The Ramrodders Part 22

Harlan, remembering, flashed a glance of rebuke and anger at the old man. It was a shock to him to have his own sentiments thrust back at him in that manner.

"We haven't found Mr. Harlan ungallant," protested Mrs. Presson. She treated the matter in jest, though the young man's face did not indicate that he especially appreciated the humor.

"Oh, he's probably just been playing 'possum--practising dissimulation, getting used to being a politician! You be watching out, Lucretia. He'll forget himself and make a bolt pretty soon. The test of the thing will be in seeing whether he holds out or not!"

In his indignation, Harlan was too confused just then to grasp the fact that his tormentor was craftily handing him over to the Presson womenfolk, bound, branded, and supple--unless he proposed to merit his grandfather's label in their estimation.

"Now, look here, grandfather"--he began, wrathfully; but the Duke pulled him away, drowning his protests in a laugh.

"You have placed me in a ridiculous position, and that's a mighty mild way to put it," complained the indignant victim, when they were outside.

"I don't understand, grandfather, why you do something to me every now and then that knocks all the props out from under me. It isn't decent--it's vulgar--it's shameful, the way you do some things!"

"Operate in a queer way, do I?" inquired the old man, blandly.

"You certainly do."

"Did you ever stop to think, boy, that human nature is a queer thing?"

"Whose human nature are you referring to--yours or mine?"

"You know what the old Quaker said to his wife: 'All the world's queer, dear, except thee and me--and thee's a little queer!'"

The angry young man would have liked to get a little more light on the question, but Chairman Presson was ready for them and hustled them into the carriage. And on the ride to the station, during the journey by train, at the convention city, there were other matters uppermost besides a young man's pique.

CHAPTER XIV

THE BEES AND THE WOULD-BES

Men--a swarm of men--a hiveful of men. Lobbies, parlors, corridors, stairways of the big hotel packed with men.

Men in knots, in groups, in throngs, pressing together, disintegrating to form new groups, revolving in the slow ma.s.s of the herd, shaking hands, crying greetings, mumbling confidential asides. An observer who did not understand would find it all as aimless as the activity of an ant-heap--as puzzling as the slow writhings of a swarm of bees. Clouds of cigar smoke over all--voices blended into one continual diapason; medley, and miasma of close human contact.

After supper, in the crowded hotel dining-room, Harlan Thornton accompanied his grandfather through the press of jostling men.

The night before a State Convention was a new experience for him. He walked behind the Duke, who made his slow, urbane way here and there, drawling good-humored replies to salutations. He had quip ready for jest, handclasp for his intimates, tactful word for the newer men who were dragged forward to meet him. Even the Governor of the State, a ponderous dignitary with a banner of beard, did not receive so hearty a welcome, for the Governor was accorded only the perfunctory adulation given to one whose reign was pa.s.sing.

"Governors come and Governors go, Thornton, but you've got where you're an inst.i.tution!" cried one admirer. "I'll be sorry to miss you out of the legislature this winter."

"But here's another Thornton--and you can see that he won't rattle 'round in the seat," returned the Duke, his arm affectionately about his grandson's shoulders.

As he went about, in this un.o.btrusive way, varying his manner with different men, he presented his political heir.

At that hour there was no surface hint of the factional spirit that divided the gathering which had flocked from the ends of the State.

Jealousy, spite, apprehension, rivalry were hidden under the gayety of men meeting after long separation. The political kins.h.i.+p of party men dominated all else in those early hours. It was a reunion. Food nestled comfortably under the waistbands. Tobacco--cigars exchanged, lights borrowed from glowing tips--loaned its solace. Bickerings were in abeyance. Men were sizing up. Men were trying out each other. Courtesy invites confidences. The candidates had not "taken their corners." The suites that they had selected for headquarters were now occupied only by the lieutenants who were arranging the boxes of cigars and stacking the literature ready for distribution.

The Hon. David Everett, serene in the consciousness of approval by his party machine, held preliminary court in one corner of the s.p.a.cious office lobby. The State chairman was with him--his executioner skilfully disguised.

Thelismer Thornton forged through the crowd in that direction. He paid his respects publicly and heartily. In that hour when congratulations sugared the surface of conditions, after he had pump-handled men until his arm ached, Everett forgot that he ever had entertained doubts.

"There's nothing to this!" he had been a.s.suring the State chairman over and over, catching opportunity for asides. "They're all coming into line. The sight of you and Thornton backing me has reminded them all that they can't afford to rip the party open. There's nothing to it!"

Presson agreed amiably. But studying his men, searching for insincerity, he saw what Everett closed his eyes to. He exchanged a significant glance with the Duke as the latter turned to resume his promenade.

Above the continual, distracting babble one sonorous voice rose insistently. Laughter and applause broke in upon it occasionally. There was a din in that corner of the lobby that attracted many of the curiosity-seekers in that direction.

"There's Fog-horn Spinney holding forth," Thornton informed Harlan, ironically. "Come along. We mustn't slight any of the candidates."

They made way for him. Men grinned up into his face as he pa.s.sed. They scented possible entertainment when the big boss met the demagogue. Many of the men wore badges--long strips of ribbon with this legend printed thereon, running lengthwise of the ribbon:

HONEST ARBA

Candidate Spinney had a thick packet of ribbons in one of his gesticulating hands. He was flushed, vociferous, and somewhat insolent.

Like Everett, he was not a.n.a.lyzing the acclamation that greeted everything he said; applause had made him drunk. But under the hilarity of his listeners there was considerable enthusiasm for the man himself.

The Duke perceived it, for he realized what times had come upon the State. Spinney's bombast expressed the protest that was abroad.

Rebellion, thirsty, does not seek the cold spring of Reason. It fuddles itself with hot speech, it riots--it dares not pause to ponder.

"The men that are running this State to-day are running it for themselves," he declaimed, as Thornton and his grandson came into the front rank of his listeners. "They want it all. I brand 'em for what they are. I could take glue and a hair-brush and make hogs out of every one of 'em!"

A shout of laughter! There was more zest for the mob in the point of Mr.

Spinney's remarks, with the Duke of Fort Canibas, lord of the north country, present to listen.

"I'm not ashamed of my platform. I'm willing to promulgate it. For I'm going to stand behind it. It ain't a platform fixed up in a back room of this hotel the night before convention, sprung at the last minute, and worded so that it reads the same backward and forward, and doesn't mean any more than whistling a tune! What kind of a system is it that taxes the poor man's family dog, the friend of his children, a dollar, and lets the rich man's wild lands off with two mills on a valuation screwed down to pinhead size?"

Applause that indicated that the bystanders owned dogs!

"If you're hunting for something to tax, pick out bachelors instead of dogs. Dogs can't earn money. Bachelors can. There are forty thousand old maids and widows in this State who can't find husbands. Tax the bachelors. Give the single women a pension. Hunt out the tax-dodgers.

There are things enough to tax instead of the farms and cottages of the poor men."

He now fixed the Duke with his gaze.

"You don't dare to deny, do you, that the system in this State is s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g the last cent out of the exposed property and letting the dodgers go free? Tax the necessities of the poor, say you! I say, tax the luxuries of the rich!"

"In some countries, I believe, they get quite a revenue by taxing mustaches," stated the Duke, thus appealed to.

Spinney indignantly broke in on the laughter.

"You've carried off oppression so far as a joke, but you can't do it any longer, Squire Thornton. The people are awake this time. They've got done electing lawyers and dudes and land-grabbers for Governors. They're going to have a Governor that will make State officials work for fair day's wages, as the farmers and artisans work. No more high-salaried loafers in public office! No more dynasties, Sir Duke of Fort Canibas!

You'll be having a coat of arms next!"

This last was said in rude jest--the public horseplay of a man anxious to win his laugh at any cost.

"I've got a coat of arms, Arba; I won the decoration when I retired from hard work at the age of fifty. That was about the time you were starting in life by selling fake mining stock around this State. My coat of arms is two patches on a homespun background, surrounded by looped galluses.

And I can show you the mile of stone walls I built before you were born."