CHAPTER XXIV THE LAST STAND
Barry Wynn awoke the following morning with a confused recollection of what he had heard behind the big column in the Cosmopolis Hotel. But in the clear light of day it did not take him long to determine what he should do. He resolved to tell the story to Mr. Carlton for just what it was worth.
Immediately after breakfast he hastened to the Capitol, but was disappointed to learn that the Congressman would not be in his office until noon. Barry waited until that hour only to find that it would not be possible for Mr. Carlton to see anyone until later in the day. The boy was in a fever of impatience by this time. He hardly knew what to do. He knew that the Committee on Naval Affairs was to meet at three o'clock and he resolved to stand at the door of the Committee room and intercept Mr. Carlton as he went into the meeting. It was a minute after the appointed time when the familiar form of the Congressman came swinging down the corridor in double-quick time.
"Mr. Carlton! Mr. Carlton!" cried the boy.
"Hello, Barry," responded the statesman, but without stopping.
The young page ran after him and caught him by the sleeve.
"There is something I want to tell you—something important," he panted.
The Congressman slackened his pace without stopping.
"Well, what is it? You must speak quickly. I'm in a mighty big hurry."
"I heard—I heard," gasped Barry, trying to talk and keep pace with his friends at the same time, "I heard that Mr. Hudson was going to try and defeat your bill today."
John Carlton laughed.
"I've heard that myself a dozen times. I can't say it's news."
"But they talked it over last night," persisted the boy. "I heard them—while I was at the hotel."
"I don't doubt it," retorted the other, wearily, "and if I stay here talking to you any longer they'll cook my goose sure enough."
"But I have more I must tell you. I'm sure—"
"Not now," interrupted Carlton.
With that he hurried into the room where nearly all of the members of the Committee had assembled. Barry was in despair. He tried to tell his news and failed. In the meantime Joel Phipps, the clerk, was calling the roll to ascertain whether a quorum of the Committee was in attendance. Barry, at his post in the doorway, could see Mr. Carlton flitting about from one member to another.
While he stood there Felix Conway came along and greeted him cordially. The sight of that beaming countenance was to the boy like a grateful rain upon a parched desert. What he had tried to tell the Congressman he could impart to Conway's receptive ears. Felix listened in silence. At the conclusion of the narrative he gave a prolonged whistle.
"Did you tell this to John Carlton?" he demanded.
"I tried to, but I couldn't get him to listen."
"Oh. I suppose he was so busy that he didn't know what you were talking about."
"That's right. I don't think he knew what I meant."
"I wonder how we can reach him?" asked Felix; then almost immediately answering his own question, he said:
"Thank goodness, he's coming out now."
Carlton was slowly making his way to the door. It was evident from his looks and his manner that something was wrong. His forehead was drawn and his eyebrows contracted with a frown. There was a grayish look about the corners of his mouth. It was rare indeed for this self-contained man to show such emotion.
"Well," exclaimed Conway, anticipating him, "how are things going? Have you got your majority of three?"
The Congressman shook his head with a gesture of disgust.
"No—they've got Curwood. I was sure he was with me last night, but he tells me now that he is going to vote against the bill."
"But that still leaves you a majority of one."
Carlton wagged his head again.
"It would if all my supporters were here—but one's away."
"Who is he?"
"Warrington."
Conway slapped Barry on the back.
"That proves your story, my boy."
"What story?" asked Carlton, quickly.
"The story Wynn was trying to tell you when you went into the meeting."
He smiled in a melancholy way.
"I was so distracted that I didn't really know what Barry was trying to say."
Prompted by the journalist, the page boy himself repeated what he had heard in the hotel lobby the night before. As he concluded, Conway exclaimed:
"What do you think of that?"
"I'm fighting a resourceful crowd," admitted Carlton, sorrowfully.
Before he had finished the sentence, Conway had rushed over to a telephone booth and had the receiver at his ear. He was back in a minute, his face flushed.
"I've had Warrington's apartments. His housekeeper tells me that he went to Wynnwood this morning. He told her he would take dinner there and return in time for the meeting of your Committee this afternoon. Barry," he concluded, "get me a suburban timetable."
Quickly the page boy returned with a railroad schedule. Conway looked it over feverishly. He gave a groan.
"What's the matter?" asked Carlton.
"There's only one train out of that one-horse town this afternoon."
"I guess one train is sufficient to carry Warrington," retorted Carlton, with forced gaiety.
"Yes," said the other, dropping the timetable with a gesture of disgust, "but it won't leave Wynnwood until half-past four. That means that he can't get here until after five o'clock."
"What does that mean?" asked the Congressman, anxiously.
"It means that your bill is beaten unless you can have it amended tomorrow."
"That's out of the question," admitted the other, "tomorrow is the last day of the session, and it will be a physical impossibility to have the general bill reopened for changes of any kind."
"Do you believe in Warrington?" asked the journalist.
"As I believe in myself. He's careless, but he's as true as steel. He's gone away in the full belief that he would get back in time. I'd stake my life on his loyalty."
"When will the Committee reach your bill?"
"By four o'clock at the latest. There are only two bills ahead of it."
"How long will it take to dispose of it?"
"I should say it will either be passed or killed by half-past four."
Conway shook his fist at an imaginary foe.
"The rascals! They've timed it perfectly."
"How?"
"Warrington will only be taking the train for Washington at that time."
Conway paced the width of the corridor two or three times. Suddenly he paused, a look of resolution in his eyes.
"Is debate restricted to the Committee?" he asked, unexpectedly.
"No."
"Then, by Jove, I think I have it. It's only a chance in a thousand, but it's worth trying."
During the next few minutes the journalist showed the latent possibilities that reposed beneath his placid exterior. He hustled Barry to his rooms for certain papers. Joe Hart, who happened along, was hurried off on another errand. All the while Conway was talking in quick, jerky, excited whispers to John Carlton. Barry and Joe returned about the same time, loaded down with reports and pamphlets. These were placed in the arms of the astonished Congressman.
"Now, Carlton," was the farewell greeting of the correspondent, "I'm going to take Barry with me. I may need him. Joe Hart will stay here in case you need his services. In the meantime, good-bye and good luck."
He was off like a flash. John Carlton returned to the Committee room and silently took his seat. His quiet demeanor surprised Hudson. He looked for an outbreak of some sort. But, instead the man from Maine sat there as mute as though he had been deprived of the power of speech.
"Takes defeat better than I expected," whispered Hudson to his neighbor.
"Oh," was the confident rejoinder, "he sees he's up against it and knows there's no use in making a fight."
The Committee proceeded with its work mechanically. The two bills that were ahead of the Cleverly measure were taken up in their order. The sponsor of the first one was about to make some remarks in its favor when the Chairman said that as there did not appear to be any opposition to the bill, there was scarcely any need for debate. Carlton was on his feet at once.
"I think the gentleman should have the privilege of saying what he pleases."
No one objected, and the legislator proceeded to orate for the space of fifteen minutes. It was that much time killed. The Committee voted unanimously to incorporate his measure in the naval programme, which would afterwards have to go in the general appropriation bill. The second bill was favorably reported without debate.
The hands of the clock pointed to four when the Committee took up the Cleverly measure. Carlton made a masterly speech in its favor. But the speech consumed a half hour, which many of the Committee considered an insufferably long time. After that Hudson and two of his friends made short, snappy three-minute speeches against the bill. As the last man sat down Hudson called for a vote on the proposition.
But Carlton was on his feet, holding aloft a protesting arm.
"One minute, Mr. Chairman," he cried, "I can't permit the remarks of these gentlemen to go unanswered. It would not be fair to my constituents to do so. I am told that you propose to defeat this bill. Very well. But, before you do so, I demand the right to place myself on record."
Cries of "Hear! hear! Go on" and "Give the man a chance," greeted this opening.
The Chairman nodded a reluctant consent, and John Carlton began his speech against time. His desk was piled high with papers, pamphlets, and books. Thus fortified, he gave the members an exhibition of old-fashioned, backwoods oratory. Whenever he was at a loss for a new idea he would reach over, pick up a book and begin to read extracts from some ancient report. He sketched the art of building navies from its beginning down to the present era. He read portions of messages from the great architects of the past and present. Finally, he discussed the character of naval stations which should be erected by the United States Government.
The opposition members were becoming restless. Already three quarters of an hour had been consumed, and they wanted to bring the matter to a conclusion. They knew that they had the votes and they wanted to defeat the bill and have done with it.
"I call time," shouted one of them, "the gentleman is talking in the most trivial manner."
Carlton simulated intense indignation.
"The member is insulting," he shouted.
"I call for a vote," retorted the other.
"That's gag law," declared the member from Cleverly in his most dramatic style, "and I hope that it will never be said that such law was ever invoked by this Committee."
The result of this tirade was an extension of time. He talked until his voice became husky, all the while watching the hands of the clock. They seemed to crawl around at a snail's pace. But time moves on in spite of men and mice. Soon the timepiece pointed to ten minutes of five. Carlton talked on. The hands reached five minutes of five. The statesman continued his rambling discourse. The clock struck five. At that Hudson arose in a rage. He could risk no more delay.
"I insist upon an immediate vote," he shouted.
"And I demand a roll call on the request," retorted Carlton.
Everybody knew that this was a dilatory motion. But the purpose was accomplished. Three or four more minutes were wasted. Then the inevitable came. The final call of the roll on whether Cleverly was to have its Naval Repair Station was ordered.
Carlton sank in his seat exhausted. He had come to the end of his resources. He knew only too well that he was short one vote. Joel Phipps with his sing-song voice did his work expeditiously. Four-fifths of the names had been called and Conway had not come with his promised relief. Carlton gave one last anxious look at the door. No one was in sight. He gave a sigh—the sigh of a defeated man, and waited in a perfunctory way for the conclusion of the roll call.
CHAPTER XXV A RACE AGAINST TIME
After their talk with John Carlton, Barry and Felix left the meeting room together, and, hurrying down the corridor, emerged on the plaza fronting the Southern side of the Capitol. The boy was all a-quiver with excitement.
"What did you mean by dumping all of those reports on John Carlton?" he asked.
Conway laughed joyously.
"That's food for thought. He must feed it out to the Committee by degrees."
"What good will it do?" asked Barry, skeptically.
"It will postpone the vote on the Cleverly bill."
"But the postponement won't do any good unless Warrington gets here."
"You've hit the nail on the head."
Barry had confidence in the resourcefulness of the journalist. He felt sure that he had conceived some brilliant plan by which Warrington could be instantly and miraculously—if you will—delivered to Carlton. He wondered why Conway did not tell him all about it. His hints had not given him much satisfaction. So he spoke bluntly:
"What are you trying to do?"
The honest blue eyes of Felix twinkled. Perplexity was drowned in merriment. He threw up both hands in a gesture of abandonment.
"Blest if I know!"
Barry was so amazed at this unexpected reply that he stood stock still at the foot of the Capitol steps.
"You don't know!" he interrogated in a reproachful tone.
"No," replied the other, putting his hands in his pockets, and raising himself up and down on his heels, "I don't know."
"And you left Mr. Carlton believing that you would be back with Warrington at your heels."
"It was the only thing to do. You must never say die, my boy. Fight to the last ditch, but never surrender. There is always the possibility that something may turn up. The first and most important factor in this fight was delay. We've secured that. How long Carlton will hold that crowd is more than I can predict. After that we need an additional vote. The vote is at Wynnwood."
"Yes, I know all about that—but I don't see how this talk is going to help," cried Barry, irritably.
"Nor do I," responded the imperturbable Irishman, "but do you know that sometimes in the mere act of stating a difficulty you discover a way out of it."
The boy laughed in spite of himself.
"There's no way of getting to Wynnwood—no trains, I mean," he said.
"Quite right, and Wynnwood, being obstinate, won't come to us."
"If we could locate a wireless operator, we might flash a message to Warrington," said Barry, banteringly.
"Yes," assented the other, "or if we could pick up a flying machine that wasn't otherwise engaged, it might help some."
The boy gave a gesture of dismay.
"While we're out here fooling, Mr. Carlton is probably talking himself hoarse."
Conway suddenly broke away from Barry and started across the asphalted street.
"I've got it!" he shouted. "I've got it! The very thing!"
"What is it?" cried the boy, running after him.
"Look across the street," responded the correspondent, breathlessly, "do you see that big automobile, and do you see that red-haired youth in the front seat?"
"Yes, but I don't see the connection—yet."
"You will in a second. That's Danny Burns. He was in my class at Georgetown. He's the only son of one of the rubber kings. He has all kinds of wealth; money to burn, and oceans of time to consume it."
Before Barry could reply, Conway was hailing the young man in the automobile:
"Danny! Danny!"
The red-haired one turned around indolently.
"Why, hello, you rascal, what's the matter? Running a foot race, or is the world on fire?"
"Neither, you time-killer. I want you to give me a ride in your machine."
"Well, of all the cheek you—"
"You've invited me fifty times," interrupted Felix.
"Yes, and you've declined forty-nine."
"Hurry up, or I may change my mind."
"Jump in," shouted the young millionaire.
In a thrice Conway and Barry were in the machine. After the newspaper man had presented the boy, the amateur chauffeur turned to Felix:
"Where to?"
"Straight South, and I'll tell you all about it as we go."
As the big touring car whizzed along, the newspaper man told his college chum the story of the Cleverly bill. He explained the plight of John Carlton and told of the mysterious disappearance of Congressman Warrington. The question was whether it would be possible to reach Wynnwood and return to Washington before the meeting of the Committee was concluded.
The love of adventure was strong in Danny Burns' veins, and he listened with eager interest. When Felix finished his story, Danny turned the steering wheel over to Conway while he consulted road maps and made calculations regarding the possibility of landing Warrington in Washington at the time appointed.
"Say, Danny," cried Felix, as he reluctantly took hold of the wheel, "I don't know a blessed thing about this machine. I wish you'd run it yourself."
"Oh, it's only for a few minutes. If a chicken or a rabbit gets in your way, run over it. If it's a cow, turn aside. We don't want to help the trusts by sending beef any higher; besides it might scratch the varnish on the car."
For a man that knew nothing whatever of motoring, Felix did fairly well. Once the machine threatened to run into a barbed wire fence, and again it skidded on a slippery stretch of road, but otherwise he managed it very creditably. He was glad enough when the owner of the car relieved him.
"I figure it out that Wynnwood is nearly twenty miles from Washington. Now if we can keep up our speed both ways and do not meet with any mishaps, there is a bare possibility that we may win out—just a bare possibility."
Felix groaned.
"That means we're beaten," he said. "When a confirmed optimist becomes cautious, it makes me believe the jig's up."
"What time must you be back?" asked Burns, ignoring the reference to himself.
"Well, the bill should come up at four o'clock."
"Well, that's what I based my calculation upon. You see, it's after three o'clock now."
Barry, who had been listening to the conversation, now spoke:
"I think, Mr. Burns," he said, "that Mr. Carlton will keep the votes back until some time after four o'clock."
"Good," cried the young man, "every minute saved in that way is a minute gained."
"Sure," responded Conway, recovering his hopeful manner at once, "and if Danny could gain a few minutes more with this old tin can of a motor car, we'd come mighty near winning the race."
Danny's answer was characteristic of that spoiled darling of fortune. He pulled the lever back one or two notches and the machine shot ahead as though it were possessed of a thousand furies, each one urging the other on to greater excesses. The shock threw Conway against the cushions and made him shake his fist at his friend in pretended anger. As for Barry, the sudden rush of the machine fairly took his breath away.
They were out in the open country now on a great waste of level land where speed laws could be ignored with impunity. They soon went so swiftly that intelligible conversation was out of the question. The young page boy was enjoying it to the fullest. There was something exhilarating about it that made him close his eyes and breathe a long-drawn sigh of utter contentment. He was perfectly satisfied to remain quiet and drink in the joys of this wonderful ride.
The young page boy was enjoying it to the fullest
But even the whizzing of the wind was not sufficient to keep the youthful owner of the car from talking. From time to time he shouted in Conway's ear, taunting him with being an old fogy and offering to bet anything from a red apple to a hundred-dollar bill that he could drive the next mile faster than he had driven the last one. Felix, who was in momentary fear that the machine would be wrecked and that they would all lose their lives, permitted the jibe of his friend to go unanswered.
But the longest journeys have their end, and presently the village of Wynnwood hove in sight. Danny Burns said he knew it, because once, while suffering from temporary aberration of the mind, he had gone fishing there. He said the only house in the place was the old fisherman's cottage where unfortunate visitors were regaled with country dinners at New York prices.
So, being well acquainted with the locality, Danny kept his machine in motion until it reached the front door of the Ancient Mariner of the village. It had scarcely stopped before there was a scampering of feet within and Warrington ran out on the porch, very red in the face and too angry almost for coherent speech. The recognition of Conway caused him to emit a shriek of delight.
"Felix," he cried, "you're an angel in disguise!"
"Why?" asked the wise one, with pretended innocence.
"I've got to get back to Washington at once. I promised Carlton I'd vote for his bill. When I accepted an invitation to eat a dinner here today I had no idea that there were no trains back until four o'clock. I've been telephoning everywhere for a conveyance, but all in vain."
"It's all right," said Conway, quietly, "we came here to take you back to Washington—that is, if you want to go."
"Want to go," he retorted, angrily, "don't you dare to insinuate—"
"I insinuate nothing," was the quiet rejoinder, "but Barry Wynn heard some things last night that convinced me that you would be unable to reach the meeting today unless we came here with a motor car."
Something about Conway's manner rather than his words, caught the Congressman.
"It was a scheme on the part of Hudson's crowd then, wasn't it? I've tried hard not to think so. Conway, I thank you and the boy and your friend. Please put on steam. I want to save that bill if I can. If I fail, I give you my word that I'll make all Washington howl!"
In ten minutes they had started on their return journey. Burns drove his car at a rate that was simply scandalous. The machine ate up the road. It consumed mile after mile like a glutton whose appetite grows with what it feeds upon. Astonished farmers stood at their gate posts and gazed after the queer quartette and wondered if they were escaped lunatics. And Danny Burns, whose recklessness had passed into a proverb, sat there cherubic with delight. Conway looked at his watch. He smiled his satisfaction. He leaned over to his friend and shouted in his ear:
"Keep it up! You're doing fine! You made the last mile in less than a minute."
At that moment there was a loud report, like the shot of a rifle. There was an unaccountable slowing down of speed and the machine began to limp along like a runner whose breath is exhausted.
"What's the matter?" inquired Barry.
"Nothing," was the philosophical retort, "except that we've burst a tire."
In a few minutes Danny had all of them at work. Warrington, perspiring like a stoker in a fire-room, was jacking up the axle of the machine, while Barry was pulling away on the extra tire which the discreet Burns always carried on the back of his car.
Presently everything was as good as new, but as they started off Felix happened to glance at his watch, and what he discovered made him thump his breastbone in unavailing anger. It was half-past four o'clock, and according to schedule the Committee should be through with the Cleverly bill. He said nothing, because the time for talk had passed.
Presently they came near to the city limits and instead of slowing down, the reckless driver increased his speed. On and on they whizzed until Barry's head ached from the new sensation. They bounced up and down on their seats as though they were rubber balls. A clock in the steeple struck five.
Every one in the car felt that the Cleverly bill was dead and buried by this time. But they kept on with a grim taciturnity that would have been worthy of bigger men in a greater cause. Just as they came within view of the Capitol a young lady, followed by a fluffy little dog, crossed the track of the car. With a trial for homicide staring him in the face, Danny Burns acted with great promptness. He twisted the machine out of its course and undoubtedly saved the life of the girl, not to speak of the dog.
The car skidded up the side of the little park, the centre of which was ornamented with a miniature pond for the cultivation of lilies. The sudden twist of the steering gear gave the machine a terrific jolt. It did more than that. It threw Felix Conway and Congressman Warrington over the dasher and into the midst of the pond lilies. Barry, with the ingenuity of boyhood, clung desperately to his seat in the car.
By very good fortune, neither of the men were injured and they were able to continue their journey. But their personal appearance was a sight to excite the jeers of the frivolous—sopping wet and fantastically decorated with the clinging leaves of the water lilies.
A few minutes later the doors of the Committee room were thrown open and Barry Wynn and Danny Burns hurried into the meeting, closely followed by Felix Conway and Congressman Warrington. The big statesman was coatless. His hair was in disorder, and one end of his collar had been torn from the button. Add to this the fact that the water was dripping from his clothes and that he was fighting mad, and the rest of the scene may be imagined. The clerk, apparently, had just ceased calling the roll.
"Mr. Chairman," shouted Warrington, "I desire to record my vote on the Cleverly Naval Station bill."
There was a tense silence, and then, after a moment's deliberation, the presiding officer said in a hard, cold tone:
"I'm very sorry, but the gentleman is too late. The vote has just been taken and the bill is defeated."
Barry felt as if he would crumple up and fall on the floor in a heap. Danny Burns made his contribution to the general grief in one sentence. He said:
"It's a beastly shame!"
But John Carlton evidently had an inspiration. He was on his feet in an instant.
"I move that the vote by which the Cleverly bill was defeated be reconsidered."
The Chairman looked at him reproachfully.
"The gentleman surely knows that a motion to reconsider can only be made by a person who has voted in the negative."
"Who voted against your bill, John?" cried Warrington, in fine disregard of parliamentary law.
"Curwood, for one."
Warrington lurched over to Curwood. He faced him in a menacing attitude.
"Move to reconsider," he shouted, hoarsely.
Before Curwood realized what he was doing, he had made the motion. The vote to reconsider carried and then the bill was once more placed before the members of the Committee. When Warrington's name was called, his loud "aye" reverberated through the capital. The clerk handed the tally to the Chairman. He put on his glasses and read it to the members:
"The new Naval Repair Station for Cleverly carries by a vote of 10 to 9."
Amid the applause that followed; John Carlton threw his arms around the lily-bespattered form of Warrington and actually hugged him. Barry, on his part, shook hands hysterically with Conway and then with Danny Burns, and all three seemed to enjoy the performance very much.
CHAPTER XXVI THE HOME COMING
It was the last day of the session, and everyone at the Capitol was laboring under a great strain. The national legislators, with characteristic unwisdom, were trying to crowd the work of three or four weeks into three or four hours.
Several important bills remained to be acted upon. One of these was the General Appropriation bill, which included among its numerous items, a provision to pay for the erection of the Naval Repair Station at Cleverly.
As John Carlton was going into the Capitol with Barry Wynn by his side, Felix Conway greeted the man and the boy:
"How are you feeling after the battle?" he cried.
"Fine," was the genial response of the Congressman.
"Do you think your bill will go through all right this morning?"
"Sure! It becomes a part of what we call the omnibus bill, and as that measure provides for a dozen different objects, I think there will be a general disposition to let it go through without any further change."
Conway shook his head.
"That sounds all right, but if I were you I'd keep my eye on Hudson."
"Oh, Hudson's all right," declared Carlton, "he assured me a little while ago that he would vote for the bill."
Conway looked puzzled.
"Well, that's funny," he said, finally.
"Nothing funny about it. Why, at the session only last night I voted for a bill that he was interested in."
The journalist seemed petrified with astonishment. When he was able to voice his feeling he emitted two startled words:
"You did!"
"Certainly, I did. It was a proper bill and one that should have been passed. I harbor no resentment against Hudson. He is human, that's all; only he was a little more human than most people. He thought I had done him a wrong and he tried to get even with me. I must admit that I do not particularly admire his methods, but I can assure you that I cherish no resentment whatever against him."
Conway whistled—his favorite way of expressing unusual emotion.
"What did Hudson say when you voted with him?"
Carlton laughed.
"He came over and thanked me. He did more than that. He said he was sorry that he had struck below the belt and promised me he would never do it again."
Conway looked at his friend with undisguised admiration.
"Well," he said, "it's no wonder that you are successful. A man who is as charitable as you are doesn't deserve to have any enemies."
The trio laughingly separated, and Carlton hurried into the House, followed by his young friend. He busied himself at his desk for a few minutes and then said:
"Barry, that omnibus bill will go through in a few minutes and after it has been signed by the Speaker of the House and the President of the Senate, I want you to take it in to a gentleman sitting at a desk in that room yonder."
He pointed to a little doorway leading to an apartment finished in marble. Barry was about to ask who the gentleman was when his attention was distracted by a Congressman calling to him.
The greatest commotion prevailed in the House. Everyone seemed to be doing a different thing at the same time. The Speaker pounded his desk; the clerk called the roll; members indulged in short, snappy debates, while the page boys rushed in every direction, tripping over each other's heels and otherwise adding to the general din and confusion. But in spite of the appearance of chaos, the members had settled down to business and were engaged in steadily passing upon bills that yet remained to be considered. Minor legislation, of course, was out of the question. Only three or four of the big bills, like the General Appropriation bill, the Naval programme, the Public Buildings bill, and the Rivers and Harbors bill, were given a place on the calendar.
The House had been in session about an hour when the Speaker summoned Barry Wynn to his side. He had a document before him and had just finished appending his signature to it.
"Barry," he said, in a kindly tone, "take this bill over to the presiding officer of the Senate and have him place his autograph directly below my own."
The page boy did as he was told and returned in a few minutes. The Clerk of the House, who seemed to have eyes in the back of his head, beckoned to him as soon as he reached the desk.
"Go right into that room," he said, "and get the final signature to this piece of legislation."
Barry wonderingly followed instructions. He opened the door leading into the marble room and was greeted by a clerk, who motioned him toward a pleasant looking gentleman, who sat at a big table, signing bills as fast as they were handed to him. He told Barry to take a seat and glanced over the bill hastily. After that he accepted a pen which was handed to him by one of the bystanders and placed his autograph at the bottom of the bill. It only needed a glance to tell Barry that he was once again in the presence of the President of the United States. He beckoned to Barry. The boy went to his side, and the Chief Magistrate handed him the pen with which he had signed the bill.
"My son," he said, "take this home with you as a souvenir. I understand that you have been very much interested in this legislation, and I think you deserve this little token as a reminder of the success of John Carlton and yourself."
Barry, beaming with delight, hurried to his patron and friend and told him what had taken place. The Congressman smiled indulgently.
"He told me he would do it," he said, in a musing tone, "and I never yet knew him to forget a promise."
Congress sat in session until very late that night, but at the suggestion of Congressman Carlton, Barry made arrangements to return home on the first train the following day. Mrs. Johnson helped him to pack his trunk and he left her home-like boarding house with a feeling of genuine regret. But when he went to the train he did not go alone. He took with him his good friend and confidant, Joe Hart, who, after much urging, had consented to spend a fortnight at the Wynn home in Cleverly. To the delight of the two boys, John Carlton was on the same train and with him was his enthusiastic admirer, Felix Conway.
All four were destined to be treated to a surprise when they reached the little railroad station at Cleverly. The train had scarcely slowed up when the blare of a brass band was heard, and looking out, the embarrassed Congressman discovered that almost the entire population of the city had come to the station to welcome him home and to celebrate his success in winning the new Naval Repair Station for his native place.
Barry's mother was on the platform, in the forefront of the crowd, and he leaped from the train and was soon locked in her arms. In the meantime the procession was forming; an open barouche, drawn by two black horses, had been provided for John Carlton, and Felix Conway, because of his loyalty and devotion to Carlton, was given a seat beside the Congressman. Daniel Smithers, school teacher and philosopher, was chief marshal of the procession, an honor that he carried blushingly and with all due modesty. His assistants were Postmaster Ford and Hiram Blake.
Chief Marshal Smithers, as if by inspiration, insisted that Barry Wynn and Joe Hart, should Occupy the other seat in the carriage with Congressman Carlton and Felix Conway. They climbed in amidst the applause of the crowd, and in a few minutes the procession had started on its way, while the band played in quick succession, "Hail to the Chief," "The Star Spangled Banner," and "There'll be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight."
Up one street and down another it proceeded, the enthusiasm growing more intense with each passing minute. Presently they passed the home of Barry Wynn, and at that point the crowd, as if in sympathy with the significance of the occasion, redoubled its cheers and applause. As the barouche, containing the four chief persons in the parade, passed on its way, Barry instinctively turned his head, and the last thing he saw with his tear-dimmed eyes, was the figure of his dear mother standing on the edge of the porch, frantically waving a tiny lace handkerchief.