CHAPTER I

ON HIS OWN FEET

The inauguration of a small-town Mayor is no great matter for excitement. But Hardiston was interested in Wint, and wanted to have a look at him, so everybody came to see him step into his new responsibilities.

The Hardiston council chamber was on the second floor of the fire house. This was a three-story building of red brick, and a place of awe and wonder for the small boys of the town. The fire engine and the hose cart were kept on the ground floor, in front. Behind them were the stalls for the four sleek horses; behind the stalls again, a number of iron-barred stalls for human beings. Here were housed the minor criminals, arrested by Marshal Jim Radabaugh for petty peculations or disorders, and waiting for their hearings before the Mayor. These little cells were not designed to house prisoners for any length of time, and for the most part they were furnished simply with heaps of straw pilfered from the supply that was kept for the fire horses. The town drunkard, when the marshal got him, was treated as well as the fire horses; and this is more than may be said in larger towns than Hardiston.

At the left-hand side of the building there was an entrance hall, through which one passed to reach the stairs that led up to the council chamber. In the middle of this square hallway hung a rope, with a knot on the end. This rope disappeared through a hole in the ceiling. If you pulled it in the proper fashion, the bell in the steeple began a chattering, staccato beat like the clanging of a gong. This was the fire bell; and when it rang the fire chief came from his feed store across the street, and the firemen came from the bakery, and the hardware store, and the blacksmith shop where they worked; and the fat fire horses--they doubled in the street-cleaning department--came on the gallop from their abandoned wagons in the streets. Then everybody got into harness of one kind or another and went to the fire.

Everybody in town wanted to ring that fire bell. Any one who discovered a fire and reached the fire house with the news was privileged to do it. There was a tradition that a boy once tried to ring the bell and was jerked clear off the floor by the rebound after his first tug at the rope. This added to the wonder and the mystery of it. The boys used to hang around the doorway, watching this rope, and occasionally fingering it in a gingerly way, and wishing a fire would start somewhere so that they might see the bell rung.

It was through this hall where the rope hung that the people of Hardiston crowded to see Wint inaugurated. They went up the worn, wooden stairs into the council chamber, and they packed themselves in on the benches in the rear of the room. This was not only the council chamber; it was the seat of the Mayor’s court. There was an enclosure, surrounded by a railing. When some of the bigger, or perhaps it was only the braver, men of the town came in, they sat inside this railing, tilting their chairs back against it, with a spittoon drawn within easy range. The crowd came early; and they talked in cheerfully loud tones while they waited. One by one the aldermen drifted in, the new ones and the old. And Marshal Jim Radabaugh was there; and the clerk and the other officials arrived and took their places within the enclosure. They were carelessly matter of fact, as though the inauguration of a new Mayor was an everyday matter. The boys, perched on the window sills, whistled, and giggled, and then subsided into frightened silence to watch with staring eyes.

Amos Caretall had let Wint sleep as late as possible this morning. Wint needed the sleep, and Congressman Caretall made it his business to study the needs of his fellow men. His Congressional creed, which he summarized upon occasion, was as simple as that. “If a bill’s aimed to make you folks at home here more comfo’table, I’m for it,” he would say. “If it ain’t, I’m against it; and that’s all the way of it with me.” So he let Wint sleep this morning until the last minute, then shook him into wakefulness.

Even then, Wint might have thrown the whole thing over but for that whistle. He was sick and sore, his head hurt, and his eyes could not bear even the dim light of his bedroom. He told Amos he would not go through with it, that he would not be inaugurated. Then the whistle blew, and when Amos said it would be a part of his powers as Mayor to stop that plagued whistle if he wanted to, the idea struck Wint’s sense of humor. He grinned, and decided there was something in being Mayor, after all, and climbed unsteadily out of bed.

After the tub of cold water which Amos had waiting for him, he felt better. After old Maria Hale’s breakfast--fried eggs, and country-cured ham, and three cups of strong coffee--he felt better still. But he was not yet himself. Physically, he was acutely comfortable, blissfully comfortable. His legs and his arms felt warm; they tingled. His head did not hurt; it was merely numb. It was true that his tongue was furry and thick, so that he had to talk very carefully when he talked at all; but save for this precision of speech, there was no mark on him of the night before. He was young enough to recover quickly, his cheeks were red, his eyes were lazily clear.

But it was not to be denied that his head was numb. He was in something like a daze when he went out with Amos and started toward the fire-engine house. The day was bright and warm for the season, and the sun was cheerful. Wint enjoyed the walk. But he had to keep his eyes shut much of the time. The light hurt them. When he heard Amos speak to some one they passed, he also spoke. When Amos talked to him, he answered. But his answers were idle and unconsidered; he was too comfortable to think.

They went up some stairs after a while, and Wint understood that they had arrived. He heard people talking all together, and then one at a time. Men said things, and Amos nudged him, and he made replies. He could hear what others said to him. They mumbled hurriedly, as though over some too-familiar formula. There was nothing particularly impressive, or dignified, in the proceedings. The light from the windows at the back of the room hurt Wint’s eyes, so he still kept them half shut. The people before him were merely black shadows, silhouetted against this glare. He could not see who any of them were.

After a time, some one--it sounded like a small boy--yelled: “Speech!” And others took up the cry, and Amos nudged Wint. So Wint stood up again and said with that careful precision which the condition of his tongue demanded: “I’ve nothing to say. I’ll let what I do, do the talking for me.”

That seemed to be satisfactory. Every one cheered, so that the noise hurt his ears. Then he sat down. A moment later, every one got up, and he got up, and they all began to crowd around him, and to crowd toward the door. Somebody came up and shook hands with Wint, and he recognized the voice of V. R. Kite. He had never liked Kite; the man was like a foul bird. A buzzard. The idea pleased Wint. He said cheerfully:

“To hell with you, you old buzzard.”

He heard Amos chuckle, somewhere near him. Every one else stood very still. So Wint strode past Kite to the stairs, and Amos followed him, and Peter Gergue followed Amos. They went back home to Amos’s house. Once, on the way, Wint asked:

“That all there is to it?”

Amos said: “Land, no, that’s just the beginning.”

Wint chuckled. He was beginning to enjoy himself. But he was very sleepy. When they got home, he went to bed and slept till dinner was ready, and he slept all the afternoon, and he went to bed for the night as soon as supper was done.

* * * * *

Amos had been thinking he ought to get back to Washington. He was glad Wint went off to bed, because there were two or three matters he wanted to attend to. One of these matters had to do with Jack Routt. Amos was not sure of his ground in that direction, but he had his suspicions. He sent for Peter Gergue after supper, and Gergue came quickly at the summons. They sat down before the coal fire, and Peter filled his pipe in careful imitation of Amos, and the two men smoked together in silence for a space, while Amos considered what to say.

Peter was one of those unfortunate men who do not like silences. This put him at a disadvantage before Amos, who could be silent indefinitely. It was Amos’s chief superiority over Peter, and it gave the Congressman his mastery over the man. This night as always, it was Peter who spoke first. He puffed at his pipe, and he said:

“Well, Amos, you’ll be gittin’ back to Washin’ton.”

Amos turned his head, tilted it on one side, and squinted at Peter. “I guess so,” he agreed.

“Thought you’d be going,” said Peter. “Wint’ll miss you.”

“Do you think he’ll know he misses me?” Amos asked.

“If he did,” said Peter, “he wouldn’t admit it.”

The Congressman nodded. “Wint’s a cur’ous cuss. Peter.”

“Yeah.”

“He’s a nice boy--give him a chance.”

“We-ell, he’s got his chance.”

“What’s he going to do with it, Peter?”

Gergue rummaged through his black hair thoughtfully. “Guess that depends on what he’s let do with it. Somebody come along and tell him he ought to make a good Mayor, and he’ll make a bad one, just to show he can’t be bossed.”

“That’s right.” Amos agreed. He considered, grinned to himself. “You know, Pete, if we could get Kite to sign on as Wint’s guide, philosopher, and friend. Wint’d do all right.”

Gergue considered, and he chuckled. “Sure. If he went contrary to what Kite said. And he would. Wint’s always on the contrary-minded side of a thing.”

“Now why is that?” Caretall asked.

“That’s because he’s who he is, I sh’d say.”

Amos puffed deep at his black pipe. “Trouble is,” he commented, “Kite wouldn’t take the job. Not after what Wint handed him to-day. You heard that?”

Gergue grinned widely. “Yeah. The old buzzard. Say, that surely does hit Kite. The way he holds his head. I’d always thought of a turkey, but I guess a buzzard does it too. Like he was always looking over a wall.”

“What I’d like to see,” said Amos, “is some one that would guarantee to give Wint bad advice.”

“We-ell,” Peter told him, “I can do some of that.”

“Trouble is, there’s others will tell him to do the right thing.”

“You talk like James T. Hollow,” said Gergue. “Always trying to do what’s right.”

“I wonder,” said Amos casually, “whether them that tell him to keep straight figure he’ll do what they say?”

Peter understood that there was something back of the question; he studied Amos’s impassive face. Then he thought for a minute, and nodded his head.

“You mean Jack Routt,” he said.

“Yes,” the Congressman agreed.

Peter considered. “I don’t quite know about Jack,” he said. “He lets on to be Wint’s friend. But he don’t help Wint any. Jack’s got a way of telling Wint to do a thing that works the opposite every darned time.”

“I’ve a notion,” said Caretall, “that if Routt was to tell Wint to take care of his health, say, Wint’d go shoot himself, just to be different.”

“That’s right,” Gergue agreed; and the two men sat for a time without speaking, their pipes bubbling, the smoke drifting upward lazily.

“Question is,” said Caretall at last, “what are we going to do about it?” Gergue made no comment, and Amos asked: “What do you think, Peter?”

“I don’t see through Routt,” said Gergue. “I don’t see what he’s got on his mind.”

“Looks to me that he’s plain ornery,” Amos suggested.

“I guess that’s right.”

“But that don’t get us anywheres. I’d like to have him let Wint alone.”

“He’d ought to.”

“How can we make him let Wint alone?” Amos asked.

Peter considered that, fingers rummaging about the back of his head. “Routt’s looking for something,” he said. “Maybe he wants to be prosecuting attorney. Or something. I don’t know.”

“He never will be,” said Amos.

“I guess that’s right.”

“Not as long as I can swing any votes here.”

“Question is,” said Peter, “whether he knows you feel that way.”

“No,” Amos told him. “He don’t know.”

Peter looked sidewise at Amos. “He might be bought,” he suggested. “Or he might be scared. I don’t know. He may be yellow. If he is, you could scare him.”

Amos’s pipe went out, and he rapped it into his palm and treasured the charred crumbs to prime his next smoke. “Peter,” he said thoughtfully, “I’d like to see Jack. To-night.”

Gergue was a good servant. He got up at once. “All right, Amos,” he said.

Caretall went with him to the door. “I’m taking the noon train, to-morrow,” he told Gergue.

“I’ll be there,” said Peter.

Amos shut the door behind him and went back to the fire. He sat there for a while, considering. Then he went out into the hall and called Agnes. She was in her room; and she came running down, very gay and pretty in a blue-flowered kimono, her hair down her back in a golden braid. Amos looked at her thoughtfully. There was always a wistful question in his eyes when he looked at Agnes. He met her at the foot of the stairs, and he asked:

“Agnes, how’d you like to go to Washington?”

Now the girl had gone to Washington one winter with Amos. And she had not liked it. Amos was just a small-town Congressman, one of scores. And his daughter was just a pretty girl, and nothing more. Amos was a small toad in that big puddle; Agnes had found herself not even a tadpole. And--that did not please Agnes. Here in Hardiston, she was the daughter of the biggest man in town; and she was the prettiest girl in town, some said. At least, they told her so. Jack Routt, and some of the other boys.

“I wouldn’t like it at all, dad,” she told Amos laughingly. “Washington is a dead old place beside Hardiston.”

“I’m thinking of taking you,” Amos said, watching her with something like sorrow in his eyes.

“I haven’t any clothes,” she protested. “I’m not ready, at all. I’d rather not go, dad.”

“I’d rather you would,” he repeated gently.

She pouted. “Why? You’re always away. I’d never see you. I’d have nothing to do at all. I--”

“I’d rather not leave you and Wint alone here. Wouldn’t be just the thing,” her father insisted gently.

She laughed. “You funny old daddy. We’d have Maria for chaperon.”

“Wouldn’t be just the thing,” Amos said again.

“I’m not going to eat Wint,” she protested, half angry. “We get along beautifully.”

“Guess you’d better go along with me,” Amos told her.

She stamped her foot. “Dad, I don’t want to.”

Amos jerked a forefinger up the stair, head on one side, eyes steady. “Run along and pack, Agnes,” he said. “Won’t be much time in the morning.”

Agnes began to cry. Amos watched her for a moment, watched her bowed head, and a load seemed to settle on the man’s big shoulders. He turned back to the sitting room without a word. After a while, he heard her run up the stairs, every pound of her little feet scolding him, as a bird scolds.

Amos filled his pipe and began to smoke again.

* * * * *

Jack Routt came late. While he waited, Amos had smoked two pipes to the last bubble. When Jack knocked, he got up lumberingly and went to the door to let the young man in. “Come in,” he said curtly. “Hang up your things.”

He went back and sat down before the fire, and Jack Routt joined him there. Amos looked up at him sidewise. “Sit down, Routt,” he said. “Take a chair. Any chair.”

Routt sat down. “Gergue said you wanted to see me,” he reminded Amos.

“Yes,” Amos agreed. “I told him to tell you.”

“Came as soon as I could,” said Routt.

“That’s all right,” said Amos. “I wasn’t in a hurry. I’m hardly ever in any hurry. Things come, give them time.” The colloquialisms had fallen from his speech. Amos talked as well as any one when he chose; when he was with Hardiston folks, he talked as they talked. Routt was a college man.

Routt fidgeted in his chair. He had always been somewhat afraid of Amos. He wondered what the Congressman wanted now, but Amos did not tell him. He just sat, staring at the fire, smoking. Like Gergue, Routt was driven to break the silence.

“What did you want with me, Amos?” he asked.

Amos spat into the fire. “Wanted to talk things over, Jack,” he said. “I’m going to Washington to-morrow.”

“I’ve been expecting you’d go back.”

“Well, I’m going.”

Another silence, while Routt moved uneasily. At last he said: “You put Wint over, all right.”

“Yes,” Amos agreed. “I put him over.” He looked at Routt then, with eyes unexpectedly keen. “Think he’ll make a good Mayor, do you?”

“Well,” said Routt slowly, “he’ll be all right if he lets the booze alone.”

Amos caught Routt’s eyes and held them commandingly. “Jack,” he said, “I want you to let Wint alone.”

Routt asked angrily: “Me? What do you mean?”

“I don’t want you giving him any advice, and I don’t want you getting him drunk. I want you to let him alone. Is that clear?”

Routt protested: “I’m the best friend Wint’s got.”

“You’re the worst enemy he’s got,” said Amos. “And you know it.”

“You can’t say that,” Routt pleaded.

Amos did not let go the other man’s eyes. “You got Wint drunk, day before election,” he said. “You got him drunk last night. Routt, don’t you do that again.”

“I got him drunk? Good Lord, Congressman, Wint’s a grown man. I’m not his keeper.”

“I made you his keeper, before election,” said Amos. “I told you to keep him straight. You didn’t do it. You got him drunk. Now I tell you, let him alone.”

“I tried to keep him from drinking,” Routt urged.

“You said to him, ‘Don’t you drink, Wint. It ain’t good for you. You can’t stand it.’ So he drank, to show you he could stand it. Just as you knew he would.” Amos got up with a swiftness surprising in that slow-moving man. He said harshly: “Routt, get your hat and get out. And mind what I say. You let Wint alone.”

Some men would have sworn at Amos, some would have defied him. Routt was the sort to promise anything. He said, with an assumption of straightforward frankness:

“Why, of course, if you say so, I’ll keep away from him.”

“See that you do,” said Amos. “Now--good night.”

When the door closed behind Routt, Amos stood for a minute in the hall, thinking. “Now I wonder,” he asked himself. “Will he do it? Was he scared enough to keep hands off? I wonder, now.”

Routt, half a block away, was grinning without mirth. “Damn him,” he said to himself. “Him and Wint too. I’ll....”

He wondered just what he had best do; and before he reached home, he had decided to go and see V. R. Kite.

* * * * *

Congressman Caretall and Agnes took the noon train, next day. Wint went with them to the station, and Amos had a last word for him.

“Don’t you get the idea I’ve left you on your own, Wint,” he said. “You’ll need help. Things’ll come up. When they do, don’t you try to stand on your own feet. Just write me--or telegraph. And I’ll come, or tell you what to do.

“You’ll run into trouble. Don’t you try to fight it alone. Just you call on me.”

Then the train pulled out. Wint watched it go; and when it rounded the curve and disappeared beyond the electric-light plant, he grinned.

“Run to you when I need help, will I, Amos?” he asked good-naturedly, under his breath. “I guess not. You’ve left me alone. And I’m going to stand on my own hind legs. On my own two feet, by God!”

He turned and went swiftly back uptown.