A DAY WITH THE GOVERNOR
Governor Sawyer sat in the Executive Chamber at the State House. It was
eleven o'clock on the morning following the festivities at Fernborough.
Quincy and Alice had staid over night at the Hawkins' House, and Ezekiel
in the morning urged them strongly to wait a day and see what great
improvements he had made on the old farm which had been so neglected
during the last years of Mrs. Putnam's life. But Quincy said his
presence in Boston was imperative, that certain matters required his
attention, and so the earliest train brought him and his wife to the
city. Quincy left the carriage under the arch at the State House.
Alice was driven to the well-known house on Mount Vernon Street, in
which Aunt Ella had lived so long, but which had lost much of its
cheerfulness, and all of its Bohemianism since that lady had gone to
England and become Lady Fernborough.
The Executive Chamber was a large room, and simply furnished with a flat
top desk of wine-red mahogany, a bookcase, and a few chairs. A door
to the left led to the office of the private secretary; the one to the
right to a short and narrow corridor across which was the door of the
Council Chamber--a room occupied by that last link between democratic
and aristocratic government. It must not be inferred that the members
of the Council are aristocrats--far from it, but with the
lieutenant-governor they form a “house of lords” which may or may
not agree with the policies of the chief magistrate. They can aid him
greatly, or they can “clip his wings” and materially curb his freedom of
action. The Council is a relic of the old provincial and colonial days,
its inherited aristocratic body clothed in democratic garments. As its
duties could be performed by the Senate without loss of dignity, and
with pecuniary saving, its retention as a part of the body politic is
due to the “let well enough alone” policy of the American citizen which
has supplanted the militant, progressive democracy of his forefathers.
At the end of the short corridor was the office of the Executive
Secretary and his stenographer from which, through an opening hung with
portières, one passed into the general reception room where the
faithful messenger stood guard, authorized to learn the business of each
new-comer.
The private secretary had opened the mail and had assorted it as
“ordinary,” “important,” and “most important.” For an hour the Governor
dictated steadily, and it would take several hours' clicking of
the typewriter before the letters and documents were ready for his
signature.
The waiting-room was now filled with persons desiring audience with his
Excellency. A well-known city lawyer and ward politician was the first
to enter.
“Good-morning, Guv'nor.”
The Governor arose, came forward, and extended his hand. “Good-morning,
Mr. Nutting.”
“Are you going to send in the names of the Industrial Expansion
Committee to-day?”
“I have intended to do so.”
“Well, I want to say a good word for Mr. Collingwood. He is promoting a
company to develop water power on the Upper Connecticut above Holyoke.
He is a client of mine, and I can vouch for his business ability and his
desire to improve and increase our manufacturing facilities.”
The Governor was silent for a time. He was busily thinking. No doubt
this Mr. Collingwood was concerned financially, indirectly if not
directly, in the proposed company he was promoting, and perhaps Mr.
Nutting himself would profit far beyond his normal legal fee if Mr.
Collingwood was named on the commission. Mr. Nutting noticed the delay
of his Excellency in replying.
“It will be all right if you send his name in. There will be no doubt of
his confirmation.”
Again the Governor thought. The four wheels of the executive coach
were in good order, but, apparently, the fifth wheel had been put in
condition for use, if it became necessary.
“Here are Mr. Collingwood's endorsements,” said Mr. Nutting, as he
placed a large packet of papers on the governor's desk.
“Thank you, Mr. Nutting. I will give them consideration.”
Mr. Nutting withdrew, and the lieutenant-governor, who had arrived late,
was given precedence over the others in the reception room. After the
customary salutations, the lieutenant-governor seated himself in the
governor's chair, which Quincy had temporarily vacated, and lighted a
cigar.
“Are you going to send in Venton's name?”
“He is inexperienced.”
“I know it, but he'll learn. If, following precedent, I become your
successor, he will be of great help to me in certain lines.”
There was a slight frown on the governor's face. “Mr. Williams, the
present head of the department, has held it for many years, is a most
efficient man, and I have heard no complaints.”
“I know that,” said his Honour, David Evans, “but he's getting old, and
rotation in office is one of the principles of our Bill of Rights.”
“I am well aware of that,” said the governor, “but retention in office
for good and efficient service is one of the principles of our civil
service law.”
Mr. Evans arose and flicked the ashes from his cigar upon the rich
carpet which covered the floor.
“Am I to understand then that you will renominate Williams? Let me say
now that there is strong opposition to him in the Council and he may
fail of confirmation. Will you send Venton's name in then?”
“I think I should send Mr. Williams' name in again.”
“But, suppose he is turned down the second time?” asked Mr. Evans.
“I think I should continue sending in his name until good and sufficient
reasons were given for his rejection. This is not a voting contest
between two nominees. I am convinced Mr. Williams is the best man for
the place. Such being my opinion, to withdraw his name, would be a
self-stultification, and, to speak plainly,”--and his jaw was firmly
set,--“an acknowledgment that the Council is a stronger arm of the
government than the Chief Executive.”
Mr. Evans was evidently indignant. “Well, Mr. Venton is backed by men
who contribute heartily for campaign expenses. If you can get along
without their aid this fall have your man Williams,” and Mr. Evans
strode from the room with a curt “Good-morning.”
The private secretary laid some papers on the governor's desk. The
first one that he examined conferred certain valuable privileges, in
perpetuity, upon a corporation without requiring any compensation for
the franchise. The property thus alienated from public use had been paid
for by the people's money. In response to a vigorous push on an electric
button, the private secretary appeared.
“Send for Senator Downing. I must see him immediately.”
His Excellency thought, “How can the people's so-called representatives
give away the property of the people so indiscriminately? It would not
do to mention it, without proof, but I am convinced that all such public
robberies are for private gain. Ah, good-morning, Senator.”
Senator Downing was a short, heavily-built man, with dark hair, black
eyes, and a jaw and chin indicative of bull-dog pertinacity.
“In your bill, Senate 513, I notice that the railroad Company is not
called upon to pay for the great privilege conferred.”
“Why should they? It simply gives them a quick connection with
tide-water, and reduced transportation charges means lower prices.”
“How will prices be regulated?” was the Governor's query.
“As they always have been,” replied the Senator brusquely. “Supply and
demand--”
“And by combinations called trusts,” added the Governor. “Cannot some
provision be made by which the Company will pay a yearly rental? It will
reduce the burden of taxation just so much.”
“Perhaps if you recommend it, some attention will be given it, but I
should not care to prejudice my political standing by endorsing such an
amendment.”
“I will consider the question carefully,” said Quincy, wearily, as he
laid down the bill, and Senator Downing departed.
The next bill was what was called “a labour measure.” It gave members of
trade unions a right demanded by them, called “peaceful picketing;” in
other words, during a strike, the right to use argument, persuasion, in
fact any rightful inducement to keep a non-union man from working for
the “struck” firm or corporation. The bill had been passed by a majority
of 48 in the House, and by the narrow margin of one vote in the Senate.
A tie had been expected when the President of the Senate, who was
a prominent manufacturer was counted upon to kill the bill. If the
Governor vetoed it, the Senate would probably sustain the veto, throwing
the greater responsibility upon him, each member voting against the bill
sheltering himself behind the veto. Thus do partisans play politics
with the head of their party. While he was reading the bill the
lieutenant-governor was ushered in again.
“Downing has been talking with me about his bill. He says you are going
to veto it.”
“I did not say so. I asked him his reasons for turning over public
property for private use and gain, and he did not seem well-prepared to
answer me.”
Mr. Evans replied, “The best reason, to my mind is, that the heaviest
tax payers, members of our party, are all in favour of the bill.”
“Are they numerous enough to elect a governor who will do their
bidding?”
“Perhaps not, but their money is powerful enough to do it”--he
paused--“if it becomes necessary.”
The Governor arose, and Mr. Evans, influenced by the action, did the
same. The two men faced each other.
“Mr. Evans,” and the Governor seemed to increase in stature, “I fully
understand your last remark--if it becomes necessary. You shall have an
open field. I prize the great honour that has been conferred upon me by
placing me here, but I must confess I dislike the duties, circumscribed
as they are by personal and political influences. I can understand, now,
why a ruler wishes to be an autocrat. It is the only way in which he can
make his personality a part of his body. I shall not be a candidate for
re-election this autumn. I wish my personal freedom of action, and I
prize it more than fame or power.”
“May I mention your decision to the leaders of the party?”
“If you so desire. From this moment I am to be untrammelled except by my
official oath.”
Mr. Evans took his leave, evidently pleased with a part of what he had
heard, and in a short time was closeted with some leading politicians in
a private room of a prominent hotel.
The Governor resumed his reading of the labour bill, but was aroused
from his contemplation of its provisions by the entrance of Mr. Amos
Acton. Mr. Acton was secretary of a manufacturer's association. He
was tall and spare. His hair was sandy in hue, and his mouth twitched
nervously.
“Your Excellency, I came to see you about that picketing bill. If it
becomes a law our manufacturers will be driven from the State. They are
now seriously handicapped by the vigorous provisions of existing laws. I
trust your Excellency will not add to our present burdens.”
“I have read the bill, Mr. Acton. It seems conservative, with full
provision for the protection of life and property.”
“That's not the question. When Union men strike we must have the
Non-Union men to fill their places; but this bill says the Non-Union man
shan't work.”
“It says the Union man may persuade him, peacefully, not to work.”
“We all know what that means. If he does work, he will be called a
'scab' and his family will be ostracized in every possible way.”
“It is hard to draw the line,” said the governor. “You say, or imply,
that every man has a right to work for whoever will employ him. Granted.
But do you always give him work when he wants it? Do you pay him what he
asks, or do you not fix the rate of wage? You must realize the fact that
collective bargaining has superseded dealing with the individual.”
“Some of us do not allow that,” said Mr. Acton.
“I know it, and that causes the difficulty. Your relations with your
employees should be based upon trade agreements, legalized and strongly
adhered to by both sides.”
“I have just come from a meeting of leading manufacturers,” said Mr.
Acton, “and they wished me to express to you their urgent request, I may
say solicitation, that you will veto this bill.”
After Mr. Acton's departure, Quincy rang for his secretary, to whom he
delivered the papers containing his official decisions.
Mr. Williams was renominated for the position that he had so long and so
ably filled.
As members of “The Industrial Expansion Commission” nine manufacturers
were named, one for each of the leading industries of the State,
chosen independent of known or presumed political affiliations; Mr.
Collingwood's name was not among them.
A vigorous veto of the bill giving a private corporation control of
public property was sent to the Senate.
The “peaceful picketing” bill was signed.
The door opened, and a pretty face looked in.
“Come in, Maude--I've just finished.” As the secretary withdrew, keeping
his eyes fixed on the governor's youngest sister, she advanced slowly
into the room. The door closed automatically and Maude tip-toed to her
brother's side, returning his welcoming kiss.
“What's his name?” she asked, pointing towards the self-closing door.
“My secretary? Harry Merry,” said Quincy, “but the press boys all call
him Sober Harry.”
“I think he's just splendid,” said the impulsive Maude--“such beautiful
eyes! But that isn't what I came for. I went up to your house and just
brought Alice down to ours, and she told me all about the fine time you
had and your speech. Will it be printed?”
“Mr. Sylvester Chisholm, editor of the Fernborough Gazette was there and
a faithful transcript of my feeble remarks will, no doubt, appear in his
paper.”
“Feeble!” said Maude contemptuously. “Have you been doing feeble things
since you came back?”
“No, Maude, I have done some very strenuous things, and I shall be glad
to get home to my family.”
Maude repeated, seriously,
“To make a happy fireside clime
For weans and wife
Is the true pathos, and sublime,
Of human life.
“But you are not going home,” she continued,--“you are invited to dinner
with your respected pa and ma and your two young--”
“And beautiful sisters,” added Quincy with a laugh. “I'll come, but you
must play the latest popular songs for me, and Alice will sing 'Sweet,
Sweet Home,' and perhaps I can forget the cares of State--until
to-morrow, anyway.”
Maude flounced out of the door tossing a kiss from the tips of her
fingers, to the astonishment of Sober Harry who had just entered, and
who wished, from the bottom of his heart, that the flying salutation had
been for him.