KATHERINE DECIDES
It was some hours before definite information was to be had concerning
the present condition of affairs. No one knew whether his side had won
or lost, whether the M. & T. was a Weeks road or a Porter road, though
in the excitement each claimed control and made immediate efforts to
enforce orders relating to its conduct. Messages flew back and
forth along the singing wires, and wrecking trains started almost
simultaneously from Manchester and from Truesdale, with instructions
to clear up the muss at Sawyerville, in order that the regular train
service be resumed.
But before matters were more than fairly under way, there came a sudden
suspension of action. The Weeks wreckers paused at Brushingham, and
contented themselves with pulling Harvey's first capture back on
the rails. That done, the conductor stuffed a bundle of somewhat
contradictory but imperative orders into his pocket, and stretched
himself on the little red bench on the Brushingham station platform; the
engineer, after a shouted order, settled down to the nearest approach
to rest known to an engineer on duty; the division car repairer and the
roadmaster curled up in the caboose, for they had been routed out at
an unseemly hour; the station agent amused himself reading the messages
that rattled through to the South and back, telling of a muddle at
headquarters. When a wrecking train is held for orders, it is safe to
assume that something has happened.
Down the line there was a similar occurrence. The Truesdale repair crew
was caught at Sawyerville and ordered back. But before the astonished
conductor had read the message through, another came ordering him
on, subject no longer to the Superintendent's orders, but to those of
Colonel Wray, 3d N.G.
The Governor of the State, in the conduct of routine matters, was
usually content to follow precedent, which means that the State House
clerical force was let more or less severely alone to govern the
community, while the executive directed the politics of his party with a
view to coming elections. At times an emergency occurred, miners struck,
excited citizens lynched a negro, henchmen of the other party strained
the voting laws, municipal corporations endeavored to steal State
privileges--in any of which cases he delayed definite action until
public sentiment bayed at his heels, then he acted with shrewdness and
despatch. At the time of the fight, this same noisy public was keen
on the scent of the railroads. Certain street railway corporations had
called out abuse by methods which were excusable only for their success,
and the mass saw no reason to believe that one corporation was better
than another. Discriminating freight tariffs, which had seemed to
favor a neighboring State, had thoroughly antagonized the country
districts--and the country districts' vote. From even the solid
communities had come rumors of restlessness and discontent. Ward bosses
were worried, county magnates were dodging reform committees instigated
by the traditionally conscientious minority, and the Governor knew that
certain bills which awaited his signature were not likely to increase
his following.
So it was that the great man was watching, watching and waiting, for the
opportunity to strike a blow which should swing public sentiment around
in his favor. Up to the present the whole State had been quiet. The
miners were as orderly as the Sunday-school over which he presided when
in his native town. The great labor organizations he was so eager to
conciliate perversely gave him no opportunity.
And so it was that when messages came pouring in upon him from bosses
and chairmen and advisers urging immediate interference in the M. & T.
fight, when the sheriff of Malden County sent in an hysterical report,
all instigated by the pungent advices from mad and muddy Senator Sporty
Jones--the Governor inclined his ear. He was a shrewd man, and he knew
that in order to make a distinct impression on The Public his blow must
be sudden and spectacular. The longer he thought on it, the more the
opportunity pleased him, and before the evening was far advanced Colonel
Wray was speeding to Truesdale.
The Third was not a city regiment. It was made up of men from the middle
sections of the State, a company to every few counties with battalion
headquarters in three of the smaller cities, Truesdale for one. In
the city regiments was a blue-stocking element which did not fit the
Governor's present needs.
As soon as Colonel Wray reached Truesdale, he established himself in
the inhospitable warehouse which in reports was called an armory. Before
midnight the local company was collected, uniformed, and in order. Later
special trains arrived, and squads and companies marched through the
echoing streets, to sit dozing about the armory. At three-thirty a train
came in from the southern counties bringing the second battalion, three
hundred husky farm lads who glowed with responsibility as they stacked
arms and awaited orders.
Then came a telephone message that McNally's relief train had left
for the North. Colonel Wray waited no longer but marched over to the
station, seized the telegraph office and the telephone, placed guards at
each entrance and about the train shed, ordered the yard master to make
up another train, levied on the station restaurant for six hundred
cups of coffee, and tore fly-leaves from the news-stand books to write
special orders for the waiting adjutant.
Meanwhile Porter was feverish. He tried to bulldoze the sergeant in
the telegraph office only to be hustled off by a corporal's guard. He
finally reached the Colonel's ear, but was heard in courteous silence.
He made an effort to call up the Oakwood Club to send a message to
McNally, but the sunburned young fellow in the 'phone box leaned on his
rifle and shook his head. The same thing happened when he tried to get
out of the building--“Sorry, sir. Captain's orders”--and the baffled
magnate paced up and down the waiting room between long files of
light-hearted boys in blue. It was humiliating to consider that he had
subscribed heavily toward fitting up the Truesdale armory, that half the
officers knew him and feared his influence.
While he was racking his brain sudden orders were shouted through the
building. The lounging groups came up with a jerk, there was a rattle
of arms, and in ten seconds the farm boys had resolved into a machine,
a set of rigid blue lines that reached the length of the waiting room.
There was another order, and one after another the companies broke into
columns of twos and swung through the glass doors, which were held open
by a couple of scared but admiring waiters.
Porter followed the last company and stood in the doorway behind two
crossed rifles watching the troops climb into the cars. The Colonel
stood at the track gate as the men marched through, talking with his
aids. Porter thought for a moment of calling to him, but realized the
futility of it after the treatment he had just received. Besides, even
a railroad president could hardly keep his dignity with those ridiculous
guns under his nose. So he turned and walked slowly to his temporary
headquarters in the station agent's office, but to find that the young
captain left in command by Colonel Wray had made himself at home and was
issuing orders to a snub-nosed lieutenant.
Porter took a chair and looked out of the window. For a moment he was
too weary to be aggressive. Worry and loss of sleep had lined his face,
and the absence of news from McNally kept his nerves strung. As he
sat there gripping the arms of the chair, face a little flushed, hair
disarranged, collar dusty, he looked ten years past his age. It was a
critical moment in the fight, and he knew it, but cornered as he was,
absolutely uninformed as to his position in the struggle, or the meaning
of the military display, a sense of helplessness almost unnerved him.
Heretofore his fights had been largely conducted through deferential
employees. He was accustomed to bows and scrapes, to men who feared him,
who watched his every move in awe, and to find himself utterly at the
mercy of these tin soldiers was disgusting. It was twenty-four hours
since he had had a wink of sleep and eighteen since he had eaten a full
meal--facts which in no small measure lessened the stability of his
mental poise. And there he sat waiting through the darkness and the
dawn.
The reds and golds in the eastern sky spread and paled. The little
green-clad city stretched down the gentle hill, now indistinct in the
haze. An early electric car whirred and jangled past the station, and
Porter was half conscious of the noise. He got up, straightened his
stiff joints, and went to the lunch counter, where he had to jostle
between two gawky privates before he could order a cup of smoky cereal
coffee and a sandwich. After getting a place he could not eat, so he
returned to the office. Now that some sort of routine was established,
the Captain showed a willingness to meet him civilly.
“See here,” said Porter, after a few commonplaces had been exchanged,
“how long is this going to keep up? There is no sense in holding me
here.”
“Sorry, sir. I have no desire to inconvenience you, but my orders are to
let no one out and no one in. And you know what orders are for.”
“Oh, that's all right,”--Porter leaned back in his chair and looked out
the window,--“but there's such a thing as going to extremes. Sometimes
common sense supersedes orders.”
“You forget, Mr. Porter, that you are here for the purpose of conducting
a raid, and we are here to stop that raid. Under the circumstances it is
my duty to hold you and every one connected with the affair until I am
otherwise ordered.”
“But I am not a thief, man.”
“No, perhaps not.” The Captain turned to some papers on the desk, and
Porter continued to look out, wearily, with a sudden dull ache above his
eyes.
A corporal appeared in the doorway, saluting.
“There's a young lady, sir, says she's got to see Mr. Porter.”
“Who is she?”
“Don't know, but she sticks to it.”
“It's my daughter,” said Porter, with an effort to rise. “Where is she?”
“Wait,” the Captain said; “I'll speak to her,” and he followed the
soldier.
Porter sat still. After a little he heard voices in the waiting room,
and Katherine entered the office. At the sight of his worn, haggard face
her annoyed expression vanished, and she drew the Captain's chair beside
her father's and laid her hand upon his forehead.
“You are sick,” she said gently.
“Nonsense”--he made a feeble effort to shake off her hand--“I asked you
not to come back. I'm tired, that's all.”
Katherine rose and looked about.
“Come into the waiting room, dad, and lie down. You must have some sleep
or you won't be good for anything.”
“You must go back,” said Porter, shaking his head. “This is no place for
you.”
Katherine looked quietly into his eyes. It was not the first time that
the strain of his busy life had told upon her father's nerves, and she
knew what was the matter.
“Come, dad,” she said. “Get a little sleep, and I'll stay by and wake
you if there is any news.”
Porter scowled, then slowly rose. The Captain, who had been hesitating
in the doorway, came forward to assist. Porter turned on him savagely.
“Let me alone. I can walk, I guess.” But at a glance from Katherine the
Captain took an arm, and Porter submitted, seemingly unconscious of his
inconsistency.
Along the walls of the waiting room were benches, and on one of these
they tried to make Porter comfortable. When she saw that his head must
rest on the wooden seat, Katherine hesitated and looked at the Captain,
who was following her with his eyes.
“I wish there was something for a pillow,” she said. “Perhaps”--she
stood erect and looked slowly about the waiting room, then stepped to
the door of the office, returning with a pretty frown. “I wonder”--she
met the Captain's gaze smiling frankly--“if you would let me take your
coat.”
He was not an old officer, and he was not a hermit, so with but slight
hesitation he unbuckled his belt, removed the coat, rolled it up, and as
Katherine raised her father's head he slipped it underneath.
“Will you send one of your men to a drug store for some camphor?” said
Katherine, fumbling in the purse that hung from her belt.
The Captain beckoned to one of the soldiers who were clustered about
the door, and placed him at Katherine's disposal. When he returned she
soaked her handkerchief with the camphor and laid it on her father's
forehead. He was already asleep.
“He'll be better as soon as he has had a little rest,” Katherine said.
“You are very good to help us.” The Captain bowed with the expression of
a man who has just been promoted, but said nothing.
For an hour Porter slept, and during that time Katherine stayed by him,
moistening the folded handkerchief and chafing his wrists. The Captain,
his importance and self-command oozing away a bit at a time as he
watched the cool, quiet girl, hovered near as often as his dignity would
permit with offers of assistance, most of which Katherine accepted.
He put her horses and trap in charge of a militiaman, he brought out a
rocking-chair for her, and when, a little after eight o'clock, Porter
showed signs of waking, he sent out for some breakfast.
On Porter, the touch of sleep, the welcome cup of coffee, and more than
anything else his daughter's soothing presence, seemed to have a marked
effect. He sat up, leaning back heavily, and with a struggle collected
his thoughts. Katherine joked with him, and fussed over him with a
maternal solicitude that made the Captain smile.
At eight-thirty, as Porter was sipping another cup of coffee, the
corporal appeared.
“A man says he's got to see Mr. Porter, sir. A Mr. McNally.”
“McNally,” cried Porter, starting up only to sink back, breathing
heavily. “Bring him here. I've got to see him.”
The Captain hesitated.
“Did he state his business?”
“No, sir. But he has a pass through the lines at Sawyerville, signed by
Colonel Wray.”
“Um--let him come in.”
It was not the Mr. McNally who had played for Katherine two nights
before. That had been a well-groomed, self-possessed man of the world;
this was a muddy, unshaven, angry man, who spoke in a loud voice and
smothered an oath just too late to keep it from her ear.
He recovered somewhat, but even McNally could not lose sleep and temper
for so many hours without a more or less immediate result. As she looked
at him with a cool bow, Katherine thought of Harvey, and something
caught in her throat.
“Well,” said Porter, “what about it? What's happened? Who's running this
road?”
McNally looked curiously at the Captain before he replied. That officer,
at an appealing glance from Katherine, left the group.
“The Governor is running it. He's played a game that knocks us silly.
He's come down on us and cinched things for the senatorship at one
crack.”
“What do you mean?” In his excitement Porter sat erect.
“The Old Man has declared the M. & T. under military rule until the
courts choose to settle it to suit themselves. That throws us out,
throws Weeks out, and the devil take the hindmost.”
“Has there been trouble?”
“They smashed into us at Sawyerville”--he suddenly remembered
Katherine--“Excuse me, Miss Porter, I must see your father alone.”
“He cannot be excited, Mr. McNally.”
“There is no time to waste--”
Katherine turned abruptly and went into the office.
“Yes,” said McNally, “they ripped into us at Sawyerville and we had the
hell of a time till Wray's guards came up and stopped it. Wray let me
through,--it was just after daylight,--and I picked up a horse from
a farmer and rode down. But we got West though, damn him!--caught him
sneaking through the bushes.”
“Be careful, McNally, we've got to be careful. It's no time to get mixed
up in a thing like that--we--we can't afford--”
“That's all right, Porter. We don't know where he is--I don't know, you
don't know--and before we find out he'll be loose again.”
“But--Jim--Weeks don't forget that kind of thing, McNally--Jim Weeks--”
“Oh, damn Jim Weeks! I'll take care of him.”
Porter paused to drink at a gulp what was left of his coffee.
“Remember, McNally, I can't back you if you get careless--I can't back
you, you know.”
“God, man! you've got to back me! You've got to back me through
everything, or you'll go down with me. I tell you, Porter, we're too far
in to back out, and it's nerve that's going to win. If you don't back
me, if you don't draw on every cent you've got to shove it through,
you'll be the one to be hit--not me.” He paced the floor. “Yes, sir.
It's you if it's anybody.” Suddenly he stopped. He looked hard at
Porter, then he turned quickly and strode into the office. Katherine was
standing at the window.
“Miss Katherine--”
“Mr. McNally, my name is Miss Porter.”
“Miss--Miss Porter, I met a friend of yours this morning. I met him
under peculiar circumstances. We had some words, I regret to say, and
he left this with me.” The plump, dirty hand drew a blue envelope from
McNally's coat pocket. “It has seemed to me that where your father's
honor was as seriously involved as in this matter, you should have
followed some other course than that of traitor.”
In his excitement, McNally misunderstood Katherine's silence.
“You have deliberately drawn out your father and me that you might aid
our opponents. I have watched you--I have seen it--it is not your fault
that we are not ruined--and for the sake of a man that I caught spying
on us this morning, sneaking through the bushes in the dark--”
There was a groan from the doorway. Porter stood there with one hand
over his eyes. Katherine looked for an instant, then she brushed past
McNally, and with one arm about her father she called to the Captain,
who stood at the other side of the waiting room. He came at once.
“Captain,” she said, “I must ask you to take care of my father. Please
telephone for a doctor and a closed carriage, and see that he is sent
home at once. I shall drive there in the trap to prepare for him. Don't
let this man”--she turned contemptuously toward McNally--“speak to
him or excite him in any way. Will you do this?” As she spoke her face
softened, and she held out her hand. The Captain took it.
“Yes, Miss Porter, I will take care of him.”
Katherine, without looking again at McNally, walked to the door and
called for her trap. As she waited on the steps, a newsboy came running
down the walk, crying:--
“Nine o'clock Extry! All 'bout M. & T. riot!”
Katherine stopped him and bought a paper. The black headings told the
story tersely, but one item stood out with vivid distinctness. She read,
“Harvey West Disappears--Supposed that He Was Kidnapped--His Followers
Swear Vengeance--Rumored that He Is Hidden Near The Oakwood Club.” For
a moment the blood left her face, and her nerves tightened, but when the
trap was pulled up she was herself, and the smile she gave the soldier
in charge brought forth an earnest but amateurish salute.
Then Katherine drove home--it was her duty to go home. But, her duty
done, she would drive straight to the Oakwood Club.