THE NEW PRESIDENT
THAT night Miss Landon lay in her narrow bed, made short-stops of her
elbows, and listened to the lash and roar of the rolling sea. At times
the ship sank so deep into the main that one would fancy the keel
scraping the bottom of the Atlantic. Nowhere in this world does one
feel one’s insignificance and utter helplessness more than at mid-ocean
in such a sea. Miss Landon found herself thinking how helpless she
would be in the world if that kind, indulgent father were to pass away.
Half her fortune was invested in a railway along with the fortunes of
friends and neighbors, who knew nothing about the business. Naturally
enough her mind went back to her own experience on a mountain railroad,
and to the handsome conductor. She went to sleep thinking of McGuire,
dreamed of McGuire, and woke up with McGuire fresh in her mind, and
marvelled at it.
For three days and nights the sea rushed past the rolling ship, and
Landon lay in a semi-sane condition.
Finally, at dawn one day, the ship slowed down and picked up a pilot
out of a small boat that was floundering in the ocean and apparently
enjoying it.
“I want to see one of your passengers, a Mr. Landon, before I go upon
the bridge, captain,” said the man.
“Mr. Landon is not fit to be seen,” said the captain. “He had an
accident Monday afternoon off the banks.”
“But I _must_ see him, captain.”
“Well, you persistent old salt, if you _must_, then take my advice and
see his daughter, she’s a whole lot better-looking.”
“I have a very important message for your father, Miss Landon,” said
the pilot, making a sailor’s bow.
“Thank you, I’ll take it.”
“But--I have sworn to give it into no hands but his, and I--”
“Can’t trust me?”
“Oh, yes, miss--but--”
Now the poor man had become so confused that he had allowed the
handsome, irresistible young woman to take the letter. She tore it
open, glanced at the signature, and said, “Oh, this is all right, it’s
from papa’s former business partner. He wants papa to do nothing until
he sees him. Well, I’m sure he won’t do much, poor dear.”
“Then you’ll be responsible, miss?”
“Oh, yes, I’ll be responsible.”
The pilot bowed again and ran up the ladder.
When the big ship crawled up through the fog, slowed again and picked
up the Government trunk-riflers, a man threw up a lump of coal with a
letter and a five-dollar note held to it by a rubber band.
“Keep the dough and give that letter to Landon,” the man called up to
the deck-steward who had caught the coal.
When Miss Landon had opened this letter, which was from her father’s
solicitor, whom she disliked, she laughed. “‘Do nothing until you see
me.’ I never saw such a lot of do-nothing people.”
Now another tug came nosing up to the liner, as a herring noses about
a floating biscuit, and up came another lump of coal with a note and
a dollar. The note was addressed to Mr. Landon, and stated that the
“Daily Broker” would like to speak to him. Miss Landon crumpled the
paper in her hand, leaned over the railing and looked down upon the
paper man who had his chin pointed at the funnels of the big boat.
A man with a happy, round red face leaned over the side and said, “You
can’t see Mr. Landon.”
“Why?”
“He’s hurted.”
“Bad?”
“Purty bad.”
When the “Daily Broker’s” extra edition came out with the elaborate
account of the distressing accident to Mr. Landon, there was excitement
in Wall Street. Naturally the Van Swells, while deeply deploring the
accident to the estimable old Yankee, were elated at the prospect of
his being unable to vote at the election which would take place in
three days.
The “Daily Broker” told how the old man had gone, against the captain’s
protest, upon the hurricane deck when the ship was rolling, had slipped
and fallen down the narrow ladder, broken his left arm and three ribs.
These wounds, the paper said, were not necessarily fatal, but it was
thought by the ship’s doctor--who being slightly deaf talked very low,
as deaf people do--that the venerable New Englander had sustained
serious internal injuries.
Nearly every one had left the steamer when Miss Landon came down the
gangway, followed by four stewards carrying her father, who, being
rich, was attended by the ship’s surgeon. Miss Landon was bewildered by
the crowd of brokers, reporters, and friends assembled at the steamer.
She had never dreamed that the Landons were of such importance. Her
aunt took little note of anything, being obliged to pinch herself to
see whether she still lived. The ship’s surgeon, appreciating the
importance of his patient, refused to allow even the most intimate
friends of the injured man to speak to him. He went with them to their
hotel and remained until another physician could be called. The new
doctor was worse, if anything, than the ship’s doctor. This was a
severe blow to the solicitor, who knew better than to try to get to his
client _via_ the daughter.
On the following day Miss Landon persuaded the doctor to allow her
father’s old business partner and neighbor from Gloucester to see
the sick man. Landon’s mind was still wavy, but in the course of a
half hour’s talk the visitor made it pretty clear to the injured man
that if the Van Swells got control of the road, in which they were
deeply interested, they would be likely to be squeezed out; if not, the
road, under such incompetent management, would be sure to lose money.
“It’s Kate’s money,” said the sufferer. “She railroads all the time,
let her use her judgment,” and it was so agreed.
The day before the date on which the election was to take place they
moved on to Boston. When they were established in a comfortable hotel,
their Gloucester friend asked to be allowed to introduce the gentleman
who was being brought forward, without any effort upon his part, as
the choice for President of the anti-Van Swell faction, to which the
Landons rightfully belonged.
Now when the army of reporters saw the stranger going up in tow of the
Gloucester man, they knew that the pink-tea people were beaten, for
Landon’s vote was sure to elect--it was the balance of power.
“This is Mr. McGuire, Miss Landon,” said the Gloucester man.
McGuire, who was utterly indifferent to most people and most things
in this world, was visibly affected. Miss Landon, who had fainted but
once, clutched at the back of her chair. McGuire, finding his voice and
feet, stepped forward, saying, in far-away, tremulous tones, like a man
talking in his sleep, “I think I have had the pleasure of meeting Miss
Landon.”
The Gloucester man managed to rally from his surprise and introduced
“Auntie,” who until now had not seen the distinguished railroader.
“Is it possible?” Miss Landon heard herself say right to the man’s face.
At this moment a street piano under their windows broke loose with the
then raging popular air:--
“Arrah, Patsy! git up f’om th’ fire,
An’ guv th’ mon a sate; ,
Can’t ye see that it’s Misther McGuire,
Come a courtin’ yer sisther Kate?”
“Yes,” said McGuire, taking her hand again, “it is possible.”
Two hours later the Gloucester man was handing a carefully prepared
“interview” to the reporters.
Mr. Thomas McGuire, the brilliant young manager, who was a personal
friend of Mr. Landon’s, would be the next President of the
Inter-Mountain Air Line. This arrangement, while tacitly understood
beforehand, had been definitely agreed to at a conference between Mr.
Landon and his friend and former partner, who would represent the
injured man at the meeting to-morrow.