KENYON came to town to remind his Antioch friends and supporters that
presently he would be needing their votes.
He was Ryder's guest for a week, and the _Herald_ recorded his movements
with painstaking accuracy and with what its editor secretly considered
metropolitan enterprise. The great man had his official headquarters at
the _Herald_ office, a ramshackle two-story building on the west side of
the square. Here he was at home to the local politicians, and to such of
the general public as wished to meet him. The former smoked his cigars
and talked incessantly of primaries, nominations, and majorities--topics
on which they appeared to be profoundly versed. Their distinguishing
mark was their capacity for strong drink, which was far in excess
of that of the ordinary citizen who took only a casual interest in
politics. The _Herald's_ back door opened into an alley, and was
directly opposite that of the Red Star saloon. At stated intervals Mr.
Kenyon and Mr. Ryder, followed by the faithful, trailed through this
back door and across the alley, where they cheerfully exposed themselves
to such of the gilded allurements of vice as the Red Star had to offer.
The men of Antioch eschewed front doors as giving undue publicity to
the state of their thirst, a point on which they must have been very
sensitive, for though a number of saloons flourished in the town, only a
few of the most reckless and emancipated spirits were ever seen to enter
them.
Kenyon was a sloppily dressed man of forty-five or thereabouts,
who preserved an air of rustic shrewdness. He was angular-faced and
smooth-shaven, and wore his hair rather long in a tangled mop. He was
generally described in the party papers as “The Picturesque Statesman
from Old Hanover.” He had served one term in Congress; prior to that, by
way of apprenticeship, he had done a great deal of hard work and dirty
work for his party. His fortunes had been built on the fortunes of a
bigger and an abler man, who, after a fight which was already famous in
the history of the State for its bitterness, had been elected Governor,
and Kenyon, having picked the winner, had gone to his reward. Just now
he had a shrewd idea that the Governor was anxious to unload him, and
that the party leaders were sharpening their knives for him. Their
change of heart grew out of the fact that he had “dared to assert his
independence,” as he said, and had “played the sneak and broken his
promises,” as they said, in a little transaction which had been left to
him to put through.
Personally Ryder counted him an unmitigated scamp, but the man's breezy
vulgarity, his nerve, and his infinite capacity to jolly tickled his
fancy.
He had so far freed himself of his habitual indifference that he was
displaying an unheard-of energy in promoting Kenyon's interest. Of
course he expected to derive certain very substantial benefits from the
alliance. The Congressman had made him endless promises, and Ryder saw,
or thought he saw, his way clear to leave Antioch in the near
future. For two days he had been saying, “Mr. Brown, shake hands with
Congressman Kenyon,” or, “Mr. Jones, I want you to know Congressman
Kenyon, the man we must keep at Washington.”
He had marvelled at the speed with which the statesman got down to first
names. He had also shown a positive instinct as to whom he should invite
to make the trip across the alley to the Red Star, and whom not. Mr.
Kenyon said, modestly, when Griff commented on this, that his methods
were modern--they were certainly vulgar.
“I guess I'm going to give 'em a run for their money, Ryder. I can
see I'm doing good work here. There's nothing like being on the ground
yourself.”
It was characteristic of him that he should ignore the work Ryder had
done in his behalf.
“You are an inspiration, Sam. The people know their leader,” said the
editor, genially, but with a touch of sarcasm that was lost on Kenyon,
who took himself quite seriously.
“Yes, sir, they'd 'a' done me dirt,” feelingly, “but I am on my own
range now, and ready to pull off my coat and fight for what's due me.”
They were seated before the open door which looked out upon the square.
Kenyon was chewing nervously at the end of an unlit cigar, which he
held between his fingers. “When the nomination is made I guess the other
fellow will discover I 'ain't been letting the grass grow in my path.”
He spat out over the door-sill into the street. “What's that you were
just telling me about the Huckleberry?”
“This new manager of Cornish's is going to make the road pay, and he's
going to do it from the pockets of the employés,” said Ryder, with a
disgruntled air, for the memory of his interview with Dan still rankled.
“That ain't bad, either. You know the Governor's pretty close to
Cornish. The general was a big contributor to his campaign fund.”
Ryder hitched his chair nearer his companion's.
“If there's a cut in wages at the shops--and I suppose that will be the
next move--there's bound to be a lot of bad feeling.”
“Well, don't forget we are for the people.” remarked the Congressman,
and he winked slyly.
Ryder smiled cynically.
“I sha'n't. I have it in for the manager, anyhow.”
“What's wrong with him?”
“Oh, nothing, but a whole lot,” answered Griff, with apparent
indifference.
At this juncture Dr. Emory crossed the square from the post-office and
paused in front of the _Herald_ building.
“How's Dr. Emory?” said Kenyon, by way of greeting.
Ryder had risen.
“Won't you come in and sit down, doctor?” he inquired.
“No, no. Keep your seat, Griff. I merely strolled over to say how d'ye
do?”
Kenyon shot past the doctor a discolored stream. That gentleman moved
uneasily to one side.
“Don't move,” said the statesman, affably. “Plenty of room between you
and the casing.”
He left his chair and stood facing the doctor, and unpleasantly close.
“Say, our young friend here's turned what I intended to be a vacation
into a very busy time. He's got me down for speeches and all sorts of
things, and it will be a wonder if I go home to Hanover sober. I
won't if he can help it, that's dead sure. Won't you come in and have
something?--just a little appetizer before supper?”
“No, I thank you.”
“A cigar, then?” fumbling in his vest-pocket with fingers that were just
the least bit unsteady.
“No, I must hurry along.”
“We hope to get up again before Mr. Kenyon leaves town,” said Ryder,
wishing to head the statesman off. He was all right with such men as Cap
Roberts and the Hon. Jeb Burrows, but he had failed signally to take the
doctor's measure. The latter turned away.
“I hope you will, Griff,” he said, kindly, his voice dwelling with the
least perceptible insistence on the last pronoun.
“Remember me to the wife and daughter,” called out Kenyon, as the
physician moved up the street with an unusual alacrity.
It was late in the afternoon, and the men from the car-shops were
beginning to straggle past, going in the direction of their various
homes. Presently Roger Oakley strode heavily by, with his tin
dinner-pail on his arm. Otherwise there was nothing, either in his dress
or appearance, to indicate that he was one of the hands. As he still
lived at the hotel with Dan, he felt it necessary to exercise a certain
care in the matter of dress. As he came into view the Congressman swept
him with a casual scrutiny; then, as the old man plodded on up the
street with deliberate step, Kenyon rose from his chair and stood in the
doorway gazing after him.
“What's the matter, Sam?” asked Ryder, struck by his friend's manner.
“Who was that old man who just went past?”
“That? Oh, that's the manager's father. Why?”
“Well, he looks most awfully like some one else, that's all,” and he
appeared to lose interest.
“No, he's old man Oakley. He works in the shops.”
“Oakley?”
“Yes, that's his name. Why?” curiously.
“How long has he been here, anyhow?”
“A month perhaps, maybe longer. Do you know him?”
“I've seen him before. A cousin of mine, John Kenyon, is warden of a
prison back in Massachusetts. It runs in the blood to hold office. I
visited him last winter, and while I was there a fire broke out in the
hospital ward, and that old man had a hand in saving the lives of two or
three of the patients. The beggars came within an ace of losing their
lives. I saw afterwards by the papers that the Governor had pardoned
him.”
Ryder jumped up with sudden alacrity.
“Do you remember the convict's full name?” Kenyon meditated a moment;
then he said:
“Roger Oakley.”
The editor turned to the files of the _Herald_.
“I'll just look back and see if it's the same name. I've probably got it
here among the personals, if I can only find it. What was he imprisoned
for?” he added.
“He was serving a life sentence for murder, I think, John told me, but I
won't be sure.”
“The devil, you say!” ejaculated Ryder. “Yes, Roger Oakley, the name's
the same.”
“I knew I couldn't be mistaken. I got a pretty good memory for names and
faces. Curious, ain't it, that he should turn up here?”
Ryder smiled queerly as he dropped the _Herald_ files back into the
rack.
“His son is manager for Cornish here. He's the fellow I was telling you
about.”
Kenyon smiled, too.
“I guess you won't have any more trouble with him. You've got him where
you can hit him, and hit him hard whenever you like.”