CALEB CONOVER RUNS AWAY
The following Monday morning found Caleb at the Capital ready and
waiting for the battle which lay before him. He had arrived from
Granite late Sunday night; with Caine and with one or two personal
followers on whose timely aid, he knew from experience, he might count.
For two days there had been a ceaseless downpour of rain. Conover and
Caine, draped in long waterproof coats, stood at the entrance of their
hotel, looking out on the flooded streets and dingy, streaming sky.
They were waiting for the carriage that was to bear them to the State
House. Caine glanced ever at his watch, his armor of habitual bored
indifference worn perilously thin. Conover, on the other hand, showed
no more emotion than if he were on his way to luncheon. As Caine’s
hand, for the tenth time, crept toward his watch pocket, the Fighter
remarked:
“I can save you the trouble of lookin’, son, by tellin’ you the
startlin’ news that it’s just about thirty seconds later’n it was when
you took out your watch before. What’s your worry? We’re in lots of
time. As long as we get there when the Assembly’s called to order it’s
all we care. I’ve done ev’rything that _can_ be done. All I’m goin’ to
the lobby for is to jack those able statesmen up when Blacarda starts
to stampede ’em. I’ve made my arrangements with each man who’s goin’ to
vote our way. An’, as I figger out, we’ll kill that Starke bill by two
votes. Easy that many. But there’s four or five Assemblymen that need
my fatherly eye on ’em when the bill comes up. Otherwise they’ll sure
bolt. I know ’em. While I’m there I’m like your friend Napoleon; worth
40,000 men. Or, 40,000 dollars, if you like it better that way. I’ve
got my grip on the reins. Don’t you fret.”
“I heard something just now,” said Caine. “Something that it will
surprise you to learn. I had it from the ‘_Star’s_’ Legislature
correspondent. It seems Blacarda tried to prevent your coming to the
Capital at all. I’m rather surprised at his playing such a trick.
But I suppose it goes to prove that a man is known by the company he
promotes. He heard you were due from Granite on the 5.30 train this
morning. And he paid the engineer $600 to have the locomotive break
down thirty miles from here. You would have been stalled there until
too late to be of any use. The Assembly would have met and--”
“An’ stampeded,” finished Caleb stolidly. “An’ the Starke bill would’ve
gone through an’ we’d a’ been licked. Quite so. That’s why I changed my
plans, the last minute, an’ came here last night.”
“You knew of Blacarda’s move?” cried Caine in amazement.
“Son,” yawned Conover, “it’s my business to know things. An’ there’s
plenty little I don’t know when it comes to .22 calibre en’mies like
Blacarda. The engineer took the cash an’ then brought the whole story
to me. Us railroad men pull together, you know. I told him to keep
his $600 an’ let the engine break down accordin’ to schedule. Then I
came on another train last night. Didn’t you see how pleased Blacarda
looked when he came into the _ho_tel? He knows he ain’t got a ghost of
a chance with his Starke bill, while I’m on deck in the State House
lobby. Here’s our carriage. Come on, since you’re in such a hurry.”
The two men splashed out through the sheets of rain toward the waiting
vehicle. Caine stood aside to let Conover step in. As the latter’s
foot was on the step, the hotel telegraph clerk came running out,
calling the Fighter’s name and holding up a slip of yellow paper whose
message-ink was still wet.
“Just came!” announced the clerk, handing Conover the dispatch. “I
thought you were still in the hotel. Lucky I caught you before you
started!”
Caleb made no reply. He was reading, and re-reading, the telegram.
Caine, watching him impatiently, saw the Fighter’s face turn a muddy
gray.
Then, shouting to the driver: “Union Station! Go like Hell!” Conover
was in the carriage. Caine, all at a loss, had barely time to scramble
in after him before Caleb had slammed shut the door. The horses were
off at full speed; the wheels dashing a cascade of mud blotches through
the vehicle’s lowered sash.
“What is the matter?” insisted Caine, as Conover huddled--inert, bulky,
wordless--in one corner; “whom are you to meet at the station? I
thought all the Assemblymen--”
“I’m goin’ to catch the 9.32 to Granite if we can make it,” growled
Conover. “Shut up an’ let me think. Here!”
He shoved the tight-squeezed ball of yellow paper toward Caine. The
latter, as he took the telegram, noted the sudden clammy chill of the
Fighter’s hand and saw that his lips were dry as a fever-patient’s.
Never before had Caine seen him nervous, and he turned with redoubled
interest to the unfolding of the crumpled dispatch. It bore a woman’s
signature--that of Desirée’s aunt--and Caine, marveling, ran his eyes
over the body of the message:
“_Dey taken dangerously ill last night. Delirious. Calls for you all
time. Come if can._”
The banal wording, the crude phrasing for the sake of saving
expense--every detail of the telegram jarred upon Caine’s fastidious
taste. But a new thought made him turn, incredulous, upon Conover.
“I’m awfully, _awfully_ sorry to hear this,” said he. “But--but of
course you can’t think of leaving everything at the State House to-day
and--”
“State House?” muttered Conover, dully.
“Don’t you understand?” cried Caine, gripping the dazed, limp giant
by the shoulder and trying to shake him back to his senses. “Don’t you
understand the Steeloid fight will be on in an hour or so? You can’t
desert us and run off to Granite like this.”
“Take your hands off me,” mumbled Conover, pettishly. “Lord, how I hate
to be pawed! Can’t that driver go any faster’n a hearse? I’ll miss
the--”
“_Conover!_” fairly shouted Caine. “Brace up, man! What ails you? I
never saw you like this. Have you lost your head? The Steeloid fight
comes up, in the Assembly, to-day. Your fortune and mine hang on your
killing the Starke bill. You say, yourself, that unless you’re at the
State House we’ll lose. You _can’t_ get to Granite and back before the
session closes. If--”
“I’m not comin’ back,” said Caleb in utter weariness. “She’s--Dey’s
sick. ‘Dangerously ill,’ the tel’gram said. An’ she’s callin’ all the
time for _me_. If the 9.32 is on time I ought to be to her house by
noon. Maybe before.”
“Look here, old man!” pleaded Caine. “Of course I’m sorrier about Miss
Shevlin than I can say. But she will have the best possible medical
care. And you can’t help her by rushing off like this. Think of all
that depends on your being at the State House, to-day. You can catch
the six o’clock train for Granite this evening, just as well. For
all our sakes, don’t desert us now! If Blacarda gets the Starke bill
through the Assembly--”
“Don’t bother me,” snarled Conover, shifting his big body to move out
of reach of the appealing hand. “What--what d’ye s’pose can be the
matter with her? She was all right yesterday noon. Train leaves in four
minutes, an’--”
Caine broke in on the Fighter’s speech with a final plea for sanity. He
had an almost uncanny feeling at his own proximity to this demoralized
hulk of what had until now been the strongest man of his world. He did
not know the shaking, muttering, putty-faced being who in a trice had
tossed away both their hopes of fortune. Yet Caine would not yield.
“If you’ll only stay just long enough for the Starke bill to be voted
on,” he implored. “You can have a Special to take you back. Or, call up
her doctor on the long-distance telephone before you start, and find
out if her illness is really dangerous. Perhaps her aunt--”
“She’s callin’ for me,” reiterated Caleb, in the same dead tones. “I
thought about the long-distance ’phone. But there’s no time for that
before the 9.32 starts. I--Good! Here’s the station! An’ two minutes to
spare.”
Out of the carriage he jumped and made off at a shambling run for the
tracks; Caine close at his heels. At the car platform the Fighter
turned; scribbled a few lines on a card and handed it to Caine.
“Here,” he ordered with a ghost of his old authority. “Have that
telegram sent off in a rush. It’ll clear up the tracks for me when we
strike the C. G. & X. line, an’ let us in a half-hour earlier. Do as I
say. Don’t bother me! I’ve no time to fool with the measly Steeloid
deal now.”
* * * * *
For an hour and a half Caleb Conover stared with unseeing, glazed eyes
at the gray skies and rain-rotted fields as his train sped toward
Granite. He had a curious numbness in his head. A dumb nausea gripped
him. For the first time in his life, he could not think consecutively.
All his mind and body seemed to centre around one hideous truth:
Desirée Shevlin was terribly ill. Perhaps dying. She wanted him. And he
was not there.
He had never known until now that he had an imagination. Yet, during
the century-long train ride, the pressure on his brain lifted a bit
from time to time and he could see the dainty, dark little head turning
endlessly from side to side on its tumbled hot pillow; the white face
whence the glow and life had been stricken; the delirium hoarse voice
calling--ever calling--for _him_.
She had been so bright, so happy, so strong--only the day before. She
had gone driving with him after church. She had been telling him about
a country visit she was going to make--to-day--yes, she was to have
started to-day. This noon. And on the same drive--what was it she had
worn? It had gone prettily with her eyes, whatever it was. Those eyes
of hers had such odd, wonderful little lights in them. What color were
they? And what was it Caine had told her they held--oh, yes--‘prisoned
laughter.’ That was a queer sort of phrase. But she had seemed to like
it.
Why hadn’t the old fool who built the engine made one that could travel
faster than a hand car?
* * * * *
The express--thanks to Caleb’s track-clearing telegram--rolled into
Granite station a full half hour ahead of time. Long before the cars
came to a lurching halt under the sheds, Conover, with all an old-time
railroad man’s deftness, had swung off the moving train and had started
down the platform at a run. Through bevies of departing passengers he
clove a rough, unapologetic way. Station hands leaped nimbly aside
and gazed in gaping amaze after their hurrying President. Past the
platform, through the vaulted waiting room toward the street beyond;
and, at the outer door--
“_Caleb!_”
Conover halted, dumbfounded, shaking, at the call. There in the doorway
he stood, his face a dull purple, his eyes bulging, staring down
at--Desirée Shevlin.
“What on earth are you doing here?” she marvelled. “You said you
were to be at the Capital till to-morrow. Isn’t it the squunchiest,
trickliest day you ever saw? If I hadn’t promised ever and ever so
solemnly to go out to Jean’s on the eleven-forty, I’d--”
“Good _Lord_!”
It was as though all the engines on the C. G. & X. were letting off
steam at once. And, with the ejaculation, the cloud of horror was
wiped clean from the Fighter’s brain. He was, on the moment, his old
self; alive and masterful in every atom of his mighty body.
“Caleb!” the girl was saying, plaintively, as she gazed up at him with
her head on one side, “is your hat _wished_ on?”
“I’m sorry I forgot!” he laughed, excitedly, doffing the wet derby with
one hand and slapping her vigorously on her little rain-coated shoulder
with the other. “I came all the way back to Granite to tell you I’m
tickled to death to see you lookin’ so well. An’--an’--to tell you I’m
goin’ to beat Blacarda yet!”
“Caleb _Conover_!” she gasped. “_What_ do you think you are talking
about? Are you--”
But Conover had vanished--swallowed up in the recesses of the dark
station. Desirée looked after him, round-eyed.
“I sometimes think,” she confided to the silver handle of her umbrella,
“that Caleb will never _quite_ grow up!”