Linton waited until the roar of voices died away. They again listened breathlessly, wondering whether their own hopes had beguiled them.

"From the storied past, gentlemen of the convention, we draw precept and example, lesson and moral, hope and inspiration. As nature has stored in the bowels of the earth the oil that serves the lighthouse beacons of to-day, so life has stored in various reservoirs human experience that can light the path through troublous times in these latter days. Written on the scroll of history, limned on the page of law, we find the words of the fathers, sane and helpful thought and good counsel. In days of doubt and worry and despair we may meet the fathers on the written page. But, oh, how grand a blessing for the human race could we sit at their feet beholding them in the flesh and receive their teachings! If only they, the fathers, might take us by the hand and lead us through the devious tangles of public policy! To-day we meet here in perplexed division as to the standard-bearer for our next campaign. If up from that past of sage counsel and unfaltering faith there might come one who could stand forth and expound the lessons that we need, we might take heart and travel boldly on. But, gentlemen, I bring you a message of greater hope—more profound a blessing. Up from that past comes the standard-bearer himself! His wise kindliness meets every test of honest gentleman; scholarship crowns his brow, Law holds her torch aloft that his feet may tread the safe way; war from him has taken tribute, but to him has given a hero's deathless laurels. Once in her history this State welcomed him to her councils as her gracious overlord, and now—"

There was no doubt in their minds now. A window-shaking demonstration bore down his voice.

Linton seized upon the beginning of silence.

"Now once again his State, groping for a hand to lead her forth to stability and progress, sees his hand and seeks to grasp it, supplicating him: 'O father, guide me! O wise man, teach me! O hero, save me!' And I name to you, gentlemen, for the candidate of the Republican party—"

He leaped upon a settee and voiced the name of General Varden Waymouth with all the strength of his trumpet voice. But no one heard what he said. They all knew what he was to say. They did not need the spoken name.

That convention had been ripening for a stampede. Its component delegates had contained the stampede fever for weeks before they assembled. Men leaped and screamed. It was a storm of enthusiasm; two thousand feet furnished the thunder-roar; hats went up and came down like pelting rain; and voices bellowed like the bursting wind volleys of the gale.

Here and there, gesticulating men were trying to make seconding speeches, but the words were lost. The chairman of the convention, grim and pale and wondering just how much damage this overturn signified to his personal interests, nodded recognition to these speakers, and allowed them to waste their words upon the welter of mere sound.

He also recognized other men who arose. He knew them for Spinney's adherents and divined what they were trying to say. And having divined it, he was promptly inspired to get in with the rush of those who were climbing aboard the band-wagon.

He advanced to the edge of the platform, and by tossing his arms secured a moment of silence. He had his own salvation to look after.

"I am glad, inexpressibly pleased, that as chairman of your convention I can now declare myself for General Waymouth; for the convention has but one name before it—the name of Arba Spinney has been withdrawn!"

When the tumult began again—almost delirium this time—David Everett appeared from the wings, white, stricken, overwhelmed by the suddenness with which the prize had been snatched beyond his reach, driven out upon the stage by the State Committee like a whipped cur forced to perform his little trick in public. He began to speak, but the delegates did not listen—they knew what he was saying, and were cheering him. Not all of it was enthusiasm for General Waymouth; men instantly realized that a nasty split in the party had been bridged; men felt that in this new candidate both factions had the ownership that puts one "in right." A united party could now march to the polls.

The nomination was by acclamation!

They came to General Waymouth, where he stood patiently at the door of his room—the committee appointed to escort him before the convention. He signalled for them to precede him—his hand was inside the arm of Harlan Thornton, and he did not withdraw it even to shake the eager hands that were outstretched. He walked upon the stage with the young man, and, still holding his arm, faced the hurricane of enthusiasm until it had blown itself out.

It was a breathless hush in which he spoke.

"Our party, in State Convention assembled, has to-day declared for honesty." They did not exactly understand, but they gave voice like hounds unleashed. That sentiment complimented them. "I pledge the last strength of my old age to the task you have imposed upon me. Give me your pledge, man to man, in return. Shall it be for all of us: honesty in principle and unswerving obedience to every party profession we make? I await your 'Yes'!"

It came like a thunderclap—two thousand voices shouting it.

He stood there, his hand upraised, waiting again until the hush was upon them once more. They were ready for the usual speech of acceptance. But he said simply this:

"I accept the trust!"

He put his hand behind Harlan's guarding elbow and retired.

"A carriage at once, Mr. Thornton," he directed. "I must save myself for performance, not parade."

They were away before even the eager platform notables could intercept them. The cheering was still going on when the carriage started. From the open windows of the hall the riot of the convention—voices and music—pursued them until the racket of the busy street drowned it out.

"At the present moment, Mr. Thornton, it is not likely that the Republican State Committee is in a mood for poetry," remarked General Waymouth. Gayety that was a bit wistful had succeeded his sombre earnestness.

"But something in the sentiment of this old song might appeal to them while they are thinking of me just now:

"'The mother may forget the child That smiles so sweetly on her knee; But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, And all that thou hast done to me.'"

Harlan did not reply. At that moment, strangely enough, something besides the fury and the results of that tremendous convention occupied his thoughts. While he had stood beside General Waymouth he had not looked down into the pit of roaring humanity. He had looked straight up into the eyes of Madeleine Presson, whose gaze, by some chance, caught his the moment he stepped upon the platform. She had leaned on the gallery-rail and studied him intently. In spite of all else that had happened and was happening, he could not help wondering why.



CHAPTER XIX

THE RAMRODDERS RAMPANT

Though Mrs. Luke Presson was not especially interested in the practical side of plain politics, yet it was a part of her social methods to make tame cats of men of State influence as far as she was able. She did this instinctively, rather from the social viewpoint than the political. Luke Presson did not take her into his confidence to the extent that he desired her to cultivate men of power for his own purposes. He only dimly and rather contemptuously recognized that women had any influence in political matters. But it did occur to him, after that State convention, that perhaps he needed his wife to assist him in beginning a reconciliation with General Waymouth.

Mrs. Presson came to him, directly the convention had adjourned. The few men who were lingering in headquarters dodged out, for they perceived that the chairman's wife had something on her mind.

He endured her indignant reproaches for some time. She taxed him with betrayal of her personal interests.

"I've never tried to pry into your schemes. I don't care about them. But when you make a fool of me in regard to the next Governor of this State, you shall answer for it to me!"

"I did no such thing," he protested, wanting to placate her for private reasons of his own.

"I say you did. You're chairman of the State Committee. You knew which man would be nominated—you must have known it all along. You wouldn't be State chairman if you didn't know that!"

The unhappy magnate was ashamed to tell her the bitter truth.

"You allowed me to come here to-day with Mrs. Dave Everett and her daughters. Here is the bouquet I brought to present to her husband!" She shook it under his nose and tossed it into a corner. "You never told me a word about the plan to nominate General Waymouth. It was deliberate deceit on your part—for what reason I cannot understand."

Presson tried to think of a story that would explain and shield him, but the convention had not been an affair to promote clear thinking.

"Here's a legislative session at hand, and you've allowed me to stay entirely out of touch with the next first gentleman of the State! I'm like all the rest of the trailers, now. I haven't any prior social claim on him. And I can't even find him at this late hour to offer my congratulations."

"I haven't been able to offer mine, either," said the chairman, grimly.

"I'll endure no more of this foolery, Luke! If you propose to make a plaything of your own wife from now on—"

"I'm telling you the truth. General Waymouth hurried out of the hall before I could get to him. That devilish Canibas bull moose picked him up, like he's been picking up—"

But the astonishment in his wife's eyes stopped him. He was revealing too much of his secret.

"Why, Harlan Thornton went away with him—Thelismer's grandson! Some one told me who saw them in the carriage together. What do you mean by Canibas moose?"

"Can't you see that I'm all stirred up by the excitement of this convention?" he demanded. "I don't know what I'm saying. I'll explain to you later, Lucretia."

"I think you'd better. Where did General Waymouth go?"

"To the hotel, I suppose."

"No, he's not there. I have telephoned. Luke, we must have him at lunch with us. It's his place to lunch with us—you're the chairman of the State Committee! It's a late start for me—and it's your own fault because it is so. But you must find the General and make him come to luncheon. I have arranged for the party in the English Room at the hotel. You must have him there!" She hurried away to where the ladies were waiting for her.

Presson, the politician's instinct of self-preservation now getting the better of his rancor, promptly determined that his own interests would be helped by his wife's luncheon-party, provided the victor could be cajoled and coralled. He put pride behind him. It was not so easy to do as much with his shame and the downright fear that assailed him when he reflected on his plot and its outcome. But he decided that although little might be gained for him by making up to the victorious General, a great deal would be surely lost if the antagonism were emphasized.

He put on his hat and hurried to the street. Inquiry at the cab-stand afforded him the information that General Waymouth and his companion had not given a definite destination. "But there's the man who took them," said the manager. "He's just back. Ask him."

The driver said that he had dropped them at the park, at their request, and the chairman jumped into the carriage, directing that he be conveyed to the same place.

He found them sitting democratically on a bench, taking the air.

Without preliminary the chairman extended Mrs. Presson's invitation. "There will be a very small party of us, and it may save you from the annoyances of the public rooms," added Chairman Presson, humbly.

The General arose and accepted with cordiality, somewhat to Harlan's surprise, for his unbending youth could not yet understand how political hatchets could be buried so quickly.

"I want to congratulate you, General," said the chairman on the way to the carriage. "And I want to tell you that the State Committee will swing into line behind you for the campaign. You'll find us loyal. There's a good deal more I'd like to say, but there'll be time enough for that later. I'll merely say this: both of us have been in politics years enough, I believe, to be able to wash a convention slate clean, when it's a question of a State campaign against the opposite party."

"I'll meet you frankly on that plane, Mr. Presson. I have too much ahead of me to waste time in quarrels. It isn't my nature to retaliate. I have understood the situation better than some men would."

Harlan, hoping that the chairman appreciated that magnanimity, gave Presson a look that expressed much. But in his new humility the latter was getting rid of ancient grudges as fast as he could. While the General was entering the carriage, the chairman offered rather embarrassed apology. "But you introduced some original specialties in politics that took me off my feet, young man!" he added, with a sickly smile.

Harlan was still a little stiff. It was not easy for him to get into the state of political pliability that he saw others assume so readily.

"I'm a countryman, and pretty awkward in most everything I undertake," he said. "I have no business meddling in the big affairs of this State. I'll take my place where I belong, after this, Mr. Presson. If I don't, I'll not have a friend left—not even my own grandfather."

The chairman glanced at him curiously, scenting something like duplicity under this bitter frankness. He was not used to seeing men throw aside such advantages as this young man had gained.

The three entered the hotel through the side door, and at the General's request the chairman accompanied him and his young lieutenant to their headquarters. It was near the luncheon hour, and Presson had suggested that he conduct them to Mrs. Presson.

A party of men had taken possession of the General's suite. They rose when he entered. They paid no attention to Harlan, but surveyed Chairman Presson with disfavor that was very noticeable.

Several of the men were clergymen, advertised as such by their white ties and frock-coats. Those who attended them had the unmistakable air of zealots. Their demeanor showed that they had come on business that they considered serious.

General Waymouth knew them. He addressed one or two by name, and was gracious in his greeting of the others.

"We wait on you," began their spokesman, one of the ministers, "as a committee from the United Temperance Societies."

"My time is not my own just now, gentlemen," explained General Waymouth. "I have a luncheon engagement with Mr. and Mrs. Presson. I will see you at some other time."

The faces of all of them grew saturnine at that announcement. For Chairman Presson was not recognized as the especial friend of prohibition by the fanatics of the State.

The clergyman, following his line of duty, was not in a mood to accept delicate hints regarding social engagements. He stood his ground.

"Our business will occupy but a short time, and I suggest that it will be for your personal interest to listen now, sir."

It was an unfortunate bit of obstinacy.

"I regulate my own hours for engagements, Mr. Prouty. You have come on your own business, and it must await my convenience."

"It's your business I come on, General Waymouth, and I advise you to listen! And I will add that it will not help you with the temperance people of this State if they are told that within two hours after your nomination you are consorting with the arch-enemy of temperance reform in our midst!"

With two strides the General was back at his door. He opened it.

"Be so kind as to leave the room, gentlemen," he invited, icily. "I'll not detain you even to have you apologize for your intrusion on my privacy or ask pardon of a guest whom you've insulted!"

They obeyed him, sullenly. Even their effrontery could not withstand that dignity. But they muttered among themselves, and one man called back over his shoulder: "It isn't the first time, General, that a man brave enough to lead battle charges hasn't shown that he's got the spirit to declare for the right against the wrong, when politics stands by with open ears!"

"There go some of the reformers you were asking your grandfather about a few weeks ago, Harlan," sneered the indignant chairman. "Those are the men who are holding themselves up as examples for all the rest of men to follow. Every one else is a rummy and a hellion, according to their ranking."

"As bad an element as the rumsellers themselves," declared the General—"men of that type! I'm speaking now of the interests of true reform—reform that gets to the individual and is something else than this everlasting wrangle and racket between factions. I like fighting, but I like to have a natural fighter admit he's in it just for the sake of fighting—not claim it's all for morality's sake!"

"Then what are you?" blurted Presson, but checked himself in evident confusion.

"Eh?" inquired General Waymouth, mildly.

"I—I don't know what it was I had in my mind—guess I was thinking about something else."

But the General smiled as though he understood. Then he went into the inner room, explaining that he wished to make himself presentable to the ladies.

The chairman took a crafty survey of Harlan.

"Between you and me, my boy," he said, getting back upon his old-time footing with Thornton's grandson, "the General has got both of my eyes put out, so far's his politics go. Did you hear him just rip into those ramrodders? And yet he's been stiffer and straighter than the worst of 'em since he struck this city. I'd like to know who in thunder he is playing with, anyway! What does he say to you, on the side?"

"You'd better get General Waymouth's plans from himself, Mr. Presson."

"I'm not asking you to betray anything. But he's got a policy, of course. I only want to know it, so that I can grab in with him. But I can't figure anything, so far."

"I thought he made himself pretty plain last night."

"He made himself plain, I'll admit that. Plain that he's against everything that the party management stands for. But now he turns around and kicks out the other crowd! He's got to pick his gait and take a position somewhere!"

"That's something I know nothing about, sir."

The chairman grew testy. He felt that he was being played with.

"Seeing that you're in close to the Amalgamated Order of Angels, you'd better drop him a hint that running a political campaign isn't like stampeding a convention. The State Committee stands ready to help, and before he gets much further along he'll find he needs the help. You'd better make that plain to him."

His guest of honor reappeared then, and the chairman led the way. Harlan had been included in his invitation, and attended his chief.

With old-fashioned gallantry, General Waymouth made his compliments to the ladies whom Mrs. Presson had assembled to grace the occasion. Her little crust of social earth had been tossed alarmingly by the political earthquake, but she felt that now she was finding safe footing once more.

Thelismer Thornton was there, so were Senator Pownal and the secretary of the State Committee, and a few other favored ones whom the hostess had sought as being close to the new order of things. She led forward Linton.

"And now, General, we're all wondering just how nice a compliment you'll pay to the orator whose eloquence makes you the next Governor of our State," chattered the good lady, poorly informed as to real conditions, but anxious to force a situation for her favorite. "Herbert has been so modest about it! We've been telling him just how grand we thought it was."

"I thank you, Linton, for what you said." The General took the young man's hand. "You have wonderful gifts of eloquence."

But there did not seem to be the enthusiasm which the importunate Mrs. Presson desired.

"With all due respect to your greatness, General, isn't it true that he turned the convention—has made you Governor?" she insisted, half in jest to cover her earnestness.

"If it comes about that I'm the next Governor of this State," he returned, gently, "it will be due entirely to this young man." He patted Harlan's shoulder affectionately. "Just how he has accomplished it is a very deep political secret between us two. I present my grand vizier, ladies and gentlemen!" They understood that seriousness lay behind his whimsical manner of speech.

Two very round eyes testified to Mrs. Presson's amazement. But once more she found her social feet after this echo of the main quake. She took Harlan's hand, and placed it on the chair next to that of her daughter.

"You'll sit here, if you please, Mr. Thornton," she said, urbanely.

For a little while a trifle of embarrassment shaded the few words the young couple addressed to each other, under cover of the general conversation about the board. Then Harlan, glancing down the table, saw Linton staring gloomily in his direction. And at that look his spirits leaped like a steed under the spur. What he had not dared, considering himself on his own merits, he ventured now. If vague, hidden sentiment, as he had thought of Clare Kavanagh, had restrained him in the past, it no longer restrained him now.

The excitement of the day had given him a queer exaltation. He had been one of the chiefs in the arena where all the great State looked on at the combatants. The overlord had just given him soul-stirring proof of his affection, half in jest as Harlan realized, remembering the occasion for it, but it was none the less gratifying. Madeleine Presson had looked at him with strange, new interest in her gaze when the General spoke out. It had occurred to Harlan that it was not the same good-humored tolerance which she had so frequently shown in her past relations with the bashful woodsman. His unquiet grudge against Linton spiced the whole.

He turned to the girl.

She seemed altogether desirable. Something in her eyes responded to his own feelings. And after that he seemed to be listening to himself talking—and wondered at the new man he had become.

When it was over, and the ladies rose from the table to follow Mrs. Presson, he tried, feeling guilty for a moment, to remember the look that Linton had given him and to excuse himself as one who had simply shown the proper spirit of revenge. But when he took her hand he said: "My grandfather carried me away from you and your mother in very ungallant fashion yesterday. And he tried to put ungallant words into my mouth. I trust you'll allow me to disprove them. I'd like the privilege of being your obedient squire on the trip home."

"So now that you've become a very big man you've decided that grandfathers shall no longer be indulged in tyranny?" she asked, with a dash of malicious fun.

"I view matters in a new light," he replied.

"And there's a wonderful psychology in light, so they who have studied the matter tell us," she said, mischief in her eyes. "But we'll not go so deeply into the matter. Let it be a light that will guide your footsteps to our rooms at train-time. You will find us awaiting our squire!"

General Waymouth excused himself as soon as the ladies had retired. The little group of men had promptly begun to canvass the outlook and plans, but he demurred politely when they desired to drag him into the discussion.

"Not yet, gentlemen! We have had enough of talk in the last few hours. Let me escape to the old brick house up in Burnside for a while. My train goes shortly. Will you accompany me, Harlan?" It was the first time he had used the young man's christian-name Harlan flushed with pleasure. "I will see that you get back here in good season to bring that guiding light," he murmured, to the other's confusion.

"I do not like to seem too exacting—too persistent in requiring your attendance," protested the General, as they returned along the corridor. The great hotel was nigh deserted. The delegates had hurried away on the convention specials. "But you have protected me from a great many annoyances, to put the situation mildly. I am calling you away now to make a very special request of you. We will speak of it on the way to the station."

Ranged in front of the door of his suite was the delegation from the temperance societies, patiently waiting, more saturnine than before.

The Reverend Mr. Prouty intercepted them with determination.

"I do not like to seem too persistent in this matter, but we feel that we have a right to a few moments of your time, sir. You are accepting public office, and—"

"I do not care to have any lessons in politics read to me, Mr. Prouty. State your business."

"We prefer to see you in private."

"And I prefer to have you talk before a reliable witness. Mr. Thornton is such, and he is entirely in my confidence."

He did not invite them into his room.

"We represent the united temperance societies of this State," began the clergyman.

"I understand perfectly," put in the General. "And in order that we may thoroughly understand each other I will inform you that I know exactly what corporate interests are furnishing money to you and your campaign managers. I have been very careful to keep posted on these matters, gentlemen!"

For a moment Mr. Prouty was visibly taken aback.

"It is necessary to finance even righteousness," he said, at last.

"Beyond question," admitted the General. "I only ask you to meet me on the business basis where you belong. I'll not allow you to mask factional interests behind religion or a moral issue. I don't mean to be curt or disobliging, gentlemen, but you must get out in the open. You have something to ask me? Ask it. You'll receive a plain answer."

"Do you intend to enforce the prohibitory law?"

"I question your good taste, Mr. Prouty, in selecting one law and asking a prospective Governor whether he intends to do his sworn duty in regard to it."

"But other Governors have not done so. We propose to have pledges after this. We'll vote for no more nullifiers."

"Other Governors have had no direct power to enforce the law, sir. I had no power when I was Governor. But I'll assure you that if I am the next Governor I shall demand that power from the legislature, and I'll enforce that law with all the resources of the State treasury. If it's in the power of man to accomplish it, the sale of liquor shall be stopped in this State."

They plainly had not expected that. His attitude toward them, his association with the nullifier Presson had suggested that he intended to carry out the usual "let it alone" programme. They applauded.

"One moment, gentlemen. That doesn't mean that I or any other man, or that the prohibitory law, as we have it, or any other mere law, can stop the drinking of liquor in this State. I'm speaking only of the open sale of it. I know perfectly well that my attempt to make men sober by law alone will fail miserably. As it is administered now, the law still caters to appetite and public demand for privileges, and the public goes along without especial disturbance. But as I shall enforce the prohibitory law, conditions will be so intolerable in this State that the way will be paved for a common-sense treatment of the liquor question. I shall enforce in order to show how wrong the prohibitory principles are. They have not been shown up so far, for the law has not been enforced."

The delegates were disconcerted. The spokesman's face grew red.

"Do you dare, sir, as a candidate for Governor of a prohibition State, to stand up here before these representatives of the temperance societies and say you are opposed to prohibition?"

"I certainly do," declared the unruffled General. "For this State is not a prohibition State! It fatuously thinks it is when the citizens can get all the liquor they want without trouble. I merely propose to put it to the test of honesty."

"You declare yourself an enemy, then, do you?"

"Mr. Prouty, there you launch yourself into your usual intemperance! At the first word of another man's dignified difference of opinion you shout 'enemy' and prepare to fight! I want to ask you and your supporters here a question: Will you meet with representatives of all the interests concerned in this matter, including the liquor men and those who use liquor in its various forms, and endeavor to arrive at some compromise in this State which shall put a stop to what is practically civil war, in which we are expending all our energies without accomplishing any real betterment of conditions? Will you agree to some middle ground, if it can be shown that more men can be made sober and less men hypocrites?"

"I stand solely for the principle of prohibition, unswerving till death," announced the clergyman. His partisans applauded.

"You won't stop and listen to what may be for the actual best interests of our State, then?"

"I'll not license crime nor compound felonies with criminals."

"Mr. Prouty, as Governor I signed the first prohibition law passed in this State. It was on trial. I was liberal enough to bend my own personal views to give it that trial. When I'm thinking of my State I don't insist that my way is the only way. Now, sir, if you knew that, as citizens, not mere partisans, we could all get together and frame something better than a law that has bred evils of political corruption through all the years without altering the appetites of the people—if you knew that, wouldn't you remould some of your opinions and help us bring about the best good for the whole of us?"

"I'll not abate my loyalty to prohibition one jot or tittle!"

"In your case and in the case of the kind of fanatics who train with you," declared the General, with disgust in tone and mien, "that word 'prohibition' is simply a fetish—a rally-call for a fight. It is you, sir, and such as you, who are holding this State back from real progress. I'm not discussing the liquor question alone. I haven't patience to discuss it with you. I'm referring to the spirit that actuates you. Your kind sat as judges in the Inquisition. Prohibition now offers an opportunity for your bigotry—that's why you cling to it. You cling to it in spite of the fact that it has made more than drunkards—it has made liars and thieves and perjurers and grafters out of men who would not otherwise have been tempted. When men arise to tell the truth about it, you get behind your morality mask and accuse them of the basest motives and claim immunity for yourselves from attack in return. I fear I am a little severe, sir, but your attitude showed that you came to me with appetite for a quarrel."

"I'll see to it," declared Mr. Prouty, hotly, "that five hundred ministers in this State denounce you from their pulpits as an enemy to temperance."

"You don't know what temperance is!" General Waymouth brushed past them. "Your definition slanders the word. I shall be glad to have your support, gentlemen, at the polls. But I am for the State, not for your faction or any other faction. I know you are not used to hearing a candidate tell you the truth—it has not been the style in this State. If the truth from me has shocked you, blame the truth, not me."

He ushered Harlan before him and closed his door upon the delegation.

"It's a sad feature of public affairs in this State, my young friend," said he, when they were alone, "that so large a mass of the people, who naturally are sane and moderate, allow those paid agents of so-called reform to serve as popular mouth-pieces. Reform for reform's sake supersedes reform for the people's sake. Candidates have been afraid of those mouths. Such mouths as those outside there assert that they are talking for the whole people in the name of morality, but there are only a few mouths of that kind. It is time to test it out. I propose to see whether the people will not follow the real thing in honesty instead of the mere protestation of it."

On the way to the station the General preferred his request. It was that Harlan become his executive officer in the approaching campaign—his chief of staff, his companion, his buffer, protecting him from the assaults of the politicians.

"Before the campaign really opens there will be three weeks or so in which you may attend to your own affairs. You remember that it was you that dragged me into this, young man!" It was the old jest, but it had taken on meaning within twenty-four hours. "You have seen with your own eyes, heard with your ears, how I stand alone between factions which are willing to sacrifice the State in order to win for their own interests. I have planted my standard between 'em! I'll try to rally an army to it that will leave the extremists of both those sides hopelessly deserted by the rank and file of the honest citizens. I need you with me, for you have been with me from the start, and you have shown your fitness" (he smiled), "even to securing an audience with the Honorable Spinney. Is it yes, my young friend?"

"It is yes, General Waymouth. I question my ability—I know it is poor. But of my loyalty there is no question."

The General grasped his hand. They were at the car steps. "It shall be 'Boots and saddles!' three weeks from to-day!"

Linton was in the parlors of the hotel with the Presson party when Harlan arrived, glowing with his new enthusiasm, confident in his new elevation in the affairs of men. In the affairs of women he was not quite as sure of his desires or his standing, but his mood was new, and he realized it. He went straight to Madeleine Presson. Twenty-four hours before the presence of Linton at her side would have held him aloof.

He put out his hand to the young lawyer, and Linton took it.

"I extend my congratulations rather late, but they are sincere. It was a noble speech. You put in words my own thoughts regarding a noble man."

"Perhaps you could have expressed those thoughts just as well as I did." Linton was not cordial.

"No, sir, not with a woodsman's vocabulary, though with such a text I certainly should have felt the true inspiration."

"You'll have to claim considerable political foresight, even though you cast doubt on your eloquence," said Linton, rather sourly. "I'll confess that I jumped wrong. But I had my interests to protect. Let me ask you—is General Waymouth offended, very much so, because I withdrew my support this morning?"

"General Waymouth has not made any comments on the matter in my hearing."

"I know you can explain to him—"

Harlan broke in, impatiently:

"I am not cheeky enough to advise such a man about picking his political support. I beg your pardon, Miss Presson!" He bowed. He turned to Linton. "I hope you won't open this subject with me again, Mr. Linton. I am so loyal to General Waymouth that you cannot explain satisfactorily to me any reasons why you should have deserted him to-day! You will see now why the topic should not be referred to again between us."

Linton bristled.

"If you take such an unjust view of it as that, I certainly feel that the matter should be referred to again between us—at the proper time!"

"I'd advise you to take my hint," retorted Harlan.

They stared at each other, eye to eye, both plainly wishing with all heartiness that no feminine presence hampered them.

The girl laughed.

"Coffee and pistols for two! If each other's company makes you so impolite, I'll be compelled to separate you. Come, Mr. Harlan Thornton, baron of Fort Canibas, you have volunteered to see me safely home."

He offered his arm, and they followed Mrs. Presson, who had already started for the carriage. He rode with them to the station, flushed and silent, and the girl studied his face covertly and with some curiosity.

On the train, in the first of their tete-a-tete, she sounded him cautiously, trying to discover if his feelings toward Linton were inspired wholly by political differences. She seemed to suspect there was something more behind it, even at the risk of flattering herself. But she had detected certain suggestive symptoms in the demeanor of Harlan at the breakfast-table that morning. He did not betray himself under her deft questioning. But he promptly grew amiable, and before the end of their railroad ride that day she had proved to her own satisfaction that her ability to interest young men had not been thrown away upon him. The light in his eyes and the zest of his chatter with her told their own story. He left her at her home with a regret that he did not hide from her.

And yet, when he was at last in his room at the hotel that night, he wrote to Clare Kavanagh the longest letter of all those he had written to her since he left Fort Canibas.

It might have been because he had so much to write about.

It might have been because a strange little feeling of compunction bothered him.

But Harlan did not have the courage to examine his sentiments too closely. Only, after he had sealed the letter and inscribed it, he lay back in his chair awhile, and then, having reflected that after three weeks he would no longer be his own man, he decided that he'd better run up to Fort Canibas and attend to his business interests.

And he departed hastily the next morning, in spite of the Duke's puzzled and rather indignant protests that business wasn't suffering beyond what the telephone and mails could cure, and that he himself would go home the next week and see to everything.

There are some men who are strong enough to run away from weakness. Not that Harlan Thornton admitted that he was weak in the presence of Madeleine Presson. But he felt a sudden hunger for the big hills, the wide woods, the serene silences. He wanted to get his mental footing again. He had been swept off in a flood of new experiences. Just now he found himself in a state of mind that he did not understand.

"I'll go back and let the old woods talk to me," he whispered to himself.

Then he tore up the letter he had written to Clare Kavanagh.

It had occurred to him that he could tell it to her so much better.

So when he came to Fort Canibas in the evening of the second day he mounted his horse and rode across the big bridge.

He went before he had read the letters piled on the table in the gloomy old mess-hall. And he brusquely told the waiting Ben Kyle to save his business talk until the morning.



CHAPTER XX

A GIRL'S HEART

He walked his horse when he reached the farther shore. He was wondering just what he was to say to Dennis Kavanagh. They had not parted in a manner that invited further intimacy. From twin windows of the house on the hill lights glowed redly, as though they were Dennis Kavanagh's baleful little eyes. Fear was not the cause of the young man's hesitation. But he dreaded another scene in the presence of the girl. Kavanagh and his grandfather had brutally violated an innocent friendship. They had put into insulting words what neither he nor Clare had dreamed of—he hastily assured himself that they were not lovers. More than ever before he now felt infinite tenderness toward her—compassion, sympathy—an overpowering impulse to seek her. He had much to tell her. He could not think of any one in all the world who would listen as she would listen. The red eyes glowering out of the summer gloom did not daunt him; they suggested tyranny and insulting suspicion, and he pitied her the more. He rode on past the tall cross of the church-yard. A voice out of the silence startled him. A white figure stood in the shadow of the church porch.

"Come here, Big Boy," she said. "I'm not a ghost. I'm only Clare. I've been waiting for you."

He left his horse, and hurried to her.

"Waiting for me? I did not write. Have you second sight, little Clare?"

"No, only first news. This isn't one of the big cities where the crowds rush by and do not notice each other. It's only a lonesome little place, Harlan, and gossip travels fast. I heard you were home five minutes after the stage was in. So I came here and waited."

He took both her hands between his broad palms, caressing them.

"And you knew I'd hurry to come across the long bridge? That makes me happy, Clare, for you must have been thinking about me."

"I haven't many things to do these days except think," she returned, wistfully. "You'll understand why I came down here. I'm not trying to hide away from my father, and I know you are not afraid of him. But lectures on the subject of not doing the things you don't have any idea of doing are not to my taste, and I know they don't suit you. So we'll sit here in peace and quietness, and you shall tell me all about it."

He turned his back on the two red eyes of the Kavanagh house, and sat down on the step below her, and began his story, eagerly, volubly.

Once in a while he looked up at her, and she gave wise little nods to show she understood. In relating the early episodes of his journey, he ventured to leave out details. But she insisted that he give them.

"I want to know about the world—how they all look, and how they speak, and what they do. I've been lonely all these weeks. I've been wondering all the time what you were doing. Now I want it to seem that you've come to take me with you, back through it all. I want it to seem just as though I were travelling along with you—that will make me forget how lonely I've been, waiting here on the edge of the big woods."

And he humored her whim, for he had always understood her child's ways. The woods had trained him to note the details of all he saw; his experiences had been fresh and stirring, and he told his story with zest.

Then he came to his mention of Madeleine Presson. "Her father is the State chairman—the man you saw at 'The Barracks.' I was at their house a few times. Her mother—"

"But about her! You are skipping again, Big Boy."

"There is not much about her," he said, stammering a bit. "I saw her here and there, and talked with her, that's all."

"But I'm seeing with your eyes and hearing with your ears as I go along with you," she insisted. "I want to know how other girls are in the world outside. I have been waiting to have some one tell me. You saw her, you heard her. Begin, Harlan: her looks, her clothes, her manners, what she said, what she talks about. I have only you to ask."

His self-consciousness left him after he began. He drew his word-picture as best he could.

"That makes her beautiful," she said, when he paused, searching his mind for some word of description. "I think I can see her with your eyes, Big Boy. Tell me what she knows; and how does she talk?"

In the dusk he could not see the expression on her face. He knew that she listened intently, leaning above him. He was not conscious that he praised Madeleine Presson's gifts of mind or person. But as he had found her, so he portrayed her to the isolated girl of the north country, describing her attainments, her culture, her breadth of view, her grasp of the questions of the day, her ability to understand the big matters in which men were interested.

She made no comment as he talked. She did not interrupt him when he had finished with Madeleine Presson and went on to relate how he had been forced into the forefront of the State's political situation.

"So, then, you have become a great man," she faltered. "I remember. I was selfish. I did not want you to go away."

"No, I am not a great man, little Clare," he protested, laughingly. "I'm only a little chap that a great man is using. And you were not selfish. It was you that first put the thought into my mind that I ought to use my opportunities. That night at the end of the bridge, you know! I was sullen and obstinate. But you talked to me like a wise little woman. All the time I was with my grandfather later that evening, trying to be angry with him, I kept remembering your advice."

"I lied to you!" she cried, so passionately that he leaped to his feet and stared down on her. "I said it. I remember. But I lied. I was punishing myself because I had been selfish about you. But I didn't believe what I was saying—not deep in my heart. I wanted you to say you wouldn't go—but I didn't want you to look back ever and blame me for my selfishness. You see now how wicked and wrong and weak I am. I didn't want the world to take you away from—from us up here: from the woods and the plain folks. You'll hate me now. But I have to be truthful with you!" Her voice broke.

"The world has not won me away from my friends, dear. You must know me too well for that suspicion to shame me."

She crouched on the step before him. Her hands, fingers interlaced, gripped each other hard to quiet their trembling. In her girlish frailness, as she bent above her clasped hands, huddled there in the black shadow of the porch, she seemed pitifully little and helpless and forsaken. The woe in her tones thrilled him. She was trying hard to control her voice.

"You see, Harlan, I can look ahead and understand how it will be. A woman does understand such things. That's the awful thing about being a woman—and looking ahead and knowing how it must be before it ever happens!"

"Before what happens, Clare? I'm trying hard to understand you."

He leaned forward, and could see her eyes. He had seen that look in the eyes of a stricken doe.

"The world is all outside of this place, Harlan. You know we have always spoken of all other places than this as 'outside.' You have stepped through the great door. Now you see. You can't help seeing. It's all outspread before you. No one can blame you for not looking back here into the shadows. The great light is all ahead. I am—I ought not to speak about myself. I have no right to. But you'll forgive me. I didn't have any one to tell me! I didn't have any mother to advise me. I have played through all the long days, I don't know anything. Other girls—"

"Clare! God save you, little Clare—don't—don't!" he pleaded.

"You have been away only a few days, and yet you have found out the difference. You told me about her. She is beautiful, and she is wise. She has not wasted the long days. She can help you with knowledge. She can—"

He put out his arms and tried to take her, cursing himself for his thoughtless cruelty. Infinite pity and something else—fervent, hungry desire to clasp her overmastered all the prudence of the past. But she eluded him. She sprang away. She retreated to the upper step of the church porch, and he paused, gazing up at her.

"Oh, Blessed Virgin, put your fingers on my lips!" she gasped. "Why did I say it?"

"Listen to me, Clare," he urged, holding his arms to her. "I know now that I've been waiting for you. I thought it was friendship, but now I—"

She cried out so loudly, so bitterly, that he stopped.

"If you say it—if you say it now, Harlan, it will shame me so that I can never lift my eyes to yours again. I realize what I have said. It is I that have put the thoughts into your mind—almost the words in your mouth. Don't speak to me now. Oh, you can see how little I know—what a fool I am, forward, shameless, ignorant about all that a girl should know! Do not come near me—not now!" He had started to come up the steps—he was crying out to her. "Oh, Harlan, don't you understand? Don't you see that I can't listen to you now? I have driven you to say something to save my pride. I say I have! You are good and honest, and you pity me—and my folly needs your pity. But if you should tell me now that you love me, I'd die of shame—I'd distrust that love! I couldn't help it—and I've brought it all on myself. Oh, my God, why have I grown up a fool—why have I wasted the long days?"

She ran down past him. He did not try to stay her. He understood women not at all. He obeyed her cry to be silent—to keep away from her.

She turned to him when she reached the ground.

"I haven't even known enough to understand how it stands between us. Between us!" There was a wail in her voice. She sobbed the rest rather than spoke it: "That river out there is between us! I don't even belong to your country!"

She pointed at the great cross of the church-yard. It stood outlined in the starlight.

"Religion stands between us! My father and your grandfather are between us!"

She came back two steps, her face tear-wet, her features quivering with grief.

"But there's something else between us, Harlan, blacker and deeper than all the rest. Don't try to cross it to come to me. You will sink in it. Fools for wives have spoiled too many men in this world. I understand now! Your grandfather knew." She raised her eyes, and crossed herself reverently. "Mother Mary, help me in this, my temptation!"

She turned, and ran away, sobbing.

Harlan hurried a few steps after her, crying appeals. But he did not persist. Her passionate protests had come from her heart, he knew. He did not dare to force himself on her when she was in that mood.

He sat down again on the church steps. He remained there in deep thought until the red eyes in Dennis Kavanagh's house blinked out. He did not find it easy to understand himself, exactly. His feelings had been played upon too powerfully to permit calm consideration. He felt confident in his affection for her. But her youth and the obstacles he understood so well put marriage so out of immediate consideration that he merely grieved rather than made definite plans for their future. With moist eyes he looked up at the dark house on the hill and pledged loyalty to the child-woman, knowing that he loved her. But that the love was the love that mates man and woman for the struggles, the prizes, the woes, and the contentment of life he was not sure—for he still looked on Clare Kavanagh as more child than woman.

Marriage seemed yet a long way ahead of him. He rode slowly back to "The Barracks." His problem seemed to be riding double with him. The problem, one might say, was in the form of a maid on a pillion. But he did not look behind to see whether the maid bore the features of Clare Kavanagh or Madeleine Presson. At that moment he was sure that only Clare's image rode with him. But in thinking of her he understood his limitations. For, woodsman and unversed in the ways of women, he had not arrived at that point in life where he could analyze even a boy's love, much less a man's passion.

The next morning he left Fort Canibas with big Ben Kyle, to make a tour of the Thornton camps. It was a trip that took in the cruising of a township for standing timber on short rations and in the height of the blackfly season, an experience not conducive to reflections on love and matrimony.

But when he returned to Fort Canibas, on the eve of his departure to take up his duties as General Waymouth's chief of staff, he saddled his horse and rode across the long bridge.

This time there was no white figure on the church porch and no wistful voice to call after him. He kept on up the hill. He was not thinking about what Dennis Kavanagh might say to him. He had resolved to ask Clare manfully if she would continue to trust him for a while until both could be certain that their boy and girl love signified to them the love that life needed for its bounty and its blessing. That seemed the honest way. It seemed the only way, as matters lay between them and their families.

Dennis Kavanagh was seated on his veranda, smoking his short pipe and inhaling the freshness of the shower-cooled summer air along with the aroma of his tobacco.

"I would like to see your daughter, Mr. Kavanagh," announced the young man, boldly. "And I have not come sneaking by the back way. It will be a good while before I can see her again."

"That it will," responded Mr. Kavanagh, dryly, "and it will be a good long while before ye'll see her now—that may be mixed, but I reckon ye'll get the drift of it!"

"It will be better for all our interests if I have a few words with her," persisted the young man, trying to keep his temper.

"Will ye talk to her through the air or over the telephone?" inquired the father, sarcastically. "She is not here, she is not near here, and if ye wait for her to come back ye'll best arrange to have your meals brought."

He did not pause for Harlan to ask any more questions. He came down from the porch on his stubby legs and handed up an envelope. The flap of the envelope had been opened.

"She left this," he said; "and having opened it and seen that it held nothing but what ye might profitably know, Thornton's grandson, I here give it into your hand, and ye needn't thank me."

Harlan, wondering, apprehensive, fearing something untoward, took out the single sheet of paper. He read:

"BIG BOY,—Go on and let the world make you a great man. I'm groping. Perhaps I'll see my way some day and can follow. But just as there's a cure for ignorance, so there's a cure for hearts, maybe. Your friend, CLARE."

Harlan looked over the edge of the paper into the twinkling little eyes of the father. Mr. Kavanagh seemed to be getting much satisfaction from the expression on his victim's face.

"Can't you tell me what this means, Mr. Kavanagh? I beg of you humbly, and in all sincerity."

"The Kavanaghs are never backward in politeness, Mr. Harlan Thornton. It means that my girl is done playing child and riding cock-horse. She's off to learn to be the finest and knowingest lady in all the land—she's off because she wanted to go, and she's got all of Dennis Kavanagh's fat wallet behind her!" He slapped his breast-pocket.

"Off where?"

"Where they know things and teach things better than they do over in your Yankeeland of airs and frills. And now good-day to ye!"

He climbed the porch steps, and relighted his pipe, gazing with much relish past the flame of the match, studying Harlan's dismay.

The young man suddenly came to himself, struck his horse, and galloped wildly away.

The next morning he departed to offer political hand and sword in the cause of General Waymouth.



CHAPTER XXI

STARTING A MULE TEAM

Some men are extremely good and loyal politicians so long as the machine runs smoothly, and they are not called upon to sacrifice their interests and their opinions. Luke Presson and his associates on the State Committee were of that sort. But Thelismer Thornton was a better politician than they.

The Duke had saved the chairman and his committeemen from themselves at that critical moment in the little room off the convention stage, when they were ready to invite ruin by defying General Waymouth. It had been as bitter for Thornton as it had been for the others. Beyond question, he would have gone down fighting were the question a private or a personal one. But when the interests of his party were at stake he knew how to compromise, taking what he could get instead of what he had determined to get. After the convention he gave fatherly advice to the committee, and then Presson went up to Burnside village with the olive-branch. But while he extended that in one hand, he held out his little political porringer in the other. He couldn't help doing it. The chairman was no altruist in politics. He didn't propose to cultivate the spirit.

He put it plainly to General Waymouth—that while he sympathized to some extent with the latter's desires for general reform, there were certain interests that propped the party and must be handled with discretion in the clean-up. He had already drawn some consolation from the fact that General Waymouth had modified in a measure the planks that he submitted for the party platform. He followed up this as a step that hinted a general compromise, and at last frankly presented his requests. He asked that tax reform be smoothed over, that the corporations be allowed an opportunity to "turn around," and finally that the prohibitory law should be let alone. He argued warmly that General Waymouth could not be criticised by either side if he left the law as he found it. The radicals were satisfied with the various enactments as they stood, and if there were infractions it became a matter of the police and sheriffs, and the Governor could not be held accountable. And he laid stress on the fact that the people did not want a Governor to tarnish the dignity of his office by fighting bar-rooms.

But Chairman Presson found an inflexible old man who listened to all he said, and at the end declared his platform broadly and without details. Those details of proposed activity he kept to himself. The platform was: That it behooved all men in the State to be prompt and honest in obeying the law. That the man who did not obey the law would find himself in trouble. Moreover, position, personality, or purse could purchase no exceptions.

That was a platform which Mr. Presson could not attack, of course.

He listened to it sullenly, however. He was angry because common decency prevented him from expressing his opinion. He had heard other candidates pompously declare the same thing, but he had not been worried by fear that saints had come on earth.

This calm old man from whose fibre of ambition the years had burned out selfishness, greed, graft, and chicanery was a different proposition. His words sounded as though he meant what he said. And when he asked the chairman if he had any objection to offer to a system of administration that carried out exactly what the party had put in its pledges to the people, Presson glowered at him with hatred in his soul and malice twinkling in his eyes, and could find no language that would not brand him as a conspirator against the honor of his State.

But he went back to headquarters swearing and sulking.

In this spirit did candidate and managers face the campaign.

It is not easy to hide family squabbles of that magnitude. The men concerned in the principal secret of the State Convention kept their mouths shut for the sake of self-preservation. But unquiet suspicion was abroad. The Democrats nosed, figured, guessed, and acted with more duplicity than had characterized their usual campaigns against the dominant party. Their leaders gave their party a platform that invited every one to get aboard. Every question was straddled. It was a document of craft expressed in terms of apparent candor. It elevated a demagogue as candidate for Governor, and promised every reform on the calendar. These were the rash pledges of the minority, more reckless than usual.

An united dominant party could have met the issues boldly and frankly without fear as to results.

But General Waymouth promptly discovered that he had a loyal army with rebel officers. He was soldier enough to understand the peril. He had more faith in the inherent, unorganized honesty of "The People" than Thelismer Thornton had. But, with just as shrewd political knowledge as the Duke, he held with him that the "The People" amount to mighty little as a force in politics unless well and loyally officered.

A campaign will not run itself. Left to run itself, the issues are not brought out to stir up the voting spirit. "The People" have to be poked into the fighting mood—their ears have to be scruffed—they need speakers, literature, marshals, inciters—hurrah of partisanship. It was the off year for the national campaign. No money came into the State from the Big Fellows.

The State Committee was looked to by the county and town committees to start the ball rolling and guarantee the purse to push it. "The People" were, as usual, too busy getting daily bread to be spontaneous in political movements.

General Waymouth sat in the old brick house in Burnside village, and did the best he could during the long hot days of July and the sultry first fortnight of August. Harlan Thornton worked with him. The library resounded with the click of typewriters, and men came and men went. But there was no up-and-moving spirit to the campaign.

An old man writing letters—even such an old man as General Varden Waymouth was in the estimation of his State—is a small voice in the wilderness of politics.

The Democrats had vociferous orators. Those orators had for text State extravagance, unjust taxation, and all the other charges "the unders" may bring against the reigning rulers. They were not answered on the stump. Even the Republican newspapers were listless and halfhearted.

At last came Thelismer Thornton. It was one afternoon in middle August, barely three weeks before the day of the State election in September. It was his first visit to the brick house in Burnside. He had been sojourning at the State capitol. Men had told Harlan, from time to time, that he was spending his days sitting on the broad veranda of Luke Presson's hotel, apparently enjoying the summer with the same leisurely ease that the State chairman was displaying. Men were sometimes inquisitive when they mentioned this matter to Harlan. They did not presume to ask questions of the General. But the young man had nothing to say. It must be confessed that he did not know anything about it.

He obeyed the instructions the General gave him and toiled as best he knew, but that the main campaign was hanging fire he did not realize. For the General, who knew politics, did not complain to him. The veteran was a little whiter, a bit more dignified, and directed the movements of his modest force of office assistants with a curtness he had not shown at first; but no other sign betrayed that he knew his State Committee had "lain down on him."

The Duke sauntered up the walk, whipping off his hat and swinging it in his hand as soon as he arrived under the trees of the old garden. He came into the house without knocking. The front door was swung inward, and only a screen door, on the latch, closed the portal.

"I'm making myself at home as usual, Vard," he said, walking to the General and stroking his shoulder as the veteran leaned over his table above his figures. "I've been waiting for an invitation to come up here. But I didn't dare to wait any longer. It's getting too near election."

General Waymouth looked up at his old friend, studying his face. He found only the bland cordiality of the ancient days.

"I've been waiting, myself, Thelismer," he returned. "And I'll add that I don't intend to wait much longer. I'm not referring to you, now. I refer to Presson and his gang. I presume you are still close to them. Will you inform them that I don't intend to wait much longer?"

Thornton did not lose his smile. He sat down. He nodded across the room to Harlan with as much nonchalance as though he had been seeing him every day.

"I would have run in before this, Varden, but somehow I got the impression from you and the boy that you were fully capable of operating things yourself. But with election only three weeks off I'm getting ready to change my mind. What are you going to do with that steer team—no, mule team—that's better?"

"Meaning?"

"Meaning Luke Presson and the members of the State Committee. I'm a politician, Varden. I'm out of a job just now. Both crowds of you seem to think you can get along all right without me. Probably you can. Luke knows he can, so he says. He doesn't seem to like my management or my advice—not after that convention! But I can't help being a politician. I can't sit on that hotel piazza any longer and see this mess scorch. I'm too good a cook to stand it." He hitched forward in his chair and spoke low. "Varden, it sounds like the devil making a presentation copy of the Ten Commandments on asbestos, but I can't help that! I'm giving it to you straight. We've got body-snatchers for a State Committee. They'd rather see the Democrat the next Governor than you. That's how mad they are. That's how sure they are that you propose to put their noses to the grindstone. That's how rotten politics is in this State. The Democrat won't give us reform. They know it. They'd rather see the State officers go by the board than have the kind of reform you've promised 'em. They can get rid of their Democrat after two years. Your reform may hang on a good while, once get the laws chained. Now what are you going to do?"

"I know exactly what I'm going to do."

"Yes; but, grinning Jehosaphat, how much time have you got to do it in? Three weeks to election now!"

"This campaign, Thelismer, will be started, as it ought to be started, within the next twenty-four hours. As to how it will be started I'll have you present as a witness, if you'll accept an invitation."

The Duke was obliged to be contented with only that much assurance and information.

"There's a train back to the State capital in half an hour, Thelismer," the General stated. "I'll be pleased to have you go along with Harlan and myself. If you'll excuse me now, I'll finish signing these letters."

The old man was not disturbed by this abruptness. He rose.

"I reckon you know how to play the game, Vard," he said. "I'm perfectly satisfied, now that I know you are playing it. But you'll excuse me for being a little uneasy about your starting in."

He did not interrupt Harlan, who was busy at his desk. He picked up one of the newspapers that covered the General's table, and marched out into the garden.

He joined them when they came out. The General's old-fashioned carryall conveyed them to the railroad station. They made the journey to the capital without a word of reference to the purpose of their trip. Unobtrusively chatting about the old times, the Duke and his friend made their way back to their old footing. It was mutual forbearance and forgiveness, for they were old enough to be philosophers, and especially did they understand the philosophy of politics.

Chairman Presson was in his office at his hotel when they entered. He came out to greet General Waymouth, suave but circumspect, and furtively studied word and aspect of his visitor.

"Mr. Presson," said the General, breaking in upon the chairman's vague gossip regarding the political situation, "this is short notice, but I presume you can reach a few members of the State Committee by telephone. I wish to meet them and you at my rooms in the hotel at nine this evening. It is important."

They came. There were half a dozen of them—men who hurried in from such near points as the chairman could reach; and at the appointed hour Presson ushered them into the General's room. Harlan Thornton was waiting there with his chief. The Duke arrived in a few moments, alone. He sat down at one side of the room, bearing himself with an air of judicial impartiality. The chairman scowled at him. Judged by recent experience, Thelismer Thornton was a questionable quantity in a conference between the machine and General Waymouth.

The committeemen took their cue from the chairman. They were sullen. They bristled with an obstinacy that betrayed itself in advance.

The General got down to business promptly. It was not a gathering that invited any preamble of cheerful chat. He understood perfectly that the men were there only because they did not dare to stay away.

"Chairman Presson, it is now close upon the election. I have canvassed the State as best I could through the mails. With Mr. Harlan Thornton's assistance and through my friends in various towns, I have secured a pretty complete list of doubtful voters. I will say in passing that I have tried to enlist the help of your town committeemen, but they seem to be asleep. I have thanked God daily that I have personal friends willing to help me. I have the names at last. I have accomplished alone the work that is usually attended to by the State Committee."

Presson started to say something, but the General stopped him.

"One moment, Mr. Chairman. Let me tell you what I have done. One of us at a time! When I've told you what I've done, you can tell me what you've attended to. I have those names, I have pledges of support, I have plans for getting out the vote. But I have no literature for distribution to those doubtful voters, I have no speakers assigned by the State Committee to help the men who are trying to get the vote out, I have no fund provided for the usual expenses. Now I will listen to you, Mr. Chairman. Will you tell me what you have done?"

"It's an off year, General Waymouth," said Presson. "I asked the Congressional Committee for money, but I couldn't interest 'em. And I'll tell you frankly that the regular sources in this State are dry. There isn't the usual feeling. You're a good politician. Perhaps you know why it's so."

"You haven't answered my question, sir. I asked you what your State Committee has done."

"What is there we can do when every interest in this State sits back on its wallet like a hen squatting on the roost, and won't stand up and let go until some assurances are given out? It isn't my fault! I went to you! I laid the case down! You didn't give me anything to carry back to 'em."

"I'm here to talk business, Mr. Chairman. You are too vague."

"Well, I'll talk business, too." Presson snapped out of his chair. He stood up and wagged his finger. He was too angry to choose words or gloss brutal facts.

"You want to be Governor, don't you? You're asking men to support you and back you with money? That's what it amounts to. Campaign funds don't come down like manna—there's nothing heavenly about 'em—and you know it as well as I do, General. You've scared Senator Pownal's crowd with that anti-water-power-trust talk; they've got money to put into the legislature, but none for you. The corporations won't do anything; your tax commission talk has given them cold feet as far's you're concerned. Even the office-holders are sore; you've been talking about abolishing fees, and if that's the case they'd just as soon give up the offices. And where's your party, then? You say you're going to enforce the prohibitory law! I can get a little money out of the express companies, the jobbers in gallon lots, and the fellows that get the promise of the State liquor agency contracts. But the big wholesalers, the liquor men's associations, the retailers—the whole bunch that's got the real money and is willing to spend it haven't a cent for you—they'll even back the Democrat against you! You wanted business talk. There it is."

He strode up and down the centre of the room in agitation, and then sat down.

The other committeemen sighed with relief. Their chairman had said what they wanted to say, said it bluntly and boldly, and they were glad it was over.

"That is," drawled Thelismer Thornton, "the State Committee says, as the fork says to the cook: 'I'm willing to be used for all reasonable purposes, but not to pick your teeth with or pull out carpet tacks.'"

The pleasantry did not relieve the gloom.

"The State Committee can't do anything without money, General Waymouth," added the chairman, getting bolder as he allowed his rancor full play. "You've fixed it so that we can't get the money."

"Then the State Committee would be able to go ahead and do what it ought to do if I should assure Senator Pownal that he and his crowd may help themselves to the water-powers of this State—if I let the rumsellers sell and the office-holders filch? It's on those terms, is it, that I'm to get the help of the men the Republican party has selected as its executives?"

"That isn't a square way to put it," objected Mr. Presson, with heat. "I simply say it was all right to open this campaign with prayer, as we did at the State Convention, but as to carrying it through on the plane of a revival meeting, that's a different proposition! You've asked for business talk, General. I've given you straight business. You're asking something from some one else, just now. In politics it's nothing for nothing, and d—n-d little for a dollar! You know it just as well as I do. Now suppose we have some business talk from you!" There was a sneer in the last sentence.

General Waymouth swung one thin leg over the knee of the other. He leaned back in his chair. His elbow rested on the chair-arm, his fingers were set, tips on his chin, and over them he surveyed his listeners with calmness. He did not raise his voice. It was his mild manner that made what he said sound so balefully savage. Bluster would have weakened it.

"The legitimate expenses of a campaign are considerable, even when the party organization, from you, Mr. Presson, down to the humblest town committeeman, does full duty in time and effort. But if one has to buy it all, it needs a deep purse. From what you say, it is plain to me that I am now left to run my own campaign. I tell you very frankly, gentlemen, my means are limited. I have not made money out of politics. One course only is left open to me. I notify you that I shall issue a statement to the people of this State. I shall inform them that I have been abandoned by the State Committee and the party machine. I shall state the reasons very plainly. I shall say I am left to defeat because I refused to betray the people's interests. Then I shall appeal to the people as a whole—to Republicans and Democrats alike—for support at the polls. If there are enough honest men to elect me, very well. If the majority wants to hand the thing over to the looters and tricksters after the fair warning I give them, they will do so with their eyes open, and I'll accept the result and leave this State to itself."

Chairman Presson pushed himself slowly up out of his chair, his arms propping him, his face shoved forward.

"You mean to say, General Waymouth, that, being a Republican, a man who has had honors from our hands, you'll advertise your party management as crooks simply because we don't cut our own throats, politically and financially?"

"I say, I shall state the facts."

"Let me inform you that I've got a little publicity bureau of my own. I'll post you as a deserter and a sorehead. I'll fix it so you can't even throw your hat into the Republican party and follow in to get it. I'll—"

"One moment, Luke," broke in the elder Thornton. "For some weeks now, when things have come to a crisis, you have set yourself up as the whole Republican party of this State. But when you get to talking that way you represent it about as much as Parson Prouty represents the real temperance sentiment. There's quite a bunch of us who are not in the ramrodding business. General Waymouth is the nominee of our convention. No one has delegated to you the job of deciding on his qualifications. It's your job to go ahead and elect him. If you don't propose to do it, then resign."

"No, sir!" shouted Presson.

"Then get busy—collect a campaign fund and make these last three weeks hum! This is largely a matter between friends, right here now. I've told Vard what I think of him, and I haven't minced words. It's bad enough for a man to try to be absolutely honest in politics. That's where he's making his mistake. But he can get past with the people—they'll think it more or less bluff, anyway, even it's Varden Waymouth talking. But the kind of dishonesty you're standing for, Luke, won't get past. They'll ride you out of this State on a rail—and I'll furnish the rail."

"I'll furnish something more!" cried Harlan, unable to restrain himself any longer. "To-morrow morning I shall put ten thousand dollars into General Waymouth's campaign fund—my own money."

"You see, Luke," drawled the Duke, "it really looks as though Vard would be elected anyway. I might subscribe a little myself if only I had a rich grandfather, the same as Harlan has."

The unhappy chairman sat down in his chair again and struggled with his anger. He could not give it rein—he realized that. Party and personal interests were all jeopardized. But he knew he could not afford to have utter personal disgrace accompany his defeat. Desertion of the party candidate, if advertised in the fashion the General threatened, meant ruin of his name as well as his fortune. He could have sulked and excused himself, but there was no excuse for inaction after demand had been made upon him in this fashion.

There was silence in the room.

"Fellow up our way used to be a mighty good mule teamster," said Thelismer Thornton, tipping his great head back into clasped hands, and gazing meditatively at the ceiling. "Had a gad for the wheel mules, whip for the swing team, and a pocketful of rocks for the leaders. One day the rocks gave out just as the wagon sunk into a honey-pot on a March road. But being a good teamster, he yanked out his pipe and threw it at the nigh leader just at the critical second. Sparks skated from crupper to mane along the mule's back, and he gave a snort and a heave, and away they went."

Chairman Presson, deep in his trouble, was disgusted by this levity, and growled under his breath.

"If a fellow had been off ahead of the team with a bag of oats perhaps the pipe wouldn't have been needed," pursued the Duke, meditatively. "Anyway, gentlemen, I'll tell you what I'll do. I've been waiting to be called on for my contribution for the fund, but for some reason business hasn't been started in this campaign as soon as I hoped. Harlan was a little excited just now. I think, seeing that the State Committee is now going to take hold of the campaign, he'll be able to get out of it a little cheaper. A lot of the other boys will chip when they're asked. For the Thornton family I lead off subscriptions with a pledge of five thousand dollars. I'm that much interested in seeing my—my original choice for Governor elected by a good majority."

Presson got up, and stamped down his trousers legs.

"I know when I'm licked," he admitted. "And I've been licked in the whole seventeen rounds of this campaign. Look here, General Waymouth, I'm done fighting. I simply throw myself on your mercy. I know how you feel toward me. But I've got just this to say: it's a poor tool of a man that won't fight for his own interests and his friends. I've done it. And I'm no more of a renegade than the usual run of the men who have to play politics for results. I don't believe you are going to get results, General. But that's neither here nor there. There's no more squirm left in me. I'll take hold of this campaign and elect you. If there's any crumbs coming to me after that, all right! I'm at your mercy."

"I tell you again I've no time or inclination for petty revenge. That is not my nature." General Waymouth was as cold and calm as inexorable Fate itself. "I accept your pledge, Chairman Presson. Not one interest of yours that is right will suffer at my hands. On the other hand, not one interest that is wrong will be protected. It's simply up to you!"

"I don't suppose you care to go over the plans with me to night?"

"I shall ask you to confer with Mr. Harlan Thornton on all matters. He knows my wishes and plans. He will remain here at headquarters as my representative."

If the chairman felt that he was being put under guard and espionage, his face did not betray it. He took leave of the General, and escorted out his associate committeemen.

"Reminds me of the time Uncle Stote Breed went with the boys on a fishing-trip," remarked the Duke, after they were gone. "They ate the sardines out of the tin before Uncle Stote got in off the pond, and put in raw chubs they'd been using for live bait. Uncle Stote ate 'em all. 'Boys, your ile is all right,' said he, when he cleaned 'em out, 'but it seems to me your leetle fish is a mite underdone.' But Luke will eat anything you hand him after this, Vard."

He took his grandson by the arm, and started him toward the door.

"Let the General get to bed," he advised, jocosely. "He ought to have pleasant dreams to-night."

Harlan expected that his grandfather would have some rather serious talk for his ear. But he merely remarked, leaving him at the door of his room: "If you keep on, son, I'll be passed down to posterity simply as 'Harlan Thornton's grandfather.'"



CHAPTER XXII

FROM THE MOUTH OF A MAID

Under a sudden stimulus of rallies, red fire, and band-music, the campaign blossomed promisingly. Democracy's dark hints that the dominant party had been rent by factional strife were suddenly answered by an outrush of spellbinders from Republican headquarters, a flood of literature, and an astonishing display of active harmony. Chairman Luke Presson received compliments for the manner in which he had held his fire until he "had seen the whites of the enemy's eyes." He replied to such compliments with fine display of modest reserve, and in private gritted his teeth and swore over the statement that General Waymouth issued to the voters of the State—a document that bound the party to a professed programme of honest reorganization. The treasurer of the State Committee drew checks amounting to more than fifteen thousand dollars to pay for the printing, postage, and mailing of those statements—a bitter expense, indeed, considering the nature of the promises. Presson saw only gratuitous stirring of trouble in the hateful declarations the General made. It was his theory that in politics voters never arose and demanded reforms until some disturber shook them up and reminded them that reforms were needed.

General Waymouth did not take the stump. His age forbade. He remained away from headquarters. But Harlan Thornton was posted there, his vigilant representative and executive. In his attitude toward Harlan the State chairman ran the gamut of cajolery, spleen, wrath, and resentment—and final disgust. It was a situation almost intolerable for Presson. But a chain of circumstances—events unescapable and unique in politics—bound him to the wheel of the victor.

Harlan understood the chairman's state of mind. Day by day he made his discourse with that gentleman as brief as possible, and he kept away from the Presson home. His action was dictated by a feeling of delicacy, in view of the father's sentiments. Presson treated him in business hours as a prisoner would treat his ball and chain. And Presson showed no desire to take that badge of his servitude home with him. Enduring Harlan in the committee headquarters strained his self-possession daily.

So the young man lied brazenly in reply to the blandly courteous notes of invitation from Mrs. Presson, who continued alert to the promising social qualifications of General Waymouth's chief lieutenant. He pleaded work. It was true in a measure. The day was filled with duties to which he applied himself unflaggingly.

But from the supper-table he hurried out each evening into the country, escaping from the city by the side streets, tramping miles of lane and highway and field. His muscles craved the exertion. The city oppressed him. His unwonted toil within four walls sapped his energy.

One evening he stepped aside from the highway. A horse, trotting smartly, was overtaking him. But the horse did not pass him. It slowed down to his stride, and Madeleine Presson called him from her trap. She was alone.

"As this is the campaign of 'honesty,' I'll be honest with you," she said. "This is not an accidental meeting. I have been guessing at the roads you might take, and have been on your trail for days. That's a bold confession for a girl to make; but I've got even a bolder request: please climb up here and ride."

He climbed up. He went up with alacrity. From the first of their acquaintance the girl had interested him—and yet it was more than mere interest or feminine attraction. Her culture, her keen analysis of events and men, her knowledge of conditions informed and instructed him. Her subtle humor and droll insight into the characters of those who attempted to pose in the public eye entertained him, for he lacked humor. But, most of all, her satire gave him a truer perspective. Fresh from the north country, where his knowledge of public men had been limited to the information which newspapers had given him, he had classed them wrongly. His own gravity had given them too eminent qualities. The girl, knowing them, had pricked their assumptions with good-humored satire, and he looked at them again and found them as she said. As he sat beside her and the horse walked on, he was conscious that in avoiding her he had been depriving himself both of entertainment and valuable instruction. It was a rather selfish reflection, but he could not help it.

"Now, Mr. Harlan Thornton, from what my father says about the house, when he's so angry that he really doesn't know what it is he's saying, I understand you're playing hob with all the traditions of politics. In order to be honest, do you find it necessary to oppose all the things my father wants to do? If you dare to say so you'll be called on to have some very serious conversation with my father's daughter!"

"I don't want any differences with your father—or with you, Miss Presson," he declared, earnestly. "I honestly don't! It all seems to be a mighty mixed-up mess. I sometimes wish I'd stayed back home in the woods. I'm too little a fellow to be in such a big game. I'm afraid I'm so small I can only see one side of it."