CHAPTER VI

EVERY MAN HAS HIS PRICE

Kite’s new idea was one that appealed to the mean heart of the man. There had been a time when Kite was bold as a lion in evil-doing; but as he grew old, he was becoming timorous. He had, now, no stomach for a fight, talk as ferociously as he pleased. He wanted life to move easily and smoothly; and fighting jarred on him. He thought, with a self-pitying regret, that things had been going so comfortably. It was a shame that Wint had come along and started all this trouble. He was an old man, not made for trouble.

There was very little pride in Kite, and a good deal of the shamelessness of the miser. If he was a miser, his illicit business was his hoarded gold. He was ready to go to any lengths of self-humiliation to protect this treasure. He would fight if he had to; but he had no stomach for it. There must be some other way.

The suggestion of that other way had come from Chase. When Chase first warned him that Amos would turn Hardiston dry, Kite had refused to believe; when Routt repeated the warning, he was still doubtful. When Wint actually gave the orders he had dreaded, Kite was half forced to agree that Amos had tricked him, but even in the face of the fact, he had still clung in his heart to the hope that this was none of Caretall’s doing, and that the two who had warned him were wrong.

He had hoped desperately that they were wrong, because if they were mistaken there was a chance to save himself without a fight. What Chase had told him this night strengthened his hope. Wint, Chase said, declared Amos had nothing to do with the case, that Amos had neither advised nor prompted his orders to Radabaugh, and that the whole crusade was his own idea and his own battle.

If this were true, if Wint were actually standing on his own feet, then there was a chance of coming at him through Amos. That was the thought from which Kite took hope. He and Amos were, on the surface, allies still. Amos would not willingly antagonize him. And if this move of Wint’s were not Amos’s doing, then Amos might be willing to take a hand on Kite’s behalf, call Wint off, return things to their original condition, smooth Kite’s existence into tranquillity again.

When he first conceived the idea, Kite cast it aside as grotesque and impossible. But it returned to his thoughts, and his hopes fought for it, until he convinced himself there was something in it; better than an even chance in his favor; worth trying, certainly. When he made up his mind to this--it was after he had undressed and got into bed that night--he dropped off into a restless sleep; and when he woke, as his habit was, at daylight, he began at once to consider what he should say to Amos.

He telephoned Caretall before breakfast and asked him when he could see him to talk things over. Amos told him good-naturedly that he could come right after breakfast. “I’m taking my ease, these few days,” he said. “Staying at home in my carpet slippers, and smoking my pipe. Drop in any time.”

“I’ll be there in an hour,” Kite told him. And Amos said that was all right, and hung up the receiver. Immediately, he telephoned Peter Gergue to come right over, and Peter joined him at breakfast in ten minutes. It was not even necessary for old Maria to set an extra plate for Peter. Agnes had overslept--she nearly always did oversleep--and Amos was breakfasting alone, with Agnes’s empty place across the table from him.

Peter sat down there, and Amos helped him to fried eggs and bacon, and Maria gave him a cup of coffee. Amos said at once: “Kite just called up, Peter. He’s coming over.”

Gergue swallowed a gulp of coffee. “Guessed he would,” he assented. “Guessed he’d have things to say to you.”

“What do you guess he’s got to say to me, Peter?” Amos asked.

“He’ll want you to call Wint off, I’d say.”

Amos looked politely regretful, as though he were talking to Kite. “Why, now, you know, Wint’s his own boss. He does what he wants to do. I never saw any one that could run Wint, did you?”

“Not if Wint knew it, I never did.”

“What have you heard, Peter?” Amos asked. “What did Kite do yest’day, when he heard the sad news?”

“Lutcher told him,” said Peter. “Lutcher says he was wild. But when Jim Radabaugh saw him, he kept his head, and said it didn’t concern him. I hear he had some talk with Jack Routt; and then he posted off down to the furnace to see Chase.”

“To see Chase, eh?”

“What I hear.”

“What about, Peter?”

“I sh’d guess he wanted Chase to call Wint off. Kite don’t like a fight, you know.”

Amos nodded. “V. R. Kite,” he said pleasantly, “is a lick-spittle, Peter. That’s what V. R. Kite is. I don’t like to see Chase mixing with him.”

“You know,” said Peter, “Chase has changed some, since you put the laugh on him.”

“Chase is all right,” said Amos surprisingly. “He’s had the foolishness knocked out of him. Peter, he’ll make a good man, before he’s done.”

Peter looked at Amos sidewise and said he wouldn’t be a bit surprised.

“But he makes a mistake to tie up to Kite,” said Amos.

“Him and Kite had a talk with Routt, in Jack’s office, last night,” said Peter.

Amos chuckled. “Pete, it beats me how you find out things.”

“I don’t find ’em out,” said Peter. “People tell me.” He rummaged through the tangle at the back of his neck. “Looks like people aim to make mischief, so they tell me things to tell you that’ll start a fight, and the likes of that. That’s the way of it.”

“This won’t start a fight,” said Amos. “I’m home for a rest.”

Peter looked at him intently. “You backing Wint?”

“No.”

“What?”

“Pete,” said Amos thoughtfully, “this was Wint’s idea. He figured it out, the right thing to do. He’s started it. It won’t hurt him a bit to fight it out. I’m going to stand by and yell: ‘Go it, wife; go it, b’ar.’ That’s me in this, Peter.”

“What are you going to tell Kite?”

“Going to tell him just that,” said Amos.

They had finished breakfast and moved into the sitting room and filled their pipes. Agnes came downstairs in her kimono, hair flying, and kissed Amos and pretended to be embarrassed at appearing before Peter in her attractive disarray. Then she went out to her breakfast. The two men smoked without speaking. Amos had looked after his daughter with a certain trouble in his eyes; and Peter saw it. Peter did not like Agnes.

Peter had gone before Kite arrived. Old Maria let Kite in, and Amos called from the sitting room:

“Right in here, Kite. I’m too darned lazy to come and meet you. Leave your hat in the hall.”

Kite obeyed the summons, and Amos said lazily: “Take a chair, Kite. Any chair.” And when the little man had sat down: “Fine day, Kite. I tell you, there isn’t any place that can beat Hardiston in May that I know of.”

Kite said: “That’s right, Amos.”

“Yes, sir,” Amos repeated. “They can’t beat old Hardiston.” He lapsed into one of those characteristic silences, head on one side, squinting idly straight before him, his pipe hissing in his mouth. You might have thought there were no words in the man. Kite said impatiently:

“Amos, I want to talk to you.”

Amos looked at him, and said amiably: “Well, Kite, you’ll never have a likelier chance. I don’t aim to move out of this chair.”

“Well,” said Kite uneasily, “I want to talk to you about young Chase.”

“Mayor Chase?”

“Yes. Wint.”

“Oh!” said Amos, without any curiosity.

“I mean to say,” Kite explained, “I want to talk about this move of his. You’ve heard about it.”

“I hadn’t heard he’d moved,” said Amos. “Thought he was living with his paw. Where’s he gone to now?”

“Damn it, Amos!” Kite protested, “don’t fool with me. You know what I mean.”

“Kite,” said Amos, “nobody ever knows what you mean, even when you say it. You’re such an excitable man.”

“Well, who wouldn’t get excited? I tell you, this is a--”

“What is?” Amos asked, interrupting without seeming to do so.

“This damned idea of enforcing a fool liquor law.”

“Oh, that,” said Amos.

Kite leaned forward. “Is it your doing, Amos? Did you get him to do this? Because if you did--”

“Why, man,” said Amos, “I’m not Wint’s boss.”

“You elected him.”

“You elected him as much as me, Kite. And I heard how he called you a buzzard. If he calls you a buzzard, what do you think he’d call me?”

“I hold no grudge for that,” Kite explained. “He was drunk. Fact remains, he’s friendly with you. I ask you, I’m asking you flatly: Did you prompt him to do this, or tell him to, or advise him to in any way?”

“Well,” said Amos, “if you ask me, I’ll say: No.”

Kite slapped his knee. “I knew it,” he exclaimed.

“Who says I did?” Amos asked. “Wint say I did?”

“No. He says you didn’t. Chase and Routt claim you did it.”

“Chase? And Jack Routt? Why, now, I take that unkind,” Amos protested, in a hurt voice, and Kite realized that he had blundered, and hurried past the danger point.

“Well, if you didn’t advise Wint to do this, what are you going to do now? Back him in his fight?”

“You know,” said Amos, “Pete Gergue asked me just that. Ever hear the story about the lady and the bear, Kite? Bear chased the lady around the tree, and the lady’s husband was up the tree. Lady yells to him to come down and kill the bear; but husband just sets on his branch, out of reach, and yells: ‘Go it, wife; go it, b’ar.’ Ever hear that story, Kite?”

Kite chuckled without any mirth in his dry old eyes. “No,” he said.

“That man didn’t figure to play any favorites,” Amos explained. “And neither do I. Ain’t often I get a chance to set back and watch a fight. This time, I’m going to. On the sidelines. That’s me, Kite.”

Kite protested instantly. “That’s not the fair thing, Amos. You and I worked together to put him in there, with the understanding he’d let the liquor business alone.”

Amos lifted his hand. “Understanding was that Wint weren’t likely to monkey with it. You thought so. That’s why you was willing to help me. I didn’t make any promises, nor any predictions, Kite.”

“But, damn it,” Kite insisted, “you ought to be willing to help me out. I helped you out.”

“It would hurt me, Kite, to know I sanctioned nonenforcement.”

“Nobody would know.”

“They’d find out. Things like that do get out, you know, Kite.”

The little man tugged at his side whiskers feverishly. “Amos,” he pleaded, “isn’t there anything you can do for me? This is bad business. I can’t stand it. I won’t stand it. Isn’t there anything you can do?”

Amos considered, then he sighed, and said good-naturedly: “Kite, you’re an awful pest, stirring me up when I’m comfortable.”

“You’ve got to do something.”

“We-ell, I’ll tell you. I’ll take you to see Wint. You can put it up to him. That’s the best.”

“You’ll back me up?”

Amos shook his head. “You and him can have it out. I’ll not yell for either of you.”

Kite protested: “A lot of good that will do.”

Amos shrugged his big shoulders. “Well....” Kite got up hurriedly.

“All right,” he agreed, before Amos could withdraw his offer. “All right, come on.”

Amos looked ruefully at his feet, and wiggled his toes in his comfortable slippers. “I declare, Kite, I hate to put on shoes.”

“Damn it, man, it’s your own offer,” Kite protested; and Amos admitted it, and groaned:

“All right, I’ll come.”

* * * * *

Wint was in a cheerful humor, that morning. He had been depressed by his father’s attitude, disappointed that the elder Chase chose to oppose him. But at the same time, the opposition exhilarated him. After his father left the house, he went to see Joan for an hour; and without over-applauding the step he had taken, she spoke of the trouble and the opposition he would face, and the prospect pleased Wint. He took a cheerful delight in opposing people. He was never so good-natured as when he was fighting.

So Amos and Kite found Wint amiably glad to see them both. Amos sat on the broad window ledge, his back to the light, his face somewhat shadowed. Wint made Kite sit down near his desk; he himself tilted his chair back against one of the leaves of the desk, and put his feet on an open drawer, and asked what their errand was.

“Kite wanted to see you,” said Amos. “Asked me to come along.”

“No need of that, Kite.” Wint said good-naturedly. “I don’t keep an office boy. Anybody can see me any time.”

Kite shifted uneasily in his seat, not quite sure what he meant to say. Amos prompted him from the window. “Kite don’t think you ought to shut down on him,” he said.

Wint looked surprised. “Shut down on him? What’s the idea, Kite?”

Kite said, in a flustered way: “It’s not so personal as that. You know, I’m by conviction a believer in the sale of liquor. I believe the people of Hardiston agree with me. I’m sorry to hear you’ve taken steps to stop the sale.”

“Why, no,” said Wint cheerfully, “the town voted against it. I had nothing to do with that. I’m just enforcing the law.”

Kite smiled weakly. “There are laws, and laws,” he said. “Some laws are not meant to be enforced. The people of Hardiston objected to the open saloon; they did not object to the unobtrusive and inoffensive sale.”

“Oh!” said Wint.

“You didn’t object to it yourself,” Kite reminded him. “Isn’t that so?”

He expected Wint to be confused; but Wint only laughed. “I should say I didn’t,” he admitted. “I liked it as well as any one. Same time, this isn’t a question of liking; it’s a question of the law.” He leaned forward with a certain jeering earnestness in his voice. “Why, Mr. Kite, if I didn’t enforce the law, Hardiston people could remove me for misfeasance in office, or something like that.”

Kite said: “Bosh!” impatiently. And Wint asked him suddenly:

“What’s your interest in this?”

“That of a citizen.”

“Oh, I know you don’t sell it yourself,” said Wint, meaning just the contrary. “But, Mr. Kite, if you have any friends in the business, tell them to get out of it. It’s dead, in Hardiston. Dead and gone.”

Kite said weakly: “Amos and I came here to try and make you change your mind about that.”

Wint looked at Amos. “That so?” he asked. “You think I ought to back down?”

“‘Go it, wife; go it, b’ar,’” said Amos cheerfully. “That’s me.”

“Not taking sides?”

“No.”

Kite explained: “Amos and I worked together to elect you, you know.”

Wint eyed him blandly. “Well, I’m much obliged. But I don’t see what that has to do--”

“You owe us some gratitude.”

“I’m grateful.”

“There’s a moral obligation.”

Wint grinned. “Kite, I’m afraid you’re an Indian giver. I’m afraid you elected me, thinking you could use me. But I didn’t ask to be elected, so I don’t see--”

Hopelessness was settling down on V. R. Kite; hopelessness, and the desperate energy of a cornered rat. There was no shame in him, and no scruple. Also, there was very little wisdom in the buzzard-like man. He was to prove this before their eyes.

“Wint,” he said, “Amos and I are practical men. You’re practical, too, aren’t you? There’s no place for dreams in this world, Wint. It’s a hard world. You understand that.”

“You find it a hard world? Why, Kite, I think the world is a pretty good sort of a place. That’s the way it strikes me.”

“I--”

“Maybe it’s your own fault you find it hard.”

Kite brushed the suggestion away. He was obsessed with a new idea, a last hope. He said: “Wint, if you drop this, Amos and I can do a lot for you.”

“You and Amos?” Wint looked at Amos again. “How about it, Congressman?”

“‘Go it, wife; go it, b’ar,’” Amos repeated imperturbably.

“What I mean,” said Kite, “is that we can send you to the legislature, or anything.”

“Why, I’m not looking for anything,” said Wint mildly.

Kite snapped: “Every man has his price.” And when he met Wint’s level eyes, and knew he was committed, he went on hurriedly: “I know that. If politics isn’t yours, something else is. Speak out, man. What do you--”

Wint asked curiously, and without anger: “What’s the idea, Kite?”

“I could give you a start in business. Help you.... I’m a business man, you understand. Anything....”

Wint laughed. “You’re too vague.”

Kite looked at Amos. He looked at him so steadily that Amos got down from the window seat, and whistled softly under his breath, and walked out of the office into the council chamber above the fire-engine house. He shut the door behind him. Kite leaned toward Wint. “Five hundred?” he asked huskily.

Wint chuckled. “I say,” he exclaimed, “I had no idea there was any money in this job.”

“A thousand....”

“I’ve always wanted to know what it felt like to be bribed.”

“A thousand, Wint? For God’s sake....”

Wint shook his head, still perfectly good-humored. “There’s no question about it, Kite,” he said. “You surely are an old buzzard. Get out of my nest, you evil bird!”

Kite protested: “Wint, listen to--”

“Damn you!” said Wint, still without heat, “do you want me to throw you out the window?”

Kite got up. Wint had not even taken his feet down from their perch. Kite said: “You’ll change your--”

Wint’s feet banged the floor; and Kite stopped, and he went swiftly to the door. In the doorway, he turned and looked back, his dry old face working. He seemed to want to speak. But without a word, he turned and went away.

Amos strolled back in. Wint looked up at him and chuckled. But Amos looked serious.

“Went away all rumpled up, didn’t he?” Wint commented. “But he didn’t have a word to say.”

Amos nodded. “Not a word to say,” he agreed. “But, Wint,” he added, “knowing Kite like I do, I wish he had.”

“Wish he had had a word?”

“I never was much afraid of a barking dog,” said the Congressman.