OPPORTUNITY KNOCKS AT BRUCE'S DOOR
On the following morning Bruce had just finished an editorial on
Doctor West's trial, and was busily thumping out an editorial on the
local political situation--the Republican and Democratic conventions
were both but a few days off--when, lifting his scowling gaze to his
window while searching for the particular word he needed, he saw
Katherine passing along the sidewalk across the street. Her face was
fresh, her step springy; hers was any but a downcast figure.
Forgetting his editorial, he watched her turn the corner of the Square
and go up the broad, worn steps of the dingy old county jail.
"Well, what do we think of her?" queried a voice at his elbow.
Bruce turned abruptly.
"Oh, it's you, Billy. D'you see Blake?"
"Yes." The young fellow sank loungingly into the atlas-seated chair.
"He wouldn't say anything definite. Said it was up to the convention
to pick the candidates. But it's plain Kennedy's his choice for
mayor, and we'll be playing perfectly safe in predicting Kennedy's
nomination."
"And Peck?"
"Blind Charlie said it was too early to make any forecasts. In doubt
as to whom they'd put forward for mayor."
"Would Blake say anything about Doctor West's conviction?"
"Sorry for Doctor West's sake--but the case was clear--trial fair--a
wholesome example to the city--and some more of that line of talk."
Bruce grunted.
The reporter leisurely lit a cigarette.
"But how about the lady lawyer, eh?" He playfully prodded his
superior's calf with his pointed shoe. "I suppose you'll fire me off
your rotten old sheet for saying it, but I still think she made a
damned good showing considering that she had no case--and considering
also that she was a woman." Again he thrust his toe into his chief.
"Considering she was a woman--eh, Arn?"
"Shut up, Billy, or I _will_ fire you," growled Bruce.
"Oh, all right," answered the other cheerfully. "After half a year of
the nerve-racking social whirl of this metropolis, I think it would be
sort of restful to be back in dear, little, quiet Chicago. But
seriously now, Arn, you've got to admit she's good-looking?"
"Good looks don't make a lawyer!" retorted Bruce.
"But she's clever--got ideas--opinions of her own, and strong ones
too."
"Perhaps."
The reporter blew out a cloud of smoke.
"Arn, I've been thinking about a very interesting possibility."
"Well, make it short, and get in there and write your story!"
"I've been thinking," continued Billy meditatively, "over what an
interesting situation it would make if the super-masculine editor of
the _Express_ should fall in love with the lady law----"
Bruce sprang up.
"Confound you, Billy! If I don't crack that empty little----"
But Billy, tilted back in his chair, held out his cigarette case
imperturbably.
"Take one, Arn. You'll find them very soothing for the nerves."
"You impertinent little pup, you!" He grabbed Billy by his long hair,
held him a moment--then grinned affectionately and took a cigarette.
"You're the worst ever!" He dropped back into his chair. "Now shut
up!"
"All right. But speaking impersonally, and with the unemotional
aloofness of a critic, you'll have to admit that it would make a good
dramatic situation."
"Blast you!" cried the editor. "Shall I fire you, or chuck you through
the window?"
"Inasmuch as our foremost scientists are uniformly agreed that certain
unpleasant results may eventuate when the force of gravitation brings
a human organism into sudden and severe juxtaposition with a cement
sidewalk, I humbly suggest that you fire me. Besides, that act will
automatically avenge me, for then your yellow old newspaper will go
plum to blazes!"
"For God's sake, Billy, get out of here and let me work!"
"But, seriously, Arn--I really am serious now"--and all the mischief
had gone out of the reporter's eyes--"that Miss West would have put up
a stunning fight if she had had any sort of a case. But she had
nothing to fight with. They certainly had the goods on her old man!"
Bruce turned from his machine and regarded the reporter thoughtfully.
Then he crossed and closed the door which was slightly ajar, and again
fixed his eyes searchingly on young Harper.
"Billy," he said in a low, impressive voice, "can you keep a big
secret?"
At Bruce's searching, thoughtful gaze a look of humility crept into
Billy's face.
"Oh, I know you've got every right to doubt me," he acknowledged. "I
certainly did leak a lot at the mouth in Chicago when I was boozing so
much. But you know since you pulled me out of that wild bunch I was
drinking my way to hell with and brought me down here, I've been
screwed tight as a board to the water-wagon!"
"I know it, Billy. I shouldn't for an instant----"
"And, Arn," interrupted Billy, putting his arm contritely across the
other's shoulder, "even though I do joke at you a little--simply can't
help it--you know how eternally grateful I am to you! You're giving me
the chance of my life to make a man of myself. People in this town
don't half appreciate you; they don't know you for what I know
you--the best fellow that ever happened!"
"There, there! Cut it out, cut it out!" said Bruce gruffly, gripping
the other's hand.
"That's always the way," said Billy, resentfully. "Your only fault is
that you are so infernally bull-headed that a fellow can't even thank
you."
"You're thanking me the right way when you keep yourself bolted fast
to the water-cart. What I started out to tell you, what I want you to
keep secret, is this: They put the wrong man in jail yesterday."
"What!" ejaculated Billy, springing up.
"I tell you this much because I want you to keep your eye on the
story. Hell's likely to break loose there any time, and I want you to
be ready to handle it in case I should have to be off the job."
"Good God, old man!" Billy stared at him. "What's behind all this? If
Doctor West's the wrong man, then who's the right one?"
"I can't tell you any more now."
"But how did you find this out?"
"I said I couldn't tell you any more."
A knowing look came slowly into Billy's face.
"H'm. So that was what Miss West called here about day before
yesterday."
"Get in there and write your story," said Bruce shortly, and again sat
down before his typewriter.
Billy stood rubbing his head dazedly for a long space, then he slowly
moved to the door. He opened it and paused.
"Oh, I say, Arn," he remarked in an innocent tone.
"Yes?"
"After all," he drawled, "it would make an interesting dramatic
situation, wouldn't it?"
Bruce whirled about and threw a statesman's year book, but young
Harper was already on the safe side of the door; and the incorrigible
Billy was saved from any further acts of reprisal being attempted
upon his person by the ringing of Bruce's telephone.
Bruce picked up the instrument.
"Hello. Who's this?" he demanded.
"Mr. Peck," was the answer.
"What! You don't mean 'Blind Charlie'?"
"Yes. I called up to see if you could come over to the hotel for a
little talk about politics."
"If you want to talk to me you know where to find me! Good-by!"
"Wait! Wait! What time will you be in?"
"The paper goes to press at two-thirty. Any time after then."
"I'll drop around before three."
Four hours later Bruce was glancing through that afternoon's paper,
damp from the press, when there entered his office a stout, half-bald
man of sixty-five, with loose, wrinkled, pouchy skin, drooping nose,
and a mouth--stained faintly brown at its corners--whose cunning was
not entirely masked by a good-natured smile. One eye had a shrewd and
beady brightness; the gray film over the other announced it without
sight. This was "Blind Charlie" Peck, the king of Calloway County
politics until Blake had hurled him from his throne.
Bruce greeted the fallen monarch curtly and asked him to sit down.
Bruce did not resume his seat, but half leaned against his desk and
eyed Blind Charlie with open disfavour.
The old man settled himself and smiled his good-natured smile at the
editor.
"Well, Mr. Bruce, this is mighty dry weather we're having."
"Yes. What do you want?"
"Well--well--" said the old man, a little taken aback, "you certainly
do jump into the middle of things."
"I've found that the quickest way to get there," retorted Bruce. "You
know there's no use in you and me wasting any words. You know well
enough what I think of you."
"I ought to," returned Blind Charlie, dryly, but with good humour.
"You've said it often enough."
"Well, that there may be no mistake about it, I'll say it once more.
You're a good-natured, good-hearted, cunning, unprincipled, hardened
old rascal of a politician. Now if you don't want to say what you came
here to say, the same route that brings you in here takes you out."
"Come, come," said the old man, soothingly. "I think you have said a
lot of harder things than were strictly necessary--especially since we
both belong to the same party."
"That's one reason I've said them. You've been running the party most
of your life--you're still running it--and see what you've made of
it. Every decent member is ashamed of it! It stinks all through the
state!"
Blind Charlie's face did not lose its smile of imperturbable good
nature. It was a tradition of Calloway County that he had never lost
his temper.
"You're a very young man, Mr. Bruce," said the old politician, "and
young blood loves strong language. But suppose we get away from
personalities, and get away from the party's past and talk about its
present and its future."
"I don't see that it has any present or future to talk about, with you
at the helm."
"Oh, come now! Granted that my ways haven't been the best for the
party. Granted that you don't like me. Is that any reason we shouldn't
at least talk things over? Now, I admit we don't stand the shadow of a
ghost's show this election unless we make some changes. You represent
the element in the party that has talked most for changes, and I have
come to get your views."
Bruce studied the loose-skinned, flabby face, wondering what was going
on behind that old mask.
"What are your own views?" he demanded shortly.
Blind Charlie had taken out a plug of tobacco and with a jack-knife
had cut off a thin slice. This, held between thumb and knife-blade,
he now slowly transferred to his mouth.
"Perhaps they're nearer your own than you think. I see, too, that the
old ways won't serve us now. Blake will put up a good ticket. I hear
Kennedy is to be his mayor. The whole ticket will be men who'll be
respectable, but they'll see that Blake gets what he wants. Isn't that
so?"
Bruce thought suddenly of Blake's scheme to capture the water-works.
"Very likely," he admitted.
"Now between ourselves," the old man went on confidingly, "we know
that Blake has been getting what he wants for years--of course in a
quiet, moderate way. Did you ever think of this, how the people here
call me a 'boss' but never think of Blake as one? Blake's an 'eminent
citizen.' When the fact is, he's a stronger, cleverer boss than I ever
was. My way is the old way; it's mostly out of date. Blake's way is
the new way. He's found out that the best method to get the people is
to be clean, or to seem clean. If I wanted a thing I used to go out
and grab it. If Blake wants a thing he makes it appear that he's
willing to go to considerable personal trouble to take it in order to
do a favour to the city, and the people fall all over themselves to
give it to him. He's got the churches lined up as solid behind him
as I used to have the saloons. Now I know we can't beat Blake with
the kind of a ticket our party has been putting up. And I know we
can't beat Blake with a respectable ticket, for between our
respectables----"
"Charlie Peck's respectables!" Bruce interrupted ironically.
"And Blake's respectables," the old man continued imperturbably, "the
people will choose Blake's. Are my conclusions right so far?"
"Couldn't be more right. What next?"
"As I figure it out, our only chance, and that a bare fighting chance,
is to put up men who are not only irreproachable, but who are radicals
and fighters. We've got to do something new, big, sensational, or
we're lost."
"Well?" said Bruce.
"I was thinking," said Blind Charlie, "that our best move would be to
run you for mayor."
"Me?" cried Bruce, starting forward.
"Yes. You've got ideas. And you're a fighter."
Bruce scrutinized the old face, all suspicion.
"See here, Charlie," he said abruptly, "what the hell's your game?"
"My game?"
"Oh, come! Don't expect me to believe in you when you pose as a
reformer!"
"See here, Bruce," said the other a little sharply, "you've called me
about every dirty word lying around handy in the Middle West. But you
never called me a hypocrite."
"No."
"Well, I'm not coming to you now pretending that I've been holding a
little private revival, and that I've been washed in the blood of the
Lamb."
"Then what's behind this? What's in it for you?"
"I'll tell you--though of course I can't make you believe me if you
don't want to. I'm getting pretty old--I'm sixty-seven. I may not live
till another campaign. I'd like to see the party win once more before
I go. That's one thing. Another is, I've got it in for Blake, and want
to see him licked. I can't do either in my way. I can possibly do both
in your way. Mere personal satisfaction like this would have been
mighty little for me to have got out of an election in the old days.
But it's better than nothing at all"--smiling good-naturedly--"even to
a cunning, unprincipled, hardened old rascal of a politician."
"But what's the string tied to this offer?"
"None. You can name the ticket, write the platform----"
"It would be a radical one!" warned Bruce.
"It would have to be radical. Our only chance is in creating a
sensation."
"And if elected?"
"You shall make every appointment without let or hindrance. I know I'd
be a fool to try to bind you in any way."
Bruce was silent a long time, studying the wrinkled old face.
"Well, what do you say?" queried Blind Charlie.
"Frankly, I don't like being mixed up with you."
"But you believe in using existing party machinery, don't you? You've
said so in the _Express_."
"Yes. But I also have said that I don't believe in using it the way
you have."
"Well, here's your chance to take it and use it your own way."
"But what show would I stand? Feeling in town is running strong
against radical ideas."
"I know, I know. But you are a fighter, and with your energy you might
turn the current. Besides, something big may happen before election."
That same thought had been pulsing excitedly in Bruce's brain these
last few minutes. If Katherine could only get her evidence!
Bruce moved to the window and looked out so that that keen one eye of
Blind Charlie might not perceive the exultation he could no longer
keep out of his face. Bruce did not see the tarnished dome of the
Court House--nor the grove of broad elms, shrivelled and dusty--nor
the enclosing quadrangle of somnolent, drooping farm horses. He was
seeing this town shaken as by an explosion. He was seeing cataclysmic
battle, with Blind Charlie become a nonentity, Blake completely
annihilated, and himself victorious at the front. And, dream of his
dreams! he was seeing himself free to reshape Westville upon his own
ideals.
"Well, what do you say?" asked Blind Charlie.
Controlling himself, Bruce turned about.
"I accept, upon the conditions you have named. But at the first sign
of an attempt to limit those conditions, I throw the whole business
overboard."
"There will be no such attempt, so we can consider the matter
settled." Blind Charlie held out his hand, which Bruce, with some
hesitation, accepted. "I congratulate you, I congratulate myself, I
congratulate the party. With you as leader, I think we've all got a
fighting chance to win."
They discussed details of Bruce's candidacy, they discussed the
convention; and a little later Blind Charlie departed. Bruce, fists
deep in trousers pockets, paced up and down his little office, or sat
far down in his chair gazing at nothing, in excited, searching
thought. Billy Harper and other members of the staff, who came in to
him with questions, were answered absently with monosyllables. At
length, when the Court House clock droned the hour of five through the
hot, burnt-out air, Bruce washed his hands and brawny fore-arms at the
old iron sink in the rear of the reporter's room, put on his coat, and
strode up Main Street. But instead of following his habit and turning
off into Station Avenue, where was situated the house in which he and
Old Hosie ate and slept and had their quarrels, he continued his way
and turned into an avenue beyond--on his face the flush of defiant
firmness of the bold man who finds himself doing the exact thing he
had sworn that he would never do.
He swung open the gate of the West yard, and with firm step went up to
the house and rang the bell. When the screen swung open Katherine
herself was in the doorway--looking rather excited, trimly dressed, on
her head a little hat wound with a veil.
"May I come in?" he asked shortly.
"Why, certainly," and she stepped aside.
"I didn't know."
He bowed and entered the parlour and stood rather stiffly in the
centre of the room.
"My reason for daring to violate your prohibition of three days ago,
and enter this house, is that I have something to tell you that may
prove to have some bearing upon your father's case."
"Please sit down. When I apologized to you I considered the apology as
equivalent to removing all signs against trespassing."
They sat down, and for a moment they gazed at each other, still
feeling themselves antagonists, though allies--she smilingly at her
ease, he grimly serious.
"Now, please, what is it?" she asked.
Bruce, speaking reservedly at first, told her of Blind Charlie's
offer. As he spoke he warmed up and was quite excited when he ended.
"And now," he cried, "don't you see how this works in with the fight
to clear your father? It's a great opportunity--haven't thought out
yet just how we can use it--that will depend upon developments,
perhaps--but it's a great opportunity! We'll sweep Blake completely
and utterly from power, reinstate your father in position and honour,
and make Westville the finest city of the Middle West!"
But she did not seem to be fired by the torch of his enthusiasm. In
fact, there was a thoughtful, questioning look upon her face.
"Well, what do you think of it?" he demanded.
"I have been given to understand," she said pleasantly, "that it is
unwomanly to have opinions upon politics."
He winced.
"This is hardly the time for sarcasm. What do you think?"
"If you want my frank opinion, I am rather inclined to beware of
Greeks bearing gifts," she replied.
"What do you mean?"
"When a political boss, and a boss notoriously corrupt, offers an
office to a good man, I think the good man should be very, very
suspicious."
"You think Peck has some secret corrupt purpose? I've been
scrutinizing the offer for two hours. I know the ins and outs of the
local political situation from A to Z. I know all Peck's tricks. But I
have not found the least trace of a hidden motive."
"Perhaps you haven't found it because it's hidden so shrewdly, so
deeply, that it can't be seen."
"I haven't found it because it's not there to find!" retorted Bruce.
"Peck's motive is just what he told me; I'm convinced he was telling
the truth. It's a plain case, and not an uncommon case, of a
politician preferring the chance of victory with a good ticket, to
certain defeat with a ticket more to his liking."
"I judge, then, that you are inclined to accept."
"I have accepted," said Bruce.
"I hope it will turn out better than worst suspicion might make us
fear."
"Oh, it will!" he declared. "And mark me, it's going to turn out a
far bigger thing for your father than you seem to realize."
"I hope that more fervently than do you!"
"I suppose you are going to keep up your fight for your father?"
"I expect to do what I can," she answered calmly.
"What are you going to do?"
She smiled sweetly, apologetically.
"You forget only one day has passed since the trial. You can hardly
expect a woman's mind to lay new plans as quickly as a man's."
Bruce looked at her sharply, as though there might be irony in this;
but her face was without guile. She glanced at her watch.
"Pardon me," he said, noticing this action and standing up. "You have
your hat on; you were going out?"
"Yes. And I'm afraid I must ask you to excuse me." She gave him her
hand. "I hope you don't mind my saying it, but if I were you I'd keep
all the eyes I've got on Mr. Peck."
"Oh, I'll not let him fool me!" he answered confidently.
As he walked out of the yard he was somewhat surprised to see the
ancient equipage of Mr. Huggins waiting beside the curb. And he was
rather more surprised when a few minutes later, as he neared his home,
Mr. Huggins drove past him toward the station, with Katherine in the
seat behind him. In response to her possessed little nod he amazedly
lifted his hat. "Now what the devil is she up to?" he ejaculated, and
stared after her till the old carriage turned in beside the station
platform. As he reached his gate the eastbound Limited came roaring
into the station. The truth dawned upon him. "By God," he cried, "if
she isn't going back to New York!"