The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, March 29, 1903, Page 3

THE SUND AY CALL. King more than he ate and drinking than he felt he ought. Once War- noticed his desponde: and whis- red to him in his kind-hearted way: Don’t give up old man. You'll pull »ugh. "And if you don't, I'll see that care of athy of the chairman’s tone, n thefpromise he made, touched but down in his heart he felt It was hard to see them all and be algne doomed to defeat. the State admini: ation, on even on the board of railroad ers, would atisfy him now. He had longed » to Congress, and then_ the vindica- looked for meant more than all And Emily—he thought of her ave wept. He felt himself hed from the scene. mirrors, the lights of the ghing men, the rushing wait- e of the crowd in the lobby 1 the street outside, the , the companies of crazy aimlessly around T remote and s J a part in it ight waned, the n It told of the lobby, 1 der. Men were m n a dream, Garw wood, reness. A place some board ] se changed, but decrease in the t the sounds were king a night of it »d heard some one There's a little woman down in Rock id who'd like to hear from me. I t wire my wife And Garwood th t have sent He thought t of a telegram he gone differ- 1 down ir d al clumsily. . a cold ross the lo8med saw the drooping ter- point- en three times it n to the eastern hor- emembered—it w ier at man and all the rest, »ed in the dawn of that er morning. were safe in triumph- ry, while he alone— ure volice of Garwood i iwoke he opened Tk _The rogm was cold rsh Nottingham curtains r that came in his He r- the eze that had nd none of the rs th; he down in Grand Al with the could nc ke n on b f feet on t sense of came back e stopped te commit- e dark, deserted tobacco smoke inda below with som. victory Garwood the dumb resentment, hould not have known ss that cup of »ie- a r missive irst one astonishment, and was aware that War- nd and saying: I t's tl t Warfleld and said: his minute, when m. I just got up.” through all the th as much truth can ever hold. ey were holding hen the whole id to have won had as If to gone, and he draw into t the even- hen go and have a little lled toward the news stand d's eye ran down the pages ited for his change. arried Bromley's home county! I'd lose that anyway.” story helped out over there,” ‘Bromley got the Sunday- and that drove the rest to Wasn't it a landslide, though!” i ‘Garwood. “Keep the change,” he »d to the young man behind the news Well, I was glad 1 1 thought I " Garwood was reading the paper he had opened an County gives me a major- of eighteen hundred. What do you of that?” They were at the bar by this time. “What will it be?” said Garwood, still devouring_his papers. Oh_a little bourk Jonsense!” sald Garwood, crumpling the papers under his arm. “I want to drink Jim Rankin's health, bl his old heart! He gets the postoffice, he does! Give us a bottle of champagne!” . You haven't had your dinner yet, have Warfield said Warfield. 'No; nor my br: st, either,” laughed sarwood. But then Garwood was not as well informed as Warfield as to the rela- tion in time of liquors to dinner. War- field had been longer in politics. XXIL Three weeks after election there fell a night when carriage lamps twinkled among the black tree trunks in the yard of the Harkness home. The drivers o. hese vehicles in liveried coats of varied that had faded through all the tones of green and blue and brown and violet, ‘with top hats that marked every style for two decades, lounged on their high seats flinging each other coarse kes, and cracking their whips softly at few brown leaves that clung so tena- <ly to the oaken boughs above em. Within the house there was the white desolation of canvas-covered carpets and furniture had been pushed back gainst the wall in anticipation of a later crush of people whose bodies would sup- piy a heat now sadly lacking in the rooms. Ethan Harkness sat in his li- brary, uncomfortable in his evening clothes, eying dublously and with occa- sional dark uprisings of rebellion the white gloves his daughter had decreed that he should wear. The caterer from Chicago had driven him to bay and now chased his shining black men through the old man's apartments as though he owned them. In the dining-room and hall little tables were being lald and little camp chairs unfolded for the destructive supper of salads and ices, which, having dis- placed the more substantial evening meal of the establishment, would not now be served until a late hour, when its inade- quacy would be more noticeable. In the front hall an orchestra had assembled. Now and then the strings of the instru- ments would twang in tuning. On all the chill atmosphere hung the funereal odor of cut flowers. 4 Upstairs in her own room Emily stood before a long pler glass arrayed finally in the white bridal gown on which the fem- inine interest of that house and town had centered for many days. Before her maker, enacting for this evening le of maid, squatted on heér heels, mouth full of ping: behind another dressmaker enacting a similar role was carefully, almost rev- erently, unfolding the long tulle veil; aboat her were clustered the bridesmalds, all robed in their new gowns. They had be chattering and laughing, but now, the supreme moment, a silence had allen—they stood with clasped hands and held their breath. In the center of the room Dade Emerson stood in her super- ior office of maid of honor, her head side- wise inclined, her eyes half closed that through the haze of tHeir long black lashes she might estimate with more ar- tistic vision the whole bridal effect. Pres- ently she nodded to the dressmaker and the patient woman, her own pinched bo- spm under its black alpaca bodice thrill- ing strangely with the emotions of a mo- ment that had been denied her, lifted the veil on her extended fingers and proceeded to the coronation. She piled the white cloud upon the brown coils of Emily’s hair: she deftly coaxed it into a shimmer- ing cataract down the silken train of the gown and then took a step backwara, while all the women there raised their clasped hands to their chins in an ecstat- ic, unisonant sigh. nily turned her eyes, brilllant with the excitement "of this night, toward Dade, who ®till stood with her head criti- lly poised. Dade nodded. “C'est bien,” she said. The spell was broken, the chattering began again, and the girls swarmed about for gloves and bouquets, at last seating themselves impatiently to let the maids fasten their furred opera boots. nily still stood before the long pler glass, looking at her bridal reflection. “Are you all fixed?” said Dade, “with Something old and something new, Something borrowed and something bluet The bridesmaids looked up with lips apart, awaiting the answer to this all- important question, “My handkerchief is old,” sald Emily, holding in her fingers a bit of point lace that had been her mother’s, “‘and—iet’s see—well, I'm pretty much all new to- ight. She glanced down at her gown. Something Dborrowed—I have nothing borrowed. She looked up soberly, her Something blue?’ one of the girls asked, though the first question had not been disposed of. “Yes, if you'd been me running all that blue baby-ribon in her chemise, you'd think so,” said Dade. "he bride blushed. t something borrowed,” one of the insisted. “Yes, something borrowed,” assented Zmily WVhat can I barrow, I wonder?” She looked about helptessly. *Oh, say, girl one of the bridesmalds exclaimed, “she must have a coin in her slipper!” "And the whole bevy chorused its happy acqui e. Emily, with the sudden air of a queen, unaccustomed to waiting on he If, commanded Dade: tLook in that box on my dressing- table.’ Dade picked her way through the dis- order of the room to the littie dressing- table, with its candles lighted, adding their heat to the room. She looked and found nothing. Then she flew from the room, crossed the hall. and returning, y a silver dime. e it to you,” she said, “it'll be something borrowed, too.” It was all arranged. The bride glanced again in her mirror, turned about, in- spected her train, preened herself like some white bird ready for final flight. The old maid scanned the bride's face criti- cal It was radiant, but— “I'm red a8 a beet!” Emily pouted. “It’s hot pepper in here apyway,” one of the bridesmaids panted. The old maid took a powder puff and the bride’s face, touched the , and at last the forehead, where tiny drops of perspiration sparkled. “There, now,” she sald, with the last dab, Emily turned to her with a final glance of questioning. The old dressmaker's eye lighted at the sight of the young girl in her bridal dress. She took a step toward her, her thin, withered lips trem- bling. “May I—kiss you?” she asked tim- idly And then, carefully, reverently, as she had crowned her with the veil, she ap- proached and kissed her. The eyes of the bridesmaids, in the emotion that weddings excite in girls, became moist with tears. There were, of course, further feminine del , but at last, gathering- their- rust- ling skirts about their ankles, the bride and _her retinue made a dazzling white procession down the staircase, Her father awaited her. The caterer and his black men, the cook and old Jas- per, the men of the orchestra, all had gathered in the parlor to see her. Emily paused at the foot of the stairs, blocking the procession that was but half de- scended. She looked at her father with smiling eyes. The old man glanced at her a moment, and then solemnly drew near. When he had taken her fresh and radiant face between the hands that were still ungloved he kissed her, and then turned suddenly and went back to his library scrubbing his face with his hand- kerchief. So the sadness that weddings inspire, possibly because the estate of matrimony is entered into by all lightly and with merry confidence in a future that shall be miraculously exempt from the griefs and woes of life, fell upon the little company. Meanwhile all the closed carriages the livery stables of Grand Prairle could mus- ter were rolling along S8angamon avenue, stretching frostily white under a Novem- ber moon. Their rendezvous was St. James Church, over the stony tower of Which some native ivy had kindly grown to give the English effect so much de- gired. An awning was stretched from the curb to the Gothic doorway, and about it were already gathered ragged ,children and truant servant girls, willing to shiver in the night air for a mere glimpse of the bride, and perhaps of the groom, who, 50 short a time before acclaimed as the pop- ular champlon of equal rights, was now to be identified with that fashionable ex- clusiveness which is separated by satin ribbons and striped awnings from the mass of mankind. Inside, the church lights were blazing; at the door, two po- licemen, in new white cotton gloves, stood guard. Garwood, dregsed for the first time in his life in evening clothes, was restlessly pacing the musty sacrissy of the church. ‘With him were Dr. Abercrombie, the rec- tor of the parish, in his white surplice and stole, and Colonel Warfield, his best man. Garwood had found difficuity in selecting a man for this affair. When, in discuss- ing the-plans for the wedding, he had learned from Emily that it devolved upon him to choose not only a best man, but groomsmen and ushers, he had found, in casting over his acquaintances, that he had none who were intimate enough and at the same time fashionable enough to fill these social offices. But he had thought of Colonel Warfield, and as he considered how peculiarly fit- ting it was that a man of Colonel War, field's social and political position in the State should attend him at a wedding which would attract the attention his was sure to attract, he assumed an intimacy that did not exist, and boldly invited the colonel to serve him in this delicate capa- city. He could not, for public reasons, have made a better selection. The old bachelor, with as many social as political campaigns to his credit, was too polite to decline, and so came down to Grand Prai- rie, giving, by his pdsition, a new impor- tance to Garwood in the eyes of the politi- cians of Illinois, and by his white r an mulitary bearing, a distinction to the wed- * ding that made it complete. 5 As they paced the floor of the sacristy on this evening, awaiting the signal of the bridal party’'s coming, the colonel chatted at his ease with the rector, while Garwood paused now and then to look through the peep hole that long ago had been whittied in the panel of the door that opened into the church. He could see, as in a haze, the flowers and faces and fluttering fans of. society. He could detect, here and there, one of the numerous politicians he had invited in order tc make his liat of guests equal to the one Emily had writ- ten out. Far down at the front he could see Jim Rankin, scorning evening dress, with his little wife beside him in a hqt she had fetrimmed that very evening, and finally, within the space marked by the bows of white ribbon for the family, he saw his mother, in the new black silk gown he had bought for her when he found his credit immeasurably strength- ened by his success in_politics and love. She was fanning herself complacently, yet through big spectacles that fortunately lent benignity to an otherwise disapprov- ing gaze, looking with an eye he knew was hostile at the trappings of this high church. And yet her face was not without its trace of pride that she was the mother of a son who could lead out of this strong- hold of fashion and exclusiveness one of its reigning peeresses. The organist had been improvising, while the people gathered. Now that they were all there and a hush disturbed only by the rustle of fans had falien upon the sanctuary, his improvisations were sub- Jjected to a keener criticism and his inspi- ration failed him, so that his work lagged and degenerated into mrinor chords. The hour for the wedding had passed, and those who had been reviving the gossip ythat Emily had made Garwood's election a condition precedent to her marrying him began to discuss with keen excitement the possibility of his or her failing at the last minute. The gossip had entered grooves that led to certain passages in Garwood’s early life, when some electrical contrivance buzzed. The music ceased, a hush fell within the church. The priest and Colonel Warfleld straightened up and took their places as if for a procession. Garwood saw the ushers, chosen by Emily from the number of young men who once had so in- effectually called upon her, pace slowly down the aisles, unrolling white satin rij- bons along the backs of the pews. Thén the rector entered the church and Gar- wood found himself, with Colonel War- field by his side, standing before that flowered and fanning multitude, The organ had begun the strains of the bridal chorus from *Lohengri; women were twisting their heads, and far down the aisle he saw Dade with her huge bou- quet of chrysanthemums ‘moving with stately, measured tread toward the altar. And behind her, he saw Mr. Hurkness;, looking older than he had ever known him, and on his arm, her eyes dewncast behind her veil, was Emily, kicking her silken white bridal gown with her little satin-slippered toes. When she saw him a light that made his heart leap came into her eyes, and he became suddenly dra- matically bold, so that he left the colonel and strode forward to meet her. He led her to the altar, and the nfileAl began his solemn words. Garwood stdod there, con- scious of the beautiful woman beside him, her hand.in his, conscious of Warfleld picking the ring with experienced fingers from the palm of his gloved-hand, con- scious of Dade near by holdfng Emily's bouquet, conscious of the priest's flowin surplice’ before him, -of the,flowers an palms around him, of the crowd behind him fanning the perfume of tollets into the heated alr. Then he was kneeling stifly upon a satin pillow, the soles of his new shoes showing to the congregation, the organ was softly playing, giving a theatrical ef- fect to the impressively modulated words of the clergyman, and then they were on their feet again; Dade had parted Emily's veil, and he saw her looking up at him, her pale face aglow, in her deep eves a light that showed the influence of sacer- dotal rite. Then as it was borne upon his soul that she was his, wholly his at last, with the male’s joy of absolute possession. e set his lips upon hers and kissed her before them all. The organ swelled into the weddin, march that has become a tradition, an he was striding down the alsle with Em- ily on his arm. He saw his mother's tears, he saw Rankin, the Mg fellow fur- tively knuckling his eves, and then wink- ing drolly at him, he saw Mr. Harkness, who, he suddenly remembered, was now his father-in-law, pale and stern. And so they left the church and passed out under the canopy to the walting carriage, Garwood, like a king from his crown- ing, felt a kindness for all the world, even for the poor folk gathered on the sidewalk striving for a_glimpse of the bride's gown, gls tr‘i'lll‘{ hlsk‘hearg llean toward them, so a e a king he longed to flin, largess to them. * ] The carriage door slammed. Josh Bow- ers, from the livery stable that had pro- vided the carriages, shouted some big or- der to the driver and they whirled away. Once mote he saw the gleam in Emily’s eyes, liquid.in the cold light that found its way from the moonlit night into the carriage, and, regardless of her dress,- though he thought of it, he crushed her in his arms, and said “At last—my wife BOOK IL BY THE PEOPLE. I The old courthouse in Grand Prairfe, its mighty _blocks of gandstone evenly browned by the justice and equity of the rain and wind, lifted its Doric columns in the sunshine of a June morning. Under the cornice of its pediment the sparrows were scuffling, and in the elms that grew about, dipping thelr boughs in a stately ° way to thg breeze, bluejays were chatter- ing, while the tame squirrels, the legal pets of the County Supervisors, gamboled impudently on the grass and on the grav- eled walks. Around the four sides of the square the raw brick buildings stood bak- ing in the sun, and at the long hitching racks, gnawed during years of cribbing, horses were stamping and switching at the flies. On any other Monday morning the racks would have been empty, but this day the courthouse's weather-beaten doors, fluttering with old notices of Sher- iff’s sales, were swung wide, and through them sauntered lawyers and jurymen and those who could quit the pleasant benches in the yard outside for the mild excite- ment of the June term of the Circuit Court that day to be begun and holden. As Jerome B. Garwood, walking with the easy and dignified tread that befits a Congressman, came down Sangamon ave- nue and saw once more the famillar square, he experienced a revulsion of sen- timent, a sense almost of desnah‘. to think that hé was back again in the sleepy Iit- tle prairie town. All the way from Wash- ington he had looked forward to being at home again. He had thought how good it would be to see Emily once more, and the little six months old baby whose inspired messages of love had filled all her letters to him: he had thoughs he would enjoy the quiet of his old law office and the shade and repose of the town, which, as visitors in Grand Prairfe were told when they happened down in the winter or spring or fall or late summer, was always at {ts best in June. Something of this an- uclguuon had been realized Saturday night when heé had reached home and hugged the boy in his arms again, but the quiet of one Sunday, and, more espe- cially. the dolor of one old-fashioned Sun- day evening had dispelled all his pleasure, and this morning, when he turned into the ugly square, the whole of what life in Grand Prairie really was, seemed to rise before him and roll over him in a great wave of discontent. He thought of the long, wide sweep of Pennsylvania avenue, with the mighty dome of the Capitol at the end, he recalled the excitement and dis- tinction of a morning session of the House when the members were all coming in, he could still feel in his ears the roar and tumult of the clos- ing scenes of the long session, and he B8ave way to that childish method of self- torture in which he would continually re- mind himself of what he had been doing two weeks ago that day, or a week ago that day, or even at that hour four days ago. Before he could return to that life, a long, hot summer in Grand Prairie was to be endured, but more than that, the agony of a campalign in the fall. The fear and apprehension this caused him were heightened by the state of affairs-in the district, for the first thing he had learned on reaching home was that his fences ‘were in bad shape, and Jim Rankis, when Garwood had escaped the baby's fretful cries and gone forth to find his old man- ager, had confirmed the sad news. And as If this were not enough In itself, Ran- kin had allowed himself to be beaten for chaifman of the county committee and had lost control of the local organization! The county convention had been held and a delegation to the Congressional conven- tion selected which not only was not instructed for him, but was Erobnbly hostile. He cursed Ran- in for that. The thought of de- feat was insupportable to him—to leave Washington now and come back to Grand Prairie to stay! e idea revolted him. He found some comfort in remembering that he still had the short session before him, though that would not begin until December, six months off. If worst came to worst, he might Induce the President to take care of him in some appointive office. And then he laughed at himself and took a long, deep’breath of the pure ozone from his native prairies, contamin- ated somewhat, to be sure, in passing over the dirty square, but still active enough to fill him with 'determination to win in the coming convention and to be re- elected. He allowed himself one more sigh in (hlnklnT how pleasant. to be a Congressman {f it were not for the agony of the swiftly recurring biennial election, and then straightened up, strode across the square, and took the old familiar walk to_the courthouse door. He was really a fine-looking man, was Garwood, as he threw his shoulders back and gave his head that old determined toss, finenflooking then as a Congressman than he had been as a mere candidate for Congress a year and a_half before. Per- haps it was because he had grown stouter, perhaps it was the finer manner of a man of the world he had learned in Washing- ton, perhaps it was his well-groomed ap- pearance, for his long black coat had a gloss of richness rather than the shine of poverty, his trousers were creased and fitted neatly over his low shoes, his white walstcoat curved gracefully over the paunch of prosperousness; his shirt, as a student of clothes might have noticed, was made with the collar and cuffs at- tached—the easy way to be marked for a gentleman—while the wide Panama hat he wore had the distinguishing effect of having been bought somewhere else. But more than all, it was the atmosphere of official position which enveloped him—and of which he was thoroughly conscious— that spread a spell over the observer. No one would ever call him Jerry now, or ever again, unless, perhaps, in the heat of his campaign for re-election. Of his face, it may be sald that it was fuller and redder: the mouth, clean shaven, had taken on new lines, but they were hardly as pleasing as the ones had been in the days before. | And so he made his dignifled progress up to the courthouse. He had intended, on coming down, to go to his office where young Enright, lately admitted, was hold- ing forth with a ‘bright new sign under Garwood’s old e, but it occurred to him that it would nefit him to reassert his relation to the bar of Polk County by ap- pearing in court on term day and sitting or standing about. Perhaps Judge Bicker- staff would invite him to sit beside him on the bench. He remembered that that was what the Judge used to do whenever General Bancroft came home from Wash- ington. He had been bowing to acquaintances all the way downtown with his old amia- ble smile, seeking to disarm it of a new quality of reservation that had lately en- tered into it, but now, in the cool dark tunnels they called corridors he met men face to face, and all the way along, and even up the steep and winding stairs that curved after a colonial pattern to the up- per story, he must pause to take their hands, and carefully, and distinctly, ac- cording to the training he had given his memory in this respect, call them by name; more often than not by their given names. When he left them they felt a glow of pleasure, though they were all the while conscious that something was «lJacking in this apparent heartiness. The courtroom itself was full. In the benches outside the bar sat the jurymen -and the loafers who hoped to be jurymen, or, at least, talesmen. Within the bar the lawyers were tilting back their chairs, chewing their cigars, Keeping near the huge brown spittoons. On the bench the Judge, his spectacles on. sat with the docket open before him. The bailiff, whom Garwood in imitation of the courtly way old General Bancroft had brought with him from Virginia, by way of Shawnee- town, always longed to address as “Mr. Tipstaff,” but never dared do so, was just finishing crying his third “Oh, yes!" as he pronounced the proclamatory “Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!” The lawyers noticed Gar- wood, and as the calling of the docket proceeded, got up to shake his hand, and to ask him about Washington and the great affairs of state .. of them display- ing that professionay relation to politics which lawyers cultivate and affect. Though most of them, be it said, seemed to confuse the good of thelr party with the good of the country. Those who belonged to the party then out of power were treat- ed as if they were allens, with no possible right to an interest in what the people's servants were then doing at the nation's capital. Garwood was surprised, but vastly pleased, when the Judge called the title of a cause which in Garwood's ears had a familiar sound. And as he was adjusting this haunting recollection the Judge, look- ing over his glusn and keeping a fore- finger on the docket, said: “I belleve you represent the plaintiff in that case, Mr. Garwood?"” Garwood arose, smiling. I was about to ask your Honor to pass that case temporarily, if the court Eo to the heel of the docket, the; the court. Affer that Garwood went up to the bench, and, stooping respectfully as he passed between it and the lawyers in front of it, he went around and shook the Judge's hand. And then after they had whispered about each other’s health a moment, the Judge invited Garwood to sit beside him, which he did. He sat there Wwhile the docket was called, imagining how it would feel to be a Judge, in order to compare the feeling with the feeling one has as a Congressman. He half wished he were a Judge instead of a Con- gressman. He was certain _he would rather be a- Federal Judge than a Con- gressman—that place was for life, with Do elections to harass the Incumbent. He began to speculate on the length of time the District Judge for the Southern Dis- trict of Tilinols would probably live. He might get that place if he were re-elected *™How is Judge Blekner's health now?” e Pickney’'s he: now?” he asked of Jufiu Bickerstaff. “Not well, I hear,” whispered the “he's going away for the summer."” Only = successful men could get that place—he must by all means be re-elected. As he sat there idly speculating, all the happiness he had hoped to find as Con- gressman clouded by the constant dread of defeat, he suddenly saw, at the rear of the courtroom, the red face of Jim Rankin. ‘When Rankin caught the Congressman's eve, he motioned with his curly head. Garwood thanked the Judge, excused him- self, came down from the bench, carefully bowed to those members of the bar he could catch in the sweep of his eye and went out to join Rankin. II. Rankin was plainly glad to see Gar- wood, and as they walked along looked at him with a sidelong glance of pride, as with some artistic sense of pleasure in his handiwork. P court, “It's good to have you back again,” said the big Rankin; “let's go into Chris an’ have a little drink just for the sake of the good old times.” Garwood, who found the new times so much better than the old times, had not ylelded much to the warmth of Rankin's good humor. He was displeased and sore. Rankin felt this, but he had been used to his moods of old, and he loved Garwood with such a frank, lasting affection, and his own heart was so whole, that he re- fused to think it anything but a mood that would pass. Garwood, though, consented to drink readily enough. Indeed, he had been fgeling ever since he came down that a drink would put him in better sorts. They went into Chris’ place and found it cool and pleasant after the hot sidewalk outside, though Garwood, mentally com- paring it with Chamberlain's, felt again his twinge of homesickness for Washing- ton. The bar at Chamberlain’s, he re- membered, did not smell of stale beer as this one did. Steisfloss himself was be- hind the long counter and wiped his hands on his white apron before extending one of them to Garwood in welcome home, "“;hnl'l it going to be, gentlemen?”’ he beer,” sald Rankin readily, mopping his hot brow with his big palm. Garwood hesitated, as though to give the question some thought. Steinfloss and Rankin both looked at him while he was reaching his decision. At last he said, as though he were conferring a favor: “I believe you may make me a Manhat- tan cocktall, Chris.” Steisfloss paused, but only for an In- stant, and then he said promptly: “I'm sorry, Mr. Garwood, but I'm out o' Manhattan.” . Garwood glanced at him and smiled faintly. Steisfloss detected the smile and Garwood instantly feared he had lost not only a vote but the influence of a saloon. Rankin sprang to the rescue of both. w, take a beer,” “No,” sald Garwood, “I haven't been very well lately—I reckon yon can give me some bourbon.” “That Washington living’s too high fer you, eh?" said Rankin genially. But he saw that Garwood agaln was displeased and so hastened to mollify him by adding: “‘Oh, well, you'll be all right. It's this hot weather. You'll be all right when you're rested out. You ought to go away somewhere and take a vacation.” “Yes,” said Gar to the propositio me to go with him to Rye Beach later on—reckon I'll have t They drank and left. They found Gar- wood’s old offices deserted, for Enright had dutifully gone over to the courthouse in order to be seen among the other law- yers who really had business there, little enough though it was. And when they had tossed up the windows to let some air into the musty rooms and Rankin had leaned dangerously out on the dusty win- dow ledge to lower the ragged awnings, they seated themselves as of old in the worn chalrs. “Well, now,” Garwood sald, in tones that were almost a command, “tell me about it. How in hell did it ever happen?” Rankin shifted uneasily. He grew a shade redder. o ““Well, to tell you the truth, Jer—" he was about to say “Jerry,” but he found it hard now to call his Congressman_ ‘Jer- ry,” so he avoided names, “to tell you the truth,” he repeated, “I never dreamed it of 'em. I never dreamed ‘at there was an’thing, in the talk ag'inst you. I couldn't believe 'at any one could have it in fer you!” He looked up at Garwood with a trust ardd affection that were moving, though they did not move Garwood, who sat with his face averted, looking out of the window. “‘But, you see,” Rankin went on, “there was that row out at Ball's Corners, ol man Barker was sore ‘bout the postof- fice—" “I never promised it to him!” Garwood interrupted. “Well, he thought you did, leastwise he said you.did, an’ then there was some farmers out in Brigg to'nship who claimed the seed you sent 'em wouldn't ot nGanood looked at Rankin in stupefac- tion. “An’ then,” Rankin went on, “they sald you didn’'t answer the'r letters 'bout it when they wrote an’ told you.” “Well, Crawford did, didn’'t he?” Gar- wood said. Crawford was his private sec- s,” answered Rankin, “but they said you didn’t answer the'r letters personally. Does Crawford sign your name or stamp it onto the letters?” *“The damn fools!"” Garwood could only xclaim, helplessly. s “Well, )'flupknnvg ol’ General Bancroft's strong holt al’ays was ’at he answered his constits’ letters right away, in his own hand write. An'—oh, ther’ 'as a lot o’ little things like that.” “Was there any feeling over my vote on ¢he armor-plate bill?"" asked the Con- gressman. “‘Oh, some; that is, some talk about your sidin’ in 'ith the corporations, but not a great deal: mostly just such little feelin's as a man al’ays encounters after he’'s been in office a little while. I didn't think it ’uld amount to much, but—" “But it did,” saild Garwood, setting his 1 I"'Yes, it did,” acquiesced Rankin. “But Pusey was at the bottom of it al “Pusey?" 3 “Yes, Pusey. The truth is I underrated Pusey's strength—that's the whole of it. They were silent a minute, and then Garwood said: “Well?"” “Well,” Rankin went on, “you see Pu- sey’s been comin’ up in the world this last year. After he got holt o' the Citizen, which no one thought he ever could do, he braced up consider'ble an’ lflnrled in fer to edit a clean sheet—a reg'lar home an' fireside companion. You wouldn't know ‘im now—new clothes, plug hat Sun- days, an’ he gets shaved.” “Shaved?” % “Yep, has l!.tCléD l!‘ thl: 'Plrber s with a uill pen painted onto it. they marveled sufficiently, and Rankin resumed: “He's al'ays had it in fer me, you know, an' he's a pretty slick cne, he is, if T must say so. He went to work quiet like, to beat me out—" “And he did 1t!” “Yes, sir, he done it.” S Rankin sunk his hands in his trousers’ pockets and slid his heels across the floor until his legs were stretched out before him. Then he stared abstractedly, think- ing of his defeat. 5\V?ll—l'll get through with it. T read in the papers 'at Congress 'uld adjourn the last o’ May. I thought we'd ought to have an early convention. I wanted to fix it all up and have an instructed delega- tion waitin’ fer you on your return, so I calls a meetin’ o’ the county committee, settin’ it on Saturday, the twenty-sev- enth. T felt pretty good over it, too, for 1 thought I'd took Pusey by surprise. He didn’t say nothin’ in the paper, but he ain’t_the feller to bé caught nappin'—no, sir, he ain’t. I didn’t give him credit fer it.” = “Well, what did he do? “Do? Why. he didn't do a thing but— well, I'll tell you in Its order. Everything seemed all right. We met at the Cassell House. There wasn't many there at first, not_enough to make a quorum. Then in walks old Sol Badger, an’ with him Lige Coons from Ball To'nship, an’ then who should follow but Pusey himself! Well I didn’t think nothin' of it then, fer I s'posed Pusey had come in as a represen- tative of the press, you know, and o course, T didn’t feel like sayin’ an'thin’. Some o' our fellers hadn’t got in yet. but when Es Miller arrived, up jumps Pusey an’ he says, ‘Well, we've got a quorum wow, let's get down to business.’ I looks at him a minute inauirin’ like, an’ he smiles back at me with that sof’ grin o’ his, like a cat, an’ he says, ‘I hold Mr. Go'den’s proxy.” " *“Proxies!"” exclaimed Garwood, “so that was it!"” ““Yes, sir, ev'ry one o' them fellers had proxies, an'—well, you can easy see how 1t come out. When T see how it had been fixed, T changed my plans in a minute, an” wanted a late date fer the convention, but they proposed an ecarly one, for the thir- tieth. An’ on the test vote they beat us by just one. Well, Pusey had fixed it all up on the quiet. They sprung their early convention, an’ though they hadn't any / candidate, they beat the resolutions to in- struct fer you, and the delegation goes to the convention fer to support who It wants to.” ' “"Whom will it support?” “Well, Sprague, I reckon.” “I thought it looked like one of his trick: Has Mouitrie held her conven- t o, they hold it next Saturday.” Garwood was silent for a long time. He drew a large cigar from his pocket and lighted it, rolling out its thick, rich Ha- vana smoke until it was half consumed before he spoke again: Jiayell, you've played hell, haven't you, m? Rankin hung his head. “I'm awful sorry. I haven't slep’ a night thinkin’ of it, but—I couldn’t help it. Pu- sey done it, that's all."” “Pusey!” sneered Garwood putting all his contempt for the man into his tone as he sniffed out his name. “Pusey! To think of Jim Rankin's letting Free Pusey , we've al’ays underrated Pusey, T've found that out.” “Yes, you've found it out—too late.” “Maybe. But he's slicker'n I give him credit fer bein' an’ I take off my hat to him, damn his dirty, lousy little soul!” The two men sat after that, staring out the window, watching the lawyers-<oming out of the courthouse across the wide street. Garwood deep in gloom, wondering if he would have to resume that life with the rest of them. They looked so poor, their work so little and contemptible after all he nad grown accustomed to in Wash- ington. Rankin, however, could not long endure such a melancholy attitude and he roused his big body presently and said: “‘But there's no use to get down in the mouth. I've won worse battles 'an this, an’ so've you. An' we can win this. The delegation’s uninstructed, an’ I forced ‘em to put some of our fellers on. It was the hottest convention I ever see. Wisht you'd been here.” “So do 1,” sald Garwood bitterly, “so do I—instead I was staying on down In Washington looking after their interests while the dear people here at home were sharpening knives for me. How did you get any of my fellows on the delegation?"” he suddenly broke off to demand. “Well, T'll tell you. You see, I might ‘ave had the nomination for County Treas'rer; they wanted me to take it, fer they feared to make too big a break in the party, but 1 made 'em let me name half 0’ the delegation instead.” “Half?"! “Yes, half—We split it up, though they got_the odd man.” “You on?" ““Me? You bet I'm on, an’ I'll be there, don’t you forget that.” “You dldn’t want the treasurership?”’ “Well, yes, I might 'ave wanted it, some —it 'uld be a good thing; come in mighty handy just now.” And Rankin expres- sively rattled the keys in his empty pock- et. “But I thought ft 'uld look like trea- son to you, an’ it would; though it wasn't no sacrifice, you havin' promised me the postoffice. 1 knew I 'as sure o’ that. When does Bartlett’s term en n December,” Garwood replied. “Well, I can hold out till' then, if the neighbors keeps on bringing things in. You couldn’t hurry it up, could you?" “No; hardly,” sald Garwood. “But, tell me, what does Pusey expect to get out of this 7’ ‘““What does Pusey expect to get out of this? Why, not a thing—but the postof- fice, himself." “Has Sprague promised it to him?" “Yes, fer enough votes from Polk to nominate him." “Umph_ humph, id Garwood, slowly, through his nose. ‘“Umph humph."” “But If it's December the appointment’s made we can fool him there, we can fool him there,” sald Rankin, gleefully. “‘Yes,” sald Garwood, though not heart- ly. And then Rankin leaned over and laid 2 hand on Garwood's knee. “But don’t give up vet, old man,” he sald. “We can pull this game out o' the fire; you can get that nomination.” Garwood turned on him angrily. “Yes: oh, yes!" he sneered. ‘Pretty fig- ure I'll cut going to a convention for re- nomination without my own coufity be- hind me!” “Well, we can fix that.” “How, I would like to know; how?” “Why, Pusey’s fellers is easy—you can get_enough o' them.” - “How?” Garwood spoke in the hollow sternness of despair. “Buy ‘em.” And then the Congressman threw back his head and laughsd. “Buy ‘em, indeed!" he laughed bitterly. “Buy 'em, indeed! Why, man, I haven't got through paying my debts from the last campalgn.” “Why, you get a sal'ry.” Ves, but it costs to live In Washington —God, how it costs! And with a family here at home ip the bargat ‘Well—there’s the old man “‘Oh, hell!” said Garwood, rising in total loss of patience, “I'm tired of hearing this everlasting twaddle about the old man! He's not rich, in the first place, and now that he’s out of the bank he’s poorer than ever. You people out here in the wilder- ness think because a man was once presi- dent of a little country bank he's a mil- lionaire. He hasn’t anything any more.” ““Tell me, how’d he come to be beat fer pres’dent o' the bank?” said Rankin, ig- noring Garwood’s ill humor in his zest to learn at last the inwardness of a story about which Grand Prairie had been spec- uating for six months. ““Oh, I'll tell you some other time, Jim,” he answered. “I've got to go now.” He looked at his watch. 1L The year and a half that had gone since their brilllant wedding had passed more slowly for Emily than for Garwood. They haa gone East on a wedding journey, for Jerome had been able, as the first per- quisites of his new position, to get passes, a trick he had already learned in the Legislature, though there his “transporta- tion” had been confined to the limits of Illinois. They had gone to New York and, of course, to Washington, where their interests now centered. There they made the conventional rounds, visiting the Cap- itol and the White House, the Treasury and the Patent Office, ascending the Washington monument, going over to Ar- lington and down to Mount Vernon, see- ing all the sights. Emily thus gained a store of memories that served her well in the months that came after. She sald she could the better imagine Jerome going the daily rounds of his important duties for having seen the places in which he would be, and Garwood himself found that it was well to have visited on his wedding trip all the points of interest about the city, else he never would have visited them at all. It mattered not, per- haps, that Emily’s imaginings of her hus- band’s goings and comings in Washington were far from the reality—they served her as well as any. She had planned during the long year In which Garwood waited so impatiently for the sitting of Congress to go to Washing- ton with him. They had talked of it all the winter and during the spring. When March came and with its fourth day brought the sense that he was now in reality a Congressman, Garwood had feit an increase of importance with an In- crease of impatience. The coming of his first voucher soon after was a joy to them both, and the $416 66 it ‘called for seemed to link them more firmly to officialdom. But Garwood longed to be sitting In his eat in the House of Represengatives: to hear his name in the rollcall; he felt that he would not realize it all until he had been there long enough to have grown familiar, and vet not so long as to begin to dread the end. And Emily felt that her joy would not be full until she had seen him there. The whole time for her had held other dutles, dutles of a sacred preparation, when she sat long days in the sunlight, with her evelids drooped over white gar- ments in her lap. Garwood had never been so tender of her before, and he hung about in a solicitude that betrayed a man’s love and a boy's awkwardness. With a woman's superior intuition she was the dominant one in those days, though the coming of the baby late in the fall left her helpless and restored him suddenly to_self-confidence. So, after all, when December came, with its