Chapter 49

A MUTINEER.

After Peter’s return from Washington, there was a settled gloom about him positively appalling. He could not be wooed, on any plea, by his closest friends, to journey up-town into the social world. He failed entirely to avail himself of the room in the Rivington’s Newport villa, though Dorothy wrote appealingly, and cited his own words to him. Even to his partners he became almost silent, except on law matters. Jenifer found that no delicacy, however rare or however well cooked and served, seemed to be noticed any more than if it was mess-pork. The only moments that this atmosphere seemed to yield at all was when Peter took a very miscellaneous collection of rubbish out of a little sachet, meant for handkerchiefs, which he now carried in his breast-pocket, and touched the various articles to his lips. Then for a time he would look a little less suicidal.

But it was astonishing the amount of work he did, the amount of reading he got through, the amount of politics he bossed, and the cigars he smoked, between the first of June, and the middle of August The party-leaders had come to the conclusion that Peter did not intend to take a hand in this campaign, but, after his return from Washington, they decided otherwise. “The President must have asked him to interfere,” was their whispered conclusion, “but it’s too late now. It’s all cut and dried.”

Peter found, as this remark suggested, that his two months’ devotion to the dearest of eyes and sweetest of lips, had had serious results. As with Mutineer once, he had dropped his bridle, but there was no use in uttering, as he had, then, the trisyllable which had reduced the horse to order. He had a very different kind of a creature with which to deal, than a Kentucky gentleman of lengthy lineage, a creature called sometimes a “tiger.” Yet curiously enough, the same firm voice, and the same firm manner, and a “mutineer,” though this time a man instead of a horse, was effective here. All New York knew that something had been done, and wanted to know what. There was not a newspaper in the city that would have refused to give five thousand dollars for an authentic stenographic report of what actually was said in a space of time not longer than three hours in all. Indeed, so intensely were people interested, that several papers felt called upon to fabricate and print most absurd versions of what did occur, all the accounts reaching conclusions as absolutely different as the press portraits of celebrities. From three of them it is a temptation to quote the display headlines or “scare-heads,” which ushered these reports to the world. The first read:

“THE BOSSES AT WAR!” “HOT WORDS AND LOOKS.” “BUT THEY’LL CRAWL LATER.”

“There’s beauty in the bellow of the blast, There’s grandeur in the growling of the gale; But there’s eloquence-appalling, when Stirling is aroaring, And the Tiger’s getting modest with his tail”

That was a Republican account. The second was:

“MAGUIRE ON TOP!”

“The Old Man is Friendly. A Peace-making Dinner at the Manhattan Club. Friends in Council. Labor and Democracy Shoulder to Shoulder. A United Front to the Enemy.”

The third, printed in an insignificant little penny paper, never read and almost unknown by reading people, yet which had more city advertising than all the other papers put together, and a circulation to match the largest, announced:

“TACITURNITY JUNIOR’S” “ONCE MORE AT THE BAT!” “NO MORE NONSENSE.” “HE PUTS MAGUIRE OUT ON THIRD BASE.” “NOW PLAY BALL!”

And unintelligible as this latter sounds, it was near enough the truth to suggest inspiration. But there is no need to reprint the article that followed, for now it is possible, for the first time, to tell what actually occurred; and this contribution should alone permit this work to rank, as no doubt it is otherwise fully qualified to, in the dullest class of all books, that of the historical novel.

The facts are, that Peter alighted from a hansom one evening, in the middle of July, and went into the Manhattan Club. He exchanged greetings with a number of men in the halls, and with more who came in while he was reading the evening papers. A man came up to him while he still read, and said:

“Well, Stirling. Reading about your own iniquity?”

“No,” said Peter, rising and shaking hands. “I gave up reading about that ten years ago. Life is too short.”

“Pelton and Webber were checking their respectability in the coat-room, as I came up. I suppose they are in the café.”

Peter said nothing, but turned, and the two entered that room. Peter shook hands with three men who were there, and they all drew up round one of the little tables. A good many men who saw that group, nudged each other, and whispered remarks.

“A reporter from the _Sun_ is in the strangers’ room. Mr. Stirling, and asks to see you,” said a servant.

“I cannot see him,” said Peter, quietly. “But say to him that I may possibly have something to tell him about eleven o’clock.”

The four men at the table exchanged glances.

“I can’t imagine a newspaper getting an interview out of you, Stirling,” laughed one of them a little nervously.

Peter smiled. “Very few of us are absolutely consistent. I can’t imagine any of you, for instance, making a political mistake but perhaps you may some day.”

A pause of a curious kind came after this, which was only interrupted by the arrival of three more men. They all shook hands, and Peter rang a bell.

“What shall it be?” he asked.

There was a moment’s hesitation, and then one said. “Order for us. You’re host. Just what you like.”

Peter smiled. “Thomas,” he said, “bring us eight Apollinaris cocktails.”

The men all laughed, and Thomas said, “Beg pardon, Mr. Stirling?” in a bewildered way. Thomas had served the club many years, but he had never heard of that cocktail.

“Well, Thomas,” said Peter, “if you don’t have that in stock, make it seven Blackthorns.”

Then presently eight men packed themselves into the elevator, and a moment later were sitting in one of the private dining-rooms. For an hour and a half they chatted over the meal, very much as if it were nothing more than a social dinner. But the moment the servant had passed the cigars and light, and had withdrawn, the chat suddenly ceased, and a silence came for a moment Then a man said:

“It’s a pity it can’t please all, but the majority’s got to rule.”

“Yes,” promptly said another, “this is really a Maguire ratification meeting.”

“There’s nothing else to do,” affirmed a third.

But a fourth said: “Then what are we here for?”

No one seemed to find an answer. After a moment’s silence, the original speaker said:

“It’s the only way we can be sure of winning.”

“He gives us every pledge,” echoed the second.

“And we’ve agreed, anyways, so we are bound,” continued the first speaker.

Peter took his cigar out of his mouth. “Who are bound?” he asked, quietly.

“Why, the organization is—the party,” said Number Two, with a “deny-it-if-you-dare” in his voice.

“I don’t see how we can back out now, Stirling,” said Number One.

“Who wants to?” said another. “The Labor party promises to support us on our local nominations, and Maguire is not merely a Democrat, but he gives us every pledge.”

“There’s no good of talking of anything else anyhow,” said Number One, “for there will be a clean majority for Maguire in the convention.”

“And no other candidate can poll fifty votes on the first ballot,” said Number Two.

Then they all looked at Peter, and became silent. Peter puffed his cigar thoughtfully.

“What do you say?” said Number One.

Peter merely shook his head.

“But I tell you it’s done,” cried one of the men, a little excitedly. “It’s too late to backslide! We want to please you, Stirling, but we can’t this time. We must do what’s right for the party.”

“I’m not letting my own feeling decide it,” said Peter. “I’m thinking of the party. For every vote the Labor people give Maguire, the support of that party will lose us a Democratic vote.”

“But we can’t win with a triangular fight. The Republicans will simply walk over the course.”

If Peter had been a hot-headed reformer, he would have said: “Better that than that such a scoundrel shall win.” But Peter was a politician, and so saw no need of saying the unpleasantest thing that occurred to him, even if he felt it. Instead, he said: “The Labor party will get as many votes from the Republicans as from us, and, for every vote the Labor party takes from us, we shall get a Republican vote, if we put up the right kind of a man.”

“Nonsense,” cried Number One.

“How do you figure that?” asked another.

“In these panic times, the nomination of such a man as Maguire, with his truckling to the lowest passions and his socialistic speeches, will frighten conservative men enough to make them break party lines, and unite on the most certain candidate. That will be ours.”

“But why risk it, when, with Maguire, it’s certain?”

Peter wanted to say: “Maguire shall not be endorsed, and that ends it.” Instead, he said: “We can win with our own man, and don’t need to trade with or endorse the Labor party. We can elect Maguire by the aid of the worst votes in this city, or we can elect our own man by the aid of the best. The one weakens our party in the future; the other strengthens it.”

“You think that possible?” asked the man who had sought information as to what they “were here for.”

“Yes. The Labor party makes a stir, but it wouldn’t give us the oyster and be content with the shells if it really felt strong. See what it offers us. All the local and State ticket except six assemblymen, two senators, and a governor, tied hand and foot to us, whose proudest claim for years has been that he’s a Democrat.”

“But all this leaves out of sight the fact that the thing’s done,” said Number One.

Peter puffed his cigar.

“Yes. It’s too late. The polls are closed,” said another.

Peter stopped puffing. “The convention hasn’t met,” he remarked, quietly.

That remark, however, seemed to have a sting in it, for Number Two cried:

“Come. We’ve decided. Now, put up or shut up. No more beating about the bush.”

Peter puffed his cigar.

“Tell us what you intend, Stirling,” said Number One. “We are committed beyond retreat. Come in with us, or stay outside the breastworks.”

“Perhaps,” said Peter, “since you’ve taken your own position, without consulting me, you will allow me the same privilege.”

“Go to—where you please,” said Number Six, crossly.

Peter puffed his cigar.

“Well, what do you intend to do?” asked Number One.

Peter knocked the ash off his cigar. “You consider yourselves pledged to support Maguire?”

“Yes. We are pledged,” said four voices in unison.

“So am I,” said Peter.

“How?”

“To oppose him,” said Peter.

“But I tell you the majority of the convention is for him,” said Number One. “Don’t you believe me?”

“Yes.”

“Then what good will your opposition do?”

“It will defeat Maguire.”

“No power on earth can do that.”

Peter puffed his cigar.

“You can’t beat him in the convention, Stirling. The delegates pledged to him, and those we can give him elect him on the first ballot.”

“How about November fourth?” asked Peter.

Number One sprang to his feet. “You don’t mean?” he cried.

“Never!” said Number Three.

Peter puffed his cigar.

“Come, Stirling, say what you intend!”

“I intend,” said Peter, “if the Democratic convention endorses Stephen Maguire, to speak against him in every ward of this city, and ask every man in it, whom I can influence, to vote for the Republican candidate.”

Dead silence reigned.

Peter puffed his cigar.

“You’ll go back on the party?” finally said one, in awe-struck tones.

“You’ll be a traitor?” cried another.

“I’d have believed anything but that you would be a dashed Mugwump!” groaned the third.

Peter puffed his cigar.

“Say you are fooling?” begged Number Seven.

“No,” said Peter, “Nor am I more a traitor to my party than you. You insist on supporting the Labor candidate and I shall support the Republican candidate. We are both breaking our party.”

“We’ll win,” said Number One.

Peter puffed his cigar.

“I’m not so sure,” said the gentleman of the previous questions. “How many votes can you hurt us, Stirling?”

“I don’t know,” Peter looked very contented.

“You can’t expect to beat us single?”

Peter smiled quietly. “I haven’t had time to see many men. But—I’m not single. Bohlmann says the brewers will back me, Hummel says he’ll be guided by me, and the President won’t interfere.”

“You might as well give up,” continued the previous questioner. “The Sixth is a sure thirty-five hundred to the bad, and between Stirling’s friends, and the Hummel crowd, and Bohlmann’s people, you’ll lose twenty-five thousand in the rest of the city, besides the Democrats you’ll frighten off by the Labor party. You can’t put it less than thirty-five thousand, to say nothing of the hole in the campaign fund.”

The beauty about a practical politician is that votes count for more than his own wishes. Number One said:

“Well, that’s ended. You’ve smashed our slate. What have you got in its place?”

“Porter?” suggested Peter.

“No,” said three voices.

“We can’t stand any more of him,” said Number One.

“He’s an honest, square man,” said Peter.

“Can’t help that. One dose of a man who’s got as little gumption as he, is all we can stand. He may have education, but I’ll be hanged if he has intellect. Why don’t you ask us to choose a college professor, and have done with it.”

“Come, Stirling,” said the previous questioner, “the thing’s been messed so that we’ve got to go into convention with just the right man to rally the delegates. There’s only one man we can do it with, and you know it.”

Peter rose, and dropped his cigar-stump into the ash-receiver. “I don’t see anything else,” he said, gloomily. “Do any of you?”

A moment’s silence, and then Number One said: “No.”

“Well,” said Peter, “I’ll take the nomination if necessary, but keep it back for a time, till we see if something better can’t be hit upon.”

“No danger,” said Number One, holding out his hand, gleefully.

“There’s more ways of killing a pig than choking it with butter,” said Number Three, laughing and doing the same.

“It’s a pity Costell isn’t here,” added the previous questioner. “After you’re not yielding to him, he’d never believe we had forced you to take it.”

And that was what actually took place at that very-much-talked-about dinner.

Peter went downstairs with a very serious look on his face. At the door, the keeper of it said: “There are six reporters in the strangers’ room, Mr. Stirling, who wish to see you.”

A man who had just come in said: “I’m sorry for you, Peter.”

Peter smiled quietly. “Tell them our wishes are not mutual.” Then he turned to the newcomer. “It’s all right,” he said, “so far as the party is concerned, Hummel. But I’m to foot the bill to do it.”

“The devil! You don’t mean—?”

Peter nodded his head.

“I’ll give twenty-five thousand to the fund,” said Hummel, gleefully. “See if I don’t.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Stirling,” said a man who had just come in.

“Certainly,” said Peter promptly, “But I must ask the same favor of you, as I am going down town at once.” Peter had the brutality to pass out of the front door instantly, leaving the reporter with a disappointed look on his face.

“If he only would have said something?” groaned the reporter to himself. “Anything that could be spun into a column. He needn’t have told me what he didn’t care to tell, yet he could have helped me to pay my month’s rent as easily as could be.”

As for Peter, he fell into a long stride, and his face nearly equalled his stride in length. After he reached his quarters he sat and smoked, with the same serious look. He did not look cross. He did not have the gloom in his face which had been so fixed an expression for the last month. But he looked as a man might look who knew he had but a few hours to live, yet to whom death had no terror.

“I am giving up,” Peter thought, “everything that has been my true life till now. My profession, my friends, my chance to help others, my books, and my quiet. I shall be misunderstood, reviled and hated. Everything I do will be distorted for partisan purposes. Friends will misjudge. Enemies will become the more bitter. I give up fifty thousand dollars a year in order to become a slave, with toadies, trappers, lobbyists and favor-seekers as my daily quota of humanity. I even sacrifice the larger part of my power.”

So ran Peter’s thoughts, and they were the thoughts of a man who had not worked seventeen years in politics for nothing. He saw alienation of friends, income, peace, and independence, and the only return a mere title, which to him meant a loss, rather than a gain of power. Yet this was one of the dozen prizes thought the best worth striving for in our politics. Is it a wonder that our government and office-holding is left to the foreign element? That the native American should prefer any other work, rather than run the gauntlet of public opinion and press, with loss of income and peace, that he may hold some difficult office for a brief term?

But finally Peter rose. “Perhaps she’ll like it,” he said aloud, and presumably, since no woman is allowed a voice in American politics, he was thinking of Miss Columbia. Then he looked at some photographs, a scrap of ribbon, a gold coin (Peter clearly was becoming a money worshipper), three letters, a card, a small piece of blotting-paper, a handkerchief (which Leonore and Peter had spent nearly ten minutes in trying to find one day), a glove, and some dried rose-leaves and violets. Yet this was the man who had grappled an angry tiger but two hours before and had brought it to lick his hand.

He went to bed very happy.