Mr. Theodore Mix, sprawled in his desk chair, gazed with funereal
gloom at the typewritten agreement which lay before him, unsigned. It
was barely twenty minutes ago that Mr. Mix had risen to welcome the
man who was to save his credit and his reputation; but during those
twenty minutes Mr. Mix, who had felt that he was sitting on top of the
world, had been unceremoniously shot off into space.
His creditors surrounded him, (and because they were small creditors
they were inclined to be nasty), he owed money to his New York
correspondents, whose letters were becoming peremptory, and his
brokerage business was pounding against the rocks. Quietly, overnight
he had located a purchaser for the Orpheum, and as soon as Henry's
name had been safe on the dotted line, Mr. Mix would have been
financed for many months ahead. And then came Henry--and Henry, who
had been cast for the part of the lamb, had suddenly become as
obstinate as a donkey. Mr. Mix, gazing at that agreement, was swept by
impotent rage at Henry, and he took the document and ripped it
savagely across and across, and crumpled it in both his hands, and
jammed it into his scrap-basket.
For the moment, he subordinated his personal problems to his wrath at
Henry. He charged Henry with full responsibility for this present
crisis; for if Henry had simply scribbled his signature, Mr. Mix would
have made a good deal of money. It never occurred to him that in the
same transaction, Henry would have changed places with Mr. Mix. That
was Henry's look-out. And damn him, he had _looked_!
"I'm going to get him for that," said Mr. Mix, half-aloud. "I'm going
to get him, and get him good. Jockeying me into a pocket! Conceited
young ass! And I'd have been square with the world, and paid off that
infernal note, and had _four ... thousand ... dollars_ left over." His
lips made a straight line. "And he'd have brought fifty thousand
dollars' worth of business into this office--he'd have _had_ to--he'd
have had to hold up his friends--to protect his ante. Yes, sir, I'm
going to get him _good_."
Mr. Mix sat up, and emitted a short, mirthless laugh. He frowned
thoughtfully: and then, after a little search, he examined the
pamphlet which Mirabelle had given him, and skimmed through the pages
until he came to the paragraph he had in mind. Enforcement of the
Sunday ordinances ... hm!... present ordinance seems to prohibit
Sunday theatrical performances of all kinds, but city administrations
have always been lax. Want the law on the books, don't dare to repeal
it, but don't care to enforce it.
Mr. Mix sat back and pondered. He knew enough about the motion-picture
business to realize that the Sunday performances made up the backbone
of the week. He knew enough about the Orpheum to know that Henry's
quota, which under normal conditions would require only diligence, and
initiative, and originality to reach, would be literally impossible if
Sundays were taken from the schedule. The League's blue-law campaign,
if it proved successful, would make Henry Devereux even bluer than Mr.
Mix. "Three rousing cheers for reform!" said Mr. Mix, and grinned at
the pamphlet.
Another brilliant thought infected him. He had long since passed the
stage in which women were a mystery to him: he had long since realized
that unless a man's passions intervene, there is nothing more
mysterious about women than about men. It was all humbug--all this
mummery about intuitions and unerring perception and inscrutability.
Women are all alike--all human--all susceptible to sheer, blatant
flattery. The only difference in women is in the particular brand of
flattery to which, as individuals, they react.
Take Miss Starkweather: he had seen that if he fed her vanity
unsparingly--not her physical vanity, but her pride in her own soul,
and in her League presidency--she blazed up into a flame which
consumed even her purpose in causing the interview. Once already, by
no remarkable effort, he had been able to divert her attention; and it
was now imperative for him to keep it diverted until he had raised
five thousand dollars. And if she were so susceptible, why shouldn't
Mr. Mix venture a trifle further? He knew that she regarded him as an
important man; why shouldn't he let himself be won over, slowly and by
her influence alone, to higher things? Stopping, of course, just short
of actually becoming a League partisan? Why shouldn't he feed her fat
with ethics and adulation, until she were more anxious for his
cooperation than for his money? If he couldn't play hide-and-seek for
six months,--if he couldn't turn her head so far that she couldn't
bear to press him for payment--he wasn't the strategist he believed
himself to be. But in the meantime, where was he to get the money to
live on? Still, Mirabelle came first.
On Sunday, he fortified himself from his meagre supply of contraband,
ate two large cloves, and went formally to call on her. He remained an
hour, and by exercise of the most finished diplomacy, he succeeded in
building up the situation exactly as he had planned it. The note
hadn't been mentioned; the League hadn't been given a breathing-space;
and Mirabelle was pleading with him to see the light, and join the
crusade. Finally, she leaned forward and put her hand on his arm.
"Two weeks ago," she said, "I told the League I was going to give it a
real surprise this next Tuesday. What I meant was money. The money for
that note. But I'd hate to have you sell any securities when they're
down so low. And besides, _any_body can give money--just money. What
we need most is men. Let me do something different. You're one of the
big men here. You count for a good deal. We want you. I said I'd give
'em a surprise--let me make the League a present of _you_." She
bestowed upon him a smile which was a startling combination of
sharpness and appeal. "I'm certainly going to keep my promise, Mr.
Mix. I'm going to give 'em one or the other--you or the five thousand.
Only I tell you in all sincerity, I'd rather it would be you."
Mr. Mix sat up with a jerk. The climax had been reached six months too
soon. "Dear lady--"
"You can't refuse," she went on with an emphasis which sobered him.
"We want you for an officer, and a director. I've taken it up with
the committee. And you _can't_ refuse. You believe everything we
believe. Mr. Mix, look me in the eye, and tell me--if you're true to
yourself, how _can_ you refuse?"
"That isn't it," he said, truthfully enough. "I--I wouldn't be as
valuable to you as you think."
"We'll judge of that."
He knew that he was in a corner, and he hunted desperately for an
opening. "And--in _any_ event, I couldn't become an officer, or even a
director. I--"
"Why not, pray?"
"I haven't the time, for one thing, nor the experience in--"
She swept away his objections with a stiff gesture. "You're modest,
and it's becoming. But either you're with us or against us: there's no
half-way about morals. If you're with us, you ought to show your
colours. And if you _are_ with us, you'll lead us, because you're a
born leader. You inspire. You instill. And for the sake of the common
welfare--" She paused: he was staring at her as if hypnotized. "For
the sake of the city and the state and the nation--" His eyes were
wide, and filled with a light which deceived her. "For the sake of
civic honour and decency and self-respect--"
Mr. Mix cleared his throat. "Yes, but--"
Again, she leaned out and touched his arm. "For _my_ sake?"
Mr. Mix recoiled slightly. "For _your_ sake!" he muttered.
"Yes, for mine. The sister of your oldest friend."
He owed her five thousand dollars, and if she demanded payment, he was
a bankrupt. "Why does it mean so much to you?" he asked, sparring for
time.
"It would be an epoch in the history of the League, Mr. Mix."
"You spoke about leadership. No one can hope to replace yourself."
"Thank you--I know you mean it. But _no_ woman can lead a campaign
such as the one we're just starting. It takes a strong, dominant man
who knows politics. Of course, when we go after dancing and cards and
dress-reform, I guess I can do all right, but in _this_ campaign--"
"What campaign is this, Miss Starkweather?"
"Sunday enforcement."
Mr. Mix pursed his lips. "Really?"
She nodded. "We're going to concentrate on one thing at a time. That's
first."
"Close all the theatres and everything?"
"Tight!" she said, and the word was like the lash of a whip. "Tight as
a drum."
Mr. Mix controlled himself rigidly. "You'll have to pardon my seeming
indelicacy, but--" He coughed behind his hand. "That might bring about
a very unhappy relationship between my family and yours. Had you
thought of it?"
"Henry? Humph! Yes. I'm sorry, but I don't propose to let my family or
anybody else's stand in the way of my principles. Do _you_? No. If
Henry stands in the way, he's going to get run over. Mark my words."
His expression was wooden, but it concealed a thought which had
flashed up, spontaneously, to dazzle him. In spite of his age and
experience, Mr. Mix threatened to blush. The downfall of Henry meant
the elevation of Mirabelle. Mr. Mix himself could assist in swinging
the balance. And he couldn't quite destroy a picture of Mirabelle,
walking down the aisle out of step to the wedding march. Her arms were
loaded with exotic flowers, of which each petal was a crisp yellow
bank-bill. He wanted to laugh, he wanted to snort in deprecation, and
he did neither. He was too busy with the consciousness that at last he
was in a position to capitalize his information. He knew what nobody
else did, outside of Henry and his wife, Mirabelle, Mr. Archer and
probably Judge Barklay and if he flung himself into the League's
campaign, what might he now accomplish?
He looked at Mirabelle. Her eyes betrayed her admiration. Mr. Mix drew
a very long breath, and in the space of ten seconds thought ahead for
a year. The League was ridiculously radical, but if Mr. Mix were
appointed to direct it, he was confident that he could keep Mirabelle
contented, without making himself too much of a ludicrous figure. All
it needed was tact, and foresight. "If I could only spare the time to
help you--but you see, this is my dull season--I have to work twice as
hard as usual to make an honest dollar--"
"Would you accept an honorarium?"
"Beg pardon?"
"If you took charge of the drive, would you accept a salary? And give
us most of your time? Say, four days a week?"
Once more, his thoughts raced through the year. "Now," he said,
presently, "you _are_ making it hard for me to refuse."
"Only that? Haven't I made it impossible?"
To Mr. Mix, her tone was almost more of a challenge than an
invitation. He looked at her again; and at last he nodded. "I
think--you have."
She held out her hand. "I've always respected you as a man. Now I
greet you as a comrade. We'll make this city a place where a
pure-minded man or woman won't be ashamed to live. I tell you, I won't
be satisfied until we reach the _ideal_! And prohibition was only one
tiny move in advance, and we've miles to go. I'm glad we're going the
rest of the way together. And it wouldn't surprise me in the least if
you came out of it Mayor. That's _my_ idea."
Mr. Mix, with the faint aroma of cloves in his nostrils, backed away.
"Oh, no, I don't dream of _that_ ..." he said. "But I feel as if I'd
taken one of the most significant steps of my whole life. I--I think
I'd better say good afternoon, Miss Starkweather. I want to be
alone--and meditate. You understand?"
"Like Galahad," she murmured.
Mr. Mix looked puzzled; he thought she had a cold. But he said no
more; he went home to his bachelor apartment, and after he had helped
himself to three full fingers of meditation, together with a little
seltzer, he smiled faintly, and told himself that there was no use in
debating the point--a man with brains is predestined to make progress.
But he couldn't help reflecting that now, more than ever, if any echo
of his New York escapades, or any rumour of his guarded habits got to
Mirabelle's ears--or, for that matter, to anybody's ears at all--his
dreams would float away in vapour. Perhaps it would be wise to
explain to Mirabelle that he had once been a sinner. She would
probably forgive him, and appreciate him all the more. Women do.... It
was curious that she had mentioned him as a possible Mayor. It had
been his dearest ambition. He wondered if, with his present
reputation, and then with the League behind him, there were a ghost of
a chance....