Delphi Complete Works of Booth Tarkington (Illustrated), page 27
“Let me get you some matches,” Helen said, quickly, and found a box on the table and handed it to Keating. Every one sat beaming, and fragrant veils of smoke soon draped the room.
“Why do you call her ‘Miss Sherwood’?” Boswell whispered in Keating’s ear.
“That’s her name.”
“Ain’t she the daughter of that old fellow over there by the window? Ain’t her name Fisbee?”
“No; she’s his daughter, but her legal name’s Sherwood; she’s an adop — —”
“Great Scott! I know all about that. I’d like to know if there’s a man, woman, or child in this part of the country that doesn’t. I guess it won’t be Fisbee or Sherwood either very long. She can easy get a new name, that lady! And if she took a fancy to Boswell, why, I’m a bach — —”
“I expect she won’t take a fancy to Boswell very early,” said Keating. “They say it will be Harkless.”
“Go ‘way,” returned Mr. Boswell. “What do you want to say that for? Can’t you bear for anybody to be happy a minute or two, now and then?”
Warren Smith approached Helen and inquired if it would be asking too much if they petitioned her for some music; so she went to the piano, and sang some darky songs for them, with a quaint suggestion of the dialect — two or three old-fashioned negro melodies of Foster’s, followed by some rollicking modern imitations with the movement and spirit of a tinshop falling down a flight of stairs. Her audience listened in delight from the first; but the latter songs quite overcame them with pleasure and admiration, and before she finished, every head in the room was jogging from side to side, and forward and back, in time to the music, while every foot shuffled the measures on the carpet.
When the gentlemen from out of town discovered that it was time to leave if they meant to catch their train, Helen called to them to wait, and they gathered about her.
“Just one second,” she said, and she poured all the glasses full to the brim; then, standing in the centre of the circle they made around her, she said:
“Before you go, shan’t we pledge each other to our success in this good, home-grown Indiana cider, that leaves our heads clear and our arms strong? If you will — then—” She began to blush furiously and her voice trembled, but she lifted the glass high over her head and cried bravely, “Here’s to ‘Our Candidate’!”
The big men, towering over her, threw back their heads and quaffed the gentle liquor to the last drop. Then they sent up the first shout of the campaign, and cheered John Harkless till the rafters rang.
“My friends,” said Mr. Keating, as he and Boswell and the men from Gaines drove away in Judd Bennett’s omnibus, “my friends, here is where I begin the warmest hustling I ever did. I want Harkless, everybody wants him — —”
“It is a glorious idea,” said Mr. Bence. “The name of Harkless — —”
Keating drowned the oratory. “But that isn’t all. That little girl wants him to go to Congress, and that settles it. He goes.”
That evening Minnie and her father were strolling up and down the front walk together, between the flowered borders.
“Do you give up?” asked the judge.
“Give up what? No!” returned his daughter.
“She hasn’t told you?”
“Not yet; she and Mr. Fisbee left for the office right after those men went.”
“Haven’t you discovered what the ‘something about politics’ she’s doing for him is? Did you understand what she meant by ‘Our Candidate’?”
“Not exactly.”
“Did you see her blush when she proposed that toast?”
“Yes. So would anybody — with all those men, and their eyes hanging out on their cheeks!”
“Pooh! She got up the whole show. Do you know why?”
“I only know it’s politics.”
“Politics!” He glanced over his shoulder, and then, leaning toward her, he said, in a low tone: “I’ll tell you in confidence, Minnie; she’s sending him to Congress!”
“Ah!” she cried triumphantly. “If she loved him she wouldn’t do that, would she?”
“Minnie!” Briscoe turned upon her sternly. “I don’t want to hear any more talk like that. It’s the way with some papers to jibe at our great institutions, and you’ve been reading them; that’s the trouble with you. The only criticism any one has any business making against Congress is that it’s too good for some of the men we send there. Congress is our great virtue, understand; the congressmen are our fault.”
“I didn’t mean anything like that,” protested the girl. “I haven’t been reading any papers except the ‘Herald.’ I meant why should she send him away if she cared about him?”
“She’ll go with him.”
“They couldn’t both go. What would become of the ‘Herald’?”
“They’d fix that easy enough; there are plenty of smart young fellows in Rouen they could get to run it while they are in Washington.”
“Mr. Harkless is sure to be elected, is he?”
“He is, if he’s nominated.”
“Can’t he get the nomination?”
“Get it! Nobody ever happened to think of him for it till it came into her head; and the only thing I look to see standing in the way of it is Harkless himself; but I expect we can leave it to her to manage, and I guess she will. She’s got more diplomacy than Blaine. Kedge Halloway is up the spout all right, but they want to keep it quiet; that’s why she had them come here instead of the office.”
“She wouldn’t marry him a minute sooner because he went to Congress,” said Minnie thoughtfully.
“You’re giving up,” he exclaimed. “You know I’m right.”
“Wait and see. It might — No, you’re wrong as wrong can be! I wish you weren’t. Don’t you see? You’re blind. She couldn’t do all these things for him if she loved him. That’s the very proof itself. I suppose you — well, you can’t understand.”
“I’ll tell you one thing,” he returned. “If she doesn’t, the rest of it won’t amount to a rip with John Harkless.”
“Yes, it will. Nobody could help liking to find himself as big a man as he’ll be when he comes back here. Besides, don’t you see, it’s her way of making it up to him for not liking him as much as he wants. You give up, don’t you?”
“No,” he cried, with feeble violence, “I don’t. She’ll find out some things about herself when she sees him again.”
Minnie shook her head.
There was a sound of wheels; the buckboard drew up at the gate, and Helen, returning from her evening’s labor, jumped out lightly, and ran around to pat the horses’ heads. “Thank you so much, Mr. Willetts,” she said to the driver. “I know you will handle the two delegates you are to look after as well as you do the judge’s team; and you ought to, you know, because the delegates are men. You dears!” She stroked the sleek necks of the colts and handed them bunches of grass.
Briscoe came out, and let the friendly animals nose his shoulder as he looked gravely down on the piquant face beside him in the dusk. “Young lady,” he said, “go East. Wait till we get on to Washington, and sit in the gallery, and see John Harkless rise up in his place, and hear the Speaker say: ‘The Gentleman from Indiana!’ I know the chills would go up and down my spine, and I guess you’d feel pretty well paid for your day’s work. I guess we all would.”
“Aren’t you tired, Helen?” asked Minnie, coming to her in the darkness and clasping her waist.
“Tired? No; I’m happy. Did you ever see the stars so bright?”
CHAPTER XVIII. THE TREACHERY OF H. FISBEE
AN INDIANA TOWN may lie asleep a long time, but there always comes a day when it wakes up; and Plattville had wakened in August when the “Herald” became a daily and Eph Watts struck oil. It was then that history began to be made. The “Herald” printed News, and the paper was sold every morning at stands in all the towns in that section of the State. Its circulation tripled. Parker talked of new presses; two men were added to his staff, and a reporter was brought from Rouen to join Mr. Fisbee. The “Herald” boomed the oil-field; people swarmed into town; the hotel was crowded; strangers became no sensation whatever. A capitalist bought the whole north side of the Square to erect new stores, and the Carlow Bank began the construction of a new bank building of Bedford stone on Main Street. Then it was whispered, next affirmed, that the “Herald” had succeeded in another of its enterprises, and Main Street was to be asphalted. That was the end of the “old days” of Plattville.
There was a man who had laid the foundation upon which the new Plattville was to be built; he who, through the quiet labor of years, had stamped his spirit upon the people, as their own was stamped upon him; but he lay sick in his friend’s house and did not care. One day Meredith found him propped up in bed, reading a letter — reading it listlessly, and with a dull eye.
“PLATTVILLE, September 1st.
“Dear Mr. Harkless: Yours of the 30th received. Every one here is very glad to know that your health is so far improved as to admit of your writing; and it is our strongest hope that you will soon be completely recovered.
“New subscriptions are coming in at a slightly advanced rate since my last letter; you will see they are distributed over several counties, when you examine the books on your return; and I am glad to state that with our arrangement for Gainesville the ‘Herald’ is now selling every morning at a prominent store in all the towns within the radius we determined on. Our plan of offering the daily with no advance on the price of the former tri-weekly issue proves a success. I now propose making the issue a quarto every day (at the same price) instead of once a week. I think our experience warrants the experiment. It is my belief that our present circulation will be increased forty per cent. Please advise me if you approve. Of course this would mean a further increase of our working force, and we should have to bring another man from Rouen — possibly two more — but I think we need not fear such enlargements.
“I should tell you that I have taken you at your word entrusting me with the entire charge of your interests here, and I had the store-room adjoining the office put in shape, and offered it to the telegraph company for half the rent they were paying in their former quarters over the post-office. They have moved in; and this, in addition to giving us our despatches direct, is a reduction of expense.
“Mr. Watts informs me that the Standard’s offer is liberal and the terms are settled. The boom is not hollow, it is simply an awakening; and the town, so long a dependent upon the impetus of agriculture or its trade, is developing a prosperity of its own on other lines as well. Strangers come every day; oil has lubricated every commercial joint. Contracts have been let for three new brick business buildings to be erected on the east side of the Square. The value of your Main Street frontage will have doubled by December, and possibly you may see fit to tear away the present building and put up another, instead; the investment might be profitable. The ‘Herald’ could find room on the second and third floors, and the first could be let to stores.
“I regret that you find your copy of the paper for the 29th overlooked in the mail and that your messenger could find none for you at the newspaper offices in Rouen. Mr. Schofield was given directions in regard to supplying you with the missing issue at once.
“I fear that you may have had difficulty in deciphering some of my former missives, as I was unfamiliar with the typewriter when I took charge of the ‘Herald’; however, I trust that you find my later letters more legible.
“The McCune people are not worrying us; we are sure to defeat them. The papers you speak of were found by Mr. Parker in your trunk, and are now in my hands.
“I send with this a packet of communications and press clippings indicative of the success of the daily, and in regard to other innovations. The letters from women commendatory of our ‘Woman’s Page,’ thanking us for various house-keeping receipts, etc., strike me as peculiarly interesting, as I admit that a ‘Woman’s Page’ is always a difficult matter for a man to handle without absurdity.
“Please do not think I mean to plume myself upon our various successes; we attempted our innovations and enlargements at just the right time — a time which you had ripened by years of work and waiting, and at the moment when you had built up the reputation of the ‘Herald’ to its highest point. Everything that has been done is successful only because you paved the way, and because every one knows it is your paper; and the people believe that whatever your paper does is interesting and right.
“Trusting that your recovery will be rapid, I am
“Yours truly,
“H. FISBEE.”
Harkless dropped the typewritten sheets with a sigh.
“I suppose I ought to get well,” he said wearily.
“Yes,” said Meredith, “I think you ought; but you’re chock full of malaria and fever and all kinds of meanness, and — —”
“You ‘tend to your own troubles,” returned the other, with an imitation of liveliness. “I — I don’t think it interests me much,” he said querulously. He was often querulous of late, and it frightened Tom. “I’m just tired. I am strong enough — that is, I think I am till I try to move around, and then I’m like a log, and a lethargy gets me — that’s it; I don’t think it’s malaria; it’s lethargy.”
“Lethargy comes from malaria.”
“It’s the other way with me. I’d be all right if I only could get over this — this tiredness. Let me have that pencil and pad, will you, please, Tom?”
He set the pad on his knee, and began to write languidly:
“ROUEN, September 2d.
“Dear Mr. Fisbee: Yours of the 1st to hand. I entirely approve all arrangements you have made. I think you understand that I wish you to regard everything as in your own hands. You are the editor of the ‘Herald’ and have the sole responsibility for everything, including policy, until, after proper warning, I relieve you in person. But until that time comes, you must look upon me as a mere spectator. I do not fear that you will make any mistakes; you have done very much better in all matters than I could have done myself. At present I have only one suggestion: I observe that your editorials concerning Halloway’s renomination are something lukewarm.
“It is very important that he be renominated, not altogether on account of assuring his return to Washington (for he is no Madison, I fear), but the fellow McCune must be so beaten that his defeat will be remembered for twenty years. Halloway is honest and clean, at least, while McCune is corrupt to the bone. He has been bought and sold, and I am glad the proofs of it are in your hands, as you tell me Parker found them, as directed, in my trunk, and gave them to you.
“The papers you hold drove him out of politics once, by the mere threat of publication; you should have printed them last week, as I suggested. Do so at once; the time is short. You have been too gentle; it has the air of fearing to offend, and of catering, as if we were afraid of antagonizing people against us; as though we had a personal stake in the convention. Possibly you consider our subscription books as such; I do not. But if they are, go ahead twice as hard. What if it does give the enemy a weapon in case McCune is nominated; if he is (and I begin to see a danger of it) we will be with the enemy. I do not carry my partisanship so far as to help elect Mr. McCune to Congress. You have been as non-committal in your editorials as if this were a fit time for delicacy and the cheaper conception of party policy. My notion of party policy — no new one — is that the party which considers the public service before it considers itself will thrive best in the long run. The ‘Herald’ is a little paper (not so little nowadays, after all, thanks to you), but it is an honest one, and it isn’t afraid of Rod McCune and his friends. He is to be beaten, understand, if we have to send him to the penitentiary on an old issue to do it. And if the people wish to believe us cruel or vengeful, let them. Please let me see as hearty a word as you can say for Halloway, also. You can write with ginger; please show some in this matter.
“My condition is improved.
“I am, very truly yours,
“JOHN HARKLESS.”
When the letter was concluded, he handed it to Meredith. “Please address that, put a ‘special’ on it, and send it, Tom. It should go at once, so as to reach him by to-night.”
“H. Fisbee?”
“Yes; H. Fisbee.”
“I believe it does you good to write, boy,” said the other, as he bent over him. “You look more chirrupy than you have for several days.”
“It’s that beast, McCune; young Fisbee is rather queer about it, and I felt stirred up as I went along.” But even before the sentence was finished the favor of age and utter weariness returned, and the dark lids closed over his eyes. They opened again, slowly, and he took the others hand and looked up at him mournfully, but as it were his soul shone forth in dumb and eloquent thanks.
“I — I’m giving you a jolly summer, Tom,” he said, with a quivering effort to smile. “Don’t you think I am? I don’t — I don’t know what I should have — done — —”
“You old Indian!” said Meredith, tenderly.
Three days later, Tom was rejoiced by symptoms of invigoration in his patient. A telegram came for Harkless, and Meredith, bringing it into the sick room, was surprised to find the occupant sitting straight up on his couch without the prop of pillows. He was reading the day’s copy of the “Herald,” and his face was flushed and his brow stern.
“What’s the matter, boy?”
“Mismanagement, I hope,” said the other, in a strong voice. “Worse, perhaps. It’s this young Fisbee. I can’t think what’s come over the fellow. I thought he was a rescuing angel, and he’s turning out bad. I’ll swear it looks like they’d been — well, I won’t say that yet. But he hasn’t printed that McCune business I told you of, and he’s had two days. There is less than a week before the convention, and—” He broke off, seeing the yellow envelope in Meredith’s hand. “Is that a telegram for me?” His companion gave it to him. He tore it open and read the contents. They were brief and unhappy.
