Chapter VIII
McQuade and Martin entered a cafe popular for its noon lunches. It was hot weather in July, and both were mopping their bald foreheads, their faces and necks. The white bulldog trotted along behind, his tongue lolling out of his mouth and his eyes heavy. The two men sat down in a corner under an electric fan; the dog crawled under the table, grateful for the cold stone tiling.
"What do you know about this fellow Warrington?" asked McQuade, tossing his hat on one of the unoccupied chairs.
"The fellow who writes plays?"
"Yes. What do you know about him?"
"Why, he used to peddle vegetables and now he owns a swell place on Williams Street."
"Gamble?"
"Not that I know of. I never go into Pete's myself. It wouldn't be good business. But they tell me Warrington used to drop in once in a while, when he was a reporter, and choke his salary to death over the roulette table."
"Doesn't gamble now?"
"Not in any of the joints around town."
"Drink?"
"Oh, I guess he boozes a little; but he's hard-headed and knows how to handle the stuff."
"Women?—Roast beef, boiled potatoes and musty ale for two."
"Actresses.—Say, make mine a beer.—A gay buck in New York, I understand. Used to chase around after the Challoner woman who married Bennington."
"Nothing here in town?"
"Haven't paid any attention to him. I guess he's straight enough these days."
"Tip Pete off to-day. The police will make a raid Saturday night. The ministers have been shouting again, and two or three losers have whined."
"All right. But what's all this about Warrington?" asked Martin, whose curiosity was aroused.
"I'll tell you later." The waiter returned with the platters of food, and McQuade ate without further comment or question.
Martin ate his meat in silence also, but he was busy wondering. Warrington? What had interested the boss in that swell? Humph!
These men ate quickly and digested slowly. McQuade took out two fat black cigars and passed one to Martin, who tore off the end with his teeth.
"I want to find out all there is to know about Warrington. I can't explain why just now; too many around."
"Set Bolles after him. Bolles used to be with a private detective bureau. If there's anything to learn, he'll learn it. There he is now. Hey, waiter, ask that gentleman looking for a vacant table to come over. Hello, Bolles!"
"How do you do, Mr. Martin. Hot day, Mr. McQuade."
"Sit down," said McQuade, with a nod of invitation toward the remaining vacant chair. "Cigar or a drink?"
"Bring me a little whisky—no, make it an old-fashioned cocktail. That'll be about right."
"Mr. McQuade has a job for you, Bolles, if you're willing to undertake it."
"I've got some time on my hands just now," replied Bolles. "Contract work?"
"After a fashion," said McQuade grimly. "Eat your dinner and we'll go up stairs to my office. What I have to say can't be said here."
"All right, Mr. McQuade. If it's dagos, I'll have plenty in hand in November."
"I shall want you to go to New York," said McQuade.
"New York or San Francisco, so long as some one foots the bills."
"I'll foot 'em," agreed McQuade. "Hustle your dinner. We'll wait for you at the bar."
Bolles ordered. A job for McQuade that took him to New York meant money, money and a good time. There were no more contracts till September, so the junket to New York wouldn't interfere with his regular work. He had sublet his Italians. He was free. A few minutes later he joined McQuade, and the trio went up stairs in a cloud of tobacco smoke. McQuade nodded to the typewriter, who rose and left the private office. The three men sat down, in what might be described as a one-two-three attitude: domination, tacit acceptance of this domination, and servility.
"Do you know Richard Warrington, the playwriter?"
"That snob? Yes, I know who he is, and I'd like to punch his head for him, too."
McQuade smiled. This manifest rancor on Bolles' part would make things easier than he thought.
"Well, listen. I've just been tipped that big things are going to happen this fall. That fool Donnelly has queered himself, and is making a muddle of everything he touches. Senator Henderson is a shrewd man, but he wasn't shrewd enough this time. He should have conducted his little conspiracy in his own home and not at a club where servants often find profit in selling what they hear. Henderson is going to put Warrington up for mayor."
"The hell he is!" said Bolles.
Martin's jaw dropped, and the cigar ashes tumbled down his shirt bosom.
"It's no joke," went on McQuade. "If he is nominated, he'll win. The people are wanting a change. If the Henderson people get into the City Hall, I stand to lose a fortune on contracts. You both know what that means. Warrington must never get a chance to accept."
Bolles looked at Martin. McQuade saw the look, and, interpreting it, laughed.
"These are no dime-novel days. We don't kill men to get 'em out of the way. We take a look into their past and use it as a club."
"I begin to see," said Martin. "Warrington must be side-tracked before the convention. Good. That'll be simple."
"Not very," McQuade admitted. "It's going to be a devilish hard job. You, Bolles, pack up and go to New York. I want some information regarding this young fellow's past in New York. It's up to you to get it. No faking, mind you; good substantial evidence that can be backed up by affidavits. Get the idea? Five hundred and expenses, if you succeed; your expenses anyhow. Five hundred is a lot of money these days. But if you go on a bat, I'll drop you like a hot brick, for good and all. Think it over. Pack up to-night, if you want to. Here's a hundred to start with. Remember this, now, there must be a woman."
"A woman?"
"Yes. A man has no past, if there isn't a woman in it."
"I can land that five hundred," Bolles declared confidently. "I can find the woman. I'll write you every other day."
"Well, then, that's all. Good luck. No boozing while you're on the job Afterward I don't care what you do. By-by."
Bolles took his dismissal smilingly. Five hundred. It was easy.
"If it's possible, he'll do it," said Martin. "But what's your campaign?"
"Donnelly must remain another term. After that, oblivion. There'll be bids this fall. If Henderson's man wins, there'll be new aldermen. These bids of mine must go through and gas must be kept at a dollar-fifty. I'm a rich man, but at present I'm up to my neck in southern contracts that aren't paying ten cents on the dollar. Herculaneum's got to foot the bill."
"How'd you find out about Henderson's coup?"
"One of the waiters at his club said he had some information. I gave him ten dollars for something I'd have given ten hundred for just as quickly. If Henderson had sprung Warrington in September, we'd have been swamped. Now we have a good chance to hang on."
"Force him to back down and withdraw?"
McQuade nodded.
"It's simply got to be done. I didn't give Henderson credit for so clever a move as this. A new man, famous and wealthy, under no obligations to his party; the voters would follow him just for the novelty of the thing. Besides, there are other reasons, but I'm keeping them to myself. How about that pavement deal in John Street?"
John Street possessed but three or four houses. The paving would be a ten-thousand-dollar job. As a witty political speaker once said, they paved Herculaneum in the concrete and in the abstract.
"It will go through Monday night, smooth as butter."
"Canvassed the boys?"
"More than three-fourths vote. Sure."
"I'm depending upon you."
"Will you turn down Donnelly at the convention?"
"I tell you he's got to run again. I'll bring him to order, after a little heart-to-heart talk. He's the only man in sight."
"Why not play the same game as Henderson?"
"I've thought it all out. There's no one but Donnelly. Pick up anything you can about Warrington."
"All right. By the way, the boys want to know if you think we can pull off those ten-round bouts this winter."
"I'm going down to the capital to see."
Martin telephoned for his team, and twenty minutes later he was driving countryward. McQuade dictated a few letters, one of which he directed to be sent by messenger. Then he left the office and called upon the editor of the Times. This conference lasted an hour. McQuade was chief owner of the Times.
Warrington was greatly surprised when, at three-thirty, a message was brought to him requesting him briefly and politely to do Mr. McQuade the honor to call on him between four and five that afternoon. He had met McQuade at the Chamber of Commerce dinner. The introduction had been most formal. What the deuce did McQuade wish to see him about? Should he go? A natural aversion to the man said no; but policy urged him as well as curiosity. He went to the telephone and called up McQuade's office. Mr. McQuade was not in, but would return at four. Ah! It was the typewriter who spoke. Would she kindly notify Mr. McQuade on his return that Mr. Warrington would be at his office at four-thirty? She would. Thanks.
Warrington smoked uneasily. He had no desire to meet McQuade. Their ways were widely separated and reached nothing in common. But he readily recognized the fact that McQuade was not a man such as one might heedlessly antagonize. What could the politician want of the literary man? McQuade dabbled in racing horses; perhaps he had a horse to sell. In that event, they would meet on common ground. But his belief in this possibility was only half-hearted. He filled his pockets with cigars, whistled for the dog, and departed. Both of the Bennington houses were closed; the two families were up north in the woods.
Promptly at four-thirty Warrington and his dog entered the elevator of the McQuade Building and were dislodged on the third floor. They went along the dim corridor, scrutinizing doors, each hunting for one of his kind. Jove couldn't read, but he could smell. Finally Warrington came to a stand. Upon the glass panel of the door he read:
Daniel McQuade & Co.
General Contractors
He did not knock. He opened the door and walked in. It is a sign of weakness for a man to knock on the door of a business office, unless it is marked private, Nevertheless, the dingy glass had known the knock of many knuckles. A girl was hammering on the typewriting machine. She ceased only when she completed the page. She looked up. Her expression, on seeing who the visitor was, changed instantly. It was not often that a man like this one entered the office of Daniel McQuade and Company, General Contractors.
"I have an appointment with Mr. McQuade," said Warrington pleasantly; "would you mind announcing me?"
"Just a moment," answered the girl, rising and entering the private office. She returned at once. "Mr. McQuade will see you."
Warrington walked quietly into the lion's den.
"Glad to see you, Mr. Warrington," said McQuade, pointing toward a chair. He did not offer his hand; something told him not to make that mistake.
From under the desk McQuade's dog emerged, stiff and bristling. On his side, Jove stood squarely on his legs, head on, as they say, his lips writhing and quivering with rage. Warrington touched the chair that had been offered him. Jove begged. But the master was obdurate. Jove jumped up, but turned quickly. The white dog stopped. He recognized that he was at a complete disadvantage.
McQuade watched these proceedings with an amused twinkle. It was a clever manoeuver. So far as he was concerned, a good dog fight would not have been to his distaste.
"It doesn't hurt the brutes to light once in a while. But, of course," he added, "your dog is old."
"Nothing is old till it is useless."
"An epigram from one of your plays?"
"No; but it sounds good enough to use. Jove has strong teeth, however, and he comes from a fighting family. But for my part, I had much rather see two men pummel each other."
"So would I, for that matter." McQuade pushed the match-box toward Warrington, but Warrington drew out his own and struck a light. McQuade shrugged.
"Mr. McQuade, I am interested to learn what is back of your note. Horses?"
"No; not horses."
McQuade viewed the young man through half-closed eyes. The contractor was a big hulk of a man, physically as strong as a bull, with reddish hair, small twinkling eyes, a puffy nose mottled with veins, thin lips shaded by a bristling red mustache, and a heavy jaw. The red fell of hair on his hands reminded Warrington of a sow's back. Everything about McQuade suggested strength and tensity of purpose. He had begun work on a canal-boat. He had carried shovel and pick. From boss on a railway section job he had become a brakeman. He took a turn at lumbering, bought a tract of chestnuts and made a good penny in railroad ties. He saved every dollar above his expenses. He bought a small interest in a contracting firm, and presently he became its head. There was ebb and tide to his fortunes but he hung on. A lighting contract made him a rich man. Then he drifted into politics; and now, at the age of fifty, he was a power in the state. The one phase of sentiment in the man was the longing to possess all those obstacles that had beset his path in the days of his struggles. He bought the canal-boat and converted it into a house-boat; he broke the man who had refused him a job at the start; he bought the block, the sidewalk of which he had swept; every man who stood in his way he removed this way or that. He was dishonest, but his dishonesty was of a Napoleonic order. He was uneducated, but he possessed that exact knowledge of mankind that makes leaders; and his shrewdness was the result of caution and suspicion. But like all men of his breed, he hated with peculiar venom the well-born; he loved to grapple with them, to wrest their idleness from them, to compel them to work for a living, to humiliate them. The fiber in McQuade was coarse; he possessed neither generosity nor magnanimity; the very men who feared him held him in secret contempt.
"No, Mr. Warrington, I haven't any horses for sale to-day," he began. "Not very long ago you met Senator Henderson at your club. He offered you the nomination for mayor this fall, and you accepted it."
Warrington could not repress a start of surprise. He had not quite expected this. He was annoyed.
"That is true. What mystifies me," he supplemented, "is how this knowledge came to your ears."
"I generally hear what's going on. My object in asking you to call is to talk over the matter on a friendly basis."
"I can not see what good that will do. Politically we have nothing in common."
"Politically or socially. But the point is this. What have you done that you should merit this honor? I'll talk frankly. What have you done toward the building up of your city? What have you done toward its progress in manufacturing and building? You have done nothing but buy a house on the fashionable street and pay the taxes."
"You might add that I once peddled vegetables," said Warrington.
It was McQuade's turn to be surprised. From what he had observed of fashionable people, especially the new-rich, they endeavored to submerge altogether the evidences of past manual and menial labor.
"Then you are not ashamed of the fact that you sold vegetables?"
"In truth, I'm rather proud of it. It was the first step in the fight. And I tell you honestly, Mr. McQuade, that I have fought every inch of the way. And I shall continue to fight, when there's anything worth fighting for. I'm not a manufacturer or a builder, but I am none the less eligible for public office. What little money I have was made honestly, every penny of it. It was not built on political robbery and the failures of others. But let us come to the point. You have something to say."
"Yes. I have. And it is this: I don't propose to have you meddle with the politics of this city. I hope we can come to a peaceful understanding. I don't want to war against you."
"Mr. McQuade, you talk like a man out of his senses. Who's going to prevent me from accepting the nomination?"
"I am," answered McQuade, bringing a fist down on his desk.
The dogs growled. They seemed to realize that war of some kind was in the air.
"How?" asked Warrington. The man was a fool!
"You will go to Senator Henderson and tell him that you have reconsidered."
Warrington laughed. "I believed I knew all phases, but this one surpasses any I ever heard of. You have the nerve to ask me, of the opposition party, to refuse the nomination for mayor?"
"I have."
"Are you afraid of me?"
"Not of you, my lad," McQuade answered sardonically, spreading out his great hands. "Do I look like a man afraid of anything? But the thought of a stranger becoming mayor of Herculaneum rather frightens me. Let us have peace, Mr. Warrington."
"I ask nothing better."
"Withdraw."
"I never withdraw. I am not afraid of anything. I even promise to be good-natured enough to look upon this meeting as a colossal joke." Warrington's cigar had gone out. He relighted it coolly. "If the nomination is offered me, I shall accept it; and once having accepted it, I'll fight, but honorably and in the open. Look here, McQuade, don't be a fool. You've something against me personally. What is it? If I recollect, I ran across you once or twice when I was a newspaper man."
McQuade's eyes narrowed again.
"Personally, you are nothing to me," he replied; "politically, you are a meddler, and you are in my way."
"Oh, I am in your way? That is to say, if I am elected, there'll be too much honesty in the City Hall to suit your plans? I can readily believe that. If you can convince me that I ought not to run for mayor, do so. I can accept any reasonable argument. But bluster will do no good. For a man of your accredited ability, you are making a poor move, even a fatal one."
"Will you withdraw?"
"Emphatically no!"
"All right. Whatever comes your way after this, don't blame me. I have given you a fair warning."
"You have threatened."
"I can act also. And you can put this in your pipe, Mr. Warrington, that before October comes round, when the Republican convention meets, you will withdraw your name quickly enough. This is not a threat. It's a warning. That's all. I'm sorry you can't see the matter from my standpoint."
"Come, boy," said Warrington to his dog. "You had better keep your animal under the table."
McQuade did not move or answer. So Warrington grasped Jove by the collar and led him out of the private office. McQuade heard the dramatist whistle on the way to the elevator.
"So he'll fight, eh?" growled McQuade. "Well, I'll break him, or my name's not McQuade. The damned meddling upstart, with his plays and fine women! You're a hell of a dog, you are! Why the devil didn't you kill his pup for him?"
McQuade sent a kick at the dog, who dodged it successfully, trotted out to the typewriter and crawled under the girl's skirts.
Warrington went home, thoroughly angry with himself. To have bandied words and threats with a man like McQuade! He had lowered himself to the man's level. But there were times when he could not control his tongue. Education and time had not tamed him any. Withdraw? It would have to be something more tangible than threats.
"Richard, you are not eating anything," said his aunt at dinner that evening.
"I'm not hungry, Aunty. It's been one of those days when a man gets up wrong."
"I'm sorry. Doesn't the play go along smoothly?"
"Not as smoothly as I should like."
"There was a long-distance call for you this afternoon. The Benningtons want you to come up at once instead of next week."
Warrington brightened perceptibly. He went to work, but his heart wasn't in it. The interview with McQuade insisted upon recurring. Why hadn't he walked out without any comment whatever? Silence would have crushed McQuade. He knew that McQuade could not back up this threat; it was only a threat. Bah! Once more he flung himself into his work.
Half an hour later the door-bell rang.
Chapter IX
Character is a word from which have descended two meanings diametrically opposed to each other. We say a man has a character, or we say he is one; The first signifies respect; the second, a tolerant contempt. There exists in all small communities, such as villages, towns, and cities of the third class, what is known as a character. In the cities he is found loafing in hotel lobbies or in the corridors of the City Hall; in the hamlet he is usually the orator of the post-office or the corner grocery. Invariably his wife takes in washing, and once in a while he secures for her an extra order. If he has any children, they live in the streets. He wears a collar, but seldom adds a tie. He prides himself on being the friend of the laboring man, and a necktie implies the worship of the golden calf. He never denies himself a social glass. He never buys, but he always manages to be introduced in time. After the first drink he calls his new friend by his surname; after the second drink it is "Arthur" or "John" or "Henry," as the case may be; then it dwindles into "Art" or "Jack" or "Hank." No one ever objects to this progressive familiarity. The stranger finds the character rather amusing. The character is usually a harmless parasite, and his one ambition is to get a political job such as entails no work. He is always pulling wires, as they say; but those at the other end are not sensitive to the touch. On dull days he loiters around the police court and looks mysterious. Cub reporters at first glance believe him to be a detective in disguise.
Herculaneum had its character. He was a pompous little man to whom the inelegant applied the term of runt. He never could have passed the army examination, for he had no instep. He walked like a duck, flat-footed, minus the waddle. He was pop-eyed, and the fumes of strong drink had loosened the tear-ducts so that his eyes swam in a perennial mist of tears. His wife still called him William, but down town he was Bill. He knew everybody in town, and everybody in town knew him. There was a time when he had been on intimate terms with so distinguished a person as Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene. He will tell you to this day how he was wont to dandle her on his knee. Bill was one of those individuals of whom it is said: "He means well." In other words, he was a do-nothing, a ne'er-do-well. He had been comparatively rich once, but he had meant well with his money. One grand splurge, and it was all over. Herculaneum still recollects that splurge. When in his cups, Bill was always referring to those gorgeous days. Afterward, Bill and his family lived from hand to mouth. Occasionally, at Christmas, some of his old friends who felt sorry for him sent him a purse. Did Bill purchase turkey and coal and potatoes? No, indeed. He bought useless French toys for the children, who went hungry. Another time, when heartless winter returned and the price of coal went up, a church social was arranged for Bill's benefit. It netted him nearly a hundred dollars. But Bill didn't pay his landlord and grocer; not he! He came down town the following day with a shiny plug-hat and a gold-headed cane.
Bill was a first-class genealogist. He could tell you the history of every leading family in town. It took Bill to expose the new-rich; he did it handsomely. The way these breakfast millionaires lorded and landaued it highly amused him. Who were they, anyhow? Coal-heavers, hod-carriers, stock-speculators, riffraff, who possessed an ounce of brains and a pound of luck. Why, they didn't even know how to spend their money when they got it. But what could be expected of people who put iron dogs and wooden deers on their front lawns? But the Benningtons, the Haldenes, and the Winterflelds, and the Parkers,—they had something to brag about. They were Bunker Hillers, they were; they had always had money and social position. As for the Millens, and the Deckers, and the McQuades—pah!
Bill had a wonderful memory; he never forgot those who laughed at him and those who nodded kindly. He was shiftless and lazy, but he had a code of honor. Bill could have blackmailed many a careless man of prominence, had he been so minded. But a man who had once dined a governor of the state could do no wrong. His main fault was that he had neglected to wean his former greatness; he still nursed it. Thus, it was beneath his dignity to accept a position as a clerk in a store or shop. The fact that his pristine glory was somewhat dimmed to the eyes of his fellow citizens in no wise disturbed Bill. Sometimes, when he was inclined to let loose the flood-gates of memory, his friends would slip a quarter into his palm and bid him get a drink, this being the easiest method of getting rid of him.
Bill marched into the Warrington place jauntily. He wore a tie. Jove ran out and sniffed the frayed hems of his trousers. But like all men of his ilk, he possessed the gift of making friends with dogs. He patted Jove's broad head, spoke to him, and the dog wagged what there was left of his tail. Bill proceeded to the front door and resolutely rang the bell. The door opened presently.
"Is Richard in?" Bill asked. He had had only two drinks that evening.
"Mr. Warrington is in," answered the valet, with chilling dignity. "What is your business?"
"Mine!" thundered Bill, who had a democratic contempt for a gentleman's gentleman. "I have important business to transact with your master. Take this card in to him. He'll see me."
The valet looked at the greasy card. The name was written in ink; the card was of the kind one finds in hotels for the convenience of the guests.
"I will take the card to Mr. Warrington," the valet promised reluctantly. There was, however, a barely perceptible grin struggling at the corners of his mouth. He was not wholly devoid of the sense of humor, as a gentleman's gentleman should at all times be.
"William Osborne? What the deuce does he want here?" asked Warrington impatiently.
"He said his business was important, sir. If it is half as important as he acts—"
"No comments, please. Show Mr. Osborne in."
Warrington turned all his mail face-downward. He knew Bill of aforetime, in the old newspaper days. Bill had marvelously keen eyes, for all that they were watery. The valet ushered him into the study. He wore his usual blase expression. He sat down and drew up his chair to the desk.
"Well, Mr. Osborne, what's on your mind to-night?" Warrington leaned back.
"The truth is, Richard," began William, "I found this letter on the pavement this afternoon. Guess you'd been down to the hotel this afternoon, and dropped it. I found it out in front. There was no envelope, so I couldn't help reading it."
Warrington seized the letter eagerly. It was the only letter of its kind in the world. It was enchanted.
"Mr. Osborne, you've done me a real service. I would not take a small fortune for this letter. I don't recollect how I came to lose it. Must have taken it out and dropped it accidentally. Thanks."
"Don't mention it, my boy." Very few called him Mr. Osborne.
"It is worth a good deal to me. Would you be offended if I gave you ten as a reward?"
"I'd feel hurt, Richard, but not offended," a twinkle in the watery eyes.
Warrington laughed, drew out his wallet and handed William a crisp, crackly bank-note. It went, neatly creased, into William's sagging vest-pocket.
"Have a cigarette?" asked Warrington.
"Richard, there's one thing I never did, and that's smoke one of those coffin-nails. Whisky and tobacco are all right, but I draw the line at cigarettes."
Warrington passed him a cigar. William bit off the end and lighted it. He sniffed with evident relish.
"Seems impossible, Richard, that only a few years ago you were a reporter at the police station. But I always said that you'd get there some day. You saw the dramatic side of the simplest case. I knew your father. He was one of the best farmers in the county. But he didn't know how to invest his savings. He ought to have left you rich."
"But he didn't. After all, it's a fine thing to make for the good things in life and win them yourself."
"That's true. You're a different breed from some of these people who are your neighbors. We're all mighty proud of you, here in Herculaneum. What you want to do is to get into politics." Here Bill winked mysteriously. "You've money and influence, and that's what counts."
"I'm seriously thinking the thing over," returned Warrington, not quite understanding the wink.
"Everything's on the bum in town; it wants a clean bill. McQuade must go. The man never keeps a promise. Told me in the presence of witnesses, last election, that he'd give me a job on the new police board; and yet after election he put in one of those whipper-snappers who know nothing. Of course, you've been in town long enough to know that Donnelly is simply McQuade's creature. I never had any luck."
"Oh, it may change by and by." Warrington, at that moment, felt genuinely sorry for the outcast.
Bill twirled his hat. "You've never laughed at me, Richard; you've always treated me like a gentleman, which I was once. I didn't mail that letter because I wanted to see if you had changed any. If you had become a snob, why, you could fight your blamed battles yourself; no help from me. But you're just the same. I've brought something that'll be of more use to you than that letter, and don't you forget it."
"What?" asked Warrington skeptically.
Suddenly Bill leaned forward, shading his voice with his hand. "I was in Hanley's for a glass of beer this noon. I sat in a dark place. The table next to me was occupied by Martin, McQuade, and a fellow named Bolles."
"Bolles?"
"You've been away so long you haven't heard of him. He handles the dagos during election. Well, McQuade was asking all sorts of questions about you. Asked if you gambled, or drank, or ran around after women."
Warrington no longer leaned back in his chair. His body assumed an alert angle.
"They all went up to McQuade's office. The typewriter is a niece of mine. McQuade has heard that the senator is going to spring your name at the caucus. But that's a small matter. McQuade is going to do you some way or other."
"What do you mean?"
"Why, he sees that his goose is cooked if you run. He's determined that he won't let you."
Warrington laughed; there was a note of battle in his laughter. "Go on," he said.
"Nobody knew anything about your habits. So McQuade has sent Bolles to New York. He used to be a private detective, He's gone to New York to look up your past there. I know Bolles; he'll stop at nothing. McQuade, however, was wise enough to warn him not to fake, but to get real facts."
This time Warrington's laughter was genuine.
"He's welcome to all he can find."
"But this isn't all. I know a printer on the Times. To-morrow the whole story about your accepting the senator's offer will come out. They hope the senator will be forced to change his plans. They think the public will lose interest in your campaign. Surprise is what the public needs. I'll tell you something else. Morris, who died last week, had just sold out his interest in the Telegraph to McQuade. This means that McQuade has the controlling interest in every newspaper in town. I never heard of such a thing before; five newspapers, Democratic and Republican, owned by a Democratic boss."
Warrington smoked thoughtfully. This man McQuade was something out of the ordinary. And he had defied him.
"I am very much obliged to you, Osborne. If I win out, on my word of honor, I'll do something for you."
"You aren't afraid of McQuade?" anxiously.
"My dear Mr. Osborne, I am not afraid of the Old Nick himself. I'll give this man McQuade the biggest fight he has ever had. Bolles will have his pains for nothing. Any scandal he can rake up about my past will be pure blackmail; and I know how to deal with that breed."
"McQuade will try something else, then. He's sworn to stop you. I'm glad you aren't afraid of him."
"I can't thank you enough."
"I wander about town a good deal; nobody pays much attention to me; so lots of things fall under my notice. I'll let you know what I hear. You'll find all the decent people on your side, surprise or no surprise. They're tired of McQuade and Donnelly; Some of these paving deals smell. Well, I'm keeping you from your work." Bill rose.
"Help yourself to these cigars," said Warrington gratefully, passing the box.
Bill took three.
"Good night, Richard."
"Good night, Mr. Osborne. If by any good luck I become mayor of Herculaneum, I'll not forget your service to-night."
"That's all that's necessary for me;" and Bill bowed himself out. He layed his course for his familiar haunts.
Warrington turned to his work again. But the news he had just received disturbed all connected thought, so he put the manuscript away. So the first gun had been fired! They had sent a man to hunt up his past in New York. He looked back, searching this corner and that, but he could not recall anything that would serve McQuade's purpose. No man is totally free from folly. True, there was a time when he drank, but he had stopped that idiocy nearly two years before. This could not be tallied against him with effect. And, thank God, there had been no women. His gambling had been of the innocuous kind. Well, let them hunt; much good it would do them.
He picked up the letter which Osborne had so fortunately come upon. He was often amused at the fascination it held for him. He would never meet the writer, and yet not a day passed that he did not strive to conjure up an imaginative likeness. And he had nearly lost it. The creases were beginning to show. He studied it thoroughly. He held it toward the light. Ah, here was something that had hitherto escaped his notice. It was a peculiar water-mark. He examined the folds. The sheet had not been folded originally, letter-wise, but had been fiat, as if torn from a tablet. He scrutinized the edges and found signs of mucilage. Here was something, but it led him to no solution. The post-office mark had been made in New York. To trace a letter in New York would be as impracticable as subtracting gold from sea-water. It was a tantalizing mystery, and it bothered him more than he liked to confess. He put the letter in his wallet, and went into the sewing-room, where his aunt was knitting. The dear old lady smiled at him.
"Aunty, I've got a secret to tell you."
"What is it, Richard?"
"I'm going to run for mayor."
The old lady dropped her work and held up her hands in horror.
"You are fooling, Richard!"
"I am very serious, Aunty."
"But politicians are such scamps, Richard."
"Somebody's got to reform them."
"But they'll reform you into one of their kind. You don't mean it!"
"Yes, I do. I've promised, and I can't back down now."
"No good will come of it," said the old lady prophetically, reaching down for her work. "But if you are determined, I suppose it's no use for me to talk. What will the Benningtons say?"
"They rather approve of the idea. I'm going up there early to-morrow. I'll be up before you're down. Good night." He lightly kissed the wrinkled face.
"Have a good time, Richard; and God bless my boy."
He paused on the threshold and came back. Why, he did not know. But having come back, he kissed her once again, his hands on her cheeks. There were tears in her eyes.
"You're so kind and good to an old woman, Richard."
"Pshaw! there's nobody your equal in all the world. Good night;" and he stepped out into the hall.
The next morning he left town for the Benningtons' bungalow in the Adirondacks. He carried his fishing-rods, for Patty had told him that their lake was alive with black bass. Warrington was an ardent angler. Rain might deluge him, the sun scorch, but he would sit in a boat all day for a possible strike. He arrived at two in the afternoon, and found John, Kate and Patty at the village station. A buckboard took them into the heart of the forest, and the penetrating, resinous perfumes tingled Warrington's nostrils. He had been in the woods in years gone by; not a tree or a shrub that he did not know. It was nearly a two hours' drive to the lake, which was circled by lordly mountains.
"Isn't it beautiful?" asked Patty, with a kind of proprietary pride.
"It is as fine as anything in the Alps," Warrington admitted. "Shall we go a-fishing in the morning?"
"If you can get up early enough."
"Trust me!" enthusiastically.
"I netted one this morning that weighed three pounds."
"Fish grow more rapidly out of water than in," railingly.
"John, didn't that bass weigh three pounds?" Patty appealed.
"It weighed three and a half."
"I apologize," said Warrington humbly.
"How's the politician?" whispered Kate, eagerly.
"About to find himself in the heart of a great scandal. The enemy has located us, and this afternoon the Times is to come out with a broadside. I haven't the least idea what it will say, nor care."
"That's the proper way to talk," replied Kate approvingly. "We climbed that bald mountain yesterday. Patty took some beautiful photographs."
"The tip of your nose is beginning to peel," said Warrington irrelevantly.
"It's horrid of you to mention it. I'm not used to the sun, but I love it. Patty is teaching me how to bait a hook."
"I'd like to see a photograph of that," Warrington cried. "Say, John, is there any way of getting to-night's newspapers up here?"
"Nothing till to-morrow morning. The boat leaves the mail at night. But what's this talk about politics?" John demanded.
Warrington looked at Patty and Kate in honest amazement.
"Do you two mean to tell me," he asked, "that you have really kept the news from John?"
"You told us not to tell," said Kate reproachfully.
"Well, I see that I shall never get any nearer the truth about women. I thought sure they'd tell you, Jack, that I'm going to run for mayor this fall."
"No!"
"Truth. And it's going to be the fight of my life. I accepted in the spirit of fun, but I am dead in earnest now. Whichever way it goes, it will be a good fight. And you may lay to that, my lad, as our friend Long John Silver used to say."
He said nothing, however, of his interview with McQuade. That was one of the things he thought best to keep to himself.
"I'll harangue the boys in the shops," volunteered John, "though there's a spirit of unrest I don't like. I've no doubt that before long I shall have a fight on my hands. But I shall know exactly what to do," grimly. "But hang business! These two weeks are going to be totally outside the circle of business. I hope you'll win, Dick. We'll burn all the stray barrels for you on election night."
"There'll be plenty of them burning. But I shall be nervous till I see the Times."
"You'll have it in the morning."
Warrington sighed. Half an hour later the bungalow came into view.
The elder Bennington knew the value of hygienic living. He kept his children out of doors, summer and winter. He taught them how to ride, to hunt, to fish; he was their partner in all out-of-door games; he made sport interesting and imparted to them his own zest and vitality. So they grew up strong and healthy. He left their mental instruction to the mother, knowing full well that she would do as much on her side as he had done on his. Only one law did he lay down: the children should go to public schools till the time for higher education arrived. Then they might choose whatever seat of learning they desired. He had the sound belief that children sent to private schools rarely become useful citizens.