CHAPTER III

ROUTT TO KITE

When Wint left Joan, after their encounter on the street, he was walking in a daze. He stumbled, his head was down, his eyes were blank. He was stunned and humbled; and after he had left her, he began to feel defiant. He thought of words with which he could have crushed her and silenced her. Presuming to forgive him, to praise him. What right had she to do that anyway? He ought to have laughed at her.

Not that Wint did not love Joan. He did; but he was still, at this time, a boy and nothing more. And he had rather more than a boy’s usual measure of stubborn contrariness in him. When his father, and his mother, and Joan, and every one else he cared for had bade him mend his ways, he had refused to mend them, and the thing had been a scandal on every tongue in Hardiston. When, in like fashion, father and mother and Joan bade him go to the dogs, whither he seemed surely bound, he had braced himself, fought a good fight, begun to make good. Now Joan was telling him he had made good, that he was all right. He had a reckless desire to go to the devil, forthwith, to prove her wrong.

He had met Joan at the corner by the Star Company’s furniture store, an institution that was always holding fire sales and closing-out sales without either fires before or actual closings after. Their talk there together had not gone unremarked. Every one in town would know of it within the day. When they separated, Joan went away from town toward her home, and Wint went up Broadway toward the Court House. Not that he knew where he was going. But he had to go somewhere.

There were only one or two places in Hardiston to go to when you did not know where to go. You might go to the Smoke House, and shake dice for a cigar, or drop a nickel in the slot machine and see how your luck was running. Or you might drop in at the Post Office in the idle hope that a special train had come along with a letter for you since the last regular mail was sorted into the boxes. Or you might stop at one of the newspaper offices. The editors were always willing to talk, and there were usually two or three others there before you.

Wint headed, somewhat aimlessly, for the Post Office. But when he passed down Main Street, B. B. Beecham, editor of the _Journal_, called Wint in to look at proofs of some city printing. Wint always got on well with B. B. The editor never preached, he never seemed to have any particular interest in the wrong-doings of other people, he attended to his own business and let you attend to yours. A square-built man, with a big barrel of a chest and stocky shoulders, and a strong, amiable countenance. Wint went in at his hail; and B. B. got the proofs for him, and Wint began to look them over. B. B. chunked up the fire in the little round iron stove that had seen so many years of service it was disintegrating. It was bound together with wire to hold it together; and there were holes in the front of it through which the fire could be seen. The stovepipe went up at an angle like that of the leaning tower of Pisa, then made a back-handed elbow turn and ran along in a hammock of wire braces to disappear into the wall. B. B. thrust a bit of wood in through the door, down into the fire, twisted it upward, breaking up the clotted coals and ashes. Then he put on more coal, and shut the door, and the fire roared up the chimney. Wint was going over the proofs, figure by figure. They had to do with bids on a sewer contract. B. B. sat down at his desk with his back to Wint and busied himself with something.

B. B.’s desk was a roll top, its pigeonholes frazzly with letters and papers jammed into them to the bursting point. The desk itself was littered with newspapers and notes and notebooks and scratch pads made out of old order blanks. There was an old iron inkwell, a tin box full of pins, a pencil or two. In a little hexagonal glass bottle at one side, a newly hatched humming bird which had fallen from the nest and been killed was preserved in alcohol. Not so large as a bumblebee, and not nearly so impressive. For paper weight, B. B. used a witch ball, taken from the stomach of a steer that Ned Howell had butchered. A round, smooth, yellowish thing, with a hole picked in to show the hair inside. It was as big as a small orange, and looked not unlike one, save that the yellow was dull and muddy. On top of the desk were books, a big hornet’s nest, an ear of corn. There was a curiously marked squash on the open iron safe in the corner; and in the rear of the office a stand-up desk and a smaller one at which a person might sit were littered with the miscellany of B. B.’s business.

While Wint was looking over the proofs, an old darky came in from the street. A ragged old man.... Wint knew him. He lived down the creek in a log cabin, and caught catfish, and farmed a plot of ground. His hat was battered, his coat was too big for him, his trousers slumped about his slumping shoes. His name was John Marshum. He took off his hat and looked around the ceiling of the office uneasily, as though he expected it to fall, and Wint and B. B. said hello to him, and he said:

“Howdy.”

B. B. asked: “Is there anything I can do for you?”

The old negro gulped, and said: “I’d like tuh borry a paper and a pencil, ef you please.”

B. B. gave him what he asked for, and the old man sat down at the desk in the back of the room, and bit his tongue, and gnawed the pencil, and began to write with infinite pains, slowly, the sweat bursting out of him with the effort. Wint and B. B. went on with their affairs.

After a while, the old fellow got up and crossed to B. B. and held out the product of his effort. “Heah’s a paper for you, suh,” he said. When B. B. took it, the old man hurried awkwardly out of the door and disappeared.

B. B. read the paper and chuckled, and Wint asked: “What is it?” The editor handed it to him, and he read the scrawl aloud:

“‘John Marshum was a very plesint vister at this office Thursdy.’”

Wint laughed good-naturedly. “The poor old clown. Wants his name in the paper. You ought to put it in, just to make him feel good.”

“I’m going to,” said B. B. “Old John’s one of my best friends in the county. He’s been a subscriber twelve years, and always paid up. You’d be surprised to know how many don’t pay up. And you’d be surprised how many people come in, just as he did, to get their names in the paper. I don’t suppose you ever thought of that.”

Wint passed the corrected proofs over to B. B. “One or two mistakes,” he said, and the editor sent the proofs up for correction. “What do you do with the darned fools?” Wint asked. “Tell them advertising space costs money?”

B. B. looked surprised. “No, I print their names. That’s what the paper’s for--to print people’s names. It makes them feel proud of themselves, and that’s good for them. It’s one way of helping them along, doing them good.”

Wint grinned. “Never did me any particular good to see my name in print,” he said. “Usually made me mad.”

“It wasn’t the fact that they printed your name that made you mad. It was what they printed about you.”

“Maybe so,” Wint admitted. “I didn’t see that it was any of their business.”

“That’s the way the city dailies are run,” B. B. agreed. “But a country weekly is a different proposition. I never print anything that will make any one mad. Not if I can help it. Not even a joke. A joke on a man’s no good unless he can appreciate it himself.”

Wint eyed B. B. and remarked thoughtfully: “I remember, when they stuck me in as Mayor, you didn’t print the fact that my father was a candidate.”

“No,” B. B. agreed.

“I supposed that was because you and my father are--allies in politics and such things.”

“No,” said B. B. “I try not to print things that will hurt people. Mr. Chase felt badly about that.”

“I don’t blame him,” said Wint slowly. “You know I had nothing to do with it.” He had never talked so freely to any one as he was accustomed to talk to B. B. There was some strain in the editor that invited confidences. He knew as many secrets as a doctor.

“Yes, I know,” he said.

“You know,” Wint went on, abruptly, “people are funny, B. B.”

“Yes.”

“I’m funny, myself.”

B. B. laughed in a friendly way. “Like the old Quaker who said to his wife: ‘All the world is a little queer save thee and me, my dear; and even thee are at times a little queer.’”

“No,” said Wint, smiling. “I include myself. I’m queer.”

B. B. said nothing. Wint started to go on, but the words were not in him. He had a curious, sudden impulse to ask B. B. about his father; this impulse was like homesickness. But he fought it back. His jaw set stubbornly. His father had thrown him out. That was enough; he didn’t ask to be kicked twice.

When B. B. saw that Wint was not going on, he spoke of something else. Then Ed Howe, one of Caretall’s men, dropped in and cut a slice from a plug and filled his pipe in the Caretall fashion: and Wint listened to Ed and B. B. talk for a while before he got up and took himself away. He had found some measure of reassurance in his talk with B. B., not because of anything that had been said, but simply because B. B. was a reassuring man. A strong man. A strong man, and a wise man, with open eyes--and an optimist. Not all men who seem to see clearly are optimists.

In front of the Post Office, Wint ran into Jack Routt. Routt had been out of town for a month or so on a business trip, and Wint had seen little of him since Amos went away. He was glad to see Jack, and said so. They shook hands, and Wint bought Routt a cigar. Routt studied Wint curiously. He wondered if it were true that Wint was keeping straight and doing well. And to find out, he asked laughingly:

“Been over to see Mrs. Moody lately, old man?”

Mrs. Moody was that virago who managed the Weaver House, that woman of the hideously beautiful false teeth. Wint flushed uncomfortably at mention of her. “No-o,” he said hesitantly.

“That’s the boy,” said Routt. “You keep away from her. You let the stuff alone. You can’t monkey with it, the way some fellows can, old man.”

And he watched Wint. There had been a time when this word would have acted as a challenge, when Wint would have snapped at the bait. But--Wint hesitated, he considered, he shook himself a little and said quietly:

“I guess you’re right, Jack.”

“You bet I’m right,” said Routt.

Wint nodded. “Yes,” he agreed.

When they separated, Routt went to his office and sat down with his feet on his desk to consider. And--he scowled. Matters were not going well with him. It did not suit him for Wint to keep straight. It did not suit him to lie supine under Amos Caretall’s injunction to let Wint alone. The Congressman’s command had irked him more than once, and more than once he had thought of V. R. Kite in that connection, and thought of going to Kite. He had a fairly definite idea that Amos would never help him along politically, and Kite might be able to. And--he remembered the word Wint had fastened on Kite on the day of his inauguration. He had called Kite a buzzard, and others had taken it up. The name seemed to fit; it tickled the sense of humor of Hardiston folks. But it did not tickle V. R. Kite. Kite ought to be ready to take means to crush Wint. And--that would please Routt. He had held off thus long in the belief that Wint would be his own ruin. He began to doubt this, now. It might be necessary to do something.

Routt was of mean stuff, small and tawdry. He had been what Hardiston called a mean boy, a trouble-maker. He had an infinite capacity for hate, a curious shrewdness that enabled him to fasten on another’s weakest point. As boys, he and Wint had fought once. They fought over Joan, because Routt teased her till she cried. Wint had whipped him, though Routt was the taller and the heavier of the two. Routt had never forgotten that; but Wint forgot it as soon as the incident was over. Wint forgot, and Routt remembered. Circumstances threw them much together; they grew up as friends; Routt behaved himself; people decided that he had outgrown his meanness. Wint liked him, did not distrust him, accepted him for what he seemed--a friend.

But Jack Routt was nobody’s friend. Sometimes, when he was alone, you might have seen this in his face. It was so now, as he thought of Wint; his countenance was twisted and distorted and malignant. In later years, it was to bear the marks of these secret and rancorous moments for any eye to see. Indelible and unmistakable. But just now Routt knew how to smile, how to be a good fellow....

He brought his feet down from the desk with a bang. He got up and reached for his hat. He had made up his mind; he would go and see Kite.

Kite was in town. Routt knew he would find the man in the Bazaar, the town’s five and ten cent store. He went that way, but as he reached the place, Peter Gergue came along the street and Routt went past without entering. Just as well Gergue should not know that he was seeing Kite. Gergue would tell Amos. When Gergue had disappeared, Routt went back and turned into the Bazaar. Kite’s desk was in the back of the store, but Kite was not in sight. The little man might be hidden behind the desk. One of the girls who clerked in the store--her name was Mary Dale, and she was a pretty, simple little thing--asked Routt what he wanted, and he stopped to talk to her for a moment. Routt liked pretty girls. He asked her if Kite was in, and she said he was at his desk, so Routt went back that way. He drew up a chair to face the little man, and Kite cocked his head on his thin neck, and tugged at his side whiskers. “Howdo, Routt,” he said.

“Morning,” Routt rejoined. “How’s tricks, Kite?”

“All right.” Kite looked suspicious. Routt offered him a cigar, which Kite declined. Jack lighted it himself, then said idly:

“Well, I just got back.”

“Been away?”

“Yes. Columbus.”

“Oh!”

“I see Wint hasn’t closed down on you yet,” Routt drawled.

Kite flushed angrily. “Of course not. Why should he? He’s no fool.”

“I said he hadn’t shut down on you--yet,” Routt repeated, and he emphasized the last word.

“He likes his drop now and then, same as another man.”

“Hasn’t been taking many drops lately, has he?”

“I’m not his guardian. How do I know? Long as he lets me alone.”

Routt grinned. “I heard he didn’t let you alone, day he was inaugurated. Called you a buzzard, didn’t he?”

“The man was drunk.”

“Name’s kind of stuck, though. A darned, rotten thing like that will stick.”

Kite was trying to keep calm, but he was an irascible little man. He snapped at Routt: “What do I care for names? They break no bones.”

“Well, that’s so,” Routt agreed good-naturedly.

“Long as he lets me alone, I’m satisfied,” Kite said again.

Routt nodded. “How long do you figure he’ll let you alone?” he asked.

Kite’s temper got away from him. “By God, he’d better let me alone!” He banged a clenched fist on the table. Routt drawled:

“Don’t get excited.”

“I’m n-not excited,” Kite stammered. “But he’ll let me alone. He don’t dare to bother me. Why, Routt, if he tries anything, I’ll--I’ll get out of town. I won’t live in the place. I’ll take my money out of the dirty little hole.”

“We-ell,” said Routt, “you could do that, of course. That would suit him. He’d get his own way, then. You could get out. Or you might fight him.”

“Fight him?” Kite snapped. “I’ll fight him to the last dollar.” He controlled himself with an effort. “But he’s not going to start anything. I know him. He’s inoffensive. A boy.”

“Amos Caretall is no boy,” Routt reminded him. “And Amos is backing him.”

Kite remembered that Winthrop Chase, Senior, had told him this same thing; had warned him that Amos meant to use Wint to clean up the town. He and Chase had made an alliance on that basis. If Wint tried a crusade, they would go after Amos together, and hang his hide on the fence. They had sworn that together.... Now Routt was saying the same thing. He had been feeling fairly secure; he and Chase had made no move. Chase had wanted him to start a back fire against Amos, but Kite had been ready to let well enough alone.... Now Routt ... Routt was one of Caretall’s men. He would be likely to know what the Congressman planned. Kite demanded angrily:

“What makes you think Amos is planning anything? He and I understand each other.”

Routt laughed. “Amos would double cross his best friend and call it a joke,” he said amiably. “You know that. Didn’t he double cross Chase?”

“Sure. I helped him,” said Kite defiantly.

“Next thing,” Routt told him, “he’ll double cross you.”

Kite leaned across and gripped Routt by the arm. “What makes you say that? You and Amos are together.”

“We were,” said Routt, “but I told him a few things he didn’t like. I’m no particular friend of Amos.”

Kite said: “I’m not either. But as long as he plays fair with me, I’ll play fair with him.”

“What if he don’t?”

“I’ll smash him.”

“You can’t smash Amos,” said Routt, “but you can hurt him.”

“How?”

“Smash young Wint.”

Kite snorted. “Pshaw! Wint’s a boy.”

“He’s growing up. One of these days, he’s going to send for Jim Radabaugh and tell him to clean up the town....”

“By God, if he does,” Kite swore, “I’ll tear him all to pieces.”

Routt got up. “When you start in to do that,” he said, “send for me. I might be able to help.”

“I won’t need any help to rip Wint Chase wide open.”

“You send for me,” said Routt insistently.

“All right. I’ll send for you.”

“I’ll be here,” Routt promised. When he went out through the store, he stopped and told Mary Dale she was the prettiest girl in town. Mary was pleased. She knew he didn’t mean it; she was simple enough, if you like; but she knew there were probably other girls just as pretty as she was. Nevertheless, she was glad Jack had told her she was pretty. She thought it meant he was pleased with her.

As a matter of fact, it only meant that he was pleased with himself. But that was a thing Mary Dale could not be expected to understand.