His grandfather was so insistent on this point that Harlan took notice of its frequent repetition and the earnestness with which it was pressed. He began to understand that some plan lay back of his grandfather's silence to him and to others as to his private reasons for this appeal. He began to take lively interest in the ramifications of practical politics as played by the hand of a master.



CHAPTER XI

A MAN FROM THE SHADOWS

There was a provoking flavor of mystery about Thelismer Thornton's early movements the next day. His grandson became still more interested. This element in politics appealed to him, for he was young.

They left the city by an early train. The Duke secluded himself and his grandson in a drawing-room of the car.

It was an express—train which did not stop at way stations. But when the conductor came for the tickets the old man inquired whether orders had been issued to have the train held up at a certain siding.

"Yes, sir, to leave two passengers," said the conductor. He was courteous, but he winked at the old politician with the air of one who thought he understood something. He exhibited his telegram from the dispatcher. "Can't be much politics there, Mr. Thornton," he remarked, by way of jest.

"I'm on a fishing-trip," explained the Duke, blandly. And the conductor, who knew that the siding had no fishing water within ten miles of it, went away chuckling in order to applaud the joke of a man of power.

A few hours later the two were let off at the siding and the train hurried on.

There was a farm-house near the railroad. They ate dinner with the farmer and his wife, who seemed to realize that they were entertaining some one out of the ordinary, and were much flustered thereby. Especially did the farmer struggle with his vague memory of personalities, asking many round-about questions and "supposing" many possibilities that the Duke placidly neglected to confirm.

The only definite information the farmer received was that the big elderly man wanted himself and his companion conveyed to Burnside Village by wagon, starting in the late afternoon.

"I'll take you," said the man; "but what sticks me is that you didn't stay right on board that train. It stops at Burnside regular, and it don't stop here at all."

"But it stopped to-day," remarked the Duke.

"I know it did, and that's what sticks me again."

The old man rose from the table and smiled down on him.

"Here's a good cigar, brother. I've often worked out many a puzzle while having a bang-up smoke."

He invited Harlan by a nod of the head, and they went out and strolled in the maple grove behind the house.

"I suppose you think by this time, bub, that I'm in my second childhood, and playing dime novel. But there are some things in politics that have to be done as gentle and careful as picking a rose petal off a school-ma'am's shoulder." The Duke chuckled and smoked for a time. "When I've had a job of that sort to do I haven't even talked to myself, Harlan. So you mustn't think I'm distrustful of you because I don't tell you what's on."

"I'm willing to wait," said his grandson.

"Learn your lesson, Harlan—the one I'm trying to teach you now. I never knew but one man who could keep his mouth shut under all circumstances when he felt it was his duty to do so. That was old Ben Holt. He's dead now. He fell off a bridge on his way to church and didn't holler 'Help!' for fear of breaking the Sabbath. You don't find any more of that kind in these days—not in political matters. I'm not distrusting you, I say, but I'm teaching you the lesson. Keep your mouth shut till it's time to open it. I'm drawing this thing here strong on you, so as to impress it. As for the other fellows—if I had got off the train at Burnside to-day the news would have been in every afternoon paper in the State. They'd only need that one fact to build fifty stories on—all different. Most of those stories would have hurt; there'd have been one guess, at least, that would kill the scheme. Sit down here, and let's take it easy."

He sat at the foot of a tree, his broad straw hat beside him. He leaned his head against the trunk, and gazed upward and away from his grandson. When the question came it was so irrelevant, so astonishing, that the young man gasped without replying.

"Harlan, how do you stand with the Kavanagh girl?"

The old man smoked on in the silence without removing his gaze from the leaves above his head.

"I want to confess to you, my boy, that your old grandfather made rather a disgraceful exhibition of himself the other day. But as I said then, a man will thrash and swear at a hornet and make an ass of himself, generally, in the operation. The impudent little fool didn't realize what a big matter she was trifling with."

"Grandfather," protested Harlan, manfully, "that's no way to speak of a young lady. You ask me how I stand? I stand this way—I'll not have the child mentioned in any such manner—not in my hearing; and that's with all respect to you, sir."

"Young lady—child? Well, which is she?"

"I don't know," confessed Harlan, ingenuously. "And it doesn't make much difference."

"Sort of ashamed of me, aren't you?" inquired his grandfather. "A man that you've seen all the politicians catering to the last day or so, and small enough to bandy insults with a snippet of a girl! Well, bub, there's a lot of childishness in human nature. It breaks out once in a while. Cuss a tack, and grin and bear an amputation! We'll let the girl alone. I don't seem to get in right when she is mentioned. But I wanted to have you tell me that you don't intend to marry Dennis Kavanagh's daughter. You can't afford to do that, boy! Not with your prospects. And now I'm not saying anything against the girl. We'll leave her out, I say. It's just that she isn't the kind of a woman—when she gets to be a woman—that I want to see mated with you." He burst out: "Dammit, Harlan, I can see where you're going to land in this State if you'll let your old gramp have free rein! And the right kind of a wife is half the battle in what you're going into."

"Have you got that right kind picked out for me—along with the rest? You talk as though you had."

It was said almost in the tone of insult. It might have been the tone—it might have been that the taunt touched upon the truth: Thelismer Thornton's face flushed. He did not seem to find reply easy.

"There's only this to say, grandfather. I know you're interested in me and in seeing me get ahead in the world. You pushed me into politics, and I'm trying to make good. I'm glad you did it—I'll say that now. I see opportunities ahead if I stay square and honest. But don't you try to push me into marriage. I'm going to do my own choosing there. And that doesn't mean that I'm in love with Clare Kavanagh, or intend to marry Clare Kavanagh, or want to marry her—or that she wants to marry me. That's straight, and I don't want to talk about it any more."

He stood up, and his tone was defiant.

"You'd better take a walk, bub," commended the Duke, quietly. "I'm going to nap for a little while. We may be up late to-night."

He picked up his hat and canted it over his face. "Get back here as early as five o'clock," he said, from under its brim.

They were away in the farmer's carryall at that hour, after a supper of bread-and-milk.

In the edge of the village of Burnside the Duke ordered a halt, and stepped down from the carriage. The evening had settled in and it was dark under the elms.

"Here's five dollars, brother. You've used us all right, and now so long to you."

"But I hain't got you to nowhere yet!" protested the farmer. He had finally decided in his own mind that these were railroad managers planning projects, with an eye on his own farm. He wanted to carry them where he could exhibit them to some one who could inform him.

But the Duke promptly drew Harlan along into the shadows, and a farmer hampered with a two-seated carriage is not equipped for the trail. They heard the complaining squeal of iron against iron as he turned to go back home.

"We've come here to call on a man," stated the Duke, after they had walked for a little time.

"On ex-Governor Waymouth, I suppose," Harlan suggested, quietly.

The old man chuckled.

"How long have you been suspecting that?"

"Ever since I heard Burnside mentioned, of course."

"Good! You guessed and kept still about it. You've got the makings of a politician, and you are learning fast. Now what do you suppose I'm sneaking up on Varden Waymouth in this way for?"

"You said I'd see for myself when the time came. I'm in no hurry, grandfather."

The Duke patted Harlan's shoulder. "You're one of my kind, that's sure, boy. I haven't got to put any patent time-lock onto your tongue. And I can't say that of many chaps in this State. You're a safe man to have along. Come on!"

The house was back from the street a bit—a modest mansion of brick, dignifiedly old. Tall twin columns flanked the front door and supported the roof of the porch. Harlan had never seen the residence of General Waymouth before, but that exterior seemed fitted to the man, such as he knew him to be.

He admitted them himself, when they had waited a few moments after sounding alarm with the ancient knocker. Framed in the door, he was a picturesque figure. His abundant white hair hung straight down over his ears, and curled outward at the ends; his short beard was snowy, but there was healthful ruddiness on his face, and though his figure, tall above the average, stooped a bit, he walked briskly ahead of them into the library, crying delighted welcome over his shoulder. His meeting with Thelismer Thornton had been almost an embrace.

"And this boosting big chap is Harlan—my grand-baby, Vard! Guess you used to see him at 'The Barracks' when he was smaller. Since then he's been trying to outgrow one of our spruce-trees."

The ex-Governor gave Harlan his left hand. The empty sleeve of the right arm was pinned to the shoulder.

"The old Yankee stock doesn't need a step-ladder to stand on to light the moon, so they used to say."

He rolled chairs close to each other and urged them to sit, with the anxious hospitality of the old man who has grown to prize the narrowing circle of his intimates.

"Smoke, Thelismer," he pleaded. "Stretch out and smoke. I always like to see you smoke. You take so much comfort. I sometimes wish I'd learned to smoke. Old age gets lonely once in a while. Perhaps a good cigar might be a consolation."

"So you do get lonesome sometimes, Vard?" inquired the Duke.

"It's a lonesome age when you're eighty, comrade. You probably find it so yourself. There are so few of one's old friends that live to be eighty."

Then they fell into discourse, eager, wistful reminiscences such as come to the lips of old friends who meet infrequently. The young man, sitting close in the circle, listened appreciatively. This courtly old soldier, lawyer, Governor, and kindly gentleman had been to him since boyhood, as he had to the understanding youth of his State, an ideal knight of the old regime. And so the hours slipped past, and he sat listening.

The calm night outside was breathlessly still, except for the drone of insects at the screens, attracted by the glow of the library lamp. A steeple clock clanged its ten sonorous strokes, and still the old men chatted on, and the Duke had not hinted at his errand.

The General suddenly remembered that he had in the cellar some home-made wine, and he asked the young man to come with him, as lamp-bearer.

"The good wife would have thought of that little touch of hospitality long ago, my son," he said, as they walked down the stairs, "but a widower's house with grouchy hired help makes old age still more lonely."

On their return they found the Duke, feet extended, head tipped back, eyes on the ceiling. He was deep in thought, and told Harlan to place his glass on the chair's arm.

"Varden," he said, "eighty isn't old, not for a man like you; and it shouldn't be lonely, that age. I'm still older, and I propose to wear out instead of rust out."

"I don't feel rusty, exactly," returned the General, smiling into his glass. "But when I think of all the marches, Thelismer, of the campaigns, the heartbreaking struggles of the war—of all the cases won and cases lost, the nights of study and days of labor in the law—the fuss and fury of politics—of all the years behind me, I feel as though I'd like to be used as my father used his old boots: Before he took his bed for the last time he went up into the garret of the old farm-house and laid his boots there on their sides. 'Let 'em lie down, now, and rest,' he said. And I've never allowed them to be disturbed."

The Duke still stared at the ceiling.

"Varden, you and I have known each other so long that you don't need as much talk from me as you would from a stranger. When I've asked a thing from you in the past I didn't have to sit down and talk to you an hour about the reasons why I wanted it. You understood that I had a good reason for asking. I'm going to ask just one more thing from you in this life. I'm going to ask it straight from the shoulder. You and I don't need to beat about the bush with each other. I want you to say 'yes,' for if you don't you're abandoning our old State as though she were a widow headed for the almshouse."

Thornton leaned forward, grasped his glass and drained it at a gulp, and then looked the amazed General squarely in the eyes.

"You're going to be nominated as Governor of this State in the next convention, and you've got to accept," he declared. "Now hold on! Just as you understand that I've got good reasons for asking you to do this, just so I understand all that you're going to say in objection. I discount all your objections in advance. I know you haven't lost run of affairs in this State—you know all the mix-up the party is in right now. They're going to beat Dave Everett in convention, General, just as sure as the devil can't freeze his own ice. It's going to be 'Seventy-two all over again. People gone crazy for a change and jumping the wrong way, like grasshoppers in front of a mowing machine. Spinney means the whole rotten thing over again—State treasury looted, tax rate reduced to get a popular hoorah, a floating debt that will make us stagger and keep enterprise out of this State for ten years, petty graft in every State office, and every strap on the party nag busted from snaffle to crupper. Now I want to ask you one question: Do you want Arba Spinney for the next Governor of this State—sitting in the chair that you honored? You know him! You've heard his mouth go. You understand his calibre. Do you want him?"

"No," admitted General Waymouth.

"Well, you're going to get him if you don't accept that nomination. You're going to get him, blab-mouth, mob-rule, mortification, and merry hell—the whole bagful! Do you want that for this State, Vard?"

"Our State can't afford to have such a man," agreed General Waymouth, "but—"

"I'd, myself, rather see a Democrat win at the polls!" shouted Thornton. "But the Democrat that they've got in line is worse than Spinney. It's a popocratic year, and they're all playing that game. But they can't overcome our natural plurality, Varden. It means Spinney if he goes to the polls! It's up to you to stop him. You've got to do it!"

The General rose and walked around the room. His shoulders were stooped a bit more. Then he came and put his hand on Thelismer's shoulder.

"Your faith in what I am and what I might do is worthy of you, my old comrade, even if it exalts my poor powers too much. And I thank you, Thelismer. But I know what I am. I'm only a stranded old man. The younger generation will not think as you do. Go and find some good man there. I'm too weary, Thelismer, too old and too weary—and almost forgotten. Find another man!"

"What's that? Find a man for Governor of this State, groom him, work him out, score him down and shove him under the wire of State Convention a winner inside of two weeks? Varden, you know politics better than that! You forgotten by the younger generation of this State? Harlan, what have you to say to that?"

The young man stood up. He had listened well and listened long that evening. In the presence of this gracious old knight of the heroic days of history he had felt his heart swelling as he remembered the record that all men of his State knew.

The fervor of his admiration showed so plainly in his glistening eyes that General Waymouth was touched, and waited indulgently.

"General, it's only because my grandfather is your old friend and has commanded me that I dare to speak. I simply have a hope. It has become dear to me. I'm hoping for a privilege. I honestly believe that outside of all party preferences there are thousands of young men in this State who will feel proud to have that same privilege—will esteem it one of the honors of their lives. Their fathers had the same honor. And that's to go to the polls and cast a ballot for Gen. Varden Waymouth. It will make politics seem worth while to us, sir."

"Good!" ejaculated the Duke. "You're hearing the voice of the young men of this State now, Varden." He stood up. "Here's my boy for your service. He'll be in the next legislature. Use him. Depend on him. You're old—you've earned your rest. I know it. But here's a loud call for a sacrifice. This boy and such as he can lift a lot of the load. Varden, give me your hand. Say that you'll do it!"

"Let's sit down a moment," said the General, solemn gentleness in his tone. "I have something that it's in my heart to say."

He drew his chair even closer to them. They waited a few moments for him to speak. In that room with its dignity of ancient things, with the silence of the summer night surrounding, that waiting was impressive. Harlan felt the thrill of it. Even his grandfather was gravely anxious. The General leaned forward and put his thin hand on the elder Thornton's knee.

"Thelismer, you yourself link the past with the present, so far as the politics of this State go. You link them even more than I do, for you are active in the present. You have been a strong man—you are strong to-day. But I want to say to you, and this is as friend to friend, you haven't always used that strength right. I know what reply you'd make to that. We've talked it all over many times. You say that you've had to play the game. That's right. And I've played it myself, too. But in the years since then, while I've sat at one side of the arena and looked on, I've had a chance to meditate and a chance to observe. I don't think matters have been running right in this State—and now I'm not speaking of Arba Spinney or his ilk. You come to me to-night and you ask me to be the Governor of this State once more. You want me to come back into the game. You ask me to appeal to the suffrage of the young men who admire what little I've accomplished. I want to warn you. I may be putting it too strong when I call it a warning. I have some ideals to-day. You may not find them to your liking in politics."

"I'm willing to trust in your good judgment and your sense of what is square for all concerned," protested the Duke, stoutly. "In the hot old days I was hot with the rest, Vard. I've mellowed some since."

"You may not find me a safe man, Thelismer. I shall come back out of the shadows with a firm resolve to merit the approval of the young men of this State—and the young men see more clearly than their fathers did."

"I'm not here to-night with bridle or bit or halter, Varden. We need you. The party has got to have you. I know what your name will accomplish in that convention. You shall be Governor of this State without making pledge or promise. Will you stand?"

"I ask you again, Thelismer, if there is no other way?"

"Any other way means Spinney and mob rule."

General Waymouth turned to Harlan. "Go out and tell the honest young men of this State that I will try to satisfy their ideals. That's the only pledge I'll give. I'm afraid I haven't any promise for the old machine, Thelismer." He smiled.

"We don't need any," returned the Duke, briskly. "We know Vard Waymouth. But there's one pledge I do want from you. This whole thing is to be left in my hands so far as announcement goes. My plan of campaign makes that much necessary. We don't want to flush that bunch of birds till we can give 'em both barrels."

"I consent. I'll live in the lingering hope that at the last moment you'll find I won't be needed."

He rose and gave his hand to each in turn, bringing them to their feet.

"Now for bed. Of course, you'll remain here the night."

"No," declared Thornton, decisively. "Out o' here on the midnight! I want to dodge out of Burnside in the dark. We'll walk down to the station now. It's settled. I'll keep you posted."

At the door the General gave Harlan the last word, grasping his hand again.

"You brought me a message from the young men that touched me."

"I spoke for myself, but I believe that all of them would like to have the same opportunity that I had," faltered Harlan. "I know they would. Will you let us come to you at the right time and make it plain?"

"I shall depend upon you in a great many ways in the months to come. You know it's to be a young man's administration by an old man made young again. I'm proud of my first volunteer!"

"He's a good boy, and he's got the makings in him," declared the Duke.

"I've been too long with men not to appreciate a good chief of staff when I see him," laughed the General.

Framed in the big door, with the dim glow of light behind him, he watched them depart.

The Duke walked in the far shadows of the station platform in silence, smoking, until the train whistled.

"Bub, you remember that I told you I'd put you in right," he said, climbing the car steps. "Now follow your hand."

But Harlan Thornton, fresh from that presence, understood that he had pledged a loyalty deeper than the loyalty of mere politics or preferment.



CHAPTER XII

DEALS AND IDEALS

There was no one in the smoking-room of the car, so the Duke discovered with relief. It was late, and the passengers were in their berths. There was no one to spy, ask questions, or guess.

"Complete!" he grunted, satisfiedly, as he sat down. "We've come through with the job in good shape, Harlan. It'll have to be a mind-reader that finds out what I've put up to-day."

He swung his feet upon the seat opposite and sighed.

"I'm a pretty old man to be tearing 'round nights in this fashion, bub, but I feel younger by twenty years just this minute. Now I didn't tell you my plans this morning. Reckoned I'd wait till I had a clear view ahead. I've got it now. I'll wire ahead to the junction for our baggage to be brought from the hotel and put on board this train. We'll stay on. State capital next. Down to Luke's place. We'll stay there till State Convention. Finger right on the pulse after this."

He called the porter and arranged for his berths, and ordered the telegram sent from the next station.

He began leisurely to unfasten his necktie and collar.

"Got to tell Luke, you know. A close corporation of four—that's enough to know it. Can't trust the rest. We'll let 'em keep their old political hen sitting on their china egg. We'll hatch the good egg in our own nest. Then for a glorious old cackle! Vard Waymouth will be the next Governor of this State! Sure!"

"And this State will have the right man on the job with him as Governor!" cried the young man, enthusiastically. "I'm proud of what you did to-night, grandfather. I don't believe he would have listened to anyone else."

"Friendship, comradeship, mean something when you get old, my boy."

"I hope they'll all know who did it when the time comes right. Some of the men who have been growling about you behind your back will have their mouths shut for them."

"You've been hearing the old man cussed thoroughly and scientifically, eh?" drawled the Duke. He squinted, quizzically. "Well, a man who stays in politics fifty years and doesn't make enemies, stays too close to the ground to be worth anything. Good, healthy, vigorous enemies are a compliment."

"I wonder whether his party will say that when General Waymouth starts out in his reforms."

"What reforms?" demanded the old man, tugging off his collar.

"You heard what he said—about what he intended to do—the warning, as he called it."

Thornton looked at his grandson serenely and with a glint of humor in his eyes.

"You don't have any idea, do you, that Vard Waymouth is going to play politics with sugar-plums instead of with the chips he finds on the table? Get your wisdom teeth cut, young chap. That's another branch of the science for you to learn."

Harlan protested, his loyalty a bit shocked.

"I believe that General Waymouth meant what he said."

"Well, what did he say?"

"You know what he said. I saw you listening pretty closely, grandfather. He intends a square deal for this State. I may be young, and I probably don't understand politics, but I know an honest gentleman when I see one."

"My boy, there's no question of dishonesty here. Don't pick up any of the patter that the demagogues are babbling—and they don't know just what they mean themselves. He is an honest man. Have I known him all my life without finding that out? But he isn't going to start out and clinch any reputation for honesty by turning his back on his own party and its interests—not for the sake of having the cheap demagogues of the other side pat him on the back and pick his pockets at the same time. He knows politics too well. But we won't sit up here to-night and discuss that. Keep your faith in him. He's worth it."

With his coat on his arm he started for his berth.

"The idea is, then, the party is going to make him stand first of all for things that will help the party, without much regard for what will help the people of this State as a whole? That's politics according to the code, is it, grandfather?"

"That's politics, my boy," stated the Duke with decision. "Once in a while you find a fellow splitting off and trying to play it different, but he doesn't last. Why the devil should he? It's his party, isn't it, that puts him on the job?"

"It's the majority of the people that do it, if he's elected."

"Don't get fooled on this 'people' idea, Harlan. The people are no good without organization—and organization is the party. I don't want to discourage you, son. You'll see some opportunities where you can grab in and turn a trick for the general good of all hands. But you can't dump your friends. You've got to stand by your own party first. You do anything else, and you'll simply get the reputation of being a kicker and an insurgent. And then you can't spin a thread. Your own party doesn't want you and the other side is afraid of you. Ideals are blasted good in their way, but in politics cut out the I and attend to the deals. It's the only way you'll get anywhere."

Harlan sat alone for a while and thought. Rebellion seethed in him. But it was rebellion against something vague—protest that was more instinct than actual understanding. He still lacked the prick of party enthusiasm; party, as he had seen its operations, stood for some pretty sordid actualities. One thing comforted him: he had not lost his faith in General Waymouth. His grandfather's cynicism had not destroyed that. He realized that his youth and his lack of experience would make him a very humble cog in the legislative machinery. But he had youth and high hopes, and his creed from boyhood had been to do everything that he had to do resolutely and to the full measure of his ability.

When he looked at his watch he decided that he would not go to his berth. The train would reach the State capital shortly after four in the morning. He dozed in his seat, the grateful breath of the summer night fanning his face through the screen. The Duke found him there, appearing as he had departed, his coat on his arm, his collar in his hand. He was full of the briskness of the dawn in spite of his short rations of sleep.

"You mustn't think because you've found sins in the party that you've been picked out for the atonement, boy," he chided, jocosely. "Get your sleep—always get your sleep. I wouldn't have been alive to-day if I'd been kept awake by worry and wonder."

A cab took their luggage to the hotel. They walked up the hill. It was the old man's suggestion.

"It'll do us good. This air beats any cocktail you can get over Luke's bar—and they serve as good a one as you'll get anywhere, even if this is a prohibition State."

"Wasn't it Governor Waymouth who signed the first prohibition bill in this State?" asked Harlan.

"Still dwelling on visions of reform, eh?" inquired his grandfather, smiling broadly. He did not reply immediately. He stepped ahead, for they were obliged to walk in single file past a man who was sweeping sawdust across the sidewalk. In the windows that flanked the open doors of his shop dusty cigar boxes were piled. The shelves within were empty. Harlan recognized the nature of the establishment. It was a grog-shop in its partial disguise. He got the odor of stale liquors from the open door as he passed.

"I was present when he signed it," said the Duke, as soon as they were walking side by side once more. "Something had to be done politically with the Washingtonian movement, you know; it had cut the cranks out of the main herd. You'd think, nowadays, to hear some of the things that are said about conditions in the old times, that every man in this State picked up his rum-bottle and pipe and threw 'em to Tophet and got onto the wagon. You weren't born then. Let me tell you how it really happened. It was mostly politics. The disorganized mob of prohibitionists didn't do it—it was our party. We needed the cranks to swing the balance of power. They were all herded, ready to follow the bell. Needed a shepherd. Didn't know which one of the old parties to run to. It's a crime in politics not to grab in a bunch of the unbranded when it's that size. We put prohibition into the platform and carried the election. Then the boys went to the Governor and told him, privately, that they really didn't mean it, and framed it up that they'd pass the bill in the legislature all right and then he'd veto it—and the party would be saved, and he wouldn't be hurt, because every one knew that he couldn't be accused of acting in the interests of the rumsellers, but only stood on the constitutional law ground—and there was great talk those days, son, of personal liberty and inherent rights. But Vard picked up his pen and told us he wasn't much of a hand for playing practical jokes on the people. He signed it. And he was a license man, at that, those days. Guess he is now."

"I don't see how you can say he has played politics—not after he stood out like that."

Thelismer Thornton laughed silently. They were half-way up the long hill. The bland morning was already growing warm. The old man stopped for a moment, hat off, under a dewy maple.

"Bub, do you think Vard Waymouth, lawyer that he is, didn't know just about how much that act would amount to after it got to operating? About all it did was to proclaim the rum business contraband. No teeth, no claws, not much machinery for enforcement—and public sentiment cussing it, after it began to hit men individually. Reform in politics is popular just so long as it doesn't hit individuals."

"There's teeth enough in the law now", remarked Harlan.

"Oh, it's easier to put 'em in than it is to fight the mouths of the professional ramrodders who come down to the legislature. We put in the teeth right along and leave off the enforcement muscle. The old thing can't chaw! Then the ramrodders have got the law to hoorah about and read over in the parlor, and they'll go right past such a place as we saw down the street there and not know it's a rumshop. After they get all the law they ask for, it's a part of their game to say that the rumshops aren't doing business. They're the kind that believe that just having the law makes every one good—they don't want to go back on their own scheme. Come along!" He went out into the sunshine. "I don't like to get talking prohibition. The play is not to talk it. It runs best when you don't talk about it. It's running good now. Saloons open, and all the prohibitory law-frills the old fuss-budgets can crochet and hang onto the original bush! Both sides satisfied!"

"It may be good politics—it may seem all right to you, because you were in the thing from the start and saw how the tricks had to be played," grumbled the young man. "But I haven't had that kind of training. I've been brought up in business, grandfather. And a State that will do what this State is doing now—I'm not saying who's at fault—but the State that will handle a law in this way is a blackleg. I believe in General Waymouth. I believe he's got something up his sleeve in the way of real reform. I believe he meant what he said. I don't want to see you hurt personally in your plans, grandfather, but I want to tell you frankly I'm with the other side in this thing."

The Duke glanced at him inquiringly.

"I mean, politics or no politics, I want to see a law enforced so long as it's a law. If a party cannot hold together and keep on top with any other system, then the party is 'in' wrong. I don't believe General Waymouth intends to straddle. He'll enforce the law."

"And kill his party?" inquired the old man, sarcastically. "Oh no, my boy. The party has looked out for that. It isn't taking any chances with a man who might get morally rambunctious. The Governor of this State hasn't anything to do with enforcing the prohibitory law. We've kept all the clubs out of his hands. When the W. C. T. U. converted old Governor Levett, he got ambitious and tried it on. And the only thing he found he could do was to issue a proclamation to the sheriffs 'to do their duty.' The most of 'em framed it and hung it up in their offices; it was too good a joke to keep hid."

They walked on in silence. Harlan did not find it easy to continue that line of talk. His deameanor did not accord with the fair face of the morning. But the old man sauntered on under the trees, plainly contented with the world and all that was in it.

"Let's see, you haven't met Madeleine, Luke's girl, since she was little, have you?" he inquired, stealing one of his shrewd side glances at his grandson.

Harlan was occupied with his own thoughts and shook his head.

"I was thinking she'd been away at school whenever you've been down here with me. Beautiful girl, my boy. Brains, too. Polish up your thoughts. These college girls are pretty bright, you know."

"I don't think she will notice whether I've got any thoughts or not," replied the young man, sourly. "She won't pay much attention to a woodsman—not that kind of a girl."

"What kind of a girl?"

"One that's full of society notions and college airs. I know the kind. Unless a fellow has wasted about half his life in dancing and loafing around summer resorts they treat him as though he were a cross between an Eskimo and a Fiji. Life is too short to play poodle for girls of that sort."

"Well, you are certainly on the mourners' bench to-day, front row and an end seat," said the old man, disgustedly. "You'd better go up and take a nap till breakfast-time, and use sleep, soap, a razor, and common sense and smooth yourself off. I reckon I haven't got you out of those woods any too quick."

Only the earliest birds of the hostelry roost were about the big house at that hour. The new arrivals dodged scrub-women and sweepers in the office and on the stairs, and went to their rooms. The Duke, leaving his grandson at his bedroom door, suggested a bit stiffly that he would "call around about eight o'clock and open the den and lead him down to a little raw meat, unless he smoothed up his manners and his appetite in the mean time."



CHAPTER XIII

THE DUKE'S DOUBLE CAMPAIGN

Presson came in with the Duke at eight o'clock, bringing cordial morning greetings to Harlan's room.

The old man found his grandson much improved, both in spirits and garb. In his fresh, cool, summer gray, erect, stalwart, and clear-eyed, he won a grunt of approval from his mentor.

"There's nothing like being young, Luke! I was just telling you that the boy was getting into the dumps—bound to study all the seams before he put the coat on. But the world looks better now, doesn't it, son?"

"It's the fit of the coat that counts in politics," observed the chairman, sagely. "And the one that was built last night fits like the paper on the wall. Don't bother with the seams, Harlan. The lining covers 'em."

"Presson likes the frame-up, Harlan," said the Duke, smiling broadly. "He isn't even jealous because I thought of it first."

"Who else could have pulled it off as you have, Thelismer? It would take more than straight politics to get Vard Waymouth out of his den. And I could have offered only politics."

With an arm about each he pushed them to the door, saying that his wife and daughter were waiting below. When Harlan turned from his respectful greeting of the mother, whom he knew, he found Miss Presson looking at him with frank and smiling interest. He had heard vague reports that Madeleine Presson had blossomed into beautiful womanhood since he had seen her. He had been prepared to meet a rather vain and pampered young lady, conscious of her charms and attainments. He assumed a bit of reserve as armor for his sensitiveness. But this attitude responded so ill to her good-humored ease in renewing their acquaintanceship that he was momentarily embarrassed, remembering what he had said to his grandfather a few hours before.

"I think I have a most distinct recollection of Mr. Harlan Thornton. When I was ten years old you brought me some lumps of spruce-gum in a birch-bark box and I declined it, saying that young ladies did not chew gum. But I took it when you looked so sad, and I carried it away to boarding-school, and I found out that young ladies do chew gum—when no one is watching them. That gift made me very popular, sir, and now I thank you. I fear I did not thank you then."

"It's worth waiting all this time to hear you say that. I'm glad the gift found appreciation, for I culled the winter pickings of a whole logging crew for those red nuggets. I've been so distrustful of my good taste ever since that I've never dared to give anything to a young lady."

"I'm afraid you didn't realize what you were doing when you snubbed him," put in the Duke. "I haven't been able to get him out of the woods since—till now, and I've had to bring him almost by main force."

The carriage was at the door. The State chairman led the way to it. He had a home for his family apart from the big hotel, the mammoth hostelry of the State—one of his many business ventures.

"We are on our way home from our morning ride—it's the real jolly part of the June day, the two hours before breakfast," explained the girl, as they went down the steps. "When we called here for father you may imagine how delighted we were to find your grandfather. I know you understand, Mr. Harlan Thornton, what a dear old man your grandfather is!"

"He has been mother, father, brother, and sister and best friend—all those to me. He has seemed to have some of the elements of all.

"I know of the good things he has done, and how ungrateful some of the folks are he has helped. Your grandfather would be a real saint if it were not for politics. You know we folks at the State capital hear politics talked all the time. I suppose my good father has the same wicked things said about him—though, of course, I don't hear them."

"And I've been too deep in the woods to hear."

Presson ushered his wife and the young people into the carriage.

"Thelismer and I would rather walk," he said. "We have some more matters to talk over." And he sent them away.

Harlan took his seat opposite the ladies, and now, in this close proximity, he realized how charming the young girl was. From the close braids of her brown hair to the tips of her bronze shoes she was womanly grace and refinement personified. There was a cordial frankness in her tone and eyes that attracted him, and put him at his ease. Yet there was no hint of coquetry. He liked her at once and instinctively, because somehow she seemed to meet him on a manly plane of good-fellowship—and yet she was so thoroughly and deliciously feminine. There was just a bit of a drawl in her voice, a suggestion of jocoseness, continual appreciation of the humor of life and living. And her laugh was an inspiration.

He was a little surprised at himself when he found that he was chatting with her so easily. Later, when he reflected, he understood. She had almost a masculine breadth of view in addition to her culture. In that first day of their meeting she gave voice to some of his own unexpressed views regarding the trend of the times in public matters. She apologized, half-humorously. "But as I said to you a while ago, we hear politics talked much at the State capital."

Following the after-breakfast chat, he walked back to the hotel with his grandfather.

"By-the-way, I didn't lie to you any about Luke's girl, did I?" remarked the old man, casually, and as though the matter had occurred to him in default of better topic. "But she's too advanced in her ideas for a woman. She'll be suffragette-ing it next."

When Harlan began to defend the right of women to interest themselves in the larger affairs, only a twinkle in the Duke's eye betrayed his amusement. If Harlan, in his first quick suspicions, had secretly accused his grandfather of planning a matrimonial campaign in conjunction with his political one, he was now ashamed of those suspicions, for they concerned Madeleine Presson. Having met her, he realized that if he should dare to connect her in his thoughts with anything that his grandfather might be scheming he was making of himself a very presumptuous and silly ass. Now that he had seen her, now when he was spending days of waiting at the State capital and seeing her frequently, he found that Madeleine Presson's personality eliminated possible matchmakers. He felt very humble in her presence—and still ashamed. He had never taken stock of his own deficiencies very particularly. His environment had not prompted it. He had been superior to the men he had ruled. He realized now that the little amenities of life which make for poise and ease must be lived, not simply learned. In taking thought lest he err he found himself proceeding awkwardly. His training in the past had led him to set work and achievement ahead of all the rest. He understood now that those essentials in a life that is to yield the most appear better as superstructure. Mere achievement may attract respect. Erected on culture, it wins still more. Respect feeds only one appetite of ambition. True ambition is hungry for affection and friends, placing lovers ahead of sycophants. And the finer qualities, the softer virtues, attract more surely than mere fame.

These and similar reflections came to young Thornton rather incoherently. It was not that he desired the affection or the admiration of Madeleine Presson. But this young woman represented for him a new phase of the world he was meeting in its broader sense—and he was ambitious with the zest of youth. Often he was obliged to spur himself out of diffidence in her serene presence. At other times she put him at his ease with a tact which made him realize his own shortcomings. And under those circumstances ambition droops like a plant in a drought.

He had time to think during the two weeks he was at the State capital waiting for the big convention. His grandfather made no demands upon him.

Thelismer Thornton had quietly appointed himself the dominant figure in the back room at State headquarters. Under his big hand all the strings met. Even Luke Presson took subordinate post as a lieutenant.

The Duke of Fort Canibas knew that he was in control.

The Hon. David Everett believed that he was. Thornton blandly cultivated that belief in Everett. When Everett talked he listened. When Everett counselled he agreed. He invited all the confidence of that gentleman; he made sure that "the logical candidate" used him as repository of all his political secrets; he was careful to assure himself that Everett's strength was entirely in his hands and under his control—for he intended to shatter that strength so instantly, so thoroughly, that not one fragment would be left to hamper his own plans.

And yet day by day, word by word, hint by hint—his eye on the future loyalty of the Everett faction at the polls—he made the candidate understand that Arba Spinney was a man to be reckoned with—that the convention was not an open-and-shut certainty for the machine. Without realizing how it had come about, Everett found himself discussing "political exigencies." Without knowing that he had been selected as a martyr for his party, he committed himself in lofty sentiments regarding the duty of a man in a crisis. Not that he suspected that his chances were endangered. He felt that he was truly the man of destiny; he was urging other men to forget their slights and their disappointments and rally to him. But the fact remained that—thinking wholly of other men—he had committed himself, and in a way that he could be reminded of when the time came.

The Duke planted that kedge well out, to serve in the stress of weather at the polls in the fall, should Everett and his men be silly enough to confound "party exigency" with treachery.

All men are forgetful. The Duke feared that some men had forgotten the details of Gen. Varden Waymouth's notable life. The publicity bureau, obeying crafty suggestions and not understanding just what it was all about, began in the stress of that campaign to recall stories of the old days. And no man represented the old days as did Varden Waymouth, hero, scholar, and statesman. There were giants in the old days, and every machine newspaper in the State hailed General Waymouth as chief of the giants. They contrasted the present with the past. General Waymouth's picture gazed forth in stately benignity from every broadside—his life story filled the columns of newspapers and the mouths of men.

With Arba Spinney's activities Thornton was in touch at all times. More than ever before Mr. Spinney merited his title "Fog-horn." He was striking the high places in the State, pouring language from under the mat of his mustache, warning all men off the political shoals of "the machine." From those shoals he was scooping up mud in both hands, and spattering all men and all measures. He found plenty of listeners, for protest was abroad. But the persistent defamer irritates even his friends. He offends the innate sense of patriotism and loyalty which slinks even in the breast of the rebel. The Duke noted with satisfaction the outward symptoms of Mr. Spinney's campaign; he was winning a following in those days of unrest. Through the columns of his newspapers the old politician exploited Mr. Spinney, seeing to it that he was well advertised as a man who persistently branded his own State as a den of infamy. Thus he made Spinney strong enough to play against Everett and weak enough to fall far in the estimation of men when the time came for him to fall.

And then at last, in the latter days of June, all roads led to Rome. The Republican Convention was called for the twenty-eighth, in the big hall of the State's metropolis.

On the day before, Thelismer Thornton emerged from the back room of headquarters at the State capital, and with Chairman Presson and Harlan journeyed to the scene of the conflict. Before their departure the Duke had been obliged, smilingly, to refuse a request of Mrs. Presson's.

She had asked that young Mr. Thornton be delegated as squire of dames to accompany herself and her party to the convention.

"I'm afraid you haven't realized for a week or so that the boy is in politics, Lucretia. I've let him run to pasture with a pretty long cord on him. He'll have to come in under the saddle now. We'll have one of the young beaus from the Governor's staff on the lookout for you at the hall. This fellow here"—he patted Harlan's arm—"he hasn't been broken to the society bridle yet. He was allowing to me the other day that he didn't propose to be, either."

Miss Presson had overheard.

Harlan, remembering, flashed a glance of rebuke and anger at the old man. It was a shock to him to have his own sentiments thrust back at him in that manner.

"We haven't found Mr. Harlan ungallant," protested Mrs. Presson. She treated the matter in jest, though the young man's face did not indicate that he especially appreciated the humor.

"Oh, he's probably just been playing 'possum—practising dissimulation, getting used to being a politician! You be watching out, Lucretia. He'll forget himself and make a bolt pretty soon. The test of the thing will be in seeing whether he holds out or not!"

In his indignation, Harlan was too confused just then to grasp the fact that his tormentor was craftily handing him over to the Presson womenfolk, bound, branded, and supple—unless he proposed to merit his grandfather's label in their estimation.

"Now, look here, grandfather"—he began, wrathfully; but the Duke pulled him away, drowning his protests in a laugh.

"You have placed me in a ridiculous position, and that's a mighty mild way to put it," complained the indignant victim, when they were outside. "I don't understand, grandfather, why you do something to me every now and then that knocks all the props out from under me. It isn't decent—it's vulgar—it's shameful, the way you do some things!"

"Operate in a queer way, do I?" inquired the old man, blandly.

"You certainly do."

"Did you ever stop to think, boy, that human nature is a queer thing?"

"Whose human nature are you referring to—yours or mine?"

"You know what the old Quaker said to his wife: 'All the world's queer, dear, except thee and me—and thee's a little queer!'"

The angry young man would have liked to get a little more light on the question, but Chairman Presson was ready for them and hustled them into the carriage. And on the ride to the station, during the journey by train, at the convention city, there were other matters uppermost besides a young man's pique.



CHAPTER XIV

THE BEES AND THE WOULD-BES

Men—a swarm of men—a hiveful of men. Lobbies, parlors, corridors, stairways of the big hotel packed with men.

Men in knots, in groups, in throngs, pressing together, disintegrating to form new groups, revolving in the slow mass of the herd, shaking hands, crying greetings, mumbling confidential asides. An observer who did not understand would find it all as aimless as the activity of an ant-heap—as puzzling as the slow writhings of a swarm of bees. Clouds of cigar smoke over all—voices blended into one continual diapason; medley, and miasma of close human contact.

After supper, in the crowded hotel dining-room, Harlan Thornton accompanied his grandfather through the press of jostling men.

The night before a State Convention was a new experience for him. He walked behind the Duke, who made his slow, urbane way here and there, drawling good-humored replies to salutations. He had quip ready for jest, handclasp for his intimates, tactful word for the newer men who were dragged forward to meet him. Even the Governor of the State, a ponderous dignitary with a banner of beard, did not receive so hearty a welcome, for the Governor was accorded only the perfunctory adulation given to one whose reign was passing.

"Governors come and Governors go, Thornton, but you've got where you're an institution!" cried one admirer. "I'll be sorry to miss you out of the legislature this winter."

"But here's another Thornton—and you can see that he won't rattle 'round in the seat," returned the Duke, his arm affectionately about his grandson's shoulders.

As he went about, in this unobtrusive way, varying his manner with different men, he presented his political heir.

At that hour there was no surface hint of the factional spirit that divided the gathering which had flocked from the ends of the State. Jealousy, spite, apprehension, rivalry were hidden under the gayety of men meeting after long separation. The political kinship of party men dominated all else in those early hours. It was a reunion. Food nestled comfortably under the waistbands. Tobacco—cigars exchanged, lights borrowed from glowing tips—loaned its solace. Bickerings were in abeyance. Men were sizing up. Men were trying out each other. Courtesy invites confidences. The candidates had not "taken their corners." The suites that they had selected for headquarters were now occupied only by the lieutenants who were arranging the boxes of cigars and stacking the literature ready for distribution.

The Hon. David Everett, serene in the consciousness of approval by his party machine, held preliminary court in one corner of the spacious office lobby. The State chairman was with him—his executioner skilfully disguised.

Thelismer Thornton forged through the crowd in that direction. He paid his respects publicly and heartily. In that hour when congratulations sugared the surface of conditions, after he had pump-handled men until his arm ached, Everett forgot that he ever had entertained doubts.

"There's nothing to this!" he had been assuring the State chairman over and over, catching opportunity for asides. "They're all coming into line. The sight of you and Thornton backing me has reminded them all that they can't afford to rip the party open. There's nothing to it!"

Presson agreed amiably. But studying his men, searching for insincerity, he saw what Everett closed his eyes to. He exchanged a significant glance with the Duke as the latter turned to resume his promenade.

Above the continual, distracting babble one sonorous voice rose insistently. Laughter and applause broke in upon it occasionally. There was a din in that corner of the lobby that attracted many of the curiosity-seekers in that direction.

"There's Fog-horn Spinney holding forth," Thornton informed Harlan, ironically. "Come along. We mustn't slight any of the candidates."

They made way for him. Men grinned up into his face as he passed. They scented possible entertainment when the big boss met the demagogue. Many of the men wore badges—long strips of ribbon with this legend printed thereon, running lengthwise of the ribbon:

HONEST ARBA

Candidate Spinney had a thick packet of ribbons in one of his gesticulating hands. He was flushed, vociferous, and somewhat insolent. Like Everett, he was not analyzing the acclamation that greeted everything he said; applause had made him drunk. But under the hilarity of his listeners there was considerable enthusiasm for the man himself. The Duke perceived it, for he realized what times had come upon the State. Spinney's bombast expressed the protest that was abroad. Rebellion, thirsty, does not seek the cold spring of Reason. It fuddles itself with hot speech, it riots—it dares not pause to ponder.

"The men that are running this State to-day are running it for themselves," he declaimed, as Thornton and his grandson came into the front rank of his listeners. "They want it all. I brand 'em for what they are. I could take glue and a hair-brush and make hogs out of every one of 'em!"

A shout of laughter! There was more zest for the mob in the point of Mr. Spinney's remarks, with the Duke of Fort Canibas, lord of the north country, present to listen.

"I'm not ashamed of my platform. I'm willing to promulgate it. For I'm going to stand behind it. It ain't a platform fixed up in a back room of this hotel the night before convention, sprung at the last minute, and worded so that it reads the same backward and forward, and doesn't mean any more than whistling a tune! What kind of a system is it that taxes the poor man's family dog, the friend of his children, a dollar, and lets the rich man's wild lands off with two mills on a valuation screwed down to pinhead size?"

Applause that indicated that the bystanders owned dogs!

"If you're hunting for something to tax, pick out bachelors instead of dogs. Dogs can't earn money. Bachelors can. There are forty thousand old maids and widows in this State who can't find husbands. Tax the bachelors. Give the single women a pension. Hunt out the tax-dodgers. There are things enough to tax instead of the farms and cottages of the poor men."

He now fixed the Duke with his gaze.

"You don't dare to deny, do you, that the system in this State is screwing the last cent out of the exposed property and letting the dodgers go free? Tax the necessities of the poor, say you! I say, tax the luxuries of the rich!"

"In some countries, I believe, they get quite a revenue by taxing mustaches," stated the Duke, thus appealed to.

Spinney indignantly broke in on the laughter.

"You've carried off oppression so far as a joke, but you can't do it any longer, Squire Thornton. The people are awake this time. They've got done electing lawyers and dudes and land-grabbers for Governors. They're going to have a Governor that will make State officials work for fair day's wages, as the farmers and artisans work. No more high-salaried loafers in public office! No more dynasties, Sir Duke of Fort Canibas! You'll be having a coat of arms next!"

This last was said in rude jest—the public horseplay of a man anxious to win his laugh at any cost.

"I've got a coat of arms, Arba; I won the decoration when I retired from hard work at the age of fifty. That was about the time you were starting in life by selling fake mining stock around this State. My coat of arms is two patches on a homespun background, surrounded by looped galluses. And I can show you the mile of stone walls I built before you were born."

Spinney did not relish the merriment which followed that sally.

"You've outgrown that coat of arms, then, in these days," he retorted. "They all know you by a different stripe since you set the other chap at work, Squire Thornton. And the pendulum of power is swinging the other way! The people are behind me. You'd better get aboard." His style of humor depended most on its effrontery. He held out one of his badges. "Better put it on," he advised. "Get aboard with the rush! They're all for 'Honest Arba.'"

The Duke stepped forward and presented his breast.

"Pin it on, Arba. When a man shifts his business and is introducing a brand-new line of goods, different from what he ever carried before, he needs all the advertising he can get. Pin it on!"

But Mr. Spinney did not pin it on. He had been sure that the old man would indignantly refuse, and his discomfiture was evident.

"You're showing your regular disposition, I see," he growled. "Grabbing everything you can get hold of. But a joke is a joke—let this one rest right here! Thornton, I say it here to your face, where all the boys can hear me: the people want a change in this State. I am not going behind a door to talk with you—that's been done too much! I stand in the open and say it! Open fighting after this—that's my code. I fight for the people. The people shall be put wise and kept wise to all that's going on."

"It's a good plan," counselled the Duke, unperturbed. "I see I can't tell you anything about advertising." He tapped a badge on the breast of a man near him.

"I'm for the people!" shouted Spinney. "The old wagon needs a new wheel-horse. I don't insist I'm the right one—or the only one. I merely say I'm willing to take hold and haul, if the people want me to. I offer myself, if no better one is found."

The crowd applauded that sentiment generously.

Thornton did not lose his amiability—his tolerant yet irritating good-humor.

"Speaking of wheel-horses, Arba—a man up my way started out to buy a horse the other day. He found a black one that suited—but the man who owned that horse was mighty honest, as most of my constituents are. 'You don't want him,' he told the man. 'He's too blamed slow.' 'That doesn't hurt him a bit for me,' said the buyer. 'I want him to mate another black horse to haul my hearse. I'm an undertaker!' 'Then you certainly don't want him,' insisted the fellow. 'The living can wait, but the dead have got to be buried.'"

The Duke had made his way out of the crowd before the laughter ceased.

"Apply it to suit, Arba!" he called over his shoulder.

Arm in arm with his grandson, the Duke traversed the lobby and went up the broad stairs to the State Committee headquarters—double parlors on the floor above. The men who were sitting in the main parlor saluted the old man in the offhand manner of intimates. He drew his grandson into the privacy of the rear room.

"Now, my boy, get your hat, take a carriage and meet General Waymouth at the nine o'clock train. I've had him on the telephone. He's coming here to-night. Between us, he's grown lukewarm on our proposition. I want you to talk with him after you meet him. Take your time on the way from the station."

"I'm a pretty poor agent to send on such a job as that," said Harlan, deprecatingly.

"You're just the one," insisted the old man. "Don't you suppose I knew what I was doing when I took you with me that night? Talk for the young men of this State! He's tired of politics and politicians. I am, myself, sometimes. He's got to dwelling on the political side. Get it out of his mind. Thank God, you don't know enough politics to talk it to him! You can talk from your heart, boy. The younger generation in this State does want a change. I realize it. But that change has got to be tempered with political wisdom. It must be managed through politics. I'll attend to that part. It's your task to make Vard Waymouth see that he ought to stand. You can do it. Begin with him where you left off."

Harlan hesitated.

"Well?" inquired the Duke, a bit petulantly.

"I've been used to talking straight out to you, grandfather. I'm willing to help as far as it's in my poor power. But I want you to tell me that I'm not being used as a decoy-duck in this thing."

"I reckon you'd better explain that, son," said the Duke, stiffly.

"It's your own fault that I'm saying a word about it. But you did some talking after we came away from General Waymouth's house. It wasn't so much what you said; it was what you intimated. I believe in General Waymouth. But if I'm any judge of what has been framed up, he isn't going to be allowed to do what he wants to do."

"Did I say so?"

"No. But you did say that he would play the game with the chips that are on the table, not with sugar-plums."

"And you construe that to mean that I'm pulling him into this thing so as to be able to work him in the interests of the machine, eh?" inquired the Duke, putting into brutal speech even more than his grandson's vague suspicions suggested. "Now, look here! You remember Pod McClintock and his epileptic fits? You know he fell into a barbed-wire fence in a fit, and told around afterward how he had been to heaven, and the devil met him on his way back and clawed him for spite? Well, now don't you go to imitating Pod. There's more or less barbed wire in politics—any man gets afoul of it. But don't lay it to the devil. That will be elevating accidents onto too high a plane. If Vard Waymouth is the next Governor of this State there'll be some wire fences that he won't be able to sit on. There'll be too many barbs. We'll put top rails onto all the fences we can. But you can't make any fence safe for those that are bound to butt head-first into barbed wire. Waymouth isn't the kind to do any butting. I'll tell you this, Harlan, and it's straight: if I help to make Waymouth our next Governor, I'll help to make him a good one—provided he needs any of my help in that line. Now go and attend to your business."

There were few at the railroad station, and those few paid little heed to General Waymouth when he stepped down from the train. The young man greeted him with eager respect, and explained why he was there.

The General took his arm and walked to the carriage. "This is restful. I'm glad to see you here," he said. "But to-morrow," he added, bitterly, "if I am fool enough to be dragged back into politics, I'll be met wherever I go by men that fawn and men that seek—by that crowd I thought and hoped I had escaped forever. I was very hasty, Mr. Thornton, when I gave my word to your grandfather. I fear I must hold you responsible just because you were present." He smiled as the young man took his seat opposite. "But you constituted a new element in politics. I had been having my dreams in the peace of my home—and one of those dreams was to see the young men of this State breaking away from the political bondage of the fathers. But I'm afraid I am older than I thought. I have an old man's fears. I have had enough—too much—of the contact of men. Now this next idea is fanciful—another proof that I'm old—in my dotage, perhaps." His tone was gently playful. "I told you the other day that you seemed to typify the young strength of the State. So I'm going to appeal to you, young man—I cannot very well appeal to the rest, for they are not in the secret—I'm going to beg of you, Mr. Second Generation, to release me from my promise. What say you?—and remember that I'm an old man who has fought the good fight and is very weary."

"I've got to confess there isn't much wit and humor in me—there doesn't seem to be just now," stammered Harlan, after groping some moments for suitable reply to what he accepted as badinage.

"Oh, I don't want jest in answer to that, sir," protested the General. "I am in earnest." But his tone was still a bit whimsical. "You know, even so great a man as Caesar consulted the oracle and the omens and the soothsayers. Why should not I practice a little divination? Now answer me, young man—or I'll say, young men of the State?"

"Yet I can't think you really mean that, General," protested Harlan, wholly confused by this persistent banter.

"Call it in fun, call it in earnest, still I demand my answer." General Waymouth was serious now. "I came here resolved to tell Thelismer, face to face, that I could not sacrifice the last strength of my life in the way he has asked. But when you met me at the station all my ambitions for this newer generation, as I have dreamed them, came up in me. My boy, this State of ours is in a bad way. In one respect it is especially bad. We have one solemn law in our constitution that is made our own political football and the laughing-stock of the nation. We forbid the sale of liquor. Look at that saloon we are passing at this moment! It is a law that affects nearly every person in our State—comes near to every one, directly or indirectly. The manner of its breaking, publicly and protected by politics, has bred disrespect for all law in the boys who are growing up. And they are the ones who will run our State when we oldsters are gone. I'll not say anything about the other reforms that conditions are calling for. There's one—the big one that flaunts itself in our faces. I'm of the old school, Mr. Thornton. I don't believe in the prohibitory principle as applied to the liquor question. It hasn't the right spirit behind it—it is invoked by bigots and fanatics who refuse helpful compromise. But it's a law—our law! Every day that passes under present conditions adds its little to the damnation of the moral principle in our boys and girls, growing up with eyes and ears open. God, I wish I were twenty years younger! But I'm old enough to have fantastic notions; old enough to insist on an answer to my question, in spite of what you may think of my mental condition. Will you release me from that promise? I made it to the young men of this State—in my disgust at conditions, in my passion to do something to clean out this nest!"

The lights from the brilliant shop-windows shone into the carriage. Harlan leaned forward. The General's face was serious.

"Still, I can't understand it!" he cried. "I'm only—"

"I tell you, you typify for me at this moment the young men of my State! I choose to decide in this fashion. Do you feel that an honest Governor would help your self-respect?"

"I can answer that question, sir. I believe in you. Ever since you promised my grandfather that you would accept the nomination I have depended on that promise. I know what you can do for our State. If you are not to be our next Governor the heart has gone out of me, and the young men of this State have lost their best hope."

The carriage wheels had grated to a standstill against the curb in front of the big hotel. The buzz of the crowded hive came out to them through the open windows. General Waymouth glanced that way and frowned. But when he turned and looked into the glowing face of the young man opposite, his countenance cleared slowly. His smile returned. There was a hint of pathos in that smile, but his eyes shone. He put out his hand and took Harlan's in a firm clasp.

"That sounds like my call to duty, Mr. Thornton," he declared. "I listen. I obey!" Then he dropped his earnestness. "Let this little talk remain a secret between us. These practical politicians wouldn't understand. A bit of an old man's weakness; perhaps that was it. A little eccentric, eh?"

The driver had opened the carriage door.

"I believe I understand, sir. I do now. And I'm sorry."

The remark was a bit cryptic, but the General understood.

"And you'll appreciate better what this means to me when you are as old as I. But that's the last of talk like this, my boy. There's one more fight still in me. We'll just go ahead and find out how much honesty is left in this State—and you shall help me hunt for it, for old eyes need the help of young ones, and I'm going outside the politicians to find honesty."

He led the way across the pavement to a side door of the hotel.

"We'll go in this way, quietly," he said. "I haven't any appetite for that kind of a stew just yet."



CHAPTER XV

SITTING IN FOR THE DEAL

On the second floor of the hotel Thelismer Thornton was pacing the corridor, hands behind his back, puffing his cigar. He was paying no heed to the men who were streaming past him in both directions, going and coming from the rooms of the candidates. Everett and Spinney were in their suites, extending hospitality with questionable cigars and ice-water.

Delegates were flocking up from the hotel bar in squads. They were meeting other delegates, forming new combinations which offered fresh opportunities for "setting 'em up," and after paying their respects were hustling back downstairs again to interview the gentlemen in white jackets.

Out from open transoms over the doors of sleeping-rooms floated cigar smoke and voices. There were boys running with ice-water and glasses to the noisiest rooms. From some of these rooms the familiar bacchanalian songs were resounding even at that early hour of the evening. The chorus of "We're here because we're here" mingled with the words of that reminiscent old carol, "When we fit with Gineral Grant, by gosh."

The Duke, towering, abstracted, swaying along ponderously, close to the wall of the corridor, eyes on the head of the stairway, was as indifferent to the uproar as he was to those who passed.

A man who was somewhat flushed and a bit uncertain in his gait came out of the State Committee headquarters. He planted himself in front of Thornton.

"Thelismer," he said, familiarly, "I've been trying to get something out of Luke. He won't say. Now what do you know about it? Is the party going to be honest? Are we going to get that resubmission plank in the platform this year?"

"They haven't asked me to write the platform, Phon."

"I tell you, the people want a chance to vote on this prohibitory question. It's been stuck into our constitution where the people can't get at it. I ain't arguing high license, but I tell you the people want a chance to vote on the question, and the Democrats are going to offer 'em a chance."

"That's a Democratic privilege," said the Duke, calmly, preparing to push past his interlocutor. "The Republican party stands for prohibition, and hasn't had any trouble in rounding up the votes for the last twenty-five years."

But the disputant caught hold of him when he started away.

"Look here, Thelismer, you ain't so much of a hypocrite as the most of 'em. Why don't you help us make a break in this thing? Damn it, let's be decent about it! Rum enough running in that bar-room downstairs to drive the turbine-wheel in my woollen-mill! Half the delegates to this convention with a drink aboard, and a third of 'em pretty well slewed! I am myself. But I'm honest about it. They're drinking rum in about every room in this hotel. And they're going into convention to-morrow and nail that prohibitory plank into the platform with spikes. By Judas, I'm honest in my business; now I want to have a chance to be honest in my politics!"

The Duke gazed down on him good-humoredly. He was accustomed to overlook the little delinquencies of his fellows on such festal occasions as State Conventions.

"You're asking too much out of party politics, Phon," he declared. "There are drawbacks to all the best things; seeing that the National platform won't let you vote as you think, you can hardly ask the State platform to be perfect and let you vote as you drink."

But his friend was not in the mood for jovial rallying.

"By the gods, if you old bucks that have been running things ain't going to give us a show—if we ain't going to get our rights from our own party—I know what I can do! I can vote the Democratic ticket, and I know of a lot more that will. You're asleep, you managers!"

"Well, Phon, when you vote as you drink—voting the Democratic ticket—you'll vote for a popocratic tax on corporations that will make your woollen-mill look sick. And that's only one thing!"

"I know what I will do," insisted the rebel.

The Duke took him by his two shoulders.

"So do I," he returned. "You'll have a bath, a shave, four hot towels, and a big bromo-seltzer—all in the morning, and you'll go into the State Convention and stick by the party, just as you always have done. But as for to-night—why, Phon, I wouldn't be surprised to see you pledge yourself to Arba Spinney."

He gayly shoved the man to one side and went on.

"Well, even Fog-horn is getting more votes corralled than you old blind mules realize!" shouted the other after him. "This party is sick! You're going to find it out, too!"

"Sick it is, but I reckon here's the doctor," muttered the old man, hurrying toward the top of the stairs.

General Waymouth had appeared there, Harlan close behind him.

The Duke forestalled those who hastened to greet the veteran. Taking his arm, he marched him promptly across the corridor and into the rear room of State Committee headquarters. He locked the door behind them after Harlan had entered.

"I don't think we're exactly ready for that public reception yet," he observed with a chuckle, turning from the door. He glanced at the General, anxious and keen in his scrutiny.

"Vard!" he cried, heartily, noting the resolution in the countenance, the light in the old soldier's eyes, "you're looking better, here, than you sounded over the telephone a few hours ago. You're going to stand—of course you're going to stand!"

"I'll take the nomination, Thelismer—that is, providing you want me to stand as a candidate who will go into office without a single string hitched to him."

"I guess the party isn't running into any desperate chances, Vard, with you in the big chair. Sit down now and take it easy. I'll call Luke in. After we've had our talk with him, we'll begin to enlarge our circle a little—it's a pretty close combination up to now."

The porter at the door summoned the chairman of the State Committee.

"The Senator is just in from Washington," he announced, after his enthusiastic greeting of the General. "I took him right up to Room 40, where the Committee on Resolutions is at work. He wanted to attend to that first. Then he'll be down here."

The chairman was referring to the United States Senator who would, by party custom, preside at the convention next day for the purpose of tinkering his own fences.

"Is Senator Pownal dictating the platform?" inquired the General, rather icily.

"He's got a few little ideas of his own he wants to work in," affably explained the chairman. "Nothing drastic. A little endorsement of some things he's gunning for. It'll be all safe and sane. We backed those resubmission fellows out of the room."

"By-the-way, keep a sharp eye out for those chaps, Luke," counselled the Duke. "I've been hearing around the hotel this evening that they're going to introduce a resubmission plank from the floor to-morrow."

"I'll rush an early vote in the convention, providing that all resolutions shall be presented to the Committee on Resolutions without argument," stated the chairman. "All that foolishness can be killed right in the committee-room. We've got trouble enough on hand in the party this year without letting the convention express itself on the liquor question, even if the split only amounts to a sliver."

He pulled his chair to the table, spread some papers there, and commanded attention by tapping his eyeglasses on the sheets.

"Here's the programme for the routine: Called to order at ten-thirty by chairman of State Committee. Call read by secretary. On motion of Davis Bolton, of Hollis, proceed to effect temporary organization—Senator Walker Pownal, chairman—and so forth. On motion of Parker Blake, of Jay, ten minutes' recess declared for county delegations to choose vice-president, member of State Committee, and member of the Committee on Resolutions."

As he read on, Harlan opened his eyes as well as his ears. The convention of the morrow had been blocked out to the last detail. Every motion that was to be made, every step that was to be taken, had its man assigned to it—and that man had already been notified and tagged. Fifteen hundred men, assembled presumably as free and independent agents to take counsel for the good of the party, were here bound to the narrowest routine, with programme cut and dried to such an extent that one who dared to lift his voice to interrupt would be considered an interloper. And he knew that even then, from what Presson had said, the little band of the select were formulating the resolutions that the committee would take in hand as delivered—accepting that platform as the dictum of the party, and free speech on the convention floor denied.

"Now," said the chairman, at the close, "let's fill in the rest, and finish this thing now. Spinney's name will be presented by Watson, of his county, and seconded by three other counties. I'm limiting the seconding speeches to three. And you know the men Everett has picked out! Of course, I've left the—the big matter in your own hands, Thelismer." Presson glanced over his glasses at General Waymouth with a significant smile. "Have you decided? Are you going to let both the other candidates be put in nomination before you spring the trap?"

"Sure!" snapped Thornton. "I want that convention to realize how little good can be said of either of them. By the time that gets through those fifteen hundred skulls, they'll be in a state of mind to appreciate the man of the hour!"

General Waymouth was leaning back in his deep chair, his head on the rest, his eyes upturned to the ceiling, fingers tapping the chair's arm. He was offering no comment.

"Vard," said the Duke, "we've got to let a few more into the case now. Overnight is short notice, at that, for a man to get his nominating speech ready. But we're safe. It won't be the speech that will take that convention off its feet. It'll be your name—and the fact that you're willing to stand. Who've you got in mind?"

"No one," replied the General, briefly.

"Any choice?"

"No."

"You're willing to leave it to me?"

"I am."

"Then I'll admit I've picked the men in my mind. One is Linton, that young lawyer that's been taking the lead in the referendum and the direct primaries campaigns—both of them devilish poor political policies; but that doesn't prevent him from being the most eloquent young chap in the State. And he'll tole along the liberals. We'll need only one other—that's old Colonel Wadsworth. You see the scheme of that combination, of course! We don't need any more. The convention will be off its feet before the old Colonel gets half through his seconding speech. Linton is a delegate, Luke, and I saw to it that the old Colonel was fixed out with a proxy after I got here. Now, Harlan, you go out and hunt up those two gentlemen, and bring them here quietly. They're in the hotel. Come to the private door, there. You say you haven't suggestions, Vard?"

"Not now," said the General, not shifting his position. "The time for my suggestions has not come yet."

Harlan went out into the throng, searching, asking questions. The first man of whom he made inquiry recognized him as Thelismer Thornton's grandson, and invited him to the bar to have a drink.

"Busy?" he ejaculated when the young man declined. "H—l, there ain't any one really busy here to-night, except Senator Pownal and Luke Presson. They're running the convention. The delegates don't have to do anything—they are just here for a good time. Come on!"

As Harlan walked away from him, he remembered what Chairman Presson had just delivered from his papers, and decided that truth often spoke from the depths of the wine-cup.

He did not find either of his men in the Hon. David Everett's headquarters. The rooms were packed. Perspiring delegates were edging in and oozing out. Everett was industriously shaking hands, his rubicund face sweat-streaked, his voice hoarse after his hours of constant chatter in that smoke-drenched atmosphere. Harlan stood a moment, and looked at him with a sort of shamed pity. The plot seemed unworthy, in spite of its object. The sordid treachery of politics was turned up to him, all its seamy side displayed.

Two men crowded past him, talking low; but in that press their mouths were near his ear. They were halted by the jam at the door.

"What did you stab him for—how much?" asked one.

"Got ten," said his companion—"ten on account. I get fifty for the caucus."

"Too many machine Republicans in my town, and he knows it," said the other. "The best I could do was fool him out of twenty-five. But that's doing well—in these times. This Spinney stir has made it cost Everett more than it has cost any candidate for ten years. I really didn't have the heart to crowd him for any more. He's been jounced down good and hard as it is."

Harlan took one more look at the unconscious and fatuous Everett, and went out of the room. Twenty feet away, as he knew, sat his grandfather, ready and able to smash the candidate's dreams and chances as a child bursts a soap-bubble. And the man's money—thrown to the winds when a word might have held his hand and closed his pocket-book! Harlan, grandson of Thelismer Thornton, tried to put the thing out of his mind.

"Politics," said a man in the corridor in his hearing, "has got the pelt off'm second-story work, as they're running the political game in this State right now. But it's only petty larceny. And that's why the whole thing makes me sick."

"Me too," said his listener. "You could brag some about a political safe-blowing, but we all have to turn to and hush up this sneak-thief work."

Harlan, walking on, wondered whether the coup that was then in process of elaboration in State Committee headquarters would not be considered by Everett and his supporters as arising to the proper dignity of political crime.

To his surprise Spinney's rooms were practically deserted. The candidate was there, perched on the edge of a table, nursing his knee in his clasped hands and talking vigorously to a few of his intimates. The defection was not bothering him, apparently. Harlan promptly understood why. As he stood for a moment, making sure that neither Linton nor Wadsworth was there, he heard the mellow blare of distant band music. Spinney jumped off the table.