First of all, within the State House, there was burgeoning of the separate
lights of the wall brackets and then the great chandeliers burst into
bloom.
Electrician Torrey possessed a quick understanding and was in the habit of
doing a thorough job whenever he tackled anything. He threw in the
switches as rapidly as he could operate them.
Story by story the great building was flooded with glory that mounted to
the upper windows and overflowed into the night with a veritable cascade
of brilliancy when the thousand bulbs of the dome's circlet flashed their
splendor against the sky. The lamps of the broad front portico and its
approaches added the final, dazzling touch to the general illumination.
From a sullen, gloomy hulk of a building, with its few lights showing like
glowering eyes in ambush, the State House was transformed into a temple of
glory, thrust into the heavens from the top of Capitol Hill, a torch that
signaled comforting candor, a reassuring beacon.
The surprise of the happening stilled the uproar.
Neither Morrison, inside, nor the mob, outside, was bothering with the
mental analysis of the psychology of the thing!
Something had happened! There was The Light! It threw into sharp relief
every upturned face in the massed throng. Their voices remained hushed.
Commander Lanigan, standing above them on a marble rail, his figure
outlined against a pergola column, did his best to put some of his
emotions into speech. He shouted, "_Some_ night-blooming cereus, I'll tell
the world!"
The great doors swung open slowly. They remained open.
Now curiosity replaced astonishment and held the rioters in their tracks;
their mouths were wide, the voices mute.
The mayor of Marion walked into view.
The columns of the _porte-cochère_ were supported on a broad base, and he
climbed up and was elevated in the radiance high above their heads.
He smiled hospitably. "Boys, it's open house, and the house is yours. Hope
you like its looks! But what's the big idea of the surprise party?"
No one took it on himself to reply. He waited tolerantly.
"Well, out with it!" he suggested.
Somebody with a raucous voice ventured. "You probably know what they've
been trying to hide away from the people inside there. Suppose you do the
talking."
"I'm not here to make a speech."
"Well, answer a question, then!" This was a shrill voice. "What about
those soldiers and those machine-guns in there?"
"Not a word!"
With yells, oaths, and catcalls the crowd offered comment on that
declaration.
His demeanor as a statue of patience was more effective than remonstrance
in quieting them.
"Any other gentlemen wish to offer more remarks? Get it all out of you!"
He utilized the hush. "Boys, I'm going to give you something better than
words. Hearing can't always be trusted. But seeing is believing!"
He pulled a police whistle from his pocket and shrilled a signal.
For a time there was no answer or demonstration of any sort.
Then the tramp of marching feet was heard on the pavement of the square.
It was Marion's police force, issuing from some point of mobilization near
at hand; it was the force in full strength, led by the chief; he was in
dress-parade garb and the radiance of the square was reflected in imposing
high-lights by his gold braid.
The crowd was shaken by eddies and was convulsed by quickly formed
vortices. Morrison was studying that mob with his keen gaze, watching the
movements as they sufficed to reveal an expression of emotions.
"Hold on, boys! Don't run away!" he counseled. "Wait for the big show! No
arrests intended! Only cowards and guilty men will run!"
The light that was shed from the State House was pitilessly revealing; men
could not hide their movements. Morrison reiterated his promise and dwelt
hard on the "coward and guilty" part of his declaration.
The chief of police waved his hand and the crowd parted obediently and the
officers marched up the lane, four abreast.
"Hold open that passage as you stand, fellow-citizens!" the mayor
commanded. "There's more to this show! You haven't seen all of it! Hold
open, I tell you!"
Men whom he recognized as Lanigan's Legion members were jumping in on the
side-lines as the policemen passed. With arms extended the veterans held
back those whom Morrison's commands were not restraining.
"That's good team-work, Joe," Stewart informed Lanigan when the latter
hurried past to take his place as a helper.
The advent of the police had provoked a flurry; their movements after
their arrival caused a genuine surprise. They gave no indication of being
interested in the crowd that was packed into Capitol Square. The ears of
the mob were out for orders of dispersal! Eyes watched to see the officers
post themselves and operate according to the usual routine in such
matters.
But the policemen marched straight into the State House, preserving their
solid formation.
The bugle sounded again within.
With a promptness that indicated a good understanding of the procedure to
be followed, the St. Ronan's Rifles came marching out.
Captain Sweetsir saluted smartly as he passed the place where the mayor of
Marion was perched.
"How about three cheers for the boys?" Morrison shouted. "What's the
matter with you down there?"
He led them off as cheer-leader. He marked the sullen groups, the
voiceless malcontents as best he was able. The Legion boys were vehemently
enthusiastic in their acclaim.
The guards marched briskly. The machine-guns clanged along the pavement,
bringing up the rear.
"That's all!" Stewart declared, when the soldiers were well on their way.
"Now you don't need any words, do you? I'll merely state that your State
House is open to the people!"
"Like blazes it is," bawled somebody.
He pointed to the open doors, his reply to that challenge.
"How about those cops?" demanded somebody else.
"Your State House is open, I tell you. If you want to go in, go ahead.
It's open for straight business, and it will stay open. There are no dark
corners for dirty tricks or lying whispers. It's your property. If there's
any whelp mean enough to damage his own property, he'll be taken care of
by a policeman. That's why they're in there. That's what you're paying
taxes for, to have policemen who'll take care of sneaks who can't be made
decent in any other way. Some other gentleman like to ask a question?"
Morrison realized that he had not won over the elements that were
determined to make trouble. His searching eyes were marking the groups of
the rebels.
He directed an accusatory finger at one man, a Marion politician.
"Matthewson, what's on your mind? Don't keep it all to yourself and those
chaps you're buzzing with!"
Matthewson, thus singled out, was embarrassed and incensed at the same
time. "What have they been trying to put over with that militia, anyway?"
"Put protection over state property because such mouths as yours have been
making threats ever since election. But just as soon as it was realized
that good citizens, like the most of these here, were misunderstanding the
situation and were likely to be used as tools of gangsters, out went the
militia! You saw it go, didn't you?"
"I'd like to know who did all that realizing you're speaking of!"
"It's not in good taste for an errand-boy of my caliber to gossip about
the business of those for whom he is doing errands. I'll merely say,
Matthewson, that the people of this state can always depend on the
broad-gaged good sense of United States Senator Corson to suggest a
solution of a political difficulty. And you may be sure that the state
government will back him up. Go down-town and ask the boys of the guard
who it was that gave the command for them to leave the State House. After
that you'd better go home to bed. That's good advice for all of you."
A shrill voice from the center of the massed throng cut in sharply. "Go
home like chickens and wait to have your necks wrung! Go home like sheep
and wait for the shearer and the butcher."
The mayor leaned forward and tried to locate the agitator. "Hasn't the
gentleman anything to say about goats? He's missing an excellent
opportunity!" Morrison showed the alert air of a hunter trying to flush
game in a covert.
The provoking query had its effect. "Yes, that's what you call us-all you
rulers call us the goats!"
A brandished fist marked the man's position in the mob.
"Ah, there you are, my friend! What else have you on your mind?"
"I'll tell you what you have on your face. You have the mark of an honest
man's hand there! I saw him plant that mark!"
"And what's the answer?" asked Stewart, pleasantly.
"You're a coward! You're not fit to advise real men what to do!"
"I'm afraid you have me sized up all too well!" There was something like
wistful apology in Morrison's smile.
Lanigan had forced his way close to the foot of the plinth where the mayor
was elevated. The commander's head was tipped back, his goggling eyes were
full of anguished rebuke, and his mouth was wide open.
The man in the crowd yelped again, encouraged by his distance and by
Morrison's passivity under attack. "You think you own a mill. Your honest
workmen own it. You are a thief!"
"My Gawd!" Lanigan squawked, hoarsely. "Ain't it in you? Ain't a spark of
it in you?"
Morrison delivered sharp retort in an undertone. "Don't you know better
than to tangle my lines when I'm playing a fish? Shut up!" He tossed his
hand at the individual in the crowd, inviting him to speak further.
"You're a liar, tool," responded the disturber.
"That's a tame epithet, my friend. Commonly used in debate. I'm afraid
you're running out of ammunition. Haven't you anything really important to
say, now that I'm giving you the floor?"
Men were beginning to remonstrate and to threaten in behalf of the mayor
of the city.
"Hold on, boys!" Morrison entreated. "We must give our friend a minute
more if he really has anything to say. Otherwise we'll adjourn--"
The bait had been dangled ingratiatingly; a movement had been made to jerk
it away--the "fish" bit, promptly and energetically.
"I'll say it--I'll say what ought to be said--I'll shame the cowards
here!"
"Let Brother What's-his-name come along, boys! Please! Please!" The mayor
stretched forth his arms and urged persuasively. "Keep your hands off him!
Let him come!"
"They're going over him for a gat, Mister Mayor," called Lanigan. "I've
given 'em one lesson in that line this evening, already!"
The volunteers who were patting the disturber released him. The patting
had not been in the way of encouragement. "Nothing on him! Let him go!"
commanded one of the searchers.
The man who came forcing his way through the press, his clinched fists
waving over his head, was young, pallid, typically an academic devotee of
radicalism, a frenetic disciple, obsessed by _furor loquendi_ He was
calling to the mob, trying to rouse followers. "You have been standing
here, freezing in the night, damning tyrants, boasting what you would do.
Why don't you do it? Do you let a smirking ruler bluff all the courage of
real men out of you? He's only doing the bidding of those higher up. He
admits it! He's a tool, too! He's a fool, along with you, if he tries to
excuse tyranny. You have your chance, now, and all the provocation that
honest men need. The rulers tried to scare you with guns. But you have
called the bluff. Their hired soldiers have run away. Now is your time!
Take your government into your hands! Down with aristocrats! Smash 'em
like we smash their windows. They hold up an idol and ask you to bow down
and be slaves to it; but you're only bowing to the drivers of slaves! They
hide behind that idol and work it for all it's worth. They point to it and
tell you that you must empty your pockets to add to their wealth, and work
your fingers off for their selfish ends."
He halted a short distance from the plinth, declaiming furiously.
Morrison broke in, snapping out his words. "Down to cases, now! What is
the idol?"
"A patchwork of red, white, and blue rags!"
Morrison whirled, crouched on his hands and knees, set his fingers on the
edge of the plinth, and slid down the side. He swung for an instant at the
end of his arms and dropped the rest of the way to the pavement.
Lanigan had started for the man, but Stewart overtook the commander,
seized him by the collar and coattail slack, and tossed him to one side.
"Here's a case at last where I don't need any help or advice from you,
Joe!"
"Punch the face offn him!" adjured Lanigan, even while he was floundering
among the legs of the men against whom he had been thrown.
The mayor plunged through the crowd in the direction of the vilifier.
The man did not attempt to escape. "Strike me! Strike me down. I offer
myself for my cause to shame these cowards!"
But Morrison did not use his fists, though Lanigan continued to exhort.
"There are altogether too many of you would-be martyrs around this city
to-night. I can't accommodate you all!" Stewart made the same tackle he
had used in the case of Lanigan and Spanish-walked his captive back toward
the _porte-cochère_.
"I reckon I do need your help, after all, Joe!" confessed Morrison, noting
that Lanigan was on his feet again. "Give me your back and a boost!"
Then the captor suddenly tripped the captive and laid him sprawling at
Lanigan's feet; before the fallen man was up, Morrison, using the
commander's sturdy shoulders and the thrust of the willing arms of his
helper, had swung himself back to the top of the plinth. He kneeled and
reached down his hands. "Up with him, Joe! Toss! I won't miss him!"
Lanigan was helped by a comrade in making the toss. Morrison grasped the
man and yanked him upright and held him in a firm clutch.
The mayor was receiving plenty of advice from the crowd by that time. The
gist of the counsel followed Lanigan's suggestion about punching off the
fellow's face. But the mob was by no means unanimous. Men were daring to
voice threats against Morrison.
As it had availed before that evening, Morrison's imperturbable silence
secured quiet on the part of others.
"The opinion of the meeting seems to be divided," he said. He had
recovered his poise along with his breath. "But no matter! I shall not
adopt the advice of either side. I shall not let this fellow go until I
have finished my business with him. I shall not punch his face off him.
I'll not flatter him to that extent. A good American reserves his fists
for a man-fight with a real man." He shook the captive, holding him at
arm's-length. "Here's a young fool who has been throwing stones at
windows. Here's a fresh rowdy who has been sticking out his tongue at
authority. I know exactly what he needs!"
"He insulted the flag of this country! Turn him over to the police!"
somebody insisted, and a roar of indorsement hailed the demand.
"Citizens, that would be like giving a mongrel cur a court trial for
sheep-killing! This perverted infant simply needs--_dingbats!_" He shouted
the last word. He twisted the radical off his feet, stooped, and laid the
victim across a knee that was as solid as a tree-trunk, and with the flat
of a broad hand began to whale the culprit with all his might.
The onlookers were silent for a few moments. Then there was a chorus of
jeering approbation.
When the shamed, humiliated, agonized radical--thus made a mark for gibes
instead of winning honor as a martyr for the cause--began to wail and
plead the men who were nearest the scene of flagellation started to laugh.
The laughter spread like a fire through dry brambles. It ran crackling
from side to side of the great square. It mounted into higher bursts of
merriment. It became hilarity that was expended by a swelling roar that
split wide the night silence and came beating back in riotous echoes from
the façade of the State House. That amazing method of handling anarchy had
snapped the tense strain of a situation which had been holding men's
emotions in leash for hours. The ludicrousness of the thing was heightened
by the nervous solemnity immediately preceding. Men beat their neighbors
on the back in instant comradeship of convulsed, rollicking jubilation.
"Always leave 'em laughing when you say good-by!" Morrison advised the
chap whom he was manhandling. He held the fellow over the edge of the
plinth by the collar and dropped him, wilted and whimpering, into the
waiting arms of the appreciative Lanigan. "Dry his eyes, Joe, and wipe his
nose, and see that he gets started for home all right."
Morrison stood straight and secured a hearing after a time. "Boys, those
of you who are in the right mind--and I hope all of you are that way now,
after a good laugh--I've given you a sample of how to handle the
Bolshevist blatherskites when you come across 'em in this country. Look
around and if you find any more of 'em in the crowd go ahead and dose 'em
with dingbats! Fine remedy for childish folly! I reckon all of us have
found out that much for ourselves in the old days. I won't keep you
standing in the cold here any longer. Good night!"
He leaped down on to the porch and went into the State House.
General Totten was near the big door.
The men outside were guffawing again.
Morrison was dusting his palms with the air of a man who had finished a
rather unpleasant job. "Do you hear 'em, Totten? Sounds better than howls
of a crowd bored by machine-gun bullets, eh? How much chance do you think
there is of starting a civil war among men who are laughing like that?"