As Henry and his wife went down the steps, they exchanged glances and
smiled faintly. "First time I've been in that house for seven months,"
said Henry, half to himself. "It's a bully old shack, too. I lived in
it ever since I was six."
"Still, we're pretty comfortable right where we are, dear."
Henry lagged a little. "That _does_ hurt my feelings. Of course, I'm
so busy I could live in a dog-kennel and hardly notice it, but when
_you_ have to camp day in and day out in that measly little joint, and
smell everybody else's corned beef and cabbage, and dig like a
general-housework girl and cook, and manicure the stove, and peel the
potatoes and dust off the what-not and so on--not that you haven't
made it a mighty pretty place, because you _have_--without one day's
vacation since last August--"
"But I've told you so often, dear, I'm _glad_ to do it if it helps
you."
"It helped a lot. If you hadn't done it in the first place, I wouldn't
have had the cash on hand to tie up the rest of the picture houses.
But that time's gone by. I don't see why in thunder you won't hire
some servants. And at least you could pike up into the country for a
week. Why don't you?"
She hesitated, for temptation was strong, and she was really very
tired. "Maybe it's just because I want to play the game out, too. It's
only two months more."
"And after that," he said firmly, "we're going to move. I'll have
enough to buy a young bungle-house up on the hill, even if I don't get
anything from Archer. And then I'm going to make up to you for this
year--see if I don't."
"Would you sell the Orpheum?"
"Sell it!" he echoed. "I'd sell it so quick you'd think it was a fake
oil-well! I could, too. Bob Standish sends me a proposition from
somebody about once a week."
"Don't you believe there's any chance of our catching up, then?"
"Looks pretty black," he admitted. "They've got us eight down and nine
to go, but if this amendment holds off we've still got eight weeks
left to think up some wild scheme."
She squeezed his arm. "I'm not afraid of the future, no matter what
happens. We can take care of ourselves."
"Sure we can," he said, easily. "Maybe I could get a job keeping the
books for the League!... Seriously, though, I've had two or three
different propositions put up to me over at the Club ... but Lord! how
I hate to be licked! Well--let's train our gigantic intellects on the
job, and finish out the heat, anyway."
She went back to her hated housekeeping, and Henry went back to his
hated theater, and for another week they labored and pinched and
saved, each in a specific purpose, and each in desperate support of
the other's loyalty and sacrifice.
He brought her, then, the morning edition of the _Herald_, and pointed
out a telegraphic item on the first page. "They must think it's a
sure thing," he said, "and the devil of it is that I guess they're
pretty nearly right."
Anna glanced at the headlines, and gasped. "Mix elected second
vice-president of the national organization--and pledges twenty-five
thousand dollars to the national campaign fund! Oh!... I _wish_ I
could say what I think!"
"If a hearty oath would relieve you, don't mind me," said Henry. His
chin was squarer than usual, and his eyes were harder. "You can see
what happened, can't you? Aunt Mirabelle railroaded him through--and
the pompous old fool looks the part--and she let him promise money she
expects to get in August. And I'll bet it hurt him just as much to
promise it as it does me to have him!"
She threw the paper to the floor. "Henry, can't we do _some_thing?
We're only a few hundred dollars short! Can't we make up just _that_
little bit?"
"It's a thousand, now," he said. "A thousand, and we're falling
further behind every time the clock ticks." He retrieved the
_Herald_, and abstractedly smoothed out the pages. "That was a great
spread-eagle speech of Mix's wasn't it? Talking about his model
ordinance, and what he's going to do next year!... Nothing I'd love
better than to give that fellow a dose of his own tonic. But that's
the deuce of it--I can't think how to put it over.... Even if I'm
licked, I wouldn't feel so badly if I just had the personal
satisfaction of making him look like a sick cat. Just once."
"Yes," she said, sorrowfully. "Dad's prophecy didn't seem to work out,
did it?"
"What prophecy was that?"
"Don't you remember? He said if Mr. Mix only had enough rope--"
"Oh, yes. Only Mix declined the invitation. He's handled himself
pretty well; you've got to grant that. There's a lot of people around
here that honestly think he's a first-class citizen. Sometimes I'm
darned if I don't think they _will_ elect him something. And then God
save the Commonwealth! But if they ever realized how far that
League'll go if it ever gets under way, and what a bunch of hocum
Mix's part of it is--" He stopped abruptly, and froze in his place;
and then, to Anna's amazement, he turned to her with a whoop which
could have carried half-way to the Orpheum.
"Henry! What on earth _is_ it?"
Henry snatched up his hat and made for the door. "More rope!" he said,
exultantly, over his shoulder. "_Lots_ more rope--I'll tell you
tonight!"
* * * * *
He arrived at the City Hall before the record room was open, and he
fretted and stamped in the corridor until a youthful clerk with spats,
pimples, and an imitation diamond scarf-pin condescended to listen to
his wants. In twenty minutes he was away again, and he was lucky
enough to catch Judge Barklay before the bailiff had opened court.
"Hello, Henry," said the Judge. "Did you want to see me about
anything?"
"Rather!" said Henry, who was slightly out of breath. "It's about a
comma."
"A what?"
"A comma. Where's your copy of the ordinances?"
"On my desk. Why?"
Henry ran through the volume to the proper place, inserted his thumb
as a marker, and held the book in reserve. "Judge, do you suppose the
voters want any of these fool blue-laws passed?"
"No."
"Well, who does, then, outside of the League?"
"Nobody. All we want is a decent city."
"It's simply that the League's got the Council more or less buffaloed,
isn't it?"
"That's what I've heard, Henry."
"And the first thing we know, the League'll have put in such a big
wedge that it'll be too late to get it out. If this amendment gets
over, Mix'll have a show in the fall, and then the League'll run wild.
Just as they said in those pamphlets that Mix published, and then
squirmed out of. Isn't that so?"
"Very likely. Very likely."
"And yet everybody's afraid to stand up against it, for fear they'll
be called names?"
"It looks so, Henry."
"But if the people once started a back fire--"
The Judge shook his head. "Mobs don't start without a leader."
"I know, but if they ever realized what a ghastly farce it would
be--not even using any of the League's _new_ notions, but taking what
we've got on the books right now--" He opened the volume of
ordinances, and read slowly: "'Whosoever shall fail in the strict
observance of the Lord's Day by any unseemly act, speech or carriage;
or whosoever shall engage in any manner of diversion--'" Here he
paused impressively. "'--or profane occupation--'" He slung the volume
on the desk, and faced the Judge. "Don't you get it?"
"I'm afraid I don't--quite."
"Why," said Henry, with a beatific grin. "Why, _there's a comma
after that word 'diversion.'_ I've just come from the City Hall.
I've seen the original copy. There _is_ a comma. 'Any manner of
diversion'--that's one thing: '_or_ any manner of profane occupation
for profit--' that's something else again, and different entirely.
And the Reform League has been shrieking to have that ordinance
enforced--to say nothing of the amendment. Well, why not enforce
it once. 'Any manner of diversion?'" He began to laugh, helplessly.
"Oh, come on, Judge--take the pins out and let your imagination down.
_Any_ manner of--"
The Judge was whistling softly. "By George, Henry--"
"Can't you _see_ it working? I'm not sure anybody could even take a
nap! And--"
The Judge stepped past him. "That's all right, Henry. Stay where you
are. I'm just going to telephone Rowland.... Hello: Mayor's office,
please--" He motioned to his son-in-law. "Make yourself comfortable--I
shouldn't wonder a bit if these blue-laws weren't going to get just a
little bit--bleached."
* * * * *
On his delirious way to the Orpheum, he stopped in to see Bob
Standish, not to share the joke with him, for Judge Barklay had laid
great stress on the closest secrecy, but in answer to a recent
message asking him to call.
"What's the excitement, Bob?"
His friend regarded him with the innocent stare which had made his
fortune. "Remember I spoke to you some time ago about renting that
space over the Orpheum?"
"The nursery? Yes."
"Well, it's come up again. Different party, this time. Of course he
hasn't seen it yet, but it's a chap who wants about that much
space--might want to enlarge it a little, but we'd arrange that; he'd
do it at his own expense--and he'd pay fifteen hundred a year."
Henry deliberated. "It's so near the finish.... I don't much care one
way or the other. Who's the party?"
"Bird named McClellan."
"I don't know him; do I?"
"I don't know why you should; never met him before, myself. Well, do
you want to trade?"
"I don't much care what I do."
Standish surveyed him closely. "You're very peppy this morning, seems
to me."
"I've got an excuse to be."
"For publication?"
"Not yet. You'll see it soon enough."
Standish's eyes dropped back to his desk. "Well, let's get this lease
question off our chests. If you'll let me handle it for you, I'll
guarantee you'll be satisfied."
"Would you do it if you were in my shoes?"
"Absolutely--provided you were in mine."
Henry laughed. "Well, Mr. Bones, what _is_ the answer?"
"Why--this _may_ do you some good. That is, if you let me manage it
for you. But suppose it's immaterial. Suppose you run out your string,
and win or lose, you know what's on the docket for you, don't you? If
you want it?"
"I haven't thought that far ahead. I've had one or two things put up
to me."
"Forget 'em." Standish pointed at the wall. "Nice new mahogany
flat-topped desk right there."
Henry's mouth relaxed. "Why--_Bob_."
As Standish gazed at him, no observer would have said that this
immature-looking boy was rated in the highest group of local
businessmen. To a stranger, the offer might have seemed insignificant,
even humorously insignificant; but to Henry it was stupendous, and
for two widely varying reasons.
"Just to think over," said Standish. "In case."
Henry's fists were doubled. "It isn't so much the ... the commercial
side of it, Bob, but when I know you've always had me down for such an
_incompetent_ sort of--"
"That was before the war. To tell the truth, old rubbish, last August
I couldn't have seen it with the Lick telescope. Thought you were a
great scout, of course--good pal--all that--but _business_; that's
different. A friend's one thing; but a partner's a lot of 'em."
Henry was staring fixedly at him. "I wouldn't have any money to speak
of--"
"Then don't speak of it. _I_'ll name the price. The price is your
year's profit on the Orpheum."
There was a little silence. "When did you get this hunch, Bob?"
"Oh, about last February."
"But it was about then that I came in here one day, and--and you said
you--you said one pal _couldn't_ boss another. You said--"
"Oh!... But as I recall it, you were talking about a job."
"Yes, and you said you wouldn't give me one! And ever since then I've
been--"
"Idiot!" said Standish. "Is that what's been gnawing at his tender
heart! Why, you astigmatic fool--why.... Stop right there! Certainly I
wouldn't have you for an employe, but as a partner--that's different.
If you apologize, I'll slay you. Shake hands and wipe it off your
brain.... Now let's get back to business. We've got to have quick
action."