The Judge Utters Dire Prophecy.
Even popularity can be overdone. In Rome, along at first, you are full
of regrets that Michelangelo died; but by and by you only regret that
you didn't see him do it.--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.
July 4. Statistics show that we lose more fools on this day than in all
the other days of the year put together. This proves, by the number left
in stock, that one Fourth of July per year is now inadequate, the
country has grown so.--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.
The summer weeks dragged by, and then the political campaign
opened--opened in pretty warm fashion, and waxed hotter and hotter
daily. The twins threw themselves into it with their whole heart, for
their self-love was engaged. Their popularity, so general at first, had
suffered afterward; mainly because they had been too popular, and so a
natural reaction had followed. Besides, it had been diligently whispered
around that it was curious--indeed, very curious--that that wonderful
knife of theirs did not turn up--if it was so valuable, or if it had
ever existed. And with the whisperings went chucklings and nudgings and
winks, and such things have an effect. The twins considered that success
in the election would reinstate them, and that defeat would work them
irreparable damage. Therefore they worked hard, but not harder than
Judge Driscoll and Tom worked against them in the closing days of the
canvas. Tom's conduct had remained so letter-perfect during two whole
months, now, that his uncle not only trusted him with money with which
to persuade voters, but trusted him to go and get it himself out of the
safe in the private sitting-room.
The closing speech of the campaign was made by Judge Driscoll, and he
made it against both of the foreigners. It was disastrously effective.
He poured out rivers of ridicule upon them, and forced the big
mass-meeting to laugh and applaud. He scoffed at them as adventurers,
mountebanks, side-show riff-raff, dime museum freaks; he assailed their
showy titles with measureless derision; he said they were back-alley
barbers disguised as nobilities, peanut peddlers masquerading as
gentlemen, organ-grinders bereft of their brother monkey. At last he
stopped and stood still. He waited until the place had become absolutely
silent and expectant, then he delivered his deadliest shot; delivered it
with ice-cold seriousness and deliberation, with a significant emphasis
upon the closing words: he said that he believed that the reward offered
for the lost knife was humbug and buncombe, and that its owner would
know where to find it whenever he should have occasion to assassinate
somebody.
Then he stepped from the stand, leaving a startled and impressive hush
behind him instead of the customary explosion of cheers and party cries.
The strange remark flew far and wide over the town and made an
extraordinary sensation. Everybody was asking, "What could he mean by
that?" And everybody went on asking that question, but in vain; for the
Judge only said he knew what he was talking about, and stopped there;
Tom said he hadn't any idea what his uncle meant, and Wilson, whenever
he was asked what he thought it meant, parried the question by asking
the questioner what he thought it meant.
Wilson was elected, the twins were defeated--crushed, in fact, and left
forlorn and substantially friendless. Tom went back to St. Louis happy.
Dawson's Landing had a week of repose, now, and it needed it. But it was
in an expectant state, for the air was full of rumors of a new duel.
Judge Driscoll's election labors had prostrated him, but it was said
that as soon as he was well enough to entertain a challenge he would get
one from Count Luigi.
The brothers withdrew entirely from society, and nursed their
humiliation in privacy. They avoided the people, and went out for
exercise only late at night, when the streets were deserted.