Mr. Amos Cuthbert named it so--our old friend Amos who lives high up in
the ether of Town's End ridge, and who now represents Coniston in the
Legislature. He is the same silent, sallow person as when Jethro first
took a mortgage on his farm, only his skin is beginning to resemble dried
parchment, and he is a trifle more cantankerous. On the morning of that
memorable day when, "Uncle Tom's Cabin" came to the capital, Amos had
entered the Throne Room and given vent to his feelings in regard to the
gentleman in the back seat who had demanded an evening sitting on behalf
of the farmers.
"Don't that beat all?" cried Amos. "Let them have their darned woodchuck
session; there won't nobody go to it. For cussed, crisscross
contrariness, give me a moss-back Democrat from a one-boss, one-man town
like Suffolk. I'm a-goin' to see the show."
"G-goin' to the show, be you, Amos?" said Jethro.
"Yes, I be," answered Amos, bitterly. "I hain't agoin' nigh the house
to-night." And with this declaration he departed.
"I wonder if he really is going?" queried Mr. Merrill looking at the
ceiling. And then he laughed.
"Why shouldn't he go?" asked William Wetherell.
Mr. Merrill's answer to this question was a wink, whereupon he, too,
departed. And while Wetherell was pondering over the possible meaning of
these words the Honorable Alva Hopkins entered, wreathed in smiles, and
closed the door behind him.
"It's all fixed," he said, taking a seat near Jethro in the window.
"S-seen your gal--Alvy--seen your gal?"
Mr. Hopkins gave a glance at Wetherell.
"Will don't talk," said Jethro, and resumed his inspection through the
lace curtains of what was going on in the street.
"Cassandry's, got him to go," said Mr. Hopkins. "It's all fixed, as sure
as Sunday. If it misses fire, then I'll never mention the governorship
again. But if it don't miss fire," and the Honorable Alva leaned over and
put his hand on Jethro's knee, "if it don't miss fire, I get the
nomination. Is that right?"
"Y-you've guessed it, Alvy."
"That's all I want to know," declared the Honorable Alva; "when you say
that much, you never go back on it. And, you can go ahead and give the
orders, Jethro. I have to see that the boys get the tickets. Cassandry's
got a head on her shoulders, and she kind of wants to be governor, too."
He got as far as the door, when he turned and bestowed upon Jethro a
glance of undoubted tribute. "You've done a good many smart things," said
he, "but I guess you never beat this, and never will."
"H-hain't done it yet, Alvy," answered Jethro, still looking out through
the window curtains at the ever ganging groups of gentlemen in the
street. These groups had a never ceasing interest for Jethro Bass.
Mr. Wetherell didn't talk, but had he been the most incurable of gossips
he felt that he could have done no damage to this mysterious affair,
whatever it was. In a certain event, Mr. Hopkins was promised the
governorship: so much was plain. And it was also evident that Miss
Cassandra Hopkins was in some way to be instrumental. William Wetherell
did not like to ask Jethro, but he thought a little of sounding Mr.
Merrill, and then he came to the conclusion that it would be wiser for
him not to know.
"Er--Will," said Jethro, presently, "you know Heth Sutton--Speaker Heth
Sutton?"
"Yes."
"Er--wouldn't mind askin' him to step in and see me before the
session--if he was comin' by--would you?"
"Certainly not."
"Er--if he was comin' by," said Jethro.
Mr. Wetherell found Mr. Speaker Sutton glued to a pillar in the rotunda
below. He had some difficulty in breaking through the throng that pressed
around him, and still more in attracting his attention, as Mr. Sutton
took no manner of notice of the customary form of placing one's hand
under his elbow and pressing gently up. Summoning up his courage, Mr.
Wetherell tried the second method of seizing him by the buttonhole. He
paused in his harangue, one hand uplifted, and turned and glanced at the
storekeeper abstractedly.
"Mr. Bass asked me to tell you to drop into Number 7," said Wetherell,
and added, remembering express instructions, "if you were going by."
Wetherell had not anticipated the magical effect this usual message would
have on Mr. Sutton, nor had he thought that so large and dignified a body
would move so rapidly. Before the astonished gentlemen who had penned him
could draw a breath, Mr. Sutton had reached the stairway and, was
mounting it with an agility that did him credit. Five minutes later
Wetherell saw the Speaker descending again, the usually impressive
quality of his face slightly modified by the twitching of a smile.
Thus the day passed, and the gentlemen of the Lovejoy and Duncan factions
sat, as tight as ever in their seats, and the Truro Franchise bill still
slumbered undisturbed in Mr. Chauncey Weed's committee.
At supper there was a decided festal air about the dining room of the
Pelican House, the little band of agricultural gentlemen who wished to
have a session not being patrons of that exclusive hotel. Many of the
Solons had sent home for their wives; that they might do the utmost
justice to the Honorable Alva's hospitality. Even Jethro, as he ate his
crackers and milk, had a new coat with bright brass buttons, and Cynthia,
who wore a fresh gingham which Miss Sukey Kittredge of Coniston had
helped to design, so far relented in deference to Jethro's taste as to
tie a red bow at her throat.
The middle table under the chandelier was the immediate firmament of Miss
Cassandra Hopkins. And there, beside the future governor, sat the
president of the "Northwestern" Railroad, Mr. Lovejoy, as the chief of
the revolving satellites. People began to say that Mr. Lovejoy was hooked
at last, now that he had lost his head in such an unaccountable fashion
as to pay his court in public; and it was very generally known that he
was to make one of the Honorable Alva's immediate party at the
performance of "Uncle Tam's Cabin."
Mr. Speaker Sutton, of course, would have to forego the pleasure of the
theatre as a penalty of his high position. Mr. Merrill, who sat at
Jethro's table next to Cynthia that evening, did a great deal of joking
with the Honorable Heth about having to preside aver a woodchuck session,
which the Speaker, so Mr. Wetherell thought, took in astonishingly good
part, and seemed very willing to make the great sacrifice which his duty
required of him.
After supper Mr. Wetherell took a seat in the rotunda. As an observer of
human nature, he had begun to find a fascination in watching the group of
politicians there. First of all he encountered Mr. Amos Cuthbert, his
little coal-black eyes burning brightly, and he was looking very
irritable indeed.
"So you're going to the show, Amos?" remarked the storekeeper, with an
attempt at cordiality.
To his bewilderment, Amos turned upon him fiercely.
"Who said I was going to the show?" he snapped.
"You yourself told me."
"You'd ought to know whether I'm a-goin' or not," said Amos, and walked
away.
While Mr. Wetherell sat meditating, upon this inexplicable retort, a
retired, scholarly looking gentleman with a white beard, who wore
spectacles, came out of the door leading from the barber shop and quietly
took a seat beside him. The storekeeper's attention was next distracted
by the sight of one who wandered slowly but ceaselessly from group to
group, kicking up his heels behind, and halting always in the rear of the
speakers. Needless to say that this was our friend Mr. Bijah Bixby, who
was following out his celebrated tactics of "going along by when they
were talkin' sly." Suddenly Mr. Bixby's eye alighted on Mr. Wetherell,
who by a stretch of imagination conceived that it expressed both
astonishment and approval, although he was wholly at a loss to understand
these sentiments. Mr. Bixby winked--Mr. Wetherell was sure of that. But
to his surprise, Bijah did not pause in his rounds to greet him.
Mr. Wetherell was beginning to be decidedly uneasy, and was about to go
upstairs, when Mr. Merrill came down the rotunda whistling, with his
hands in his pockets. He stopped whistling when he spied the storekeeper,
and approached him in his usual hearty manner.
"Well, well, this is fortunate," said Mr. Merrill; "how are you, Duncan?
I want you to know Mr. Wetherell. Wetherell writes that weekly letter for
the Guardian you were speaking to me about last year. Will, this is Mr.
Alexander Duncan, president of the 'Central.'"
"How do you do, Mr. Wetherell?" said the scholarly gentleman with the
spectacles, putting out his hand. "I'm glad to meet you, very glad,
indeed. I read your letters with the greatest pleasure."
Mr. Wetherell, as he took Mr. Duncan's hand, had a variety of emotions
which may be imagined, and need not be set down in particular.
"Funny thing," Mr. Merrill continued, "I was looking for you, Duncan. It
occurred to me that you would like to meet Mr. Wetherell. I was afraid
you were in Boston."
"I have just got back," said Mr. Duncan.
"I wanted Wetherell to see your library. I was telling him about it."
"I should be delighted to show it to him," answered Mr. Duncan. That
library, as is well known, was a special weakness of Mr. Duncan's.
Poor William Wetherell, who was quite overwhelmed by the fact that the
great Mr. Duncan had actually read his letters and liked them, could
scarcely utter a sensible word. Almost before he realized what had
happened he was following Mr. Duncan out of the Pelican House, when the
storekeeper was mystified once more by a nudge and another wink from Mr.
Bixby, conveying unbounded admiration.
"Why don't you write a book, Mr. Wetherell?" inquired the railroad
president, when they were crossing the park.
"I don't think I could do it," said Mr. Wetherell, modestly. Such incense
was overpowering, and he immediately forgot Mr. Bixby.
"Yes, you can," said Mr. Duncan, "only you don't know it. Take your
letters for a beginning. You can draw people well enough, when you try.
There was your description of the lonely hill-farm on the spur--I shall
always remember that: the gaunt farmer, toiling every minute between sun
and sun; the thin, patient woman bending to a task that never charged or
lightened; the children growing up and leaving one by one, some to the
cities, some to the West, until the old people are left alone in the
evening of life--to the sunsets and the storms. Of course you must write
a book."
Mr. Duncan quoted other letters, and William Wetherell thrilled. Poor
man! he had had little enough incense in his time, and none at all from
the great. They came to the big square house with the cornice which
Cynthia had seen the day before, and walked across the lawn through the
open door. William Wetherell had a glimpse of a great drawing-room with
high windows, out of which was wafted the sound of a piano and of
youthful voice and laughter, and then he was in the library. The thought
of one man owning all those books overpowered him. There they were, in
stately rows, from the floor to the high ceiling, and a portable ladder
with which to reach them.
Mr. Duncan, understanding perhaps something of the storekeeper's
embarrassment, proceeded to take down his treasures: first editions from
the shelves, and folios and mistrals from drawers in a great iron safe in
one corner and laid them on the mahogany desk. It was the railroad
president's hobby, and could he find an appreciative guest, he was happy.
It need scarcely be said that he found William Wetherell appreciative,
and possessed of knowledge of Shaksperiana and other matters that
astonished his host as well as pleased him. For Wetherell had found his
tongue at last.
After a while Mr. Duncan drew out his watch and gave a start.
"By George!" he exclaimed, "it's after eight o'clock. I'll have to ask
you to excuse me to-night, Mr. Wetherell. I'd like to show you the rest
of them--can't you come around to-morrow afternoon?"
Mr. Wetherell, who had forgotten his own engagement and "Uncle Tom's
Cabin," said he would be happy to come. And they went out together and
began to walk toward the State House.
"It isn't often I find a man who knows anything at all about these
things," continued Mr. Duncan, whose heart was quite won. "Why do you
bury yourself in Coniston?"
"I went there from Briton for my health," said the storekeeper.
"Jethro Bass lives there, doesn't he" said Mr. Duncan, with a laugh. But
I suppose you don't know anything about politics."
"I know nothing at all," said Mr. Wetherell, which was quite true. He had
been in dreamland, but now the fact struck him again, with something of a
shock, that this mild-mannered gentleman was one of those who had been
paying certain legislators to remain in their seats. Wetherell thought of
speaking to Mr. Duncan of his friendship with Jethro Bass, but the
occasion passed.
"I wish to heaven I didn't have to know anything about politics," Mr.
Duncan was saying; "they disgust me. There's a little matter on now,
about an extension of the Truro Railroad to Harwich, which wouldn't
interest you, but you can't conceive what a nuisance it has been to watch
that House day and night, as I've had to. It's no joke to have that
townsman of yours; Jethro Bass, opposed to you. I won't say anything
against him, for he many be a friend of yours, and I have to use him
sometimes myself." Mr. Duncan sighed. "It's all very sordid and annoying.
Now this evening, for instance, when we might have enjoyed ourselves with
those books, I've' got to go to the House, just because some backwoods
farmers want to talk about woodchucks. I suppose it's foolish," said Mr.
Duncan; "but Bass has tricked us so often that I've got into the habit of
being watchful. I should have been here twenty minutes ago."
By this time they had come to the entrance of the State House, and
Wetherell followed Mr. Duncan in, to have a look at the woodchuck session
himself. Several members hurried by and up the stairs, some of them in
their Sunday black; and the lobby above seemed, even to the storekeeper's
unpractised eye, a trifle active for a woodchuck session. Mr. Duncan
muttered something, and quickened his gait a little on the steps that led
to the gallery. This place was almost empty. They went down to the rail,
and the railroad president cast his eye over the House.
"Good God!" he said sharply, "there's almost a quorum here." He ran his
eye over the members. "There is a quorum here."
Mr. Duncan stood drumming nervously with his fingers on the rail,
scanning the heads below. The members were scattered far and wide through
the seats, like an army in open order, listening in silence to the
droning voice of the clerk. Moths burned in the gas flames, and June bugs
hummed in at the high windows and tilted against the walls. Then Mr.
Duncan's finger nails whitened as his thin hands clutched the rail, and a
sense of a pending event was upon Wetherell. Slowly he realized that he
was listening to the Speaker's deep voice.
"'The Committee on Corporations, to whom was referred House Bill Number
109, entitled, 'An Act to extend the Truro Railroad to Harwich, having
considered the same, report the same with the following resolution:
Resolved, that the bill ought to pass. Chauncey Weed, for the
Committee.'"
The Truro Franchise! The lights danced, and even a sudden weakness came
upon the storekeeper. Jethro's trick! The Duncan and Lovejoy
representatives in the theatre, the adherents of the bill here! Wetherell
saw Mr. Duncan beside him, a tense figure leaning on the rail, calling to
some one below. A man darted up the centre, another up the side aisle.
Then Mr. Duncan flashed at William Wetherell from his blue eye such a
look of anger as the storekeeper never forgot, and he, too, was gone.
Tingling and perspiring, Wetherell leaned out over the railing as the
Speaker rapped calmly for order. Hysteric laughter, mingled with hoarse
cries, ran over the House, but the Honorable Heth Sutton did not even
smile.
A dozen members were on their feet shouting to the chair. One was
recognized, and that man Wetherell perceived with amazement to be Mr.
Jameson of Wantage, adherent of Jethro's--he who had moved to adjourn for
"Uncle Tom's Cabin"! A score of members crowded into the aisles, but the
Speaker's voice again rose above the tumult.
"The doorkeepers will close the doors! Mr. Jameson of Wantage moves that
the report of the Committee be accepted, and on this motion a roll-call
is ordered."
The doorkeepers, who must have been inspired, had already slammed the
doors in the faces of those seeking wildly to escape. The clerk already
had the little, short-legged desk before him and was calling the roll
with incredible rapidity. Bewildered and excited as Wetherell was, and
knowing as little of parliamentary law as the gentleman who had proposed
the woodchuck session, he began to form some sort of a notion of Jethro's
generalship, and he saw that the innocent rural members who belonged to
Duncan and Lovejoy's faction had tried to get away before the roll-call,
destroy the quorum, and so adjourn the House. These, needless to say,
were not parliamentarians, either. They had lacked a leader, they were
stunned by the suddenness of the onslaught, and had not moved quickly
enough. Like trapped animals, they wandered blindly about for a few
moments, and then sank down anywhere. Each answered the roll-call
sullenly, out of necessity, for every one of them was a marked man. Then
Wetherell remembered the two members who had escaped, and Mr. Duncan, and
fell to calculating how long it would take these to reach Fosters Opera
House, break into the middle of an act, and get out enough partisans to
come back and kill the bill. Mr. Wetherell began to wish he could witness
the scene there, too, but something held him here, shaking with
excitement, listening to each name that the clerk called.
Would the people at the theatre get back in time?
Despite William Wetherell's principles, whatever these may have been, he
was so carried away that he found himself with his watch in his hand,
counting off the minutes as the roll-call went on. Fosters Opera House
was some six squares distant, and by a liberal estimate Mr. Duncan and
his advance guard ought to get back within twenty minutes of the time he
left. Wetherell was not aware that people were coming into the gallery
behind him; he was not aware that one sat at his elbow until a familiar
voice spoke, directly into his ear.
"Er--Will--held Duncan pretty tight--didn't you? He's a hard one to fool,
too. Never suspected a mite, did he? Look out for your watch!"
Mr. Bixby seized it or it would have fallen. If his life had depended on
it, William Wetherell could not have spoken a word to Mr. Bixby then.
"You done well, Will, sure enough," that gentleman continued to whisper.
"And Alvy's gal done well, too--you understand. I guess she's the only
one that ever snarled up Al Lovejoy so that he didn't know where he was
at. But it took a fine, delicate touch for her job and yours, Will.
Godfrey, this is the quickest roll-call I ever seed! They've got halfway
through Truro County. That fellow can talk faster than a side-show,
ticket-seller at a circus."
The clerk was, indeed, performing prodigies of pronunciation. When he
reached Wells County, the last, Mr. Bixby so far lost his habitual sang
froid as to hammer on the rail with his fist.
"If there hain't a quorum, we're done for," he said. "How much time has
gone away? Twenty minutes! Godfrey, some of 'em may break loose and git
here is five minutes!"
"Break loose?" Wetherell exclaimed involuntarily.
Mr. Bixby screwed up his face.
"You understand. Accidents is liable to happen."
Mr. Wetherell didn't understand in the least, but just then the clerk
reached the last name on the roll; an instant of absolute silence, save
for the June-bugs, followed, while the assistant clerk ran over his
figures deftly and handed them to Mr. Sutton, who leaned forward to
receive them.
"One hundred and twelve gentlemen have voted in the affirmative and
forty-eight in the negative, and the report of the Committee is
accepted."
"Ten more'n a quorum!" ejaculated Mr. Bixby, in a voice of thanksgiving,
as the turmoil below began again. It seemed as though every man in the
opposition was on his feet and yelling at the chair: some to adjourn;
some to indefinitely postpone; some demanding roll-calls; others swearing
at these--for a division vote would have opened the doors. Others tried
to get out, and then ran down the aisles and called fiercely on the
Speaker to open the doors, and threatened him. But the Honorable Heth
Sutton did not lose his head, and it may be doubted whether he ever
appeared to better advantage than at that moment. He had a voice like one
of the Clovelly bulls that fed in his own pastures in the valley, and by
sheer bellowing he got silence, or something approaching it,--the
protests dying down to a hum; had recognised another friend of the bill,
and was putting another question.
"Mr. Gibbs of Wareham moves that the rules of the House be so far
suspended that this bill be read a second and third time by its title,
and be put upon its final passage at this time. And on this motion,"
thundered Mr. Sutton, above the tide of rising voices, "the yeas and nays
are called for. The doorkeepers will keep the doors shut."
"Abbey of Ashburton."
The nimble clerk had begun on the roll almost before the Speaker was
through, and checked off the name. Bijah Bixby mopped his brow with a
blue pocket-handkerchief.
"My God," he said, "what a risk Jethro's took! they can't git through
another roll-call. Jest look at Heth! Ain't he carryin' it magnificent?
Hain't as ruffled as I be. I've knowed him ever sence he wahn't no
higher'n that desk. Never would have b'en in politics if it hadn't b'en
for me. Funny thing, Will--you and I was so excited we never thought to
look at the clock. Put up your watch. Godfrey, what's this?"
The noise of many feet was heard behind them. Men and women were crowding
breathlessly into the gallery.
"Didn't take it long to git noised araound," said Mr. Bixby. "Say, Will,
they're bound to have got at 'em in the thea'tre. Don't see how they held
'em off, c-cussed if I do."
The seconds ticked into minutes, the air became stifling, for now the
front of the gallery was packed. Now, if ever, the fate of the Truro
Franchise hung in the balance, and, perhaps, the rule of Jethro Bass. And
now, as in the distance, came a faint, indefinable stir, not yet to be
identified by Wetherell's ears as a sound, but registered somewhere in
his brain as a warning note. Bijah Bixby, as sensitive as he,
straightened up to listen, and then the whispering was hushed. The
members below raised their heads, and some clutched the seats in front of
them and looked up at the high windows. Only the Speaker sat like a wax
statue of himself, and glanced neither to the right nor to the left.
"Harkness of Truro," said the clerk.
"He's almost to Wells County again," whispered Bijah, excitedly. "I
didn't callate he could do it. Will?"
"Yes?"
"Will--you hear somethin'?"
A distant shout floated with the night breeze in at the windows; a man on
the floor got to his feet and stood straining: a commotion was going on
at the back of the gallery, and a voice was heard crying out:--
"For the love of God, let me through!"
Then Wetherell turned to see the crowd at the back parting a little, to
see a desperate man in a gorgeous white necktie fighting his way toward
the rail. He wore no hat, his collar was wilted, and his normally ashen
face had turned white. And, strangest of all, clutched tightly in his
hand was a pink ribbon.
"It's Al Lovejoy," said Bijah, laconically.
Unmindful of the awe-stricken stares he got from those about him when his
identity became known, Mr. Lovejoy gained the rail and shoved aside a man
who was actually making way for him. Leaning far out, he scanned the
house with inarticulate rage while the roll-call went monotonously on.
Some of the members looked up at him and laughed; others began to make
frantic signs, indicative of helplessness; still others telegraphed him
obvious advice about reenforcements which, if anything, increased his
fury. Mr. Bixby was now fanning himself with the blue handkerchief.
"I hear 'em!" he said, "I hear 'em, Will!"
And he did. The unmistakable hum of the voices of many men and the sound
of feet on stone flagging shook the silent night without. The clerk read
off the last name on the roll.
"Tompkins of Ulster."
His assistant lost no time now. A mistake would have been fatal, but he
was an old hand. Unmindful of the rumble on the wooden stairs below, Mr.
Sutton took the list with an admirable deliberation.
"One hundred and twelve gentlemen have voted in the affirmative,
forty-eight in the negative, the rules of the House are suspended, and"
(the clerk having twice mumbled the title of the bill) "the question is:
Shall the bill pass? As many as are of opinion that the bill pass will
say Aye, contrary minded No."
Feet were in the House corridor now, and voices rising there, and noises
that must have been scuffling--yes, and beating of door panels. Almost
every member was standing, and it seemed as if they were all
shouting,--"personal privilege," "fraud," "trickery," "open the doors."
Bijah was slowly squeezing the blood out of William Wetherell's arm.
"The doorkeepers has the keys in their pockets!" Mr. Bixby had to shout,
for once.
Even then the Speaker did not flinch. By a seeming miracle he got a
semblance of order, recognized his man, and his great voice rang through
the hall and drowned all other sounds.
"And on this question a roll-call is ordered. The doorkeepers will close
the doors!"
Then, as in reaction, the gallery trembled with a roar of laughter. But
Mr. Sutton did not smile. The clerk scratched off the names with
lightning rapidity, scarce waiting for the answers. Every man's color was
known, and it was against the rules to be present and fail to vote. The
noise in the corridors grew louder, some one dealt a smashing kick on a
panel, and Wetherell ventured to ask Mr. Bixby if he thought the doors
would hold.
"They can break in all they've a mind to now," he chuckled; "the Truro
Franchise is safe."
"What do you mean?" Wetherell demanded excitedly.
"If a member hain't present when a question is put, he can't git into a
roll-call," said Bijah.
The fact that the day was lost was evidently brought home to those below,
for the strife subsided gradually, and finally ceased altogether. The
whispers in the gallery died down, the spectators relayed a little.
Lovejoy alone remained tense, though he had seated himself on a bench,
and the hot anger in which he had come was now cooled into a
vindictiveness that set the hard lines of his face even harder. He still
clutched the ribbon. The last part of that famous roll-call was conducted
so quietly that a stranger entering the House would have suspected
nothing unusual. It was finished in absolute silence.
"One hundred and twelve gentlemen have voted in the affirmative,
forty-eight in the negative, and the bill passes. The House will attend
to the title of the bill."
"An act to extend the Truro Railroad to Harwich," said the clerk, glibly.
"Such will be the title of the bill unless otherwise ordered by the
House," said Mr. Speaker Sutton. "The doorkeepers will open the doors."
Somebody moved to adjourn, the motion was carried, and thus ended what
has gone down to history as the Woodchuck Session. Pandemonium reigned.
One hundred and forty belated members fought their way in at the four
entrances, and mingled with them were lobbyists of all sorts and
conditions, residents and visitors to the capital, men and women to whom
the drama of "Uncle Tom's Cabin" was as nothing to that of the Truro
Franchise Bill. It was a sight to look down upon. Fierce wrangles began
in a score of places, isolated personal remarks rose above the din, but
your New Englander rarely comes to blows; in other spots men with broad
smiles seized others by the hands and shook them violently, while Mr.
Speaker Sutton seemed in danger of suffocation by his friends. His
enemies, for the moment, could get nowhere near him. On this scene Mr.
Bijah Bixby gazed with pardonable pleasure.
"Guess there wahn't a mite of trouble about the river towns," he said, "I
had 'em in my pocket. Will, let's amble round to the theatre. We ought to
git in two acts."
William Wetherell went. There is no need to go into the psychology of the
matter. It may have been numbness; it may have been temporary insanity
caused by the excitement of the battle he had witnessed, for his brain
was in a whirl; or Mr. Bixby may have hypnotized him. As they walked
through the silent streets toward the Opera House, he listened perforce
to Mr. Bixby's comments upon some of the innumerable details which Jethro
had planned and quietly carried out while sitting, in the window of the
Throne Room. A great light dawned on William Wetherell, but too late.
Jethro's trusted lieutenants (of whom, needless to say, Mr. Bixby was
one) had been commanded to notify such of their supporters whose fidelity
and secrecy could be absolutely depended upon to attend the Woodchuck
Session; and, further to guard against surprise, this order had not gone
out until the last minute (hence Mr. Amos Cuthbert's conduct). The seats
of these members at the theatre had been filled by accommodating
townspeople and visitors. Forestalling a possible vote on the morrow to
recall and reconsider, there remained some sixty members whose loyalty
was unquestioned, but whose reputation for discretion was not of the
best. So much for the parliamentary side of the affair, which was a
revelation of generalship and organization to William Wetherell. By the
time he had grasped it they were come in view of the lights of Fosters
Opera House, and they perceived, among a sprinkling of idlers, a
conspicuous and meditative gentleman leaning against a pillar. He was
ludicrously tall and ludicrously thin, his hands were in his trousers
pockets, and the skirts of his Sunday broadcloth coat hung down behind
him awry. One long foot was crossed over the other and rested on the
point of the toe, and his head was tilted to one side. He had, on the
whole, the appearance of a rather mournful stork. Mr. Bixby approached
him gravely, seized him by the lower shoulder, and tilted him down until
it was possible to speak into his ear. The gentleman apparently did not
resent this, although he seemed in imminent danger of being upset.
"How be you, Peleg? Er--you know Will?"
"No," said the gentleman.
Mr. Bixby seized Mr. Wetherell under the elbow, and addressed himself to
the storekeeper's ear.
"Will, I want you to shake hands with Senator Peleg Hartington, of
Brampton. This is Will Wetherell, Peleg,--from Coniston--you understand."
The senator took one hand from his pocket.
"How be you?" he said. Mr. Bixby was once more pulling down on his
shoulder.
"H-haow was it here?" he demanded.
"Almighty funny," answered Senator Hartington, sadly, and waved at the
lobby. "There wahn't standin' room in the place."
"Jethro Bass Republican Club come and packed the entrance," explained Mr.
Bixby with a wink. "You understand, Will? Go on, Peleg."
"Sidewalk and street, too," continued Mr. Hartington, slowly. "First come
along Ball of Towles, hollerin' like blazes. They crumpled him all up and
lost him. Next come old man Duncan himself."
"Will kep' Duncan," Mr. Bixby interjected.
"That was wholly an accident," exclaimed Mr. Wetherell, angrily.
"Will wahn't born in the country," said Mr. Bixby.
Mr. Hartington bestowed on the storekeeper a mournful look, and
continued:--
"Never seed Duncan sweatin' before. He didn't seem to grasp why the boys
was there."
"Didn't seem to understand," put in Mr. Bixby, sympathetically.
"'For God's sake, gentlemen,' says he, 'let me in! The Truro Bill!' 'The
Truro Bill hain't in the theatre, Mr. Duncan,' says Dan Everett. Cussed
if I didn't come near laughin'. 'That's "Uncle Tom's Cabin," Mr. Duncan,'
says Dan. 'You're a dam fool,' says Duncan. I didn't know he was profane.
'Make room for Mr. Duncan,' says Dan, 'he wants to see the show.' 'I'm
a-goin' to see you in jail for this, Everett,' says Duncan. They let him
push in about half a rod, and they swallowed him. He was makin' such a
noise that they had to close the doors of the theatre--so's not to
disturb the play-actors."
"You understand," said Mr. Bixby to Wetherell. Whereupon he gave another
shake to Mr. Hartington, who had relapsed into a sort of funereal
meditation.
"Well," resumed that personage, "there was some more come, hollerin'
about the Truro Bill. Not many. Guess they'll all have to git their
wimmen-folks to press their clothes to-morrow. Then Duncan wanted to git
out again, but 'twan't exactly convenient. Callated he was
suffocatin'--seemed to need air. Little mite limp when he broke loose,
Duncan was."
The Honorable Peleg stopped again, as if he were overcome by the
recollection of Mr. Duncan's plight.
"Er--er--Peleg!"
Mr. Hartington started.
"What'd they do?--what'd they do?"
"Do?"
"How'd they git notice to 'em?"
"Oh," said Mr. Hartington, "cussed if that wuhn't funny. Let's see, where
was I? After awhile they went over t'other side of the street, talkin'
sly, waitin' for the act to end. But goldarned if it ever did end."
For once Mr. Bixby didn't seem to understand.
"D-didn't end?"
"No," explained Mr. Hartington; "seems they hitched a kind of nigger
minstrel show right on to it--banjos and thingumajigs in front of the
curtain while they was changin' scenes, and they hitched the second act
right on to that. Nobody come out of the theatre at all. Funny notion,
wahn't it?"
Mr. Bixby's face took on a look of extreme cunning. He smiled broadly and
poked Mr. Wetherell in an extremely sensitive portion of his ribs. On
such occasions the nasal quality of Bijah's voice seemed to grow.
"You see?" he said.
"Know that little man, Gibbs, don't ye?" inquired Mr. Hartington.
"Airley Gibbs, hain't it? Runs a livery business daown to Rutgers, on
Lovejoy's railroad," replied Mr. Bixby, promptly. "I know him. Knew old
man Gibbs well's I do you. Mean cuss."
"This Airley's smart--wahn't quite smart enough, though. His bright idea
come a little mite late. Hunted up old Christy, got the key to his law
office right here in the Duncan Block, went up through the skylight,
clumb down to the roof of Randall's store next door, shinned up the
lightnin' rod on t'other side, and stuck his head plump into the Opery
House window."
"I want to know!" ejaculated Mr. Bixby.
"Somethin' terrible pathetic was goin' on on the stage," resumed Mr.
Hartington, "the folks didn't see him at first,--they was all cryin' and
everythin' was still, but Airley wahn't affected. As quick as he got his
breath he hollered right out loud's he could: 'The Truro Bill's up in the
House, boys. We're skun if you don't git thar quick.' Then they tell me'
the lightnin' rod give way; anyhow, he came down on Randall's gravel roof
considerable hard, I take it."
Mr. Hartington, apparently, had an aggravating way of falling into
mournful revery and of forgetting his subject. Mr. Bixby was forced to
jog him again.
"Yes, they did," he said, "they did. They come out like the theatre was
afire. There was some delay in gettin' to the street, but not much--not
much. All the Republican Clubs in the state couldn't have held 'em then,
and the profanity they used wahn't especially edifyin'."
"Peleg's a deacon--you understand," said Mr. Bixby. "Say, Peleg, where
was Al Lovejoy?"
"Lovejoy come along with the first of 'em. Must have hurried some--they
tell me he was settin' way down in front alongside of Alvy Hopkins's gal,
and when Airley hollered out she screeched and clutched on to Al, and Al
said somethin' he hadn't ought to and tore off one of them pink gew-gaws
she was covered with. He was the maddest man I ever see. Some of the club
was crowded inside, behind the seats, standin' up to see the show. Al was
so anxious to git through he hit Si Dudley in the mouth--injured him
some, I guess. Pity, wahn't it?"
"Si hain't in politics, you understand," said Mr. Bixby. "Callate Si paid
to git in there, didn't he, Peleg?"
"Callate he did," assented Senator Hartington.
A long and painful pause followed. There seemed, indeed, nothing more to
be said. The sound of applause floated out of the Opera House doors,
around which the remaining loiterers were clustered.
"Goin' in, be you, Peleg?" inquired Mr. Bixby.
Mr. Hartington shook his head.
"Will and me had a notion to see somethin' of the show," said Mr. Bixby,
almost apologetically. "I kep' my ticket."
"Well," said Mr. Hartington, reflectively, "I guess you'll find some of
the show left. That hain't b'en hurt much, so far as I can ascertain."
The next afternoon, when Mr. Isaac D. Worthington happened to be sitting
alone in the office of the Truro Railroad at the capital, there came a
knock at the door, and Mr. Bijah Bixby entered. Now, incredible as it may
seem, Mr. Worthington did not know Mr. Bixby--or rather, did not remember
him. Mr. Worthington had not had at that time much of an experience in
politics, and he did not possess a very good memory for faces.
Mr. Bixby, who had, as we know, a confidential and winning manner, seated
himself in a chair very close to Mr. Worthington--somewhat to that
gentleman's alarm. "How be you?" said Bijah, "I-I've got a little bill
here--you understand."
Mr. Worthington didn't understand, and he drew his chair away from Mr.
Bixby's.
"I don't know anything about it, sir," answered the president of the
Truro Railroad, indignantly; "this is neither the manner nor the place to
present a bill. I don't want to see it."
Mr. Bixby moved his chair up again. "Callate you will want to see this
bill, Mr. Worthington," he insisted, not at all abashed. "Jethro Bass
sent it--you understand--it's engrossed."
Whereupon Mr. Bixby drew from his capacious pocket a roll, tied with
white ribbon, and pressed it into Mr. Worthington's hands. It was the
Truro Franchise Bill.
It is safe to say that Mr. Worthington understood.