anything out of it."
"Sylvia, I want you to promise me never to call me daddy again, either
in private, as here between ourselves, or before others."
She looked up at him, her eyes wide with astonishment.
"Why," she exclaimed, "I've called you that ever since you found me a
little, little girl alone in the mountains."
"I know it, but it's time to stop. I'm no blood kin to you at all. And
I'm not so ancient. The history of the West didn't begin with me."
The wonder in her eyes deepened, and the "King" felt apprehensive,
though he stood to his guns. But when she laughed, a joyous,
spontaneous laugh, he felt hurt.
"I'll make you the promise readily enough," she said, "but I can't keep
it; I really can't. I'll try awful hard, but I'm so used to daddy that
it will be sure to pop out just when I'm expecting it least."
The "King" looked at her moodily, not sure whether she was laughing at
him or at her own perplexity.
"Then you just try," he said, at last, yielding to a mood of compromise,
and stalked abruptly out of the drawing-room.
Sylvia, watching him, saw how stiffly and squarely he held his
shoulders, and what long and abrupt strides he took, and her mood of
merriment was suddenly succeeded by one of sadness mingled just a little
with apprehension. She spoke twice under her breath, and the two brief
sentences varied by only a single word. The first was "Dear old daddy!"
and the second was "Poor old daddy!"
XI
THE HARRYING OF HERBERT
An unexpected addition and honor was now approaching, and it was Hobart
who told them of it.
"Our little party is about to receive a touch of real distinction and
dignity--something that it needs very much," he said, laying the
newspaper that he had been reading upon the dusty car seat and glancing
at Harley. They had returned to their special train.
"What do you mean?" asked Harley, though his tone betrayed no great
interest.
"I quote from the columns of our staid contemporary, the New York
_Monitor_, Churchill's sheet, the representative of solid, quiet, and
cultured worth," said Hobart, pompously. "'It has been felt for some
time by thoughtful leaders of our party in the East that Jimmy Grayson
and the "shirt-sleeves" Western politicians who now surround him are
showing too much familiarity with the people. A certain reserve, a
certain dignity of manner which, while holding the crowd at a distance
also inspires it with a proper respect, is desirable on the part of the
official head of a great party, a presidential nominee. The personal
democracy of Mr. Grayson is having a disconcerting effect upon important
financial circles, and also is inspiring unfavorable comments in the
English press, extracts from which we print upon another page.'"
"What on earth has the opinion of the English press to do with our
presidential race?" asked Harley.
"You may search me," replied Hobart. "I merely quote from the columns of
the _Monitor_. But in order to save time, I tell you that all this
preamble leads to the departure for the West of the Honorable Herbert
Henry Heathcote, who, after his graduation at Harvard, took a course at
Oxford, lived much abroad, and who now, by grace of his father's worth
and millions, is the national committeeman from his state. For some days
Herbert has been speeding in our direction, and to-morrow he will join
us at Red Cloud. It is more than intimated that he will take charge of
the tour of Jimmy Grayson, and put it upon the proper plane of dignity
and reserve."
Harley said no more, but, borrowing the paper, read the account
carefully, and then put it down with a sigh, foreseeing trouble. Herbert
Heathcote's father had been a great man in his time, self-created, a
famous merchant, an able party worker, in thorough touch with American
life, and he had served for many years as the honored chairman of the
national committee, although in a moment of weakness he had sent his son
abroad to be educated. Now he was dead, but remembered well, and as a
presidential campaign costs much money--legitimate money--and his son
was a prodigal giver, the leaders could not refuse to the younger
Heathcote the place of national committeeman from his state.
"What do you think of it?" asked Harley, at last.
"I refuse to think," replied Hobart. "I shall merely wait and see."
But the Honorable William Plummer expressed his scorn in words befitting
his open character.
The paper was passed on until it reached Mrs. Grayson and Sylvia. Mrs.
Grayson, with her usual reserve, said nothing. Sylvia was openly
indignant.
"I shall snub this man," she said, "unless he is of the kind that thinks
it cannot be snubbed."
"I fear that it is his kind," said Harley.
"It looks like it," she said.
At noon the next day, when they were at Red Cloud, Herbert Henry
Heathcote arrived on the train from the East, and the arrival of him was
witnessed by Harley, Hobart, Mr. Plummer, and several others, who had
gone to the station for that purpose and none other.
Mr. Heathcote, as he alighted from the train, was obviously a person of
importance, his apparel, even had his manner been hidden, disclosing the
fact to the most casual observer. A felt hat, narrow-brimmed and
beautifully creased in the crown, sat gracefully upon his head. His
light overcoat was baggy enough in the back to hold another man, as Mr.
Heathcote was not large, and white spats were the final touch of an
outfit that made the less sophisticated of the spectators gasp. "King"
Plummer swore half audibly.
"I wish my luggage to be carried up to the hotel," said Mr. Heathcote,
importantly, to the station agent.
"He calls it 'luggage,' and this in Colorado!" groaned Hobart.
"Your what?" exclaimed the station agent, a large man in his
shirt-sleeves, with a pen thrust behind his ear.
"My luggage; my trunk," replied Mr. Heathcote.
"Then you had better carry it yourself; I've nothing to do with it,"
said the agent, with Western brusqueness, as he turned away.
Harley, always ready to seize an opportunity, and resolved to mitigate
things, stepped forward.
"I beg your pardon, but this is Mr. Heathcote, is it not?" he asked,
courteously.
The committeeman put a glass in his eye and regarded him quite coolly.
Harley, despite his habitual self-control, shuddered. He did not mind
the supercilious gaze, but he knew the effect of the monocle upon the
crowd.
"Yes, I am Mr. Heathcote," said the committeeman, "and you ah--I--don't
believe--ah--"
"I haven't been introduced," said Harley, with a smile, "but I can
introduce myself; it's all right here in the West. I merely wanted to
tell you that you had better get them at the hotel to send the porter
down for your trunk. There are no carriages, but it's only a short walk
to the hotel. It's the large white building on the hill in front of
you."
"Thank you--ah--Mr. Hardy."
"Harley," corrected the correspondent, quietly.
"I was about to say--ah--that the press can make itself useful at
times."
Harley flushed slightly.
"Yes, even under the most adverse circumstances," he said.
But Mr. Heathcote was already on the way to the hotel, his white spats
gleaming in the sunshine. It was evident that he intended to keep the
press in its proper place.
"You made a mistake when you volunteered your help, Harley," said
Hobart. "A man like that should be received with a club. But you just
wait until the West gets through with him. Your revenge will be brought
to you on a silver plate."
"I'm not thinking of myself," replied Harley, gravely. "It's the effect
of this on Jimmy Grayson's campaign that's bothering me. Colorado is
doubtful, and so are Utah and Wyoming and Idaho; can we go through them
with a man like Heathcote, presumably in charge of our party?"
Proof that Harley's fears were justified was forthcoming at once. The
crowd at the station, drawn by various causes, had been usually large,
and Mr. Heathcote was received with a gasp of amazement. But nothing was
said until the white spats of the committeeman disappeared in the hotel.
Then the people crowded around the correspondents, with whom a six
hours' stop was sufficient to make them familiar. "Who is he?" they
asked. "Is he a plutocrat?" "It's a Wall Street shark, sure." "Does
Jimmy Grayson mean to hobnob with a man like that?" "Then we can't trust
him either. He's going to be a monopolist, too, and his claiming to be
champion of the people is all a bluff."
Harley explained with care that Mr. Heathcote was important. To run a
great presidential campaign required much money--special trains must be
paid for, halls had to be hired for speakers, there was a vast amount of
printing to be done, and many other expenses that must be met. Their
party was poor, as everybody knew, most of the wealth being on the other
side; and, when a man like Heathcote was willing to contribute his
thousands, there was nothing to do but to take him. But they need not be
alarmed; he could not corrupt Jimmy Grayson; the candidate was too
stanch, too true, too much of a real man to be turned from the right
path by any sinister Eastern influence.
But the people were not mollified; they resented Mr. Heathcote's manner
as well as his dress. Why had he not stopped at the station a few
minutes, and shaken hands with those who would have been glad to meet
him for the sake of fellowship in the party? Harley heard again the word
"Plutocrat," and, deeming it wise to say nothing more for the present,
walked back to the hotel. On the long porch sat a row of men in
rocking-chairs--correspondents, town officials, and politicians,
following in the wake of Jimmy Grayson. A state senator, a big,
white-bearded man named Curtis, who had been travelling with them for
three days, jerked his finger over his shoulder, pointing to the
interior of the hotel, and said, mysteriously, to Harley:
"Where did you get it?"
"New York," replied Harley, sadly.
"Can't you lose it?"
"I don't know," replied Harley, hopefully, "but we can try."
Hobart, who was in the next chair, put his right foot across his left
knee and nursed it judicially.
"It is eating its dinner now," he said. "It said: 'Landlord, I want a
table alone. I do not wish to be disturbed.' And just think, Harley,
this is Colorado! Landlord, otherwise Bill Jeffreys, was so taken aback
that he said, 'All right.' But the Honorable Herbert Henry Heathcote is
being watched. There are three cowboys, at this very moment, peeping in
at his window."
There was a dead silence for at least a minute, broken at last by
Barton.
"Gentlemen," he said, "you do not yet know the full, the awful truth; I
accidentally heard Heathcote telling Jeffreys about it."
"Why, what can be worse?" asked Harley, and he was in earnest.
"Mr. Heathcote's man--his valet, do you understand--arrives to-night. He
is to have a place in the car, and to travel with us, in order that he
may wait on his master."
"King" Plummer uttered an oath.
"The West can stand a good many things, but it won't stand that," he
exclaimed. "A national committeeman of our party travelling with his
valet on the train with Jimmy Grayson! It'll cost us at least six
states. We ain't women!"
There succeeded a gloomy silence that lasted until Heathcote himself
appeared upon the porch, fresh, dapper, and patronizing.
"I hope you enjoyed your dinner, Mr. Heathcote," said Harley, ever ready
to be a peacemaker.
"Thank you, Mr. Hardy--ah, Harley; it did very well for the
frontier--one does not expect much here, you know."
Harley glanced uneasily at the men in the chairs, but Mr. Heathcote went
on, condescendingly:
"I am now going for an interview with Mr. Grayson in his room. We shall
be there at least an hour, and we wish to be quite alone, as I have many
things of importance to say."
No one spoke, but twenty pairs of eyes followed the committeeman as he
disappeared in the hotel on his way to Jimmy Grayson's room. Then
Alvord, the town judge, a man of gigantic stature, rose to his feet and
said, in a mimicking, feminine voice:
"Gentlemen, I am going to the bar, and I shall be there at least an
hour; I wish to be quite alone, as I shall have many important things to
drink."
There was a burst of laughter that relieved the constraint somewhat, and
then, obedient to an invitation from the judge, they filed solemnly in
to the bar.
The candidate was to speak in the afternoon, and as he would raise some
new issues, sure to be of interest to the whole country, Harley,
following his familiar custom, went in search of Mr. Grayson for
preliminary information. The hour set aside by Mr. Heathcote had passed
long since, and Harley thought that he would be out of the way.
Jimmy Grayson's room was on the second floor, and Harley walked slowly
up the steps, but at the head of the stairway he was met by Mr.
Heathcote himself.
"Good-afternoon," said Harley, cheerfully. "I hope that you had a
pleasant talk with Mr. Grayson. I'm going in to see him now myself; a
presidential nominee can't get much rest."
Mr. Heathcote drew himself up importantly.
"I beg your pardon," he said, "but you cannot--ah--see Mr. Grayson.
There has been a feeling with us in the East--we are in a position there
to judge, being in thorough touch with the great world--that it was not
advisable for Mr. Grayson to speak to or to come in direct contact with
the press. This familiar talk with the newspapers rather impairs the
confidence of our great magnates and prejudices us in the eyes of
Europe. It is better--ah--that his remarks should be transmitted through
a third person, who can give to the press what is fitting and reserve
the remainder."
Harley gazed at Heathcote in amazement, but there was nothing in his
manner to indicate that he was not in earnest.
"And you are the third person, I suppose?" said Harley.
"I have so constituted myself," replied Mr. Heathcote, and his tone was
aggravatingly quiet and assured. "As one conversant with great affairs,
I am the most fit."
"Has Mr. Grayson agreed to this?" asked Harley.
"My dear man, I cannot permit you to cross-examine me. But, really, I
wish to be on good terms with the press, which is quite a useful
institution within its limits. Now, you seem to be rather more sedate
than the others, and I wish you would have the goodness to explain to
them how I have taken affairs in hand."
Harley flushed at his patronizing tone, and for a moment he was tempted
to thrust him out of his way and proceed with his errand to Jimmy
Grayson's room, but he reflected that it was better to let the
committeeman make the rope for his own hanging, and he turned away with
a quiet, "Very well, I shall forego the interview."
But as he went back down the stairs he could not help asking himself the
question, "Does Jimmy Grayson know? Could he have consented to such an
arrangement?" and at once came the answer--"Impossible."
He returned to the porch, where all the chairs were filled, although the
talk was slow. He noticed, with pleasure, that Churchill was absent. The
descending sun had just touched the crests of the distant mountains, and
they swam in a tremulous golden glow. The sunset radiance over nature in
her mighty aspects affected all on the porch, used as they were to it,
and that was why they were silent. But they turned inquiring eyes upon
Harley when he joined them.
"What has become of Heathcote?" asked Barton.
"He is engaged upon an important task just now," replied Harley.
"And what is that?"
"He is editing Jimmy Grayson's speech."
Twenty chairs came down with a crash, and twenty pairs of eyes stared in
indignant astonishment.
"King" Plummer's effort to hold himself in his chair seemed to be a
strain.
"He may not be doing that particular thing at this particular moment,"
continued Harley, "but he told me very distinctly that he was here for
that purpose, and he has also just told me that I could not see Jimmy
Grayson, that he intended henceforth to act as an intermediary between
the candidate and the press."
"And you stood it?" exclaimed Hobart.
"For the present, yes," replied Harley, evenly; "and I did so because I
thought I saw a better way out of the trouble than an immediate quarrel
with Heathcote--a better way, above all, for Jimmy Grayson and the
party."
The Western men said nothing, though they looked their deep disgust, and
presently they quitted the porch, leaving it, rocking-chairs and all, to
the correspondents.
"Boys," said Harley, earnestly, "I've a request to make of you. Let me
take the lead in this affair; I've a plan that I think will work."
"Well, you are in a measure the chief of our corps," said Warrener, one
of the Chicago men. "I don't know why you are, but all of us have got
to looking on you in that way."
"I, for one, promise to be good and obey," said Hobart, "but I won't
deny that it will be a hard job. Perhaps I could stand the man, if it
were not for his accent--it sounds to me as if his voice were coming out
of the top of his head, instead of his chest, where a good, honest voice
ought to have its home."
"Now you listen," said Harley, "and I will my tale unfold."
Then they put their heads together and talked long and earnestly.
The shaggy mountains were in deep shadow, and the sunset was creeping
into the west when Jimmy Grayson came out on the porch where the
correspondents yet sat. Harley at once noticed a significant change in
his appearance; he looked troubled. Before, if he was troubled, he
always hid it and turned a calm eye to every issue; but this evening
there was something new and extraordinary about Jimmy Grayson; he was
ashamed and apologetic obviously so, and Harley felt a thrill of pity
that a man so intensely proud under all his democracy, or perhaps
because of it, should be forced into a position in which he must be,
seemingly at least, untrue to himself.
The candidate hesitated and glanced at the correspondents, his comrades
of many a long day, as if he expected them to ask him questions, but no
one spoke. The sinking sun dropped behind the mountains, and the
following shadow also lay across Jimmy Grayson's face. He was the
nominee of a great party for President of the United States, but there
was a heart in him, and these young men, who had gone with him through
good times and bad times, through weary days and weary nights, were to
him like the staff that has followed a general over many battle-fields.
He glanced again at the correspondents, but, as they continued to stare
resolutely at the dark mountains, he turned and walked abruptly into the
hotel.
"Boys," exclaimed Barton, "it's tough!"
"Yes, damned tough," said Hobart.
"King" Plummer, who was with them, maintained a stony silence.
An hour later the valet of the Honorable Herbert Henry Heathcote, a
smooth, trim young Englishman, arrived in Red Cloud, and never before in
his vassal life had he been a person of so much importance. The news had
been spread in Red Cloud that a rare specimen was coming, a kind
hitherto unknown in those regions. When John--that was his
name--alighted from the train in the dusk of a vast, desolate Western
night, a crowd of tanned, tall men was packed closely about him,
watching every movement that he made. Harley saw him glance fearfully at
the dark throng, but no one said a word. As he moved towards the hotel,
a valise in either hand, the way opened before him, but the crowd,
arranging itself in a solid mass behind him, followed, still silent,
until he reached the shelter of the building and the protecting wing of
his master. Then it dispersed in an orderly manner, but the only subject
of conversation in Red Cloud was the Honorable Herbert Henry Heathcote
and his "man," especially the "man."
At the appointed hour the candidate spoke from a stage in the public
square, and it would not be fair to say that his address fell flat; but
for the first time in the long campaign Harley noticed a certain
coldness on the part of the audience, a sense of aloofness, as if Jimmy
Grayson were not one of them, but a stranger in the town whom they must
treat decently, although they might not approve of him or his ways. And
Harley did not have to seek the cause, for there at a corner of the
stage sat a dominating presence, the Honorable Herbert Henry Heathcote,
his neck encircled by a very high collar, his trousers turned up at the
bottom, and his white spats gleaming through the darkness. More eyes
were upon him than upon the candidate, but Mr. Heathcote was not
daunted. His own gaze, as it swept the audience, was at times
disapproving and at other times condescending.
About the middle of the speech the night, as usual, grew chilly, and Mr.
Heathcote's "man," stepping upon the stage, assisted him on with a light
overcoat. A gasp went up from the crowd, and the candidate, stopping,
looked back and saw the cause. Again that shadow came over his face, but
in a moment he recovered himself and went on as if there had been no
interruption. When the speech was finished Mr. Heathcote stood a moment
by the table at which Harley was still writing, and said:
"I think you and your associates should leave out of your report that
part about our foreign relations. However well received in the West, I
doubt whether it would have a very good effect in the East."
"But he said it," exclaimed Harley, looking up in surprise.
"Quite true, but there should be a certain reserve on the part of the
press. These expressions have about them a trace of rawness, perhaps
inseparable from a man like our nominee, who is the product of Western
conditions. I trust that I shall be able to correct this unfortunate
tendency."
Harley was burning with anger, but the long practice of self-control
enabled him to hide it. He did not reply, but resumed his work. Mr.
Heathcote spoke to him again, but Harley, his head bent over his pad,
went on with his writing. Nor did any of the other correspondents speak.
The committeeman, astonished and indignant, left the stage, and,
followed by his "man," returned to the hotel between two silent files of
spectators.
"Experience number one," was the only comment of the correspondents, and
it came from Barton.
When Harley went into the hotel he saw Jimmy Grayson leaning against the
clerk's desk as if he were waiting for something. He glanced at Harley,
and there was a tinge of reproach in his look. Harley's resolution
faltered, but it was only for a moment, and then, taking his key from
the clerk, he went in silence to his room. He understood the position of
Jimmy Grayson, he knew how much the party was indebted to Mr. Heathcote
for payment of the campaign's necessary expenses, but he was determined
to carry out his plan, which he believed would succeed.
But there was one man in Jimmy Grayson's group to whom the appearance of
Mr. Heathcote was welcome, and this was Churchill, who was sure that he
recognized in him a kindred spirit. He sent a long despatch to the
_Monitor_, telling of the very beneficial effect the committeeman's
presence already exercised upon the campaign, particularly the new tone
of dignity that he had given to it. He also cultivated Mr. Heathcote,
and was willing to furnish him deferential advice.
As the special train was to leave early the next morning for the
northern part of the state, they ate breakfast in a dim dawn, with only
the rim of the sun showing over the eastern mountains. Mr. Heathcote
came in late and found every chair occupied. No one moved or took any
notice. Jimmy Grayson looked embarrassed, and said in a propitiatory
tone to the proprietor, who stood near the window:
"Can't you fix a place for Mr. Heathcote?"
"Oh, I guess I kin bring in a little table from the kitchen," replied
Bill Jeffreys, negligently, "but he'll have to hustle; that train goes
in less than ten minutes."
The table was brought in, and Mr. Heathcote ate more quickly than ever
before in his life, although he found time for caustic criticism of the
hotel accommodations in Red Cloud. Just as he put down his half-emptied
coffee-cup the train blew a warning whistle.
"That engineer is at least three minutes ahead of time," said Barton.
"He's a lively fellow," said Hobart. "I was up early, and he told me he
wasn't going to wait a single minute, even if he did have a Presidential
nominee aboard."
The eyes of Barton and Hobart met, and Barton understood.