IN THE BOORDMAN BUILDING
Harwood opened the office in the Boordman Building, and settled in it
the law books Bassett sent from Fraserville. The lease was taken in
Dan's name, and he paid for the furniture with his own check, Bassett
having given him five hundred dollars for expenses. The Boordman was one
of the older buildings in Washington Street, and as it antedated the era
of elevators, only the first of its three stories was occupied by
offices. Its higher altitudes had fallen to miscellaneous tenants
including a few telegraph operators, printers, and other night workers
who lodged there for convenience. Dan's immediate neighbors proved to be
a shabby lawyer who concealed by a professional exterior his real
vocation, which was chattel mortgages; a fire insurance agency conducted
by several active young fellows of Dan's acquaintance; and the office of
a Pittsburg firm of construction contractors, presided over by a girl
who answered the telephone if haply it rang at moments when the heroes
of the novels she devoured were not in too imminent peril of death.
This office being nearest, Dan went in to borrow a match for his pipe
while in the midst of his moving and found the girl rearranging her hair
before a mirror.
"That's as near heart disease as I care to come," she said, turning at
his "Beg pardon." "There hasn't been a man in this place for two weeks,
much less a woman. Yes, I can stake you for a match. I keep them for
those insurance fellows--nice boys they are, too. You see," she
continued, not averse to prolonging the conversation, "our business is
mostly outside. Hear about the sky-scraper we're building in Elwood?
Three stories! One of the best little towns in Indiana, all right. Say,
the janitor service in this old ark is something I couldn't describe to
a gentleman. If there's anything in these microbe fairy stories we'll
all die early. You might as well know the worst:--they do light
housekeeping on the third floor and the smell of onions is what I call
annoying. Oh, that's all right; what's a match between friends! The last
man who had your office--you've taken sixty-six?--well, he always got
his matches here, and touched me occasionally for a pink photo of George
Washington--stamp, ha! ha! see! He was real nice and when his wife
dropped in to see him one day and I was sitting in there joshing him and
carrying on, he was that painfully embarrassed! I guess she made him
move; but, Lord, they have to bribe tenants to get 'em in here. To crawl
up one flight of that stairway you have to be a mountain climber. I only
stay because the work's so congenial and it's a quiet place for reading,
and all the processions pass here. The view of that hairdressing shop
across the way is something I recommend. If I hadn't studied stenography
I should have taken up hairdressing or manicuring. A little friend of
mine works in that shop and the society ladies are most confidential.
I'm Miss Rose Farrell, if you tease me to tell. You needn't say by any
other name it's just as sweet--the ruffle's a little frayed on that."
Bassett had stipulated that his name should not appear and he suggested
that Dan place his own on the door. Later, when he had been admitted to
the bar it would be easy to add "attorney at law," Bassett said. Each of
the three rooms of what the agent of the building liked to call a suite
opened directly into the hall. In the first Harwood set up a desk for
himself; in the second he placed the library, and the third and largest
was to be Bassett's at such times as he cared to use it. Throughout the
summer Harwood hardly saw Bassett, and he began to regret his reluctant
assent to a relationship which conferred so many benefits with so little
work. He dug hungrily at the law, and felt that he was making progress.
Fitch, who was braving the heat in town, had outlined a course of
reading for him, and continued his manifestations of friendliness by
several times asking him to dinner, with a motor ride later to cool them
off before going to bed.
Bassett kept pretty close to Fraserville, running into the city
occasionally for a few hours. He complained now and then because he saw
so little of his family, who continued at the lake. Dan had certain
prescribed duties, but these were not onerous. A great many of the
country newspapers began to come to the office, and it was Harwood's
business to read them and cut out any items bearing upon local
political conditions. Bassett winnowed these carefully, brushing the
chaff into his wastebasket and retaining a few kernels for later use. He
seemed thoroughly familiar with the state press and spoke of the rural
newspapers with a respect that surprised Harwood, who had little
patience with what he called the "grapevine dailies," with their scrappy
local news, patent insides, and servile partisan opinions. Still, he
began to find in a considerable number of these papers, even those
emanating from remote county seats, a certain raciness and independence.
This newspaper reading, which Dan had begun perfunctorily, soon
interested him. It was thus, he saw, that Bassett kept in touch with
state affairs. Sporadic temperance movements, squabbles over local
improvements, rows in school boards, and like matters were not beneath
Bassett's notice. He discussed these incidents and conditions with
Harwood, who was astonished to find how thoroughly Bassett knew the
state.
Through all this Dan was not blind to the sins charged against Bassett.
There were certain corporations which it was said Bassett protected from
violence at the state house. But as against this did not the vast horde
of greedy corporations maintain a lobby at every session and was not a
certain amount of lobbying legitimate? Again, Bassett had shielded the
liquor interests from many attacks; but had not these interests their
rights, and was it not a sound doctrine that favored government with the
least restraint? Rather uglier had been Bassett's identification with
the organization of the White River Canneries Company, a combination of
industries on which a scandalous overissue of stock had been sold in
generous chunks to a confiding public, followed in a couple of years by
a collapse of the business and a reorganization that had frozen out all
but a favored few. Still, Bassett had not been the sole culprit in that
affair, and was not this sort of financiering typical of the time?
Bassett and Thatcher had both played the gentle game of freeze-out in
half a dozen other instances, and if they were culpable, why had they
not been brought to book? In his inner soul Dan knew why not: in the
bi-partisan political game only the stupid are annoyed by grand juries,
which take their cue tamely from ambitious prosecuting attorneys eager
for higher office.
Bassett's desk stood against the wall and over it hung a map of Indiana.
It was no unusual thing for Dan to find Bassett with his chair tipped
back, his eyes fixed upon the map. The oblong checkerboard formed by the
ninety-two counties of the Hoosier commonwealth seemed to have a
fascination for the man from Fraserville. When Dan found him thus in
rapt contemplation Bassett usually turned toward him a little
reluctantly and absently. It was thus that Morton Bassett studied the
field, like a careful general outlining his campaigns, with ample data
and charts before him.
This was an "off" year politically, or, more accurately, the statutes
called for no state election in Indiana. For every one knows that there
is no hour of the day in any year when politics wholly cease from
agitating the waters of the Wabash: somewhere some one is always
dropping in a pebble to see how far the ripple will widen. In the torrid
first days of September the malfeasance of the treasurer of an Ohio
River county afforded the Republican press an opportunity to gloat, the
official in question being, of course, a Democrat, and a prominent
member of the state committee.
For several days before the exposure Bassett had appeared fitfully at
the Whitcomb and in the Boordman Building. On the day that the
Republican "Advertiser" screamed delightedly over the Democratic scandal
in Ranger County, Bassett called Dan into his office. Bassett's name had
been linked to that of Miles, the erring treasurer, in the
"Advertiser's" headlines; and its leading editorial had pointed to the
defalcation as the sort of thing that inevitably follows the domination
of a party by a spoilsman and corruptionist like the senator from
Fraser.
Bassett indicated by a nod a copy of the "Advertiser" on his desk.
"The joke was on us this time. They're pinning Miles on me, and I guess
I'll have to wear him like a bouquet. I've been in Louisville fixing
this thing up and they won't have as much fun as they thought. It's a
simple case: Miles hadn't found out yet that corn margins are not
legitimate investments for a county's money. He's a good fellow and will
know better next time. We couldn't afford to have a member of the state
committee in jail, so I met the bondsmen and the prosecuting
attorney--he's a Republican--in Louisville and we straightened it all
out. The money's in bank down there. It proves to be after all a matter
of bookkeeping,--technical differences, which were reconciled readily
enough. Miles got scared; those fellows always do. He'll be good now."
Dan had been standing. Bassett pointed to a chair.
"I want you to write an interview with me on this case, laying emphasis
on the fact that the trouble was all due to an antiquated system of
keeping the accounts, which Miles inherited from his predecessors in
office. The president of the bank and the prosecutor have prepared
statements,--I have them in my pocket,--and I want you to get all the
publicity you know how for these things. Let me see. In my interview
you'd better lay great stress on the imperative need for a uniform
accounting law for county officials. Say that we expect to stand for
this in our next platform; make it strong. Have me say that this
incident in Ranger County, while regrettable, will serve a good purpose
if it arouses the minds of the people to the importance of changing the
old unsatisfactory method of bookkeeping that so frequently leads
perfectly trustworthy and well-meaning officials into error. Do you get
the idea?"
"Yes; perfectly," Dan replied. "As I understand it, Miles isn't guilty,
but you would take advantage of the agitation to show the necessity for
reform."
"Exactly. And while you're about it, write a vigorous editorial for the
'Courier,' on the same line, and a few ironical squibs based on the
eagerness of the Republican papers to see all Democrats through black
goggles." The humor showed in Bassett's eyes for an instant, and he
added: "Praise the Republican prosecutor of Ranger County for refusing
to yield to partisan pressure and take advantage of a Democrat's
mistakes of judgment. He's a nice fellow and we've got to be good to
him."
This was the first task of importance that Bassett had assigned to him
and Dan addressed himself to it zealously. If Miles was not really a
defaulter there was every reason why the heinous aspersions of the
opposition press should be dealt with vigorously. Dan was impressed by
Bassett's method of dealing with a difficult situation. Miles had erred,
but Bassett had taken the matter in hand promptly, secretly, and
effectively. His attitude toward the treasurer's sin was tolerant and
amiable. Miles had squandered money in bucket-shop gambling, but the sin
was not uncommon, and the amount of his loss was sufficient to assure
his penitence; he was an ally of Bassett's and it was Bassett's way to
take care of his friends. Bassett had not denied that the culprit had
been guilty of indiscretions; but he had minimized the importance of his
error and adorned the tale with a moral on which Dan set about laying
the greatest emphasis. He enjoyed writing, and in the interview he
attributed ideas to Bassett that would have been creditable to the most
idealistic of statesmen. He based the editorial Bassett had suggested
upon the interview; and he wrote half a dozen editorial paragraphs in a
vein of caustic humor that the "Courier" affected. In the afternoon he
copied his articles on a typewriter and submitted them to Bassett.
"Good, very good. Too bad to take you out of the newspaper business; you
have the right point of view and you know how to get hold of the right
end of a sentence. Let me see. I wish you would do another interview
changing the phraseology and making it short, and we'll give the
'Advertiser' a chance to print it. I'll attend to these other things.
You'd better not be running into the 'Courier' office too much now that
you're with me. They haven't got on to that yet, but they'll give us a
twist when they do."
Dan had been admitted to the ante-chamber of Bassett's confidence, but
he was to be permitted to advance a step further. At four o'clock he was
surprised by the appearance of Atwill, the "Courier's" manager. Dan had
no acquaintance with Atwill, whose advent had been coincident with the
"Courier's" change of ownership shortly after Dan's tentative connection
with the paper began. Atwill had rarely visited the editorial
department, but it was no secret that he exercised general supervision
of the paper. It had been whispered among the reporters that every issue
was read carefully in proof by Atwill, but Dan had never been
particularly interested in this fact. As Atwill appeared in the outer
office, Bassett came from his own room to meet him. The door closed
quickly upon the two and they were together for half an hour or more.
Then Bassett summoned Dan.
"Mr. Atwill, this is Mr. Harwood. He was formerly employed on the
'Courier.' It was he that wrote up the Hoosier statesmen, you may
remember."
Atwill nodded.
"I remember very well. Those articles helped business,--we could follow
your pencil up and down the state on our circulation reports. I jumped
the city editor for letting you go."
Atwill was a lean, clean-shaven man who chewed gum hungrily. His eyes
were noticeably alert and keen. There was a tradition that he had been a
"star" reporter in New York, a managing editor in Pittsburg, and a
business manager in Minneapolis before coming to supervise the "Courier"
for its new owner.
"Atwill, you and Harwood had better keep in touch with each other.
Harwood is studying law here, but he will know pretty well what I'm
doing. He will probably write an editorial for you occasionally, and
when it comes in it won't be necessary for the regular employees of the
'Courier' to know where it comes from. Harwood won't mind if they take
all the glory for his work."
When Atwill left, Bassett talked further to Harwood, throwing his legs
across a chair and showing himself more at ease than Dan had yet seen
him.
"Harwood," he said,--he had dropped the mister to-day for the first time
in their intercourse,--"I've opened the door wider to you than I ever
did before to any man. I trust you."
"I appreciate that, Mr. Bassett."
"I've been carrying too much, and it's a relief to find that I've got a
man I can unload on. You understand, I trust you absolutely. And in
coming to me as you did, and accepting these confidences, I assume that
you don't think me as wicked as my enemies make me out."
"I liked you," said Dan, with real feeling, "from that moment you shook
hands with me in your house at Fraserville. When I don't believe in you
any longer, I'll quit; and if that time comes you may be sure that I
shan't traffic in what I learn of your affairs. I feel that I want to
say that to you."
"That's all right, Harwood. I hope our relations will be increasingly
friendly; but if you want to quit at any time you're not tied. Be sure
of that. If you should quit me to-morrow I should be disappointed but I
wouldn't kick. And don't build up any quixotic ideas of gratitude toward
me. When you don't like your job, move on. I guess we understand each
other."
If Dan entertained any doubts as to the ethics involved in Bassett's
handling of the situation in Ranger County they were swept away by the
perfect candor with which Bassett informed their new intimacy. The most
interesting and powerful character in Indiana politics had made a
confidant of him. Without attempting to exact vows of secrecy, or
threatening vengeance for infractions of faith, but in a spirit of
good-fellowship that appealed strongly to Harwood, Bassett had given him
a pass-key to many locked doors.
"As you probably gathered," Bassett was saying, "Atwill represents me at
the 'Courier' office."
"I had never suspected it," Dan replied.
"Has anybody suspected it?" asked Bassett quickly.
"Well; of course it has been said repeatedly that you own or control the
'Courier.'"
"Let them keep on saying it; they might have hard work to prove it.
And--" Bassett's eyes turned toward the window. His brows contracted and
he shut his lips tightly so that his stiff mustache gave to his mouth a
sinister look that Dan had never seen before. The disagreeable
expression vanished and he was his usual calm, unruffled self. "And," he
concluded, smiling, "I might have some trouble in proving it myself."
Dan was not only accumulating valuable information, but Bassett
interested him more and more as a character. He was an unusual man, a
new type, this senator from Fraser, with his alternating candor and
disingenuousness, his prompt solutions of perplexing problems. It was
unimaginable that a man so strong and so sure of himself, and so shrewd
in extricating others from their entanglements, could ever be cornered,
trapped, or beaten.
Bassett's hands had impressed Dan that first night at Fraserville, and
he watched them again as Bassett idly twisted a rubber band in his
fingers. How gentle those hands were and how cruel they might be!
The next morning Dan found that his interview with Bassett was the
feature of the first page of the "Courier," and the statement he had
sent to the "Advertiser" was hardly less prominently displayed. His
editorial was the "Courier's" leader, and it appeared _verbatim et
literatim_. He viewed his work with pride and satisfaction; even his
ironical editorial "briefs" had, he fancied, something of the piquancy
he admired in the paragraphing of the "New York Sun." But his
gratification at being able to write "must" matter for both sides of a
prominent journal was obscured by the greater joy of being the chief
adjutant of the "Courier's" sagacious concealed owner.
The "Advertiser" replied to Bassett's statement in a tone of hilarity.
Bassett's plea for a better accounting system was funny, that was all.
Miles, the treasurer of Ranger County, had been playing the bucket shops
with public moneys, and the Honorable Morton Bassett, of Fraserville,
with characteristic zeal in a bad cause, had not only adjusted the
shortage, but was craftily trying to turn the incident to the advantage
of his party. The text for the "Advertiser's" leader was the jingle:--
"When the devil was sick, the devil a monk would be;
When the devil got well, the devil a monk was he!"
Bassett had left town, but the regular staff of the "Courier" kept up
the fight along the lines of the articles Dan had contributed. The
"Advertiser," finding that the Republican prosecuting attorney of Ranger
County joined with the local bank in certifying to Miles's probity,
dropped the matter after a few scattering volleys.
However, within a week after the Miles incident, the "Advertiser" gave
Harwood the shock of an unlooked-for plunge into ice-water by printing a
sensational story under a double-column headline, reading, "The Boss in
the Boordman Building." The Honorable Morton Bassett, so the article
averred, no longer satisfied to rule his party amid the pastoral calm
of Fraser County, had stolen into the capital and secretly established
headquarters, which meant, beyond question, the manifestation of even a
wider exercise of his malign influence in Indiana politics. Harwood's
name enjoyed a fame that day that many years of laborious achievement
could not have won for it. The "Advertiser's" photographers had stolen
in at night and taken a flashlight picture of the office door, bearing
the legend
66
DANIEL HARWOOD
Harwood's personal history was set forth in florid phrases. It appeared
that he had been carefully chosen and trained by Bassett to aid in his
evil work. His connection with the "Courier," which had seemed to Dan at
the time so humble, assumed a dignity and importance that highly amused
him. It was quite like the Fraserville boss to choose a young man of
good antecedents, the graduate of a great university, with no previous
experience in politics, the better to bend him to his will. Dan's
talents and his brilliant career at college all helped to magnify the
importance of Bassett's latest move. Morton Bassett was dangerous, the
"Advertiser" conceded editorially, because he had brains; and he was
even more to be feared because he could command the brains of other men.
Dan called Bassett at Fraserville on the long distance telephone and
told him of the disclosure. Bassett replied in a few sentences.
"That won't hurt anything. I'd been expecting something of the kind. Put
you in, did they? I'll get my paper to-night and read it carefully.
Better cut the stuff out and send it in an envelope, to make sure. Call
Atwill over and tell him we ignore the whole business. I'm taking a
little rest, but I'll be in town in about a week."
Dan was surprised to find how bitterly he resented the attack on
Bassett. The "Advertiser" spoke of the leader as though he were a
monster of immorality and Dan honestly believed Bassett to be no such
thing. His loyalty was deeply intensified by the hot volleys poured into
the Boordman Building; but he was not disturbed by the references to
himself. He winced a little bit at being called a "stool pigeon"; but he
thought he knew the reporter who had written the article, and his
experience in the newspaper office had not been so brief but that it had
killed his layman's awe of the printed word. When he walked into the
Whitcomb that evening the clerk made a point of calling his name and
shaking hands with him. He was conscious that a number of idlers in the
hotel lobby regarded him with a new interest. Some one spoke his name
audibly, and he enjoyed in some degree the sensation of being a person
of mark.
He crossed University Square and walked out Meridian Street to Fitch's
house. The lawyer came downstairs in his shirt sleeves with a legal
envelope in his hand.
"Glad to see you, Harwood. I'm packing up; going to light out in the
morning and get in on the end of my family's vacation. They've moved out
of Maine into the Berkshires and the boys are going back to college
without coming home. I see the 'Advertiser' has been after you. How do
you like your job?"
"I'm not scared," Dan replied. "It's all very amusing and my moral
character hasn't suffered so far."
Fitch eyed him critically.
"Well, I haven't time to talk to you, but here's something I wish you'd
do for me. I have a quit-claim deed for Mrs. Owen to sign. I forgot to
tell one of the boys in the office to get her acknowledgment, but you're
a notary, aren't you? I've just been telephoning her about it. You know
who she is? Come to think of it, she's Bassett's aunt-in-law. You're not
a good Hoosier till you know Aunt Sally. I advise you to make yourself
solid with her. I don't know what she's doing in town just now, but her
ways are always inscrutable."
Dan was soon ringing the bell at Mrs. Owen's. Mrs. Owen was out, the
maid said, but would be back shortly. Dan explained that he had come
from Mr. Fitch, and she asked him to walk into the parlor and wait.
Sylvia Garrison and her grandfather had been at Montgomery since their
visit to Waupegan and were now in Indianapolis for a day on their way to
Boston. The Delaware Street house had been closed all summer. The floors
were bare and the furniture was still jacketed in linen. Sylvia rose as
Harwood appeared at the parlor door.
"Pardon me," said Dan, as the maid vanished. "I have an errand with Mrs.
Owen and I'll wait, if you don't mind?"
"Certainly. Mrs. Owen has gone out to make a call, but she will be back
soon. She went only a little way down the street. Please have a chair."
She hesitated a moment, not knowing whether to remain or to leave the
young man to himself. Dan determined the matter for her by opening a
conversation on the state of the weather.
"September is the most trying month of the year. Just when we're all
tired of summer, it takes its last fling at us."
"It has been very warm. I came over from Montgomery this afternoon and
it was very dusty and disagreeable on the train."
"From Montgomery?" repeated Dan, surprised and perplexed. Then, as it
dawned upon him that this was the girl who had opened the door for him
at Professor Kelton's house in Montgomery when he had gone there with a
letter from Fitch, "You see," he said, "we've met before, in your own
house. You very kindly went off to find some one for me--and didn't come
back; but I passed you on the campus as I was leaving."
He had for the moment forgotten the name of the old gentleman to whom he
had borne a letter from Mr. Fitch. He would have forgotten the incident
completely long ago if it had not been for the curious manner in which
the lawyer had received his report and the secrecy so carefully
enjoined. It was odd that he should have chanced upon these people
again. Dan did not know many women, young or old, and he found this
encounter with Sylvia wholly agreeable, Sylvia being, as we know,
seventeen, and not an offense to the eye.
"It was my grandfather, Professor Kelton, you came to see. He's here
with me now, but he's gone out to call on an old friend with Mrs. Owen."
Every detail of Dan's visit to the cottage was clear in Sylvia's mind;
callers had been too rare for there to be any dimness of memory as to
the visit of the stranger, particularly when she had associated her
grandfather's subsequent depression with his coming.
Dan felt that he should scrupulously avoid touching upon the visit to
Montgomery otherwise than casually. He was still bound in all honor to
forget that excursion as far as possible. This young person seemed very
serious, and he was not sure that she was comfortable in his presence.
"It was a warm day, I remember, but cool and pleasant in your library.
I'm going to make a confession. When you went off so kindly to find
Professor Kelton I picked up the book you had been reading, and it quite
laid me low. I had imagined it would be something cheerful and
frivolous, to lift the spirit of the jaded traveler."
"It must have been a good story," replied Sylvia, guardedly.
"It was! It was the 'Æneid,' and I began at your bookmark and tried to
stagger through a page, but it floored me. You see how frank I am; I
ought really to have kept this terrible disclosure from you."
"Didn't you like Madison? I remember that I thought you were comparing
us unfavorably with other places. You implied"--and Sylvia smiled--"that
you didn't think Madison a very important college."
"Then be sure of my contrition now! Your Virgil sank deep into my
consciousness, and I am glad of this chance to render unto Madison the
things that are Madison's."
His chaffing way reminded her of Dr. Wandless, who often struck a
similar note in their encounters.
Sylvia was quite at ease now. Her caller's smile encouraged
friendliness. He had dropped his fedora hat on a chair, but clung to his
bamboo stick. His gray sack suit with the trousers neatly creased and
his smartly knotted tie proclaimed him a man of fashion: the newest and
youngest member of the Madison faculty, who had introduced spats to the
campus, was not more impressively tailored.
"You said you had gone to a large college; and I said--"
"Oh, you hit me back straight enough!" laughed Harwood.
"I didn't mean to be rude," Sylvia protested, coloring.
They evidently both remembered what had been said at that interview.
"It wasn't rude; it was quite the retort courteous! My conceit at being
a Yale man was shattered by your shot."
"Well, I suppose Yale is a good place, too," said Sylvia, with a
generous intention that caused them both to laugh.
"By token of your Virgilian diversions shall I assume that you are a
collegian, really or almost?"
"Just almost. I'm on my way to Wellesley now."
"Ah!" and his exclamation was heavy with meaning. A girl bound for
college became immediately an integer with which a young man who had not
yet mislaid his diploma could reckon. "I have usually been a supporter
of Vassar. It's the only woman's college I ever attended. I went up
there once to see a girl I had met at a Prom--such is the weakness of
man! I had arrayed myself as the lilies of the field, and on my way
through Pokip I gathered up a beautiful two-seated trap with a driver,
thinking in my ignorance that I should make a big hit by driving the
fair one over the hills and far away. The horses were wonderful; I found
out later that they were the finest hearse horses in Poughkeepsie. She
was an awfully funny girl, that girl. She always used both 'shall' and
'will,' being afraid to take chances with either verb, an idea I'm often
tempted to adopt myself."
"It's ingenious, at any rate. But how did the drive go?"
"Oh, it didn't! She said she couldn't go with me alone unless I _was_ or
_were_ her cousin. It was against the rules. So we agreed to be cousins
and she went off to find the dean or some awful autocrat like that, to
spring the delightful surprise, that her long-lost cousin from Kalamazoo
had suddenly appeared, and might she go driving with him. That was her
idea, I assure you,--my own depravity could suggest nothing more
euphonious than Canajoharie. And would you believe it, the consent being
forthcoming, she came back and said she wouldn't go--absolutely
declined! She rested on the fine point in ethics that, while it was not
improper to tell the fib, it would be highly sinful to take advantage of
it! So we strolled over the campus and she showed me the sights, while
those funeral beasts champed their bits at so much per hour. She was a
Connecticut girl, and I made a note of the incident as illustrating a
curious phase of the New England conscience."
While they were gayly ringing the changes on these adventures, steps
sounded on the veranda.
"That's Mrs. Owen and my grandfather," said Sylvia.
"I wonder--" began Dan, grave at once.
"You're wondering," said Sylvia, "whether my grandfather will remember
you."
She recalled very well her grandfather's unusual seriousness after
Harwood's visit; it seemed wiser not to bring the matter again to his
attention.
"I think it would be better if he didn't," replied Dan, relieved that
she had anticipated his thought.
"I was only a messenger boy anyhow and I didn't know what my errand was
about that day."
"He doesn't remember faces well," said Sylvia, "and wouldn't be likely
to know you."
As Mrs. Owen asked Dan to her office at once, it was unnecessary for
Sylvia to introduce him to her grandfather.
Alone with Mrs. Owen, Dan's business was quickly transacted. She
produced an abstract of title and bade him read aloud the description of
the property conveyed while she held the deed. At one point she took a
pen and crossed a _t_; otherwise the work of Wright and Fitch was
approved. When she had signed her name, and while Dan was filling in the
certificate, she scrutinized him closely.
"You're in Mr. Fitch's office, are you?" she inquired.
"Not now; but I was there for a time. I happened to call on Mr. Fitch
this evening and he asked me to bring the deed over."
"Let me see, I don't believe I know any Harwoods here."
"I haven't been here long enough to be known," answered Dan, looking up
and smiling.
Mrs. Owen removed her hat and tossed it on a little stand, as though
hats were a nuisance in this world and not worthy of serious
consideration. She continued her observation of Dan, who was applying a
blotter to his signature.
"I'll have to take this to my office to affix the seal. I'm to give it
to Mr. Wright in the morning for recording."
"Where is your office, Mr. Harwood?" she asked flatly.
"Boordman Building," answered Dan, surprised to find himself
uncomfortable under her direct, penetrating gaze.
"Humph! So you're Morton Bassett's young man who was written up in the
'Advertiser.'"
"Mr. Bassett has given me a chance to read law in his office. He's a
prominent man and the 'Advertiser' chose to put its own interpretation
on his kindness to me. That's all," answered Dan with dignity.
"Sit still a minute. I forget sometimes that all the folks around here
don't know me. I didn't mean to be inquisitive, or disagreeable; I was
just looking for information. I took notice of that 'Advertiser's' piece
because Mr. Bassett married my niece, so I'm naturally interested in
what he does."
"Yes, Mrs. Owen, I understand."
Dan had heard a good deal about Mrs. Sally Owen, in one way or another,
and persuaded now, by her change of tone, that she had no intention of
pillorying him for Bassett's misdeeds, he began to enjoy his unexpected
colloquy with her. She bent forward and clasped her veined, bony hands
on the table.
"I'm glad of a chance to talk to you. It's providential, your turning up
this way. I just came to town yesterday and Edward Thatcher dropped in
last night and got to talking to me about his boy."
"Allen?"
Dan was greatly surprised at this turn of the conversation. Mrs. Owen's
tone was wholly kind, and she seemed deeply in earnest.
"Yes, I mean Allen Thatcher. His father says he's taken a great shine to
you. I hardly know the boy, but he's a little queer and he's always been
a little sickly. Edward doesn't know how to handle him, and the boy's
ma--well, she's one of those Terre Haute Bartlows, and those people
never would stay put. Edward's made too much money for his wife's good,
and the United States ain't big enough for her and the girls. But that
boy got tired o' gallivanting around over there, and he's back here on
Edward's hands. The boy's gaits are too much for Edward. He says you and
Allen get on well together. I met him in the bank to-day and he asked me
about you."
"I like Allen;--I'm even very fond of him, and I wish I could help him
find himself. He's amusing"--and Dan laughed, remembering their first
meeting--"but with a fine, serious, manly side that you can't help
liking."
"That's nice; it's mighty nice. You be good to that boy, and you won't
lose anything by it. How do you and Morton get on?"
"First-rate, I hope. He's treated me generously."
Then she fastened her eyes upon him with quizzical severity.
"Young man, the 'Advertiser' seems to think Morton Bassett is crooked.
What do you think about it?"
Dan gasped and stammered at this disconcerting question.
She rested her arms on the table and bent toward him, the humor showing
in her eyes.
"If he _is_ crooked, young man, you needn't think you have to be as big
a sinner as he is! You remember that Sally Owen told you that. Be your
own boss. Morton's a terrible persuader. Funny for me to be talking to
you this way; I don't usually get confidential so quick. I guess"--and
her eyes twinkled--"we'll have to consider ourselves old friends to make
it right."
"You are very kind, indeed, Mrs. Owen. I see that I have a
responsibility about Allen. I'll keep an eye on him.
"Drop in now and then. I eat a good many Sunday dinners alone when I'm
at home, and you may come whenever you feel like facing a tiresome old
woman across the table."
She followed him into the hall, where they ran into Sylvia, who had been
upstairs saying good-night to her grandfather. Mrs. Owen arrested
Sylvia's flight through the hall.
"Sylvia, I guess you and Mr. Harwood are already acquainted."
"Except," said Dan, "that we haven't been introduced!"
"Then, Miss Garrison, this is Mr. Harwood. He's a Yale College man, so I
read in the paper."
"Oh, I already knew that!" replied Sylvia, laughing.
"At Wellesley please remember, Miss Garrison, about the Kalamazoo
cousins," said Dan, his hand on the front door.
"I guess you young folks didn't need that introduction," observed Mrs.
Owen. "Don't forget to come and see me, Mr. Harwood."