Character is a word from which have descended two meanings
diametrically opposed to each other. We say a man has a character, or
we say he is one; The first signifies respect; the second, a tolerant
contempt. There exists in all small communities, such as villages,
towns, and cities of the third class, what is known as a character. In
the cities he is found loafing in hotel lobbies or in the corridors of
the City Hall; in the hamlet he is usually the orator of the
post-office or the corner grocery. Invariably his wife takes in
washing, and once in a while he secures for her an extra order. If he
has any children, they live in the streets. He wears a collar, but
seldom adds a tie. He prides himself on being the friend of the
laboring man, and a necktie implies the worship of the golden calf. He
never denies himself a social glass. He never buys, but he always
manages to be introduced in time. After the first drink he calls his
new friend by his surname; after the second drink it is "Arthur" or
"John" or "Henry," as the case may be; then it dwindles into "Art" or
"Jack" or "Hank." No one ever objects to this progressive familiarity.
The stranger finds the character rather amusing. The character is
usually a harmless parasite, and his one ambition is to get a
political job such as entails no work. He is always pulling wires, as
they say; but those at the other end are not sensitive to the touch.
On dull days he loiters around the police court and looks mysterious.
Cub reporters at first glance believe him to be a detective in
disguise.
Herculaneum had its character. He was a pompous little man to whom the
inelegant applied the term of runt. He never could have passed the
army examination, for he had no instep. He walked like a duck,
flat-footed, minus the waddle. He was pop-eyed, and the fumes of
strong drink had loosened the tear-ducts so that his eyes swam in a
perennial mist of tears. His wife still called him William, but down
town he was Bill. He knew everybody in town, and everybody in town
knew him. There was a time when he had been on intimate terms with so
distinguished a person as Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene. He will tell you to
this day how he was wont to dandle her on his knee. Bill was one of
those individuals of whom it is said: "He means well." In other words,
he was a do-nothing, a ne'er-do-well. He had been comparatively rich
once, but he had meant well with his money. One grand splurge, and it
was all over. Herculaneum still recollects that splurge. When in his
cups, Bill was always referring to those gorgeous days. Afterward,
Bill and his family lived from hand to mouth. Occasionally, at
Christmas, some of his old friends who felt sorry for him sent him a
purse. Did Bill purchase turkey and coal and potatoes? No, indeed. He
bought useless French toys for the children, who went hungry. Another
time, when heartless winter returned and the price of coal went up, a
church social was arranged for Bill's benefit. It netted him nearly a
hundred dollars. But Bill didn't pay his landlord and grocer; not he!
He came down town the following day with a shiny plug-hat and a
gold-headed cane.
Bill was a first-class genealogist. He could tell you the history of
every leading family in town. It took Bill to expose the new-rich; he
did it handsomely. The way these breakfast millionaires lorded and
landaued it highly amused him. Who were they, anyhow? Coal-heavers,
hod-carriers, stock-speculators, riffraff, who possessed an ounce of
brains and a pound of luck. Why, they didn't even know how to spend
their money when they got it. But what could be expected of people who
put iron dogs and wooden deers on their front lawns? But the
Benningtons, the Haldenes, and the Winterflelds, and the Parkers,--they
had something to brag about. They were Bunker Hillers, they
were; they had always had money and social position. As for the
Millens, and the Deckers, and the McQuades--pah!
Bill had a wonderful memory; he never forgot those who laughed at him
and those who nodded kindly. He was shiftless and lazy, but he had a
code of honor. Bill could have blackmailed many a careless man of
prominence, had he been so minded. But a man who had once dined a
governor of the state could do no wrong. His main fault was that he
had neglected to wean his former greatness; he still nursed it. Thus,
it was beneath his dignity to accept a position as a clerk in a store
or shop. The fact that his pristine glory was somewhat dimmed to the
eyes of his fellow citizens in no wise disturbed Bill. Sometimes, when
he was inclined to let loose the flood-gates of memory, his friends
would slip a quarter into his palm and bid him get a drink, this being
the easiest method of getting rid of him.
Bill marched into the Warrington place jauntily. He wore a tie. Jove
ran out and sniffed the frayed hems of his trousers. But like all men
of his ilk, he possessed the gift of making friends with dogs. He
patted Jove's broad head, spoke to him, and the dog wagged what there
was left of his tail. Bill proceeded to the front door and resolutely
rang the bell. The door opened presently.
"Is Richard in?" Bill asked. He had had only two drinks that evening.
"Mr. Warrington is in," answered the valet, with chilling dignity.
"What is your business?"
"Mine!" thundered Bill, who had a democratic contempt for a
gentleman's gentleman. "I have important business to transact with
your master. Take this card in to him. He'll see me."
The valet looked at the greasy card. The name was written in ink; the
card was of the kind one finds in hotels for the convenience of the
guests.
"I will take the card to Mr. Warrington," the valet promised
reluctantly. There was, however, a barely perceptible grin struggling
at the corners of his mouth. He was not wholly devoid of the sense of
humor, as a gentleman's gentleman should at all times be.
"William Osborne? What the deuce does he want here?" asked Warrington
impatiently.
"He said his business was important, sir. If it is half as important
as he acts--"
"No comments, please. Show Mr. Osborne in."
Warrington turned all his mail face-downward. He knew Bill of
aforetime, in the old newspaper days. Bill had marvelously keen eyes,
for all that they were watery. The valet ushered him into the study.
He wore his usual blase expression. He sat down and drew up his chair
to the desk.
"Well, Mr. Osborne, what's on your mind to-night?" Warrington leaned
back.
"The truth is, Richard," began William, "I found this letter on the
pavement this afternoon. Guess you'd been down to the hotel this
afternoon, and dropped it. I found it out in front. There was no
envelope, so I couldn't help reading it."
Warrington seized the letter eagerly. It was the only letter of its
kind in the world. It was enchanted.
"Mr. Osborne, you've done me a real service. I would not take a small
fortune for this letter. I don't recollect how I came to lose it. Must
have taken it out and dropped it accidentally. Thanks."
"Don't mention it, my boy." Very few called him Mr. Osborne.
"It is worth a good deal to me. Would you be offended if I gave you
ten as a reward?"
"I'd feel hurt, Richard, but not offended," a twinkle in the watery
eyes.
Warrington laughed, drew out his wallet and handed William a crisp,
crackly bank-note. It went, neatly creased, into William's sagging
vest-pocket.
"Have a cigarette?" asked Warrington.
"Richard, there's one thing I never did, and that's smoke one of those
coffin-nails. Whisky and tobacco are all right, but I draw the line at
cigarettes."
Warrington passed him a cigar. William bit off the end and lighted it.
He sniffed with evident relish.
"Seems impossible, Richard, that only a few years ago you were a
reporter at the police station. But I always said that you'd get there
some day. You saw the dramatic side of the simplest case. I knew your
father. He was one of the best farmers in the county. But he didn't
know how to invest his savings. He ought to have left you rich."
"But he didn't. After all, it's a fine thing to make for the good
things in life and win them yourself."
"That's true. You're a different breed from some of these people who
are your neighbors. We're all mighty proud of you, here in
Herculaneum. What you want to do is to get into politics." Here Bill
winked mysteriously. "You've money and influence, and that's what
counts."
"I'm seriously thinking the thing over," returned Warrington, not
quite understanding the wink.
"Everything's on the bum in town; it wants a clean bill. McQuade must
go. The man never keeps a promise. Told me in the presence of
witnesses, last election, that he'd give me a job on the new police
board; and yet after election he put in one of those whipper-snappers
who know nothing. Of course, you've been in town long enough to know
that Donnelly is simply McQuade's creature. I never had any luck."
"Oh, it may change by and by." Warrington, at that moment, felt
genuinely sorry for the outcast.
Bill twirled his hat. "You've never laughed at me, Richard; you've
always treated me like a gentleman, which I was once. I didn't mail
that letter because I wanted to see if you had changed any. If you had
become a snob, why, you could fight your blamed battles yourself; no
help from me. But you're just the same. I've brought something that'll
be of more use to you than that letter, and don't you forget it."
"What?" asked Warrington skeptically.
Suddenly Bill leaned forward, shading his voice with his hand. "I was
in Hanley's for a glass of beer this noon. I sat in a dark place. The
table next to me was occupied by Martin, McQuade, and a fellow named
Bolles."
"Bolles?"
"You've been away so long you haven't heard of him. He handles the
dagos during election. Well, McQuade was asking all sorts of questions
about you. Asked if you gambled, or drank, or ran around after women."
Warrington no longer leaned back in his chair. His body assumed an
alert angle.
"They all went up to McQuade's office. The typewriter is a niece of
mine. McQuade has heard that the senator is going to spring your name
at the caucus. But that's a small matter. McQuade is going to do you
some way or other."
"What do you mean?"
"Why, he sees that his goose is cooked if you run. He's determined
that he won't let you."
Warrington laughed; there was a note of battle in his laughter. "Go
on," he said.
"Nobody knew anything about your habits. So McQuade has sent Bolles to
New York. He used to be a private detective, He's gone to New York to
look up your past there. I know Bolles; he'll stop at nothing.
McQuade, however, was wise enough to warn him not to fake, but to get
real facts."
This time Warrington's laughter was genuine.
"He's welcome to all he can find."
"But this isn't all. I know a printer on the Times. To-morrow the
whole story about your accepting the senator's offer will come out.
They hope the senator will be forced to change his plans. They think
the public will lose interest in your campaign. Surprise is what the
public needs. I'll tell you something else. Morris, who died last
week, had just sold out his interest in the Telegraph to McQuade. This
means that McQuade has the controlling interest in every newspaper in
town. I never heard of such a thing before; five newspapers,
Democratic and Republican, owned by a Democratic boss."
Warrington smoked thoughtfully. This man McQuade was something out of
the ordinary. And he had defied him.
"I am very much obliged to you, Osborne. If I win out, on my word of
honor, I'll do something for you."
"You aren't afraid of McQuade?" anxiously.
"My dear Mr. Osborne, I am not afraid of the Old Nick himself. I'll
give this man McQuade the biggest fight he has ever had. Bolles will
have his pains for nothing. Any scandal he can rake up about my past
will be pure blackmail; and I know how to deal with that breed."
"McQuade will try something else, then. He's sworn to stop you. I'm
glad you aren't afraid of him."
"I can't thank you enough."
"I wander about town a good deal; nobody pays much attention to me; so
lots of things fall under my notice. I'll let you know what I hear.
You'll find all the decent people on your side, surprise or no
surprise. They're tired of McQuade and Donnelly; Some of these paving
deals smell. Well, I'm keeping you from your work." Bill rose.
"Help yourself to these cigars," said Warrington gratefully, passing
the box.
Bill took three.
"Good night, Richard."
"Good night, Mr. Osborne. If by any good luck I become mayor of
Herculaneum, I'll not forget your service to-night."
"That's all that's necessary for me;" and Bill bowed himself out. He
layed his course for his familiar haunts.
Warrington turned to his work again. But the news he had just received
disturbed all connected thought, so he put the manuscript away. So the
first gun had been fired! They had sent a man to hunt up his past in
New York. He looked back, searching this corner and that, but he could
not recall anything that would serve McQuade's purpose. No man is
totally free from folly. True, there was a time when he drank, but he
had stopped that idiocy nearly two years before. This could not be
tallied against him with effect. And, thank God, there had been no
women. His gambling had been of the innocuous kind. Well, let them
hunt; much good it would do them.
He picked up the letter which Osborne had so fortunately come upon. He
was often amused at the fascination it held for him. He would never
meet the writer, and yet not a day passed that he did not strive to
conjure up an imaginative likeness. And he had nearly lost it. The
creases were beginning to show. He studied it thoroughly. He held it
toward the light. Ah, here was something that had hitherto escaped his
notice. It was a peculiar water-mark. He examined the folds. The sheet
had not been folded originally, letter-wise, but had been fiat, as if
torn from a tablet. He scrutinized the edges and found signs of
mucilage. Here was something, but it led him to no solution. The
post-office mark had been made in New York. To trace a letter in New
York would be as impracticable as subtracting gold from sea-water. It
was a tantalizing mystery, and it bothered him more than he liked to
confess. He put the letter in his wallet, and went into the
sewing-room, where his aunt was knitting. The dear old lady smiled at
him.
"Aunty, I've got a secret to tell you."
"What is it, Richard?"
"I'm going to run for mayor."
The old lady dropped her work and held up her hands in horror.
"You are fooling, Richard!"
"I am very serious, Aunty."
"But politicians are such scamps, Richard."
"Somebody's got to reform them."
"But they'll reform you into one of their kind. You don't mean it!"
"Yes, I do. I've promised, and I can't back down now."
"No good will come of it," said the old lady prophetically, reaching
down for her work. "But if you are determined, I suppose it's no use
for me to talk. What will the Benningtons say?"
"They rather approve of the idea. I'm going up there early to-morrow.
I'll be up before you're down. Good night." He lightly kissed the
wrinkled face.
"Have a good time, Richard; and God bless my boy."
He paused on the threshold and came back. Why, he did not know. But
having come back, he kissed her once again, his hands on her cheeks.
There were tears in her eyes.
"You're so kind and good to an old woman, Richard."
"Pshaw! there's nobody your equal in all the world. Good night;" and
he stepped out into the hall.
The next morning he left town for the Benningtons' bungalow in the
Adirondacks. He carried his fishing-rods, for Patty had told him that
their lake was alive with black bass. Warrington was an ardent angler.
Rain might deluge him, the sun scorch, but he would sit in a boat all
day for a possible strike. He arrived at two in the afternoon, and
found John, Kate and Patty at the village station. A buckboard took
them into the heart of the forest, and the penetrating, resinous
perfumes tingled Warrington's nostrils. He had been in the woods in
years gone by; not a tree or a shrub that he did not know. It was
nearly a two hours' drive to the lake, which was circled by lordly
mountains.
"Isn't it beautiful?" asked Patty, with a kind of proprietary pride.
"It is as fine as anything in the Alps," Warrington admitted. "Shall
we go a-fishing in the morning?"
"If you can get up early enough."
"Trust me!" enthusiastically.
"I netted one this morning that weighed three pounds."
"Fish grow more rapidly out of water than in," railingly.
"John, didn't that bass weigh three pounds?" Patty appealed.
"It weighed three and a half."
"I apologize," said Warrington humbly.
"How's the politician?" whispered Kate, eagerly.
"About to find himself in the heart of a great scandal. The enemy has
located us, and this afternoon the Times is to come out with a
broadside. I haven't the least idea what it will say, nor care."
"That's the proper way to talk," replied Kate approvingly. "We climbed
that bald mountain yesterday. Patty took some beautiful photographs."
"The tip of your nose is beginning to peel," said Warrington
irrelevantly.
"It's horrid of you to mention it. I'm not used to the sun, but I love
it. Patty is teaching me how to bait a hook."
"I'd like to see a photograph of that," Warrington cried. "Say, John,
is there any way of getting to-night's newspapers up here?"
"Nothing till to-morrow morning. The boat leaves the mail at night.
But what's this talk about politics?" John demanded.
Warrington looked at Patty and Kate in honest amazement.
"Do you two mean to tell me," he asked, "that you have really kept the
news from John?"
"You told us not to tell," said Kate reproachfully.
"Well, I see that I shall never get any nearer the truth about women.
I thought sure they'd tell you, Jack, that I'm going to run for mayor
this fall."
"No!"
"Truth. And it's going to be the fight of my life. I accepted in the
spirit of fun, but I am dead in earnest now. Whichever way it goes, it
will be a good fight. And you may lay to that, my lad, as our friend
Long John Silver used to say."
He said nothing, however, of his interview with McQuade. That was one
of the things he thought best to keep to himself.
"I'll harangue the boys in the shops," volunteered John, "though
there's a spirit of unrest I don't like. I've no doubt that before
long I shall have a fight on my hands. But I shall know exactly what
to do," grimly. "But hang business! These two weeks are going to be
totally outside the circle of business. I hope you'll win, Dick. We'll
burn all the stray barrels for you on election night."
"There'll be plenty of them burning. But I shall be nervous till I see
the Times."
"You'll have it in the morning."
Warrington sighed. Half an hour later the bungalow came into view.
The elder Bennington knew the value of hygienic living. He kept his
children out of doors, summer and winter. He taught them how to ride,
to hunt, to fish; he was their partner in all out-of-door games; he
made sport interesting and imparted to them his own zest and vitality.
So they grew up strong and healthy. He left their mental instruction
to the mother, knowing full well that she would do as much on her side
as he had done on his. Only one law did he lay down: the children
should go to public schools till the time for higher education
arrived. Then they might choose whatever seat of learning they
desired. He had the sound belief that children sent to private schools
rarely become useful citizens.
The rosal glow of dawn tipped the mountains, and a russet haze lay on
the still bosom of the lake. Warrington made a successful cast not far
from the lily-pods. Zing! went the reel. But by the pressure of his
thumb he brought the runaway to a sudden halt. The tip of the rod
threatened to break! Hooked! Patty swung round the canoe, which action
gave the angler freer play. Ah, wasn't that beautiful! Two feet out of
the water! Here he comes, but not more swiftly than the reel can take
him. Off he goes again--take care for the unexpected slack. Another
leap, like a bronze flame, and then a dash for the shallow bottom. He
fought gallantly for his life and freedom. Patty reached for the net.
Inch by inch Warrington drew him in. Twice he leaped over the net, but
Patty was an old hand. The third effort landed him.
"Two pounds," said Patty. "Plenty for breakfast now."
"Tell you what, this is sport. How many have we?"
"Seven in half an hour." Patty began using her paddle.
"Finest sport in the world!" Warrington settled down on the cushion
and leisurely watched the brown arms of his guide.
"You're a good fisherman. And I like to see a good fisherman get
excited. John is like a statue when he gets a strike; he reels them in
like a machine. He becomes angry if any one talks. But it's fun to
watch Kate. She nearly falls out of the boat, and screams when the
bass leaps. Isn't it beautiful?"
"It is a kind of Eden. But I'm so restless. I have to be wandering
from place to place. If I owned your bungalow, I should sell it the
second year. All the charm would go the first season. God has made so
many beautiful places in this world for man that man is the only
ungrateful creature in it. What's that smoke in the distance?"
"That's the mail-boat, with your newspaper. It will be two hours yet
before it reaches our dock. It has to zigzag to and fro across the
lake. I'm hungry."
"So am I. Let me take the paddle."
The exchange was made, and he sent the canoe over the water rapidly.
Patty eyed him with frank admiration.
"Is there anything you can't do well?"
"A good many things," he acknowledged.
"I should like to know what they are."
Neither spoke again till the canoe glided around the dock and a
landing was made. Warrington strung the fish, and together he and
Patty went toward the kitchen. At seven-thirty the family sat down to
a breakfast of fried bass, and Patty told how the catch had been made.
"He's a better fisherman than you, John."
"Just as you say, Patty. I care not who catches bass, so long as I may
eat them," in humorous paraphrase.
There was no little excitement over the arrival of the mail-boat. They
were all eager to see what the Times had to say. There was a column or
more on the first page, subheaded. Warrington's career was rather
accurately portrayed, but there were some pungent references to
cabbages. In the leader, on the editorial page, was the master-hand.
"In brief, this young man is to be the Republican candidate for mayor.
Grown desperate these half-dozen years of ineffectual striving for
political pap, Senator Henderson resorts to such an expedient. But the
coup falls flat; there will be no surprise at the convention; the
senator loses the point he seeks to score. Personally, we have nothing
to say against the character of Mr. Warrington. After a fashion he is
a credit to his native town. But we reaffirm, he is not a citizen, he
is not eligible to the high office. If he accepts, after this
arraignment, he becomes nothing more than an impertinent meddler. What
has he done for the people of Herculaneum? Nothing. Who knows anything
about his character, his honor, his worth? Nobody. To hold one's
franchise as a citizen does not make that person a citizen in the
honest sense of the word. Let Mr. Warrington live among us half a
dozen years, and then we shall see. The senator, who is not without
some wisdom and experience, will doubtless withdraw this abortive
candidate. It's the only logical thing he can do. We dare say that the
dramatist accepted the honor with but one end in view: to find some
material for a new play. But Herculaneum declines to be so honored. He
is legally, but not morally, a citizen. He is a meddler, and
Herculaneum is already too well supplied with meddlers. Do the wise
thing, Mr. Warrington; withdraw. Otherwise your profit will be
laughter and ridicule; for the Republican party can never hope to win
under such equivocal leadership. That's all we have to say."
Warrington, who had been reading the articles aloud, grinned and
thrust the paper into his pocket.
"What shall you do?" asked John curiously.
"Do? Go into the fight tooth and nail. They dub me a meddler; I'll
make the word good."
"Hurrah!" cried Kate, clapping her hands. She caught Patty in her
arms, and the two waltzed around the dock.
The two men shook hands, and presently all four were reading their
private letters. Warrington received but one. It was a brief note from
the senator. "Pay no attention to Times' story. Are you game for a
fight? Write me at once, and I'll start the campaign on the receipt of
your letter."
"Patty, where do you write letters?" he asked. He called her Patty
quite naturally. Patty was in no wise offended.
"In the reading-room you will find a desk with paper and pens and ink.
Shall I go with you?"
"Not at all. I've only a note to scribble to Senator Henderson."
Warrington found the desk. Upon it lay a tablet. He wrote hurriedly:
"Start your campaign; I am in it now to the last ditch."
As he re-read it, he observed a blur in the grain of the paper. On
closer inspection he saw that it was a water-mark. He had seen one
similar, but where? His heart began thumping his ribs. He produced the
inevitable letter. The water-mark was identical. He even laid the
letter unfolded on the tablet. It fitted exactly.
"Patty!" he murmured in a whisper.
Patty had never written him a single line; whenever she had
communicated to him her commands, it had been by telephone. Patty
Bennington! The window was at his elbow. He looked out and followed
the sky-line of the hills as they rolled away to the south. Patty! It
was a very beautiful world, and this was a day of days. It all came to
him in that moment of discovery. He had drifted along toward it quite
unconsciously, as a river might idle toward the sea. Patty! The light
of this knowledge was blinding for a space. So Warrington came into
his own romance. It was not the grand passion, which is always
meteoric; it was rather like a new star, radiant, peaceful, eternal.
"Patty!" He smiled.