SORELY TEMPTED
It was late when Barry Wynn returned from his errand to Georgetown. The
mission he had undertaken for the Sergeant-at-Arms took much longer than
he anticipated. When he reached his boarding house that evening, Joe
Hart and most of the other boarders had finished dinner. Barry was
greatly disappointed, for he counted upon news from Joe Hart concerning
the action of the Committee on Naval Affairs.
Barry, it will be remembered, had not read the evening papers or he
would not have been in ignorance of the rapid-fire course of events
during his absence. Indeed, it must be confessed that the matter of the
Cleverly bill, of itself, did not cut much figure in the affairs of the
national Capitol. It was really only in its relation to other and
greater issues, that it had attracted the attention of the bright young
men who supply the metropolitan newspapers with information concerning
the latest moves on the national checker board.
After dinner Barry found a letter from home awaiting him. He went to his
room so that he could read it in uninterrupted silence. It was a long,
gossipy communication, and his mother had evidently been at great pains
to give him all the news about the people of Cleverly. She was well and
happy, and Hiram Blake was proving himself a most devoted brother. In
fact, he had gone down into his own pocketbook on more than one occasion
in order to supply her not only with the necessities but the comforts of
life.
Mrs. Wynn dwelt with much satisfaction on the letters she had received
from Barry. She said she had heard about him in many indirect ways. She
alluded to the visit of the Cleverly delegation to Washington, and said
that the men were all warmly enthusiastic about the young page boy.
Daniel Smithers had called upon her and assured her with the utmost
sincerity that her son would eventually become the President of the
United States. When she raised her eyebrows, he had modified his
prediction by saying that the boy would at least become Governor of his
native state. Then, still seeing some signs of skepticism in her eyes,
he had feebly expressed the hope that Barry would at least become the
Mayor of Cleverly.
And so the letter went on in an impulsive, good-natured way. It sounded
like a chat by the fireside; it was all so familiar and so natural.
Finally, the fond mother assured Barry that he was the biggest kind of a
success, and that the few little faults, which had insisted upon popping
out at inopportune moments, should be utilized by him as the means of
arriving at perfection. Barry was sensible enough to realize that his
mother was a partial judge, but all the same her letter gave him immense
satisfaction. He felt a curious glow of contentment in his heart and he
thought, as he stood before the glass combing his hair, that he was a
pretty good sort of a fellow after all.
At that moment, of all others, his glance happened to fall upon an
evening newspaper that had been thrown across the bed. He began to read
the headlines in a perfunctory sort of way. The Cleverly bill had been
postponed and possibly beaten. He ceased combing his hair and sat down
on the side of the bed like a person who had been suddenly stricken with
some physical ailment. Presently, he recovered his breath and read the
article through. The statements they contained brought the hot blush of
indignation to his cheeks. He felt in a vague sort of way that Joel
Phipps must be at the bottom of all this trickery.
Mechanically he finished his toilet, thinking in a numbed way of the
misfortune that had befallen Mr. Carlton. One thing he regretted, and
that was the fact that he had not been there. He was not foolish enough
to think it would have made any difference, but he felt somehow or
other that it might have softened the blow to his benefactor.
He was preparing to go to the business school where he had made such
progress in stenography and typewriting that he was almost ready to
graduate. He was a tidy boy, and tonight, as on other occasions, he
changed his suit so that he would make a good appearance before his
fellow students. He reached for his coat, in the closet, and put it on.
As he did so his attention was attracted by some crinkly substance in
the inside pocket; it was bulky, too. He put his hand in and drew out
the paper. The sight that met his eyes drew forth a groan of despair.
It was the missing bill--the Cleverly Naval Repair Station bill!
The whole miserable business came to him with a certainty and directness
that left no room for doubt. He remembered receiving the bill from Mr.
Carlton and he recalled, only too vividly, the message of the
Congressman. He was to return the bill to Joel Phipps on his way to
luncheon. And he had failed to do so. That was the great, big irritating
fact that stuck out like a sore finger.
He thought of the consequences of his carelessness, and he actually
moaned. To have failed in his duty would have been bad enough under any
circumstances, but to involve the fortunes and the reputations of others
was almost too dreadful to think about. He picked up the newspaper and
read it through again. Every sentence was like a knife to the sensitive
boy.
He remembered with a pang of remorse that Joel Phipps had been
accused--at least by innuendo--of trickery. He had thought so himself.
What an injustice to a man who was probably better in every way than
himself! He looked on the very darkest side of the picture. Suppose, as
seemed probable, that the people of Cleverly should lose the coveted
Naval Station. They could charge their loss to an insignificant page
boy. But that, bad as it sounded, was only one phase of the case. The
incident might be the means of ending the public career of John Carlton.
The thought brought tears to his eyes.
The newspapers had hinted that the disappearance of the bill would prove
to be the beginning of a bitter factional warfare. He tried to dismiss
the notion as absurd. And yet, greater events have proceeded from
smaller causes. He remembered reading how a stupid cow, by kicking over
an oil lamp in a stable, had caused the burning of the great city of
Chicago.
At this point in his reflections a new and alarming question presented
itself to his mind. Now that he had found the missing bill, what should
he do with it? The thought made his heart beat violently. To confess
that he was responsible for all the trouble seemed too humiliating to
contemplate. The story had become public property. He would be drawn
into the limelight. What would Mr. Carlton think? What would he say? How
would the announcement of the truth be received by his opponents? They
would gloat over it beyond a doubt. Already he could see the jeering
face of Joel Phipps.
Suddenly an idea flashed in his mind--an idea so unexpected and yet so
plausible that it made him throw himself on the bed. It was simple, and
yet, at first, it was awful. It entered his mind in the shape of a
question. Why should he say anything about finding the bill? Why not
destroy it, or if not that, why not slip it back with the other bills
without the knowledge of Joel Phipps or the members of the Committee. It
would require a little ingenuity, but it could be accomplished.
He lay there on his back on the bed gazing at the ceiling, and revolving
the question in his mind. There hardly seemed to be any room for debate.
He had just about convinced himself that he should remain silent
concerning his discovery when a clear, small voice cried out:
"Would it be square? Would it be honest? Could you look yourself in the
face afterward?"
He roused himself and sat up straight in bed. He looked about him. No
one was in the room. The voice that he heard was evidently the voice of
his inner consciousness.
Immediately another voice, lower and more persuasive, attracted his
attention. It was argumentative. What good would it do anyone, said this
voice, to humiliate yourself? The harm has been done. It cannot be
repaired. You only injure yourself without benefiting Mr. Carlton. Just
forget that you found the bill and that will be the end of the whole,
ugly business.
"But could you ever forget it?" warned the small, clear voice. "Wouldn't
the remembrance of it hang over you like a heavy cloud? Beside that,
wouldn't you put yourself in the position of deliberately deceiving the
best friend you ever had?"
Barry jumped from the bed with a physical determination which meant that
he had arrived at his decision. In his excitement and eagerness, he
spoke aloud:
"I'll go to Mr. Carlton and tell him the whole story."
It had been a hard battle. It showed in his face. But the small, clear
voice of conscience had won a decisive victory over the low, persuasive
one of temptation. Barry was surprised at the great relief he
experienced the moment he arrived at his decision. He still felt very
sorry, of course, at his sin of omission, and he was wondering how he
should phrase his confession. But outside of these details, his mind was
no longer troubled. He had a feeling of mental tranquillity that it
would be difficult to put into words.
It was hardly nine o'clock, but he resolved to find Mr. Carlton if he
had to tramp the entire city of Washington to do so. He hastily finished
his dressing and left the house. Mrs. Johnson was standing at the door.
She noticed that his face was pale and his manner determined.
"Is there anything I can do for you, Barry?" she asked.
"No, Mrs. Johnson," he replied, lightly.
But down in his heart of hearts there was an unutterable desire to throw
himself upon her bosom and tell her his troubles. How he longed at that
moment for five minutes with his mother. But it was decreed that he
should bear his burden alone.
He went first to John Carlton's hotel, where he was told that the
Congressman had gone out an hour before, leaving word that he would not
return until late that night. Barry proceeded on his way to the office
building of the members of the House of Representatives. He noticed a
light in Mr. Carlton's room. He was shaking now with a nervousness that
he could not understand. But his purpose to make a clean breast of the
mystery was unaltered and unalterable.
He paused for a moment and then knocked on the door. There was no
response. The boy, waiting there like a culprit, began to hope that
after all his friend might not be in his office. But he screwed up his
courage to the sticking point and knocked again. A familiar voice called
out:
"Come in."
The page boy opened the door and walked in the room. Mr. Carlton merely
raised his eyes and said pleasantly:
"Hello, Barry; how are you?"
The boy was silent. The Congressman was so absorbed in his work that he
did not notice the long pause in the conversation. When he looked up the
second time he was startled at the sight that met his gaze. Barry's face
was the color of chalk. He appeared to have shrivelled so much that his
clothes hung from his body.
"Are you ill?" asked the statesman, with real concern in his voice.
"No," said Barry, huskily; "I've found the bill!"
"Well," laughing and surprised in the same breath, "I'm glad to hear
that, but you needn't be so solemn about it."
The boy was tongue-tied. He stood on one foot and then on the other.
"Where was it found?" finally asked the Congressman.
"Where it was not lost," blurted out Barry. "I found it in my coat
pocket!"
Carlton's face clouded.
"You come here to tell me this?" he said, sternly.
"Yes," nodded Barry, his eyes on the floor. "It's been an awful
struggle, but I had to tell you."
John Carlton was silent for a long, long while. His eyes were never
removed from the boy's face for a moment. His own jaws were set in an
ugly fashion. But presently it dawned upon him that Barry was very worn
and haggard. At once he relented. He spoke mildly:
[Illustration: His eyes were never removed from the boy's face for a
moment.
_See page 264_]
"You know all the trouble you have caused?"
"Only too well," exclaimed the boy. "It was utter carelessness on my
part. I would not have had it happen for the world! I--"
"You never returned the bill," interrupted Carlton.
"No; I forgot it. I changed my coat. The bill was in the inside pocket.
I found it there tonight. I'm ready to pay the penalty. I'll resign my
position if--"
"Barry--" began the Congressman.
"Yes, sir; yes, sir," cried the young page in his agitation, breaking
into the other's remarks.
"Barry," resumed Carlton, in a voice that was singularly gentle, "you've
already paid the penalty."
"Already paid it?"
"Yes--you've suffered, and you've done the manly thing by coming right
to me and telling the truth."
Barry looked at him with gratitude beaming from his eyes.
"You think so?"
"I know it. We all have to pay for our sins of omission and our sins of
commission. You've done the only thing that mortal can do. You're sorry;
you've confessed--and, I'm sure it will be the lesson of a lifetime."
"I'm positive of that," was the fervent response.
"Well," said Carlton, rising and putting his arm about the boy's
shoulder, "you can go home now and go to sleep with a good conscience."