THE BIG MOGUL
_By JOSEPH C. LINCOLN_
THE BIG MOGUL
QUEER JUDSON
RUGGED WATER
DOCTOR NYE
FAIR HARBOR
GALUSHA THE MAGNIFICENT
THE PORTYGEE
“SHAVINGS”
MARY-’GUSTA
CAP’N DAN’S DAUGHTER
THE RISE OF ROSCOE PAINE
THE POSTMASTER
THE WOMAN-HATERS
KEZIAH COFFIN
CY WHITTAKER’S PLACE
CAP’N ERI
EXTRICATING OBADIAH
THANKFUL’S INHERITANCE
MR. PRATT
MR. PRATT’S PATIENTS
KENT KNOWLES: “QUAHAUG”
CAP’N WARREN’S WARDS
THE DEPOT MASTER
OUR VILLAGE
PARTNERS OF THE TIDE
THE OLD HOME HOUSE
CAPE COD BALLADS
THE MANAGERS
The Big Mogul
by
Joseph C. Lincoln
Author of “Queer Judson,” “Rugged Water,”
“Shavings,” etc.
[Illustration]
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
NEW YORK 1926 LONDON
COPYRIGHT, 1926, BY
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
Copyright, 1926, by The Crowell Publishing Company
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
THE BIG MOGUL
THE BIG MOGUL
CHAPTER I
This was the library of the Townsend mansion in Harniss. Mrs. Townsend
had so christened it when the mansion was built; or, to be more
explicit, the Boston architect who drew the plans had lettered the word
“Library” inside the rectangle indicating the big room, just as he had
lettered “Drawing-Room” in the adjoining, and still larger, rectangle,
and Mrs. Townsend had approved both plans and lettering. In the former,
and much smaller, home of the Townsends there had been neither library
nor drawing-room, the apartments corresponding to them were known
respectively as the “sitting-room” and the “parlor.” When the little
house was partially demolished and the mansion took its place the
rechristened sitting-room acquired two black walnut bookcases and a
dozen “sets,” the latter resplendent in morocco and gilt. Now the gilt
letters gleamed dimly behind the glass in the light from the student
lamp upon the marble-topped center table beside which Foster Townsend
was sitting, reading a Boston morning newspaper. It was six o’clock in
the afternoon of a dark day in the fall of a year late in the seventies.
The student lamp was a large one and the light from beneath its green
shade fell upon his head and shoulders as he sat there in the huge
leather easy-chair. Most of the furniture in the library was stiff and
expensive and uncomfortable. The easy-chair was expensive also, but it
was comfortable. Foster Townsend had chosen it himself when the mansion
was furnished and it was the one item upon which his choice remained
fixed and irrevocable.
“But it is so big and--and _homely_, dear,” remonstrated his wife. “It
doesn’t look--well, genteel enough for a room in a house like ours.
Now, truly, do you think it does?”
Her husband, his hat on the back of his head and his hands in his
trousers’ pockets, smiled.
“Maybe not, Bella,” he replied. “It is big, I’ll grant you that, and I
shouldn’t wonder if it was homely. But so far as that goes I’m big and
homely myself. It fits me and I like it. You can have all the fun you
want with the rest of the house; buy all the doodads and pictures and
images and story-books and trash that you’ve a mind to, but I want that
chair and I’m going to have it. A sitting-room is a place to sit in and
I mean to sit in comfort.”
“But it isn’t a sitting-room, Father,” urged Arabella. “It is a
library. I do wish you wouldn’t forget that.”
“All right. I don’t care what you call it, so long as you let me sit
in it the way I want to. That chair’s sold, young man,” he added,
addressing the attentive representative of the furniture house. “Now,
Mother, what’s the next item on the bill of lading?”
The leather chair came to the library of the Townsend mansion and its
purchaser had occupied it many, many afternoons and evenings since.
He was occupying it now, his bulky figure filling it to repletion and
his feet, of a size commensurate to the rest of him, resting upon an
upholstered foot-stool--a “cricket” he would have called it. A pair of
gold-rimmed spectacles were perched upon the big nose before his gray
eyes and the stump of a cigar was held tightly in the corner of his
wide, thin lipped, grimly humorous mouth. He was dressed in a dark blue
suit, wore a stiff-bosomed white shirt, a low “turn down” collar and
a black, ready-made bow tie. Below the tie, a diamond stud glittered
in the shirt bosom. His boots--he had them made for him by the village
shoe-maker--were of the, even then, old-fashioned, long-legged variety,
but their leather was of the softest and best obtainable. Upon the
third finger of his left hand--stubby, thick hands they were--another
diamond, set in a heavy gold ring, flashed as he turned the pages of
the paper. His hair was a dark brown and it and his shaggy brows and
clipped chin beard were sprinkled with gray.
There was another chair at the other side of the table, a
rocking-chair, upholstered in fashionable black haircloth and with a
lace “tidy” upon its back. That chair was empty. It had been empty for
nearly a month, since the day when Arabella Townsend was taken ill. It
was pathetically, hauntingly empty now, for she who had been accustomed
to occupy it was dead. A little more than a week had elapsed since her
funeral, an event concerning which Eben Wixon, the undertaker, has been
vaingloriously eloquent ever since.
“Yes, sir-ee!” Mr. Wixon was wont to proclaim with the pride of an
artist. “That was about the most luxurious funeral ever held in this
county, if I do say it. I can’t think of anything to make it more
perfect, unless, maybe, to have four horses instead of two haulin’ the
hearse. That would have put in what you might call the finishin’ touch.
Yes, sir, ’twould! Still, I ain’t findin’ fault. I’m satisfied. The
music--and the flowers! And the high-toned set of folks sittin’ around
all over the lower floor of that big house! Some of ’em was out in
the dinin’ room, they was. If I had half the cash represented at that
Townsend funeral I’d never need to bury anybody else in _this_ world. I
bet you I wouldn’t, I’d have enough.”
Foster Townsend read his paper, became interested in a news item,
smiled, raised his head and, turning toward the vacant rocker, opened
his lips to speak. Then he remembered and sank back again into his own
chair. The paper lay unheeded upon his knees and he stared absently at
a figure in the Brussels carpet on the floor of the library.
A door in the adjoining room--the dining room--opened and Nabby
Gifford, the Townsend housekeeper, entered from the kitchen. She lit
the hanging lamp above the dining room table and came forward to draw
the portières between that room and the library. Standing with the edge
of a curtain in each hand, she addressed her employer.
“Kind of a hard old evenin’, ain’t it, Cap’n Townsend,” she observed.
“It’s rainin’ now but I declare if it don’t feel as if it might snow
afore it gets through.”
Foster Townsend did not answer, nor did he look up. Mrs. Gifford tried
again.
“Anything ’special in the paper?” she inquired. “Ain’t found out who
murdered that woman up to Watertown yet, I presume likely?”
He heard her this time.
“Eh?” he grunted, raising his eyes. “No, I guess not. I don’t know. I
didn’t notice. What are you doing in the dining room, Nabby? Where’s
Ellen?”
“She’s out. It’s her night off. She was all dressed up in her best bib
and tucker and so I judged she was goin’ somewheres. I asked her where,
but she never said nothin’, made believe she didn’t hear me. Don’t
make much odds; I can ’most generally guess a riddle when I’ve got the
answer aforehand. There’s an Odd Fellers’ ball over to Bayport to-night
and that Georgie D.’s home from fishin’, so I cal’late--”
Townsend interrupted. “All right, all right,” he put in, gruffly. “I
don’t care where she’s gone. Pull those curtains, will you, Nabby.”
“I was just a-goin’ to.... Say, Cap’n Townsend, don’t you think it’s
kind of funny the way that woman’s husband is actin’--that Watertown
woman’s, I mean? He _says_ he wan’t to home the night she was murdered
but he don’t say where he was. Now, ’cordin’ to what I read in
yesterday’s _Advertiser_--”
“All right, all right! Pull those curtains.... Here! Wait a minute.
Where’s Varunas?”
“He’s out to the barn, same as he usually is, I guess likely. He spends
more time with them horses than he does with me, I know that. I say to
him sometimes, I say: ‘Anybody’d think a horse could talk the way you
keep company with ’em. Seems as if you _liked_ to be with critters that
can’t talk.’”
“Perhaps he does--for a change. Well, if he comes in tell him I want
to see him. You can call me when supper’s ready. Now, if you’ll pull
those curtains--”
The curtains were snatched together with a jerk and a rattle of rings
on the pole. From behind them sounded the click of dishes and the
jingle of silver. Foster Townsend sank back into the leather chair. His
cigar had gone out, but he did not relight it. He sat there, gazing at
nothing in particular, a gloomy frown upon his face.
The door leading from the rear of the front hall opened just a crack.
Through the crack came a whisper in a hoarse masculine voice.
“Cap’n Foster!” whispered the voice. “Cap’n Foster!... Ssst! Look here!”
Townsend turned, looked and saw a hand with a beckoning forefinger
thrust from behind the door. He recognized the hand and lifting his big
body from the chair, walked slowly across the room.
“Well, Varunas,” he asked, “what’s the matter now? What are you
sneaking in through the skipper’s companion for?”
A head followed the hand around the edge of the door, the head of
Varunas Gifford. Varunas was Nabby Gifford’s husband. He was stableman
on the Townsend estate, took care of the Townsend horses, and drove his
employer’s trotters and pacers in the races at the county fairs and
elsewhere. He was a little, wizened man, with stooped shoulders and
legs bowed like barrel hoops. His thin, puckered face puckered still
more as he whispered a cautious reply.
“Cap’n Foster,” he whispered, “can you just step out in the hall here
a minute? I’ve got somethin’ to tell ye and if I come in there Nabby’s
liable to hear us talkin’ and want to know what it’s all about. Come
out just a minute, can ye?”
Townsend motioned him back, followed him into the dimly lighted hall
and closed the door behind them.
“Well, here I am,” he said. “What’s the matter?”
Varunas rubbed his unshaven chin. His fingers among the bristles
sounded like the rasp of sandpaper.
“You know Claribel?” he began anxiously.
Claribel was the fastest mare in the Townsend stable. The question,
therefore, was rather superfluous. Claribel’s owner seemed to consider
it so.
“Don’t waste your breath,” he ordered. “What’s the matter with her?”
Varunas shook his head violently. “Ain’t nothin’ the matter with her,”
he declared. “She’s fine. Only--well, you see--”
“Come, come! Throw it overboard!”
“Well, I was cal’latin’ to take her down to the Circle to-morrow
mornin’ early--about six or so; afore anybody was up, you know--and try
her out. Them was your orders, Cap’n, you remember.”
“Of course I remember. I was going to remind you of it. You’re going to
do it, aren’t you?”
“I was cal’latin’ to, but--well, I heard somethin’ a spell ago that
made me think maybe I hadn’t better. I’ve been give to understand
that--” he leaned forward to whisper once more--“that there’d be
somebody else there at the same time me and Claribel was. Um-hum.
Somebody that’s cal’latin’ to find out somethin’.”
Foster Townsend’s big hands, pushed into his trousers pockets, jingled
the loose change there. He nodded.
“I see,” he said, slowly. “Yes, yes, I see. Somebody named Baker, I
shouldn’t wonder. Eh?”
Varunas nodded. “Somebody that works for somebody named somethin’ like
that,” he admitted. “You see, Cap’n, I was down to the blacksmith shop
a couple of hours ago--got to have Flyaway shod pretty soon--and me
and Joe Ellis was talkin’ about one thing or ’nother, and says he:
‘Varunas,’ he says, ‘when is the old man and Sam Baker goin’ to pull
off that private horse trot of theirs?’ he says. Course everybody knows
that us and Sam have fixed up that match and it’s the general notion
that there’s consider’ble money up on it. Some folks say it’s a hundred
dollars and some says it’s five hundred. _I_ never tell ’em how much
’tis, because--”
“Because you don’t know. Well, never mind that. Go on.”
“Yup.... Um-hum.... Well, anyhow, all hands knows that our Claribel
and his Rattler is goin’ to have it out and Joe he wanted to know when
’twas goin’ to be. I told him next week some day and then he says: ‘I
understand you’ve been takin’ the mare down to the Circle and givin’
her time trials in the mornin’s afore anybody else is up.’ Well, that
kind of knocked me. I never suspicioned anybody did know, did you,
Cap’n?”
“I told you to take pains that they didn’t. You haven’t done it but
once. Who saw you then?”
“Why, nobody, so I’d have been willin’ to bet. I never see anybody
around. Lonesome’s all git out ’tis down there that time in the
mornin’. And dark, too. How Joe or anybody else knew I had Claribel
down there yesterday was more’n I could make out.”
“Well, never mind. It looks as if they did know. Did Ellis tell you
what time the mare made?”
“No. But he give me to understand that Seth Emmons, Baker’s man,
was figgerin’ to come over from Bayport and be somewheres in that
neighborhood to-morrer mornin’, and every mornin’, till he found out.
Joe wouldn’t tell me who told him, but he said ’twas a fact. Now what
had I better do? It’s the story ’round town that Rattler has made 2:20
or better and that the best Claribel can do is in the neighborhood of
2:35. If folks knew she’d made 2:18½ around that Circle Baker might
have Rattler took sick or somethin’ and the whole business would be
called off. I’ve known his horses to be took down in a hurry afore,
when he was toler’ble sure to lose. When you’re dealin’ with Sam Baker
you’re up against a slick article, and that man of his, Seth Emmons, is
just as up and comin’. I better not show up at that Circle to-morrow
mornin’, had I, Cap’n Foster?”
Townsend, hands in pockets, took a turn up and down the hall. His
horses were his pet hobbies. Besides the span of blacks which he was
accustomed to drive about town and which, with the nobby brougham or
carryall or dog-cart which they drew, were the admiration and boastful
pride of Harniss, he owned a half dozen racers. At the Ostable County
Fair and Cattle Show in October the Townsend entries usually carried
off the majority of first prizes. They were entered, also, at the
fair in New Bedford and sometimes as far away as Taunton. Between
fairs there were numbers of by-races with other horse owners in
neighboring towns. A good trotter was a joy to Foster Townsend and a
sharply contested trotting match his keenest enjoyment. The Townsend
trotters were as much talked about as the famous and long-drawn-out
Townsend-Cook lawsuit. The suit was won, or seemed to be. The highest
court in Massachusetts had recently decided it in Foster Townsend’s
favor. Bangs Cook’s lawyers were reported to have entered motion of
appeal and it was said that they intended carrying it to the Supreme
Court at Washington, but few believed their appeal would be granted.
Sam Baker was an old rival of his on the tracks. Baker was the hotel
keeper and livery man at Bayport, ten miles away. He was not accounted
rich, like Townsend, but he was well to do, a shrewd Yankee and a
“sport.” The trotter Rattler was a recent acquisition of his and a
fast one, so it was said. He had challenged Townsend’s mare Claribel
to a mile trot on the “Circle,” the track which Townsend had built
and presented to the town. It was a quarter mile round of hard clay
road constructed on the salt meadows near the beach at South Harniss.
A lonely spot with no houses near it, it was then. Now a summer hotel
and an array of cottages stand on or near it. Foster Townsend used it
as an exercise ground for his trotters, but any one else was accorded
the same privilege. In the winter, when the snow was packed hard, it
was the spot where the dashing young fellow in a smart cutter behind a
smart horse took his best girl for a ride and the hope of an impromptu
race with some other dashing young fellow similarly equipped.
Varunas Gifford watched his employer pace up and down the hall,
watched him adoringly but anxiously. After a moment he returned to
repeat his question.
“Better not be down to the Circle to-morrow mornin’, had I, Cap’n?” he
suggested.
Townsend stopped in his stride. “Yes,” he said, with decision. “I want
you to be there.”
“Eh? Why, good land! If that Seth Emmons is there spyin’ and keepin’
time on Claribel, why--”
“Sshh! Wait! I want you to be there, but I don’t want the mare to be
there. Is Hornet all right for a workout?”
“Sartin sure he’s all right. But Hornet can’t do better’n 2:40 if he
spreads himself, not on that Circle track anyhow. You ain’t cal’latin’
to haul out Claribel and put in Hornet, be you? There wouldn’t be no
sense in that, Cap’n, not a mite. Why--”
“Oh, be quiet! If he does 2:45 it will suit me just as well, provided
that is the best you can make him do. You say it’s dark down there at
six o’clock?”
“Dark enough, even if it’s a fine mornin’, this time of year. A mornin’
like to-day’s--yes, and the way it looks as if to-morrow’s would
be--it’s so dark you can’t much more’n see to keep in the road.”
“All right. The darker the better. If it’s dark to-morrow morning you
hitch Hornet in the gig and go down there and send him a mile as fast
as he can travel. He is the same build and size as Claribel, about, and
the same color.”
“Eh?... Gosh!” Varunas’ leathery face split with a broad grin.
“Yus--yus,” he observed, “I see what you’re up to, Cap’n Foster. You
figger that Sam Emmons’ll see me sendin’ Hornet around the Circle and
he’ll take it for granted--Eh! But no, I’m afraid ’twon’t be dark
enough for that. Hornet _is_ the same size and color as Claribel but
he ain’t marked the same. Claribel’s got that white splash between her
eyes and that white stockin’ on her left hind laig. Hornet he ain’t got
no white on him nowheres. If ’twas the middle of the night Sam might be
fooled, but--”
“Sshh! You’ve been whitewashing the henhouses this week, haven’t
you? And as the job isn’t finished, I imagine you’ve got some of the
whitewash left. If you have, and _if_ you’ve got any gumption at all,
I should think you could splash a horse white wherever he needed to
be white and do it well enough to fool anybody on a dark morning,
particularly if he wasn’t on the lookout for a trick. You could do that
on a pinch, couldn’t you?”
Mr. Gifford’s grin, which had disappeared, came back again, broader
than ever.
“I shouldn’t be surprised to death if I could,” he chuckled. “I
see--yus, yus, I see! Sam he’ll see Hornet all whitewashed up like a
cellar door and he won’t be suspicionin’ nothin’ but Claribel, and so
when Hornet can’t do no better than 2:40 or 2:45 he’ll naturally--Hi!
that’s cute, that is! Yes, yes, I see now.”
“Well, I’m glad you do. Go ahead and do your whitewashing. Whitewash
isn’t like paint, it comes off easy.”
From behind the closed door of the library a sharp voice called: “Cap’n
Townsend! Cap’n Townsend! Supper’s ready!”
Varunas started. “I must be goin’,” he whispered. “Don’t tell her about
it, Cap’n Foster, will ye. She’ll pester me to death to find out what’s
up and if I don’t tell her, she-- But say!” he added admiringly, “that
is about as slick a trick as ever I heard of, that whitewashin’ is. How
did you ever come to think that up all by yourself?”
Foster Townsend, his hand on the knob of the dining room door, grunted.
“I didn’t think it up all by myself,” he said, curtly. “There’s nothing
new about it. It’s an old trick, as old as horse racing. I remembered
it, that’s all, and I guess it is good enough to fool any of Sam
Baker’s gang. You can tell me to-morrow how it worked.”
He opened the door, crossed the library and sat down in his chair at
the lonely supper table. Nabby Gifford brought in the eatables and set
them before him.
“I made you a fish chowder to-night, Cap’n Foster,” she said. “I
know you always liked it and we ain’t had one for a long time. Ezra
Nickerson had some real nice tautog that his boy had just caught out by
the spar buoy and there’s no kind of fish makes as good chowder as a
tautog. Now I do hope you’ll eat some of it. You ain’t ate enough the
last week to keep a canary bird goin’. You’ll be sick fust thing you
know.”
Townsend dipped his spoon in the chowder and tasted approvingly.
“Good enough!” he declared. “Tastes like old times. Seems like old
times to have you waiting on table, too, Nabby. Mother always liked
your fish chowders.”
Mrs. Gifford nodded. “I know she did,” she agreed. “Time and time again
I’ve heard her say there was nobody could make a chowder like me.
Um-hum. Oh, well! We’re here to-day and to-morrow the place thereof
don’t know us, as it says in the Bible. Ah, hum-a-day!... Speakin’
of waitin’ on table,” she added, noting the expression on his face,
“I wanted to talk to you about that, Cap’n Townsend. There ain’t
any reasons why I shouldn’t do it all the time. You don’t need two
hired help in that kitchen now any more than a codfish needs wings.
Ellen, she and that Georgie D. of hers will be gettin’ married pretty
soon--leastways all hands says they will--and when she quits you
mustn’t hire anybody in her place. If I can’t get meals for one lone
man then I’d better be sent to the old woman’s home. You might just as
well let me do it, and save your money--not that you need to save any
more, land knows!”
Foster Townsend shook his head. “A pretty big house for one pair of
hands to take care of,” he observed. “When Ellen goes--or if she
goes--you better hire some one else, Nabby.”
“Now, Cap’n Foster, what’s the use? What for?”
“Because I want you to, for one reason.... There, there, Nabby! don’t
argue about it. I know what I’m doing. At any rate I guess I can spend
my own money, if I want to.”
“I guess you can. I don’t know who’s liable to stop you doin’ anything
you want to, far’s that goes. Nobody has done it yet, though there’s a
good many tried.... But while I’m talkin’ I might just as well talk a
little mite more. _I_ don’t see why you keep on livin’ in this great
ark of a place. ’Tain’t a bit of my business, but if _I_ was you I’d
sell--or rent it, or somethin’--and have a little house that I wouldn’t
get lost in every time I went upstairs.”
Her employer shook his head. “This is my house and I stay in it,” he
said, crisply.
“Well, if you will you will, of course. When you bark at a body that
way there ain’t a mite of use barkin’ back, I know that. And I realize
that you and--and her that’s gone had the best time in the world
buildin’ over this house and riggin’ it up. It’s just that I know how
lonesome you are--a blind person could see that.... Here, here! You
mustn’t get up from that table yet, Cap’n Foster. You’ve got to have
some more of my tautog chowder.”
“No. Had enough, Nabby.”
“My soul! Well, then you must have a helpin’ of baked indian puddin’. I
made it ’special, because I knew how you liked it. _Don’t_ tell me you
won’t touch that puddin’!”
“All right, all right. Bring it along. And I’ll have another cup of
tea, if you’ve got it.”
“Got it! I’ve got a gallon. That Varunas man of mine would drink a
hogshead of strong tea all to himself any time if I’d let him. I tell
him no wonder he’s all shriveled up like a wet leather apron.”
She disappeared into the kitchen to return, a moment later, with the
refilled cup. She was talking when she went out and talking when she
came back.
“You hadn’t ought to keep on livin’ in this house all alone,” she
declared, with emphasis. “I said it afore and now I say it again. It
ain’t natural to live that way. It ain’t good for man to be alone,
that’s what the Good Book says. Land sakes! afore I’d do that I’d--I’d
do the way the rich man in the--what-d’ye-call-it--parallel done.
I’d go out into the highways and byways and fetch in the lame and
the halt and the blind. Yes, indeed I would! I’d do it for company
and I wouldn’t care how halt they was, neither; they’d be better’n
nobody. Speakin’ about that parallel,” she added, reflectively. “I’ve
never been real sure just what ailed a person when he was a ‘halt.’
A horse--mercy knows I hear horse talk enough from Varunas!--has
somethin’ sometimes that’s called the ‘spring halt,’ but that, so he
tells me, is a kind of lameness. Now the parallel tells about the lame
_and_ the halt, so-- Good gracious! Why, you ain’t _through_, be you,
Cap’n Foster? You ain’t hardly touched your puddin’.”
The captain had risen and pushed back his chair. “I’ve eaten all I can
to-night, Nabby,” he said. “My appetite seems to have gone on a voyage
these days and left me ashore.... Humph! So you think I’d better have
somebody come and live here with me, do you? That’s funny.”
“Why is it funny? Sounds like sense to me.”
“It’s funny because I had just about made up my mind-- Oh, well, never
mind that, I’m going out pretty soon. If any one comes to see me you
can tell them I’ve gone.”
“Where shall I say you’ve gone?”
“If you don’t know you won’t have to say it.... Good-night.”
“Shall I tell Varunas to have the carriage and team ready for you?”
“No, I’m going to walk.”
“Walk! What’ll people think if they see _you_ out a-walkin’ on your own
feet like--like common folks? The idea!”
“Good-night. One thing more: If the minister comes tell him I’ll keep
up Bella’s subscription to the church the same as she did when she was
here--that is, for the present, anyhow. If he says anything about my
giving money toward the new steeple tell him I haven’t made up my mind
whether or not the steeple is going to be rebuilt. When I do I’ll let
him know.... That’s all, I guess.”
He went into the library, drawing the curtains with his own hands
this time. He glanced at the ornate marble and gold clock upon the
mantel, decided that it was too early for his contemplated walk, and
sank heavily into the leather chair. He picked up the paper from the
floor, adjusted his spectacles and attempted to read. The attempt was
a failure. Nothing in the closely printed pages aroused his interest
sufficiently to distract his thoughts from the empty rocker at the
other side of the table. He tossed the paper upon the floor again and
sat there, pulling at his beard and glancing impatiently at the clock.
Its gold plated hands crept from seven to seven-thirty and, at last, to
ten minutes to eight. Then he rose and moved toward the front hall.
In that hall he took from the carved walnut hatstand a long ulster and
a black soft hat. He had donned the ulster and was about to put on the
hat when he heard Mrs. Gifford’s step in the library. She was calling
his name.
“Well, here I am,” he answered, impatiently. “Now what?”
Nabby was out of breath, and this, together with the consciousness of
the importance of her errand, did not help her toward coherence.
“I--I’m awful sorry to stop you, Cap’n Foster,” she panted, “and--and
of course I know you didn’t want to see nobody to-night. But--but he
said ’twas serious and he’d come all the way from Trumet a-purpose--and
it’s rainin’ like all fire, too--and bein’ as _’twas_ him, I--well, you
see, I just didn’t know’s I’d ought to say no--so--”
Townsend interrupted. “Who is it?” he demanded.
Nabby’s tone was awe-stricken. “It’s Honorable Mooney,” she whispered.
“Representive Mooney, that’s who ’tis. He’s drove all the way from
Trumet, rain and all, to see you, Cap’n Foster, and he says it’s
dreadful important. If it had been any one else I wouldn’t have let him
in, but honest, when I see him standin’ on the steps to the side door,
lookin’ just as big and--and noble as he done when Varunas took me to
that Republican rally and he made such a grand speech, I--well, I--”
Again her employer broke in.
“You _have_ let him in, I take it,” he said, curtly. “And of course you
told him _I_ was in.... Well, I’ll give him five minutes. Send him into
the sitting-room.”
The Honorable Alpheus Mooney was a young man serving his first term in
the Massachusetts Legislature as Representative for the Ostable County
district. He was extremely anxious to continue his service there, had
been renominated and was now facing the ordeal of the election which
would take place early in November. His manner as he entered the
library was a curious mixture of importance, deference and a slight
uneasiness.
“How do you do, Cap’n Townsend?” he gushed, changing his hat from his
right hand to his left and extending the former. “How do you do, sir?”
He seized the Townsend hand and shook it heartily. The captain endured
the shaking rather than shared in it. He did not ask his caller to be
seated.
“How are you, Mooney?” he said. “Well, what brought you over here this
wet night?”
Mr. Mooney sat without waiting for an invitation. He placed his hat
upon the floor, clasped his hands in his lap, unclasped them again,
crossed his knees, cleared his throat, and agreed that the evening was
a wet one. Townsend, still standing, thrust his own hands into his
trousers pockets.
“Well, what’s the matter?” he asked, dismissing the subject of the
weather.
Mooney once more cleared his throat. “Oh--er--oh, nothing in
particular, Cap’n,” he said. “Nothing much. I was over here in Harniss
and--and I thought I would drop in for a minute, that’s all. I haven’t
seen you since your--er--sad loss--and I--er--I can’t tell you how
sorry I was to learn of your bereavement. It was a great shock to me,
a dreadful shock.”
Townsend’s face was quite expressionless. “All right,” he observed.
“Nabby said you wanted to see me about something important. Well?”
“Well--well, I--er--I did. Not so very important, perhaps--but ... you
were going out, weren’t you, Cap’n Townsend?”
“Yes. I am going out in five minutes. Perhaps a little less.”
“I wouldn’t think of keeping you, Cap’n, of course not.”
“All right.”
“Cap’n Townsend, I--er--well, I am going to be--I am going to speak
right out, as man to man. I know you would rather have me speak that
way.”
Townsend nodded. “There aren’t any women here, as I know of,” he
agreed. “Go ahead and speak.”
“Yes.” Mr. Mooney seemed to find the “man to man” speaking difficult.
“Well,” he began, “it has come to my ears--far be it from me to say it
is true; I don’t believe it is, Cap’n Townsend--but I have _heard_ that
you weren’t so very--well, anxious to see me reëlected Representative.
I have heard stories that you said you didn’t care whether they
reëlected me or not. Now, as I say, I don’t believe you ever said
anything of the kind. In fact, I as good as know you didn’t.”
He paused and looked up eagerly, seeking confirmation of the expressed
disbelief. The Townsend face was still quite expressionless, nor was
the reply altogether satisfactory.
“All right,” said the captain again. “If you know it, then you don’t
need to worry, do you?”
“No. No-o; but--you haven’t said any such thing, have you, Cap’n
Townsend?”
Townsend did not answer the question. He regarded his visitor with a
disquieting lack of interest.
“_I_ was given to understand that you said you were as good as
reëlected already,” he observed. “If you said that, and believe it,
then what I said or what anybody else said isn’t worth fretting about,
let alone cruising twelve miles in a rainstorm to find out about.”
“Well, but, Cap’n Townsend--”
“Heave to a minute. See here, Mooney, you’ve got the Republican
nomination.”
“Yes. Of course I have, but--”
“Wait. And there hasn’t been a Democratic Representative from this
district at the state house since the sixties, has there?”
“No, but--”
“All right. Then you don’t need to talk to me. If you’re a Republican,
ready to vote every time with your party and for the district, you are
safe enough. Especially,” with a slight twitch of the lip, “when you
say yourself you’re as good as reëlected.”
This, perhaps, should have been reassuring, but apparently it was not.
The Honorable Mr. Mooney shifted uneasily in his chair.
“Yes, yes, I know,” he admitted. “That’s all right, so far as it
goes.... But, Cap’n Townsend, I--well, I know you aren’t as--well,
as strong for me as you were when I ran before. You thought, I
suppose--like a good many other folks who didn’t know--that I ought to
have voted for that cranberry bill. You, nor they, didn’t understand
about that bill. That bill--well, it read all right enough, but--well,
there was more to it than just reading. There were influences behind
that bill that I didn’t like, that’s all. No honest man _could_ like
them.”
“Um-hum. I see. Well, what was it that honest men like you didn’t like
about that bill? I was one of those ‘influences,’ behind it, I guess.
It protected the cranberry growers of the Cape, didn’t it? Looked out
for their interests pretty well? I thought it did, and I read it before
you ever saw it.”
“Yes. Yes, it protected them all right. But there are other sections
than the Cape, Cap’n Townsend. They’re beginning to raise cranberries
up around Plymouth and--and--”
“I know. And there are influences up there, too. Well, what has that
cranberry bill got to do with you? You didn’t vote against it. Of
course you told me and a few others, before you were elected the first
time, that you would vote _for_ it, but you didn’t do that, either.
You weren’t in the House when that bill came up to a vote. You’d gone
fishing, I understand.”
Mr. Mooney was indignant. “No such thing;” he declared, springing to
his feet. “I hadn’t gone fishing. I was sick. That’s what I was--sick.”
“Yes?” dryly. “Well, some of the rest of us were sick when we heard
about it. Never mind that. The bill was defeated. Of course,” he added,
after a momentary interval, “it may come up again this session and Jim
Needham, the Democratic candidate, says he shall vote for it, provided
he’s elected. But you say you’re going to be elected, so what he may or
may not do won’t make any difference.... There! my five minutes are up,
and more than up. I’ve got to go. Honest men are scarce in politics,
Mooney. Maybe all hands around here will remember that on election day
and forget their cranberry swamps. Maybe they will. Sorry I’ve got to
hurry. Good-night.”
He was on his way to the hall door, but his visitor hurried after him
and caught his arm.
“Hold on, Cap’n Townsend,” he begged. “Hold on just a minute. I--I came
here to tell you that--that I’d changed my mind about that bill. I--I’m
going to vote for it. Yes, and I am going to work for it, too.”
“Oh!... Well, speaking as one of those ‘influences’ you were talking
about, I’m glad to hear you say so, of course. But you said so before.
What makes you change your mind this time--change it back again, I
mean? Has that honesty of yours had a relapse?”
The Honorable Mooney ignored the sarcasm. He had journeyed from Trumet
in the rain to say one thing in particular and now he said it.
“Cap’n Townsend,” he pleaded desperately, “you aren’t going to use your
influence against me, are you? There’s no use beating around the bush.
Everybody that knows anything knows that a word from you will change
more votes than anybody else’s in the county. If you say you’re going
to vote for Needham--well, this is a four to one Republican district,
but I guess you can lick me if you want to. You won’t do that, will
you? I’m going to work hard to get that cranberry bill through the
House; honest, I am. I was a fool last session. I realize it now. If
that bill can be shoved through I’ll help do it. That’s the honest
God’s truth.”
Foster Townsend regarded him in silence. Mooney’s eyes met the grim
intentness of the gaze for a moment, then faltered and fell. The
Townsend lip twitched.
“You’re goin’ to make a speech here in Harniss sometime this week,
aren’t you?” the captain asked.
“Yes. Next week, Tuesday night, at the town hall.”
“Um-hum. Going to say anything about that cranberry bill?”
“Yes, yes, I am. I am going to come out for it hard. I am going to tell
everybody that I was wrong about it, that I’ve seen my mistake and they
can count on me as being strong for it. That’s what I am going to tell
them.... Say,” he added, eagerly, “I’ve got my speech all written out.
It’s in my pocket now. Don’t you want to read it, Cap’n? I brought it
hoping you would.”
Townsend shook his head.
“I can wait until Tuesday, I guess,” he replied. “I was planning to
go to the rally. I’ll be there, along with some more of the dishonest
influences. They will all want to hear you.”
“And you won’t work against me, Cap’n Townsend? I can’t tell you how
sorry I am about--about this whole business.”
“Never mind. You can tell it all at the rally. It ought to be
interesting to hear and, if it is interesting enough, it may bring
some votes into port that have been hanging in the wind. I can’t say
for sure, but it may.... There! I can’t spare any more time just
now.... Nabby!” raising his voice. “Nabby!”
Mrs. Gifford appeared between the curtains. Her employer waved a hand
toward his visitor.
“Nabby,” he said, “just see that Mr. Mooney finds his way out to his
buggy, will you.... Good-night, Mooney.”
The honorable representative of an ungrateful constituency, thus
unceremoniously dismissed, followed Mrs. Gifford to the dining room and
from there to the side entrance to the mansion. Foster Townsend watched
him go. Then he shrugged, sniffed disgustedly, and, pulling the soft
hat down upon his forehead, strode through the hall, stopped to take an
umbrella from the rack, and stepped out through the front door into the
rainy blackness of the night.
The few who met and recognized him as he tramped the muddy sidewalks
bowed reverentially and then stopped to stare. For Captain Foster
Townsend, greatest among Ostable County’s great men, to be walking on
an evening such as this--walking, instead of riding in state behind his
span of blacks--was an unheard-of departure from the ordinary. Why was
he doing it? Where was he bound? What important happenings hung upon
his footsteps?
They could not guess, nor could their wives or sons and daughters when
the story was told them. They were right, however, when they surmised
that the magnate’s errand must be freighted with importance. It
was--vastly important to him and no less so to the members of another
household in the village of Harniss.