CHAPTER VII

A FEW WORDS TO THE WISE

Those minutes--five or ten--which Wint spent with V. R. Kite in his office behind the council chamber, before he sentenced Lutcher, left Wint depressed, shaken by foreboding. He was like one beset in the darkness by enemies he could not see. He felt the imminence of disaster without being able to avert it. The world was all wrong. Life had turned her thumbs down. There could be only destruction ahead.

He felt this, without being able to put a name to the peril. It was intangible; Kite had only hinted at it. But the little buzzard of a man had been in deadly earnest. Wint was sure of that. So.... There was nothing to do but wait for the blow to fall; and waiting is the hardest thing in the world to do.

Kite had come into Wint’s office that morning with a smile in his dry eyes. It was a smile that had triumph in it; and it held also a certain mean magnanimity to a fallen foe. It was as though Kite knew Wint was beaten, and expected him to surrender, and was willing to accept the surrender while despising Wint for yielding. Wint had expected the little man to come in anger, with protestations, and open threats, and a desperate sort of defiance. He was prepared for these things; he was not prepared for the confidence in Kite’s bearing. And his first glimpse of it disturbed him, made him uneasy.

Kite sat down without being invited; he put his hat on Wint’s desk; and he said in an amiably triumphant way:

“Well, young man?”

He seemed to expect Wint to speak; but Wint had nothing to say to Kite. He replied: “You wanted to speak to me?”

“Not exactly,” said Kite. “I wanted to hear what you have to say.”

“I?” said Wint. “I have nothing to say, except what I shall say to Lutcher in court presently.”

“Ah, yes, Lutcher,” Kite murmured. “Lutcher, to be sure.” And he nodded as though Lutcher were scarce worth considering, and kept silent, to force Wint into speech.

This trick of keeping silent, forcing the other man to make the advances, was a favorite with Amos Caretall. Amos had beaten V. R. Kite at the game more than once; but Wint had beaten Amos. He beat Kite, now. The older man was driven to speak first. He said, in a quick rush of words:

“You know you’re done for. Done. Skinned. Licked. Down. What have you got to say?”

Before a direct attack, Wint recovered himself. He laughed. “I should say you were wide of the mark, Kite,” he said cheerfully. “That is, if I know what you’re talking about. The mayoralty?”

“Of course. Your hide is on the fence.”

Wint shook his head. “I haven’t felt it being removed; and they say the process is painful. So I would have felt it go.”

“Don’t joke, young man. You know what I mean.”

“I know,” said Wint, “that I’m going to be elected Mayor. I know Routt is licked. If that’s what you mean.”

Kite laughed, a harsh, short, mirthless laugh. “What’s the use of bluffing? I tell you, I know.”

Wint said a little impatiently: “You’re talking in a mysterious way, Kite. I don’t see your object. If you’ve no plain words in your system, we’re wasting time.”

“I’ve a plain word for you. Hardiston will have a plain word for you.” There was a deadly menace in the little man’s tone, and Wint felt it, and was a little impressed. But he managed a smile.

“I’ve a plain word for Lutcher, too,” he said. “You’re keeping Lutcher waiting.”

“Oh, Lutcher,” said Kite again. “You’ll let him go.”

“Hardly,” said Wint; and Kite cried:

“I say you will. Don’t be a fool. I tell you I know.”

“You may know some things,” said Wint slowly. “But you are wrong about Lutcher. He gets the limit.”

Kite leaned forward; and his voice was almost kind. “Young man,” he said, “you’ve good nerve. You’re a good fighter. You’re a vote getter, too, in an awkward way. If I didn’t have the winning hand, I should be worried about what you can do. But I have; from the person who knows. You’re beaten. You might as well accept it.”

“If I’m beaten,” said Wint, “I’ll know it by midnight of the eighth. Not by your telling.”

Kite lost his temper for an instant; and he cried: “You miserable little dog! With not even the grace to know you’re whipped.”

Wint said coldly: “Just what are you talking about, Kite? You wanted to see me. Well, here I am. What have you got to say? I’ll give you about thirty seconds more.”

“Thirty seconds?” Kite echoed. “You’ll give me all the time I want. I tell you, you’re done.”

“What have you got to say?”

“Go out there, and.... No, first write out for me a notice of your withdrawal from the mayoralty fight. Then go out there and turn Lutcher loose. If you do these two things, they’ll save you, for a while. And nothing else in the world can save you.”

Wint--there could be no question of this--was frightened. He was afraid of the certainty in Kite’s manner, afraid of the mystery behind the other’s confidence. But it is braver to appear brave when you are frightened than when there is no fright in you; and Wint, frightened though he might be, was yet brave. He rose.

“Time’s up, Kite,” he said.

Kite exclaimed: “Don’t be a fool. I don’t want to ruin you. Save yourself, boy.”

Wint opened the door and stepped out into the other room.

* * * * *

That was Thursday morning, five days before election. A fair, fine day of the sort you will see in Hardiston in the fall. The sun was warm, the air was crisp and dry. It was a day when simply living was pleasant; when to draw breath was a joy. Ordinarily, Wint would have drunk this day to the full. But there was abroad in Hardiston a whispered word; men looked at him curiously as he passed them. No one seemed to know exactly what was coming; yet they looked upon Wint as one looks upon a man about to die. Kite had said nothing. From the fire-engine house he had gone direct to his Bazaar and stayed there. One or two of his lieutenants visited him there during the morning.

Kite said nothing; no one had any definite word. Yet Hardiston was whispering its guesses. Somehow the rumor had gone abroad that Wint was done, that Kite was about to strike. There was a lively and an eager anticipation. It is always easy to anticipate the misfortunes of others; and there will always be those to rejoice in the imminent downfall of one who has held himself high. Wint had enemies enough; even some of those whom he had counted his friends looked askance at him this day.

When he went to the Post Office for the noon mail, he encountered Hetty on the street. Because he was thoughtful and abstracted, he spoke to her curtly. Hetty did not speak to him at all. She turned away her head. But Wint, already passing by, did not mark this.

He met B. B. Beecham in the Post Office, and stopped in with B. B. at the _Journal_ office afterward. B. B. talked pleasantly of a number of things, till Wint could be still no longer. He asked abruptly:

“B. B., have you heard anything?”

The editor looked surprised. “How do you mean?” he asked.

“What’s Kite up to?”

B. B. said: “I don’t know. Is he up to something?”

“He came to me before court this morning and demanded that I withdraw from this fight and let Lutcher go.”

“Demanded it?”

“Yes.”

“On what ground?”

“He made some covert threat. He was not specific.”

B. B. shook his head. “I hadn’t heard.”

“Oh, no one knows this,” Wint told him. “I refused, of course, and fined Lutcher. Now every one in town seems to know that something is going to drop on me.”

“What is there that he can bring against you?”

“Not a thing. Except the old stuff. What everybody knows.”

B. B. nodded. “I should not worry, if I were you, if there’s nothing.”

“There isn’t anything, I tell you,” Wint exclaimed impatiently.

“Then what can he do?”

Wint got up, a little weary. “All right,” he said. “I thought you might have heard.”

B. B. shook his head. “Not a thing.”

Wint went to Sam O’Brien’s restaurant for dinner. It was a little after his usual hour, and there were only two or three others on the stools before the high, scrubbed counter. O’Brien waited on Wint himself, and Wint ate in silence, under the other’s sympathetic eye.

When he paid for his dinner, O’Brien asked heartily:

“Well, Wint, m’ boy, how’s tricks?”

Wint looked up at the other and smiled wearily. “Rotten, Sam,” he said.

O’Brien protested. “Lord, now, I’d not say that. As fine a day as it is.”

“I wasn’t talking about the weather,” Wint told him. “It’s just.... I guess I’m in the dumps, Sam. I’ve got a hunch. I’ve got a hunch something’s going to drop on me like a ton of bricks.”

“A hunch like that is bum company,” O’Brien commented. “Where did you get it, Wint?”

Wint shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Lord, boy! You act like you’d lost your nerve, Wint.”

Wint said: “Maybe I have.” He was terribly depressed, almost ready to drop out and surrender.

“You’d nerve enough when you soaked Lutcher, this morning,” Sam reminded him. “I was proud of you, m’ son. You’ve give me many a laugh, Wint, but I was proud o’ your cool nerve this day.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about Lutcher.”

“I’d not be. Him nor his. The old buzzard of a Kite, neither.”

Wint said: “I don’t know. Kite’s got something up his sleeve.”

“That’s as much as to say that he’s tricky. It’s these magicians that has things up their sleeves. Full of tricks. You stick to the middle of the road, Wint, and never mind their tricks. They’ll trick their own selves.”

Wint shook his head. “That’s all right. But what can I do?”

“Do?” Sam echoed. “Why, fight ’em like that dog of yours fit Mrs. Moody’s Jim.” He nodded to Muldoon, curled as always near Wint’s feet; and Wint dropped his hand to Muldoon’s grizzled head. He was apt to turn to Muldoon in trouble. The dog was his shadow, always with him; but it was when he was troubled that Wint gave most heed to the terrier. At Wint’s caress, Muldoon rolled his eyes up without moving his head; and Sam said:

“Look at him grin; the nervy pup. He’s telling you to take a brace, m’ son. You can’t scare the dog.”

“I’m not scared.”

“You act damn like it,” said Sam frankly; and Wint protested:

“It’s only that I’m sick of it all. Sick of the fight, and the mud-throwing. And getting no thanks.”

“Hell’s bells,” Sam exclaimed. “You talk like a woman!”

Wint looked at him curiously. “What’s Kite up to, Sam? Have you heard?”

“Heard some rats say he would rip you up. And I told them you’d be doing some ripping, about that time. You’re not going to make me out a liar, Wint. Are you now?”

“Oh, I suppose I’ll fight.”

He left the restaurant and walked down to Hoover’s office and secluded himself in the back room; but his studies could not hold him. There was a curiously passive despair upon the boy. He could not shake it off. The whole thing seemed so little worth while. If there had been a chance to fight.... But the peril was intangible. He could not come to grips with it. He could not even be sure there was peril. He could not be sure of anything. Not even of himself. He asked himself despairingly: “Are you going to be a quitter, Wint?” And then thought hopelessly: “Oh, what’s the use?”

In mid-afternoon, Dick Hoover looked in and said Gergue wanted to see Wint. Wint was surprised. “What does he want?” he asked. “Gergue?” He got up and went to the door and saw Peter waiting; and he called: “Come along in here.”

Gergue came at the invitation. His hat was off; he was fumbling in the tangle of hair at the back of his neck. There was a curiously furtive uncertainty about the man. Wint thrust a chair toward Peter with his foot, and said: “Sit down.” When Gergue was seated, and slicing a fill for his pipe, Wint asked:

“What’s on your mind?”

Gergue looked at him sidewise, stuffing the crumbled tobacco into the black bowl. And he asked: “Wint, where do you figure I stand?”

Wint was surprised. “You mean--in this business between Routt and me?”

Gergue nodded. “Yeah.”

“Why, with Routt, I suppose,” Wint told him.

“Why d’you figure that?”

“You’re tied up with Amos.”

Gergue scratched a match. “Wint,” he said, “Amos is a fine man. He does things his own way; but in the end, he pretty near always turns out pretty near right.”

“Well, that’s his record,” Wint agreed. “He’s usually on the winning side.”

“Don’t let that get away from you,” said Gergue. “Don’t you forget that, Wint!”

Wint laughed harshly; and he said: “I’m not likely to. I counted on him in this, you know.”

Gergue leaned toward him. “Thing is, Wint, I’m wonderin’ what you’d think if I told you something?”

“That would depend on what you told me.”

“Something for your own good. Help you some.”

Wint said, amiably enough: “I want to win this fight, Peter. But--after Amos’s stand--I don’t particularly want any help from him. I’d mistrust it.”

“Say this come from me, personal.”

“You’re linked with Amos.”

Gergue nodded resignedly. “Have it so,” he agreed. “Anyway, I’m going to tell you.”

Wint said: “All right. What do you want to tell?”

Gergue hesitated for a while, choosing his words. At last he asked: “You wondering what Kite aims to do to trim you?”

“Yes.”

“Got any ideas?”

“No.”

Gergue looked at him shrewdly. “Know any way he could hit at you?”

“No. Not with the truth.”

Gergue hesitated; then he asked slowly: “Know any way he could hit at you with Hetty?”

“Hetty?” Wint echoed. “Hetty Morfee?”

“Yes. Her.”

Wint was stupefied with surprise. “Good Lord, no!”

“She got any reason to be against you?”

“No. I--She’s friendly, I think. Ought to be.”

Gergue puffed at his pipe. Then he got up. “Wint,” he said, “take it for what it’s worth. I hear he’s going to hit you with her.”

Wint exclaimed angrily: “You’re crazy, Peter. Or you’re.... Look here, did Amos send you?”

“No.”

“Is this some damned trick of his?”

“No.”

“Well, what in God’s name are you talking about?”

Gergue said thoughtfully: “I’ve said all I know. Think it over, Wint.”

He went out, with a surprising quickness, and was gone before Wint could frame other questions. The young man was left to consider the thing.

When Wint went home for supper, he was still mystified; but he was beginning to grow angry. Angry at the mere suggestion that lay behind Peter’s words. Angry at Gergue for saying them. And this anger was a more hopeful sign than his depression of the morning had been. He was fiercely resentful at Hardiston, at the whole world.

He met Joan, halfway home. That is to say, he overtook her on her way, and they walked home together. He was so absorbed in his own thoughts that he did not see there was something troubling the girl until she spoke of it. She said: “Wint, I met Agnes Caretall uptown.”

He nodded, scarce hearing; and Joan said: “She’s a good deal of a gossip, you know.”

There was something in her tone which caught his attention; and he looked at her sharply and asked: “What do you mean? What did she say?”

“She said Mr. Kite was going to ruin you,” Joan told him.

Wint laughed shortly. “Well, that’s no secret. At least it’s no secret that he wants to.”

“She said he was going to,” Joan insisted.

Wint asked: “How, since she knew so much, did she know how?”

Joan touched his arm. “Don’t be angry, Wint.”

But Wint was angry, even with Joan. He exclaimed harshly, after the fashion of angry men: “I’m not mad. What did she say?”

Joan told him. “She said they were going to link you up with Hetty.”

Wint exclaimed: “Lord! You too? I’m sick of that tale. Hetty!”

Joan begged: “But there isn’t anything, is there?”

Wint faced her hotly. “If you don’t know without being told.... Can’t I even count on you, Joan?”

“I only asked.”

They were at her gate, and Wint lifted his hat abruptly. “Think what you like,” he told her sharply. “Good afternoon!”

He left her there; left her, and Joan looked after him with troubled sympathy in her eyes, and something more. There was a mist of tears in them when she went on toward the house.

* * * * *

While they were at supper that night, the telephone rang, and Wint’s father answered. After a moment he came back into the dining room. “Wint,” he said, “it’s Kite.”

“Kite?” Wint demanded, pushing back his chair. “What does he want?”

“He wants to see you--and me. He says he’ll be out here at eight. He wants us to be here.”

Wint’s face turned black with anger; then he threw up one hand. “All right,” he cried, “tell Kite we’ll be here.”