McQuade and Martin entered a cafe popular for its noon lunches. It was
hot weather in July, and both were mopping their bald foreheads, their
faces and necks. The white bulldog trotted along behind, his tongue
lolling out of his mouth and his eyes heavy. The two men sat down in a
corner under an electric fan; the dog crawled under the table,
grateful for the cold stone tiling.
"What do you know about this fellow Warrington?" asked McQuade,
tossing his hat on one of the unoccupied chairs.
"The fellow who writes plays?"
"Yes. What do you know about him?"
"Why, he used to peddle vegetables and now he owns a swell place on
Williams Street."
"Gamble?"
"Not that I know of. I never go into Pete's myself. It wouldn't be
good business. But they tell me Warrington used to drop in once in a
while, when he was a reporter, and choke his salary to death over the
roulette table."
"Doesn't gamble now?"
"Not in any of the joints around town."
"Drink?"
"Oh, I guess he boozes a little; but he's hard-headed and knows how
to handle the stuff."
"Women?--Roast beef, boiled potatoes and musty ale for two."
"Actresses.--Say, make mine a beer.--A gay buck in New York, I
understand. Used to chase around after the Challoner woman who married
Bennington."
"Nothing here in town?"
"Haven't paid any attention to him. I guess he's straight enough these
days."
"Tip Pete off to-day. The police will make a raid Saturday night. The
ministers have been shouting again, and two or three losers have
whined."
"All right. But what's all this about Warrington?" asked Martin, whose
curiosity was aroused.
"I'll tell you later." The waiter returned with the platters of food,
and McQuade ate without further comment or question.
Martin ate his meat in silence also, but he was busy wondering.
Warrington? What had interested the boss in that swell? Humph!
These men ate quickly and digested slowly. McQuade took out two fat
black cigars and passed one to Martin, who tore off the end with his
teeth.
"I want to find out all there is to know about Warrington. I can't
explain why just now; too many around."
"Set Bolles after him. Bolles used to be with a private detective
bureau. If there's anything to learn, he'll learn it. There he is now.
Hey, waiter, ask that gentleman looking for a vacant table to come
over. Hello, Bolles!"
"How do you do, Mr. Martin. Hot day, Mr. McQuade."
"Sit down," said McQuade, with a nod of invitation toward the
remaining vacant chair. "Cigar or a drink?"
"Bring me a little whisky--no, make it an old-fashioned cocktail.
That'll be about right."
"Mr. McQuade has a job for you, Bolles, if you're willing to undertake
it."
"I've got some time on my hands just now," replied Bolles. "Contract
work?"
"After a fashion," said McQuade grimly. "Eat your dinner and we'll go
up stairs to my office. What I have to say can't be said here."
"All right, Mr. McQuade. If it's dagos, I'll have plenty in hand in
November."
"I shall want you to go to New York," said McQuade.
"New York or San Francisco, so long as some one foots the bills."
"I'll foot 'em," agreed McQuade. "Hustle your dinner. We'll wait for
you at the bar."
Bolles ordered. A job for McQuade that took him to New York meant
money, money and a good time. There were no more contracts till
September, so the junket to New York wouldn't interfere with his
regular work. He had sublet his Italians. He was free. A few minutes
later he joined McQuade, and the trio went up stairs in a cloud of
tobacco smoke. McQuade nodded to the typewriter, who rose and left the
private office. The three men sat down, in what might be described as
a one-two-three attitude: domination, tacit acceptance of this
domination, and servility.
"Do you know Richard Warrington, the playwriter?"
"That snob? Yes, I know who he is, and I'd like to punch his head for
him, too."
McQuade smiled. This manifest rancor on Bolles' part would make things
easier than he thought.
"Well, listen. I've just been tipped that big things are going to
happen this fall. That fool Donnelly has queered himself, and is
making a muddle of everything he touches. Senator Henderson is a
shrewd man, but he wasn't shrewd enough this time. He should have
conducted his little conspiracy in his own home and not at a club
where servants often find profit in selling what they hear. Henderson
is going to put Warrington up for mayor."
"The hell he is!" said Bolles.
Martin's jaw dropped, and the cigar ashes tumbled down his shirt
bosom.
"It's no joke," went on McQuade. "If he is nominated, he'll win. The
people are wanting a change. If the Henderson people get into the City
Hall, I stand to lose a fortune on contracts. You both know what that
means. Warrington must never get a chance to accept."
Bolles looked at Martin. McQuade saw the look, and, interpreting it,
laughed.
"These are no dime-novel days. We don't kill men to get 'em out of the
way. We take a look into their past and use it as a club."
"I begin to see," said Martin. "Warrington must be side-tracked before
the convention. Good. That'll be simple."
"Not very," McQuade admitted. "It's going to be a devilish hard job.
You, Bolles, pack up and go to New York. I want some information
regarding this young fellow's past in New York. It's up to you to get
it. No faking, mind you; good substantial evidence that can be backed
up by affidavits. Get the idea? Five hundred and expenses, if you
succeed; your expenses anyhow. Five hundred is a lot of money these
days. But if you go on a bat, I'll drop you like a hot brick, for good
and all. Think it over. Pack up to-night, if you want to. Here's a
hundred to start with. Remember this, now, there must be a woman."
"A woman?"
"Yes. A man has no past, if there isn't a woman in it."
"I can land that five hundred," Bolles declared confidently. "I can
find the woman. I'll write you every other day."
"Well, then, that's all. Good luck. No boozing while you're on the job
Afterward I don't care what you do. By-by."
Bolles took his dismissal smilingly. Five hundred. It was easy.
"If it's possible, he'll do it," said Martin. "But what's your
campaign?"
"Donnelly must remain another term. After that, oblivion. There'll be
bids this fall. If Henderson's man wins, there'll be new aldermen.
These bids of mine must go through and gas must be kept at a
dollar-fifty. I'm a rich man, but at present I'm up to my neck in
southern contracts that aren't paying ten cents on the dollar.
Herculaneum's got to foot the bill."
"How'd you find out about Henderson's coup?"
"One of the waiters at his club said he had some information. I gave
him ten dollars for something I'd have given ten hundred for just as
quickly. If Henderson had sprung Warrington in September, we'd have
been swamped. Now we have a good chance to hang on."
"Force him to back down and withdraw?"
McQuade nodded.
"It's simply got to be done. I didn't give Henderson credit for so
clever a move as this. A new man, famous and wealthy, under no
obligations to his party; the voters would follow him just for the
novelty of the thing. Besides, there are other reasons, but I'm
keeping them to myself. How about that pavement deal in John Street?"
John Street possessed but three or four houses. The paving would be a
ten-thousand-dollar job. As a witty political speaker once said, they
paved Herculaneum in the concrete and in the abstract.
"It will go through Monday night, smooth as butter."
"Canvassed the boys?"
"More than three-fourths vote. Sure."
"I'm depending upon you."
"Will you turn down Donnelly at the convention?"
"I tell you he's got to run again. I'll bring him to order, after a
little heart-to-heart talk. He's the only man in sight."
"Why not play the same game as Henderson?"
"I've thought it all out. There's no one but Donnelly. Pick up
anything you can about Warrington."
"All right. By the way, the boys want to know if you think we can pull
off those ten-round bouts this winter."
"I'm going down to the capital to see."
Martin telephoned for his team, and twenty minutes later he was
driving countryward. McQuade dictated a few letters, one of which he
directed to be sent by messenger. Then he left the office and called
upon the editor of the Times. This conference lasted an hour. McQuade
was chief owner of the Times.
Warrington was greatly surprised when, at three-thirty, a message was
brought to him requesting him briefly and politely to do Mr. McQuade
the honor to call on him between four and five that afternoon. He had
met McQuade at the Chamber of Commerce dinner. The introduction had
been most formal. What the deuce did McQuade wish to see him about?
Should he go? A natural aversion to the man said no; but policy urged
him as well as curiosity. He went to the telephone and called up
McQuade's office. Mr. McQuade was not in, but would return at four.
Ah! It was the typewriter who spoke. Would she kindly notify Mr.
McQuade on his return that Mr. Warrington would be at his office at
four-thirty? She would. Thanks.
Warrington smoked uneasily. He had no desire to meet McQuade. Their
ways were widely separated and reached nothing in common. But he
readily recognized the fact that McQuade was not a man such as one
might heedlessly antagonize. What could the politician want of the
literary man? McQuade dabbled in racing horses; perhaps he had a horse
to sell. In that event, they would meet on common ground. But his
belief in this possibility was only half-hearted. He filled his
pockets with cigars, whistled for the dog, and departed. Both of the
Bennington houses were closed; the two families were up north in the
woods.
Promptly at four-thirty Warrington and his dog entered the elevator of
the McQuade Building and were dislodged on the third floor. They went
along the dim corridor, scrutinizing doors, each hunting for one of
his kind. Jove couldn't read, but he could smell. Finally Warrington
came to a stand. Upon the glass panel of the door he read:
Daniel McQuade & Co.
General Contractors
He did not knock. He opened the door and walked in. It is a sign of
weakness for a man to knock on the door of a business office, unless
it is marked private, Nevertheless, the dingy glass had known the
knock of many knuckles. A girl was hammering on the typewriting
machine. She ceased only when she completed the page. She looked up.
Her expression, on seeing who the visitor was, changed instantly. It
was not often that a man like this one entered the office of Daniel
McQuade and Company, General Contractors.
"I have an appointment with Mr. McQuade," said Warrington pleasantly;
"would you mind announcing me?"
"Just a moment," answered the girl, rising and entering the private
office. She returned at once. "Mr. McQuade will see you."
Warrington walked quietly into the lion's den.
"Glad to see you, Mr. Warrington," said McQuade, pointing toward a
chair. He did not offer his hand; something told him not to make that
mistake.
From under the desk McQuade's dog emerged, stiff and bristling. On his
side, Jove stood squarely on his legs, head on, as they say, his lips
writhing and quivering with rage. Warrington touched the chair that
had been offered him. Jove begged. But the master was obdurate. Jove
jumped up, but turned quickly. The white dog stopped. He recognized
that he was at a complete disadvantage.
McQuade watched these proceedings with an amused twinkle. It was a
clever manoeuver. So far as he was concerned, a good dog fight would
not have been to his distaste.
"It doesn't hurt the brutes to light once in a while. But, of course,"
he added, "your dog is old."
"Nothing is old till it is useless."
"An epigram from one of your plays?"
"No; but it sounds good enough to use. Jove has strong teeth, however,
and he comes from a fighting family. But for my part, I had much
rather see two men pummel each other."
"So would I, for that matter." McQuade pushed the match-box toward
Warrington, but Warrington drew out his own and struck a light.
McQuade shrugged.
"Mr. McQuade, I am interested to learn what is back of your note.
Horses?"
"No; not horses."
McQuade viewed the young man through half-closed eyes. The contractor
was a big hulk of a man, physically as strong as a bull, with reddish
hair, small twinkling eyes, a puffy nose mottled with veins, thin lips
shaded by a bristling red mustache, and a heavy jaw. The red fell of
hair on his hands reminded Warrington of a sow's back. Everything
about McQuade suggested strength and tensity of purpose. He had begun
work on a canal-boat. He had carried shovel and pick. From boss on a
railway section job he had become a brakeman. He took a turn at
lumbering, bought a tract of chestnuts and made a good penny in
railroad ties. He saved every dollar above his expenses. He bought a
small interest in a contracting firm, and presently he became its
head. There was ebb and tide to his fortunes but he hung on. A
lighting contract made him a rich man. Then he drifted into politics;
and now, at the age of fifty, he was a power in the state. The one
phase of sentiment in the man was the longing to possess all those
obstacles that had beset his path in the days of his struggles. He
bought the canal-boat and converted it into a house-boat; he broke the
man who had refused him a job at the start; he bought the block, the
sidewalk of which he had swept; every man who stood in his way he
removed this way or that. He was dishonest, but his dishonesty was of
a Napoleonic order. He was uneducated, but he possessed that exact
knowledge of mankind that makes leaders; and his shrewdness was the
result of caution and suspicion. But like all men of his breed, he
hated with peculiar venom the well-born; he loved to grapple with
them, to wrest their idleness from them, to compel them to work for a
living, to humiliate them. The fiber in McQuade was coarse; he
possessed neither generosity nor magnanimity; the very men who feared
him held him in secret contempt.
"No, Mr. Warrington, I haven't any horses for sale to-day," he began.
"Not very long ago you met Senator Henderson at your club. He offered
you the nomination for mayor this fall, and you accepted it."
Warrington could not repress a start of surprise. He had not quite
expected this. He was annoyed.
"That is true. What mystifies me," he supplemented, "is how this
knowledge came to your ears."
"I generally hear what's going on. My object in asking you to call is
to talk over the matter on a friendly basis."
"I can not see what good that will do. Politically we have nothing in
common."
"Politically or socially. But the point is this. What have you done
that you should merit this honor? I'll talk frankly. What have you
done toward the building up of your city? What have you done toward
its progress in manufacturing and building? You have done nothing but
buy a house on the fashionable street and pay the taxes."
"You might add that I once peddled vegetables," said Warrington.
It was McQuade's turn to be surprised. From what he had observed of
fashionable people, especially the new-rich, they endeavored to
submerge altogether the evidences of past manual and menial labor.
"Then you are not ashamed of the fact that you sold vegetables?"
"In truth, I'm rather proud of it. It was the first step in the fight.
And I tell you honestly, Mr. McQuade, that I have fought every inch of
the way. And I shall continue to fight, when there's anything worth
fighting for. I'm not a manufacturer or a builder, but I am none the
less eligible for public office. What little money I have was made
honestly, every penny of it. It was not built on political robbery and
the failures of others. But let us come to the point. You have
something to say."
"Yes. I have. And it is this: I don't propose to have you meddle with
the politics of this city. I hope we can come to a peaceful
understanding. I don't want to war against you."
"Mr. McQuade, you talk like a man out of his senses. Who's going to
prevent me from accepting the nomination?"
"I am," answered McQuade, bringing a fist down on his desk.
The dogs growled. They seemed to realize that war of some kind was in
the air.
"How?" asked Warrington. The man was a fool!
"You will go to Senator Henderson and tell him that you have
reconsidered."
Warrington laughed. "I believed I knew all phases, but this one
surpasses any I ever heard of. You have the nerve to ask me, of the
opposition party, to refuse the nomination for mayor?"
"I have."
"Are you afraid of me?"
"Not of you, my lad," McQuade answered sardonically, spreading out his
great hands. "Do I look like a man afraid of anything? But the thought
of a stranger becoming mayor of Herculaneum rather frightens me. Let
us have peace, Mr. Warrington."
"I ask nothing better."
"Withdraw."
"I never withdraw. I am not afraid of anything. I even promise to be
good-natured enough to look upon this meeting as a colossal joke."
Warrington's cigar had gone out. He relighted it coolly. "If the
nomination is offered me, I shall accept it; and once having accepted
it, I'll fight, but honorably and in the open. Look here, McQuade,
don't be a fool. You've something against me personally. What is it?
If I recollect, I ran across you once or twice when I was a newspaper
man."
McQuade's eyes narrowed again.
"Personally, you are nothing to me," he replied; "politically, you are
a meddler, and you are in my way."
"Oh, I am in your way? That is to say, if I am elected, there'll be
too much honesty in the City Hall to suit your plans? I can readily
believe that. If you can convince me that I ought not to run for
mayor, do so. I can accept any reasonable argument. But bluster will
do no good. For a man of your accredited ability, you are making a
poor move, even a fatal one."
"Will you withdraw?"
"Emphatically no!"
"All right. Whatever comes your way after this, don't blame me. I have
given you a fair warning."
"You have threatened."
"I can act also. And you can put this in your pipe, Mr. Warrington,
that before October comes round, when the Republican convention meets,
you will withdraw your name quickly enough. This is not a threat. It's
a warning. That's all. I'm sorry you can't see the matter from my
standpoint."
"Come, boy," said Warrington to his dog. "You had better keep your
animal under the table."
McQuade did not move or answer. So Warrington grasped Jove by the
collar and led him out of the private office. McQuade heard the
dramatist whistle on the way to the elevator.
"So he'll fight, eh?" growled McQuade. "Well, I'll break him, or my
name's not McQuade. The damned meddling upstart, with his plays and
fine women! You're a hell of a dog, you are! Why the devil didn't you
kill his pup for him?"
McQuade sent a kick at the dog, who dodged it successfully, trotted
out to the typewriter and crawled under the girl's skirts.
Warrington went home, thoroughly angry with himself. To have bandied
words and threats with a man like McQuade! He had lowered himself to
the man's level. But there were times when he could not control his
tongue. Education and time had not tamed him any. Withdraw? It would
have to be something more tangible than threats.
"Richard, you are not eating anything," said his aunt at dinner that
evening.
"I'm not hungry, Aunty. It's been one of those days when a man gets up
wrong."
"I'm sorry. Doesn't the play go along smoothly?"
"Not as smoothly as I should like."
"There was a long-distance call for you this afternoon. The
Benningtons want you to come up at once instead of next week."
Warrington brightened perceptibly. He went to work, but his heart
wasn't in it. The interview with McQuade insisted upon recurring. Why
hadn't he walked out without any comment whatever? Silence would have
crushed McQuade. He knew that McQuade could not back up this threat;
it was only a threat. Bah! Once more he flung himself into his work.
Half an hour later the door-bell rang.