Kite had come into Wint’s office that morning with a smile in his dry

eyes. It was a smile that had triumph in it; and it held also a certain

mean magnanimity to a fallen foe. It was as though Kite knew Wint was

beaten, and expected him to surrender, and was willing to accept the

surrender while despising Wint for yielding. Wint had expected the

little man to come in anger, with protestations, and open threats, and a

desperate sort of defiance. He was prepared for these things; he was not

prepared for the confidence in Kite’s bearing. And his first glimpse of

it disturbed him, made him uneasy.

Kite sat down without being invited; he put his hat on Wint’s desk; and

he said in an amiably triumphant way:

“Well, young man?”

He seemed to expect Wint to speak; but Wint had nothing to say to Kite.

He replied: “You wanted to speak to me?”

“Not exactly,” said Kite. “I wanted to hear what you have to say.”

“I?” said Wint. “I have nothing to say, except what I shall say to

Lutcher in court presently.”

“Ah, yes, Lutcher,” Kite murmured. “Lutcher, to be sure.” And he nodded

as though Lutcher were scarce worth considering, and kept silent, to

force Wint into speech.

This trick of keeping silent, forcing the other man to make the

advances, was a favorite with Amos Caretall. Amos had beaten V. R. Kite

at the game more than once; but Wint had beaten Amos. He beat Kite, now.

The older man was driven to speak first. He said, in a quick rush of

words:

“You know you’re done for. Done. Skinned. Licked. Down. What have you

got to say?”

Before a direct attack, Wint recovered himself. He laughed. “I should

say you were wide of the mark, Kite,” he said cheerfully. “That is, if I

know what you’re talking about. The mayoralty?”

“Of course. Your hide is on the fence.”

Wint shook his head. “I haven’t felt it being removed; and they say the

process is painful. So I would have felt it go.”

“Don’t joke, young man. You know what I mean.”

“I know,” said Wint, “that I’m going to be elected Mayor. I know Routt

is licked. If that’s what you mean.”

Kite laughed, a harsh, short, mirthless laugh. “What’s the use of

bluffing? I tell you, I know.”

Wint said a little impatiently: “You’re talking in a mysterious way,

Kite. I don’t see your object. If you’ve no plain words in your system,

we’re wasting time.”

“I’ve a plain word for you. Hardiston will have a plain word for you.”

There was a deadly menace in the little man’s tone, and Wint felt it,

and was a little impressed. But he managed a smile.

“I’ve a plain word for Lutcher, too,” he said. “You’re keeping Lutcher

waiting.”

“Oh, Lutcher,” said Kite again. “You’ll let him go.”

“Hardly,” said Wint; and Kite cried:

“I say you will. Don’t be a fool. I tell you I know.”

“You may know some things,” said Wint slowly. “But you are wrong about

Lutcher. He gets the limit.”

Kite leaned forward; and his voice was almost kind. “Young man,” he

said, “you’ve good nerve. You’re a good fighter. You’re a vote getter,

too, in an awkward way. If I didn’t have the winning hand, I should be

worried about what you can do. But I have; from the person who knows.

You’re beaten. You might as well accept it.”

“If I’m beaten,” said Wint, “I’ll know it by midnight of the eighth. Not

by your telling.”

Kite lost his temper for an instant; and he cried: “You miserable little

dog! With not even the grace to know you’re whipped.”

Wint said coldly: “Just what are you talking about, Kite? You wanted to

see me. Well, here I am. What have you got to say? I’ll give you about

thirty seconds more.”

“Thirty seconds?” Kite echoed. “You’ll give me all the time I want. I

tell you, you’re done.”

“What have you got to say?”

“Go out there, and.... No, first write out for me a notice of your

withdrawal from the mayoralty fight. Then go out there and turn Lutcher

loose. If you do these two things, they’ll save you, for a while. And

nothing else in the world can save you.”

Wint--there could be no question of this--was frightened. He was afraid

of the certainty in Kite’s manner, afraid of the mystery behind the

other’s confidence. But it is braver to appear brave when you are

frightened than when there is no fright in you; and Wint, frightened

though he might be, was yet brave. He rose.

“Time’s up, Kite,” he said.

Kite exclaimed: “Don’t be a fool. I don’t want to ruin you. Save

yourself, boy.”

Wint opened the door and stepped out into the other room.

* * * * *

That was Thursday morning, five days before election. A fair, fine day

of the sort you will see in Hardiston in the fall. The sun was warm, the

air was crisp and dry. It was a day when simply living was pleasant;

when to draw breath was a joy. Ordinarily, Wint would have drunk this

day to the full. But there was abroad in Hardiston a whispered word; men

looked at him curiously as he passed them. No one seemed to know exactly

what was coming; yet they looked upon Wint as one looks upon a man about

to die. Kite had said nothing. From the fire-engine house he had gone

direct to his Bazaar and stayed there. One or two of his lieutenants

visited him there during the morning.

Kite said nothing; no one had any definite word. Yet Hardiston was

whispering its guesses. Somehow the rumor had gone abroad that Wint was

done, that Kite was about to strike. There was a lively and an eager

anticipation. It is always easy to anticipate the misfortunes of others;

and there will always be those to rejoice in the imminent downfall of

one who has held himself high. Wint had enemies enough; even some of

those whom he had counted his friends looked askance at him this day.

When he went to the Post Office for the noon mail, he encountered Hetty

on the street. Because he was thoughtful and abstracted, he spoke to her

curtly. Hetty did not speak to him at all. She turned away her head. But

Wint, already passing by, did not mark this.

He met B. B. Beecham in the Post Office, and stopped in with B. B. at

the _Journal_ office afterward. B. B. talked pleasantly of a number of

things, till Wint could be still no longer. He asked abruptly:

“B. B., have you heard anything?”

The editor looked surprised. “How do you mean?” he asked.

“What’s Kite up to?”

B. B. said: “I don’t know. Is he up to something?”

“He came to me before court this morning and demanded that I withdraw

from this fight and let Lutcher go.”

“Demanded it?”

“Yes.”

“On what ground?”

“He made some covert threat. He was not specific.”

B. B. shook his head. “I hadn’t heard.”

“Oh, no one knows this,” Wint told him. “I refused, of course, and fined

Lutcher. Now every one in town seems to know that something is going to

drop on me.”

“What is there that he can bring against you?”

“Not a thing. Except the old stuff. What everybody knows.”

B. B. nodded. “I should not worry, if I were you, if there’s nothing.”

“There isn’t anything, I tell you,” Wint exclaimed impatiently.

“Then what can he do?”

Wint got up, a little weary. “All right,” he said. “I thought you might

have heard.”

B. B. shook his head. “Not a thing.”

Wint went to Sam O’Brien’s restaurant for dinner. It was a little after

his usual hour, and there were only two or three others on the stools

before the high, scrubbed counter. O’Brien waited on Wint himself, and

Wint ate in silence, under the other’s sympathetic eye.

When he paid for his dinner, O’Brien asked heartily:

“Well, Wint, m’ boy, how’s tricks?”

Wint looked up at the other and smiled wearily. “Rotten, Sam,” he said.

O’Brien protested. “Lord, now, I’d not say that. As fine a day as it

is.”

“I wasn’t talking about the weather,” Wint told him. “It’s just.... I

guess I’m in the dumps, Sam. I’ve got a hunch. I’ve got a hunch

something’s going to drop on me like a ton of bricks.”

“A hunch like that is bum company,” O’Brien commented. “Where did you

get it, Wint?”

Wint shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Lord, boy! You act like you’d lost your nerve, Wint.”

Wint said: “Maybe I have.” He was terribly depressed, almost ready to

drop out and surrender.

“You’d nerve enough when you soaked Lutcher, this morning,” Sam

reminded him. “I was proud of you, m’ son. You’ve give me many a laugh,

Wint, but I was proud o’ your cool nerve this day.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about Lutcher.”

“I’d not be. Him nor his. The old buzzard of a Kite, neither.”

Wint said: “I don’t know. Kite’s got something up his sleeve.”

“That’s as much as to say that he’s tricky. It’s these magicians that

has things up their sleeves. Full of tricks. You stick to the middle of

the road, Wint, and never mind their tricks. They’ll trick their own

selves.”

Wint shook his head. “That’s all right. But what can I do?”

“Do?” Sam echoed. “Why, fight ’em like that dog of yours fit Mrs.

Moody’s Jim.” He nodded to Muldoon, curled as always near Wint’s feet;

and Wint dropped his hand to Muldoon’s grizzled head. He was apt to turn

to Muldoon in trouble. The dog was his shadow, always with him; but it

was when he was troubled that Wint gave most heed to the terrier. At

Wint’s caress, Muldoon rolled his eyes up without moving his head; and

Sam said:

“Look at him grin; the nervy pup. He’s telling you to take a brace, m’

son. You can’t scare the dog.”

“I’m not scared.”

“You act damn like it,” said Sam frankly; and Wint protested:

“It’s only that I’m sick of it all. Sick of the fight, and the

mud-throwing. And getting no thanks.”

“Hell’s bells,” Sam exclaimed. “You talk like a woman!”

Wint looked at him curiously. “What’s Kite up to, Sam? Have you heard?”

“Heard some rats say he would rip you up. And I told them you’d be doing

some ripping, about that time. You’re not going to make me out a liar,

Wint. Are you now?”

“Oh, I suppose I’ll fight.”

He left the restaurant and walked down to Hoover’s office and secluded

himself in the back room; but his studies could not hold him. There was

a curiously passive despair upon the boy. He could not shake it off. The

whole thing seemed so little worth while. If there had been a chance to

fight.... But the peril was intangible. He could not come to grips with

it. He could not even be sure there was peril. He could not be sure of

anything. Not even of himself. He asked himself despairingly: “Are you

going to be a quitter, Wint?” And then thought hopelessly: “Oh, what’s

the use?”

In mid-afternoon, Dick Hoover looked in and said Gergue wanted to see

Wint. Wint was surprised. “What does he want?” he asked. “Gergue?” He

got up and went to the door and saw Peter waiting; and he called: “Come

along in here.”

Gergue came at the invitation. His hat was off; he was fumbling in the

tangle of hair at the back of his neck. There was a curiously furtive

uncertainty about the man. Wint thrust a chair toward Peter with his

foot, and said: “Sit down.” When Gergue was seated, and slicing a fill

for his pipe, Wint asked:

“What’s on your mind?”

Gergue looked at him sidewise, stuffing the crumbled tobacco into the

black bowl. And he asked: “Wint, where do you figure I stand?”

Wint was surprised. “You mean--in this business between Routt and me?”

Gergue nodded. “Yeah.”

“Why, with Routt, I suppose,” Wint told him.

“Why d’you figure that?”

“You’re tied up with Amos.”

Gergue scratched a match. “Wint,” he said, “Amos is a fine man. He does

things his own way; but in the end, he pretty near always turns out

pretty near right.”

“Well, that’s his record,” Wint agreed. “He’s usually on the winning

side.”

“Don’t let that get away from you,” said Gergue. “Don’t you forget that,

Wint!”

Wint laughed harshly; and he said: “I’m not likely to. I counted on him

in this, you know.”

Gergue leaned toward him. “Thing is, Wint, I’m wonderin’ what you’d

think if I told you something?”

“That would depend on what you told me.”

“Something for your own good. Help you some.”

Wint said, amiably enough: “I want to win this fight, Peter. But--after

Amos’s stand--I don’t particularly want any help from him. I’d mistrust

it.”

“Say this come from me, personal.”

“You’re linked with Amos.”

Gergue nodded resignedly. “Have it so,” he agreed. “Anyway, I’m going to

tell you.”

Wint said: “All right. What do you want to tell?”

Gergue hesitated for a while, choosing his words. At last he asked: “You

wondering what Kite aims to do to trim you?”

“Yes.”

“Got any ideas?”

“No.”

Gergue looked at him shrewdly. “Know any way he could hit at you?”

“No. Not with the truth.”

Gergue hesitated; then he asked slowly: “Know any way he could hit at

you with Hetty?”

“Hetty?” Wint echoed. “Hetty Morfee?”

“Yes. Her.”

Wint was stupefied with surprise. “Good Lord, no!”

“She got any reason to be against you?”

“No. I--She’s friendly, I think. Ought to be.”

Gergue puffed at his pipe. Then he got up. “Wint,” he said, “take it for

what it’s worth. I hear he’s going to hit you with her.”

Wint exclaimed angrily: “You’re crazy, Peter. Or you’re.... Look here,

did Amos send you?”

“No.”

“Is this some damned trick of his?”

“No.”

“Well, what in God’s name are you talking about?”

Gergue said thoughtfully: “I’ve said all I know. Think it over, Wint.”

He went out, with a surprising quickness, and was gone before Wint could

frame other questions. The young man was left to consider the thing.

When Wint went home for supper, he was still mystified; but he was

beginning to grow angry. Angry at the mere suggestion that lay behind

Peter’s words. Angry at Gergue for saying them. And this anger was a

more hopeful sign than his depression of the morning had been. He was

fiercely resentful at Hardiston, at the whole world.

He met Joan, halfway home. That is to say, he overtook her on her way,

and they walked home together. He was so absorbed in his own thoughts

that he did not see there was something troubling the girl until she

spoke of it. She said: “Wint, I met Agnes Caretall uptown.”

He nodded, scarce hearing; and Joan said: “She’s a good deal of a

gossip, you know.”

There was something in her tone which caught his attention; and he

looked at her sharply and asked: “What do you mean? What did she say?”

“She said Mr. Kite was going to ruin you,” Joan told him.

Wint laughed shortly. “Well, that’s no secret. At least it’s no secret

that he wants to.”

“She said he was going to,” Joan insisted.

Wint asked: “How, since she knew so much, did she know how?”

Joan touched his arm. “Don’t be angry, Wint.”

But Wint was angry, even with Joan. He exclaimed harshly, after the

fashion of angry men: “I’m not mad. What did she say?”

Joan told him. “She said they were going to link you up with Hetty.”

Wint exclaimed: “Lord! You too? I’m sick of that tale. Hetty!”

Joan begged: “But there isn’t anything, is there?”

Wint faced her hotly. “If you don’t know without being told.... Can’t I

even count on you, Joan?”

“I only asked.”

They were at her gate, and Wint lifted his hat abruptly. “Think what

you like,” he told her sharply. “Good afternoon!”

He left her there; left her, and Joan looked after him with troubled

sympathy in her eyes, and something more. There was a mist of tears in

them when she went on toward the house.

* * * * *

While they were at supper that night, the telephone rang, and Wint’s

father answered. After a moment he came back into the dining room.

“Wint,” he said, “it’s Kite.”

“Kite?” Wint demanded, pushing back his chair. “What does he want?”

“He wants to see you--and me. He says he’ll be out here at eight. He

wants us to be here.”

Wint’s face turned black with anger; then he threw up one hand. “All

right,” he cried, “tell Kite we’ll be here.”

CHAPTER VIII

POOR HETTY AGAIN

When Chase came back from the table after telling Kite that they would

expect him at the appointed time, Wint asked:

“Did he say what he wanted?”

Mrs. Chase exclaimed: “I don’t think you ought to have let him come,

Winthrop. I don’t want that man in my house. He--”

Chase answered Wint. “No. Just said he wanted to see us.” He was

troubled; and he showed it. “What do you think he wants, Wint? Something

about Lutcher?”

Wint shook his head. “I think he’s going to hit at me. Somehow. There’s

been a rumor around town all day. They say he has something.”

Chase asked quickly: “Has he? Has he got anything on you, Wint?”

“Not that I know of. There’s nothing he could get. Nothing to get.” He

looked at his father in a quick, appealing way. “Dad, I wish you’d just

remember that, whatever happens. You know the worst there is to know

about me. Anything else is just flat lie.”

His father nodded abstractedly. “Of course. But Kite is confoundedly

clever. Now I wonder what he’s--”

“I always told you, Wint, that you hadn’t any business in politics,”

Mrs. Chase exclaimed. “I don’t think it’s decent, the way men talk about

each other. Why, Mrs. Hullis told me that Jack Routt is going around

saying the most terrible things about you. That you--”

“I know, mother. That’s Jack’s idea of a campaign. We’ll show him his

mistake next Tuesday.”

“But he says that you--”

“Now, mother,” her husband interrupted, “never mind. Wint, did you hear

anything definite about Kite? What he’s planning....”

Wint hesitated; he had heard something definite. Definite but

incredible. That which he had heard could not possibly be true; he could

not believe it. To tell his father would only disturb the older man; he

could not be sure how Chase would react to the report. He held his

tongue. “No, nothing definite,” he said.

“Is he’s coming to see you about it, he must have something.”

Wint got up from the table. “Well,” he said abruptly, “we’ll soon know.

It’s after seven, now.”

They went into the sitting room to wait; and the waiting was hard. Wint

tried to read the daily; his father took a book from the shelves. But

Wint’s eyes strayed from the printed columns. He was in a curiously numb

state of mind. This was part hopelessness, part the sheer suspense of

waiting. Wint was one of those men who in their moments of greatest

passion and excitement become outwardly serene and calm. Their own

emotions put a physical inhibition on them so that they are still, and

do not speak. Once or twice Chase glanced toward his son and saw Wint

motionless, apparently absorbed, apparently quite at ease. But actually

Wint was stirring to the throbbing of his heart, held still by the very

fury of his own dread and anger and suspense.

At fifteen minutes before eight, some one knocked on the front door.

Wint said: “There he is,” and got up and went to the door; but when he

opened it, Jack Routt stood there. Wint was surprised; he said slowly:

“Oh, you, Jack?”

Routt nodded, a little ill at ease. “Is Kite here?” he asked.

“No. He’s coming.”

Routt smiled ingratiatingly. “I don’t know what he wants. He told me to

meet him here about eight, to have a talk with you.”

“Told you to?”

“Yes. I asked him what he meant; and he said to wait. I supposed he had

made arrangements with you.”

Wint said dully: “Yes, he has. He’s coming.” And after a moment, he

added: “You might as well come in.”

Routt grinned. “You’re damned cordial,” he remarked.

“Oh, that’s all right,” Wint assured him abstractedly. He was thinking

so swiftly that he seemed stupefied. His father came into the hall, and

Wint said: “Here’s Jack Routt. Kite told him to come.”

Chase looked at Routt uncertainly; and Routt said: “I’ll get out if you

say so.”

Wint shook his head. “No. Sit down. Go on in.”

They went into the sitting room; but before they could sit down, some

one else knocked. This time it was B. B. Beecham. He stood in the door

when Wint opened it, and smiled, and said:

“I’m not sure I understand, Wint. V. R. Kite telephoned me there was to

be some sort of a conference here, about a matter for the good of

Hardiston. I thought it curious that the word should come from him.”

Wint laughed harshly. “All right, come in,” he said. “I don’t know any

more about it than you do. I suppose Kite thought it would be cheaper to

use our house than to hire a hall.”

B. B. said simply: “I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

“Come in,” Wint repeated. “I’m up in the air, that’s all. Routt’s here

already. Kite will be along, I suppose.”

“Routt?” B. B. echoed, in surprise.

“Yes; in there.”

Wint and B. B. went into the sitting room where Chase and Routt were

talking awkwardly. After the first greetings, no one could think of

anything more to say. B. B. broke the silence. “I saw a robin to-day,”

he said. “They stay here, sometimes, right through the winter.”

Birds and flowers were B. B.’s hobbies; he knew them all. And other

people recognized this interest in him, and shared it. They liked his

enthusiasm. Chase said: “Is that so? I had no idea they stayed. It

doesn’t seem to me I ever saw one in winter.”

“They live in the sheltered places,” said B. B. “You’ll find them in the

woods, and the brushy hollows, and around houses where there is a good

deal of shrubbery. Especially if the people put out a lump of suet for

them to feed on.”

“Why, everybody ought to do that,” Chase declared, with a quick

interest. “You ought to tell them to, in the _Journal_, B. B.”

B. B. smiled and said he was telling people just this, every week. He

spoke of other birds. Chase seemed interested. Routt and Wint said

nothing. Routt seemed uncomfortable; and that was a strange thing to see

in this assured young man. Wint’s eyes were lowered; he was thinking.

Lost in a maze of conjectures. Kite would be coming, any minute now.

B. B. was still talking about birds when Kite came. Wint heard footsteps

on the walk in front of the house, heard them come up the steps. There

were several men. Not Kite alone. The sounds told him that. He waited,

sitting still, till they knocked on the front door. Then he went out

into the hall and opened the door and saw Kite standing there, his dry

little face triumphant, malignantly rejoicing.

Wint looked at Kite steadily for a moment; and then he lifted his eyes

and saw, behind Kite, Amos Caretall. And at one side, Ed Skinner of the

_Sun_. He had thought there were others. But he saw no one else.

Kite stepped inside the door. Skinner and Amos stood still till Wint

asked: “Well--what is it?”

Kite said then: “Come in, Amos. You too, Ed.”

Amos, his big head on one side, his eyes squinting in a friendly way,

drawled a question: “How about it, Wint? Kite says he’s got something to

talk over. Asked me to come along. But I don’t allow he’s got any right

to ask me into your house.”

“Come in, Amos. Both of you,” Wint said; and Kite repeated:

“Yes, come in. I know what I’m talking about. This young man isn’t

likely to object.”

“All right, Wint?” Amos asked again; and Wint nodded, and Amos lumbered

into the hall. Then Chase came to the door that led from the sitting

room into the hall; and at sight of Amos, he stopped very still, with a

white face. Wint crossed to his father’s side and told him quietly:

“It’s all right. Kite brought him. It’s all right, dad.”

Chase exclaimed: “How do I know it’s all right? I don’t understand all

this mystery. Kite, by what right do you use my house for a meeting

place? What is all this, anyway? What is the idea, Kite?”

Kite smiled his dry and mirthless smile; and he said mockingly: “Do not

fret yourself, Chase. Our concern is with this young man, with Wint. You

shall hear.” He was stripping off his overcoat in a business-like way.

This was Kite’s big hour, and he meant to make the most of it. He

dropped the coat on the seat in the hall; and Amos and Ed Skinner

imitated him; and Kite said briskly, rubbing his hands:

“Now, then, where can we have our little talk?”

Chase looked at Wint uncertainly; and Wint, still held by that curious

inhibition which made his voice level and low, said quietly:

“The sitting room. Come in, gentlemen.”

There were not chairs enough for them in the sitting room. Wint went

into the dining room for another, and found his mother there, putting

away the dishes. She asked in a whisper:

“Who is it, Wint? Mr. Kite?”

Wint nodded. “Yes, mother. Several men. You’d better go upstairs the

back way.”

He was so steady that she was reassured; he did not seem excited or

disturbed. Yet was there something about him that made her think of a

hurt and weary little boy; and she laughed softly, and put her arm

around him and made him kiss her. He did so, patting her head; and then

he said:

“There, mother. Run along.”

She went out toward the kitchen, and Wint took the chair he had come for

into the other room. He found the others all sitting down. Amos had

slumped into the biggest and the easiest chair in the room. B. B. sat

straight in the straightest chair, his round, firm hands clasped on his

knees. B. B.’s legs were short and chubby; and his lap was barely big

enough to hold his clasped hands. Ed Skinner and Chase were on the

couch at one side of the room. Routt sat on the piano stool, twirling

slowly back and forth through a six-inch arc. Kite, in the manner of a

presiding officer, had pulled his chair to the table in the middle of

the room and sat there very stiffly, his head held high in that

ridiculous likeness to a turkey.

Wint placed his chair just inside the door, and sat down. He and Kite

were the only composed persons in the room. B. B. looked acutely

embarrassed and uncomfortable; Chase was angry; Skinner was nervous;

Routt’s ease was palpably assumed. And Amos was fumbling uncertainly

with his black old pipe. He asked, when Wint came in:

“Your mother mind smoke in her sitting room?”

Wint said: “No; go ahead.” He filled his own pipe, and Amos sliced a

fill from his plug and deliberately prepared his smoke and lighted it.

Kite seemed in no hurry to begin. He had taken a letter or two and a

slip of paper from his pockets and was studying them in silence. Wint

thought he recognized that slip of paper. A check.... It seemed to him

that a cold hand clutched his throat. He felt a sick sense of the

hopelessness of it all; a sick despair. Not so much on his own account.

Kite at last looked around the room, and said importantly:

“Well, gentlemen!”

Wint’s father could be still no longer. He cried: “See here, Kite,

what’s all this tomfoolery? What’s this nonsense? It’s an outrage. Be

quick, or be gone. I’ve no time to waste.”

Kite looked at Chase; and then he looked at Wint and asked maliciously:

“Do you bid me be gone, too, young man?”

Wint shook his head. “Say what you have to say,” he suggested; and there

was a great weariness in his voice.

Kite nodded. “I mean to.” And to Chase: “You see, the young man

understands it is in his interest to handle this thing among ourselves.”

“To handle what thing?” Chase demanded. Kite cleared his throat.

“A matter,” he said importantly, “that concerns first of all the good

name of Hardiston. A matter that concerns, very intimately, the good

name of your son. A matter that will be decisive in the mayoralty

campaign now pending. A matter--” His poise suddenly gave way before the

fierce rush of his exultation; and he cried: “A matter that will stop

this damned Sunday-school nonsense of denying grown men the right to do

as they please. That’s what it is, by God! A matter that will show up

this young hypocrite in his true light. If I were not merciful, I would

have spread it before the town long ago.”

He stopped abruptly, looking from one to the other as though challenging

them to deny that he was merciful. No one denied it. B. B. cleared his

throat; and the sound was startling in the silence that had followed

Kite’s words. Amos puffed slowly at his pipe and squinted across the

room at Wint. Wint said nothing. He had scarce heard what Kite said; he

was curiously abstracted, as though all this did not concern him. He was

like a spectator, looking on.

Chase looked at his son; and there was fear in the man’s eyes. For Kite

was so terribly confident. Chase looked at his son, expecting Wint to

make denial, to defend himself. But Wint said nothing; Wint did not lift

his eyes from the floor. He only puffed slowly and indolently at his

pipe, moving not at all.

Kite cleared his throat again; and his dry little eyes were gleaming.

“I have given this matter some thought,” he said. “Some thought, since

the facts came into my hands. And I must confess, at first they seemed

incredible. I made investigations, I was forced to believe--the whole,

black story.” He paused again. He wanted some one to question him, but

no one spoke. He went on:

“My first impulse was to cry the truth to the whole town. But I held my

hand. I went to the city for the final proof. Got it. And when I came

back, it was to find that this young man had caused the arrest of one of

my friends, Lutcher, on a ridiculous liquor charge. Simply because

Radabaugh discovered Lutcher and three others engaged in a game of

cards, drinking as they had a right to do.

“I was indignant; but even then I was merciful. I wanted to give this

young man a chance; and I went to him and offered him the chance to save

himself.”

He paused, moved one of his hands as though to brush the possibility

aside. “But it is unnecessary for me to tell you that his chief trait is

a blind and unreasoning stubbornness. It betrayed him, on this occasion.

He rejected my offer; refused to take the easy way out.

“That was this morning. I considered. My chief concern was for the good

name of Hardiston; that such a man should not be chosen Mayor. This

seemed to me the simplest and least painful way to arrange his

withdrawal. So I asked you to come here.”

Amos drawled from the depths of his chair: “Did you fetch us here to

talk us to death, Kite?”

Kite smiled bitterly. “No, Amos. Be patient.”

Chase was watching Wint, still with that desperate hope in his eyes.

They were all watching Wint; but Wint was looking at the floor,

following with his eyes the pattern in the rug. This was the end. He had

just about decided that. There was in him no more will to fight. He had

been a good Mayor. If they didn’t want to re-elect him--that was their

affair. He would do no more. He had a sick sense of betrayal. His lips

twisted in a bitter little smile.

Kite addressed him directly. “So, young man, we want your withdrawal

from the mayoralty race. And this whole matter will end right here.”

Wint still did not lift his head. His father thought the boy was shamed;

and his heart was torn. Kite asked sharply: “Come! What do you say?”

Wint looked at Kite, then, for the first time; looked at him with a

slow, steady, incurious gaze that made Kite twist in his chair. And he

repeated, in a low voice:

“You want me to withdraw?”

“Exactly. Now.”

Wint shook his head gently. “No,” he said, “I won’t withdraw.”

Kite threw up one clenched fist in a furious gesture. “By God, if you

don’t you’ll be run out of town!”

“I’m in the fight,” said Wint steadily. He spoke so low they could

scarce hear him. “I’m in the fight. I’ll stay.”

“Then I’ll smash you, flat as a pancake. You young fool.”

“Kite,” Wint murmured gently. “I don’t give a damn what you do. I’m in

to stay.”

Kite banged his fist on the table. “Then the whole story comes out.”

“Let it come,” said Wint.

“You mean you want me to tell these men here? The black shame?”

“Yes,” Wint assented. “Tell them anything you please.” He lowered his

eyes again, resumed his study of the carpet, puffed at his pipe. Kite

stared at the boy’s bent head as though he could not believe his eyes,

or his ears. He had counted so surely on Wint’s surrender; he had been

so sure that Wint would yield.

But Wint.... The fool sat there, passively defying him; daring him.

Kite’s face twisted with a sudden furious grimace. He jerked back his

head. So be it. He flung defiant eyes around the room; he said abruptly,

curtly:

“Very well. Here it is. This young rip is the father of Hetty Morfee’s

child.”

There was a moment’s terrible silence in the room. Then Jack Routt

cried: “Good Lord, Kite, that can’t be! Wint’s a decent chap.”

Kite snapped at him: “Can’t be? It is. Here’s the very check he gave

her, to go away.” He shook the slip of paper in the air. “What do you

say to that?”

“I don’t believe it,” Routt insisted. “I’ve known Wint too long.” He got

up and strode across and gripped Wint’s shoulder. “Tell him it’s a

damned lie, Wint,” he begged.

Wint looked up at Routt with slow, steady eyes; and Routt, after a

moment, could not meet them. He turned back to Kite, protesting Wint’s

innocence. Their wrangling voices jangled in the silence. B. B.

pretended not to hear, stared straight ahead of him. Ed Skinner twisted

uneasily where he sat. Amos, deep in his chair, was watching Wint; and

Wint’s father was watching Wint, too. Watching his son with a desperate,

beseeching look in his eyes.

Wint did not see; he was looking at the floor; and he was thinking of

Hetty, thinking what this would mean to her. That which had come to her

was already guessed at, in Hardiston; now every one would know beyond

need of guessing. She would be outcast; no saving her; but one black

road ahead. For the thing would be believed. He knew that. People had

been ready to believe before this; ready to accept the mere rumor. His

own father, his own mother.... This had been their first thought when he

wished to help Hetty. Joan.... She had sought to question him. Yes, they

would believe. Every one.

He was not angry at them for their credulity; he pitied them. That they

should be so malignant, and so blind. He was quite calm, not at all

sorry for himself. Sorry for them. And most of all, he was sorry for

Hetty. He had always liked Hetty; a good girl, give her a chance. The

stuff of good womanhood in her. Blasted now.... He wished he might find

a way to help her. Some way....

A word from Kite to Routt cut through his thoughts. “If you won’t

believe me,” Kite exclaimed, “will you believe her?”

“Hetty never said this,” Routt protested; and Kite got up and went

swiftly out into the hall, saying over his shoulder:

“Just a minute, then.”

Every one looked toward the door, listening. They heard Kite open the

front door and call:

“Lutcher.”

A man answered, outside. Kite asked: “Is she there?” The man said:

“Yes.”

“Send her in,” Kite directed. And they heard the sound of moving feet.

So she had been waiting there, all this time, with Lutcher. Wint thought

she must have been miserably unhappy as she waited. When he heard her

step in the hall, he looked up and saw her. Her eyes met his for an

instant; and Wint was curiously stirred by the pitiful appeal in them.

As though she begged him to forgive.... Then her eyes left his. She came

in and stood, just inside the door. Kite said:

“Sit down.” He gave her his own chair, by the table. The girl moved

apathetically across the room and took the chair. Kite looked down at

her.

“Now, Hetty,” he said, in the tone of one who questions a child. “I have

been telling them what you told me. They think I am lying. Am I lying?”

She shook her head slowly; and Kite looked from man to man triumphantly.

Routt cried:

“Hetty, you don’t understand. He said Wint was your--your baby’s father?

That’s not true. It can’t be.”

She looked at Routt; and there was a somber light in her eyes. She said,

in a low, steady voice:

“Yes. Sure it’s true.”

Her eyes remained on Routt. He stepped back as though she had struck

him. Wint raised his head and looked around the room; saw Amos squinting

at his pipe; saw B. B. ill at ease, and Skinner squirming; saw his

father white and shaken in his seat. Then Routt turned to him,

exclaiming:

“Wint, for God’s sake.... You heard what she said.”

Wint hardly knew himself; he was, suddenly and surprisingly, very calm,

and happy with an anguished happiness of renunciation. The old stubborn,

prideful Wint would have denied, have fought, have sworn. But Wint

looked at Hetty; he was terribly sorry for her. He surrendered himself

to a great and splendid magnanimity.

“Yes,” he told Routt. “I heard.”

“But it’s a lie!”

Wint got up slowly, looked around the room, studied them all; and he

smiled. “Hetty would not lie about me,” he said. “She and I have always

been friends. We are going to be married, right away.”

He held them a moment more with his steady gaze; they were frozen, every

man. And then he looked at Hetty, and saw her eyes widen pitifully, and

saw her face twist with anguish. And he smiled reassuringly, and he

said: “It’s all right, Hetty. Truly. Don’t be afraid.”

While they were still motionless, he turned and went quietly into the

hall. Muldoon had been dozing under his chair; the dog scrambled up now

and followed him. Wint got his hat and went out of the house, Muldoon

upon his heels.

In the room he had left, every man was very still. Only poor Hetty

crumpled slowly in her chair; and she dropped her head in her arms upon

the table and began to cry, with great, gasping sobs. And she whispered

to herself, so harshly that they all could hear:

“My God! My God! Oh, my God!”

END OF BOOK V

BOOK VI

VICTORY

CHAPTER I

THE WEAVER HOUSE AGAIN

There is a dramatist hidden in every one of us. We like to cast

ourselves as heroes, as heroines, as villains of the piece. Make-believe

is one of the fundamental instincts. It is human nature to construct a

drama about our lives; it is also very human to seize dramatic

situations.

There was a good deal of the dramatic in Wint. When he left his home

that night, Muldoon at his heels, he was acutely conscious that his life

was broken. He had lost everything. He had lost father, and mother; and

he had lost Joan. They were irrevocably gone. Furthermore, he was beaten

in his fight. There could be no question of this. Hardiston would

overwhelm him. There was left for him in this world--nothing.

Wint was enough of a boy to take a keen delight in the tragedy of this;

he was enough of a boy--or enough of a dramatist, for the two things are

in many ways the same--to emphasize his situation, bring out the high

lights, vest it in the trappings of drama. He did not think of himself

as a hero, for having sacrificed everything for Hetty; he did not think

of that phase of the situation at all. He had done that because it was

the inevitable consequence of events. It was the only thing he could do.

He took no credit to himself for the doing. But he did picture himself

as broken or destroyed; and as he walked, more or less aimlessly, it was

natural that his thoughts should cast back through the months to those

other days when he had fallen low. Thus he remembered the Weaver House,

and Mrs. Moody.

There seemed to him something appropriate and fitting in the idea of

returning to the Weaver House this night. He had risen out of it; he

would return to it. It was in such surroundings, now, that he belonged.

He turned that way.

It was no more than nine o’clock in the evening, or perhaps a little

later, when Wint left his home. The day had been fine; the night was

clear, and there was a moon. It was pleasant to be abroad on such a

night. Wint took a leisurely course that brought him through the last

fringes of houses above the railroad yards; and he followed the tag end

of a street down the hill to the flats covered with slack and cinders.

In the light of day, this was a hideous place, black and begrimed. But

the moon could glorify even this. It painted blue shadows everywhere; it

laid streaks of silver light along the rails; it touched a pool of

water, a puddle here and there, and under the touch the water became

quicksilver, alive and beautiful. A switching engine moved down the

yard, and when the fire-man twitched open the door to replenish the

fires, the glare shone in a pale glow upon his figure and back upon the

tender. The long strings of cars, box cars with open doors, or coal cars

loaded high, took on a beauty of their own in the night; and the winking

switch lamps were like jewels, like rubies and emeralds shining in the

moon.

He had to climb between two freight cars, on his way across the yard;

and Muldoon scurried underneath them. Wint grimed his hands on the cars,

and rubbed them together, cleansing them as well as he could, while he

went on. He picked his way across the tracks, past the roundhouse where

a locomotive slumbered hissingly, and on into the fringes of the

locality where the Weaver House awaited him.

It is the custom in Hardiston that when the moon is full, be it cloudy

or clear, the street lamps are not lighted. Thus the street along which

Wint took his way was illuminated only by the moon. On either side, the

dingy, squalid houses stood, with a flicker of light from one and

another where those who dwelt within were still awake. A little later,

he passed a store or two, and turned a corner, and so came to the hotel.

Something prompted him to stop outside and look in through the dirty

window glass. It was so light outside, and the lamp inside furnished

such a meager illumination, that Mrs. Moody saw him at the window; and

she took him for some wandering ne’er-do-well, and came scolding to the

door. “Be off,” she cried, before she saw who it was. “Get away from

there.”

Muldoon snarled at her; and Wint said: “Quiet, boy,” and to the woman:

“It’s me. Wint Chase.”

She came out and peered up at him; and he saw her horribly even teeth

shine like silver between her cracked old lips. “You, is it?” she

exclaimed aggressively. “Well, and you don’t need to come a-snooping

around here. We’re lawful folks, here. And you know it. So you can just

go along.”

He said: “I came for lodging;” and she backed away.

“Eh?” she asked.

“For lodging,” he repeated. “Can you give me a room?”

“What’s the matter with you, anyhow?” she demanded. “You had a fight

with your paw again?” She was still aggressively and suspiciously on

guard. He laughed, and said whimsically:

“Come; you wouldn’t turn an old friend out. Let me have a room.”

So she thawed, became her old, meanly ingratiating self.

“Why, deary,” she protested, “you know old Mother Moody never turned a

man away. You come right in now. Come right in where it’s warm. Did you

say you’d had a scrap with your paw?”

Wint went before her into the office of the squalid hotel. Muldoon kept

close to his heels; and Jim, Mrs. Moody’s dog, growled from beneath the

table. Mrs. Moody squalled at him:

“You, Jim, be still.”

Wint looked around him; it was curious to find the place so little

changed. A train clanked past on the track that flanked the hotel. He

could almost hear the gurgle of the muddy waters of the creek behind.

The office itself was lighted, as it had always been, by a single oil

lamp. It did not seem to Wint that this lamp had been cleaned since he

was here before. It stood on the square old table in the corner, where

the wall benches ran along two sides. The dog slept under this table;

and the boy--the same boy--was leaning his elbows on the table by the

lamp and poring with mumbling lips over a tattered, paper-backed tale.

This boy’s clothes were still too small; his wrists stuck out from his

sleeves, his neck reared itself bare and gaunt above the collar of the

coat. There was a strange and pitiful atmosphere of age and experience

about him.

There was one change in the room, as Wint saw when he had persuaded Mrs.

Moody to leave him to his own devices, and she had gone to her chair

behind the high counter that had been a bar. This change lay in the fact

that one of the two old checker players was no longer here. The other

sat on the wall bench in the corner behind the table; the disused

checkerboard lay before him. He was asleep, with sagging head, his

occupation gone. His white beard was stained an ugly brown below his

mouth. Wint wondered if the other old man were dead. Perhaps.

He did not wish to be alone, just then; he wanted companionship,

friendly and impersonal. So he sat down beside the boy, and filled his

pipe, and lighted it, and asked amiably:

“What are you reading, son?”

The boy was too absorbed to answer. He brushed at his ear with his hand

as though a fly buzzed there, and turned a dogeared page. But the sound

of Wint’s voice so near him woke the old man; he stirred, opened his

eyes, looked all about. And he reached across and laid a hand like a

claw on Wint’s arm.

“Play checkers?” he asked hoarsely. “Play checkers, do you?”

“A little,” Wint said.

“I’ll play you,” the old man challenged. “I’m a good player. I always

was. Played all my life. Played every night, right here at this table,

with the best player in the county, for seven years.” His skinny old

hands were feverishly arranging the pieces, while Wint took his place by

the board. “I beat him, too,” the old man boasted. “Beat him lots of

times. He’d say so himself. He would, but he had to go and die.” There

was resentment in his voice, as at a personal wrong. He said curtly:

“Your move,” and spoke no more.

Wint moved, the old man countered. On Wint’s fifth move--he was an

indifferent player--the old man cackled gleefully. “That beats you,” he

cried. “Heh, heh, heh! That beats you, now.”

It did; and Wint lost the next game, and the next, as easily. His

success put the old man in the best of humor. He laughed much between

games, studying the board with fixed intensity while the play was in

progress. Wint watched the old man as much as he watched the board; he

studied the old fellow, with a curiously wistful eye. This old wreck of

manhood had been a boy once; a baby once, in a mother’s arms. No doubt

she had dreamed dreams for him. Dreamed he might be President, some day.

Might be anything.... This is one of the things that makes babies

fascinating; their potentialities. There is no greater gamble than to

bring a baby into the world. Wint, considering this, thought of Hetty’s

baby. The baby that had died. As well, perhaps. Otherwise, it might have

come, some day, to playing checkers in the Weaver House. He put the

thought aside abruptly. At least, it would have lived. Even this old man

had lived. No doubt life had been reasonably sweet to him till his

antagonist died. “Had to go and die....”

The old man accused him. “You ain’t trying to play, young fellow. Now

don’t you go easy on me. I’ll show you some things.” And Wint gave more

of his attention to the game.

He was playing when the door opened and Jack Routt came in; he did not

look around till Jack exclaimed behind him: “Wint! By God, I thought

you’d be here!”

He looked up then, and said: “Hello, Jack,” in a calm voice, and went on

with his play. Routt dropped on the seat beside him and caught his arm.

“Here, Wint,” he protested, “I want to talk to you. Where’d you pick up

that old duck? Listen. I want to.... Let’s go outside.”

Wint said: “Wait till we finish the game.” The old man seemed

unconscious of Routt’s presence; and when Routt spoke again, Wint bade

him be quiet, and wait. Only when the game was done did he rise. To the

old man he said: “Thanks. We’ll have another game. I’ll beat you yet.”

The other protested jealously at his going; but Wint said he must. Then,

to Routt: “Come upstairs.”

“Have you got a room?” Routt asked, amazed; and Wint said:

“Yes.” And he went toward the stair. Routt followed him.

Mrs. Moody had given Wint that same dingy room in which he had spent the

night of his election. They went there, and Wint bade Routt sit down.

Routt sat on the bed; Wint stood indolently by the door. Routt exclaimed

at once:

“Wint, I want you to know this wasn’t my doing. You could have knocked

me flat. I’m sorry as hell.”

“Of course,” Wint agreed.

“I want to know if there isn’t some way we can fix it up,” Routt urged.

“There must be something we can do. Some damned thing.”

“There’s nothing to fix,” Wint told him.

“Nothing to fix? Good God!” Routt shifted his position, reached into his

pocket. “My Lord, but I’m knocked out. Shaky. I’ve got to have a drink.

Mind?”

“Go ahead.”

Routt produced a flask. He held it toward Wint. “Have a slug?” Wint

shook his head. Routt drank, again asked: “Sure you won’t?” Wint said:

“No.”

“If I were in your shoes,” said Routt, with the flask still open in his

hand, “I’d want to soak myself in it. A good, stiff drunk. There are

times when nothing else is any good.”

“I used to think so,” Wint agreed.

Routt took a second drink, wiped his mouth, screwed the cap on the flask

and put it in his pocket. “If you want any, say the word,” he suggested.

“Now, Wint, what are we going to do?”

Wint, leaning quietly against the wall, stirred a little. “I’m going to

tell you something, Routt,” he said.

“Tell me? What?”

“This,” Wint went on gently, eyes a little wistful. “This. That I--know

you now. At last.”

Routt sat for an instant very still; then he got to his feet. “Wint,

what do you mean?”

“I thought you were my--friend,” said Wint. “Stuck to that thought.

People warned me. Amos, and father; and--Joan. Said you were not--my

friend. But I believed you were.”

“Damn it, I am your friend.”

“I’m not sorry I held to you as long as I could,” Wint went on

impassively. “It’s a good thing to have faith, even in--false friends.

But--I know you now, Routt. You’ve made me drunk, played on the worst in

me, slandered me, tricked me, played your part in this black thing

to-night.” He hesitated, and Routt started to speak, but Wint cut in.

“Are you--responsible for Hetty, Jack?” he asked.

“Am I?” Routt demanded. “Why, damn you, you said yourself....”

“If I thought you were,” Wint told him evenly. “If I thought you had

done that to her.... She was a nice girl. Clean. I think I’d take you by

the throat, Routt, and kill you here.”

Routt cried angrily: “You’re crazy. What the hell! You said yourself

that you....”

“In fact,” Wint told him, “unless you go away, I am going to hurt

you--even now. Without being sure. Hurt you as badly as I can.”

Routt started to speak; then Wint’s eyes caught his and silenced him. He

stood for a moment, staring at the other.

And his eyes fell. He looked around gropingly for his hat, and he put it

on. He went past Wint at the door; and he went past quickly, as though

afraid of what Wint might do.

He went along the hall and down the stairs without speaking again.

Wint, left alone, stood still where he was for a time; then he stirred

himself and began to prepare for bed. He moved slowly, indolently.

Stripped off coat and collar, sat down to unlace his shoes. After a

while, he crossed and opened the window. He felt, somehow, infinitely

cleaner, healthier, since he had put Jack Routt out of his life. He felt

as though he had washed smears of grime from his hands.

Yet there was a certain loneliness upon him, too; for he had lost one

whom he had counted a friend.

After a while, he went to bed and slept peacefully enough till dawn.

CHAPTER II

A BRIGHTER CHAPTER

The crowded events of the evening before had wearied Wint more than he

knew; his sleep was dreamless and profound, and he might not have waked

till midday if it had not been for Muldoon. The dog slept beside Wint’s

bed; but at the first glint of day, it became restless; and when the sun

rose, Muldoon got up and walked stiffly across to the open window and

propped his feet on the sill and looked out. The slight sound of his

nails on the bare floor disturbed Wint, and he turned in his sleep; and

Muldoon came back to the bed to see what was the matter. Wint’s arm was

hanging over the side of the bed, and Muldoon licked his master’s hand.

Which woke Wint effectually enough.

He opened his eyes, and at first he could not remember where he was. The

dingy room.... He stared up at the cracked and broken ceiling. At one

place, a patch of plaster had fallen, leaving the laths bare. It took

Wint some little time to recognize his surroundings. But at last he

remembered. He sat up on the edge of the bed, rumpling Muldoon’s ears

with his right hand, and looked around.

The room contained, besides the bed, a chair and a wardrobe. His clothes

were on the chair. The sagging doors of the wardrobe hung open. There

was nothing inside the decrepit thing. His eyes wandered toward the

mantel. The cracked old mirror still hung there. His eyes fell to the

floor, and he marked the charred place near the hearth, burned there

that night of his election when at sight of his own image in the mirror

he had smashed the lamp in a fury of shame. He remembered that night,

now, and he smiled a little whimsically. It seemed his fortunes were

always to be bound up with this dingy room.

Muldoon, disturbed by Wint’s long silence, looked up at his master, and

barked, under his breath, uneasily. Wint took the dog’s head in both

his hands and shook it gently back and forth. “What’s the matter, pup?”

he asked affectionately. “What’s on your mind? What are you fussing

about, anyhow? What have you got to fuss about, I’d like to know? Come.”

Muldoon twisted himself free, and he snarled. It was a part of the game.

Then he flung himself forward and pinned Wint’s right hand and held it,

growling. Wint took him by the scruff of the neck and lifted the dog

into his lap; and Muldoon’s solid body accommodated itself to Wint’s

knees and he lay there, perfectly contented.

“You stuck around, didn’t you, boy?” Wint asked, his voice a little

wistful. “The rest of them didn’t give a hoot for Wint; but you stuck

around. Eh? The rest of them didn’t care. ‘Get out. Good enough for

him.’ That’s what they’d say. But not you, eh, Muldoon? You stuck. Even

Jack Routt. Even Jack came only to offer me booze. And the rest of them

didn’t come at all. Only you, pup. You and I, now. But we’ll show them

some things. Eh?”

Muldoon rolled his eyes up at Wint and said nothing; and Wint lifted the

dog from his knees to the bed. “There, take a nap while I’m dressing,”

he said. “Then we’ll be moving on.”

The dog stayed obediently on the bed; and Wint dressed, moving quietly

to and fro. He did not hurry. He was possessed by an easy indolence.

There seemed to be nothing in the world worth hurrying for. He was not

unhappy; he whistled a little, as he dressed. But once or twice he

remembered that his father had let him go without a word, and he winced

at the thought. And once or twice he remembered that he had no friend

now, anywhere, save Muldoon; and that was not pleasant remembering.

But for the most part, he put a good face on life. “After all, pup,” he

told Muldoon, “thing’s can’t be any worse. So they’re bound to get

better. And we’ll just play that hunch for all it’s worth. Why not? Eh?”

Muldoon had no objections; he wagged the stump of his tail and opened

his jaws and laughed, dog-fashion, tongue hanging happily. Wint grinned

at him, and sat down to tie his shoes.

Save for collar and coat, he was fully dressed when he heard through the

open door the voice of some one who had come into the office of the

Weaver House, downstairs. The voice was unmistakable. The newcomer was

Amos; and when Wint realized this, he stood very still, and his face

turned a little white. He waited without moving. There was nothing else

to do.

He heard Amos and some one else coming up the stairs, guided by Mrs.

Moody. “Right along here,” the old dame was saying. “Always the same

room. I always give him the best. That’s the kind of a gentleman he is,

when he comes to old Mother Moody. Right here, now.”

In the doorway she said: “Here’s the Congressman to see you, deary.” And

she stood aside to let Amos come in. Wint saw that B. B. Beecham was

with Amos, on the other’s heels. He watched them, steady enough by this

time. He wondered what they had come for. To triumph? That would not be

like B. B. Nor like Amos.

Amos turned and told Mrs. Moody to go. “And thank you, ma’am,” he said.

She went away, a little reluctantly. She was a curious old woman; she

liked to know what went on in her hostelry. But--Amos had, when he

chose, a commanding tone. When she was gone, he turned and looked at

Wint, head on one side, squinting good-humoredly; and he said:

“Well, Wint, how’s tricks?”

Wint hesitated; then he said: “Good morning, both of you.”

Amos nodded. B. B. said: “Good morning.”

Wint looked around at the sparse furnishings of the room. “You’ve caught

me early,” he said. “I’m not dressed yet.” And he added: “I can’t offer

you both a chair, because there’s only one chair.”

“Me,” said Amos, “I’ll sit on the bed. B. B., sit down.”

Wint remained on his feet. “Well,” he asked, a challenge in his voice,

“what’s on your mind?”

Amos leaned back against the wall and began to fill his pipe. “Nothing

much, Wint,” he said slowly. “We come down here principally to shake you

by the hand. Don’t let me forget t’ do it, before I go.”

His tone was friendly and reassuring. Wint wondered just what he meant.

He smiled a little, and said: “All right.”

“Thought you might be glad to see your friends,” Amos added; and Wint

said, with lips a little white:

“I would be.”

“Well,” Amos told him. “Here’s two of us.”

Wint looked at the Congressman; and he looked at B. B. B. B. said

quietly: “That was a fine thing you did last night, Wint.”

Wint flushed, as though he were ashamed of what he had done. “I don’t

understand this,” he said, a little impatiently. “What do you want? Out

with it!”

Amos said: “Want to help you, any way we can.”

Wint’s eyes narrowed, and he flung out a hand. “You’re too darned

mysterious, Amos.”

Amos lighted his pipe. “Well, Wint, I don’t aim to be,” he declared.

“I’m talking straight as I know. B. B. and me are on your side; that’s

all. We’re taking orders from you. We do anything you say.”

Wint laughed, a sudden, harsh laugh. “I’ve heard they give a condemned

man anything he wants--the last morning,” he exclaimed.

Amos nodded. “Yes, I’ve heard tell o’ that. But what’s that got to do

with this?”

“Plain enough, I should think.”

“You don’t count yourself a condemned man; now, do you?”

“I should think so.”

Amos shook his head doubtfully. “And here I thought you said last night

you didn’t aim to quit.”

“I don’t. But I’ll be snowed under--now. Of course.”

“Well,” said Amos, “that may be so. I ain’t sure. Gergue will know, time

he’s talked around a spell. Prob’ly you are--are beat. But I’ve seen men

beat before that turned out pretty strong in the end.” He added slowly:

“Anyway, licked or unlicked, I’m on your side, Wint. And always was.”

Wint stared at him with a curious, threatening light in his eyes.

“What’s the idea? You turned me down cold, in public. Now you come

whining around....”

“I’m not whining, Wint,” said Amos cheerfully. “Do you think I’m

whining, B. B.?”

B. B. smiled. “Congressman Caretall has his own methods, Wint. I know he

seemed to be against you; but I also know that he’s been secretly

working for you, that every vote he can swing will go to you. He’s been

passing that word around for a week.”

Wint hesitated, looking from one to the other. “I never caught you in a

lie, B. B.,” he said.

“It’s true enough,” the editor told him. “You see--” He looked at Amos,

then went on: “You see, your father has no use for Amos. And Amos knew

it. He also knew your father could do a good deal to help you win this

election. But--Chase would not be on your side so long as Amos was with

you. Do you see?”

“I see that much,” said Wint. He was thinking hard.

“But your father has been working for you since Amos pretended to have

turned against you. Hasn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t suppose you ever thought of that,” B. B. suggested; and Wint

drew his hand across his eyes, and looked at Amos, and asked huskily:

“Is it true, Amos?”

Amos grinned; and he said: “I’m like you. I never knowed B. B. to tell a

lie.”

“But why didn’t you tell me?”

“You can’t keep a secret, Wint. You’re too damned honest. Maybe you’re

too honest for politics. I don’t know. Anyhow, I couldn’t let on to you

without your father seeing it in your eye.”

Wint said, grinning a little shakily: “It hurt me a good deal, just the

same.”

“I guess you’ll outgrow that.”

“I suppose so.”

He said nothing more for a minute; and Amos puffed at his pipe, and B.

B. studied Wint, smiling a little at the young man’s confusion. Wint was

flushed; and he was happier than he had ever expected to be again. These

two were true friends, at least. Not all the world had turned its back

on him. He crossed abruptly and gripped their hands.

“Why, that’s all right,” said Amos, marking how Wint was moved. “If you

hadn’t run away last night, before we could move, I’d have told you

then. I tried to find you, after. But no one seemed to know.”

Wint nodded. “I just walked blindly, for a while. I could not go home.

This was the first place I thought of.”

Amos blew a cloud of smoke. “Well, that’s all right.”

“How did you find out I was here, now?” Wint asked. “Just guess? Or

what?”

“Jack Routt is--spreading the word,” Amos explained. There was a

suggestion of something hidden behind his simple statement.

“Routt? Yes, he was here last night,” Wint agreed.

“Yes, he said he was.” Wint caught the implication in the Congressman’s

tone, and he asked:

“What’s the matter? What does Routt say?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, he says you were down here last night,

stewed to the eyes and getting steweder all the time.”

Wint’s eyes narrowed; then he laughed. “Oh, he says that?”

“Says it frequent and generous.”

“He came down last night and suggested that I drown my sorrows,” Wint

explained. “I--” He hesitated. “You see, Jack and I--I’ve always counted

him my best friend. But I seemed to see through him last night. I--don’t

count him my friend any more.”

“We-ell,” Amos drawled, “I can’t say as I blame you for that. I’ll say

he don’t talk friendly about you.”

Wint, flushing, asked quickly: “You don’t believe what he’s saying?”

Amos shook his head. “I know a hangover when I see one; and I know when

I don’t.”

Wint nodded. “I’m not starting in again on the booze at this stage of

the game.”

“No; I’d guess not.”

Wint sat down beside Amos on the tumbled bed. “Now, Amos, let’s get

down to tacks. I said last night I was going to stick; and I meant it. I

mean it all the more, now, with you to back me. The thing is--”

Amos turned his head toward the door. “Some one coming,” he said; and

Wint heard steps on the stair, and Mrs. Moody’s cheerful harangue. He

got up quickly. His father stood in the doorway.

In the long moment of silence that followed the appearance of the elder

Chase, Wint put his whole heart into the effort to read his father’s

face. Was there anger there? Or shame? Or bitter reproach? Reason

enough, in all conscience, for any one of these emotions. He stared deep

into his father’s eyes.

The elder Chase came into the room, one stiff step; and he looked at

Wint, and at B. B., and at Amos. His lips twitched a little at sight of

Amos, then set firmly together again. That was all.

Wint moved toward him a little. “Dad....” he said huskily.

His father’s eyes searched Wint’s. The older man’s voice was shaking. He

said slowly: “Routt is telling Hardiston you are drunk, down here.”

Wint nodded. “Yes; I’d heard.”

“I heard him telling men this thing.”

Wint said nothing; the older man’s face lighted fiercely. “I knew he

lied, Wint. I knew he lied.”

Wint flushed with the sudden rush of happiness within him. He looked

from his father to Amos. “Dad,” he said, “there’s one thing. I know my

friends now.”

“Routt is no friend.”

“I know.”

“I always told you.”

“Yes.”

“He....”

Wint laughed softly. “Forget Jack Routt, dad. I’ve other friends. Amos,

here.”

Chase’s face hardened; he said, without expression, “Amos?”

“He and B. B. came to me when I thought I hadn’t a friend in the world.

You and Amos have got to make it up, dad. You’ve got to. Please.”

The older man hesitated; then he turned to Amos. “All right,” he said.

“I ... Wint’s friends are mine.”

Amos got up from the bed and took the offered hand; and he smiled

shrewdly. “I did play you dirty, Chase,” he confessed. “I admit it. But

doing it--I played a good trick on your son. Didn’t I now?”

Chase said slowly: “Yes.”

“Wouldn’t you rather have him as he stands?” Amos asked. “Wouldn’t you

rather have him as he stands--than the way he was a year ago?”

“Yes. God knows.”

Amos said slowly: “When you’re sorest at me--just give me credit for

that.”

Chase exclaimed swiftly: “It doesn’t matter. It’s past. Done. All I want

is--my boy. You, Wint.”

Wint was beginning to believe all was right with the world. He said

slowly: “Even--after last night, dad? Hetty....”

“Yes,” said his father.

“Mother?” Wint asked. “She’ll.... Is she unhappy?”

“Why did you go away from us, Wint?” his father asked huskily. “Why did

you run away?”

“I thought you wouldn’t want me at home.”

“We always want you.”

B. B. caught Amos Caretall’s eye; and he nodded slightly; and Amos

understood. He said: “We’ll be moving, Wint. See you uptown, by and by.”

“Yes, I’ll be up,” Wint said.

“So long, Chase.”

“Good-by,” Chase told him quietly. Amos and B. B. went out, and along

the hall, and down the stair. Wint and his father were left alone. For a

little while they did not speak; then Chase said gently:

“Come home to your mother, Wint.”

Wint asked: “Even--knowing this, what happened last night? You want me

in spite of it?”

“Yes.”

“In spite of--what I’ve done?”

Chase threw up his hand; he cried: “Damn it, yes. What do we care?

Whatever you do....” His voice broke huskily. “You’re always our son!”

Wint could not move for a moment; he was choking. At last he laughed,

happily enough; and he touched his father’s shoulder with one hand.

“Wait till I put on my collar,” he said. “I’ll come along.”

Muldoon, as though in his dog mind he understood, began to prance and

bark about his master as Wint prepared to leave the Moody hostelry

behind him. Wint was as happy as the dog. He knew his friends, now. Knew

the loyal ones. And his father, and his mother.... They loved him.

All was well with the world.

CHAPTER III

HETTY HAS HER DAY

Wint and his father walked home in a silence that was little broken.

Across the railroad yards, up the hill. A new understanding of his

father and mother was coming to Wint; some measure of comprehension of

the completeness of their love for him. He marked that there had been no

reproaches from his father, no questions, no scolding. That which had

passed was to be forgotten, was to be ignored. He was their son; nothing

else mattered in any degree. His father, on their homeward way, spoke of

other matters, once or twice. He said the day was fine; he said Mrs.

Chase would probably have breakfast waiting. Wint took the older man’s

lead, ignored what had passed the night before.

When they got to the house, his mother met him in the hall, and she put

her arms around him and cried on his shoulder, and called him her boy.

Wint cried, too, and was not ashamed of it. He kept patting her head,

and saying: “There, mother,” in an awkward way. She told him he must

never go away from home again. Never; for anything....

He said: “I thought you would want me to go.”

But she clasped him close, protesting.

She had breakfast hot upon the stove. The elder Chase had gone downtown

as soon as it was day, to try to locate Wint. They ate together; and

after that first moment in the hall, they did not speak of what had

happened at all. When breakfast was done, Wint went into the kitchen

with his mother to help with the dishes. She tied an apron around him,

and laughed at him with a sob in her voice; and Wint laughed with her,

and joked her, till the sob disappeared. His father looked in on them

once or twice, then left them alone together.

Once, Wint broke a little silence by saying, his arm around her

shoulders:

“Mother!”

She looked up at him with quick anxiety; and he said: “I’m sorry, for

your sakes.”

She said: “You didn’t lie, Wint. Anyway, you didn’t lie. There, dry that

plate. So....”

He smiled a little whimsically. After all, he had lied. But they did not

care whether it was true or false; these two. He was their son. The

thought was glorious. He nursed it, treasured it.

When the work was done, and the dishes were being put away, they heard a

step on the porch outside the kitchen. They both looked that way; and

through the window saw Hetty. She passed the window, knocked on the

door.

Wint looked toward his mother; and he saw that she was white as death.

But even while he looked at her, she touched her mouth with her hand,

and steadied herself, and went to the door and opened. “Hetty!” she said

pleasantly, gently. “Hetty! Well, come in.”

The girl came into the kitchen. She was pale, but she seemed very sure

of herself. She looked from Mrs. Chase to Wint. “I want to talk to

Wint,” she said gently.

Mrs. Chase nodded. “You wait here.” She went quickly out into the dining

room. They heard her speak to her husband. She was back, almost at once.

“Go into the sitting room,” she said. “There’s no one there.”

Hetty went toward the door; but Wint at first did not stir. He was

curiously ashamed to face Hetty. She stopped in the doorway, and looked

back at him; and he pulled himself together, and untied his apron and

followed her. In the sitting room, she sat down on the couch, and Wint

sat by the table. She looked at him steadily, smiled a little.

He said: “Well, Hetty.”

She laughed at him in a tender way. “Oh, you Wint!” she exclaimed, in a

fashion that reminded him of the old, careless Hetty. He shifted

uneasily. He felt as though he were guilty toward her. But there was no

accusation in her voice. She shook a forefinger at him. “What got into

you?” she asked. “Why didn’t you tell them to go to the devil?”

There was no way to put it into words. He shook his head. “I don’t know.

It’s all right.”

“You knocked us flat; the lot of us,” she said. “Wint, you pretty near

killed me. You darned, decent kid.”

Wint stirred uneasily.

“I thought I’d die,” she said. Her voice shook, though she was smiling.

“I....” She laughed. “You ought to have seen the others.”

He asked awkwardly: “What happened? I haven’t heard.”

“Didn’t your father--”

“No. I stayed at the Weaver House last night.”

She laughed. “Oh, you. Leave it to you. To think of the fool thing to

do.”

He said soberly: “I was in earnest, Hetty. I meant what I said.”

She nodded. “Sure you did. You’re just a big enough fool to go through

with it, too.”

“Of course.”

“You’ve got a f-fat chance, Wint,” she said, and her voice broke, and

she was very near crying through her smiles. “I’ve waked up, now. You’ve

got a fine, fat chance of that.”

“I don’t hold it against you,” he said. “I’d--be good to you.”

“Don’t be a nut, darn you! You’ll make me cry. I came near crying myself

to death, last night.”

Wint’s curiosity was awake; he asked again: “What happened?”

“Why, you knocked us all flat,” she said. “I took it out in crying.

Routt beat it after you. He was the first to move.”

There was a curious, hard quality in her voice; and Wint asked: “Was

it....” He bit off the question, furious with himself for asking. She

said slowly:

“Never mind. That’s past. I thought for a while I’d be better dead; but

I know better, now. Nothing can kill you unless you want to be killed.

Nobody ever fell so hard they couldn’t get up. I’m going to get up,

Wint, and go right on living.”

He told her quickly: “Of course. I’ll help. Honestly....”

She said fiercely: “You will not. If you think I’m going to let you go

through with this--” She broke off, laughed. “Well, I was telling you

what happened. Routt beat it after you. The rest of us sat still, me

bawling. Then your father got up and ran out to the front door, and out

to the street. While he was gone, Kite begun to stir. I looked at Kite.

Believe me, Wint, he was squashed. He hadn’t expected you to--do what

you did. He looked like a dead man. He stuffed his things into his

pocket and he pattered out into the hall. Then he came back; and he said

to me:

“‘Come, Hetty.’

“I said to him: ‘You go where you’re going, you old buzzard.’ And I went

on crying. It felt good.

“I heard Kite go out the front door; and then your father came back. He

says: ‘He’s gone! Wint’s gone!’

“Then he looked at me, and I couldn’t look at him. And he went out and

went upstairs.

“The rest of them went along, then. Ed Skinner went first. Then B. B.

and Amos together. Amos says to me: ‘Don’t cry so, Hetty. Don’t cry so.’

I told him to shut up; and he went along. When they were all gone, I got

myself together and went out. Lutcher and Kite were waiting at the

corner. They stopped me; and Kite, he says: ‘My God, what are we going

to do?’

“I hit him in the face, hard as I could. Lutcher grabbed my arm; and I

told him to let go, and he let go. I went on and left them. Went home

and cried some more.”

She laughed a little. “I’ll say I felt like crying, Wint. That was your

doing. Darn you!”

He said: “You mustn’t feel badly.”

“Badly!” she echoed, and her eyes were suddenly hard. “Wint, I could cut

out my tongue.” She moved abruptly, hid her face. After an instant, she

turned to him again.

“There’s no use in saying I’m sorry. They fed me up to it. Threats, and

promises. If I’d do it, they’d give me--a rat of a man to marry. He said

he’d marry me himself. But he’d said that before. He told me himself

that he’d marry me if I’d do this. Marry me and take me away. I knew he

was a liar, but I thought maybe he’d keep the promise, this time. I

thought I had to have him, to be able to look people in the eye. Oh, I’m

not making excuses, Wint. There isn’t any excuse for me.”

He said: “It’s all right. Please don’t feel badly.”

“The thing is,” she said steadily, “how am I going to make it up to you?

What do you want me to do?” He did not answer at once; and she told him

humbly: “I’ll do anything you say.”

He shook his head. “Nothing. I’m willing to go through with it.”

She rose to her feet with a swift, furious movement. “Damn you, Wint!”

she cried chokingly. “Don’t you say that again. Ain’t I sorry enough to

suit you? Haven’t you poured coals of fire on my head till--till my

hair’s all singed? Don’t rub it in, Wint,” she pleaded. “You’ve made me

feel bad enough. I’ll say I was ready to quit, last night. It wasn’t

worth a penny, to live. Then I thought I might make it up to you. So

I--stayed alive. Don’t you rub it in to me, now. Don’t you say that

again. I tell you, Wint, I went through something, last night.” Her

voice shook, she stretched out her hands to him. “For God’s sake, Wint,

don’t rub it in any more!”

There were tears in her eyes, on her cheeks; her face was the face of

one in torment. He took her hands; and he said gently: “Please--I didn’t

mean to make you unhappy. You’ve--really, you’ve made me happy. I

thought every one would be against me. But Amos and B. B. came to me,

offered me their friendship, and their help. And father came to me. I

never knew before what friends I had. You’ve done that for me, already.”

“I’ll bet Routt came to you, too,” she said, a terrible scorn in her

voice. “He’s a friend of yours, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” said Wint, “he came.”

She was frankly crying, now; her shoulders shaking, tears streaming down

her face. Her lips twisted; she held out her clenched hands. “I’d like

to kill him.”

“Don’t cry,” Wint begged. “Please.”

She brushed her arms across her eyes and smiled at him. “All right.

Now.... What do you want me to do? It’s up to you.”

“I don’t want you to do anything,” Wint protested. “It will all come out

right in the end.”

“I’m not going to stand and wait.”

“Please. You’ll see.”

She stamped her foot fiercely. “I tell you, no. I was the goat,

yesterday. They made a fool of me. But I’m grown up over night, Wint.

This is my day. I’m going to tear things open--wide.”

For all the harshness of her speech, there was a strange new gentleness

about Hetty; and there was a new strength in her. Wint had never liked

her more, respected her more. He said steadily: “You’re wrong, I think.

You’re excited, to-day. I tell you, things will turn out better than you

think.”

The telephone tinkled in the hall; and Wint said: “Wait a minute, will

you?” And he went to answer it.

Sam O’Brien, the fat restaurant man, was on the other end of the wire.

He asked: “This Chase’s house?”

Wint said: “Yes, this is Wint Chase. That you, Sam?”

O’Brien exclaimed: “Yes, it’s me! Say, Wint--you’re there, boy. You’re a

man.”

“Pshaw!”

“Say, Wint,” O’Brien cut in. “Is Hetty up there? They say at her room

she started for there.”

Wint glanced toward the door of the sitting room. “Yes,” he said.

“Do me a favor?” Sam asked.

“Of course.”

“Keep her there till I come.”

“All right,” Wint agreed. “What--”

But Sam had hung up. Wint went back to Hetty. He decided, for no reason

in the world, not to tell her what Sam had asked him to do. She asked,

as soon as he came into the sitting room:

“Who was that? Sam O’Brien?”

“Yes.”

“What did he want?”

Wint laughed uneasily, and said: “He just wanted to tell me he was on my

side.”

Hetty nodded. “There’s one decent man, Wint.” There was a curious warmth

in her tone.

“Yes, he is,” Wint agreed.

“He’s been fine to me,” she said, a little wistfully. Then she put Sam

aside with a movement of her hand. “Well, Wint, you want me to go ahead

my own way?”

He hesitated; then he said: “Hetty, you’re all right. I don’t blame you

for--anything. But I do want you to forget the whole thing. You’ll see

it will straighten out. Don’t mix things up.”

They heard his mother come into the dining room, across the hall, and

busy herself there; and they kept silent till she went out into the

kitchen again. A matter of minutes. Hetty moved once, crossing from her

chair to stand beside Wint and touch his shoulder lightly with her hand.

When Mrs. Chase had gone out of hearing, she said softly:

“I guess there’s one person you’d like to have know the straight of

this.”

Wint’s jaw set slowly with something of the old stubbornness; and he

said: “No. She doesn’t believe in me. She’s made no move. I’ll not.”

She twisted her fingers into his hair and shook him good-naturedly.

“You, Wint; you’re as stubborn as a mule,” she told him. “What would you

think of her if she’d come running? After you’d said you were going

to--marry me? What could she do? But she knows you’re a liar, just the

same. I’ll bet she’s just waiting.”

Some one came up on the porch outside, and she looked sharply that way,

and asked: “Who’s that?”

“I’ll go,” Wint told her; and he went to the front door. Sam O’Brien was

there. He had expected Sam. But Jack Routt was with him, and Wint had

not expected to see Routt.

He looked from Sam to the other. Routt’s collar, he saw, was rumpled;

and there were little beads of perspiration on Sam’s forehead. Wint

hesitated. Sam said huskily:

“I know you don’t want this skunk in your house, Wint. But is--she

here?”

“Yes,” Wint told him.

“Well, this thing wants to see her,” Sam explained. “Speak up, you.” He

looked at Routt.

Routt said: “Yes.” He ran a finger around inside his collar.

Wint moved aside. “Come in,” he agreed; and they stepped into the hall.

Then Hetty came out of the sitting room. She had heard their voices,

heard what they said. She stood very still, looking at Jack Routt with

inscrutable eyes.

Routt looked from Sam to Wint furtively. Then he looked at Hetty; and he

moved toward her as though he expected violence. Two paces from where

she stood, he stopped; he fidgeted. At last he said:

“Will you marry me?”

There was a parrot-like quality in his voice that made Wint, even in

that moment, want to smile. Hetty did smile; she said quietly:

“I suppose Sam brought you here.”

Routt looked at Sam; then he protested: “No. I wanted to come.

Honestly.”

“You never wanted anything honestly in your life, Jack,” she told him;

and there was as much pity as anger in her voice. “I wouldn’t marry you.

I wouldn’t look at you. Not if you were the last man in the world.”

No one said anything. They stood very still. Then Routt moved a little;

and he turned, and he looked questioningly at Sam O’Brien. Sam had his

hat in his hand. He dropped it, to leave his hands free. He opened the

front door and stepped outside; and Routt followed him as though at a

word of command.

Sam took him by the arm; then he closed the door. Wint looked at Hetty.

They heard a muffled, thudding sound. A hoarse cry. A scuffle of feet.

The front gate banged.

When Wint opened the door, Sam was standing on one foot, precariously

poised; and with his handkerchief he was carefully wiping the toe of his

right shoe. Routt was not in sight.

Hetty came to the door beside Wint; and Sam looked at her humbly, and he

asked:

“Will you walk along with me?”

Hetty, smiling a little tenderly, said: “You oughtn’t to have done

that.”

“I can clean my shoe,” Sam explained, as though that were the only

consideration. “Will you walk along with me?”

She hesitated a moment; then she said swiftly: “Yes, Sam,” and looked at

Wint with a quick, laughing glance. “Yes, Sam, I’ll walk along with

you.”

Sam looked at Wint. “We’re much obliged to you,” he said.

Wint nodded. Then Sam and Hetty went down to the gate; and Wint watched

them go away together.

CHAPTER IV

WINT’S RALLY

It was well toward dinner time when Hetty and Sam O’Brien went away

together and left Wint. He watched them to the corner, and thought Sam

was a good fellow. And a lucky one, too. There was a fine strength and

pride in Hetty. No doubt about it, Sam was lucky.

When they were out of sight, Wint went into the house. His father had

not yet come downstairs; Mrs. Chase was still in the kitchen. Wint

settled himself in the sitting room, and filled his pipe, and went over

in his thoughts the scenes this room had witnessed in twenty-four hours

past. He looked back at them as though he had been an observer. He could

not believe he had been chief actor in them all. It is, perhaps, this

trait of the human mind which permits mankind to rise to emergencies.

The emergency does not seem like an emergency at the time. It seems

rather like the ordinary run of life; it is only in retrospect that the

actors realize, and wonder at themselves. There is, during these great

moments, a vast simplicity about life. It had been so with Wint; it was

only now, as he thought back over what had taken place, that the drama

of it caught him. And he wondered at it all; and most of all he wondered

at himself.

His father came downstairs, after a little while, and joined him. The

older man made no reference to Hetty’s having been there; and Wint, at

first minded to tell the whole story, to tell his father that Hetty was

going to right the wrong she had done, decided on second thought to

wait. It would be sweeter to anticipate their joy when they should hear

the truth. So he held his tongue.

After a while, Mrs. Chase called them to dinner; and they went into the

dining room together. Some impulse made Wint drop his hand lightly on

his father’s shoulder; and the older man reached up and took Wint’s hand

and held it, so that they crossed the hall with hands clasped, as though

Wint were still a little boy. He was suddenly very proud of his father.

And ever so fond of him....

At the dinner table, it was as though nothing had happened. Mrs. Chase

was cheerful; she talked amiably of everything in the world except

Hetty. Wint and Mr. Chase answered her--that is to say, they interrupted

her with a remark now and then--while they ate. It was only when they

both had finished that Chase looked at his son and said, a little

awkwardly:

“You don’t want to forget you have a rally arranged for to-night, Wint.”

Wint exclaimed: “Good Lord; I had forgotten!”

“You’re not going to give it up?”

“Give it up? No. But I’d forgotten all about it. I’ll have to go

uptown.”

“You had made some arrangements, hadn’t you?”

“Yes. Hired the Rink. B. B. is going to preside. That is, he said he

would. And I asked Sam O’Brien to speak, and you promised that you

would.”

“I think I’d rather not,” Chase said, flushing uncomfortably. Wint

asked, smiling to take the sting out of his words:

“Not deserting me, are you?”

“No. I’ll be with you. Sitting on the stage. But--I wouldn’t know what

to say, Wint.”

“And Davy Morgan is going to speak.” He pushed back his chair. “I’ll go

right uptown and make sure things are all right.”

Chase said: “I’m glad you’re not giving it up. I’ll walk up with you,

Wint.”

His mother kissed him good-by at the door; and that was unusual. It was

the only sign she gave of what she must have been feeling. Wint had

sometimes thought, impatiently, that she was a babbling old woman, never

able to keep a thought to herself. He was learning a new respect for

her. And something more. He had felt that he was justified in counting

on his father and mother to stand by him; but he had expected and been

prepared for questions and perhaps reproaches. There were no questions;

there was never a reproach. It is often tactful to keep silent; and tact

is sometimes a shade nobler than loyalty, than many another virtue.

He hugged her close and hard, kissed her again; then he and his father

walked away toward town. Shoulder to shoulder, swinging like brothers.

They met people. Wint could see a furtive curiosity in the eyes of those

they met. But he could bear that. He had anticipated coven jeers,

perhaps an open jibe; and his muscles had hardened at the thought.

They went into the Post Office together, and separated there. Wint met

Dick Hoover; and Hoover gripped his hand and clapped his shoulder and

told him he was all right. That heartened Wint. On his way from the Post

Office, he encountered V. R. Kite, face to face, in front of the Bazaar.

Kite dropped his eyes and scuttled to cover like a crab in seaweed. Wint

chuckled with amusement. Hoover said:

“He can’t face you.”

Wint laughed good-naturedly. “Oh, Kite’s all right. He fights in the

only way he knows....”

He left Hoover in front of the _Journal_ office and went in. B. B. was

there, stoking the decrepit stove, breaking up the clotted coals with a

bit of wood, and pouring on fresh fuel. He greeted Wint smilingly; said:

“Good afternoon!”

“Hello, B. B.!” Wint rejoined, and sat down. “Still fussing with that

stove?”

B. B., amiably enough, said: “Yes. It’s a good stove. Perhaps it doesn’t

look as well as it might; but it heats this office. That’s the way with

a good many things that don’t look very well; they manage to do their

work better than the fine-looking things. Did you ever stop to think of

that?”

“In other words,” Wint agreed, “beauty is only skin deep, even in

stoves.”

“Well, I’d rather have an ugly stove that would draw and give heat than

a fine one that wouldn’t,” B. B. declared; and Wint said he did not

blame him. B. B. sat down at his desk, working and talking at the same

time. This was a way he had; a way he had to have, for there was nearly

always some one in the office to talk to him. Wint said:

“I almost forgot about my meeting to-night. Are you still willing to

preside?”

B. B. said: “Certainly.”

“I thought you might have changed your mind.”

“No indeed. At the Rink, is it?”

“Yes.”

“Who are your speakers?”

“I’m not having any fine talent,” Wint said, smiling. “Just a couple of

good friends of mine, Sam O’Brien and Davy Morgan. And if you’d be

willing to say something--”

“Oh, I always talk when I get a chance like that.”

“Sure.”

“Is your father going to speak?”

Wint shook his head. “No,” he said frankly. “Dad’s all right. He’s been

absolutely fine. But--he says he wouldn’t know what to say. He’s no

speaker, you know.”

“I’ve heard him do very well.”

Wint laughed. “You probably wrote those speeches for him yourself.” And

B. B. good-naturedly acknowledged the corn.

“About half past seven?” Wint asked, as he got up to go; and B. B.

agreed to the hour, and said he would be there.

When he had left B. B., Wint telephoned the furnace to make sure of Davy

Morgan; and Morgan said energetically that he surely would be on hand.

“I’ve some few things to say, also,” he declared. “I can talk when they

get me mad, Wint. And I’m mad enough, to-day.”

Wint said: “All right; go as far as you like. This is a fight. It’s no

pink tea.” And he dropped in on Sam O’Brien. But Sam was not in the

restaurant. His underling told Wint the fat man had been out all day.

“He went looking for Jack Routt,” the man explained.

“He found him,” said Wint. “Well, tell Sam I’m counting on him to be at

the Rink to-night.”

From the restaurant, he crossed the street to Dick Hoover’s office. Dick

and his father were busy, so that Wint was alone for a time. Then he

decided people might think he was hiding; so he came downstairs and out

to the street again, and went to the barber shop for a haircut. Jim

Radabaugh was there; and Jim shifted the bulge in his cheek and shook

hands with Wint and said:

“You’re there, boss. I’d say you’re there.”

Marshall, the barber, violated all the traditions of his craft by being

a silent man. He said nothing whatever while he trimmed Wint’s crisp

hair; and Wint was glad of that. He would not hide. But he did not want

to talk overmuch. When he came out of the barber shop, he saw Amos and

Sam O’Brien and Peter Gergue on the other side of the street. They were

walking purposefully, coming uptown from the direction of Amos’s home.

They saw him, and Amos waved his hand in greeting; then Peter spoke to

Amos, and left the others, and came across to Wint, scratching the back

of his head. Wint said:

“Hello, Peter.”

Gergue grinned. “Well, Wint, you’ve started something.”

Wint nodded. “I suppose so.”

“You’ve made ’em talk, Wint. That never hurt a bit.”

“I think you told me that once before,” Wint agreed, laughing.

“Well, and it’s so,” Gergue insisted. He looked all around, took Wint’s

arm. “Let’s walk along,” he suggested.

Amos and Sam had disappeared. Wint said: “I’ve been looking for Sam. I

want to see him.”

“What about?”

“He’s going to speak at my meeting to-night. At least I want him to.”

Gergue chuckled; and he gripped Wint’s arm as though he knew a thing or

two, which he might tell if he chose. “Oh, he’ll speak,” he said.

“Sam’ll speak.”

“I’ve counted on him.”

“You going to speak, ain’t you?” Gergue asked.

“Why, yes. Naturally.”

“Fixed you up a speech, have you?”

“Not yet. I’ll--just say whatever comes up at the time. Anything.”

Gergue shook his head. “I tell you, Wint,” he said. “You better go on

home and write you a speech. A good one, with flowers on it, and all.”

“Oh, I don’t need to.”

“I’ve seen more’n one man get up on his hind legs and go dumb. Good idea

to have something on your mind before you get up.”

“We-ell, maybe.”

“I tell you,” Gergue said again. “You go on home and fix up something.

Best thing to do.”

“I want to see Sam.”

“I’ll see him.”

Wint was more than half persuaded, before Peter spoke to him. He had

thought of going home; he was tired. He wanted to sleep. He said:

“We-ell, all right.”

“That’s the talk,” said Peter. “You go along.”

“So long, then.”

“Fix you up a good one,” Gergue advised him again. “Fix it up, and learn

it, and all. You’ll maybe be interrupted, you know.”

“If there’s any one there to interrupt,” Wint said, in a tone of doubt;

and Gergue cackled.

“Lord, there’ll be some folks there. Don’t you worry about that. You go

home and fix you up a speech. You’ll have a crowd.”

So Wint went home, in mid-afternoon. He found the house empty. His

mother, he thought, was probably next door, with Mrs. Hullis. He felt

sleepy; and he went to his room and lay down. His father woke him, at

last. Told him it was supper time.

At supper, Chase asked Wint’s mother if she were going to Wint’s rally.

She said: “I don’t know. I said to Mrs. Hullis this afternoon that I

wanted to go, but I didn’t know whether women went. And she said she

didn’t know either. But I told her I--”

“You’ll have plenty of company,” her husband told her. “From what I

hear, the whole town is going to be there. Every one was talking about

it this afternoon.”

“Then I’m going,” she said. “Mrs. Hullis wanted me to go with her; and

I--”

“You go with her,” Chase advised. “I’ll be on the stage, with Wint.”

She said: “I’ll have to leave the dishes. There won’t be--”

“I’ll do them, mother, while you’re dressing,” Wint told her cheerfully.

“Don’t worry about that.”

“Well, I don’t know!”

In the end, Wint and his father did them together. Wint broke a plate,

and Mrs. Chase called down the stairs to know what had happened, and

protested that she ought to come down and do them. But they would not

let her. Afterwards, they all started downtown together, Wint and his

father, Mrs. Chase and Mrs. Hullis. Two by two.

It was dark; the early dark of a winter evening. They met people, or

overtook them, or were overtaken by them; and Wint thought there were

more people than usual abroad. The moon was bright again this night,

bright as it had been the night before when Wint took his way to the

Weaver House. That seemed more like weeks than hours ago. As they came

nearer the Rink, they saw more people; and Chase said:

“You’re certainly going to have a crowd.”

Wint nodded. He was beginning to be nervous. He realized that this was

going to be hard.

But it was only when they turned the last corner and started down the

hill toward the Rink that he realized just how hard it was going to be.

It seemed to him all Hardiston was there ahead of him. The crowd

clustered in front of the Rink and extended out into the street; and

more were coming from each direction. Mrs. Hullis and Mrs. Chase, ahead,

were lost in the throng. Wint stopped; he turned to his father.

“We’ll cut through the back way,” he said.

Chase agreed; and they turned down an alley, and came circuitously to

the stage door and went in. The minute he came inside the door, he heard

the hum and buzz of voices. He could see out on the stage, with its

stock set of a farmyard scene. There were chairs, and a table.

Amos, and Sam O’Brien, and B. B. and two or three others were waiting

just inside the stage door; and Sam gripped Wint’s shoulders and

exclaimed: “Lord, but you give us a scare, Wint. Thought you wasn’t

coming. I was all set to go fetch you.”

“Oh, I was coming, all right,” Wint said nervously, one ear attuned to

the murmur of the crowd. “Sounds as though there were a lot of people

here.”

“Every seat, and standing room in the aisles, and half of ’em can’t get

in.”

Wint grinned weakly. “And I suppose they’ve got every rotten egg in

town.”

Sam stared; then he howled. “Rotten egg! Oh, Lord, Wint, you’ll be the

death of me. I’ll die a-laughing. Rotten egg!” He turned to Amos. “Wint

says rotten egg!” he cried.

Amos looked at Wint in a curious fashion; and he smiled. “It’s half past

seven,” he said. “No need to make them wait.”

Wint gulped. “All right. I’m ready as I will be.”

Amos nodded. “Then it’s your move, B. B.”

B. B. cleared his throat. “Very well.” He turned and started toward the

stage. Sam shepherded Wint that way. Amos and Wint’s father came side by

side, the others following. Wint found himself out on the stage.

The glare of the footlights blinded him for a moment; but he heard the

sudden, brief clatter of handclapping that greeted them. The stir was

quickly hushed. His eyes, accustomed to the footlights, discovered that

the house was banked full of people. Floor and gallery were jammed.

Small boys clung to the great beams and steel rods that crisscrossed to

support the roof. Some of them seemed right overhead. And everywhere

Wint looked, people were staring at him. He felt the actual, physical

weight of all those eyes, overwhelming him. He felt crushed, helpless;

he had a curious obsession that he could not move hands or feet. He

worked the fingers of his right hand cautiously, and was relieved to

find that they answered to his will. He was dazed.

He became conscious that B. B. was on his feet, his hands clasped in

front of him in a characteristic way; there was a little smile upon his

face, and he was speaking in a low, pleasant voice. Wint could not catch

the words; his ears were not functioning. His senses were numbed by that

overpowering sea of faces in front of him.

He caught, presently, a word or two that appalled him. “...violate the

usual order,” B. B. was saying. “The principal speaker usually last....

Keep you waiting.... Lengthy introduction.... I believe you know him,

now....”

He turned to look at Wint; and Wint, appalled and panic-stricken, saw

the invitation in B. B.’s eyes. B. B. wanted him to speak first; but he

was still tongue-tied and muscle-fast in the face of all those eyes. He

shook his head weakly. Some one tugged at his elbow. Sam O’Brien. Sam

whispered hoarsely:

“Get up on your feet, boy!”

Wint shook his head again, trying to find words to explain. Then a man

yelled, out beyond those footlights. Other men yelled. Wint flushed

angrily, his courage came back. They thought him afraid. Baying him like

dogs.... He’d show them all....

He stood up and strode forward to the very lip of the stage. There was a

moment’s hush. He flung out one hand. “People....” he began.

But it was as well that Wint had not wasted time in following Gergue’s

advice to fix up a good speech; because on that one word of his, an

overwhelming blast of sound struck him full in the face. A roar, a

bellowing, a whistling, a shrilling.... Shouts and screams and cries....

He stiffened, furious. They were trying to yell him down. He flung up

both hands, shouted at them....

Every one in the house was up on his or her feet. Some one threw his hat

in the air. Order came out of chaos. A terrible, rhythmic order. The

blare of sound dissolved into beats; they pounded on Wint’s ears; he

shuddered under the blow of them. His anger gave way to bewilderment. He

could not understand. He bent lower to see more clearly the faces of

those in the front row, just beyond the footlights. Dick Hoover was

there. And Dick was yelling in a fashion fit to split his throat,

flinging his fists up toward Wint, shrieking. Beside Dick, Joan. Her

face stood out suddenly before Wint’s eyes. She was crying; that is to

say, tears were streaming down her cheeks. Yet was she happy, too.

Smiling, laughing, calling to him.... She was clapping her hands, he

saw. Then he discovered that others were clapping their hands, while

they yelled at him. Everybody was clapping their hands....

Utterly bewildered, Wint whirled around to look at the men behind him.

And there was Amos, both hands upraised, beating time to that appalling

roar that swept up from the house before them. Beating time, leading

them....

Sam O’Brien and Davy Morgan--they were both yelling like fools--came

swiftly across the stage to where Wint stood. They caught his arms. He

struggled with them, not understanding. They swept him off his feet, up

in the air, to their shoulders.... Swung him to face the house.

The noise doubled; then it seemed as though an army of men swarmed upon

the stage. So, at last, Wint understood. They were not trying to yell

him down.

It is one of the most hopeful facts of life that all mankind is so ready

to recognize, and to applaud, an action which is fine. Wint was in the

hands of his friends. He thought, for a little while, that they would

kill him.

* * * * *

When it was all over--and this took time, and left Wint sore and stiff

from hand-shaking and back-slapping--the people began to drift away. And

Wint escaped, off the stage, into one of the compartments that served as

greenroom for theatrical folk. His father was there, and his mother. And

Peter, and Amos, and Sam.

Every one seemed to be wild with exultation; they continued the

celebration, there among themselves. And Wint heard how it had been

done. Hetty had gone to Amos with the story. To Joan first, Sam told

Wint. “I was with her,” the fat man said. “You understand. I was with

her.”

Wint nodded, gripping Sam’s shoulder. “She’s fine,” he said. “You’re

lucky. I understand.”

Joan, Sam said, sent them to Amos, and Amos had arranged the rest; sent

Wint home--Gergue was his agent in this--and spread the word through

Hardiston. To-night had attested the thoroughness of his work.

Wint found a chance at last to thank Amos. They were a little apart from

the others; and they talked it over briefly. Amos, Wint thought, was

curiously subdued, curiously sad. He wondered at this. But he

understood, at the end.

He had said: “Wonder what Routt will say to this, anyway? And Kite?”

“You don’t have to--worry about Routt,” said Amos.

Wint asked quickly: “Why not? Is he ... Is there something?”

“He took the noon train,” said Amos. “And--Agnes went with him. She

telephoned to-night. She says they’re married.”

Wint was so stunned that for a moment he could not speak; he could not

move. He managed to grip Amos’s hand; tried to say something.

“I’ve said to myself, more than once,” Amos told him huskily, “that I

wished her mother hadn’t ’ve died.” He began, slowly, to fill his pipe.

Wint thought there was something heroic, splendid about the man. Facing

life, driving ahead. And this to think upon.... He was sick with sorrow.

Amos was facing the stage; he said slowly, smiling a little, “but forget

that. Here’s some one coming for you to see her home.”

When Wint turned, he saw Joan.

CHAPTER V

SEEING JOAN HOME

They walked home slowly, Wint and Joan. The moon was bright upon them;

the streets were still filled with the dispersing throng. People spoke

to them, then went discreetly on their way, and smiled back at the two.

Wint and Joan said little; and what they said was of no importance. He

told her he had seen her crying.

“I had to,” she said. “I was so happy.”

“I wasn’t happy,” Wint declared. “I was scared.”

She said she didn’t blame him. “It must have been hard to face them

all.”

He nodded. “I’ll tell you; all that noise.... It--made me seasick.

Something like that.”

“I know,” she said.

When they were halfway home, she told him that Hetty had come to her,

that morning. Wint looked at her quickly.

“Hetty’s all right,” he said. “She’ll be all right. She’s found

herself.”

Joan nodded. “It’s going to be a fight, for her.”

“She’ll win. Sam will help.”

“I know. I saw that, this morning.”

A little later, she said: “You--did the right thing. Foolish, maybe.

But--it was fine, too. Foolish things often are.”

Wint shook his head. “But I’d like to pound Routt.”

“Don’t,” she said. “Agnes loves him.”

Wint told her then what Amos had told him; and she uttered a low,

pitiful exclamation. “I didn’t know that,” she said. “But--they may be

happy. Agnes is good.... Loyal.... In her way.”

“You knew she loved him?”

“Yes. I’ve always known. Agnes had talked to me.”

“I hope Routt does--settle down.”

Joan said thoughtfully: “There is something strong in him.

Misdirected.”

“I liked him,” Wint said. “I can’t help it, even now. He was my friend.”

“I believe they will come out all right. I feel it.”

Wint laughed at her gently. “Intuition?”

“Yes. You men call it a hunch.”

Silence again, for a while. They came to her house. Wint thought the

simple place was beautiful in the moonlight; he wanted, desperately, to

go in. But there was a curious diffidence upon him, and he stopped at

the gate till she said:

“Come. It’s not cold, to-night. We can sit on the porch.”

“You want me?”

“Yes, Wint.” Her eyes said more than her words. He opened the gate, and

they went up the walk to the house sedately enough, side by side. Any

one might have seen.

The moonlight did not fall upon the porch. There was a shadowed place

there. When they came into this shadow, Joan stopped, and looked at

Wint. Her eyes were very dark. Something was pounding in his throat, so

that he could not speak. He put out one hand, in an uncertain, fumbling

way. Joan looked down at his hand, and smiled a little, and put her hand

in his.

They stood thus for a little, hand in hand, facing each other. Wint said

huskily, at last:

“I’ve--tried, Joan.”

Her voice was clear and sweet as a bell when she answered. “You’ve done

more than try, Wint,” she told him. “You’ve--won.”

So, without either of them knowing, or caring, how it happened, she was

in his arms. And he kissed her; and her lips answered his. No cool kiss

of a child, this. Months of longing and of yearning spoke through his

lips, and through hers. Infinite promise of the years to come....

While they sat together on her shadowed porch thereafter, they could

hear for a long time the murmuring voices of people passing on their

homeward way. Some looked toward Joan’s house; but they could not see

Wint and Joan.

It was as well; for it is the way of Hardiston to talk. The way of a

little town....

THE END

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA