David Dunne Part 23

Wilder raised anchor and sailed back to the states. At the expiration of two months he wrote David that his book had been accepted. In time ten bound copies of his novel, his allotment from the publishers, brought him a thrill of indescribable pleasure. The next mail brought papers with glowing reviews and letters of commendation and congratulations. Next came a good-sized check, and the information that his book was a "best seller."

The night that this information was received he went up to the top of the hill that jutted over the harbor and listened to the song of the waves. Two years in this land of liquid light--a land of burning days and silent, sapphired nights, a land of palms and olives--two years of quiet, dreamy bliss, an idle and unsubstantial time! How evanescent it seemed, by the light of the days at home, when something had always pressed him to action.

"Two years of drifting," he thought. "It is time I, too, raised anchor and sailed home."

The next mail brought a letter that made his heart beat faster than it had yet been able to do in this exotic, lazy land. It was a recall from Barnabas.

"DEAR DAVE:

"Nothing but a lazy life in a foreign land would have drove a man like you to write a book. The Jedge and M'ri are pleased, but I know you are cut out for something different. I want you to come home in time to run for legislature again. There's goin'

to be something doin'. It is time for another senator, and who do you suppose is plugging for it, and opening hogsheads of money? Wilksley. I want for you to come back and head him off.

If you've got one speck of your old spirit, and you care anything about your state, you'll do it. I am still running politics for this county at the old stand. Your book has started folks to talking about you agen, so come home while the picking is good. You've dreamt long enough. It is time to get up. Don't write no more books till you git too old to work.

"Yours if you come, "B. B."

The letter brought to David's eyes something that no one in this balmy land had ever seen there. With the look of a fighter belted for battle he went to the telegraph office and cabled Barnabas, "Coming."

CHAPTER III

On his return to Lafferton David was met at the train by the Judge, M'ri, and Barnabas.

"Your trunks air goin' out to the farm, Dave, ain't they?" asked Barnabas wistfully.

"Of course," replied David, with an emphasis that brought a look of pleasure to the old man.

"Your telegram took a great load offen my mind," he said, as they drove out to the farm. "Miss Rhody told me all along I need hev no fears fer you, that you weren't no dawdler."

"Good for Miss Rhody!" laughed David. "She shall have her reward. I brought her silk enough for two dresses at least."

"David," said M'ri suddenly at the dinner table, "do tell me for whose name those initials in the dedication to your book stand. Is it any one I know?"

"I hardly know the person myself," was the smiling and evasive reply.

"A woman, David?"

"She figured largely in my fairy stories."

"A nickname he had for Janey," she thought with a sigh.

"Uncle Barnabas," said David the next day, "before we settle down to things political tell me if you regret my South American experience."

"Now that you're back and gittin' into harness, I'll overlook anything. You'd earnt a breathing spell, and you look a hull lot older. Your book's kep' your name in the papers, tew, which helps."

"I will show you something that proves the book did more than that,"

said David, drawing his bank book from his pocket and pa.s.sing it to the old man, who read it unbelievingly.

"Why, Dave, you're rich!" he exclaimed.

"No; not rich. I shall always have to work for my living. So tell me the situation."

This fully occupied the time it took to drive to town, for Cold Mola.s.ses, successor to Old Hundred, kept the pace his name indicated.

The day was spent in meeting old friends, and then David settled down to business with his old-time energy. Once more he was nominated for the legislature and took up the work of campaigning for Stephen Hume, opponent to Wilksley. Hume was an ardent, honest, clean-handed politician without money, but he had for manager one Ethan Knowles, a cool-headed, tireless veteran of campaign battles, with David acting as a.s.sistant and speech maker.

David was elected, went to the capital, and was honored with the office of speaker by unanimous vote. He had his plans carefully drawn for the election of Hume, who came down on the regular train and established headquarters at one of the hotels, surrounded by a quiet and determined body of men.

Wilksley's supporters, a rollicking lot, had come by special train and were quartered at a club, dispensing champagne and greenbacks promiscuously and freely. There was also a third candidate, whose backers were non-committal, giving no intimation as to where their strength would go in case their candidate did not come in as a dark horse.

When the night of the senatorial contest came the floor, galleries, and lobby of the House were crowded. The Judge, M'ri, and Joe were there, Janey remaining home with her father, who refused to join the party.

"Thar'll be bigger doin's fer me to see Dave officiate at," he prophesied.

The quietly humorous young man wielding the gavel found it difficult to maintain quiet in the midst of such excitement, but he finally evolved order from chaos.

Wilksley was the first candidate nominated, a gentleman from the fourteenth delivering a bombastic oration in pompous periods, accompanied by lofty gestures. He was followed by an understudy, who made an ineffective effort to support his predecessor.

"A ricochet shot," commented Joe. "Wait till Dave hits the bullseye."

The supporting representatives of the dark horse made short, forceful speeches. Then followed a brief intermission, while David called a subst.i.tute _pro tem_ to the speaker's desk. He stepped to the platform to make the nominating speech for Hume, the speech for which every one was waiting. There was a hush of expectancy, and M'ri felt little s.h.i.+vers of excitement creeping down her spine as she looked up at David, dauntless, earnest, and compelling, as he towered above them all.

In its simplicity, its ring of truth, and its weight of conviction, his speech was a masterpiece.

"A young Patrick Henry!" murmured the Judge.

M'ri made no comment, for in that flight of a second that intervened between David's speech and the roar of tumultuous applause, she had heard a voice, a young, exquisite voice, murmur with a little indrawn breath, "Oh, David!"

M'ri turned in surprise, and looked into the confused but smiling face of a lovely young girl, who said frankly and impulsively: "I don't know who Mr. Hume may be, but I do hope he wins."

M'ri smiled in sympathy, trying to place the resemblance. Then her gaze wandered to the man beside the young girl.

"You are Carey Winthrop!" she exclaimed.

The man turned, and leaned forward.

"Mrs. Thorne, this is indeed a pleasure," he said, extending his hand.

Joe then swung his chair around into their vision.

"Oh, Joe!" cried the young girl ecstatically. "And where is Janey?"

The balloting was in progress, and there was opportunity for mutual recalling of old times. Then suddenly the sibilant sounds dropped to silence as the result was announced. Wilksley had the most votes, the dark horse the least; Hume enjoyed a happy medium, with fifteen more to his count than forecast by the man behind the b.u.t.ton, as Joe designated Knowles.

In the rush of action from the delegates, reporters, clerks, and messengers, the place resembled a beehive. Then came another ballot taking. Hume had gained ten votes from the Wilksley men and fifteen from the dark horse, but still lacked the requisite number.

From the little retreat where Hume's manager was ensconced, with his hand on the throttle, David emerged. He looked confident and determined.