Chapter 8

In years the Mayor was no chicken, but in politics he had hardly chipped his shell, so that he was still susceptible to delegations, and sets of resolutions, and references to his solemn oath of office. Furthermore, he had been secretly awed by Mr. Mix's eloquence; for Mr. Mix, as spokesman of the committee, had delivered a speech which was a brief history of both common and statutory law from the time of Solon and Draco up to the most recent meeting of the City Council. Then, in addition, the Mayor had been mightily impressed by the personnel of that committee--chiefly old men, to be sure, but men of immense dignity and considerable weight in local finance; and also, for a counterpoise, there was Miss Starkweather. He hadn't liked the way Miss Starkweather looked at him. She had looked at him with the same rigid intensity with which his wife looked at a fly in the dining-room.

As the door closed behind the last of the committee, the Mayor drew a prodigious breath, and walked over to the window, where for several minutes he remained in deep thought. He tried to remember Mr. Mix's peroration:

"Thousands of years ago, Mr. Mayor, when the race of man was still dressed in skins, and domiciled in caves, and settling its differences with clubs and brickbats, there was no institution of law,--there was no written language. But as civilization advanced, men found the necessity of communicating their ideas; so that they devised a form of speech which would enable them to exchange these ideas--such as they were--about life, and law. And later on, it was plain that in order to perpetuate these ideas and pass them to posterity, it was necessary to write them down; and so there was developed a written language, and by this method civilized men through all the ages have written down the laws under which they are willing to live. It would be impractical for all of us to meet together to pass our laws, and therefore we elect representatives who make our laws for us. These laws are binding upon all of us until they are set aside by still other legislators, still acting for the whole people, who have chosen them as their legislative representatives. The duty of the executive branch of our government is to enforce those laws, whether made yesterday, or made fifty years ago, or five hundred years ago, and written down in our law-books.... This is our third conference with you, Mr. Mayor, in regard to one of those laws. I therefore have to inform you, in behalf of our committee and our League, and our whole city (whose representatives in City Council passed that law for our common good) that you stand today at the parting of the ways. You must choose whether to uphold your sacred oath of office, or to disregard it. And within forty-eight hours you will have made that choice, and we shall know where our duty lies.... I thank you for your patience."

The Mayor was one of those who, without the first atom of sustaining evidence, had long been vaguely suspicious that Mr. Mix wasn't always as pious as he appeared in church. He had noted, too, that although Mr. Mix's name was frequently listed on committees, yet it never bobbed up in connection with an obscure cause, however worthy, or among the names of unimportant citizens. He was convinced that Mr. Mix had an ulterior motive--political, social, financial--but the worst of it was that Mr. Mix had come with support which couldn't be sidetracked.

The Mayor shook himself, and went over to his telephone; a few minutes later the Chief of Police strolled in, and grinned at the disordered semi-circle of chairs. "Been holdin' a prayer-meetin', Mr. Rowland?"

The Mayor was biting his moustache. "Sit down, Chief. I want some advice.... Lord, I wish Barklay wasn't off on his vacation.... Why, I've just had a threat from this Reform League."

"Threat? What kind of a threat?"

The Mayor didn't reply immediately; he continued to chew his moustache. "You know that fool Sunday law--was passed 'way back in the year One?"

"Sure. 147. Dead letter."

"They say it's got to be enforced."

The Chief laughed boisterously. "That's a big order."

"I know it is. The mass of the people don't want it--never did. But in these days there isn't a Councillor _I_ know'd put a motion to repeal it, or amend it. Probition's scared 'em. They don't know _what_ the people want, so they're laying mighty low.... Same time, this League's getting pretty strong. Mix, and John Starkweather's sister, and ex-Senator Kaplan, Richards of the First National, Dr. Smillie of the Church crowd, old man Fredericks of National Metal--know what they handed me today?"

"Let her come."

The Mayor snorted with disgust. "Hinted if I didn't begin enforcement day after tomorrow they'd appeal to the Governor.... Lord, I wish Barklay was here."

The Chief grinned again. "I know what Barklay'd say."

"What?"

"Give 'em rope."

"We-ll ... that's easy enough to _say_."

"Easy to do, too."

"I can't see it. But if they go up to the Governor, with a petition to investigate--and the state law's pretty rough--and start impeachment proceedings--"

The Chief spat contemptuously. "Shucks, give 'em rope."

"Well--_how_?"

"Why, _enforce_ the damn' law--just once. Spike Mix's guns--he's only doin' this on a bluff. Guess he wants the reform vote for Council, or somethin'. Keep it under our bonnets, and send out a squad of patrolman Sunday afternoon to raid every theatre in town. Bat 'em over the head before they know it. I wouldn't even tell my own men 'till I lined 'em up and give 'em their orders. Then listen for the public to holler."

The Mayor had broken into a high-pitched laugh; he stopped abruptly. "How many people'd there be in all the houses put together?"

"Six thousand. Five of 'em at the movies."

"They'd start a riot!"

"Oh, I wouldn't pinch the audiences; just the managers, and bust up the shows. _Then_ you'd find out if the people want that law or not. We say they don't, but how do we know? Let's find out."

The Mayor sat down at his desk, and began to chuckle. "Chief, that's a bully idea--but what'd happen on Monday?"

"Happen? When, five, six thousand voters got put out in the street and their Sunday afternoon spoiled? Fellows with girls--Pa takin' the family out for a treat--factory hands? They'd be a howlin' mob in the Council chamber on Monday mornin'; that's what'd happen. And _one_ damn fool law'd be fixed so's the Police Department'd know how to handle it."

"It's passing the buck!" murmured the Mayor, ecstatically. "It's passing the buck right to the people, by George!"

"Sure. Do we go ahead with it? Want anybody tipped off?"

The Mayor was hugging his knees ecstatically. "No, we'll make a clean sweep. No favourites. The bigger haul the better. All the boys'll understand. Keep it dead under your hat. We'll talk over the details tomorrow." Chuckling, he leaned back and opened his arms wide, his fists closed. "Rope!" he said. "Rope! Chief, we'll give 'em a hawser!"

* * * * *

On Saturday evening, Henry gave a special invitation performance, to which only his personal friends and Anna's were bidden, and if he had cherished any lingering doubt of his place in society, it must have been removed that night. His friends didn't know the details of the Starkweather trust fund, but they knew that Henry's future was lashed to his success with the Orpheum, and they came to help tie the knot. Naturally, since the auditorium was filled with young people who had grown up together, and with a few older people who had helped to bring them up, there was plenty of informality--indeed, a large part of it had been scheduled and rehearsed in advance. Henry didn't have to ask any questions; he knew that Bob Standish was responsible.

With Anna beside him, he had stood for thirty minutes in the foyer, to receive his guests, and as smile after smile encouraged him, and he heard the steady stream of sincere good-wishes, Henry began to grow curiously warm in the region of his heart, and curiously weak in the knees. Anna moved closer to him.

"I told you so," she whispered. "I told you so. Everybody loves you."

"It isn't me," he whispered back, with ungrammatical fervour. "It's you."

They stood together, then, at the rear of the house, to watch the high-jinks going on in front. Standish had ousted the three-piece orchestra, and taken over the piano; two other volunteers had flanked him, and the revelry began with a favourite ditty to proclaim that all reports to the contrary notwithstanding, Henry was style all the while, all the while.

Then, suddenly, there were loud shouts for Henry and Anna, and they were seized and dragged to the top of the centre aisle. Standish swung into the Mendelssohn Wedding March, and through a haze of rose-leaf confetti and paper streamers, the two Devereuxs were forced down to the orchestra-pit. The house was on its feet to them, and Anna, half-laughing, half-crying with happiness, was sorting confetti out of her hair when Standish clambered up on the stage, and waved for silence.

"Listen, everybody.... Old Hank Devereux and wife tried to save the price of a caterer, last spring, and they got away with it. Alas, Hank's a jealous bird, and he was afraid somebody'd kiss the bride. Furthermore, Anna didn't want to get any wedding presents, because they clutter up the house so. And when most of your friends live in the same town, it's hard to get rid of the stuff you don't want. So they buncoed us out of a party. Well, so far we've given 'em Mendelssohn and confetti. Any lady or gent who now desires to kiss the bride, please rise and come forward.... Hey, there! This isn't any Sinn Fein sociable! Ceremony's postponed!... And finally, dearly beloved brethren and sistren, we come to the subject of wedding gifts." He turned to look down at the Devereuxs, and some of the levity went out of his voice. "We thought we'd bring you a little something for good-luck, old man. It's from all of us. Hope you like it. If you don't, you can swap it for a few tons of coal.... There she comes!"

It was a magnificent silver tea-service, borne down the aisle by the two men who, next to Standish, were Henry's best friends.

Anna was utterly speechless, and Henry was coughing diligently. The service was placed on the piano; Henry touched the cool smoothness of a cream-jug, and tried to crystallize his thought into coherence.

The applause had died away; the house was quiet, expectant. From the rear, a man's voice said: "It isn't like a golf championship trophy, old man--you don't have to win it three times--it's all yours."

In the shriek of laughter which followed, Henry, with Anna in tow, fled to shelter. "Lights!" said Henry. Abruptly, the auditorium was