II

It is a good place--a moving train--for serious meditation. Tim Riley

allowed the landscape to fly by, the while he considered matters. He

knew the temper of the kind of people with whom he was to battle. They

were so many more like himself. As for trying to bulldoze or browbeat

them, or--if he was that kind--to bribe a single one, though they were

the hard-working, unsophisticated kind--whisht!--like the wind they'd go

the other way. And as for scaring the tough ones, he might be the

strongest and toughest and scrappiest and quickest lad on his feet that

ever was, but out there in that quarrying town would be a dozen or

twenty or fifty just as strong and as quick and as scrappy as himself.

And that kind--which was his kind--you might set them up in a row and

knock them down one after another, and just as fast as one went down

another would come bouncing up for the honor of the last word.

New Ireland! Tim viewed a town of two or three hundred small,

square-planned wooden houses, with one green-painted house larger than

most, labelled Kearney's Hotel; another, larger than that again, with a

square cupola, which he knew would be the town hall; and yet one more,

largest of all, white-painted, with a surmounting gold cross, which, of

course, could only be the chapel. A mile or so beyond the town, on the

scarred hillsides, stuck up the derricks of the quarries, which were the

town's reason for being. Beyond the quarries were foot-hills, which

gradually grew up into mountains. It was autumn, and in that high land

the few trees were already bare; before the high wind the bare branches

swayed.

It was not the most encouraging day of the year. Tim, with a warm fire

and a hot meal in view, hurried on to the little hotel. Peter Kearney

was the landlord, a companionable soul, who did not see the need of a

register, and who, after a time, produced a lunch; and who, further,

while Tim ate, smoked and gossiped of things a travelling man would

naturally be interested in.

"And what kind have you here in New Ireland? Easy to get along with?"

asked Tim, after the discovery of the quarries, the settling of the

town, and the last explosion had been intelligently discussed.

"To get along with? The finest, easiest ever--of course if a man don't

cross them."

"I wonder do you think I'll cross them?"

"And what would your business be that you'd be crossing 'em?" the

landlord asked.

"I'm the Republican campaign speaker that's selected to address them

to-night."

"Oh-h! Well, d'y'know, when I didn't see a sample case with you I had my

suspicions; but when you said--or did you say your name was Riley?"

"I did. And it is. R-i-l-e-y--Riley, Timothy J. And there's any number

of Republicans with names as good."

"I dare say, but not in New Ireland--nor likely to be while so many of

your party put us down for a tribe of savages."

"Have patience, Mr. Kearney. There's a new order of things under way.

Have patience. And tell me now how many Republicans should you estimate

there are in New Ireland?"

"Estimate? Sure, and that's a large word for them. There's Grimmer, the

cashier and chief clerk o' the savin's-bank. There's Handy, who keeps

the real-estate office. And did ever ye notice, Mr. Riley, how, when a

man has a soft-payin', easy-workin' job, 'tis ten to one he's a

Republican?"

"I've spoken of it so often myself, Mr. Kearney, merely by way of

humorous observation, that my party loyalty has been doubted. If you

would never have your loyalty suspected, Mr. Kearney, you must never let

on that you possess intelligence; but have patience and we'll have that

changed some day--maybe. So those two are the leaders, are they?"

"Leaders, man! That's all of 'em."

"Two? Two out of nigh five hundred! Well, glory be, what kind are those

two? The fighting kind?"

"Har-rdly the fightin' kind, Mr. Riley. They couldn't well be that in

New Ireland, bein' Republican, and remain whole. Har-rdly! No, not if

they were John L. Sullivans, the pair of 'em. Among five hundred

quarrymen, d'y'see, Mr. Riley, and they mostly young men, there's always

plenty of what a man might call loose energy lyin' round--specially

after hours and Sundays and holidays; surely too much for any two, or

two dozen, disputatious individuals to contend against. And yet, as I

said, the easiest, quietest people living here----"

"Yes, yes; I'll bet a leprechaun's leap against a banshee's wail I know

what peaceable kind they are. And I think I know now why I was--No

matter about that though. Could you, Mr. Kearney, get somebody to pass

the word to the quarries that the Republican speaker is here according

to announcement, and that his name is Riley?"

"I'll send me boy. Dinnie!" called the landlord. No answer. "Dinnie!" No

answer. The landlord opened his lungs and roared: "Dinnie!!" Then he

looked out of the dining-room window. "H-m! I thought as much. Look at

him peltin' it on his bi-sigh-cle for the quarries! He heard you say

Republican and 'twas enough. No fear now--not a soul in New Ireland but

will know it before dark. And--but excuse me one minute, Mr. Riley."

The landlord stood up to greet a forlorn-looking old woman, who, with a

man's overcoat wrapped round her, had appeared at the dining-room door.

"How are you to-day, Mrs. Nolan? About as usual? Well, don't be

worryin'. Yes, you'll find Delia in the kitchen. Go in."

Tim nodded after the old woman as she went in.

"And who is she, Mr. Kearney?"

"A poor old creature who comes here once or twice in the week to have a

cup o' tea and maybe a little to go with it, with the cook. A poor old

soul dependin' on charity, and yet she won't take it from every one."

"Poor woman! Will you give her that?--not now, but when she goes out,

Mr. Kearney." He slipped a silver dollar into the landlord's hand. "No

need to tell her where it came from. I'll be going along now, I think,

to have a look at the town. I'll be back for supper."

"Good luck to you!"

Tim had not left the hotel a hundred yards behind him when he met a

Catholic priest.

"Good afternoon, Father," said Tim, and raised his hat.

"Good afternoon, sir. And is it"--the cane was shifted from the right

hand to the left, and the hand thus freed extended to Tim--"Mr.

Riley--isn't it?"

"It is; but how did you know, Father?"

"Oh, if Peter Kearney's long-legged Dinnie hasn't told half the quarries

before this of your name and business 'twill be because he's burst a

tire or broke his neck rolling down the steep hills. And so you're to

speak to us to-night?"

"God willing, I am."

"And you're not discouraged?"

"And why should I be discouraged?"

"Why? You must be a stranger to these parts."

"I am."

"And no one told you of what happened to the last man your party sent

here?"

"They did not. And what happened?"

"He was rode out of town on a rail."

"Well, well, Father. And what did he do, the poor man?"

"Oh, he only hinted at first that we were a lot of ignorant foreigners

who were Democrats because we didn't know any better; but he warmed up

as he went along. I don't know wherever they got him from. In the middle

of it Buck Malone gave them what they call his high sign--his right

forefinger raised so--and every man in the hall got up and walked out.

A few of them came back later and took him off. They didn't hurt him--no

bones broken or anything like that; but they do say he never waited for

the train when they turned him loose, but legged the thirty miles back

to the city without a single stop!"

"He did? Well, it's fine exercise, Father--running; though thirty miles

in one bite, to be sure, is a bit too much for good digestion, I'd say.

This Buck Malone--he's the boss here, Father?"

"He is. And a famous one for surprising folks."

"Thank you for the information, Father."

"It's no information. The very babies here know of the last man here. If

you see the children in the street smiling slylike when you pass, that

will be why."

Tim pulled his lower lip with thumb and forefinger.

"And yet they'd laugh all the louder if I was to go away without

speaking, Father. What kind is Buck Malone to look at and where does he

hang out?"

The priest poked the end of his cane at Tim's chest.

"Is it fighting you'd be at, Mr. Riley?"

"It is not. I'm not for fighting--unless, of course, I have to. Isn't it

only natural to want to know what kind your opponent is?"

"So it is--so it is. Well, then, about this time o' day you'll find him

in that cigar-store with the sign out--below there. He's a contractor

himself, who furnishes labor for the quarries. A man about your height

and breadth he'll be, but a trifle fuller in the waist. A stout, strong

man, and not many able to look him down. An eye in his head, has Buck! I

wouldn't want to see the pair of ye at it."

"Thank you, Father. And look--d'y'see that old woman coming out of the

hotel? What's her story, Father?"

"The widow Nolan. A sad history, Mr. Riley, if you could get it out of

her; but it's few she'll talk to."

"Poor woman! Would you give her this--a couple of dollars--Father, after

I'm gone?"

"I will. And it's good of you. And you're bound to speak to-night?"

"I'll speak. And I'd like you to come, Father."

"Not I, Mr. Riley. Priests are better out of politics. Good day and God

speed you!"

Tim strolled toward the cigar-store; and drawing near he picked out,

standing near the glass case, a tall, powerfully built man, with

intelligently heavy features and the unwavering eyes of a fighting man.

As Tim entered this man was speaking. Before ten words had been said,

Tim knew that his entrance had been forecasted and that this was Buck

Malone.

"And he'll be up there on that platform all alone--not a soul with him,

because these two dubs that ought to be standing by him, they've got

cold feet already. And he'll be up there all alone, except for a pitcher

of cold water and a glass, and a table and a chair; and he'll begin to

spout. I dunno whether he c'n talk or not; but we'll let him run on for

maybe ten minutes, and about the time he thinks he's making a hit I'll

start up and I'll raise my forefinger like that--see? And that'll mean

everybody get up and go out. No hurry, mind you--nor no hustlin'; but

everybody just stand up and walk out and leave him talkin' to that

picture o' that dago, or whoever he is, discoverin' the Mississippi on

the back wall.

"And now you"--Malone turned leisurely to a stocky-looking young fellow

in seedy clothes standing wistfully off to one side--"you go on and pass

the word to 'em as they come out o' the quarries."

"All right," answered the stocky one in a hoarse voice, but without

moving.

A meagre-looking man stood behind the cigar-case.

"Will you let me have," said Tim to him, "three good cigars?"

The man behind the cigar-case looked slyly at Malone.

"How good?" he asked.

"Oh, pretty fair--three for a dollar or so."

"Three for a--I got nothing like that here. Fifteen cents straight's the

best I got."

"All right; they'll do."

The boss had not been smoking when Tim entered; but now he turned to

look better at Tim, and he pulled a cigar from his vest-pocket, bit off

the end, scratched a match, and leisurely lit it--all without taking his

eyes off Tim.

Tim also leisurely bit the end off a cigar. The proprietor pushed three

or four matches across the case. Tim, ignoring them, stepped close to

the boss.

"Would you let me have a light?" he inquired politely.

"H-ff! h-ff!" The boss swallowed quite a little smoke, but recovered and

passed over his cigar. Tim took his light from it, said "Thanks!"

briefly, and--puff-puff--contemplated the boss's stout henchman in the

rusty clothes, who was still standing irresolutely at one side.

"Smoke?" inquired Tim suddenly, and thrust a cigar at him.

"Wh-h--" stuttered the henchman, and then almost snatched it from Tim's

hand.

"You gettin' hard o' hearin'? Thought I told you to get along!" snapped

Malone.

"I am goin' along," returned the husky voice, "soon's I light up." In

the curling of the smoke from the corner of his mouth, in the whoofing

of it toward the ceiling, in the squaring of the thick shoulders as he

passed out--there was a hint of rebellion.

"You may be the boss," thought Tim, "but your grip isn't too sure." And

turning squarely on Malone he observed genially: "Fine day."

"H-p-p--" Malone stared fixedly at Tim. Tim stared back. Tim was rapidly

developing a feeling of respect for the man. Tim knew the kind. A few

years back he had been such an uncompromising one himself, who would

have whipped off his coat, as no doubt Malone would now, and battled on

the spot in preference to verbal argument.

"It is a fine day," responded Malone slowly; "but accordin' to my dope

it ain't goin' to be half so fine a night."

From behind the cigar-case came a giggle, and from the boss himself came

an after-chuckle and a pleased little smile.

"Why, it's not going to rain, is it?" asked Tim, and with an

appropriately innocent manner he stepped to the door to look at the sky;

and in looking he saw not the sky, but the widow Nolan, with some odds

and ends of firewood, making her halting way against the wind.

"The poor creature!" murmured Tim; and while pitying her the plan came

to him. "Gentlemen," he said over his shoulder, "I have to be off; but

before going I cordially invite you and all your friends to the town

hall to-night, to discuss the issues of the campaign. Good day,

gentlemen."

And through the door, before it closed after him, he could hear the

cackle of the man behind the cigar-case: "Is it going to rain! Say,

Buck, you won't do a thing to him to-night, will yuh?"