On caucus days or election days it had been Zaanan Frame’s custom to sit
in his office and receive his friends. There were few who did not take
that opportunity to shake Zaanan’s hand, to show themselves at his
levee. Most came because it was their pleasure to do so; some came
because they regarded it as the part of wisdom.
But on this caucus day Zaanan sat alone. Outside on the steps was Dolf
Springer, taciturn, doleful. That was all. The old man was deserted.
Diversity had forsaken him on the day of his downfall. The power he had
wielded for more than a generation had dropped from him, leaving in the
place of the political dictator merely a tired, weary, disappointed old
man.
He had taken some comfort in that greatest of all books, the _Justices’
Guide_. Now he laid it aside and rose.
“Dolf,” he called.
The one faithful retainer entered.
“Calc’late we’ll be startin’ for the op’ry-house, Dolf.”
On other years this had been a sort of triumphal procession. Zaanan had
marched to the opera-house surrounded by his friends. Now he looked
quizzically at Dolf.
“Seems like we was sort of scarce this mornin’, Dolf, eh?”
“Doggone ’em!” said Dolf, vindictively.
They started, a pitiful procession. As they made their progress there
were eyes that turned away with a feeling of shame; other eyes stared
gleefully. Here was ocular evidence that Zaanan Frame was beaten; that
they, the sovereign voters of Diversity, had been able thus easily to
reach out and pluck him down.
When Zaanan arrived the opera-house was full. Zaanan, who had for years
been given a conspicuous place of honor, found a seat with difficulty.
He sank listlessly into his chair, slid forward with extended legs, and
let the brush of his beard rest on the bosom of his shirt. He did not
look about him.
Had he studied the hall, he must have been surprised, not alone at the
numbers present, but at the composition of the spectators. In Diversity
women were accustomed to take no part in politics—even that slight part
of watching their men functioning in caucus or convention. But this
morning was presented a condition abnormal. The gallery, usually
occupied by a sprinkling of loafers, was filled with women. Not ten
women or a score of women, but row after row of women; the mothers and
wives of Diversity in a body.
Others had been surprised by it. Not a few husbands had remarked upon it
to wives as they left their housework and departed. Some wives had
evaded questions; the bolder ones and the majority did not hesitate to
inform their husbands, in words easily understood, that their reasons
for going to the caucus were nobody’s business but their own.
The monotonous routine of organization was completed. Throughout, Peleg
Goodwin had been in the public eye. He was a figure of importance. He
already assumed the dignity of the office which was to be his as it had
once been Zaanan’s. Peleg had views as to his future. What Zaanan had
done Peleg could do. True, Moran was putting him where he was; but
later—Peleg would see to that. His bearing was feudal.
The gallery had watched impatiently, if silently. So this was polities?
So these futilely buzzing, smoking, lounging male creatures below were
actually their husbands exercising a high rite of citizenship! It was
monotonous. It even moved some of them to giggles. Many of them had
invested the caucus with the dignity of mystery, with a certain pomp and
regality. Now they saw it as it was, in no wise different from a casual
gathering round the wood-stove in the post-office on any day in winter.
“So that’s how it’s done,” said the Widow Stickney. “Huh! ’Tain’t much
more glitterin’ than peelin’ potaters. And I doubt if it’s as useful.”
But when the moment arrived for nominations for the office of justice of
the peace, the women leaned forward, interested, not to miss a phase of
it.
Young Lawyer Bourne placed Peleg in nomination, did so noisily,
flamboyantly, with waving of arms and screaming of eagle. He mentioned
Peleg as Peleg had never been mentioned before. If the young man had not
mentioned Peleg’s name at the outset, that worthy candidate would not
himself have recognized the subject of the speech. But Peleg enjoyed it.
Maybe that’s what he really was and hadn’t realized it; maybe that’s
what his fellow-men had been thinking about him for years, wasted years.
Why, with such regard he might have risen to the Governor’s chair!
“Look at Peleg,” whispered the widow. “If somebody don’t tie a strap
round his chist he’s a-goin’ to bust.”
Peleg’s nomination was duly seconded, not by Michael Moran, for Moran’s
residence was elsewhere, but to Moran’s satisfaction. He sat on the
aisle, well toward the front, and had been the recipient of much
attention. Easily Moran was the dominant figure of the body. Why should
he not be, on this his day of victory over his enemies?
Zaanan sat motionless, spoke to no one, paid no attention to what went
forward. He was there, that was all. It seemed as if he had come from,
habit, not from interest. After the first few moments he was forgotten,
unnoticed. Zaanan had been moved on to oblivion.
Bob Allen nominated Zaanan. He made no speech, simply mounted the
platform and announced that he placed the name of Zaanan Frame before
the caucus as a candidate for the justiceship. It was a form, that was
all. Then he stepped down.
“Any secondin’ speech?” asked the chairman—a form, too.
“Calc’late there is,” said a voice at the rear of the hall, and Steve
Gilders arose, for once detached from the rifle which had grown to be as
much a part of him as his arms.
As Steve walked forward, indeed, as the first of his words fell on the
ears of the body, it became silent. Men looked at one another, felt a
tenseness in the air, an apprehension. A small boy walked by Steve’s
side, his hand in Steve’s.
Together they mounted the platform, stood facing the hall.
“I’m here to second that there nomination,” Steve said, harshly. “Bein’s
I haint taught in speech-makin’ I fetched help. But I figger the boy and
me’ll be able to make out.”
He got down on one knee so his face was on a level with the child’s.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Steve,” said the little one.
“What’s your other name?”
“Hain’t got none.”
Every man, every woman, in the house was straining forward. Here was
something not to be expected by any; something fraught with meaning.
Michael Moran was of those whose eyes were fixed on the two figures. He
half arose to his feet, then sank back, face distorted, fists clenched.
“Who was your ma?” Steve asked, in a voice that chilled.
“Susie Gilders.”
“Where is she?”
“She’s dead.”
“What killed her?”
“She did,” said the child, his lips quivering.
“Why?”
“On account of me.”
The gallery became audible—it gasped once, then was silent again.
“Who is your pa?” Steve went on, inexorably.
“Michael Moran.”
“Who do you hate?”
“Michael Moran.”
Steve arose, lifted the child above his head.
“Look at him, folks,” he said; “he’s secondin’ the nomination of Zaanan
Frame.”
He turned, now leading the boy, descended from the platform, passed down
the aisle toward the rear of the hall. The child’s coat brushed Moran’s
sleeve, unconscious of whom it passed. Moran shrank away from the touch.
Nobody spoke, nobody moved, save Moran. He leaped to his feet, face
working with rage, with shame, with the ignominy of it.
“It’s a lie!” he shouted.
“It’s the truth!” Steve Gilders said over his shoulder.
In the gallery a woman stood. She pointed downward to an individual on
the floor.
“Tom Samson,” she said, shrilly, “you’re goin’ to vote now. Vote right
or don’t come home to me.”
Another woman dared equally. “You, too, George Perkins.”
Woman after woman was on her feet, singling out her man, letting him
hear her voice in this matter.
The vote was taken in silence, counted in silence. The hall awaited its
announcement in silence. Three votes were cast for Peleg Goodwin, the
rest for Zaanan Frame.
There was a cheer, but it came not from the floor, not from the men
folk. It was shriller than a cheer by the men would have been, for it
came from the throats of the wives and mothers of them. Women not
accustomed to politics had taken a hand in that game. Women not granted
the suffrage by our laws had by their mere presence wielded the powers
of the suffrage. They had not voted in person for Zaanan Frame; they had
exerted no prior influence; but they had at the moment of action shown
their men what was in their hearts, and the men voted in accord with it.
The women of Diversity had shown there was a force, a power resident
within them, that was capable of ruling when it sought to rule. Men
versed in the law tell us that in every state the supreme power must lie
definitely in some individual or some group of individuals. Where
autocracy, absolutism, obtains, the supreme fountainhead of authority is
in the autocrat; in a republic it abides in the citizens. The women of
Diversity had made apparent where resided the ultimate authority in
their village.
Moran had left the opera-house.
Scatteringly at first, then with volume, arose shouts for Zaanan.
Shamefaced men bellowed his name, at first because they were ashamed,
afraid, to do otherwise, then with an infection of enthusiasm, perhaps
with a clearness of vision they had been deprived of hitherto. Zaanan
walked forward slowly, gravely, with no indication of elation in his
face. From the platform he eyed them sternly.
“Folks,” he began, presently, “I can’t say I take any pride in this. I
don’t feel like I’d been honored. No, I hain’t been honored, except by
them that hadn’t votes to vote. My heart hain’t so old but it kin
appreciate bein’ trusted and respected by them that sits in the gallery.
They stayed by me when you forsook me. You men, ’tain’t on your accounts
I’m takin’ this place agin; it’s because of them women that I’ve seen
babies in their cradles, and for the babies that is in their cradles
to-day.”
He stopped to remove his spectacles.
“I should ’a’ let you have a dose of Peleg and Moran. It would ’a’ been
good for you. But I seen you didn’t have sense nor judgment to know what
you was doin’, so I done what I’ve had to do before. I took things into
my own hands, and for another spell things’ll go on as they did before.
I was hopin’ you’d learned. I was hopin’, when I come to step out for
good, that you’d be fit to handle the job yourselves. I’m disapp’inted
in that, so I’ll hang on as long as I can.”
He stopped again and tugged at his beard, and glowered at the men as one
might glower at refractory children.
“Some of you men that’s here to-day has money in your pockets that don’t
b’long there. It’s Michael Moran’s money. For a dollar or two, that’ll
be spent and forgot in a week, you sold somethin’ that’s next worse to
sell than the decency of your homes. You sold somethin’ that men have
fought for and give their all for. The whole of this here nation’s built
up on you and others like you. You’re a part of the Gov’ment; the nation
trusts each feller to do his votin’ and his politics to the best of his
judgment. But you hain’t done that. You’ve up and sold your votes. I
calc’late I hain’t never been more ashamed. At the door of this
op’ry-house is Dolf Springer holdin’ a bushel basket. He’s holdin’ it in
plain sight of all. If you that’s took money hopes to have my respect,
and the respect of your wives and mothers and daughters, you’ll rise now
and march past Dolf, and you’ll chuck into that basket the Judas-money
that’s soilin’ your pockets. Now, I’m waitin’.”
They looked at one another shamefaced, each man afraid to be the first
to rise.
“Tom Samson,” came his wife’s voice, “you head that percession.”
There was the hint of a nervous laugh from the men, but Tom got to his
feet.
“Zaanan,” he said, shakily, “I’m a dum sight more ashamed ’n you be of
me,” and he marched to make his deposit in Dolf’s basket.
It was a procession. Men formed in line behind Tom, and there were
leathery faces that felt for the first time in many years the
down-trickle of tears. Zaanan was wiping his eyes unashamed. Audible
sobs descended from the gallery. The atmosphere was that of a
revival—it was a revival, a moment of regeneration, a moment that would
linger in the minds of those men as long as mind and body remained bound
together. The line filed past Dolf and the men returned to their seats.
“I calc’late the business of this caucus is about over,” Zaanan said.
“When what’s left to be done is over I wisht Parson Bloom ’u’d say a
benediction. ’Tain’t usual at sich meetin’s, but ’twon’t do any harm.”
So it was done. Aged Parson Bloom mounted the platform, his silvery head
bared, and held his arms extended over them. His words were few, simple:
“‘The Lord watch between me and thee, when we are absent one from
another.’”
Then they passed out, leaving Zaanan alone on the platform, seated in a
huge arm-chair, his head bent wearily, his face in his hands.