breach within the party was widening, and that this breach could become
a chasm before the election. The _Monitor_ and other papers, the chosen
or self-appointed champions of vested interests, were almost openly in
revolt; in Harley's mind their course amounted to the same thing; they
printed in their news columns many things derogatory to Grayson, and
likely to shatter public faith in his judgment, and in nearly all of
them appeared signed contributions from members of the wealthy faction
led by the Honorable Mr. Goodnight, attacking every speech made by the
candidate, and intimating that he was a greater danger to the country
than the nominee of the other side.
"The split will have to come," was Harley's muttered comment, "and the
sooner the better for us."
The journals of the rival party were a singular contrast to those of
Grayson's side, as they expressed unbounded and sincere confidence. In
all that had occurred they could not read anything but victory for them,
and Harley was bound to admit that their exultation was justified.
But amid all these troubles the candidate preserved his remarkable
amiability of disposition, and Harley witnessed another proof that he
was a man first and a statesman afterwards.
The train was continually thronged with local politicians and others
anxious to see Mr. Grayson, and at a little station in a plain that
seemed to have no end they picked up three men, one of whom attracted
Harley's notice at once. He was young, only twenty four or five, with a
bright, quick, eager face, and he was not dressed in the usual careless
Western fashion. His trousers were carefully creased, his white shirt
was well-laundered, and his tie was neat. But he wore that strange
combination--not so strange west of the Mississippi--a sack-coat and a
silk-hat at the same time.
The youth was not at all shy, and he early obtained an introduction to
Mr. Grayson. Harley thus learned that his name was Moore--Charles Moore,
or Charlie Moore, as those with him called him. Most men in the West,
unless of special prominence, when presented to Jimmy Grayson, shook
hands warmly, exchanged a word or two on any convenient topic, and then
gave way to others, but this fledgling sought to hold him in long
converse on the most vital questions of the campaign.
"That was a fine speech of yours that you made at Butte, Mr. Grayson,"
he said, in the most impulsive manner, "and I endorse every word of it,
but are you sure that what you said about Canadian reciprocity will help
our party in the great wheat states, such as Minnesota and the Dakotas?"
The candidate stared at him at first in surprise and some displeasure,
but in a moment or two his gaze was changed into a kindly smile. He read
well the youth before him, his amusing confidence, his eagerness, and
his self-importance, that had not yet received a rude check.
"There is something in what you say, Mr. Moore," replied Jimmy Grayson,
in that tone absolutely without condescension that made every man his
friend; "but I have considered it, and I think it is better for me to
stick to my text. Besides, I am right, you know."
"Ah, yes, but that is not the point," exclaimed young Mr. Moore; "one
may be right, but one might keep silent on a doubtful point that is
likely to influence many votes. And there are several things in your
speeches, Mr. Grayson, with which some of us do not agree. I shall have
occasion to address the public concerning them--as you know, a number of
us are to speak with you while you are passing through Utah."
There was a flash in Jimmy Grayson's eye, but Harley could not tell
whether it expressed anger or amused contempt. It was gone in a moment,
however, and the candidate again was looking at the fledgling with a
kindly, smiling, and tolerant gaze. But Churchill thrust his elbow
against Harley.
"Oh, the child of the free and bounding West!" he murmured. "What
innocence, and what a sense of majesty and power!"
Harley did not deign a reply, but he made the acquaintance, by-and-by,
of the men who had joined the train with Moore. One of these was a
county judge named Basset, sensible and middle-aged, and he talked
freely about the fledgling, whom he seemed to have in a measure on his
mind. He laughed at first when he spoke of the subject, but he soon
became serious.
"Charlie is a good boy, but what do you think he is? Or, rather, what do
you think he thinks he is?"
"I don't know," replied Harley.
"Charlie thinks he's a spellbinder, the greatest ever. He's dreaming by
night, and by day, too, that he's to be the West's most wonderful
orator, and that he's to hold the thousands in his spell. He's a coming
Henry Clay and Daniel Webster rolled into one. He's read that story
about Demosthenes holding the pebble in his mouth to make himself talk
good, and they do say that he slips away out on the prairie, where
there's nobody about, and with a stone in his mouth tries to beat the
old Greek at his own game. I don't vouch for the truth of the story, but
I believe it."
Harley could not keep from smiling.
"Well, it's at least an honest ambition," he said.
"I don't know about that," replied the judge, doubtfully. "Not in
Charlie's case, because as a spellbinder he isn't worth shucks. He can't
speak, and he'll never learn to do it. Besides, he's leaving a thing he
was just made for to chase a rainbow, and it's breaking his old daddy's
heart."
"What is it that he was made for?"
"He's a born telegraph-operator. He's one of the best ever known in the
West. They say that at eighteen he was the swiftest in Colorado. Then he
went down to Denver, and a month ago he gave up a job there that was
paying him a hundred and fifty a month to start this foolishness. They
say he might be a great inventor, too, and here he is trying to speak on
politics when he doesn't know anything about public questions, and he
doesn't know how to talk, either; I don't know whether to be mad about
it or just to feel sorry, because Charlie's father is an old friend of
mine."
Harley shared his feelings. He had seen the round peg in the square hole
so many times with bad results to both the peg and the hole that every
fresh instance grieved him. He was also confirmed in the soundness of
Judge Basset's opinion by his observation of young Moore as the journey
proceeded. The new spellbinder was anxious to speak whenever there was
an occasion, and often when there was none at all. The discouragement
and even the open rebukes of his elders could not suppress him. The
correspondents, comparing notes, decided that they had never before seen
so strong a rage for speaking. He took the whole field of public affairs
for his range. He was willing at any time to discuss the tariff,
internal revenue, finance, and foreign relations, and avowed himself
master of all. Yet Harley saw that he was in these affairs a perfect
child, shallow and superficial, and depending wholly upon a few
catchwords that he had learned from others. Even the former Populists
turned from him. But their sour faces when he spoke taught him nothing.
He was still, to himself, the great spellbinder, and he looked forward
to the day when he, too, a nominee for the Presidency, should charm
multitudes with his eloquence and logic. He had no hesitation in
confiding his hopes to Harley, and the correspondent longed to tell him
how he misjudged himself. Yet he refrained, knowing that it was not his
duty; and that even if it were, his words would make no impression.
But in other matters than those of public life and oratory Jimmy
Grayson's people found young Moore likable enough. He was helpful on the
train; now and then when the telegraph-operators had more material than
they could handle, he gave them valuable aid; he was a fine comrade,
taking good luck and bad luck with equal philosophy, and never
complaining. "If only he wouldn't try to speak!" groaned Hobart, for
whom he had sent a telegraphic message with skill and despatch.
But that very afternoon Moore talked to them on the subject of national
finance, until they fell into a rage and left the car. That evening
Harley was sitting with the candidate, when an old man, bent of figure
and gloomy of face, came to them.
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Grayson," he said, "for intruding on you, but
I've come to ask a favor. I'm Henry Moore, of Council Grove, the father
of Charlie Moore, who was the best telegraph-operator in Denver, and who
is now the poorest public speaker in Colorado."
The old man smiled, but it was a sad smile, cut off early. Jimmy Grayson
was full of sympathy at once, and he shook Mr. Moore's hand warmly.
"I know your son," he said; "he is a bright boy."
"Yes, he's nothing but a boy," said his father, as if seeking an excuse.
"I suppose all boys must have their foolish spells, but he appears to
have his mighty hard and long."
The old man sighed, and the look of sympathy on Jimmy Grayson's face
deepened.
"Charlie is a good boy," continued Mr. Moore, "and if he could have this
foolish notion knocked out of his head--there's no other way to get it
out--he would be all right; and that's why I've come to you. You know
you are to speak at Pueblo to-morrow night in a big hall, and one of the
biggest crowds in the West will be there to hear you. Two or three
speakers are to follow you, and what do you think that son of mine has
done? Somehow or other he has got the committee to put him on the
programme right after you, and he says he is going to demolish what he
calls your fallacies."
Harley saw the candidate's lips curve a little, as if he were about to
smile, but the movement was quickly checked. Jimmy Grayson would not
willingly hurt the feelings of any man.
"Your boy has that right," he said to Mr. Moore.
"No, he hasn't!" burst out the old man. "A boy hasn't any right to be so
light-headed, and I want you, Mr. Grayson, when he has finished his
speech, to come right back at him and wipe him off the face of the
earth. It will be an easy thing for so big a man as you to do. Charlie
doesn't know a thing about public affairs. He'll make lots of
statements, and every one of 'em will be wrong. Just show him up. Make
all the people laugh at him. Just sting him with your words till he
turns red in the face. Roll him in the dust, and tread on him till he
can't breathe. Then hold him up before all that audience as the biggest
and wildest fool that ever came on a stage. Nothing else will cure him;
it will be a favor to him and to me; and I, his father, who loves him
more than anybody else in the world, ask you to do it."
Harley was tempted to smile, and at the same moment water came into his
eyes. No one could fail to be moved by the old man's intense
earnestness, his florid and mixed imagery, and his appealing look.
Certainly Jimmy Grayson was no exception. He glanced at Harley, and saw
his expression of sympathy, but the correspondent made no suggestion.
"I appreciate your feelings and your position, Mr. Moore," he said, "but
this is a hard thing that you ask me to do. I cannot trample upon a boy,
even metaphorically, in the presence of five thousand people. What will
they think of me?"
"They'll understand. They'll know why it's done, and they'll like you
for it. It's the only way, Mr. Grayson. Either you do it or my boy's
life is ruined."
Jimmy Grayson walked up and down the room, and his face was troubled. He
looked again and again at Harley, but the correspondent made no
suggestion; he had none to make. At last he stopped.
"I think I can save your son, and promise to make the trial, but I will
not say a word just yet. Now don't ask me any more about it, and never
mind the thanks. I understand; maybe I shall have a grown son myself,
some day, to be turned from the wrong path. Good-night. I'll see you
again at Pueblo. Harley, I wish you would stay awhile longer. I want to
have further talk with you."
The candidate and Harley were in deep converse for some time, and, when
they finished, much of the trouble had disappeared from Jimmy Grayson's
eyes. "I think it can be done," he said.
"So do I," repeated Harley, with confidence.
The next day, which was occupied with the run down to Pueblo and
occasional stops for speeches at way-stations, was uneventful save for
the growing obsession of Charlie Moore. He was overflowing with pride
and importance. That night, in the presence of five thousand people, he
was going to reply to the great Jimmy Grayson, and show to them and to
him his errors. Mr. Grayson was sound in most things, but there were
several in which he should be set right, and he, Charlie Moore, was the
man to do it for him.
The fledgling proudly produced several printed programmes with his name
next to that of the candidate, and talked to the correspondents of the
main points that he would make, until they fled into the next car. But
he followed them there and asked them if they would not like to take in
advance a synopsis of his speech, in order that they might be sure to
telegraph it to their offices in time. All evaded the issue except
Harley, who gravely jotted down the synopsis, and, with equal gravity,
returned his thanks for Mr. Moore's consideration.
"I knew you wouldn't want to miss it," said the youth, "I come on late,
you know, and, besides, I remembered that the difference in time between
here and New York is against us."
Mr. Moore, the father, was on the train throughout the day, but he did
not speak to his son. He spent his time in the car in which Jimmy
Grayson sat, always silent, but always looking, with appeal and pathos,
at the great leader. His eyes said plainly: "Mr. Grayson, you will not
fail me, will you? You will save my son? You will beat him, and tread on
him until he hasn't left a single thought of being a famous orator and
public leader? Then he will return to the work for which God made him."
Harley would look at the old man awhile, and then return to the next
car, where the youth was chattering away to those who could not escape
him.
The speech in Pueblo was to be of the utmost importance, not alone to
those whose own ears would hear it, but to the whole Union, because the
candidate would make a plain declaration upon a number of vexed
questions that had been raised within the last week or two. This had
been announced in all the press on the authority of Jimmy Grayson
himself, and the speech in full, not a word missing, would have to be
telegraphed to all the great newspapers both East and West.
In such important campaigns as that of a Presidential nominee, the two
great telegraph companies always send operators with the correspondents,
in order that they may despatch long messages from small way-stations,
where the local men are not used to such heavy work. Now Harley and his
associates had with them two veterans, Barr and Wymond, from Chicago,
who never failed them. They were relieved, too, on reaching Pueblo, to
find that the committee in charge had been most considerate. Some
forethoughtful man, whom the correspondents blessed, had remembered the
three hours' difference in time between Pueblo and New York, and against
New York, and he had run two wires directly into the hall and into a
private box on the left, where Barr and Wymond could work the
instruments, so far from the stage that the clicking would not disturb
Jimmy Grayson or anybody else, but would save much time for the
correspondents.
The audience gathered early, and it was a splendid Western crowd,
big-boned and tanned by the Western winds.
"They have cranks out here, but it's a land of strong men, don't you
forget that," said Harley to Churchill, and Churchill did not attempt a
sarcastic reply.
They were both sitting at the edge of the stage, and in front of them,
nearer the footlights, was young Moore, proud and eager, his fingers
moving nervously. His father, too, had found a seat on the stage, but he
was in the background, next to the scenery and behind the others; he was
not visible from the floor of the house. There he sat, staring gloomily
at his son, and now and then, with a sort of despairing hope, glancing
at Jimmy Grayson.
There were some short preliminary speeches and introductions, and then
came the turn of the candidate. The usual flutter of expectation ran
over the audience, followed by the usual deep hush, but just at that
moment there was an interruption. A boy in the uniform of a telegraph
company hurried upon the stage.
"You must come at once, sir," he said to Harley. "Mr. Wymond hasn't
turned up. We don't know what's become of him. And Mr. Barr has took
sick, sudden and bad. The Pueblo manager says he'll get somebody here as
quick as he can, but he can't do it under half an hour, anyway!"
The other correspondents stared at each other in dismay, and then at the
hired stenographer who was to take down the speech in full. But Harley,
always thoughtful and resourceful, responded to the emergency. He had
noticed Moore raise his head with an expression of lively interest at
the news of the disaster, and he stepped forward at once and put his
hand on the fledgling's shoulder.
"Mr. Moore," he exclaimed, in stirring appeal, "this is a crisis for us,
and you must save us. You have eaten with us, and you have lived with
us, and you cannot desert us now. We have all heard that you are a great
operator, the greatest in the West. You must send Mr. Grayson's speech.
What a triumph it will be for you--to send his speech and then get upon
this stage and demolish it afterwards!"
The feeling in Harley's voice was real, and the boy was thrilled by it
and the situation. Every natural impulse in him responded. It was the
chivalrous thing for him to do, and an easy one. He could send a speech
as fast as the fastest man living could deliver it. He rose without a
word, his heart beating with thoughts of the coming battle, in which he
felt proudly that he should be a victor, and made his way to the
telegraphers' box.
Moore had lived in Pueblo, and nearly everybody in the audience knew
him. When they saw him take his seat at one of the instruments, their
quick Western minds divined what he was going to do, and the roar of
applause that they had just given to the candidate, who was now on his
feet, was succeeded by another; but the second was for Charlie Moore,
the telegraph-operator.
The fledgling had no time to think. He had scarcely settled himself in
his chair when the deep, full voice of Jimmy Grayson filled the great
hall, and he was launched upon a speech for which the whole Union was
waiting. The short-hand man was already deep in his work, and the copy
began to come. But the boy felt no alarm; he was not even flustered; the
feel of the key was good, and the atmosphere of that box which enclosed
the telegraph apparatus was sweet in his nostrils. He called up Denver,
from which the speech would be repeated to the greater cities, and with
a sigh of deep satisfaction settled to his task.
They tell yet in Western telegraph circles of Charlie Moore's great
exploit. The candidate was in grand form that night, and his speech came
rushing forth in a torrent. The missing Wymond was still missing, and
the luckless Barr was still ill, but the fledgling sat alone in the box,
his face bent over the key, oblivious of the world around him, and sent
it all. Through him ran the fire of battle and great endeavor. He heard
the call and replied. He never missed a word. He sent them hot across
the prairie, over the slopes and ridges, and across the brown plains
into Denver. And there in the general office the manager muttered more
than once: "That fellow is doing great work! How he saves time!"
The audience liked Jimmy Grayson's speech, and again and again the
applause swelled and echoed. Then they noticed how the boy in the
telegraphers' box--a boy of their own--was working. Mysterious voices,
too, began to spread among them the news how Charlie Moore had saved the
day--or, rather, the night--and now and then in Jimmy Grayson's pauses
cries of "Good boy, Charlie!" arose.
Harley, while doing his writing, nevertheless kept a keen eye upon all
the actors in the drama. He saw the light of hope appear more strongly
upon old man Moore's face, and then turn into a glow as he beheld his
son doing so well.
The candidate spoke on and on. He had begun at nine o'clock, but that
was a great and important speech, and no one left the hall. Eleven
o'clock, and then midnight, and Jimmy Grayson was still speaking. But it
was not his night alone; it belonged to two men, and the other partner
was Charlie Moore, who fulfilled his task equally well, and whom the
audience still observed.
But the boy was thinking only of his duty that he was doing so well. The
victory was his, as he knew that it would be. He kept even with the
speech. Hardly had the last word of the sentence left Jimmy Grayson's
lips before the first of it was on the way to Denver, and in newspaper
offices two thousand miles away they were putting every paragraph in
type before it was a half-hour old.
The boy, by-and-by, as the words passed before him on the written page,
began to notice what a great speech it was. How the sentences cut to the
heart of things! How luminous and striking was the phraseology! And
around him he heard, as if in a dream, the liquid notes of that
wonderful, golden voice. Suddenly, like a stroke of lightning, he
realized how empty were his own thoughts, how bare and hard his speech,
and how thin and flat his voice! His heart sank with a plunge, and then
rose again as his finger touched the familiar key and the answering
touch thrilled back through his body. He glanced at the audience, and
saw many faces looking up at him, and on them was a peculiar look. Again
the thrill ran through him, and, bending his head lower, he sent the
words faster than ever on their eastern journey.
At last Jimmy Grayson stopped, and then the audience cheered its
applause for the speech. When the echoes died, some one--it was Judge
Basset--sprang up on a chair and exclaimed:
"Gentlemen, we have cheered Mr. Grayson, and he deserves it; but there
is some one else whom we ought to cheer, too. You have seen Charlie
Moore, a Pueblo boy, one of our own, there in the box sending the speech
to the world that was waiting for it. Perhaps you do not know that if he
had not helped us to-night the world would have had to wait too long."
They dragged young Moore, amid the cheers, upon the stage, and then,
when the hush came, the candidate said:
"You seem to know him already; but as all the speaking of the evening is
now over, I wish to introduce to you again Mr. Charlie Moore, the
greatest telegraph-operator in the West, the genius of the key, a man
destined to rise to the highest place in his profession."
When the last echo of the last cheer died, there died with it the last
ambition of Charlie Moore to be a spellbinder, and straight before him,
broad, smooth, and alluring, lay the road for which his feet were
fitted.
But the words most grateful to Jimmy Grayson were the thanks of the
fledgling's father. The little drama of the side-box and the
telegraph-key was known to but five people--the candidate, Harley, the
two operators, and happy Mr. Moore. The old gentleman, indeed, said
something about Mr. Grayson having helped him, but it was taken by the
others to mean that a mere chance, a lucky combination of circumstances,
had come to his aid, and they failed to see in it anything of
prearrangement or even intention. Hence there appeared on the surface
nothing to be criticised even by Churchill, ever on the lookout for an
incident that seemed to him incongruous or irrelevant.
Harley made it an excuse for something that he wished very much to do.
About this time Mrs. Grayson, returning from Salt Lake City, rejoined
them, but she did not bring Sylvia with her, leaving her in the Mormon
capital for a further stay with relatives. But Harley wrote a long
letter to Sylvia, beginning with the story of the spellbinder, and he
told her that his admiration for the candidate steadily increased,
because Mr. Grayson was able, at all times, even in the heat of the
hottest campaign that the Union had ever known, to put the highest
attributes of the human heart--mercy, gentleness, help--before his own
political good or even that of his party. Mr. Grayson might be beaten,
but he would make a record that must become a source of pride, not to
his party alone, but to the whole country. In fact, Mr. Grayson belonged
to humanity, and the race might lay claim to him as one of its finest
types.