Bellingham was intoxicated; there's no doubt about that at all," said
Dawson of the _Standard_. "All the men on the press noticed it, and the
chairman of his own party city committee admitted it to us."
"Well, that makes no difference except that it's all the better for
us," said Blakely. "It was a rascally, indecent attack, and I guess the
Governor won't hesitate any longer about using that matter you and I
worked up for him."
Jim Blakely was the editor of a small newspaper with a very limited
circulation but having an immense political influence. More keen than
the shrewdest of the political managers, more powerful than the chairman
of the State committee, more resourceful than all the party candidates,
Jim Blakely sat in his little office and suggested the most successful
political movements throughout the State. No candidate for Governor even
thought of conducting a campaign without the aid and supervision of Jim
Blakely.
But Governor Clinton in this campaign had been somewhat restive under
his management, and had declined to follow absolutely the lines laid out
for him by Blakely and his other party associates. Clinton's opponent,
Alfred P. Bellingham, the rival candidate for Governor, was a man of
fifty years or thereabout—a political nonentity, having no opinion
on any question which he could not readily change the next day with
the greatest facility. Bellingham had evaded every honest political
issue which Clinton had tried to force him to meet, and had conducted
a campaign of the lowest and meanest personalities. But, in opposition
to the advice of his party managers, Governor Clinton had steadfastly
declined to meet Bellingham with his own weapons; and to indulge in
attacks upon his private career.
Then one day the reporter Dawson had brought to Blakely's attention
certain important discoveries which he had made in raking over
Bellingham's past life. The first was the record of an indictment found
twenty-three years ago against Bellingham for altering ballots cast at
a representative election, with intent to defraud, but which had been
nol prossed by the District Attorney owing to political pressure. The
other was the record of an arrest of Bellingham some ten years ago for
drunkenness and disorderly conduct, and his conviction and fine.
Clinton's party managers had received the news with great enthusiasm.
They had recognized the splendid ammunition which these records would
furnish; and they earnestly urged the Governor to make use of them upon
the stump.
"No," he had said, "I won't descend to that depth. If I can't be elected
without the aid of those things, then let the people defeat me." And he
had persisted in this refusal, despite the entreaties of his political
friends and the disgust of his managers.
* * * * *
It was a quarter before nine; and at nine o'clock it was the custom for
Governor Clinton to meet his party managers every morning, to discuss
the speeches of his opponent made the night before and to plan out the
trend for the evening's speeches.
"This vile abuse of last night of Bellingham's I guess will settle
it," said Blakely again; and he went to his safe and brought out the
certified copies of the legal proceedings. As he did so Governor Clinton
came into the office. He looked flushed and angry.
"Have you read that scoundrel's attack on me, Jim?" he asked, hurriedly.
"Yes," said Blakely in a casual manner, as if it was of no importance.
He knew enough now not to try to force the Governor's hand.
"Well?" said the Governor.
"Well," answered Blakely, "it's only what you've got to expect all the
rest of the campaign." Clinton hesitated.
"No," he said; "Jim, I've got enough. He's pushed me too far. I can't
keep silent any longer. Have you got those documents you were telling
me about?" Blakely pointed silently to the papers on his desk and lit
his pipe. Clinton examined them with curiosity.
"How do you account for last night's speech?" he asked.
"Drunk again," replied Blakely. "Tell him, Bill." Dawson repeated to
the Governor what he had just told Blakely.
"I'm going up to Stanfield at half-past nine," the Governor said, still
red with wrath, "to my old school, Copley School. They've asked me to
make the speech on the awarding of the prize cups. It's Founder's Day.
I'm billed for a rally to-night, I believe, at Dunster. Well, give me
those papers and I'll make a speech there at Dunster to-night that will
make that fool Bellingham wish he'd never been born."
Blakely, metaphorically speaking, inwardly hugged himself; but he did
not allow Clinton to see his joy at the Governor's conversion. Placing
the papers carefully in his pocket, Clinton, after a few minutes'
further talk, left the room, rode down to the station, and boarded the
Southwestern Limited. Blakely waited until the door closed behind him
and then slapped Dawson on the back. "I thought we'd land him finally.
The Governor's a mighty good fellow, but he's got some high-toned
views about politics that have to be gradually knocked out of him. His
political ideas are very crude. He thinks you catch an election just
as you catch cold. He expects a grateful people to present him with the
election on a silver salver."
"Whereas," replied Dawson, "the usual way is for the candidate to
present the silver salver, or, rather, the silver salve to the people."
On the way to Stanfield in the train the Governor dictated his speech to
his private secretary. He realized that he was reversing entirely his
former course of action by entering now into a personal conflict. But
the attack made upon him by Bellingham had been so gross, so violent,
and so savagely uncalled for in every way, that Clinton felt that the
people of the State should now be told the plain facts regarding the
manner of man held out to them to be accepted as their Governor.
He began his speech in a vein of cool, keen sarcasm, taking up, point
by point, the portions of Bellingham's career that had protruded into
the public gaze. He showed how he had started as the smallest and lowest
kind of a political hanger-on, and how he had then become a ward boss.
He then charged him with the indictment for altering ballots. He pointed
out how, although this was twenty-three years ago, Bellingham had
done nothing since which showed that he was any more fit for election
now than then. To be sure, the mark of the criminal law had appeared
in his life but once since then. But a negative life, a life lacking
in results, was no qualification for the high office of Governor. He
took up the conviction for intoxication and disorderly conduct and the
payment of the fine of ten years ago. With high scorn, he asked the
people how they would be pleased to have a man with that record at the
State House. Then coming down to last night's assault, he declared in
positive language that he could not believe that any man in his normal
condition would make such statements as Bellingham had done; that
there was but one explanation; and that one, an explanation which he
disliked to consider, but which it was his duty to state. The Governor
then repeated the account of the meeting as given by the reporters,
and he asked the people to draw their own inferences. In reference to
the infamous personal charges made against him, he would condescend to
reply but to three. He then showed how utterly groundless they were,
and demanded that Bellingham instantly furnish proof or retract them
in public. Having finished with a tremendous avalanche of scorn and
contempt for his opponent's personal character and accusations, the
Governor turned his attention to the political issues. He showed how
Bellingham had been unwilling, or else too cowardly, to declare his
position on any of the great questions; how he had evaded them on every
stump, and had refused to reply to the direct and pertinent questions
put to him every night by the Governor, vainly seeking to find out where
he stood.
The Governor grew more and more rapid in his dictation as his feelings
mastered him, and the private secretary had hard work in keeping up
with him. The speech, however, was wholly finished in thirty-five
minutes; and the secretary drew in his breath in relief and said, "Well,
Governor, if there is anything left of old Bellingham after you've made
that speech, they'll have to take a microscope to find it with."
"You think I'm right in making it, don't you?" asked the Governor. "I
hate to resort to this style of warfare; but I am not obliged to sit
still in silence forever under such a plan of campaign as they've been
carrying on, am I?"
"Not at all," said the secretary; "I consider it your duty to the people
of the State to show him up."
* * * * *
Vivid had been the excitement for the last two weeks at Copley, after it
was definitely known that Governor Clinton was to visit his old school
on Founder's Day and make the speech awarding the cups. Founder's Day
was the great day of the year at Copley. The athletic games came in the
afternoon, and in the evening the prize speaking, and later a dance.
Two cups were always awarded for excellence in the field sports: one,
the Master's Cup, which was awarded to the House, or dormitory, whose
inmates won the greatest number of points in the games; the other—vastly
prized by the boy who won it, and whose name was inscribed upon it for
future generations of boys to admire—was the Founder's Cup, and was
given to the boy who singly won the most points, showing the greatest
all-around general excellence in the sports.
Every year there was the most vigorous rivalry between the boys of
the Master's House and those of Prescott House, the other dormitory,
for the possession of the Master's Cup; but this year there was still
keener rivalry for the possession of the person of the Governor. When
it became known that the Master of Prescott House was a class-mate in
college of Governor Clinton, the Prescott House boys were certain that
he would lunch with Mr. Toppan and with them. The Master's House boys
were equally positive that only the Head Master, "Popper" Stoughton,
was high enough to do honor to the head of the State. On the Governor's
decision as to lunch, therefore, depended large transfers of property;
and it was said that "Goggles" Livingston had even risked a whole week's
allowance upon the less favored Prescott House side.
Application to studies at the recitation building that morning had been
very desultory. Although the school was not to be dismissed until one
o'clock, the delightful impending event of the Governor's arrival proved
a distraction disastrous to continued efforts of learning. And the
subdued excitement was so pervasive that when "Stump" Taylor translated
"_Gubernator navem navigat_," as "the Governor sails a boat," little
Mr. Saunders, the Latin tutor, forgot to correct him.
At about a quarter before twelve, steps were heard in the outer
corridor, and every boy who had sufficient ingenuity immediately
discovered that it was necessary for him to ask permission to leave the
room and to consult the Master about something.
The Governor crossed the threshold of the old building with an interest
that was solemn, and even almost painful, for this was the first time
that he had been back to his old school for eighteen years.
After a few minutes' talk with the Head Master in his room, the Governor
asked that the whole school might be called together. At the first
sound of the bell a race began from all over the building toward the
Master's room. And as Clinton stepped forward to speak, a continuous
chorus of shrill cheers split the air. "Boys," he said, when a semblance
of quiet began, "boys, I'm going to make a very short speech." Again
the cheers broke out. "I see you appreciate that remark as well as your
elders," he said. "You will be glad of its shortness, because you'll
have to listen to a longer one this afternoon. All that I've got to say
is that I've asked Mr. Stoughton to dismiss you now instead of at one
o'clock. He has thought best to submit to my request before I order out
the State troops to enforce it. I hope you'll get lots of fresh air and
sport now before we meet on the field this afternoon. This session is
now adjourned _sine die_. Those of the Latin class who can't translate
that will have to stay after school." Tumultuous laughter followed these
remarks, as if the restricted air of the school-room made a laugh easier
there than elsewhere, when it was allowed at all. Many of the boys filed
out at once; but a large number clustered in the doorway and vigorously
discussed the Governor in low tones.
Clinton looked round the room. How natural it seemed, and how little
changed! Certainly the school must have been very conservative.
"Why, you've even got the same old desks still," he said to Mr.
Stoughton. Then he stepped down from the platform and went to a very
much battered and inked-up desk which stood in front of all the others,
and directly under the eyes of the master as he sat at his desk. "Who
sits here now?" he asked, turning to a group of boys beside him.
"That's 'Kid' Nelson's," one said.
"Where is he?" asked Clinton. Amidst a great scuffling and pulling, and
with many muttered jests flung at him, a handsome boy, old in face but
small in stature, with a light of deviltry in his eye, came shambling
forward and gently grinned in a somewhat shame-faced fashion. The
Governor paused a moment, smiling. "I rather think I know why you sit
here, Nelson," he said. "I guess my old master had as much trouble with
me, 'Kid,' as Mr. Stoughton has now with you. That used to be my seat
most of the time when I was here." Saying this, the Governor sat down
at the low desk and squeezed his long legs in under the bottom of the
desk, almost prying it from its iron feet.
Meanwhile "Kid" Nelson straightened up with a proud look, and when he
went back to the group he was evidently being congratulated as a hero.
As he started to leave the room, Clinton suddenly stopped before a
full-length portrait of a noble-looking, pleasant-faced man apparently
about sixty years old. It was his old master—"Old Winthrop," as the
boys used to call him. He had died ten years ago, and Clinton had
hardly seen him more than once or twice since he left the school; but
the picture almost brought the tears to his eyes as he stood there and
thought how much he owed to that man. Winthrop had been a stern, almost
relentless, master; but he had had a complete and true understanding
of a boy's feelings and motives, and his boys had respected him as
they had respected no one else, then or since. They had, every one of
them, placed the most absolute confidence and reliance in him. No boy
ever thought of questioning "Old Winthrop's" decision, whether the
decision was on a point of school discipline, or athletics, or local
etiquette, or morals, or base-ball, or religion. He had taught his boys,
and they had learned the lesson well, that "honor" and "loyalty" were
the two great things in life; that to do what was not honorable was to
commit the greatest crime; that to be disloyal to one's friends, to
one's school, to one's trust, to one's self, was to render one unfit
to associate with gentlemen. "He made me all that I am now," murmured
Clinton to himself, and his voice was a little husky. "If I've ever done
anything well, it was due to him."
* * * * *
The Governor walked out across the fields with the Master and Mr. Toppan
in the direction of Prescott House; and when it became noised about
that, after all, he was to lunch there, and not at the Master's, the
Prescott boys yelled with joy and jeered at their crestfallen rivals
across the way.
* * * * *
On the way, Clinton stopped to look in at the Chapel, where the prize
speaking was to take place that evening. He laughed as he saw the
well-remembered platform with its faded red carpet, and as he thought
of his woeful failure the last time he had engaged in a speaking
competition there. How he had vainly and weakly struggled with
"Webster's Reply to Hayne," and lost his memory in the middle of it,
and had sat down ignominiously, and how Old Winthrop had said, "Well,
Clinton, whatever else you may do when you grow up, you will never make
a speaker. Your effort was the worst I ever heard here." That was the
only point that Clinton could remember on which Winthrop had ever been
wrong. Certainly the audiences that were nightly cheering the keen,
eloquent speeches which the Governor had been making for the past four
campaigns would vigorously question the fulfilment of Mr. Winthrop's
prophecy.
* * * * *
"Well, boys, who is going to win the Founder's Cup to-day?" Clinton
asked as he sat down in the lounging-room of the Prescott House and a
crowd of boys stood round the doorway, while the bolder sat uneasily on
the edge of a table in the middle of the room.
"'Scotty,' I mean Bruce Campbell," replied one, rather grudgingly.
"He's a Master's House fellow; but we're afraid he'll get it; although
'Skipper' Cunningham—he's one of us"—he said, pointing to a tall,
stalwart, nice-looking boy outside in the hall, "will give him a hard
push for it. You see, 'Scotty's' bound to get three firsts at any rate,
and it's a close thing in the two-twenty-yard dash. 'Skipper's' good
for a lot of seconds and one first, anyway," he said, enthusiastically.
"Oh, no, two!" shouted another boy. And thereupon so lively a discussion
arose that the overawing presence of the Governor was quite forgotten.
"Prescott House is sure of the Master's Cup, anyway," said "Kid" Nelson,
confidentially, to the Governor; "you can bet on that." Since his
interview in the school-room, "Kid" had quite taken Clinton under his
personal care.
Meanwhile, the Governor arose, and examined the pictures of the old
athletic teams on the wall, and to the delight of the boys pointed
out his own picture, a disreputable-looking member of one of the old
foot-ball teams, absolutely unrecognizable now as the portrayal of the
tall, determined, grave-looking man who stood towering up above his
devoted Copley School mates for the time being.
And he still further won their undying devotion when, after asking to
be taken to a certain bedroom upstairs, he very knowingly walked to
the window, leaned far out, then jerked himself back with a satisfied
air; and then showed them how a boy, by hanging far out of the window
while two other boys grasped his legs from within, could reach round
the corner of the House, get hold of a portico-railing, and escape from
the room and down to the earth in that fashion. It was undoubtedly
an immoral thing for the Governor to do, but he could not resist the
temptation, so delightful was it to find how the memory of all the most
minute old misdeeds came back.
The Masters of Prescott House, indeed, were very sure that Governor
Clinton's influence had been very far from good on their charges, when
during the next week they found that five boys made use of this highly
reprehensible method of exit from the House during evening study-hour.
And at dinner what could more delight the boys than that Clinton should
decline to sit at the head of the table, next to the Master and the
other teachers, but should sit opposite, with a boy on either side,
where he could learn all the details of the present school life, its
rivalries, revelries, hardships, and zests!
Time passed quickly, until at three o'clock all assembled on the field
for the great expected sports. The day was glorious for them; a crisp,
cold, sunny October day, with the air intensely clear and full of life.
What a day and what splendid games, thought Clinton. And he cheered
and shouted like a small boy, and was far less stately than the grave
First Class fellows who called themselves "Sub-Freshmen" in a manner
anticipatory of future dignities.
Firsts, Clinton found, counted ten; seconds, six; thirds, three, and
fourths, one; and the contest between the two houses was as close as
the greatest lover of sports could desire. And so it happened that when
the two-hundred-and-twenty yard dash came off, the Master's House had
won 78 points and Prescott House 80 points; and of the two favorites,
"Skipper" Cunningham had won 44 and Bruce Campbell 41. It was admitted
that this race would practically decide the day; for the few remaining
points, it was fairly well settled in advance, would be equally divided
between the various champions from the two houses.
"It's a good deal more exciting than a political campaign," said the
Governor to his friend Toppan.
There was a half hush as the two rivals lined up for the famous event
in the final heat—all the other competitors having fallen before them in
the preliminary heats. Both Cunningham and Campbell were shapely formed
youths, lithe and muscular, as each leaned far forward with his arms
stretched out in the starting posture, waiting for the signal.
The pistol cracked and the two boys were off. By the time they had gone
half the distance Campbell was leading by about eight feet. Suddenly he
was seen to stagger and something appeared to fly off from his legs. He
fell down upon the track and Cunningham darted by him with the race well
in hand. As he went by, he looked to see what the matter was, and then
suddenly stopped and turned around. His Prescott House followers held
their breath in amazement, dismay, and confusion. Then the spectators
saw what had happened. Campbell's running-shoe had become loose and the
spikes had stuck in a clayey bit of soil, pulling the shoe off the foot,
and causing Campbell's ankle to turn and throw him. Cunningham, panting
for breath, walked up to Campbell as he rose slowly, and said, "Too bad,
Bruce, old man; are you hurt?"
"No," said Campbell, "I got my wind a little knocked out. What did you
stop for?"
"Oh, all right," said Cunningham; "then we'll start the race over
again." And he walked down to the starting-line in a simple, unconcerned
way.
And how the boys were cheering him,—even the Prescott House boys, though
it was a great disappointment to them! The failure to win then might
cost them both cups; and if Cunningham had won that race, both cups
would have surely been theirs. But they cheered just the same.
The Governor turned to the Head Master. "By George!" he exclaimed,
"that's a splendid piece of work. That boy is a boy to be proud of. Did
you see, he had that race cold? It was a sure thing and he didn't choose
to win it in that way."
Mr. Stoughton was looking proud and happy. "That's the kind of a boy he
is," he answered; "and I believe," he added, with enthusiasm, "they all
are, here."
The Governor was about to say that the credit was due to Stoughton
when he noticed that preparations were being made to start the race
over again. Again the pistol sounded and the two were off, this time
Cunningham doing a little better than before, but still a few feet
behind Campbell. Toward the end he began to gain, and the Prescott
House boys plucked up courage again and yelled themselves hoarse; but
Campbell was still in the lead and finally won by about three feet.
The rest of the games came out just as expected; and, as prophesied,
the two-twenty-yard dash was the decisive match, giving the Master's
cup to the Master's House with 98 points, as against Prescott House
with 96 points, and the Founder's Cup going to Campbell, with 51 points
as opposed to Cunningham's 50 points. And so the Master's House boys
celebrated their victory, and the Prescott House boys celebrated their
defeated hero's, "Skipper" Cunningham's, deeds with almost as much vigor
as if they owned the cups. And really it was not much of a defeat after
all.
After the games, before going back to the school to award the cups
formally, the Governor went up to where Cunningham stood. "Cunningham,"
he said, holding out his hand, "I want to shake hands with you. I'm
proud of my school and that you're in it, and I'm proud of you. I want
to ask you what made you stop and offer to run the race over again."
"Why," said the "Skipper," blushing and confused and very much
surprised, "what else could I have done?"
"I know," said Clinton, "but it was only one of the fortunes of war that
is likely to happen in any contest. The race was yours, legally, even
if Campbell did have an accident. Why shouldn't you have run it out and
won the cup for your House and for yourself?"
"Oh," replied the "Skipper," simply, "but that wouldn't have been
honorable. It wouldn't have been fair and square. No Copley boy would
do that."
It was all said in so matter of course a way that the Governor saw
that the idea that elsewhere such a thing was often done had never
entered the boy's head. As he walked away, the boy's words rang in the
Governor's ears: "Not fair and square." "Not honorable." "No Copley boy
would do that."
How the Governor made a splendid speech, and how he called them all "old
fellows," and how he spoke of the fine traditions of honor which Mr.
Winthrop began and Mr. Stoughton was continuing, and how he told them
interesting stories of political fights—where they would be tempted to
forget some of the Copley standard of conduct—and how he praised old
"Skipper" Cunningham and said he was as good as the victor, and how he
said that he was going to present a cup to the school to be fought for
every year, to be called the "Winthrop Cup," and to be given to the
second best athlete, and how he said he wanted the "Skipper's" name to
be placed first upon it, and how he proposed three cheers for "Popper"
Stoughton—all these things are part of the school history, and are
handed down from one class to another as they tell of that memorable
"Governor's Day."
And then all the boys escorted him down to the station, and gave their
school, class, and House yells, and nearly jerked his arm off in their
anxiety to shake hands with him. And at six o'clock the Governor and his
private secretary boarded the limited express, which was due to arrive
at the great manufacturing city of Dunster at half-past seven, just in
time for the rally.
"Well, Mr. Porter, I'm sorry you were busy writing out that dictation,
for you missed a good time. I haven't had as much fun for years. But
now comes the serious part of life again. Have you got my speech all
written out?"
Porter produced it; and the Governor read it through, while the lines
in his face deepened and his look became again severe and judicial.
"I guess that is sufficiently strong," he said, when he had finished
reading—"but no more so than the man deserves; isn't that so?" he burst
out heartily.
"No," said Porter.
"You don't think that I'm taking any unfair advantage of him?" Clinton
asked, in a thoughtful manner. "Of course, his getting drunk may have
been more in the nature of an accident than anything else and doesn't
necessarily mean that a man is unfit," he said half to himself. "It's
a rather small issue, isn't it, to make against a man?"
"_You_ didn't make it; he did," answered Porter.
"You're right," said the Governor, suddenly, and he began to study the
speech carefully in order to get it clearly in his head. "Let me have
those copies of the court record," he said. Porter handed them over.
"I don't want to use these against a man if it wouldn't be a square
thing to do," again argued the Governor, "I don't want to take unfair
advantage of a weakness on his part."
"As I said before," replied the private secretary, "I consider it your
duty to the party."
"Of course," said the Governor, "that makes the difference; if only
I personally were the gainer, I might hesitate, but the party welfare
demands it."
At half-past seven the train drew into the station in Dunster; and a
delegation of the city committee met the Governor with a barouche and
four horses and a band playing "Hail to the Chief," to the Governor's
great weariness. At the city hall, where the rally was to be held, a
large crowd of representative men of the party were assembled in one of
the ante-rooms behind the stage. As the party leaders filed up, Clinton
addressed a few happy words to each, calling most of them by name, for
he had spoken in Dunster before.
Then the signal was given and the chairman of the meeting, looking
worried and overweighted by the responsibilities of the occasion,
marched up on the stage with the Governor, the rest shambling on
behind in a shamefaced manner and with a certain want of confidence,
like a flock of sheep. While the chairman was making his speech of
introduction, which occupied thirty-five minutes, and during which he
carefully anticipated every point which the real speakers of the evening
might make, the Governor took out the pages of his speech, together
with the court documents, and again carefully read them through. At
last the chairman finished and the Governor walked slowly forward on
the platform. The audience cheered wildly and the band hurriedly played
"Hail to the Chief." The Governor took his manuscript and the other
papers out of his breast-pocket, laid them on the reading-desk, opened
them, gave a last glance at them, and then stood waiting for the uproar
to subside.
[Illustration: Clinton examined them with curiosity.—Page 327.]
As he stood there looking at the excited audience, a man's face in the
row next to the front caught his eye, and he looked hard at him. It
seemed familiar. He gazed still harder; and then saw that it was no
one whom he knew, but that the face was the very image of "Skipper"
Cunningham's. Like a flash Clinton's mind reverted to the scene at
Copley School. He heard the frank, manly, ringing tones of Cunningham
as he replied to the Governor's remarks.... Then Clinton perceived that
the audience was waiting for him, and he began,
"My friends of Dunster, not alone my party mates, I thank you for this
warm welcome. I have tried my best while your Governor to earn it...."
Those who were there said that Governor Clinton had never before in his
life made so strong and so ringing a speech. The argument was searching,
filled with sarcasm, and unanswerable. It stirred his audience from the
bottom of their souls, for the Governor's words seemed instinct with
truth and sincerity. As he sat patiently waiting for the local candidate
for the Legislature, who was speaking on painfully uninteresting local
issues, to finish, Clinton felt, himself, that his speech had distinctly
been a success. He also felt that he had done right.
After the Governor and his private secretary, Mr. Porter, rode back to
the hotel, he said, "Porter, I wish you'd take down a note which I want
to dictate to-night to Bellingham. Enclose with it the manuscript of
my speech and the copies of those court records. Take a copy of it and
send it to-night."
[Illustration: "I'm proud of my school and that you're in it, and I'm
proud of you."—Page 331.]
On reaching the hotel the note was written and mailed with the
enclosures that night; and the Bellingham episode in the campaign
appeared to be closed so far as Clinton was concerned.
* * * * *
The Governor reached the State House the next day about noon; and at
three o'clock it was announced to him that Mr. Bellingham was outside
and desired to see him.
"This is a nuisance," muttered the Governor as Bellingham entered. The
latter walked up to the Governor and held out his hand.
"Governor," he said, "I am here to apologize to you most sincerely for
what I said in my speech the other night. I want to tell you that I
will make full explanation of it in the newspapers and to my audience
to-night. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate and how much I thank
you for your note and for your forbearance in not delivering that speech
which you sent me. For I admit you had the greatest provocation to
return the attack."
[Illustration: He fell down upon the track and Cunningham darted by
him with the race well in hand.—Page 331.
Drawn by F. C. Yohn.]
"Oh, that's all right," replied Clinton. "It's all over with now. Sit
down."
Just at that moment Jim Blakely and Dawson, the _Standard_ reporter,
were waiting outside in the private secretary's office for a chance to
see Clinton, and conversing excitedly with Mr. Porter.
"What in Heaven's name made the Governor give up his idea of attacking
Bellingham in his speech last night?" asked Blakely. "I thought we had
it all decided on that he was to produce those convictions and make a
rousing assault on that blackguardly politician," he continued; "and
now he goes up to Dunster and makes a speech with not a word in it on
Bellingham's personal record, and confines himself to political issues.
He's a damned fool, that's what he is. He's throwing away his election."
"I don't know," said Porter, "how it happened. All I know is, that he
had his speech all prepared and was studying it all the way to Dunster.
He had it on his desk before him, and I was never so surprised in
all my life as I was when I heard him go on without a word regarding
Bellingham's career or in reply to his disreputable assaults. And you
could have knocked me down with a feather when the Governor told me last
night to write to Bellingham and enclose the legal papers. Wait a minute
and I'll show you what he wrote. I know I can rely on you two not to
make it public."
[Illustration: The Governor's words seemed instinct with truth and
sincerity.—Page 333.]
Both men nodded, and Porter took up some paper on his desk and read:
"ALFRED P. BELLINGHAM, ESQ.,
"Dear Sir:—I have read your remarks of last night and I
enclose you the speech which I intended to deliver in reply
to them. It will never be delivered, however. I also enclose
you certain documents which may be of interest to you. Upon
careful consideration of these and of your recent course in
this campaign, I feel sure that you will be of the opinion,
as a gentleman, that the way to your election or to mine in
this State does not lie along such a road.
"Yours truly,
"ROBERT CLINTON."
"Well, I call the Governor, with all due respect, a tenderfoot," said
the reporter, whistling loudly as he heard the letter. "Did the Governor
give you any explanation of his change of heart?"
"Nothing very intelligible," answered Porter. "He said something about
Copley School that I couldn't make out."
* * * * *
"And now," said Bellingham, inside the Executive Chamber, to Clinton,
"I want to explain to you the other night's speech. I admit that I was
drunk. I admit also that many years ago I was indicted for fraud at
an election, and I was convicted and fined for drunkenness; but, God
help me, I believe that during the past twenty years I have lived down
these things. I hadn't touched a drop of liquor for five years up to
the other night. It was, you remember, a very biting cold night, and
I had driven six miles from the railroad station and was thoroughly
chilled through. I felt it in my lungs, and my host over-persuaded me to
take some whiskey. It went straight to my head, and you unfortunately
know the result. But as I said before, Governor, I cannot sufficiently
apologize to you and thank you for your forbearance."
The Governor paused a moment. "You needn't thank me," he said. "You
should thank 'Skipper' Cunningham."
Bellingham looked confused and waited for the Governor to explain his
remark. The Governor, however, offered no explanation. Instead, he said,
abruptly, "Bellingham, I'm going to tell you, as man to man, that I
think you've done a very square thing by coming here to me to-day and
saying what you've said. I think it was a mighty frank and honorable
thing in you to do. I'm proud to be fighting you as my opponent."
[Illustration: "Governor," he said, "I am here to apologize to
you."—Page 334.]
He paused again, and then suddenly asked, "You never were a Copley
School boy, were you?"
"No," said Bellingham.
"You ought to have been," answered the Governor.