Washington is a city of rumors, and for some hours after the mysterious disappearance of the Cleverly bill the air was filled with stories of an approaching political war. Some of John Carlton's bitter partisans made the emphatic assertion that Joel Phipps was at the bottom of the whole business and that he had deliberately destroyed the bill in order to prevent its passage by the Committee. The Congressman was the first one to repudiate this charge.
"There is no proof whatever," he said, "that Joel Phipps is in any way responsible for the loss of the bill. I am a believer in fair play, and I want it distinctly understood that I have not in any way impugned the good faith of my colleagues or of any employé of the Committee."
"But you put the blame on the clerk at the meeting of the Committee."
"Yes," he admitted reluctantly, "I did, but it was a case of hasty judgment on my part."
"Then you acquit Phipps?"
"I have neither acquitted or convicted anyone."
"But what do you suppose became of the bill?"
"I'm sure I don't know," was the despairing reply.
In spite of John Carlton's peaceful talk, the friends and enemies of the bill seemed determined to stir strife. Some of them went so far as to say that the disappearance of the bill was a bit of trickery which had been engineered by opponents of the Administration, who took this method of punishing the Congressman for his loyalty to the President. Carlton pooh-poohed this, but in spite of his protests, the story was flashing along newspaper row. The whole thing illustrated the astonishing rapidity with which a mere rumor can grow into an accepted fact. It was like a snowball rolling down a hill. It gathered weight and momentum as it proceeded. By nightfall some of the sensational journalists were building up a story of a political war that was to involve the entire United States.
Barry missed all of this. He had been sent to Georgetown to obtain some law books for a member of Congress, and he was entirely unaware of the fate that had befallen his beloved bill. Mr. Carlton, in a half amused way, wondered how the boy would feel when he learned the news. He was at dinner in the hotel when one of the newspaper correspondents called on him to inquire whether he would make a statement concerning the great political war.
"Certainly," he said.
The young man pulled out his pencil and note book.
"It will be short," warned the Congressman.
"Very well," was the smiling rejoinder, "anything you may say will be of interest."
"Rubbish!" said the statesman.
The newspaper man looked at him curiously.
"Well, I am still waiting," he said.
"But I have given you the statement you desired," said Carlton.
"What was it?"
"Rubbish—that's all."
"Do you really mean to put that out as your answer to the charges and innuendos that are floating about Washington?"
"That is precisely what I mean. I desire to say neither more nor less. Simply state that Congressman Carlton, when questioned on this matter, said 'Rubbish.'"
While Carlton was doing his best to pour oil on the troubled waters, Hudson was, on the other hand, going about sedulously stirring up the angry passions of the legislators. Without making any direct charges, he insinuated that the proposed bill had a significance which it really did not possess. He still felt very sore over the effective manner in which Carlton had blocked the claim which he presented in the House earlier in the session. A big, broad-minded man would have accepted this defeat gracefully, but Hudson was not that type of statesman. He had a grievance and he nursed it, hoping that in the end he would succeed in revenging himself upon the even-tempered Carlton.
Carlton was still at the table, placidly eating his dinner, when Felix Conway burst into the room, his face red and his eyes staring.
"Sit down, Felix," said Carlton, "and have some dinner with me."
"I don't want any dinner. I've had all the dinner I care for."
The Congressman smiled.
"Then have a plate of ice cream. It may cool you off."
"No; nothing will cool me off, and after you hear what I have got to say, you may be a little warm yourself!"
"Well, go ahead and tell me what is on your mind."
"It's just this," cried Conway, explosively. "These fellows are going around the town trying to injure you. They're putting all sorts of false constructions on your failure to get your bill through today."
"Well, that's no more than I expected;—it's a penalty a man has to pay for being in public life."
"But you don't know what they're saying."
"No," agreed the other, placidly, "and I am not very anxious to hear."
"But," said the journalist, "you've got to listen to me."
"I am listening."
Conway fumbled in his pockets and finally pulled out copies of the evening papers. He opened one of them hurriedly and turning to an inside page, began reading some of the gossip that had been printed concerning Carlton and his bill. The writer said that the whole business had been, as he phrased it, "a grandstand play." He said that it was the belief of men who were on the inside of the Committee that the bill had been purposely sidetracked. He added that Carlton was credited with knowing all about it and that in all probability the bill would never be heard of again. As he finished reading, Conway exclaimed:
"What do you think of that?"
"Not much," was the even reply.
Felix Conway looked at his friend in hopeless amazement. He wondered if anything would arouse him. Then he opened the second paper and began to read from that. The insinuations of the second writer were worse than the first. He practically charged Carlton with having destroyed the bill himself, because he knew that it would be impossible to pass it at the pending session of Congress. He said that it was apparently better to lose the bill than to go home and admit to the people of Cleverly that he had been unable to pass it.
Conway threw both papers on the table with a gesture of anger.
"Now," he exclaimed, dramatically, "What do you think of that?"
Carlton smiled as the young man indignantly asked the question. He spoke very quietly.
"I think even less of that than I did of the first comment."
Conway seemed dazed.
"Why, you're the queerest man I ever met. Of course, you must strike back at these fellows. You don't propose to let these insinuations stand, do you?"
The Congressman leaned over and put his hand on the correspondent's shoulder, and, speaking in a tone that a father might use to his son, said:
"My boy, I don't propose to do a thing."
"Don't propose to do a thing?" echoed the other.
"No, I do not. If a lifetime of honesty and faithful service is not a sufficient answer to these false and malicious reports, then nothing I can say at this time would have any effect with the people of Cleverly."
Conway looked at him with genuine admiration.
"You've got splendid courage, anyhow," he admitted, "and if you won't answer these reports, I suppose there's nothing for me to do but go back and get out my nightly grind."
"No, Felix," said the other, with an air of finality, "there is nothing else that you can do."
"But," insisted Conway, "if you won't talk for publication, I suppose you will act for your own satisfaction. You will go after these fellows, won't you?"
"No," was the response, "I won't!"
"Well, what in the world are you going to do?"
"Do," smiled the other, "I am going to do nothing. I am going to let events take their natural course!"
It was late when Barry Wynn returned from his errand to Georgetown. The mission he had undertaken for the Sergeant-at-Arms took much longer than he anticipated. When he reached his boarding house that evening, Joe Hart and most of the other boarders had finished dinner. Barry was greatly disappointed, for he counted upon news from Joe Hart concerning the action of the Committee on Naval Affairs.
Barry, it will be remembered, had not read the evening papers or he would not have been in ignorance of the rapid-fire course of events during his absence. Indeed, it must be confessed that the matter of the Cleverly bill, of itself, did not cut much figure in the affairs of the national Capitol. It was really only in its relation to other and greater issues, that it had attracted the attention of the bright young men who supply the metropolitan newspapers with information concerning the latest moves on the national checker board.
After dinner Barry found a letter from home awaiting him. He went to his room so that he could read it in uninterrupted silence. It was a long, gossipy communication, and his mother had evidently been at great pains to give him all the news about the people of Cleverly. She was well and happy, and Hiram Blake was proving himself a most devoted brother. In fact, he had gone down into his own pocketbook on more than one occasion in order to supply her not only with the necessities but the comforts of life.
Mrs. Wynn dwelt with much satisfaction on the letters she had received from Barry. She said she had heard about him in many indirect ways. She alluded to the visit of the Cleverly delegation to Washington, and said that the men were all warmly enthusiastic about the young page boy.
Daniel Smithers had called upon her and assured her with the utmost sincerity that her son would eventually become the President of the United States. When she raised her eyebrows, he had modified his prediction by saying that the boy would at least become Governor of his native state. Then, still seeing some signs of skepticism in her eyes, he had feebly expressed the hope that Barry would at least become the Mayor of Cleverly.
And so the letter went on in an impulsive, good-natured way. It sounded like a chat by the fireside; it was all so familiar and so natural. Finally, the fond mother assured Barry that he was the biggest kind of a success, and that the few little faults, which had insisted upon popping out at inopportune moments, should be utilized by him as the means of arriving at perfection. Barry was sensible enough to realize that his mother was a partial judge, but all the same her letter gave him immense satisfaction. He felt a curious glow of contentment in his heart and he thought, as he stood before the glass combing his hair, that he was a pretty good sort of a fellow after all.
At that moment, of all others, his glance happened to fall upon an evening newspaper that had been thrown across the bed. He began to read the headlines in a perfunctory sort of way. The Cleverly bill had been postponed and possibly beaten. He ceased combing his hair and sat down on the side of the bed like a person who had been suddenly stricken with some physical ailment. Presently, he recovered his breath and read the article through. The statements they contained brought the hot blush of indignation to his cheeks. He felt in a vague sort of way that Joel Phipps must be at the bottom of all this trickery.
Mechanically he finished his toilet, thinking in a numbed way of the misfortune that had befallen Mr. Carlton. One thing he regretted, and that was the fact that he had not been there. He was not foolish enough to think it would have made any difference, but he felt somehow or other that it might have softened the blow to his benefactor.
He was preparing to go to the business school where he had made such progress in stenography and typewriting that he was almost ready to graduate. He was a tidy boy, and tonight, as on other occasions, he changed his suit so that he would make a good appearance before his fellow students. He reached for his coat, in the closet, and put it on. As he did so his attention was attracted by some crinkly substance in the inside pocket; it was bulky, too. He put his hand in and drew out the paper. The sight that met his eyes drew forth a groan of despair.
It was the missing bill—the Cleverly Naval Repair Station bill!
The whole miserable business came to him with a certainty and directness that left no room for doubt. He remembered receiving the bill from Mr. Carlton and he recalled, only too vividly, the message of the Congressman. He was to return the bill to Joel Phipps on his way to luncheon. And he had failed to do so. That was the great, big irritating fact that stuck out like a sore finger.
He thought of the consequences of his carelessness, and he actually moaned. To have failed in his duty would have been bad enough under any circumstances, but to involve the fortunes and the reputations of others was almost too dreadful to think about. He picked up the newspaper and read it through again. Every sentence was like a knife to the sensitive boy.
He remembered with a pang of remorse that Joel Phipps had been accused—at least by innuendo—of trickery. He had thought so himself. What an injustice to a man who was probably better in every way than himself! He looked on the very darkest side of the picture. Suppose, as seemed probable, that the people of Cleverly should lose the coveted Naval Station. They could charge their loss to an insignificant page boy. But that, bad as it sounded, was only one phase of the case. The incident might be the means of ending the public career of John Carlton. The thought brought tears to his eyes.
The newspapers had hinted that the disappearance of the bill would prove to be the beginning of a bitter factional warfare. He tried to dismiss the notion as absurd. And yet, greater events have proceeded from smaller causes. He remembered reading how a stupid cow, by kicking over an oil lamp in a stable, had caused the burning of the great city of Chicago.
At this point in his reflections a new and alarming question presented itself to his mind. Now that he had found the missing bill, what should he do with it? The thought made his heart beat violently. To confess that he was responsible for all the trouble seemed too humiliating to contemplate. The story had become public property. He would be drawn into the limelight. What would Mr. Carlton think? What would he say? How would the announcement of the truth be received by his opponents? They would gloat over it beyond a doubt. Already he could see the jeering face of Joel Phipps.
Suddenly an idea flashed in his mind—an idea so unexpected and yet so plausible that it made him throw himself on the bed. It was simple, and yet, at first, it was awful. It entered his mind in the shape of a question. Why should he say anything about finding the bill? Why not destroy it, or if not that, why not slip it back with the other bills without the knowledge of Joel Phipps or the members of the Committee. It would require a little ingenuity, but it could be accomplished.
He lay there on his back on the bed gazing at the ceiling, and revolving the question in his mind. There hardly seemed to be any room for debate. He had just about convinced himself that he should remain silent concerning his discovery when a clear, small voice cried out:
"Would it be square? Would it be honest? Could you look yourself in the face afterward?"
He roused himself and sat up straight in bed. He looked about him. No one was in the room. The voice that he heard was evidently the voice of his inner consciousness.
Immediately another voice, lower and more persuasive, attracted his attention. It was argumentative. What good would it do anyone, said this voice, to humiliate yourself? The harm has been done. It cannot be repaired. You only injure yourself without benefiting Mr. Carlton. Just forget that you found the bill and that will be the end of the whole, ugly business.
"But could you ever forget it?" warned the small, clear voice. "Wouldn't the remembrance of it hang over you like a heavy cloud? Beside that, wouldn't you put yourself in the position of deliberately deceiving the best friend you ever had?"
Barry jumped from the bed with a physical determination which meant that he had arrived at his decision. In his excitement and eagerness, he spoke aloud:
"I'll go to Mr. Carlton and tell him the whole story."
It had been a hard battle. It showed in his face. But the small, clear voice of conscience had won a decisive victory over the low, persuasive one of temptation. Barry was surprised at the great relief he experienced the moment he arrived at his decision. He still felt very sorry, of course, at his sin of omission, and he was wondering how he should phrase his confession. But outside of these details, his mind was no longer troubled. He had a feeling of mental tranquillity that it would be difficult to put into words.
It was hardly nine o'clock, but he resolved to find Mr. Carlton if he had to tramp the entire city of Washington to do so. He hastily finished his dressing and left the house. Mrs. Johnson was standing at the door. She noticed that his face was pale and his manner determined.
"Is there anything I can do for you, Barry?" she asked.
"No, Mrs. Johnson," he replied, lightly.
But down in his heart of hearts there was an unutterable desire to throw himself upon her bosom and tell her his troubles. How he longed at that moment for five minutes with his mother. But it was decreed that he should bear his burden alone.
He went first to John Carlton's hotel, where he was told that the Congressman had gone out an hour before, leaving word that he would not return until late that night. Barry proceeded on his way to the office building of the members of the House of Representatives. He noticed a light in Mr. Carlton's room. He was shaking now with a nervousness that he could not understand. But his purpose to make a clean breast of the mystery was unaltered and unalterable.
He paused for a moment and then knocked on the door. There was no response. The boy, waiting there like a culprit, began to hope that after all his friend might not be in his office. But he screwed up his courage to the sticking point and knocked again. A familiar voice called out:
"Come in."
The page boy opened the door and walked in the room. Mr. Carlton merely raised his eyes and said pleasantly:
"Hello, Barry; how are you?"
The boy was silent. The Congressman was so absorbed in his work that he did not notice the long pause in the conversation. When he looked up the second time he was startled at the sight that met his gaze. Barry's face was the color of chalk. He appeared to have shrivelled so much that his clothes hung from his body.
"Are you ill?" asked the statesman, with real concern in his voice.
"No," said Barry, huskily; "I've found the bill!"
"Well," laughing and surprised in the same breath, "I'm glad to hear that, but you needn't be so solemn about it."
The boy was tongue-tied. He stood on one foot and then on the other.
"Where was it found?" finally asked the Congressman.
"Where it was not lost," blurted out Barry. "I found it in my coat pocket!"
Carlton's face clouded.
"You come here to tell me this?" he said, sternly.
"Yes," nodded Barry, his eyes on the floor. "It's been an awful struggle, but I had to tell you."
John Carlton was silent for a long, long while. His eyes were never removed from the boy's face for a moment. His own jaws were set in an ugly fashion. But presently it dawned upon him that Barry was very worn and haggard. At once he relented. He spoke mildly:
His eyes were never removed from the boy's face for a moment.
"You know all the trouble you have caused?"
"Only too well," exclaimed the boy. "It was utter carelessness on my part. I would not have had it happen for the world! I—"
"You never returned the bill," interrupted Carlton.
"No; I forgot it. I changed my coat. The bill was in the inside pocket. I found it there tonight. I'm ready to pay the penalty. I'll resign my position if—"
"Barry—" began the Congressman.
"Yes, sir; yes, sir," cried the young page in his agitation, breaking into the other's remarks.
"Barry," resumed Carlton, in a voice that was singularly gentle, "you've already paid the penalty."
"Already paid it?"
"Yes—you've suffered, and you've done the manly thing by coming right to me and telling the truth."
Barry looked at him with gratitude beaming from his eyes.
"You think so?"
"I know it. We all have to pay for our sins of omission and our sins of commission. You've done the only thing that mortal can do. You're sorry; you've confessed—and, I'm sure it will be the lesson of a lifetime."
"I'm positive of that," was the fervent response.
"Well," said Carlton, rising and putting his arm about the boy's shoulder, "you can go home now and go to sleep with a good conscience."
At ten o'clock the next morning Barry Wynn walked into the rooms of the Committee on Public Buildings, and coolly handed Joel Phipps the missing bill.
"Here is a document that belongs to the Committee," he said.
Phipps looked at the bill and gasped.
"What? The Cleverly bill?"
"Yes; Mr. Carlton gave it to me to return to you before the meeting of the Committee. I forgot all about it. I found it in my coat pocket last night and went and told him. He instructed me to hand it to you this morning. I'm sorry it happened."
The clerk seemed too stunned to speak. When he recovered his breath he broke out into a string of adjectives.
"Well, of all the cheeky kids, you're about the worst I ever met," was the peroration.
"I said I was sorry," said Barry, half resentfully.
Joel sneered.
"You don't suppose you can get anyone to believe that, do you?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that it looks like a bit of tricky business on the part of Mr. Carlton and yourself."
Barry's eyes blazed.
"Don't you dare to reflect on Mr. Carlton," he cried. "He didn't know a thing about it. Besides, he defended you before the Committee. Have you forgotten that?"
Joel was mollified.
"That's so. I take back what I said about him. But it looks bad for you."
The return of the bill caused a mild sensation in Congressional circles. Most of Mr. Carlton's associates accepted the explanation by the young page. But a number of others, who desired to make political capital out of the incident, magnified its importance and tried to make it appear that the Congressman had been guilty of the folly of stealing his own bill.
When Barry heard this he was very much perturbed. He hurried to the office of his benefactor.
"I can't tell you how badly I feel, Mr. Carlton," he said; "isn't there anything I can do to make reparation for my folly?"
"No," was the mild reply, "you can do nothing more than you have done. It will be a nine days' wonder and after that it will be forgotten."
"I'll not forget it very soon," said the boy, soberly.
"No," admitted the Congressman, "and Barry, that's the worst of our faults. They leave marks that are sometimes never entirely eliminated by time. My father tried to illustrate the fact for me when I was a boy. He had a fine piece of walnut that he intended to utilize in making a piece of furniture. It was smoothly planed and polished. One rainy day, with the destructiveness of youth, I hammered it full of nails. I was not a vicious boy, but I knew that I was doing wrong."
"What did he say?" asked Barry eagerly.
"He was very much grieved, but instead of thrashing me, as I expected, he made me pull the nails out one by one. After that he gave me a plane and bade me smooth the board off as best I could. Finally I was told to putty up the holes. After that he asked me if I thought the board was as good as it had been before I disfigured it."
"Of course, it wasn't," commented Barry.
"No, it was not. The marks of the nails were still there. And he used the fact to convey a moral lesson. He told me the same thing happened every time a boy was guilty of a fault or a sin,—he damaged his character to that extent. The inference is plain. While we must do our best to repair the wrongs we do, we cannot forget that the scars still remain."
If Mr. Carlton and Barry imagined that the incident of the missing bill was closed, they were doomed to disappointment. While they were still talking, the door opened and Felix Conway came in, his forehead wrinkled with indignation. The Congressman, who was a self-contained man, could not help smiling.
"What's the matter now?"
"Matter enough," retorted the correspondent, "Hudson's playing peanut politics."
"It's the only kind he knows," was the placid retort.
"But you wouldn't think he'd fight a boy."
"What is it?" asked Carlton, with a trace of impatience. "What's he doing now?"
"He's written a letter to the Sergeant-at-Arms, demanding the dismissal of Barry Wynn on the charge of conduct unbecoming an employé of the Government. In a word, he's after the official scalp of our young friend."
John Carlton sprang from his chair, his honest face red with anger. He brought his big fist down on the desk in front of him with such force that the ink bottles danced in sympathy with his passion.
"Well, he won't get it—and you can tell him that for me."
Conway laughed in spite of himself.
"You're not taking this thing seriously too, are you?"
"So much so that I'll stake my reputation on beating Hudson."
But the journalist held up a restraining hand.
"One moment, please," he said, "this is my business, and I'd like you to keep out of it—for the present, at least."
"I'd like to know why."
"Because I have my own notion of the way in which it should be handled."
"All right, go ahead; but I don't propose to sit still and see him hurt the boy."
Barry intervened at this stage of the conversation.
"Mr. Carlton," he said, very earnestly, "I'm very grateful for your good will and your friendship, but I hope you will not permit me to stand in your way politically. I'm not blind. I know that I've brought this thing on myself, and I'm willing to take the consequences. It's not fair to ask you to bear the brunt of my faults, and I don't expect it."
"My dear Barry," said the Congressman, soothingly, "Jesse Hudson's not after you; he's after me. Now, I must either fight him or turn tail and run. Surely you wouldn't ask me—"
"No, no," said the boy, eagerly, "I never thought of that side of it."
"By the way, Conway," remarked Carlton, turning to the correspondent, "did Hudson write privately to the Sergeant-at-Arms?"
The journalist laughed.
"Not much. He gave his letter to all the newspapers. That's what made me hot. He's courting publicity, and I'll bet he gets all he wants before he is through."
"Well," said the Congressman, "what is your desire with me? I know you didn't come here just for the pleasure of denouncing Hudson."
"I want a short, snappy interview with you defending Barry from the charge of intentional wrong. Then I want a few sharp comments on what you think of a Congressman who will strike at a boy in order to revenge himself on a political opponent."
"You know how I feel."
"Yes."
"Well, make me say anything you want. Go as far as you like."
Felix Conway was not the man to do things by halves. He took John Carlton at his word and evolved an interview that was a mixture of brimstone and vitriol. It made the oldest members of the House sit up and gasp with wonder. The resourceful journalist did not stop at this. He had interviews with half a dozen Congressmen, all denouncing Hudson for his cowardice. Finally, there was a cartoon on the front page of his paper. It depicted Hudson as a giant lifting a big club marked "Revenge" against a very small page boy.
Conway made it his business to see that a copy of his paper was placed on the desk of every member. When Carlton entered the House he was surrounded by a group of members who shook hands with him, heartily congratulating him on the forceful interview they had read in the morning paper.
"It was right to the point," said one enthusiastic Westerner, "it was what we call 'hot stuff.'"
Carlton smiled at the recollection of his talk with Conway.
"I only deserve part of the praise," he said; "most of it belongs to our friend Felix. He's the brightest reporter in Washington."
Hudson, on his entrance, found that he was looked upon with coldness. He realized before long that his latest move against Carlton had been a mistake. He was furious over the counter attack which had been made against him by Felix Conway, but he was helpless to resist it. Moreover, such members as did not openly condemn his own charge against Barry Wynn, slyly ridiculed him. He could not stand that. Few public men can stand up against ridicule. So, at the first opportunity, Hudson slipped out of the House and disappeared from view.
During a lull in the proceedings Mr. Carlton left his desk and started for the office of the Sergeant-at-Arms. He met Conway in the corridor.
"Hello, where are you bound for?" asked the journalist.
"To thrash out this threat of Hudson's," was the response. "I'm going to get a copy of the charges, and then it will be a fight to the finish."
"I reckon you won't have much trouble," said Conway, with the Southern drawl that he used occasionally.
"Won't you go along to see fair play?" laughed the Congressman.
"No," was the reply, with a curious laugh. "I've got all sorts of confidence in your ability to take care of yourself, and I have no sympathy with the other fellow."
Five minutes later Carlton was facing the Sergeant-at-Arms of the House. That official, who knew him well, greeted him most hospitably.
"McDonald," said the Congressman, "I understand that charges were filed with you against Barry Wynn. Is that correct?"
"Yes, sir; it is."
"Well, sir, I'm here to answer in his behalf. I'd like to have a copy of the charges. I'm ready to answer them."
"Very sorry," said the other, with a strange smile, "but I can't oblige you."
"Why not," asked Carlton, bristling up at once.
"Because there are no charges now."
"No charges now? What do you mean?"
The Sergeant-at-Arms did an amazing thing. He winked at the Congressman. After that he spoke with a significant emphasis.
"Hudson beat you by about ten minutes; he's withdrawn the charges, and says I'm to consider them as never having been made."
Carlton looked at him blankly.
"Well, that beats the old Harry," he said, finally; "how do you account for it."
"I should say," said the other, slowly, "that Hudson's action was prompted by the force of public opinion."
"The force of public opinion?" echoed the Congressman.
"Yes," repeated McDonald, slyly, "the force of public opinion as represented by Mr. Felix Conway."
In less than a week the incident of the missing bill was relegated to the lumber room of forgotten events. As Mr. Carlton had predicted, other and more important things arose to occupy the minds of the national legislators.
But Barry Wynn did not forget the disastrous affair quite so readily. It remained in his mind as a warning for the future. It was a red light waving him away from the edge of many a dangerous precipice. But blessings often come in disguise, and eventually this lapse proved to be a good thing for the young page boy. He became more careful, accurate and painstaking. He never again postponed until "after a while" the task that could be done at once.
But in the meantime, the incident itself, while forgotten by Congressmen, led to unexpected complications. What had been a single-handed battle between Hudson and Carlton now broadened out until it became a spirited contest between those who favored the reform bills of the Administration and those who opposed them. Like most contentions of this kind, what had been a trivial matter grew to great proportions. The incident of the missing bill might have been likened to a pebble thrown into a placid stream, creating circle after circle until all of the waters were in commotion.
For the next few weeks there was a ferment of factional politics. Even those who tried to keep out of the unpleasant muss were drawn into it as the peaceful waters are sometimes sucked into a fierce eddy. Meetings, large and small, were being held every day. There were conferences, caucuses, and secret gatherings of all kinds. One morning Felix Conway sent for Barry Wynn in a great hurry.
"Barry," he said, when the boy appeared, "there is to be a very important meeting this afternoon, composed of the men who are fighting the reform measures of the Administration. I want to get a good report of that gathering, but I am afraid that if I go to the meeting the members who know me will shut up like clams and I will have my labor for my pains."
"Well," questioned Barry, "how can I help you?"
"Very easily," was the quick reply. "Your shorthand is good, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is. I think I have accuracy and speed."
"Well, you're just the boy I want. First of all, I want a list of those who are present, and after that I would like very much to get a verbatim report of the remarks of some of the principal speakers. Will you help me?"
Barry thought for a moment before replying.
"Well," he said, finally, "if you think that I am competent to do the work, I am willing to undertake it."
Conway laughed.
"There is no question at all about your competency. The only point to consider now is your courage."
"My courage?" echoed Barry.
"Yes, your courage. Some pretty hot-headed men expect to attend that meeting. If they thought that you were there to report it, they would not hesitate to take you up by the scruff of the neck and the seat of the trousers and toss you out of a convenient window."
Barry laughed at this description, and then was silent for a moment.
"Well, my boy," cried the journalist, "if you're not game I won't press the proposition."
"I am game enough," retorted Barry, "but I wouldn't want to do anything that wasn't decent."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that I would not like the notion of any underhand work. I don't take much stock in this business of peeping through keyholes and things of that kind."
Conway's face flushed.
"You don't suppose I would ask you to do anything that I wouldn't do myself, do you?"
"No."
"Well, then there is no more to be said. This is a meeting of public men to consider public business, and the public has a right to know all about it."
"But you don't care to go there yourself?" suggested Barry.
"No. For the reason that I have already told you. The sight of me would frighten those fellows, and the public would thereby be deprived of information which it has a right to."
"I'll go," cried Barry, ending the parley, "and I will promise to do the best I can for you."
The meeting was held in a secluded Committee room on the ground floor of the Capitol. There were thirty or forty men present, and when Barry reached the door of the room it was pretty well filled. Joel Phipps stood at the entrance scanning the members as they came in. Just as Barry arrived someone called Phipps to the other end of the room, and in the interval while the door was unguarded, the boy slipped in and made his way through the crowd to the last row of chairs. A tall, good-natured member, seeing him, cried out:
"What district do you represent, my boy?"
Before Barry had time to respond, another member, glancing at him, replied carelessly:
"Oh, that's one of the page boys."
When the meeting was called to order a few minutes later, Barry found himself almost hidden in a corner of the room. The men around him were so large and he was so small and so quiet that he was completely unnoticed. Joel Phipps called the roll and Barry was able to take the names down. After the members had responded to their names there was a general discussion of the various bills that were pending in the House of Representatives. Mention was made of the fact that the Administration was beginning to bring pressure to bear upon certain members in order to enact various reform measures into law.
The sensation of the meeting came when Jesse Hudson arose and made a spirited attack upon the Administration. He did not mince words. He said just what he thought, and some of his thoughts were not very pleasant. He concluded by saying that he was firmly opposed to certain reform measures that were being backed by the Administration, and that he would vote against them and hoped that other members would do the same.
One or two Congressmen followed Hudson, and spoke in a similar vein. Finally, resolutions were adopted pledging all those present to work together. The meeting adjourned after the appointment of three members for the purpose of gaining recruits among those who had not attended the meeting.
Barry, who had been taking down the proceedings in shorthand, managed to slip out of the room unobserved. He took a trolley car and went to his own room in order that he might be able to transcribe his notes without interruption. In two hours his report was in the hands of Felix Conway. They proved to be the groundwork for one of the biggest political articles that had been written for many a long day.
The following morning Conway's newspaper appeared with a great, big, exclusive story which took the Capitol by storm. It told in detail, not only the story of the meeting, but also the plans that had been formulated for the balance of the session of Congress. The rival newspaper men were furious because they realized that Conway had secured what everybody in journalistic circles call "the scoop of the session." The Congressmen who participated in the meeting were angry at this unexpected exposure, but the President and his supporters, who were backing the reform bills, were delighted beyond measure, and before nightfall Conway was complimented by a letter in the handwriting of the Chief Executive of the nation, inviting him to call at the White House.
There was no doubt about the effect of the publication of the story concerning the meeting of the Congressmen. It was a genuine sensation. It was like an unexpected explosion of a bombshell. There was a run to cover. Nearly all of those who had attended the meeting went out of their way to disavow personal responsibility for having called it together. Others, while admitting their presence at the meeting, and conceding their opposition to certain legislation, said they wanted it understood that they did not endorse all of the rash statements made by the speakers at the meeting.
Jesse Hudson found himself the centre of a raging storm. One after another of the men who had attended the meeting came to Hudson and protested against the publicity they had received.
"What do you mean by involving me in an affair of this kind?" said one big fellow from California. "I'd like to know why you selected me to pull your chestnuts out of the fire."
"You didn't object last night," retorted Hudson, hotly.
"No," was the answer, "but at that time I had no idea that the story of this meeting was to be spread broadcast."
"Nor did I," said Hudson, drily.
Before the day was over the protests became so numerous and so insistent that Hudson was driven in a corner, so to speak. He realized that he would have to do something to save himself from the sea of unpopularity in which he threatened to be engulfed. Finally he began, in a mild sort of way, to deny the truthfulness of the report in the newspaper. He thought, vaguely, that at best, it would be simply Conway's word against his own, and in such a contest, he thought he might stand a chance to come out even.
But Felix Conway was not the man to submit to an injustice of any kind. He promptly sought the Congressman and said:
"Mr. Hudson, I understand that you have questioned the accuracy of my report. I challenge you to refute any portion of it!"
Hudson was manifestly annoyed.
"I have no time to bother with you," he said. "I think you have done enough mischief, and I am too busy to be disturbed just now."
Conway laughed joyously.
"Well, I'd like it to be understood," he said, "that I am always ready for a disturbance."
"I'll give you all you want some other time," was the snappy rejoinder.
Later in the day Conway learned that while Hudson admitted that there had been a meeting, he denied the accuracy of the reported speech in which he had been placed on record as declaring himself against the President's policies. This was put out in such a plausible manner that it made an impression on more than one member; hence, before the day was over, there was a general feeling among a large number of the members that Conway, while correct in the main, had taken unwarranted liberties in reporting Hudson's speech. Conway first learned of this impression when he met the venerable statesman who was the Chairman of the Committee that had charge of the press galleries of Congress.
Senator Graves was a statesman of the old school. He wore a high silk hat and a long frock coat, and was smoothly shaven and spoke in well modulated sentences. His whole manner and appearance was against the prevailing spirit of speed.
"Conway," he said, solemnly, "I understand that you have been printing some sensational stuff. In other words, to put it plainly, I understand that you have been sending out misleading reports concerning members of Congress."
"Does anyone make the charge?" asked Conway, quickly.
"No," said the Congressman, "but the report is being circulated so persistently that it gives me great annoyance."
"I can't meet rumor," said Conway, "but if you can produce anyone who makes such a charge specifically, I shall be glad to face him."
"My dear boy," was the reply, "I don't want you to think for a moment that I have any fault to find with you. My experience is that you have never abused the privileges, or broken any of the rules which govern the press galleries of the House or Senate. You know as well as I do how carefully we have tried to guard these privileges, and the measures that have been taken to keep unworthy persons from obtaining access to the floors or galleries of Congress."
"I understand it very well, Senator," was the reply, "and for that reason, I am most anxious to clear myself of even a suggestion of having done anything improper."
"Well, there is nothing more to say," was the response, "as there are no charges, there can be no investigation."
"But," persisted the journalist, "I want an investigation."
"What for?"
"For my own satisfaction and for your satisfaction. I will regard it as a great favor if you will go into this matter personally."
"Well, really," began the other, "I—"
"Senator," pleaded Conway, "I want you to do this as a personal favor."
"Very well," said the statesman, relenting, "if you put it that way I don't see how I can refuse you."
"Thank you, very much, and now if you will fix an hour that will suit your convenience tonight, I shall be glad to bring you the evidence that will convince you that I have acted in good faith."
"All right," was the response, "you may meet me at my hotel at eight o'clock."
The statesman had started away when Conway called to him:
"Oh, Senator, one other word."
"What is it," asked Mr. Graves, pausing.
"I'd like you to have an expert stenographer at your room."
"Why, I didn't think you wanted an official investigation."
"I don't."
"Well, then, what do you want a man to take notes for?"
"I don't. I simply want a stenographer who can read the notes of another person."
Mr. Graves looked puzzled.
"Well, have it your own way. I'll be there, and have a stenographer in attendance also."
Promptly at eight o'clock that night Felix Conway reported at the rooms of Senator Graves. Barry Wynn was with him, and carried in his pocket the book he had used in making his shorthand notes of the afternoon meeting.
The Senator waved them all to a seat and then introduced Mr. Conway and Barry to a young man who was present and who proved to be one of the official stenographers of the House of Representatives.
"Senator," said Conway, in the voice of an attorney addressing a jury, "my evidence will be brief and to the point. I have to present Mr. Barry Wynn, who is responsible for the report of the speeches made at the meeting in question."
Barry, thus introduced, stepped forward and handed his note book to the Senator.
"This contains the remarks that I reported at the meeting," he said. "I have enclosed an affidavit which declares that they are the identical shorthand notes taken by me at the meeting."
"What now?" asked the Senator, looking at Mr. Conway.
"I'd like your stenographer to read these notes."
The young man, thus called upon, read from the book in a clear and distinct voice. The transcript that he made from the notes was identical with the report of the speeches that Felix Conway had made in his newspaper.
"That is sufficient," said Senator Graves, and rising, and putting one hand on Conway's shoulder and the other on Barry's, he said:
"There is nothing further to be said in the matter. You boys know your business. You have the proof conclusive that you were in the right. No one can successfully attack Mr. Conway's report."
John Carlton was very much concerned with the current political developments and felt a particular interest in the storm which had been aroused by Jesse Hudson's ill advised meeting. He was discussing the situation with a fellow member of the House when he was joined by Felix Conway, his Celtic face aglow with enthusiasm.
"We've got 'em going, Mr. Carlton!" he exclaimed.
The Congressman nodded soberly.
"Yes, you've got 'em going, all right," he assented.
The journalist was quick to catch the note of doubt in his friend's voice.
"I hope you're not afraid of a battle," he said, somewhat nettled.
Carlton looked at him a moment before replying. Then he spoke rather deliberately.
"No, Felix; I am not afraid of a battle. I am not afraid of war either. I went through one war, as you know, and I've got some scars on me to show for it. But there is one thing you must not forget. There is hardly ever a battle or a war without a list of killed and wounded."
Conway was disposed to be argumentative.
"That's true," he admitted, "but you will have to admit that it's a glorious thing to die in a good cause."
"It's a glorious thing for the survivors," assented the Congressman, "but I don't know how the killed and wounded feel about it."
"Your bill comes up tomorrow, I believe," he said.
"Yes," responded Mr. Carlton, "and that's what I have been thinking about all the time."
"Don't you feel sure about it?"
"I wish I could. It was all right a few weeks ago, but since this factional fight has sprung up, I hardly know where we stand. You know these contests create enmities that are hard to heal. It's another case of the killed and wounded. You fellows may win your fight against Hudson and his crowd, but my poor bill for the erection of a Naval Repair Station in Cleverly may be numbered among the killed."
"I never thought of that part of it," said Felix, "and I am mighty sorry to know that your interests have been put in jeopardy. If I had to do it over again I'd probably change my tactics."
Carlton took Felix by both hands. He spoke fervently:
"My dear boy," he said, "I wouldn't have you do any such thing for the world. I haven't a single regret for anything that has been done. I have been simply trying to look the situation in the face. I know I'm up against a hard fight and I don't want to deceive myself,—that's all. I am not repining in the least, and you will discover that I am not afraid of the fight."
Conway's face brightened again.
"Now, you make me feel better," he said, "but, seriously, don't you think you will get away with the trick?"
"Yes, I do. It's going to be mighty close, but I think I'll win."
"When is the meeting?"
"It has been called for three o'clock tomorrow afternoon."
"By George! That's short notice."
"Yes, it is, and that's why I have been giving some serious thought to the proposition. I have counted noses a dozen times today, and I am willing to take my oath that I have got a sure majority of two votes."
"That's good, but it's close."
"Yes, but in a hot race a nose is as good as a mile."
Conway seemed lost in thought for a while. Presently he spoke in a tone of half admiration and half wonder:
"You know, Mr. Carlton," he said, "the more I think of it the more I am surprised at what you have told me."
"What do you mean?"
"I simply mean that in the face of this bitter factional fight it is almost a miracle that an overwhelming majority of the Committee has not declared against your bill."
"Oh, I don't know about that," was the calm rejoinder. "Men can't afford to lose their heads altogether. Besides, there are other members that have bills that they want passed."
"What do you mean by that?" was the quick interrogation.
"I mean that successful legislation is largely a matter of compromise."
Barry, who had been listening, now spoke firmly but with due deference.
"I don't like to hear you talk like that," he said, "it doesn't sound right."
The Congressman laughed.
"I am surprised to hear you talking in such a strain, Barry. I thought that a boy of your experience would know that life is a game of give and take. The men that come to Washington to represent their constituents simply carry out this universal law in a concrete way."
The page boy shook his head laughingly.
"Now, you 're getting too deep for me," he said. "If you go much farther I won't be able to follow you at all."
"Why, it's as plain as the nose on your face," retorted the other. "Nearly all important legislation takes the form of log-rolling. Theorists who have never gotten down to the rough-and-tumble of real life, look at log-rolling as if, it were a political crime. It is nothing of the sort. It is giving up something you don't want for something that you need very badly, and as long as there is no dishonesty in the transaction I can see no harm being done. You have got to reconcile conflicting interests, and if you do so with a good motive I think you are serving your country."
"That sounds very well, Mr. Carlton," said the insistent Barry, "but I don't believe it's the way the founders of the Republic would have talked. I don't think you can make real patriots believe in that sort of thing."
Mr. Carlton did a remarkable thing. He burst out laughing. Barry looked annoyed. His feelings were ruffled.
"My dear Barry," said the Congressman, "your assertion does not really need an answer. You have furnished it yourself."
"In what way?"
"By your reference to the founders of the Republic. You believe, don't you, that Alexander Hamilton and Thomas Jefferson were high-minded men and loved their country?"
"I certainly do."
"Well, then, let me tell you that the vote in Congress by which the city of Washington was decided upon as the capital of the nation was the result of a compromise between these two men."
"I think I've heard something about that, but I never thought there was anything in it."
"There's everything in it," was the prompt retort. "The people of today have no idea of the bitterness that was engendered during the fight to locate the capital of the Republic. Every city in the middle states desired it, and immense sums of money were offered for the privilege of securing the capital city. The Eastern states had openly threatened secession, and their Northern and Southern members were so bitter that they would not meet together for the transaction of public business. Hamilton and Jefferson happened to meet one day and between them they arranged a compromise by which the present city of Washington, in the District of Columbia, was selected as the capital. The compromise was effected by the Northern states agreeing to the capital being placed on the Potomac river on condition that the Southern states should consent that the debt of the creditor states should be assumed by the national Government. The whole affair was patched up at a dinner given by Thomas Jefferson."
Conway interposed with a gesture of mock despair.
"Barry surrenders. Anyhow, he didn't know that he was laying himself open for a lecture on the early history of the Government."
The two men separated laughingly, and Conway promised to be on hand if it were possible for him to render any assistance in the final consideration of the Cleverly bill.
Before Barry Wynn left the Capitol that day, Mr. Carlton suggested that it would be a good idea for him to be on hand at the meeting of the Committee on Naval Affairs the following afternoon.
"It is impossible to foretell just what may happen," he said, "and I would like you to be near by in case it is necessary for me to send out any messages."
Barry promised and went home that night with his mind very much absorbed in the question of the bill which was to come up for final consideration on the following day. He met Joe Hart at his boarding house that night, and after dinner the little fellow told him that he had been given a message to deliver to Senator Graves at the Cosmopolis Hotel that evening.
"I'll go with you," said Barry. "I'm through with the shorthand school, and I feel too restless to stay in the house tonight."
So the two boys walked down Pennsylvania Avenue together to the hotel. Joe went to the desk and informed the clerk that he had a message to deliver to Senator Graves.
"I am sorry," said the clerk, "but the Senator is not in now. We expect him back in about half an hour, if you care to wait that long."
Joe realized that there was nothing to do under the circumstances but to wait. He walked around the corridor of the hotel for a while with Barry, but finally the boys became tired and sat down together on a cushioned seat that had been built around one of the great columns in the lobby of the hotel. It was very comfortable and they enjoyed it very much indeed. The Cosmopolis was one of the leading hotels of the capital, and important men were walking in and out all the time. It was quite comfortable in the lobby and after a while the boys ceased talking. Presently Joe, boy-like, went to sleep. Barry was in a half doze himself when he was suddenly aroused by the sound of a familiar voice:
"Carlton's bill is going to be taken up by the Committee at three o'clock tomorrow afternoon."
Barry's eyes opened wide. He was thoroughly awake, but he did not move nor speak. He sat perfectly still. Presently the voice sounded again:
"He thinks he is going to get it through, but we will have to give him a surprise party."
Someone answered this sally, but in such a low voice that the reply could not be understood by the listening page.
There was silence for some time after this and Barry, moving very slowly and cautiously, peered round the corner of the big pillar, and was rewarded by a sight of the men on the other side of the column. One was Jesse Hudson, the other was Joel Phipps, and the third was a man he did not know. Barry quickly dodged back to his former position and listened very quietly in the hope of hearing more of the conversation. It was unsatisfactory. He only got fragments of the talk. Occasionally Hudson raised his voice, but the stranger invariably answered in a whisper. The boy snuggled up closer in the hope of getting some telltale phrase. In a moment he was rewarded to some extent:
"It hinges on Warrington," said Hudson.
"But he's for the bill," whispered the unknown man.
"Yes," muttered Hudson, "but he must stay away."
"I don't think you can get him to do that."
"I think we can."
"I doubt it very much."
"I don't," was the confident rejoinder. "You know that Warrington loves a good dinner?"
In a few moments the three men walked away, leaving the boys alone on the cushioned seat. By this time Senator Graves had arrived at the hotel and Joe Hart was enabled to deliver his message. Barry did not confide the conversation he had overheard to Joe Hart. He wondered what it all meant. He wondered whether he should tell Mr. Carlton about it. After considerable thought he concluded that it was not very important after all and that, in any event, the Congressman was able to take care of himself. But at intervals during the night he kept hearing a familiar voice saying:
"You know that Warrington loves a good dinner!"