THE WINNING OF THE ROAD
The Chicago papers reach Tillman City by nine o'clock every morning, and
the inhabitants wait till then for information from the outside world.
At supper time they read fragmentary Associated Press despatches and a
more or less accurate chronicle of local happenings in _The Watchman_.
Since the coming of the new editor, Tillman's one daily had contrived
to worry along without the assistance of a patent inside, for he was an
ambitious young fellow with a knack for writing snappy editorials, and
he made the most of the meagre news the city furnished.
He did not hear of Jim's arrival in town and his drive to the hospital
until next morning. When told of it, he laid down his pipe and began
slipping on his coat.
“I suppose he's in town yet,” he said to the reporter who had brought
the news. “If he is, I'm going to see him; then I can make something out
of what he might have said. He's the kind that makes me mad. He's got
as good a story inside him as any man in the United States this morning,
but it would take a chemical process to get it out of him.”
Jim was in his room at the Hotel Tremain, trying to decide upon the best
way to bring Blaney to terms. The most direct course would be to go
to Blaney and try to convince him of the worthlessness of McNally's
contract. Blaney was badly scared already: that was evident enough in
his manner during the interview Jim had had with him on the artesian
road. The two weeks of suspense, during which time it was clear that Jim
was winning, would not tend to increase Blaney's confidence. It would
not take much of a bluff to complete his demoralization.
But the difficulty lay in the manner of approach. To make the bluff most
effective, Blaney should be frightened into seeking Jim. If he went to
Blaney's house, the contractor would probably suspect that some weakness
in Jim's position made him depend on Blaney's aid. Jim was not worrying
over the problem as other men worry, for he had been quite sincere
in telling Bridge that they were sure to win. Years of this kind of
fighting had given him a just estimate of the immense value of time,
and he had forty-eight hours left in which to get control of the Tillman
City stock. Campaigns have been lost and won again in less time than
that.
When the bell-boy brought up the editor's card Jim stared at it a
moment, then told the boy to show him in. Had the boy looked up he would
have seen that Jim was smiling. His plan had come to him.
When the editor came into the room he found Jim lounging in a big chair
with his feet on another, bent apparently on spending the morning in
luxurious idleness. Jim did not rise but greeted him cheerfully, and the
editor took the chair Jim nodded to and accepted the cigar Jim offered
him. This was the beginning of what the editor afterward spoke of as his
trance.
For there sat Jim Weeks, the wary, the close-mouthed, the reporter's
despair, artlessly telling the whole inside history of the fight for the
M. & T. At first the editor hardly dared to breathe for fear of bringing
Jim to his senses and the story to a premature conclusion; but as the
President talked apparently in his right mind, the editor became bolder
and began asking questions. In answering, Jim told him that the fight
was practically over. It would formally be decided on Tuesday at the
stockholders' meeting; but as Jim and his allies controlled a majority
of the stock, the outcome was certain.
Then having cleared away the preliminaries Jim came to the point. “Your
finance committee here in Tillman is going to vote your stock against
us, though,” he said. “Porter has pulled their leg with a fake contract,
and they're just about big enough fools to be caught by that sort of a
game. I've known about it for some time, and I might have done something
if we hadn't stood to win anyway. As it is they can't beat us, no matter
how they vote.”
There were more questions and more perfectly frank answers, and at last
the editor knew practically all there was to know about the dealings
of the wily Mr. Blaney. Jim did not seem to take the contract very
seriously, but he was evidently perfectly familiar with its provisions.
When the editor rose to go his head was fairly awhirl.
“Mr. Weeks,” he asked, “have you given this story to any one else?”
“No,” said Jim.
“We don't come out till to-morrow afternoon,” said the editor. “We
haven't a Sunday edition. Will the story be any good by that time?”
“That's as you think,” said Jim. “I shan't give it to any one else.”
The bewildered editor went on his way rejoicing, and Jim packed his bag
and started for Chicago. He had planted his mine under Blaney and he
could do nothing more with him until the time for exploding it. Jim was
satisfied with his plan. The story which _The Watchman_ was to print the
next afternoon was almost sure to scare Blaney into submission. True,
the time was short between the issue of the paper and the stockholders'
meeting, but this fact was after all rather to Jim's advantage than
otherwise. The only element of uncertainty in Jim's success lay in the
possible countermove which McNally might make to reassure Blaney. The
chances were, Jim thought, that McNally would not hear of the story in
_The Watchman_ until Tuesday morning.
Jim reached Chicago late Sunday afternoon.
On Monday he and Harvey were back in the office working on other
matters. Not until Tuesday morning did Jim start for Manchester, where
the stockholders' meeting was to be held that afternoon.
At eleven o'clock Jim walked into the lobby of the Illinois House,
lighted a cigar at the news stand, nodded familiarly to the clerk, and
passed on into the writing room. The clerk said to a bell-boy,--
“Go into the bar and tell Mr. Blaney that Jim Weeks is here.”
Blaney had been waiting for that message for the past hour, for he had
told the clerk to let him know as soon as Jim should arrive, and he had
expected him earlier; but now he only swore savagely at the bell-boy,
and ordered another whiskey. It was the last of a long series of
bracers, and it did its work a little too well.
With soldierly erectness he walked out of the bar, across the lobby, and
into the writing room. Jim was writing at a desk and did not look up as
Blaney entered, so the contractor went round behind him and dropped his
hand heavily on Jim's shoulder.
“I want to talk to you,” he said fiercely.
Jim looked up as if to see who it was, and then turned back to his
writing.
“Well, talk away,” he said.
“I want to see you in private,” said Blaney, excited to rage by Jim's
indifference.
Jim affected to consider for a moment; then he rose and led the way to
the office, where he told the clerk that he wanted a room for an hour or
so, and that on no account must he be disturbed.
The two men climbed to the room in silence. When they reached it, Jim
followed Blaney in, locked the door behind him, and put the key in his
pocket. The action made Blaney nervous, and the warmth at the pit of
his stomach was beginning to be succeeded by something that felt like a
large lump of cold lead.
“Well,” said Jim, “we're private enough now. What have you got to say?”
Blaney pumped up all the bluster he could.
“All I want to find out is, who wrote that story in _The Watchman_.”
“That's all, is it?” said Jim. “I could have told you that downstairs. I
wrote it.”
Then Blaney broke loose. He was working himself up to a perfect frenzy
of denials, accusations, threats, and blasphemy. The man was a pitiable
spectacle, and Jim, leaning back against the locked door, watched him in
mingled amusement and contempt. He was surprised that Blaney should have
become so utterly demoralized. He had never considered the contractor
a big man, or even a good fighter, but that he would go to pieces so
easily was unexpected. He did not know how violent the explosion in
Tillman had been. The town sided with Jim Weeks, and when the people
realized how he was to be sold out, the storm exceeded the editor's
wildest expectations, and Blaney was brought face to face with political
ruin.
Jim let the almost hysterical rage expend itself before he interrupted.
Then he said:--
“Shut up, Blaney. You've made a fool of yourself long enough. And I've
fooled with you long enough. You've been trying ever since you were
alderman to throw me down. You've talked about how much you were going
to do, and all the while we've been laughing at you. Then this McNally
came along and set up you and Williams to a dinner at the Hotel Tremain
and paid you some money and gave you this fool contract, to get you to
vote the Tillman City proxies his way.”
Jim took a copy of the contract out of his pocket and read it aloud,
while Blaney listened in stupid amazement. “McNally is a smart man,”
Jim went on, folding the contract and replacing it, “and he sized you up
just about right when he figured he could take you in with a fake like
this, that isn't worth the paper it is written on. And when you'd got
fooled so you thought C. & S.C. would pay par for your stock, what do
you do but go around and tell a man you know is working for me all about
it! And now when I've got you just where I want you, where you can only
wriggle, you come around and try to scare me. Do you know what you are?
You're just a plain damn fool.”
Blaney did not seem to hear the last words of what was probably the
longest speech Jim Weeks had ever made. His attention had been riveted
on something else.
“Bridge,” he exclaimed. “Bridge gave that away, did he?”
“Yes,” said Jim; “Bridge gave me this contract. There's just about one
more fool thing you can do, Blaney, and that is try to touch him. Try
it! Why, man, if you do I'll break you to pieces.” The words had a ring
in them, but Jim quieted instantly. “I'm looking out for Bridge.”
There was a long silence. Blaney dropped limply into a gaudy
rocking-chair and with a dirty handkerchief mopped the sweat out of his
eyes. Jim had not moved from his position before the door. His lips were
grave, but something in his eyes suggested that he was smiling. It was
Jim who spoke at last.
“I don't believe you've got anything to say to me, and I haven't much
more to say to you. You've got the Tillman proxies for five thousand
shares and you're going to vote them in a couple of hours. You can vote
them either way you like. It doesn't make much difference to me because
I win by at least four thousand even if you go against me. But if you
do, you'll find it hard work a year from now to get a city job laying
bricks in Tillman. I'll guarantee that. If you choose to vote 'em my way
that story in _The Watchman_ will fall by its own weight. I'll leave you
alone so long as you don't monkey with Bridge.”
“I won't monkey with Bridge,” said Blaney, sullenly; “but I'll tell you,
you're making a big mistake to take any stock in him. He's been lying to
you. I never saw that contract before. He came to me and tried to get
me to go up against you, and when I wouldn't he must have got up that
contract to get even with me. That's what made me so mad about that
story in the papers.”
“I see,” said Jim, with unshaken gravity. “Well, there's no use in
talking any more, I guess. We understand each other.” And with these
words Jim unlocked the door and walked downstairs to dinner.
By four o'clock it was all over; the road was won, and Jim, struggling
into his overcoat, was reflecting on how beautifully success succeeds.
For Blaney had not been the only one to change sides, and the result of
the election had been a sweeping victory, which surprised even Jim. The
stampede had caught Thompson and Wing, and the only holdings which had
been voted against him were those directly represented by Porter. Porter
had attended the meeting and was surprised to find that his relief at
having the fight well over was almost strong enough to make up for his
chagrin and disappointment at being defeated.
He met Jim at the door, and after a word of commonplaces he inquired
after Harvey.
“He's getting on all right,” said Jim. “He got a crack over the head
that's bothering him a little, but it's nothing serious.”
“Weeks,” said Porter, abruptly, “I want a word with you about that
affair. That attempt to kidnap him was dirty business. I don't think
I need say that it was done without my sanction. The man who was
responsible for it is no longer in my employ. Good day.”
“That,” mused Jim as he drove to the Northern Station, “is what comes of
having a daughter like Miss Katherine Porter.”