CHAPTER V

A LOST ALLY

Congressman Amos Caretall staged, next morning in the Post Office, one of those dramatic incidents which had checkered his career and done a good deal to make him what he was. These scenes were meat and drink to Amos. He liked to hark back to them and chuckle at the memory. In Washington, last winter, for example, he had told over and over the story of his speech at the rally of Winthrop Chase, Senior; his pledge to vote for a Chase, and the sequel to that pledge. The thing appealed to his sense of humor.

This morning he met Wint in the Post Office and snubbed him. And within half an hour all Hardiston knew about it, and was talking about it. The way of the thing was this.

Wint had met Jack Routt on the way uptown; and they came up Broad Street together, and down Main to the Post Office. Wint was thoughtful and a little silent; Routt expansively amiable in the fashion that had become habitual with him since the campaign opened. He asked Wint, jocularly, whether he was downhearted, and Wint said he was not. Routt told him he would be. “You’ll be ready to quit before I’m through with you, old man,” he warned Wint. “You’ll be ready to crawl into your hole. Oh, I’m laying for you.”

“Go ahead,” Wint told him quietly.

“All your ads in the papers won’t do you a bit of good, either. That’s good money wasted. You have to get out and talk to the voters, Wint. Take a tip from me. It’s the word of mouth that does the trick.”

Wint said if this were so Routt would surely come out on top. “You’ve used word of mouth pretty freely,” he remarked.

“Getting into the quick, am I?” Routt chuckled.

“Why, no. I just commented on the fact that....”

Routt asked solicitously: “Look here. You’re not sore, are you? You know, the understanding was that this was to be a real fight.”

“Of course,” Wint agreed. “And I’m not sore. Go as far as you like.”

A moment later, Routt said: “I heard Amos was going to throw you down. Anything in that? If he does, you haven’t got a chance.”

“Nothing in it,” Wint told him. “I had a talk with Amos last night.”

Routt laughed and said Amos’s promises didn’t amount to anything. “Is he backing you; or is he holding off?” he asked. “I haven’t heard that he’s doing much.”

“You’ll hear in due time,” Wint told him.

He thought, afterward, that it was a curious coincidence that Routt should have said this about Amos on this particular morning. It was almost as though Routt had really had some foreknowledge. But at the time, the question made no great impression on him.

When they turned into the Post Office, the mail had not yet been distributed, and the windows were closed. There were perhaps a dozen men there, waiting before their boxes, talking, smoking, spitting on the floor. Routt and Wint took their places among these men; and Routt stuck near Wint. There was some good-natured chaffing. And after a little, Amos and Peter Gergue came in together. Every one had a word for Amos. It was a minute or two after he came in the door before he worked back through the groups to where Routt and Wint stood. He looked at the two, head on one side, and Wint said:

“Good morning, Amos.”

Amos squinted a little; then, without replying to Wint, he turned to Jack Routt, at Wint’s side, and thrust out his hand. “Morning, Routt.”

He and Routt shook hands, and Wint went a little white with surprise, still not fully understanding. Routt said cheerfully:

“Back in time to see the election, Amos.”

Amos nodded cordially. “And back in time to shake hands with the next Mayor, Routt,” he said. “You’re making a first-rate campaign. If you need any help--”

Routt took it all as a matter of course. Wint had stepped back a little; he was leaning his shoulders against the wall, and it seemed to him the world was swimming. “I’ll surely call on you,” Routt said.

Amos turned toward his mail box and unlocked it. Gergue shook Routt by the hand. “Morning, Mister Mayor,” he said; and then, casually, to the other: “H’lo, Wint.”

Every one had seen; no one had a word to say. The windows opened as sign that the mail was all distributed. Every one bustled forward to open their boxes; and they went out, ripping open letters and papers, talking in low voices, glancing sidewise at Wint. Routt had gone out with Amos and Peter. Wint pulled himself together, got his mail, and went out into the street by himself. Hardiston seemed like a new town; it was changed, terribly changed, by a word or two from Amos.

Every one seemed to know what had happened, almost as soon as it had happened. The people who spoke to him on his way to Hoover’s office--he was planning a day with the law books--seemed to Wint to be grinning maliciously. He was still dazed, unable to think clearly. When he was settled in the back room with the leather-bound books, Wint tried to put his mind on them; but he could not. He was groping for understanding. He felt as a child feels, when it has received a blow it cannot understand. He was incredulous. The thing could not have happened; but it had happened. The ground was cut from under his feet. Cut from under his feet. He was lost, helpless. He had been supported for so long by Amos; he had felt the Congressman’s substantial strength upholding him for so many months that it had come to seem to him as an inevitable feature of his very life. He did not see how he could go on without it.

Yet in the end he had to believe, had to accept the new condition. He remembered Amos’s attitude, the night before. Amos had suggested his withdrawing from the fight; the Congressman had almost asked him to withdraw. He had refused; now Amos would force him. Would beat him to his knees. At least, Amos would try to do that. A slow anger began to grow in Wint; a slow determination not to be beaten. Or if he was to be beaten, he would not be beaten without a fight. In simple words, Wint got mad; and he always fought best when he was mad. His resolution hardened; a certain fire of inspiration came to light within him. He began to make plans to meet this new contingency. He would go to the people of Hardiston with the facts. Appeal to them. Prove to them that he deserved their good will; and that he deserved their votes. An hour after the scene in the Post Office, Wint was more determined to win than he had ever been before. Even Amos was not invincible. The man could be beaten. Not only in this fight, but in others. Wint began to cast forward into the future, and plan what he would do.

Dick Hoover came in, after a while, and gripped him by the shoulder. “I say,” he exclaimed excitedly, “they tell me Amos has thrown you down. Is it true?”

Wint nodded. “Yes,” he said crisply.

Hoover swore. “The dirty, double-crossing hound. What are you going to do?”

“Lick him,” Wint replied.

Hoover looked doubtful. “Lick him? You can’t, Wint.”

Wint said nothing.

“Can you?” Dick Hoover asked.

“I’m going to,” said Wint.

Hoover banged his fist on the book that lay open before Wint. “By God, you’ll find some that are willing to help!”

“I know it,” Wint agreed.

“My father and I.... Whatever we can do.”

“Thanks!”

“Get after him, Wint,” Hoover urged. “Show him up. No one has ever gone after Caretall the right way. Start something. The people are always looking for fun, for a change. By God, I believe you can do it!”

“I told you I was going to,” Wint repeated.

That night, his father spoke to him of the matter. The elder Chase had heard it during the day, had heard what Amos had done. And there was fire in his eye. He had no sooner come into the house, before supper, than he called:

“Oh, Wint!”

Wint was upstairs, getting ready for supper. He answered: “Hello, dad.”

“Coming down?”

“Right away.”

“Well, hurry.”

Wint was surprisingly cheerful. The elation of battle was on him. He chuckled at the impatience in his father’s tone; but he did make haste, and a moment later joined the other man in the sitting room. The elder Chase was standing, stirring about, his face hot and angry.

“Look here, Wint,” he exclaimed, without parley. “I hear Amos Caretall turned you down, to-day.”

“Yes.”

“In the Post Office.”

“Yes, this morning.”

“Told Routt he was going to win.”

“Just that, dad.”

Chase threw up his hands furiously. “By God, Wint, I told you he’d cut your throat! The dirty....”

Wint put his hand up to his neck. “Cut my throat?” he repeated. “I seem to be all here.”

“You wouldn’t believe me, Wint. But I warned you.”

“Yes, you did.”

“What do you say now to this fine friend of yours? Damn the man!”

“I say he’s started trouble for himself.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m going to prove that when he said Routt would be elected, he was either a fool or a liar.”

Chase banged his hand on the table beside him till the lamp jumped in its place, and the shade tilted to one side. Mrs. Chase came bustling in just then, and straightened it, and protested anxiously: “I declare, Winthrop, you’re the hardest man around the house. You do disturb things so. I don’t see--”

“Caretall has turned against Wint,” Chase told her.

She nodded wisely. “Well, didn’t you always say he would?”

“Of course I did. Wint wouldn’t believe me. Now he’s done it.”

“He ought to be ashamed of himself,” Mrs. Chase declared. “But I always did think you were wrong, Wint, to be so friendly with a man who had treated your father as he did. He--”

“I know you did, mother.”

Chase cried: “You take it almighty calmly, Wint. Isn’t there any blood in you, son? Don’t you ever get mad? Damn it, the man ought to be kicked out of town.”

Wint laughed good-naturedly. “Oh, I don’t know. He has a right to support Jack if he wants to.”

“A right? What have his rights to do with it? By God, I’d have more respect for you if you could get good and mad!”

Wint chuckled. “I’ll try to work up a fever if you like. I always want your respect, dad.”

Chase said in a softer tone: “You always have it, Wint. You’ve earned it. But it makes my blood boil to see Caretall do this to you. To my son.”

“It’s terrible,” Wint agreed whimsically; and Chase protested:

“I believe you’re laughing at me.”

Wint shook his head anxiously. “No. But I don’t see that it does any good to get excited. I’m aiming to keep my head--and my job.”

“You’re going to fight?”

“Fight?” Wint echoed. “Why, dad, you won’t be able to see me for dust.”

“You’ve waked up at last. You’re not going to sit back and let Routt lie about you, and let Amos trick you.”

“I’m going to fight,” said Wint. “Also I’m going to win.”

Chase exclaimed: “I believe you can. If you try.”

“You know,” said Wint, “in a way I’m glad this has happened.”

“Glad?” Chase asked. “For God’s sake, why?”

Wint touched his arm in a comradely way. “Because now you and I can line up together. Fight side by side. I’d rather have you with me than Amos.”

Chase said, with a sudden humility: “Amos might be able to help you more than I can.”

“I’d rather have your personal vote than all the votes Amos can swing.”

“You’d have had that, anyway.”

“Well, isn’t that worth being crossed by Amos?”

Chase said: “But don’t fool yourself, Wint. Don’t imagine this is going to be easy. Caretall is powerful.”

Wint said with a slow energy: “I’ve done some thinking, dad. Amos is powerful. But--I don’t know just how to say it, but what I mean is this. I think I’ve been a good Mayor. I’ve tried to be a good one, anyway. And if a fellow tries to do the right thing, it seems to me the world has a habit of turning his way. I’ve done my share, straight out and out. And I’m going to the voters on that record. If there’s anything in--democracy--then I can beat Amos. He’s cleverer; he’s better at tricks and contraptions. But he can’t beat the right thing, dad. And--I’ve a hunch that the right is on my side, on our side, in this.”

“Right or wrong,” Chase declared, “we’ll lick him if there’s any way in the world it can be done.” His eyes lighted. “I believe I can get Kite to line up with you.”

Wint shook his head. “No.”

“I think I can,” Chase urged. “He hates Amos.”

“I don’t want him,” said Wint. “This is a clean fight.”

“You want all the help you can get.”

“All the decent help. There are enough decent folk in town to put this thing through.”

“You can’t be too squeamish, Wint.”

“I’m too squeamish to take help from Kite,” said Wint. “That’s flat, dad. Put it out of your head.”

Mrs. Chase was still doing her own work. She called them to supper, just then; and while they ate, she told them how tired she was. “I declare,” she said, “I wish Hetty would come back here. I saw her, uptown, yesterday; and I asked her to. But she wouldn’t. Said she had a better job. I told Mrs. Hullis last night that the girl--”

“Hetty never cooked a better supper than this,” her husband told her; and the little woman smiled happily, and bridled like a girl, and said:

“Now, Winthrop, you’re always telling me things like that, when you know they’re not true. I’m just a--”

Wint laughed: “Quit apologizing for yourself, mother. It’s a darned bad habit. Tell people you’re a wonder, and they’ll believe you. I’ve found that out. That’s the way I’m going to be re-elected.”

“You can tell them that, but you have to back it up,” his father reminded him. “Brag’s not so bad, if there’s something to base it on.”

“Well, isn’t there?” Wint asked quietly; and his father’s eyes lighted, and he cried:

“Yes, son, by Heaven, there is!”

* * * * *

Wint made no move, during the next day or two; but he laid his plans. He intended to do a great many things in the last week before election. He would concentrate his effort in those last days, so that the effect should not have time to disappear. He talked with Dick Hoover, and Dick’s father; he talked with others. And he was surprised to find that such loyal supporters of Amos as Sam O’Brien and Ed Howe and even James T. Hollow were inclined to support him. Support him in spite of Amos. Sam told him as much.

He met Sam at the moving-picture show that night; that is to say, he met Sam just outside. And Sam and Hetty Morfee were together. That surprised Wint; he had not even known that they were friends. But it was obvious that they were very good friends indeed. When he stopped to speak to them, Hetty looked at him with an appealing defiance. He wondered if Sam knew. He did not think it would matter. Sam was the sort who could, if he chose, forgive.

He spoke to Sam of the coming election; and Sam said: “Sure, I’m for you. Amos’s all right in Congress. But he’d make a mighty poor Mayor. I’m for you, Wint, m’boy. You’ve got nerve; and you’re funny, sometimes. Lord, but I’ve thought there was times when I’d die laughing at you. But you’re there, Wint. You can have me.”

He and Hetty went away together, and Wint watched them, forgetting what Sam had said in wondering about Sam and Hetty.

He got further comfort the next day from a man as close to Amos as Peter Gergue. Peter told him it looked as though Routt would win. “But there’s a pile that’ll vote for you,” he added. “It ain’t hurt you much, Amos quitting.” He looked all around furtively, and fumbled in his back hair, and said: “Amos didn’t do you such a bad turn, even if he meant to. I might give you a vote myself, Wint. I don’t know but I might.”

Wint laid plans for rallies on Friday and Saturday nights of the week before election. On Monday and Tuesday of that week, he worked all day, preparing the words he meant to say at those rallies. It was tough work; it was hard for him to put his own determination into words.

Tuesday night, the first of November, there came a diversion. Jim Radabaugh telephoned to him at midnight, summoning him out of bed. When Wint answered the ’phone, the marshal asked:

“That you, Wint?”

“Yes.”

“You r’member you told me to get after the bootleggers?”

“Of course.”

“Well, I’ve done that little thing.”

Wint exclaimed: “First rate. You mean you’ve arrested some one?”

“I should say I had.”

“Who?” Wint asked.

“You know Lutcher?”

“Of course.”

“Him,” said Radabaugh.