THE BUBBLE REPUTATION
Despite its thirty thousand population--"Forty thousand, and growing,
sir!" loyally declared those disinterested citizens engaged in the
sale of remote fields of ragweed as building lots--Westville was still
but half-evolved from its earlier state of an overgrown country town.
It was as yet semi-pastoral, semi-urban. Automobiles and farm wagons
locked hubs in brotherly embrace upon its highways; cowhide boots and
patent leather shared its sidewalks. There was a stockbroker's office
that was thoroughly metropolitan in the facilities it afforded the
elite for relieving themselves of the tribulation of riches; and
adjoining it was Simpson Brothers & Company, wherein hick'ry-shirted
gentlemen bartered for threshing machines, hayrakes, axle grease, and
such like baubles of Arcadian pastime.
There were three topics on which one could always start an argument in
Westville--politics, religion, and the editor of the _Express_. A
year before Arnold Bruce, who had left Westville at eighteen and whom
the town had vaguely heard of as a newspaper man in Chicago and New
York but whom it had not seen since, had returned home and taken
charge of the _Express_, which had been willed him by the late editor,
his uncle. The _Express_, which had been a slippered, dozing, senile
sheet under old Jimmie Bruce, burst suddenly into a volcanic youth.
The new editor used huge, vociferous headlines instead of the mere
whispering, timorous types of his uncle; he wrote a rousing,
rough-and-ready English; occasionally he placed an important
editorial, set up in heavy-faced type and enclosed in a black border,
in the very centre of his first page; and from the very start he had
had the hardihood to attack the "established order" at several points
and to preach unorthodox political doctrines. The wealthiest citizens
were outraged, and hotly denounced Bruce as a "yellow journalist" and
a "red-mouthed demagogue." It was commonly held by the better element
that his ultra-democracy was merely a mask, a pose, an advertising
scheme, to gather in the gullible subscriber and to force himself
sensationally into the public eye.
But despite all hostile criticism of the paper, people read the
_Express_--many staid ones surreptitiously--for it had a snap, a go, a
tang, that at times almost took the breath. And despite the estimate
of its editor as a charlatan, the people had yielded to that
aggressive personage a rank of high importance in their midst.
Bruce stepped forth from his stairway, crossed Main Street, and strode
up the shady Court House walk. On the left side of the walk, a-tiptoe
in an arid fountain, was poised a gracious nymph of cast-iron, so
chastely garbed as to bring to the cheek of elderly innocence no
faintest flush. On the walk's right side stood a rigid statue,
suggesting tetanus in the model, of the city's founder, Col. Davy
West, wearing a coonskin cap and leaning with conscious dignity upon a
long deer rifle.
Bruce entered the dingy Court House, mounted a foot-worn wooden
stairway, browned with the ambrosial extract of two generations of
tobacco-chewing litigants, and passed into a damp and gloomy chamber.
This room was the office of the prosecuting attorney of Calloway
County. That the incumbent might not become too depressed by his
environment, the walls were cheered up by a steel engraving of Daniel
Webster, frowning with multitudinous thought, and by a crackled map of
Indiana--the latter dotted by industrious flies with myriad nameless
cities.
Three men arose from about the flat-topped desk in the centre of the
room, the prosecutor, the Reverend Doctor Sherman, and a rather
smartly dressed man whom Bruce remembered to have seen once or twice
but whom he did not know. With the first two the editor shook hands,
and the third was introduced to him as Mr. Marcy, the agent of the
Acme Filter Company, which had installed the filtering plant of the
new water-works.
Bruce turned in his brusque manner to the prosecuting attorney.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
"Suppose we all sit down first," suggested the prosecutor.
They did so, and Kennedy regarded Bruce with a solemn, weighty stare.
He was a lank, lantern-jawed, frock-coated gentleman of thirty-five,
with an upward rolling forelock and an Adam's-apple that throbbed in
his throat like a petrified pulse. He was climbing the political
ladder, and he was carefully schooling himself into that dignity and
poise and appearance of importance which should distinguish the
deportment of the public man.
"Well, what is it?" demanded Bruce shortly. "About the water-works?"
"Yes," responded Kennedy. "The water-works, Mr. Bruce, is, I hardly
need say, a source of pride to us all. To you especially it has had a
large significance. You have made it a theme for a continuous
agitation in your paper. You have argued and urged that, since the
city's new water-works promised to be such a great success, Westville
should not halt with this one municipal enterprise, but should refuse
the new franchise the street railway company is going to apply for,
take over the railway, run it as a municipal----"
"Yes, yes," interrupted Bruce impatiently. "But who's dead? Who wants
the line of march changed to go by his grocery store?"
"What I was saying was merely to recall how very important the
water-works has been to us," the prosecutor returned, with increased
solemnity. He paused, and having gained that heightened stage effect
of a well-managed silence, he continued: "Mr. Bruce, something very
serious has occurred."
For all its ostentation the prosecutor's manner was genuinely
impressive. Bruce looked quickly at the other two men. The agent was
ill at ease, the minister pale and agitated.
"Come," cried Bruce, "out with what you've got to tell me!"
"It is a matter of the very first importance," returned the
prosecutor, who was posing for a prominent place in the _Express's_
account of this affair--for however much the public men of Westville
affected to look down upon the _Express_, they secretly preferred its
superior presentment of their doings. "Doctor Sherman, in his
capacity of president of the Voters' Union, has just brought before me
some most distressing, most astounding evidence. It is evidence upon
which I must act both as a public official and as a member of the
Arrangements Committee, and evidence which concerns you both as a
committeeman and as an editor. It is painful to me to break----"
"Let's have it from first hands," interrupted Bruce, irritated by the
verbal excelsior which the prosecutor so deliberately unwrapped from
about his fact.
He turned to the minister, a slender man of hardly more than thirty,
with a high brow, the wide, sensitive mouth of the born orator,
fervently bright eyes, and the pallor of the devoted student--a face
that instantly explained why, though so young, he was Westville's most
popular divine.
"What's it about, Doctor Sherman?" the editor asked. "Who's the man?"
There was no posing here for Bruce's typewriter. The minister's
concern was deep and sincere.
"About the water-works, as Mr. Kennedy has said," he answered in a
voice that trembled with agitation. "There has been some--some crooked
work."
"Crooked work?" ejaculated the editor, staring at the minister.
"Crooked work?"
"Yes."
"You are certain of what you say?"
"Yes."
"Then you have evidence?"
"I am sorry--but--but I have."
The editor was leaning forward, his nostrils dilated, his eyes
gleaming sharply behind their thick glasses.
"Who's mixed up in it? Who's the man?"
The minister's hands were tightly interlocked. For an instant he
seemed unable to speak.
"Who's the man?" repeated Bruce.
The minister swallowed.
"Doctor West," he said.
Bruce sprang up.
"Doctor West?" he cried. "The superintendent of the water-works?"
"Yes."
If the editor's concern for the city's welfare was merely a political
and business pose, if he was merely an actor, at least he acted his
part well. "My God!" he breathed, and stood with eyes fixed upon the
young minister. Then suddenly he sat down again, his thick brows drew
together, and his heavy jaws set.
"Let's have the whole story," he snapped out. "From the very
beginning."
"I cannot tell you how distressed I am by what I have just been forced
to do," began the young clergyman. "I have always esteemed Doctor
West most highly, and my wife and his daughter have been the closest
friends since girlhood. To make my part in this affair clear, I must
recall to you that of late the chief attention of the Voters' Union
has naturally been devoted to the water-works. I never imagined that
anything was wrong. But, speaking frankly, after the event, I must say
that Doctor West's position was such as made it a simple matter for
him to defraud the city should he so desire."
"You mean because the council invested him with so much authority?"
demanded Bruce.
"Yes. As I have said, I regarded Doctor West above all suspicion. But
a short time ago some matters--I need not detail them--aroused in me
the fear that Doctor West was using his office for--for----"
"For graft?" supplied Bruce.
The minister inclined his head.
"Later, only a few weeks ago, a more definite fear came to me," he
continued in his low, pained voice. "It happens that I have known Mr.
Marcy here for years; we were friends in college, though we had lost
track of one another till his business brought him here. A few small
circumstances--my suspicion was already on the alert--made me guess
that Mr. Marcy was about to give Doctor West a bribe for having
awarded the filter contract to his company. I got Mr. Marcy
alone--taxed him with his intention--worked upon his conscience----"
"Mr. Marcy has stated," the prosecutor interrupted to explain, "that
Doctor Sherman always had great influence over him."
Mr. Marcy corroborated this with a nod.
"At length Mr. Marcy confessed," Doctor Sherman went on. "He had
arranged to give Doctor West a certain sum of money immediately after
the filtering plant had been approved and payment had been made to the
company. After this confession I hesitated long upon what I should do.
On the one hand, I shrank from disgracing Doctor West. On the other, I
had a duty to the city. After a long struggle I decided that my
responsibility to the people of Westville should overbalance any
feeling I might have for any single individual."
"That was the only decision," said Bruce. "Go on!"
"But at the same time, to protect Doctor West's reputation, I decided
to take no one into my plan; should his integrity reassert itself at
the last moment and cause him to refuse the bribe, the whole matter
would then remain locked up in my heart. I arranged with Mr. Marcy
that he should carry out his agreement with Doctor West. Day before
yesterday, as you know, the council, on Doctor West's recommendation,
formally approved the filtering plant, and yesterday a draft was sent
to the company. Mr. Marcy was to call at Doctor West's home this
morning to conclude their secret bargain. Just before the appointed
hour I dropped in on Doctor West, and was there when Mr. Marcy called.
I said I would wait to finish my talk with Doctor West till they were
through their business, took a book, and went into an adjoining room.
I could see the two men through the partly opened door. After some
talk, Mr. Marcy drew an envelope from his pocket and handed it to
Doctor West, saying in a low voice, 'Here is that money we spoke
about.'"
"And he took it?" Bruce interrupted.
"Doctor West slipped the envelope unopened into his pocket, and
replied, 'Thank you very much; it will come in very handy just now.'"
"My God!" breathed the editor.
"Though I had suspected Doctor West, I sat there stunned," the
minister continued. "But after a minute or two I slipped out by
another door. I returned with a policeman, and found Doctor West still
with Mr. Marcy. The policeman arrested Doctor West, and found the
envelope upon his person. In it was two thousand dollars."
"Now, what do you think of that?" Kennedy demanded of the editor.
"Won't the town be thunderstruck!"
Bruce turned to the agent, who had sat through the recital, a mere
corroborative presence.
"And this is all true?"
"That is exactly the way it happened," replied Mr. Marcy.
Bruce looked back at the minister.
"But didn't he have anything to say for himself?"
"I can answer that," put in Kennedy. "I had him in here before I sent
him over to the jail. He admits practically every point that Doctor
Sherman has made. The only thing he says for himself is that he never
thought the money Mr. Marcy gave him was intended for a bribe."
Bruce stood up, his face hard and glowering, and his fist crashed
explosively down upon the table.
"Of all the damned flimsy defenses that ever a man made, that's the
limit!"
"It certainly won't go down with the people of Westville," commented
the prosecutor. "And I can see the smile of the jury when he produces
that defense in court."
"I should say they would smile!" cried Bruce. "But what was his
motive?"
"That's plain enough," answered the prosecutor. "We both know, Mr.
Bruce, that he has earned hardly anything from the practice of
medicine since we were boys. His salary as superintendent of the
water-works was much less than he has been spending. His property is
mortgaged practically to its full value. Everything has gone on those
experiments of his. It's simply a case of a man being in a tight fix
for money."
Bruce was striding up and down the room, scowling and staring fiercely
at the worn linoleum that carpeted the prosecutor's office.
"I thought you'd take it rather hard," said Kennedy, a little slyly.
"It sort of puts a spoke in that general municipal ownership scheme of
yours--eh?"
Bruce paused belligerently before the prosecutor.
"See here, Kennedy," he snapped out. "Because a man you've banked on
is a crook, does that prove a principle is wrong?"
"Oh, I guess not," Kennedy had to admit.
"Well, suppose you cut out that kind of talk then. But what are you
going to do about the doctor?"
"The grand jury is in session. I'm going straight before it with the
evidence. An hour from now and Doctor West will be indicted."
"And what about to-morrow's show?"
"What do you think we ought to do?"
"What ought we to do!" Again the editor's fist crashed upon the desk.
"The celebration was half in Doctor West's honour. Do we want to meet
and hurrah for the man that sold us out? As for the water-works, it
looks as if, for all we know, he might have bought us a lot of old
junk. Do we want to hold a jubilee over a junk pile? You ask what we
ought to do. God, man, there's only one thing to do, and that's to
call the whole damned performance off!"
"That's my opinion," said the prosecutor. "What do you think, Doctor
Sherman?"
The young minister wiped his pale face.
"It's a most miserable affair. I'm sick because of the part I've been
forced to play--I'm sorry for Doctor West--and I'm particularly sorry
for his daughter--but I do not see that any other course would be
possible."
"I suppose we ought to consult Mr. Blake," said Kennedy.
"He's not in town," returned Bruce. "And we don't need to consult him.
We three are a majority of the committee. The matter has to be settled
at once. And it's settled all right!"
The editor jerked out his watch, glanced at it, then reached for his
hat.
"I'll have this on the street in an hour--and if this town doesn't go
wild, then I don't know Westville!"
He was making for the door, when the newspaper man in him recalled a
new detail of his story. He turned back.
"How about this daughter of Doctor West?" he asked.
The prosecutor looked at the minister.
"Was she coming home for the celebration, do you know?"
"Yes. She wrote Mrs. Sherman she was leaving New York this morning and
would get in here to-morrow on the Limited."
"What's she like?" asked Bruce.
"Haven't you seen her?" asked Kennedy.
"She hasn't been home since I came back to Westville. When I left here
she was a tomboy--mostly legs and freckles."
The prosecutor's lean face crinkled with a smile.
"I guess you'll find she's grown right smart since then. She went to
one of those colleges back East; Vassar, I think it was. She got hold
of some of those new-fangled ideas the women in the East are crazy
over now--about going out in the world for themselves, and----"
"Idiots--all of them!" snapped Bruce.
"After she graduated, she studied law. When she was back home two
years ago she asked me what chance a woman would have to practise law
in Westville. A woman lawyer in Westville--oh, Lord!"
The prosecutor leaned back and laughed at the excruciating humour of
the idea.
"Oh, I know the kind!" Bruce's lips curled with contempt.
"Loud-voiced--aggressive--bony--perfect frights."
"Let me suggest," put in Doctor Sherman, "that Miss West does not
belong in that classification."
"Yes, I guess you're a little wrong about Katherine West," smiled
Kennedy.
Bruce waved his hand peremptorily. "They're all the same! But what's
she doing in New York? Practising law?"
"No. She's working for an organization something like Doctor
Sherman's--The Municipal League, I think she called it."
"Huh!" grunted Bruce. "Well, whatever she's like, it's a pretty mess
she's coming back into!"
With that the editor pulled his hat tightly down upon his forehead and
strode out of the Court House and past the speakers' stand, across
whose front twin flags were being leisurely festooned. Back in his own
office he picked up the story he had finished an hour before. With a
sneer he tore it across and trampled it under foot. Then, jerking a
chair forward to his typewriter, his brow dark, his jaw set, he began
to thump fiercely upon the keys.