Rudolph Spreckels. In payment on this lease he used the money that Ruef had loaned him. This money was all in bills of small denominations. Late in July Ruef gave Gallagher $45,000, all in bills of small denominations, as partial settlement with the Supervisors for granting the trolley permit. Gallagher gave Wilson of this money $5000, and the other Supervisors with the exception of Rea $2000 each. They all understood that it was because of the trolley franchise deal. The balance Gallagher retained for himself. The confessing Supervisors, with the exception of Wilson and Rea, testified that their first payment on account of the trolley permit was $2000 each, in bills of small denominations. Wilson testified to having received $5000. Later, Ford, making two trips to the Mint, drew out the $150,000 balance of the $200,000 that had been telegraphed to Calhoun's credit. As before, the Mint paid him in gold, and as before, Ford exchanged the gold for currency. But instead of getting bills of small denomination, on the two trips which Ford made for that $150,000, he secured fifty and one hundred-dollar bills. On the day that Ford drew the last of that $200,000 from the Mint, an agent in the employ of the prosecution followed Ruef from his office to the car barns in which Ford's office was then located. A few days later Ruef gave Gallagher $40,000 in fifty and one hundred-dollar bills, the greater part of which Gallagher distributed among the Supervisors as second and final payment on account of the granting of the trolley permit. In the Parkside deal, the Grand Jury had little difficulty in tracing the money involved. William H. Crocker,[198] a capitalist of large affairs, who owned the largest interest in the company, showed astonishing ignorance of the management. The Grand Jury learned little from him. But those interested in the enterprise with Crocker not only told how half the money was paid Ruef, but how the books had been manipulated to conceal the payment. Ruef, according to the testimony of officials of the company, had first demanded $50,000 as price for his employment to put the franchise through, but had finally agreed to take $30,000. This amount, officials of the company testified, was provided by drawing two checks, one in favor of H. P. Umbsen and the second in the name of Douglass S. Watson, secretary of the Parkside Company. Umbsen and Watson thereupon deeded to the Parkside Company two parcels of land. The transaction was then charged to the purchase of property.[199] The property was deeded back to Umbsen and Watson at the same time, but these last deeds were not immediately recorded. Watson cashed the checks at the Crocker-Woolworth Bank, of which William H. Crocker was president. He testified that he received currency for them. The $30,000 he took to G. H. Umbsen. Half the $30,000 Umbsen paid Ruef. At the time of the exposure, Umbsen[200] testified he was withholding the second payment until the franchise should be put through.[201] In the gas-rate case, the Grand Jury found that the corporation that would, in the final analysis, benefit by the increase in gas rates, was the Pacific Gas and Electric Company. The four responsible men in this company were found to be N. W. Halsey, John Martin, Eugene de Sabla and Frank G. Drum. Halsey was out of the State for the greater part of the time and Cyrus Bierce, acting as treasurer of the corporation, looked after his interests. This narrowed the responsibility down to de Sabla, Martin and Drum. De Sabla testified before the Grand Jury that Ruef was not, to his knowledge, at any time on the pay roll of the company. Martin swore that he knew of no money that had been expended in connection with the fixing of the gas rates, and expressed himself as being as surprised as anyone at the confessions of the Supervisors to having received money after the gas rates had been fixed. Later, after Ruef had plead guilty to extortion, both de Sabla and Martin refused to testify further before the Grand Jury.[202] Mr. Frank G. Drum, when called before the Grand Jury, stated that he had had no conversation with Ruef in reference to the fixing of the gas rates.[203] But later Ruef told the Grand Jury that the money which he had turned over to Gallagher in the gas-rate transaction had come from Drum.[204] The first to be indicted because of these transactions was Ruef. Sixty-five indictments were on March 20 returned against him. Eighteen were based upon the bribing of Supervisors in the so-called fight trust matter; seventeen upon the bribing of Supervisors in fixing the gas rates; thirteen upon the bribing of Supervisors in the matter of the sale of the Home Telephone Company franchise; seventeen in the matter of granting the over-head trolley permit. On the same day, ten indictments were returned against Theodore V. Halsey, of the Pacific States Telephone and Telegraph Company, for the bribery of Supervisors to prevent the sale of a franchise to a competing telephone company. A number of indictments were found against A. K. Detweiler, for bribing Supervisors in the matter of the sale of the Home Telephone franchise. The Detweiler indictments, thirteen in number, were based upon payments of money by Ruef to Gallagher, and by Gallagher to different members of the board. On March 23, the Grand Jury returned nine indictments against Louis Glass, vice-president of the Pacific States Telephone and Telegraph Company, based upon the bribing, through Halsey, of Supervisors to prevent the granting of a competing telephone franchise. During the two months that followed, the Grand Jury continued at the steady grind of graft investigation. Finally, on May 24, one additional indictment[205] was brought against Halsey and two against Glass. On that date, fourteen indictments were returned against Patrick Calhoun, Thornwell Mullally, Tirey L. Ford, William M. Abbott,[206] Abraham Ruef and Mayor E. E. Schmitz, indicted jointly, for the bribery in connection with the granting of the over-head trolley permit. The day following, May 25, G. H. Umbsen, J. E. Green, W. I. Brobeck and Abraham Ruef were jointly indicted fourteen times on charges of offering a bribe to fourteen Supervisors in the Parkside franchise matter. The same day, fourteen indictments were returned against Frank G. Drum, Abraham Ruef, Eugene E. Schmitz, Eugene de Sabla and John Martin on charges of giving and offering bribes to fourteen Supervisors in the matter of fixing the gas rates. Still another series of graft indictments were to be found. Three prize-fight promoters, W. Britt, "Eddie" Graney and "Jimmie" Coffroth were, on nine counts, indicted jointly with Schmitz and Ruef for bribery in connection with the awarding to them of virtually a monopoly of the promotion of prize fighting in San Francisco. FOOTNOTES: [187] The following persons sat on the Boards of Directors of the several corporations involved in the graft disclosures, either during 1906 when the briberies were committed, or during 1907 when the exposures came: Pacific Gas and Electric Company--N. W. Halsey, E. J. de Sabla, John Martin, Frank G. Drum, Wm. H. Crocker, N. D. Rideout, Frank B. Anderson, John A. Britton, Henry E. Bothin, Louis F. Monteagle, Jos. S. Tobin, G. H. McEnerney, Cyrus Pierce, Carl Taylor, F. W. M. McCutcheon. Pacific States Telephone and Telegraph Company--Henry T. Scott, Louis Glass, F. W. Eaton, Timothy Hopkins, Homer S. King, F. G. Drum, E. S. Pillsbury, Percy T. Morgan, all of San Francisco; J. C. Ainsworth, P. Bacon, J. H. Thatcher, C. H. Chambreau, E. H. McCracken, C. B. McLeod, C. E. Hickman, J. P. McNichols, R. W. Schmeer, all of Portland. Parkside Company--W. H. Crocker, Wellington Gregg, Jr., C. E. Green, J. J. Mahony, W. H. Cope, A. F. Morrison, Hugh Keenan, Wm. Matson, J. M. O'Brien, Douglas S. Watson. J. E. Green. United Railroads--Patrick Calhoun, G. F. Chapman, Geo. H. Davis, Tirey L. Ford, Benj. S. Guiness, I. W. Hellman, Chas. Holbrook, A. C. Kains, J. Henry Meyer, Thornwell Mullally, Jos. S. Tobin. The names of the board of directors of the Home Telephone Company, during the period of the bribery transactions, has not, so far as the writer knows, been made public. A. C. Kains resigned from the directorate of the United Railroads, and Jos. S. Tobin from the directorates of the United Railroads and the Pacific Gas and Electric Company, about the time of the disclosures. [188] The inconsistency of the "attorney fee plea" is well illustrated in the United Railroads transaction. Ruef received $200,000 from the United Railroads because of the trolley permit. General Tirey L. Ford, head of the United Railroads law department, to which he devoted all his time, was credited with receiving a salary of $10,000 a year. Thus Ruef's single "fee" was as much as the United Railroads would have paid its head lawyer in twenty years, almost a lifetime of professional service. And Ruef, it must be remembered, in addition was getting $1,000 a month from the United Railroads--more than the chief of that corporation's legal department was receiving. [189] Zimmer insisted at first that the total of the amounts which he turned over to Halsey would not exceed $20,000. Later he admitted that he had not kept track of the amounts, and the total might have been $30,000. This he increased to $35,000, and finally stated that it was "not over $40,000, if it was that." He admitted that it would have been possible for Executive Officer Glass to have paid out $70,000 without his knowledge. "Checks," he said, "could have been signed without going through me; could have been carried just the same as this tag account was." William J. Kennedy, cashier and assistant treasurer of the company, who had charge of the "tags," stated that during February, 1906, considerable amounts were drawn out in this way, which might have totalled as high as $70,000. [190] Regarding the manner in which money was furnished to Halsey, Zimmer testified before the Grand Jury as follows: "Q. This $10,000 that you gave him (Halsey) under direction of Mr. Glass, in what shape did you hand it to him? A. Currency. "Q. Did you have the currency on hand or send out and get it? A. Sent out and got it. I went out and got it. "Q. Where did you get it? A. I don't remember, I had to go to several banks. "Q. Did Mr. Glass tell you he wanted you to give it to him in currency? A. Yes, sir." [191] These admissions led to close questioning of Mr. Zimmer. The following is taken from his testimony given before the Grand Jury: "Q. Now, in what way did that money appear in the books? A. Didn't appear in the books. "Q. How was it taken care of? A. No voucher was ever made for it. "Q. How would your cash account for it? A. It wasn't taken out of the cash account, so far as I know. "Q. What was it taken from? A. By check issued on the regular bank account. "Q. Who was the check made payable to? A. Eaton, treasurer, the same as other coin checks are issued, coin or currency. "Q. It would have appeared somewhere in the books, that check, that amount would be deducted from the bank account? A. Yes, sir; but carried in the expense account of the cash suspense. "Q. Leave a tag with you? Leave a tag, would you? A. Yes." [192] Before the Grand Jury, Sherwin was closely questioned as to one of Mr. Halsey's "Special expense" claims. The following is from his testimony: "Q. Now, then, that shows that it was charged against what fund? A. That got in the legal expense finally, we charged it to Reserve for Contingent Liabilities, and each month we credit that account, I have forgotten maybe $2,000, and charge it to legal to make it run even in the expense each month. "Q. Why does it go to legal? A. Because--instead--to what else would it go? "Q. What makes it legal? A. Oh, that's just a subdivision of our expense. "Q. Was this $600 legal expenses? A. I don't know what it was. "Q. Who told you to put it under legal expenses? A. You mean who told us to put it in that account? "Q. There is nothing on that paper that indicates that it goes into legal expense? A. No. "Q. Now, then, you say it was finally charged to the legal department. Why? A. Simply because everything that is charged to that reserve finally gets into legal expense. "Q. Everything that is charged to that reserve fund? A. Yes, that reserve fund is charged off for legal expense. "Q. And what is the reason for that? A. For charging it to legal? "Q. Yes. A. For charging it to legal--because--I don't know the reason--it is always done that way." [193] See Supervisors' letter to the Examiner, footnote 64, page 62. [194] Calhoun returned to San Francisco April 10. In interviews published in the San Francisco papers of April 12, Calhoun emphatically denied all knowledge of the bribery transactions. In his interview in the Chronicle he said: "I wish to go on record before the people of San Francisco as stating that not one of the officers or legal counsel of the United Railroads of San Francisco or the United Railroads Investment Company of New Jersey ever paid, authorized to be paid, approved of paying or knew that one dollar was paid to secure the passage of the trolley franchise ordinance by the Board of Supervisors, and if I had known that one dollar was paid for the purpose of securing this franchise I would not have accepted it." [195] The refusal of Calhoun and Mullally to testify created a sensation, even in those sensational times. The Chronicle in its issue of May 4, 1907, printed the following account of the incident: "For the first time in the history of the examination of witnesses before this Grand Jury, Heney was careful not to instruct the prospective witnesses as to their legal rights. Instead he merely asked them if they were already familiar with their rights under the law. "'I am aware,' said Calhoun, who was the first to be called, 'that anything I might tell this body might be used against me.' "'With that understanding are you willing to become a witness before this Grand Jury?' asked Heney. "'I am not,' was Calhoun's response. "The Jurymen who had leaned forward as the reply of the president hung on his lips sank back in their seats. "'That is all, Mr. Calhoun,' said Heney to the president, and then going to the door he said to the bailiff, 'Call Mr. Mullally.' "Mullally's examination was identical with that of his superior's and he was permitted to go. Neither President Calhoun nor Assistant Mullally will be called again to the jury room." Calhoun issued the following statement of his refusal to testify: "When called before the Grand Jury this afternoon and informed that it had under investigation the alleged bribery of public officials by the United Railroads, we declined to be sworn and in order that our action may not be misconstrued, I call your attention to these facts: "For months past the public prints have been full of charges traceable to certain persons connected with the prosecution that they had positive evidence that the United Railroads had spent not less than $450,000 in bribing the officials of this city. I have repeatedly stated that neither I nor the United Railroads, nor any official of the United Railroads, had bribed anyone, authorized any bribery, knew of any bribery or approved of any bribery. This statement I now fully reaffirm. It is not for us nor any officer of our company to disprove these grave charges. It is for those making them to prove them. We do not now care to discuss their motives. We know that they cannot produce any truthful evidence connecting us or any officer of the United Railroads with this alleged crime. "We relied, in declining to be sworn, upon the broad Constitutional right of every American citizen that a defendant cannot be called as a witness, and upon the justice, fairness and common sense of the Grand Jury, to whom we look for complete vindication without offering one word in our own behalf." [196] For several weeks after the great fire of April 18-19-20, 1906, the banks were closed at San Francisco. Money could, however, during this period, be transferred to San Francisco, through the United States mint. [197] Gallagher had notified Ruef that he would not deal with Rea in the trolley transaction. Ruef, Gallagher alleged, had agreed to attend to Rea's case himself. See Chapter XIII. [198] Crocker testified before the Grand Jury, however, that he had known Ruef for many years. "He (Ruef) and my brother-in-law, Prince Poniatowski," said Crocker, "both being French, and both being pretty clever men, struck up quite a friendship together and through that means I used to see more or less of Ruef and that was one of those peculiar friendships that spring up with people who are not identified and not connected in any way whatever in any business enterprise, sprang up between Ruef and myself, and when he told me that in my office it didn't surprise me a bit." Crocker had testified that Ruef had promised to do all he could to get him his franchise, and wouldn't want a dollar from Crocker, or from the institution with which Crocker was connected. [199] Of this manipulation of the books, President J. E. Green, of the Parkside Company, testified before the Grand Jury as follows: "Q. How was the transaction to appear in the books? How was the property account to be charged with it? It would have to show some property. A. It was charged for a block that was purchased from Watson and Umbsen, a block of land. "Q. Did you tell Watson to do that? A. I believe I did. "Q. How did they get paid for the land? A. They deeded this block which they had to the company and the company in turn executed a deed to them, returning the land to them, simply a matter of bookkeeping. "Q. Was the company's deed put on record? From them to the company? A. I rather think so. "Q. What was the purpose of that? A. To get a charge to the property account for the expenditure of that amount of money. "Q. What was the reason for charging it to property account? A. Every expenditure that was made was charged to property account with the idea the property had to pay it back. "Q. Did you always go through the form with every expense that wasn't actually a piece of property, did you go through a form of deeding a piece of property and then deeding it back? A. No, sir. "Q. What was the reason of doing it in this instance? A. Because--other things--there was a case--grading, sewering or fencing the blocks when they spoke for itself. "Q. I don't see how it helped you; it went to the property account and the property went right out; don't see how it helped you any. A. It had to be charged to something, Mr. Heney. "Q. Why couldn't it be charged to what it was, attorneys' fees? A. Because attorneys' fees were charged against property account. "Q. Were Morrison & Cope's fees charged up as a piece of property and did they go through a rigmarole of deeding a piece of property too? A. No; their fees or any other expense against the property interests. "Q. Didn't they go into the books as a fee for Morrison & Cope and charged as expenses against property? A. Charged direct to property. "Q. As expense? A. Don't know as expense; it was charged to property, showing that we had that much money in property; when we got through selling anything over, that was profit in our favor. "Q. It appeared on the books as having been paid to Morrison & Cope for attorneys' fees? A. Can't say without seeing the books. "Q. Ordinary way of keeping books? A. Yes. "Q. You didn't cover up anything you paid to Morrison & Cope by putting through the hands of the secretary? A. No, sir. "Q. Why did you cover up this in connection with Ruef? A. I don't know; suppose the property account is probably the proper one to charge it to. "Q. Only explanation of it? A. Yes, sir." [200] Early in the graft investigation Detective William J. Burns, with studied carelessness, dropped a remark in the presence of a salesman of the Parkside Company, that he had heard money was being used in the Parkside case. Soon after, Thomas L. Henderson, secretary of the company, received word from William I. Brobeck, of the law firm of Morrison, Cope & Brobeck, attorney for the Parkside Company, to call at that firm's law office. Of the incident. Henderson testified before the Grand Jury as follows: "Q. His first question to you was what? A. We went in there. He said, Mr. Henderson, I am going to talk to you about Parkside and he said, have you an attorney? I said, no. I have no attorney. He says, it might be well for you to get an attorney. I said, all right. Mr. Brobeck, I will take you for an attorney. He said, all right, I will take you for a client. "Q. Then what was said? A. Then he spoke, he said, you know about that remark made by Mr. Burns at Nineteenth and H. I replied how I got the remark from Hooper who was the salesman out there and I had passed it off, saying I did not want to talk about it. Then he said to me, I can't remember just the words, but his advice to me was not to say anything about it. I told him certainly, I would not. Then he spoke about Umbsen. Could I communicate with Gus? And I told him I could on the 4th of the month, he was then between Havana and Florida, and would arrive in New York about the 4th. Do you think it would be advisable to telegraph or write to him not to say anything? I said: Oh, no, I don't see any necessity for doing that. "Q. What was the remark as you heard it that Burns made? A. We were coming down on the Sutter street car, Mr. Kernan and myself, when Ed Hooper, salesman, spoke to us and said: I had a distinguished visitor yesterday. I said, who; he said, Mr. Burns, the detective. He said, I knew something about the telephone cases. I say what he said, a little something. He asked me about that and started for the automobile and when he got there, he turned around and said, another thing, I want to ask you about, I heard Ruef got $30,000 from Parkside. Who would be the man to see. I am only out here selling land and don't know anything about that. I had been here with Watson when he was agent and when Umbsen took charge he kept me in the same job. He was the salesman out there, that was at that time they had this automobile race and I turned around and said: I see the Oldsmobile won the race in Los Angeles, because I didn't want to continue the conversation with him. "Q. Did Brobeck, in his conversation, tell you where he got the information that Burns had been out there? A. No sir, he did not. "Q. Did he tell you that he knew what Burns had said? A. The impression I got was that he knew. I don't remember his saying in just so many words. "Q. He referred to the statement made by Burns? A. He may have made the remark that you know about what was said out there. "Q. At the time you talked about your having an attorney did he tell you to send him some money? A. After we finished he said, 'Mr. Henderson, you had better send me pay for this interview.' I said what? and he said five or ten dollars and when I got to the office, I mailed him a check for $10." [201] Ruef's version of the affair, as Ruef gave it before the Grand Jury, was: "Mr. Umbsen stated to me that with a great deal of difficulty, he had been able to persuade the people interested to allow me this fee. I thereupon told Mr. Gallagher that I had made arrangements to secure for myself an attorney's fee in the matter and I would allow him something over $13,500 as his proportion of the fee. Mr. Gallagher estimated what it would require for his services in the matter and we had discussed would the Supervisors accept that amount." [202] John Martin's statement, when he refused to testify, furnishes fair example of the attitude of those who became involved in the graft scandal. The Grand Jury record shows: "John Martin recalled. "Foreman (to witness). You have already been sworn, so you can consider yourself under oath. Mr. Martin: I desire to stand on my constitutional right and not to testify further. "Mr. Heney: If you feel that your testimony might have a tendency to subject you to prosecution--. A. (interrupting). No, not that. I am not so advised that that is necessary. My constitutional rights are broader than that, I am advised. "Q. Then you don't desire to testify? A. No, sir. "Mr. Heney: All right." [203] Mr. Frank G. Drum testified as follows: "Q. Do you know Abraham Ruef? A. Met him. "Q. Did you have any conversation with him about that time? A. No, sir. "Q. I mean a conversation with reference to the rates? A. No, not that I know anything about." [204] Ruef on this point testified before the Grand Jury as follows: "I received from Mr. Frank G. Drum, $20,000 as an attorney's fee as spoken of between ourselves, about the time that the gas rates were being fixed. Of that money, I gave to Mr. Gallagher for the Board of Supervisors about, as I remember It now, $14,000. It may have been a few hundred dollars more or less. I think about $14,000. Mr. Drum spoke to me about employing me in the service of the company some month or two before, I believe, and engaged me as attorney to represent the interests, as I understood it from him, which he represented in the company, at $1000 a month, of which I received, I believe, for two or three months. At the time of the fixing of the gas rates some of the Supervisors, as I was informed by Supervisor Gallagher, insisted upon fixing an extremely low rate, such a rate as would have been ruinous to the business of the company, a rate which neither I nor any one who had looked up the question would have considered under any circumstances to be reasonable, proper or maintainable, and said they were determined absolutely to reduce those rates. The matter was brought up at one of the Sunday evening caucuses and some of the members of the Board of Supervisors insisted that the board had been pledged by its platform to a rate of 75c. per thousand feet; they thought that was even too much and made some strong speeches and others maintained the 75c. rate and they contemplated fixing the 75c. rate that evening, that is to say, agreeing to do it at the proper time which I suppose was a week thereafter. In the meantime, the company sustained a heavy fire loss, not the fire of April 18th, but the previous fire, which caused them a great deal of damage, and I told Mr. Drum that it would be necessary for me, in order to protect the interests of the company and the interests which he represented, to have an additional attorney's fee and I told him that I thought it would require $20,000. He considered the matter and one day, a day or two afterward, he agreed to pay me the additional attorney's fee of $20,000 which I thereafter received. "Q. Where did the conversation take place in which you told him about the necessity of having the $20,000? A. At his office in the Mills Building." [205] Although the Graft Prosecution was to be effectively opposed by Union Labor party leaders, the San Francisco Labor Council, made up of representatives of practically every San Francisco labor union, on the night of March 23, 1907, adopted resolutions declaring for the prosecution of bribe-givers as follows: "Whereas, The indictments issued during the past few days by the San Francisco Grand Jury against certain individuals involve specific charges of flagrant and widespread corruption on the part of many members of the present city government; and whereas, said government, having adopted the name of 'Union Labor' has professed particular concern for the welfare of the working class, as represented by organized labor, and has sought and secured election upon pledges of loyalty to the principles, economic and political, to which organized labor everywhere is committed; and whereas, the alleged conduct of the city government is not only grossly repugnant to the principles of organized labor, but violates every rule of common honesty; and whereas, the conduct of the 'Union Labor' government and the inevitable association thereof with the character of the labor movement is calculated to lead to public misconception of the latter and thus to injure it and lessen its efficiency in its chosen field, therefore be it "Resolved, By the San Francisco Labor Council, that we declare that every corruptionist, briber and bribed, should be prosecuted and punished according to law, and hereby pledge our co-operation to that end; further "Resolved, That we reassert the position of the San Francisco Labor Council as a body organized and conducted for purely economic purposes, having no connection, direct or implied, with the Union Labor party or any other political party or organization, and therefore being in no way responsible for the conduct or misconduct of any such party or organization; further "Resolved, That we also reaffirm our belief that the private ownership of public utilities constitutes the chief source of public corruption, and is in fact a premium thereon, and therefore ought to be displaced by the system of public ownership of public utilities." [206] At the time Patrick Calhoun held the office of President of the United Railroads; Mullally was assistant to the President; Ford general counsel for the corporation. Abbott was Ford's assistant. CHAPTER XV. RUEF PLEADS GUILTY TO EXTORTION.[207] While the Supervisors were making full confessions of their participation in the bribery transactions, and the Grand Jury was dragging from unwilling promoters, capitalists and corporation employees information as to the source of the corruption funds, Ruef's days and nights were devoted to consideration of plans for his own safety. Ruef, after his arrest and confinement under Elisor Biggy, became one of the scramblers of his broken organization to save himself. But Ruef was more clever, more far-seeing than any of the Supervisors. His course from the beginning indicates that, in considering confession, he carefully weighed against the power of the regularly constituted authorities of San Francisco to protect him if he testified for the State, the ability of organized corruptionists to punish for betrayal. Ruef realized that although the all-powerful State "machine," labeled Republican, of which the San Francisco organization labeled Union Labor, which he had built up, was but a part, had for the moment lost control of the San Francisco District Attorney's office, but the "machine" still dominated the other departments of the municipal government, as well as of the State government[208]. Ruef realized that Langdon might die; that the State Attorney General might set Langdon aside and himself conduct the graft prosecution. And he realized that some day a district attorney other than Langdon would be prosecutor in San Francisco. In any of these events, what would be the lot of the man who had betrayed the scarcely-known captains of the powerful machine? On the other hand, the hour when the evidence which the District Attorney had accumulated against him would be presented before a trial jury, approached with deadly certainty. Such considerations led to Ruef devoting his days to resistance of the proceeding against him in the trial court, where a jury to try him on one of the five extortion charges on which he had been indicted, was being impaneled, while his nights were given to scheming to wring from the District Attorney immunity from punishment for the extortions and briberies which had been brought to his door. The period was one of activity for both District Attorney and Ruef. On the whole, however, the District Attorney had the liveliest time of it. To be sure, Ruef had been brought before the trial judge; that is to say, the impaneling of a trial jury had begun, but Ruef's technical fight had not been abandoned for a moment. The appearance of Ruef under arrest was signal for a fight to have him admitted to bail. But release under bonds Judge Dunne denied him on the ground of the immediate approach of his trial, and because he had attempted to put himself beyond the process of the court. Ruef's attorneys appealed to the United States District Court for a writ of habeas corpus, but this was denied them. His attorneys filed affidavits alleging bias and prejudice on the part of Judge Dunne against Ruef, and demanding a change of venue. And with these various motions, all of which the District Attorney was called upon to meet, was the appeal from Judge Hebbard's order to the Federal Supreme Court, which was considered in a previous chapter. The actual work of drawing a jury to try Ruef began on March 13,[209] eight days later than the date originally set for trial. The State was represented by District Attorney Langdon, Francis J. Heney and Hiram W. Johnson. At the defense end of the table with Schmitz and Ruef were Attorneys Joseph C. Campbell, Samuel M. Shortridge, Henry Ach, Charles A. Fairall and J. J. Barrett. But it developed that one of the four citizens drawn for jury service was not in the courtroom. The defense objected to proceeding during the absence of the venireman. The hearing was accordingly postponed. Because of one technical obstruction and another, the work of impaneling the trial jury was delayed until April 2. Even after that date there were interruptions, but the work of securing the jury[210] went on until May 13, when the twelfth man to try Ruef was accepted. But while Ruef was making this brave fight in public to head off trial on the extortion charge, behind the scenes he was imploring representatives of the Prosecution to grant him immunity from punishment in return for such confession as he might see fit to make. As early as March 20, Ruef sent word to Heney through Burns[211] that he was willing to make confession, provided he were given immunity from punishment for all crimes which he had committed or in which he had participated. Heney refused absolutely to consider any arrangement which involved complete immunity for Ruef. Negotiations on the basis of partial immunity followed.[212] Heney, on the ground that he did not trust any of Ruef's lawyers, refused to discuss the matter with them, but stated that he would meet any lawyer in whom he had confidence to negotiate terms of partial immunity, provided that Ruef's representative were permitted: (1) To give the names of Ruef's accomplices who would be involved by his testimony. (2) To give the general nature of the offenses in which the various accomplices were involved. (3) To be prepared to assure Heney that Ruef's evidence against his accomplices could be corroborated, and was sufficient to sustain a conviction. Ruef at first appeared to be well satisfied with the plan. He sent for a list of San Francisco attorneys, and set himself enthusiastically to the work of selecting a list of the names of attorneys to be submitted to Heney. But he failed to make a selection, urging all the time to Burns that Heney accept Henry Ach. Ruef's insistence that he deal with Ach convinced Heney that Ruef was not acting in good faith, and he refused to yield to Burns's urging that he give way to Ruef in this particular and accept Ach as Ruef's representative.[213] Under Ruef's temporizing, negotiations dragged until April 2, the day that, Ruef's technical obstructions in the main set aside, his trial was to be resumed before Judge Dunne. On that day, a new actor appeared in the person of Dr. Jacob Nieto, a Jewish Rabbi of some prominence in San Francisco. Nieto, according to Burns's statement to Heney, asked the detective if he had any objection to his (Nieto's) calling upon Ruef. Nieto stated further that he believed that he could get Ruef to confess, and volunteered the theory that the "higher-ups" were endeavoring to make Ruef a scapegoat for all the boodling that had been committed. Burns reported to Heney that he not only replied to Nieto that he had no objection to Nieto's visiting Ruef, but would be glad to have the Rabbi endeavor to get Ruef to tell the truth. When Burns told Heney of this conversation, Heney did not show himself so well pleased with the arrangements as Burns might have expected. The prosecutor took occasion to warn Burns against Nieto. Heney had already had unpleasant experience with Rabbi Nieto.[214] Nevertheless, Nieto visited Ruef. Members of Ruef's family were called into consultation. Conferences were held between Ach, Ruef and Burns. Heney states in his affidavit that he did not attend these meetings. Finally Burns brought Heney word that Ach and Ruef wanted citations to show that the District Attorney had authority to grant immunity. Heney sent back word that he was confident that the District Attorney had no such power, but with the further statement that if the terms of the immunity agreement were reasonable and in the interest of justice, that the Court, provided it had confidence in the District Attorney, would unquestionably follow such recommendation as that official might make. Burns brought back word to Heney that Ruef and Ach continued to insist upon complete immunity. Heney sent back an ultimatum to the effect that Ruef must plead guilty to the extortion case then on trial before Judge Dunne[215] and take his chances with the sentence that would be given him; that if Ruef did this, Heney was willing to arrange for complete immunity in all the other cases, provided Ruef showed to Heney's satisfaction that his testimony could be sufficiently corroborated and would sustain a conviction of his accomplices other than Supervisors, in cases where members of the Board of Supervisors had been bribed. In the meantime, the work of selecting a jury to try Ruef on the extortion charge was going on with the deadly certainty of the slide of the knife of a guillotine. The second week of the examination of prospective jurors brought Dr. Nieto to Heney's office. Burns accompanied the Rabbi. Nieto[216] described himself as no particular friend of Ruef. He expressed the opinion that Ruef should be punished; that he should restore his ill-gotten gains. Heney stated to Nieto his attitude toward Ruef, as he had expressed it many times before. From that time on Dr. Nieto was a frequent caller at Heney's office, always for the purpose of discussing the question of Ruef's confession. During all these meetings Heney did not depart a jot from his original position that the extortion charge against Ruef should not be dismissed. Later on, a second Rabbi, Dr. Bernard M. Kaplan, joined Nieto in these visits to Heney's office. Kaplan continued active in the negotiations to secure immunity for the fallen boss.[217] Finally Nieto, Kaplan and Ach sent word to Heney and Langdon by Burns that they desired to meet the District Attorney and his assistant at Heney's office to discuss the immunity question. Heney and Langdon consented and the meeting was held in the latter part of April. Ach insisted upon complete immunity, but admitted that he had advised Ruef to take the best he could get.[218] Neither Langdon[219] nor Heney would consent to complete immunity, nor to material change in the stand which Heney had taken. Ach wanted assurance that the Judges before whom the bribery cases were pending would, on motion of the District Attorney, dismiss them as to Ruef, and suggested to Heney that he go to the judges and get them to consent to the proposed agreement. To this Heney made emphatic refusal, stating that the utmost he would do would be to go with Ach to Judges Dunne and Lawlor and ask each of them whether he had confidence in him (Heney) and what the Judge's general practice was in relation to matters of this kind, generally, when they came before his court. Other conferences[220] were held, at which Ach continued to urge complete immunity for Ruef, which finally brought out emphatic statement from Heney that he did not trust Ruef and would enter into no agreement with him which did not leave it in the power of the District Attorney to send him to the penitentiary if at any time the District Attorney and himself concluded that during the progress of the matters Ruef was acting in bad faith, or that the information which he might give was not of sufficient importance to the people of the city and the State equitably to entitle him to go without punishment. Heney takes pains all through his affidavit to make it clear that he treated with Nieto and Kaplan at all times upon the theory that they were Ruef's special pleaders and special representatives, who believed that Ruef was sure to be convicted upon as many of the felony bribery charges as the District Attorney tried him on, and that he would go to the penitentiary for a term of years equivalent to life. On the night of April 21,[231] when the work of selecting a jury to try Ruef was nearing completion, Ach, Kaplan and Nieto visited Heney's office with assurance that Ruef had about concluded to accept Heney's terms. But, they explained, a new difficulty had come up. Rabbi Nieto was to leave San Francisco the next morning for a trip to Europe. Neither he nor Dr. Kaplan was familiar with the practices of the courts, and while the judges would no doubt consider favorably any recommendation which was made by Mr. Langdon or by Mr. Heney, nevertheless, the two Rabbis would like to hear from Judge Dunne and Judge Lawlor statement as to what the practice of each of these judges was in that respect before they urged Ruef any further to accept the terms which had been offered him. As Dr. Nieto was to leave for Europe early in the morning, they wanted to see the judges that night. Heney assured his visitors that owing to the lateness of the hour, he was afraid it would be impossible for them to see the judges before morning. But they insisted. Burns was finally sent out to find the judges if he could. He succeeded in locating Judge Lawlor at the theater. Judge Lawlor at first refused to see Nieto and Heney that night, stating that they could appear at his chambers the next morning. But Burns explained that Nieto had to leave for Europe the next morning, adding that he was sure that both Nieto and Heney would consider it a great favor if the Judge would see them that night, as the matter was very important. Lawlor finally consented to see them, but stated that he would do so only at his chambers, if, as he understood it, Heney and Nieto wanted to see him about his duties as judge. Burns took word back to Heney's office that they could go to Judge Lawlor's chambers, where the Judge would go as soon as the theater was over. Heney, Kaplan and Nieto met Lawlor at his chambers. Heney went straight at the purpose of the meeting. "Judge," Heney sets forth in his affidavit he said in substance, "we come up here tonight to ask you what the practice of your court is in criminal cases in relation to recommendations which may be made by the District Attorney?" Judge Lawlor replied in effect that the District Attorney represents the public in the prosecution of crime, and that under the law it was the practice for that official to submit to the court recommendations concerning persons who turn state's evidence; that the law vests the authority in the Court to determine all such recommendations and that it is proper for the District Attorney to make them; that such recommendations should be carefully considered by the Court; and if they are in the interests of justice they should be followed, otherwise not. Judge Lawlor stated further that he would not consider or discuss any cause or case of any individual except upon a full hearing in open court, and that it would be determined alone upon what was so presented. Final decision, he said, would in every case rest with the Court, and if the application was in the interest of justice, it would be granted, but if not it would be denied. Immediately after having made this statement Judge Lawlor excused himself and left the building. Judge Dunne, when finally found by Burns, objected as strongly as had Judge Lawlor to going to the courtroom that night, but finally yielded to the same representations as had been made to Judge Lawlor. All parties at the meeting with Judge Dunne at the courtroom were agreed and the incident was quickly over. Heney asked the Judge, in effect, to state for the benefit of Nieto and Kaplan the practice of his court in criminal matters in relation to any recommendations which may be made by the District Attorney's office in the interest of justice when the defendant becomes a witness on behalf of the State against his accomplices. Heney stated further that the two Rabbis would also like to know whether or not Judge Dunne had confidence in District Attorney Langdon and himself. Judge Dunne replied in substance: "I have confidence in you, Mr. Heney, and in the District Attorney, and while I have confidence in the District Attorney, whenever a recommendation or suggestion is made by him in a case pending in my department, it is my practice to entertain and be guided by it, provided, of course, it is in the interest or furtherance of justice." Kaplan wanted to know what the course would be should a man plead guilty and afterwards ask to change his plea. "You have heard what I have said, gentlemen, as to my practice," replied Judge Dunne. "Of course, in all cases of such recommendations, and which I insist shall always be made in open court, whenever the District Attorney fails to convince me that he is well advised, or that good and sufficient grounds exist for his motions, it must be remembered that the final determination must always rest with me. But, of course, I would give great weight to any recommendation either you, Mr. Heney, or Mr. Langdon might make." From the courtroom Nieto, Kaplan and Burns went to Ruef, but Ruef still insisted that he should not plead guilty to the extortion charge, "backed and filled," as Burns expressed it. Ruef sent word to Heney by Burns, asking an interview. But this Heney refused to grant, bluntly stating that should he meet Ruef, Ruef would misrepresent anything that he might say. Heney instructed Burns to tell Ruef that he could accept the proposition that he had made to him or let it alone as he pleased, that no more time would be wasted on him; that trial of the extortion charge would be pressed to conclusion and regardless of whether conviction were had or not, Ruef would be tried immediately on one of the bribery charges. Nevertheless, the persistent Ruef got an interview with Heney. He secured it in this way: After Heney had retired on the night of May 1st, Burns called him up on the telephone, to state that if Heney would give Ruef a moment's interview that Burns was confident that Ruef would accept Heney's proposition. Heney granted the hearing. Ruef plead for complete immunity. He argued that for him to plead guilty to the extortion charge would weaken his testimony in the bribery cases. He urged that public opinion would approve his release. He charged Heney with being prejudiced against him. Heney listened to him patiently, but refused to consider any suggestion that he alter the original proposition. By this time ten jurors had been secured to try Ruef. Ruef begged for an interview with Langdon. It was granted, with Heney and others present. The same ground was gone over again; the same denials made. And then Heney bluntly told Ruef in substance: "You must plead guilty in case No. 305 and take your chances on the sentence which will be imposed in that case. This is our ultimatum and you must agree to this before the first witness is sworn in case No. 305, or we will withdraw our proposition and will never again renew it, or any other proposition looking to any sort of leniency or immunity for you."[222] The day following, Burns brought word to Heney that Ruef had concluded to accept the Prosecution's proposition, and had begun his confession by reciting the particulars of the United Railroad's bribery. Burns recited what Ruef had told him. Burns's enthusiasm suffered a shock from Heney's cool analysis of Ruef's statement.[223] Heney pointed out that Ruef had made no revelation which the Prosecution had not known before, and further that Ruef was certainly concealing part at least of what had occurred between him and General Ford. Heney was now convinced of Ruef's treachery.[224] Ruef's future course tended to strengthen this conviction. Having agreed to make full statement of his connection with the bribing of the Supervisors, Ruef haggled over the form of immunity contract. He endeavored to force upon the Prosecution a contract of his own drawing. Failing in that he tried to persuade Heney and Langdon to enter into a stipulation that he might withdraw his plea of guilty in the extortion case. In neither move was he successful. Heney refused to depart a jot from his original proposition. Ruef finally accepted the immunity contract which Heney had submitted.[225] Even after the immunity contract had been signed, Ruef continued to urge Burns that he be not required to plead guilty. The prosecution was not sure what Ruef would do. The examination of jurors to try him went on. The jury was completed on May 13,[226] and was sworn. But the actual taking of testimony was delayed by Ruef demanding change of venue from Judge Dunne's court. This motion after the filing of numerous affidavits by both sides, was denied. However, Ruef's last motion delayed the taking of testimony for two days more. Upon Judge Dunne's ruling the next move would have been the placing of witnesses on the stand. But before this could be done, Ruef whispered to his attorney, Ach. Ach arose and addressed the Court. "I am requested by our client, your Honor," Ach said in substance, "that it is his desire to have a conference with his counsel. I would like to draw your Honor's attention to the fact that up to this time Mr. Ruef has not had a single opportunity to confer with his counsel alone. If the elisor, or the guards, were not in the same room they were quite close by. I think, in view of this fact, that we might be granted an adjournment until say two o'clock of this afternoon so that Mr. Ruef may have this privilege of conferring with us." Heney promptly denied Ach's statement. "What Mr. Ach has stated is not a fact," said Heney. "Mr. Ruef has always been granted privacy in his conference with counsel." On Langdon's suggestion, a half hour's recess was granted to allow Ruef to confer with counsel. With his attorneys, Henry Ach, Samuel M. Shortridge, Frank J. Murphy and Judge Fairall, Ruef went into Judge Dunne's chambers for conference. On their return to the courtroom, Ach and Shortridge, with Ruef's consent, withdrew from the case on the ground that they could not agree with Ruef as to the manner in which the case should be conducted. Fairall and Murphy remained by their client. And then Ruef, the tears streaming down his face, addressed the Court. He stated his intent to acknowledge whatever there may have been of wrong or mistake in his record, and pledged himself, so far as it lay in his power to make it right.[227] "I desire," concluded Ruef, "to withdraw my plea of not guilty heretofore entered, and to enter the contrary plea, and at the proper time submit to the Court further suggestions for its consideration.[228] "If the defendant wishes to change his plea of 'not guilty' to 'guilty,'" said Heney, "the prosecuting attorney will consent to the discharge of the jury, as he requests, but we think the indictment should first be re-read so that he may enter the plea as he wishes." The indictment was read. "What is your plea?" asked Judge Dunne of the prisoner. And Ruef replied, "Guilty."[229] FOOTNOTES: [207] The statements contained in this chapter are based on affidavits filed in the case of The People vs. Patrick Calhoun et al., No. 823. Many of the statements are qualified, and in many instances denied, in affidavits filed by Ruef, his friends, associates and attorneys, in the same proceedings. [208] In this connection, in discussing the difficulties in the way of bringing criminals to trial, the San Francisco Chronicle, in its issue of March 14, 1907, said: "The penal laws of California are admirable, and cover almost every transaction deserving moral reprobation. The only reason why all our people are not either virtuous or in jail is that the same Legislatures which have so carefully defined crimes and prescribed punishments have been still more careful to enact codes of criminal procedure that nobody can be convicted of any crime if he has the cash to pay for getting off. And what the legislatures have failed to do in this direction the courts have usually made good." [209] Four years later to a day, March 13, 1911, Ruef was taken to the penitentiary at San Quentin to begin service of his fourteen-year term for bribing a Supervisor. [210] As the impaneling of the Ruef jury proceeded, that Ruef's nerve was breaking became apparent to all who saw him. The Chronicle, in its issue of March 18, 1907, thus describes his condition: "Ruef's nerve is breaking down. He is a prey to doubts and fears which never troubled him in those days when he could see his political henchmen every day and bolster up their confidence in his ability to fight off the prosecution. Reports reach his ears of confessions of guilt on the part of some of his official puppets, of the sinister activities of Burns and his agents and treachery on the part of those whom he considered his most devoted adherents, and fill him with alarm. "It was different when he could hold his Sunday evening caucus with the members of the Board of Supervisors, and reassure them that all would be well. He knows the men he used in his political schemes and their weaknesses." [211] Heney, in instructing Burns as to his policy regarding Ruef, took occasion to state to the detective his attitude toward the broken boss. In an affidavit filed in the case of The People vs. Calhoun et al., No. 823, Heney sets forth that he told Burns: "Ruef was not a mere accessory or tool in the commission of these briberies. He is a man of extraordinary brain power, keen intelligence, fine education, with the choice of good environment, great power of persuasion over men, dominating personality, great shrewdness and cunning, coupled with a greedy and avaricious disposition. He has not been led into the commission of these crimes through weakness, but on the contrary has aided in the initiation of them and has joined hands with the most vicious and depraved elements in the city to secure unlawful protection for them in conducting their resorts of vice, and has joined hands with the special privilege seeking classes to place improper burdens upon the people of this city by granting franchises to public service corporations which ought never to have been granted, and by fixing rates which may be charged by them in excess of the amounts which such rates ought to be, and thus indirectly robbing the poor people of this city of a large part of their meagre earnings, and that to let Ruef go free of all punishment under such circumstances would be a crime against society." [212] Running through the affidavits which resulted from the differences between the forces of the prosecution and the defense concerning these negotiations, is a thread of suggestion that individual members of the prosecution differed as to the policy that should be followed toward Ruef. Burns, the detective, leaned toward granting him complete immunity. Heney was unalterably opposed to this course. Langdon, on the whole, sided with Heney. [213] See Heney's affidavit in the matter of The People vs. Patrick Calhoun et al., No. 823. [214] Nieto, according to Heney, had endeavored to make it appear that race prejudice entered into the prosecution of Ruef. Heney, in an affidavit filed in the case of The People vs. Calhoun et al., No. 823, tells of Nieto's interference even when the Oliver Grand Jury was being impaneled. Heney says: "During the latter part of October or the first week in November, 1906, while said Grand Jury was being impaneled, Dr. Jacob Nieto introduced himself to me in the court room of Department No. 10, where I had noticed that he was a constant attendant and close observer of the proceedings connected with the impaneling of the Grand Jury. "Some days after he had introduced himself to me he stepped up to me, just as court had adjourned and after I had been examining some of the grand jurors as to their qualifications, and said in substance: "'Mr. Heney, it seems to me that you discriminate somewhat against the Jews in examining jurors, and I think that in your position you ought to be more careful not to exhibit any prejudice against a man on account of his religion.' "I asked what in particular I had done to cause him to criticise my conduct in that way, and he referred to some question which I had asked a grand juror, but which I cannot now recollect. I then said to him in substance: "'Why, Doctor, you are supersensitive. Some of the best friends I have in the world are Jews, and some of the best clients I ever had in my life were Jews, and I have no prejudice against any man merely on account of his religious belief. I am sorry that you have so misapprehended the purpose and motives of my questions to jurors.' "On a subsequent day, during the time the Grand Jury was being impaneled, Dr. Nieto again approached me after an adjournment of the court and again reproached me for having again shown prejudice or discrimination against some grand juror of the Jewish faith by the questions which I asked him * * * and I said to him in substance, in a very emphatic tone of voice: 'Dr. Nieto, I have heretofore told you that I have no prejudice against any man whatever on account of his religion. All I am trying to do in this matter is to get fair grand jurors, and I am just as willing to trust honest Jews as honest Christians, but I want to make sure that a man is honest, whether a Jew or Christian, and it looks to me as if you are trying to find some excuse to line up in opposition to this prosecution. I do not see why you need to seek for excuses if that is what you want to do. I am conscious of my own singleness of purpose and purity of purpose in examining grand jurors, and it is wholly immaterial to me, therefore, what you or anybody else may think of my method of questioning them.'" As a matter of fact Jews not only sat on the Oliver Grand Jury, but were among the most earnest and effective in sifting the graft scandal to the bottom. But that the false cry that Ruef was persecuted because he was a Jew influenced many of his fellow Jews in his favor is unquestionably true. [215] This case was numbered from the indictment, 305. Schmitz was indicted jointly with Ruef in this indictment, and later was convicted under it and sentenced to five years in the penitentiary. See Chapter XVI. The testimony at the Schmitz trial showed that Ruef had taken the extortion money from the French-Restaurant keepers, after Schmitz had acted with him to imperil the French-Restaurant keepers' liquor licenses, and had given part of the proceeds of the enterprise to Schmitz. [216] In his affidavit, Heney quotes Rabbi Nieto as saying In substance: "I do not care to get publicly mixed up in the Ruef case, because among other things, I am not a particular friend of Ruef's, and am not interested in the matter as an individual but only in the welfare of this community. I think that Ruef has grievously sinned against this community and that he can do a great deal to undo the wrongs which he has committed and to clear up the situation, and I have told him that it is his duty to himself and to his family and to the city of his birth to do so. I want you to understand, Mr. Heney, that I have not come here to ask you to let Ruef go free and without punishment. I think he ought to be punished, and I think he ought to give a large part of the money which he obtained from these corporations to the city to improve its streets. He ought to give $300,000 for that purpose, but Ruef thinks more of money than he does of his family, or even of his liberty, and I think he would rather go to the penitentiary than give up any very large amount of it." [217] Heney, in his affidavit, makes the following statement of his impression of Kaplan: "Dr. Kaplan appeared to be far more interested in finding out just what would be done to Ruef, provided he plead guilty in the French Restaurant case than he was in the moral issue which was involved in the discussion, or in the beneficial effect which the testimony of Ruef might have upon the deplorable situation then existing in San Francisco on account of its municipal corruption. "This was evidenced more from his manner and form of questioning than by anything which he said. I immediately became convinced that he was influenced by no motive or purpose other than that of getting Ruef off without any punishment if possible; but I also formed the opinion that he was honest and unsophisticated." [218] Heney, in his affidavit, states: "During the conversation Ach stated, in substance: 'You can't convict Ruef in this French Restaurant case, but I realize that you are sure to convict him in some of the bribery cases, and I think it is useless for him to stand out and fight any longer, he had better take the best he can get, and I have told him so. He insists, however, that he ought not to be required to plead guilty in the French Restaurant case, or to submit to any punishment.'" [219] In the course of the interview, Langdon stated to Ach and the two Rabbis that he had authorized Heney to conduct the negotiations for him, but that he wanted it to be distinctly understood by everybody that he had the final say in the matter and would exercise it, and that no agreement could be concluded without his personal sanction. [220] Heney, In his affidavit describing these meetings, states that Ach, Kaplan and Nieto habitually came In the back way so they would not be seen by newspaper reporters who at the time frequented the front halls of the private residence in which Heney, after the fire, had his offices. Ach, Heney states, was desirous of not being known as party to the negotiations. Heney in his affidavit says: "In this same conversation (at the first conference) Ach said in substance: 'I want everybody here to agree that the fact that I participated in this conference, or had anything to do with advising Ruef to turn state's evidence, shall never be made known; it would absolutely ruin my business if it became known. A lot of the people whom Ruef will involve as accomplices are close friends of clients of mine. Of course I do not know just whom he will involve, but I do have a general idea. For instance, while he has never told me so in so many words, I understand that he will involve William F. Herrin. Now just to illustrate to you how it would affect me in business if it was known that I participated in urging Ruef to do this I will tell you that I am attorney for one company, an oil company, that pays me ten thousand dollars a year as a salary for attending to its business, and Herrin is one of the directors of the company and undoubtedly has sufficient influence with the other directors to take this client away from me. This is only one instance, and there are many others.'" [221] See affidavits of Francis J. Heney and Judge William P. Lawlor on file in the case of The People vs. Patrick Calhoun et al., No. 823. [222] See Heney's affidavit in the case of The People vs. Patrick Calhoun et als., No. 823. [223] Ruef in this confession to Burns stated that he had received $200,000 from General Tirey L. Ford, head of the United Railroads law department. Of this amount, he said $50,000 he had given to Schmitz and retained $50,000 for himself. Ruef, five years later, in his story "The Road I Traveled," published in the San Francisco Bulletin, again stated that he had received $200,000 from Ford, of which he gave to Schmitz $50,000, to Gallagher his share for the Supervisors, and retained $50,000 for himself. Gallagher received $85,000. This leaves a balance of $15,000 which Mr. Ruef does not account for. [224] It is significant to note in this connection that Heney did not call Ruef as a witness before the Grand Jury in the United Railroads cases until after the Grand Jury had found indictments against the officials of that corporation. In the opinion of the Grand Jurors, the testimony, exclusive of that of Ruef, justified these indictments. [225] The immunity contract signed by Ruef and the District Attorney will be found in full in the appendix. [226] At the completion of the Ruef Jury, the Chronicle, issue of May 15, 1907, said: "The Ruef jury is complete and we are now in a way to learn all the truth about the particular crime for which Ruef is this time on trial, but which, compared with most other crimes for which he has been indicted, is a mere peccadillo. That Ruef got the money is proved, for he has confessed. His defense, of course, will be that the French-Restaurant proprietors voluntarily presented him with it. The state will have to prove, in order to secure a conviction, that they did not give the money voluntarily, but yielded it up under threats which they believed it to be in his power to execute. If the state fails to prove that Ruef will stand before the community merely as a moral leper, loathsome to be sure, and despicable almost beyond human conception, but yet not proved guilty of that for which the law prescribes punishment in state's prison. If proper proof cannot be made he must, of course, be acquitted of this crime and at once put on trial for another. Nothing is gained by society by the conviction even of the most unmitigated scoundrel on insufficient testimony. But when the proof is sufficient the salvation of society demands punishment, and more particularly of punishment of the rich criminal." [227] Ruef's statement was in full as follows: "If your honor please, with the permission of the court, I desire to make a statement. I do so after only a short consultation with my attorneys, to whom I have only within the last half hour disclosed my determination, and against their express protest. I take this occasion to thank them for their services, fidelity and friendship. Notwithstanding the Court's finding yesterday that this trial might safely be carried on without serious injury to my health, physical or mental, I wish to assure you that my personal condition is such that I am at the present time absolutely unable to bear for two or three months daily the strain of an actual trial of this case, the constant, continual, nightly preparations therefor, the necessary consultation and conversation with my attorneys in regard thereto, to say nothing of other cares and responsibilities. "Moreover, the strain of these proceedings upon those whom I hold nearest and dearest of all on earth has been so grave and severe that as a result of these prosecutions their health has all been undermined, they are on the verge of immediate collapse and their lives are indeed now actually in the balance. "I have occupied a somewhat prominent position in this city of my birth, in which I have lived all my life, where are all my ties and interests, whence, when the time shall come, I hope to pass into the eternal sleep. I have borne an honored name. In my private and in my professional life there has been no stain. In my public affiliations, until after the municipal campaign of 1905 and the election of the present Board of Supervisors, the abhorrent charges of the press to the contrary notwithstanding, no action of mine ever gave just ground for adverse criticism or deserved censure; but the assaults of the press and its failure to credit honesty of purpose, a desire to hold together a political organization which had been built up with much effort, the means of otherwise holding them, did after the election of this Board of Supervisors in a measure influence me and the high ideals for which I had heretofore striven. "During the past few weeks I have thought deeply and often of this situation, its causes and conditions. To offer excuses now would be folly. To make an effort at some reparation for the public good is, however, more than possible; to assist in making more difficult, if not impossible, the system which dominates our public men and corrupts our politics will be a welcome task. "I have decided that whatever energy or abilities I possess for the future shall be devoted even in the humblest capacity to restoring the ideals which have been lowered; shall, as soon as opportunity be accorded, be re-enlisted on the side of good citizenship and integrity. May it be allotted to me at some time hereafter to have at least some small part in re-establishment on a clear, sane basis, a plane of high civic morality, just reciprocal relations between the constantly struggling constituent element of our governmental and industrial life. "In the meantime I begin by earnestness of purpose, a purpose to make the greatest sacrifice which can befall a human being of my disposition to make, to acknowledge whatever there may have been of wrong or mistake and so far as may be within my power to make it right. "I reached this final determination last night after careful reflection and deliberation. Where duty calls I intend to follow, whither hereafter the path of my life may lead and however unpleasant and painful may be the result. I make this statement so that the Court and the whole world may know at least the motives which have guided me in the step I am about to take. "As an earnest I have determined to make a beginning, I am not guilty of the offense charged in this indictment. I ask now, however, that this jury be dismissed from further consideration of this case. I desire to withdraw my plea of not guilty heretofore entered and to enter the contrary plea, and at the proper time submit to the Court further suggestions for its consideration." [228] The Chronicle, to its issue of May 16, said of Ruef's confessions: "Abraham Ruef should have thought of his family before he entered upon his career of crime. They are innocent and the public need not, as indeed it cannot, withhold its sympathy for them. The most terrible punishment which is inflicted on such criminals is the distress which their crimes brings upon the innocent persons who have been accustomed to respect and honor them. But it is the inexorable doom which crime brings upon itself. "For Ruef himself the only sympathy possible is that which one might feel for a wolf which, having devastated the sheep fold, has been pursued, brought to bay and, after a long fight, finally disposed of. It is not a case in which the safety of society permits leniency to be shown. Ruef has corrupted every branch of the city government which he could get hold of and brought the city almost to the verge of ruin. Seldom has a man occupying an unofficial station in life been able to achieve so much evil. It will be many a year before San Francisco can outlive the shame which the man Ruef has brought upon her. "He has not been ingenuous even in his confession, for while pleading guilty as charged, he professes to be not guilty of this particular crime--meaning merely by that that he did not extort the money by threats within the meaning of the law. Witnesses, however, would have sworn that he did so. It is unthinkable that such sums should have been paid him voluntarily by the restaurant keepers. All that Ruef can mean by his profession of 'innocence' while pleading guilty, is a claim that he succeeded in terrifying the restaurant men into submitting to blackmail without the use of words which the law would construe as a threat. There is no moral difference between what Ruef would claim that he did and the crime to which he has pleaded guilty. "Ruef also shows his disingenuousness by attributing his situation to 'the assaults of the press.' Doubtless he has been assaulted by the press. But the press has accused him of nothing but what he has confessed and intimated. What fault has he to find with that? Shall the press remain silent while thieves plunder a distressed city and rob it of its good name? Ruef fought the forces of decency until he could fight no longer. No man is strong enough to stand up against the wrath of an outraged community. His physical collapse was inevitable and the only mantle which charity can throw over him is that his physical weakness broke down his mental faculties and caused the self-contradictions in what is a virtual confession of all that he has been charged with." [229] The position of the Prosecution was most difficult. Every department of the municipal government, with the exception of the District Attorney's office, was controlled by the corrupt administration, of which Schmitz was the official head. The necessity of dealing with Ruef, and the question of immunity arose primarily and almost entirely, from the fact that there was practically no evidence against Schmitz, except in the French restaurant case, and that there was no evidence in that case that Schmitz received any of the money which was collected by Ruef. Consequently without Ruef's testimony no conviction of Schmitz was possible at all except in the French restaurant case, and in that case his conviction was not at all certain. Union Labor party adherents were naturally unwilling to believe Schmitz guilty until he had been so proven. The big public service corporations and Herrin of the Southern Pacific were all still in sympathy with him and ready to back him for re-election. An election was approaching early in November. The redemption of the city depended upon taking its control away from Schmitz. The Police Commission and the Board of Public Utilities were part of the corrupt and discredited administration. During the rebuilding of San Francisco it was of vital importance to have these two boards honest. Hence the Prosecution felt justified in going to unusual length to secure the additional testimony against Schmitz, which ought to make his conviction certain in the French restaurant case, and thus immediately depose him from office and place the entire city government in the hands of honest men. The new Mayor could appoint a new Board of Supervisors, new Police Commission and new Board of Public Works, as well as many other important officials; and such new Mayor and Supervisors would be reasonably sure of re-election. Agents of the Public Service corporations realized to the full extent the importance of preventing the conviction of Schmitz, and of forcing the prosecution to submit to the appointment of a new Board of Supervisors before any conviction of Schmitz could possibly be secure so that the new Board of Supervisors, so selected through Schmitz by themselves, would have the power of appointing the new Mayor in case Schmitz were convicted. This new Mayor could appoint a new Police Commission and it in turn a new Chief of Police, and the new officials would be controlled by the same interests which controlled the old ones. CHAPTER XVI. SCHMITZ CONVICTED OF EXTORTION. One week after Ruef had plead guilty to the charge of extortion, his co-defendant, Mayor Eugene E. Schmitz, indicted jointly with Ruef, was brought to trial, under indictment No. 305, to which Ruef had entered his plea of guilty. Hiram W. Johnson and J. J. Dwyer appeared with Heney and Langdon for the Prosecution. The defense was represented by the firm of Campbell, Metson & Drew, assisted by John J. Barrett and Charles Fairall, all prominent at the San Francisco bar. The preliminaries were not unlike those of the Ruef trial, which, at the point where testimony would have been taken, was stopped by Ruef's plea of guilty. There were the same allegations of bias, the same attempts to secure change of venue, the same appeals to the higher courts in habeas corpus proceedings. But these moves availed Schmitz as little as they had Ruef. Point by point the upper courts found against the indicted Mayor; step by step he was dragged to proceedings before a trial jury. The selection of the jury occupied two weeks. But with the swearing of the twelfth juror, Schmitz did not stop proceedings with tearful confession and a plea of guilty. Doggedly the troubled Mayor let the trial go on. The Prosecution called its witnesses to the stand. One by one Schmitz's former associates as well as the restaurant men from whom, through Ruef, he had received money, took the stand and told the sordid story of the corruption of the Schmitz-Ruef administration. The specific charge under which Schmitz was tried was that of extortion from Joseph Malfanti, Charles Kelb and William Lafrenz, proprietors of Delmonico's Restaurant, of $1,175. The sum was Delmonico's share of the $5,000 paid to Ruef in 1905, by the French-restaurant keepers to prevent the liquor licenses, without which their establishments could not be successfully conducted, being taken from them. The testimony showed: (1) That Schmitz had used his power as Mayor over the Police Commissioners to compel them in the first instance, to withhold French-restaurant liquor licenses, and that later in the latter part of January, 1905, he had exerted himself as actively and effectively to have the licenses granted, even removing from office Police Commissioner Hutton, who was standing out against the French restaurants. (2) That attorneys, appearing before the Police Commissioners, to present the claims of the French-restaurant keepers for licenses, were unable to secure a hearing. One of these testified to having advised his client, and other French-restaurant keepers that "there is only one man who can help you, and that is Mr. Ruef." (3) That a French-restaurant keeper who owed Ruef money, and at whose establishment Ruef had his headquarters, approached his fellow French-restaurant keepers and told them that for $7,000 a year Ruef would represent them and keep them secure in their business for two years. The $7,000 demand was finally reduced to $5,000, $10,000 for the two years. (4) That the French-restaurant keepers raised $8,000 of the $10,000 demanded, and sent it to Ruef, $5,000 the first year and $3,000 the next. (5) That Ruef refused to receive anything but currency, would give no receipt for the money, and would deal with one man only. (6) That Ruef claimed to receive the money as a fee from the "French Restaurant Keepers' Association," but that no such association existed in San Francisco. (7) That after the French-restaurant keepers had satisfied Ruef, Ruef appeared for them before the Police Commissioners and, after Commissioner Hutton had been removed from office by Mayor Schmitz, secured for them their licenses.[230] Having established its case thus far, the Prosecution rested. The move was unlooked for. Ruef was known to have confessed; it had been confidently expected that he would be placed on the stand to answer the question, in whatever form it could be forced into the record: Did you divide the money which you received from the French-restaurant keepers with Mayor Schmitz? But Ruef was not put on the stand. The public marveled, but those behind the scenes knew that Ruef was not the willing witness for the Prosecution that the public thought. Ruef had confessed to Heney that he had given half the $8,000 which he had received from the French-restaurant keepers to Mayor Schmitz. But Heney, having trapped Ruef in deception, had very good reason for being distrustful of him. Ruef, forever seeking to justify himself, had told Heney that he had refused to appear before the Police Commissioners on behalf of the French-restaurant keepers, until the San Francisco Bulletin had challenged him to dare represent them, and claim the money he received from them was a fee. Ruef insisted that the Bulletin's challenge led him to take the case. In this Heney trapped Ruef in his trickery. Ruef's purported contract with the mythical "French Restaurant Keepers' Association," under which the French restaurant keepers had paid him $8000, bore date of January 6. Ruef insisted to Heney that January 6 was the true date upon which the contract was signed. The oral agreement had been made January 5. Heney then confronted Ruef with files of the Bulletin which showed that the Bulletin had not mentioned Ruef as appearing on behalf of the French-restaurant keepers until January 7. This was one day after Ruef had signed the purported contract with the mythical French Restaurant Keepers' Association. A stormy scene between Ruef and Heney followed this exposure.[231] Heney charged Ruef with falsehood and deception, and declared the immunity agreement canceled. Heney then ordered Ruef from the room, and did not, until long after the Schmitz trial had closed, have conversation with him again. When Schmitz's trial opened, District Attorney Langdon, Hiram Johnson, all the rest of Heney's associates, urged that Ruef be put on the stand, insisting that the case would be greatly strengthened if it could be proved by Ruef that Schmitz had received half the extortion money. Heney conceded the strength of this contention, but held, on the other hand, that Ruef would lie so much about other things that he would do more harm than good to the case. Personally, Heney insisted, he wanted nothing to do with him. Thus, in making his opening statement to the jury in the Schmitz case, Heney refrained from stating that he expected to prove Schmitz received any part of the money which had been paid to Ruef. But of the break between Heney and Ruef, the public knew nothing. San Francisco looked to see Ruef put on the stand. When the Prosecution rested without calling this supposedly star witness, even the Defense was taken by surprise and had to ask continuance until the following day before calling witnesses. Schmitz took the stand in his own behalf. He denied the statements which his former Police Commissioners had made against him. The Mayor's story of denial was soon told. Heney, on cross-examination asked: "Did Ruef pay you any part of the $5,000 that has been testified he received from the French restaurants?" and Schmitz replied: "I didn't know that Mr. Ruef got any $5,000, nor did I receive any part of it."[232] And then, in detail, Schmitz denied that he had received any money from Ruef, or had had any conversation with him regarding a "fee" which Ruef had received from the French-restaurant keepers. In rebuttal, Ruef was called to the stand.[233] "Did you," questioned Heney, "in January or February, 1905, in this City and County of San Francisco, at the house of Eugene E. Schmitz, the defendant, at number 2849 Fillmore street, give to Eugene E. Schmitz any money, and if so how much, and in what kind of money?" "I did," answered Ruef, "$2500 in currency." "Did you, then and there, tell him," pursued Heney, "that it was his share of the money you had received from the five French-restaurant keepers?" "I didn't say to him," replied Ruef, "that it was his share of the money which I had received from the French restaurants. I did say to him that I had received from the French restaurants the sum of $5,000, and that if he would accept half of it I should be glad to give it to him. Thereupon I gave it to him." Ruef testified further to paying Schmitz $1500 early in 1906, half of the second payment made to him by the French-restaurant keepers. The jurors before whom Mayor Schmitz was tried took one ballot only. They found the defendant guilty of extortion as charged in the indictment. Following the verdict, Schmitz, who eighteen months before had, for the third time been elected Mayor of San Francisco, was, as a convicted felon, confined in the county jail.[234] FOOTNOTES: [230] For fuller discussion of this testimony see Chapter "Ruef and Schmitz Indicted." [231] "You have not," said Heney to the trapped boss, "told us all the truth in the United Railroads case. You have not told us all the truth in the case of the gas rate matter. You have not told us all the truth in the Bay Cities Water deal. You have not told us all the truth about the deal with Herrin in relation to the delegates from this city to the Santa Cruz convention. You have not told us all the truth in the telephone franchise matter. You lied to us in the Parkside matter, and I caught you at it before the Grand Jury. You tried to protect Will Crocker in that matter and told Burns before you went into the Grand Jury room that you had never spoken to him on the subject. You swore to the same thing in the Grand Jury room until you cunningly guessed from my questions that Will Crocker himself had told the truth to the Grand Jury, and that I was getting you in a bad hole; you then suddenly pretended to just remember that you had held one conversation with Will Crocker on the trolley franchise matter at the Crocker National Bank that lasted a half an hour, and that you had held another conversation on the street with Will Crocker on the same subject at the corner of California and Kearny streets, which lasted an hour. You had not forgotten either of those talks, but you did not think Will Crocker would testify to them and you wanted to curry favor with him by thus making him think you wanted to protect him, and you did it because he is rich and powerful. You wanted his influence hereafter to help keep you out of trouble, because you have no idea of acting in good faith with the prosecution. I don't believe you ever acted in good faith with anybody in your life, but you have over-reached yourself this time."--See Affidavit of Francis J. Heney, in The People vs. Patrick Calhoun et als., No. 823. [232] This answer came in the face of strong objection from Schmitz's counsel. Mr. Campbell went so far as to direct Schmitz not to answer. Mr. Barrett's objection was expressed in a way that caused Judge Dunne to order him to his seat. The several objections were overruled and the witness was directed to answer the question. [233] Heney, in an affidavit filed in the case of The People vs. Patrick Calhoun et al., No. 823, says of Ruef's appearance: "I did not at any time see or speak to Ruef, except when he was on the witness stand, and then only from a distance and in open court in the regular course of the trial and in the performance of my duty as a prosecuting officer." [234] Where Schmitz spent the night of Thursday, June 13, the night of his conviction, is a matter of dispute. Sheriff O'Neil insists that he spent the night in jail. This has been denied. The statement has been made, apparently on good authority, that all of Friday following, Schmitz, accompanied by Dominic Beban, a deputy sheriff and State Senator from San Francisco, was about town in an automobile. But on Saturday, Judge Dunne warned the sheriff that Schmitz was to be treated as any other prisoner. After that day, pending his appeal to the higher courts, Schmitz was confined in the county jail. Attorney J. C. Campbell made a hard fight to keep his client out of jail. Among other things, Mr. Campbell held that the Mayor had so much official business to attend to that it was practically necessary for him to be in his office all the time for the next month. Schmitz, under this conviction, was sentenced to serve five years in the penitentiary. CHAPTER XVII. SCHMITZ OUSTED FROM OFFICE. The confession of the Supervisors to bribery had no sooner become known than angling for control of the municipal government under its prospective reorganization began.[235] The public-service corporation that had during the 1905 municipal campaign contributed to the campaign funds of both the Union Labor party and the opposing "Reform" fusion organization, had no care as to who reorganized, or in what name the reorganization was accomplished, so long as they continued in control. These corporations had larger interest in public affairs than ever; there was prospect of their officials being indicted for felonies. But so long as Schmitz continued to be Mayor, neither those who aimed to reorganize for the best interests of San Francisco, nor those who were plotting to continue the old order with new men, in the interests of the corporations, could act. The old order controlled Schmitz; the opposition, having whipped confessions out of the Supervisors, controlled the board. Neither element could undertake reorganization until in control of both Mayor's office and Supervisors. This deadlock was brought about by charter provisions empowering the Board of Supervisors to fill vacancies occurring in the mayoralty office, and providing that the Mayor shall fill vacancies on the Board of Supervisors. Had Mayor Schmitz resigned, the Supervisors, controlled by District Attorney Langdon, would have elected his successor. This would have given the Prosecution the Mayor as well as the Supervisors. On the other hand, had the Supervisors resigned, then Mayor Schmitz would have appointed as their successors men in accord with him and with his policies. Schmitz could then have resigned and the Supervisors of his appointment would have named his successor. This would have permitted the corrupt element to continue the old order in defiance of the Prosecution. Thus, so long as Schmitz held the office of Mayor, the Prosecution, laboring for good government, could not permit the bribe-taking Supervisors to resign. On the other hand, those who had furnished the bribe money did not dare permit Schmitz to give up his office. In this astonishing situation, that bribe-givers might not gain the upper hand, it was necessary that the sixteen confessed bribe-taking Supervisors should continue in the offices which they had betrayed, so long as Schmitz's power to appoint their successors continued.[236] There were, too, further complications. The Prosecution could and did secure the discharge from municipal positions of Ruef's satellites who held their places under the Board of Supervisors. Thus, soon after the Supervisors had confessed, Charles Keane,[237] Clerk of the Board, was forced from his position. On the other hand, the old-time Schmitz-Ruef followers who owed their appointments to the Mayor, continued secure in their jobs. Thus, former Supervisor Duffey, appointed by Schmitz to head the Board of Public Works, continued in that position, although involved by Gallagher in Gallagher's confession of the bribery transactions. The Chief of Police held office under the appointment of the Board of Police Commissioners. But Schmitz controlled the commissioners. The chief had been indicted with Schmitz and Ruef. The city was clamoring for his removal. But in spite of protests, Schmitz's influence kept the indicted chief in his place at the head of the police department.[238] The situation could not but cause confusion. To the average man on the street, the Supervisors had confessed to bribery. Why, then, were they permitted to remain an hour in office? Why were they not indicted, placed on their defense and sent to the penitentiary? The graft defense naturally took advantage of this sentiment. "Government by the big stick," as the hold of the District Attorney's office over the Supervisors was called, was condemned and ridiculed. One heard, however, little reference to the hold of the beneficiaries of the Ruef administration upon the Mayor's office. From all sides the Prosecution was importuned to oust the "boodle Supervisors." But the fact that a "boodle Mayor" would then appoint their successors was not given such wide publicity. In addition to the complications in the municipal government, due to the Schmitz faction's dogged resistance to the Prosecution, combined with the unqualified yielding of the Supervisors and the partial confession of Ruef, San Francisco was in a condition of confusion and discord. At the time Ruef entered his plea of guilty to extortion, a year had passed since the great fire of 1906. Thousands were still living in shacks erected in the ruins of the old city. The principal business streets were littered with building materials. There had come the depression following the activity of rehabilitation and the pouring into San Francisco of millions of insurance money. Titles to real property were confused if not in doubt, much of the records having been destroyed in the fire. Thousands found themselves forced into court to establish their titles. A little later, the community was to suffer a visitation of bubonic plague. There were many authentic plague cases and some deaths. For months the city was in dread of quarantine. There were labor disturbances which for weeks at a time paralyzed industry. At one period between 7,000 and 10,000 iron-trades workers were out on strike. At the time Schmitz was finally convicted of extortion the telephone girls had been on strike since May 3rd. This alone threw the complex organization of a modern city into extraordinary confusion. The linemen struck. On June 21, telegraph operators in San Francisco and Oakland left their keys. But by far the most serious labor disturbance was the strike of the street-car conductors and motormen. For weeks the entire street-car system was paralyzed. The first attempt to move a car resulted in riot in which one man was killed outright and twenty-six wounded. A number of the wounded died. President Calhoun of the United Railroads rejected all offers to compromise, announcing his intention to break the Street Carmen's Union. He succeeded; in the end the union was broken and scattered, but at frightful cost to Mr. Calhoun's company and to San Francisco. During the strike of the carmen the city was filled with gunfighters and thugs admittedly in the employ of the United Railroads. Indeed, there was no attempt made to disguise the fact that the United Railroads had brought them into the city. Clashes between the two factions were of daily occurrence. Aside from horse-drawn vehicles which had been pressed into service, street transportation was, for a considerable period, practically at an end. The inability of the people to go from place to place paralyzed industry and business. Merchants, hotel keepers, manufacturers, all suffered. There were many failures. Citizens in all walks of life implored Mr. Calhoun to arbitrate his difference with his men. He refused absolutely.[239] Henry T. Scott, president of the Pacific States Telephone and Telegraph Company, as doggedly refused to submit to arbitration the questions involved in the telephone girls' strike. The police seemed utterly unable to deal with the situation, Governor Gillett threatened to call out the militia, and companies at Los Angeles were actually directed to be in readiness to enter San Francisco. But this move was finally abandoned. And through it all, President Calhoun refusing to arbitrate or to compromise, issued numerous proclamations[240] in which he intimated that the Graft Prosecution had brought on the trouble which confronted San Francisco. The Prosecution's object, Mr. Calhoun held, was to injure him and his railroad company. In this connection, it may be said, that during the searching investigation of the graft trials, not one word of testimony was produced to indicate basis for Mr. Calhoun's insinuations and open charges that the carmen's strike was part of a plot to injure him and his company.[241] On the contrary, the strike might have been averted had the United Railroads adopted a more tactful policy in dealing with its men. And, in addition to this, a more conciliatory attitude on the part of President Calhoun would, during the progress of the strike, have brought it to a close at any time. The fact remains, too, that during the 1907 municipal campaign, which opened even while the United Railroads was crushing the carmen's union, the support of the United Railroads went to the Union Labor party candidate for District Attorney. Heading the Union Labor party ticket was P. H. McCarthy, one of the strongest opponents of the Graft Prosecution, and at the same time ardent backer of the striking carmen. The efforts of the United Railroads to crush the carmen's union, while at the same time exerting itself to elect the Union Labor party candidate for District Attorney, indicates the confusion that existed in San Francisco following the confessions of the Supervisors and the revelations made by Ruef. And the efforts of the various factions to seize the municipal government increased this confusion materially. The day following Ruef's confession, a committee of businessmen, representing the Merchants' Association, the Board of Trade, the Chamber of Commerce, the Manufacturers' and Producers' Association and the Merchants' Exchange waited upon Spreckels and Heney to enlist the co-operation of the Prosecution in restoring normal conditions. The committee--called the Committee of Seven because of its numbers--[242] already had the endorsement of Mayor Schmitz. The Chronicle, which acted from the start in the capacity of special pleader for this committee, announced in startling headlines in its issue of May 18, that "Mayor Schmitz practically turns reins of government over to citizens. Committee of Seven may run this city."[243] "With the exception of the administration of merely routine affairs," said the Chronicle of that date, "the committee, by Mayor Schmitz's written agreement, is to all intents and purposes, the Mayor of San Francisco." Governor James N. Gillett[244] was reported to be heartily in accord with the committee's purposes. Finally, in an editorial article, the Chronicle announced that "the public looks to this committee to restore the good name of the city, and to the prosecuting authorities to stand solidly behind them while they do it." But in spite of the Chronicle's insistence, the public gave no evidence of spontaneous outburst in favor of the committee. Instead, there was a general turning to the leaders of the Prosecution to note their attitude. The Prosecution gave no evidence of enthusiastic support; quite the contrary. "The District Attorney," announced Langdon, "will not act with any committee that is named by Mayor Schmitz to take charge of the government of San Francisco." After several conferences with the committee, Rudolph Spreckels refused to join with it on the ground that it had placed itself in a position "to directly or indirectly accomplish results very much desired by Calhoun, Herrin and the coterie who are inimical to the Prosecution." Mr. Spreckels also expressed his belief that a majority of the committee were sincere men who went on the committee with proper motives, but, Spreckels suggested, "if this committee really has its origin in an honest motive, I do not see why it cannot act on its own volition. I do not see the necessity of this committee demanding that I co-operate with it. If its members want to have a change in the municipal offices and the members of the various municipal commissions, let them go ahead and outline their own programme. I have no desire to dictate who shall constitute the membership of the various city offices. I started out in this graft prosecution to bring all guilty municipal officials to the bar of justice and have them punished. That is my single motive. I have no ulterior designs in this matter regardless of whatever anyone may say to the contrary."[245] In spite of the Chronicle's statement that the public looked to the Prosecution to stand solidly behind the committee, and the protestations of Governor Gillett, the public was content to accept the judgment of Mr. Langdon, Mr. Spreckels and Mr. Heney as final. Without popular demand for it, there was nothing for the committee to do but resign. And it did resign.[246] The resignation of the Committee of Seven brought from Governor Gillett a statement urging the appointment of "a strong governing body to take charge of affairs."[247] Acting upon the Governor's suggested plan, the five commercial bodies decided upon the appointment of a committee of seventy-five, or, as the Chronicle, mouthpiece for the advocates of this course, put it, "Seventy-five prominent citizens are to be appointed to restore order." The Chronicle went on to say that "It is understood that Mayor Schmitz is ready to agree to act in accordance with the recommendations of the new committee as he did when the Committee of Seven was formed. He would be glad, it is believed, to have the assistance of such a body of men in meeting some of the conditions which he has to face."[248] At the time (May 29) of the publication of the Chronicle's belief that Mayor Schmitz would be glad to have the assistance of such a body of men as had been proposed, the Mayor's trial was drawing to its close. A fortnight later he was convicted of one of the gravest felonies that can be charged against an executive. Mayor Schmitz's conviction brought complete change in the situation. It made possible the ousting of the entire corrupt administration. In the ousting, the commercial bodies, as well as the representative labor union organizations, were given opportunity to co-operate. The refusal of the majority of them to participate threw the obligation upon the District Attorney's office. When the Jury returned its verdict finding Mayor Schmitz guilty of felony, District Attorney Langdon found himself in an extraordinary position. Upon him, as District Attorney, fell the responsibility of naming the chief executive of San Francisco to succeed the discredited Mayor. There was no question about a vacancy existing in the Mayor's office. Under the California laws, a vacancy in office exists upon conviction of the incumbent of felony. The courts had held repeatedly that a jury's verdict of guilty in a felony case carries conviction. A vacancy, therefore, existed in the Mayor's office. Under the municipal charter the Supervisors alone were empowered to fill it. But sixteen of the Supervisors, having confessed to felonies, were taking no steps without the approval of the District Attorney. They would name for Mayor, him whom the District Attorney approved and no other. Naturally, Langdon consulted those associated with him in the Graft Prosecution. No better earnest of the sincerity and disinterestedness of Langdon and those who were assisting him is furnished than in this crisis. They had it within their power to select first Mayor and then Supervisors who would be utterly subservient to them. Instead, they proposed a plan by which representative associations were given opportunity to reorganize the municipal government by naming Mayor Schmitz's successor. Nor was there any hasty action. The office of Mayor was not declared vacant until after Schmitz had been sentenced to the penitentiary. But Schmitz was in the county jail and incompetent to act. It was of immediate necessity that a temporary successor be substituted. Until this were done, San Francisco would be without a chief executive. To meet the emergency, the Supervisors named Supervisor Gallagher to be acting Mayor.[249] After the sentencing of Schmitz the rapidly developing situation made it necessary that the convicted official's office be declared vacant and his successor appointed. But the successor had not been named, nor had plans for the change in administration been formulated.[250] In this further emergency, it was decided to name one of the Supervisors to be Mayor to serve until a permanent successor of Mayor Schmitz could be named. The unhappy Boxton[251] was decided upon. The Supervisors, by resolution, definitely declared the office of Mayor vacant and elected Supervisor Boxton to be Mayor. On the day that Boxton was named Mayor of San Francisco, District Attorney Langdon made public a plan for a convention to select a Mayor to serve until the successor of Mayor Schmitz could be elected and qualified. Mr. Langdon proposed that the convention should be made up of thirty members, fifteen to be appointed by organized labor and fifteen by the organized commercial bodies. On the side of Labor were apportioned eight delegates to the Labor Council and seven to the Building Trades Council. The five commercial bodies, the Chamber of Commerce, Merchants' Association, Board of Trade, Real Estate Board and Merchants' Exchange, were allowed three delegates each. That the convention might proceed in its choice unhampered, the District Attorney pledged that he and his associates would wholly refrain from participation after the convention had assembled.[252] But this did not suit the several factions at all. Admittedly, the Prosecution could name the Mayor. Each faction wanted its man named, and while there remained a chance for its man to be named, did not care to see the extraordinary power in the hands of the District Attorney delegated to the uncertainties of a convention. In the scramble for advantage, the self-control and self-forgetting attitude of the members of the Prosecution, instead of exciting admiration, was condemned. The Examiner, referring to Langdon's associates, for example, announced: "Their failure to agree on anyone has led to some alarm for fear their divergent political ambitions are making each of them endeavor to secure a place for his personal puppet." Had the Prosecution named the Examiner's "personal puppet," this particular source of criticism would undoubtedly have been silenced and the Examiner's vilification and abuse of the Prosecution during the years that followed averted. What is true of the Examiner in this regard is true of the other institutions and interests which, in this crisis of the city's history, were clamoring for "recognition."[253] District Attorney Langdon's plan, on the whole, was not received in the spirit in which it was offered. The Building Trades Council, under the influence of P. H. McCarthy and O. A. Tveitmoe, promptly rejected the District Attorney's proposal and refused to name delegates.[254] This action influenced the Labor Council, which, on the ground that in the absence of delegates from the Building Trades Council the Labor Council representatives might be outvoted, refused to participate. Of the five commercial bodies, the Real Estate Board alone promptly accepted the District Attorney's invitation. The board named its three delegates and so notified the District Attorney. The Merchants' Exchange demanded that the number of delegates be increased from thirty to forty-five by the addition of fifteen professional men, and proposed that the convention name a new Board of Supervisors as well as Mayor.[255] The Board of Trade refused to co-operate unless the delegates be increased in number by the addition of "professional men and others." The Chamber of Commerce and the Merchants' Association finally accepted, but stipulated that a two-thirds vote of the thirty delegates should be required for a choice. The failure of the several organizations to join in the selection of a Mayor, made it necessary for Langdon himself to proceed with the reorganization. All that Langdon and his associates required was that the new executive should be independent of political control and free of the influence of those public-service corporations that had been trapped in bribe-giving. It was also the aim of the Prosecutor to name as Mayor one whose standing was such that none could be so unfair as to charge him with being in the slightest degree under the influence of the Prosecution. Langdon and his associates agreed that Dr. John Gallwey was independent of corrupting influences and to Dr. Gallwey the appointment was offered. But Dr. Gallwey declined to accept the responsibilities of the Mayor's office on the ground that he could not afford to devote his time to the duties of the office to the extent that would be required in order to conduct it properly, and on the further ground that he could be of more service to humanity in the practice of medicine than in the discharge of the duties of Mayor. The place was then offered to Ralph Harrison, a former member of the Supreme Bench. But Judge Harrison declined on the ground that he thought the duties of the office, under the conditions existing[256] would be too onerous for him to undertake at his time of life. Dr. Edward R. Taylor,[257] dean of the Hastings College of Law, was then consulted. Dr. Taylor agreed to accept the position. In tendering Dr. Taylor the mayoralty, the Prosecution left him entirely free to conduct the office according to his own judgment. He was assured that no one connected with the Prosecution would expect or ask him to be guided or controlled or influenced in any way by all or any of them. Boxton, after Taylor had agreed to serve, resigned his office. The Supervisors then elected Dr. Taylor to fill the vacancy.[258] The next step in the reorganization of the municipal government was the resignation of the sixteen Supervisors who had confessed to bribery and the appointment of their successors. When Mayor Taylor[259] had found sixteen representative citizens willing to serve, the change was made. One by one the discredited officials resigned their positions. After each resignation had been accepted Mayor Taylor named the resigning member's successor.[260] The scene was as painful as it was extraordinary. When it was over, the Schmitz-Ruef administration, so far as the legislative and executive branches were concerned, had passed. FOOTNOTES: [235] As early as March 20, 1907, two days after the Supervisors gave their confession to the Grand Jury, The Chronicle touched upon the growing resistance to the prosecution. It said: "In the leading political clubs there is talk of Governor Gillett removing Mayor Schmitz and appointing a successor. This is in the line of gossip, however, for there is a legal question involved, the framers of the municipal Charter having provided no means for the removal of the head of the municipal government should he be found criminally derelict. There is also some talk of Schmitz resigning if Heney will vaccinate him and render him immune from punishment for his offenses, as he is said to have done with the Supervisors. Another angle of the gossip in this regard is that the Mayor will appoint a Board of Supervisors picked by prominent merchants and professional men who have organized for the purpose of redeeming San Francisco from the toils of the grafters." [236] The Chronicle, in its issue of April 3, in discussing this phase of the situation, said: "The spectacle of the entire legislative body of a city confessing to the acceptance of great bribes is astonishing. Their continuance in office and consultation with the good citizens as to the best methods of restoring good government is unique. In many parts of the country there is outspoken disapproval of the course which is being taken, and loud declarations that if there were any good citizenship in San Francisco the confessed rogues would be driven out of office and hustled into the penitentiary. It is declared that in granting 'immunity' to these Supervisors the city is again disgraced. Of course, all this is absurd. In the first place, there is no evidence and little probability that immunity has been promised to anybody. Secondly, if the present Supervisors should resign Schmitz would promptly fill their places with men whom he can more implicitly trust but who would not be subject to indictment or in any way amenable to decent influence. As for Schmitz, he will remain Mayor until he is convicted of crime. The public does not know how that conviction is to be got. It is supposed that some Supervisor can give part of the necessary evidence, but no Supervisor can be compelled to give any evidence at all, and they probably would give none, if driven out. They are not obliged to criminate themselves. As for Schmitz, he is still defiant. He apparently does not believe that under the legal rules of evidence he can be convicted of what he evidently did. The journals which contrast our slow movement with the swift punishment which befell briber and bribed when the Broadway street railroad franchise was purchased doubtless do not understand that the laws and court procedure in California are designed not to convict criminals, but to aid their escape from justice, and that when Jake Sharp bought the New York Aldermen he did not also buy the authority which filled vacancies in the Board. As the situation in this city is unique, so, also, must be our methods of dealing with it. It may be that every Supervisor ought to be promptly indicted but it is certain that that is the one thing most ardently desired by the innumerable company of grafters outside the board. And it may not be but to help them." [237] Keane had two champions on the board, however. Supervisors J. J. O'Neil and O. A. Tveitmoe. They resisted Keane's discharge, denouncing it as unwarranted and cowardly. Mayor Schmitz vetoed the resolution removing Keane. The Supervisors, however, adopted the resolution over the Mayor's veto. [238] The San Francisco Call, in its issue of June 10, 1907, said of Schmitz's continued hold on the Police Department: "The Call has never attached much importance to the well meant efforts of the various citizens' committees to persuade Mayor Schmitz to reorganize the police force and the governing commission of that body. It is easy to understand that Schmitz might engage in some such transaction or bargain if he could be shown his own advantage therein, but that he would surrender control of his most valuable personal asset at this time or, indeed at any other time, was scarcely conceivable in view of the character of the man. This is said advisedly. It is notorious that Schmitz all through his long session in office has treated his control of the police not as a public trust for the common good, but as so much personal property to be used to the limit for his private advantage. Therefore, when Schmitz, in the first instance, gave a committee some sort of pledge that he would comply with its desire or requests, there was a very natural suspicion that the terms of the bargain as a whole had not been disclosed. There was the insistent inquiry, 'What does Schmitz get by the bargain?' "That question has never been answered from the inside and probably will not be answered, but the committee very shortly quit in disgust, realizing, doubtless, that Schmitz wanted something it could not grant as a consideration for his abandonment of power. "A second committee that took up the work now finds that Schmitz is deaf to its requests for a reorganization of the police force. The lack of discipline in that body has become a public scandal. At its head is seen a man under indictment for felony, the associate of criminals and accused of tampering with veniremen called to try Schmitz--an accusation whose truth he admits. Governor Gillett has expressed the common knowledge that the Chief of Police is incompetent. He might have used a harsher word. But Dinan suits Schmitz. He is the ready and unscrupulous tool. An honest man in the same place would be of no use to Schmitz!" [239] When, through the good offices of a committee of citizens, the difficulties of the iron trades were finally adjusted, The Call took occasion to urge an ending of the stiff-necked policy which kept other employers and employees apart. "In the car strike," said The Call in its issue of June 1st, "in the telephone strike, in the laundry strike, there is nothing that cannot be disposed of by the same method and through the same agency as those that ended the iron trades controversy. There is no reason why all those disputes cannot be settled reasonably. The conciliation committee stands for public opinion. It voices the demand of the public for peace. No employer can afford to refuse its offices, nor can any representative of the employed afford to decline its offers of mediation. And if this committee, standing as it does for public opinion, could speak with conviction to the iron masters and their striking workmen, it should be able to deal even more effectively with the car strike and with the telephone strike. Those disputes concern public utilities. Street-cars are run and telephones are operated under and by virtue of grants and privileges made by the people, wherefore the people have the right to intervene when the grantees of those privileges are at war with their employes. The people have the right, at least, to mediate for peace. Mr. Cornelius and Mr. Calhoun, Mr. Scott and the leader of the telephone strikers may refuse to listen to the pacific overtures of the conciliation committee, but if they do they must understand that the price of refusal is the loss of public sympathy and support--elements without which ultimate victory is impossible. "San Francisco has had about enough industrial warfare. The city wants peace, lasting peace. No sane man wants a fight to a finish between labor and capital, or if he does he is San Francisco's enemy. The adjustment of the iron-workers' strike is a hopeful sign. It points the way to an end of all bitterness and contention. It augurs an early return to the harmonious relations of those who earn and those who pay wages, relations which are essential to the progress and prosperity of any community. It is the best news of this stormy, stressful month." [240] The following, issued on May 17, is a fair sample of the statements which Mr. Calhoun gave out during the period of confusion in San Francisco, in the spring and summer of 1907: "To the American People--The newspapers of this city published yesterday afternoon and this morning contain sensational statements purporting to give the testimony of Mr. Abraham Ruef before the Grand Jury yesterday afternoon. It is alleged that he confessed that the United Railroads, through some of its officials, bribed the Supervisors to grant the permit for the overhead trolley over certain of its roads. I do not know if Mr. Ruef made any such statements. If he did, they are untrue. I repeat with renewed emphasis my former declaration that no official of this company ever bribed any one, authorized Mr. Ruef or any one else to bribe anybody, knew of any bribery, or approved of any bribery. "I charge the Prosecution with having prostituted the great office of the District Attorney to further the plans of private malice in the interest of a man who organized the Municipal Street Railways of San Francisco on the 17th day of April, 1906, the day before the earthquake and fire with a capital stock of $14,000,000, of which $4,500,000 were subscribed for as follows: Claus Spreckels subscribed $1,900,000, James D. Phelan subscribed $1,000,000, George Whittell subscribed $500,000, Rudolph Spreckels subscribed $1,000,000, Charles S. Wheeler subscribed $100,000. Ten per cent of the amount subscribed, or $450,000, was paid in cash, as shown by the affidavit of the treasurer of the company, James K. Moffitt, duly filed in the County Clerk's office. "I charge that, in furtherance of the plans of the private prosecutor to assure evidence that would involve the United Railroads, the District Attorney has been willing to purchase testimony with immunity contracts, purporting to grant immunity to self-confessed criminals, which contracts I am informed were placed in escrow with the private prosecutor, and through which he controls a majority of the Board of Supervisors who, as a member of the prosecution has declared, are 'dogs' to do his bidding. "I charge that the District Attorney was in consultation with the members of the self-confessed criminals on the Board of Supervisors in regard to the passage of the resolution holding up the Geary street railroad company, providing for the forfeiture of its license, unless it yielded to the demands of its striking employes. "I charge that while the best element in this community was seeking to preserve law and order the District Attorney was in secret conference with self-confessed criminals, giving aid and comfort to the strikers. Shall his great office be prostituted to the support of lawlessness? "The officials of this company are ready to meet their enemies in the open, and before they are through, they expect to show to the whole country the infamy of the methods of the prosecution, the baseness of the motives of the private prosecutor, his readiness to grant immunity to self-confessed criminals, and the willingness of the prosecution to aid the strikers, even if it involved this community in disorder and bloodshed, provided it furthered the private prosecutor's personal ends. "The organization of the Municipal Street Railways of San Francisco, the attacks upon the officials of the United Railroads, the immunity granted to self-confessed criminals, the strike of the carmen, the hold-up of the Geary-street Railroad Company, the forfeiture of its license to operate, all seek one common end, the injury of the United Railroads and its officials, and the advancement of the personal schemes of the private prosecutor. "I ask from the American people fair play, and a patient consideration. I ask them to withhold their judgment, freed from the bias naturally created by sensational charges. The contest in which I am engaged is grave, and I cannot afford now to disclose the whole strength of my hand, but before this contest is over, I confidently expect to defeat alike the machinations of Rudolph Spreckels, the private prosecutor, with his corps of hired detectives, and Mr. Cornelius, president of the Carmen's Union, the leader of anarchy and lawlessness, and to see firmly established in this community the principles of American liberty, and the triumph of truth and justice." On May 21 Calhoun issued a statement directly charging the lawlessness in San Francisco to the Prosecution. He said: "The drama is now unfolding itself and the citizens of this city will have an opportunity to fix the responsibility for existing conditions. The prosecution has said that the Supervisors would be 'good dogs' and do its bidding. The resolutions concerning the Geary-street line and the United Railroads are on a par with the neglect of the board to see that order is preserved. The prosecution is now responsible for the government of the city: therefore it is responsible for existing conditions, including the failure to suppress violence and to protect life and property." [241] Although representatives of the Defense had intimated repeatedly that the supporters of the Graft Prosecution had brought on the strike for the purpose of injuring the United Railroads, when the Prosecution attempted to introduce evidence to the contrary, Calhoun's attorneys resisted. [242] The seven members of the committee were: F. B. Anderson, manager of the Bank of California; Percy T. Morgan, president of the California Wine Association and a director in the Pacific States Telephone and Telegraph Company; F. W. Van Sicklen, president of Dodge Sweeney & Co.; F. W. Dohrmann, president of Nathan, Dohrmann & Co.; Henry Rosenfeld, a shipping and commission merchant; C. H. Bentley, president of the Chamber of Commerce, and Judge Charles W. Slack, who, in 1909, was to be one of the principal supporters of the opposition to the prosecution candidate for District Attorney. Illness compelled Mr. Dohrmann to sever his connection with the committee. Mr. William A. Magee served in his stead. [243] The Chronicle, in its issue of May 19, printed the following as the committee's declaration of principles: "Declaration of principles by the Committee of Seven and what it intends to do: "We propose to carry out our duty, irrespective of who is affected. "We have adopted the Constitution of the United States as the fundamental basis for our final action. "We intend to bring about a clean condition of affairs in this community and make it safe for habitation by human beings and for the investment of capital. "We shall do nothing in the nature of class legislation and recognize that every element in the community has a right to representation in the government." [244] In a published statement printed May 19, 1906, Governor Gillett said: "The good citizens of San Francisco are for preserving order and the good name of this city, and protecting the constitutional rights of its people. The Committee of Seven, as I understand it, were appointed for this purpose, and every law-abiding citizen and every loyal paper in this city, the Bulletin with the rest, are expected to strengthen their hands and encourage them in their work." [245] The failure to enlist Spreckels with the Committee of Seven brought down upon him the condemnation of leaders of the State machine. "My surprise at this attitude of Mr. Spreckels," said Governor Gillett in an interview printed in The Examiner, May 21, 1907, "is great. It means a bad moral effect on the local industrial disturbance. If a banker like Mr. Spreckels will not act in harmony with the committee from the leading commercial organizations of this city, then I can readily account for the friction all down the line in this city. There ought to be unity of action to get the city out of its present plight, but evidently the leading business men of the town, for reasons I certainly cannot understand, are not in a mood to act in harmony." [246] When the Committee of Seven retired, May 20, Committeeman Slack issued the following statement: "The Committee of Seven yesterday decided that nothing could be accomplished by it, in view of the attitude of Mr. Spreckels and Mr. Heney. We met those gentlemen for the fourth time yesterday morning and were informed that they could not act with us. Mr. Spreckels declared, in spite of assurances to the contrary from every member of the committee, that he believed Herrin and Calhoun to be behind us. We had agreed, in the first place, that nothing should be done which would interfere in any way with the work of Mr. Spreckels and Mr. Heney. When we went to them and asked their co-operation they declined to co-operate. Under the circumstances we felt that the committee could not be of any further value and asked to be discharged. "I think Mr. Spreckels was sincere in his belief that we represented interests opposed to him, and I have nothing but the kindest feelings toward him, although I believe that he was mistaken. I believe the other members of the committee are with me in this. "My acquaintance with Mr. Herrin is only of the most casual sort, and I should be more likely to act against rather than for him. I do not know Mr. Calhoun at all. "It is with great regret that the committee has abandoned the work which it felt called upon to undertake, and only the belief that without the assistance of Mr. Spreckels its work would be valueless led it to take this step." [247] Governor Gillett's suggestions were contained in a statement published in the San Francisco papers on May 25th. It was as follows: "Mr. Cornelius, as president of the Carmen's Union, and the other labor leaders of San Francisco can bring an end to the acts of violence that are committed daily in this city if they will, and in the event that they don't they will be held morally responsible for what happens in the future, if anything of a serious nature does happen. "San Francisco does not want to see the State troops enter the city. It is better for the labor unions, the citizens, the city and the State that they should not take charge of affairs, but I will say, if this violence continues and increases the militia will be brought in and will take charge of affairs. Nothing along that line has been planned as yet and the State will wait a reasonable length of time for conditions to be adjusted. "Something must be done. There must be a strong governing body to take charge of affairs, and along this line I have one suggestion to make. Let the various civic bodies of San Francisco get together and appoint a committee of twenty-five or fifty from their members, a committee of strong-minded men who will not allow politics to enter into the question, and who will fight for San Francisco as plain citizens interested in the welfare of the city. "Such a committee could accomplish much. The first step to be taken would be to demand the appointment of a new police commission, the removal of officers in charge of districts who are incompetent, and the substitution of competent, firm men. "Mayor Schmitz would not dare to refuse to accede to the demands of such a committee, and if the body acted with a firm hand the citizens would soon see an improvement in conditions. "The executive committee, which appointed the Committee of Seven can bring about the organization of such a body as I suggest. It was noticeable that when the Committee of Seven took hold of affairs there was less violence for a couple of days, but as soon as the body tendered its resignation there was an increase in these acts of violence. "Acts of violence must cease. No self-respecting community will permit a reign of crime day after day, the throwing of bricks and other missiles, the use of vile and abusive language, and the beating of men walking along the streets peaceably. Then, too, we have our wives and daughters to think of. Conditions are certainly deplorable when they cannot go upon the streets of a great city like San Francisco without being compelled to hear obscene language and witness acts of violence such as have been committed within the last three weeks. "There are strong men here, and if they set about the matter in the right way there will be no occasion for the entrance of the State troops into the city." [248] See footnote 229, page 206. [249] Of the eighteen Supervisors, two, O'Neil and Tveitmoe, had been appointed by Mayor Schmitz to fill vacancies after the bribery transactions. They were in no way involved in the briberies. They were, therefore, independent of the District Attorney. O'Neil put Tveitmoe in nomination against Gallagher. "What is the difference," demanded O'Neil, "between Eugene E. Schmitz and James L. Gallagher?" Gallagher's face went red with rage, but there was no way of silencing the critic. [250] This tardiness of appointment was not due to any lack of candidates. Practically every faction in San Francisco had its choice for Schmitz's successor. [251] The election of Boxton to be Mayor may be called the refinement of cruelty. His elevation to high executive office but emphasized the shame of his position. From taking his oath of office he was rushed to the witness stand to testify against Louis Glass on trial for participation in bribing him to oppose the granting of the Home Telephone Company franchise. D. M. Delmas was conducting the case for the defense. Delmas suavely turned Boxton's elevation to account. He scrupulously addressed Boxton as the "Mayor." And, in comparison, he wrung from the new Mayor's lips: "I took bribes and was a spy for Halsey." Nor did Delmas confine his refined ridicule to the unhappy Mayor Boxton. Heney had, for example, asked the court to take judicial notice of the fact that while Schmitz was in Europe, Gallagher had served as acting Mayor. "I don't think," interrupted Delmas, "your honor will extend your judicial knowledge that far, because that would be to keep track of the change of Mayors here, and it would keep you too busy to discharge your duties." A grim party surrounded Boxton while he took his oath of office. Boxton gave no evidence of pride of his new station. "When I think," he said during a lull in the proceedings, "of the things that have come into my life in the last ten years, I realize how few of them were of my own planning. When we came back from Manila, I had no idea of politics, but they insisted in making heroes of us, and I had to run for Supervisor. Now I wish I had not done it." Later on he gave out the following interview: "This has come to me as a great surprise. I very much regret the circumstances which have led up to this appointment. I hope the people will bear with me for the few weeks that I am in office. As to my official policy, I cannot discuss that at present. "You know, it is with a feeling of sadness I take the office. I am glad it is a temporary appointment and will last only a short time. I didn't know when I told you this morning that I was willing to do whatever was thought best, either to remain in office or to resign from the board, that this would be put upon me. I am sorry they have asked me to take the office, and will be glad when it is over. The only thing I can say is that I believe during the short time I will hold the office the people will have no cause to----" Boxton halted for his words--"Again find fault with me." The Examiner commenting upon Boxton's elevation, said "Having put our bribe-taking Mayor in jail, and having put in his place a taker of smaller bribes, we have now substituted for Gallagher, Boxton, who differs from Gallagher principally in having sold his vote for still less of the bribing corporations' money." [252] The District Attorney's statement of his plan to the various organizations concerned will be found in full on page xxii of the Appendix. [253] The Chronicle, however, endorsed Langdon's plan, and urged the several labor and industrial bodies to participate. "As the matter appears at present," said The Chronicle, "the prosecution has resorted to the only safe and reasonable plan of restoring good government, and fault-finding with the method adopted will be confined to the hyper-critical and those who imagine that they would find profit in a continuance of unsettled conditions." [254] The resolutions adopted by the Building Trades Council rejecting Langdon's plan for reorganization of the municipal government, were as follows: "Whereas, An invitation has been received by this council from the District Attorney of this city and county, requesting this council appoint seven delegates to participate in a convention composed of thirty delegates, made up of fifteen representatives from the labor organizations of this city and fifteen representatives from the civic organizations outside of the labor organizations; and whereas, said convention is to be called for the purpose of selecting a person to be appointed Mayor of the City and County of San Francisco; and whereas, at this time this council is not possessed of sufficient information upon the subject to determine whether or not the action proposed to be taken by the convention would be legal, and whether or not such action, if taken, would not lead to a multiplicity of suits by reason of the appointment to an office where a doubt as to the vacancy in said office exists, and as a result lead to endless litigation and regrettable confusion; and whereas, those who have arrogated to themselves the duty of guiding the destinies of the entire municipality of San Francisco only last Tuesday, by the exercise of assumed power, through the Board of Supervisors, placed in the Mayor's chair one who is to their own knowledge legally disqualified, to the exclusion of one or the other of two gentlemen who are members of that board in the personnel of O. A. Tveitmoe and J. J. O'Neil, whose characters, both public and private, are above reproach; and whereas, the Building Trades Council was organized and is maintained for the purpose of directing, protecting and conducting the building industry from the standpoint of the journeymen with justice alike to the owner, contractor and artisan, and not for the purpose of making mayors through the instrumentality of star chamber conventions, thereby usurping the rights and prerogatives of the people; therefore, be it "Resolved, That this Building Trades Council, in regular meeting assembled, instruct its secretary to acknowledge the receipt of the said invitation, and decline to act thereon for the reasons herein stated." [255] Langdon's reply to the objections of the Merchants' Exchange was as follows: "We cannot entertain any such proposition at this date. We have already had submitted to us, and have considered at least one hundred plans for calling an electoral convention, and after carefully deliberating on all these plans, decided upon the plan which we have announced. This plan gives the opposing factions of labor and capital each an equal representation in the electoral body. The responsibility of deciding who shall be the Mayor is distinctly imposed on the two most important factions in the community, and as far as giving a square deal to everybody, we do not see how our announced plan can be improved upon. Certainly the addition of fifteen delegates appointed by any special committee cannot improve the plan. In our announcement it has been clearly stated that all the commercial and labor organizations called have until Saturday to name their delegates, and these delegates will assemble next Monday to nominate the new Mayor. The plan announced will not be modified in any way. It places the issue squarely before the people and if they do not wish to act upon it we cannot help it. "In regard to the proposition to permit the electoral convention to name sixteen new Supervisors, I will say that while there is no objection to it, we do not think it is wise to incorporate it in our present plan." [256] Schmitz's resistance of the elevation of Gallagher no doubt influenced the aged Justice in his refusal. From the county jail Schmitz continued to insist that he was still the de facto Mayor of San Francisco. The Chief of Police, himself under indictment, sided with Schmitz. Gallagher during his eventful term blocked by the police, was not permitted to enter the Mayor's office. When Boxton was made Mayor, Langdon went with him to the Mayor's office and seized the furniture. Schmitz's partisans boasted that the Mayor would be released on bail, march with his followers to the meeting place of the Supervisors, and, with the aid of the police, oust Gallagher by force. Schmitz's resistance made itself felt in many ways. For example, an athletic club had arranged for a boxing match, for which a permit signed by the Mayor had to be issued. Gallagher had signed the permit. Chief of Police Dinan, however, refused to recognize it unless it were signed by Schmitz. The manager of the affair was compelled to go to the county jail for Schmitz's signature. Schmitz notified the bondsmen of City Treasurer Charles A. Bantel that he would hold them responsible for any moneys paid out by Bantel without his (Schmitz's) signature. The bondsmen notified Bantel that as a matter of precaution he must have the signature of Schmitz as well as that of Gallagher as authorization for paying out funds. This precautionary course was followed to its logical conclusion. On July 12, a contractor by the name of J. J. Dowling cashed a municipal warrant which bore the signatures of no less than three Mayors, Schmitz, Gallagher and Boxton. Late in June, Schmitz sent to the auditor warrants signed by himself for June salaries for himself, his secretary, his stenographer and his usher. The auditor decided to allow these warrants for that part of the month up to the date of Schmitz's conviction. San Francisco allows its Mayor $300 a month for contingent expenses. Both Schmitz and Gallagher claimed this $300 for July. The auditor decided to recognize neither claim. In answer to Schmitz's demand that Gallagher be ignored as Mayor, the auditor sent the imprisoned executive a soothing or grimly humorous letter, as one may view it, in which he recognized Schmitz as the de jure Mayor, possessing "the honor and the title," and Gallagher "simply as a de facto Mayor," possessing the office. When the bribe-taking Supervisors resigned, Schmitz, from the county jail, appointed their successors. Seven of these Schmitz appointees actually took the oath of office. On the night of Taylor's election to succeed Boxton as Mayor, one of Schmitz's appointees, Samuel T. Sawyer, appeared before the board and demanded that he be sworn in as Supervisor. Gallagher, who was presiding refused to recognize Schmitz as Mayor and refused Sawyer a seat. Even after Taylor had been elected, Chief of Police Dinan continued to recognize Schmitz as Mayor. Dinan, for example, placed the automobile maintained by the city for the use of the Mayor, under guard of a policeman and for several days prevented Mayor Taylor securing it. Mayor Taylor gave effective check to this harassing opposition by refusing to sign warrants upon the treasury which bore Schmitz's signature. Gradually Schmitz's resistance to the new order died out. Schmitz contented himself with issuing a statement through the Associated Press that he would be a candidate for re-election. He said: "You may announce that I will be a candidate for re-election this fall, and that I expect to win. I have already begun my campaign in a preliminary way, and shall carry it forward steadily from this time. I have no fear of the race. I am willing to make it without the aid of the Ruef organization, whose support I had in each of the three campaigns since 1901. Presumably that organization no longer exists, but its component parts, though scattered, are as much in existence as ever. It is up to me to gather them together and cement them into an organization of my own--a task I am prepared to undertake." [257] Dr. Edward Robeson Taylor was born at Springfield, Ill., Sept. 24, 1838. He came to California in 1862, In 1865 he graduated from the Toland Medical College. In 1872, he was admitted to the California bar. He served as dean of the Hastings College of Law. For thirty years he was Vice-President and President of the Cooper Medical College. He was one of the freeholders who framed the present San Francisco municipal charter, and at the time of his selection as Mayor, had served San Francisco and the State in many important public capacities. [258] Dr. Taylor's selection gave general satisfaction. "My belief is," said Governor Gillett in a published interview, "that Joe will make an able and trustworthy executive. It is particularly fortunate that he is identified with no factional politics and can work for a clean reorganized administration of the city government." "The most important feature connected with the selection," said the Chronicle, "is the doctor's absolute freedom from alliances with any particular interest. He is free from all entanglements, and his ability and firmness of character give assurance that his efforts will be wholly directed to bettering the condition and restoring the confidence of the community. We repeat that San Francisco owes the doctor a debt of gratitude for sinking considerations of personal comfort and devoting himself to the general welfare, and that the prosecution has acted wisely in selecting and inducing him to act." On the other hand, The Examiner ridiculed the selection. Labor Union party leaders of the type of P. H. McCarthy were loud in expressions of their disapproval. [259] Mayor Taylor, the day of his election, issued the following statement: "I accepted this office with much reluctance, and only because I believed that any man who was requested to serve the city in this capacity in the hour of her need should heed the request, no matter what the personal sacrifice might be. "Had any pledges been exacted of me by those who tendered the office, I would not have considered the tender for one-thousandth part of a second. "I would not submit to any dictation in the administration of the office, nor do I believe that any one who knows me would attempt to dictate to me. "If I am called upon to appoint a Board of Supervisors, I will select the very best men who can be induced to accept the offices, and I shall exercise my own judgment as to who are the best men. "I am going to do the best I can for the city without regard to partisan politics, and, so far as I am concerned, there will be no partisan politics. "As Mayor of this city, every man looks just as tall to me as every other man. "The first essential to good government is perfect order, and I shall employ every arm of the law to the end that such order shall prevail. "I believe in autonomy in every department of the city government, and I believe that commissioners should be permitted to administer the affairs of their respective departments, free from dictation, as long as they demonstrate by their acts that they are honest and competent." [260] The citizens named by Dr. Taylor to act as Supervisors were: Dr. A. A. D'Ancona, dean of the Medical Faculty of the University of California; Harry U. Brandenstein, attorney and former Supervisor; Gustave Brenner, capitalist and retired merchant; James P. Booth, newspaperman and former Supervisor; A. Comte, Jr., attorney and former Supervisor; George L. Center, real estate; Bernard Faymonville, vice-president Firemen's Fund Insurance Company; E. J. Molera, civil engineer and president of the Academy of Science; W. G. Stafford, president of the W. G. Stafford & Co., coal merchants; Henry Payot, retired merchant and former Supervisor; Matt I. Sullivan, attorney; Thomas Magee, real estate; Lippman Sachs, capitalist and retired merchant; L. P. Rixford, architect; C. A. Murdock, printing and bookbinding; D. C. Murphy, attorney. A. Comte, Jr., successor of Supervisor McGushin, did not take office until several days after his associates on the new board. This was due to McGushin's hesitation about resigning. Mr. McGushin finally resigned, however, and Comte was named in his stead. Of the Taylor Board of Supervisors, The Chronicle, in its issue of July 27th, said: "Mayor Taylor's choice of men for the new Board of Supervisors will fortunately not meet universal approval. It will satisfy all honest men who regard public office as a public trust and not as a private snap, but it will not satisfy those who are accustomed either to actually corrupt public servants or to use a secret pull to obtain private and undue advantage. It will not satisfy the criminal element who thrive by the wide-open town, and who abhor a Board of Supervisors who will back up an honest and capable Mayor. "The board which the Mayor has selected may be safely accepted as the leaders of the people. All interests are recognized except that of the boodlers. The city has many knotty problems to solve. Somebody must work them out. Probably no two capable and honest men would resolve the various doubts which will arise in precisely the same way, and yet out of all the possible ways in each case some particular way must be chosen. And it will be the duty of the Mayor and Supervisors, in the light of much more information than the majority of us can obtain, to select that way. And when it has been determined all patriotic citizens must get behind them." CHAPTER XVIII. THE REAL FIGHT BEGINS. Nine months after Heney assumed his duties as Assistant District Attorney, Mayor Taylor named the successors of the Ruef-Schmitz Board of Supervisors. In those nine months much had been accomplished. Ruef had plead guilty to extortion and had made partial confession of his relations with the public-service corporations. The Schmitz-Ruef Supervisors had made full and free confession, and had been removed from office. Mayor Schmitz had been convicted of extortion, ousted from office, and pending his appeal to the upper courts was confined in the county jail. The back of the Schmitz-Ruef political organization was broken, and its forces scattered. Had the Prosecution stopped here, the men whose devotion and self-sacrifice had made the undoing of the corrupt administration possible, would have retired with nothing more serious confronting them than the condemnation of the impotent puppets of large interests whom they had brought to grief. But those behind the Prosecution were not content to leave their work at a point where the regeneration of San Francisco had scarcely begun. They proposed to go to the bottom of the graft scandal. It was not sufficient, they held, to punish poor men who were without friends or influence, while their rich and powerful associates went unpunished. The bribe-taking Supervisors might be put in the penitentiary, but other bribe-taking Supervisors would eventually take their places. Ruef, punished by imprisonment, would serve as an example for political bosses that would cause them to hesitate for long before embarking in corrupt enterprises such as had brought the discredited boss to grief. This would make it hard for bribe-giving corporations to secure agents for bribe-passing, and make bribe-giving correspondingly difficult. But the conviction of high corporation officials, responsible for the bribe-giving of public-service corporations, was regarded as more important than all, for this would demonstrate bribe-giving to be unsafe, and check the practice at its very fountain-head. Such conviction, the Prosecution held, would have greater deterrent effect against bribery of public officials than the confinement of 500 bribe-taking Supervisors in the penitentiary.[261] "I would be willing," Rudolph Spreckels testified at the Calhoun trial, "to grant immunity to any man who would bring to bar a man of great wealth who would debauch a city government, and who would use his wealth to corrupt individuals and tempt men of no means to commit crime in order that he might make more money." Such was the stand taken by District Attorney Langdon and his associates. The announced policy of the Prosecution, therefore, included the prosecution of the bribe-giver to the end. In pursuing this policy, Mr. Langdon and his associates aroused the astonishingly effective opposition of interests representing hundreds of millions of capital. Every indictment of capitalist charged with bribe-giving was signal for a new group of financial leaders, their satellites, beneficiaries and dependents, to array themselves on the side of the graft defense.[262] With every indictment came a new group of attorneys to raise technical objections to the proceedings, all of which the attorneys for the Prosecution were obliged to meet. The first attack was upon the validity of the Grand Jury. The attorneys for Ruef and Schmitz had apparently exhausted every point that could be raised for the disqualification of the Grand Jurors, but this did not prevent the heads of corporations who found themselves under indictment making similar attacks. And between them, in this new move to quash the indictments, the defendants enlisted the ablest members of the California bar.[263] In this new opposition an astonishing number of technical points were raised by one or the other of the groups of defending lawyers. Nothing was overlooked. Just before the principal indictments were brought, for example, the San Francisco merchants had given a banquet to celebrate the progress which San Francisco had made during the first year following the fire.[264] Langdon and Heney were given places of honor. They were the heroes of the occasion. Every reference to their work was signal for tremendous demonstration. There was no suggestion then that the pursuit of criminals would "hurt business." "A severe earthquake," observed Frank J. Symmes, president of the Merchants' Association, "is a serious misfortune, and a great conflagration a great trial, and each awake the sympathy of the Nation, but a corrupt government is at once a crime and a disgrace and brings no sympathy." "We foresee," said Bishop William Ford Nichols, another of the speakers of the evening, "the greater San Francisco. We mean to make it fairer to the eye. But how about making it better? Size and sin may go together. Rehabilitated buildings may house debilitated character." A month later, after indictments had been brought against some of the most prominent business men of the city, word went out that steps would be taken to disqualify every member of the Grand Jury who had attended that merchants' banquet. The Grand Jurors were again called to the witness stand and put through a grilling to determine whether or not they were biased. Rudolph Spreckels was under examination for hours in efforts to show that his motives in backing the Prosecution were bad.[265] Every step of the proceedings at the organization of the Grand Jury was scrutinized. The question of the method of employing the stenographer to the Grand Jury was made subject of hours of argument. If she were irregularly employed, it was held, she was an unauthorized person in the Grand Jury room and her unwarranted presence sufficient to invalidate the indictments. Garret McEnerney, representing Eugene de Sabla, Jr., Frank Drum and John Martin, whose indictments grew out of the bribery of the Supervisors to fix the gas rate at 85 cents per 1000 cubic feet instead of 75 cents, was the first to raise this question. But attorneys for other defendants took it up and seriously considered it as valid objection to the sufficiency of the indictments. A further point was raised by several of the defendants that the stenographer had not been properly sworn. The question was seriously debated, whether she had looked at Prosecutor Heney or Foreman Oliver at the moment she was sworn to secrecy.[266] Another point was brought up by the defendants in the United Railroads bribery case, that inasmuch as the defendants Calhoun, Mullally and Ford, had been called to the Grand Jury room and compelled to fall back upon their constitutional rights to avoid testifying, that they had been placed in a prejudicial position before the Grand Jury, which constituted reversible error.[267] Another objection was that the Grand Jury box had been destroyed in the great fire of 1906, and that no order had come from any department of the Superior Court ordering its restoration. Again, it was asserted, that Grand Juror James E. Gordan was a member of the Grand Jury panel of 1906, while the other Grand Jurors were chosen from the 1907 list. Indictments brought by a Grand Jury thus constituted were claimed to be without effect. Had any one of these and many other similar objections been sustained, all indictments against the graft defendants would have been invalidated. Every objection had to be met. Days and weeks were spent by the District Attorney's office in meeting, or preparing to meet objections which to the layman appear trifling and ridiculous. In the midst of this technical fight to have the indictments against them set aside, the graft defendants received aid from an unlooked-for source. Sympathizers with the United Railroads conductors and motormen, then on strike, whose union Patrick Calhoun was at the time endeavoring to crush--and finally did crush--started an independent attack upon the Grand Jury. Four union sympathizers had been indicted in connection with street riots. Their attorneys, before Superior Judge Cook, raised the point that as the Oliver Grand Jury had continued in service after a new panel had been drawn in the office of the clerk and put on file, the term of the Grand Jury's service had expired. It was, therefore, no longer part of the machinery of the Court and had no power as an inquisitorial body. Under this interpretation, not only would the indictments against the strikers be invalidated, but those against the alleged bribe-givers also.[268] Thus four of Mr. Calhoun's striking carmen, in their efforts to evade trial on charges growing out of opposition to the United Railroads, were making stronger fight to release Mr. Calhoun from indictment than Mr. Calhoun, although enjoying the ablest legal counsel that money could secure, had been able to make for himself. Eventually, these technical objections were decided adversely to the defense; the validity of the Oliver Grand Jury was never successfully attacked. But the technical objections raised caused delays which the defense was able to put to good account. While the prosecution was battling to force the graft cases to trial on their merits, the graft defense was conducting a publicity campaign to misrepresent and undermine the prosecution. The astonishing success of these efforts were to appear later. By 1909, for example, in the city which when the graft prosecution opened, the practically universal sentiment was for the crushing out of corruption, there was strong opinion that the prosecution of influential offenders had gone too far, had been injudiciously conducted, was "hurting business," and that for the good of the community the graft cases should be dropped.[269] The evident policy of the defense was to undermine the prosecution and create public opinion against it, until both prosecution and community should be worn out, and made to quit. The principal attack was through the newspapers. The prosecution had not been long at work before the weekly papers, with few exceptions, were devoting the bulk of their space to ridiculing and vilifying all who were in any way responsible for the graft exposures and impuning their motives. What these publications received for their work is indicated by the subsidies paid one of the least of San Francisco weekly papers--a publication since suspended--the Mission Times. In January, 1907, a man by the name of Williams purchased the Times for seventy-five dollars, giving his unsecured note for that amount. In less than a month the new proprietor had received $500 from an agent of the United Railroads. Later on, he received a regular subsidy of $250 a week, something more than $1,000 a month, which continued for thirteen weeks. The subsidy was later reduced to fifty dollars a week. But during the interim between the weekly subsidy contracts, lump sums were paid. It is estimated that in little over a year, Williams received from agents of the United Railroads upwards of $7,000. The Times at first covertly, and later openly, opposed the prosecution. If the unimportant Mission Times, which at the opening of the year 1907 had changed hands for seventy-five dollars, received upwards of $7,000 from agents of the defense, the not unreasonable question may be asked, what did more important weekly papers, whose graft prosecution policy was practically the same as that of the Times, receive? In this connection it is pertinent to say that the majority of these publications gave evidence during 1907, of a prosperity that was quite as mysterious, if not as suggestive, as had been the prosperity of the Schmitz-Ruef Supervisors during 1906. As has been seen, the entire daily press of San Francisco was, in the beginning, heartily in accord with the prosecution. Gradually, however, The Examiner and The Chronicle[270] shifted their policy. Even while The Chronicle was backing the prosecution in its editorial columns, its reports of the proceedings at the various hearings were colored in a way well-calculated to undermine Langdon and his associates.[271] Gradually the covert opposition of its news columns became the open editorial policy of the paper. But the most effective opposition came from The Examiner. The Examiner supported the prosecution until the conviction of Schmitz and the change in the municipal administration. Failure to dictate the selection of Mayor and Supervisors may have had more or less influence in the change of policy. At any rate, the invention of The Examiner's writers and artists was tortured to make the prosecution appear to disadvantage. The most tawdrily clever of The Examiner's efforts were the so-called "Mutt cartoons." The cartoons appeared from day to day, a continuous burlesque of the work of the prosecutors, and of the graft trials. Heney was pictured as "Beaney;" Detective Burns, as Detective "Tobasco;" James D. Phelan as "J. Tired Feeling;" Rudolph Spreckels, as "Pickles;" Superior Judges Dunne and Lawlor, before whom the graft cases were heard, as Judge "Finished" and Judge "Crawler," respectively. In these "Mutt cartoons" every phase of the prosecution was ridiculed. For example, when the excitement over the graft trials was at its height, there were rumors that the assassination of Heney or Langdon would be attempted. In ridiculing this, The Examiner pictured "Beaney" with a cross on his neck where the bullet was to strike. A few weeks later, during the progress of one of the graft trials, Heney was shot down in open court, the bullet taking practically the same course which in the "Mutt" cartoon The Examiner had pictured. After the shooting of Heney, The Examiner discontinued the anti-prosecution "Mutt cartoons." Mr. William Randolph Hearst's San Francisco Examiner did effective service in discrediting the graft prosecution. But Mr. Hearst, with curious inconsistency, outside California, gave the prosecution his personal endorsement. In his Labor Day address at the Jamestown Exposition, September 3, 1907, for example, Mr. Hearst among other pleasing observations on the work of the San Francisco Graft Prosecution, said: "You hear much today of how a Mayor of San Francisco has fallen, but you hear little of how powerful public service corporations tempted a wretched human being with great wealth and brought a once respected man to ruin and disgrace. You hear much of how a Mayor elected on a Union Labor ticket is in jail, but little of the fact that it was an honest District Attorney, elected on the same Union Labor ticket, who put him there, an honest District Attorney, who is doing his best to put beside the Mayor the men really responsible for all this debauchery and dishonor. While it is the fashion to criticise San Francisco just now, I venture to assert that the only difference between San Francisco and some other cities is that San Francisco is punishing her corruptionists. There is many an official elsewhere who has stolen office or dealt in public properties who would fare like Schmitz if there were more honest and fearless District Attorneys like Union Labor Langdon." Later on, after Ruef had been sent to the penitentiary, an article on the San Francisco Graft Prosecution appeared in one of Mr. Hearst's magazines.[272] The article was printed under the signature of Mr. Edward H. Hamilton, one of the ablest of Mr. Hearst's employees. Mr. Hamilton gave the credit for the work of the graft prosecution to Mr. Hearst and The Examiner. The men whose steadfastness of purposes and high integrity had made even approach to the prosecution of influential offenders possible, upon whom Mr. Hearst's Examiner had poured ridicule and abuse, were more or less favorably mentioned in the article, but Mr. Hearst was given the bulk of the credit for what the prosecution had accomplished. In California, where The Examiner's treatment of the prosecution was well known, Mr. Hamilton's article was received with some amusement and not a little resentment.[273] Although, with few exceptions, the policy of the San Francisco press was adverse to the prosecution, the principal interior papers gave Langdon and his associates loyal support. But eventually a chain of papers covering the greater part of the interior of northern and central California was enlisted on the side of the defense. The papers were started or purchased by a newspaper publishing company known as the Calkins Syndicate. The Calkins people had for several years been identified with a number of unimportant papers, printed in the interior. Suddenly, from publishing obscure weeklies and dailies, the Calkins Syndicate became one of the most important, if not the most important, publishing concern in California. A modern printing plant, one of the finest on the Pacific Coast, was installed at San Francisco. The establishment took over much of the printing of the Southern Pacific Railroad Company, including the printing of the railroad corporation's monthly, The Sunset Magazine. The Sacramento Union, the most important California morning newspaper printed north of San Francisco, and the Fresno Herald, an afternoon daily, were purchased outright. A bid was made for the San Francisco Post,[274] but terms could not be made. The Calkins people accordingly started the San Francisco Globe, an afternoon daily newspaper. Less important papers were established at various points. In an incredibly short period, the Calkins Syndicate had a chain of newspapers covering the greater part of northern and central California. The distinctive feature of these publications was their opposition to the San Francisco graft prosecution. But the abuse of the Calkins newspapers was not so cleverly presented as in the Examiner, nor so adroitly handled as in the Chronicle. So violent were the Calkins papers' attacks, in fact, that they injured rather than assisted the defendants' cause. This was generally recognized. The Calkins Syndicate, after losing whatever effectiveness it may have had, eventually went into bankruptcy.[275] Almost as effective as the newspaper publicity against the prosecution, was the opposition of fashionable social circles and of the clubs. The graft defendants became much in evidence at the best clubs in the city. To be sure, their persistent appearance all but disrupted some of the clubs, members in sympathy with the enforcement of the law openly objecting to their presence.[276] But in the end, the defendants prevailed and were loudly apparent at the principal clubs of the city even while under the inconvenience of indictment. San Francisco's so-called fashionable society was, during the graft trials, practically organized as an adjunct of the defense. Those in accord with the prosecution were cut off visiting lists. Some of the non-resident indicted ones brought their families to San Francisco. Their wives and daughters at once became prominent in social matters. It was the refinement of the custom of bringing in "the wife and innocent children" of the defendant at a criminal trial. This character of defense was most effective. The charming entertainment of those wives and daughters of indicted magnates who engaged in the social publicity campaign in the interests of their troubled male relations, went far toward building up public opinion against their prosecutors. The supporters of the prosecutors were treated with scant ceremony. To be a supporter of the prosecution was not regarded as "good form." All in all, the social side was one of the cleverest and most effective features of the publicity campaign carried on by the graft defense.[277] The boycott of those in sympathy with the prosecution extended to the larger business world as well as to exclusive social circles. When, for example, the American battleship fleet visited San Francisco on its tour around the world in 1908, the committee appointed by the Mayor to arrange fitting reception and entertainment of its visitors, organized by making James D. Phelan, prominently associated with Mr. Spreckels in the Graft Prosecution, chairman. That Mr. Phelan should be made head of the committee, or even identified with it, gave serious offense to the large business and financial interests that did not approve the prosecution.[278] The large interests thus offended refused to contribute to the reception fund. William C. Ralston, United States Sub-Treasurer at San Francisco, and treasurer of the Fleet Reception Committee, reported to the committee that several large banks and public service corporations would not contribute to the reception of the fleet unless Mr. Phelan left the reception committee.[279] The committee, refusing to submit to this arrogant dictation, accordingly proceeded to the entertainment of the fleet without assistance from the anti-prosecution financiers and institutions. The smaller merchants, assisted by those banks and enterprises which had not been offended by the proceedings against the corrupters of the municipal government, contributed upwards of $75,000. The reception to the fleet was thus carried to successful conclusion without the assistance of the graft defense element. In the work of undermining the prosecution, the humbler circles of municipal life were not neglected. The claquer in labor union, and wherever groups of laboring men and women met, was quite as active as his prototype at club and exclusive function. In labor circles the prosecution was described as a movement to discredit labor and to disrupt the unions. Here, Rudolph Spreckels was described as the unrelenting foe of labor organizations. At club and function, on the other hand, the prosecution was condemned as agent of "labor organization and anarchy," and Mr. Spreckels denounced as a man who had "gone back on his class." In all quarters stories were circulated, questioning Spreckels' motives. The most persistent charge against him was that he had started a street-car system of his own, and had instituted the graft prosecution to drive the United Railroads out of business. This story was told and retold, although the purposes for which Mr. Spreckels had contemplated engaging in the street-car business were well known.[280] It was quite as well known, too, that the briberies alleged against officials of the United Railroads were committed long after the graft prosecution had been inaugurated. Heney[281] was also made target for criticisms. His whole life was gone over in the search for flaws. It was discovered that in self-defense he had, years before, shot a man in Arizona.[282] This was made basis of a charge that Heney had committed murder. The new version of the Arizona incident was fairly shouted from San Francisco housetops. Heney was denounced as a "special prosecutor, a human bloodhound, engaged in hounding of men to the penitentiary." It was charged against him that he had received excessive fees from corporations; that he had accepted fees from the Federal government while acting as deputy to the San Francisco District Attorney, and that therefore his San Francisco employment was illegal;[283] that he had been a drunkard. A most effective attack consisted in charging connection of the graft prosecution with the California Safe Deposit and Trust Company. This institution closed its doors during the 1907 panic. It had carried an enormous volume of deposits. Thousands of homes were affected. The California Safe Deposit and Trust Company was, as a result, very unpopular. Stories were circulated that the company had backed the prosecution, and had contributed funds for its work. J. Dalzell Brown, one of the leading spirits of the company, was also described as one of the prosecution's backers. It was shown at the Calhoun[284] trial that neither Brown nor his company had contributed a dollar toward the prosecution fund. Nevertheless, persistent reports that the prosecution had had this support, unquestionably had its effect upon the losing depositors. Hiram W. Johnson had acted as Brown's attorney. Johnson had appeared as assistant to the District Attorney at a number of the graft trials. Johnson was condemned for taking the case of a criminal guilty of the offenses charged against Brown. Mr. Johnson's critics did not, however, condemn the attorneys who had taken the cases of the alleged bribe-givers. Another charge was that the prosecution was hurting business; that the material prosperity of California demanded that the proceedings be stopped; that capital would not seek investment in California until the disturbance caused by the prosecution had subsided. Every move of the prosecution was made subject of criticism. Announcement, for example, that immunity had been given the Supervisors was received by the anti-prosecution press with a storm of protest, and used by the pro-defense claque most effectively. The treatment accorded Ruef was subject of constant objection and criticism. During the period of Ruef's apparent co-operation with the prosecution, when he was in custody of the elisor, the pro-defense press harped on the uselessness of the expense of keeping Ruef in the luxury of a private jail.[285] The Chronicle even went so far as to say it would be well if Ruef forfeited his bail, provided the bail were set high enough. Ruef was, at the time, thought to be a willing witness for the prosecution. That the case of The People would be weakened were he to leave the State did not seem to appeal to the Chronicle. Later on, when it became evident that Ruef was not assisting the prosecution, there were outcries against the alleged cruel treatment that had been imposed upon him during his confinement in the custody of the elisor. But this potent and far-reaching opposition did not cause a moment's hesitation on the part of the prosecution. The work of bringing influential offenders before trial juries went steadily on. As soon as the Schmitz extortion case had been disposed of, Louis Glass of the Pacific States Telephone and Telegraph Company, the first of the indicted capitalists to face a jury, was brought to trial. FOOTNOTES: [261] Heney's attitude toward the bribe-givers is expressed in an affidavit filed in the case of The People vs. Calhoun et als., No. 823. Heney in setting forth a statement made to Rabbi Nieto says: "I consider that the greatest benefit which we will have done this city and this country by these prosecutions will be the insight which we will have given them into the causes of corruption in all large cities, and into the methods by which this corruption is maintained. The testimony of the members of the Board of Supervisors throws great light on this question, and Ruef could aid considerably in making it an object lesson to the world, if he would do so. The only way we can stop this kind of corruption is by enlightening the people as to its causes and by thereafter endeavoring to remove the temptation which causes evil by proper remedial legislation, and in order to impress this object lesson on the people strongly enough to accomplish much good we must punish the principal men who have been involved in it. Do not imagine this is a pleasant task to me. It is far from being so. It involves men like Frank Drum, whom I liked and respected as a friend for years, and who has quite recently paid me a good attorney's fee for services performed for a company represented by him. I have met Patrick Calhoun socially, and greatly admire his ability and found him to be a man of very agreeable, attractive manners. I wish there was some other way to secure a proper deterrent effect without causing these men and their innocent families to suffer, but unless the laws are enforced, Doctor, our republican form of government cannot continue very long. It is not sufficient to punish the poor man who has no friends or influence. The people will lose respect for the courts and for the law unless the rich and powerful can be made to obey the laws. It has a greater deterrent effect, in my opinion, to put one rich and influential man in prison than to put a thousand poor ones there. It would do no good to send a few miserable, ignorant Supervisors to the penitentiary. Others of the same kind would soon take their places, and the carnival of crime would continue as before. If we can put Ruef in the penitentiary it will have a wholesome effect upon other political bosses for the next decade at least. And if we can put a few captains of industry there with him, and particularly a few of the head officials of public service corporations, it will have a greater deterrent effect against bribery of public officials than putting five hundred of such officials in the penitentiary." [262] "I subscribed to the Graft Prosecution fund," said one capitalist whose own skirts were clean of the graft scandal, "but before the investigation was over I had to exert myself to prevent my own attorney going to jail." The manner in which every indictment increased the circle of opposition to the prosecution is well illustrated by the following selection from the San Francisco Chronicle of March 25, 1907: "The indictment of Louis Glass, former vice-president of the Pacific States Telephone Company, for bribery, on testimony given to the Grand Jury by E. J. Zimmer, who was the auditor of the company under Glass, and is now vice-president of the reorganized corporation, has caused consternation in certain fashionable circles, in which Glass was one of the most popular men. "At the clubs of which the indicted telephone magnate was a member, much sympathy is expressed for him. He was extremely popular because of his affability and good-fellowship, and he has a host of friends, who are loth to believe that he has committed a crime which may put him behind the bars of San Quentin for fourteen years. "Attorney George Knight, who, it is expected, will be retained as counsel for Glass, voiced the sentiment of many of his friends, yesterday, when he said: "'Louis Glass is one of the best fellows in a social way that ever lived. He is proud, high-spirited and in all his personal relations with others he has always been most particular. I cannot imagine what has led him into doing what he is said to have done in the telephone bribery, and I am sure that in spite of the indictment, when the truth is known, he will not appear in such a discreditable light.'" [263] Among those who challenged the validity of the Grand Jury were: Patrick Calhoun, Thornwell Mullally, Tirey L. Ford and William Abbott of the United Railroads, represented by A. A. Moore and Stanley Moore; Louis Glass of the Pacific States Telephone Company, represented by Delmas and Coogan; John Martin, Eugene de Sabla and Frank Drum of the San Francisco Gas and Electric Company, represented by Garret McEnerney; T. V. Halsey, represented by Bert Schlesinger, William P. Humphries and D. M. Delmas. The several attorneys represented the best legal ability obtainable in San Francisco. No less than fifty-two attorneys, all working to the same end, were employed by the several graft defendants. [264] The Merchants' Association banquet, April 18, 1907, the first anniversary of the great earthquake and fire. [265] At one of the examinations of Spreckels, Attorney A. A. Moore, representing the United Railroads, is reported as demanding: "Can it be that we have got to a point where a private prosecution, hiring a lawyer, hiring an attorney, hiring a detective--and then when indictments are found that you cannot set them aside? That is the line of testimony I intend to pursue." "In addition," said Attorney Stanley Moore, A. A. Moore's associate in the defense, "we expect to show that Mr. Spreckels is the head and shoulders of a large street railroad company, organized by himself for the purpose of putting the United Railroads out of business.' "I will say this again," went on Moore, "we will prove the statement that we have made, to wit: that Mr. Heney was an unauthorized person before the Grand Jury by reason of the fact that he was during all that time privately employed by Rudolph Spreckels, who was entertaining a plan to destroy the property of the United Railroads, and to carry out that plan they gave immunity to the Board of Supervisors to carry out their bidding." [266] The Chronicle, in its issue of June 7, 1907, in discussing the delaying tactics of the defendants, said: "It cannot be too often repeated that in connection with the boodle cases there are but two questions which are of importance, and those are, first: Did the accused commit bribery within the meaning of the statute? and secondly, If not, did they commit bribery in such a way that the law cannot reach them? Both these questions will be settled by the evidence in the trials. If the verdict is that the accused committed bribery within the meaning of the statute, they will go to State's prison. If the evidence shows that they committed bribery so skilfully that it cannot be legally proved, they will not go to the penitentiary, but they will stand disgraced men and unconvicted felons. In either case all that an honest man prizes most highly is at stake, and as all claim to be as innocent as unborn babes, one would expect the band to be tumbling over each other in their eagerness to be first to face a jury and rehabilitate their damaged reputations by a public demonstration of their untarnished character. "Quite the contrary. So far from their taking this obvious course to secure justification the aid of a shining and costly array of legal talent is invoked to prevent, if it may be possible, any show-down whatever of the evidence in any court. They object to even coming into court and pleading whether they are guilty or not. It is declared that it will be alleged that the purported Grand Jury, which went through the form of indicting them, is an illegal body, with no standing whatever in court, and that, therefore, there is no indictment at all. It will not, apparently, be claimed that the members of the alleged Grand Jury were not discreet citizens, legally competent to serve as Grand Jurors; that they were not regularly appointed as such according to law; that they were not duly sworn into office, or that, having listened to sworn evidence delivered under the forms of law, these reputable citizens, upon that evidence, accuse them of felony. None of these things, it is supposed, will be alleged. What is to be alleged, it is said, is that the number of names from which the Grand Jury was drawn was 113, instead of 125, which, by the way, is promptly denied. What earthly bearing could that have, if it were true, on the guilt or innocence of the men accused of felony? Can it be conceived as possible, even if that were proved, that our laws are drawn so completely in the interest of criminals as to enable men accused of felony to escape trial? "The personal character and qualifications of the Grand Jurors were fully brought out in the Ruef case. For weeks they were subjected to a grilling which it was a disgrace to our laws to permit. That was not repeated in the Schmitz case. In that the counsel of the accused have seemed to be relying for overturning a conviction on the alleged over-zealousness of the prosecuting officer. Again, what has that to do with the guilt or innocence of the accused, even if it has occurred? A District Attorney is in possession of all the evidence, and if that is such as to arouse his indignation, shall the people thereby be deprived of all remedy? Obvious misconduct of an attorney is more likely to injure the people than the accused. It could hardly have any other influence on the verdict of a jury. If no crimes are to be punished in which there is energetic prosecution, which may occasionally involve expressions which the law discountenances, we may about as well shut up our criminal courts. Almost any attorney may be baited into making uncourteous remarks. Happily the Supreme Court has recently decided that no matter what the District Attorney does, a felon duly convicted upon sufficient evidence shall not thereby be turned loose. And that is as it should be." [267] Heney in court made caustic answer to this argument: "After the Supervisors had confessed," he began, "and sixteen of them had testified that they had been paid $4,000 apiece to vote for the trolley franchise, these defendants thought in their own minds that they were so connected with the crime that Patrick Calhoun, Thornwell Mullally and Tirey L. Ford each made a public explanation in the press, denying that they had bribed a city official. A crime had been committed, and the first question to be asked was, Who had the motive? The Supervisors had testified that they received the money from Gallagher, and Gallagher had testified that he received it from Ruef. Did Abraham Ruef own the trolley lines? The question arose as to who had the motive. Ford and Mullally came to me personally and told me they had not bribed a city official. Wasn't that an explanation? Will it not be an explanation when these defendants are put on trial that they will say it was an attorney's fee? If, under these circumstances, the Grand Jury cannot call the officers of the company to learn who authorized the giving of the bribe money, what would an investigation be worth? If we had not called them, then you would have heard the other cry, that this was a conspiracy to destroy the good name of Patrick Calhoun. "If it had been a poor, ignorant man, or a helpless woman--if the Grand Jury had dragged her from the jail and compelled her to testify against herself, and she had not known what her constitutional right was, it would have been a different picture. But these four gentlemen are learned in the law. One of them had been Attorney-General of this State, another had been his assistant in that office for four years. Mullally is an attorney and Patrick Calhoun is an attorney whose mind is equal to that of any man's in California. "Advised of their rights! Why, they came in there on a subpoena which General Ford has declared in his own affidavit was faulty and ineffective. They came on a defective process, which they knew to be defective. They refused to be sworn, and they were not sworn, and they left the Grand Jury room without having answered a question, for the purpose of coming solemnly here to get these indictments set aside on the grounds that their constitutional rights have been invaded. That's trifling with the law. Laws weren't made to juggle with. Laws were made for the protection of the innocent. "They knew they didn't have to go, but they went, and they refused to testify; and now they want the indictments set aside because their great constitutional rights have been tampered with. "They say he could have waived the point and testified, but because he refused and walked out he has been deprived of his constitutional right." [268] In commenting upon the point raised by the indicted carmen, the Chronicle, in its issue of July 30, 1907, said: "In attacking the legality of the Grand Jury the attorneys of the carmen indicted for making assaults with deadly weapons and throwing bricks at street cars may have played into the hands of their arch enemy, the president of the United Railroads. If the Supreme Court should hold that the Oliver Grand Jury passed out of legal existence when the 144 new names were selected by the twelve Superior Judges, the indictments against those connected with the telephone, gas, trolley and Parkside briberies would be set aside and all the work of the prosecution would have to be done over. It would be a curious outcome to the efforts of an attorney to free men charged with crimes which the unions condemn, but it would not be the first instance of a miscarriage of the purposes of organized labor." [269] Some went so far when examined for jury service at the later graft trials as to say they would not vote to convict. [270] The graft investigation uncovered something of the curious ethics governing this sort of publicity. For example, Mark L. Gerstle of the law firm of Thomas, Gerstle and Frick, who acted as attorneys for the Home Telephone Company, testified before the Grand Jury that the company paid the San Francisco Chronicle $10,000 to educate the people to the idea of a competing telephone system. The testimony was as follows: "Q. During that time in 1905, were any newspapers paid to help the good cause? A. Yes. "Q. What papers? A. Only one. "Q. What paper was that? A. Chronicle. "Q. How much was paid to it? A. $10,000. "Q. What were the terms of that employment? A. The object of paying that money was to educate the people to the idea of a competitive telephone system. There seemed to be a prejudice among everybody, or a great many people, as to the value or necessity of another telephone system, and we could not obtain the assistance of any newspaper in that work without paying for it. Some required it in the shape of advertising which we did not need--don't do any good--others wouldn't take it in that way; the Chronicle wouldn't take it that way and we were forced in order to have some newspaper assist us in that work, to pay the price which was $10,000. "Q. Did they give editorial work for that? A. No. They were supposed when the matters came up before the Board of Supervisors to write it up favorably, that is to say, talk about the advantage of a competitive telephone system in the way of keeping out a monopoly, and doing away with the poor system of the Pacific States." [271] The Chronicle's reports of the work of the Graft Prosecution are models of the journalism which strikes in the dark. When, for example, the defense called Rudolph Spreckels to the stand in its efforts to disqualify the Grand Jury, The Chronicle, while in its editorial columns condemning such proceedings, reported the incident in its news columns as follows: "Spreckels, who had been keeping in the background, came forward, glancing furtively at Heney, whose lips were moving nervously." In the column from which this quotation is taken, Heney is represented as replying "nervously" to charges made by attorneys for the defense, and Spreckels, when a question was put to him as looking "appealingly" to the attorney representing the prosecution. But observers of the proceedings recall no perceptible nervousness on Heney's part, nor "furtive" nor "appealing" glances from Spreckels. [272] The Cosmopolitan, issue of July, 1911. [273] The Sacramento Bee, in an editorial article, "Laureling the Brow of a Harlequin 'Reformer'," said of Mr. Hamilton's claims for Hearst: "The San Francisco Examiner is advertising an article by Edward H. Hamilton in the July Cosmopolitan--an article which is a tissue of the most shameless misrepresentations from beginning to end--an article which falsely and most mendaciously credits the conviction and imprisonment of Abraham Ruef to William Randolph Hearst. "The Cosmopolitan is a Hearst magazine; Hamilton, a Hearst writer. Undoubtedly in New York many will believe Hamilton has written the truth. Every man in California knows otherwise. "It is strange that a writer with the ability and the reputation of Edward H. Hamilton would for any consideration write an article so brazenly false that one marvels at the audacity alike of the eulogist and the laureled. "For Hearst had no more to do with the fate of Ruef than Ruef's own lawyers. He labored on the same side--to make the graft prosecution so unpopular that no conviction of the guilty could result. Day in and day out the Examiner reeked with slanders aimed at the men who were endeavoring to place Ruef behind the bars. "Day in and day out, the most malicious cartoons were published against Spreckels, Heney, Phelan, Burns and all who were battling for the punishment of public and semi-public scoundrels. Day in and day out in the Examiner Judge Wm. P. Lawlor was referred to as 'Crawler.' "Day in and day out the reports of the trials were so colored, so exaggerated in favor of the defense and so emasculated when the prosecution scored a point, that the Examiner was ranked with the gutter weeklies as a friend, champion and defender of the indicted, and a most venomous traitor to good government and to public honor. "The Examiner knew the feeling against it in San Francisco. For, when Heney was shot and there was danger of mob violence, the editorial rooms of the Examiner were barricaded and the Examiner men were supplied with rifles. "And their fears were to a certain extent justified. One of the vilest cartoons against Heney pictured 'Beany' in danger of his life from imaginary assassins. On 'Beany's' neck was a mark to show where the bullet was to strike. By an extraordinary coincidence, the bullet that struck Heney down at the Ruef trial found almost the identical spot that a few days before had been marked on 'Beany's' neck in Hearst's humorous cartoon. "On the night of the day that Heney was shot, indignant San Francisco in an immense mass meeting thundered its denunciation of Hearst and the Examiner. And graft-prosecution leaders found it necessary to plead with an inflamed populace to attempt no violence. "No more 'Beany' cartoons made their appearance. The Examiner wrote of all connected with the graft prosecution in terms of respect. But this repentance born of fear did not prevent Californians by the thousands stopping the Examiner. "The Cosmopolitan eulogy of Hearst in the graft-prosecution matter is a long line of known misstatements from beginning to end. "It is humiliating to have to record that a man of Ned Hamilton's talents could so debase them as to present in the light of a militant Paul of the graft prosecution one who was its most contemptible Judas Iscariot. "Regrettable indeed is it that "Poor Ned 'must torture his invention To flatter rogues or lose his pension.'" [274] After the failure of the Calkins syndicate its successors to the ownership of "The Globe," purchased the Post and combined the two in one publication under the name of Post-Globe. The policy of the paper was not changed. [275] The astonishing business conditions under which the Calkins Syndicate was conducted were brought out during the proceedings in bankruptcy. For example: The Union Trust Company, closely connected financially with the Southern Pacific Company, and the United Railroads, advanced the syndicate $175,000. To secure this loan, the Syndicate gave the Union Trust Company as collateral 1251 shares of the 2500 shares of the capital stock of the Sacramento Publishing Company, 150,100 shares of the 300,000 shares of the capital stock of the Calkins Publishing House, the majority of the capital stock of the Fresno Publishing Company, which published the Fresno "Herald" and bonds of the company publishing the San Francisco "Globe," valued at $30,000. This loan remained unpaid at the time of the Syndicate's failure. The stock of the Fresno Publishing Company sold under the hammer for $4,850. The 1251 shares of the Sacramento Publishing Company were estimated to be worth $51,000. The stock of the Calkins Publishing House was of doubtful value. The Union Trust Company, before the failure, released the Globe bonds without payment of the note or consideration of other security. This left the stock of the Sacramento Publishing Company, valued at perhaps $51,000, as sure security for the $175,000 loan. But this stock was curiously involved. The entire stock of the company consisted of 2500 shares of a par value of $100 a share. The corporation's property consisted of the Sacramento Union newspaper and the real property where the paper was published. Soon after purchasing the Sacramento stock, the Calkins Syndicate organized a second Sacramento Publishing Company. The first company--that of the 2500 shares--was organized as The Sacramento Publishing Company. The Calkins people in organizing the second company dropped the "The," calling it "Sacramento Publishing Company." The second company was organized with a capital stock of 300,000 shares,--175,000 shares common stock and 125,000 shares preferred. The Syndicate took 100,000 shares of this preferred stock to the London, Paris and American Bank, and used it with certain stock of the Nevada County Publishing Company, another Calkins concern, as collateral to secure a loan of $30,000. Of the 25,000 (preferred) shares remaining, the Calkins people sold 10,000 shares for money. The 15,000 shares remaining, Mr. Willard P. Calkins, head of the Calkins Syndicate, took to compensate him for his peculiar labors in the transaction. This disposed of the 125,000 shares of preferred stock in the second company. The 175,000 shares of common stock still remained to be disposed of. Mr. Calkins, as president of the Calkins Syndicate, wanting more money, took the 175,000 shares to the London, Paris and American Bank, and pledged them as part collateral for a second loan. He did more--he pledged the "Union's" Associated Press franchise as further security for this second loan. Eventually, the second loan was paid off, but the London, Paris and American Bank continued to hold the 175,000 shares of common stock and the Associated Press franchise, under an alleged collateral agreement, as further security for the first loan of $30,000. The first loan was eventually reduced to $16,085.02. When the crash came, two Sacramento Publishing Companies, one with a "The" and one without a "The," claimed ownership of the Sacramento "Union." A majority of the stock of the first company was pledged to the Union Trust Company as part collateral for a loan of $175,000; 175,000 shares of the common stock of the second company and 100,000 shares of its preferred stock, together with the paper's Associated Press franchise, were in the hands of the successor of the London, Paris and American Bank, the Anglo & London, Paris National Bank, to secure a balance of $16,085.02 due on an original loan of $30,000. But there were further complications. The first Sacramento Publishing Company, the directors and officers of which were the directors and officers of the second company, transferred the corporation's office building to the second corporation. The second corporation thereupon mortgaged this real estate to the People's Bank of Sacramento to secure a second loan of $20,000. When Mr. I. W. Hellman, Jr., manager of the Union Trust Company--also one of the prominent managers of the Hellman movement in local politics--was on the witness stand, at the time of the Calkins investigation, he was asked to whom he looked for the payment of the $175,000. "To the Calkins Syndicate," replied Mr. Hellman. [276] The presence of President Calhoun at an Olympic Club dinner in July, 1907, met with strong objection. Calhoun was not a member of the club. He had, it was charged, been brought there by one of the employees of the Southern Pacific Company, who was a member. His appearance led to open protest. It was finally arranged that objection should not be made to him, on condition that he would not attempt to make an address. But the defense claque had evidently planned otherwise. A demonstration was started for Calhoun. He began a speech which brought members to their feet in protest. "I object," said Dr. Charles A. Clinton, one of the oldest members of the club, "to the presence here of Mr. Calhoun and I protest against his making a speech on the ground that the gentleman has been indicted by the Grand Jury for a most heinous offense; that he has been charged with bribing and debauching public officials, and should not be a guest of the club until he can come with clean hands. I do not pass upon this man's innocence or guilt, but feel that until his hands are clean he should not come to the club." The outcome was that, by action of the Board of Directors, Dr. Clinton was expelled from the club. The course was generally denounced. "The Olympic Club of San Francisco," said the Sacramento Bee, "has shamed itself in the eyes of every decent, honest, manly, self-respecting citizen in this State by its recent act, through its Board of Directors, in expelling Dr. Charles A. Clinton from membership. The offense of Dr. Clinton was merely that he protested, as every other honorable member of the Olympic Club should have protested, not so much against the plotted appearance in that club at a banquet, of Patrick Calhoun, indicted for high crimes, as against the subsequent effort on the part of some members of the Olympic Club to force Calhoun to make a speech and become the hero of the affair." When the American battleship fleet visited San Francisco in 1908, much opposition developed over the efforts of upholders of the defense to have Calhoun invited to the banquet given in honor of the visitors. Calhoun's representatives finally overcame the resistance, and Calhoun was invited. Calhoun's social and other activities during this period resulted in much newspaper discussion. "The action of Patrick Calhoun," said the Examiner, "in appointing himself, Thornwell Mullally and William Abbott, all under indictment on bribery charges, as delegates to the Industrial Peace Conference caused such indignation and protest on the part of the other delegates that a committee on arrangements last evening demanded that Calhoun withdraw the names of himself and his two subordinates and substitute others." Mrs. Eleanor Martin gave a dinner in honor of Congressman and Mrs. Nicholas Longworth on the occasion of the visit of President Roosevelt's daughter to San Francisco. Mrs. Martin ranked as highest of San Francisco's so-called social leaders. The alleged fact that neither Calhoun nor Mullally was present on that important occasion was made subject of much curious newspaper comment. The "social side" of the graft defense not infrequently furnished saving comedy for an overstrained situation. It was, however, most effective in breaking down the prosecution. "Socially" the defense had decidedly the better of the situation. Calhoun, for example, became a member of the Olympic Club. There was a deal of newspaper protest at the club's action in admitting him, and defense of the club and other comedy. But Calhoun wore the "winged O" emblem of the Olympic Club on his automobile, nevertheless. [277] One of the most amusing experiences which the writer had during this period was in listening to a woman, prominent in Episcopalian Church affairs, as she voiced her indignation because of a slight put upon her at an important social event of her church, at which daughters of one of the graft defendants had place in the receiving line. [278] Some of the letters of refusal to contribute are of curious interest. For example, Timothy Hopkins, a capitalist of large affairs, wrote curtly: "Yours of the 4th in reference to contributions for the entertainment of the United States Fleet has been received. I am not contributing. Yours truly, TIMOTHY HOPKINS." E. E. Calvin, for the Southern Pacific, wrote "that under present conditions we cannot afford to contribute money to any purpose other than charity or a pressing public necessity." A. H. Payson, for the Santa Fe, wrote that under his instructions he "was not able to make a subscription for this purpose in behalf of the Atchison Company." [279] Mr. Ralston, in an interview printed in the San Francisco Examiner, September 26, 1908, said of this incident: "The true facts of the case are that when P. N. Lilienthal and myself called on many of the banks and all of the public utility corporations they came out boldly and stated that they would not give one dollar while Phelan was Chairman of the Executive Committee, or connected with the reception of the fleet. "Some of the banks that refused are the Crocker National Bank and the Wells-Fargo National. Some of the other banks only gave $100 when they would have given much larger amounts. They disliked Phelan. Among the corporations were the Telephone Company, the Spring Valley Water Company, and the Gas and Electric Light Company. The Southern Pacific and Santa Fe refused to subscribe and it is presumed their reasons were the same as the other corporations. "When I learned the true situation," Mr. Ralston went on, as he widened the mouth of the bag for the certain escape of the cat, "I went before the Executive Committee, at a meeting at which Mr. Phelan was present, and guaranteed the sum of $25,000 more if Mr. Phelan resign or step out. I even went further and said that besides guaranteeing $25,000, I felt assured that the sum of $50,000 could be easily collected if Mr. Phelan would drop out. This Mr. Phelan refused to do. These matters all came up in executive meetings." In this connection it is interesting to note that at the 1914 election in California, Mr. Phelan was elected to represent the State in the United States Senate, while Mr. Ralston was defeated at the Republican primaries for nomination for Governor. [280] See Chapter III. [281] President Calhoun's denunciation of Heney was scarcely consistent with the high regard in which Heney was at the opening of the prosecution, held by the United Railroads' executives. So well did they think of Heney that they selected him to sit on the Board of Arbitration which met late in 1906 to adjust differences between the United Railroads and its employees. This fact was given by Acting Mayor Gallagher as one of the reasons for removing Langdon from office, in October, 1906, when the Graft Prosecution opened. Specification 7 of Gallagher's order removing Langdon because of the appointment of Heney reads: "Specification 7, That said Francis J. Heney at and prior to the time of his appointment as assistant district attorney was the representative of the corporation controlling the street-car system of said city and county (The United Railroads), in a certain dispute between said corporation and its employees. That the appointment of said Heney to said office will, in regard to the enforcement of law against said corporation, be prejudicial and detrimental to the interests of said city and county." Heney resigned his position as arbitrator in the United Railroads controversy soon after the prosecution opened. [282] The graft defendants sent men to Arizona to have Heney indicted, charging murder of a Dr. Handy. Years before, Heney had taken the case of Handy's wife in divorce proceedings, after other attorneys had declined it because of fear of Handy. Handy had boasted that he would kill the man who took his wife's case. After Heney had agreed to represent Mrs. Handy, Handy announced that he would kill Heney with Heney's own gun. He actually attempted this, and Heney, in self-defense, shot him. Heney was exonerated at the time. When the graft trials opened, first representatives of Ruef, and then representatives of the United Railroads went to Arizona for the purpose of working up this case against Heney, and if possible secure his indictment for murder. Ruef's representatives even went so far as to attempt to secure the services of Handy's son to get Heney indicted. Young Handy went to Heney, told him what was going on, and offered to go to Arizona to protect Heney. But Heney declined to permit this sacrifice. Young Handy expressed gratitude for what Heney had done for his mother. Heney's brother, Ben Heney, with full knowledge of what was going on, watched the efforts of those who were endeavoring to make this case, long since disposed of, a matter of embarrassment to the prosecutor. As the graft defense investigators found nothing upon which to base a charge this move against the graft prosecution failed. [283] Dean John H. Wigmore of the Northwestern School of Law at Chicago, author of Wigmore on Evidence, made sharp reply to this contention. In a letter to President Calhoun, dated August 10, 1909, Dean Wigmore said: "Chicago, 87 Lake Street, 10 August, 1909. "Mr. Patrick Calhoun, San Francisco. "Sir:--Recently there arrived in my hands by mail, with no sender's address, a pamphlet of ninety pages, entitled 'Some Facts Regarding Francis J. Heney.' On page 12 your name appears as a printed signature. I am assuming that you caused the contents to be prepared and mailed. "The pamphlet contains assertions reflecting on the conduct of Francis J. Heney and the Federal Department of Justice, in taking part in the prosecution of a criminal charge of bribery in the State Court of California against yourself. The pamphlet contains no defense of yourself; it does not even mention your name, except as its signer and in the title of exhibits; much less does it allege or attempt to show your innocence. It merely asks an answer to 'three important constitutional and moral questions' affecting Mr. Heney and the Department of Justice. "Before answering those questions, let me say that this does not appear to be the method of an innocent man. The public press has made notorious the charge against you and its prosecution by Mr. Heney. Thoughtful citizens everywhere have discussed it. Many (not including myself) had assumed that you were guilty. You now appear to have spent a large sum to print and circulate widely a pamphlet concerning the case. Anyone would expect to find the pamphlet devoted to showing your innocence; and thus to removing unfavorable opinions based on casual press dispatches. An honest man, desiring to stand well with honest fellow-citizens, and possessing means to print, would naturally take that course. You do not. Your pamphlet merely attacks the technical authority of one of the attorneys for the prosecution, incidentally abusing two judges. This is not the course of an innocent man. It is the course of a guilty man who desires to divert the attention of the tribunal of public opinion. The tradition is here fulfilled of the attorney's instructions to the barrister acting for his guilty client, 'No case; abuse the opposing counsel.' I am compelled now to assume that you have no case, because all that your expensive pamphlet does is to abuse one of the counsel for the prosecution. Until now I have supposed it proper to suspend judgment. I do so no longer. "And what are your three 'constitutional and moral' questions,--since you have sent me a pamphlet asking an answer to them? I will answer them frankly. "1. Was Mr. Heney's payment by the Department of Justice covertly for the California prosecution but nominally for other and Federal services? "Answer: I do not know. But I and other honest citizens will presume in favor of the honesty, in this act, of a President, an Attorney-General, and an Assistant Attorney-General who proved in all other public acts that they were honest and courageous beyond example, especially as against a man like yourself who publishes a pamphlet based throughout on anonymous assertions. "2. Can a Federal Assistant Attorney-General, under Federal salary, lawfully act at the same time as State Assistant District Attorney? "Answer: As to this 'constitutional' question, I leave this to the courts, as you should. As to this 'moral' question, I say that it is moral for any Federal officer to help any State officer in the pursuit of crime, and that only guilty lawbreakers could be imagined to desire the contrary. "3. Can a private citizen contribute money to help the State's prosecuting officers in the investigation and trial of a criminal charge? "Answer: He can; and it is stupid even to put the question. Under the original English jury-system (of which you received the benefit) and until the last century, the private citizen was usually obliged to pay the prosecuting expenses; for the State did not, and crime went unpunished otherwise. If nowadays, in any community, crime is again likely to go unpunished without the help of private citizens, there is no reason why we should not revert to the old system. As for Mr. Spreckels (the private citizen here named by you), his name should be held in honor, and will ever be, as against anything your pamphlet can say. As for Mr. Heney and his receipt of $47,500 officially and 'large sums of money additionally' from Mr. Spreckels, it may be presumed that he spent most of it on trial expenses, and did not keep it as a personal reward. But even if he did so keep it, let me register the view that he is welcome to all this--and to more--if anybody will give it; that no money compensation is too high for such rare courage; that the moral courage displayed by him is as much entitled to high money compensation as the unprincipled commercial skill displayed by yourself--and this solely by the economic test of money value,--viz., demand and supply. "Apart from this, the high sums said to have been paid by you to Abraham Ruef solely for his legal skill estop you from questioning the propriety of lesser sums said to have been paid to Francis J. Heney for his legal skill. "Just twenty-five years ago I sat in an upper room on Kearny street, with five other young men, and helped to organize a Municipal Reform League. Two or three others, still living, will recall the occasion. Abraham Ruef was one of them. "Fate separated all of us within a short time. Ruef went his own way,--the way we all know. It is the memory of those earlier days, in contrast with the recent course of events in my old home, that has interested me to give you these answers to the questions asked in the pamphlet you purport to have sent me. "JOHN H. WIGMORE." [284] See Rudolph Spreckels' testimony in The People, etc., vs. Patrick Calhoun. [285] As early as April 20, 1907, the Chronicle began its objection to Ruef's confinement. The Chronicle on that date said, in an editorial article: "It appears that it is costing the city about $70 a day to keep Ruef in jail. That expense should be shut off and shut off now. There is no reason why Ruef should be treated differently from any other criminal who jumped his bail. Incidentally the public is getting impatient to hear that the $50,000 bail already forfeited has been collected. If that were in the treasury we should be more willing to incur this large expense. The public will very sharply criticise authorities who incur such expense for the care of Ruef without promptly collecting the forfeited bail or beginning suit for it. Perhaps it has already been collected and the public has not heard of it. "The city has provided a jail and a jailer. Let him have Ruef. Of course, he will 'connubiate' with him, but what of it? The Sheriff will be under the direction of the Court and if, when otherwise ordered, he grants Ruef privileges not proper, he can himself be put in jail, we suppose. We trust the trial judges will not be discouraged in their efforts to enforce respect to their courts. They will find the people behind them who are already sitting in critical judgment on the legal refinements of the higher courts. "We suppose that a criminal who has once jumped his bail may be kept in jail when caught. But we see no use of it. By once running away he has warranted the Court in fixing new bail at such a rate that the public would gladly have it forfeited. We could afford to pay something handsome to clear Ruef entirely out of the country and into Honduras, and if we could extort from him a few hundred thousand dollars for the privilege it would be the best trade we ever made. But we do not believe he would run away if the bail were made right. But if he is not to be bailed, let him go to jail, where the total cost of his keep will not exceed 25 or 30 cents a day or whatever it is. And if the Sheriff is not trustworthy--as, of course, he is not--let Elisor Biggy have a key to a separate lock on his dungeon. But there is no sense in spending $70 a day for the keep of only one of our municipal reprobates." CHAPTER XIX. THE GLASS TRIALS AND CONVICTION. On the day that Mayor Schmitz was sentenced to serve five years in the penitentiary for extortion, six jurors were secured to try Louis Glass, for bribery. Mr. Glass had been indicted with T. V. Halsey for alleged bribery transactions growing out of the opposition of the Pacific States Telephone and Telegraph Company to competition in the San Francisco field. Mr. Halsey's business was to watch, and, so far as lay in his power, to block, such opposition telephone companies as might seek entrance into San Francisco. Mr. Glass was Mr. Halsey's superior. To Glass, Halsey reported, and from Glass, Halsey took his orders. Eleven Supervisors had confessed that Halsey had paid them large sums to oppose the granting of a franchise to the Home Telephone Company. Testimony given before the Grand Jury had brought the source of the bribe money close to Halsey's superior, Glass. Glass was indicted. The specific charge on which he was brought to trial was that he had given Supervisor Charles Boxton a bribe of $5000. As in all the graft cases, there had been in Mr. Glass's defense technical attack upon the validity of the Grand Jury, demurrers, and other delaying moves. But point by point the prosecution had beaten down opposition, and by the time the Schmitz extortion case had been disposed of, District Attorney Langdon and his associates were able to proceed with the trial of Glass.[286] The District Attorney's office was represented by Heney. D. M. Delmas and T. C. Coogan appeared for Mr. Glass. There were none of the difficulties in securing the jury, as were experienced in the later graft trials. The Glass jury was sworn two days after the trial opened. Dr. Boxton took the stand and testified, with a minutia of detail, how the bribe had been paid to him. Dr. Boxton was the first of the Supervisors to testify before trial jury and public, of his corruption. During the next year and a half San Francisco was to hear the story repeated time after time from the lips of sixteen men who had occupied the supervisorial office. But Boxton was the first. The spectacle of a man testifying that he had taken bribes and betrayed the city was new; it was astonishing, thrilling with sensation. Boxton's position was emphasized by his elevation, on the day of the beginning of his testimony, to the mayoralty office. He was spared by neither prosecution nor defense. He was kept on the witness stand for hours. The prosecution treated him with coldness, making no attempt to palliate or excuse his conduct. The defense harassed him with subtle ridicule. During the greater part of Boxton's examination, the Board of Supervisors was in session. As Mayor of San Francisco, Boxton was supposed to preside over the Board. He was repeatedly dragged from presiding desk to witness stand, and hustled back from witness stand to presiding desk, the whole city watching every move. "You were elected Mayor of this city?" inquired Delmas after one of the witness' shameful admissions. "Through no fault of mine," replied Boxton wearily. But in spite of the ridicule and the hammering, Boxton testified positively to receiving money from Halsey to influence him against casting his supervisorial vote to give the Home Telephone Company a franchise. That Halsey paid the money was not seriously disputed. The question raised by the defense was, did the bribe money necessarily come through Halsey's superior, Glass? This question the prosecution attempted to meet. Halsey, it was shown, was employed under Glass in an inferior position and had neither authority nor power to use the corporation's funds without authorization. Mr. Glass's position in the company was an important one. He had long been vice-president and general manager. After the death of John I. Sabin, president of the company, in October, 1905, Glass became acting president, a position which he held until Henry T. Scott assumed the duties of that office late in February, or early in March, 1906. The evidence went to show that at the time of the alleged bribery transactions, Glass was serving as general manager and acting president. Officials of the company testified that during Sabin's administration checks had been signed by "John I. Sabin by Zimmer," or "E. J. Zimmer for the president," and countersigned by the treasurer. Zimmer was Sabin's confidential clerk. During Mr. Glass's administration, after Mr. Sabin's death, up to the time that Mr. Scott took hold, the checks were signed by Mr. Glass, or Mr. Zimmer for Mr. Glass, bearing as well the treasurer's signature. Zimmer had testified before the Grand Jury that at the direction of Mr. Glass, he had drawn large sums in currency from the banks, and given the money to Halsey. Halsey[287] gave no vouchers for this money which he received from Zimmer. The amounts were accounted for at the company's office by tags in the cash drawer. The testimony which Zimmer had given before the Grand Jury connected Glass directly with the large amounts which Halsey, without giving vouchers, had received from the telephone company's treasury at the time of the bribery transactions. The prosecution depended upon Zimmer's testimony to solidify their case. But when Zimmer was called to the stand, he refused to testify. Zimmer based his refusal upon the ground that in his opinion the Grand Jury had indicted a number of gentlemen upon evidence which Mr. Zimmer regarded as insufficient, and that he would not, to protect his own interests, testify.[288] The court instructed Mr. Zimmer that his position was untenable. The witness continued obdurate. The court sentenced him to serve five days in the county jail for contempt. After his five-days' term had expired, Zimmer was again called to the stand, and again did he refuse to testify; again was he sentenced to serve in the county jail, this time for one day. Upon the expiration of this second sentence, Zimmer was for the third time called to the stand, for the third time refused to testify. For the third time was he adjudged guilty of contempt. His third sentence was to serve five days in the county jail and pay a fine of $500. Before he had served his time, the Glass trial had been concluded. Zimmer, therefore, escaped testifying against his associate, Glass. But for his refusal, he served eleven days in the county jail and paid a fine of $500. The maximum penalty for the crime of bribery alleged against Glass was fourteen years penal servitude. Mr. Zimmer thus served fewer days than Mr. Glass might have been sentenced to serve years had he been convicted. The testimony which Zimmer[289] gave before the Grand Jury, was not presented to the trial jury. Nevertheless, the prosecution considered that it had made out a strong case, but Mr. Heney and his associates had reckoned without D. M. Delmas, Glass's chief counsel. The defense introduced no evidence, but Delmas, in a masterful argument, raised the question of reasonable doubt. He insisted that Glass had not necessarily given the money to Halsey. He argued that several others of the officials of the company could have authorized the transaction. By an elaborate chain of reasoning, for example, Delmas insisted that if the money had been given Halsey at all, President Henry T. Scott[290] could have provided for it. The jury, after being out forty-seven hours, failed to agree. At the final ballot it stood seven for conviction and five for acquittal. That Delmas's argument had strong influence upon those who voted for acquittal was indicated by their published interviews. If these statements are to be credited, Glass escaped conviction because a number of the jurors held to the opinion that some telephone company official other than Glass could have authorized the passing of the bribe money.[291] As soon as the prosecution could bring Glass to second trial, impaneling of the jury began.[292] Glass, at this second trial, was tried for the alleged bribery of Supervisor Lonergan. The trial was in many particulars a repetition of the first. Again, there was no serious attempt to dispute that Halsey had paid Lonergan the bribe money. Zimmer again refused to testify against his superior, and was again committed for contempt. But the prosecution was careful at the second trial to show beyond the possibility of the question of a doubt that neither President Henry T. Scott, nor any other official of the Pacific States Telephone Company, other than Glass, could have authorized the payment of the bribe money. By the minute books of the corporation, the prosecution showed that checks drawn by the corporation on San Francisco banks were to be signed "by the assistant treasurer or his deputy, and by the president, or his private secretary, E. J. Zimmer, for him, or by the general manager." As for Mr. Scott, the prosecution showed by the testimony of Assistant Treasurer Eaton[293] of the telephone company that the corporation did not notify the banks to honor President Scott's signature until February 27, which was after the alleged bribery of Supervisor Lonergan had been consummated. The jury, after being out less than a half hour, brought in a verdict of guilty. Pending his appeal to the Appellate Court, Glass was confined in the county jail. Of the Pacific States Telephone bribing charges, those against T. V. Halsey remained to be disposed of. Even while the second Glass trial was under way, Halsey's trial for the bribery of Supervisor Lonergan was begun. There had been the same delaying tactics to ward off appearance before a jury which had characterized the other graft cases. The impaneling of the trial jury was, however, finally undertaken. But the proceedings were suddenly brought to a close. Halsey, after eight jurors had been secured to try him, was stricken with appendicitis. On this showing, his trial was postponed. Later on, Mr. Halsey was threatened with tuberculosis, which further delayed proceedings against him. Until after the defeat of the Graft Prosecution in 1909, Mr. Halsey's health did not permit of his being tried. His trials under the new administration of the District Attorney's office, resulted in acquittals. Mr. Halsey, in August, 1913, still survives both the appendicitis attack and the threatened tuberculosis. FOOTNOTES: [286] Glass's attorneys contended to the last moment that the trial judge had no jurisdiction to hear the case. After the District Attorney's opening statement had been made, but before the taking of testimony had begun, Mr. Delmas for the defense, stated that in the opinion of the counsel for the defendant the court had no jurisdiction to try the case on the ground that the Grand Jury which returned the purported indictment was an illegal body, having no power to sit as a grand jury at the time it returned the indictment. [287] See Chapter XIV and footnotes 189 and 190, page 171. [288] Mr. Zimmer's statement to the court was as follows: "As previously stated, the Grand Jury has heretofore charged and indicted a number of gentlemen on evidence which I have read, and which seems to be insufficient, for which reason I have taken this stand to protect my own interests; the stand I refer to is not to testify in the case which I had intended and not knowing my rights in the matter. I was sworn, though my intention was not to be sworn." Zimmer positively refused to place his declination on the ground that his testimony might tend to subject him to prosecution. [289] Zimmer was later tried before a Justice of Peace for contempt, found guilty and sentenced to three months in the county Jail. He appealed to the higher courts. [290] Scott had been elected President before the alleged bribery transactions, but had left soon after for the East. The Prosecution held that Scott did not assume his duties as president until after his return from the East, when the alleged briberies had been completed. Delmas concluded his argument on Scott's possible responsibility as follows: "And then you are called again further on in this same process of elimination. 'We expect to prove to you that Halsey had no power to expend moneys without a voucher, and that no person at that time in the Telephone Company had any power to expend money without the approval of the executive Board of Directors, except Glass, and Scott, who was away.' Scott had gone, we were told, on the 18th or 19th. These transactions took place on the 22d, 23d and 24th. Scott could not have authorized them from the simple fact that Scott was then in the East, and he was not here in San Francisco to direct or authorize the management of the affairs of this corporation. A true elimination, gentlemen, if the facts were true, but the facts are not true. Mr. Scott did not leave for the East--bear this in mind--Mr. Scott did not leave for the East until all these transactions were closed; he did not leave until the 27th of February when the last of these checks had been paid. Who drew it? Scott himself. I challenge contradiction. The Assistant District Attorney told you on the first day that he addressed you that Scott left on the 18th or 19th. Did he know that Scott did not leave until the 27th? Did he? If he did, then there are no words that would apply to the deception that was sought to be practiced upon you, and I do not charge any such deception. Had Mr. Scott informed the District Attorney that he left on the 18th or 19th? I do not know. There is no evidence before you that he had. How, then, did he get the idea which he made to you under the oath of his office as District Attorney that Scott left on the 18th or 19th, when in point of fact Scott did not leave until the 27th? He came back from Portland on Monday or Tuesday of the preceding week. He was here during the whole of these transactions; he remained until the last check had been paid. He remained until the ordinance had been passed on the 26th of February, and left the defeated camp on the next day. How, then, upon that evidence, is Scott eliminated from this transaction? And I do not want you to understand that I am charging Mr. Scott with crime. That is no part of my business. It is no part of my office. I am assuming, upon the theory of this prosecution, that a crime was committed, and I say you, yourselves, Mr. District Attorney and your attendants, have undertaken by the process of elimination which you have selected, to show us that Mr. Scott could not have committed this crime. It is sufficient for us to show you that he could without charging that he did." [291] The following are taken from interviews with the several jurors which appeared in the Examiner of July 29, 1907: Juror Jacob Wertheimer--"I voted as I did (for acquittal) because there was a reasonable doubt in my mind as to whether or not Glass had authorized the giving of the money. There were too many others that might have been the ones." Juror Charles P. Fonda--"I voted not guilty. It was simply a question of whether Glass paid over this money as charged. Five of us did not believe that the Prosecution produced sufficiently convincing evidence to find the defendant guilty." Juror Michael C. Samuels--"The evidence did not link Glass up. So far as the bribery went, it might have been done by another official of the company than Glass." Juror Hugo Schnessel--"There was always something lacking in the evidence to convince me beyond a reasonable doubt of the defendant's guilt. It seemed to me that possibly some one else other than Glass might have paid over the money." [292] Of the delaying tactics in the Glass case, The San Francisco Call in its issue of August 14, 1907, said: "Anything to delay trial and judgment is the policy of the accused bribe givers. Every day's proceedings in the retrial of Glass provides ample proof to convince the most skeptical citizen that the last thing desired by the men charged with debauching the boodle Board of Supervisors is prompt determination of the issues on their merits, and every pettifogging move for delay, every cunning attempt to betray the court into technical error is confession of a case too weak to be given to a fair jury on a plain showing of the facts. The attitude of the lawyers for Glass is sufficient to indicate that he needs lawyers of their peculiar expertness--'distinguished attorneys,' Heney calls them--'distinguished for their ability to defeat justice.' "Judge Lawlor's unhesitating denial of a motion to permit the lawyers for Glass to shift their ground in the midst of the impaneling of the jury and hark back to an attack on the validity of the indictments, and his sharp reprimand to Attorney Coogan for his method of misleading talesmen by adroitly framed questions, ought to expedite this trial. Lawlor has a reputation for dealing sternly with legal tricksters and for compelling counsel in the cases that he hears to get down to business and keep at it. At the same time his record on the bench is that of a just judge and always impartial. It is because he is impartial and stern that crooked lawyers, with crooked clients, deem it 'hard luck' when their cases are assigned to Lawlor. "Now Judge Lawlor has a rare opportunity to prove anew his worth as a jurist. He will please a patient and long suffering public and will satisfy the ends of the justice which he administers when he makes the lawyers quit trifling and forces them to let the trial go on. We may expect to see the trial made as tedious and as costly in time and money as high priced counselors can arrange. It is all part of the game--tire out the public, the jury and the prosecution; delay is the safest course for the man accused against whom the people's case is strong. But we may also expect to see Judge Lawlor trimming the matter of technicalities and pressing it to a conclusion. It was because the people had come to expect such things from Judge Lawlor that they re-elected him, when all the machines of municipal corruption were grinding against him." [293] Eaton testified at the second Glass trial as follows: "Mr. Scott did not sign any checks between February 8, 1906, and the latter part of March, 1906, for the company; not to my knowledge. Notices were sent out by me to the different banks in regard to the signatures that could be accepted upon checks after Mr. Scott was elected president. They were sent on the 27th of February, 1906, to all the San Francisco banks that we had an account with." Eaton testified further that the day the banks were notified, Mr. Scott went East. Mr. Scott could, Eaton said, previous to that date, have signed checks, but up to that time they would not have been honored at the banks. Halsey, in the Mills Building, gave the Supervisors, of whom Lonergan was one, their bribe money not later than February 26. Supervisor Lonergan testified that to the best of his recollection he had been paid by Halsey some time between February 14 and February 20. CHAPTER XX. THE FORD TRIALS AND ACQUITTALS. The conviction of Glass, following immediately upon the overthrow of the Schmitz-Ruef municipal administration, and coupled with the pitiful position in which, all recognized, Halsey would find himself before a jury, stirred the graft defense to astonishing activity. Although it developed later that the defendants had had their agents at work even before the bringing of indictments,[294] little was suspected of the extent of their labors until after the Glass trials. During the trials of General Tirey L. Ford, who followed Glass before trial jurors, however, the work of the defendants' agents and their methods became notorious. From the opening of the Ford trials, the representatives of the various graft defendants who congregated in the courtroom ranged in social and professional standing from the highest priced lawyers of the character of Alexander King, President Calhoun's law partner, down through layers of the typical, criminal lawyer of the Earl Rogers-Porter Ashe[295] grade, to characters of the type of Harry Lorenstzen,[296] notoriously known throughout Central California as the "Banjo-Eyed Kid," and Dave Nagle, the gun-fighter, who numbered among his accomplishments the slaying of Judge Terry. Nor were the defending corporations alone represented. The Southern Pacific, although none of its officials were under indictment, had men at work in the interest of the defense.[297] With such motley array of attorneys, detectives, gunfighters and agents, District Attorney Langdon and his associates contended until, what was practically the ending of the graft prosecution, the defeat of Heney for District Attorney at the municipal election of 1909. Ford had been indicted for his alleged part in the bribery of the Supervisors by the United Railroads to secure its over-head trolley permit. At his first trial, Ford answered to the charge of bribing former Supervisor Lonergan. Lonergan had not been long on the stand before the defense demonstrated the astonishing effectiveness of the work of its agents. Earl Rogers, for the defendant, on cross-examination, presented a paper signed by Lonergan within the month, in which Lonergan set forth that when he voted for the trolley permit he had not been promised, nor did he understand, there would be any monetary consideration allowed him--nor any other member of the board--for voting in favor of the measure. Lonergan had testified on direct examination that some time prior to the granting of the permit, Supervisor Wilson had brought word to him there would be $8000 for him in the passing of the trolley ordinance. Later Wilson had told him that the amount would be $4000 only. This amount, Lonergan testified, Gallagher had paid him. Lonergan's statement, signed a few days before the opening of the trial, to the effect that when he voted to grant the United Railroads its trolley permit no monetary consideration had been promised him, came as a surprise to the prosecution. The story of the manner in which the paper came to be in Rogers's possession, however, was quite as sensational as the statement itself. Lonergan, the driver of a bakery wagon, confronted by the keenest practitioners at the California bar, harassed and confused, stammered out explanation of the manner in which he had been induced to sign the paper in Rogers's hands. Long before he had signed it, one Dorland had secured introduction to him. Dorland had represented himself to be a magazine writer, who held that the ousted Supervisors had been misused. Dorland stated that his purpose was to set the Supervisors right in the East. He represented that he was to prepare an article on the San Francisco graft situation from an independent, unbiased standpoint. Dorland made himself very agreeable to Lonergan. He took the unhappy fellow to lunch. He gave him and members of his family automobile trips and expensive dinners. Lonergan finally signed the statement which the agreeable "magazine writer" was to use in his behalf, and with which the graft defense[298] confronted him on the witness stand. The statement which Lonergan had signed was a rambling account of conditions in San Francisco, the one pertinent paragraph touching upon the United Railroads graft being buried in a multitude of words. "And you intended to say to all the readers of the magazine what you set forth over your signature there?" demanded General Ford's attorney. "Yes," replied Lonergan, weakly, "but when I made that statement I was not under oath." Then Lonergan was confronted with the affidavit which he had signed at the opening of the Graft Prosecution when Langdon was fighting against Ruef, Acting Mayor Gallagher and the Schmitz-Ruef Supervisors to keep himself in the office of District Attorney and Ruef out. In that affidavit Lonergan set forth that he had "never committed a felony of any kind or character," and had "never been a party thereto."[299] "I didn't read that paper at the time I signed it," faltered the miserable witness. "I did not consider I was committing a crime when I signed that document." "If it be a crime to have me sign that," he continued in answer to General Ford's attorney's merciless hammering, "then I must have (committed a felony)." Then on re-direct examination Lonergan testified as to how he had come to sign the affidavit. George B. Keane, clerk of the Board of Supervisors, Ruef's right-hand man, secretary of the Sunday-night caucuses, had, Lonergan testified, said to him, "Tom, there is a document across the street there for you to go over and sign. All the boys are signing it." Lonergan testified that he had gone over and signed it. "I am almost sure," Lonergan continued, "that some of them said to me that it was a matter of form, merely eulogizing the board." "When proper inducements or circumstances occur," sneered General Ford's attorney, "you will testify falsely concerning your offenses." "I will not testify falsely on this stand," replied the unhappy witness, "to whatever has happened during my term as Supervisor." But complicated as the position in which the prosecution found its principal witness, it might have been more complicated had all the plans of the agents for the defense been carried out. On the night before Lonergan was to take the stand against Ford, Dorland, the alleged magazine writer, called him up by telephone and invited him "to make a night of it." Dorland stated two women would accompany them. Before accepting the invitation, Lonergan notified Detective Burns. Burns instructed him not to go on the trip, but to meet Dorland and to take Mrs. Lonergan with him. Lonergan, with his wife, accordingly met Dorland and the two women at the appointed place. Dorland expressed his chagrin when he found Lonergan not alone. "He said," Lonergan testified, "he was sorry I was not alone; two nice young ladies were there." Lonergan's testimony of Dorland's dismay when the detective found that Mrs. Lonergan accompanied her husband, was received with amusement. The one-time Supervisor went on no automobile ride that evening. Thus tamely ended what the prosecution insisted was a plot to kidnap, or at least compromise, Lonergan on the eve of his appearance as a witness against General Ford.[300] Out of this attempt to involve Lonergan, grew the scarcely less astonishing kidnaping of Fremont Older, managing editor of the San Francisco Bulletin. Among those alleged to have participated in the Lonergan affair was an employe of the graft defense by the name of Brown. The defense had at the time two employes of that name, "Luther" and "J. C.," the latter of whom is alleged to have been the one who co-operated with Dorland in his attempt upon Lonergan. The Bulletin, in its account of the affair, confounded Luther with J. C. Brown. Based on the Bulletin's allegations against Luther Brown, warrants were sworn out at Los Angeles, charging Managing Editor Older with criminal libel. The manner of serving these Los Angeles warrants was characteristic of the times. Late in the afternoon of September 27, Older, while at Heney's office, received a telephone message that he was wanted at a prominent hotel. As he approached the hotel in response to the message, he was stopped by a number of men who claimed to be peace officers from Los Angeles. These displayed the warrant, and hustled Older into an automobile. Older demanded that he be taken before a local court. His captors promised him he should be. But instead they headed the machine for Redwood City, a town some twenty miles south of San Francisco on the line of the Southern Pacific. When Older protested a revolver was pressed against his side, and he was ordered to keep silent. At Redwood City, Older was put on board a Los Angeles train. On the train were R. Porter Ashe and Luther Brown. Older was not permitted to communicate with his friends nor with the passengers, but was confined in a stateroom which his captors had secured.[301] In the meantime, the entire police force of San Francisco was scouring the city for the missing man. There had been rumors that those prominent in the prosecution, Older among them, were to be made away with. Older's unaccountable disappearance tended to confirm these rumors. His alarmed friends were prepared to act promptly when word finally reached them that Older was on the southbound train. The train was due to reach Santa Barbara early the following morning. Arrangements were accordingly made to rescue Older at that point. When the train arrived there, deputy sheriffs were awaiting its arrival. Older was taken into court under habeas corpus proceedings. His release followed,[301] another sensation of the graft defense thereby coming to sorry ending.[302] There were other surprises for the representatives of the prosecution at the Ford trials well calculated to confuse them. Alex. Latham, chauffeur for Ruef, whose testimony connected Ruef and Ford, during the period of the alleged bribery transactions was, when his name was called as a witness, found to be missing. He was alleged to be in Colorado. George Starr, treasurer of the United Railroads, whose testimony was needed in the tracing of the exact amount of the bribe money paid Ruef in the overhead trolley deal, $200,000, that had been placed in Ford's hands under somewhat peculiar circumstances, went East about the date the trial opened. The United Railroads' cash book was sent East about the same time, and could not be produced at the trial.[303] Then again, witnesses who had testified freely before the Grand Jury became forgetful. Supervisor Wilson, who had conveyed word to Lonergan from Gallagher that there would be $4000 in the trolley deal for Lonergan, could, when brought to the witness stand, remember nothing of the incident. Supervisor Coffey also proved equally forgetful.[304] In the midst of these extraordinary happenings, General Ford's trial went on, marked by repeated attacks by attorneys for the defense upon those who had been instrumental in bringing about the Graft Prosecution. Rudolph Spreckels in particular, was made object of vicious denunciation. It was recognized from the beginning that the defense was battling not for General Ford alone, but for President Calhoun, and the other officials of the United Railroads under indictment. The State's attorneys, target for constant abuse and ridicule at the hands of the defense, proceeded, however, to present the case of The People. In spite of sensations, the disappearance of witnesses and the forgetfulness of witnesses, the prosecution brought out testimony to show that the Supervisors had received $85,000 for their votes granting the trolley permit. By the testimony of officials of the United States Mint it was shown that Patrick Calhoun had, after the fire, but before the opening of the San Francisco banks, created a fund of $200,000 at the Mint. None of the directors of the United Railroads who could be dragged to the stand knew anything about this $200,000. Other amounts, which the United Railroads, during the days of stress following the fire, had received at the Mint from the East, could be accounted for by the books and vouchers, but not this $200,000.[305] United Railroads employes who could be made to testify could throw no light upon its final disposition. But the prosecution did show by the Mint officials that President Calhoun had ordered the $200,000 paid to General Ford and that it was paid to General Ford. The following dates, brought out by the testimony, showed the receipt and suggested the disposition of the money: May 21--Overhead trolley franchise granted by the Board of Supervisors. May 22--$200,000 placed in the Mint to the credit of Patrick Calhoun. May 25--General Ford drew $50,000 from the Mint which he exchanged for currency of small denominations. July 31--General Ford drew $50,000 from the Mint, which he exchanged for currency. August 1--The Supervisors received from Gallagher their first payment for voting to grant the overhead trolley permit. Gallagher testified that he had received the money from Ruef. The payments were in currency, the bills being of small denominations. August 23--General Ford drew $100,000 from the Mint, which he exchanged for currency, receiving bills of large denominations. August 24-30--The Supervisors received their final payments from Gallagher for their votes on the trolley permit. These last payments were made in bills of large denominations. Gallagher testified that he had received the money from Ruef. The withdrawals from the Mint had been made by General Ford, on Mr. Calhoun's instructions to the Mint officials that the payments should be made to the General. The testimony of the Mint officials and employes was to the point and at times sensational. Nathan Selig, a clerk at the Mint, for example, assisted Eugene D. Hawkins as assistant cashier,[306] in making up a package of $50,000 in bills which were turned over to Ford. Selig fixed the time of the occurrence at "shortly after the Mayor signed the franchise bill for the overhead wire." "What impressed that upon your mind?" was asked him. "Because I made the remark to Mr. Hawkins, as he was going out," replied Selig, "that that was--I thought it was, the Supervisors' 'bit'." Having traced this $200,000 from Calhoun to the Mint and from the Mint to Ford, the prosecution proved by Charles Hagerty, Ruef's office boy, that during the weeks after the fire General Ford and Mr. Mullally of the United Railroads, had had conference with Ruef at Ruef's office. Ruef was traced to Ford's office. Ford's stenographer testified, reluctantly, to Ruef's presence there. Ford was shown to have sent warning, through his assistant Abbott, to Ruef, at the opening of the graft investigation, that the Grand Jury was taking up the matter of the United Railroads trolley privilege, that the prosecution had not made any headway, that it was thought the next step would be to lay some trap for the Supervisors.[307] That Ruef and Ford had more or less intimate relations during this period was fully established.[308] The question raised was: Did the $85,000 in currency which Ruef gave Gallagher to be paid to the Supervisors for their votes on the overhead trolley permit pass from Ford to Ruef? Did the money paid the Supervisors come out of the unaccounted-for $200,000 which had disappeared into General Ford's possession?[309] A word from Abe Ruef would have lifted the case out of the plane of circumstantial to that of positive evidence. A word from General Ford would have shown the manner in which the money had been disposed. Those who took seriously Ruef's protestations at the time of his plea of guilty to extortion, that his life would thereafter be devoted to undoing the wrong he had wrought, looked to see the prosecution put Ruef on the stand. The many supporters of General Ford--he was one of the most likable and popular men in the State--who still held belief in his innocence, looked to see him take the stand to clear his name by accounting for the disposition of that $200,000 which he had received, at the order of President Calhoun, from the Mint officials. But neither Ruef nor Ford took the stand. Later developments in the graft cases showed why the prosecution did not call upon Ruef to testify. But no satisfactory showing has been made why General Ford did not take the stand to tell, under oath, of the disposition of that $200,000 last seen in his possession. Heney, in an affidavit[310] acknowledged March 10, 1908, tells why Ruef was not called upon to testify. Some ten days before the taking of testimony in the first Ford trial began, according to this affidavit, Heney had Gallagher and Ruef at his office. The two men had told stories of the passage of the ordinance granting the trolley permit, which conflicted slightly. Heney's purpose in confronting them, he tells us in the affidavit, was that he might determine in his own mind which was right. Heney had not seen Ruef, except as he had passed him in court or corridor, since he had proved that Ruef had made misrepresentations to him in the French Restaurant cases.[311] The conversation between Ruef and Gallagher did not tend to change Heney's opinion of the broken boss. Indeed, Heney became more firmly convinced than ever that Ruef was not acting in good faith, that he was not telling the whole truth. A few days after this meeting, Burns brought Heney word that Ruef would not testify at the Ford trial at all, unless the prosecution allowed him to withdraw his plea of guilty in the extortion case, and dismissed all the indictments against him. Heney refused to be coerced. He sent word back to Ruef that the prosecution had had sufficient evidence to convict Ford before Ruef had told anything; that if Ruef were called to the witness-stand it would be without further talk with him; that none of the cases against him would be dismissed, and that if called to the stand he could testify or not testify, as he saw fit. That night, according to Heney, Rabbis Nieto and Kaplan, with Ruef's attorney, Henry Ach,[312] appeared at Heney's office. Ach announced in substance, according to Heney's affidavit, that inasmuch as Heney and Langdon had promised to permit Ruef to withdraw his plea of guilty to the extortion charge, and then dismiss the case, as a condition upon which Ruef signed the immunity contract,[313] the time had arrived when, in justice to Ruef, this ought to be done.[314] Heney let Ach finish. "We might as well understand each other," Heney then announced. "You know perfectly well that I did not at any time make any such promise to Ruef or to you, or to any one present, or to any one else on earth." Heney then recited the exact terms of his promise.[315] Both Kaplan and Nieto agreed with him that his statement was correct, but Kaplan insisted that he had understood that Ruef was to be allowed to withdraw his plea, arguing that he had told the truth and that his evidence was very important. "Ruef lied to us," answered Heney emphatically, "in the French Restaurant case, and I proved it to him in this very room, and he simply laughed in my face. He also lied to us in all the other cases. He is not entitled to immunity in any case, and I not only will not permit him to withdraw his plea of guilty in case number 305, but on the contrary it is my present intention to ask the court in that case to give him no leniency whatever, but to sentence him for the maximum term which is prescribed by law." Heney suggested that Ruef's representatives take this word back to their principal. "Ruef," Heney concluded, "tried to job the prosecution and he has only succeeded in jobbing himself into the penitentiary." Ten days later, when Heney made his opening statement before the first Ford jury, he carefully refrained from stating that the prosecution expected to prove any fact that necessarily depended in whole or in part upon Ruef's testimony. And with all San Francisco on tiptoe of expectancy,[316] Heney closed the case of The People without putting Ruef on the stand.[317] The defense offered no evidence. The case went to the jury on the evidence which the prosecution had presented. The jury failed to agree, eight standing for acquittal, and four for conviction. General Ford was immediately brought to trial for the second time. The case selected was for the bribery of Supervisor Jennings Phillips. Heney, in his opening statement, announced that he did not intend to put Ruef on the stand. The second case presented was, if anything, stronger than the first, but the jury brought in a verdict of "not guilty." General Ford was tried on a third of the indictments against him, and again was the verdict of the jury "not guilty." Long after, the prosecution discovered that agents for the United Railroads had systematically corrupted members of its detective force. On the evidence in the hands of the prosecution, a search warrant was secured, and the offices of the United Railroads raided in a search for stolen documents. Copies of over 2400 documents belonging to the prosecution were found. It developed that men in the employ of the prosecution were receiving regular monthly salaries from agents of the United Railroads to turn these reports over to agents of the defense for copying. The defense was in this way kept informed of all that had been reported to the prosecution regarding jurors, etc., by Burns's own agents.[318] At the time of the third Ford trial, for example, Heney was engaged with Ruef's trial in the Parkside case. The Ford trial was conducted for the State by John O'Gara. One of Burns's men, Platt by name, was appointed to assist O'Gara by advising him of the character of the men drawn for jury service. O'Gara repeatedly discovered Platt's advice and suggestions to be unreliable. Long after it was discovered that Platt was at the time in the employ of agents for the United Railroads. The reason for the character of his advice and suggestions was then apparent. At none of the Ford trials did the defense attempt to meet the evidence which the prosecution presented. At the third trial, the prosecution called President Calhoun and Abe Ruef[319] to the stand. But both declined to answer. The disposition of the $50,000 in currency in small bills, and of the $150,000 in currency in large bills, which passed into General Ford's hands, at the time that currency of this exact amount and description passed into the hands of Abe Ruef, $85,000 of which Ruef distributed among the Supervisors for voting for the United Railroads trolley permit, continues as great a mystery as it was on the day that the first Ford trial opened. Ruef at the time of his plea of guilty to the extortion charge, and five years later in the story of his career published in the San Francisco Bulletin, admitted that the $200,000 that on Calhoun's order was turned over to Ford was soon after paid to him (Ruef) because of the granting of the trolley permit. The $85,000 that Gallagher divided among the Supervisors on account of their granting this permit, Ruef has stated in his several confessions, came out of this Calhoun-to-Ford, Ford-to-Ruef $200,000. And in California there are many who hold that in this instance, at least, Ruef is telling the truth. FOOTNOTES: [294] John Helms, a detective, testified at the trial of Patrick Calhoun that he had been employed by the United Railroads as early as May 3, 1907; that his duties consisted of "mostly shadow work, watching out for things being done by the prosecution"; that Patrick Calhoun had himself authorized him (Helms) to employ men to follow Burns on motorcycles. Later on automobiles were substituted for the motorcycles. If Helms's employment began on May 3, as he testified, the United Railroads was preparing for its defense at least three weeks before indictments were brought against its officials. The extent of that corporation's defense, or the details of it, are not known to those outside the corporation. At the Calhoun trial the Prosecution accounted for every dollar spent in the operations against the Schmitz-Ruef regime. The attorneys representing the United Railroads were invited to make as frank statement of the expenditures made by the defense, but they declined. [295] Ashe participated in the first Ford trials. At the time of the later trials he was involved in the scandal of the alleged kidnaping of Fremont Older. [296] In referring to the men and women employed by the graft defense, The Call, in an editorial article, in its issue of September 26, said: "The retinue of the trolley magnates, as exhibited in the Ford case, makes a remarkable picture. Behind the expert lawyers of last resort troops a motley train of gun fighters, professional plug-uglies, decoys, disreputable 'detectives,' thugs, women of the half world and the wolfish pack of gutter journalism. It must be, indeed, a hard case that needs such bolstering. "How will Mr. Calhoun square with his protestations of high-mindedness the presence and the efforts in his behalf of such creatures of the slums and stews as 'Bogie' O'Donnell and 'The Banjo Eyed Kid'? Are these and the others of their kidney laboring in the same behalf as friends and sympathizers of Mr. Calhoun or merely as his hired men?" [297] At the Ford trial, Supervisor Lonergan had testified that he had been followed during a recess of the court. The following testimony followed: "Q. Was that Mr. Melrose, a detective of the Southern Pacific, who is sitting there? A. I don't know Mr. Melrose. "Q. Is he the gentleman sitting immediately back of Mr. Ford? A. That is the gentleman; that is him. "Q. He was following you around during the noon hour? A. Yes, sir. "Q. Don't you know he is a detective of the Southern Pacific? A. I don't know anything about the gentleman." [298] The Call, in its issue of September 26, 1907, stated in explanation of how the graft defense had come by the statement Lonergan had made to Dorland that: "After court adjourned (September 25) Attorney Rogers offered an explanation for Walter Dorland, the man who was charged by the prosecution with having attempted to kidnap Lonergan. Rogers's story differed from that told by Dorland. Rogers stated that Dorland was not a detective, but was in charge of a hospital in Chicago. He came to San Francisco, where he met Luther Brown, an associate of Rogers. Brown and Dorland were old friends and the former induced Dorland to get statements from the Supervisors for him. Dorland did this. Rogers says he has statements from all the Supervisors with the exception of Gallagher." [299] Heney states in an affidavit filed in the case of The People vs. Patrick Calhoun et als., No. 823, that he had been informed that the reason given by Ruef for securing the signatures of the Supervisors to this affidavit was to find out which, if any of them, had confessed, upon the theory that any one of them who had confessed would refuse to sign an affidavit, and upon the further theory that if such a confessing member did sign the affidavit, he would thus be making a contradictory statement under oath, which could thus be further used against him by Ruef or Gallagher, upon the trial of either of them. But whatever Ruef's far-seeing motive, this affidavit which he, through Keane, induced the Supervisors to sign, was used by the attorneys for the defense at the graft trials to show contradictory statements of the confessing Supervisors. [300] The San Francisco Call, in its issue of September 25, 1907, in commenting on Lonergan's testimony, says: "While Lonergan's narrative tells a portion of the story, it is not all. In another automobile were Detective Luther Brown and the 'Banjo-Eyed Kid' of the United Railroads. They followed close on the heels of the auto occupied by Detective Dorland. Both machines sped to a resort near the park, where a meeting place had been arranged and where Lonergan was to be turned over to the custody of the 'Banjo-Eyed Kid.' The rest was to be left to the Kid. If the plan had carried there would have been no Lonergan at the trial yesterday, the defense would have flashed the statement secured by Dorland and set up the cry that the entire prosecution of the United Railroads was a plot set on foot by Rudolph Spreckels." [301] Several who participated in this affair were later indicted for kidnaping. There were no convictions. [302] Burns in an affidavit filed in the case of The People vs. Patrick Calhoun et als., 832, refers to a plot hatched about the time of the Ford trials to kidnap Ruef. Burns charges that Ruef was to have been taken into a mountain county and held there until the United Railroads cases had been disposed of. He states his belief that Ruef was party to the plot. [303] The disinclination of the United Railroads to produce its books continues to cause that corporation inconvenience and trouble. In 1913, for example, the corporation applied to the California State Board of Railroad Commissioners for permission to issue promissory notes to the amount of $2,350,000. That the Commission might determine the necessity of such an issue, request was made for the corporation's books. This request was denied. The Commission withheld authorization of the note issue. In commenting upon its refusal, the Commission said: "It should be understood that the conclusions hereinbefore set out have been reached on the partial information which has been submitted to the Commission, and that if an examination of the original books which the company has refused to supply should reveal a different condition, the responsibility for these conclusions, which we contend inevitably must be drawn from what evidence is before us, lies with the applicant because of its failure to submit its books for examination by the Commission. "It is an axiom that evidence suppressed is deemed to be adverse, and having in mind this axiom certainly the Commission is justified in concluding that the books which the applicant refuses to produce at least would not better its showing." Following the defeat of the graft prosecution in November, 1909, peculiar transactions are recorded against the United Railroads. For example, the Railroad Commission found, and has so reported, that "in the minutes (of the United Railroads) of May 25, 1910, it appears that four years' 'back salary' was voted to Patrick Calhoun, president of the United Railroads of San Francisco, in the sum of $75,000 a year, or a total of $300,000. No explanation is made of this item, but it at once suggests the necessity of a thorough investigation in order to determine the items claimed by applicant as operating expenses of the United Railroads over a series of years." See Decision No. 439 Railroad Commission of California, in the matter of the application of the United Railroads, etc., February 4, 1913. [304] Both Wilson and Coffey were indicted for bribe-taking. Wilson later on found his memory. At other graft trials he explained that his testimony at the first Ford trial had been given after he had undergone an operation that had involved the use of large quantities of cocaine. He insisted that he did not know to what he was testifying. Coffey was tried for bribe-taking and convicted. The Supreme Court, however, set aside the verdict on technicalities. [305] It was shown at the Ford trial that about $175,000 in addition to the unaccounted-for $200,000 was received by the United Railroads through the United States mint. Every dollar of this $175,000 except $3,000 loaned to Ruef by Mullally, was taken out by the treasurer of the company, and carried to the United Railroads' office and there put in its safe and used as needed, that it was taken in gold and was paid out to its employees in gold. It was further shown that not one dollar of currency was ever put in any of the safes at the United Railroads' office by any person during that period of time covered by Ford's withdrawal of money from the mint, and that no currency was deposited to the credit of the company in any of its bank accounts nor to the credit of Ford or Mullally or Abbott, and that no currency was turned over to the treasurer of the company during that time. Thus by a process of exclusion this $200,000 was left in the hands of Ford absolutely unaccounted for upon any theory consistent with an honest use of it. Add these facts to the further facts that Ruef was traced to Ford's office on two of the days on which Ford got the money, and that Ruef on each occasion, within a day or two, paid the same kind of money to Gallagher, that currency was not generally in circulation at all in San Francisco. [306] The two men were at the time detailed to handle the money of the relief fund. The mint officials could not accommodate Ford with the currency he wanted. They gave him gold. The gold which Ford secured at the mint was trucked across the hall to relief headquarters, where it was exchanged for the currency. Selig and Hawkins counted out the bills. [307] See transcript of testimony, trial of The People vs. Tirey L. Ford, No. 817, taken September 25, 1907, page 270. [308] Mr. Mullally, assistant to Mr. Calhoun, and also Mr. Calhoun were known to have enjoyed friendly relations with Mr. Ruef during this period. [309] The facts brought out at General Ford's trial are interesting in connection with General Ford's interview in the San Francisco Examiner of October 28, 1906, soon after the Graft Prosecution opened. See Footnote 92. Ruef, in "The Road I Traveled," printed in the San Francisco Bulletin, states that he gave Schmitz $50,000 and kept $50,000 for himself out of the $200,000 which was given to him by Tirey L. Ford from Patrick Calhoun to pay for the granting of the trolley permit. [310] This affidavit deals with the Graft Prosecution from its beginning down to the spring of 1908. This document was filed in the case of The People vs. Patrick Calhoun et als., No. 823. [311] See Chapter XVI, page 211, and footnote 119, page 111. [312] This is the same Ach who dramatically left the Ruef defense at the time of Ruef's plea of guilty to extortion. See Chapter XV, page 204. [313] For immunity contract see page xix of the Appendix. For the negotiations upon which Ach's claim was based see Chapter XV. [314] Heney sets forth in his affidavit that Ach's claim did not surprise him. He says of Ach's statement: "I was not very much surprised by its substance as I had long before commenced to suspect that Ruef, Ach, Dr. Kaplan and Dr. Nieto would claim eventually that such agreement existed in regard to case number 305 (the extortion case) if it became necessary to do so in order to keep Ruef out of the penitentiary. In fact I would not have been greatly surprised by anything that Ach might have claimed, as I have learned to know him pretty well and am sometimes at a loss to decide whether he or Ruef is entitled to first place as an artistic and imaginative 'equivocator,' to use Ruef's language." [315] See Chapter XV, pages 190-7. Heney states in his affidavit that both Nieto and Kaplan agreed that Heney's statement of the arrangement was correct. "Yes, you are right, Mr. Heney," the affidavit sets forth Nieto said. "I understand it that way, and consequently I never told Ruef anything about that. He never got that from me." The affidavit sets forth that Kaplan said in substance: "Yes, that is what you said, Mr. Heney, but I always understood that Mr. Ruef would be allowed to withdraw his plea of guilty in the French Restaurant cases and would not receive any punishment." Heney replied in substance: "You may have so understood, Doctor, but you had no right so to understand from anything which I said." [316] Heney, in his closing argument, told the jury that Ruef had not been put on the stand because the prosecution did not trust him. Heney said: "Nobody except Mr. Ford and Mr. Ruef could tell about it (the passing of the $200,000). They did not complain about my asking why they did not put Mr. Ruef on the stand. They asked why we didn't put him on the stand and vouch for his veracity and enable them to put words in his mouth, and I will answer now, because we DID NOT TRUST HIM." [317] Heney, in his affidavit, describes the disappointment of Ruef, Ach and Nieto when the case was closed without Ruef being called. Heney says: "I rested the case on behalf of the prosecution in the first Ford trial in this department of this Court on the 2nd day of October, 1907, and the attorneys for the defendant asked for time to consider what they would do about putting in evidence, and Court adjourned for the purpose of giving them such time. I had noticed Henry Ach and Ruef sitting together next to the aisle, which was directly in front of where I sat, and could see that up to the time I closed the case they were anxiously waiting for me to call Ruef as a witness. When Court adjourned they remained sitting and as I passed them Ach stopped me and said in substance, 'Why didn't you put Ruef on the stand as a witness? Are you not going to dismiss these cases against him?' I replied in substance, 'There are a lot more cases to be tried. There will be plenty of opportunities to dismiss these cases if I want to do it.' Ruef said, with one of his most winning smiles, in substance, 'I guess he is going to put me on in rebuttal just as he did in the Schmitz case.' I replied in substance, 'Oh, I don't know about that, Ruef. I don't like to try all my cases the same way.' I started to leave and Ach stopped me as I had taken only a couple of steps, and said in substance, 'There isn't any change in the situation, is there in regard to Ruef?' I smilingly and meaningly replied, in substance, 'Not a particle, Henry, since our last talk,' meaning thereby the talk which Ach and myself had on or about the 19th or 20th day of September, 1907, at night in my office in the presence of Dr. Nieto, Dr. Kaplan, William J. Burns and Charles W. Cobb, as hereinbefore set forth. As I made this statement I walked on out of the courtroom and someone stopped me somewhere between there and the entrance door of the building and Dr. Nieto came up to me, all smiles, and said in substance, 'You didn't put Ruef on the stand, did you?' I replied, 'No, I did not, Doctor.' Dr. Nieto then said in substance, 'There isn't any change in the situation, is there?' And I replied with a smile in substance, 'None whatever since our last talk, Doctor,' meaning the talk at my office just hereinbefore referred to, at which Dr. Nieto, Dr. Kaplan and Ach were present. The manner of Ach and the manner of Dr. Nieto when I made this reply to each of them indicated plainly that each understood exactly what I meant." [318] Calhoun protested vigorously against the raiding of his offices. Concerning the raid and Mr. Calhoun's protests, the interior press expressed general approval of the first and condemnation of the latter. "It is not a question," said the Oroville Register, "alone of graft in San Francisco now. It is rather a question as to whether in America, where 'all men are free and equal,' there is a law for the rich and another law for the poor, and whether a little money can put our whole penal system at naught and make monkeys of judicial officers. Unluckily in the Calhoun case we can not in America resort to the czar-like methods which should be resorted to, but must fight it out by the long and slow process of law. Luckily for the honor of America Mr. Heney and his associates are gifted with the courage, ability and tenacity to fight it out on this line even if it takes this summer and the whole of the next so to do." "The 'private sanctity' of Calhoun's offices," said the Santa Barbara Independent, "was violated, his defenders say, when the police entered to search for stolen goods. The fact that the goods were concealed in the offices--that the police unearthed there a 'fence' for the reception of stolen goods--doesn't seem to have destroyed the sanctity of the place. "Recently the police in Los Angeles raided a cigar store, where they found concealed some of the money that three months ago had been stolen from the Monrovia bank. The cigar dealer's lawyers should go into court and protest against violation of the 'private sanctity' of the thief's hiding place. "It is beyond understanding how men can view a similar circumstance in different lights. To an unprejudiced mind a thief is a thief, whether he has stolen an old pair of shoes or robbed the public through a municipal or other government. And the honest man rejoices in his capture, the recovery of the stolen goods and apprehension and punishment of persons who receive and conceal the fruits of theft." [319] Calhoun and Ruef were placed on the stand April 29, 1908. Their refusal to answer will be found in the transcript of testimony taken that day. Complete records of all the graft cases were in 1912, when this review was written, in the possession of A. A. Moore, prominently connected with the graft defense. CHAPTER XXI. THE SAN FRANCISCO ELECTION OF 1907. Scarcely had the prosecution overcome the delaying tactics of the defense, and forced graft cases to trial, than District Attorney Langdon had to defend title to his office at the polls. Langdon had taken office in January, 1906. His term was to expire in January, 1908. The municipal election, at which Mr. Langdon's successor was to be elected, was to be held in November. At that time was to be elected besides the District Attorney, the Mayor, Supervisors and practically all the other municipal officials. The old convention system of naming candidates for office still prevailed in San Francisco. However, California had even then entered upon the struggle of throwing off the yoke of machine domination through the convention system of naming candidates. The delegates to the several conventions had, under primary law provisions, to be elected at the polls. San Francisco was divided upon one issue--that of the Graft Prosecution. The opposition which years of adverse publicity was to develop, did not then confront those who were standing for vigorous prosecution of the corrupters of the municipality. But under the hammering of an adverse press, and the claquer's systematic belittling, the graft defense had made gains sufficient to give it at least a fighting chance at the polls. On the side of the defense, too, was the solid support of the powerful Southern Pacific Company, and of the various public service corporations, as well as the purchasable press. On the side of the prosecution stood the people of San Francisco, not yet worn out, nor misled, nor yet alienated from the policy of vigorous prosecution of the corrupters of the municipality. The people recognized that effective continuance of the prosecution required that Mr. Langdon be re-elected. That the action of the prosecution in making Taylor Mayor, might be endorsed at the polls--thus receiving the stamp of public approval--Mr. Taylor's election became quite as important as that of Mr. Langdon. The same was true of those of the Taylor-appointed Supervisors who became candidates for election. But the contest waged about the election of Taylor and Langdon. Such was the issue which confronted San Francisco at the 1907 election. There was but one issue. There were, however, three prominent political parties, Union Labor, Republican and Democratic. None of the three could be called the prosecution party, nor for that matter, the defense party; nor had any faction of any of the parties the temerity to declare against the prosecution of those trapped in corruption, however vigorously opposed to the prosecution this or that faction might be. But each of the three parties did divide on the question of the election of Langdon and Taylor. Broadly speaking, the supporters of the prosecution in all parties demanded that Taylor and Langdon be nominated. The opponents of the prosecution, while declaring loudly for the prosecution of all offenders against the law, labored for their defeat. On this issue, not always clearly defined, the intraparty factions met at the primary polls. The prosecution, therefore, had three independent political fights on its hands. Langdon had been elected by the Union Labor party. Taylor was a Democrat. But in the confusion of the times the principal primary fight was within the Republican party. The Republican opposition to those roughly described as "pro-prosecution," found expression in the remnants of the old-time machine--generally called Herrin--element. At its head were many of the experienced machine leaders. The Republican pro-prosecution forces were at first without definite leadership. But in this emergency most effective leadership developed. Daniel A. Ryan, a young "Irish-American," came to the fore as captain of the reform forces within the Republican party. Ryan is of the highest type of his race, as developed under the advantageous conditions to which the immigrant and his descendants have, in these United States, been admitted. Well educated, forceful, a brilliant speaker, effective as an organizer, a lover of the political game, Ryan was soon the recognized leader of the new movement. He was trusted implicitly. The selection of candidates for convention places was left largely in his hands. Under Mr. Ryan's leadership the fight for effective continuation of the Graft Prosecution was carried on within the Republican party. The division in the Union Labor party was scarcely less pronounced. The party, roughly speaking, divided with P. H. McCarthy heading the anti-prosecution side, and men of the type of Walter Macarthur, one of the founders of the party, leading the forces supporting Langdon and his associates. But here again there was most confusing division. Thomas F. Eagan, chairman of the Union Labor Party County Committee, for example, was quoted within a week of the primaries, as announcing: "Schmitz is an ideal candidate (for Mayor). If available, he would be nominated by the delegates that will be elected on the regular Union Labor ticket." Nevertheless, Mr. Eagan was unalterably opposed to Mr. McCarthy heading the ticket. The Democratic division was less pronounced than in either the Republican or Union Labor party. The side favoring Taylor, without much reference to Langdon, went to the primary polls under the regular Democratic leadership, with Thomas W. Hickey, chairman of the Democratic County Central Committee, at its head. Prominent in the opposition was Lewis F. Byington, who had preceded Mr. Langdon as District Attorney. Mr. Byington was brother-in-law of General Tirey L. Ford, even then under trial for bribery, and one of General Ford's attorneys. In the confusion of these many-sided contests, the defense had its best opportunity for success. But the result, so far as the Democratic and Republican parties were concerned, was overwhelmingly successful for the prosecution.[320] Of the delegates to the Republican convention the Ryan (pro-prosecution) forces elected 142, the "Herrin" (anti-prosecution) forces 7 only. Of the 164 delegates to the Democratic convention, 161 were elected by the regular (pro-prosecution) element, and 3 by the Byington (anti-prosecution) side. The popular vote within these parties was scarcely less pronounced.[321] On the other hand, within the Union Labor party the anti-prosecution forces were overwhelmingly successful, the McCarthy faction electing 185 delegates and the forces led by Walter Macarthur and his associates 13 only. Under the alignment, it was expected that the Republicans and Democrats would unite without hesitation upon Taylor and Langdon, leaving the cause of the indicted corporation managers to find expression in the Union Labor party platform and candidates.[322] But scarcely had the primary returns been made public than the San Francisco Call, generally regarded as staunchly on the side of the prosecution, brought confusion upon the pro-prosecution element, by suggesting the candidacy of Mr. Ryan for Mayor and belittling the candidacy of Mayor Taylor. "Ryan," said The Call through its political representative, Mr. George Van Smith, "has not sought and is not seeking the Republican nomination for Mayor. He may have it forced upon him and find himself the recipient of similar endorsement of his powers as a boss-buster, from the Democratic organization." The Call, in the same issue, hinted that the Democrats might not nominate Taylor. Without a Democratic nomination, Taylor could not expect nomination at the hands of the Republicans. "That the Democrats will nominate Mayor Taylor," said The Call, "is more than doubtful. Mayor Taylor was drafted into the city's service. He has not given any indication of a desire to serve the city as the head of its government after the time when a popularly selected successor could be qualified. If the Democrats do not nominate Dr. Taylor, the Republicans would scarcely be expected to do so. The fact that the men who will make up an almost exclusive majority of the Republican convention seem to be committed to the idea of nominating Ryan appears to preclude the nomination of Taylor by either party." The source of The Call's information is not apparent. Up to the time of the publication of its article, August 15, there was no sentiment in San Francisco for the election of Mr. Ryan to the Mayoralty. On the contrary, the understanding was that Mr. Ryan had entered the contest from motives of good citizenship only, and that he was in no sense a seeker of office for himself.[323] Such had been the understanding during the primary campaign; such was the sense of the community after the primary vote had been cast. All recognized, however, that Mr. Ryan was in a position of great power. He had been trusted implicitly. The selection of anti-Herrin candidates for delegates had been left largely in his hands. Few thought, however, that he had selected delegates for the purpose of giving himself the Republican nomination for the Mayoralty. Then, again, aside from the confusion his candidacy would work in the ranks of the anti-Herrin, pro-prosecution element, Mr. Ryan, while a pleasing young man and clever politician, it was generally recognized had few qualities usually looked for in the Mayor of a community of half a million people. To add to the confusion, The Examiner, which was now in active opposition to the prosecution, came out strongly against Mr. Ryan's candidacy, denouncing it as "a grotesque piece of effrontery." "For the primary leader," said The Examiner, "to appropriate the office to himself, is like the agent of a charity fund determining that he is the most worthy object of the charity, and putting[324] the money in his own pocket." But Ryan's candidacy was not to be defeated by adverse criticism. Mr. Ryan had been largely instrumental in selecting the Republican delegates who were to name the candidates. Besides, he had the clever support, in its local columns at least, of the San Francisco Call. He had about him a number of enthusiastic young men who were ambitiously active in urging his candidacy. "Every time the Taylor boomers gain a man they lose one," announced Perry Newberry, Secretary of Mr. Ryan's organization, and Ryan's right-hand man. "As far as the Republicans are concerned Daniel A. Ryan is as good as named. It will be Ryan, not Taylor, who will sweep the city." With the advocacy of Ryan's candidacy, came quiet, systematic opposition to the nomination of Langdon. With Mr. Ryan and his associates in control of the convention that was to nominate, it began to look as though the victory which the pro-prosecution Republicans, under Mr. Ryan's leadership, had won at the primaries, was barren indeed. Among the Democrats, the opposition to Langdon and Taylor was even more discouraging. Langdon had been candidate for Governor two years before on the Independence League ticket. Theodore A. Bell had had the Democratic and Union Labor nominations. Bell had been defeated by a plurality. Bell ascribed his defeat to Langdon. The so-called Bell Democrats accordingly made this an excuse for objecting to Langdon.[325] As to Taylor, with the ability of the forces at work to defeat the prosecution considered, opinion gained daily that the failure of the Republican convention to nominate Taylor, would be followed by a refusal of the Democrats to give him nomination. Thus with the supporters of the prosecution overwhelmingly successful at the Republican and Democratic primaries, there was grave danger that their purposes would be set aside by political manipulation. But at this crisis a new element was injected into the situation. Citizens who stood for enforcement of the law hastily formed a non-partisan organization to uphold the hands of the prosecution.[326] They called their organization the Good Government League. Taking for their motto "CITIZENSHIP ABOVE PARTISANSHIP," they boldly announced their support of Langdon for District Attorney, and of Taylor for Mayor. The attitude of San Francisco toward the Graft Prosecution was shown by the reception given the new organization. Citizens by the thousands sent in their application for membership. Funds for the purposes of the campaign were forwarded by men in all walks of life. The Democratic leaders were the first to appreciate the significance of the reception given the new movement. What was practically a combination between the two forces resulted. This insured the nomination of Langdon and Taylor by the Democrats. It also assured the nomination of Langdon by the Republicans, for after the stand taken by the Good Government League, for either Republican or Democratic party to have rejected Langdon would have been an exhibition of "poor politics." But Ryan still controlled the Republican convention. The Republican convention nominated Mr. Ryan for Mayor. Mr. Ryan's nomination was not accomplished without protest. The citizens who attended the convention as spectators were overwhelmingly for Taylor. Taylor received 53 out of the 148 convention votes, 95 being cast for Mr. Ryan. The minority charged that in the nomination of Mr. Ryan, the Republicans of San Francisco had been betrayed, and that they would not be bound by the nomination nor support the nominee.[327] The Union Labor party, following out its policy of opposition to the prosecution, nominated P. H. McCarthy[328] for Mayor, and Frank McGowan for District Attorney. The planks of the several parties dealing with the prosecution were characteristic of the conventions from which they issued. The Union Labor plank definitely pledged its candidate for District Attorney to prosecution of the Supervisors who had confessed to bribe-taking although it had been clearly pointed out that such prosecution would bar effective prosecution of those responsible for the bribe-giving.[329] The Republican plank left the reader in doubt as to whether or not the delinquent Supervisors were to be prosecuted. The Democratic plank alone pledged unqualified support to the prosecution "in any effort it may make to convict any guilty person."[330] The new alignment which followed the clearing of the atmosphere by the nomination of candidates, and the adoption of platforms, involved some astonishing changes. The Examiner, which, on September 19, preceding the nominations, had described Mr. Ryan's candidacy as "a grotesque piece of effrontery," and compared him to the custodian of a trust fund who puts the money in his own pocket, announced its support of Mr. Ryan for Mayor. On October 20, a month and a day after publication of the custodian-of-a-trust-fund editorial article, The Examiner "unhesitatingly recommended to all the voters of San Francisco," Mr. Ryan, "as the man best qualified to be the next Mayor of the city." On the other hand, The Call, which was the first to suggest Mr. Ryan's candidacy, describing him a heroic young "boss buster," to whom the Democrats could logically turn for a mayoralty candidate, after his nomination, described him as "a cheap politician itching for office,"[331] whose candidacy was the one element which threw a doubt upon the election of Mayor Taylor. Following the conventions, The Call supported Taylor as against the field. The Chronicle tactfully refrained from taking sides until after the nominations were announced.[332] Then The Chronicle gave support to Taylor. If the shifting policy of the newspapers had raised a doubt as to where the people of San Francisco stood on the issue, that doubt was dispelled by the opening meeting of the Taylor-Langdon campaign. The largest auditorium in San Francisco was packed to the doors,[333] with citizens whose one purpose, expressed by approving cheers every time the subject was mentioned, was support of the prosecution which had broken up the Schmitz-Ruef organization, and which bade fair to bring to book the corrupters of the municipal government. The meeting was thoroughly representative. Labor touched elbows with capital. Among the speakers were representative Labor Union leaders, who had definitely broken with the Union Labor party. "It is inconceivable to me," said Walter Macarthur, one of the organizers of the Union Labor party, in a ringing address, "that any honest thinking labor man would stand for the proposition that those men who have debauched the officials of our city should go scot free while the victims of their cupidity be sent behind the prison bars alone. I believe that labor will join with all honest people in declaring that if the corrupt bribe-taker is punished the man who is at the head of this corruption must be punished also. That is the issue of this campaign and I believe that election day will prove the virtue of my faith." That the contest for the District Attorney's office overshadowed in importance the mayoralty fight was fully recognized. The Union Labor party, which had nominated and elected Langdon in 1905, had repudiated him, and named Frank McGowan as Langdon's only serious opponent. The Republicans and Democrats, who had under a fusion arrangement in 1905 opposed Langdon's election; united, in 1907, to fight for his continuance in office. The public service corporations, especially those whose officials were under indictment, generally opposed Mr. Langdon's election, and supported the candidacy of his Union Labor party opponent. This was particularly astonishing in the case of the United Railroads, whose president, Mr. Patrick Calhoun, was even then posing as a "labor union buster," while the United Railroads was very effectively grinding to pieces the San Francisco Carmen's Union.[334] Nevertheless, there was certain consistency in the political course taken by the United Railroads. Whatever the differences President Calhoun, in his role as a "union buster," may have had with the labor union, there was much in common between him and the San Francisco Union Labor party as headed by Mr. McCarthy.[335] President Calhoun and his company opposed the prosecution vigorously. Mr. McCarthy and his party went quite as far in this opposition. President Calhoun was most emphatic in his denunciation of those who had made the graft prosecution possible. Mr. McCarthy was scarcely less emphatic in his denunciation. Indeed, Mr. McCarthy opened his campaign with an attack upon the graft prosecution. Inasmuch as the one issue before the people was the continuance of the graft prosecution along the lines that had proved so distasteful to Mr. Calhoun and those in the same predicament as himself, the support of the Union Labor party candidate for District Attorney by a union-labor-busting corporation was not entirely inconsistent. And yet, Mr. McGowan, the Union Labor party candidate, definitely pledged himself to continue the prosecution, but he promised that the prosecution which he would carry on should not "disturb business," that Heney[336] should no longer be retained as special prosecutor, that the Supervisors who had confessed to bribe-giving should be prosecuted[337] as well as those who had given bribes. This last was one of the chief arguments advanced in support of Mr. McGowan's candidacy. On the ground that a mistake had been made, if a wrong had not been done, when the Supervisors were granted immunity,[338] it was urged that Mr. Langdon should not be continued in the District Attorney's office. The election returns[339] were conclusive of San Francisco's attitude on the several issues raised. Taylor was elected Mayor, with a clear majority of 415 over all his competitors. Langdon's majority over all competitors, including the Socialist candidate, was 13,510, his plurality over McGowan being 14,808. And with the election of Taylor and Langdon[340] were elected all the Good Government League candidates for Supervisors. The Graft Prosecution had successfully passed another crisis. It had, too, received overwhelming endorsement of The People at the polls. FOOTNOTES: [320] The outcome of the Republican primaries was looked upon as a victory for good government. Said the Call, in discussing the returns: "Two things stand out prominently in the returns of the primary elections yesterday. One is that the Republicans of San Francisco have had enough of Herrin. The other is that they have not had enough of the graft prosecution. The victory for decency and for the independence of the party from the thralldom in which Herrin has so long held it for the use and benefit of the Southern Pacific was complete, with a vote large enough to make it plain to Herrin and to the interests exposed and to be exposed in the debauchery of public servants that they must look elsewhere than to the Republicans of San Francisco for the old corrupt conditions. The Call takes to itself credit for some share in the accomplishment of this good work. It was this paper that spoiled Herrin's infamous apportionment scheme by which he planned to fill the burned district with his dummies and thus control the municipal convention. It was this paper that began and carried on to the last moment a vigorous campaign in behalf of the decent element of the Republican party, whose leadership was in the capable and clean hands of Daniel A. Ryan. The Call has no candidates. It wants only honest, capable independent men. It made this winning fight because it wanted a clean government for San Francisco and because it wanted the graft prosecution carried out to the end." [321] The primary vote was the largest up to that time cast in San Francisco. It was as follows: Anti-Herrin (Ryan) Republican 8,116 Herrin Republicans 3,207 Irregular Republicans 1,549 Regular Democratic 2,438 Byington, Democratic 1,081 McCarthy, Union Labor 3,655 Macarthur, Union Labor 2,197 [322] On the eve of the primary election, P. H. McCarthy, leader of the anti-Prosecution faction of the Union Labor party, issued a warning to union men In which he said: "Too much caution cannot be exercised by you, nor too much diligence displayed in order to protect your rights at the polls today. One of the most cunning, deceptive and vicious attacks ever made on organized labor in this city is now being launched in order that your wages may be cut and your working hours increased to suit the millionaires in this city. To do so, those millionaires have drawn to their side by what force we are unable to say, certain labor men (Walter Macarthur and his associates) with a view to shuffling, confusing and thoroughly misleading the labor union voters and their sympathizers in this city." [323] Many Ryan Republican district tickets contained the following printed statement: "The candidates on this ticket are pledged to use all their influence in the convention to secure the nomination of a ticket of capable men and hope that they will be indorsed by the conventions of all parties. They do not care who these men may be, but will vote for no man who can be suspected of peddling offices or jobs in return for support. They do not desire nor expect for themselves or for their friends any offices or jobs. No candidate on this ticket has ever sought or held a political office or job. The candidates on this ticket have all accepted the pledge of the Regular Republican League. Daniel A. Ryan, chairman; Perry H. Newberry, secretary." [324] The Examiner, in its issue of September 19, 1907, in discussing Mr. Ryan's proposed candidacy said: "It is generally understood that Mr. Dan Ryan proposes to nominate himself as the Republican candidate for Mayor of San Francisco. That he has the power to do this thing is one of the curiosities of our political system. "The theory is that the delegates to a convention represent that part of the public which marches under the political banner of a political party. But Mr. Ryan evidently considers that the delegates to the Republican convention were chosen to advance his personal political ambitions. "The people do not mean that the accidental leaders of a primary fight should put the offices in their own pockets. "They elect delegates as agents to select candidates from among the people. The delegates are the bearers of a trust and neither they nor the man who happens to captain them in the scramble between factions has a right to appropriate the nominations. "The trust is not fulfilled if the primary leader assumes that because the people elected his primary ticket they want him in office. They don't want him, for they don't want primary politicians in the Mayor's chair. "The theory of any convention is that it is assembled to choose the best man in the party for its candidate. The spectacle of Mr. Dan Ryan holding a caucus with himself, and deciding that he is better qualified to be Mayor of San Francisco than any other man in the Republican party, is a grotesque piece of effrontery. "All sorts of men rise to the top in primary fights, but most of them have a sufficient sense of modesty, if not of the fitness of things, to abstain from making themselves the recipients of what the delegates have to give. "For the primary leader to appropriate the office to himself Is like the agent of a charity fund determining that he is the most worthy object of the charity and putting the money in his own pocket." [325] It was anything to defeat Langdon, even though a pro-prosecution attorney be employed against him. Hiram W. Johnson, for example, was suggested as his opponent. But Johnson let it be understood, and with characteristic positiveness, that under no considerations would he be a candidate against Langdon. [326] The members of the Good Government League Executive Committee were: E. L. Baldwin, J. E. Cutten, George Renner, Gen. Samuel W. Backus, George R. Fletcher, Sigmund Bauer, B. H. Gurnette, Frank W. Marvin, Frank W. Gale, L. C. McAfee, George Uhl, Rev. Chas. N. Lathrop, Isidor Jacobs, Rudolph Spreckels, Edgar A. Mathews. [327] The minority which voted for Taylor, in a memorial to the convention, charged "that the majority of the delegates to this convention have betrayed the confidence reposed in them by their constituents" and gave notice that it would not be bound by the nomination of the convention for Mayor and would not support the nominee, but would do all in its power to further the election of Dr. Edward R. Taylor. [328] The Union Labor party convention also had its sensations. Thomas F. Eagan, for example, and his followers bolted the convention because of McCarthy's nomination. The Carmen's Union refused to accept the Union Labor party ticket because Langdon had not been nominated for District Attorney. [329] Heney, on the eve of election, in reply to McGowan's argument that the bribe-takers should be prosecuted, effectively answered this contention. Heney's communication read: "To Frank McGowan, Esq. Sir: You are reported by the newspapers as having stated that you will prosecute the boodling Supervisors and that you will also prosecute Patrick Calhoun and the other rich bribers, and that you will grant immunity to no one. I invite you to answer specifically the following questions either in the newspapers or the next time you make a public speech: "1. If you prosecute Supervisor Lonergan (or any other Supervisor) for accepting a bribe to influence his vote in the matter of the trolley franchise, what witness, or witnesses, will you call to prove that he accepted the bribe? "2. Every child in town now knows that if Lonergan received the money at all it was from Supervisor Gallagher. Will you prove the fact by Gallagher? If you call Gallagher as a witness, how do you expect to induce him to testify without granting him Immunity? "3. When you prosecute James L. Gallagher for giving a bribe to Tom Lonergan or to any other Supervisor to influence his vote on the trolley franchise matter, by what witness or witnesses, will you prove that Gallagher paid the money to Lonergan or to any other Supervisor? Will you call Lonergan or any other Supervisor as a witness, and when you call him, how will you induce him to testify without granting him immunity? "4. By what witness do you expect to convict Gallagher of giving a bribe, or Tom Lonergan, or any other Supervisor of accepting a bribe in the matter of fixing the gas rate, or in the Home Telephone Company franchise matter? "5. If you prosecute Ruef for giving money to Gallagher to distribute to the Supervisors to influence their vote on the trolley franchise, by what witness, or witnesses, will you prove that Ruef gave the money to Gallagher? Will you put Gallagher on the stand to prove it, and if so, how will you induce him to testify without granting him immunity? Will you put Ford on the stand to prove that he gave the money to Ruef, and if so, how will you get him to testify without giving him immunity? Will you put Fat Calhoun on the stand to prove that he gave the money to Ford to give Ruef to give to the Supervisors, and if so, how will you induce Pat to testify without giving him immunity? "6. You say that you will prosecute Patrick Calhoun for bribing the Supervisors to influence their votes in the matter of the trolley franchise. By what witnesses will you prove that the money was given to Gallagher or to any of the other Supervisors to influence their votes in this matter? Will you prove by Ford that he gave the money to Ruef, and if so, how will you induce Ford to testify without giving him immunity? Will you prove by Ruef that he gave the money to Gallagher to distribute to the other Supervisors, and if so, how will you prove it by Gallagher without giving him immunity? Will you prove by the other Supervisors that they received money from Gallagher, and if so, how will you induce each of them to testify without giving each of them immunity? "7. Will you prosecute Frank G. Drum and the other officials of the gas company for bribing the Supervisors for fixing the gas rates, and if so, how will you prove that the money was paid without granting immunity to Ruef and to some or all of the Supervisors? "8. Will you prosecute A. K. Detweiler for bribing the Supervisors in the Home Telephone franchise matter, and if so, how will you prove your case against him without granting immunity to Ruef and to some or all of the members of the Board of Supervisors? "9. Can jurisdiction be conferred on a court by consent, and if so, how could you proceed with the Ford trial on a legal holiday? "10. If you found it necessary to grant immunity to either the bribe-taker or the bribe-giver in the trolley franchise matter to prevent an utter failure of justice and the escape of both the bribe-takers and the bribe-givers, to which side will you recommend the granting of immunity by the court? Will you prosecute the friendless, insignificant Supervisors and grant immunity to ex-Attorney-General Tirey L. Ford and his employer, Patrick Calhoun, president of the United Railroads of San Francisco, or will you recommend that the court shall grant immunity to the friendless and insignificant Supervisors in order to convict the rich, powerful and influential Patrick Calhoun and his general counsel, Tirey L. Ford? "Yours, etc., FRANCIS J. HENEY." [330] The Republican convention "pledged its party and its nominees to assist and continue the vigorous prosecution of all persons guilty of crime, in whatever walk of life, high or low, in San Francisco," and "to incessant and energetic war on graft in every form, to the end that this plague may be exterminated from the body politic." The Union Labor plank on the Graft Prosecution was as follows: "We demand the punishment of all offenders against the law, and we pledge our nominee for District Attorney to prosecute vigorously all bribers, boodlers and grafters without distinction, and particularly do we pledge him to prosecute those public officials, confessed criminals, who have been guilty of the greatest crime in the city's history, but who have been permitted to go unwhipped of justice, and to remain outside the walls of the penitentiary behind which they should now be imprisoned. We further pledge our nominee for District Attorney to abolish private prisons, wholesale 'immunity baths,' and all other institutions created for the benefit and protection of criminals." The Democratic Graft Prosecution plank read: "We commend the work of the prosecution, which has removed from public office criminals who have dishonored and debauched our city and has secured convictions that must be forever a warning to official wrongdoers and those who participate with them in crime; and we pledge our support to the prosecution in any effort it may make to convict any guilty person." [331] "There never would have been doubt anywhere about Taylor's successor," said the Call In its issue of November 5, "if it had not been for the grossly selfish and unpatriotic course of Daniel A. Ryan. The one possibility of McCarthy's election was opened to him by Ryan. Failing of other support, Ryan turned renegade to all his party professions and went into an infamous alliance with that arch enemy of Republicanism, Hearst. For four weeks he has been scrambling for votes.... Ryan has fully revealed himself as a cheap politician itching for office. He has boasted of his youth, and yet he was the first of the candidates to break down and go to bed. He has declaimed about his own honesty, until his voice is in tatters and has filled the air with promises of what he would do if elected. Never has he explained or attempted to explain the nature of those 'certain concessions' that led him to nominate himself, although he knew that in so doing he was Jeopardizing the future of his city." [332] Said the Chronicle of Mr. Ryan's candidacy in its issue of October 3, 1907: "The Chronicle has neither apologies nor regrets for urging its readers to support the Regular Republican League movement headed by Daniel A. Ryan. We believed at the time, as others believed, that Mr. Ryan's sole desire was good government for San Francisco and that such desire was unsmirched by personal ambition. General confidence in the sincerity of Mr. Ryan and his associates led to the triumphant election of the delegates to the Republican convention named and approved by Mr. Ryan, which was accepted throughout the country as evidence that the people of San Francisco were sound at heart. "When we urged the public to support the Ryan primary tickets, we did so, not in the interest of Mr. Ryan, but in the interest of good government. We considered Mr. Ryan in the light of a useful and public-spirited citizen, upon whom, in due time, the people would delight to confer official honors should he be willing to accept them. Those who voted the Ryan ticket at the primaries did not vote for Mr. Ryan, but for the cause which he championed. As for considering him a candidate for Mayor, nobody thought of it. It is no disparagement to a young man like Mr. Ryan to say that as yet he has no such standing in the community as justifies him in aspiring to such an honor." In its issue of October 5 the Chronicle said: "The moral collapse of Daniel A. Ryan is deeply regretted by every lover of San Francisco. It is not a matter of the rise or fall of one man. It is a question of whether the people will ever again trust any man who appears as a leader of reform. Few men ever get such an opportunity as Mr. Ryan has thrown away. Doubtless the lesson is for the people never again to trust an unknown man. It is not too much to ask of any aspirant to leadership on an important scale that he shall have some record of honorable achievement of some kind as an earnest of what to expect of him should the confidence reposed in him place him in a position of power." [333] The Call, in speaking of the Taylor-Langdon meeting said: "Young Mr. Ryan ought to have been at that meeting. We have nothing against Mr. Ryan except that he is not the man of the hour. We shall not even reproach him with his youth. That is not his fault and he will get over that. But he is not the man of the hour. The people have said it. Mr. Ryan embodies no principle. To the people of San Francisco he means nothing in particular at this critical time. He might have read that message in the mighty roar that went up from the meeting in welcome of Dr. Taylor. Mayor Taylor stands for something, stands for much. Mr. Ryan has only his own ambition and a certain command of language." [334] The San Francisco Call, in its issue of November 5, charged that orders had gone out from the United Railroads to "vote for McCarthy and the Union Labor ticket--straight." In the cars of the United Railroads appeared dodgers which read: "Workingmen. Workingmen--Are you going to put a big stick into Spreckels' hands to club you over the head with?" [335] The same is true of the Los Angeles Times, which has a national reputation as an opponent of organized labor. The Times, while at issue with Mr. McCarthy on the question of the desirability of unions, was scarcely less vehement than he in denunciation of the San Francisco graft prosecution. [336] One of the allegations made against Heney was that he would not prosecute Patrick Calhoun, because Heney's brother-in-law was employed by Calhoun as a detective. This argument was intended to weaken Heney and the prosecution with the union element that Calhoun was endeavoring to crush. [337] In a political advertisement which appeared in the San Francisco Call November 3, 1907, Mr. McGowan said: "If elected District Attorney I will prosecute every man accused of crime, regardless of his position in life. I will continue the present graft prosecution with more vigor, and the District Attorney's office will not be used for politics, nor to disturb business. I will be the District Attorney in law and in fact, and I will never allow any man or set of men to control the office for any purpose. I will honorably enforce the law without the aid of any millionaire's money." [338] Langdon, at the opening of the Republican campaign, took up the question of the prosecution's policy in granting immunity to the Supervisors. He said: "In this prosecution we have tried to be practical, to be effective. What would you have said if we had made a scapegoat of a petty criminal and let the giants go? What would you have said if in all this graft and corruption we had arrested and jailed two or three obscure Supervisors you had never heard of before they came to office, and will never hear of them again now that they are retired to private life, and had let escape the giants in crime? "There have been graft exposures before in the history of American municipalities and the graft has gone on. And it was bound to go on so long as the prosecutions failed to stop the sources of evil, to gather into the fold of the penitentiary the corrupt men of business and the corrupt political leaders who have dared to use weak men for their own ends. These giants in crime are perfectly willing that the physical life of the weak men they use shall be fed into the jails of the State to appease public wrath exactly as they have been willing to use up the moral life of these men to satisfy their own greedy needs in the Board of Supervisors. Profiting by the mistakes of previous prosecutions, this office has struck straight at the very roots of public graft: at the crooked public service corporations; but which of the criminals were to be allowed to give evidence for the State and enjoy its alluring protection; the giants of crime who have always been most responsible and who have always escaped or the petty, miserable fellows who have entered upon these things through ignorance and weakness? "Immunity had to be given in order that crime might be punished and it was given to the Supervisors that the very tap roots of political corruption might be torn from the soil in which they thrived. We did it because this prosecution has a moral as well as a legal significance. It is time to stop the cynicism of common men when they view democracy and say it is for the powerful and the rich: that the poor must go to jail for the theft of bread and the rich escape for the theft of privilege, the purchase of men's souls and the degradation of government. It is time to stop the brazen and confident effrontery of the irresponsible criminal rich, who commit crimes and rest back, thinking they can buy judges as they bought legislators and executives, and knowing they can buy legal talent to interpose every technicality in every courtroom until justice is a human travesty tangled in its own web. "We are after the 'men higher up' because they are the severest menace to our institutions, the enduring factors that program and bribe each Board of Supervisors as they come and go. We are after the 'men higher up' so as to make criminal acquisition unprofitable in terms of human desire. We are after the 'men higher up' so that young men and women growing up in this and other communities will once more believe with ardent fervor not only that dishonesty does not pay, but that of all the goods on this earth the greatest treasure is a straightforward life." [339] The vote for Mayor and for District Attorney was as follows: For Mayor-- Taylor 28,766 Ryan 9,255 McCarthy 17,583 Reguin (Soc.) 1,503 For District Attorney-- Langdon 34,923 McGowan 20,115 Kirk (Soc.) 1,298 [340] In commenting upon the outcome of the election, the Examiner, in its issue of November 6, said: "And this revolt of union labor against misrepresentation in office began long ago. Before the primaries, when most of the registering was done, it was observed that the number of Republicans recorded was far in excess of the adherents of union labor. The story was told then. Disgusted with the dishonesty of the men they had placed in office, finding the local Democratic party a mere memory, they registered as Republicans because they were determined to vote against the representatives of Ruef and Schmitz who had captured their organization. "Langdon's majority will surprise no one. His election was a matter of course, for union labor, like all other decent elements in the community, was determined to sustain the prosecution of the grafters. "The swing of union labor to Taylor will surprise the gentlemen who have been so fond of assuming that the working people would vote as a class regardless of principle. The fact that they set aside all class feeling, all personal preference, and rolled up a big majority in favor of the man considered most likely to defeat the zebra-striped bandits who had captured their organization proves that government in America is safe in the hands of the plain people. "It is union labor, and union labor chiefly, which has saved San Francisco from McCarthy and McGowan." "Yesterday," said the Chronicle the morning after the election, "was a great day for San Francisco. It was the turn of the tide. It was the beginning of the ascent to nobler ideals and better days. The passions of the conflict will soon die away. With an honest government assured, capital will not shun us but seek us. And we can look back on the events of the last six years as we remember a nightmare from which we awake to find ourselves in security and peace." "The indicted bribe-givers," said the Call, "may as well make up their minds that there is no way of escape for them except through trial and by the verdicts of the juries. The people have spoken and they have said that the clean-up must be thorough. The sweeping success of Langdon means that the prosecution of the grafters will be pressed to its fitting conclusion upon the facts and under the law. There need be no delay now. Soon all the cases should be settled and another chapter added to the history of San Francisco--a chapter in which will have been written the means, the manner and the fullness of our atonement for Schmitz-Ruef chapter just before it, the vindication of the city's good name." CHAPTER XXII. HIGHER COURTS FREE SCHMITZ AND RUEF. On January 8, 1908, the municipal officials elected with Mayor Taylor assumed the duties of their office. That day, Ruef was taken from the custody of the elisor and locked up in the county jail. In the jail with him were Schmitz, convicted of the extortion charge to which Ruef had pleaded guilty, and Glass, who had been convicted of bribery. The following day, January 9, the Appellate Court, for the First District, handed down a decision in the Schmitz extortion case, which, later sustained by the Supreme Court, unlocked the prison doors not only for Schmitz, but for Ruef also.[341] The decision was the first serious setback in the graft cases that District Attorney Langdon's office had received. The prosecution had prevented Ruef seizing the District Attorney's office; had defeated the efforts of the defense to have the indicting Grand Jury declared an invalid body; had overcome the resistance of the defendants to facing trial jurors; had, after meeting the clever opposition of the best legal talent obtainable for money, forced trials before juries and secured convictions; and finally, the prosecution had met the defense before the larger jury of The People, and, at the polls, had won again. But, with a stroke of the pen, the Appellate Court swept aside the greater part of the accomplishment of fifteen-months struggle against corruption. The court found the indictment under which Schmitz had been convicted of extortion to be insufficient and ordered the defendant to be discharged as to the indictment. In as much as Ruef, Schmitz's co-defendant, indicted jointly with him for extortion, had plead guilty to the same indictment as that under which Schmitz had been convicted, the effect of the decision was to free Ruef as well as Schmitz. Before passing upon the sufficiency of the indictment, the court took occasion to deal with the points of error as raised by the defense. On five principal points the court found that error had been committed.[342] On this showing, the case could have been sent back to the Superior Court for re-trial. In that event, Ruef's status would not have been affected. But the court went back of the trial to the indictment, on points raised in the defendant's demurrer, found for the defendant, and held the indictment to be insufficient. In the discussion of the decision which followed, criticism was confined almost exclusively to the court's rulings on the sufficiency of the indictment. The point raised was that the indictment did not state facts sufficient to show that any public offense had been committed. The court held in effect that the facts presented did not, under the definitions of the California codes, constitute the crime of extortion. In the California Penal Code[343] extortion is defined as "the obtaining of property from another, with his consent, induced by a wrongful use of force, or fear or under color of official right." The section following[344] defines "Fear such as will constitute extortion may be induced by a threat either: (1) to do an unlawful injury to the person or property of the individual threatened, or to any relative of his, or member of his family." The court found that the threat which induced the fear in the Schmitz-Ruef extortion cases, was a threat to prevent the parties from obtaining a liquor license, and thus to prevent them from carrying on the business of selling wines and liquors at retail. A license to sell liquor, the court showed, is not property in the ordinary sense of the word,[345] but a mere permission, and the license is but the evidence that the permission has been given by the proper authorities. "There is grave doubt,"[346] the court held, "as to whether a threat to prevent a party from obtaining a permission or license by one who has no authority in the premises, is a threat to injure property within the meaning of the sections quoted." But the court found it unnecessary to decide this question, for the reason it held the indictment insufficient "because it does not allege nor show that the specific injury threatened was an unlawful injury."[347] To the man on the street, the reading of the opinion conveyed the impression at least, that according to the Appellate Court, when Schmitz had shown his power to prevent the French Restaurants getting their licenses, thus endangering investments valued as high as $400,000, and Ruef because of the fear engendered by this showing, acting with Schmitz, had secured large sums of money from the enterprises thus threatened, the crime of extortion had not been committed. The decision was received with protest[348] and denunciation. The Call dubbed it "bad law, bad logic and bad morals." "Any ordinary intelligence," said The Examiner, "would construe the threat to take away a license to sell liquor from a restaurant unless a certain sum of money was paid as the plainest kind of extortion." "When," said Dr. William Rader of Calvary Presbyterian church, in a sermon preached on the evening of the Sunday after the decision was made public, January 12, 1908, "extortion is not a crime, when bribery is not even a wrong, when a confessed felon can learn that he is really righteous, and that his trial, confession and conviction have all been nothing but a mistake--a slight mistake--I repeat that however correct this may be legally and ethically, it has the effect of making us stand amazed at the rapid revolutions of the legal wheels. Perhaps tomorrow we shall learn that this last decision has been a mistake, too. I hope so; I believe so." "We of this city," said Rev. Dr. Evans at Grace Episcopal Cathedral, "are dumbfounded by a judicial pronouncement which enables the high officials of our city to rob and plunder without any technical breaking of the law. It is enough--such an audacious mockery of the first principles of common sense--to justify the appointment of a lunacy commission to inquire into the sanity of men who could formulate such a judgment and it ought to provoke an explosion of righteous indignation from one end of the State to the other. We need not hesitate to declare that such an opinion as this has its inspiration in that place where public sentiment without a single dissenting note would give it its unanimous approval." The decision did not immediately release Ruef and Schmitz. The prosecution had still an appeal to the Supreme Court for a re-hearing and, pending such an appeal, the defendants remained behind the bars. This delay annoyed those interested in seeing the graft defendants go free. Stories were circulated that the prosecution would not appeal. But the prosecution did appeal. Three months later, the Supreme Court rendered its decision.[349] The decision was against the prosecution. "The (Supreme) court is unanimous in the opinion," the decision read, "that the District Court of Appeal was correct in its conclusion that the indictment was insufficient, in that it did not show that the specific injury to the property of the restaurant-keepers threatened by the defendant was an 'unlawful injury.'" The Supreme Court went a step further than the Appellate Court had done and attacked the indictment on the ground that it had not set forth that Schmitz was Mayor at the time of the alleged extortion, nor that Ruef was a political boss practically in control of the municipal government. The prosecution in its application for a rehearing had set forth that "it will be found and decided by this court that levying blackmail upon licensed businesses by the Mayor and the political boss of a metropolitan community is a crime under the law of California and should not go unwhipped of justice." This observation was denounced in the Supreme Court's decision as "a gross misstatement of the case and of the question to be decided as presented by the indictment." "We again emphasize the fact," reads the opinion, "that the indictment does not aver that Schmitz was Mayor, or that Ruef was a political boss, or that either of them had any power, or influence, or control over the Police Commissioners, or that they threatened to use such power, influence or control in preventing the issuance of a license." The storm of protest with which this opinion was received was even greater than that which followed the Appellate Court decision. Once more did press, pulpit and public, from one end of the State to the other, join in expression of indignation. The court in return insisted that it was misrepresented and misunderstood. Chief Justice W. H. Beatty essayed the task of writing an explanation of the ruling, that "the man on the street" might understand. The Chief Justice's article appeared in the Sacramento Bee of April 29, 1908.[350] Again was the omission from the indictment of the fact that Schmitz was Mayor and Ruef a boss, emphasized.[351] And again, it may be added, did the stupid man on the street fail to understand. In fact, disapproval of the decision continued. Heney attacked it respectfully in tone, but with sharp criticism.[352] James M. Kerr,[353] in his Cyclopedia Penal Code of California, published in 1908, declared in effect that in the Schmitz decision the Supreme Court of California formulated bad law and advocated bad pleading. As for Ruef's position as a political boss, Kerr contended, it was merely a matter of evidence, and not a matter to be pleaded. "The Supreme Court," concludes the law writer, "seems to lose sight of the fact that the crime of extortion in this State is not confined to persons in office and exercising official influence." Dean John H. Wigmore of the Northwestern University School of Law, and author of the standard work, Wigmore on Evidence, in a crushing criticism of the decision and the various documents in the case, charged the Chief Justice with being "plainly inconsistent." "The truth is," said Dean Wigmore, "that the learned Chief Justice in endeavoring to support his decision weaves a logical web and then entangles himself in it."[354] The moral of the Schmitz decision is, Dean Wigmore concludes, "that our profession must be educated out of such vicious habits of thought." The extravagance of the criticism of the decision was more than equaled by the claims made by the opposition to the prosecution, of its effect upon the status of Schmitz and Ruef. "Schmitz," said a writer in The Chronicle, "is now thoroughly exonerated of the charge of having squeezed money from Malfanti, the French-restaurant man." However this may have been, the practical result of the decision was that both Schmitz and Ruef, with no convictions against them, by furnishing bonds in the bribery cases, were able to walk out of prison. Schmitz did not return as a prisoner. Ruef enjoyed his liberty until November, 1908. FOOTNOTES: [341] The opinion was written by Justice Cooper and concurred in by Justices Hall and Kerrigan. This is the same Kerrigan who appears in the Santa Cruz banquet scene picture, in which Ruef occupies the position of honor with the Republican nominee for Governor, J. M. Gillett, standing at his back with hand resting on Ruef's shoulder. (See Chapter IV.) Supreme Justice Henshaw, whose sensational action in Ruef's favor will appear in another chapter, is also one of the Santa Cruz banquet group. [342] The Appellate Court enumerated the following errors at the trial: (1) That the trial court erred in allowing the peremptory challenge of a juror after he had been sworn to try the case; and the removal, after he had been sworn, of a second juror without cause. (2) That error was committed in the appointment of the elisor that had charge of the jury. (3) That the court erred in admitting hearsay evidence of witnesses, Loupe, Blanco, Malfanti, Debret and Rosenthal. (4) That error was committed when Schmitz was required, under cross-examination, to answer question as to whether he had received from Ruef part of the money extorted from the French restaurant keepers. (5) That Ruef's testimony that he had divided the money with Schmitz was not proper rebuttal evidence. [343] California Penal Code, Sec. 518. [344] California Penal Code, Sec. 519. [345] The general feeling regarding the Schmitz decision was well expressed by Attorney J. C. Hutchinson, in a letter to Justice Cooper. The letter follows: "Hon. James A. Cooper, Presiding Justice of the District Court of Appeals, First District, 1420 Sutter street, city. Dear Sir: Yours of the 15th inst. received. I did not expect you to reply to mine of the 13th inst., which was more in the nature of an ejaculatory protest than a letter. Nevertheless, I think you are right to reply, especially as I know you have replied to letters complimenting you on the same decision. "I have never before written a letter to a judge commenting upon a decision in which he had taken part, and I ordinarily would consider such a course highly unprofessional. During twenty-five years' practice, I have always remained silent in the face of decisions, however adverse, even in some cases where I was perfectly well aware that improper influences behind the scenes had prevented me from obtaining justice. But in this case the situation is different from anything I have ever experienced. The very air seems to be full of revolutionary feeling. At the universities, clubs, in the trains, on the streets and in the home, I find no one (except the friends, connections and lawyers of the grafters) speak with anything but emphatic protest against this decision so far as it relates to the validity of the indictment. "I have cast no personal reflection upon yourself. The attack is upon the atmospheric environment of a statement which could lead a man of your integrity and intelligence honestly to believe that such a decision could be correct; and if the Supreme Court should unanimously hold the same, that would, according to my view, only make the matter so much the worse. "Very respectfully yours, "J. C. HUTCHINSON." [346] See 7 Cal. App. Reports, page 330. [347] The Court, in discussing this point, said: "The indictment does use the words 'unlawful injury' in the first part of it; but when the facts are specifically set forth as to what the defendants threatened to do we find that the threat was that defendants 'would prevent the said Joseph Malfanti, Charles Kelb and William Lafrenz from receiving said license or obtaining the same.' There is no allegation that any unlawful act was threatened, and the attorneys for the prosecution frankly admit that they rely upon the fact that the defendants obtained the money by threatening to do an injury, which they claim was unlawful solely for the reason that the threats were made with intent to extort money. In other words, it is claimed that even though the French-restaurant proprietors were violating the law, and conducting immoral places used as resorts by lewd women, and thus not legally entitled to a license to sell liquor, a threat to prevent the issuance of licenses to such places by laying the facts before the Board of Police Commissioners in a legal manner, constitutes a crime if such threat was made with the intent to extort money. Such, in our opinion, is not the law. The statute uses the words that the threat must be to do 'an unlawful injury'; and in order to charge a crime the indictment must aver in some way that the threat was to do an unlawful injury. It is apparent from the language of the statute which we have hereinbefore quoted, that it is not every kind of fear that will support a charge of extortion because of property obtained thereby. The fear must be induced by one of the threats enumerated in the statute. The Legislature has seen fit to provide that the threatened injury to property upon which a charge of extortion may be predicated must be an unlawful injury to property. That is, the injury threatened must be, in itself, unlawful, irrespective of the purpose with which the threat is made. As the word 'unlawful' is used in the statute it qualifies the 'injury' and not the 'threat.' Unlawful means contrary to law. It is true that from a high standard of ethics it could not be claimed that one could extort money by a threat to do a lawful act, if the intent was to get money by the use of the threat, but every wrong is not made a crime. There are many wrongs done every day that are not enumerated in the category of crimes contained in the Penal Code that are of much more serious consequence in their nature than others which are defined therein; but we must look to the statute to find whether or not an act is a public offense for which a prosecution will lie. To procure property from others by a mere threat to do a lawful act is not a crime. The object of the statute--or at least one of its objects--is to protect the party from whom the property is extorted; and if such party pays the money in order to secure protection in violating the law himself he cannot be heard to complain. He in such case would be a party to the violation of the law. In this case, if the parties as a fact paid the money in order to prevent the evidence as to the character of places they kept from being exposed to the Board of Police Commissioners, they are not in a position to complain." [348] The Examiner, in its issue of January 11, 1908, said of the decision: "The District Court of Appeal has overturned the conviction of Mayor Schmitz on the ground that threatening to prevent the French-restaurant keepers from getting a license to sell liquor does not constitute the crime of extortion, with which he is charged. This is one of the decisions that will aggravate the dissatisfaction of the public with the courts. "Abe Ruef, once political boss of San Francisco, testified that he had divided with the Mayor the 'fees' for getting the licenses which Schmitz had held up until the money was paid. 'A license to sell liquor is not property in the ordinary sense of the word,' declares the court, making the point that the indictment 'does not allege any threat to injure property.' "Any ordinary intelligence would construe the threat to take away a license to sell liquor from a restaurant unless a certain sum of money was paid as the plainest kind of extortion, particularly when the Mayor was shown to have shared in the money thus exacted, and the fact that the contrary ruling of a court acts as a release of a man whose guilt was clearly established, will not change that view." "Even the lay mind," said the Call, "is competent to reach the conclusion that this decision is bad law, bad logic and had morals." The decision was generally condemned by the interior press. The Sacramento Bee denounced it as a "palpable evasion of justice." The Oakland Enquirer stated that it came as a "shock and a surprise to the law-respecting people of California and of the entire country." "San Francisco in particular," said the Los Angeles Evening News, "California in general and the republic at large have suffered great wrong by reason of this reprehensible decision." [349] See California Appellate Reports, in which the Supreme Court decision is printed, Vol. No. 7, Page 369. [350] The Bee prefaced the Chief Justice's article with the following statement: "The decision of the Supreme Court of California in the case of Eugene Schmitz is one not only of State but even of national importance. It has been the fruitful topic of varied comment throughout the Union. And yet, after all the discussion, there remains a prevailing ignorance as to WHAT WAS DECIDED; and even among those laymen who had a fair idea upon that point, there is certainly little if any knowledge as to WHY IT WAS SO DECIDED. "Having a very high idea of the granitic probity of Chief Justice Beatty of the Supreme Court, and believing it to be the duty of that Court to answer when citizens respectfully ask for light, the editor of this paper on March 31st last wrote to Chief Justice Beatty and asked him to publicly explain just what the Court had decided and just why it had so decided; to explain it so that the man in the street might easily understand. In that quite lengthy letter to the Chief Justice, the editor of The Bee wrote: "'The ignorance of the general public as to what was decided and exactly why it was decided has undoubtedly given rise to considerable of a public suspicion that all is not as it should be--that injustice has triumphed where justice should have prevailed--that the good work of almost two years has been practically wiped out by a judicial obeisance to technicalities--that the guilty have been saved by the interposition of a judicial hand that could with more propriety and equally as much regard for the law have turned the scales to record the verdict of the highest tribunal on the side of good government.' "Justice Beatty answers the questions at length, but with such clearness that the 'man in the street' can understand. His explanation should be read by everybody, so that hereafter those who discuss the matter can do so with a full and thorough understanding of exactly what the Supreme Court decided in the Schmitz case, and exactly why it considered it had so to decide." [351] "I repeat," said the Chief Justice in his Bee article, "that the only question presented for decision was the question of statutory construction here stated, for it was never seriously contended before the Supreme Court by the Attorney General, or by the District Attorney of San Francisco, or by any of his assistants or deputies, or by the learned counsel, whose names are signed to the petition for a rehearing, that the indictment did allege a threat to do an unlawful injury of the character indicated. What it did allege on this point, and all that it alleged, was that one E. E. Schmitz (without showing that he was Mayor of the city, or that he had any official or other influence over the Board of Police Commissioners greater than, or different from, that of the humblest private citizen), and one Abraham Ruef (without showing that he had any such power or influence) had told certain keepers of a restaurant that they could, and had threatened that they would, prevent them from obtaining a renewal of their license to sell liquors, etc. The indictment, in other words, had no more force in legal contemplation than if it had been directed against Jack Stiles and Richard Noakes, for though the facts that Schmitz was Mayor and Ruef the political boss of the city may have been as notorious in San Francisco as the fire or earthquake, no lawyer would contend for a moment that they were facts of which a court could take judicial notice in passing upon the sufficiency of the indictment." [352] Heney's reply to Chief Justice Beatty was published in The Sacramento Bee. Section 961 of the California Penal Code expressly provides that no fact of which a court may take judicial notice, need be alleged in any indictment. The Codes enumerate certain matters of which the courts are required to take judicial notice. Among the matters are "State offices and their incumbents." The Political Code defines who are "State officers," and among them are included "Mayors of Cities." Heney, in his reply, held Chief Justice Beatty and the court to be wrong, even on the face of the statute. No lawyer in the State attempted to answer Heney's reply, although many of them would have been glad to have earned recognition from the Supreme Court by doing so. [353] James M. Kerr is author of Kerr's California Cyclopedic Codes. These works are accepted as standards throughout the country. "It is thought," says Kerr in California Cyclopedic Codes for 1908, "that ... the [Schmitz] case cannot be safely relied upon as an authority outside of California. It is a flagrant violation of the spirit if not the letter of Section 4 ante, and the old rule that it is the duty of the court, where it is possible, so to construe the statute as to uphold the indictment and promote justice, instead of effecting a miscarriage of justice. Several things occur in connection with a consideration of the foregoing quotation from the Supreme Court. "1. If an indictment can lawfully be upheld, the court, as the judicial voice of the State, is bound so to uphold it. It is not the province of the court to seek some strained view of the law by which an indictment of one accused of crime can be quashed. "2. The construction of the code provision on extortion is to be made, not technically, but according to the fair import of its terms, with a view to its object and to promote justice. "3. It is not charged, and the statute does not require it to be charged, that the threat was made by Schmitz, acting in his official capacity. The crime of extortion, under our statute, is not the old common-law crime of extortion, which could be committed only by an official acting in his official capacity. Under our statute it is immaterial whether Schmitz held any official position, or whether Schmitz and Ruef had any power or influence to carry out the threat; the only thing to be considered is, Did the accused extort money by means of a threat? Official position or power to carry out the threat is neither material nor proper. "4. It is entirely immaterial by what means Schmitz and Ruef intended to accomplish their threat to have the liquor license withheld; whether by fair persuasion of the Board of Supervisors, or by menace, duress, fraud, or undue influence. The crime charged did not consist in the dealings with the Board of Supervisors, but in the threat made to the French restaurateurs, by means of which the fears of the latter were aroused, and were forced to pay to Schmitz and Ruef money to which the latter were not entitled, as a means of preventing Schmitz and Ruef from carrying out the threat. To require the indictment to contain an allegation of the means intended to be used by Schmitz and Ruef to accomplish their unlawful purpose--the means to be used with, or to influence, or to menace, or duress, or fraud in dealing with, the Board of Supervisors--is indubitably bad law and bad pleading. "5. The declaration that the case 'is not one which is sufficient to charge an offense in the language of the statute defining it,' made by the court, needs some reason and good authorities to make it good law outside of this State, and also in this State under the system of criminal pleading provided for by the code--which should be the law by which criminal pleading is to be measured. "6. It does not seem to have been suggested to the court, and it does not seem to have occurred to the learned judges thereof, that the trial court was required to take judicial notice of the head of department of a co-ordinate department of the government of the City and County of San Francisco, and to take judicial notice of the fact that Schmitz was at least de facto Mayor. See Kerr's Cyc. Code Civ. Proc., Sec. 1875, Subd. 5. "7. The position and practical control of Ruef, as the 'political boss' of San Francisco (a position unrecognized by law), and his undue influence over the Board of Supervisors (the exercise of which is contrary to public policy), was merely matter of evidence, and not a matter to be pleaded; the only thing that is important is, Was the threat made? and did the defendants, Schmitz and Ruef, through such threat, extort money, and by means of the fear raised thereby? If they did, it is utterly immaterial whether Schmitz was Mayor, or Ruef was a 'political boss,' and had or had not any influence with the Board of Supervisors. The Supreme Court seems to lose sight of the fact that the crime of extortion in this State is not confined to persons in office, and exercising official influence. "8. A threat to do a lawful act, if made for the purpose of putting a person in fear, and thereby securing money or property which the person was not in law entitled to have and receive, renders such person guilty of extortion, under the weight of decision and the better doctrine; and taking the case in that view, the indictment is amply sufficient, and should have been upheld by the court. The case of Boyson vs. Thorn, 98 Cal., 578; 33 Pac. Rep., 492, has no application, and its citation by the court only tends to befog the issue." [354] Dean Wigmore's criticism of the decisions in the Schmitz case, and of the articles written in defense of them was as follows: "I have read the letter of Mr. Heney, and the letter of the Chief Justice, and have re-read the opinion of the Court in People vs. Schmitz, 94 Pac. Rep. 419. The Chief Justice's letter and Mr. Heney's reply turn largely on the legal rule of judicial notice. The learned Chief Justice finds himself iron-bound by the rules of that subject. But the whole spirit of the rules is misconceived by him. Their essential and sole purpose is to relieve the party from proof,--that is, from proof of facts which are so notorious as not to need proof. When a party has not averred or evidenced a fact which later turns out, in the Supreme Court's opinion, to be vital, the rule of judicial notice helps out the judge by permitting him to take the fact as true, where it is one so notorious that evidence of it would have been superfluous. Now these helping rules are not intended to bind him, but the contrary, i.e., to make him free to take the fact as proved where he knows the proof was not needed. Moreover, it follows that, since these rules cannot foresee every case that new times and new conditions will create, they can always receive new applications. The precedents of former judges, in noticing specific facts, do not restrict present judges from noticing new facts, provided only that the new fact is notorious to all the community. For example, the unquestioned election of William H. Taft as President of the United States is notorious; but no man named William H. Taft has ever been elected President, and no judicial precedent has noticed the fact. But no court would hesitate to notice this new notorious fact. "If, then, a man named Schmitz was notoriously Mayor of San Francisco and a man named Ruef was notoriously its political boss, at the time in question, that is all that any court needs; and the doctrine of judicial notice gives it all the liberty it needs. It is conceivable that a trial judge might sometimes hesitate in applying this doctrine of notoriety, because the trial court might fear that the Supreme Court would not perceive the notoriety. But there never need be any such hesitation in a Supreme Court, if that court does see the notoriety. "And this is just where the learned Chief Justice is to be criticised. He does not for a moment ask or answer the question, 'Did we actually, as men and officers, believe these facts to be notoriously so?' but refers to certain mechanical rules, external to his mind. What that Supreme Court should have done was to decide whether they under the circumstances did actually believe the facts about the status of Schmitz and Ruef to be notorious. In not so doing, they erred against the whole spirit and principle of judicial notice. "And Mr. Heney's demonstration that there is nothing in the codes to forbid them is complete; for, of course, the Code of Procedure, in tellingto do the right thingto do the right thing them (Section 1875) that 'the courts take judicial notice of the following facts,' simply gave them a liberty of belief as to those specified facts, and did not take away their liberty as to other unspecified facts. "But there is a deeper error than this in the learned Chief Justice's letter, and in the court's opinion. The letter says: 'If by means of these allegations or otherwise it had been made to appear that the defendants had caused the applicants to believe that they could and would influence the Police Commissioners to reject their application regardless of its merits I have never doubted that the indictment would have been sufficient.' He stakes his decision on this point. The point is that, in determining the fear caused by the threat, which constituted extortion, the belief of the restaurant-keeper as to Schmitz's and Ruef's power, and not their actual power, was the essential thing. If that is so, then of what consequence was it whether one or the other was Mayor or boss? And of what consequence was it whether those facts were averred or judicially noticed. None at all. The indictment alleged that the threats were made to use influence or power over the Commissioners, and that their purpose was to obtain money by means of (i.e., through fear of) such threats. Obviously, then, the actual power or influence was immaterial; and the belief of the restaurant-keeper, the only material fact, was a question of the evidence on the trial, and not of the legal sufficiency of the indictment. All the lucubrations about judicial notice were therefore beside the point. "The inconsistency of the learned Chief Justice, in thus taking as essential the actual status of Schmitz and Ruef, is further seen in his next paragraph. There he declares 'it could not be assumed that such private persons could prevent the issuance of the license otherwise than by adducing good reasons.' But why does he assume that, on the contrary, a threat by a Mayor or a boss could prevent the issuance of the license otherwise than by adducing good reasons? He says that if it had appeared that the threats were made by a Mayor and a boss, then this would have sufficed, because, in his own words, their influence to reject the application would have been used 'regardless of its merits.' See what this means. Suppose that two persons, a Mayor and a private citizen, tell a restaurant-keeper that they will do all they can to induce a Commissioner to revoke the license unless money is paid; for one of these persons, the learned Chief Justice immediately assumes that he can and will do this 'regardless of its merits'; for the other he says 'it cannot be assumed.' Why not for one as much or as little as the other? He does not say that the private person could not possibly succeed in influencing the Commissioner corruptly--he merely says that 'it cannot be assumed.' On the other hand, why assume it for the Mayor? Surely a Mayor might fail in trying to influence an honest Commissioner by a corrupt threat to remove him. In short, either assume that on the facts of the trial a private person might have power to influence corruptly the license; in which case an allegation of his Mayoralty would be superfluous. Or else refuse to assume that a Mayor, merely as such, could and would inevitably influence a Commissioner corruptly; in which case the mere allegation of his being Mayor would not be enough, and judicial notice would not cure. But the Chief Justice says it would be enough! He is plainly inconsistent. "The truth is that the learned Chief Justice, in endeavoring to support his decision, weaves a logical web, and then entangles himself in it. "Such disputations were the life of scholarship and of the law six hundred years ago. They are out of place today. There are enough rules of law to sustain them, if the court wants to do so. And there are enough rules of law to brush them away, if the court wants to do that. "All the rules in the world will not get us substantial justice if the judges have not the correct living moral attitude toward substantial justice. "We do not doubt that there are dozens of other Supreme Justices who would decide, and are today deciding, in obscure cases, just such points in just the same way as the California case. And we do not doubt there are hundreds of lawyers whose professional habit of mind would make them decide just that way if they were elevated to the bench tomorrow in place of those other anachronistic jurists who are now there. The moral is that our profession must be educated out of such vicious habits of thought. One way to do this is to let the newer Ideas be dinned into their professional consciousness by public criticism and private conversation. "The Schmitz-Ruef case will at least have been an ill-wind blowing good to somebody if it helps to achieve that result. "December 7, 1908. "JOHN H. WIGMORE." CHAPTER XXIII. THE DEFENSE BECOMES ARROGANT. The prosecution's reverses in the Appellate and the Supreme Courts were followed by startling changes of policy on the part of the defendants. The officials of public service corporations, who by every technical device within the ingenuity of the best legal talent that could be purchased, had for months resisted trial, suddenly became clamorous for their trials to begin. Abe Ruef, who had been counted, by the public at least, as friendly to the prosecution, openly broke with the District Attorney and his associates. President Calhoun of the United Railroads, who had been in the East, returned to San Francisco demanding trial. The San Francisco Examiner, now openly opposing the prosecution, announced this new move to be a bomb-shell thrown in the prosecution's camp. Nevertheless, The Examiner could not entirely conceal the astonishment caused by the defense's new policy. "Just what has brought about this change in Calhoun's attitude," said the Examiner in its issue of January 28, 1908, "was not explained yesterday. Tactics of evasion, motions of obstruction, and every other artifice known to legal legerdemain to stay proceedings have heretofore been the accepted etiquette of the graft defendants, and conspicuously that of Patrick Calhoun." The Call, supporting the prosecution, boldly charged that the graft defendants were in treaty with Ruef.[356] And this view the District Attorney's office was finally forced to accept. No sooner had the decision of the Appellate Court been made public than Ruef clamored for dismissal of the extortion charge to which he had plead guilty, but which the higher court had decided in the Schmitz case did not constitute a public offense. In this Ruef was backed by Rabbis Nieto and Kaplan. Ruef, after the Schmitz-Ruef officials had been swept out of office, had been confined in the county jail. From the day of his jail imprisonment the two Rabbis besought the District Attorney day and night[357] not to force the broken boss to remain behind the bars.[358] Langdon, not having decided at the time to appeal from the Appellate Court decision to the Supreme Court, finally yielded to the importunities of the two clergy-men and stated to Judge Dunne that Ruef wanted to make a motion to withdraw his plea of guilty in the extortion case. Judge Dunne replied that he would not consider such motion.[359] This closed the incident so far as dismissal of the case before the Supreme Court could pass upon it, was concerned. But it did not stop Ruef's insistence that not only should he be allowed to withdraw his plea of guilty, but that he be given complete immunity from prosecution of all the charges against him. Langdon, even before he had spoken to Judge Dunne about permitting Ruef to withdraw his plea, had become convinced, as Heney had become convinced long before, that Ruef was not playing fair with the prosecution. Ruef, when confronted with charges of holding back evidence, shifted and evaded, until Langdon, losing patience, charged him with falsehood. About the middle of January, evidence came into Langdon's possession[360] which convinced him beyond a shadow of a doubt that Ruef, instead of observing the immunity contract, was, as a matter of fact, dealing with and assisting his co-defendants, advising them of every move. Langdon[361] at once called Ruef before him and notified him that the immunity contract was canceled.[362] The abrogation of the immunity contract brought open break between Ruef and the prosecution. Ruef set up claim that under his immunity contract all the graft cases were to be dismissed against him, including that under which he had plead guilty to extortion. He insisted that he had lived up to his part of the agreement and charged that the prosecution was breaking faith. In this position, Ruef was backed up by Rabbis Kaplan and Nieto, who for months had been clamorously active in his behalf. Indeed, long before the open breach had come, so persistent had the Rabbis become in their insistence that Ruef be released, that Heney had found it necessary to request Kaplan to remain away from his office.[363] When Ruef finally broke with the prosecution, the two Rabbis were to the fore backing up his contention that the prosecution was not keeping faith with him.[364] Kaplan soon after filed an affidavit setting forth that under the agreement with the prosecution, Ruef was to have had complete immunity, and be allowed to withdraw his plea of guilty in the extortion case. Later on, Nieto, "Ruef's diplomatic middle man," as he was called, filed an affidavit to the same effect. Ruef, on his part, filed a voluminous affidavit, purporting to cover all his transactions with the prosecution, in which he not only set up the claim that he was to have been given complete immunity but alleged that Langdon, Heney and Burns, were guilty of subornation of perjury in having endeavored to get him to swear falsely against Schmitz and Ford. Rabbis Kaplan and Nieto, in their affidavits gave versions of the meetings with Judges Dunne and Lawlor, when the Judges stated their confidence in the District Attorney and his assistants, which differed from the accounts contained in the affidavit of Heney and the judges.[365] This brought the trial judges as well as the assistant prosecuting attorney into the controversy. The members of the Grand Jury that had indicted the graft defendants had already had their trials in open court;[366] petit jurors and witnesses had, in effect, been on trial also. And now District Attorney and trial judges were placed on their defense.[367] Other graft defendants joined in the upholding of Ruef and the denunciation of the prosecution. Adverse newspapers joined in the cry of unfairness and hinted at worse. The story became current that no appeal would be made from the Appellate Court's decision in the Schmitz case to the Supreme Court. Another story had it that the prosecution was breaking down, that the situation had become so complicated that no other trials could be had.[368] On the other hand, the outcry did not in the least shake the faith of the citizens who were insisting upon the crushing out of corruption at the State's metropolis. Colonel Harris Weinstock, one of the largest merchants of the State, in a ringing address condemned the efforts made to discredit the prosecution.[369] The same position was taken in pulpit, club room and street discussion. From all parts of the State resolutions and memorials were sent the prosecution approving and upholding its work.[370] And doggedly the prosecution proceeded to justify the expressions of confidence in its singleness of purpose and in its ability to cope with the tremendous odds brought against it. The immediate indictments about which the controversy raised by Ruef's claim for immunity centered were those in the United Railroad cases. The prosecution accordingly went before the Grand Jury then sitting--the Oliver Grand Jury which had brought the original indictments had long since adjourned--and secured three indictments against Ruef, Calhoun and Ford for the bribery of three Supervisors, Furey, Nicholas and Coleman. In these indictments every technical error which the ingenuity of the defense had brought out was eliminated. The new indictments were not secured because the prosecution regarded the objections as having merit, but that the District Attorney's office might be prepared to meet any emergency which might arise.[371] The next step was to bring Ruef to trial. The prosecution selected the indictment under which Ruef had been brought to bar for offering a bribe to Supervisor Jennings Phillips to vote for the Parkside street railroad franchise.[372] Prospect of immediate trial made a different man of Ruef. He was at once seized with the panic which had come upon him when the jury had been completed to try him on the extortion charge. He begged for time. He insisted that he was without counsel. He asked for three weeks, a week, even two days.[373] Then came an entirely new technical defense based upon the immunity contract. Ruef alleged that he had been deprived of his constitutional rights as a defendant, by following the set program outlined in the contract. But here Ruef had over-reached himself. He had on January 31 entered a plea of not guilty in the Parkside case, the case on trial. The District Attorney had abrogated the immunity contract thirteen days before, on January 18. Whatever technical advantage Ruef may have had because of the immunity contract was forfeited by his plea of not guilty after its annulment. His attorney gravely contended, however, that Ruef--one of the shrewdest practitioners at the San Francisco bar--was without legal counsel when he had entered his plea, and that he had therefore innocently foregone his constitutional rights. This contention provoked a smile even from Ruef's partisans. The point was not urged further. Seeing that trial could not be warded off on technicalities, Ruef endeavored to disqualify Judge Dunne, the trial judge. But this move proved premature. Judge Dunne was about to go on his vacation and Judge Dooling,[374] a Superior Court Judge from the interior, was called to sit in Judge Dunne's stead. Ruef thereupon proceeded to disqualify Judge Dooling. He alleged that Judge Dooling, as Grand President of the Native Sons of the Golden West, had signed an order expelling him (Ruef) from the order; he alleged further that Judge Dooling had attacked him in a speech at a banquet. Judge Dooling, placed on trial as Judges Lawlor and Dunne had been, was forced to make defense. He denied in affidavits that he had ever specially mentioned Ruef's name in any speech, but admitted that he might have said that any man guilty of crime should be expelled from the Native Sons order. Ruef went to the Appellate Court for a writ of prohibition to prevent Judge Dooling trying the case. The Appellate Court denied his petition. Then Ruef went to the Supreme Court. Here again his prayer was denied. Thus, protesting as vigorously as a cat pulled over a carpet by the tail, was Ruef for a second time dragged to trial. The work of securing a jury to try him began. Gradually, the jury box filled. But before it was completed there occurred an incident of the prosecution even more startling than the sending of cash books out of the State, the trailing of members of the prosecution by agents of the defense,[375] the disappearance of witnesses, the larceny of the prosecution's records, or the attempted kidnaping of Witness Lonergan and Editor Older. On the eve of taking testimony in the Ruef case an attempt was made to murder James L. Gallagher by dynamiting his residence. Gallagher was the pivotal witness against Ruef, as well as against Ford, then on trial. In the Ruef case, Gallagher had taken word from Ruef to the Supervisors that there would be $750--later increased to $1000--for each of them if they granted the Parkside franchise. Without Gallagher's testimony the case against Ruef would fall flat. General Ford's third trial was then in progress and well advanced. Here again, Gallagher was the pivotal witness. He had taken the trolley bribe money from Ruef to the Supervisors. He supplied the link between those who had been bribed, and Ruef. His testimony was indispensable if Ruef and Ford--then on trial--were to be convicted. His testimony was equally necessary in the cases against Calhoun, Drum, in fact all the graft defendants, except those who had dealt directly with the Supervisors. The evening of the day following Gallagher's testimony in the Ford case, but before he appeared at the Ruef trial, dynamite was exploded at the front doors of the house in which he was residing. The dynamite had been placed next to the dining room. Gallagher was at the time living at the home of W. H. H. Schenck at Oakland. So violent was the explosion that the house, a frame building, was split in twain. A pillar from the porch was thrown 150 feet. In the building on the adjoining premises, every window was broken. The family had just completed the evening meal and a number of them were still seated around the table. The table was split from end to end. At the moment of the explosion, one of those in the house was showing a curious watch guard and had the watch in his hand. The watch stopped, thus fixing the exact time of the explosion, 7:30 P. M. There were in the house at the time of the explosion, W. H. H. Schenck and wife, and three children, the youngest seven years old; Lieutenant Guy Brown of the National Guard; and Gallagher and his wife. Every one in the building was thrown down by the force of the explosion, but extraordinary to say, none of them was seriously injured. Gallagher and his wife were in an upper room of the building. The stairway was demolished, and Gallagher was obliged to lower his wife to the ground, getting down himself the best way he could. A month later three buildings in Oakland belonging to Gallagher were destroyed by dynamite. Soon after this second explosion a young Greek, John Claudianes, was arrested and charged with the outrage. Claudianes made full confession, involving his brother Peter as principal. Peter Claudianes was finally captured at Chicago. On his return to San Francisco he confessed,[376] stating that he had been employed by a Greek, one Felix Pauduveris,[377] to murder Gallagher. Felix Pauduveris fled the city and the police of the world have been unable to locate him. Peter Claudianes was convicted of the attempt upon Gallagher's life, was sentenced to prison for life, and at present writing is confined in San Quentin prison.[378] Quite as extraordinary as the attempted assassination of Gallagher was the indifference with which the outrage was received by the press that was supporting the graft defense.[379] The Chronicle condemned the outrage, but took occasion to denounce Gallagher.[380] The weekly press, however, treated the affair as something of a joke on the confessed bribe-taker.[381] In the face of the ridicule of the graft-defense press, the dynamiting of witnesses, and the continent-wide hunt for the dynamiters, the Ruef trial went steadily on. One incident of the beginning of the trial, because of the event that grew out of it, eventually proved even more important than the trial itself. During the examination of jurors, an ex-convict, one Morris Haas, was discovered to have been sworn to try the case. Heney exposed him and he was excused from service.[382] The incident, compared with the other tremendous happenings of the time, was of small importance, but it was destined to lead to the greatest outrage of all the history of the prosecution, the shooting down of Assistant District Attorney Heney in open court. But for the time, Haas passed out of the graft cases and was forgotten. The Ruef trial was not unlike the Ford trials. The courtroom was packed with detectives, agents and thugs employed by the various graft defendants.[383] There was the same hesitancy on the part of witnesses. At one stage of the proceedings Ach, Ruef's chief of counsel, sneered that the State was having trouble with its own witness. "Yes," replied Heney, "The People have no witness--no volunteer witnesses. We merely produce them." When J. E. Green, president of the Parkside Company, who had authorized the payments to Ruef, refused to testify on the ground that he might incriminate himself, it looked as though the case was going against the prosecution. But Heney met this objection. He promptly moved the dismissal of the fourteen indictments pending against Green.[384] Ach objected, but the motion was granted. Green was left free to testify. Green testified how he had sent his attorney,[385] Judge Walter C. Cope, to Ruef to find out what Ruef was after. Ruef wanted $50,000 to put the franchise through. Green testified that Ruef finally agreed to take $30,000, and was actually paid $15,000 on account. G. H. Umbsen testified to having received $30,000 from the Parkside Company for Ruef and had paid Ruef $15,000, the balance being held until the deal should be consummated. In addition to this, the sorry manner[386] in which the company's books had been juggled to cover up the transaction was shown by witnesses connected with the Parkside Company. Ruef's intimation through his attorney that the money had been paid as a fee was offset by testimony that the books had been juggled to cover up the payment to Ruef because Ruef was the political boss of the city, and it was believed that it would do the company no good if the fact of his employment were known. Gallagher testified that he had been Ruef's representative on the board; that Ruef had told him that the Parkside franchise was to be held up and delayed; that later Ruef had stated that each Supervisor would receive $750 because of the Parkside deal; that finally, after the fire, Ruef had told witness that the Parkside people wanted the franchise in a new form, and that the $750 to each Supervisor would be increased to $1,000; that he (Gallagher) had conveyed this information to the Supervisors. Supervisors testified to having been given the information by Gallagher. Ruef offered no testimony. The jury was out forty-three hours. By a vote of 6 to 6 the jury failed to agree. Again a graft trial had ended in discouraging failure for the prosecution.[387] After the disagreement of the jury in the Ruef Parkside case, to judge from most of the San Francisco public prints of the time, the prosecution was utterly discredited in San Francisco. But there is a surer means of estimating public opinion--namely, by the votes of the people. Much of the graft defense's abuse and vilification was heaped upon Judges Lawlor and Dunne, who had stood firmly for enforcement of the law regardless of who might be affected. Judge Dunne's term as Superior Judge was to expire in 1909. He was, at the November election of 1908, a candidate for re-election. Judge Dunne was frankly fought by the graft defense, and supported by those who approved the work of the prosecution. The Republican county convention refused to nominate him, and hissed his name. The Union Labor party convention received his name with a turmoil of hoots and jeers. A letter to the last-named convention from the Good Government League urging his nomination was thrown into the waste-paper basket. On the other hand, when given opportunity for expression The People gave Judge Dunne encouraging endorsement. The Good Government League proceeded to have his name put on the ballot by petition. For the petition 1,765 signatures were required. Over 3,000 persons signed it the first day. The press--outside San Francisco--following the graft trials closely, was practically a unit in urging Judge Dunne's return to the bench.[388] And in spite of the costly contest of his election, The People of San Francisco re-elected Judge Dunne. Thus again were the contentions of the graft defense repudiated at the polls. Another important endorsement of the prosecution came from the Board of Supervisors. The Supervisors provided in their annual budget $70,000 to meet the extraordinary expenditures because of the graft cases. Burns and the men who had theretofore been paid out of the fund controlled by Rudolph Spreckels, became regular municipal employees operating under the District Attorney. The criticism of the defense had been that it was shameful that a privately-financed prosecution should be tolerated. Their cry now was at the shame of wasting the public funds on Burns and his staff. Action was instituted, through William H. Metson, to prevent the municipal officials paying Burns and his associates out of this fund. For months the salaries of those affected were held up. Although eventually the opposition to the prosecution lost in the contest, and the men were paid the amounts due them, the suit was an annoyance and a handicap. But in spite of the tremendous opposition which the graft defense was working up, the prosecution went steadily on with its work. Ruef was put to trial for offering a bribe to Supervisor Furey to vote for the permit giving the United Railroads its overhead trolley franchise. FOOTNOTES: [356] When Calhoun returned to San Francisco demanding immediate trial, the Examiner announced that he "threw a bombshell into the camp of the prosecution." The Call, however, dealt with the incident as follows: "Patrick Calhoun has come back in a hurry, shouting for an immediate trial. He is certain that he has the prosecution on the hip. His men are in treaty with Ruef. His organs in the press, the Examiner, the Chronicle and the gutter weeklies, begin to see Ruef in a wholly new light. Three weeks ago Ruef was the vilest criminal. No immunity for him. Indeed, immunity, in the lexicon of the Calhoun press, was then a worse crime than bribery or graft. It is very different now that the new alliance between Ruef and the bribe givers is in process of negotiation. Ruef has at once become the persecuted sufferer, the victim of a heartless cabal, pushing one more unfortunate to his ruin and positively 'rushing' him to trial with indecent haste, with no lawyers but Henry Ach to hire. It is too bad. "Why this astonishing and sudden change of front? It is simply that Calhoun has made up his mind that this is the time for grafters and boodlers and bribe givers to stand together. He has persuaded himself that the prosecution is dazed by the extraordinary decision of the Court of Appeals, and that the same has put Ruef in a receptive mood for a treaty of alliance, offensive and defensive, among all varieties of boodlers, franchise grabbers, bribe givers and bribe takers. Calhoun knows that Ruef on trial or before trial is a very different person from Ruef after conviction. He wants to keep Ruef in his present state of mind. Of course, he knows that he can not trust Ruef. No man who has had dealings with the shifty boss knows on what side he will turn up next. At present Ruef lends a responsive ear to Calhoun's overtures. Consultations are held without disguise between Calhoun's lawyers and Ruef. It is time for Ruef and Calhoun to stand together. The association is suggestive but natural." [357] The graft prisoners unquestionably suffered greatly from their confinement. "No matter," said Ruef, in an interview printed in The Examiner January 11, 1908, "how much effort is made, the place cannot be kept clean. Filth accumulates and no running water has been provided. The gases from the drain pipes permeate the cells and are always present. No prisoner can keep himself clean, and it is no wonder that clothing and everything is uncleanly." Schmitz, long of body, complained that he needed a long cell. "I would like a longer cell," he is reported as saying. "My legs are too long and I cannot stretch them out. The hole is beastly and no place for a clean man." Louis Glass declared that he would be dead in a few days if not permitted to remain outside his cell. [358] See affidavit filed by District Attorney Langdon in The People vs. Patrick Calhoun et al., No. 823. [359] See affidavits filed by District Attorney Langdon, and by Judge Dunne, in the case of Patrick Calhoun et al., No. 823. [360] Langdon does not state in his affidavit what this evidence was. But at the trial of Ruef for offering bribes to Jennings Phillips to grant the Parkside Railroad franchise, former Supervisor Wilson testified that at the first Ford trial Ruef had asked him to bury his memory of the money transactions and discussions with Ruef. Ruef at the time was pretending to be assisting the Prosecution in conformity with the terms of his immunity contract. [361] District Attorney Langdon, in an affidavit filed in the case of The People vs. Patrick Calhoun et al., No. 823, states his attitude toward Ruef. Mr. Langdon says: "Affiant further avers and declares that if affiant believed that the defendant Ruef had fully and fairly performed his part of the agreement, and had honestly rendered such service to the State as would have entitled him to the consideration set forth in the immunity contract, this affiant would have moved in open court to dismiss the indictments against defendant Ruef, and if said motion were denied and affiant was directed by the Court or any other official to proceed with the trial of said defendant, this affiant would have declined to do so, and after exhausting every resource at his command to carry out the terms and conditions of said immunity agreement, would have resigned his official position of District Attorney of the City and County of San Francisco, rather than prosecute the defendant Ruef. "This affiant avers that it was only when he became convinced that the defendant Ruef was still traitorous to the State he had debauched, and whose laws he had defied, and that instead of trying to make reparation for the wrong he had done, was endeavoring not only to save himself from the punishment he so richly deserved, but also was endeavoring to make certain the escape from punishment of his co-defendants, that affiant determined the immunity contract to have been broken by Ruef, and no longer in force and effect." [362] The Examiner in its issue of January 19, 1908, stated that the abrogation of the immunity contract, "means among other things that Ruef will now have aligned in his defense, the massed influence of interests represented by the prosecution to command $600,000,000 in wealth." [363] Heney, in an affidavit filed in the case of The People vs. Patrick Calhoun et al., No. 823, states that he finally said to Kaplan, "You only annoy and irritate me by coming here, Doctor, and I wish you would stay away. I don't want to get mad at you, because I respect you and am satisfied that you are sincere, but Ruef is making a fool of you, and I have wasted more time than I can spare in talking with you about these things. You will do me a great favor if you will stay away from my office." In spite of this suggestion, Kaplan, a few days later, called Heney up on the telephone. Of the incident, Heney says in his affidavit: "A few days later, however, he called me on the telephone. I was at my office at the time, and do not know where he was. He said over the telephone in substance, 'Mr. Heney, I don't like to trouble you any more, but I had a talk with Mr. Burns and I have since had another talk with Mr. Ruef, and I am sure that Mr. Ruef's testimony will now satisfy you. He says that when he is on the witness stand and you ask him'--I interrupted him at about this point and said in a very severe tone of voice, 'Dr. Kaplan, I don't want you talking such stuff to me over the phone, or anywhere else. I have asked you not to talk to me about this matter any more and not to come to my office, and I will now have to ask you not to call me any more on the telephone. I don't want to hear anything more about Ruef's testimony.'" [364] See affidavits filed by Rabbis Nieto and Kaplan in the case of The People vs. Patrick Calhoun et al. [365] See Chapter XV. [366] See Chapter XV. [367] A letter from W. H. Payson, a leader of the San Francisco bar, to Rabbi Nieto fairly expressed the public attitude on the Rabbi's stand. Mr. Payson's letter read: "Rabbi Jacob Nieto. Dear Sir:--As you have written a letter to the public explaining your connection with the Ruef case, it may not be out of place for one of the public to reply. "When Mr. Ruef made his apparently frank statement admitting that he had betrayed his city into the hands of the spoilers, but promised to do all in his power to right the wrong, whatever the consequences might be to himself, the public believed him and believed that he was going to do right because it was right and for his own self-respect, and not at the price of saving his own skin. Acting on this assumption many of us congratulated Mr. Ruef and assured him that he had gone far toward recovering his position in the public esteem. It now turns out from your letter of explanation that Mr. Ruef's public statement of his high and noble purpose was a mockery and hollow sham; that he had rejected any proposition to act the man, but like his contemptible associates, sought only to escape his just deserts. "We recognize the unfortunate necessity the prosecution was under of granting immunity in order to secure the evidence to convict the greater felons, but surely the officers of the law were fully qualified to attend to that miserable business. If you could have influenced Mr. Ruef to stand on the higher plane of honor and decency of which you are the advocate and representative, you would indeed have done a great public service and you might have saved him for better things, but it would seem that your services were directed chiefly to saving him from the just penalty of his crimes and that the arrangement with him was on the same sordid level as the immunity contracts with the Supervisors, for which no ministerial services were necessary. From your position and religious heritage we had a right to expect that your distinguished services would have been put to a better use. I am still sufficiently credulous as to believe that with proper influence Mr. Ruef might have been induced to take the course we were led to believe he had taken. "Your letter even leaves it to be inferred that Mr. Ruef is justified in his present attitude, and that the judges, who, from your statement, were ready to go to the extreme of mercy and consideration, are now to be censured for not carrying out an immunity contract which has been flagrantly broken by the other party to it. "The serious features of this unfortunate situation are not that officials should receive bribes, or that men of wealth and standing should bribe them, or that attorneys of reputation should engineer the filthy operation, but that not one of the army of bribed and bribers has been found of sufficient manliness or moral stamina to make a frank statement of the facts and give aid in the cause of justice, and that so many people are willing to shield the influential criminals for commercial motives, and that there is so low a state of public morals as to make these things possible. "The great body of the public is heart and soul back of this prosecution, because we believe it is an honest attempt, not merely to convict certain criminals, but to elevate the standard of public morality, and whatever may be the outcome and even though, through successive miscarriages of justice, every guilty man escape his legal punishment, the graft prosecution has, nevertheless, succeeded beyond our fondest hopes; nine-tenths of its work has been accomplished, and in the teeth of the most determined and desperate opposition perhaps ever known. "Be assured that every guilty man will be convicted at the bar of public opinion, and from that conviction there will be no appeal and no escape; they will be known and branded for life, each and every one. The public is not a party to the immunity contracts. "Very truly yours, "W. H. PAYSON. "San Francisco, January 30, 1908." [368] District Attorney Langdon's statement in reply to these criticisms was as follows: "I have no answer at this time to make to the statements given out by Patrick Calhoun and made in behalf of other defendants in the graft cases with the intention of discrediting the prosecution and attempting to lead the public to believe that we have acted unfairly in the conduct of these cases. The time will come when such charges will be answered, but they will be answered only as events shall direct. "Nothing that has occurred within the past few weeks has in any way complicated the situation as far as the prosecution is concerned or has tended to weaken our position. The original plans of the prosecution are to be carried out just as we have always intended to carry them out. The Ruef case will be tried immediately, and every other defendant under indictment will be brought to trial just as quickly as the courts are able to dispose of the cases. We shall not falter in our duty. I can promise that while the present District Attorney is in office this battle will be fought out to the end of the last case. "The fact is that at the present time we have the tactical advantage over all the defendants, who have allied their interests for mutual protection. They know we have this advantage and that is why they are shouting so loudly from the housetops. We do not answer the attacks that are made because we are trying law cases and our every energy is bent to the prosecution of those cases. We are entirely satisfied, however, with the position in which we stand at this time and are prepared to fight our battles in the courts to a finish." [369] The following are extracts taken from Mr. Weinstock's address: "After all, the saddest thing is to find men who are rated as decent, law-abiding, intelligent, presumably high minded and moral, condoning the sins of the bribe givers and deploring their indictment and prosecution. "Both the commercial and political bribe givers committed serious crimes, but by far the more serious was the crime of corrupting public officials, because the tendency of this crime is to undermine the very foundation of the State, thus leading to the ultimate destruction of democracy. "If the spirit of the respectables, fighting and condemning the graft prosecution, is to become the common spirit, then must we bid farewell to civic virtue, farewell to public morality, farewell to good government and in time farewell to our republican institutions and to civic liberty." [370] A very good example of this is shown in a memorial from Sonoma. The memorial read as follows: "Sonoma, Cal., March 18, 1908. To William H. Langdon, Francis J. Heney, Rudolph Spreckels and others engaged in the graft prosecution in San Francisco. Gentlemen: It appearing that a portion of the press of this State is engaged in belittling the efforts of those engaged in the prosecution of the graft cases in San Francisco, and is endeavoring to impute improper and unjust motives to all who have such prosecution in charge; and we realizing that it is the duty of all honest people everywhere to uphold the hands of the prosecution, and to encourage them to proceed in all lawful ways to continue in their efforts to bring all law breakers to justice, "We, the undersigned citizens and residents of Sonoma and vicinity, mindful of the good work you are all doing, wish to show our appreciation of your efforts, and encourage you in continuing to pursue the course you have marked out, to the end that all law breakers shall be punished and the majesty of the law vindicated." [371] Heney, in a published statement regarding these indictments, said: "We do not consider for a minute that there is a particle of merit to any of the claims made by the defendants that the former indictments were defectively drawn in any detail. It is wise, however, to be prepared for anything that might happen at any subsequent time, and so the present true bills have been found. These indictments are so drawn as to eliminate every technical objection that has been made by any of the defendants to the former indictments, and the action has been at this time so that the statute of limitations would not run against the crime charged. There is absolutely no significance to the fact that the name of Abbott and Mullally were omitted, except that we feel that the cases against the three defendants named are of far greater importance. Our sole purpose has been to throw an anchor to windward to avoid possible trouble in the future." [372] James D. Phelan, at the mass meeting called after the attempted assassination of Heney, summed up the Parkside case tersely: "Take the Parkside case," he said. "There were some men who wanted a franchise which we were all willing to concede, but the boss said it would be advisable to pay for it. Instead of making a demand upon the Supervisors and an appeal to the citizens on the justice of their cause and the desirability of giving them the franchise, they continued their dickering with Ruef, and for so much money, thirty thousand dollars, I believe, he said he would give it to them. Then they 'doctored' their books and went down to the Crocker National Bank and got the money in green-backs, handed out to them by the teller of that institution, whose managers were stockholders in the Parkside, among them a gentleman who told you the other day to vote against the Hetch-Hetchy proposition, Mr. William H. Crocker. "Now, finding that they could get so easily a privilege by paying for it, what did they do? They asked Mr. Ruef to give them the franchise, not on Twentieth avenue, an ungraded street, which they first wanted, but in Nineteenth avenue, which had been dedicated as a boulevard for the use of the people, which was substantially paved, and which was the only avenue we had to cross from the park to Ingleside. He said to them that that would take fifteen thousand dollars more, and they said 'It's a bargain.' And these gentlemen who sought the least objectionable franchise, tell you now that they were victims, tell you now that they could not get their franchise any other way. They were glad because they were a part of the system, a part of the 'other fellows' of the affiliated interests. They were glad to pay their money, which was a paltry sum to them, in order to perpetuate the rule of Ruef; that they could go to him on any other occasion to get an extension, or a privilege or a franchise, or anything that they wanted, by simply paying for it. It would be the simplest form of government, my friends, to have somebody sitting in a place of power and pass out to you what you want. It would save you the expense of a campaign, it would save you the advertising in the newspapers, it would save you the cost of mailing a circular to every voter. It is indeed, a most economical and direct method of getting what you want from the government." [373] The Oakland Tribune, in support of Ruef's plea for delay, said: "Now the question arises: Is Ruef now being prosecuted in good faith for the offenses alleged against him or is he being forced to trial without adequate preparation merely to coerce him into giving testimony he has repeatedly told Heney, Langdon and Burns would be false? Is not the summary process of law being invoked to compel Ruef to tell to a trial jury a different story from the one he related under oath to the Oliver Grand Jury? In other words, is not the prosecution now trying either to punish Ruef for refusing to commit or convict himself of perjury or intimidate him into assisting, as a witness under duress, Heney and Langdon to make good the threat they reiterated on the stump last fall that they would send Patrick Calhoun to State prison? "Admitting Ruef to be guilty of all the crimes of which he stands accused, is he not now being proceeded against in a criminal spirit and with a criminal intent? Having failed to get what they want by compounding the felonies of Ruef and his followers, are not the prosecution resorting to compulsion under the forms of law to compel the commission of perjury?" [374] Judge M. T. Dooling was at the time Superior Judge of San Benito, one of the smaller of the interior counties. He had, however, already a State-wide reputation for integrity and ability. He left the San Benito County bench to accept the appointment of President Wilson as United States District Judge. [375] Some of these trailers were arrested and forced into court. On one day four men, Frank Shaw, alias Harry Nelson, Harry Smith, alias Harry Zobler, J. R. Johnson, alias J. R. Hayes, and Cliff Middlemiss were placed under arrest for following Detective Burns. [376] According to Peter Claudianes' confession to Burns, he had been summoned from Chico to San Francisco by Felix Pauduveris early in March. Pauduveris told him he had a hard piece of work for Claudianes to do, namely, kill Gallagher, the chief witness in the graft prosecution. Pauduveris had told him there was $1000 apiece and three dollars a day for expenses in the job for them. The first proposition, according to Claudianes' confession, was for Claudianes to shoot poisoned glass into Gallagher's face by means of an ordinary sling-shot. But this plan was abandoned on the ground that Claudianes' capture would be sure to follow. A plan to poison Gallagher was also abandoned. Destruction by means of dynamite was finally decided upon. Pauduveris had taken Claudianes over to Oakland and showed him where Gallagher resided. After the failure of the dynamite plot, Claudianes had arranged to secure apartments in the same building with Gallagher and put poison into Gallagher's milk. Before this plot could be carried out, John Claudianes had confessed and Peter had become a fugitive from justice. In his confession to Burns, Peter Claudianes stated: "Pauduveris said the prosecution with Heney, Langdon, Burns and Spreckels had put about 50,000 men out of work. We must get rid of Gallagher as he is their principal witness. If he is put out of the way the Prosecution will end. There is about $2000 in it for us and about $1000 in it for your brother John. Felix Pauduveris was very angry because no one was killed in the explosion at the Schenck house. He said it was not a clean job." In his confession, Claudianes stated further: "I thought I was working for Ruef, as I knew Felix was a very intimate friend of his. When Felix told me I had got to shadow Gallagher I knew the word came from Ruef. Felix said that Ruef would never go across the bay, as he had them all buffaloed. Ruef was too smart for those fellows, Felix said, and the gang was all behind Ruef. The prosecution had no grudge against Gallagher, but it had a grudge against Ruef." [377] Pauduveris had been employed by the United Railroads as a "spotter." At the time of the explosion he was still in that corporation's employ. He was at the same time a political follower of Ruef. [378] The attempt upon Gallagher's life led the prosecution to take steps to secure his testimony in a form in which it could be used before a trial jury in the event of Gallagher's death. Under the California law, testimony taken at a preliminary hearing can, in the event of the death or disability of a witness, be used at the trial of the case. After the Parkside case trial, Ruef was arrested on a charge of bribery and given a preliminary examination at which Gallagher testified against him. Gallagher's testimony was thus made secure against poison or dynamite. [379] The Examiner following the explosion printed a series of ridiculing cartoons picturing the dynamiting of a bird cage and describing at length the escape of the parrot that had occupied it. [380] The Chronicle took advantage of the dynamite outrage to voice its condemnation of Gallagher. "There is," said that paper in its issue of April 24, "no more undesirable citizen on earth than the contemptible boodler James L. Gallagher, who is living on the profits of the shame which he brazenly flaunts in the face of mankind, but the effort to discover the miscreant who dynamited the house where he was living should be pushed as vigorously as if the intended victim was the most estimable citizen of California. Society despises such boodlers as Gallagher, but it does not seek their destruction by dynamite. The dynamiter is a coward who is even more contemptible than a boodler. He sneaks up in the dark, fires his explosive and runs, because in his craven soul he dare not stand up and meet his enemy. The punishment of the dynamiter--successful or unsuccessful--should be severe, but it should be solemnly inflicted after due process of law. "It is, of course, possible that some of the wretches with whom he was associated during his career of crime have taken that method of getting rid of his testimony, but it is not probable. Among those against whom he has not yet given the testimony which he will give are the only persons who can be conceived of as having a motive to get Gallagher out of the way, but no one that we hear of suspects any of them of having resorted to that atrocious method of defense, in which six persons besides Gallagher himself came near being murdered. In the absence of any conceivable sufficient motive the dastardly act must be assumed the work of a wicked man gone crazy." [381] The following from the San Francisco Argonaut of May 2, 1908, is fairly expressive of the attitude of the San Francisco weekly press on the attempt on Gallagher's life: "Mr. Heney in so far as it lay in him to do it, 'placed' the 'crime' upon the 'minions' of Calhoun. The other independent and all-seeing minds of the prosecution's staff fell in with this theory of the case. So far as the so-called graft prosecutors are concerned there is no mystery about the matter--the explosion in Gallagher's house was nothing less than an attempt to assassinate that eminent worthy for the sake of 'getting him out of the way.' This theory has to face several embarrassing considerations. In the first place, Gallagher's testimony has been given again and again, and stands as an official record in a half-dozen instances. Getting Gallagher out of the way would not, therefore, do away with his testimony. Furthermore, there are other witnesses competent to testify to every vital fact in the Gallagher story. So far as the immediate case is concerned, Gallagher has already given his testimony and the effect of 'getting him out of the way' would be only to emphasize his statements. Furthermore, if there had been any wish to get Gallagher out of the way there has been plenty of chances to do it any time this year and a half past. If assassination has been part of the scheme of the defense, there have been ten thousand opportunities since the striking of that famous bargain between Spreckels and Gallagher inside the Presidio gate. The thing might have been done, too, without hazarding the lives of half a dozen women and children." In view of the inability of Mr. Langdon's successor in the District Attorney's office to make effective prosecution of the graft cases, on the ground that Gallagher, who had left California, was absent from the State, and that his testimony was necessary to secure convictions, the Argonaut article makes interesting reading. [382] Heney's exposure of Haas was unquestionably warranted and necessary. The incident, however, has been made subject of much misrepresentation and attacks upon Heney. [383] Heney in a speech made before Mayor and Supervisors showed how the prosecution was harassed by thugs. [384] See transcript in The People vs. Ruef (Parkside case) for dismissal of these indictments and of other indictments against Parkside officials. [385] For additional data regarding this case, see Chapter XIV, footnotes 180, 181, 198, 199, 200, 201. [386] See footnote 199. [387] Months after, when men had been indicted for endeavoring to influence jurors to vote for Ruef's acquittal in the United Railroads case, Isaac Penny, who had acted as foreman of the jury that failed to agree in the Parkside case, in a public statement denounced that jury as not honest. "Had I known then," said Penny in an interview printed in the San Francisco Call, September 30, 1908, "what I have since learned about jury tampering, I would have sprung a sensation in Judge Dooling's court that would have resulted in the haling of numerous men before the court. * * * I have been turning this over again and again in my mind, and there is but one answer--that jury was not an honest one." Later, Penny gave sensational testimony along this line in Judge Lawlor's court. [388] From one end of the State to the other, Judge Dunne was warmly commended as a jurist and a man. "The name of Judge Dunne," said the Pasadena News, "stands in California honored among honest men because of the enemies he has made. Every politician and every newspaper that has defended bribery and sought to embarrass the graft prosecution is against Judge Dunne. They stocked a political convention against him. Judge Dunne's defeat in San Francisco would be a disgrace to that city and a reflection on the honor and intelligence of the people of California." "The corrupt corporation organs," said the Sacramento Bee, "and the servile journalistic tools of the predatory rich--such as the Argonaut, for instance--are barking in unison at the heels of Judge Dunne in San Francisco and declaring he is unfit to sit on the bench. Dunne's crime in their eyes is that he did his simple, plain duty in the graft prosecution cases. If he had neglected that duty, to tip the scales of Justice over to favor the 'higher ups,' the same gang, with the Argonaut in the lead, would be praising him to the skies as a most just judge, a righteous judge, and would be clamoring for his re-election." CHAPTER XXIV. JURY-FIXING UNCOVERED. From the beginning of the graft trials rumors of efforts to tamper with the trial jurors had been current. The failures of juries to agree in the face of what to the man on the street appeared to be conclusive evidence, lent more or less color to these reports. But it was not until Ruef's trial[389] for offering a bribe in the over-head trolley transaction opened, that the jury-fixing scandal took definite shape. Then, came sensational exposures, involving indictments and trials for jury-fixing which for a time over-shadowed in interest the graft trials themselves. Ruef's trial for offering a bribe to Supervisor Furey to vote for the over-head trolley franchise, began August 27, 1908.[390] But nearly a month before, on July 31, District Attorney Langdon had been given definite information that an attempt had been made to bribe one of the talesmen who had been called for jury service at the Ruef trial. The talesman in question was John Martin Kelly, a real estate salesman. The list of prospective jurors had been made public in July. Late on the afternoon of July 31, Mr. Langdon received a telephone message from Kelly requesting an interview, which was granted immediately. Kelly told Langdon[391] that that afternoon he had been approached by a building contractor, E. A. S. Blake, and offered $500 if he would qualify on the Ruef jury and vote for acquittal.[392] Langdon called in Burns. Burns advised Kelly to pretend to listen to Blake's overtures, to insist that $500 was too little, and to demand $1000, to the end that Blake might be trapped and the jury-fixing, which all believed to be going on, be uncovered. Kelly, co-operating with Burns, followed these instructions. In his dealings with Blake, Kelly insisted upon $1000 as the price of his services in Ruef's behalf, which Blake finally consented should be paid him. The negotiations were carried on during August. Finally on September 3, Burns directed Kelly to step up to the bar of Judge Lawlor's court where Ruef's trial was proceeding, and tell his story. As Kelly on that day approached the bar, during a lull in the proceedings, Ach, it is alleged, was heard to ejaculate to the little group about Ruef, "There she goes." Frank J. Murphy, one of Ruef's attorneys, immediately jumped to his feet, and claimed the court's attention. "If your honor please," said Murphy, "if that completes the examination of this panel and it is necessary to draw further from the box, there is a statement I desire to make to this Court which is based upon some reflection and upon the advice of the Presiding Judge of this court. Some several weeks ago, or about two weeks ago I should say, one of the jurors upon this panel sent to me indirectly and offered to accept money for his vote. Charges of bribery, of course, have been numerous in connection with this case, but this is the first instance that I have ever heard of in connection with this case or in connection with any other case that any juror has solicited a bribe, or has been offered a bribe. I consulted with Judge Sturtevant[393] about the matter on the 1st of September. I stated to him the facts in the case and he advised me that whenever the time became ripe for the juror to be called into the box that it was my duty to present it to this court. Now, the juror's name is John Martin Kelly, and I was informed indirectly that Mr. Kelly solicited $1000 for his vote in this case, and the matter is of so much importance, your Honor, that I think an investigation should be had by this court before this case proceeds further, and if necessary the Grand Jury should look into this matter and give it a thorough and exhaustive examination. Now, if your Honor please, I don't want to do Mr. Kelly an injustice. I would hesitate, if the Court please, to make a charge of that kind, but my informant is a man whom I have known but a very short time, and after a thorough examination by me of him, after eliciting from him every fact I could in connection with the case, I am induced to believe that he came with authority from Mr. Kelly to make this proposition to myself and one of the attorneys who was connected with one of the other cases. Now, if the Court please, under the advice of Judge Sturtevant, whom I consulted on the subject twice, I deem it my duty to call that to the attention of your Honor and if it is necessary to file any affidavit to set the machinery of this court in motion I am willing and ready to procure an affidavit to file so that a complete investigation may be had of this matter." Murphy's statement created a sensation, which was more than duplicated by the statement made by Heney the moment after. "If the Court please," said Heney, "before Mr. Murphy takes the stand I have a statement to make. Mr. Murphy says that he discussed this subject on the 1st. I have in my pocket a statement dictated by Mr. Kelly--this is one of the most audacious pieces of business I have yet met with--I have a statement made by this juror on August 28, 1908, that is before Mr. Murphy bethought him to go and see Judge Sturtevant, in which this juror sets forth fully the fact that a man was sent to him to bribe him in this case, and this juror not only made that statement on August 28th, but this juror went to the District Attorney's office, to Mr. Langdon, the other day, on July 31st, the day it was made, it is a long time now and he has been acting under the District Attorney's advice ever since, and Mr. Murphy never saw fit to call your Honor's attention to it until he saw Mr. Kelly come in the door there and anticipated from the fact that Mr. Blake was traced to Mr. Ach's office yesterday that Mr. Kelly was about to state to your Honor that he wanted this matter investigated, and that an attempt had been made to bribe him, and that under the District Attorney's advice he was going on to permit them to pay the money, if necessary, so that we might catch them in this act, and it is only because they have had occasion to suspect we knew it, that Mr. Murphy has the audacity to come in here and ask for an investigation. Now, we ask that Mr. Kelly take the stand and make the statement to your Honor that he came here for the purpose of making, and that Mr. Murphy didn't say anything about until he saw him standing there ready to make it to your Honor. He jumped up as soon as he saw Mr. Kelly walk in here." After Heney had made his statement, Murphy took the stand and swore that Kelly, through Blake, had solicited a bribe of $1000 from Murphy to vote for Ruef's acquittal. Nevertheless, Mr. Murphy, as well as Mr. A. S. Newburgh, another of Ruef's attorneys, admitted under oath that they had suggested to Blake that he interview Kelly.[394] Kelly took the stand and testified in a straightforward manner that he had been approached by Blake, that he had consulted with the District Attorney, and that a trap had been set to catch the alleged jury-fixer. Detectives were sent out to notify Blake that he was wanted in court. But Blake could not be found. Later he was arrested as he was about to board an outgoing train. Blake was found to be a poor man on the brink of bankruptcy. He had neither money, nor property. Nevertheless, attorneys[395] came forward to defend him; bonds were furnished him. The most powerful and wealthy defendant in the graft cases was not better served. But the best of legal service could not save Blake from indictment. Later, both Newburgh and Murphy,[396] Mr. Ruef's attorneys, were indicted also, charged with corruptly attempting to influence a juror.[397] Kelly, at Blake's trial, told the same straightforward story which he had given at the original investigation. He was corroborated by his employer, and others. His testimony was most sensational. He stated, for example, that Blake had told him that it would be easy for him to qualify as a juror; that Ruef's attorneys would try to make it appear that they did not want him, and that their examination would be so thorough that the prosecution would not ask a question. Blake had also told him, Kelly testified, that he need not worry; that some jurors had taken money for their votes in the former Ruef trial and had not been caught. Blake was convicted. He was later sentenced to serve four years in the penitentiary. After Blake's conviction, but before sentence was passed upon him, he sought out Attorney Matt I. Sullivan, one of the few prominent San Francisco attorneys who had kept free from entangling alliances with the graft defense. To Sullivan, Blake made confession[398] of his participation in the jury-fixing transaction. In his confession he involved Attorneys Murphy and Newburgh. Later, in open court, he made public statement of his participation.[399] Blake in his statement in court set forth that he had become acquainted with Newburgh through having offices in the same building with him. He had, he said, met Murphy in Newburgh's office. Newburgh had introduced them. Murphy, he stated, had shown him a list of prospective jurors, and had asked him if he knew any of them. He had told the lawyers that he knew John Martin Kelly. They had, Blake stated, got him to make an offer to Kelly, which he did. He had offered Kelly $500 and finally $1000. Kelly (acting under instructions from District Attorney Langdon and Burns) had finally agreed to take $1000. Blake testified that he had reported back to Murphy that Kelly would accept the money. Following his arrest, Blake testified, his lawyers had come to him without his solicitation,[400] with the statement in explanation that they had come from a mutual friend. Blake stated that he had heard afterward that the "mutual friend" was Murphy and Newburgh. His bonds had been furnished without his stir, through his attorneys. Murphy and Newburgh, he claimed, had assured him they would do everything they could for him; that he need not worry; that they would provide for him and provide for his wife in case he were convicted.[401] Continuing, Blake stated that after his conviction he had had a talk with Murphy. The general nature of the interview was that he had good ground for a new trial. "They said," Blake testified, "'when we get up to the higher court, it will be thrown out,' or something of that kind." According to Blake's statement, a fund of $10,000 was promised him and an agreement was made that his wife should be paid $100 a month during his imprisonment. Murphy, he said, showed him what purported to be promissory notes[402] aggregating $7500. The notes, he alleged, were made to Murphy and signed with Ruef's name with the endorsement of Ruef's sister and father. Blake was requested to select a representative to hold the notes. It was alleged that Blake named Martin Stevens, an attorney, as such representative.[403] After Blake's confession came the trials of Murphy and Newburgh. They did not differ to any great extent from the principal graft trials. There were the delaying tactics that had been characteristic of the graft cases; failure of jurors to agree; acquittals. Murphy's trial came first. There was against him the testimony of Blake and Kelly, corroborated at many points by other witnesses. Murphy made denial. In his defense, too, many witnesses took the stand to testify to his good character.[404] Murphy was acquitted. Newburgh's trial followed. The first jury failed to agree. It was stated at the time that the jury stood six for conviction and six for acquittal. At his second trial, Newburgh was acquitted. But Blake was in jail under a four years' sentence to the penitentiary. Astonishing as the revelations in the Blake jury-fixing case had been, they were to be overshadowed by the events of Ruef's trial. Even as the city stood aghast at the evidence of jury tampering, Assistant District Attorney Heney was, during the progress of the trial, shot down in open court. FOOTNOTES: [389] Of the "fixing of juries," The Chronicle in its issue of September 19, 1908, said: "Every move made in the Ruef trials gives moral evidence that systematic bribery of juries is being practiced which is as convincing to the public as were the signs of corruption during the entire Schmitz regime, but before the explosion. Nobody doubted then that the Mayor, the Supervisors and all officials appointed by Schmitz were thieves. Nobody doubts now that all through these graft trials there has been systematic corruption of juries. In private conversation it is treated as a matter of course. Nobody, of course, could 'prove' it. Nobody needs legal proof to be convinced." Of the incident, The Call said in its issue of September 19, 1908: "For a long time there has been every reason to believe that veniremen summoned to try Ruef were being bribed or promised bribes to vote for acquittal. The dubious character of Ruef's attorneys, or some of them, and their known affiliations were wholly consistent with this theory. Circumstances not amounting to absolute proof, but giving cause for strong suspicion, came to the surface from time to time. The jury fixers grew bolder with impunity, and, in fine, the pitcher went to the well once too often." [390] The trial had been delayed by Ruef's preliminary hearing. The hearing was held in order that Gallagher's testimony might become of record in a way that would permit of its being used at Ruef's trial, in the event of Gallagher's assassination. Ruef's attorneys by lengthy cross-examinations and other delaying tactics, succeeded in dragging the case along for sixty-nine days. Further delays were caused by the usual efforts made to disqualify Judge Lawlor as trial judge. In this way, the defense managed to keep the attorneys for the State engaged until late in August. Then Ruef was made to face another jury. [391] Kelly claimed to have telephoned Langdon within a few minutes after Blake had left him. In this he was borne out by his employer, Samuel M. Snyder. Snyder testified that on his return to his office on the afternoon of July 31, he met Blake leaving. Kelly had followed him into his private office. Of the interview which followed Snyder testified at the hearing of the case as follows: "I said (to Kelly) 'Well, what is the matter now?' And he said that Mr. Blake was just in and wanted to give him $500. I said, 'What for?' 'Well,' he said, 'to do the right thing on the jury.' He had been called on a jury case, the Ruef case. He said, 'I had a notion to punch his head.' That is just the remark Mr. Kelly used. I said, 'Oh, I would not get excited like that; that is foolishness.' He said, 'What do you advise doing? If I go out and do anything rash I am liable to get into trouble, ain't I?' I said, 'Yes, you better not do that.' I said, 'If I were you'--this is the language I used to Mr. Kelly, I said, 'I would telephone to Mr. Langdon and tell him.' He said, 'Well, that might hurt your business.' I said, 'Well, I don't believe that would hurt my business any. I firmly believe that jurors should not be tampered with by anyone to try any case, no matter what it is.' And from there he did telephone to Mr. Langdon." The Court: "When was this, Mr. Snyder?" "A. That was on the 31st of July, pretty close to 5 o'clock in the afternoon. "Q. Did Mr. Kelly call up a telephone number from the office at that time? "A. He called up Mr. Langdon from the office at that time. I was sitting right by the side of him." [392] Of Blake's negotiations Kelly testified: "Mr. Blake began about this way: He said, 'Now, John, I have got a proposition to make to you, and I don't know how you will take it. If you like it, all right, if you don't, just keep it quiet.' He says, 'There is a chance for you to make a little money.' He said, 'You are drawn to serve on the Ruef jury.' I was surprised to hear that. I told him, 'I know I am on some panel in Judge Lawlor's Court, but didn't know it was the Ruef jury.' I said, 'How did you find out?' 'Oh,' he said--I think he said a friend of his told him, or something like that; but anyhow he said, 'Now, it is this way; there is $500 in it for you if you will get on that jury and vote to acquit Mr. Ruef.' I says, 'Well, Mr. Blake, I have never done anything like that, and it is a pretty big chance to take. I don't want anything like that'; and he began to urge it on me. I said, 'Now, give me a chance to think it over.'" Kelly testified that his first impulse was to denounce Blake. But instantly he reflected that the denunciation would do no good. Besides, he reflected, it was possible that Blake might be trapped. As soon as Blake left the office, Kelly told what had occurred to his employer, Snyder, and within an hour was in consultation with District Attorney Langdon and Burns. [393] Judge Sturtevant, at the investigation which followed, showed himself not at all clear as to details. Finally Murphy asked him: "Q. Judge, do you remember that I said to you that I had information that one of the jurors was willing to sell his vote for $1,000 and someone had come to me with that? "A. I remember, Mr. Murphy, you mentioned the amount of $1,000 regarding one of his statements, but I would not go further than that; I don't remember what this man had agreed to do for the thousand dollars. That is my general recollection that that is about the substance of the statement you made to me." [394] Murphy's testimony on this point was as follows: "On a day between the 20th of July and the 1st day of August, I went to the office of Mr. Newburgh. Mr. Newburgh was then engaged in defending Mr. Ruef on a preliminary examination had in one of the Parkside cases. We were discussing generally the Ruef cases and the graft prosecution, and a man came into the office who was introduced to me by Mr. Newburgh as E. A. S. Blake. This present jury panel had been drawn, and we were discussing the Ruef cases generally, and finally I made a remark that the trial of Mr. Ruef in one of these cases--referring to 1436, 1437 and 1438, would proceed as soon as the Police Court examination was finished, and I stated that a jury had been impaneled, or a jury had been drawn, I had a list of the jury in my pocket, and I pulled it out and said to both Mr. Newburgh and to Mr. Blake: 'Perhaps you might know some of these people.' Mr. Blake glanced at the list, and he came down to the name of Mr. Kelly, and he said, 'I know Mr. Kelly; I have known him for a number of years; I used to work at Shreve's jewelry store with him; and he is an intimate acquaintance of mine.' Then I said, having in mind the decision of your Honor in the contempt case of W. J. Burns and others--" The Court: (interruption): "Did this occur after that decision?" "A. Yes--no, your Honor--I don't know--no, no. But having in mind--I will state what I had in mind--a statement your Honor had made at some previous time, that either side had the right to find out how the jury stood; that is, if they used legitimate means. I said to Mr. Blake, I said, 'How do you think Mr. Kelly stands on the graft prosecution?' 'Well,' he said, 'Mr. Kelly is a very liberal-minded fellow and I think he would give Ruef a square deal.' So I then said, 'Well, I would like to find out whether any of Mr. Burns' gumshoe men have interviewed him, or whether he belongs to the Good Government League or the League of Justice or any kindred organizations.' He said he would find out the next time he met Mr. Kelly." See printed transcript on appeal The People vs. Abraham Ruef, Part II, Vol. II, p. 878. For Newburgh's statement see same transcript, part and volume, pages 943 and 944. [395] In this there was remarkable similarity to the legal assistance given thugs who were from time to time arrested for interfering with the work of the Prosecution. [396] Murphy had figured in the Ruef trials, somewhat sensationally, from the beginning. When, for instance, Ruef, early in March, 1907, was a fugitive from justice, Murphy was acting as one of his attorneys. He was placed on the stand in Judge Dunne's court. The Chronicle, in its issue of March 7, 1907, contained the following account of his testimony: "Frank J. Murphy, one of Ruef's lawyers, testified that he had last seen Ruef just outside Hebbard's courtroom on Monday. "Have you been doing any business with him since?" "Murphy declined to answer this under his privilege as an attorney. 'We are looking for an absconding and hostile defendant, and the witness should not be allowed to draw conclusions as to whether the business he is doing for him is privileged,' declared Hiram Johnson. "Heney suggested that it was the request to do this business rather than the business itself, that was sought by the Prosecution. "A compromise was effected on an answer by the witness that he had not communicated directly or indirectly with Ruef during the past forty-eight hours." [397] About the same time, Captain John J. West became involved in a charge of being connected with an alleged attempt to corruptly influence a talesman named John R. Foley to vote to acquit Ruef. But the West case was so overshadowed in importance by the Blake-Murphy-Newburgh proceedings that the public paid comparatively little attention to it. [398] "Confessing his crimes," said The Call in its issue of October 30, 1908, "Blake, the jury briber, lays bare the ulcer that eats away the vitals of popular government. He explains why the San Francisco Graft Prosecution has not yet put anybody in the penitentiary. He makes it clear why Ruef is not in stripes. He shows why it is next to impossible to convict a rich man. He answers the familiar question, 'What's the matter with San Francisco?' "On his way to prison Blake pauses for a moment and gives the people of San Francisco the most convincing argument in favor of the Graft Prosecution that they have had since the boodled Supervisors told their story of shame, and Ruef, in tears, delivered his confession, since recanted. Blake's revelation is of inestimable value to the cause of decency. Opportunely he tears away curtain and scenery and lets the people see what goes on behind the showy pretense of the graft defense. In the nick of time he exposes some of the actors in that satirical comedy which might very well be called 'To Hell with the Law--Money is Above It.'" [399] Members of the faculty of Stanford University sent the following communication to Rudolph Spreckels, William H. Langdon, Francis J. Heney, William J. Burns and their associates: "We, the undersigned citizens of the State of California, realizing the far reaching significance of the sworn confession, as a jury briber, of E. A. S. Blake, extend to you our earnest and sincere congratulations on having successfully demonstrated the nature of some of the obstacles blocking the way of the conviction of powerful criminals in our commonwealth. "Believing that no stability of social relations, including normal business conditions, can be established on a less firm basis than incorruptible courts and honest juries, leading to the prompt and sure administration of justice, we wish to assure you of our continued confidence and moral support in the great work upon which you are engaged." The letter was signed by President David Starr Jordan and practically all the members of the faculty. [400] Similar testimony was given at Murphy's trial. [401] It developed later that the Blakes had been living together under a contract marriage. Later they went through the marriage ceremony. This phase of the case was made much of by the defense. Mrs. Blake, however, stood devotedly by her husband through all the trying events that followed his arrest and imprisonment. [402] Of these promissory notes Blake, in his statement to the court as published at the time, testified as follows: "Q. How much money were you to get? A. I was to get $10,000. "Q. For what? What were you to get that $10,000 for? A. Well, I was to say nothing about this matter, and that my wife would-- "Q. In other words--. A. She was to be provided for. She was to get $100 a month. The Court. How? A. To be taken care of when I was convicted, you know. "Q. During your incarceration? A. Yes, and I was to have the $10,000." Mr. Langdon: "Q. Who told you he would give you $10,000? A. Mr. Murphy. "Q. What did he say? Just tell us what he said about that. A. The money was to be placed in the hands of a third party, who I would select, provided the one I selected would be satisfactory to them and they felt they could always have confidence in, or something of that kind. That $10,000 was to be turned over to me immediately upon my sentence--just as soon as my sentence was passed the money was to be turned over. "Q. As soon as the court sentenced you you would receive the $10,000 that Murphy put into the hands of this third person? A. Yes. "Q. Did he tell you what kind of money it was, or what representative value it was. Did he show you any of that? Did Murphy show you anything? A. Yes, he showed me $7,500, but he did not show me the $10,000 that was put into the hands of the party that I selected. He told me that he had it. "Q. What was this $7,500 that Murphy showed you? In what form or shape? A. In notes. "Q. Promissory notes? A. Yes. "Q. Signed by who? A. Signed by Mr. Ruef. "Q. Abraham Ruef? A. Yes. "Q. Who else signed them, if any one? A. They were indorsed by his father and sister. "Q. His father? "The Court--promissory notes to you from Abraham Ruef, and indorsed? A. The promissory notes, your honor, were made out to Mr. Murphy, and he was to turn these over to the third party, indorsed, I presume, to the third party, who I might select. The notes read, 'One year after date I promise to pay to Frank J. Murphy,' that is the way the notes read. "Q. And signed? A. And signed by Mr. Ruef, and then they were countersigned or indorsed by his father and sister." [403] Stevens denied this. Stevens was called before the Grand Jury and questioned. He declined to answer on the ground that the relations of attorney toward client cannot be violated. Blake exonerated Stevens from this obligation. But Stevens held that he acted for Murphy as well as Blake. The court held, however, that the communications were not privileged. Stevens in his testimony which followed, denied everything that tended to implicate himself and Murphy in any way with the attempted jury fixing, or with the alleged $10,000 fund. [404] Among those who testified to Murphy's good character was Rev. H. H. Wyman, at that time the head of the Paulist Order at San Francisco. Another Paulist priest, Rev. Stark, showed great interest in Murphy's welfare. After Murphy's acquittal a story was current in San Francisco to the effect that at a dinner given soon after Murphy's acquittal, Murphy had promised a present to the Paulist Church, St. Mary's, and that Father Stark had announced that a plate bearing Murphy's name and the date of his acquittal should be placed upon the gift. However unjustified the story may have been, Murphy did give St. Mary's a present--a pulpit. On the pulpit was put a plate bearing Murphy's name and a date. The incident so incensed priests of the Paulist order who were not in sympathy with the course of Fathers Wyman and Stark at Murphy's trial, that they entered the church with a screw-driver, removed the plate, and threw it into San Francisco bay. Later a second plate was put upon the pulpit. So far as the writer knows, the second plate is still in its place. CHAPTER XXV. THE SHOOTING OF HENEY. In spite of the sensational events following the trapping of Blake, the work of impaneling a jury to try Ruef went steadily on. After months of effort,[405] a jury was finally sworn to try the case. Again the telling of the sordid story of the city's betrayal commenced. Gallagher, the pivotal witness, had begun his sorry recital. In the midst of it occurred what those who had followed the methods of the graft defense had long predicted. Assistant District Attorney Heney was shot down.[406] The shooting occurred in open court during a brief recess. Heney was seated at his place at the attorneys' table talking with an assistant. The jury had left the courtroom. Gallagher had for the moment left the witness box and was standing a few feet from Heney waiting opportunity to speak with him. A few feet further away was Heney's body guard. In the room were something more than 200 citizens waiting for the trial to be resumed. There was the usual confusion which attends a five-minute court recess. Court attaches, officials, attorneys, citizens were passing to and fro without hindrance. The man who shot Heney had no difficulty in gaining access to the courtroom. He walked deliberately to the attorneys' table, and before he was even noticed, had fired deliberately at the Assistant Prosecutor. The gun was held not more than six inches from Heney's head. In an instant, Heney's bodyguard was upon the assassin. But the bodyguard's efforts came late. Heney, apparently mortally wounded, was lying unconscious on the floor, the blood gushing from a ragged hole in front of the right ear, just under the temple.[407] Heney's assailant was found to be one Morris Haas, an ex-convict, who had succeeded in securing a place on the jury at the former Ruef trial. Heney had exposed him.[408] When it was demanded of him why he had attempted to kill Heney, he murmured incoherently, that it was "for humanity's sake." Although closely questioned Haas would tell little of value to those who were seeking to get at the real motive behind the assault. He was thoroughly searched both by Detective Burns and Captain of Police Thomas Duke, and then taken to the county jail where he was closely guarded. A short time before the shooting of Heney, Judge Lawlor had had attorneys of both sides before him to state that in his judgment, he should remand Ruef, who was out of jail under heavy bonds, to the custody of the Sheriff for the remainder of the trial. Shortly after this conference Heney had been shot down. When the court had re-convened, and the jury had been dismissed for the day, Judge Lawlor carried out his intention and ordered the Sheriff to take charge of Ruef. The shooting had occurred on Friday afternoon, November 13. The court adjourned until the following Monday.[409] Heney in the meantime had been taken to a hospital. There it was found that the wound was not necessarily fatal. The rumors current that Heney had been killed were denied. This tended to calm the excitement. Nevertheless, San Francisco and all California were aroused as never before in the State's history. In a twinkling, the results of months of misrepresentation, ridicule and abuse of the Prosecution were swept away. Haas' bullet had not killed Heney,[410] but it had awakened the community to tardy realization of its responsibility.[411] Men who had laughed at the Examiner's "Mutt cartoons" ridiculing the Prosecution, now threatened to mob The Examiner office. Patrons of the defense-supporting Chronicle now voiced their utter condemnation of that paper. Thousands withdrew their subscriptions from the two publications. The time was ripe for the demagogue. An unpolitic word from the defense just then, an incendiary speech from some unwise partisan of the Prosecution, would have been sufficient to have sent a mob marching upon the jail in which Haas and Ruef were confined, or upon the residences of the indicted bribe-givers, or against the newspaper offices which for months had labored to make the Graft Prosecution unpopular. There was a feeling that the criminal element was too powerfully intrenched to be reached through the ordinary legal channels. The feeling, which had subsided when the Graft Prosecution opened,[412] that the graft evil could not be corrected except by extra-legal means, was to some degree revived. In this emergency, the leaders of the Graft Prosecution, by counseling moderation and observance of the law, did yeoman service in the keeping of good order in San Francisco. The Citizens' League of Justice[413] called a mass meeting for the Saturday evening following the shooting. Even in the call, the League urged there be no breach of the peace. "Francis J. Heney," the League's call read, "has fallen by the hand of an assassin, shot from behind while fighting at his post in the cause of justice for the people of this city. He would be the first man to appeal to the calm reason of the citizens to preserve order and proceed only by the processes of law; to look not for vengeance, but to demand swift justice through the courts. We make the same appeal." Mayor Taylor presided at the meeting. Long before the hour set for the opening, the auditorium was packed to the doors, with thousands on the outside clamoring for entrance. Those in charge of the meeting were compelled to call it to order several minutes before they had intended. Professor George H. Boke of the University of California Law School, and manager of the Citizens' League of Justice, was to introduce Mayor Taylor. Several minutes before the time set for the meeting, the crowd started a cheer for Heney. The demonstration lasted for fully five minutes. Then some one started the cry, "Throw the Examiner out." Hundreds half rose from their seats, their eyes bent upon the press table where representatives of The Examiner were seated. Professor Boke at once grasped the significance of the movement, and acted on the instant. Stepping to the fore, he made a brief address introducing Mayor Taylor, thereby checking the threatened demonstration. Mayor Taylor was quick to sound the keynote of the meeting. "Let us," he said in introducing the first speaker, "see to it that no matter who else breaks the law, that we shall not break it."[414] Every speaker who followed the Mayor emphasized this. "Let us," said the Rev. William Rader, "have heads which are cool and minds which are rational." "We stand in this fight," said District Attorney Langdon, "for law and order. And I want to say to you and ask you to pass it on to your neighbors, that, as crimes have been committed, those crimes must be punished, but punished within the law. And I want to say further, that as the law officers of this city and county, we shall consider any man who expresses an opinion or sentiment that we ought to resort to measures extra-judicial, as an enemy of good government." "Why," demanded James D. Phelan, "should we take violent steps? Is not San Francisco a great, civilized community? Are not our American institutions still intact? They are. And although in the early days of San Francisco the Vigilance Committee, an extra-legal tribunal, was resorted to for the purpose of correcting such abuses, we must remember that at that time we were a border State, at that time we were a mining camp. Only such a strenuous method would then have succeeded, because judges who were on the bench were elected by ballot-box stuffers, a council was elected in the same way. Crime was rampant, nobody was punished. Then the men of San Francisco organized a tribunal and gave an orderly trial to every offender whom they apprehended, and as a result this city was cleansed of crime and remained a model community for twenty years. "But conditions now are different. It is true that within the last year there has been a feeling in this community that the criminal law had broken down, and that we could not, under the law, punish the offenders; and that the courts, the highest courts, abetted and aided criminals by the rankest interpretations, technical interpretations of the statutes. They refused to lean on the side of order and justice, and they have brought disgrace upon the judiciary of California, all over the world. "But our civilization and our institutions are safe. That vote the other day, and the election of Judge Dunne, the election two years ago of Judge Coffey and Judge Lawlor, give us courage and confidence to believe that, under the constitution and the laws, we can win our battle if you only give us time, without any resort to violence; and we are willing, though one hundred days have passed, to pursue that work, because that is the only way we can do it under the constitution and the laws." When Rudolph Spreckels entered the building he was greeted with demonstration. He, too, while expressing great sympathy for his friend who had been stricken down, joined in counseling that nothing be done outside the law. With the urging that no exhibition of mob-violence be added to the burden of the afflicted community, was given assurance that the Graft Prosecution should go on; that the laws should be upheld; that those responsible for the conditions which had been forced upon San Francisco should be brought to justice. Whatever danger there was of violence to members of the graft defense, vanished at that Citizens' League of Justice mass meeting. At its conclusion, resolutions were adopted condemning the methods of the defense, declaring unwavering allegiance of those present to law, and pledging support in the cleansing of the city of grafters and boodlers.[415] Another crisis had passed in San Francisco. The situation was not unlike that of two years before, when the clamor that drastic means be taken to free the city of Ruef's domination, was silenced by announcement that Rudolph Spreckels had guaranteed a fund for the investigation of municipal conditions, and to prosecute those found to be guilty of corruption.[416] But even as the citizens met in mass meeting another tragedy of the Graft Prosecution was enacted. Haas, under the eyes of policemen specially detailed to watch him, killed himself or was killed. With him died all hope of discovering who had urged him to avenge himself upon Heney. Haas' suicide, if it were suicide; or his murder, if it were murder; is one of the mysteries of the graft cases. He was shot with a derringer. The weapon was an inch through at the butt and 5-8 wide at the muzzle--certainly an easily discovered weapon by officers practiced in searching men. And yet, Haas had, before he was put in his cell, been thoroughly searched both by Captain Duke[417] of the police force and Detective Burns. The two officers are certain that Haas had no weapon upon him. And yet, one theory advanced by his keepers is that Haas had the derringer all the time concealed in his shoe. Another theory is that the derringer was smuggled in to him. But, with Haas under watchful eyes of special guards, by whom? Another theory, popular at the time, was that Haas had been murdered in his cell. But if murdered--or even if the derringer were smuggled in to him--what was the motive behind it? These are questions which, short of some death-bed confession, perhaps, are not likely to be answered. Those who hurried to his cell at the report of the derringer found Haas dead. Whether he had shot himself or whether he had been shot, his lips were sealed forever. On the Sunday following the shooting of Heney, most of the Protestant pastors of San Francisco made the attempted assassination the subject of their sermons. The same course was taken throughout the State generally. In the afternoon mass meetings were held in all parts of the State, at which resolutions were adopted condemning the methods of the defense,[418] and pledging support to the prosecution. Telegrams[419] of condolence and of encouragement poured in from all parts of the country. But in spite of this popular expression of sympathy, there were astonishing exhibitions on the part of the associates of those who had been indicted or nearly indicted because of the graft revelations, of feeling against Heney. For example, Rev. David J. Evans, of Grace Episcopal Church, on the Sunday following the attempted assassination, offered prayer for the recovery of the stricken prosecutor. Instantly there was commotion in the pews. Members of the congregation, by frown and toss of head, indicated their profound disapproval of their pastor's petition.[420] But frown and head-toss and open disapproval of the pews neither stopped the prayer, nor prevented its answer. The prayer was offered; Heney did not die. Within an hour after Heney had been shot down, three of the foremost lawyers at the California bar, Hiram W. Johnson, Matt I. Sullivan and Joseph J. Dwyer, volunteered their services to take up the struggle for civic righteousness at the point to which Heney had carried it. But the attorneys for Ruef, having exhausted every other delaying move, saw in the shooting of Heney opportunity for further delay. They accordingly moved for change of venue. Failing here, a motion was made for thirty days' delay. This being denied, Ruef's attorneys moved that the jury be dismissed. This move failing, an attempt was made to examine the twelve men in the jury box to determine whether the shooting had prejudiced them and unfitted them for jury service. These many motions were backed up with affidavits containing all that had been said at the public meetings, and all that had been printed in San Francisco newspapers, since Heney had been shot. The reading of the voluminous affidavits consumed hours. The prosecution filed answering affidavits which also consumed time. But Judge Lawlor finally denied all the contentions of the defense and ordered the trial to proceed. During these proceedings, the jury had been locked up in charge of the regular court officials. The jury had not been in the courtroom when Heney was shot, and from the moment of the shooting had been shut away from the public. But lest the jury had learned something of the shooting, and to account for Heney's absence, Judge Lawlor deemed it incumbent upon him to notify them that Heney had been shot, and to admonish them that the transaction so far as the court, the jury, the defendant, the People of the State, the counsel, and all other interests interested or involved in the trial were concerned was to stand as though it had not occurred. This Judge Lawlor did.[421] The trial itself was not unlike the other graft trials. The Supervisors told the story of their bribery. Gallagher told how Ruef had given him the money, and how he had given it to Supervisor Furey. Furey testified that he had received the money from Gallagher because of his vote to grant the overhead trolley permit to the United Railroads. The story had by this time become sadly familiar to the people of San Francisco. The trouble experienced with witnesses at former trials characterized this trial as well. Alex. Lathem, for example, at one time Ruef's chauffeur, disappeared from the State about the time the trial was to begin. He was brought back from Oregon under extradition, charged with having accepted a bribe to leave the jurisdiction of the court. On the stand,[422] Lathem repudiated important evidence which he had given before the Grand Jury, and to which he had made affidavit. As a minor incident of the graft trials, Lathem, because of this incident, was indicted for perjury. But in spite of the backwardness of certain of its witnesses, the prosecution succeeded in getting its case before the jury. The jury found Ruef guilty as charged. He was sentenced to fourteen years' penal servitude at San Quentin prison. FOOTNOTES: [405] Seventy-two days were required to impanel the jury before which Ruef was tried, fifty days being devoted to actual court work. There were summoned 1,450 talesmen, of whom 446 were examined. Six jurors were denied their freedom for forty-two days before the jury was completed. Blake, arrested for jury-fixing, was trapped, tried and convicted before the jury was completed. Two of Ruef's attorneys were, during the impaneling of the jury, indicted for alleged connection with Blake's attempt to influence the jury in Ruef's favor. [406] There is, so far as the writer can find, no evidence that the Graft Defense or its agents employed Haas to kill Heney any more than there is evidence that the Graft Defense or its agents employed Pauduveris to murder the pivotal witness, Gallagher. But that Haas was urged to kill Heney because of the exposure of Haas's previous record at the first Ruef trial is well established. "I was urged frequently," said Haas in a confession made to Langdon and Burns, "to kill Heney by certain persons whose names I will not tell you, and I also talked to other people about killing Heney and was advised by them not to do it. In addition to that, certain persons approached me several times and referred to the time I was thrown off the Ruef jury, saying: 'I'd never stand that sort of a roast,' and 'I'd kill a man who did that to me,' and similar things." Who urged Haas to do this thing, and what was their motive? Haas alone could have answered the first question. But the bullet that ended his life sealed his lips forever. Of Haas's purpose in getting on the first Ruef jury we have some testimony. Joseph Brachman, a close associate of Ruef, who had known Haas for nearly a quarter of a century, said in an interview published in the San Francisco Call, November 15, 1908: "When Ruef was on trial in the Parkside case, on the bribery charge, I heard that Haas had been called on the jury panel. At that time I was frequently in consultation with Ruef, every day, in fact. But I was afraid to go to Ruef with what I knew of Haas, so I went to one of his lawyers--I won't say which one--and told him of the record of Haas. I told him that Haas was a bad man and an ex-convict. I said that Ruef should challenge him. "I was in court the day that Haas qualified and passed into the jury. Again I told his attorney that Haas was a bad man, to get rid of him, but nothing was done. When Heney produced the evidence showing that Haas was an ex-convict I was in court, also. I met Haas after he had been disqualified. Haas told me the reason why he stayed on the jury and why his record was not made public by the defense of Ruef. He told me that he expected $4,000 from Ruef for his services on the Parkside case jury. He said that he was hard up, that he was in debt, that he owed money on his saloon and that if he had been permitted to stay on the jury he would have been able, with the $4,000 to be paid him by Ruef, to clear himself of debt. "He also told me, Haas did, on the day that he was disqualified, that he was going to 'kill one of the prosecutors.' He did not say which one, but he frequently repeated to me, that he was 'going to get one of the prosecutors.' I met him many times and often, frequently he told me that he was 'going to get one of the prosecutors.'" [407] Physicians state that Heney's escape from death was by a hair's breadth. Had the bullet, striking as it did, taken any other course death would have been inevitable. [408] See Chapter XXIII. [409] "Will they," demanded The Call the morning after Heney had been shot down, "stop at nothing? Are not stealing, perjury, bribery, dynamiting, murder, enough? Must the course of justice in this community run the gamut of violence, as well as of slander and pettifogging obstruction? "Apparently it must. But there is at least no longer any reason to doubt where the responsibility lies. A bare chance, the momentary tremor of an assassin's hand, may have saved the life of Francis J. Heney to this community. There will be no tremor in the finger of scorn that points past the miserable wretch that did the shooting to the men that inspired it. A worthless crank, of course. It always is. Dirty hands for dirty work. But softer hands and keener brains plan it. And the community will waste no wrath on the miserable tool, now cowering in jail. It was not he who has dogged the steps of Francis J. Heney these two years with hired thugs. It was not he who has filled the courtrooms with professional ruffians. It was not he who dynamited Gallagher--or hired it done. Least of all was it he who made a joke of that crime and sought to make a joke and a byword of the heroic Heney--'poor Beany.'" [410] While Heney lay wounded at San Francisco, and Haas lay dead, another tragedy growing out of the Graft Prosecution was being enacted on the other side of the globe. John Krause, who had been T. V. Halsey's assistant at the time of the Pacific States Telephone briberies, killed himself on the steamer Adriatic as it plied from Cherbourg, France, to Queenstown, Ireland. Krause had disappeared from San Francisco in December, 1907. It was never charged that Krause was a principal to the bribery transactions, or that he had even guilty knowledge of them. His only possible connection with the graft cases was as a witness against the Pacific States Telephone and Telegraph Company officials. [411] "A great work," said Hiram W. Johnson, in an interview printed in the San Francisco Call, November 14, 1908, "undertaken and accomplished, though not yet wholly completed, has been retarded for a day by an assassin's bullet. When Frank Heney fell today while in the performance of his duty, decency and the right were stricken. For two years this one man has persevered in the right, for right's sake alone. Without compensation, sacrificing a great legal practice, giving without complaint the best years of his life, Francis J. Heney, facing all the combined forces of evil in this community and State, has stood unflinchingly at his post, making the fight that is the fight of all of us. Daily abuse and vilification have been his portion and reward. In spite of it, where a weaker man would have faltered, Heney has persevered. He has done in seeking to make equality before the law an assurance in this State, all that a strong and a brave man could do. Were he to pass away tonight he'd need no other monument than the work he has done. For generations his expose of rottenness in San Francisco, his prosecutions of the criminal rich will live and make this city and State better. He has been shot simply because he was fighting for the right. Not alone has he been wounded; but the community and the commonwealth have suffered the injury. "We who were with him in the early days of the struggle, and knew his every mood; who saw him at his work day and night, and loved the qualities that made it possible for him to accomplish what he has, can not express our horror and indignation and anger at his attempted assassination. May God speed his recovery." [412] See Chapter IV. [413] The Citizens' League of Justice was organized immediately after the attempted assassination of Witness Gallagher by means of dynamite. Those immediately connected with the prosecution, it had been amply demonstrated, were risking their lives. In the Citizens' League of Justice was proposed an organization, entirely separate and apart from the graft prosecution, to back the prosecution. The idea originated with Bruce Porter, the artist. Rev. Charles N. Lathrop, of the Church of the Advent, became interested. The initial meeting was held at Father Lathrop's house. While the League had no connection with the prosecution, it became most effective in support of the prosecution group. Professor George H. Boke, of the University of California Law School, accepted the hazardous position of the League's executive officer. In spite of the fact that he was jeopardizing his position at the State University by his course, Professor Boke did much effective work in bringing the conditions which confronted San Francisco squarely before the public. Matt I. Sullivan, who afterwards became Chief Justice of the State Supreme Court, served as the League's president. [414] Dr. Taylor's observations on this point were as follows: "Let us see to it that no matter who else breaks the law, that we shall not break it. In this crisis, we must, above all things, keep our heads. We must, above all things, while resolute and determined, be self-restrained. "San Francisco has had many afflictions. She now has this additional affliction of the assassination of one who stood for the people's rights; of one who was fearlessly engaged in the important and priceless business of civic regeneration, and who, while in the act of performing the greatest of all duties as a citizen, was laid low by the bullets of an assassin. "But let us not add to the affliction the affliction of breaking the peace. Let us, above all things, as I have said, keep ourselves restrained. Let us not add to the afflictions that are upon us the affliction of mob law. Let us go about our business, whatever we may do in this matter, in a peaceful way, but in a resolute way, in a determined way. I am satisfied that the officers of the law will do their duty. I am satisfied that the judges will do their duty, and that our juries will do their duty. And if they, each one of them, perform faithfully the functions upon his part, we have nothing to fear, and we shall see that those who are guilty are punished and are rightfully punished." [415] The following resolutions were adopted at the meeting: "Whereas, following unparalleled disaster from the elements our unfortunate city fell upon times of unprecedented civic corruption, necessitating the tearing down of the wreckage of government, and the rebuilding of our civic structure on foundations of law and justice; and "Whereas, the first labor necessary was the prosecution of criminals, bribe givers, bribe takers and brokers in corruption; and "Whereas, the prosecution, beset with many difficulties, obtained its evidence in the only way that such evidence could be obtained; and "Whereas, in the subsequent attempt to convict the guilty there was developed a vast conspiracy to thwart the ends of justice, which conspiracy has involved social boycott and unjust and coercive business pressure, has openly employed thugs to terrorize the officers of the law, has employed lawyers to browbeat and insult witnesses, prosecutors and the judges on the bench, and to waste the time and money and to exhaust the patience of the people by useless and technical delays, and which conspiracy has moreover involved so large a part of our public press that many of our people have been deprived of the truth and have been fed upon poisoned lies; and "Whereas, up to the present time the law as administered has proved inadequate to secure that prompt and certain application of justice, which must be the basis of social order; and "Whereas, out of this conspiracy grew plots to kidnap, and actual kidnapping; plots to bribe juries, and actual jury bribing; plots to assassinate witnesses and an attempt to assassinate a witness by dynamite; and out of it also grew plots to assassinate the prosecutors, and the attempted assassination of the bravest friend that San Francisco has known, Francis J. Heney; "Therefore be it resolved, that here and now we declare our unwavering allegiance to law, and that if the criminal law be found to be so framed as to permit the escape of civic malefactors we shall see to it that the law be amended; that if the lax administration of the criminal law be due to misinterpretation by judges, we shall see to it that men be placed upon the bench capable of construing the law. "Be it further resolved, that we call upon the Supervisors to provide adequate funds for the District Attorney's office to secure the detection, prosecution and conviction of criminals, high or low, and the full protection of officers in the discharge of their duties; "Be it further resolved, that we demand the truth from our public press, and shall see to it that our people are informed of the facts that they may judge of those who by lying and misrepresentation are perverting public opinion. "Be it further resolved, that we solemnly assert our utmost confidence in the law-abiding character of our people; that we here declare our gratitude for the inestimable service rendered us by the office of the District Attorney in the restoration of reputable and responsible government; and that we stand firm in our determination to indorse and to aid that office to the end that all persons accused of crime shall be fairly tried and their guilt or innocence be finally established in accordance with the provisions of law. "To these ends we pledge ourselves, that our beloved city may be purged of boodlers and grafters and be a better home for ourselves and our children. "Be it further resolved, that we send word to our wounded champion, that his labors for us are appreciated and that his sufferings for our sake are not in vain." [416] See Chapter IV. [417] Captain Duke, at an investigation which followed, testified: "At Mr. Burns's suggestion, we took Haas into the room off the courtroom occupied by the stenographers. First we made a slight search, and then I said to Mr. Burns: 'Are you sure we searched him thoroughly?' and we went over him again. I felt down to his shoes. I always search a man that way, for when I first went on the police force I had an experience with a Chinaman, whom Policeman Helms, who was recently killed, and myself had arrested. We found a dagger in his shoe, and since then I have always examined a man's feet. I will state that I felt the man's shoes the other day after they had been put on the corpse and the derringer placed in them, and from the bulge I noticed then I am sure that I would have felt the weapon had it been in his shoe at the time of the arrest. We were looking for anything that we could find. From something the man said--that he didn't care if he lived or not--I thought that he might make an attempt to commit suicide. "It would have been an utter impossibility for the derringer to have been anywhere else than in the man's shoe," Duke continued. "If it was in his shoe it would have been under the stocking and the man would have had it there 29 hours before he killed himself. It would have made a mark on the flesh or interfered with his walking, and he did not even limp. If the cartridges had been in the shoe they could have got under the foot and the man could not have walked." [418] Neither press nor defending lawyers were spared in the criticism. "We have," said Rev. Bradford Leavitt of the First Unitarian Church at San Francisco, "dreamed that we were living under the government of laws, whereas we were living under the government of newspapers hired by corrupt corporations, and the enemies of civic decency." "The lawyers who are paid to thwart this Graft Prosecution," said Charles S. Wheeler, "have proceeded with deliberate plan to destroy the effectiveness of the prosecution by withdrawing the support of the people. In this way they have reached the home of every individual. They have brought cunningly into the home their hireling periodicals, and a press misguided or worse, has been largely instrumental in aiding their desire." [419] President Roosevelt's telegram to Mr. Spreckels was as follows: "White House, Nov. 19, 1908. "To Rudolph Spreckels, San Francisco. "Am inexpressibly shocked at the attempted assassination of Heney and most earnestly hope he will recover. The infamous character of the would-be assassin no less than the infamous character of the deed call attention in a striking way to the true character of the forces against which Heney and you and your associates have been struggling. Every decent American who has the honor and interest of the country at heart should join not only in putting a stop to the cause of violent crime of which this man's act is but one of the symptoms, but also in stamping out the hideous corruption in which men like this would-be assassin are bred and flourish, and that can only be done by warring as Heney has warred relentlessly against every man who is guilty of corrupt practices without any regard to his social standing and his prominence in the world of politics or the world of business. I earnestly hope that Heney will recover, and I give utterance to what I know would be Heney's wish when I say that I earnestly hope that whether he recovers or not there be no faltering in the work in which Heney has been so gallant and efficient a leader. "9:10 A. M. "THEODORE ROOSEVELT." President Roosevelt telegraphed Mrs. Heney as follows: "White House, Nov. 14, 1908. "Mrs. Francis J. Heney:--Am inexpressibly shocked at news of the attempted assassination of Mr. Heney and am greatly relieved at the news this morning that he is doing well and will probably recover. I hope you will accept my deepest sympathy. Like all good American citizens, I hold your husband in peculiar regard for the absolutely fearless way in which he has attacked and exposed corruption without any regard to the political or social prominence of the offenders or to the dangerous character of the work. Your husband has taken his life in his hands in doing this great task for our people and is entitled to the credit and esteem, and above all, to the heartiest support of all good citizens. The infamous character of the man who has assassinated him should add not only to the horror and detestation felt for the deed, but also to the determination of all decent citizens to stamp out the power of all men of his kind. "THEODORE ROOSEVELT." [420] Grace Episcopal Church is attended by many of the most prominent citizens of San Francisco. At the time of the shooting of Heney, several prominent Episcopalians were under indictment. In spite of the intense feeling in his congregation, against the prosecution, Rev. Mr. Evans continued to give the work of the District Attorney's office his approval. An era of petty persecutions for Mr. Evans followed. He was finally brought to resign his pastorate and accept a less important charge at Palo Alto. In this connection it is interesting to note that in spite of powerful opposition to the prosecution of prominent Episcopalian laymen, the Convocation of the Church held at San Francisco in August, 1907, adopted the following resolutions unanimously: "Whereas, Our government is imperiled by the criminal use of wealth to influence legislation; and "Whereas, Existing conditions in San Francisco present a moral issue; therefore be it "Resolved, That, in the judgment of this convocation, bribery is always a crime deserving punishment, and, furthermore, that duty commands every Christian man to exert himself to foster a public recognition of the quality of the crime." [421] Judge Lawlor's statement to the jury was as follows: "Gentlemen of the Jury: I have a few words to say to you before this trial is resumed at this time. Since you have been sworn as jurors the Court has on many occasions, with elaborateness and repetition, sought to convey to your minds an understanding of your duties as jurors in this case. It has been pointed out to you that to the charge which is on trial here, the defendant, Abraham Ruef, has interposed a plea of not guilty. That charge, considered in connection with that plea, puts in issue, for the determination of this Court and jury, the allegations of that charge. You have been sworn as jurors to pass upon the facts in the case and to apply those facts, when resolved from the evidence, to the rules of law which the Court shall finally state to you to govern you in the rendition of your verdict. These many admonitions, as it has also been pointed out to you from time to time, are founded upon a provision of the law which makes it the duty of the Court to administer those admonitions. "The purpose of the law requiring those admonitions to be given is that when a jury is sworn to try an action it shall divest itself of all matters which theretofore might have found lodgment in the minds of the members and to proceed to render a verdict solely upon the matters which shall be brought to the attention of the jury in the due course of judicial proceedings. These constant reminders of that duty are calculated to keep the sense of jurors alive to a full compliance therewith. "I doubt if anything I could say at this time would tend to amplify what has already been declared from time to time in that behalf, but in view of a transaction that occurred in the courtroom on the afternoon of Friday, November 13, 1908, the Court deems it proper to re-emphasize with all the power that it may command the duty of the jury to proceed to the further discharge of its duty at this time in utter disregard of that transaction. The Court realizes that the jurors may have heard or seen a part of that transaction, or that phases of that transaction may have been communicated to the jury. Now, without regard to what extent that assumption may be justified, the Court desires the jurors to in every manner relieve their minds of any impression or anything that they have heard, or anything that has been said, or anything that has been communicated, or that shall hereafter he communicated concerning that transaction; in other words, we are to resume this trial at this time at precisely the point that had been reached when the recess, during which the transaction occurred, was declared. "I may state to you generally, that on that occasion Mr. Francis J. Heney, the Assistant District Attorney, was shot by a man bearing the name of Morris Haas; that Mr. Heney was wounded as a result of that assault. Happily the injury was not a serious one, and at this time there is every indication that Mr. Heney will recover from that injury. "Now, that transaction, so far as this Court and the jury, the defendant at the bar, the People of the State of California, the counsel and all other interests interested or involved in this trial are concerned, is to stand as though it had not occurred; no person is to be charged with any responsibility for that transaction; this is not the place for the consideration of that transaction. "It may be stated also to you that the assailant afterward took his own life while he was confined in the County Jail upon his arrest in connection with that transaction. "And neither matter, I repeat, should find any place in your minds. It should not in any manner form anything in the nature of bias or prejudice concerning anyone. "This Court would despair of having the law administered upon the charge at bar if the jurors did not in every manner comply with the admonition of the Court to exclude that transaction entirely from their minds." [422] Lathem testified before the Grand Jury that about the time the bribe money had been passed he had driven Ruef to the Hirsch Bros. store, where Ruef had obtained a shirt box. He had then driven Ruef to the offices of the United Railroads. Ruef had entered the offices with the box. He had come out later with the box and a package. With box and package he had gone to his own office, and from there, taking the box and package with him, he had been driven to the safe deposit vaults of the Western National Bank. Lathem did not testify before the Grand Jury until after Ruef had confessed, and then Lathem testified with Ruef's consent. It is a significant fact that Lathem was sent out of the State the first time not in the interest of Ruef but of Tirey L. Ford, head of the United Railroads law department. Lathem went to Colorado on an automobile trip with the father-in-law of Luther Brown, one of the United Railroad detectives. Lathem's wife was permitted to accompany them in the automobile. They stopped at the best hotels. Lathem was paid $150 a month. The importance of Lathem's testimony lies in the fact that at the time he took Ruef with the shirt-box to Ford's office, Ford had just received from the Relief corporation officials $50,000 in small currency, which made two large bundles, which were carried to Ford's office by Abbott and himself and placed in Ford's desk. This was at the noon hour. A little after one o'clock Ruef went to the Western Pacific Safety Deposit vaults where he then had a deposit box. The cubic contents of this box was not sufficient to accommodate those two bundles. Ruef at that time secured two additional boxes. The cubic contents of all three boxes together was just sufficient to nicely accommodate said two bundles. The theory of the prosecution was that Ruef carried bribe money in box and package. At the trial, Lathem stated that the story which he had told before the Grand Jury was not true. CHAPTER XXVI. THE CALHOUN TRIAL. The trial of Patrick Calhoun for offering a bribe to Supervisor Fred Nicholas began immediately after the holidays, following the Ruef trials. The trial brought into play all the machinery of the opposition at its worst to the prosecution. At all points the defense was carried on on a larger scale than at the former trials. There were more and better lawyers employed by the defendant; there were more thugs in evidence in the courtroom; there was greater activity on the part of the detectives, spies and agents engaged to meet the efforts of the men working under Detective Burns. Due largely to the activity of this army of opposition to the prosecution, the weakness of the methods of enforcing the criminal law was emphasized even more than at the other trials, and the defects shown up more glaringly. To secure a jury to try Ruef, for example, 1450 talesmen were called. This was regarded as a record. But before a jury had been secured to try Calhoun 2370 veniremen had been called into court, and no less than 922 examined. Thus, for every juror who sat at the Calhoun trial, 197 talesmen were called, and seventy-seven were questioned by the attorneys. The estimated number of words contained in the transcript of the examination of these talesmen was in millions. To conduct this examination three months were required. The securing of a jury to try Ruef occupied the time of the court for two months only. But it must be noted that the securing of the Calhoun and the Ruef juries occupied five months--to try charges contained in two indictments, whereas in all the graft cases 160 indictments had been brought. The defendants who preceded Calhoun to trial had an army of attorneys to represent them. But Calhoun's line of legal representatives was quite double that of any of his fellow graft defendants who had been caught in the prosecution drag-net. Prominent in Mr. Calhoun's defense appeared A. A. Moore, Stanley Moore, Lewis F. Byington, Earl Rogers, J. J. Barrett and Alexander King, supported by the giant of the California bar, Garret McEnerney. That the master mind of Garret McEnerney was directing many of the graft defense cases had been intimated from time to time, but there is no question about McEnerney's part in the defense of Calhoun. And opposed to the strongest men of the California bar, The People had two representatives. One of them, Heney, was serving without pay, was still a sick man not having fully recovered from his wound inflicted but a few months before, and worn out from the continued effort of a three-years' fight to get at the root of municipal corruption in San Francisco. The second, a regularly employed Deputy District Attorney, John J. O'Gara, was receiving $300 a month for his services. It is not unlikely that some of the best of the attorneys for the defense, for defending Mr. Calhoun, received as much in a day. Compared with the army of lawyers for the defense, the representation of The People was pitifully small. Through the long, grueling contest of the trial, lasting for five months and eight days,[423] Heney and O'Gara were kept under constant strain, while the defendant's attorneys relieved one another when their labors became irksome. The bulk of the hammering and of the technical quibbling was directed against Heney. Heney, still suffering from the effects of his wound, received at the Ruef trial, worn-out, over-worked, harassed in the public prints, would at times become thoroughly exasperated. Every indication of impatience on his part, or of temper, was made subject of attack in the opposing newspapers.[424] These attacks, long persisted in, did their part in the general campaign to weary the public with the prosecution, and undermine confidence in Heney. The examination of talesmen for jury service showed the results of this long-continued campaign. Many talesmen announced their sympathy with the defendants, and deplored the prosecution, which they appeared to believe had brought shame upon and injured the city. Some went so far as to call the prosecution of Calhoun an outrage.[425] Others intimated that the giving of bribe money might have been justifiable.[426] Such expressions, coming from men of average intelligence and ordinarily law-abiding, showed conclusively that the persistent efforts of the defense to poison the public mind against the prosecution was at last bringing results. But after months of effort a jury was secured to hear the case and the trial began. Heney, in his opening statement to the jury, set forth the prosecution expected to prove that Ruef authorized James L. Gallagher to offer the bribe to Supervisor Nicholas; that Ruef afterwards gave the money to Gallagher to pay Nicholas; that Calhoun authorized Ruef, either through Tirey L. Ford, or personally, or both, to make the offer to Gallagher and to authorize Gallagher to make the offer to Nicholas. The prosecution showed by Gallagher that the offer had been made to Nicholas and to every member of the Board of Supervisors with the exception of Rea. In this, Gallagher was corroborated by the Supervisors. Not only had the offer been made, but the bribe money had been paid. Gallagher testified that he had received $85,000 from Ruef to be distributed among the Supervisors for their votes which gave the United Railroads its overhead trolley permit, and that, after keeping out $15,000 for himself, he had distributed the money among them, giving to Supervisor Nicholas $4000 of the amount. Supervisor Nicholas testified that Gallagher had offered him the bribe and had paid him the money. By the officials of the United States Mint, the prosecution showed that $200,000, about the time of the bribery, had been turned over to General Tirey L. Ford, on order from Mr. Calhoun. The $200,000 could not be accounted for by the available books of the United Railroads. Ruef and Ford were shown to have been in close touch with each other during the period.[427] But nobody could be found who had seen Ford pass $200,000 to Mr. Ruef. Here was, perhaps, a weak link in the prosecution's chain of evidence. Mr. Calhoun did not, however, put General Ford on the stand to tell what he did with the money. Neither did Mr. Calhoun put Mr. Ruef on the stand to testify as to the source of the $85,000 which Ruef gave to Gallagher to pay the Supervisors for their votes by which the trolley permit was awarded to the United Railroads. But, however weak the link between Ford and Ruef, there was no weakness in the link between Calhoun and Ford. By evidence that could not be disputed, the prosecution showed that Ford got $200,000 through Calhoun. Frank A. Leach, Director of the United States Mint at San Francisco, testified that Calhoun, with General Ford, had called upon him at the Mint sometime between May 22 and May 24, 1906.[428] Calhoun called, Leach testified, to ascertain how $200,000, which had been transferred from the East to his credit."[429] could be drawn out in certain sums in favor of such persons as he might designate. Leach testified he had furnished Calhoun with the desired information. Ford afterwards appeared at the Mint with an order from Mr. Calhoun for $50,000,[430] which was paid to him. Later, Calhoun telegraphed to Leach from Cleveland, Ohio, to pay Ford a second $50,000; and still later the $100,000 remaining.[431] The Mint officials paid Ford the money in accordance with Mr. Calhoun's directions. Mr. Calhoun offered no evidence to show why this considerable sum was paid to General Ford, or what General Ford was supposed to have done with it. Mr. Calhoun, when the last of the $200,000 had been turned over to General Ford, had given Mr. Leach a receipt[432] in full for the amount. But what was quite as extraordinary as this direct evidence against Mr. Calhoun was the offer of the District Attorney to meet the defense's charges and insinuations against the prosecution. Rudolph Spreckels was called to the stand. The attorneys for the defense were invited to ask him any questions they saw fit. "From the time we attempted to impanel this jury," said Heney, in extending this invitation, "the attorneys for the defendant have been attempting to try Rudolph Spreckels, James D. Phelan and God knows who else. By insinuations they have been endeavoring to get into the mind of this jury the idea that Mr. Spreckels was back of this prosecution for malicious purposes and for gain, for profit, to get hold of the United Railroads. I told them when they were making those insinuations that I proposed to throw down the bars to them; that I proposed to force them to the proof; that I would put the witnesses upon the stand and would not object to a single question asked them. "The witness, Spreckels, is now upon the stand, and we won't object to their asking him anything on earth, from the time he was born down to the present day, to the present minute." One of the most frequent charges which had been made against the prosecution was that it had expended money wrongfully. Rogers asked for a statement of the prosecution's receipts and disbursements. Mr. Spreckels announced his willingness to account for every dollar expended, but refused, until he should be directed by the Court, to give the names of the contributors to the fund.[433] "Will you," broke in Heney addressing Calhoun's lawyers, "produce an itemized account of moneys expended in the defense of these matters?" "I beg your pardon?" questioned Rogers. "I say," said Heney, "will you produce an itemized account of moneys expended in opposition to these prosecutions?" The defense did not seize this opportunity to clear itself of the not unreasonable suspicion that money had been used to influence jurors to vote for acquittals; to get witnesses out of the State; to corrupt agents of the prosecution; and perhaps to attempt murder. On the contrary, the attorneys for the defense denounced Mr. Heney's suggestion as "misconduct." Mr. Spreckels stated his willingness to furnish itemized statement of the prosecution's expenditures. This he did. Furthermore, he submitted himself to rigorous cross-examination regarding the items of his account. But the clever attorneys for the defense uncovered nothing upon which charge of wrongful expenditure or questionable methods could be based.[434] The charge that Spreckels had engaged in the Graft Prosecution to injure the United Railroads came to as sorry an ending. By competent witnesses it was shown that the prosecution had been planned, and the preliminary work done, before the bribe-money in the trolley deal had passed. Furthermore, it was shown that Spreckels had offered to assist Calhoun to have the time of his franchises extended, if such extension were necessary for practical installation of the conduit electric system, asking only that the unsightly poles and overhead wires be not inflicted upon the city. It was only when Calhoun, dealing with a Board of Supervisors suspected of corruption, showed conclusively that he proposed to install an over-head trolley system, whether the people wanted it or not, that Spreckels and his associates organized their traction company. It was shown that the object of the organizers of the company was to demonstrate that the conduit system was practical for San Francisco. And, finally, the articles of incorporation under which the company proposed to operate, provided for the transfer under equitable arrangements of the proposed new lines to the city, should the city wish at any time to take them over. Mr. Spreckels and his associates were shown not to have had desire or inclination to engage in the street-car business. But it was shown that they proposed to fight for what they considered the best interests of the city of their birth and residence. Another frequently-made charge had been that Heney was the attorney for Rudolph Spreckels, directing a privately-conducted prosecution.[435] As a matter of fact, Langdon, and not Heney, headed the prosecution, and Langdon let it be known at all times that he was the final arbitrator in all questions growing out of the prosecution. And at no time did he fail to assert himself. But at the Calhoun trial, the fishing expeditions in which the defense indulged, brought the facts out convincingly that Heney, far from being in Spreckels' employ, or directly or indirectly receiving money from him for graft-prosecution services, or any other services, was giving his time to the city, without reward or hope of reward. Thus, point by point, the allegations which the graft defense had for three years been making against the prosecution, were shown to be without foundation in fact. The bars were down, as Heney put it. Rudolph Spreckels and others who had made the prosecution possible, were under oath, and were prepared to answer any question that might be put to them. The ablest lawyers, cunning in cross-examination, selected, indeed, for their craft and skill in searching out the innermost secrets of witnesses, were there to question. But not one statement reflecting upon the purposes of the prosecution, nor of its motives, nor of its methods, was brought out. The graft defense, free to question as it would, was unable to justify the insinuations of baseness of purpose and method; nor to justify its loosely-made charges against the prosecution.[436] Indeed, the attorneys for Mr. Calhoun even resisted full discussion of Mr. Spreckels' motives. The intimation, so broad as to approach positive declaration, had been made repeatedly that Mr. Spreckels had inaugurated the graft prosecution for the purpose of injuring Mr. Calhoun and the properties which he represented--the United Railroads. On re-direct examination, Mr. Spreckels was asked by the attorney for the State whether, at the time he had first discussed investigation of graft conditions in San Francisco with Mr. Heney, he had had any idea of investigating Mr. Calhoun. Mr. Barrett, representing the defendant, strongly objected to this line of questioning.[437] After a wrangle between the attorneys as to the matter of the witness's motives, Spreckels was permitted to make a brief statement to the Court. "My motives," he said, "have been inquired into, and I have indicated to Mr. Rogers (Calhoun's attorney) that as far as I am concerned the bars are absolutely down; I am willing to take the judgment of this community as to motives, as to my purposes and as to the truthfulness of my statements made here." Mr. Spreckels was finally permitted to answer the question. He answered in the negative.[438] The defendant placed no witnesses on the stand. The explanation of their peculiar position which the United Railroads officials were looked upon to make when opportunity offered was not made. The denials which they had for three years been indignantly making through the newspapers were not stated under oath.[439] The trial resulted in a disagreement. According to published statements, purporting to come from members of the jury, on the first ballot four jurors stood for conviction, eight for acquittal; on the second, nine for acquittal, three for conviction. On all the other ballots the jurors stood ten for acquittal and two for conviction.[440] Immediately after announcement of the verdict,[441] the District Attorney attempted to bring Calhoun to trial for the alleged offering of a bribe to Supervisor John J. Furey. This the defense resisted. The community was filled with the suggestion that the Calhoun jury, having failed to agree, the costly graft trials should be brought to an end.[442] Nevertheless, Calhoun's second trial was begun. But before a jury could be secured, Francis J. Heney had been defeated for election as District Attorney. This meant the breaking down of the graft prosecution. The District Attorney consented to continuance of the case until the new administration should take charge. The case was not pressed by Mr. Langdon's successor, and finally, with the other graft charges, was dismissed. FOOTNOTES: [423] From January 12, 1909, to June 20, 1909. [424] Earl Rogers showed himself particularly clever at goading. His ability in this line was shown to advantage also, at the trial of Clarence Darrow, charged with jury fixing at Los Angeles, whom Rogers defended. The Fresno Republican in comparing the two cases said, in its issue of July 12, 1912: "When Heney tilted, as prosecutor against Earl Rogers as an apologist for crime, he was the 'wild man of Borneo,' to the more staid and polished members of the San Francisco bar. But now that Fredericks and Ford, prosecutors of Los Angeles, lost their tempers under the goadings of this same Rogers in the Darrow case, nothing is said about the wild man of Borneo. Fredericks and Ford, unlike Heney, are recognized as the socially elect of the profession, but Heney in the wildest excitement of the Calhoun trials, never tried to throw an ink bottle at Rogers, as Ford tried to do the other day. Plainly, as a matter of social etiquette, it depends upon whose ox Rogers gores." [425] See footnote 269. [426] The Chronicle, as early as July 10, 1907, punctured the theory that the bribing of public servants is justifiable. The Chronicle said: "In the examination of a talesman in Judge Lawlor's court on Monday an attorney for the defendant charged with the crime of bribing city officials made the statement that San Francisco is divided on the subject of punishing men who have committed the offense named. He said: 'You know, of course, that San Francisco is divided on this graft question. Half in favor of the prosecution, and, say, half contrary minded.' Possibly he believes that this is true, but there is absolutely no foundation for the assumption. There is no evidence on which to base such a statement, and it would not have been made if there was any possibility of determining its truth or falsity by some simple test. "It is doubtless true that there are plenty of men in this community who regard the crime of bribery lightly, and are ready to defend it on the ground that laxity in the conduct of municipal affairs made it necessary to resort to it or abandon all enterprise. But the great majority of citizens take the sound view that both briber and bribed are equally guilty and equally deserving of punishment, and utterly refuse to accept the excuse that the corporations which have been systematically debauching city officials were forced to that course. They know that the eager desire to secure advantages is at the bottom of the corrupt condition of our municipal affairs, and they feel that unless examples can be made of those who have shown a willingness to profit by the greed and turpitude of those elected to office the practice of bribing will be again resumed and continued as long as there is anything to be gained by the pursuit of criminal methods. "Even if it were true that the community is evenly divided it would be outrageous to plead that fact as a justification for the commission of criminal acts. If San Francisco should be so lost to shame that nine-tenths of her population regarded bribery with tolerance, it would be no less a crime, but there would be infinitely more reason for striving to punish offenders of that character to save the city from the moral degradation involved in the acceptance of the idea that it is excusable to defy the laws by debauching public officials." At the time of Calhoun's trial, however, The Chronicle read talesmen who sided with the defense no such lecture. [427] See Chapter XV, "The Ford Trials." [428] The trolley-permit was granted May 21, 1906. [429] The letter placing $200,000 to Calhoun's credit read as follows: "Treasury Department, Washington, May 22, 1906. Superintendent of the United States Mint, San Francisco, Cal. Sir: Confirmation is certified to a telegram sent you this day, in substance as follows: "'Pay to Patrick Calhoun, President United Railroads, $200,000; to Lachman and Jacobi, $12,500; to Beech Thompson, $20,000; to Canadian Bank of Commerce, $250,000; on account of original certificates of deposit Nos. 5251, 5252, 5253 and 5267, issued by the Assistant Treasurer of the United States, New York city. In all amounting to $482,500. "'Pay to master California Lodge. Number 1. A. F. and A. M., $319.65 on account of original certificate of deposit No. 112, issued by the Assistant Treasurer of the United States, Chicago.' Respectfully, "CHARLES H. TREAT, "Treasurer of the United States." [430] The telegrams directing the money to be paid Ford read: "Cleveland, Ohio, July 28, 06. Hon. Frank A. Leach, Superintendent U. S. Mint, San Francisco. Please pay to Tirey L. Ford, or order, fifty thousand dollars and charge same to my account. Patrick Calhoun, President United Railroads of San Francisco." [431] Calhoun's order placing the $100,000 to Ford's credit read as follows: "Cleveland, Ohio, August 21, 06. Hon. Frank A. Leach, Superintendent United States Mint, San Francisco. Please pay to General Tirey L. Ford, or order, one hundred thousand dollars, and charge the same to my account. Patrick Calhoun, President United Railroads, San Francisco." [432] Calhoun's final receipt for the $200,000 was as follows: "Received from Frank A. Leach, Superintendent U. S. Mint, two hundred thousand dollars ($200,000) on c/d No. 5251, with Asst. Treasurer U. S., New York. PATRICK CALHOUN, "President United Railroads." [433] "I want to protect those (the contributors) whom I promised to protect in this matter," said Spreckels. "Outside of that, the matter is entirely an open matter; I have no concern in it."--See Spreckels's testimony, Transcript of evidence in the matter of The People vs. Patrick Calhoun, Page 3385. [434] The statement in full of the expenditures of the Prosecution, as shown in the transcript of the Calhoun trial, will be found on page xxxiv of the Appendix. [435] The charge of private prosecution was raised early. The Chronicle of May 14, 1907, printed as part of Ford's statement why he did not testify before the Grand Jury, the following: "The private interests that are behind this attack upon the officers of the United Railroads have free access to this juryroom through their chosen counsel who has assumed to exercise all the official authority of the District Attorney of this city and who, by reason of the exercise of such authority, has become the legal counsellor and guide of this Grand Jury. "The officers of the United Railroads are not unmindful of the tremendous power for harm that lies in this unusual and extraordinary situation. "They, therefore, protest against the consideration by this Grand Jury of any evidence whose legality and sufficiency cannot be judicially determined from a full, complete and correct transcript thereof. "Second--The subpoena by which my attendance here was compelled was not only insufficient in both form and substance, but was served by a privately employed detective who is not a citizen of California and who is employed and paid by private interests notoriously hostile to the United Railroads. "Third--There is here present a person not permitted by the laws of this State to be present, namely, an attorney nominally representing the office of the District Attorney, while, in fact, representing private interests in no manner connected officially with any of the governmental affairs of this city and State. "Fourth--I am the general counsel and legal adviser of the United Railroads and its officers, and whatever knowledge I possess of any of the affairs of the United Railroads or of its officers, has come to me in professional confidence and, under the law of this State, every attorney is compelled to keep inviolate, and at every peril to himself, preserve the secrets of his clients. "Fifth--Under the statement of the representative of the District Attorney's office in attendance before this Grand Jury, I feel it my duty to stand with the officers of the United Railroads upon my constitutional rights, and the District Attorney knows that he cannot in these proceedings compel me to testify, and he also knows that no unfavorable inference is permitted to be drawn from our declination in this regard." [436] One of the most complete answers to the charges scattered nation-wide by the Graft Defense, came from Dean John H. Wigmore of the Northwestern School of Law at Chicago, author of Wigmore on Evidence, (See footnote 283.) [437] See transcript of testimony, The People vs. Patrick Calhoun, No. 1436, page 3723. [438] Mr. Spreckels finally testified on this point as follows: "Mr. Heney. Q. At the time that Mr. Phelan agreed to contribute the $10,000, Mr. Spreckels, what did you say, if anything, about contributing yourself? A. That was in the first meeting. I think, Mr. Heney, and I told him that I was ready and willing to contribute a similar amount; that I believed it would be possible to get others to join and contribute. "Q. At that time was anything said by any person about prosecuting Mr. Calhoun? A. Absolutely no. "Q. Or any person connected with the United Railroads Company? A. The discussion was entirely confined to the administration, the corrupt administration as we termed it. "Q. At that time did you have any purpose or intention of prosecuting Mr. Calhoun? A. I had not. "Q. Did you have any reason to believe that Mr. Calhoun at that time had committed any crime? A. I had no indication of such a crime. "Mr. Moore. Was that time fixed, Mr. Heney? "Mr. Heney. Yes, it was fixed; the first conversation, and he has fixed it as nearly as he could. "The Court. Have you in mind the testimony on that point, Mr. Moore? There was some reference to it in an earlier part of the examination. "Mr. Heney. Q. When you had the talk with Mr. Heney in April, 1906, did you say anything about prosecuting Mr. Calhoun, or anybody connected with the United Railroads? A. I did not. "Q. Did you at any time tell Mr. Heney, that you desired to have him prosecute Mr. Patrick Calhoun? A. I did not, at any time. "Q. Did you tell him at any time that you desired to have him prosecute any person connected with the United Railroads Company? A. I did not." [439] The Chronicle in its issue of March 19, 1907, the day after the story of corruption of Supervisors was made public, refers to the denials of United Railroads officials as follows: "Weeks ago, when the first charges of a corruption fund was published, Patrick Calhoun issued from his New York offices a typewritten statement, equivalent to about three-fourths of a Chronicle column, in which he announced: "'I have just seen the San Francisco papers, in which vague charges are made that the United Railroads of San Francisco paid or caused to be paid $700,000 for a permit to use electricity on the roads that it formerly operated with cable. There is no foundation for this rumor. The United Railroads of San Francisco never paid or authorized any one to pay on its behalf a single dollar to the Mayor, Supervisors or any public official of the city of San Francisco or the State of California.' "Late last night the following additional denial was issued from the office of the United Railroads: "'I am authorized to state in the most positive way that neither Mr. Calhoun nor any officer of the United Railroads ever paid or authorized anyone to pay one dollar to any official. 'THORNWELL MULLALLY, 'Assistant to the President United Railroads.'" [440] The following statement was published over the name of Otto T. Hildebrecht, one of the two jurors who had voted to convict: "As soon as we entered the jury room, I overheard a crowd of the jurors in the rear of the hall shouting 'Acquit! Acquit!' We then proceeded to name a foreman. This matter disposed of, the members began balloting. "In the first half hour three ballots were cast. On the first vote it stood 8 to 4 for acquittal. On the second ballot Maguire succumbed to the pressure. I called upon him for his reasons for changing his vote and he replied: 'Oh, these corrupt conditions have always prevailed in San Francisco. The Supervisors in this case are no different from the other men, who have filled those offices. It will always be like that.' To combat this attitude on Maguire's part, I stated, 'Well, it is time to stamp out the crimes in this, city. In order that the evil may be corrected we must put a stop to it.' This seemed to have no weight with Maguire. "The next ballot showed that Anthes had gone over to the others. From him I secured this information: 'Oh, why I always vote with the majority.' I said, 'Why, how can an honest man take that view of the matter?' I have taken an oath and at that time announced that I would try this case solely on the evidence. "It is plainly pointed out in the testimony of Sanderson that Calhoun was present when Ruef said, 'This thing will go through on Monday. It is all settled.' This produced no impression upon the others, although I argued that such testimony alone proved Calhoun's guilty knowledge of the plan to put the deal through when he remarked in answer to Sanderson's query, 'Then you won't need me?' 'I don't think we do.' "I then asked the other jurors to come into court, they contending that Ruef had carried on the conversation with Sanderson and that Calhoun was an innocent witness. We asked to have this testimony revealed and the jurors filed into court. Upon returning to the jury room we renewed our deliberations. "The other ten jurors came at Binner and myself and sought to induce me to stretch my imagination to the end that Calhoun had paid the money to Ruef, but only as a fee. They acknowledged right there that Calhoun had paid over the money but they argued that he didn't know that the money was going to be used as a bribe to the Supervisors,--only as a fee to Ruef. After that I knew that these men had purposely taken the wrong view of the whole matter. I had called them to account for the remarks that the testimony throughout the case was all purchased and that Heney had held the whip over the Supervisors. Thereupon they backed down on that stand and made their whole plea on the ground that Calhoun had given the trolley money to Ruef as a fee. "I disagreed on the ground that Heney, Spreckels and the other members of the prosecution were not on trial as they insisted, and that the other matters, such as the theft of reports and suppression of testimony, had only been touched upon during the trial to prove that Calhoun knew that the bribery deal had been carried through. "'Can't you give Calhoun the benefit of the doubt, that he paid this money as a fee?' was the burden of the others' argument. 'I would be willing to extend him every chance,' I replied, 'but why has he not introduced these vouchers of the United Railroads in court, then we might see what was paid to bribe the juries in the Ford trials.' After this they dropped me like a red-hot stove. I seemed to have struck home. It was a terrifying ordeal to stand off these ten men for twelve hours, but I held firmly to my course and voted throughout upon my conscience. I should have been ashamed to have lifted my head in the future had I fallen down and voted for an acquittal. When the deputy, Mr. Coyle, called to convey the word to Judge Lawlor as to the clearness of an agreement being reached, I met him at the door that night. 'We shall never reach an agreement,' I replied, 'unless these men come over to my side. That I fear shall never come to pass.' The claim has been made in the Globe that I asked for a secret ballot. That is an untruth, as is the statement that I am a Socialist. Not that I am opposed to Socialism, but I have never been inclined to their views. Our political outlooks differ. When I told Coyle that there was no chance of a verdict being reached, the other jurors, one of those standing alongside of me, punched me in the ribs in an effort to make me shut up, as they figured that they ought to be able to convince me. I have received letters from all over the State; friends and acquaintances, even utter strangers, congratulating me upon my stand in the Calhoun case and my vote for conviction." [441] Calhoun, after the disagreement of the jury that tried him, issued a statement to the press in which he bitterly denounced those who were responsible for the prosecution, and hinted at retaliation. He continued to insist that Heney was a corrupt official: "There lies in the courtroom," said Calhoun, "forty checks made by Mr. Rudolph Spreckels to Mr. Francis J. Heney since his alleged appointment as Assistant District Attorney. Those checks were deposited in the American National Bank to his private account. They aggregate $23,800. The first of them amounted to $4,900. They are the price of his infamy. He can not escape the fact that he is a corrupt public official by the contention that he has been engaged in a holy crusade. He can not defend the acceptance of money from a private citizen for the express purpose of enabling him to devote himself exclusively to the so-called Graft Prosecution without committing the crime of accepting a bribe. I here make the formal and specific charge that Francis J. Heney stands side by side with James L. Gallagher as a corrupt public official. I charge him with having accepted bribes and I also charge Rudolph Spreckels and James D. Phelan with having given him the bribes; and if we can get a fair District Attorney in the city of San Francisco I propose at the proper time and in the proper way to submit formal charges against Heney for having received bribes and Spreckels and Phelan for having paid them." Of Calhoun's threat of prosecution, The Call in its issue of June 22, 1909, said: "In that soiled and motley retinue of strikers and heelers, jury fixers and gaspipe men that the head of the United Railroads has gathered about him were many who made it a business to proclaim that when the indictments came to the test of fact in court the disposition of that $200,000 would be explained as a perfectly innocent matter in the simplest possible manner. How these promises have been fulfilled we know. The mystery of that $200,000 remains as dark as ever. Not even the stockholders of the company are invited into the confidence of its president. It is not now the question, Where did he get it? but What did he do with it? "As long as that question remains unanswered by or for Calhoun and as long as he refuses to undergo cross examination and the ordinary legal tests of proof, just so long will the whole American public believe him guilty of bribery. As for his threat of some sort of vague legal proceedings against the prosecutors, that will merely provoke a laugh, as men do laugh at a cheap and obvious bluff." [442] The free press, not only of California but of the entire nation, protested against such a course. "San Francisco," said the Pittsburgh Times-Gazette, "owes it to the nation to continue her fight against the big grafters of that town. If she lets up now the grafters the country over will take heart, and the next time it becomes necessary to go after the tribe, it will be more difficult even than it has been in San Francisco to convict a briber." CHAPTER XXVII. THE SAN FRANCISCO ELECTION OF 1909. Scarcely had the disagreeing jury in the Calhoun case been discharged than the Graft Prosecution was again called upon to meet the graft defense at the polls. Langdon's second term was to expire the following January. His successor was to be elected in November. Mr. Langdon refused positively to be a candidate to succeed himself. The supporters of the prosecution turned to Heney as the most available candidate to oppose the elements united against them. Heney did not want to be a candidate. The grueling contest of the Calhoun trial, coupled with the nerve-shattering effects of the wound in his head, had brought him to the point of physical and nervous breakdown. But it was demonstrated to him that he had the largest personal following in San Francisco; that the public had confidence in him; that he must make the fight. And Heney, doubtful of his physical ability to continue to the end of the primary and final campaigns, consented to become a candidate. There followed the most astonishing campaign for municipal office ever held in San Francisco, or probably in any other American city. California was at the time groping her way from the clutch of the Southern Pacific "machine." The California Legislature of 1909 had adjourned after a session which had ended largely in disappointing failure for the anti-machine element. The anti-machine element had been in slight majority, but it had blunderingly permitted the machine minority to organize both houses. As a result, the "machine" had been able to defeat the passage of many anti-machine--now known as progressive--measures. In other instances progressive measures were before their passage,[443] in the face of the earnest but unavailable protest of the well-intentioned but unorganized anti-machine majority, loaded with hampering amendments. Two of these measures bore directly upon the San Francisco situation. The first measure provided for the Direct Primary. The second provided for the elimination of the "party circle" from the election ballot. This last named measure, known as "the Party Circle bill," passed the Senate, but was defeated by one vote in the Assembly. The defeated measure was intended to restore the Australian ballot to its original simplicity and effectiveness.[444] Under the machine's tinkering of the State's election laws, the Australian ballot had become a device for encouraging partisan voting. The "party circle" was placed at the head of the column of party candidates. A cross placed in the circle registered a vote for every candidate nominated by the party designated by the circle. The question of "distinguishing marks" invalidating entire ballots was ruled upon so closely by the State courts, that many voters voted by means of the one cross in the party circle to avoid the risk of having their entire ballot denied counting because of technical defects that might creep in if a divided ticket were voted. Had the "Party Circle bill" become a law it would have eliminated the "party circle" from the ballot, leaving the voter to select individual candidates of his choice. The one Assembly vote that defeated this measure after it had passed the Senate, went far toward bringing the San Francisco Graft Prosecution to an end. The Direct Primary measure was not defeated, nor did the machine element succeed in amending it into complete ineffectiveness. The anti-machine Republicans and Democrats, by joining in non-partisan caucus on this measure, succeeded in forcing the passage of the Direct Primary bill, but they were not able to keep it free of defects. Harassed by the machine at every turn, the anti-machine Senators and Assemblymen were compelled to accept many undesirable provisions.[445] One of these provisions bore directly upon the San Francisco election of 1909, and contributed to a large extent to the outcome. This clause required a primary candidate to make affidavit giving "the name of his party and that of the office for which he desires to be a candidate; that he affiliated with said party at the last preceding general election, and either that he did not vote thereat or voted for a majority of the candidates of said party at said next preceding general election, and intends to so vote at the ensuing election." At the time this section was under consideration, anti-machine legislators and the unhampered press pointed out that under it, District Attorney Langdon could not, in all probability, have been nominated nor re-elected in 1907; that Mayor Taylor's election of that year would have been impracticable, if not impossible; that Judge Dunne would have been hampered to the point of defeat in 1908; that under it, both in 1907 and 1908, the so-called "higher-up" element in the field of corruption would have been given an advantage which the better citizenship of the community would have had difficulty in overcoming.[446] But the machine element denounced these not unreasonable objectors as "enemies of the Direct Primary bill," and under cover of the denunciation, and the fight for practical expression of popular choice for United States Senators, the objectionable clause was permitted to remain in the bill. No sooner had the Legislature adjourned than judicial interpretation of the partisan clause of the Direct Primary Act became necessary. The San Francisco primary election was at hand, and the partisan provisions of the new law proved the first snag which the various candidates encountered. Although the members of the Legislature, machine as well as anti-machine, voted for the bill, believing that the partisan clause restricted primary nominations to members of the party of the candidates' affiliation, the San Francisco Election Commissioners held there was nothing in the law to prevent the name of a Republican appearing on the Democratic ticket, or of a Democrat on the Republican ticket, provided the candidate made affidavit of the party of his affiliation. Under this ruling it appeared that, in spite of the objectionable partisan provision of the Direct Primary law, the San Francisco election could be held on the non-partisan basis which had resulted in the election of Taylor and Langdon two years before. The one issue before the San Francisco electors was continuance of the Graft Prosecution. The supporters of the prosecution, Republicans as well as Democrats, desired to vote for Heney. McCarthy was the avowed Labor Union party candidate for Mayor. The Union Labor party was considering the nomination for District Attorney of Charles M. Fickert. The prospects were good that Heney would receive the Republican and Democratic nominations, as Langdon had two years before. He was supported by the better element of both parties, and opposed by the anti-prosecution element of both. This opposition found expression in the Republican party in a committee of twenty-five, at the head of which was I. W. Hellman, Jr., of the Union Trust Company.[447] The better element of the party planned the nomination of Heney, as did the better element of Democrats. On a non-partisan basis, such as had prevailed in 1907, the Union Labor party would have nominated McCarthy for Mayor, and Fickert for District Attorney, while the anti-machine, pro-prosecution Democrats and Republicans would have nominated a strong candidate for Mayor, and Heney for District Attorney. Conditions were thus shaping themselves admirably for continuance of the non-partisan administration of municipal affairs, which had at least blocked corruption, even though it had not beaten down the barriers of technicality, which stood between the corruptors of the municipal government and law-provided penalties. But this developing non-partisan arrangement was suddenly overturned in an opinion rendered by the Supreme Court, reversing the ruling of the Election Commissioners. The court held that the partisan provisions of the Direct Primary law prohibited the name of a primary candidate appearing upon any primary ticket except that of the party of the candidate's affiliations. Under this ruling, Fickert's name could not go on the Union Labor party primary ticket, for Fickert had affiliated with the Republican party. The Hellman committee of twenty-five (Republican) immediately took up the Union Labor party candidate for District Attorney, whose name could not go on the Union Labor party primary ticket, Mr. Fickert being apparently quite as satisfactory to Mr. Hellman and his associates as he was to Mr. McCarthy. Heney, under the Supreme Court's ruling, found himself in a more difficult position. With other California Progressives, Heney had in 1908 supported Taft for the Presidency. His political affiliations were therefore, under the provisions of the Direct Primary law, Republican. His name could be placed on the Republican primary ticket, but not on the Democratic. But it soon became evident that if his name went on the Republican ticket he would be defeated at the primaries. The registration of voters under their party designation to enable them to vote at the partisan primaries showed an astonishing condition. The machine, anti-prosecution element was discovered to be massing its strength in the Republican party. Two years before, Daniel A. Ryan, the Republican candidate for Mayor, had received only 9255 votes in San Francisco, while Taylor, the Democratic candidate, had received 28,766, and McCarthy, Union Labor, 17,583. But for the 1909 primaries, no less than 47,945 registered as Republicans, a gain of 38,609 over Ryan's vote,[448] while the Democratic registration was 17,632 only, 11,134 less than Taylor's vote, and the Union Labor registration, 10,546, or 7037 less than McCarthy's vote in 1907. Heney's name could not go on the Democratic ballot. If he permitted it to go on the Republican ballot, the tremendous Republican registration indicated that the anti-machine Republicans would be outvoted by "machine" members of all parties who had registered as Republicans. By another provision of the election laws, Heney, should he be defeated at the primaries, could not become an independent candidate; defeat at the primaries barred him from running at the final election. Heney was effectively shut out from participating as a primary candidate. And this, in face of the fact that the anti-machine Republicans and the anti-machine Democrats were striving to make him their candidate. Had the 1909 primary law prevailed in 1907, Langdon's re-election could have been, and almost to a certainty would have been blocked, and the Graft Prosecution brought to an end two years before it was. At the 1909 Primary election, Heney's name, although he was the choice of the anti-machine element of all parties, did not appear on any of the primary ballots.[449] Nevertheless, 4594 Republicans wrote Heney's name on their primary ballots. But this was not sufficient to give him the nomination. Fickert, whose name appeared on the Republican ballot, as a regular candidate, received 12,480 votes, which gave him the Republican nomination. On neither the Democratic nor Union Labor primary tickets did the name of any candidate for District Attorney appear. The McCarthy element urged that Fickert's name be written in by Union Labor party voters. They carried their point, Fickert being nominated by the Union Labor party by 3308 votes. But even here there was registered protest at what was going on. Union Labor party voters to the number of 617 wrote Heney's name on their ballots. In the same way, a determined effort was made to give Fickert the Democratic nomination also. He received 2298 votes. But the pro-prosecution Democrats rallied to Heney's support, and nominated him by a vote of 2386. Thus out of a total of 28,967 who voted for nomination of District Attorney, no less than 7597, or more than 25 per cent., wrote Heney's name on their ballots, in protest against the partisan conditions which made his regular nomination impractical. The law was new; the election, the first held in the State under the Direct Primary. It was difficult to make the electors understand they could vote to nominate Heney by writing his name on the ballot. Of the 38,385 who voted at the primaries only 28,967 voted for District Attorney. Unquestionably, a large percentage of those who did not vote at all, would have written Heney's name on the ballot had they known that such a course was permissible. But they did not know, and more than 25 per cent. of those voting did not vote for District Attorney. As the Rev. Charles N. Lathrop put it: "They have Heney sewed up in a bag, and the bag is the partisan features of the Direct Primary."[450] Out of this confusing primary election, Fickert came with two party nominations, the Union Labor and the Republican, while Heney had one nomination, the Democratic. This meant that Fickert's name would be printed twice on the final ballot under partisan designation, while Heney's would be printed but once. Thus, for every chance Heney had for a "party circle" vote Fickert had two. The prosecution forces had supported Byron Mauzy for Republican nomination for Mayor, but Mr. Mauzy[451] was defeated by William Crocker, who received the Republican nomination. The Democrats nominated Thomas B. W. Leland for the mayoralty office, while the Union Labor party named P. H. McCarthy. The mayoralty-district attorney tickets were, therefore: Republican, Crocker and Fickert; Union Labor, McCarthy and Fickert; Democratic, Leland and Heney. But the issue before San Francisco, continuance of the Graft Prosecution, had no partisan significance at all. It was supported and it was opposed by members of both parties. The whole fight was over the election of Heney. But never had candidate for office opposition which had more at stake.[452] Men with apparently unlimited means at their disposal, realized that Heney's election would in all probability mean for them a term in the State prison. They were fighting for their liberty. The commercial interests were warned that, in the words of I. W. Hellman, Sr., the banker, the Graft Prosecution was hurting business.[453] The anti-Graft Prosecution press insisted day after day that bribery of public officials, while bad, is the most common of crimes and the most difficult to prove; that San Francisco had tried to convict, had failed and might as well give up. So-called "improvement clubs" went so far as to adopt resolutions not only protesting against further prosecution, but demanding that the Supervisors withdraw support given the District Attorney's office in its efforts to land bribe-givers behind the bars.[454] And finally, the large business interests opposed to the prosecution, threw strength to McCarthy; not that they liked McCarthy--they united against him two years later--but because the election of McCarthy would go far toward the defeat of Heney. Members of the labor unions were, to a large extent, supporters of the prosecution. Their votes had made Langdon's election sure in 1907. During the 1909 campaign, and down to the very day of election, the sentiment among laboring men was to vote for McCarthy and Heney. But Heney's name did not appear on the Union Labor ticket. Labor's support of Heney was vigorously opposed. Appeal was made to workingmen to stay by their class; to vote for the labor candidates, McCarthy and Fickert. On the Monday night before the election, the writer, with Professor George H. Boke of the University of California Law School, joined a group of working men who were discussing the merits of the several candidates. Apparently all but one of them were for McCarthy and Heney. The exception was for Leland and Heney. He was defending himself, when the writer joined the group, against the charge that in voting for Leland he was "voting outside his class." This Leland advocate was a most noticeable young man. He declared himself to be a member of the electricians' union. Well under thirty, clear-eyed and forceful, he was prepared to stand his ground. When his immediate opponent became personal, the electrical worker, without raising his voice, without excitement, or boast, or display, remarked quietly: "Do not resort to personalities, for if it comes to personalities, what chance have you against me?" There were no more personalities. Incidentally his argument was fast bringing out the fact that every worker in the crowd was going to vote for Heney. The effect of it was important. Suddenly from somewhere there appeared a new man to do his part in molding public opinion. The new-comer went through that crowd with the assurance of a practiced football player through an aggregation of amateurs. In less than five minutes he had addressed every man of the group. But he had none of the marks of a worker, and nobody thought to ask for his "card." His was the pasty face and the pudgy neck and the soft, unclean hand of the cadet. His argument was curious and even ridiculous, but it was most effective. It at least scattered the crowd. "Of course Calhoun is a grafter," he said in effect. "They are all grafters. Spreckels is a grafter. Of course, Fickert is Calhoun's man, just as Heney is Spreckels's man. They are all out for graft. But if we are to have grafting, let's keep the graft in our own class. Why should you vote to let Spreckels's men do the grafting? You have a candidate of your own. Vote for him. It is only a fight between millionaires anyhow, and a toss-up which is right. Let us vote for the man of our class." The effect of this running fire of words was immediate. The electrician lost the attention of his associates. The discussion came to an end with murmurs of approval of the newcomer's position. That he should have changed a vote with such argument seems incredible. But that he had created a doubt in the minds of those workingmen was apparent to all who saw. He left them well prepared for the anti-prosecution workers who would meet them at the polls the next morning. But the laboring element was not the only "class" forced into opposition to Heney. At the exclusive clubs, fashionable hotels, social functions, support of Heney was denounced as treason to the exclusive, fashionable, social class. It was quite amusing to hear first generation descendants of honest steerage immigrants decrying the prosecution of rich men trapped in bribe-giving on the theory that to do otherwise "would be treason to our class." Thus, Mr. Heney was called upon to meet the "class" opposition of the laborer and the magnate. On the other hand, the unafraid, intelligent people of San Francisco, who recognized no "class" issue, rallied to Heney's support. But they were without the concerted plan of action which the other side had perfected. The San Francisco press, with the exception of The Bulletin and Daily News, gave Heney no editorial support, but the country press, which had no circulation in San Francisco, earnestly urged his election.[455] Good citizens throughout the country wrote urging Heney's election. "To rout the forces of the prosecution at this juncture in San Francisco," wrote Rabbi Stephen S. Wise of New York, "is to hoist the red flag of anarchy, to proclaim that law and order are not always enforceable, or that such enforcement is not always profitable." But Rabbi Wise was in New York. His influence did not, unfortunately, extend, in any important degree, to San Francisco. On the day of election, the writer visited many voting places in the districts in which the labor vote was strong. Working men by the scores were taking less than a minute to mark their ballots. It was evident that they were voting by means of the party circle. Every Labor Union party vote of this kind was a vote against Heney. The last hope that Heney would get this support was gone. One did not need wait for the counting of the ballots. It was plain that Heney was defeated. The election returns spoke eloquently of the means that had been employed to defeat Heney. For the primary election 47,945 had registered as Republicans, but Crocker, the Republican candidate for Mayor, received only 13,766 votes at the final election. Although but 10,546 had registered for the primaries as members of the Union Labor party, P. H. McCarthy received 29,455 votes, which, wherever voting was done by means of the party circle, carried a vote for Fickert. Fickert, with the two nominations, received 36,192. Heney, running on the Democratic ticket, received 26,075 votes, 6481 more than Leland, the candidate for Mayor. But the combination against Heney was too great for him or any man to overcome. Fickert was elected.[456] The Graft Prosecution had been defeated at the polls. FOOTNOTES: [443] See "Story of the California Legislature of 1909," Chapters VIII, IX, X, XI. [444] This reform was accomplished at the Legislative session of 1911. The undesirable provisions were also stricken by amendment from the Direct Primary law. See "Story of the California Legislature of 1911." [445] "Before voting on this matter," (the Direct Primary provisions) said Senator Stetson, an anti-machine leader in explaining his vote, "lest any one in the future may think that I have been passed something and didn't know it, I wish to explain my vote, and wish to say that this permission accorded a candidate to go on record to support that candidate for United States Senate, who shall have the endorsement of the greatest number of districts, comes from nobody and goes to nobody. It means nothing--mere words--idle words. The only way in which a candidate could have been pledged would have been to provide a pledge or instructions to the Legislature. The words 'shall be permitted' mean nothing and get nowhere. I shall vote for this report, not because I want to, but because I have to if we are at this session to have any Direct Primary law at all." Senator Stetson was referring particularly to the section which denied the people by state-wide vote the right to indicate their preference for United States Senator, but his words would have applied as directly and as truly to other sections of the measure. Other good government Senators did, as a matter of fact, denounce the very partisan clause which later contributed so largely to Heney's defeat. Senators Campbell, Holohan and Miller, for example, while voting for the bill, sent to the clerk's desk the following explanation of their vote: "We voted for the Direct Primary bill because it seems to be the best law that can be obtained under existing political conditions. We are opposed to many of the features of this bill, and believe that the people at the first opportunity will instruct their representatives in the Legislature to radically amend the same in many particulars, notably in regard to the election of United States Senators, and the provisions that prevent the endorsement of a candidate by a political party or organization other than the one that first nominated such candidate." [446] See files of Sacramento Bee for February and March, 1909, and Senate Journal for March 22, 1909, page 1976. [447] The Union Trust Company loaned $175,000 to the Calkins' Syndicate, which published papers in opposition to the prosecution. For the curious circumstances under which the loan was made, see footnote 275, page 257. The Union Trust Company officials were among the most effective opponents of the prosecution, and most persistent in circulating the story that the prosecution hurt business. The head of the institution, I. W. Hellman, Sr., returning early in August from a trip to Europe, when the 1909 campaign was opening, said in an interview, published in the Chronicle, August 4, 1909: "In New York I found that there is still a great difficulty in securing capital for San Francisco on account of the Graft Prosecution, or the 'graft persecution,' as they call it there. Of course, I do not know what changes have occurred in the situation here since I left six months ago, but I had an interview with certain people In New York and I found that they were unwilling to send capital here as long as this 'graft persecution' was continued." [448] Ryan did not receive his full party vote (see chapter XXI) while Taylor received the anti-machine vote of all parties. Nevertheless, this does not account for the extent of the astonishing changes in registration. [449] It is interesting to note that the politicians responsible for this condition, and who regarded Heney's position at the 1909 primaries with no attempt to conceal their amusement, were in 1912, loudest in their insistence that they had been disfranchised because the names of Taft electors did not appear on the California election ballot at the 1912 election. It is also to be noted that their representations were based on misrepresentation. They could, under the 1911 election laws, had they had any intention of giving Taft genuine support in California, have placed the names on the ballot by petition, as was done in the case of the Roosevelt electors, who, lest their regular nomination be questioned, were also nominated by petition. [450] The California Legislature of 1911 corrected the features of the election laws which blocked free expression of the will of the electors. San Francisco, by amendment of its charter, has since placed all municipal elections on a strictly non-partisan basis, with provisions under which no candidate can be elected by a plurality vote. It is interesting to note that although opposed by Mayor McCarthy and the group of politicians about him, these amendments correcting the weaknesses of the election laws, were adopted overwhelmingly. McCarthy's vote in 1911 was practically the same as the vote by which he was elected in 1909. Had the election been held under the same conditions in 1911, as in 1909, McCarthy would almost to a certainty have been re-elected. [451] Mr. Mauzy had the active opposition of the anti-prosecution element, which proposed that old sores be forgotten, and the city be kept free of graft in the future. "If you think," said The Chronicle, on August 17, 1909, "San Francisco is suffering injury from the fruitless effort to obtain convictions in cases in which evidence is lacking, vote the Byron Mauzy ticket. If you believe that the sane thing to do is to cease wasting money over the attempt to accomplish the impossible, vote for candidates who can be depended upon to give the city an administration from which graft will be eliminated in future." [452] The platform expressions on the Graft Prosecution issue are interesting. The Republican platform made no reference to it at all. There was some talk of providing that "the District Attorney should do his duty," but not even this was provided. The Union Labor party plank on this question read as follows: "We believe in the principle of the equality of all men before the law; that every guilty person should be prosecuted with vigor, in accordance with the law of the land, and that the administration of the law should be free from any and all suspicion of private control. We condemn favoritism or leniency in behalf of any offender before the law, or any compromise with criminals. We demand that any and all offenders be dealt with alike, and to such end we pledge our nominees." The Democratic plank alone pledged support to the Graft Prosecution. It read: "We pledge the Democratic party absolutely and unequivocally to the support of the Graft Prosecution which for three years has valiantly battled for the principle of the equality of all men before the law, which has secured convictions against disheartening odds and has paved the way for the clean administration of public affairs which we now enjoy. "The people must declare at this critical election for or against municipal corruption; for the enforcement of the law, or for its abandonment; for or against not only a greater but a better San Francisco. "Francis J. Heney, our candidate for District Attorney, embodies these issues, and we pledge him the vigorous and loyal support of the Democratic party." [453] The "hurt business" argument was ably combated by businessmen who were free of the graft mire. "From all the available information at hand," said Colonel Harris Weinstock, of the firm of Weinstock-Lubin & Co., in replying to this argument, "I find that on the whole the volume of business is greater in San Francisco than it ever was before. I am, therefore, unable to see how business has been hurt by the Graft Prosecution. "The burden of proof on this point properly rests with those making the charge. They should present facts and figures verifying their statement that business has been hurt by the graft prosecution before they can hope to have it accepted as fact. "So far as I have been able to find out, the Graft Prosecution has not hurt business, but even if it had seriously crippled business it would still be your duty and my duty and the duty of every lover and well-wisher of our free institutions to hold up the hands of those who are fighting your battle and my battle in an effort to bring public wrongdoers to justice, and thus prevent harm from coming to the republic. Let the work go on." The American National Bank of San Francisco, in a financial letter issued August 25, 1909, gave figures which disproved the Hellman idea. "It is significant of San Francisco's credit standing in the world at large," the letter read, "that the bonds of this city command prices that compare favorably with the issues of other large municipalities, as measured by the low interest return which investors are willing to accept. To illustrate: For every $1,000 put into municipal bonds at present figures, the purchaser would receive per annum: "From San Francisco bonds $39.00 "From Philadelphia bonds 37.00 "From Cincinnati bonds 37.50 "From Cleveland bonds 37.50 "From St. Louis bonds 38.80 "From Pittsburg bonds 37.00 "From Chicago bonds 38.50 "From Minneapolis bonds 38.50 "From Milwaukee bonds 39.00 "From New York bonds 39.50 "Considering these facts, and the readiness with which the San Francisco bonds are being taken, it does not appear that this city is suffering in reputation, as some people affect to believe, by reason of certain trials which have engaged the attention of the criminal courts for two years past." "I have no patience," said Heney, in discussing the Hellman argument, "with this talk that we hear from merchants and bankers that the Prosecution is hurting business. They heard the same talk in Boston when our Revolutionary sires threw tea overboard. It would hurt business, they said, to have a war with England. I can see the picture, when Thomas Jefferson was signing the Declaration of Independence, of a large man, who looked like the cartoonist's representation of a corporation official, coming through the door behind him and shouting, 'Hold on, Tom, you'll hurt business.' And when Washington was spending that terrible winter with his army at Valley Forge, the same class of men who are now crying at us in San Francisco were shouting for the war to stop. 'Damn principle,' they were crying. 'It's hurting business. This war must stop.'" [454] "It is," said the Chronicle, commenting upon the adoption of such resolutions, "a matter of common knowledge that there is a widespread feeling among those whose good citizenship cannot be disputed that the city, having done its best for three years, without success, to find legal proof which would connect officials of the corporations which profited by the corruption of the Schmitz administration with the crime of bribery, it is necessary to discontinue the effort. Hitherto no one has been willing to formally approach the authorities in the matter lest he should appear to show sympathy with evildoers. The Richmond Club, however, has formally memorialized the Supervisors to withdraw further support by appropriations on the ground that it has become apparent that success is impossible, and that further effort would be not only a waste of money and energy but serve to keep before the world the memory of a most disgraceful epoch in our history. "Bribery of public officials is the most dangerous of crimes. It undermines the very foundation of government by the people. And yet it has been in this and all other large American cities the most common of crimes. In the public mind, and in common speech, any person or firm which has habitually done business with our city government has been held to have on himself the burden of proof that he was innocent of bribery. And then came the riot of debauchery under the Schmitz administration, with corruption in all forms permeating every department of the city government. We have had nothing like that before, and yet until the election of the present Board of Supervisors this city has almost never had a Board on which some members were not believed to be corrupt and constantly on the watch for opportunities to 'hold up' those seeking to do business with the city. It is not believed that any franchise now in existence has been obtained without bribery or operated without continuous bribery. It has been generally assumed that whoever undertook to do business with the city must buy his way in by some form of corruption. "Bribery is a crime for which conviction is almost impossible. Occasionally proof can be got through a decoy, as in the case of the Schmitz Supervisors. What was exposed in that way, however, was no legal proof against the higher officials of the beneficiary corporations. For that other proof must be had, and thus far, except in one case, no conviction has been had. And unless the courts reverse themselves that conviction will not stand. The question then arises as to the duty of the city. Shall we continue to expend energy in striving to accomplish what we all see to be impossible, or shall the city, having done its best, turn its energies into more hopeful channels? As to that there will be differences of opinion, nor is it possible for anyone to know to what extent those differences are founded in reason, and how much on personal hatreds and a desire for notoriety. "There is doubtless a feeling that the continuance of these prosecutions is now doing great harm, which could only be counterbalanced by conviction based on clear legal proof, for which it is impossible to hope. In the first place, it is enormously costly and has introduced a universal system of spying which is exciting animosity against both sides of these cases. Decent citizens are coming to resent secret efforts to induce them to compromise themselves on the one side or the other. Secondly, the awful exhibitions of perjury in order to escape jury duty are shocking the moral sense of the community as severely as it was shocked by the exposure of the bribery. And the examination of the jurors are resulting in expressions of opinion by prospective jurors which do not do the city any good. Finally, the conduct of these trials is turning into a farce processes which should be the most solemn exhibitions of the authority of the law. We must all recognize that it is common talk that society ought not to seek to imprison one possible criminal at the cost of the imprisonment for months at a time of innocent citizens dragged from their homes and compelled to listen to the interminable quarrels of counsel over matters having no legitimate bearing on the case and injected solely for the purpose of confusing jurymen. Everybody sees that it will be impossible in the case now on trial to get a jury fit to be intrusted with the fate of a dog. Every intelligent citizen has been 'disqualified' by reading the testimony before the Grand Jury. "It is a most difficult situation. No reputable citizen is willing to seem to impede the course of justice. But, now that an organized body has formally raised before the Supervisors a question which has long been a daily subject of discussion whenever two men have met, it will be necessary to frankly face the situation and decide where duty lies." [455] The following from the Fresno Republican is very good example of this excellent but unavailing newspaper support: "Good people of San Francisco, give heed and take notice, the way it looks in the clearer perspective of an outside view. "Francis J. Heney is a candidate for District Attorney, and he is the issue. It is stop the Graft Prosecutions, or go on with them. Your votes will determine it. "You are 'tired of the Graft Prosecutions.' How long did it take you to get tired of the graft? Can you not be patient as long with militant honesty as you were with sneaking crime? "You may stop these Prosecutions, if you so vote. But remember the whole civilized world is looking on, and will judge you by that vote. It is the good name of San Francisco that you are voting up or down. "Banker Hellman says not. He has been to New York and he says 'New York' wants the Prosecutions stopped, and 'New York' will not lend any more money until they are stopped. "What is Banker Hellman's 'New York?' It is certain banks and certain syndicates in New York. And it is the San Francisco officials of precisely these syndicates that you are now prosecuting. Of course, Patrick Calhoun, of New York, wants the prosecution of Patrick Calhoun of San Francisco stopped. It is Banker Hellman's privilege to have a mere pendulum which swings from his San Francisco office to his New York office and thinks it is in New York. But it is not incumbent on you to share that mental deficiency. If Banker Hellman should announce in New York that he was going to discuss the San Francisco situation, his audience would consist of the New York partners of the San Francisco grafters. He thinks that is 'New York.' The real New York would neither know nor care. It never heard of Banker Hellman. But if Francis J. Heney should be announced to discuss the San Francisco situation in New York, there is not a place of assemblage in the city big enough to hold the people who would want to hear and see him. The whole nation knows Heney and it has made up its mind about him. It is waiting to see what you do, before it makes up its mind about you, too. "'The prosecutions must stop, some time,' to be sure. But who has earned from San Francisco the right to say when? When Francis J. Heney says it is time to quit, then it is time; not before. He has given his time, his strength, and almost his life for you. He has purified your politics and regulated your government. He has redeemed your city's name in the esteem of the world. He is making for you a fight which no one ever had the courage, the persistence or the ability to make before. He is not tired yet and he has not surrendered yet. Suppose you leave it to him, when it is time to quit. "People of San Francisco, the world is looking on. It cannot determine your decision. Neither can you determine what it will think of that decision, when it is made." [456] Heney on the day after the election issued the following statement: "The first battle for equality before the law has been fought and lost, but the war against graft will continue to be waged by all true soldiers who have been fighting with me in the great cause of common honesty, common decency, and civic righteousness. "The fight between the forces of evil and the forces of good is and must be a perpetual one. The first battle of Bull Run cast gloom over the entire earth, but that disaster only inspired the immortal Lincoln and his followers with stern resolution and fresh courage. "San Francisco has received a sad blow and the cause of equality before the law a great setback, but be of good cheer and take fresh courage, you many thousands of good men and women who have joined in this fight for the maintenance of the purity and protection of our homes and the uplifting of the moral standards of our city! "We have been defeated in this election, but the sober moral sense of the community will again reassert itself and San Francisco will vindicate herself before the world. "I retract nothing that I have said during the recent campaign. On the contrary, I reassert the truth of all that I have stated from the public platforms. I have no regrets except that for poor San Francisco and the many thousands of people who fought shoulder to shoulder with me in the good fight. "Let us all to-night firmly resolve that we will continue the battle for equality before the law with unabated vigor until success has crowned our efforts." * * * * * The following statement was issued by Rudolph Spreckels: "While the defeat at yesterday's election of the principles for which I have fought is regretted by me, it will speedily bring about a truer estimate of my real motives. "One of the compensations of this defeat is that I have so quickly been given an opportunity to disprove the charges so frequently made that I have been actuated by sordid or vindictive motives. The individuals against whom it is alleged that I have entertained malicious and selfish designs are entirely removed from the possibility of harm at the hands of the so-called Prosecution. "Attempting to punish was an unpleasant and incidental portion of the public work which I set out to do. I am glad that the people have taken that task off my hands and left me free to do the more important part of my undertaking. "Feeling that the people will fully realize this, I desire to say that I shall continue the work of civic regeneration with undiminished hope and earnestness." CHAPTER XXVIII. DISMISSAL OF THE GRAFT CASES. At the time of Mr. Fickert's election to the District Attorney's office, the second trial of Patrick Calhoun for offering a bribe was well under way. As at the other graft trials, there had been delays [457] so that after five months the jury was only half complete. That the trial could not be finished before Mr. Fickert assumed the duties of his office became evident. The case was, for that reason, on December 9, continued until January 10, in order that Mr. Fickert might participate in the selection of the trial jurors. But on that date, Mr. Fickert, who had been in office only two days, very frankly admitted himself to be unfamiliar with the facts, and not prepared to go to trial. Further continuance was accordingly granted until January 31, and then until February 7. In the meantime former Supervisor James L. Gallagher, the pivotal witness in the case, had disappeared. Gallagher was known to have been in San Francisco for some three weeks after Fickert's election. About December 1 he dropped out of sight. He was supposed to have gone to Europe.[458] On February 7, Mr. Fickert moved the dismissal of the case pending against Mr. Calhoun on the ground that there was not sufficient legal and competent evidence to warrant him submitting the case to a jury.[459] Judge Lawlor denied the motion. In denying it, Judge Lawlor stated that in the view of the court the action should be tried by a jury and a verdict should be rendered by a jury, if that were possible, in the full operation of the law. Fickert stated in the discussion which followed that he wanted his motion to apply to all the other graft cases of the same class as Calhoun's, with the exception of the defendants Ruef and Schmitz. But here again did the Judge deny the District Attorney's request. After Judge Lawlor's ruling, Calhoun's attorneys announced themselves ready to proceed with the trial of the case. Fickert stated that he would be ready in a week. Judge Lawlor thereupon questioned Fickert very closely about the absent witness, Gallagher. Fickert gave assurance that diligent hunt was being made for the witness. The questioning of the District Attorney was continued ten days later when the case again came up. Judge Lawlor asked Fickert to tell definitely whether he proposed to put the issue before a jury in the absence of his material witness. Fickert replied that Gallagher's absence greatly weakened the State's case, and that in his belief certain facts could not be proved without Gallagher being present. But as for that, Fickert insisted that even with Gallagher present he did not believe that the State could make out a case.[460] Nevertheless, he continued to insist that he was ready to proceed to try the action even in the absence of the witness Gallagher. But Judge Lawlor announced that he did not propose to proceed with the trial of the action: (1) If a material witness were without the jurisdiction of the court. (2) If the court did not believe that the cause were to be prosecuted with the vigor and fidelity that the law contemplates.[461] Fickert also stated his position. He insisted that he did not believe that any evidence had ever existed against the trolley-graft defendants Abbott and Mullally, and did not believe it to be his duty as District Attorney to prosecute men against whom there was no evidence. Fickert even attempted to commit Judge Lawlor to this proposition, by stating that the Judge in chambers had confessed as much. This Judge Lawlor denied. Mr. Fickert's assistant, Mr. Berry, had been present during the discussion in chambers between Mr. Fickert and Judge Lawlor, but Mr. Berry failed to sustain his chief's contention.[462] "In these cases, the cases against Mr. Abbott and Mr. Mullally," said Fickert, "I shall never proceed in them because there is absolutely no evidence which at all gives even a suspicion." In respect to the other cases, Mr. Fickert announced that he intended to take the same course that he had in those under discussion, and stated that if the Judge so desired he would advise him before hand as to which of the cases he intended to make a motion for dismissal. "In view of the statement you made on February 7,"[463] replied Judge Lawlor, "the Court will not feel called upon to grant any application looking to a dismissal of any of those cases. The Court will finally deal with them in the manner prescribed by the law. And if that situation is not reached so that the Court can proceed with the trial, the Court will be under the solemn obligation of setting down in its minutes the reason why a trial has not been had in any particular instance, and why cases are dismissed or disposed of without the trial of the general issue. The Court cannot escape its responsibilities. I have pointed out that under the law it is for the Court to say finally what shall become of cases that are not pressed to conclusion, and when the Court does that it must give its reasons--the law says so. In this State, since the formation of the government therein, the power has not for any considerable length of time lodged in the District Attorney to dispose of actions; that matter is confided to the Court. Counsel will be doing injustice to his own position if he assumes that the Court has any other attitude than to finally dispose of these matters according to the law without doing injustice to any person, either to the District Attorney or any person who is unfortunate enough to be involved. But when the Court comes to write down its action it will be based upon what it believes to be the fact and upon nothing else." Fickert replied that he was ready to proceed with the matter. To this Judge Lawlor reiterated that the Court was not going to permit the District Attorney to proceed in the absence of a witness, who, according to the District Attorney's own statement, was material.[464] Nor did the earnest plea of attorneys for the defense for dismissal move Judge Lawlor. In the absence of the material witness, Gallagher, he continued the case, on the Court's own motion, until April 25.[465] On that date, Calhoun's attorneys moved for dismissal of all the indictments pending against their client upon the ground that his trial had been postponed and continued for more than sixty days without his consent and over his objection and exception. Fickert submitted the motion, fortifying it with a statement that he did not believe that the District Attorney's office would be justified in asking continuance until Gallagher's return. Judge Lawlor postponed determination of the motion until July 14.[466] His ruling was announced on August 3. Judge Lawlor went exhaustively into the situation presented.[467] He pointed out that a material and indispensable witness was absent from the State; he stated that the Court was called upon to intervene "because the District Attorney has at practically every turn followed the lead of these defendants"; he held that through the influence of unusual agencies, so far as the graft cases were concerned, the law had broken down, and that the crimes charged are of the most serious nature, "because such criminal activity tends to sap the very foundations of government"; he insisted that before the indictments should be finally disposed of every reasonable effort should be made to get at the truth of the situation. "The disposition of grave charges other than on their merits," he concluded, "is not to be encouraged and should not be allowed, except in the face of a strict legal necessity." He continued the cases until August 29. Stanley Moore, one of Calhoun's attorneys, when Judge Lawlor had concluded, demanded that he be permitted to reply. This demand was refused. There followed one of the most extraordinary scenes ever recorded of a court of justice. The defendant's attorneys, the District Attorney, and even the prisoner at bar, openly and contemptuously defied the Judge on the bench. Stanley Moore charged him with "doing politics from the bench that you stultify in your occupancy." A. A. Moore, another of Calhoun's lawyers, accused him of being "a partisan, a bitter partisan, and doing dirty politics." "And," Stanley Moore hastened to add, "have been before these indictments were ever filed in this court, as the events of that midnight deal in which you participated on April 29 amply demonstrate."[468] District Attorney Fickert, in the face of the Court's direction that he take his seat, denounced "the statements and aspersions you have tried to cast upon me" as "false in each and every particular." A third of Mr. Calhoun's attorneys added his denunciation. Mr. John Barrett decried the proceedings as "infamous." Judge Lawlor sentenced Calhoun's three attorneys to serve five days each in the county jail for contempt and ordered the Sheriff to take charge of them. But the extraordinary scene was not concluded. The prisoner at the bar had not yet been heard. Calhoun took the floor to tell the judge on the bench that should the Judge send him (Calhoun) to jail for contempt "it will be heralded all over this country as an honor."[469] The Court attempted to interrupt the angry defendant. The interruption was ignored. The prisoner at the bar was exhibiting himself as more powerful in San Francisco than the Judge on the bench. When he had said his say, he took his seat. The trolley-graft cases dragged along for more than a year after this astonishing scene in Judge Lawlor's courtroom.[470] The defendants applied to the Supreme Court in habeas corpus proceedings, but failed to secure interference. They then went to the State District Court of Appeal, where they secured a writ of mandate directing Judge Lawlor to dismiss the indictments in the cases of the trolley-graft defendants.[471] The District Attorney's office announced to Judge Lawlor that the District Attorney had no intention of prosecuting an appeal from the judgment and order of the District Court. Judge Lawlor thereupon dismissed the cases as directed. He also included the cases against Frank G. Drum, Eugene de Sabla and John Martin, which were governed by much the same considerations as the trolley cases. Four years and a half had passed since the indictments had been brought. Little by little, the influence of those of the community who were for law and order and impartial law enforcement had been sapped and broken down. The prosecution had been worn out; the community had been worn out. The defense had shown greater staying qualities than either peace officers or community. It had been pretty thoroughly demonstrated that convictions could not be had.[472] The dismissal of the trolley-graft and gas-graft cases was the final breaking down of San Francisco's efforts to have the cases tried upon their merits. To be sure, the indictments against the telephone-graft defendants and the prizefight-graft defendants, and against Schmitz and Ruef still stood. Glass, a telephone-graft defendant, had been convicted, but the Supreme Court had reversed the decision on technicalities.[473] The absent witness, Gallagher, was not a material witness in the Glass case. But when along in August, 1912, a year after the dismissal of the gas and trolley-graft cases, Glass's case was called, it was found that important witnesses had disappeared. The incident was taken by the papers, not as a reflection upon the community, but as a joke on Judge Lawlor.[474] The Glass cases were finally dismissed. Former Mayor Schmitz in February, 1912, was brought to trial. Ruef was brought over from San Quentin prison to testify against him. But Ruef refused to testify unless the Ruef indictments were dismissed. This, Judge Dunne,[475] before whom many Ruef indictments were pending, refused to do. Ruef did not testify. Schmitz was acquitted. The other indictments against Schmitz were eventually dismissed. The same course followed in the cases of the other graft defendants. The graft defense had beaten San Francisco; its record of shameful success was complete. FOOTNOTES: [457] The second trial of Patrick Calhoun (No. 1437) was begun July 19, 1909. Owing to the illness of one of Mr. Calhoun's counsel, the trial was suspended on August 16th, and resumed September 30th. The following day the defendant secured further continuance until November 15th, upon the ground of the pendency of a municipal political campaign. After the election the trial was resumed. On December 9th, it was, by agreement between the parties continued until January 10th, when the new District Attorney should be in office. [458] The motives which prompted Gallagher to flee the city are among the undetermined elements of the graft cases. Perhaps recollection of his attempted assassination had something to do with it. It may be that the defense, which had done so many extraordinary things during the course of the graft trials, made it worth his while to go. Gallagher is known to have been plentifully supplied with money while he was away. An attempt was made to create the impression that agents of the Prosecution had been instrumental in getting Gallagher out of the State. But the attempt, while it confused the situation somewhat, was not taken seriously. When in August, 1911, Judge Lawlor dismissed the indictments against the alleged bribe-givers in the trolley case, he took occasion to say: "I am more convinced now than I was when these same motions were urged more than a year ago, that James L. Gallagher is remaining out of this jurisdiction for a specific purpose. The future will make that point entirely clear. When his importance as a witness in any of these so-called graft cases has ceased there is no doubt that James L. Gallagher will be again in our midst. If I were able to lay the responsibility for that situation upon any individual or set of individuals I repeat that appropriate proceedings would have been instituted to have the law redressed in that behalf." Judge Lawlor was right. After the dismissal of the graft cases Mr. Gallagher returned to San Francisco. To the intimation of District Attorney Fickert that Gallagher left the State to embarrass the District Attorney's administration, Judge Lawlor on one occasion said in an opinion: "That the former administration may have distrusted the official intentions of the District Attorney toward these indictments might be assumed from all the surrounding circumstances. But it does not seem probable that the former administration would induce a material and indispensable witness to leave the State and thereby make it easy for the District Attorney to secure a result which otherwise might entail serious embarrassment. So far as the showing is concerned there is no tangible proof tending to support the charge of the District Attorney, nor is there any proof which would justify such an inference." [459] Fickert's motion had been prepared in advance and was read to the court. "Since the calling of this case on January 10th," he said, "I have made a thorough and careful examination of the evidence left in the District Attorney's office by my predecessor, Mr. Langdon, and he informed me on my accession to the office, that he had delivered to me all the evidence of every kind and character in his possession or under his control in this case. I have also examined the transcript of testimony given at the former trial of this defendant; besides this, I have made independent search for further evidence. These examinations convince me that there is not sufficient legal and competent evidence to justify me, as a sworn officer of the law, to present this case to a jury. "My opinion is confirmed by the fact that 42 out of 48 jurors sworn to try this defendant and the defendant, Tirey L. Ford, upon the same state of facts, voted 'Not Guilty.' I, therefore, 'In furtherance of justice,' move the dismissal of this indictment, on the grounds that the evidence is wholly insufficient to warrant another trial of this case." [460] Judge Lawlor was also careful to make clear that if the court proceeded with the formation of a jury, jeopardy would attach to the case. He also pointed out that the statute of limitations had run against the alleged crimes. The following is from the transcript, the questions being directed to Mr. Fickert: The Court: You are aware that if you proceed to form a jury to try this issue, and the witness does not appear, that jeopardy has nevertheless attached and that the defendant will be entitled to ask for his deliverance at the hands of that jury, whether that witness is produced or not. "Mr. Fickert: Yes, I am aware of that, if your Honor please. "The Court: And you are aware further that the alleged criminal act set up in the indictment is outlawed within the meaning of Section 800 of the Penal Code; that is to say, that more than three years have intervened since it is claimed that that act was committed. "Mr. Fickert: That is correct, if your Honor please. "The Court: The witness, James L. Gallagher, gave testimony in the trial of case 1436 against this defendant. You are aware that the testimony relating to an indictment cannot be read to a jury on a retrial of the action; in other words, that if James L. Gallagher does not appear in this trial his testimony cannot be presented to the jury." Fickert suggested that counsel might stipulate that the evidence be read. But counsel for Mr. Calhoun hastened to assure Mr. Fickert that counsel would stipulate to nothing of the kind. [461] "At the present time," said Judge Lawlor in making this announcement, "it is the intention of the Court to deal with this matter, so far as the absence of that material witness is concerned, and to suspend judgment as to the ultimate attitude of the District Attorney in respect to this and other causes before the Court. I do not intend to sit here and preside over a trial if for any reason, whether it seems sufficient to the District Attorney or not, the Court reaches the conclusion that the case is not being prosecuted in good faith. The Court, in pointing out the duty of the District Attorney on February 7th, was not inviting a suggestion that we should proceed to trial without regard to the outcome of that trial or to its particular features or the manner in which it should be tried. The Court will try no case, it will not consume its own time, it will not consume the time of others, it will not allow the expenditure of public money for the mere purpose of going through the forms of a trial. The Court must feel in the end that the people are represented. Now, what its final view shall be as to the District Attorney will be announced when the Court deems that announcement pertinent and proper. The Court has its own views as to what may be done within the exercise of its prerogative in the event that it does not feel that the people are represented, and will act upon its own judgment when that time arrives. At this time the witness being absent from the jurisdiction of the Court, the Court points out to the District Attorney his duty under Section 1052 of the Penal Code, to move for a proper continuance of this action until the Court can be advised as to whether or not that witness can be produced." Later, when Fickert suggested that all criminal causes be transferred to some other department where the judge might be of a different opinion, Judge Lawlor said: "I have had no occasion to find fault with your acts in respect to any other causes that have been brought before this Court. I am endeavoring to have your mind concentrated upon one thing, and that is the matters which are before this Court, and for the prosecution of which you, under your sworn oath of office are required to give your full attention to. Your own statement in support of your motion to dismiss this case evinces in my judgment a disposition not to do your duty. However, I still say that this matter I bring to your attention, and ask you to give full reflection upon the matter. I have no desire in any manner to hamper you. The process of this Court is at your disposal at all times, in all causes, and if any person or set of persons be found to be interfering with the due administration of Justice you will have a full hearing before this Court in order that you shall not be so hampered. Your statement concerning these cases is calculated not alone to affect the fortune of these undetermined cases, but it is well calculated to affect the disposition of the other causes and other charges wherein convictions were had against other persons growing out of this alleged transaction, and which cases are now on their way for a determination to the courts of appeal in this State." [462] "I think your Honor well knows," Fickert had said, "that certain defendants in this particular class of cases, that there have not been produced here in Court, and I do not think ever existed, any evidence against them. I allude to Mr. Abbott and Mr. Mullally. And I so informed you in your chambers, and you in words confessed that proposition." Judge Lawlor took this statement up. The following is from the transcript: "The Court: Now, before you pass to those other cases, in regard to these two cases do you make the statement that I made any statement to you, in the presence of Mr. Berry, that I said there was not sufficient evidence? "Mr. Fickert: I so informed you, and you, in effect, so stated. "The Court: Did you so understand it, Mr. Berry? "Mr. Fickert: That there was no evidence against those men? "Mr. Berry: I remember Mr. Fickert saying he did not consider there was any evidence against those men, but I do not remember the Court's reply: I do not remember that the Court did reply. "The Court: I did not. It is not the province of the Court to pass upon the facts in a criminal case. The facts are placed before a jury, and the jury pass on the facts. "Mr. Fickert: I am certainly not mistaken in that matter. "The Court: You are certainly mistaken in that matter; I was careful not to make any such statement." [463] See footnote 459, page 426. [464] "In dealing with the attitude of the District Attorney," said Judge Lawlor, "as is manifested by all that I have said upon that subject, I have endeavored to deal justly with him, to reach no conclusion myself definitely as to the attitude of the District Attorney. I sincerely hope that in these cases, as in all cases that may come before the Court, the District Attorney will do his full duty. I desire it equally understood, however, that if the District Attorney in any case fails of his duty the Court is not going to be recreant and it is not going to sit here as a minister of justice and permit a travesty in any form, for any purpose, whatever the views of the District Attorney may be. Now, I have endeavored to make it clear that there are two considerations that will affect the Court in the final disposition of this business: First, that it will not proceed with the trial of any action where material testimony is not forthcoming. That would be the disposition of the Court in any case, but it is especially its attitude in this case in view of the sweeping statement of the District Attorney made on February 7th that there is no sufficient evidence upon which to proceed to trial against any of these four defendants." [465] The statement was made repeatedly that Gallagher was not under subpoena when he left the State. The statement was even contained in the opinion of the Appellate Court, granting the writ of mandate that preceded the dismissal of the graft cases. Judge Lawlor at the proceedings when the cases were finally dismissed, touched upon this feature as follows: "The Court: The statement has been made in the opinion that I am not able to account for its appearance in the showing. This statement was made that no service had been made upon James L. Gallagher or that he was not under the order of the Court. That is a proposition of fact which has never been resolved by this Court and I am unable to determine how it could be determined elsewhere, how it could be declared elsewhere, in the absence of such testimony as I might be able to give on the subject. I expressly refrained, on an occasion when I made an extended statement covering these cases, from making any final word on that subject. I am not prepared now to say so, because I don't know. "Mr. Berry: I will state to the Court that I have made a very careful inquiry in the District Attorney's office, and of the records, and of the officials in that office in the previous administration, and I have been unable to secure or to get any definite information on that point." [466] Judge Lawlor, in announcing this decision, said in part: "Section 13 of Article I of the Constitution provides in part: 'In criminal prosecutions in any court whatever the party accused shall have the right to a speedy and public trial. * * *.' Section 1382 of the Penal Code declares in part: 'The court, unless good cause to the contrary is shown, must order the prosecution to be dismissed in the following cases: * * *. 2. If a defendant, whose trial has not been postponed upon his application, is not brought to trial within sixty days after the finding of the indictment, or filing of the information.' "This provision has repeatedly been declared to be a statutory expression with reference to the section of the constitution to which the Court has referred. It has been held to mark the period within which a party accused of crime is to be brought to trial, unless good cause to the contrary is shown. About the general proposition of law involved in the determination of the present motion there can be little ground for contention. The perplexity usually arises in the determination of what the reserve language of Subdivision 2 of Section 1382 of the Penal Code may be included to cover. An application of this character must be determined according to the peculiar circumstances surrounding the application." * * * "The Court is of the view that so far as the determination of the motion itself is concerned the onus is on the People to show good cause, which would take the case out of the operation of the constitutional provision and the statute referred to. The Court, in that view of the matter, has addressed the District Attorney as to what his attitude is with respect to the motion, and the District Attorney has made it plain that it is not his intention to take any step toward meeting the application of the defendant to have the causes dismissed. In the view which the Court takes of the general attitude of the District Attorney toward the four defendants at bar, the Court feels it is a case where it must act, and to the extent that it may be needed, to protect the public interests. The Court has judicial knowledge of the history of the charges against these four defendants. It knows judicially that a material, and, it is claimed, an indispensable witness to the prosecution of these charges is without the jurisdiction of the State. It is not prepared, on any evidence before it, to charge the responsibility of the absence of that witness either to the former administration or to the present administration in the District Attorney's office. The fact, however, that the witness is absent from the State and not within reach of the process of the Court, is a fact established before the Court at this time. "It is not the intention of the Court to disregard the rights of this or any other defendant, that may be urged before this Court, but, it is likewise the disposition of the Court, to see that the public interests are safeguarded, and that no arrangement between the defendants and the sworn officer of the law shall be suffered to direct and control the action of this Court. And in that view of the matter the Court has reached the conclusion that it is its duty to continue these causes further, in order to see whether or not the missing witness can be secured, and if he cannot be secured within such time as this Court may deem to be proper and which would take the case out of the exception contained in the provision of the statute, and the constitutional provision, then to deal with this motion. "It is therefore ordered that the determination of the pending motion in the causes against the four defendants named be continued for further hearing until 10 a. m., Thursday, July 14, 1910." [467] Judge Lawlor's decision will be found in full in the Appendix, page i. [468] See Chapter XV. [469] Calhoun's denunciation of Judge Lawlor was as follows: "Mr. Calhoun: May it please your Honor: I have been educated, sir, to have respect for the courts. I have sat in your court under circumstances that would have tried the patience of any American. Throughout these trials I have sought, sir, to give you under most trying circumstances that respect to which your office entitles you. But, sir, I cannot sit quiet and listen to the vile insinuations which you yourself have stated there was no evidence before you to justify. There have been periods, sir, when the greatest honor that could come to a man was to go to jail; and as an American citizen I say to you that if you should send me for contempt it will be heralded all over this country as an honor. You have seen fit, sir, to send three of the most distinguished counsel of this State to jail. Why? Because they have sought to express in terms of respect, and yet in terms of strength, their protest against injustice---- "The Court: Mr. Calhoun---- "Mr. Calhoun: There is a time--pardon me, your Honor--when every man has a right to be heard---- "The Court: Mr. Calhoun---- "Mr. Calhoun: Now, before I take my seat, I desire further to say this, that any insinuation that implies either that I was a party to any obstruction of justice, or that I was a party to the absence of this witness, or that I have sought to control the District Attorney's office of this city is untrue. There is no evidence before this Court. You yourself know it." [470] Judge Lawlor's term of office expired in January, 1913. At the 1912 November elections he was a candidate for re-election. The force of the influence of the graft defense was thrown against him. Nevertheless, he was re-elected to serve as Superior Judge of the City and County of San Francisco until January, 1919. In November, 1914, however, he was elected to the Supreme Bench of the State, his term of office beginning in January, 1915, and ending in January, 1927. [471] Of the three Appellate Judges who granted this writ, one of them, Kerrigan, was prominent in the flash-light picture taken at Santa Cruz during the 1906 State Convention, in which Ruef occupied the center position of honor. See Chapter IV. [472] Assistant District Attorney Berry on the occasion of the dismissal of the indictments said on this point: "If the men who are involved in this transaction have transgressed the laws they are sowing the wind possibly which may reap the whirlwind by breaking down the institutions of the land. I regret exceedingly, if these men are guilty of the offense with which they have stood charged here, that they cannot be convicted. I assure the Court and I state here that it would be my purpose to follow these cases, if these defendants are guilty and the evidence were had, to the uttermost in order to bring about the ends of justice. It is no doubt in the minds of the community that where men of prominence and where men of wealth are concerned, and are brought before the bar of justice and justice is not had, that those who are less fortunate in influence and means are thereby made to feel and believe that this is not a government for those who stand before the law equal with those who stand with the tremendous power of influence behind them." [473] The seven Justices of the Supreme Court took no less than four views of the points raised in the Glass case. The majority opinion was written by Justice Henshaw, and concurred in by Justices Melvin and Lorigan. Chief Justice Beatty concurred in the judgment, but not in all the particulars of the opinion. In signing the decision, the Chief Justice adds: "I concur in the judgment of reversal and in most particulars in the opinion of Justice Henshaw. I shall, if other pressing duties permit, present my views in a separate opinion." (See 112 Pacific Reporter, page 297.) The dissenting opinion was written by Justice Shaw and concurred in by Justice Angellotti. A third opinion was written by Justice Sloss. Justice Sloss, after defending the single point in the majority opinion in which he concurs, concludes: "On each of the other points discussed in the opinion of Justice Henshaw, I agree with the dissenting members of the court (Shaw and Angellotti) that no prejudicial error was committed." The fourth opinion, which the Chief Justice intimated he might file, was not filed. [474] The following from the San Francisco Call of August 2, 1912, indicates the completeness of the triumph of the defense campaign: "Mrs. Theodore Halsey, wife of Theodore V. Halsey, appeared before Superior Judge Lawlor yesterday morning on a bench warrant in the case of Louis Glass, indicted for bribery in the telephone cases growing out of the so-called Graft Prosecution. She was in court to explain the absence of her husband from the State, whose appearance is wanted if Lawlor orders Glass to trial. "Attorney Bert Schlesinger appeared with Mrs. Halsey, explaining the bench warrant was void inasmuch as Mrs. Halsey was not a fugitive. He said he did not wish to impede the trial in any way and would allow her to answer any questions propounded by the Court. "Lawlor asked Mrs. Halsey, through her attorney, where her husband was. Mrs. Halsey was not compelled to take the stand. She said Halsey left San Francisco six weeks ago because of ill health, going to Nevada, and that she has not heard from him in a week. "Assistant District Attorney Berry said a motion was before the Court to dismiss the indictments pending against Glass and he wished to know the Court's intention. Lawlor said he believed Halsey and Emil J. Zimmer, who is said to be in Europe, were competent witnesses against Glass, and it was his duty to try Glass again. He said the result of the former Glass trials showed Halsey had knowledge of the source of the bribe money and who paid it to the Supervisors. "Lawlor continued the cases of Glass until August 12th, to learn from the District Attorney if the Prosecution has exhausted all its resources in the matter. "Schlesinger and Mrs. Halsey were about to leave the courtroom when Lawlor said, 'I trust, Mr. Schlesinger, you will inform the Court of the whereabouts of Mr. Halsey, if you learn in the meantime.' "'I will assist the Court in any way possible,' replied Schlesinger. 'But I regard all these Graft Prosecutions as corpses and the mourners have long since ceased to mourn.' "The Judge said nothing in the record showed such a condition. Detective Sergeant Prool took the stand and said he had learned nothing more of the whereabouts of either Halsey or Zimmer." [475] Judge Dunne, until the last, stood as staunchly for effective prosecution of the graft cases as had Judge Lawlor. CHAPTER XXIX. RUEF'S LAST REFUGE FAILS. That a jury of twelve men had found Ruef guilty of bribe-giving did not mean necessarily that the broken boss would be confined at San Quentin, the prison to which he had been sentenced to serve his fourteen-year term. Indeed, the probabilities were very much against his suffering any such indignity. Ruef had, at the test, continued "true to his class"; he had not assisted the State in bringing the bribe-givers to account. Men, powerful in financial, social and political circles were unquestionably under the greatest obligation to him. He had not "gone back on his class." His "class" owed it to him to save him from stripes, as Ruef by his course had beyond question saved many of his "class" from stripes. Having been convicted by a jury, the first move was for Ruef to appeal to the trial judge for a new trial. This appeal was denied him. Ruef then appealed from the judgment of the trial court to the District Court of Appeal. The three justices of the District Court of Appeal found nothing in Ruef's contention to warrant the granting of a new trial.[476] Thus four judges found that Ruef's trial had been fair, even technically fair. But Ruef's possibilities were not exhausted. The Supreme Court could, if four of the seven members were so inclined, grant him a rehearing, and to the Supreme Court Ruef applied. The California State Constitution provides that "the Supreme Court shall have power to order any cause pending ... before a district court of appeal to be heard and determined by the Supreme Court. The order last mentioned may be made before judgment has been pronounced by a district court of appeal, or within thirty days after such judgment shall have become final therein." The District Court of Appeal found against Ruef on November 23, 1910; this action became final thirty days later, or on December 23, 1910. The Supreme Court had thirty days after December 23, that is to say, until January 22, 1911, to grant Ruef a rehearing, if a majority of the seven Supreme Justices so decided. If the Supreme Court failed to act before the close of January 22, Ruef, unless pardoned or paroled, would have to go to State prison. Ruef, on December 31, 1910, petitioned the Supreme Court for a rehearing. On January 23, announcement was made that the Supreme Court, by a four to three decision, had decided to grant Ruef's petition. The decision was received with protest from one end of the State to the other.[478] The Legislature was in session at the time. Senator George W. Cartwright of Fresno introduced a resolution requesting the Assembly--where impeachment proceedings must originate--to take such steps as might be deemed necessary for investigation of the Supreme Court's conduct. And finally there came the rumor--at first not generally believed, but later confirmed by the Supreme Justices themselves--that one of the Justices at least had signed the order granting Ruef his rehearing before the Attorney-General had filed his brief in answer to Ruef's petition. The Justice who had thus acted was Justice Henshaw, the same Supreme Court Justice who occupied prominent position in the picture of the banquet scene at the 1906 Santa Cruz convention, in which Ruef appears in the central position of honor.[480] The facts later brought out involved the following dates: December 31, 1910--Ruef's petition for rehearing was filed in Supreme Court. January 10--W. H. Metson was granted permission to file a brief in the case as _Amicus Curiae_. January 10--Justice Henshaw signed the order granting Ruef a rehearing. January 11--Justice Henshaw left the State and was absent until after the order granting Ruef a rehearing had been filed. January 12--Metson filed his brief as _Amicus Curiae_. January 12--The Attorney-General filed his reply to Ruef's petition for a rehearing. January 19--Justice Melvin signed the order granting Ruef's petition. January 20--Attorney-General filed reply to Metson's brief. January 21--Chief Justice Beatty, and Justices Shaw, Angellotti, Lorigan and Sloss met in the chambers of the Chief Justice for consultation regarding Ruef's petition. Justice Lorigan signed the order granting the petition. Justices Shaw, Angellotti and Sloss declined to concur in such order, and Chief Justice Beatty reserved his decision in the matter until January 22, 1911. January 22, 1911--(Sunday, the last day on which the order could be signed) Chief Justice Beatty signed the order, his being the fourth name on the document, four signatures being necessary to make it effective. January 23--A typewritten copy of the order was filed with the Clerk of the Court, the original being retained in the office of the secretaries to the Justices. Up to this time, eleven judges had passed upon Ruef's case. Seven of them--one Superior Judge, three Judges of the District Court of Appeal and three Justices of the Supreme Court--had decided that Ruef had had a fair trial, that no technicality could be invoked to save him. Four of the eleven judges, in a way which, to the lay mind at least, was somewhat irregular, had decided to grant a rehearing. The public was not at all backward in expressing the opinion that this would mean a new trial; and that under conditions as they were at San Francisco, Ruef would not for a second time be convicted.[481] As is usual in such cases, the public was dissatisfied, suspicious, indignant, but without plan or remedy. Some demanded investigation at the hands of the Legislature; others wanted impeachment[482] proceedings instituted. Mr. William Denman, a leader of the California bar, urged before the Senate Judiciary Committee that the Legislature owed it to the Supreme Court, as well as to itself and to the public, to make thorough investigation, and demanded of the committee if the Legislature on proper showing would declare the office of a Supreme Justice vacant. Senator Shanahan, a member of the committee, was quick to reply that under such a showing the Legislature would certainly act. "But," added Shanahan--and here he touched the weak point of impeachment proceedings--"it would take months if not years. That is why impeachment proceedings will not be instituted. Impeachment proceedings from the trial of Warren Hastings to the present time have proved unsatisfactory." But, however individuals differed on the question of impeachment proceedings, the general attitude was that the Attorney-General should take steps, if such course were practical, to have the order granting Ruef a rehearing set aside. This the Attorney-General did. He attacked the order before the tribunal which had made it, the highest tribunal in the State, the only one to which appeal could be made. And the Supreme Court set the order aside, declaring it to be "ineffectual for any purpose and void." But the Supreme Court did not set the order aside because Justice Henshaw had signed the document before the argument of the prosecution had been heard. The order was set aside on the ground that Henshaw, being absent from the State when the signature of the fourth Justice was attached thereto, was at the time, being absent from the State, unable to exercise any judicial function as a Justice of the Supreme Court. Without Henshaw's signature, the signatures of but three of the Supreme Justices appeared on the order. As the signatures of four of the Justices were required to make the order effective the Court declared it to be worthless.[483] Thirty days from the time the judgment of the District Court of Appeal became final having expired, the Supreme Court could not interfere further. Ruef had lost his last technical play on a technicality. He went to State prison. But Ruef did not go to State prison because a jury of twelve men had found him guilty of offering a bribe to a Supervisor; he did not go to State prison because seven out of eleven judges who passed upon the questions involved had found that he had had a fair trial. Ruef went to State prison when he did because a member of the Supreme Court of California was absent from the State at a time inopportune for Ruef. Ordinarily, after his failure in the Supreme Court, Ruef would have had two more chances for escaping the full penalty of his bribe-giving, namely, parole at the hands of the State Board of Prison Directors, and pardon from the Governor. But again was Ruef unfortunate. Hiram W. Johnson, as Governor of California, sat at Sacramento. He had gone into office pledged "to kick the Southern Pacific machine out of the State government." He was keeping his pledge. There was no pressure which men of Mr. Ruef's "class" could bring upon Governor Johnson to move him to grant Ruef freedom. The possibility of parole was as remote, although the State Board of Prison Directors--who in California are appointed for ten-year terms--continued for a time under the old order. One of the five directors was Tirey L. Ford[484] of the United Railroads. Ruef went to prison convicted of a charge of bribing a Supervisor to vote to give the United Railroads its overhead trolley permit. The evidence indicated, if it did not show, and Mr. Ruef has since confessed, that this money came to him from General Ford. Ruef, because of the crime, found himself confined in a prison of which General Ford was one of the five governors, with power of parole in his hands. But it developed that Governor Johnson had power to set aside such parole. So Ruef could expect little from even the Board of Prison Directors. Scarcely had Ruef been placed behind the bars, however, than a State-wide campaign was inaugurated to compel his pardon or parole. The public was treated daily by the newspapers with descriptions of the discomfitures[485] which Ruef was suffering. When he was found, for example, smuggling sweet chocolates into prison, and was punished for it, the Ruef-friendly press cried out at the cruelty and unreasonableness of such punishment.[486] The suffering which his imprisonment has brought upon the members of his family is dwelt upon at length. Letters from them, pleading for assistance for their imprisoned relative have been received by many whose assistance it was thought might prove effective in securing his release. But when Ruef was brought back from San Quentin prison to San Francisco to testify at Schmitz's trial, the pathetic story was published broadcast that these letter-writing relatives had been kept in ignorance of his imprisonment, and thought him to be traveling in Europe.[487] One of the most contemptible stories circulated to create public opinion for his release was that Ruef had been made scapegoat because of his religion. Ruef is a Jew, circulators of this story insisted that he is in prison because he is a Jew, while the gentile bribe-givers go free. As a matter of fact, the gentiles associated with Ruef have gone free because of Ruef's treachery to the graft prosecution, but this does not prevent the circulation of the story. A saner view, breathing of better citizenship, came from Rabbi Stephen S. Wise of the New York Free Synagogue. "Israel," said Rabbi Wise, "is not responsible for Ruef's crimes any more than the Roman or Protestant Church is responsible for the crimes of its communicants. But we of the House of Israel in America would be in part answerable for Ruef's misdeeds unless we made it clear, as we do, that Israel is unutterably pained by this blot upon its record of good citizenship in America." By far the most astonishing support of the movement to free Ruef came from the San Francisco Bulletin and Fremont Older, its managing editor. Older was one of the strongest supporters of the graft prosecution, as was the paper under his management. But once the graft prosecution was concluded, Older and the Bulletin became the most persistent of the supporters of the movement to secure Ruef his freedom.[488] Largely through Older's influence, men of prominence throughout the country--with apparently no very clear knowledge of the situation--have been induced to express themselves as favorable to Ruef's release. In the publicity campaign for Ruef's release which gives no indication of abatement, Ruef, and those who seek his release, are praised in the most extravagant terms, while those who will not enroll themselves in his interests are as extravagantly condemned.[489] But in spite of all that is being done to create public opinion favorable to Ruef's release, the sober expression of machine-free press and public is that Ruef should be treated both on the score of parole and confinement precisely the same as any other prisoner.[490] This attitude was clearly presented by the Fresno Republican at the time Ruef was found smuggling chocolate sweets into the prison. In the attitude of prison officials toward Ruef, the Republican pointed out, there are two alternatives. "One," the Republican went on to say, "is the course of Warden Hoyle, in treating Ruef like any other prisoner, and disciplining him humanely but sternly, for any infraction of the necessary prison rules. The other is to let Ruef have privileges which the other prisoners do not and can not have. News travels nowhere faster or surer than in prison. If Ruef bribes guards, the officials may not know it, but the prisoners will. If Ruef may have smuggled sweets, the other prisoner, whose every nerve-cell shrieks in agony for cocaine, but who knows he will be thrown in the dungeon if he smuggles it, will have no illusions about the smuggling privilege. If the very minions of justice do injustice, as between Abe Ruef and Convict No. 231,323, every man in that vast prison will be taught that he is the victim not of justice, but of force and favoritism. And if Ruef, at the expiration of a bare year, were to be paroled out, every other convict, whose very application can not be heard until he has served half his term, will know that he is suffering the penalty, not of his crime, but of his poverty and friendlessness. Shall Abe Ruef be suffered to teach that lesson? Shall he corrupt San Quentin prison as he did San Francisco? Or shall there be at last one place found where even Abe Ruef gets exact and equal justice?" Ruef is getting equal justice at State prison, not because he corrupted San Francisco, not because a jury of twelve citizens found him guilty, not because seven out of eleven judges declared against him, but because the political machine, of which Ruef was one of the most powerful leaders, has been broken in California. Under the old order, to have kept Ruef jailed would have been impossible. FOOTNOTES: [476] See Cal. App. Rpts., vol. 14, page 576. [478] Said the Sacramento Bee in an editorial article discussing this order, the day after it was made public, January 24, 1911: It cannot be denied that this order, by a bare majority of the Supreme Court and--with the single exception of the Chief Justice, by the three of its members least esteemed and respected by the public--has excited disgust and exasperation throughout California. There is a strong popular feeling and belief that the Supreme Court should not thus have interposed to save from punishment the most notorious scoundrel and corruptionist in California, a man known to everybody as having enriched himself by systematic grafting and by the bribery of public servants in the interests of corporations, a man with many indictments resting against him, but convicted only on one. "What adds to this general disgust and indignation over the Supreme Court's order is apprehension that the rehearing before that tribunal may result in the grant of a new trial for Ruef, a reversal which in all probability would be equivalent to a final discharge. Such changes have taken place in San Francisco in the last two years, especially in the office of the District Attorney, that a new trial would have small chance of ending in conviction. "No reasons are given by the Supreme Court for its order for a rehearing, but presumably they are of a purely technical sort, for the fact of Ruef's guilt was abundantly proved on the trial." [479] The Cartwright resolution was in full as follows: "Whereas, The Supreme Court of this State on or about the 23rd of January, 1911, rendered a decision in the case of the People of the State of California vs. Abraham Ruef, in which the defendant is granted a rehearing; and "Whereas, Various newspapers have published criticisms condemning said decision, and intimating that the Justices participating therein were controlled by corrupt and unworthy motives; and "Whereas, The integrity of our courts has been frequently assailed by public speakers and by many of our citizens, all of which tends to destroy the confidence of The People in the purity and integrity of our courts of justice; be it "Resolved, by the Senate, That the Assembly be requested to appoint a committee of the Assembly, such committee to be authorized, empowered and instructed to investigate the whole subject matter and particularly to investigate said decision, the grounds upon which the decision is based and the conduct of the Justices of the Supreme Court in relation to said decision, and that the committee report to the Assembly the results of such investigation, with such recommendations as to the committee may seem meet and proper in the premises; be it further "Resolved, That said committee shall have power to summon witnesses, and to send for persons and papers and to issue subpoenaes and compel attendance of witnesses when necessary." [480] See Chapter IV. [481] This view was entirely justified by the outcome in the Coffey case. Coffey was one of the boodle Supervisors who had at the test refused "to go back on his class." He was tried for bribe-taking and convicted. In the Court of Appeal practically the same points were raised in his favor as were raised in the Ruef case. The Appellate Court refused to interfere. The Supreme Court, by a three to four decision, granted Coffey a rehearing and later a new trial. The line-up of the eleven judges was the same in Coffey's case as in Ruef's--seven found Coffey had had a fair trial; four found that he had not. The four--under the rules of the legal game--were more potent than the seven. The jury verdict was nullified. The indictments against Coffey were finally dismissed. Had the Supreme Court's order for a rehearing of the Ruef case stood, the outcome would have unquestionably been the same. [482] Some of the ablest men in the State urged impeachment proceedings. "If the charges," said United States Senator John D. Works in a letter to State Senator Hewitt, "made against Judge Henshaw by the Attorney-General of this State, under oath, are true, why is it the Legislature of this State before this has not commenced impeachment proceedings against him? "The legislature has no right to shrink from this duty and responsibility and relieve itself from taking such a step by relegating that duty and responsibility to The People of the State by the enactment of recall legislation. If Judge Henshaw, or any other judge, has violated his duty to the State and betrayed his office as the charges made against him indicate, the duty of the legislature is imperative, and that duty should be performed without hesitation and without delay." Justice Henshaw, in discussing Judge Works' letter, in an interview in the San Francisco Examiner, February 15, 1911, is quoted as saying: "All the charges made by Attorney General Webb in his affidavit attacking the Ruef rehearing order of January 30th are true. The orders were signed in the manner stated and I told him so when he visited my office. There was nothing unusual about it. It was done in accordance with the usual practice of this court. "We seldom meet in session to sign the orders. There may be twenty cases to be passed on in one week. Each Justice looks them over at his leisure and signs what orders he agrees to. "I was out of the State, as Mr. Webb says, and at the time that he says. I did not even imagine that there was a legal point involved. The practice never has been questioned before." [483] The following is from the Supreme Court decision revoking the Ruef order for a rehearing (see California App. Reports, Vol. 14, page 576): "The moment Justice Henshaw left the State, in view of the authorities already referred to, he became unable to exercise any judicial function as a Justice of the Supreme Court, in this State or out of it, and this disability continued during the whole period of his absence. During that time his situation was the same as if he had absolutely ceased to be a member of this court. It is true that there was a suspension, only, of his judicial power, instead of a final abrogation thereof, but the suspension, while it continued, was as absolute in its effect on his judicial power as would have been a complete vacancy in his office. Assent to or concurrence in a decision or order of the court being the exercise of a purely judicial function, his previous proposal to concur in a proposed order, one that had not yet been made and one that had not yet received the assent of other justices making it an accomplished decision, temporarily ceased to be effectual for any purpose, and so continued ineffectual for any purpose during the whole period of his absence. Such previously indicated willingness to concur could not accomplish that which the absent justice himself could not accomplish. The time having expired before he returned it follows that he never concurred with even a single other justice in the purported order. (1) Admittedly this order, if it ever did become effectual, did not become so until January 22, 1911, when the fourth justice appended his name. At that time, however, Justice Henshaw could not effectually join therein, because of his absence from the State, and his previously indicated willingness to join therein could have no legal effect. The result is that only three justices of this court concurred in the purported order, and as such order could be made only by the concurrence of four justices, it was ineffectual for any purpose and void." [484] Ford's term as prison director expired January 12, 1914. He continued in office until his term had expired and his successor had been appointed. After Ruef had confessed that the trolley bribe money had come to him through Ford, the Sacramento Bee of August 30, 1912, after reciting the allegations of Ruef's confession, said: "There, in brief, is the tale which Abraham Ruef tells with much particularity. It is now in order for the Board of Prison Directors to ask the resignation of Prison Director Ford. "Undoubtedly, Governor Johnson would make a demand to that effect were he in the State. "Much sorrow, if not sympathy, has been felt for Tirey L. Ford all over California. The Bee has expressed some itself. The feeling has been that a man of naturally fine principles and honorable sentiments had been warped by his environments, and had done under instructions that at which his better nature rebelled. "It would be futile now to discuss what Tirey L. Ford should have done and should not have done; or to declare that no temptation should have led him to perform any other than legal work for the United Railroads. "The Bee will say as little as it can say conscientiously under the circumstances. Human nature is human nature the world over. And The Bee men cannot forget the long, long years of intimate friendship with and faith in Tirey L. Ford. But every consideration of the eternal fitness of things demands that he should no longer remain a member of the State Board of Prison Directors." [485] The following is a fair sample of the articles descriptive of Ruef's suffering in prison, which have been inflicted upon the California public ever since Ruef donned stripes; it appeared in The San Francisco Bulletin of December 21, 1912: "Ruef is an epicure. As discordant sounds do violence to the feelings of a musician gifted with an exquisite ear, so coarse, badly cooked or tasteless food does violence to the epicure who is gifted with exquisite nerves for inhaling, tasting and appreciating delicate flavors. The gastric juices of the epicure cannot become freely active on mere hunger as with men not so endowed. Digestion with the epicure must wait upon the fine dictates of the palate; and a stomach so guarded cannot wantonly change to an extreme opposite without material suffering. To eat merely to be filled, to overeat, to eat hurriedly, is for the epicure, as one epicure puts it, 'to commit moral sins.' Ruef since his imprisonment has been compelled to do all these things." [486] To this complaint of cruelty to Ruef, The Fresno Republican made sharp answer: "A visitor," said The Republican, "smuggled articles to Ruef--nothing more dangerous than sweet chocolate and newspaper clippings, to be sure, but still a covert violation of a necessary rule--so Ruef is deprived of visitors and letters for two months, and the automatic application of a general rule postpones his application for parole for six months. Whereat there is wailing and woe, and the San Francisco Call says that Ruef's friends regard it as particularly unfortunate that he should be deprived of visitors just at the time when a movement for his parole is going on. "To all: Let us be sympathetic. Only let us make it general. Ruef shall have his sweet chocolate. But all the other prisoners shall have it too. Ruef shall sneak things into prison, inside his blouse, by bribing the guards. But all the other prisoners shall have all the like privileges, though it is known that some of them would prefer dope, daggers and dynamite to sweet chocolate." [487] Commenting upon this the Sacramento Bee, in its issue of February 9, 1912, said: "In an effort to create sympathy for Abraham Ruef, a story was originated at San Francisco, and has found wide publicity as news, that the aged mother of the felon has been kept in ignorance of his imprisonment, and does not even know of his conviction for bribery. "Yet letters purporting to come from and to be signed by Ruef's mother, and pleading for his parole, have been received by The Bee and other newspapers for months past. Either these letters were forgeries and fabrications, or this tale of the mother's ignorance of Ruef's confinement is mere fiction. "In either case a contemptible trick has been played by some agency both active and unscrupulous in seeking to promote Ruef's release. After this the public and the newspapers may well be suspicious of sympathetic stories respecting Ruef and his confinement. If he is personally responsible for the effort to exploit his mother in the manner here related, he is even a more despicable specimen of humanity than the known facts of his career would indicate." [488] Older, in a letter to Dr. S. W. Hopkins, of Lodi, gives his reasons for working for Ruef's release as follows: "San Francisco, September 25, 1911. Dr. S. W. Hopkins, President Board of Health, Lodi, Cal. Dear Sir: If you read my article in the Survey, I think there is much in it that you did not understand. Perhaps I did not make myself clear. I tried to. I wanted those who read the Survey article to believe that I at least no longer think we are going to better the world by punishing men individually. I do not feel that it is good for people or for the editor of the Pacific Christian to want vengeance administered to our brothers and sisters. I think vengeance, and by vengeance I mean punishment, makes us all worse rather than better. I have asked for mercy for Ruef because I felt that I, above all others, had done most to bring about his downfall. If you have followed the long fight the Bulletin has made during the past eight or nine years, you will recall that I was fighting Ruef long years before the city woke up. You will also recall that I attacked him bitterly with all the invectives that I could personally command, and all that I could hire. I cartooned him in stripes. I described him on his way to San Quentin; told how I thought he would act en route, and what his manner would be when the barber shaved his head, and how he would feel when locked up in a cell. I was vindictive, unscrupulous, savage. I went to Washington and enlisted Heney in the fight. Burns came, and Spreckels joined in the chase. Then I pursued with the same relentless spirit in the wake of these men. At last, after eight years of a man-hunting and man-hating debauch, Ruef crossed over and became what I had wanted him to be, what I had longed and dreamed that he might be--a convict, stripped of his citizenship, stripped of everything society values except the remnant of an ill-gotten fortune. It was then I said to myself: 'I have got him. He is in stripes. He is in a cell. His head is shaved. He is in tears. He is helpless, beaten, chained--killed, so far as his old life is concerned. You have won. How do you like your victory? Do you enjoy the picture now that it is complete? You painted it. Every savage instinct in your nature is expressed on the canvas.' "My soul revolted. I thought over my own life and the many unworthy things I had done to others, the injustice, the wrongs I had been guilty of, the human hearts I had wantonly hurt, the sorrow I had caused, the half-truths I had told, and the mitigating truths I had withheld, the lies I had allowed to go undenied. And then I saw myself also stripped, that is, stripped of all pretense, sham, self-righteousness, holding the key to another man's cell. I dropped the key. I never want to see it again. Let it be taken up and held by those who feel they are justified in holding it. I want no more jail keys. For the rest of my life I want to get a little nearer to the forgiving spirit that Christ expressed. "Isn't what I am accusing myself of, true of all of us? Think it over. Think of your own life. Think of the lives of those around you, and see if you cannot discern that we are all guilty. And then think whether or not you believe that society will be benefited by denying Ruef a parole, which only gives him a half liberty and still holds him under the restrictions of the prison until his term is finished. "I am surprised at the tone of the article you sent me, published in the Pacific Christian. It reads like a chapter out of the Old Testament rather than the New. But I fear that the world is being governed more upon the lines of the Old Testament than the New. I agree with the article about the young men who have been sent to prison for years. I would release them all if I could. But I can't. I can't even release Ruef, because society has not advanced far enough to make it possible. But I can at least be true to myself and express what I honestly feel. "I wish as a favor to me that you would send a copy of this letter to the Pacific Christian, as I am leaving for the East and will not have time. I should like them to know what I am writing you. Sincerely yours, "Fremont Older." [489] The San Jose Mercury, controlled by Congressman E. A. Hayes, in its issue of September 22, 1911, published one of these Ruef campaign articles. The following description of Ruef occurs: "Not many months have gone since Ruef found domicile in States prison. But what changes Time has wrought in that brief period. The little man sits in his cell, lonely and solemn, as he meditates on the singularities of mankind. With no bitterness in his soul, without a thought of revenge twisting his sense of peace and good will toward man, he passes the time planning the comforts of his fellow unfortunates and reading and rereading the letters that come so regularly from the loved ones whose burdens he so gladly carried and to whose joy he so gladly contributed. He is neither unhappy nor without hope." The same article contains another word picture--of Francis J. Heney. It reads: "But if Older has turned 'right about face,' Heney, the other member of the firm, has not. He remains the unforgiving, snarling, short-haired bulldog, with his hand against every man, and every man's hand against him." Such is the character of the publicity campaign to release Ruef from prison. [490] When in 1914 Governor Johnson became candidate for re-election, extraordinary efforts were made to compel him to pardon, or to consent to the release of Ruef on parole. So persistent were Ruef advocates, that the Governor found it necessary to issue a statement of his position regarding Ruef. That statement will be found in full on page xxviii of the Appendix. CHAPTER XXX. CONCLUSION. After the McCarthy-Fickert election there were rumors that the graft defense, flushed with its successes in the overthrow of the prosecution, would resort to reprisals, by singling out persons prominent in the movement to enforce the law, for trumped-up charges and possible indictment. But aside from an abortive attempt to make it appear that former Supervisor Gallagher had fled the State at the behest of William J. Burns, reprisals of this nature were not attempted. The reprisals came in more subtle form. Members of the Oliver Grand Jury which had brought the indictments against Ruef and his associates, found themselves marked men in business, political and social circles. A member of the faculty of the State University who had been active in defending the cause of the prosecution, found his salary remaining practically stationary, while his associates received material advances. When the directorate of the Panama-Pacific International Exposition Company was formed, financiers who had supported the prosecution found themselves barred from directorships. It may be said, however, that the graft defense was well represented, one of the Exposition directors at least, Thornwall Mullally, having been one of those indicted in the graft cases. When the suggestion was made that James D. Phelan be made Pacific Coast representative in President Wilson's cabinet, at once the graft defense pack was on his track, openly naming Mr. Phelan's assistance to the prosecution cause as reason sufficient why he should not be given the cabinet appointment.[491] On the other hand, all danger of confinement in State prison being gone, the graft defense, through its various newspapers, urged incessantly that the past be forgotten, that San Francisco interests get together for the good of San Francisco. But this "getting together" meant the banishing from political, social, and, as far as practical, business circles, all who had sided with the prosecution, thereby giving control of all activities to sympathizers with the graft defense. This is well recognized throughout the State, and the exclusive "get-together" movements are received with general ridicule.[492] The graft defense does not stand well in California. The "vindication" that was heralded throughout the country when the indictments were dismissed has not been accepted in California as generally as those most immediately affected could have wished. Then again, the corporations involved in the scandals, have a heritage from the graft defense which seems destined to bring confusion upon them at every turn of their development. Late in 1912, for example, a year and a half after the trolley-graft indictments were dismissed, the United Railroads attempted readjustment of its bonded indebtedness. This could be done only with the consent of the State Railroad Commission. The Commission, willing to allow any proper adjustment upon competent showing, asked that the corporation's books be produced. The books had, during the days of the prosecution, been sent out of the State. The United Railroads could not produce the books, and consent to its petition to readjust its financial affairs was withheld until the books should be forthcoming. Unofficial assurance was given officials of the corporation that investigation would not be made of its graft defense expenditures,[493] nor of any expenditures involved in the scandal of the alleged bribe-giving. But apparently even this assurance did not satisfy those connected with the United Railroads whose reputations, at least, were at stake.[494] The company's books were not opened for the Commission's inspection. By far the greatest sufferer from the graft defense was San Francisco. Here it was demonstrated that even with a District Attorney intent upon the discharge of his sworn duty, with upright trial judges on the bench, the machinery of the criminal law broke down when men with practically unlimited means were brought to bar. To accomplish this required a four years' contest, in which community resistance to political corruption was overcome, the people misled, their minds poisoned against that which is wholesome, and made tolerant of that which is base and bad. The unhappy effects of this are just beginning to be understood. The evil of the graft defense will live long in San Francisco after the dismissal of the indictments. Four years after the defeat of the Graft Prosecution, Referendum petitions against State laws have been forged in San Francisco, and the laws, which had been passed by the State Legislature and signed by the Governor, have been delayed from going into effect for nearly two years, because of the forgeries. And yet, although the forgers are known, their prosecution, except in one instance, has not even been attempted. Governor Johnson has called the attention of the Attorney-General of the State to this condition, and has urged him to undertake the prosecution of these forgery cases. Tenderloin interests at San Francisco now indicate even greater power in the community than they exerted during the worst days of Ruef-Schmitz regime. The same is in a measure true of the public service corporations. When District Attorney Langdon announced in 1906 that public-spirited citizens would assist in meeting the expenses of running to earth the corruptionists that had San Francisco by the throat, prospect of law-enforcement through the regular channels was welcomed, and ugly talk of lynch-law prevalent at the time, ceased. The success of the graft defense meant that the efforts to reach the corrupters of the municipal government through the courts had failed. San Francisco was beaten. In the community's present inability to protect itself against the encroachments of the public service corporations, and to correct vice conditions which are far worse than in the worst days of the Schmitz-Ruef regime, the effects of that beating are seen. San Francisco will be long in recovering from the effects of her defeat. Because of the results of it, she finds herself handicapped in her race for Pacific Coast supremacy with Los Angeles, Seattle and even Oakland. And the prospects are at the close of the year 1914, that the burden of this handicap will be increased before it is diminished. In the old days an invading army conquered a city and sacked it. The System conquered San Francisco and is exploiting it. The defeat of the graft prosecution was a defeat for San Francisco alone. It was not a defeat for the State of California. The evil influence of the graft defense did not reach beyond the metropolis. On the contrary, the success of the defense uncovered for the whole State the actual political conditions under which all California was laboring. The registration of 47,945 Republicans at San Francisco to defeat Heney at the primaries, and the Republican vote of 13,766 at the final election, demonstrated the emptiness of partisan pretense. One of the immediate results was a uniting of all good citizens regardless of political affiliations for good government, and Hiram W. Johnson, Heney's associate in the graft trials, was in 1910, elected Governor of California. Four years later, James D. Phelan, Rudolph Spreckels's associate in financing the graft prosecution, was elected United States Senator from California, while Judge Lawlor was that year elected to the State Supreme Bench. Judge Dunne was in 1914 re-elected to the Superior Bench to serve until 1920. Decisions from the higher courts--to the lay mind astonishing; to authorities on questions of law, vicious and unwarranted--which set free men who had been convicted of dangerous felonies; scandals which grew out of these decisions; the public's demonstrated helplessness against them, aroused the State. By overwhelming vote California added to her Constitution a provision under which The People may by direct vote remove a corrupt or incompetent judge from the bench. The public had assumed that men trapped in bribe-giving would be measured by a fixed rule of the law, and their proper punishment in due course be meted out to them. That anything else could be had not occurred to the average citizen. But the astonishing performances at the graft trials, the extraordinary anti-prosecution publicity campaign, and, finally, the amazing technical defense, and the failure of the graft defendants to take the stand and manfully deny under oath the charges brought against them, opened the eyes of the public to the fact that the methods of criminal procedure were sadly inadequate. And the further fact was emphasized that while the weak points in the methods of bringing an offender to punishment could be used to advantage by the rich man, they were unavailable to the man without the means to employ a lawyer to present the technicalities governing his case. Out of this conviction, came agitation for reform of the methods of criminal procedure. An elaborate plan for such reform was presented to the 1909 Legislature.[495] But the machine element controlled the committee organization of both houses, and the measures were defeated. At the 1911 session of the Legislature, after Johnson had been elected Governor, measures for the reform of the criminal procedure similar to those defeated by indirection at the 1909 session, were introduced. Many of them became laws. But, unfortunately, certain labor leaders were made to believe that the measures were aimed at Labor. This led to opposition which resulted in the defeat of several of the proposed reforms. One important constitutional amendment was, however, presented to the people that goes far toward correcting the abuses which attended the graft trials. This amendment provides that "no judgment shall be set aside, or new trial granted in any criminal case on the ground of misdirection of the jury or the improper admission or rejection of evidence, or for error as to any matter of pleading or procedure, unless, after an examination of the entire cause including the evidence, the court shall be of the opinion that the error complained of has resulted in a miscarriage of justice." Not a vote was cast against this amendment in either house of the Legislature. The feeling against the use of trifling technicalities for the release of convicted criminals which the graft cases had displayed so glaringly, was shown in the popular vote on this amendment; 195,449 voted for the amendment, while only 53,958 voted against it.[496] The San Francisco graft prosecution succeeded in sending but one of the corrupters of the municipal government to State prison. He, too, would in all probability have escaped imprisonment but for the absence from the State of a single member of the Supreme Court at a critical moment. But the graft prosecution did something infinitely more important than the sending of a few corruptionists to cell and stripes. It awakened a State to its helplessness against a corrupt system. The People arose in rebellion against the "System," and is laboring to throw the "System" off. In 1910 and 1911 a political revolution was worked in California. But the revolution had its beginning back in 1906, when Rudolph Spreckels guaranteed the expenses of the prosecution of the corrupters of the municipal government of San Francisco, and Francis J. Heney, as his share in the campaign, pledged his services. Had there been no San Francisco graft prosecution, there would, in 1910, have been no successful political uprising in California. Hiram W. Johnson would not have been a candidate for Governor. The accomplished reforms which are the boast of the State, and the models which other States are adopting, would still be the unrealized dreams of "reformers." The "System" would still be in the saddle. The graft defense has left its mark of ill upon San Francisco. That city has borne the brunt of the injury because of it. The graft prosecution, by forcing the "System" out in the open, where all its power for evil can be seen, worked California inestimable good. And here, San Francisco, in common with the whole State, gains also. FOOTNOTES: [491] The San Francisco Argonaut, one of the principal apologists for the Graft Defense, in its issue of November 23, 1912, said of the suggestion of Mr. Phelan's name for the cabinet: "Ex-Mayor Phelan, of San Francisco, would be in line for cabinet honors if our local war of the roses were not so recent and if its unfragrant memories and resentments could be set aside. But this is not yet." [492] The Fresno Republican in its issue of December 7, 1912, pays the following tribute to the graft defense's "get-together" plans: "They are going to hold a 'burn the hammer' celebration in San Francisco on New Year's eve, for the cremation of knocking. "It is a good idea, and one worth going the limit on. By all means, burn the hammers! But the only effectual way to get that done is for each fellow to burn his own. Unfortunately, when we begin knocking the knockers, the hammer we are after is usually the one with which the other fellow knocks us. There is no boosting way to dispose of the other fellow's hammer. If we go after it, we knock it, to the further multiplication of knocking. But if we begin at the other end, with our own hammer, that is real boosting. Besides, it gets the thing done. What we do to the other fellow's hammer may not succeed, and if it does, it is merely more knocking. But when we burn or bury our own, then we know that at least our part of the knocking is ended. "The purpose of the 'burn the hammer,' or 'get-together,' is, of course, to bridge the breach left by the Graft Prosecutions. And to this end we suggest that---- "The higher-ups of the Pacific Union Club give a dinner at which Francis J. Heney and Rudolph Spreckels are the guests of honor. "The directors of the Panama-Pacific Exposition elect James D. Phelan one of their number. "William H. Crocker give a reception to such members of the Oliver grand jury as have survived the boycott. "The San Francisco Post issue a congratulatory edition, commending the achievements of Governor Johnson's administration. "Patrick Calhoun offer to take Abe Ruef's place in San Quentin for a year, and for alternate years hereafter, until they shall both be purged or pardoned of their joint guilt. "These suggestions are all purposely addressed to the side which is most clamorous for 'getting together.' Since they shout the loudest for 'harmony,' presumably they are the ones who want it. The way to get it is first to put away their own implements of discord. And no better pledges of intent to do this could be conceived than are contained in the suggestions here offered." [493] The machine-free press of the State, however, openly insisted that it would be a good thing if full publicity of the United Railroads expenditures could be had. "What the missing books might contain of an interesting sort," said The Sacramento Bee in discussing the incident, "may be gathered from a 'list of expenses' submitted by Calhoun in lieu of the books, including an item of $314,000 to Patrick Calhoun for 'services rendered.' "The character of these 'services' may be surmised by anybody familiar with the history of the recent bribery and Graft Prosecutions in San Francisco. But surely the public and the stockholders and creditors of the United Railroads are entitled to specifications. "It is largely that corporations may not bribe in secure secrecy, or otherwise commit criminal acts without detection, that the Progressive states are bringing them under strict regulation and inspection by proper authority." [494] The Railroad Commission of California, in its Decision 1536, made May 22, 1914, held "that the methods pursued by the former officials of applicant in handling the funds in their care amounts to nothing more than a fraud, not only upon the public forced to use an inadequate and unserviceable system, but upon the bond and note holders of such company." Of one transaction, in which President Calhoun was permitted to take $1,096,000 of the company's funds, which it was claimed he had invested in a land project in Solano, in which Mr. Calhoun was interested, the Commission said: "No proof was made to this Commission that any part of this money was actually invested in the so-called Solano project, but we are confronted by the fact that Mr. Calhoun, under authority of the board of directors, and ratified by the stockholders, took from the treasury of applicant $1,096,000, and whether he invested it in the Solano project or not is unimportant in the consideration of this railroad company as a public utility. "It seems that upon the taking of office by Mr. Jesse Lilienthal, the present president of the railroad company, Mr. Calhoun was forced to execute a promissory note for $1,096,000, payable one day after date, in favor of the railroad company, secured by stock of the Solano project; but the judgment of the value of this promissory note is perhaps best indicated by the fact that Mr. Lilienthal immediately wrote this note down in the books of the company as of a value of $1.00. "We hesitate to put in words a proper characterization of this transaction. In plain terms, Mr. Calhoun took from the funds of this public utility corporation over $1,000,000, when every available dollar was sorely needed properly to increase the facilities of this company so as to serve the community of San Francisco, and at a time when this same company was urging upon this Commission the necessity of issuing further bonds to pay off maturing obligations, and also at a time when admittedly the outstanding obligations could not be paid at maturity by approximately $20,000,000." This enormous sum had been taken in gold at various times, ranging in amounts from $250 to $85,000. [495] These measures are described in "The Story of the California Legislature of 1909." The methods employed to defeat them were told in detail. See chapter "Defeat of the Commonwealth Club Bills." [496] Under the provisions of measures which became laws at the 1911 session, it is held that it will be impossible hereafter to put grand jurors on trial as was done in the San Francisco graft cases. Hereafter, too, an indictment or information may be amended by the District Attorney without leave of the Court at any time before the defendant pleads; and at any time thereafter in the discretion of the Court where it can be done without prejudice to the substantial rights of the defendant. Another measure takes from a witness his privilege of refusing to give testimony on the grounds that it may incriminate him. The witness is safeguarded, however, by a provision that he shall not be liable thereafter to prosecution nor punishment with respect to the offense regarding which such testimony is given. APPENDIX JUDGE LAWLOR'S RULING ON MOTION TO DISMISS GRAFT CASES, AUGUST 3, 1910. On April 25th, 1910, an application was made by Patrick Calhoun, Tirey L. Ford, Thornwell Mullally and William M. Abbott to dismiss the indictments against them. The application is before the Court at this time for consideration. When the defendants pleaded not guilty they exercised their statutory right and each demanded severance from each other and from their co-defendants, Abraham Ruef and Eugene E. Schmitz. (Sec. 1098 Penal Code.) There have been five trials--three of Tirey L. Ford and one each of Abraham Ruef and Patrick Calhoun. The second trial of Patrick Calhoun was commenced on July 19th, 1909 (case No. 1437). Owing to the illness of one of his counsel the trial was suspended on August 16th, 1909, and resumed on September 30th, 1909. On the following day the trial was ordered continued until November 15th, 1909, on motion of the defendant, upon the ground of the pendency of a municipal campaign. On January 8th, 1910, Mr. Charles M. Fickert assumed the office of District Attorney. On February 7th, 1910, the District Attorney moved the Court to dismiss the remaining charges against these defendants (Sec. 1385 Penal Code), which motion was by the Court ordered denied. (Sec. 7, Art. I, and Sec. 19, Art. VI of the Constitution; Secs. 1041, 1042, 1126, 1385, 1386 and 1387 Penal Code.) On February 14th, 1910, the parties announced that they were ready to resume the trial in case No. 1437 against Patrick Calhoun, but the Court continued the case for trial until February 17th, 1910. On the last named day the cause was ordered continued for trial until April 25th, 1910. On April 25th, 1910, the four defendants interposed a motion to dismiss the remaining indictments against them. The further hearing of the motion was continued until July 29th, 1910. On the latter day the causes were continued until this time. Two things are chiefly responsible for the Court's action in respect to the remaining indictments since the District Attorney moved to dismiss them on February 7th, 1910--first, the Court's apprehensions based on the declared attitude of the said District Attorney toward the remaining indictments, and, second, the absence from the State of James L. Gallagher, a material and indispensable witness in the said causes. The second reason will now be considered. It was the theory of the People in the five trials referred to that Abraham Ruef represented the defendants in the alleged bribery of the members of the Board of Supervisors, and that James L. Gallagher, one of its members, in turn represented Abraham Ruef in the transactions. In this way the Court is able to determine that the testimony of this witness is material, and now holds, as a matter of law, that unless additional testimony is produced, it is indispensable to the establishment of the res gestae. In the early part of December, 1909, it became known that the witness had departed from the State. Up to the present time it has not been shown whether he had been formally subpoenaed or was otherwise under the authority of the Court to appear as a witness in the trials of the remaining indictments. If he is subject to the authority of the Court in any of these cases his absence would constitute a criminal contempt, and he could be extradited from any other State having provisions of law similar to those of this State. (Sub. 4, Sec. 166, and Sec. 1548 Penal Code.) In this connection it may be proper to point out that practically ever since issue was joined on these indictments they have been on the calendar for trial, and that during the trials referred to the cases not actually on trial were from time to time called and the witnesses admonished by the Court to appear on the deferred date. But it has not been ascertained whether on this manner the missing witness has been so admonished to appear so far as the remaining indictments are concerned. In the month of January, 1910, the Court directed that all persons who could give testimony concerning the absence of the witness be subpoenaed. On January 24th, 1910, the first hearing was had, and on several occasions thereafter witnesses have been orally examined on the subject. From this oral testimony it is difficult to determine the intentions of the witness concerning his departure from and his return to the State. It seems that in the latter part of November, 1909, he left for Europe, accompanied by his wife. Robert F. Gallagher, a brother of the witness, testified in effect that the witness never stated he intended to absent himself as a witness in the graft cases and made no suggestion of that nature; that he, Robert F. Gallagher, gained no such impression from anything he did say, except that it was a disagreeable situation for him to be a witness; and that their talk proceeded along the line that there was not going to be any future trial in the graft prosecution. This brother testified further: "He did state on one occasion something to the effect that Burns had disappeared and that Heney had disappeared and that there wasn't any prosecution; that the incoming District Attorney would not certainly be in earnest in the prosecution." Other witnesses testified to a variety of facts touching the departure of the witness from San Francisco and his declarations on the general subject. Dr. Alexander Warner gave testimony to the effect that he went to Europe on an Atlantic steamer with the witness and his wife. Thomas J. Gallagher, another brother, among other things quoted the witness to the effect that he was going to Europe, that he might settle in an eastern State, that he made no secret of his purpose, and that William J. Burns, special agent of the former administration in the District Attorney's office, knew of his intention to leave. Nothing definite appears in the oral showing concerning his intentions on the subject of his return, and so far as that showing is concerned the point is more or less involved in conjecture. But on July 29th, 1910, Frederick L. Berry, the Assistant District Attorney, assigned to this department of the Court, filed an affidavit embodying clippings from the local newspapers of the previous month, which state that the witness was, at the time the articles were written, in Vancouver, B. C. From these clippings it appears that the witness intended to permanently locate in Vancouver. The only tangible evidence from the witness himself, however, is found in his letter to Thomas J. Gallagher under date of June 29th, 1910, in which this excerpt appears: "In reply to your inquiry I cannot state when I shall return to San Francisco, if at all. I may remain here." In my judgment a review of the showing up to this time leads to the inference that the witness left this jurisdiction and is remaining away because of some form of understanding or agreement. The circumstances under which he left California clearly show that he was acting guardedly, notwithstanding the testimony, which there is no reason to doubt, that he informed several persons of his intention to take a trip. When the quoted statement of Robert F. Gallagher was first made I was disposed to assume that the witness left the State principally because he believed the prosecution was at an end, and that he made his plans quietly so that the step would not occasion comment. In other words, that he did not believe there would be any further attempt to prosecute the so-called graft cases. But from a study of the entire showing I cannot adhere to that theory. I repeat that up to the time his presence was discovered in Vancouver, the showing was uncertain as to whether he really intended to return to California, and if so, when he would return. It was to be seen that the action of the Court would be influenced by this uncertainty, so when the exigencies of the situation called for a definite showing as to the witness' intentions, he seems to suddenly appear in Vancouver, where, under the treaty conditions, he would be safe from extradition, and is promptly discovered by the reporter of a New York paper. In the clippings his quoted statements on the subject of his intentions are unequivocal. He is to make his home in Vancouver. But his personal communication to Thomas J. Gallagher, already referred to, which he probably realized would be produced in Court, is significant in tenor and he is apparently less certain of his intentions. This would tend to make his future action consistent should he hereafter return to California. From the entire showing I do not entertain any serious doubt as to what his real purpose is. I am inclined to believe that when the necessity for his presence as a witness has passed he will return. To entertain any other view, or be in serious doubt on the point, is to ignore the inherent probabilities of the showing and to deny a fair consideration to the known history of this litigation. Now, it must follow that if the witness has left and is remaining away from the State because of an arrangement of some nature affecting these cases, the responsibility for his absence should be placed where it belongs. On April 25th, 1910, the District Attorney stated to the Court: "... and it appearing also that James L. Gallagher left with the consent and connivance of those who had preceded me in office, I at this time do not wish to assume any responsibility for his disappearance. Whether he shall return or not I cannot say. Some of the witnesses who were called here testified that he went away with the intent and with the purpose of embarrassing my administration and that he was supposed to keep away until such time as certain persons would request his return...." The foregoing fairly states the position of the District Attorney on this point, as repeatedly expressed in Court since he first moved the dismissal of these indictments. If the charge that the former administration entered into a bargain with the witness to default be true, there would be no alternative but to dismiss the indictments without delay. But I have found no evidence in the showing tending to support so grave a charge, and upon sound reasoning it would seem to be opposed to every reasonable probability. According to the showing, William J. Burns left the State about three weeks in advance of the witness, and, so far as the Court is advised, he has not since been in the State. That the former administration may have distrusted the official intentions of the District Attorney toward these indictments might be assumed from all the surrounding circumstances. But it does not seem probable that the former administration would induce a material and indispensable witness to leave the State and thereby make it easy for the District Attorney to secure a result which otherwise might entail serious embarrassment. So far as the showing is concerned there is no tangible proof tending to support the charge of the District Attorney, nor is there any proof which would justify such an inference. Nor, on the other hand, do I find any formal evidence in the showing which tends to bring the responsibility for the disappearance of the witness home to these defendants. In the absence of tangible proof neither side should be charged with so grave an act. But if there has been complicity on the part of either of the parties, every effort should be made before disposing of these cases finally to establish the facts. It has been pointed out that if the former administration entered into a bargain with the witness looking to his absence, the application should be granted without delay. And clearly, if the defendants are responsible for the absence of the witness, under a familiar maxim of the law, the application should be promptly denied. (Sec. 3517 Civil Code.) There being no tangible proof, therefore, before the Court, of the complicity of the parties, should the pending application be granted at this time? A person accused of crime is entitled to a speedy trial. (Sec. 13, Art. I, Const.) This fundamental right has been made the subject of statutory provision. The second subdivision of Section 1382 of the Penal Code provides that: "=Unless good cause to the contrary is shown=, the court must order the prosecution to be dismissed if the indictment is not brought to trial within sixty days after the filing thereof." More than sixty days have run in favor of this application, and the question presented at this time is whether the showing touching the absence of James L. Gallagher shall constitute "good cause" within the meaning of the law. This term must be construed and applied according to the peculiar circumstances of each case. It should be interpreted so that the rights of both parties shall be equally recognized. The absence of a material and indispensable witness for the People would, under proper circumstances, constitute good cause, provided that good faith and diligence are shown in the effort to produce the witness. In re Bergerow (133 Cal., 349) is a leading authority on this question and is almost invariably cited in support of applications of this character. It is proper to point out that in the prevailing opinion the Court studiously eliminates from the pertinency of the authority the absence or illness of a witness for the prosecution. The conclusion I have reached is that under the law, and the surrounding circumstances, including the recent action of the witness, that another reasonable continuance should be directed in order, if possible, that the duty of the Court in the premises shall be rendered more clear. At this time the Court is not satisfied that the relief sought should be granted. On the other hand it is realized that a final decision should not much longer be delayed. In the determination of this matter the Court, while fully recognizing the rights of the defendants, is mindful of the rights of the People and its own sense of responsibility, and is anxious to avoid a decision which will serve as a mischievous precedent. It is idle to attempt to ignore the inherent probabilities of the situation presented. A material and indispensable witness is absent from the State, and the Court is called upon to intervene because the District Attorney has at practically every turn followed the lead of these defendants. Through the influence of unusual agencies the law has broken down, so far as these cases are concerned. The crimes charged are of the most serious nature, because such criminal activity tends to sap the very foundations of government. The statute of limitations has run against these charges and if the application is granted, therefore, there can be no further prosecution, no matter what developments may follow. (Sec. 800 Penal Code.) In the trial of Patrick Calhoun the Court admitted evidence of a most extraordinary character on the theory of the People that it tended to show guilty consciousness on the part of the accused. This evidence was not contraverted. It included the dynamiting of the home of the witness under circumstances which threatened not only his life, but also the lives of several other persons. A certain other building, the property of the witness, was subsequently blown up by the use of dynamite. If the apparent design on the life of the witness had been successful, the Court would be less perplexed in deciding a question of this character. It is possible that these experiences and not the suggested arrangement with the witness are responsible for his absence. The evidence also included an effort to suppress testimony by an attempt to induce a witness to leave the jurisdiction of the Court, and other matters of a serious nature. And, finally, while the Court is clear that it should not base any action at this time upon the assumption that either side is responsible for the absence of the witness, yet reason and the exercise of a sound discretion dictate that the Court should act with prudence. Before the indictments should be finally disposed of, every reasonable effort should be made to get at the truth of the situation. The disposition of grave charges other than on their merits is not to be encouraged and should not be allowed, except in the face of a strict legal necessity. Let the cases be continued until 10 a. m., Monday, August 29th, 1910. So ordered. HOW THE SUPERVISORS WERE BRIBED. Thomas F. Lonergan, when elected to the Schmitz-Ruef Board of Supervisors, was a driver of a bakery wagon. He recited at the trial of The People vs. Louis Glass, the manner in which he had been bribed by agents of the Pacific States Telephone and Telegraph Company. Lonergan's testimony was as follows: "I reside in Sanchez street, San Francisco. I have lived in San Francisco since March, 1879. I have a family composed of a wife and three children. I was in the bakery business. I was in that business quite a number of years. I worked latterly for Mr. Foley. I worked in a bake shop quite a while and also drove a wagon for him. I do not hold any official position now. I did hold the position of Supervisor of the City and County of San Francisco. I was elected Supervisor in November, 1905, and took office on January 7th or 8th, 1906. I know John Kraus. I first met him some time after my election at my home. I did not invite him to come there. "One morning, some time after my election, the doorbell rang, a gentleman was at the door and wanted to see me. I went downstairs. He asked me if I was Mr. Lonergan. I said yes. He says, 'The recently elected Supervisor?' or words to that effect. I said yes. He says, 'I don't think you are the man I wanted. I came out here from the East a few years back with a Mr. Lonergan, and I thought he was the one that might have been elected.' I said, 'No, you are mistaken, it is the other one,' or something like that. He then incidentally told me he was connected with the Pacific States Telephone Company, and would be pleased to take me around their works at any time that I would find it convenient. I answered him as well as I recall now, that I possibly would take it in some time. I subsequently went to the telephone company's office. To the best of my recollection I saw Mr. Kraus in the meantime before going there, and made an appointment with him. I don't well remember meeting him at the telephone company's office. I think where I met him was on the corner of Mason and Market or Powell and Market, one or the other, around there. That was by appointment. Then I went with him to the telephone company's plant on Bush street, I think, out in the Western Addition at that time. He took me through the works, showing me the works and the arrangements in connection with it, and how they treated their help, and stated to me they were installing another new plant, I forget now whether it was one or two or more. After we left there I had lunch with Mr. Kraus. I don't well remember where. He spoke about an opposition company in that talk. The opposition company was spoken of, considering the appliances they had, and the amount of work they were then doing, and the new switchboards they would put in, that it didn't appear necessary to have an opposition company here. Mr. Kraus paid for the lunch, I believe. "I am acquainted with Mr. T. V. Halsey. I first met him, I think, either on Pine or Bush street, to the best of my recollection. I. N. Copus introduced me to him. To the best of my recollection it was some time after meeting Kraus and before I took office as Supervisor. That meeting was by appointment. Mr. Copus made the appointment I believe. To the best of my recollection that was my first meeting with Mr. Halsey. I think I was introduced to him by Mr. Copus at the time and place of the meeting. We adjourned to lunch at a restaurant that we were standing in front of. We went upstairs in the restaurant, had some lunch. Nothing particular was spoken of there outside of the current topics. The room we lunched in was not a public dining room. It was a private room. Copus went up to lunch with us. I believe Mr. Halsey paid for the lunch. We were there possibly an hour or an hour and a half. We had Sauterne wine to drink, as well as I remember. The next time I saw Halsey to the best of my recollection was at his office on Bush street, in the telephone building there. It was some time between the 12th and 14th and the 20th of February, 1906, I should judge. I think I went there on that occasion on the invitation of Mr. Kraus, as well as I remember, that Mr. Halsey would like to see me. I found Halsey when I got there. I am not conversant with the building; I suppose the part of the building I met him in was his office. I don't remember whether there was any one else in the room. I had a talk with him in there. No one else was present while I was talking with him that I am aware of. Mr. Halsey, as well as I remember, spoke to me about the foolishness of having a second telephone system in San Francisco. He told me the same as Mr. Kraus had told me--all they had accomplished, and that they were going to accomplish, and that it would cost merchants twofold for the other telephone, and they wanted to know if I would not be friendly toward them. I told him I was deeply impressed with the workings as I had seen them, and that I felt that I could be friendly to them. I cannot remember the exact words he then said at the time. The substance of it was that it would be to my interest to be friendly, or rather, that they would make it to my interest to be friendly to them, and I was told--I think it was at that meeting--that there would be five thousand dollars in it for my friendship down, and $2,500 the following year, provided I did not accept a commission, or any such thing as that while I remained a member of the Board of Supervisors. To the best of my recollection at that time I received from him one thousand dollars in currency. I put it in my pocket and took it home. The next time I saw Mr. Halsey was some few days later. It was the Saturday previous to the passing to print of the ordinance relative to the Home Telephone Company. That meeting was held in a room in the Mills Building. I cannot well recollect whether I was telephoned for or not; I possibly must have been. The meeting was up in the building some few stories. To the best of my recollection it was on the side of the building that looked out on Bush street, and not very far from the corner of Montgomery street. I found Mr. Kraus there when I went in. There was no one else in the room where Kraus was. That room was furnished with a table and a couple of chairs. Well, he asked me if he could depend upon me as to my friendship in regard to the Pacific States Telephone Company, and I told him I saw no reason why he could not. I don't remember whether anything was said about the Home Telephone Company franchise. There may have been. I can't recollect just at this moment. He told me that he had a sufficiency of the members of the Board of Supervisors, to the best of my recollection, who were friendly towards the Pacific States, and that they did not particularly need Mr. Coffey, except that I had spoken well of him, and depending on my friendship, he gave me the four thousand dollars in currency. During our conversation I had mentioned Mr. Coffey as a friend of mine that I thought was particularly friendly towards them. I don't well remember whether he then said he would see Mr. Coffey, or not, or whether he made answer. I do remember that he said at the latter meeting that they did not particularly need him, that he had a sufficiency of the members. I took it home and gave it to my wife. "To the best of my recollection I next saw Mr. Halsey at my home the latter end of the following week after I got the money. No one else was present when he talked with me. It was in the front room of my house." Supervisor Michael W. Coffey was a hack driver. At the Glass trial he told the manner in which the bribe-givers approached him. He said: "I have lived in San Francisco about forty years. I have been in the carriage business driving a hack. I own a hack of my own. My stand was on Fifth street, right opposite the Mint. I was elected a member of the Board of Supervisors in November, 1905, and took office early in January, 1906. I am a married man. My family consists of four girls and one boy. I am acquainted with T. V. Halsey. I first met him some time in the month of December at my hackstand. I am acquainted with John Kraus. I first met him about the same time. At the time that I met Halsey at the hackstand, Kraus was with him. I am not sure whether it was the first time, but probably the second time. I think Mr. Kraus came to see me first, and Mr. Halsey came with him afterwards. Well, he, Kraus, just came up merely to introduce himself to me, and asked me how business was. There was nothing said at the time that he brought Halsey to me. There was nothing said pertaining to telephone matters at that time, neither; it was simply merely to give me an introduction and ask me up to have a drink on the corner of Jessie and Fifth streets. Nothing was said about the telephone service at that time. I next met Halsey a few days afterwards. Both Halsey and Kraus were there together at that time, and we spoke--they spoke to me about my telephone service, both home and in the drugstore in front of which I had my hackstand, and asked me if the telephone service was satisfactory. I told them it certainly was, that I couldn't find any fault with either one. The drugstore 'phone I had nothing at all to do with, any more than I had the privilege of placing the number of the telephone upon my business cards so that my friends could know where to find me in case they wanted to telephone me. I paid for no service on that 'phone at all. My hackstand was right in front of the drugstore. I should judge Halsey and Kraus came around there to see me between three times and a half-a-dozen. I received telephone messages from Mr. Halsey several times. He called me by 'phone, he telephoned to the house, and to the stand, and wanted me to come down to see him. I went down to see him one time. He after that invited me around to the telephone company's offices, to view the system, but I never accepted his offer, I never went with him. The first occasion that I went down to the telephone company's office to see him he extended me an invitation to come around amongst the different branch offices there to see the system, how it was working, and show me the advantages of a one-system telephone. Kraus was there on one occasion. Somewhere around in the neighborhood of noon time, Mr. Kraus was there, and Mr. Halsey asked me if I had lunch. I told him no, not at that time, so he asked Mr. Kraus to take me out to lunch, excusing himself on the ground of a previous engagement, that he couldn't go to lunch, but he asked Mr. Kraus to take me out to lunch and Mr. Kraus did so. "I had a talk with Halsey in the Mills Building. I can't exactly tell the date, but it was on a Saturday, in and around noon time. I can't exactly fix the date. It was some time, I think, in the month of February. We caucused on the Sunday night, and it was Saturday, either the week prior to the caucus or the day before the caucus. This caucus was the Sunday prior to the passing of the ordinance to print which was on a Monday. I went to the Mills Building by telephone invitation of Mr. Halsey. When I got down there I took the elevator and went up on, I think, the seventh floor at the extreme end of the building, on one of the rooms facing on Bush street, and the other on Montgomery street. I found Mr. Halsey there and no one else with him. To the best of my recollection there was either a box or a chair and a table, and a telephone in there, and no other furniture at all in the room. Mr. Halsey when I went in, said, 'Good day, Mr. Coffey.' Said I, 'How do you do, Mr. Halsey?' I says, 'Did you telephone for me?' He says, 'Yes, I want you to be friendly with the company,' and stepped into another room, the door leading into the Montgomery street entrance, and then came out with a parcel, a bundle, and handed it to me, and says, 'I would like to have your friendship for the company.' I did not open the package at that time. Nothing was said then about the Home Telephone Company's application for the franchise. I took this package that he handed me home and put it in a box in the room. I did not open it when I got home, not at that time. Subsequently I did. When I opened it I found in it five thousand dollars in United States currency. That was very shortly after I had been in the Mills Building on that occasion. I think it was a few days after that. After putting this money in the box I kept it there." GALLAGHER'S ORDER REMOVING LANGDON FROM OFFICE OF DISTRICT ATTORNEY. (October 25, 1906.) "To the Board of Supervisors of the City and County of San Francisco: "Gentlemen--Pursuant to the provisions of the Charter of the City and County of San Francisco, and especially in pursuance of Sections 18 and 19 of Article XVI thereof, I, James L. Gallagher, Mayor of the City and County of San Francisco, do hereby suspend William H. Langdon, District Attorney of the City and County of San Francisco, and an elected officer thereof, for cause, as hereinafter assigned and specified, and I hereby notify you of such suspension and the causes therefor, which are as hereinafter assigned and specified. "Said cause is contained in the following specifications, which specifications I hereby also present to you as the written charges against said William H. Langdon, District Attorney as aforesaid, and I hereby present said specifications of causes of such suspension as written charges against said William H. Langdon, District Attorney, suspended by me as aforesaid. "Specification 1: ="Neglect of Duty.= "In this, that for a period of about 30 days prior to the presentation of these charges the said William H. Langdon, District Attorney as aforesaid, has absented himself from the City and County of San Francisco, without leave, and has neglected his official duties, being during that time engaged in the canvass and campaign for the office of Governor of the State of California. "That during said time, owing to the recent disaster, a large number of acts of violence have occurred at the hands of criminals congregated in said city, resulting in an excessive and unusual number of murders, maimings, assassinations, assaults and other crimes of violence, tending to render the city unsafe and to injure its reputation, yet the said District Attorney wilfully, without permission from any of the public authorities of said city and county, did absent himself a greater portion of said time from said city and county, and so negligently conducted and performed the duties of his said office as District Attorney as to render no active or efficient assistance to said city and county in the proper prosecution, detection or preventing of any of said crimes, and during the main portion of said period did leave his said office without the aid of his superintendence, direction or service, thereby being guilty of inefficiency in such public office and being negligent and inattentive in the performance of his public duties at a time when the unusual activity of those engaged in crimes of violence demanded and required his personal presence and greatest personal activity to aid in preventing or attempting to prevent, detecting or attempting to detect or punish the said crimes or the persons guilty thereof. "Specification 2: ="Neglect and Dereliction of Duty.= "In this, that during the period of about 30 days last past, the newspapers of the City and County of San Francisco have published and proclaimed that the said William H. Langdon, as District Attorney, and others co-operating with him, were, and for months past had been, in the possession of evidence sufficient to convict certain officials of the city and county of serious crimes. These charges have been repeated daily and within the knowledge and cognizance of said District Attorney, and yet notwithstanding said knowledge and said purposes, the said District Attorney has failed to cause the arrest of any of said officials, and if the charges so publicly made are and were not true, the said District Attorney had knowledge of said falsity and untruth, and yet notwithstanding said knowledge has failed to cause the arrest of the publishers or editors of the newspapers for publishing said statements for criminal libel. "Specification 3: ="Neglect and Violation of Duty.= "That under the provisions of the Charter of the City and County of San Francisco, it is part of the duty of the District Attorney, when required, to advise the Board of Police Commissioners, the Chief of Police, the Board of Health, or the Coroner as to the matters relating to the duties of their respective offices, yet notwithstanding said official duty, the said William H. Langdon, as such District Attorney, has entered into a combination and conspiracy for political purposes and effect to bring unmerited discredit upon said officials or some of them, and has failed to advise them relative to their duties, and has assumed a position and attitude inconsistent with his duty to the Police Commissioners and the Chief of Police, thereby tending to impair and demoralize the Police Department of said city at a serious and critical time. "Specification 4: "Neglect and Violation of Duty. "That the said William H. Langdon, being the District Attorney of said City and County of San Francisco, as aforesaid, during period above mentioned, in addition to neglecting his public duties, as above set forth, instead of aiding the authorities of said city and county, did on the contrary engage in and assist in a combination in the interest of certain insurance corporations and other persons to injure and defame the character of the Chief Executive of this city, Mayor Eugene E. Schmitz, in substance as follows: "A large number of German insurance companies, having lost many millions of dollars by the conflagration of April 18, 1906, having denied their liability, Eugene E. Schmitz, Mayor of the City and County of San Francisco, deemed it advisable in the interest of the upbuilding and rehabilitating of the city, to visit the German Empire in his official capacity for the purpose of stating the true facts concerning said conflagration to the home officials of said companies and to use his personal influence wherever the same would be available in the German Empire, with a view to cause the said insurance companies to pay the said losses; and deeming said matter one of great public interest, the said Mayor did obtain from the Board of Supervisors a leave of absence from the City and County of San Francisco for a period of 60 days from October 1, 1906; and after he left on said mission, a combination, plot and plan was formed for the purpose of defaming and injuring and weakening the standing and reputation of said Eugene E. Schmitz, in order that his said attempts might be discredited and to destroy whatever influence the Chief Executive of this city might have in dealing with the said insurance companies at their home offices and in obtaining influence abroad to compel said companies to properly recognize their obligations; and that as a part of said scheme, it was determined to print and publish in the newspapers of San Francisco charges against the said Mayor which were false, malicious and slanderous and known so to be by the parties engaged in said scheme, and among other things said persons so engaged did cause it to be published that the Chief Executive of this city was a fugitive from justice and had absconded from the City and County of San Francisco; and that the said William H. Langdon, as District Attorney of the City and County of San Francisco, and acting in his capacity as such, did aid, assist and abet and further the said scheme as aforesaid, and has become and is an active party thereto to the end that said Mayor should be induced to return to San Francisco to defend himself against such charges before he could have time to accomplish the said purpose for which he went to said German Empire. "Specification 5: ="Violation of Duty and Use of Office for Ulterior Purposes.= "That during the fall of 1905, one Francis J. Heney, in a public speech in said city and county, aspersed the character and good name of a prominent citizen of this community, and stated that he knew him to be corrupt, and said citizen having instantly demanded that said Heney be compelled to make proof of said assertions and said Heney having been compelled to appear before the Grand Jury of said City and County of San Francisco with reference thereto, there admitted that he had made such statements without any personal knowledge regarding the same, which facts were widely published at the time, and brought said Heney into obloquy and contempt, from which time said Heney had been possessed of a purpose to effect a personal revenge both against the object of his false charges and against Eugene E. Schmitz, Mayor of San Francisco, and all of these facts were and are well known to said William H. Langdon, as District Attorney as aforesaid; yet notwithstanding said knowledge and within the month of October, 1906, the said William H. Langdon, in order to enable said Heney to use public office, position and power to gratify his spirit of revenge and malice, did appoint said Heney Assistant District Attorney of said city and county, and did turn over to him the powers of office of said District Attorney in order that he might gratify his private revenge and malice. "Specification 6: "That prior to such appointment as such Assistant District Attorney, said Francis J. Heney had publicly assailed the Judges of the Superior Court of the city and county as corrupt and crooked, and had denounced all or nearly all of them as dishonest and corrupt, and yet has failed at any time to make proof of such charges, which facts were all well known to said William H. Langdon, District Attorney as aforesaid, from the time of the utterance, which was long anterior to the time of said Heney's appointment by said Langdon, and said Langdon also knew that said Heney frequently, while intoxicated, made grave and serious charges involving the personal character of citizens of this city, yet notwithstanding such knowledge said William H. Langdon did appoint said Heney to such office, knowing that the said Heney in such office would be required to appear before the Judges whose character he had thus aspersed, and to practice in their courts, did appoint said Heney to said office, which appointment is not conducive to the proper co-operation which should exist between the Judges of the Superior Court and the office of District Attorney. "Specification 7: "That said Francis J. Heney at and prior to the time of his appointment as Assistant District Attorney was the representative of the corporation controlling the street car system of said city and county in a certain dispute between said corporation and its employes, That the appointment of said Heney to said office will, in regard to the enforcement of law against said corporation, be prejudicial and detrimental to the interests of said city and county. "Specification 8: "That prior to the turning over of said District Attorney's office and its powers to said Francis J. Heney, as hereinabove specified, the City and County of San Francisco had intended to procure its own water supply and thereby to prevent the exorbitant charges for water now exacted by the private corporation controlling the city's water supply, and that it was about to take proceedings to provide a safe and secure supply of water for said City and County of San Francisco for domestic use, extinction of conflagrations, etc., and that such purpose was greatly to the interest of said City and County of San Francisco, That said corporation now supplying water to said city and county is bitterly opposed to the acquiring of a water supply to the City and County of San Francisco on account of its present monopoly. "Said Francis J. Heney has been and is attorney employed by said Water Company, and his attorneyship for such company is inconsistent with the holding of a place as Assistant District Attorney, and against the best interests of the people of San Francisco. "Specification 9: "That in the interest of the corporations and persons before mentioned, or some or all of them, together with persons unknown, large sums of money have been and are being raised for the purpose of slandering, defaming and injuring the reputation of said Mayor Eugene E. Schmitz, and of suborning perjury against him, thereby injuring the interests of said city and county and its residents and inhabitants; and said William H. Langdon as such District Attorney, knowing said facts, by the appointment of said Heney, is knowingly aiding and abetting the said plot and scheme. "Specification 10: ="Violation of Duty and Ulterior Use of Office.= "That since the appointment of said F. J. Heney as an Assistant District Attorney of the City and County of San Francisco by said William H. Langdon, the said Langdon and the said Heney have caused to be published or have been parties to the publication of open and covert threats against the Superior Judges of the City and County of San Francisco for the purpose of influencing the judicial action of said Judges. "Specification 11: "That the appointment of said Heney as such Assistant District Attorney was made by said Langdon in furtherance of the combination aforesaid, and at the dictation of certain newspaper influences and individuals, who have contributed many thousands of dollars to further the political ambitions and aspirations of said William H. Langdon and other persons, and to secure through the appointment of said Heney the consummation of a political plan and the wreaking of their private revenges against Eugene E. Schmitz, Mayor of San Francisco, and the Board of Supervisors and the Police Department of the City and County of San Francisco and their political supporters, and to generally disrupt the business and proper government of this city, and also for the purpose of attempting to influence the ensuing election. And said combination is also in pursuance of a well-defined and organized plan for the purpose of controlling and subjugating the labor market and the wage-earners. "And the said William H. Langdon turned over said office of District Attorney as aforesaid to said Francis J. Heney with the intent and purpose and with the understanding that said Francis J. Heney would and should abuse such position, and use his said position as a deputy in a substantial control of said office of District Attorney to gratify his own private and personal revenge, and also with the intent that said Francis J. Heney, through said office, should produce before the Grand Jury of said city and county illegal and hearsay evidence which by law said Grand Jury is forbidden to act upon, and procure such Grand Jury to return indictments against innocent citizens of said city and county upon such illegal and hearsay evidence for the purpose of gratifying the private revenge of said Francis J. Heney and the political ambitions of said William H. Langdon. And said William H. Langdon also further turned over said office and power to said Francis J. Heney with the intent and purpose that said Francis J. Heney in such position should advise such Grand Jury that matters and acts not constituting an offense at law were indictable offenses, and thus and thereby falsely and unlawfully procure indictments against innocent citizens of said city and county. "Specification 12: "That in addition to the purposes hereinabove specified as a foundation and reason for the acts set forth, that all the acts hereinabove charged and set forth as having been done, aided, abetted, procured or assisted by said William H. Langdon as said District Attorney, were so done and performed by said William H. Langdon as such District Attorney to promote his own political ambitions and upon and at the eve of an election about to occur in the State of California, at which said William H. Langdon is a candidate for Governor, all with intent to deceive and mislead electors and voters and to procure an increased vote for himself as such candidate for Governor. "Inefficiency in the office of District Attorney, and neglect on the part of the District Attorney and his office to perform the duties of his office. "Dated, San Francisco, October 25, 1906. "JAMES L. GALLAGHER, "Mayor of the City and County of San Francisco." THE RUEF "IMMUNITY CONTRACT." The "immunity contract" given Ruef was as follows: "Whereas, Abraham Ruef of the City and County of San Francisco has agreed to impart to the District Attorney of the City and County of San Francisco, State of California, a full and fair statement and disclosure, so far as known to him, of all crimes and offenses involved in the so-called 'graft' prosecutions or investigations now and heretofore conducted by said District Attorney by whomsoever such offenses or crimes may have been committed, and has agreed in making such disclosure and statement to state fully and wholly all the facts and circumstances known to him in, about, and surrounding the same, and in making such statement and disclosure to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth; "Now, Therefore, In consideration of the premises it is agreed by the undersigned that if said A. Ruef shall do said things and immediately make such full and fair disclosure of all such crimes and offenses involved in the so-called 'graft' prosecutions and investigations above referred to, and known to him, and shall state and disclose to the undersigned the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, and shall make full and fair disclosure of all said crimes and offenses known to him, and of all the facts and circumstances in, about and surrounding the same and known to him, and shall at all times whenever called upon, before any court, testify in regard thereto and to the whole thereof fully and fairly, together with all the facts and circumstances surrounding the same, so far as the same are known to him, and shall state, tell and testify on oath the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth therein, then and in that event the undersigned, deeming it to be in the interests of public justice, and believing that said A. Ruef will thereby be equitably entitled to such consideration in accordance with the time-honored custom and practice of prosecuting officers in both State and Federal jurisdictions throughout this country, and in line with common law precedents. "1. Will grant and obtain for said A. Ruef full and complete immunity from prosecution or punishment for all and any of said offenses and crimes involved in said so-called 'graft' prosecutions or investigations, and will not prosecute him for any thereof. "2. Will cause said A. Ruef to be jointly and not otherwise indicted with all and any others against whom indictments have heretofore been or may hereafter be returned or found for or upon any crimes or offenses in which said Ruef has participated or is alleged to have participated to this date; provided, however, that the undersigned shall not be bound to include any of the present members of the Board of Supervisors in any such indictments. "3. Will, as any one of said joint indictments relating to a specific subject matter shall be taken up for trial, after the jury has been impaneled and sworn to try the same, dismiss the same and all other indictments and charges on the same general subject matter as against the said Ruef, under the provisions of section 1099 of the Penal Code of the State of California, and will at the same time dismiss all indictments relating to the same general subject matter, which are now pending against said Ruef singly. "Any and all indictments or charges upon any general subject matter of which one shall not have been brought to trial before December 31st, 1907, shall be dismissed as to said Ruef and said Ruef discharged on or before December 31st, 1907, under the provisions of section 1099 of the Penal Code where applicable, or under provisions of other sections of said code in cases where said section 1099 shall not be applicable. "It is however expressly agreed that =in any event= all indictments and charges now pending or hereafter to be brought against said Ruef (except action No. 305 which is herein otherwise provided for) shall be dismissed as against said Ruef under the provisions of section 1099 of the Penal Code where the same may be applicable and when said section is not applicable shall be dismissed under other provisions of the Code, all prior to December 31st, 1907; provided, the undersigned District Attorney shall not be re-elected as such District Attorney in November, 1907, and, in any event, prior to said District Attorney resigning or otherwise surrendering or giving up his office or terminating his tenure thereof, it being the understanding and agreement that each and every indictment and charge now pending or hereafter to be brought against said Ruef shall be absolutely dismissed. "Provided, that said Ruef shall have fully performed so far as may have been in his power the spirit and letter of his agreement herein. "4. All and any indictments or charges which are to be found or returned against said Ruef jointly or otherwise, shall be returned and found not later than October 1st, 1907, unless hereafter otherwise mutually agreed. "5. In the event of the prosecution of said Ruef by any other officer or person on account of any of such crimes or offenses committed or participated in or alleged to have been committed or participated in by said Ruef to this date, the undersigned will employ every legitimate influence and power to secure a dismissal thereof, and in the event that a conviction shall be had in any thereof, the undersigned hereby agree to apply to the Governor of the State of California for the pardon of said Ruef therefor or therein and to use all legitimate influence and power to secure such pardon. "6. It is understood and agreed that, notwithstanding the scope and effect of the language used throughout this agreement, it does not and shall not be construed to apply in any respect or particular to that certain indictment No. 305, or the offense charged therein, which is now pending against said Abraham Ruef jointly with Eugene E. Schmitz, in the Superior Court of the City and County of San Francisco, State of California, in Department No. 6 thereof. "Dated, May 8th, 1907. "WM. H. LANGDON, "District Attorney of the City and County of San Francisco. "FRANCIS J. HENEY, "Assistant District Attorney of the City and County of San Francisco. "Agreed to: "A. RUEF." "IMMUNITY CONTRACT" GIVEN SUPERVISORS. "San Francisco, Cal., July 30, 1907. "Whereas, James L. Gallagher, E. J. Walsh, F. P. Nicholas, C. J. Harrigan, Max Mamlock, J. J. Furey, Jennings Phillips, Thomas F. Lonergan, James F. Kelly, L. A. Rea, W. W. Sanderson, Daniel C. Coleman, Sam Davis, A. M. Wilson, M. F. Coffey, all of the City and County of San Francisco, State of California, have each made to me a disclosure of certain crimes and offenses committed by himself, and by himself jointly with others and by others, which he claims to be a full and fair disclosure thereof, so far as known to him. "Now, therefore, in consideration of the premises, deeming it to be in the interest of public justice, and believing that each of the above-named parties will thereby become equitably entitled to such consideration, in accordance with the time-honored custom and practice of prosecuting officers, in both State and Federal jurisdictions throughout this country, and in line with common law precedence, it is agreed by me that if he has made a full and fair disclosure of all of such crimes and offenses and has stated to me the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, and if he shall whenever called upon to do so by me, or by any other officer on behalf of the People of the State of California, to again make a full and fair disclosure of such crimes and offenses, together with the facts and circumstances surrounding the same and the persons therein involved, in any cause, action or proceeding whatever in regard thereto, fully and fairly, together with the facts and circumstances surrounding said crimes and offenses and the persons involved, and tell and testify the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, then, and in that event, each one of them who so does shall not be prosecuted, complained against or indicted for any of said crimes or offenses, or his connection therewith. "It is understood that the making or verifying of any affidavit or answer in the case of 'Langdon vs. Ruef, et al.,' heretofore brought in the Superior Court of this city and county, is included in this agreement; and it is further understood that Fred P. Nicholas shall not be further prosecuted in the case now pending against him in which he is under indictment in this city and county, upon the charge of accepting and agreeing to accept a bribe from one Holmes. "Signed: W. H. Langdon, District Attorney: Francis J. Heney, Asst. Dist. Atty. Witness: James L. Gallagher." The People vs. Ruef, page 1382. DISTRICT ATTORNEY LANGDON'S PLAN FOR REORGANIZING THE MUNICIPAL GOVERNMENT. =(See Chapter XVII.)= "San Francisco, July 9, 1907.--To the San Francisco Labor Council, the Merchants' Association, the Building Trades Council, the Chamber of Commerce, the Board of Trade, the Real Estate Board and the Merchants' Exchange: Gentlemen--We respectfully submit to your consideration and ask your co-operation in the carrying out of the following proposed plan for the selection of a Mayor of the City and County of San Francisco for the unexpired term of Eugene E. Schmitz, who, having been elected Mayor of the City and County of San Francisco in November, 1905, was on the 13th day of June, 1907, convicted of a felony; to wit, of the crime of extortion, by a jury in Department No. 6 of the Superior Court of the City and County of San Francisco, State of California. Thereafter, upon the 8th day of July, 1907, judgment upon the conviction was duly pronounced and entered, by which a sentence was imposed of five years' imprisonment in the State Prison at San Quentin. "The Political Code of this State, and the charter of the City and County of San Francisco, both provide that the office becomes vacant when the incumbent is convicted of a felony, and in several decisions our Supreme Court has held that the words 'convicted of a felony,' signify the verdict of a jury. That court has also held that this provision of the code and charter is self-acting, and that the vacancy is created 'eo instanti,' upon the happening of the event, and that all that is necessary is for the appointing power to fill the vacancy thus created. By virtue of the conviction of Eugene E. Schmitz, the office of Mayor of the City and County of San Francisco became vacant. Upon the 9th day of July, 1907, the Board of Supervisors, pursuant to the charter, elected as Mayor to fill the vacancy thus created Dr. Charles Boxton. This action was taken to avoid legal complications in the interim, before a permanent selection of Mayor could be made, and it is thoroughly well understood that the selection of Dr. Charles Boxton is merely temporary. "The conditions surrounding the present Board of Supervisors have been so completely explained, through the public press, that it is unnecessary to go into further detail in that regard than to say that Dr. Boxton has offered to resign his office as Mayor, as soon as a suitable successor has been found. In the present unprecedented condition of the municipal government, circumstances have made it the duty of the District Attorney, in the interest of the public welfare, to take the initiative, in the endeavor to find such a successor. "It is the desire of the District Attorney as speedily as possible to confine the operations of his office entirely to those duties ordinarily incumbent upon it. The next election for city officers takes place in November of this year, but the situation of the city government, and the material conditions obtaining in the city with regard to necessary public improvements, render it absolutely indispensable that we proceed with the utmost energy to obtain for the office of Mayor a man of unblemished integrity and great executive ability. "The District Attorney and his associates, realizing that the selection of a Mayor to fill the unexpired term in question should be made by as representative a body of the people as possible, have deemed it wise to call together a convention that will be, as nearly as circumstances and the time at our disposal permit, fairly representative of the community at large. For that purpose they have decided to call together a convention composed of thirty delegates, fifteen of whom shall represent labor, and the remaining fifteen shall represent employers generally. "It is, of course, impossible on account of the limited time at our disposal to accord representation to all the organized bodies in the city entitled to the same. All that we can reasonably be expected to do is to make a sincere and earnest effort to have the convention composed of delegates from such well-known organized bodies, large and varied in membership, that the people generally will be satisfied that the plan of selection is fair, reasonable and democratic. "The prosecution in the graft cases feels that it is highly desirable to keep politics out of the organization of the city government as much as possible until the people, in the manner ordained by law, have an opportunity at the ballot-box again to express their will directly. "We address this communication and invitation to the following bodies, to wit: The San Francisco Labor Council, the Merchants' Association, the Building Trades Council, the Chamber of Commerce, the Board of Trade, the Real Estate Board and the Merchants' Exchange. We respectfully request the foregoing associations to send delegates to the proposed convention on the following basis of apportionment, that is to say, that the two bodies representing labor shall select fifteen delegates, eight of whom shall be selected by the San Francisco Labor Council and seven by the Building Trades Council, and the remaining fifteen members of the convention shall be selected, three each, by the remaining five bodies above mentioned. "It will be appreciated that it is necessary to impose a time limit within which the selection of delegates shall be made, and the subsequent nomination of a Mayor by the convention shall be accomplished. In that view we ask that a response to this invitation, containing the names of the delegates selected, be delivered to the District Attorney's office, 2181 Fillmore street, on or before Saturday, July 13, 1907, and that the Mayor be nominated within five days thereafter. The success of this plan, in our judgment, depends absolutely upon the harmonious co-operation of all sections of our people, who, we believe, are fairly represented by one or more of the foregoing associations. Consequently we deem it essential to prescribe as a condition for the assembling of the proposed convention that this invitation shall be accepted by all of these bodies. "This plan for the selection of a Mayor is the result of most patient, thorough and anxious deliberation on the part of those associated in the graft prosecution, and its single purpose is to satisfy, so far as in our power, the desire of all good citizens to sink factional and political differences and choose for Mayor a man who will be generally recognized and accepted as representative of the whole people, who will bring to all industrial disputes a spirit of conciliation and harmony, and who will be possessed of the capacity, energy and honesty needed in the great work of rehabilitating our city and restoring it to normal conditions. We desire that perfect freedom and independence of action shall govern the convention from its inception to its close, and accordingly the District Attorney and his associates will wholly refrain from any participation after the convention has assembled. I have the honor to be, "Yours very truly, "W. H. LANGDON, District Attorney." ROOSEVELT'S LETTER TO SPRECKELS ON THE GRAFT SITUATION. "The White House, Washington, June 8, 1908. "My Dear Mr. Spreckels--Now and then you and Mr. Heney and the others who are associated with you must feel down-hearted when you see men guilty of atrocious crimes who from some cause or other succeed in escaping punishment, and especially when you see men of wealth, of high business and, in a sense, of high social standing, banded together against you. "My dear sir, I want you to feel that your experience is simply the experience of all of us who are engaged in this fight. There is no form of slander and wicked falsehood which will not as a matter of course be employed against all men engaged in such a struggle, and this not only on the part of men and papers representing the lowest type of demagogy, but, I am sorry to say, also on the part of men and papers representing the interests that call themselves pre-eminently conservative, pre-eminently cultured. "In such a struggle it is too often true that the feeling against those engaged in it becomes peculiarly bitter, not merely in the business houses of the great financiers who directly profit by the wrongdoing, but also in the clubs, in certain newspaper offices where business interests exercise an unhealthy control and, I regret to add, in other newspaper offices which like to be considered as to a marked degree the representatives of the cultivation and high social standing of the country. "Now, I do hope that you and your colleagues will treat all this bitterness with entire disregard. It is of small consequence to you, or to any of us who are engaged in this work, whether men think well or ill of us personally; but it is of very great consequence that we should do the work without flinching, on the one hand, and on the other hand, without losing our good-humored common sense, without becoming angered and irritated to a degree that will in any way cause us to lose our heads. "Therefore, I hope that you and Heney and your associates will keep reasonably good-natured; but that above all things you will not lose heart. You must battle on valiantly, no matter what the biggest business men may say, no matter what the mob may say, no matter what may be said by that element which may be regarded as socially the highest element. You must steadfastly oppose those foolish or wicked men who would substitute class consciousness and loyalty to class interest, for loyalty to American citizenship as a whole, for loyalty to the immutable laws of righteousness, of just and fair dealing as between man and man. "It is just as bad to be ruled by a plutocracy as by a mob. It is profoundly un-American and, in a social sense, profoundly immoral, to stand for or against a given man, not because he is or is not a brave, upright and able man, but because he does or does not belong to a labor union or does or does not represent the big business interests. In their essence, down at the foundation of things, the ties that are all-important are those that knit honest men, brave men, square-dealing men, together, and it is a mighty poor substitute if we replace these ties by those that bind men together, whether they are good or bad, simply because they follow a particular business, have a given social standing or belong to a particular organization. It is an evil and a dreadful thing for laboring men to endeavor to secure the political dominance of labor unions by conniving at crookedness or violence, by being 'loyal' to crooked labor leaders, for to be 'loyal' to the fancied interests of the unions when they are against the laws of morality and the interests of the whole people means ultimately the destruction of the unions themselves, as an incident to the destruction of all good citizenship. "But it is, if anything, an even more evil and dreadful thing to have the merchants, the business men, the captains of industry accessories to crime and shielders and supporters of criminals; it is an even more dreadful thing to see the power of men high in State politics, high in finance, high in the social life of the rich and fashionable, united to stifle the prosecution of offenders against civic integrity if these offenders happen to be their friends and associates; and most evil of all is it when we see crooks of a labor party in offensive and defensive alliance with the crooks of a corporation party. Labor unions and corporations alike should be heartily supported when they do good work, and fearlessly opposed when they stand for what is evil. The best kind of wage worker, the best kind of laboring man, must stand shoulder to shoulder with the best kind of professional man, with the best kind of business man, in putting a stop to the undermining of civic decency, and this without any regard to whether it is a labor union or a corporation which is undermining it, without any regard to whether the offender is a rich man or a poor man. "Indeed, if there can be any degrees in the contemptuous abhorrence with which right thinking citizens should regard corruption, it must be felt in its most extreme form for the so-called 'best citizens,' the men high in business and social life, who by backing up or by preventing the punishment of wealthy criminals set the seal of their approval on crime and give honor to rich felons. The most powerful ally of lawlessness and mob violence is the man, whoever he may be, politician or business man, judge or lawyer, capitalist or editor, who in any way or shape works so as to shield wealthy and powerful wrongdoers from the consequences of their misconduct. "You have heart-breaking difficulties with which to contend. You have to fight not only the banded powers of evil, but, alas, that it should be said, the supineness and indifference of many good men upon whose zealous support you had a right to feel that you could rely. Do not be discouraged; do not flinch. You are in a fight for plain decency, for the plain democracy of the plain people, who believe in honesty and in fair dealing as between man and man. Do not become disheartened. Keep up the fight. "Very sincerely yours, "THEODORE ROOSEVELT. "Rudolph Spreckels, Esq., "San Francisco, Cal." GOVERNOR JOHNSON'S STATEMENT REGARDING RUEF'S IMPRISONMENT. =(See Chapter XXIX, page 453.)= Ever since Abraham Ruef was taken to San Quentin an organized and systematic agitation has been carried on to effect his release, and all that power, influence and money and favorable publicity could do to manufacture public sentiment for him has been done. His case has ever been before the people, and never since his confinement at San Quentin has he been permitted to be in the category of the ordinary prisoner. Purposely have I heretofore refrained from any public utterance upon the subject, and this for reasons that may be obvious. Ruef's partisans now charge his failure to obtain his release to me. In so far as I have expressed my views to certain members of the Prison Directors, and their views accord with mine, I accept the responsibility. I do not believe that Ruef should be paroled at this time. I insist that he shall be treated just like any ordinary prisoner, neither more harshly nor more leniently. As vigorously as I am able, I demand that there shall be no special privilege in the prisons of the State of California, and that when special privilege has been banished from every department of government, it shall not be permitted, no matter what the power or threats, to creep into our penitentiary. The grossest injustice that could be committed against the other 3,300 men confined in our State prisons would be to single out the one rich, powerful and conspicuous offender and, because of his riches and his influence, grant him what is denied to the humble and friendless prisoner. If prisons are to be maintained, and the system in vogue continued, all prisoners most be treated exactly alike. Since the parole law went into effect, the Prison Directors have continuously acted under a rule which required, save in exceptional cases, the service of half of the net sentence before an application can be heard. In the Roberts case, recently decided, the Supreme Court held this rule to be illegal, but also held that paroles rested in the absolute discretion of the Prison Directors, and that in determining whether or not parole shall be granted, it was the right and duty of the Board to take into account the length of sentence, the time served, etc. As I understand the attitude of the Directors, they insist that in the matter of granting paroles, although applications may be made after one year, it is neither unjust nor unfair nor illegal that prisoners be required, save in exceptional cases, to serve half the net sentence. This rule is applicable to 3,300 prisoners, most of them unknown and unheard of. It is demanded that another rule be made for Ruef. Ruef's sentence was fourteen years. His net sentence will be eight years and ten months. Half of the net sentence will be four years and five months. He was received in San Quentin about March, 1911. If required to serve half his net sentence, presumably he will be paroled about August, 1915. Purposely, apparently, misapprehension has been created about the recent parole of Dalton. Dalton desired to be liberated before half his net sentence had been served, and was not. He was granted a parole at the last meeting of the Prison Directors, which takes effect some months after the completion of half of his net sentence. The Recent Action of the Prison Board. In behalf of the parole of Ruef it is insisted that any man is entitled as a matter of right to a parole after one year's imprisonment. I will not subscribe to this doctrine. It has been asserted that the Supreme Court has so decided. This is not true. The Supreme Court simply determined that after one year the prisoner had the right to make his application, but that his parole rested absolutely thereafter in the discretion of the Prison Board. At the last meeting of the Prison Directors 78 men applied for parole, Ruef among them. None of these had served half his net time and this fact was known to all the members of the Prison Board. To four members of the Prison Board before that time every application had been presented with the history of the case, and with all the facts that had been filed concerning it. Every man, prison director or other, knows the facts of the Ruef case. The 78 were all denied parole. When the Ruef people assert he had no hearing, they mean he had no such hearing as Ruef desired. When they shout that his case was not considered, they mean not considered as Ruef demanded. If the hearing had been as Ruef and his partisans had staged it; if Ruef had delivered an oration, taken down by the shorthand reporter, brought for the purpose; if Ruef had dominated the entire situation, and the Directors had yielded to his power and his influence; if Ruef had been paroled, what a virtuous and glorious Prison Board it would have been! But the hearing being otherwise than had been staged, the determination being other than what the power of Ruef demanded, the Prison Board is abused and denounced; not denounced or abused because 77 other men were not paroled (they are unknown, poor, helpless, without friends), but abused and denounced because one man, Ruef, was not paroled; because one man, Ruef, was treated exactly as all others were treated. The Charge of Bitterness and Vengeance. I resent any imputation of bitterness or revenge on my part toward Ruef. I have neither. More than two years ago I expressed what I write to-day--that for the sake of society and the unfortunates confined in prison, Ruef must be treated like all others similarly situated. To yield because of fear to the persuasion, cajolery or the threats of a powerful prisoner, is to cause the iron to enter the soul of every obscure and friendless prisoner, and to make every other one of the 3,300 men in our jails know that even in prisons class distinctions prevail, and to add to the bitterness and the hopelessness of men confined. The bitterness and revenge are on the other side of this controversy. It has become necessary to make this statement because of the unmerited abuse of the Prison Board, and because some individuals, while begging mercy for Ruef, have without mercy sought Ruef's release by threats of annihilation and destruction of all opposed. The Plea That the Past Be Forgotten. Often we hear that Ruef is the only one who has been punished of those guilty of the particular crimes of which he was a part, and that for this reason should be liberated. If three men committed a murder, two escape and are never found, and the third is convicted, ought he to be released because he is the only one punished? It is unnecessary, however, to discuss this phase of the case. After conviction and imprisonment, if clemency be asked, ordinarily the only question that can be considered is whether the prisoner is guilty or innocent. Does any person claim Ruef to be innocent? If guilty, then to him must apply the usual prison discipline and rules. There is to-day in the same prison with Ruef a poor, uneducated, friendless Greek, the product of the graft prosecution just as Ruef is. Claudianes is serving a life sentence for dynamiting Gallagher's residence and almost murdering seven people. Claudianes was paid to do the dynamiting that Gallagher might be put out of the way. He was the ignorant, sodden instrument of men who would not stop even at murder; but he was only the miserable tool after all. No appeal has been made to me for Claudianes. No petitions have been presented in his behalf, no organized effort for his release, no threats of political annihilation unless clemency be extended to him. Why? Is it because Claudianes is unknown, ignorant, friendless, moneyless? The Unjust Charge of Racial Prejudice. Every cheap politician has been quick to seize upon the Ruef case and endeavor to make political capital for himself or create hostility to me out of it. Among the baseless and outrageous things that have been published is that Ruef is not granted special privileges and immunities because of racial prejudice. When Ruef was denied parole, denied with him were men of many races. No one has claimed that these were denied parole because of race prejudice. In San Quentin to-day are thirty-one Jews. Thirteen of these, for one reason or another, have at times lost their privileges. Is it possible that Ruef is the only man to be considered? No complaint is made for the thirty-one, or for the thirteen. Since February 1, 1912, twenty-seven Jews have been paroled from San Quentin. Six of these have been returned for violations of parole. In relation to the twenty-seven or the six there has been neither outcry nor protest nor publicity nor effort of any sort. Why the astounding, organized effort and publicity campaign for Ruef alone? The appointments that have been made by this administration include Rabbi Meyer, H. Weinstock, Paul Sinsheimer, Simon Lubin, Miss Steinhart, Julius Jacobs, E. Franklin, Louis Frankenheimer, A. Sapiro, Jacob Alexander, A. Bonnheim, Miss Peixotto, Judge Cerf and many others. No list of more able and patriotic men and women in the service of any State could be furnished than this. Is Ruef the sole test of every question? To two young men of Jewish faith lately have been granted pardons. No tremendous petitions loaded down with the names of politicians, no extraordinary publicity was presented in their behalf. Is there no man in the list of appointees to whom in pride we may all yield our praise? Is there no man among the 3,300 prisoners in San Quentin and Folsom who justly can arouse efforts in his behalf? Or is the sole test of official action by the Prison Directors of California or the Chief Executive of the State to be the disregard of every other man's rights and the granting to Ruef alone of a privilege that none other enjoys? California Prisons To-day. In the discussion that has ensued from the Ruef case and because of the Ruef case, the prisons have been said to be the one part of the present administration that is not progressive, and that they are yet a relic of the Herrin machine. Nothing could be further from the fact. I challenge contradiction of the following statements: California is in the forefront of all the States in the management of her prisons. In matters of food, shelter, clothing, employment, recreation, medical attention, opportunities for education, general freedom consistent with discipline, encouragement of decent tendencies, and =in the number of paroles= (although these have been granted under the half term rule), no State has gone further. Within the past three years the strait-jacket, the water-cure and the hooks, once so freely used, have not been tolerated. Every form of corporal punishment has been abolished. When prisoners are received the effort is made to get the history of the crime and possible cause of it, and then to apply corrective measures intelligently. As soon as received, every newcomer is given a thorough physical examination and his teeth are looked after by a dentist. It not infrequently happens that the first place a man is quartered in is the hospital. Special attention is given to tuberculars, alcoholics and dope fiends. Wassermann tests are made for the slightest indication of blood taint, and the best treatment afforded. After the physician and dentist conclude their examinations, the newcomer is turned over to the Director of Education, who endeavors to take the man's mental measurement and get at his moral status. There are now 200 pupils in the day school at San Quentin, and three rooms of thirty each in the night school. The educational facilities are being constantly increased. Two hundred and twenty-six are enrolled in the academic courses with the University of California and by correspondence are receiving their training from our great institutions of learning. The State Use system, which was enacted in 1911, furnishes work in industries for the State. In the matter of food the State purchases the best and the rations issued are abundant. Sanitary conditions are a model in the newly constructed portions of the prison and the best possible in the old construction. In the last three years 1372 paroles have been granted by this harsh, cruel and outrageous Prison Board, as against 1132 granted in all the years from 1893 to 1910 inclusive. The paroles have been granted, however, justly. Because one was not granted unjustly and unfairly, the record of the Prison Board counts for naught. I have purposely refrained from discussing the character of Ruef's crimes or any matters extraneous to the one issue presented. I have tried to make clear that I believe Ruef should be treated just as the least known prisoner is treated. That his advocates wish him to be treated otherwise because he is Ruef will be clear to any who will reflect that had Ruef been paroled and the other 77 denied parole there would have been no agitation; if Ruef were granted what others were denied, there would be no fulminations against the Prison Board and petty politicians would not have seized upon recent events to bow and scrape and bend and crawl to the organized power of Ruef. SCHMITZ'S ATTEMPT TO CONTROL SAN FRANCISCO RELIEF FUNDS. In the early part of June, 1906, it was agreed that a committee consisting of Benjamin Ide Wheeler, Judge W. W. Morrow and James D. Phelan should go to Washington, in order to interest Congress in some project for financing the rebuilding of San Francisco. Before their departure, Mayor Schmitz invited them and other members of the Committee of Fifty to his residence, where a luncheon was served. During the luncheon he stated that the Board of Supervisors were about to resume their public functions for which they were elected by the people, and the private persons who were administering the affairs of the city doubtless would employ their abilities for the rehabilitation of their own business, and he suggested that the relief fund be turned over to the Board of Supervisors for distribution. Judge Morrow, Mr. Phelan and others protested that it was not the function of the Supervisors to distribute relief, and that there was a trust relationship existing between the donors and the finance committee of the Relief and Red Cross Funds. After the luncheon, the Mayor handed Mr. Phelan his transportation, but later in the afternoon Mr. Phelan, suspicious of his purpose, sent word to the Mayor that he had decided to remain in the city. He remained behind to protect the funds. As subsequently developed in the graft investigations, the Supervisors had accused the Mayor of abandoning the city government to his enemies, and insisted upon the enjoyment of all the rights and privileges of their office, and that the work of distributing relief at that time was the principal business of the city. RECEIPTS AND DISBURSEMENTS OF PROSECUTION FROM JUNE, 1906, TO MAY 17, 1909 (As shown by testimony taken at trial of Patrick Calhoun.) RECEIPTS. Subscription account $ 73,384.75 Subscription account R. Spreckels 138,478.05 Cash received by W. J. Burns 1,278.70 Refunded by the Bulletin account Older case 250.00 ----------- $213,391.50 DISBURSEMENTS. W. J. BURNS ACCOUNT: W. J. Burns account, personal, $12,357.45; office expenses, $1,911.43; office furniture, $671.50; carriage hire, $27.25; auto hire, $2,700.75; auto expense, $4,162.36; traveling expense, $1,302.15; telegrams, $797.79; The Bulletin, $309.55; incidentals, $158.50; paid for account City and County of San Francisco, $223.52; detective services, $70,572.65; detective expenses, $27,277.35; extra salaries, $778.55. Total, $123,250.80. F. J. HENEY ACCOUNT: Rent, $3,186.25; office expense, $1,522.02; private exchange and operator, $1,949.22; telegrams, $316.82; postage and messenger expense, $280.26; traveling expense, $118.45; office salaries, $8,684.67; office furniture, $433.50; auto and carriage hire, $957.05; stenographic and legal expense, $2,147.37; detective expense, $4,232.61. Total, $23,828.22. SUNDRY DISBURSEMENTS: P. Dolman, $5,087.65; Hiram W. Johnson, $11,000.00; J. J. Dwyer, $13,400.00; C. W. Cobb, $10,000.00; legal expense, official count for judges, $191.50; George J. Cleary, $70.00; L. Kavanaugh, $506.20; D. M. Duffy, $1,878.85; W. J. Burns, $17,195.00; Jas. Foley, $1,010.00; Miler & Co., $40.00; automobiles, $5,100.00; auto expense, $815.98. Total, $66,295.18. Total disbursements $213,374.20 Balance, cash 17.30 ----------- $213,391.50 ITEMS, W. J. BURNS ACCOUNT. =Personal=: Salary, $8,548.80; subsistence, $2,081.75; rent, $1,726.90. Total, $12,357.45. =Office Expenses=: Rent (R. L. Radke Co.), $935.00; telephone, P. S. T. & T. Co., $398.93; light and heat--E. D. Feil, $25.00; W. G. Stafford, $8.00; mantels, $0.95--$33.95; towels (Star Towel Sup. Co.), $15.80; newspapers, $46.40; P. O. Box, U. S. A., $12.00; stamps, U. S. A., $20.40; Purity Water Co., $12.00; advertising--Call, $1.60; Examiner, $3.40--$5.00; car fare, $3.20; stationery--Library Bureau, $7.40; Mysell-Rollins, $3.00; Barry Co., $9.75; Brown & Power, $59.90; E. H. Wobber and others, $76.70--$156.75; typewriter expense-Vaughn, $56.30; Revalk, $77.10; Underwood, $5.50--$138.90; stenographic, $43.80 (L. F. Hurlburt, et al.); incidentals--pans, $0.40; opening Marchand's safe, $10.00; safe dep. Crocker, $6.00; painting floor, $1.00; N. Y. Exchange, $0.95; express charges, $8.40; keys, $3.25; paint, $1.00; tel. directory, $1.50; stars (spec.), $5.25; city directories, $9.00; elect. buzzer, $1.35; show cards (A. Unsworth), $18.50; show card frames (Young & Rhodes), $2.00; whetstone, $0.70; hauling, $5.00; moving safe (Gorham & Thomas), $15.00--$89.30. Total office expenses, $1,911.43. =Office Furniture=: Lamp, $3.55; two desk lamps, $7.80; J. Breuner Co., $68.00; water heater, $19.20; Library Bureau, $78.00; Ladd's Gun Store, $55.50; safe (Freeman, Brewster, McCabe), $165.00; 2 gas heaters, $13.10; Spencer Desk Co., $37.50; Geo. Walcom (curtains) $3.35; E. Emerson (desk), $10.00; Olympic Arms Co., $28.55; Library Bureau, $40.50; L. & E. Emanuel, $12.00; Acme Furn. Co., $96.75; Hale's, $23.20; C. P. Stanton, $9.50. Total, $671.50. =Carriage Hire=: Kelly, $2.50, $4.00, $5.00, $3.00, $12.75. Total, $27.25. =Auto Hire=: Scott, $15.00, $5.00, $50.00, $65.00, $10.00; H. M. Owens, $20.00; W. J. Burns, $90.00; March 30th, $207.50; Ruef's arrest, $10.00; F. J. Heney, $10.00; W. J. Burns, $5.00; April 27th, $32.50; L. Heidinger, $25.00; Auto Livery Co., $73.50, $92.50; Kelly, $32.50; Otis Patkhill, $45.00; Auto L. Co., $538.00; A. S. Lathaw, $105.00; Auto Livery Co., $296.50, $60.00, $20.00; M. Mamlock, $17.50; Auto Livery, $78.00; Cal. & Coulter, $25.00; F. Coulter, $42.50; Auto Livery Co., $25.00; Auto Livery Co., $288.00; Zimmerline Bros., $5.75; Auto Livery Co., $132.50, $22.50, $190.50, $35.00, $22.50; Broadway Garage, $8.00. Total, $2,700.75. =Auto Expense=: Goggles, $3.50; sundries, $9.35; Harris Rubber Co., $120.98; Harris Rubber Co., $70.10; Geo. P. Moore Co., $12.30; Geo. P. Moore Co., $9.35; Harris Rubber Co., $48.58; Chanslor Lyon, $30.88; Harris Rubber Co., $24.39; Bauer Lamp, $1.50; Bauer Lamp, $4.50; Auto Livery, $132.00; Auto Livery, $2.00; Chans. & Lyon, $12.75; Chans. & Lyon, $14.05; G. P. Moore, $26.90; G. P. Moore, $6.12; Arcade Garage, $51.20; towing auto, $5.00; Irvine Mch. Wks., $114.60; Harris Rubber Co., $6.00; Franklin Car, $59.12; Gillig & Son, $9.00; Gillig & Son, $5.00; Arcade Garage, $149.45; Arcade Garage, $134.25; G. P. Moore Co., $3.00; H. W. Bogen, $103.50; H. W. Bogen, $127.00; Pioneer Auto Co., $0.75; Pioneer Auto Co., $5.40; Gorham Rubber Co., $35.00; Berg Auto Supply Co., $1.50; Pioneer Garage, $6.00; Keenan Bros., $51.80; Keenan Bros., $23.05; Pioneer Garage, $186.70; Diamond Rubber Co., $222.50; Pioneer Auto Co., $2.50; Pioneer Auto Co., $24.00; Auto Livery Co., $166.00; G. P. Moore, $2.50; G. P. Moore, $4.50; Harris Rubber Co., $2.25; Arcade, $151.60; Arcade, $151.50; Bogan, $9.75; Bogan, $39.00; Pioneer, $3.00; Pioneer, $1.00; tire repair, $0.75; Pacific Gar., $12.85; Pacific Gar., $97.40; Arcade, $123.35; Keenan, $11.00; Keenan, $13.95; Chans. & L., $3.25; Chans. & L., $2.50; Bogen, $9.85; Bogen, $7.00; Osen & Hunter, $109.45; Pacific Gar., $5.25; Pacific Gar., $70.00; Irvington Garage, $71.50; Pioneer, $8.50; Pioneer, $6.00; J. E. Elkington & Sons, $55.50; Continental R. Co., $88.88; Schwartz & Gotlieb, $8.00; C. & L., $12.45; Pacific, $9.75; Pacific, $11.25; Spreckels Garage, $384.85; Sunset Garage, $14.50; Spreckels Garage, $82.65; Pioneer, $7.00; Letcher, S. Jose, $4.00; Keenan, $104.05; Pioneer Auto Co., $10.50; Pacific, $29.10; Halls Auto Rep., $32.30; Studebaker, $17.91; Arcade, $159.15; Spreckels Garage, $185.25; Jerome Garage, $2.25; Miller Bros., $8.75; Goodyear, $5.00; Cr. H. W. Bogen, $10.00. Net total, $4,162.36. =Traveling Expense=: Kendall to Portland, $20.00; Ferry, $1.05; Halsey, $493.40; Geo. Burns, round trip home, $130.00; baggage transfer, $1.50; trip to Oakland, auto, etc., $7.10; trip to Oakland, auto, etc., $6.60; B. T. Block to San Jose, $2.15; ferryage auto, etc., $15.35; ferryage auto, etc., $6.60; F. A. Leach, $230.00; B. A. Libby, $100.00; ferryage, auto. etc., $1.90; ferryage auto, etc., $1.90; ferryage auto, etc., $1.00; W. J. Burns to Los Angeles, $57.40; W. J. Burns, $2.10; Slater witness Ford case, $168.90; trips Okd. Gallagher case, $13.20; Marie Ware McK. Port. S. F. Ret., $50.00; Cr. F. H. Leach, witness Ford case, $8.00. Net total, $1,302.15. =Telegrams=: $797.79. =The Bulletin=: 30,000 papers (10-31, 1908) $309.55. =Incidentals=: Christmas turkeys, $37.85; 5 glove orders, $10.00; theater party, $6.00; C. P. Stanton (burglar alarm), $57.25; S. F. Call 1400 Jones, $2.25; expense account Blake case, $3.50; lunches, W. J. Burns et al., $41.65. Total, $158.50. =Paid for account City and County of San Francisco=: Exchange on Washington, D. C., sent to F. A. Leach, witness, to cover expenses to S. F., $250.00; less amount refunded by City and County of San Francisco, $26.48--$223.52. =Detective Services and Expenses=: D. F. Cecil, services $2,396.00, expenses $942.50; H. J. Woolman, services $476.00, expenses $328.00; R. J. Bergen, services $708.00, expenses $510.50; R. H. Perry, $3,095.00, expenses $1,318.05; I. H. Henderson, services $350.00, expenses $188.85; E. S. Spaulding, services $2,820.00, expenses $550.70; W. W. Farrell, services $704.00, expenses $196.50; L. G. Carpenter, services $225.00; expenses, $170.20; R. S. Spaulding, services $2,042.00, expenses $378.25; J. G. Lawlor, services $2,837.50, expenses $1,221.63; I. J. Scott, expenses $30.00; E. G. Borden, services $78.00; P. Hendirard, services $202.00, expenses $200.55; R. J. Burns, $2,810.00, expenses $2,076.47; S. S. Simon, services $206.00; B. Kohlman, services $248.00, expenses $18.75; G. E. Burns, services $2,510.00, expenses $4,369.62; C. F. Oliver, services $2,920.00, expenses $833.85; C. P. Fox, services $472.50, expenses $265.35; S. G. R. Ollsen, $40.00; G. W. Hess, $1,595.00, expenses $1,250.22; J. McCarthy, services $1,313.00, expenses $227.35; J. C. Saulman, services $110.00, expenses $1.20; L. Pring, services $44.00; L. Cullen, services $60.00; M. C. Doyle, services $52.00; D. M. Duffy, services $150.00; Chas. Wyman, services $20.00; A. Steffens, $45.00; A. Greggains, services $780.00, expenses $665.85; J. H. Shiner, services $480.00, expenses $310.80; P. F. Roller, $290.00, expenses $349,20; P. E. Sowers, services $410.00, expenses $284.10; T. R. Sullivan, services $320.00, expenses $328.55; D. McCarthy, services $948.00, expenses $114.21; J. Compton, services $1,880.00, expenses $81.40; R. Ellis, services $246.00, expenses $6.00; P. Bergin, services $20.00, expenses $17.00; C. P. Stanton, services $2,645.00, expenses $4.20; H. Sullivan, services $95.00, expenses $1.70; J. S. Hensley, services $140.00; James Foley, services $2,335.00, expenses $134.10; J. F. Severney, services $285.00, expenses $15.55; A. Hornberg, services $44.00; E. W. Stow, services $342.00, expenses $216.60; G. M. Insley, $1,417.00, expenses $414.45; B. F. Daman, services $1,148.00, expenses $529.80; L. C. Caldwell, $896.00, expenses $360.25; R. N. Hamlin, services $1,902.00, expenses $50.00; F. Kingsberg, services $90.00; W. Bettiee, services $1,068.00, expenses $164.25; W. J. Dewer, services $160.00; J. F. Clark, services $1,072.00, expenses $501.29; W. J. Biggy, Jr., services $260.00, expenses $35.40; M. C. Perry, services $144.00, expenses $109.00; C. A. Spaulding, services $336.00, expenses $109.70; E. T. Newsome, services $364.00, expenses $58.85; F. J. Barry, services $32.00; J. H. Hamilton, services $26.00; R. C. Schindler, services $1,483.00, expenses $706.85; W. S. Schindler, services, $1,161.00, expenses $224.15; O. G. Schleicher, services $340.00, expenses $122.66; E. A. Platt, services $1,205.00, expenses $315.20; W. H. Russell, services $1,305.00, expenses $298.30; S. B. Priest, services $210.00, expenses $1.40; E. J. Whiskatchies, services $1,200.00, expenses $484.85; E. W. Madden, services $255.00, expenses $33.35; J. M. Creighton, services $1,494.00, expenses $667.60; G. E. Madden, services $30.00, expenses $1.70; J. Crawford, services $35.00; E. Graf, services $20.00; expenses $7.00; W. Duchion, services $100.00; J. V. Thompson, services $72.00, expenses $13.00; F. C. Boden, expenses $62.35; F. F. McGee, services $50.00; M. L. Doyle, services $286.00; E. M. Burgoyne, services $84.00, expenses $53.95; C. Bernstein, services $64.00; E. Goldstein, services $92.00, expenses $15.25; H. C. Willer, services $216.00; J. W. F. Jackson, services $384.00, expenses $178.50; D. L. Chiles, services $20.00; Mrs. May Schindler, services $154.50, expenses $3.50; L. Gold, services $805.00, expenses $58.65; J. M. Ullmache, services $40.00, expenses $93.20; C. P. Snell, services $12.00, expenses $0.65; W. C. Heney, services $1,939.00, expenses $20.05; E. C. Lange, services $42.00; expenses $2.60; E. Emerson, services $365.00, expenses $79.15; J. McKenzie, services $47.00; O. Hooper, services $85.00, expenses $12.45; Geo. Mane, services $15.00; Chas. Cook, services $40.00, expenses $0.80; C. T. Oliver, Jr., services $236.00, expenses $25.80; D. W. Armstrong, services $5.00; F. A. Neary, services $280.00, expenses $42.50; P. D. Code, services $280.00, expenses $35.65; Martin Judge, services $40.00; J. D. Silverthew, services $14.00, expenses $1.71; G. Hague, services $68.00; W. J. Kelly, services $199.00, expenses $3.75; S. G. Whitney, services $52.00, expenses $6.65; C. F. Schneider, services $148.00, expenses $9.30; L. R. Mower, services $34.00, expenses $26.50; G. L. Doolittle, services $26.00, expenses $7.10; W. A. Conneau, services $25.00, expenses $2.20; E. S. Newsome, services $125.00; J. M. Creighton, services $615.00, expenses $200.00; H. Beasly, services $175.00; L. J. Cass, services $155.00; L. Murphy, services $230.00; Ed. Hornback, services $71.00; E. M. ----, services $435.00, expenses $44.80; P. Berr, services $36.00; S. J. Rohan, services $70.00; Geo. Yearaner, services $237.50, expenses $11.60; E. Vetisarator, services $63.00; F. C. Boden, services $150.00; T. C. McGiff, services $12.00; H. J. Loventzen, services $680.00, expenses $471.25; A. H. Barr, services $748.00, expenses $2.00; P. M. McGee, expenses $100.50; N. Komgold, services $525.00, expenses $37.35; E. Gensler, services $15.00, W. J. Otts, services $510.00, expenses $423.85; J. H. Dewey, services $30.00, expenses $6.75; W. C. Knox, services $180.00; M. F. ----, services $1,162.50, expenses $363.00; J. M. Kelly, services $35.00; R. H. Schouatt, services $161.00, expenses $2.25; D. S. Hutchins, services $80.00, expenses $40.45; Chas. Goff, services $127.15; C. P. Morey, Jr., services $10.00; S. F. ----, services $95; Jesse A. Gahans, services $30.00; A. Setrakian, services $12.00, expenses $14.50; E. E. Kam, services $10.00; J. Walsh, services $25.00. Total services, $70,572.65; expenses, $27,277.35. =Extra Salaries=: O. F. Holmes, $25.00; S. S. Simon, $5.00; O. F. Holmes, $48.25; W. J. Flynn and 2 assts., $73.00; Wyman, $20.00; Steffen, $20.00; T. Lonergan, $50.00; T. Lonergan, $50.00; T. Lonergan, $50.00; Cullen-Watchman, $28.00; A. Fromberg, $8.00; G. H. Knox, $5.00; A. B. Lycaw, $48.80; W. J. Flynn, $50.00; securing information at Roys, $5.50; D. M. Duffy, $104.50; C. A. Sage, $30.20; B. Bergen, $20.80; P. Callender, $25.00; P. Callender, $2.00; J. C. Brown, $30.00; D. W. Armstrong, $10.00; D. W. Armstrong, $25.00; D. E. Scales, $5.00; Bob Ellis, $15.00; D. W. Armstrong, $1.00; S. Hitchcock, $1.00; D. Wilkie, $25.00. Total, $778.55. ITEMS FRANCIS J. HENEY ACCOUNT. =Rent of Office=: $3,186.25. =Office Expenses=: Water, light, heat (repairs gas fixtures, $4.88; purity water, $22.75; Stafford & Co., $297.93; S. F. G. & E. Co., $209.59; gas regulator, $4.76; Gas Appliance Co., $18.00; gas mantels, $3.00; Bush & Lind, $17.00); stationery (E. H. Wobber & Co., et al., $314.90; numbering machine, $5.00; I. Upham Co., $97.23; Brown & Power, $1.00; Schmidt L. & L. Co., $6.00; Badescu Prtg. Co., $2.50); typewriter, rental and supplies (Remington T. W. Co., $139.80; Smith Premier, T. W., $8.00; Typewritorium, $7.50); newspapers, $126.15; janitor supplies (scavenger, $16.59; towels, $26.44; C. Brown & Sons, $19.80; J. H. Reardon, $2.40; W. E. Johnson, $3.35; Greenblatt & Co., $1.80; Newman & Levinson, $2.55; Brittain & Co., $19.00; O'Connor, Moffatt, $3.00; W. T. Wiley, $3.00; H. G. Root, $14.33; S. P. Co., $1.33; carpet-cleaning, $7.55; Hill & Co., $18.50); sundries, C. P. Stanton et al., $85.14; glazing, $11.25. Total, $1,522.02. =Private Exchange, Telephone and Operator=: $1,949.22. =Telegrams=: $316.82. =Postage and Messenger Service=: $280.26. =Traveling Expenses=: $118.45. =Office Salaries=: J. H. Reardon, $1,050.00; W. E. Johnson, $1,650.00; Miss O. O. McShane, $1,934.66; Mrs. Smith, $806.25; Mrs. L. E. Russell, $2,085.00; C. H. Stanton, $377.51; janitress, $156.25; voucher No. 1, Jany. 31, 1907; no detail, $625.00. Total, $8,684.67. =Office Furniture=: J. Behrn & Co., $15.75; Fuller Desk Co., $27.00; Rucker Desk Co., $142.25; J. Breuner Co., $28.50; O'Connor, Moffatt, $91.65; Goodyear Rubber Co., $3.50; Sloane & Co., $52.37; G. Lipman, $7.50; Bush & Lind, $27.89; C. Brown & Sons, $6.05; shelving $10.00; Jewel Gas Appliance Co., $21.04. Total, $433.50. =Auto and Carriage Hire=: United Carriage Co., $100.25; Pacific Garage, $100.00; Auto Livery, $70.00; Kelly's, $8.50; Arcade Garage, $5.00; Tom Sawyer, $17.50; J. W. Burke, $3.00; Max Mamlock, $15.00; T. White, $5.00; L. D. Crane, $632.80. Total, $957.05. =Stenographic and Legal Expense=: L. Kavanaugh, $1,031.00; T. B. Elderkin; $83.40; G. W. Smith, $28.00; State of California, $3.50; H. Hernon, $18.10; County Clerk, $6.00; citation for Codes, $0.37; express on briefs, $2.65; F. L. Gauhey, $2.00; F. M. Handy, $1.50; R. B. Treat, $1.75; D. W. Burchard, $200.00; S. Potter, $15.00; notary fees, $2.00; H. Harper, $96.15; C. Bennett, $5.00; A. W. Reynolds, $13.20; W. C. Bristol, $77.15; H. C. Finkler, $6.40; Richards & Carrier, $258.20; Mrs. M. Moore, $10.00; Mr. Webb, $3.00; Mrs. C. Jellison, $5.80; D. Young, expert, $25.00; C. D. Stewart, expert, $189.00; G. W. Reynolds, expert, $63.00. Total, $2,147.37. =Detective Expense=: W. J. Burns, $2,416.95; I. Rittenhouse et al., $1,815.66. Total, $4,232.61. Transcriber's Note Footnotes 355 and 477 are missing. Footnote 301 has duplicate anchors. The misnumbering is retained as printed. Footnote 427 refers to "Chapter XV 'The Ford Trials'." Chapter XX is entitled "The Ford Trials and Acquittals". The apparent reference, however, may be to a separate volume, so it has been retained. Some words are spelled multiple ways (e.g. 'indorse'/'endorse', 'employe'/'employee', 'Beaney'/'Beany'). These variants are retained. Some words (e.g. 'increditably' for 'incredibly') are likely mistakes and are corrected and noted. The author regularly elides the second 'l' in words like 'wilfully' and 'skilfully'. Where the word (e.g., 'subpoenaes') appears in quoted material, it appears as printed. 'Pittsburg' (PA), without the ending 'h' is left as printed, since the letter had been officially removed in 1890, but was restored only in 1911 as this text was being written. Hyphenation is also somewhat irregular. Occurrences of hyphens at line breaks are resolved according to other instances in the text, or if there are none, in accordance with modern usage. The following list includes apparent errors found in the original text. Where there is an obvious typographical error, as opposed to a spelling variant, the correction has been made and appear in the text as like this. Where the error occurs in a note, the page referred to is the location of the page where the note begins, though the error may appear in a continuation on a following page. The [] brackets are used to denote the error, either by changing, omitting, adding or reversing characters. A slash (/) denotes the change required to gain a correct usage. a[c]count (33 n30); proper[t]y-owners (39, n28); fi[r]st (103, n108); any felony or [or/of] any misdemeanors (107, n113); Commis[s]ioner (112 n120); el[e]cting (127 n140); intere[r/s]ts (182 n204); convi[n]ction (221 n239); bri[k/b]e-taking (231 n251); incredi[ta]bly (256); assoc[i]ates (273); seriou[t/s] (276); I though[t] it was (291); sta[u]nchly (305); dum[b]founded (326); hundr[e]d (351, n354); offer[i]ng (338 n360); dir[e]ct (342 n368); kidnap[p]ing (379 n415); advan[at/ta]ge (390 n424); embar[r]assment (426 n458); an[n]ouncement (428 n461); parol[l]ed (441); poli[ti]cal (459); testimo[u/n]y (xxxiv); station[a/e]ry (xxxv); [a/A] uto Livery (xxxv) The following is a list of punctuation corrections, where the printed image is ambiguous, or simply wrong, in favor of correct usage. Court transcripts were not entirely consistent in the handling of quotations, especially hear-say quotations. p. 74 n77 The People vs. Patrick Calhoun[./,] p. 75 n79 pages 3837 and on[,] 3746, 3743 p. 100 n107 ['/"]butt in['/"] it was Ford who did it.[']" p. 125 n136 a writ of habeas corpus (150 California, p. 665[.)/).] p. 158 n171 He (Ruef) said, ["/']All right, if he comes around I will talk with him.[']" p. 174 a third telephone company[./,] p. 222 n240 Ten per cent[.] of the amount subscribed p. 245 n265 putting the United Railroads out of business.['/"] p. 331 n354 notorious. [i/I]n not so doing p. 339 n363 I don't want to hear anything more about Ruef's testimony.[']" p. 358 n391 he did telephone to Mr. Langdon.["] p. 367 n402 have the $10,000.["] ["/']One year after date The notes read, ["/']One year