CHAPTER III

POLITICS

Jack Routt was as good as his word to Wint. Early in October, he announced his candidacy for Mayor; and he proceeded to push it.

In their talk at the Caves, he had warned Wint what to expect. But in spite of that warning, Wint had looked for no more than a polite and friendly rivalry, a congenial conflict, a good-natured tussle between friends.

He was to find that Routt had meant exactly what he said; that Routt as a political opponent and Routt as a friend were two very different personalities. On the heels of his open announcement that he was a candidate, Jack began a canvass of the town, and a direct and virulent assault upon Wint.

Wint heard what Routt was doing first through his father. The elder Chase came home to supper one evening in a fuming rage; and he said while they were eating:

“Wint, this Routt is a fine friend of yours!”

Wint looked at his father in some surprise. “Why, Jack’s all right,” he declared.

“All right?” Chase demanded. “Do you know what he’s doing?”

“I know he’s out for Mayor. That’s all right. I’ve no string on the job. I want to be re-elected, just as a sort of a--testimonial that I’ve made good. And I intend to be re-elected. But at the same time, any one has a right to run against me.”

“Nobody denies that,” his father exclaimed. “But no one has a right to hark back a year for mud to throw at you.”

Wint said: “Pshaw, there’s always mud-throwing in politics.”

Chase challenged: “Do you mean to say you think Routt has a right to do as he is doing?”

“Well, just what is he doing?” Wint asked good-naturedly.

“What is he doing? He’s saying you’re a common drunkard; that you always have been; that you are still, in secret.”

Wint flushed with slow anger. “Well,” he said, “if any one believes that, they’re welcome to.”

“But damn it, son, you’re not!” Chase exclaimed; and there was such a fierce rush of pride in his father’s voice that Wint was startled, and he was suddenly very happy about nothing; and he said:

“I’m glad you know it, anyway, dad.”

“Damn it!” Chase repeated. “Don’t you suppose I can see? Don’t you suppose I have a right to be proud of my own son, when he does something to be proud of? Your mother and I have.... Well, Wint, we’re--we’re a good deal happier than we were a year ago.”

Wint said gently: “I’m only sorry I didn’t make you happy a year ago.”

“That’s all right,” his father declared. “You were a headstrong youngster; and I didn’t know how to control you. An unruly colt takes careful handling. I’m not a--tactful man. But I’ll be damned if I can see how you can take this from the man you call your friend.”

Wint smiled slowly, and he said: “That’s three times in two minutes you’ve said ‘damn,’ dad. Cut it out. Don’t get profane in your excitement. Routt’s all right, really. Don’t swear at him.”

“Do you realize that he’s saying you’re drinking as regularly as ever, while you pretend to keep this a dry town?”

“Well, no one will believe him.”

“You can find men to believe anything; and there are plenty in Hardiston that want to believe anything against you.”

“Let them,” said Wint confidently. “There are plenty who will stand back of me.”

“But what are you going to do about it?”

“I’m not going to call names,” Wint told him cheerfully. “I’ll fight it out quietly and decently; and I’ll win. That’s what I mean to do.”

“You act as though you had expected this.”

“Well, as a matter of fact, Jack came to me and told me, before he told any one else, that he was going to run. And he warned me he was going to make it a real fight.”

“A real fight? This is assassination!”

Wint laughed. “You’re taking it too hard. I know it’s just because you’re--proud of me. Are you going to back me in this?”

Chase frowned. “As a matter of fact, Wint, I’m in a hard position. I want to back you--of course. But I can’t stomach Caretall. If you weren’t tied up with him.”

“He’s been a pretty good friend to me. Can’t you take him on that ground?”

“If I tied up with him, I’d be called a bootlicker, and justly. After what he did to me, I can’t cater to him and keep my self-respect.”

“Pshaw, dad! The world has a short memory. That’s all forgotten.”

“I’ve not forgotten.”

“Every one else has.”

“I’m not talking about every one else. I’m talking about my own self-respect.”

They had finished supper; and they got up and went into the other room. Mrs. Chase--she was doing her own work since Hetty had left her--began to clear away the dishes. In the sitting room, Wint said: “I’ve been counting on you, dad.”

Chase said: “I’ll do what I can--quietly. But I can not come out in the open and side with Amos. If he’d turn against you....”

Wint laughed. “I might kick up a row with him.”

“You’ll never regret breaking with Caretall. He’s a crooked politician of the worst type, without honor. A traitor to his own friends. He’ll be a traitor to you when it pleases him.”

His son said quickly: “Don’t. Please don’t talk against him to me. Let’s just not talk about him. After all, he’s been square to me.”

Chase flung up his hand. “All right. But how about Routt? Are you going to sit still and take the mud he’s throwing?”

“Jack will be too busy to throw mud, pretty soon,” Wint promised cheerfully. “Mud is trimmings. I’ll bring him down to brass tacks.”

“You ought to shut his lying--”

“Come, dad, don’t take it so seriously.”

“Well, then, you take it more seriously.”

Wint laughed. “All right. You wait and see.”

* * * * *

Nevertheless, he could not deny to himself that Routt’s move troubled him. Not for its effect on his candidacy, but for the light in which it showed Routt himself. For all his loyalty, Wint thought it was unworthy. Thought Routt was hurting himself and sullying himself. He met Jack uptown that night, and told him so in a friendly way. “Do as you like,” he said. “But I think it hurts you more than it does me,” he suggested.

Routt laughed, and asked: “It’s not getting under your skin, is it? I told you I’d give you a run.”

“Pshaw, no. Say anything you like about me. But it doesn’t get you any votes.”

“You’ll know better than that on the eighth of November,” Jack told him; and Wint smiled and let it go at that. After all, it was Routt’s own concern.

But if Wint took Routt’s tactics equably, Hardiston did not. Hardiston folk love politics. The great American game is the breath in their nostrils. They have an expert’s appreciation of the tactical value of this move and that; and they are keen spectators at such a battle as Routt and Wint were staging.

Wint would have liked to consult with Amos at this time; but it happened that Amos was out of town. He had gone to Columbus for a day or two. In lieu of Amos, Wint went to Peter Gergue, and asked Gergue how things looked to him. Gergue fumbled in his back hair in the thoughtful way he had and said he guessed Routt was making a lively fight of it, anyway.

“Do you think he’s making votes?” Wint asked.

“We-ell,” said Peter, “you can’t always tell what folks will do. I’d say he’s persuading every enemy you’ve got to vote against you.”

Wint said: “They would, anyway.”

“Sure.”

“The question is, is he persuading any of my friends?”

“I’d say not.”

“Then I don’t need to worry.”

Gergue spat at the curb. “Can’t say. You see, Wint, there’s about sixty per cent. of this town--or any town--that’s neither enemy nor friend. Just neutral. Them’s the votes you got to get.”

“I don’t believe Routt will get many of those votes by lies.”

“Not if they’re knowed to be lies.”

“Every one knows they are lies.”

“It’s a funny thing,” Gergue ruminated. “But lots of folks take a kind of pleasure out of believing lies about other folks.”

Wint shook his head. “I don’t believe Routt is accomplishing a thing.”

“We-ell,” said Gergue, “matter of fact, I’m thinking you may be right. Thing is, he’s laying a foundation, like.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean he’s laying the tracks. He’s doing a lot of talk that won’t be believed much now; but he might bring on something later along that would make folks say: ‘Well, maybe that other was true, too.’”

“What can he bring?” Wint challenged.

“Has he got anything on you?”

“Every one knows all there is to know about me, I suppose.”

Gergue scratched his head. “We-ell, I dunno,” he said. “Anyway, that’s what I was kind of thinking.”

Wint met V. R. Kite one day, and the little man spoke to him so affably that Wint asked: “Well, how are things, Mr. Kite?”

“Excellent. First class, young man.”

“I suppose you’ll vote for me for Mayor?” Wint asked, grinning good-naturedly; and Kite chuckled and said he guessed not.

“Routt’s more my style,” he said.

“Don’t waste your vote on a loser,” Wint told him; but Kite said Routt might be a loser and might not. He left Wint with an unpleasant feeling that there had been a secretly triumphant note in the little old buzzard’s voice.

Jim Radabaugh met James T. Hollow at the Post Office one morning, and said cheerfully: “Well, James T., how’s it happen you’re not out for Mayor again?”

“I try to do what is right,” Hollow said earnestly. “But I really don’t know what to do, Mr. Marshal. I have thought of coming out, but Congressman Caretall gives me very little encouragement.”

“Don’t encourage you, eh?”

“No. In fact, I might say he discouraged--”

“Well, now,” said Radabaugh, “maybe you’d best just lie low.”

Hollow looked doubtful and said he didn’t know.

Thus all Hardiston talked, each man after his fashion. Ed Skinner of the _Sun_ maintained a strict neutrality. He was closely allied with Wint’s father; and the elder Chase held his hand. B. B. Beecham seldom let the _Journal_ take an active part in local politics, except on broad party lines. And Wint--since he had the patronage of Amos Caretall--was of the same party as Routt, who had been Amos’s ally. He carried the announcement cards of both men and let it go at that. But he went so far as to say to Wint, and to those who dropped in at the _Journal_ office, that Routt’s methods were not likely to be profitable. “It never pays to open up old sores,” he said. “And it’s never a good plan to say anything that will unjustly hurt another man’s feelings. He may be in a position to resent it, some day.”

Sam O’Brien, the restaurant man, told Wint that Routt would never get his vote. “I like nerve,” he said, “and you’ve got it. You’ve made me laugh sometimes, Wint. Lord, I’ve thought you’d be the death of me. But you’ve took your nerve in your hands. You’ve got me, boy. More power to your elbow.”

The first two weeks of October slid swiftly by. Wint heard Routt was planning for a rally or two; and he began to make his own arrangements to a similar end. But in mid-October, word came to him which put the mayoralty race out of his mind.

The word came through Ote Runns, that hopeless drunkard whose cheerful services were in such demand by Hardiston housewives at rug-beating time. Wint met Ote one evening, on his way home, and Ote was bibulously cheerful. He greeted Wint hilariously; and told him in triumphant tones that Hardiston was itself again.

Wint, with a suspicion of what was coming, asked Ote what he meant; and Ote chortled:

“‘S a good ol’ town. Good ol’ wet town! Plenny o’ booze now.”

Wint asked Ote where he got it, but the man put his finger to his nose and shook his head. Wint left him and went on his way.

When he got home, he telephoned Radabaugh. “They’re selling again, Jim,” he said.

The marshal asked: “Who?”

“Don’t know,” said Wint. “I met Ote Runns with a load aboard. I want you to get after them right away.”

“I’m started, now,” said Jim Radabaugh. “I’m on my way.”