It was the year of a great political revival--coming none too soon.
It is a part of the history of human progress that grand moral
movements, once they have fulfilled their immediate purpose, swing
backward to the establishment of some new abuse. The net gain is,
no doubt, century by century, continuous. But to those who look for
episodic interest rather than epochal meaning the march of the race must
often seem crab like--as when a Henry VIII utilizes a reforming
revolt to crush and plunder a vast system of benefaction, and create
a hard-fisted, commercial plutocracy with one hand, while calling into
existence with the other a permanent class of starving poor; or when a
Bonaparte makes the waning impetus of a democratic uprising serve his
imperial ambition, and converts the legions of the Republic into the
guards of a Caesar.
So, in our own time, in our own country, craft and greed had climbed to
the control of a great organization, baptized in the name of Freedom
and excited still with the thoughts of its tremendous achievements, and
diverted its forces to the service of base ends.
This ignoble mastery had not gone unchallenged. More than one revolt
against it had given promise, for a little, of success. But each in its
failure had but repeated the familiar experience of yeomanry against
trained troops, of sporadic, scattering popular impulses against the
cool, consecutive plans of organized power. But it is the fate of
despotisms, whether of a man or of a machine, to by excesses sap their
own foundations. There came a time when the political usurpers who,
through the listlessness of some citizens, the ancient prejudices of
others, the mean lust for profit and place of still a third class, had
attained power, went just a step too far.
As this is a romance, and not a political history, it is permitted to
avoid both dates and any details which might seem to fix a particular
occurrence, and ask the reader to conceive that the crisis grew out of
the manner in which these politicians obtained control of an imaginary
but important Convention--that they bribed delegates, that they
forged telegrams to secure a majority for themselves on the organizing
committee, and that they made drunk the poor tool they had selected for
Chairman and locked him in his hotel room that he might not escape them.
It strains credulity to assume all this, I know, but its acceptance is
essential to the story. Fortunately it is less difficult to credit the
corollary--that the decent people of the State, led by an honest press,
rose _en masse_ and pulverized this machine at the following election.
It was at the outset of this crisis that Seth became Editor of the
Tecumseh _Chronicle_. The young man had been, it need scarcely be said,
deeply interested in the events which led up to it, and when the first
of the party papers came out frankly, the morning after the Convention,
refusing to support its nominations, he was in a tremor of delight. He
scarcely dared hope that the _Chronicle_ would follow their lead, but
still he did hope. Mr. Samboye remained downstairs in consultation
with Mr. Workman longer than usual on that eventful forenoon. They were
settling the policy of the paper, of course, and the young news editor,
perfunctorily weeding out copy for the “first side,” was conscious all
the while of being eagerly anxious to know what this policy was to be.
Mr. Samboye presently came up, took his seat without the ordinary
prelude of conversation, and began writing. He finished his article,
still without a word to any one, and took it down to Mr. Workman. He was
absent but a few moments. On his return Seth asked him:
“Do we bolt the ticket?”
Before he could answer, a telegraph boy came running up the stairs (this
one actually did run) with a dispatch for Mr. Samboye. The editor opened
and read it in a puzzled way at first, then more carefully and with
a light of comprehension on his broad face. He folded the telegram up
carefully, put it into his inner vest pocket and said to Seth:
“No, we occupy a picturesque position on the top rail of the fence.”
The editor did not seem quite himself that day. He stayed about the
editorial room instead of going out to lunch, until the leader proof was
ready, and then he asked to read it himself, instead of letting it go in
the ordinary course to the proof-reader. He made a good many corrections
on it, which was unusual for him. Finally, about half-an-hour before the
paper went to press, he took his departure, saying briefly to Seth that
he would not return that day.
Two hours later the office boy summoned Seth to the counting-room below.
Mr. Workman sat alone at his desk, with the day’s _Chronicle_ spread out
before him, and with the original proof-sheet of the leader in his hand.
He motioned Seth to close the doors, and to take a seat close beside
him.
“You have read this leader?” he asked, after a moment’s silence.
“Yes.”
“What do you think of it?”
“I shouldn’t like to say all that I think of it.”
“Neither should I,” replied Mr. Workman with an iron-clad smile. He
was very pale, and Seth scented a storm in the manner in which the grim
smile faded from his face after an instant of hovering, as a gleam of
wintry sunshine passes off the snow. “There’s a story--a very curious
story--back of this leader. I only know part of it; perhaps you can help
me to get at the rest.”
Not knowing what to say, Seth remained silent. The proprietor continued:
“When this leader left my hands this morning, it bolted the ticket, out
and out. There was no mistake about it. It was squarefooted. As it is
now, it’s neither fish, flesh nor fowl. It condemns the Convention and
the frauds, but it practically says that the result must be accepted.
The worst of it is I didn’t see the paper until the edition had been
worked off. The alterations in the proof here, which make all the
difference between white and black, are in Samboye’s hand. Did he say
anything to you about it? Was anybody up in the editorial room to see
him?”
“No one came up to see him; he said nothing to me except that we were on
the fence. That disgusted me so much that I asked nothing further.”
“Did he say that when he came up from here--or later, after he had gone
over the proof?”
“He said it when--or no, hold on--he received a dispatch just before;”
and Seth recounted the episode of the telegram.
Mr. Workman was much impressed with this. He covered his blotter thick
with scrolls and geometrical figures while he pondered it. At last he
spoke.
“You don’t know where the telegram came from?--no, of course not. I
think I know about where, and I think I can guess about what it said. It
said that, in this matter of bolting tickets, one day’s delay might make
an immense amount of difference, and that it would be worth his while
to keep the _Chronicle_ non-committal in its first issue by hook or
by crook. Take my word for it, that is what it said in substance. The
fellows who sent it were scared about the _Chronicle_. They knew what an
effect its course would have on the weeklies, most of which go to press
to-morrow. They couldn’t spend money better than in having us accept
the ticket, and not only commit ourselves but the country editors--and
_they’ve bought Samboye!_”
There was a long silence. The two men looked at each other. Finally
Workman said:
“The worst feature of it is, there is no way of getting at the thing--of
proving it. I suppose I could get an order compelling the Company to
produce the telegram, but I am not sure, and then it would be a big
scandal and a big expense.” He lapsed into pencil work again and sighed.
“But is Samboye that kind of man?” asked Seth. “Oh yes, I have no
illusions on that score. I very nearly caught him in a thing of this
sort--on a smaller scale, of course--three years ago.”
“But why then----”
“Why have I kept him? You were going to ask. Well, he is a good man in
his way. He is an immensely clever writer, if you don’t care much for
solid argument, and do care for decorative stuff, with a good deal of
fun, and epigram, and big words. People used to talk about his articles.
I suppose hundreds of people buy the _Chronicle_ just to read them.
Well, we will have to lose those people, and all the others who will
quarrel with us for bolting the ticket. For she’s going to be bolted!
So you better go to bed early to-night, and eat raw meat for breakfast,
for we want a leader to-morrow that will make their hair curl.”
“Do you mean----” began Seth in a flutter of strange excitement.
“Yes, you will have to take hold. Samboye shall never show his face in
that room again. That’s settled! I may get somebody else, later--we’ll
see. But you can carry it along for a time, can’t you?”
“I’ll try--but I am afraid----”
“You needn’t be afraid. In a campaign you simply want straightforward,
red-hot, to-the-point writing. It is the rest of the year, when one must
write general matter, that pulls on a man. Besides, Ansdell will help
you out, if you need him. Oh, yes, and that reminds me--your brother
Albert didn’t show to very good advantage in that Convention. He might
easily have made a better beginning in politics than that. From all
accounts he had the Dearborn County delegates in his pocket, and,
although these other scandals have diverted attention from it, I think
the way they ratted over was about the worst thing in the whole affair.”
“It wasn’t nice, for a fact,” said Seth.
“I haven’t had it mentioned in the paper, mostly on your account. But I
am not so clear about keeping silent next week, when the Congressional
Convention comes up. Your brother, I suppose, has Dearborn County solid
for his own candidacy. But here in Adams County the delegates are for
Ansdell--and of course he is our sort of man. I don’t think much of a
party paper interfering before the nomination is made, but this may be
a case where it will be necessary--especially if Abe Beekman, up in Jay
County, tries any of his funny work. However, it will be time enough
to cross that bridge when we get to it. Meanwhile, say not a word to
anybody, in the office or out of it, about what has happened. Just go
ahead with the work, and pay attention to no one.”
There was no scandal. Mr. Samboye took his punishment quietly, and left
Tecumseh shortly afterward, ostensibly on a long vacation. There was
some little gossip, but no whisper of the actual facts in the case.
Seth surprised himself by the excellence and evenness of his work in the
new position. Probably he will never do better or stronger writing than
he did in this his first campaign. For one thing, it is doubtful if any
political contest can ever again appeal to his enthusiasm, and stir all
his emotions to the glowing point of ardency, as this one did. In one
sense his new position was embarrassing, for a number of the old time
readers of the _Chronicle_ refused to support it now against their
party, and some of them said very disagreeable things about the
youngster rattling about in Samboye’s shoes. But there was another
class, a larger class it seemed to him, who shared his enthusiasm, and,
in their excited admiration for the course of the paper, heaped praises
upon him even beyond his deserts. So he worked on, writing almost the
entire page daily, coming down early in the morning and staying long
after the paper was out, and giving scarcely a thought to the outside
world.
He had barely seen Ansdell since his promotion. He felt an even
greater sense of loss in this than he would have done under ordinary
circumstances, for the tremendous mental outpouring to which he was
daily subjected made him almost famished, at times, for food in the form
of conversation with this man who, of all others, most sympathized with
him.
But there was a difficulty in the way--of which Seth’s sensitiveness
made, no doubt, a great deal too much. The fight for the Congressional
nomination in the district was attracting attention all over the State,
and, as evil luck would have it, Seth’s brother was pitted against
Seth’s dearest friend. It was no ordinary contest, in which a man could
with ease maintain a friendly neutrality. Everywhere the struggle in the
Thirty-sixth District was regarded as a sample conflict, as embodying in
itself all the features of the larger issue between the machine and the
people. Albert Fairchild had identified himself so thoroughly with the
party organization, and had played so prominent a part in the scandals
which provoked the revolt, that his cause was distinctly that of the
politicians; while Ansdell was just as distinctively the representative
of the independent and rebellious element. In no other district of the
State were the lines so clearly drawn.
It was a fortnight or so after Seth’s assumption of the editorship that
the District Convention was held--at the little village of Tyre, some
dozen miles from Thessaly, up in Jay County. The _Chronicle_ had taken
no part in the contest. No one doubted that its sympathies were with
Ansdell, but still it had not said so. The night before the Convention
Mr. Workman advised Seth to write to his brother, warning him that if he
were nominated the _Chronicle_ could not support him.
“So long as we are in the bolting business, we might as well be hanged
for a sheep as a lamb,” said the proprietor.
It was not a pleasant task, but Seth performed it as graciously as he
could.
There was no news from Tyre next day save that Mr. Beekman of Jay was
also a candidate, and that the Convention was in a deadlock. The
second day, along with the news announcement that the Convention, after
seventy-odd fruitless ballots, had adjourned for a week, came a despatch
from Albert begging Seth to visit the farm for a couple of days,
and talk the thing over, before the _Chronicle_ took action. Upon
consultation with Mr. Workman Seth replied that this was impossible,
owing to the necessities of his work.
Then there came a letter from Albert, brief, but very much to the point.
“_DEAR Brother: I am sorry if your work must suffer by your coming to
me, but I think I have a claim upon you superior to even that of the
_Chronicle_. If I have not, I ought to have. I decline to believe that,
if you represent the matter to him as really imperative, my former
friend, Mr. Workman, will place any obstacles in your way. But if he
does I still insist that your choice between him and me must be a final
one. I do not write a word to you about gratitude. I simply say, be here
at the farm on Sunday--or never again._
“_Albert_.”
After this there was nothing to do but for Seth to telegraph that he
would come.