Bill jumped from bed as the rattle of the latch announced the arrival
of a visitor. Without waiting for the formality of more than a
bathrobe, Rosy Raymond's last birthday gift to him, he bolted down the
stairs and across the office. He flung the door open and disclosed the
hazy features of Kelly Jones, peering at him through the November fog.
"What, ho! Kelly, what brings you to our door in the glooming?"
Kelly shook the rain from his slicker and came inside.
"Wife called me at three o'clock," he announced. "Had my breakfast and
rid like hell to git to town early. I want to cast the fu'st vote for
Wat for governor."
Bill yawned.
"You could have ridden more leisurely, and saved us a couple of hours'
sleep," he complained. "There are at least a thousand voters of
Bloomtown with that same laudable intention. Tom Granger has been
missing since seven o'clock last night. It is believed that he is
locked in the booth so that his vote will skin the rest."
Kelly looked ruefully back into the rain.
"I reckon that I will come in and set a while, that bein' the report."
"Any man found voting for Jones is to be lynched at sunset," declared
Bill, pushing a chair forward.
"Reckon this'll be a big day for the Democrats," commented Kelly,
stretching his feet across the table comfortably. "'Tain't nothin' to
keep 'em home, so they'll kill time, votin'. That's why I allus cussed
my daddy for raisin' me a Democrat. Bein' as I am one, I've got to
stick by and see the durn fools shuckin' corn while the Republicans are
haulin' their grand-daddies in town to vote the Republicans in."
Bill retired to don a few garments and Jap tumbled from bed, for this
was a big day in Bloomtown. Before six o'clock the roads were lined
with vehicles, as for an Independence holiday. The county was coming
in to help the town vote for her favorite son.
About noon Harlow came creeping up the alley and slipped in at the back
door. He wore a slicker that he had borrowed from some constituent who
was short. It hung sorrowfully about his knees. Bill remembered that
in spike-tail coat and white necktie Wat Harlow looked enough like a
governor to pass for one, but just now he resembled nothing so much as
a draggled rooster. The stove in the little private office hissed and
sputtered as he shook the rain from the coat.
"I thought that the only place that victory would be complete would be
the _Herald_ office," he said, relaxing into a chair. "And if we are
beat, I could meet it better here." He took a paper in his shaking
hands and tried to read.
The rain poured in torrents, but Bloomtown cast her record vote--and
not one scurrilous vote against him dropped into the ballot box. At
sunset a wild yell proclaimed that Bloomtown had done her duty. It was
now up to the rest of the state whether Wat Harlow, proclaimed from
border to border as an honest man, would be its next governor. On his
record as opposed to State University graft, he had once been elected
to the legislature when the running was close. On that same record, as
opposed to higher education, he was defeated for United States
Congressman, and on that same record he was running for governor of his
state.
The _Herald_ office lighted up. All the big men of Bloomtown smoked
the air blue, waiting for the returns. First good, then crushingly
bad, they varied. By the tone of the operator's yell, the waiters
guessed each bulletin. If he came silent, they all coughed and waited
for some one to take the fatal slip of paper. The dawn was graying
when they dispersed, with the issue still in doubt. It was late
afternoon before they knew that Harlow was elected. Bill grinned
joyously, for the first time since Rosy Raymond carried her heart to
Barton and left it there.
"How many roosters have we?" he asked impishly, as he walked over to
the telephone.
"Why?" queried Jap.
"I am going to 'phone Jones that we want to borrow all that he don't
need," said Bill, taking the receiver from the hook.
"We done it!" yelled Kelly Jones, slapping his slouch hat against the
door. "And I'm goin' over to Barton and git on the hell-firedest drunk
that that jay town ever seen. Whoopee!" And off he set at a run to
catch the local freight.
About half of Bloomtown seemed inspired with the same spirit, and the
freight pulled out amid wild yells of joy. Several of the most agile
among the jubilant ones draped the box cars with strips of faded, soggy
bunting, and Harlow's picture adorned the cow-catcher. The yelling,
that had been discontinued for economic reasons, was resumed in raucous
chorus as the train rolled into Barton to celebrate Harlow's victory in
Jones's town.
The Bloomtown _Herald_ did itself proud that week. A mammoth picture
of the Lone Pine stood forth on the front page. Around it fluttered
one hundred flags. Every page sported roosters and flags in each
available space, between local readers and editorial paragraphs. It
was a thing of beauty and a joy forever--at least to Wat Harlow. One
other cut found place at the bottom of the editorial page. Bill did
not forget to boomerang Wilfred Jones by reprinting the weeping angel.
For a week there were bonfires every night, and a number of Bloomtown's
citizens sought to lighten Barton's woes by buying fire-water there.
Wat swelled until he looked more like a corpulent oak than a lone pine.
"My house is yours," he cried, alternately wringing Jap and Bill by
their weary hands. He had come across once more from his headquarters
in the Court House to make sure his appreciation was understood. Jap
smiled wanly as the village band followed him with its intermittent
serenade.
Bloomtown had long since outgrown the village class; but not a drum nor
a horn had encroached upon the old traditions of that band. Mike
Hawkins was far too conservative to permit innovation, and as there was
no provision for retiring the bandmaster on half pay, the problem of
dividing nothing in half having as yet been unsolved, Mike continued to
hold the job. All day the band had been vibrating between the Court
House and the _Herald_ office, having delivered ten serenades at each
side of Main street, for it was understood that the _Herald_ shared the
victory with Harlow. As the Governor-elect retreated to the other side
of the street, the band at his heels, Bill groaned aloud.
"I wish that that bunch of musicians had had more confidence that Wat
was going to get it," he sighed, "so that they could have learned one
tune good."
Kelly Jones was capering down the street. Kelly had absorbed enough of
Barton booze to make him believe he owned the half of Bloomtown that
did not belong to Wat Harlow. He had been having what Bill described
as "one large, full time." As he came in sight, Bill's brow darkened.
"I've been afraid that Kelly would burst and catch fire," he said
morosely, "and now, by jolly, I wish he would. It's funny how much
your good friends will get in your way when they pair off with John
Barleycorn. Kelly is certainly one ding-buster when he is lit up."
Jap leaned from the door to watch the procession that had formed for
the purpose of escorting Wat Harlow to the station.
"Kelly's time is wrinkling," he laughed. "Here comes Mrs. Kelly Jones,
with worriment on her brow."
Bill ran his inky fingers through his hair. Something was troubling
him.
"Jap," he said as he walked toward the door of the composing room,
"that skunk of a Jones----"
"Who? Kelly?"
"Oh, no." Bill wheeled, and his face was deadly earnest. "Kelly's not
a skunk, even when he has soaked up all the rotgut in Barton. But I
had Kelly Jones in the back of my head, just the same, when I mentioned
the honorable Editor of the Barton _Standard_. It's getting under my
skin, Jap, the way he has of tempting these Bloomtown fools over to his
filthy village to get the booze we won't let 'em have at home, and then
holding them up to ridicule when they make asses of themselves."
"It's one of the angles of this problem that I haven't figured out
yet," Jap said earnestly. "Do you think it would do any good to go
gunning for Jones?"
"I've thought of that possibility several times," and Bill's tone was
not entirely humorous.
Jap shoved his stool to the case. As he climbed upon it, he sighed
uneasily. It had been sixteen months since Wilfred Jones turned the
neat trick that left Bill disconsolate, and still the venom lingered in
the bereft boy's heart. To Jap, with his standard of womanhood
established by Flossy and Isabel, the thing was monstrous,
inconceivable. And yet it was a fact to be faced.
"We'll have to get busy, Bill," he said. "We've got enough job work on
the hooks to keep us up till midnight for a week. We haven't done a
thing the last month but elect Wat Harlow."
"I hope to grab he won't run for another office till I have six sons to
help me," Bill snorted.
Jap heaved a sudden sigh of relief.
"Looking out again, Bill?" he asked, jerking his thumb in the direction
of the vacant photograph frame above Bill's case.