Elder Conklin - Frank Harris (i am malala young readers edition .TXT) 📗

can make half a million out of a big contract, an’ do the work better than an ordinary man could do it who’d lose money by it. At a million our Court House’ll be cheap; and if the Professor had the contract with the plans accordin’ to requirement tomorrow, he’d make nothin’ out of it—not a red cent. No, sir. If I ken, that’s my business—and yours, ain’t it? Or, are we to work for nothin’ because he’s a fool?”

While Mr. Gulmore was speaking, Mr. Hutchings gave himself to thought. After all, why was he running for Mayor? The place, as Gulmore said, would be of no use to him. He was weary of fighting which only ended in defeat, and could only end in a victory that would be worthless. Mayor, indeed! If he had a chance of becoming a Member of Congress, that would be different. And across his brain flitted the picture so often evoked by imagination in earlier years. Why not? Gulmore could make it certain. Would he?

“What you say seems plausible enough, but I don’t see my way. I don’t feel inclined to go into business at my time of life.”

“You don’t need to go into the business. I’ll see to that.”

“No. I don’t need money now particularly.”

“Next year, Hutchin’s, I’ll have a better man than Robinson against you. Lawyer Nevilson’s as good as ken be found, I reckon, and he wouldn’t refuse to join me if I gave him the chance.” But while he was speaking, Mr. Gulmore kept his opponent’s answer in view. He considered it thoughtfully; “I don’t need money now particularly.” What did the man need? Congress? As a Republican? That would do as well. When Mr. Hutchings shook his head, careless of the menace, Mr. Gulmore made up his mind. His obstinacy came out; he would win at any price. He began:

“It’s what I said at first, Hutchin’s; we’ve each got to give what the other wants. I’ve told you what I want; tell me squarely what you want, an’ p’r’aps the thing ken be settled.”

As Mr. Hutchings did not answer at once, the Boss went on:

“You’re in politics for somethin’. What is it? If you’re goin’ to buck agen me, you might as well draw out; you’ll do no good. You know that. See here! Is it the State Legislature you’re after, or—Congress?”

The mere words excited Mr. Hutchings; he wanted to be back again in the East as a victor; he longed for the cultivated amenities and the social life of Washington. He could not help exclaiming:

“Ah! if it hadn’t been for you I’d have been in Congress long ago.”

“As a Democrat? Not from this State, I guess.”

“What does it matter? Democrat or Republican, the difference now is only in the name.”

“The price is high, Hutchin’s. I ask you to give up runnin’ for Mayor, and you ask me for a seat in Congress instead. But—I’ll pay it, if you do as I say. You’ve no chance in this State as a Democrat; you know that yourself. To run for Mayor as a Democrat hurts you; that must stop right now—in your own interest. But what I want from you is that you don’t announce your withdrawal till the day after tomorrow, an’ meantime you say nothin’ to the Professor or any one else. Are you agreed?”

Mr. Hutchings paused. The path of his desire lay open before him; the opportunity was not to be missed; he grew eager. But still there was something disagreeable in an action which demanded secrecy. He must think coolly. What was the proposal? What was he giving? Nothing. He didn’t wish to be Mayor with Gulmore and all the City Council against him. Nothing—except the withdrawal on the very morning of the election. That would look bad, but he could pretend illness, and he had told the Professor he didn’t care to be Mayor; he had advised him not to mix in the struggle; besides, Roberts would not suspect anything, and if he did there’d be no shadow of proof for a long time to come. In the other scale of the balance he had Gulmore’s promise: it was trustworthy, he knew, but—:

“Do you mean that you’ll run me for the next term and get me elected?”

“I’ll do all I know, and I guess you’ll succeed.”

“I have nothing but your word.”

“Nothin’.”

Again Mr. Hutchings paused. To accept definitively would be dangerous if the conversation had had listeners. It was characteristic of the place and time that he could suspect a man of laying such a trap, upon whose word he was prepared to rely. Mr. Gulmore saw and understood his hesitation:

“I said we were alone, Hutchin’s, and I meant it. Jest as I say now, if you withdraw and tell no one and be guided by me in becoming a Republican, I’ll do what I ken to get you into Congress,” and as he spoke he stood up.

Mr. Hutchings rose, too, and said, as if in excuse: “I wanted to think it over, but I’m agreed. I’ll do as you say,” and with a hurried “Good night!” he left the room.

Mr. Gulmore returned to his chair and lit a cigar. He was fairly satisfied with the result of his efforts. His triumph over the Professor would not be as flagrant, perhaps, as if Hutchin’s’ name had been linked with his in a city contract; but, he thought with amusement, every one would suspect that he had bought the lawyer for cash. What a fool the man was! What did he want to get into Congress for? Weak vanity! He’d have no weight there. To prefer a seat in Congress to wealth—silly. Besides, Hutchin’s would be a bad candidate. Of course the party name would cover anythin’. But what a mean skunk! Here Mr. Gulmore’s thoughts reverted to himself. Ought he to keep his word and put such a man into Congress? He hated to break a promise. But why should he help the Professor’s father-in-law to power? Wall, there was no hurry. He’d make up his mind later. Anyway, the Professor’d have a nice row to hoe on the mornin’ of the election, and Boss Gulmore’d win and win big, an’ that was the point. The laugh would be on the Professor—

 

*

 

On the morning of the election Professor Roberts was early afoot. He felt hopeful, light-hearted, and would not confess even to himself that his good spirits were due chiefly to the certainty that in another twelve hours his electioneering would be at an end. The work of canvassing and public speaking had become very disagreeable to him. The mere memory of the speeches he had listened to, had left, as it were, an unpleasant aftertaste. How the crowds had cheered the hackneyed platitudes, the blatant patriotic appeals, the malevolent caricature of opponents! Something unspeakably trivial, vulgar, and evil in it all reminded him of tired children when the romping begins to grow ill-natured.

And if the intellectual side of the struggle had been offensive, the moral atmosphere of the Committee Rooms, infected as it was by the candidates, had seemed to him to be even worse—mephitic, poisonous. He had shrunk from realizing the sensations which had been forced upon him there—a recoil of his nature as from unappeasable wild-beast greeds, with their attendant envy, suspicion, and hatred seething like lava under the thin crust of a forced affability, of a good-humour assumed to make deception easy. He did not want to think of it; it was horrible. And perhaps, after all, he was mistaken; perhaps his dislike of the work had got upon his nerves, and showed him everything in the darkest colours. It could scarcely be as bad as he thought, or human society would be impossible. But argument could not blunt the poignancy of his feelings; he preferred, therefore, to leave them inarticulate, striving to forget. In any case, the ordeal would soon be over; it had to be endured for a few hours more, and then he would plunge into his books again, and enjoy good company, he and May together.

He was still lingering over this prospect when the servant came to tell him that some gentlemen were waiting for him, and he found in the sitting-room half-a-dozen of his favourite students. One of the Seniors, named Cartrell, a young man of strong figure, and keen, bold face, remarked, as he shook hands, that they had come to accompany him— “Elections are sometimes rough, and we know the ropes.” Roberts thanked them warmly, and they set off.

The Committee Rooms of the Democratic party were situated near the Court House, in what had been once the centre, but was now the edge of the town. The little troop had to pass through the negro quarter—small frame-houses, peppered over grassless, bare lots, the broken-down fences protesting against unsociable isolation. The Rooms, from the outside, reminded one of a hive of angry bees. In and out of the door men were hurrying, and a crowd swarmed on the sidewalk talking in a loud, excited hum. As soon as the Professor was recognized, a silence of astonishment fell upon the throng. With stares of curiosity they drew aside to let him enter. Slightly surprised by the reception, the Professor passed into the chief room. At a table in the middle a man was speaking in a harsh, loud voice—one Simpson, a popular orator, who had held aloof from the meetings of the party. He was saying:

“It’s a put-up game between them, but the question is, who’s to go on the ticket in—”

As Simpson’s eyes met those of Roberts he stopped speaking.

“Good morning, gentlemen. Please continue, Mr. Simpson; I hope I’m not interrupting you.”

The Professor did not like Mr. Simpson. The atrabilious face, the bitter, thin lips, and grey eyes veined with yellow, reminded him indefinably of a wild beast. Mr. Simpson seemed to take the courteous words as a challenge. Drawing his wiry figure up he said, with insult in voice and manner:

“Perhaps you’ve come to nominate a Mayor; we’d all like to know your choice.”

“I don’t understand you.”

The Professor’s tone was frank, his sincerity evident, but Simpson went on:

“Don’t ye? Perhaps Hutchin’s has sent you to say, as he’s sick it’d be well to run Robinson on both tickets—eh?”

“I don’t know what you mean. I expected to meet Mr. Hutchings here. Is he ill?”

“He’ll get well soon, I reckon; but after taking a perscription from Gulmore, he’s mighty bad and can’t leave the house.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that Hutchings has withdrawn his candidature as Mayor. I mean that the ‘Herald’ has the announcin’ of it. I mean it’s a put-up job between him and Gulmore to ruin the Democratic party in this town. I mean—”

As the Professor drew back in amazement, young Cartrell stepped in front of him and addressed Simpson:

“What proof have you of what you say?”

“Proof! Proof enough. Does an honest man resign a candidature on the morning of an election, and give the other side the news before his own party?”

The interruption had given Roberts time for reflection. He felt that Simpson’s facts must be right. It was characteristic of him that his first thought was, Had Hutchings withdrawn in order to save him from further attacks? No. If he had he’d have told him before the event. A sort of nausea overpowered him as he remembered that Hutchings had related how Gulmore had bought Patrick Byrne—and now he, too, had sold himself. As in a flash Hutchings’ weakness of fibre was laid bare to him. “That’s the reason I couldn’t find him yesterday.” His heart sank within him. “How could Hutchings have been so—?” With the belief in the