A MEETING, AN INTERRUPTION AND A LETTER
The campaign was on in sober earnest. Conover, who kept as well posted
on his foe’s movements as though the League itself sent him hourly
reports, grew vaguely annoyed as, from day to day, he learned the
headway Standish was making in Granite. The better classes, almost to a
man, flocked to Clive’s standard. By a series of fiery speeches he
succeeded in rousing a certain hitherto dormant enthusiasm among the
business men of the town. They found to their surprise that he was
neither a visionary nor a mere agitator; that he based his plans not on
some Utopian Altruria of high-souled commonweal, but on a practical
basis of clean government.
He pointed out to them how utterly the Machine ran the Mountain State;
how the railroads and the vested interests of the party clique sent
their own representatives to the Legislature, and then made them grant
fraudulent franchise after fraudulent franchise to the men who sent them
there. How the taxes were raised and so distributed that the brunt fell
upon the people who least profited by the State expenditures and by the
legalized wholesale robberies. How, in fact, the populace of Granite and
of the whole Mountain State were being ridden at will by a handful of
unscrupulous men.
That Caleb Conover was the head and front of the clique referred to
everyone was well aware, yet Standish studiously avoided all mention of
his name, all personal vituperation. Whereat Caleb Conover wondered
mightily. Stenographic reports of Clive’s speeches and of the
increasingly large and enthusiastic meetings he addressed were carefully
conned by the Railroader. And the tolerant grin with which he read the
first of these reports changed gradually to a scowl as time went on.
He had made no effort to suppress or in any way to molest these early
meetings. He wanted to try out his young opponent’s strength, gauge his
following and his methods. But when, to his growing astonishment, he
found Clive was actually winning a respectful, ever larger, hearing in
his home town, he decided it was high time to call a halt. Accordingly
he summoned Billy Shevlin.
“What’s doing?” he asked curtly, as he received his henchmen in the
Mausoleum study.
“To-night’s the big rally at Snyder’s Opera House, you know,” replied
Billy. “Standish’s booked to make his star speech before he starts on
his State tour. He’s got a team of Good Gov’ment geezers from Boston to
do a spiel, and he’s callin’ this the biggest scream of the campaign so
far. Say, that young feller’s makin’ an awful lot of noise, Boss. When
are you goin’ to give us the office to put the combination on his mouth?
On the level, he ain’t doin’ you no good. Them speeches of his means
votes. The Silk-Socks is with him already, and he’s winner with the
business bunch in fam’ly groups.”
“Look here,” said Caleb, pointing out of the study’s north window, which
commanded a view of exclusive Pompton Avenue and its almost equally
fashionable cross streets, “how would you figure up the population of
that district?”
“The Silk-Sockers? You know’s well as me. Thirty-eight hundred in round
numbers.”
“And over there?” pointing east.
“Th’ business districk? An easy 12,000.”
“Say 16,000 in both. S’pose they are all for the young Standish. Now
look here.”
He crossed the long room and ran up the shade of one of the south
windows. The great marble house stood on the edge of a hill-crest,
overlooking a distant vista of mean, winding streets, dirty,
interminable rows of tenements, factories and small shops. Through the
centre, like a huge snake, the tracks of the C. G. & X. wound their way,
and over all a smeared pall of reek and coal smoke brooded like some
vast bird of prey. Coal yards, docks, freight houses, elevators,
shanties—and once more that interminable sea of dingy, squalid
domiciles.
“What’s the population down there, Billy?”
“Hundred’n ten thousand, six hundred an’—” began Shevlin glibly. “An’
every soul of them solid for you, Boss. Sixteen thousand to
hundred-’n’-ten-thous——”
“That’s right. So as long as the youngster’s content to speak his little
pieces here in Granite, I’ve stood by and let him talk. It would be time
enough to put in a spoke when he started across country. But this
blowout to-night is different. The stories of it will get in the Boston
and Philadelphia and New York papers. So——”
“Well?”
“So there won’t be any meeting?”
“If you say so, it goes. Will I give the boys the office to rough-house
the joint?”
“And have every out-of-State paper screeching about ring rule and
rowdyism? Billy, you must have been born more ignorant than most. You
never could have picked up all you don’t know, in the little time you’ve
lived.”
Shevlin looked duly abashed and awaited further orders.
“I hear the gas main that serves Snyder’s Opera House isn’t in very good
order,” resumed the Boss. “I shouldn’t wonder if all the lights went out
just as the meeting opens to-night. That’ll mean a lot of confusion. And
my friend, Chief Geoghegan, being a careful man, will disperse the crowd
to prevent a riot, and to keep pickpockets from molesting those pure
patriots. I want you to see Geoghegan and the gas company about it,
right away. But look here, there mustn’t be any rough-house or disorder.
Tell the boys to keep away. I’ll have work enough for them to do when
Standish takes the road.”
Billy Shevlin, a great light of joy in his little beady eyes, departed
on his mission, while Caleb, summoning Anice Lanier, set about his daily
task of dictation. His always large mail was still more voluminous
during the past week or so, and he had been forced to double his staff
of stenographers. He and his secretary toiled steadily for three hours
to-day, then laid aside the remaining work until later on.
“How’ll you like being secretary to the Governor, Miss Lanier?” asked
Caleb, as he lighted his cigar and stretched out his thick legs under
the table.
“Fully as much as you’ll like being Governor, I fancy,” she answered.
“I guess you won’t have to be very much wedded to the job at that,”
sighed Conover. “Do you know, I’d give a year’s income if I’d never made
that measly speech. But now that I’m in for it, I’m going to make the
fight of my life. Everybody in the Mountain State will sure know there’s
been a big scrap, and when it’s over, our young friend, Standish, is
going to be just a sweet, sad memory.”
“I hear he is making some strong speeches.”
“And I hear you went to hear a couple of them,” retorted Caleb,
grinning.
“Do you mean,” she cried indignantly, “that you’ve actually been spying
on me? You have dared to——?”
“Now, _don’t_ get woozey, Miss Lanier. What on earth would I spy on
_you_ for? Your time, outside work hours, is your own. And besides, I’ve
got all sorts of proof that you’re always loyal to my interests.”
“Then how——”
“How’d I find it out? While I don’t keep tabs on _you_, I do keep tabs
on Nephew-in-law Standish, and on his meetings and what sort of people
go there. And a couple of times my men happened to mention that they saw
my pretty secretary in the audience. There, now, don’t get red. What
harm is there in being found out? Only it kind of amused me that you
never spoke about it here.”
“Why should I? I——”
“No reason at all. A person’s got a right to lock up what’s in their
minds as well as what’s in their pockets. I always have a lot of respect
for folks who keep their mouths shut. If you keep your mouth shut about
your own affairs, you’ll keep it shut about mine. That’s why I have a
kind of sneaking respect for liars, too. Folks who guard what’s in their
brains by making a false trail with their mouths. The public’s got no
more right to the contents of a man’s brain than it has to the contents
of his safe. And the man who ain’t ashamed to lock his safe needn’t be
ashamed to tell a lie.”
“Is that your own philosophy? It’s a dangerous one.”
“Oh, I’m not speaking of the man who lies for the fun of it. Telling a
lie when you don’t need to is tempting Providence.”
The girl laughed; so simple and so totally in earnest was he in
expounding his pet theory. It was only to her that the Railroader was in
the habit of talking on abstruse themes. Despite her habitual reserve,
he read an underlying interest in his odd ideas and experiences, and was
accordingly lavish in relating them. She served, unconsciously to both,
as an escape valve for the man’s habitual dominating self-restraint.
“So you agree with Talleyrand,” she suggested, “that words are given us
to hide our thoughts?”
“Talleyrand?” he asked, puzzled. “Oh, one of those book characters you
admire so much, I s’pose. Yes, he was all right in that proposition. But
a lot of times the truth will hide a man’s thoughts even better. It was
by telling the truth I got out of the worst hole I ever was in. Ever
tell you the mix-up I had with the Mountain State Coal Company?”
“Coal Company? I didn’t know there was any coal in the Mountain State.”
“No more there is. Only I didn’t know it then. A chap came along and
interested me in the deal. He said he’d struck a rich coal vein up in
Jericho County. Showed me specimens. Got ’em somewhere in Pennsylvania,
I s’pose. And got me to float a company. Well, the stuff they took out
of the measly shaft was a sort of porous black slate or shale or
something, and it wouldn’t burn if you put it in a white-hot blast
furnace. One look showed me that. And there I was with a company
capitalized at $300,000—half of it my own money—and suckers subscribing
for the stock and all that, and a gang of a couple of hundred Ginneys
and Svensks at work in the pit. It wasn’t that I minded the cash loss so
much as I minded being played for a jay, and the black eye it would give
any companies I might float in the future.
“I’ll tell you, I was pretty sore. I was younger in those days, you see.
I ran up to Jericho to look over the wreck. Next day was pay day for the
hands, and I hadn’t enough cash with me for half of ’em. I sat in my
hotel that night thinking of the row and smashup there’d be next
morning, and just wishing I had a third foot to kick myself with. The
lamp got low, and I called for the landlord to fill it. Some of the
kerosene leaked out while he was doing it and spilled over a handful of
the ore that was lying on the table. That porous stuff soaked it up like
a sponge. The mess made me sick, and I picked up the samples of
near-coal and slammed ’em into the fireplace. They blazed like a Sheeney
clothing store.”
“I thought you said it wouldn’t burn.”
“The pieces were soaked in kerosene, and of course they burned, just as
a lamp would if you threw it in the fire. But it gave me the tip I
wanted. I bolted out of that hotel and hunted up a couple of my own
crowd. We had the busiest night on record. No use bothering you with
details. A shed, three barrels of kerosene and a half a ton of ore. Then
early next morning I wandered into the hotel office and did a despairful
scream. I’d seen to it that the editor of the local paper was there, and
I knew a bunch of the ‘big guns’ of the place always congregated in the
office for an after-breakfast gossip. Well, I groaned pretty loud and
hectic about the way I’d been stuck on the ore.
“‘What’s the matter with it?’ asked one of my two pals. ‘Won’t the stuff
burn?’
“‘Burn!’ I yells. ‘It won’t do a thing _but_ burn. It burns so hot,
it’ll ruin any grate it’s put in. Why, heat like that is worse than none
at all. It’ll burn out the best grate or furnace in a week. Nobody’ll be
fool enough to buy such stuff. The company’s smashed!’
“They all stared at me as if I were looney. Then I made out I was mad
clear through.
“‘Don’t believe me, eh?’ says I. ‘Then look at this.’
“I throws a pocketful of the ore into the grate, and it blazes up like
mad. The whole office was torrid hot in five minutes. But the crowd was
a blamed sight hotter. They went plumb wild over the new, wonderful fuel
I’d discovered, and tried to explain to me that it had the heating power
of ten times its weight of coal. But all the time I just shook my head,
and kept on whining that no one’d buy it because it would burn out
furnaces too quick.
“Well, the upshot of it was that the news travelled like a streak of
lightning. By the time I got over to the shaft, the gangs were all on,
and their padrones raked up a clause in the contract that permitted ’em
to take their pay in stock, at par, if they chose to, instead of cash.
Just a piece of technical red tape they used to stick in mining
contracts. Those padrones fairly squealed for stock, and near mobbed me
when I implored ’em to accept money instead. So I compromised by issuing
’em orders for stock at ten above. But before I’d do even that, I told
’em over and over that they were making fools of themselves and the
stock and ore were worthless. They laughed at me, and thought I was
trying to grab all the stock for myself. So I made ’em sign a paper
saying that they took it at their own request and risk, and against my
will and advice; and I gave ’em their stock orders and came back to town
with my pay satchel still full.
“By the time I struck the hotel the place was jammed. Folks had flocked
from all over to see the wonderful fuel and watch it burn. Rich farmers,
capitalists from Granite and a lot more. The stock had been at 28¼.
Inside of two days it was at 129, and still booming. Then I sold. But as
president of the company I refused to let a single share be distributed
without the buyer signing a blank that he took it at his own risk, and
that I had told him the ore was worthless. And I kept on shouting that
it was worthless, and that the public was robbing itself by buying such
stuff. What was the result? The more I told the truth, the harder the
suckers bit. Widows and ministers and such-like easy marks most of all,
I hear. I got out of the company in disgust, and announced I’d have no
dealings with such an iniquitous, swindling scheme. Folks thought I’d
gone clean silly, and they bought and bought and bought, and then——”
“And then?” as Conover lighted a fresh cigar.
“Oh, then they woke up and screamed louder than ever.”
“What was done about it? Was there no redress?”
“‘Redress’ nothing! What redress could there be for a pack of
get-rich-quick guys who had insisted on buying my stock after I’d told
them just how worthless it was? Didn’t I have their own signed
statements that I——”
“And you call that transaction an instance of truth-telling?”
“Oh, well, the _real_ truth’s too precious to squander foolishly where
it won’t be appreciated. It’s like whiskey: got to be weakened to the
popular taste. And speaking of liars, have you kept your eye much on
Jerry lately?”
“No, why?”
“That young ass has got something on the thing he calls his mind, and
I’ve a good working notion the ‘Something’ is a scheme to get even with
me. I just judge that from what I know of him. He gets his morning
letter from that chorus missus of his, and then he sits and rolls his
eyes at me for half an hour. He’s framing up something all right, all
right. What it is, I don’t know. That’s the advantage a fool has over a
wise man! You can dope out some line of action on a man of brains, but
the Almighty himself don’t know what a fool’ll do next. So I’m kind of
riding herd on Jerry from afar.”
“Perhaps if you tried a new tack—took him into your confidence——”
“There wouldn’t be any confidence left. No man’s got enough for two.
Sometimes I’m shy on even the little I once had.”
“The campaign?”
“The campaign? That ain’t a question of confidence any more than knowing
the sun will rise and Missouri will go Democratic. I was thinking of the
confidence I had of winning the Pompton Avenue crowd by that measly
reception.”
“You haven’t succeeded?”
“Not so’s you’d notice it. A few of the people who are so tangled up in
my deals that they are scared not to be civil, nod sort of sheepish at
me when I meet ’em. The rest get near-sighted as soon as I come round
the corner. As for calling on us or inviting me to any of their houses,
why you’d think I was the Voice of Conscience by the way they sidestep
me.”
“But the season hasn’t really opened. In most cities, people aren’t even
back from the seaside or mountains yet. Perhaps, later on——”
“Later on the present performance will be encored by popular request.
Say, Miss Lanier, I was half jagged that night. But I can remember
telling you that I was happier just then than I’d ever been before. I
was in society at last. My boy was a member of the smart set in New
York. My girl was a princess. I was going to be Governor.”
“Yes?”
“Well, look at me now. Jerry’s made a lifelong mess of his future.
Blanche is on the way to Yurrup with a bargain counter prince that I’d
hate to compliment by calling deuce-high. My deebut into society was
like the feller in the song, who ‘Walked Right in and Turned Around and
Walked Right out Again.’ The Governorship’s the only thing left; and I’m
getting so I’m putting into that all the hopes I squandered on the rest.
And when I’ve nailed it, I’ve a half mind to try for President. That’d
carry me clear through society, and on out on the other side.”
Anice listened to him with a sort of wonderment, which always possessed
her when he spoke of his social aspirations. That a man of his
indomitable strength and largeness of nature should harp so eternally
and yearn so strenuously in that one petty strain, never ceased to amaze
her.
“The feet of clay on the image of iron,” she told herself as she
dismissed the thought.
“By the way,” asked Conover, as she rose to leave the room, “were you
thinking of going to the Standish meeting to-night?”
“Yes,” she answered, meeting his quizzical gaze fearlessly, “if you can
spare me.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I’m afraid I can’t. I’ve about a ream of
campaign stuff to go through, and I shall need your help.”
“Very well,” answered Anice, and he could decipher neither
disappointment nor any other emotion in those childlike brown eyes of
hers.
“Lord!” he muttered to himself as she went out, “what a politician that
woman would have made! The devil himself can’t read her. If I had
married a girl like that instead—I wonder if that heart-trouble of the
wife’s is ever likely to carry her off sudden.”
An hour or so of sunlight remained. Anice, tired from her all-day
confinement indoors, donned hat and jacket and sallied forth for a walk.
She turned her steps northward toward the open country that lay beyond
Pompton Avenue. There was a sting in the early fall air in that high
latitude which made walking a pleasure. Moreover, after the atmosphere
of work, tobacco, politics and reminiscences that had been her portion
since early morning, it was a joy to be alone with the cool and the
sweetness of the dying day. Besides, she wanted to think.
But the solitary stroll she had planned was not to be her portion, for,
as she rounded the first corner, she came upon Clive Standish deep in
talk with Ansel. Clive’s tired eyes brightened at the sight of her. The
look of weariness that had crept into the candidate’s face since she had
last seen him went straight to Anice’s heart. With a hurried word of
dismissal to his campaign manager, Standish left his companion and fell
into step at Miss Lanier’s side.
“This is better than I expected,” said he. “I always manage to include
Pompton Avenue in my tramps lately, but this is the first time I’ve
caught a glimpse of you.”
“You are looking badly,” she commented. “You are working too hard.”
“One must, in a fight like mine. It’s nothing to what I must do during
my tour. Everything depends on that. I start to-morrow.”
“So soon? I’m sorry.”
“Why?” he asked in some surprise.
“I’m afraid you’ll find Mr. Conover stronger up-State than you think. I
don’t like to see you disappointed.”
“You care?”
“Of course I do. I hate to see anyone disappointed.”
“How delightfully impersonal!” grumbled Clive, in disgust.
“I thought you were averse to personalities. You’ve said so in both the
speeches I’ve heard you make.”
“You came to hear me? I——”
“One likes to keep abreast of the times; to hear both sides——”
“And having heard both——”
“One forms one’s own conclusions.”
“And yours are——”
“Quite formed.”
“Anice!” exclaimed Standish impatiently, “nature never cut you out for a
Sybil. Can’t you be frank? If you only knew what your approval—your good
wishes—mean to me, you would be kinder.”
“There are surely enough people who encourage you and——”
“No, there are not. I want _your_ encouragement, _your_ faith; just as I
had it when we were boy and girl together, you and I!”
“You forget, I am in the employ of Mr. Conover. As long as I accept his
wages, would it be loyal of me to——”
“Then why accept them? If only——”
“One must make a living in some way. I have other reasons, too.”
“That same wretched old mystery again! As for making a living, that’s a
different thing, and it has changed too many lives. Once, years ago, for
instance, when I was struggling to make a living—and a bare, scant one
at that—I kept silent when my heart clamored to speak. I kept silent
because I had no right to ask any woman to share my hard luck. But now
I’m on my feet. I’ve made the ‘living’ you talk about. And there’s
enough of it for two. So I——”
“I congratulate you on your success,” said the girl nervously. “Here is
my corner. I must hurry back. I’ve a long evening’s work to——”
“Anice!”
“Good-by!”
“You _must_ hear me. I——”
“Hello, Miss Lanier! Parleying with the enemy, eh? Come, come, that
isn’t playing square. ’Evening, Standish!”
Caleb Conover, crossing the street from the side entrance of his own
grounds, had confronted the two before they noted his approach. Looking
from one to the other, he grinned amusedly.
“I’ve heard there was more’n one leak in our camp,” he went on, “but I
never s’posed _this_ was it.”
Trembling with confusion, perhaps with some deeper emotion, Anice
nevertheless answered coolly:
“I hope my absence hasn’t delayed any of your work? I was on my way
back, when you——”
“Now look at that,” exclaimed Caleb with genuine admiration. “Here’s my
hated enemy as red and rattled as if I’d caught him stuffing
ballot-boxes or cheering for Conover! And the lady in the case is as
cool as cucumbers, and she don’t bat an eye. Standish, she’s seven more
kinds of a man than you are, or ever will be, for all your big shoulders
and bigger line of talk. Well, we won’t keep you any longer, son. No use
askin’ you in, I s’pose? No? Then maybe I’ll drop around to your meeting
this evening. I’d ’a’ come before, but it always makes me bashful to
hear myself praised to the public. Good night.”
It was late that evening when Clive reached his rooms, for a few brief
hours of rest before setting forth on his tour of the State. He was
tired out, discouraged, miserable. His much-heralded meeting had been
the dreariest sort of fiasco. Scarcely had the opening address begun and
the crowded house warmed up to the occasion, when every light in the
building had been switched off.
Inquiry showed that a break had occurred in the gas mains which could
not be remedied until morning. Candles and lamps were hurriedly sent
for. Meantime, though a certain confusion followed the plunging of the
place into darkness, the crowd had been, on the whole, orderly. In spite
of this, the chief of police, with twenty reserves, coming on the scene,
had ordered Standish civilly enough to dismiss the audience. Then the
policemen had filed up on the stage, illumining it by their bull’s-eye
lanterns, and clustered ominously about the speakers.
In response to Clive’s angry protest, the chief had simply reiterated
his order, adding that his department was responsible for the city’s
peace and quiet, and that the crowd showed an inclination to riot. Nor
could the Arm of the Law be shaken from this stand. The audience, during
the colloquy between Standish and the chief had grown impatient, and an
occasional catcall or shrill whistle had risen from the darkened
auditorium. At each of these sounds the police had gripped their
nightsticks and glanced with a fine apprehension at their leader for
commands.
The upshot of the matter had been the forced dismissal of the
spectators. Standish had scouted Ansel’s suggestion that the whole
catastrophe was a ruse of Conover’s, until, as he walked down the dark
aisle toward the door, he heard a policeman whisper:
“I was waitin’ for the chief to give some of us the tip to pinch him.”
“An’ let him make a noise like a martyr?” grunted a second voice easily
recognized as Billy Shevlin’s. “You must think the Boss is as balmy in
the belfry as you blue lobsters. He’d ’a’ had Geoghegan broke if he’d——”
The rest of the reply had been lost.
No other disengaged hall could be found in the vicinity; and the meeting
from which Clive had expected so much had gone by the board. He walked
home in a daze of chagrin. How could he hope to fight a man who employed
such weapons; who swayed such power in every city department; who thus
early in the campaign showed plainly he would stop at nothing in beating
his opponent?
Then the young candidate’s teeth clenched tight, and the sullen grit
that for so many centuries has carried the bulldog race of
yellow-haired, strong-jawed Anglo-Saxons to victory against hopeless
odds came to his aid. He shook his big shoulders as if tossing off some
physical weight, entered his rooms and switched on the electric light.
On his study table lay a special delivery letter, neatly typewritten, as
was the single long sheet of foolscap it contained. Standish glanced at
the bottom of the page. There was no signature. Then he read:
“The date for the various county conventions has not been formally set.
It is unofficially given as a week from Saturday. Instead, the caucus
will be held in three of the eight counties _next_ Saturday. The
Machine’s men know this. The League’s don’t. It will be sprung as a
surprise, with two days’ notice instead of the customary seven. This
will keep many of the League’s people from attending. At the Bowden and
Jericho caucuses telegrams will be received saying you have withdrawn.
“At Matawan and Haldane the regular delegates will be notified to meet
at the town halls. While they are waiting outside the locked front
doors, the county chairman and his own crowd will step in the back way
and hold their caucus and elect their delegates. Floaters will be
brought into several counties. In Wills County the chairman will fail to
hear the names of your delegates. Have your manager arrange for the
Wills men to bolt at the right time. Force the State Committee _at once_
to declare the date for the county conventions. Notify the League’s men
at Matawan and Haldane of the ‘back door’ trick, and have the telegraph
operators at Jericho and Bowden warned not to receive or transmit any
fake message of your withdrawal.
“On your State tour you will find newspapers closed to your speeches and
advertisements, and a number of the halls engaged before you get to the
town. Arrange for injunctions restraining the papers from barring your
notices, and have someone go ahead of you to secure halls. And arrange
for police protection to break up rowdyism at your meetings.”
Clive Standish read and re-read this remarkable epistle. That it had
come from the Conover camp he could not doubt. He had heard, before
Caleb’s hint of the previous afternoon, that there was a certain
discontent and vague rumor of treachery, in more than one of the
multifarious branches of the Boss’s business and political interests.
For the unexpected strength developed by the Civic League and the
eloquence of its candidate had shaken divers of the enemy’s less
resolute followers, and more than one of these might readily seek to
curry future favor with the winning side by casting just such an anchor
to windward.
In any case, there was the letter. Its author’s identity, for the
moment, was of no great matter.
“Anonymous!” mused Standish, eyeing the missive with strong distaste.
“Is it a trick of Conover’s or a bit of treachery on the part of one of
the men he trusts? In either case, there’s only one course a white man
can take with a thing of this kind.”
Picking up the letter, he crumpled it into a ball and threw it into the
fireplace.
“Better not say anything about it to Ansel,” he decided as he watched
the paper twist open under the heat and break into a blaze. “He’d only
call me a visionary crank again. And if it’s a trap, the precautions
he’d take would play straight into Conover’s hand.”
Some blocks away, in his Pompton Avenue Mausoleum, the Railroader was
giving final orders to the henchmen to whom he had intrusted the details
of watching Standish’s forthcoming tour. And some of these same details
he had even intrusted to the unenthusiastic Gerald.