A DEMONSTRATION POSTPONED.
A bombshell, exploding in that room, could hardly have created a
greater sensation. The governor! The governor of the State, arrested
for speeding in the little town of Greenbush, had been fined by
Judge Wiggin, who, as a would-be candidate for the legislature,
required the support and votes in his district of the governor’s own
party!
Further than that, more extraordinary, more incomprehensible, having
immediately recognized the governor as one of the two offenders, the
judge had dared to reprimand him precisely as if he were an ordinary
citizen; possibly with a trifle more caustic severity. And Nat
Wiggin was altogether too shrewd and long-headed not to realize that
a single word from the chief executive of the State would be almost
certain to blast his political ambitions.
Nevertheless, a little calm thought would have led Wiggin’s
neighbors there assembled to realize that his fearless action was
precisely what they might have expected of him. Never in his life
had he played the toady, and he was not a person to cringe in the
presence of power and pomp. “Without fear or favor” was his motto,
and, right or wrong, he adhered to it. Hard-headed and obstinate he
might be, but he was not inconsistent.
The spectators crowded forward on tiptoe, gaping, almost aghast.
Frowning and grim, his face purple with anger, the governor stared
at the judge. Calm and unperturbed as a June morning, the latter
announced that court was adjourned, and rose from his seat.
Trembling with deepest indignation, the governor’s secretary pulled
at his elbow.
“Come,” urged Hitchens in a low tone, “let’s get out before I lose
control of myself and twist that old lunatic’s nose.”
“I don’t think you’d better try that, here or elsewhere, under any
provocation,” returned the chief executive. “I’ve a notion he’d take
as much pleasure in fighting as in fining a speeder.”
They turned toward the stairs, the spectators, still staring
wide-eyed, clattering back to open a lane through which they could
pass. Weeping Buzzell was ahead of them, galvanized into unusual and
amazing activity.
“Make way for the governor!” he snuffled, waving his arms.
Down the stairs in advance he stumped, bursting with eagerness to
carry the news to those apathetic townsmen who had not been drawn by
curiosity to the courtroom. Marvelous and incredible was the
swiftness with which that news spread. Small boys carried it,
scurrying. The governor had been nabbed for breaking the speed
limit; Judge Wiggin had reprimanded and fined him. Villagers of both
sexes and all ages came hurrying toward Turner’s store, anxious to
get a glimpse of the notable who had met such summary and impartial
treatment at the hands of the “jedge.” Hitchens saw them assembling.
“Let’s get out of this hole,” he urged. “All the jays in the town
will be here in less than ten minutes.” He made for the automobile,
which stood in front of the store, headed down the street.
“We’ve got to find George,” said the governor, following. “It’s odd
he hasn’t shown up. Wonder what’s become of him.”
As they paused irresolutely beside the motor car the judge, having
issued forth, approached. There was nothing placating or apologetic
in his manner, nor did he wear an offensive, defiant air.
“Governor,” he said, “if you’d seen fit to notify me by telefone
that business of importance made it necessary for you to go
skihooting through this town, I’d have had the speed limit raised to
fifty miles an hour for the occasion, and the officers keepin’ an
open and clear road for ye. But when you was ketched, and hauled up
before me, same as any other private person, and give a fictitious
name, I figgered there was only one way to handle the case, which
was the same as I’d handle any other. I’m agin’ these here highway
locomotives on principle, and I’d fine the Czar of Roosia if he was
took up for speeding in one within the limits of this town.”
Something like a faint smile began to play around the corners of the
governor’s mouth. “How many times have you ridden in an automobile,
Judge Wiggin?” he asked.
“Jest about as many times as you’ve rid on the tail of a comet,
governor. A good, fast-steppin’ hoss suits me.”
“Exactly. And you’ve driven some fast steppers in your time. No
doubt you’ve driven them through the streets of this town at a much
greater speed than eight miles an hour, thus endangering the lives
of pedestrians and others upon the highways.”
“Endangerin’ fiddlesticks! I know how to handle hosses, sir. I’ve
broke and trained hundreds of ’em in my day. I know how to guide ’em
and how to stop ’em.”
“Still you may not realize that an expert driver of a motor car has
far more perfect control over his machine than the driver of a
spirited horse can possibly have over the animal. Likewise, an auto
moving at the same relative speed as a horse attached to a carriage
may be stopped more quickly than the horse. Therefore the machine,
properly handled, is a smaller menace to human safety than a
horse-drawn carriage.”
“Governor,” said Nathan P. Wiggin, “politeness forbids me to tell
you jest what I think of that statement. Besides, I’ve got my coat
on.”
“If you’re too prejudiced,” said the governor, “get into this car
with me, and you shall have a demonstration.” Just how this
invitation would have been received at that moment cannot be said.
Through the crowd came a panting, freckled, red-headed young man,
flinging people aside with his long arms.
“Hey, Jedge Wiggin!” he called chokingly. “Bessie’s gone crazy! Come
home quick!”
“Whut’s that, Lem Dodd?” cried the judge, snapping round and
grabbing the young man by the shoulder. “My darter—gone crazy? What
d’ye mean?”
“Jest whut I say,” insisted Lem Dodd chokingly. “She brung a strange
young feller inter the house, and he’s got a crack on his cabeza,
and he keeled over on the parlor sofy, and he looked like he was a
goner, with his eyes shet, and she hollered and flopped on her knees
beside him, and called him ‘Reginal’ and ‘dear,’ and called herself
a murderer, and kissed him right slap on the kisser.” He caught his
breath with a gulping sound of distress. “And when Miss Sally asked
her who he was, she said she didn’t know, and he don’t b’long round
these parts, for I never see him before, and she’s crazy as a June
bug or she’d never do no such thing.”
“This,” said the judge, “is a case for immejiate investigation.
Under the circumstances, governor, we’ll have to postpone that
demonstration till some future date.”
Then he set off for his home, a short distance up the street,
accompanied by the agitated and urgent Lemuel Dodd.