Part 12

"The orator who would do justice to a great theme or a great occasion must thoroughly study and understand the subject; he must accurately and, if possible, minutely digest in writing beforehand the substance, and even the form, of his address; otherwise, though he may speak ably, he will be apt not to make in all respects an able speech. He must entirely possess himself beforehand of the main things which he wishes to say, and then throw himself upon the excitement of the moment and the sympathy of the audience. In those portions of his discourse which are didactic or narrative, he will not be likely to wander, in any direction, far from his notes; although even in those portions new facts, illustrations, and suggestions will be apt to spring up before him as he proceeds. But when the topic rises, when the mind kindles from within, and the strain becomes loftier, or bolder, or more pathetic, when the sacred fountain of tears is ready to overflow, and audience and speaker are moved by one kindred sympathetic passion, then the thick-coming fancies cannot be kept down, the storehouse of the memory is unlocked, images start up from the slumber of years, and all that the orator has seen, read, heard, or felt returns in distinct shape and vivid colors. The cold and premeditated text will no longer suffice for the glowing thought. The stately, balanced phrase gives place to some abrupt, graphic expression, that rushes unbidden to his lips. The unforeseen incident or locality furnishes an apt and speaking image; and the discourse instinctively transposes itself into a higher key."

BALLAD

By J. Russell Taylor

"Whither away? Shall we sail or stay? Whither away," I said, "Into the sunset's glory of gold and passion of rose-red? Over the water changed to wine and into the sky we slip, But never a fairer shore than this shall find our buoyant ship, Not though by shadowy Arcady we drop the anchor at last, And in the dusk our weary sails come rattling down the mast. Into the dark steals off the bark: let us stay in our bridal June: Whither away should lovers stray from the Island of Honeymoon?"

"O far away in the dying day, and farther away," she cried, "Ere the glory of gold has faded yet or the passion of rose-red died, O far away from the happier present visit the happy past, Though never shall our ghostly sails die down the shadowy mast: For we will flit by the twilight land and name the places fair, But set no foot on the shore," she cried, "nor drop the anchor there: But under the night with so swift a flight that the keel is singing in tune, Back, haste back on the starry track to the Island of Honeymoon!"

A ROYAL ALLY

By William Maynadier Browne

ILLUSTRATIONS BY A. I. KELLER

Like many other energetic and successful men, Mr. Cutting had his enemies. When, as counsel for the East End Land and Traction Company, he discovered that the policy of a majority of the Board of Directors was to slowly but surely "freeze out" the smaller stockholders, he promptly resigned his position, and proceeded to form a coalition among the to-be-frozen. This coalition had for its object the overthrow of the existing management and the subsequent instituting of a new and generous policy.

After a hard, stubborn fight, Mr. Cutting and his followers won; the management was displaced, and Mr. Cutting again became counsel for the company. But he had added to his list of enemies some who, though few in number, were long of memory, relentless, and powerful.

Under the new _régime_ the company prospered, and the patient stockholders received their dividends regularly, hitherto withheld or, rather, made to appear non-existing by means of the well-known device of undervaluing the company's lands in converse ratio to its increasing earnings.

The annual meeting was but two days off, and Mr. Cutting's sky seemed clear and tranquil; but overnight clouds had gathered black and ominous. The enemy, believing themselves once more superior in strength, or nearly enough so to venture upon the step, at the last moment sounded the note of war. That evening's paper contained insinuations, which were followed in the morning editions by large headlines and by direct though guarded accusations.

It was this morning, the morning of the very day before the annual meeting, that I was sitting in the office reading these same accusations. I was indignant and tired out.

All the night before I had been closeted with Mr. Cutting in his house, working out with him a defence for use in the battle to come, writing to this or telegraphing to that out-of-town holder of the stock; in one instance even cabling to London for a proxy allowing Mr. Cutting to vote a thousand shares held by a friend of his who was abroad. Together we had gone through the long list of stockholders, checking off those for and those against us, and embodying in a new list the names, not a few, of those either uncertain or unknown to us. This list comprised the names of almost all the smaller holders, owning from one to fifty shares. The only large holding was that of one Andrew J. Ahearn, against whose name appeared the goodly figure of five hundred shares. But, alas! he was among the unknown to us.

As I was leaving the house Mr. Cutting had said to me, mournfully: "I'm afraid they've got us this time. We need four thousand shares more, counting Emley's as safe; and the cable may not reach him in time, or he may be out of London. But, never mind," he added, clapping me warmly on the shoulder; "we will fight 'em till they knock us out, and go for 'em again next year. See you at the office."

As I walked slowly home to my lodgings through the long, level shadows of the early morning, the distinct rattling of incoming milk-carts and the twitter of countless sparrows pulsed through my tired brain in throb with the names of big and little stockholders. Thus, after a bath and breakfast, I had reached the office tired and indignant over the unjust and unwarranted attacks upon Mr. Cutting contained in the morning papers. Though counsel in name, he was in fact the managing head of the company's affairs.

As I sat at my desk, the newspapers lying about on the floor where I had thrown them in my anger, the door opened and old O'Connor entered.

Unlike his former appearances upon the scene of Mr. Cutting's domain, he did not wait to be spoken to, but crossed to me briskly, without hesitation or apology, merely removing his tall hat and sweepingly smoothing his thin white hair as he sat himself down firmly in a chair directly facing me. Something was on his mind, evidently.

"Phwat's dthis the papers do be sayin' about Mr. Cuttin', sor," he began, but, remembering himself, hastened to add, "Good-morning, sor. And how is Mr. Cutting this morning, sor?"

I told him that Mr. Cutting was well. Then I explained to him that the newspaper attacks were instigated by the old Board of Directors of the East End Company, who were trying to oust Mr. Cutting and his friends from the directorate. At receiving this piece of information he merely remarked, tersely, "The divils!" and after a pause added, in a whisper, "Shure, Mr. Cuttin' can down the whole av thim——" Then, with a note of anxiety in his voice, "Can't he, now, sor?"

I replied that it looked very doubtful, the time left us being so short and the other side having prepared themselves so secretly.

"And phwat's dthis," O'Connor went on, an angry look still more contracting his wizened face and concentrating all his features to a point at the tip of his short up-turned nose—"phwat's dthis they do be sayin'—Chimmie, me bar-tender, was afther readin' ut to me—phwat's dthis about Mr. Cuttin' mismanaging the money?"

"Not the money," I hastened to say; "the affairs of the company."

"Well—annyho-ow, 'tis a dommed lie," said O'Connor, thrusting out his square chin farther and farther with each word as it escaped from between the compressed wide lips, which at last opened in a far from pleasant grin, showing his still sound if ragged teeth, as he ejaculated, with fine distinctness, "The blay-gyards!" and then asked, with sudden eagerness, "Do there be anny wan av thim oi knaw, now?"

"No," I said, laughingly, "unless you happen to have met the former president, Mr. Walker;" thinking that that gentleman would in all probability be the least likely to be among the O'Connor's acquaintances.

"Phwat Walker is this?" he asked, all interest and expectation.

"The former president," I said.

"'Tis not Jarge Double-ye, it is, now, is ut?" He was leaning forward, looking eagerly into my eyes, his hands tightly clutching his knees.

"It is," I replied. "George W. Walker."

"An' _do I know him_!" he exclaimed, leaning back and throwing up both hands, as if exhausted with amazement. "An' it's the loikes av him is fightin' Mr. Cuttin', is ut?" I nodded. "Well, well, well!" he murmured, softly. "_Phwat_ do ye dthink av that! Whishper! Sit still, there, you."

He rose and tiptoed quickly to the door, opened it, and with an imperative backward jerk of the head summoned somebody from the hallway without. In a few moments a small elderly woman squeezed into the room. She was dressed in black and carried her hands clasped in front of her, seeming to hold in place the corners of a shawl that, folded over her shoulders, was crossed at her waist. Her bonnet was diminutive, but somehow uncompromising, almost defiant, in its plainness. From beneath it peeped a portion, but enough, of a smooth brown wig. By it I recognized her. She was the consort of the lineal descendant of the last king of Ireland; she was O'Connor's wife and Mollie's, now Mrs. Fennessey's, mother.

"Ah! Mrs. O'Connor!" I exclaimed, rising, "how do you do? I am glad to see you again."

She merely courtesied sharply and sniffed once. She was not nearly so gracious and so comfortably confiding as she had been in the state chamber of her own castle, where I last saw her. However, she remarked at length, pleasantly enough, that "it was a rale plisint mornin', the day," and seated herself in a chair near the door. For perhaps a minute O'Connor stood by her side and whispered to her. She seemed interested. I caught the sound of "Jarge Double-ye" from him, and a crisp and threatening "Ho, ho!" from her in reply. Then they crossed to my desk, O'Connor drawing a folded paper from his pocket as he came. His manner now was grave and business-like.

"Av you plaze, sor, Mrs. O'Connor and mesilf would thank you if you would be so kind as to lit us j'intly sign this paper forninst ye."

"Do you want me to witness the signatures? Is that it?" I asked, taking the paper and mechanically starting to unfold it.

"Yis, sor. But 'tis—excuse me, sor—'tis a private matther. Read it, sor, if—if——" He paused, much embarrassed. I hastened to assure him it was not necessary for me to read it, and, smoothing down the lowest fold of the document, handed O'Connor a well-filled pen. He, in turn, handed it to his wife, with the words, "Sign you, Bridget Ann, fur-rst, and I'll sign afther, meself."

"Where do I putt me name, Michael, dear?" she asked, now seated uneasily at my desk.

"Just undher the worruds 'Wid my consint,'" he answered, pointing with a short, knotty, curved index-finger to the words "So help me, God," which appeared on the right side of the sheet, just below the edge of the folded section that covered the remainder of the writing, except the words "With my consent," which were on the same line, but at the left. I corrected his mistake.

Slowly and awkwardly, but with great patience, Mrs. O'Connor's signature was constructed. If a decided upward slant indicates, as students of chirography assert, that the writer is of sanguine and ambitious temperament, the lady was surely a worthy spouse for an heir to the throne of Ireland. The signature ran up, up, up, until balked by the folded edge; but pressing against this obstacle, it ran its remaining course in protest against its confinement. Whether or not it spelled Bridget Ann O'Connor, it certainly spelled nothing else.

O'Connor, as usual, had left his spectacles at home. I signed his name and an ×, while he softly touched the tip of my pen-holder. He sighed with relief when it was over, and remarked: "Shure, cross or name, 'tis all the same. There's no differ. Thank you kindly, sor, and phwat do I owe you, now?"

As I waved away his question, Mr. Cutting came in from the company's offices, which adjoined our own.

Despite his anxieties, Mr. Cutting greeted O'Connor with his usual cheery, "Well, Michael, how are you?" and then seeing Mrs. O'Connor, crossed to her and shook hands; after which she resumed her seat, and sniffed once more—this time with more decision and with her nose in the air. _She_ knew she knew Henry H. Cutting, Esq., whether the rest of the world knew she did or not.

"Well, Michael, what can I do for you to-day?" he asked, pleasantly. O'Connor was immediately all confusion. As he tried to answer, he fumbled with his tall hat (which he had hurriedly grasped from its resting-place on my desk at Mr. Cutting's entrance), he pulled with gentle uncertainty at the fringe of white beard that encircled his anxious face, while his eyes followed the line of the washboard as if searching there for encouragement.

"Anything wrong?" asked Mr. Cutting.

"No, sor; no, Mr. Cuttin'," O'Connor at last stammered. "Not wid me, nor yit wid anny belongin' to me. But, Mr. Cuttin', sor, I do be hearin' av—av—phwat the papers——" He paused.

I saw a look of pain and disappointment quickly cross Mr. Cutting's face, and I read his thoughts on the instant. His old servant and friend, doubtful of its security, had come to demand his money.

"Av phwat the papers do be sayin' about you," O'Connor at last gained courage to say, "and av phwat thim blaygyards do be havin' in moind to do to you, sor. So-o I wud—meanin' no presumshin, sor, and wid your kind permission—be afther givin' you this, sor. I dic_tay_ted it and me daughter, Mollie, that's now Mrs. Fennessey, wrote it down for me. Av you plaze, sor."

He handed Mr. Cutting the paper I had witnessed, and was gently rising and falling on his toes, holding his tall hat behind him in both hands, while he nervously moistened his lips and gazed at the wall.

Mr. Cutting read the paper quickly, then walked abruptly to the window and stood looking out. There was silence for several moments. O'Connor continued his gentle rising and falling. Mrs. O'Connor sighed softly, smoothed her gown by a touch or two, and again folded her hands. Then Mr. Cutting turned and resting his left hand, which still held the paper, on O'Connor's shoulder, with his right grasped the other's right and shook it warmly. There was the glitter of moisture in his eyes, but his fine face wore an expression of mingled affection and mirth.

"Michael," he said, his clear, musical voice firm and kind, "I thank you with all my heart for your generous offer of assistance. And you, too, Bridget." Mrs. O'Connor half rose, sat down again and sniffed. "But I cannot—it would not be right for me to accept it."

Then followed a wholly unwritable scene—O'Connor and his wife, by turns and at times together, protesting, insisting, assuring, even coaxing. In the _mêlée_ of warm-hearted Irish explosives, I could distinguish, "Shure, I've plinty money"—"More than plinty, he has"—"What wid me rum"—"Yis, an' your junk"—"And me rints"—"There's a good man, now" "No bodther at all, at all." But at last O'Connor caught a look in his former employer's eye that he knew. He saw that further argument or entreaty was useless. At a gesture from Mr. Cutting, he and his wife desisted.

"No, Michael," Mr. Cutting continued, quietly; "it is impossible. It is out of the question. Besides, I must tell you, and now seems a good time, that while my affairs are in no danger, they are, owing to this new development in the company's prospects, causing me a good deal of trouble and anxiety. I have, therefore, turned the property of yours I was holding into cash, and it is now in my bank. I want you to wait here while I send and draw it out. Then I am going to ask you to take care of it yourself—at least, for the present. I am happy to say the amount has increased considerably, and I know you won't be disappointed."

His tone was firm, and his determination manifest. O'Connor humbly acquiesced with his familiar "Phwativer you plaze, sor, Mr. Cutting, sor." Then Mr. Cutting said:

"But there is one thing you can do for me, Michael, and I shall be very much obliged to you if you will."

"I will, then," said O'Connor, brightening. "Phwat is ut?"

"Give me this paper," said Mr. Cutting, holding up the paper O'Connor had handed him.

"Shure I will, sor, if you want it. 'Tis no use to me now." His sadness had returned, and now held him completely.

Mr. Cutting then disappeared into the company's offices; but in passing my desk on the way he laid the paper before me, whispering as he did so, "Read that."

O'Connor and his wife were now conversing apart, in mournful numbers, so I read, unobserved, this:

"I, Michael O'Connor, being of sound and disposing mind, this day do hereby loan to Mr. Henry H. Cutting, Esq., for any use he please, all my money he has now in charge, him to repay whenever it suits his convenience, and if never at all, no matter at all.

"So help me God.

"_Michael_ "his × mark "_O'Connor_.

"With my consent, "_Bridget Ann O'Connor_."

You may be sure it found a safe abiding-place among Mr. Cutting's most cherished possessions. He soon came back into the office, alert and eager, a new light in his eyes.

"Mike," he exclaimed, so suddenly that O'Connor dropped his hat, "perhaps you _can_ help me after all."

"Glory be to God!" exclaimed O'Connor, looking at him, though groping for his hat, which had rolled in a short semi-circle to his wife's feet and was now safely reposing in her lap. "How, sor?"

"Parker," said Mr. Cutting turning to me, "let me have that copy of the list of the uncertain and unknown. Ah!" as he took it and with a flirt opened it. "Michael, see if you can tell me anything of these people. Perhaps you may know the first one on the list—Andrew J. Ahearn, five hundred shares."

"Andy Ahearn!" replied O'Connor, in interested surprise. "Yis, sor, shure I know Andy Ahearn these t'irty years—more shame to me."

"Oh, ho! Thrue for you," came from Mrs. O'Connor's direction.

"What sort of man is he?" Mr. Cutting asked.

"Shure, he do go round pickin' up bur-rnt matches against the day there's no builder left who'll give him firewood; and him wort' his t'ousands upon t'ousands. And now I think av it, sor, I can tell ye how he kem by thim five hunder' shares." Here the old man became very deliberate and precise. "Now, d'ye moind, he is—no-o—he was father to Carneelus Ahearn, him that was in the Legis_lay_ter five year ago. 'Twas thin d'ye moind, your company—as it is no-ow—was petishinin' for a—phwat's this ut is—a franchise. Well, I dunno-o; but thin it was many av thim in the Legis_lay_ter got shares av stock. Some sez they bought thim, and odthers sez—but that's neidther here nor there, at all, at all, and av no consequince now. But 'twas this same Carneelus, d'ye moind, son to Andy, that was afther give a term av five years in jail, for—for—phwat's this they calls shtealin' whin it ain't shtealin', now?"

"Embezzlement," I suggested.

"That's ut," said O'Connor. "An' he died two years afther, wid t'ree year yet comin' to him. So, now, d'ye moind how ould Andy Ahearn kem by the five hunder' shares? He bought thim arf av his son, Carneelus."

"Do you think you could get him to give you a proxy?" Mr. Cutting asked.

"An' phwat's that, sor, av you plaze?"

"Shure, Michael, dear," came in cooing accents from the lady across the room, "a proxy is a godfather or a godmother whin they are unabil to be prisint."

I tried not to laugh, and Mr. Cutting turned his head to hide a smile; but O'Connor saw that something was wrong. Turning toward his wife, he said, impressively:

"Shure, Bridgit Ann, 'tis not ba-abies we're dishcussin', dear. 'Tis business, it is."

Mr. Cutting and I finally succeeded in giving him a fairly good idea of what a proxy was.

"Shure, 'tis a permit fer me to vote fer him as I plaze, thin?" he asked, at last.

Mr. Cutting said that that was near enough for all practical purposes, and went on reading from the list of names, selecting those of evident or probable Celtic origin. It was amazing how many the old couple knew, either personally or by hearsay. In many instances Mrs. O'Connor was with difficulty restrained from giving a complete family history of the person in question. As the reading progressed they became more and more excited and enthusiastic, until at last O'Connor broke out with:

"Nivver moind the rist, sor. Gimme the list av the whole av thim, and a boonch av thim godfa—I mane, thim proxies."

"And moind you take Chimmie along wid you, Michael," said Mrs. O'Connor, grasping at once her husband's intention and eagerly espousing it. "Chim knows manny as well as you, and some betther. Thin, he is eddi_cay_ted, too, Michael, dear. And I'll get Tim to come over and tind bar, dear."

"Thrue for you, Bridgit Ann," said O'Connor, warmly. "'Tis Chimmie an' me will do the job this day."

I gave him a handful of printed blanks to use for the proxies, and Mr. Cutting handed him the list of names. He disposed of these summarily in the capacious pocket of his coat, caught his wife by the arm, and together they started to go.

At this moment a clerk entered and handed Mr. Cutting O'Connor's money.

"Wait, Michael," he called. "Here's your money; and here"—reaching for a paper in his desk—"is an account of how we stand. It is all there. Look it over at your leisure."

O'Connor hesitated, a last look of pleading in his eyes; then took the money and account, thrust them deep into his trousers pocket, and hurried to the door. This he partly opened, and he and milady scurried funnily through the narrow space, like a pair of elderly black puppies. The door closed behind them.

Mr. Cutting leaned back in his chair, and laughed for a full minute. Then he asked me to bring him the signed dictation. I did so. He read it through once more, laughed again, and sighed:

"God bless him! Being of sound and disposing mind this day, I will take the will for the deed." He sat for a moment in thought; then holding the paper before him, he said, musingly: "Few, very, very few are those in _this_ world so broadly eddi_cay_ted as to have dic_tay_ted this."

"There are few of the blood royal," I ventured to remark.

"And more's the pity," he said, as the lock of his lacquered dispatch-box clicked. For a time we were silent.

"It just occurs to me," I said at last, "that we forgot to have him sign a receipt."

"Receipt, man!" he exclaimed. "A receipt from _him_? Besides, we have Bridget Ann as a witness." And chuckling, he passed again into the company's offices.

Not until the very hour of the day of the meeting did we realize that we had entirely forgotten to instruct O'Connor to have such proxies as he might get made out in Mr. Cutting's name.