The weekly letter to the Newcastle Guardian was not finished that night,
but Coniston slept, peacefully, unaware of Mr. Worthington's visit; and
never, indeed, discovered it, since the historian for various reasons of
his own did not see fit to insert the event in his plan of the Town
History. Before another sun had set Jethro Bass had departed for the
state capital, not choosing to remain to superintend the haying of the
many farms which had fallen into his hand,--a most unusual omission for
him.
Presently rumors of a mighty issue about the Truro Railroad began to be
discussed by the politicians at the Coniston store, and Jake Wheeler held
himself in instant readiness to answer a summons to the capital--which
never came.
Delegations from Brampton and Harwich went to petition the Legislature
for the franchise, and the Brampton Clarion and Harwich Sentinel declared
that the people of Truro County recognized in Isaac Worthington a great
and public-spirited man, who ought by all means to be the next
governor--if the franchise went through.
One evening Lem Hallowell, after depositing a box of trimmings at Ephraim
Prescott's harness shop, drove up to the platform of the store with the
remark that "things were gittin' pretty hot down to the capital in that
franchise fight."
"Hain't you b'en sent for yet, Jake?" he cried, throwing his reins over
the backs of his sweating Morgans; "well, that's strange. Guess the fight
hain't as hot as we hear about. Jethro hain't had to call out his best
men."
"I'm a-goin' down if there's trouble," declared Jake, who consistently
ignored banter.
"Better git up and git," said Lem; "there's three out of the five
railroads against Truro, and Steve Merrill layin' low. Bije Bixby's down
there, and Heth Sutton, and Abner Parkinson, and all the big bugs. Better
get aboard, Jake."
At this moment the discussion was interrupted by the sight of Cynthia
Wetherell coming across the green with an open letter in her hand.
"It's a message from Uncle Jethro," she said.
The announcement was sufficient to warrant the sensation it produced on
all sides.
"'Tain't a letter from Jethro, is it?" exclaimed Sam Price, overcome by a
pardonable curiosity. For it was well known that one of Jethro's fixed
principles in life was embodied in his own motto, "Don't write--send."
"It's very funny," answered Cynthia, looking down at the paper with a
puzzled expression. "'Dear Cynthia: Judge Bass wished me to say to you
that he would be pleased if you and Will would come to the capital and
spend a week with him at the Pelican House, and see the sights. The judge
says Rias Richardson will tend store. Yours truly, P. Hartington.' That's
all," said Cynthia, looking up.
For a moment you could have heard a pine needle drop on the stoop. Then
Rias thrust his hands in his pockets and voiced the general sentiment.
"Well, I'll be--goldurned!" said he.
"Didn't say nothin' about Jake?" queried Lem.
"No," answered Cynthia, "that's all--except two pieces of cardboard with
something about the Truro Railroad and our names. I don't know what they
are." And she took them from the envelope.
"Guess I could tell you if I was pressed," said Lem, amid a shout of
merriment from the group.
"Air you goin', Will?" said Sam Price, pausing with his foot on the step
of his buggy, that he might have the complete news before he left.
"Godfrey, Will," exclaimed Rigs, breathlessly, "you hain't a-goin' to
throw up a chance to stay a hull week at the Pelican, be you?" The mere
possibility of refusal overpowered Rias.
Those who are familiar with that delightful French song which treats of
the leave-taking of one Monsieur Dumollet will appreciate, perhaps, the
attentions which were showered upon William Wetherell and Cynthia upon
their departure for the capital next morning. Although Mr. Wetherell had
at one time been actually a resident of Boston, he received quite as many
cautions from his neighbors as Monsieur Dumollet. Billets doux and
pistols were, of course, not mentioned, but it certainly behooved him,
when he should have arrived at that place of intrigues, to be on the
lookout for cabals.
They took the stage-coach from Brampton over the pass: picturesque
stage-coach with its apple-green body and leather springs, soon to be
laid away forever if the coveted Truro Franchise Bill becomes a law;
stage-coach which pulls up defiantly beside its own rival at Truro
station, where our passengers take the train down the pleasant waterways
and past the little white villages among the fruit trees to the capital.
The thrill of anticipation was in Cynthia's blood, and the flush of
pleasure on her cheeks, when they stopped at last under the sheds. The
conductor snapped his fingers and cried, "This way, Judge," and there was
Jethro in his swallow-tailed coat and stove-pipe hat awaiting them. He
seized Wetherell's carpet-bag with one hand and Cynthia's arm with the
other, and shouldered his way through the people, who parted when they
saw who it was.
"Uncle Jethro," cried Cynthia, breathlessly, "I didn't know you were a
judge. What are you judge of?"
"J-judge of clothes, Cynthy. D-don't you wish you had the red cloth to
wear here?"
"No, I don't," said Cynthia. "I'm glad enough to be here without it."
"G-glad to hev you in any fixin's, Cynthy," he said, giving her arm a
little squeeze, and by that time they were up the hill and William
Wetherell quite winded. For Jethro was strong as an ox, and Cynthia's
muscles were like an Indian's.
They were among the glories of Main Street now. The capital was then, and
still remains, a typically beautiful New England city, with wide streets
shaded by shapely maples and elms, with substantial homes set back amidst
lawns and gardens. Here on Main Street were neat brick business buildings
and banks and shops, with the park-like grounds of the Capitol farther
on, and everywhere, from curb to doorway, were knots of men talking
politics; broad-faced, sunburned farmers in store clothes, with beards
that hid their shirt fronts; keen-featured, sallow, country lawyers in
long black coats crumpled from much sitting on the small of the back;
country storekeepers with shrewd eyes, and local proprietors and
manufacturers.
"Uncle Jethro, I didn't know you were such a great man," she said.
"H-how did ye find out, Cynthy?"
"The way people treat you here. I knew you were great, of course," she
hastened to add.
"H-how do they treat me?" he asked, looking down at her.
"You know," she answered. "They all stop talking when you come along and
stare at you. But why don't you speak to them?"
Jethro smiled and squeezed her arm again, and then they were in the
corridor of the famous Pelican Hotel, hazy with cigar smoke and filled
with politicians. Some were standing, hanging on to pillars,
gesticulating, some were ranged in benches along the wall, and a chosen
few were in chairs grouped around the spittoons. Upon the appearance of
Jethro's party, the talk was hushed, the groups gave way, and they
accomplished a kind of triumphal march to the desk. The clerk, descrying
them, desisted abruptly from a conversation across the cigar counter, and
with all the form of a ceremony dipped the pen with a flourish into the
ink and handed it to Jethro.
"Your rooms are ready, Judge," he said.
As they started for the stairs, Jethro and Cynthia leading the way,
Wetherell felt a touch on his elbow and turned to confront Mr. Bijah
Bixby--at very close range, as usual.
"C-come down at last, Will?" he said. "Thought ye would. Need everybody
this time--you understand."
"I came on pleasure," retorted Mr. Wetherell, somewhat angrily.
Mr. Bixby appeared hugely to enjoy the joke.
"So I callated," he cried, still holding Wetherell's hand in a mild, but
persuasive grip. "So I callated. Guess I done you an injustice, Will."
"How's that?"
"You're a leetle mite smarter than I thought you was. So long. Got a
leetle business now--you understand a leetle business."
Was it possible, indeed, for the simple-minded to come to the capital and
not become involved in cabals? With some misgivings William Wetherell
watched Mr. Bixby disappear among the throng, kicking up his heels
behind, and then went upstairs. On the first floor Cynthia was standing
by an open door.
"Dad," she cried, "come and see the rooms Uncle Jethro's got for us!" She
took Wetherell's hand and led him in. "See the lace curtains, and the
chandelier, and the big bureau with the marble top."
Jethro had parted his coat tails and seated himself enjoyably on the bed.
"D-don't come often," he said, "m-might as well have the best."
"Jethro," said Wetherell, coughing nervously and fumbling in the pocket
of his coat, "you've been very kind to us, and we hardly know how to
thank you. I--I didn't have any use for these."
He held out the pieces of cardboard which had come in Cynthia's letter.
He dared not look at Jethro, and his eye was fixed instead upon the
somewhat grandiose signature of Isaac D. Worthington, which they bore.
Jethro took them and tore them up, and slowly tossed the pieces into a
cuspidor conveniently situated near the foot of the bed. He rose and
thrust his hands into his pockets.
"Er--when you get freshened up, come into Number 7," he said.
Number 7! But we shall come to that later. Supper first, in a great
pillared dining room filled with notables, if we only had the key. Jethro
sits silent at the head of the table eating his crackers and milk, with
Cynthia on his left and William Wetherell on his right. Poor William,
greatly embarrassed by his sudden projection into the limelight, is
helpless in the clutches of a lady-waitress who is demanding somewhat
fiercely that he make an immediate choice from a list of dishes which she
is shooting at him with astonishing rapidity. But who is this, sitting
beside him, who comes to William's rescue, and demands that the lady
repeat the bill of fare? Surely a notable, for he has a generous
presence, and jet-black whiskers which catch the light, which give the
gentleman, as Mr. Bixby remarked, "quite a settin'." Yes, we have met him
at last. It is none other than the Honorable Heth Sutton, Rajah of
Clovelly, Speaker of the House, who has condescended to help Mr.
Wetherell.
His chamberlain, Mr. Bijah Bixby, sits on the other side of the Honorable
Heth, and performs the presentation of Mr. Wetherell. But Mr. Sutton, as
becomes a man of high position, says little after he has rebuked the
waitress, and presently departs with a carefully chosen toothpick;
whereupon Mr. Bixby moves into the vacant seat--not to Mr. Wetherell's
unqualified delight.
"I've knowed him ever sense we was boys," said Mr. Bixby; "you saw how
intimate we was. When he wants a thing done, he says, 'Bije, you go out
and get 'em.' Never counts the cost. He was nice to you--wahn't he,
Will?" And then Mr. Bixby leaned over and whispered in Mr. Wetherell's
ear; "He knows--you understand--he knows."
"Knows what?" demanded Mr. Wetherell.
Mr. Bixby gave him another admiring look.
"Knows you didn't come down here with Jethro jest to see the sights."
At this instant the talk in the dining room fell flat, and looking up
William Wetherell perceived a portly, rubicund man of middle age being
shown to his seat by the headwaiter. The gentleman wore a great,
glittering diamond in his shirt, and a watch chain that contained much
fine gold. But the real cause of the silence was plainly in the young
woman who walked beside him, and whose effective entrance argued no
little practice and experience. She was of a type that catches the eye
involuntarily and holds it,--tall, well-rounded, fresh-complexioned, with
heavy coils of shimmering gold hair. Her pawn, which was far from
unbecoming, was in keeping with those gifts with which nature had endowed
her. She carried her head high, and bestowed swift and evidently fatal
glances to right and left during her progress through the room. Mr.
Bixby's voice roused the storekeeper from this contemplation of the
beauty.
"That's Alvy Hopkins of Gosport and his daughter. Fine gal, hain't she?
Ever sense she come down here t'other day she's stirred up more turmoil
than any railroad bill I ever seed. She was most suffocated at the
governor's ball with fellers tryin' to get dances--some of 'em old
fellers, too. And you understand about Alvy?"
"What about him?"
"Alvy says he's a-goin' to be the next governor, or fail up." Mr. Bixby's
voice sank to a whisper, and he spoke into Mr. Wetherell's ear. "Alvy
says he has twenty-five thousand dollars to put in if necessary. I'll
introduce you to him, Will," he added meaningly. "Guess you can help him
some--you understand?"
"Mr. Bixby!" cried Mr. Wetherell, putting down his knife and fork.
"There!" said Mr. Bixby, reassuringly; "'twon't be no bother. I know him
as well as I do you--call each other by our given names. Guess I was the
first man he sent for last spring. He knows I go through all them river
towns. He says, 'Bije, you get 'em.' I understood."
William Wetherell began to realize the futility of trying to convince Mr.
Bixby of his innocence in political matters, and glanced at Jethro.
"You wouldn't think he was listenin', would you, Will?" Mr. Bixby
remarked.
"Listening?"
"Ears are sharp as a dog's. Callate he kin hear as far as the governor's
table, and he don't look as if he knows anything. One way he built up his
power--listenin' when they're talkin' sly out there in the rotunda.
They're almighty surprised when they l'arn he knows what they're up to.
Guess you understand how to go along by quiet and listen when they're
talkin' sly."
"I never did such a thing in my life," cried William Wetherell,
indignantly aghast.
But Mr. Bixby winked.
"So long, Will," he said, "see you in Number 7."
Never, since the days of Pompadour and Du Barry, until modern American
politics were invented, has a state been ruled from such a place as
Number 7 in the Pelican House--familiarly known as the Throne Room. In
this historic cabinet there were five chairs, a marble-topped table, a
pitcher of iced water, a bureau, a box of cigars and a Bible, a
chandelier with all the gas jets burning, and a bed, whereon sat such
dignitaries as obtained an audience,--railroad presidents, governors and
ex-governors and prospective governors, the Speaker, the President of the
Senate, Bijah Bixby, Peleg Hartington, mighty chiefs from the North
Country, and lieutenants from other parts of the state. These sat on the
bed by preference. Jethro sat in a chair by the window, and never took
any part in the discussions that raged, but listened. Generally there was
some one seated beside him who talked persistently in his ear; as at
present, for instance, Mr. Chauncey Weed, Chairman of the Committee on
Corporations of the House, who took the additional precaution of putting
his hand to his mouth when he spoke.
Mr. Stephen Merrill was in the Throne Room that evening, and
confidentially explained to the bewildered William Wetherell the exact
situation in the Truro Franchise fight. Inasmuch as it has become our
duty to describe this celebrated conflict,--in a popular and engaging
manner, if possible,--we shall have to do so through Mr. Wetherell's
eyes, and on his responsibility. The biographies of some of the gentlemen
concerned have since been published, and for some unaccountable reason
contain no mention of the Truro franchise.
"All Gaul," said Mr. Merrill--he was speaking to a literary man--"all
Gaul is divided into five railroads. I am one, the Grand Gulf and
Northern, the impecunious one. That is the reason I'm so nice to
everybody, Mr. Wetherell. The other day a conductor on my road had a
shock of paralysis when a man paid his fare. Then there's Batch,
president of the 'Down East' road, as we call it. Batch and I are out of
this fight,--we don't care whether Isaac D. Worthington gets his
franchise or not, or I wouldn't be telling you this. The two railroads
which don't want him to get it, because the Truro would eventually become
a competitor with them, are the Central and the Northwestern. Alexander
Duncan is president of the Central."
"Alexander Duncan!" exclaimed Wetherell. "He's the richest man in the
state, isn't he?"
"Yes," said Mr. Merrill, "and he lives in a big square house right here
in the capital. He ain't a bad fellow, Duncan. You'd like him. He loves
books. I wish you could see his library."
"I'm afraid there's not much chance of that," answered Wetherell.
"Well, as I say, there's Duncan, of the Central, and the other is
Lovejoy, of the Northwestern. Lovejoy's a bachelor and a skinflint. Those
two, Duncan and Lovejoy, are using every means in their power to prevent
Worthington from getting that franchise. Have I made myself clear?"
"Do you think Mr. Worthington will get it?" asked Wetherell, who had in
mind a certain nocturnal visit at his store.
Mr. Merrill almost leaped out of his chair at the question. Then he
mopped his face, and winked very deliberately at the storekeeper. Then
Mr. Merrill laughed.
"Well, well," he said, "for a man who comes down here to stay with Jethro
Bass to ask me that!" Whereupon Mr. Wetherell flushed, and began to
perspire himself. "Didn't you hear Isaac D. Worthington's virtuous appeal
to the people at Brampton?" said Mr. Merrill.
"Yes," replied Wetherell, getting redder.
"I like you, Will," said Mr. Merrill, unexpectedly, "darned if I don't.
I'll tell you what I know about it, and you can have a little fun while
you're here, lookin' on, only it won't do to write about it to the
Newcastle Guardian. Guess Willard wouldn't publish it, anyhow. I suppose
you know that Jethro pulls the strings, end we little railroad presidents
dance. We're the puppets now, but after a while, when I'm crowded out,
all these little railroads will get together and there'll be a row worth
looking at, or I'm mistaken. But to go back to Worthington," continued
Mr. Merrill, "he made a little mistake with his bill in the beginning.
Instead of going to Jethro, he went to Heth Sutton, and Heth got the bill
as far as the Committee on Corporations, and there she's been ever since,
with our friend Chauncey Weed, who's whispering over there."
"Mr. Sutton couldn't even get it out of the Committee!" exclaimed
Wetherell.
"Not an inch. Jethro saw this thing coming about a year ago, and he took
the precaution to have Chauncey Weed and the rest of the Committee in his
pocket--and of course Heth Sutton's always been there."
William Wetherell thought of that imposing and manly personage, the
Honorable Heth Sutton, being in Jethro's pocket, and marvelled. Mr.
Chauncey Weed seemed of a species better able to thrive in the atmosphere
of pockets.
"Well, as I say, there was the Truro Franchise Bill sound asleep in the
Committee, and when Isaac D. Worthington saw that his little arrangement
with Heth Sutton wasn't any good, and that the people of the state didn't
have anything more to say about it than the Crow Indians, and that the
end of the session was getting nearer and nearer, he got desperate and
went to Jethro, I suppose. You know as well as I do that Jethro has
agreed to put the bill through."
"Then why doesn't he get the Committee to report it and put it through?"
asked Wetherell.
"Bless your simple literary nature," exclaimed Mr Merrill, "Jethro's got
more power than any man in the state, but that isn't saying that he
doesn't have to fight occasionally. He has to fight now. He has seven of
the twelve senators hitched, and the governor. But Duncan and Lovejoy
have bought up all the loose blocks of representatives, and it is
supposed that the franchise forces only control a quorum. The end of the
session is a week off, and never in all my experience have I seen a more
praiseworthy attendance on the part of members."
"Do you mean that they are being paid to remain in their seats?" cried
the amazed Mr. Wetherell.
"Well," answered Mr. Merrill, with a twinkle in his eye, "that is a
little bald and--and unparliamentary, perhaps, but fairly accurate. Our
friend Jethro is confronted with a problem to tax even his faculties, and
to look at him, a man wouldn't suspect he had a care in the world."
Jethro was apparently quite as free from anxiety the next morning when he
offered, after breakfast, to show Wetherell and Cynthia the sights of the
town, though Wetherell could not but think that the Throne Room and the
Truro Franchise Bill were left at a very crucial moment to take care of
themselves. Jethro talked to Cynthia--or rather, Cynthia talked to Jethro
upon innumerable subject's; they looked upon the statue of a great
statesman in the park, and Cynthia read aloud the quotation graven on the
rock of the pedestal, "The People's Government, made for the People, made
by the People, and answerable to the People." After that they went into
the state library, where Wetherell was introduced to the librarian, Mr.
Storrow. They did not go into the State House because, as everybody
knows, Jethro Bass never went there. Mr. Bijah Bixby and other
lieutenants might be seen in the lobbies, and the governor might sign
bills in his own apartment there, but the real seat of government was
that Throne Room into which we have been permitted to enter.
They walked out beyond the outskirts of the town, where there was a grove
or picnic ground which was also used as a park by some of the
inhabitants. Jethro liked the spot, and was in the habit sometimes of
taking refuge there when the atmosphere of the Pelican House became too
thick. The three of them had sat down on one of the board benches to
rest, when presently two people were seen at a little distance walking
among the trees, and the sight of them, for some reason, seemed to give
Jethro infinite pleasure.
"Why," exclaimed Cynthia, "one of them is that horrid girl everybody was
looking at in the dining room last night."
"D-don't like her, Cynthy?" said Jethro.
"No," said Cynthia, "I don't."
"Pretty--hain't she--pretty?"
"She's brazen," declared Cynthia.
It was, indeed, Miss Cassandra Hopkins, daughter of that Honorable Alva
who--according to Mr. Bixby was all ready with a certain sum of money to
be the next governor. Miss Cassandra was arrayed fluffily in cool, pink
lawn, and she carried a fringed parasol, and she was gazing upward with
telling effect into the face of the gentleman by her side. This would
have all been very romantic if the gentleman had been young and handsome,
but he was certainly not a man to sweep a young girl off her feet. He was
tall, angular, though broad-shouldered, with a long, scrawny neck that
rose out of a very low collar, and a large head, scantily covered with
hair--a head that gave a physical as well as a mental effect of hardness.
His smooth-shaven face seemed to bear witness that its owner was one who
had pushed frugality to the borders of a vice. It was not a pleasant
face, but now it wore an almost benign expression under the influence of
Miss Cassandra's eyes. So intent, apparently, were both of them upon each
other that they did not notice the group on the bench at the other side
of the grove. William Wetherell ventured to ask Jethro who the man was.
"N-name's Lovejoy," said Jethro.
"Lovejoy!" ejaculated the storekeeper, thinking of what Mr. Merrill had
told him of the opponents of the Truro Franchise Bill. "President of the
'Northwestern' Railroad?"
Jethro gave his friend a shrewd look.
"G-gettin' posted--hain't you, Will?" he said.
"Is she going to marry that old man?" asked Cynthia.
Jethro smiled a little. "G-guess not," said he, "g-guess not, if the old
man can help it. Nobody's married him yet, and hain't likely to."
Jethro was unusually silent on the way back to the hotel, but he did not
seem to be worried or displeased. He only broke his silence once, in
fact, when Cynthia called his attention to a large poster of some
bloodhounds on a fence, announcing the fact in red letters that "Uncle
Tom's Cabin" would be given by a certain travelling company at the Opera
House the next evening.
"L-like to go, Cynthy?"
"Oh, Uncle Jethro, do you think we can go?"
"Never b'en to a show--hev you--never b'en to a show?"
"Never in my life," said Cynthia.
"We'll all go," said Jethro, and he repeated it once or twice as they
came to Main Street, seemingly greatly tickled at the prospect. And there
was the Truro Franchise Bill hanging over him, with only a week left of
the session, and Lovejoy's and Duncan's men sitting so tight in their
seats! William Wetherell could not understand it.