MR. GOOCH DECLARES HIMSELF
The Republicans of the county in convention a week later went through
the formality of nominating a ticket, a heretofore useless procedure
attended by vainglorious claims, bombastic oratory, unbridled
denunciation and a grim sort of jauntiness that passed for confidence
and died as soon as the meeting was over. Ever since the Civil War the
party had stoutly and steadfastly put up a ticket and just as regularly
had abandoned it to its fate. The candidates themselves, accepting
defeat at the outset, took little or no interest in the campaign aside
from the slight satisfaction they eked out of seeing their names on the
printed ballot. It was, so to speak, like reading one’s own obituary
notice—or, as one hardy, perennial office-seeker remarked—attending
one’s own funeral and getting back home in time for supper.
But the campaign of 1920 in this hide-bound Democratic stronghold
possessed strange, new elements; the under-dog bounced up with
surprising animation and showed his teeth, prepared at last to fight for
the bone that so long had been denied him. In the first place, the
administration at Washington was standing with its back to the wall; it
was almost certain to be swept out of power by the resistless force of
public opinion. Faint-hearted Republican politicians lost in the depths
of Democratic jungles saw light ahead and, rubbing their eyes, started
toward it, realizing it was no longer Will-o’-the-wisp or
Jack-o’-lantern that led them on. Their eyes glittered, their fingers
itched, and they became very strong in the legs. If Harding and Coolidge
were to be swept in by the avalanche, why shouldn’t they hang on behind
and be sucked into office by the same gigantic wave? In the second
place, the Democrats of Applegate County, fat and sluggish after years
of plenty, had overslept a little in their security. Too late they awoke
to the fact that they had four or five weak spots in their county
ticket, and while there was small danger of the normal plurality being
wiped out at the coming election they were in very grave danger of
having it reduced to a humiliating extent.
Mr. Horace Gooch, of Hopkinsville, heretofore a miserly aspirant for
legislative honors but persistently denied the distinction for which he
was loath to pay, “came across” so handsomely—and so desperately—that
the bosses foolishly permitted him to be nominated for the State Senate.
The people did not want him; but that made little or no difference to
the party leaders; the people had to take him whether they liked him or
not. Mr. Gooch’s astonishing contribution to the campaign fund was not
to be “passed up” merely because the people didn’t approve of him. It is
not good politics to allow the people a voice in such matters. Old Gooch
would run behind the rest of the ticket, to be sure, but he would
“squeeze through” safely, and that was all that was necessary.
The report that young Oliver Baxter, of Rumley, was being urged to make
the race against his uncle caused no uneasiness among the bosses. It was
not until after the young man was nominated and actually in the field,
that misgivings beset the bosses. Young Baxter was popular in the
southern section of the county, he was a war hero, and he was an
upstanding figure in a community where the voters were as likely as not
to “jump the traces.” And when the emboldened Republican press of the
county began to speak of their candidate as a “shark,” there was active
and acute dismay. They sent for Mr. Gooch and suggested that it wouldn’t
be a bad idea for him to withdraw from the race—on account of his age,
or his health.
“But I’m not an old man,” protested Mr. Gooch irascibly, “and I’ve never
been sick a day in my life. I’m sixty-four. You wouldn’t call that old,
would you?”
No, the chairman wouldn’t call that old, but from what he could gather
this was destined to be “a young man’s year.” Young men were in the
saddle; you couldn’t shake ’em out.
“Do you mean to tell me,” began Horace, genuinely amazed, “that you
think this young whipper-snapper of a nephew of mine is liable to defeat
me?”
“Oh, I guess perhaps we can pull you through,” said the chairman, rather
unfeelingly.
“My dear sir, we have a safe majority of four thousand votes in this
county. Why do you say you ‘guess perhaps’ you can pull me through? If
you are joking, I wish to state to you right here and now that I do not
approve of jokes. If you are in earnest, all I can say is that you must
be crazy. The people of this county want a sound, solid, able business
man to represent them in the legislature. They don’t want a young,
inexperienced, untried whipper-snapper—”
“Nobody knows what the people want,” said the chairman sententiously.
“Now, this young Baxter. He’s a fine feller. He’s got lots of friends.
Everybody likes him. He has a clear record. There isn’t a thing we can
say against him. On the other hand, he can say a lot of nasty things
about you, Mr. Gooch. We can’t come back at him when he begins stumping
the county and talking about tax-sales, foreclosures, ten per cent
interest, people having to go to the poorhouse, and all that kind of
stuff. What kind of a comeback have we? What are we to—”
“No man can accuse me of being dishonest; no man can question my
integrity—”
“Lord bless you, Mr. Gooch, nobody’s going to accuse you of being
dishonest. All they’re going to say about you is that you’re a rich man,
a skinflint, a tax shark, a gouger, a hypocrite, a wolf in sheep’s
clothing, a snake in the grass, a Shylock, and a good many other
things,” said the county chairman, with brutal frankness.
Mr. Gooch was not greatly disturbed by the prospect. He had heard all
these terms of opprobrium before; he was used to them. He said something
about “water off of a duck’s back,” and fell to twisting his wiry gray
beard with steady, claw-like fingers.
“We can’t afford to lose a single seat in the legislature,” went on the
chairman. “That’s why we thought best to put it up to you straight, Mr.
Gooch. I’m not saying you’ll be licked next November, but you stand a
blamed good chance of it, let me tell you, if this young Baxter goes
after you without gloves.”
“I’ve just been thinking,” said Mr. Gooch, leaning forward in his chair,
“suppose I go down to Rumley and have a talk with Oliver.”
“What about?” demanded the other, sharply.
“I may be able to reason with him. I understand he has not definitely
decided to make the race. I have an idea I can persuade him to decline.”
“No chance,” said the other, shaking his head. “He’s got it in for you,
I hear.”
Mr. Gooch got up and began pacing the floor. His lean, mean face was set
in even harder lines than usual; his mouth was drawn down at the
corners, the lower lip protruding like a thin liver-colored cushion into
which his shaved upper lip seemed to sink rigidly.
“See here, Smith,” he began, halting in front of the “boss,” “I may as
well come out flat-footed and tell you I’ve never been satisfied with
all these stories and speculations concerning the disappearance of my
brother-in-law a year ago.”
“You mean this young feller’s father?”
“Yes. I married his sister. I don’t know as you’ve heard that young
Oliver Baxter and his father were not on very good terms. They quarreled
a great deal. This nephew of mine has got murderous instincts. He threw
rocks at me once. He’s got an ungovernable temper. He—”
“I’ve heard all that bunk about a gypsy or somebody like that
prophesying he’d be hung. It’s bunk.”
“I agree with you. I took no stock in that gypsy’s prophecy at the time,
and I never have. But, as I say, I’m not satisfied with things. It’s
mighty queer that a man like Oliver Baxter could disappear off of the
face of the earth and never be heard of again. Most people believe he’s
alive—hiding somewhere—but I don’t believe it for a minute. He’s dead.
He died that night a year ago when he had his last row with his son.
And, what’s more to the point, I am here to say I don’t believe his son
has told all he knows about the—er—the matter.”
He waited to see what effect this statement would have on the chairman.
Mr. Smith’s eyes narrowed.
“Say, what are you trying to get at, Mr. Gooch? Are you thinking of
charging that boy with—with having had a hand in—”
“I’m not charging anything,” snapped Mr. Gooch. “I’m only saying what I
believe, and that is that Oliver is holding something back. If my poor
brother-in-law is dead, I want to know it. I’m not saying there was foul
play, mind you. But I do say it’s possible he might have made way with
himself that night, and that Oliver may know when and how he did it.”
“Well,” said Smith slowly, “that comes pretty near to being a charge,
doesn’t it, Mr. Gooch?”
“You can call it what you please. All I’ve got to say is that I’m not
satisfied, and I’m going to the bottom of this business if it’s possible
to do so.” He sat down again.
“So that’s what you’re going to see young Baxter about, is it? You’re
going to threaten him with an investigation if he doesn’t withdraw from
the race, eh? Well, what are you going to do if he up and tells you to
go to hell?”
Mr. Gooch winced.
“It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been told to go to hell,” he said,
with a wintry smile. “However, it is not my intention to threaten my
nephew, Mr. Smith. Nothing is farther from my thoughts. I’m simply going
to let him understand that I am not satisfied with things as they are. I
don’t mind telling you that I’ve already made a few inquiries and—well,
there is something peculiar about the whole business, that’s all I’ve
got to say. It won’t hurt my nephew to know that I’m interested, will
it?” he wound up, a sly, crafty twinkle in his eye.
“You take a tip from me, Mr. Gooch,” said the chairman, somewhat
forcibly. “Let sleeping dogs lie. If you go to making any cracks about
this young feller that you can’t prove, he’ll wipe the earth up with you
next November. I’ve been in politics a long time and I know something
about the human race. You are banking on the big Democratic majority we
usually have in this county. I want to tell you right here and now that
if you start any ugly talk about young Baxter and can’t back it up with
facts, there won’t be a decent Democrat in the county that’ll vote for
you. And I guess we’re far enough south to be able to say that most of
us are decent.”
Mr. Gooch arose. “You said a while ago that he would stump this county
from end to end, calling me everything he can lay his tongue to. Well,
all I’ve got to say to you, Mr. Smith, is that he sha’n’t have it all
his own way.”
“There’s just this difference, Mr. Gooch. The voters will believe what
he says about you, and they won’t believe a blamed word you say about
him.”
“Good day, Mr. Smith!”
“Good day, Mr. Gooch.”
Two days later, Horace Gooch stopped his ancient automobile in front of
the Baxter Block in Rumley and inquired of a man in the doorway:
“Is young Oliver Baxter here?”
The loiterer turned his head lazily without changing the position of his
body, squinted searchingly into the store, and then replied that he was.
“Will you ask him to step out here? I want a word or two with him.”
Another searching look into the store. “He seems to be busy, Mister.
Leastwise, he’s talkin’ to a couple of men.”
“Tell him his uncle is out here.”
The citizen of Rumley started.
“The one he’s runnin’ against?” he demanded.
“Yes. His Uncle Horace.”
“Well, I guess I can do that much for you, Mr. Gooch,” drawled the other
generously, and shuffled slowly into the store. Presently he returned.
“He says to hitch your Ford to that telephone pole and come right in.
He’ll be disengaged in a couple of minutes.”
Mr. Gooch glared. “You tell him I swore never to enter that store again.
If he wants to see me he will have to come out here.”
The citizen disappeared. He was back in a jiffy, grinning broadly.
“Well?” demanded Mr. Gooch, as the messenger remained silent. “What did
he say?”
The citizen chuckled. “It ain’t fit to print,” said he.
“Well,” said Mr. Gooch, after a moment’s reflection, “I don’t mind
waiting a while. He’ll have to come out some time, I reckon.”
The citizen shrugged his shoulders and spread his palms in a gesture
disclaiming all responsibility.
Mr. Gooch shut off his engine and settled back in the seat, the
personification of grim and dogged patience.
Fifteen minutes passed. Passers-by, sensing something unusual, found an
excuse for loitering in front of nearby showwindows; several persons
entered Silas Link’s undertaking parlors next door and seemed deeply
interested in the rubber plants that adorned the windows; Marmaduke
Smith, the messenger-boy, with two telegrams in his book, pedaled his
bicycle up to the curb and, anchoring it with one thin and spidery leg,
sagged limply upon the handlebar and waited for something to happen. Mr.
Link came out of his office, and after taking one look at the hard-faced
old man in the automobile, hurried to the rear of his establishment. A
few seconds later he returned, accompanied by Joseph Sikes. They took up
a position in the doorway and, ignoring Mr. Gooch, gazed disinterestedly
down the street in the opposite direction.
At last Oliver October appeared. He glanced at his watch as he crossed
the sidewalk.
“Hello, Uncle Horace,” was his greeting. “Sorry to have kept you
waiting. And I’m in a bit of a hurry, too. Some friends coming down on
Number Seventeen. Mr. and Mrs. Sage—you remember them, no doubt. And
their daughter. The train’s due at 4:10—and it’s three minutes of four
now. Anything in particular you wanted to see me about?”
“Yes, there is,” said Mr. Gooch harshly. “I came over here to demand an
apology from you, young man—a public apology, printed over your
signature in the newspapers.”
“What’s the joke, Uncle Horace?” asked Oliver calmly.
“Joke? There’s no joke about it. You know what I mean. I demand an
apology for what you said in the letter you wrote in reply to mine of
the twenty-seventh inst.”
“Do you expect me to print my letter in the newspapers together with the
apology?”
“That isn’t necessary, young man.”
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Oliver, unruffled. “I’ll agree to
publish your letter to me and my reply, and I’ll follow them up with an
apology for mine if you’ll apologize to me for yours. That’s fair, isn’t
it?”
“Don’t beat about the bush,” snapped Mr. Gooch. “Don’t get fresh, young
man. I’m not here to bandy words with you. I wrote you a very plain and
dignified letter in which I told you what I thought of the underhanded
way you acted in regard to those dear old ladies, Mrs. Bannester and her
sister. You know as well as I do that it was my intention to restore
their property to them, absolutely tax free and without a single claim
against it. You simply sneaked in and got ahead of me, and now you are
giving people to understand that I meant to foreclose on ’em and turn
them out of house and home. You—”
“Yes, yes,” interrupted Oliver, looking at his watch again, “I know
that’s what you said in your letter—that and a lot of other things,
Uncle Horace.”
“And what did you say in reply to my simple, straightforward letter? You
said you wouldn’t trust me as far as you could throw a locomotive with
one hand, or something like that. You said—”
“Yes, I know I said that—and a lot of other things too. You don’t have
to repeat what I said. I’ve got a copy of the letter in my desk. It
wasn’t a very long letter, for that matter, and I can recall every word
of it. Do you want to continue this discussion, Uncle Horace? If you’ll
look around you will see that quite a little crowd is collecting. Don’t
you think you’d better drop the matter right here and now?”
“No, I don’t. I don’t care how big a crowd there is. The bigger the
better, far as I’m concerned. If I don’t have a written and published
acknowledgment from you that you deliberately misrepresented me, that
you played me an underhanded trick simply for political purposes,
I’ll—I’ll—”
“Well, what?”
“I’ll make it so blamed hot for you you’ll wish you’d never been born,”
grated Mr. Gooch, shaking his bony finger in his nephew’s face.
Observing this physical symptom of animosity, the Messrs. Sikes and Link
hastily stepped forth from the doorway and advanced toward the car.
“Keep your temper, Oliver,” called out the former warningly. “Hang on to
it!”
“Don’t forget yourself, boy,” cried Mr. Link.
Mr. Gooch glanced at the two old men.
“You stay away from here, you meddling old—” he started to shout.
“Blow your police whistle, Silas,” urged Mr. Sikes. “Blow it! We’ll see
if—”
“Never mind, Uncle Joe,” interrupted Oliver, with an airy wave of his
hand. “No need of a cop, is there, Uncle Horace?”
“Not at present,” replied his uncle grimly. “Later on we may need
one—but not just now.”
“Then we can end the discussion in two seconds. I decline to apologize,
I refuse to accept an apology from you, and I’ll see you in Jericho
before I’ll retract a word I’ve said about the Bannester affair. The
only thing I will say to you is that I hadn’t the faintest idea of
running for office when I helped those poor old ladies out of their
trouble. You can lump it if you—”
“And what’s more,” broke in Mr. Sikes, heatedly, “this nomination was
forced on Oliver against the wishes of his friends and family. When his
poor old father sees in the newspapers that Oliver is headed for the
halls of state, he’ll break his heart. No matter where Ollie is, he
grabs up the newspaper every morning of his life to see what the news is
from Rumley—”
“Is _that_ so?” snarled Mr. Gooch. “Well, I’m not so sure of that, Mr.
Swipes—I’m not so sure of it, and neither are a great many other
people. There are people in this county—yes, right here in this
town—that would like to know a lot more about what has become of my
poor brother-in-law than they know at present.”
“I am one of those people, Uncle Horace,” said Oliver quietly.
“And don’t you go calling Ollie Baxter a brother-in-law,” snorted Mr.
Sikes. “I won’t stand here and let you slander my lifelong friend by
calling him a brother-in-law. If you’ll get out of that automobile,
I’ll—”
“Hold your horses, Joe,” put in Mr. Link, clutching his crony’s arm.
“Oh, he can’t bulldoze me,” said Mr. Gooch loftily.
“Smash him, Mr. Sikes,” whispered young Marmaduke Smith, excitedly.
Horace turned to his nephew. “It rests with you, young man, whether a
certain investigation takes place or not,” he said, threateningly.
“What do you mean by investigation?” demanded Oliver, his eyes
narrowing. “Just what are you driving at?”
His uncle leaned forward and spoke slowly, distinctly. “Is there any
evidence that your father ever left this place at all?”
Oliver looked his uncle straight in the eye for many seconds, a curious
pallor stealing over his face. When he spoke it was with a visible
effort; and his voice was low and tense.
“There is no evidence to the contrary.”
“There’s no evidence at all,” said Gooch, “either one way or the other.
There has never been anything like a thorough search for him—in the
neighborhood of his own home. From all I can learn, you have run things
to suit yourself so far as the search around here is concerned. Well, I
am here to say that I’m not satisfied. I don’t believe Oliver Baxter
ever ran away from home. I believe he’s out there in that swamp of
yours. Now you know what I mean by an investigation, young man—and if
it is ever undertaken I want to say to you it won’t be under your
direction and it won’t be a half-hearted job. And the swamp won’t be the
only place to be searched. There are other places he might be besides
that swamp.”
“I think I get your meaning, Uncle Horace,” said Oliver, now cool and
self-possessed. “If I don’t do what you ask, you’ll start something, eh?
Your idea, I take it, is to impress the voters of the county with the
idea that my father may have met with foul play, and that I know more
about the circumstances than I’ve—”
“I am not saying or claiming anything of the sort,” broke in Mr. Gooch
hastily, with visions of a suit for slander looming up before him. “I am
not accusing you of anything, Oliver. All I want and all I shall insist
on is a thorough examination.”
“And if I agree to withdraw from the race and perjure myself in the
matter of the Bannester tax scandal, you will drop the investigation and
forget all about it—is that the idea?”
“I hate to take any drastic step that might involve my own nephew
in—er—in fact, I’d a good deal sooner not ask the authorities to take
a hand in the matter.”
“I see. The point I’m trying to get at is this, Uncle Horace,” went on
Oliver, relentlessly. “If I do what you ask, you will agree to let me
off scot-free even though I may have killed my own father? You can
answer that question, can’t you?”
“I am not here to argue with you,” snapped Mr. Gooch, his gaze sweeping
the ever-increasing group of spectators. “Your candidacy has nothing to
do with my determination to sift this business to the bottom,” he went
on, suddenly realizing that he was now committed to definite action. “I
shall appeal to the proper authorities and nothing you do or say, young
man, can head off the investigation. That’s final. I’m going to find out
what became of the money he drew out of the bank and where you got the
money to pay up for Mrs. Bannester and her sister. I’m going to find out
why you refuse to let the dredgers go farther out into the swamp, and
I’m going to—Oh, you needn’t grin! There are plenty of witnesses who
will swear that you and him were not on good terms, and that one day you
threatened to hire an aeroplane and take him up five miles and drop him
overboard if he didn’t quit pestering you with that story about the
gypsy. A lot of people heard you say that and—”
“It begins to look as though you were actually accusing me of murder,
Uncle Horace.”
“Good boy!” cried Mr. Sikes, appeasingly. “That’s the way to hold your
temper. He’s wonderful, ain’t he, Silas?”
“Wonderful, nothing!” said Mr. Link. “He ain’t had anything to get mad
about, far as I can see. The thing is, why ain’t he laughin’ himself
sick at the darned old nanny goat?”
“You go to grass!” shouted Mr. Gooch furiously.
Mr. Sikes and Mr. Link joined in the gale of laughter that went up from
the crowd.
Mr. Gooch, crimson with rage, shook his finger at Oliver. “That’s
right—that’s right! Laugh while you can, you young scoundrel. You think
you’re safe and that you got everything covered up, but you’ll be
laughing on the other side of the face before I get through with you.
I’m going to find out what happened to Oliver Baxter if it takes all the
rest of my life. You won’t be laughing so darned idiotically when the
prosecuting attorney begins asking questions of you. You bet you won’t.
Because he’ll be getting at the truth and the real facts, and that’s
what you don’t want, my laddie buck. I’m going to demand a complete
investigation before I’m a day older, and I’m going to show the people
of this here town that I mean business. The grand jury’s in session now.
I’ll have this business up before them to-morrow and I’ll demand a
complete investi—”
He broke off in the middle of the oft-repeated word and jerked his head
back. Oliver had taken that instant to snap his fingers under Mr.
Gooch’s nose, not once but thrice in rapid succession.
“Investigate and be damned!” cried the young man angrily. “You infernal
old buzzard! Go ahead and—”
“Whoa, Oliver!” shouted Mr. Sikes, in a panic. “Don’t lose your—”
“All right, Uncle Joe,” gulped Oliver—“all right! I came near letting
go of myself for a—”
“He would have killed me in cold blood if I’d been alone with him,”
exclaimed Mr. Gooch. “My God, when I think of poor old Oliver out there
on that lonely back road, trying to reason with him, I—”
“See here, Uncle Horace,” interrupted Oliver, in a calm, matter-of-fact
tone, “I’ll tell you what I will do. I will give you five thousand
dollars in cash if you find my father for me. It has cost me twice that
amount already—my own money, mind you—but I’ll give you—”
“Dead or alive?” demanded Mr. Gooch sternly, accusingly.
“Yes, dead or alive. Now, wait a second. I’ve got something more to say
to you. My father always said you were the meanest creature that God
ever let live, and I used to dispute it once in a while. I claimed that
a hyena was worse. Now I know he was right and I was wrong. Go ahead
with your investigation. Go as far as you like. You can’t bluff me. I am
in this race to stay and I’m going after you tooth and nail. Now I guess
we understand each other. I’m going after you because of the way you
treated my father and I’m—”
“And I’m going after you for the way _you_ treated him,” bawled Mr.
Gooch, throwing in the clutch viciously. Then he muttered an execration.
“If you’ll give Marmaduke Smith a dime he’ll crank it for you,” said
Oliver, turning on his heel. He glanced up at the clock on the bank down
the street. “Oh, thunder!” he exclaimed in dismay. “You’ve made me miss
the train!”
“If you crank that car, Marmaduke,” said Mr. Sikes menacingly, “I’ll
boot you all over town.”
So Mr. Gooch got out and cranked the car, and drove away to a chorus of
undesirable invitations.
“Where’s Oliver?” demanded Mr. Sikes, as the car turned the corner. “We
got to stick purty close to him from now on, Silas.”
“What for, Joe?”
“So’s we can be ready to establish an alibi in case anything happens to
Horace Gooch. Supposin’ some poor devil he’s made a beggar of takes it
into his head to put a bullet into—What say, Marmy?”
“Oliver took my wheel and beat it for the depot,” said Marmaduke Smith
happily.