Part 20

David began very haltingly. Yet he could not but feel the cordiality of his welcome; and his glance, at first rather furtive and shy, became more confident as he gradually felt the ground beneath his feet. "I ain’t much used to public speakin’," he started hesitatingly; "never made but one speech like this before. They were a little obstreperous when I began, but before I got through you could have—have heard a crowbar drop," he affirmed, to the delight of his audience. "I can’t sling it off like my friend Mr. Craig, here; mebbe it’s because I’ve not moved in them royal circles," he ventured as soberly as he could. "Though I think I’ve got him beat when it comes to rubbin’ noses with the quality. I’ve done a little in that line myself—when I was a little shaver, too. None o’ them royal folks ever patted me on the head—but I threw up all over Abe Lincoln once. Old Abe used to stop at my father’s in Peoria when he was ridin’ the circuit," David explained carefully; "an’ once he picked me up—I was jest a baby—an’ threw me up to the ceilin’; then I done the same when I came down—too soon after dinner, you see," he added, his words lost in the mirth that stormed about him. "But other ways, I ain’t what you’d call a successful man, I reckon," he went on, the quotation obvious. "I’ve always been kind o’ scared, ever since I was a young fellow, for fear I’d be too successful—that is, the way some folks reckon success. I knew a terrible successful man in Illinois one time—he was that successful that he got richer than any other man in the county. An’ he got so fond o’ bein’ successful that he nearly gave up eatin’—jest to be more successful. He got that fond of it that by and by he wouldn’t even spend the money for gettin’ his hair cut; he used to soak his head, in the winter, an’ then stand outside till it froze stiff—then he’d break it off. He was a terrible successful man, to his way o’ thinkin’," David went on gravely, the crowd rocking to and fro in a spasm of delight. "So I think, my friends, I’d better jest own up I’ve been a failure. An’ I thank you, more’n I can say, for wantin’ me to be your first mayor—but I’m goin’ to sit back quiet an’ give some better man the job. For one thing, I’m gettin’ to be an old man—an’ that’s a disease that don’t heal much. Besides, I’ll have enough to do to make a livin’. I won’t deny I used to wake up nights an’ think it’d be fine to be the first boss o’ the whole town; but I reckon it ain’t comin’ my way—it ain’t intended to be wove into my web, by the looks o’ things. But I thank you for—for your love," David blurted out, vainly searching for a better word. "An’ what kind o’ gives me a lump in my throat, is the way I see how the men that used to work for me is the loyalest to me now. That’s terrible rich pay—an’ I can stand here to-night an’ say, afore God an’ man, that I’ve tried to be more a friend than a boss. Your joys has been my joys, an’ your sorrows has been my sorrows," his voice quivering a little as he spoke the gracious words; "an’ I ain’t disgraced—if I did get beat in business. This here’s far sweeter to me now than if it’d come my way when I was livin’ in the big house, wadin’ round knee-deep in clover. It’s when a fellow’s down he loves to find out how many true friends he’s got; any old torn umbrella’s just as good as a five dollar one—till the rain’s peltin’ down on him—an’ then he knows the difference. So I can’t do nothin’ but thank you all, an’ tell you how glad you’ve made me. I’ll be all right," he concluded with heroic bearing, "I’ll get my bite an’ my sup, an’ I’ll go down to my rest in peace; an’ I’m richer—far richer than I ever thought. It’s friends that make a fellow rich; an’ I intend keepin’ them as long as I live—an’ after, too," he concluded, turning from his chair to add the words, electrical in their effect.

Then came a scene, such a scene as gladdens the heart of but one man in a generation. All sorts and conditions of men joined in the storm of protest, refusing to permit David to withdraw his name. Many, mostly toil-stained working-men, struggled for the floor. Testimonies came thick and fast, volunteered with glowing ardour.

"He never used to pass my little girl on the street without givin’ her a nickel or a dime—most always a dime," a burly blacksmith roared, his voice as powerful as his muscle.

"Mr. Borland kept me on when times was hard," an old man proclaimed in a squeaky voice; "he kept me mowin’ the grass four times a week, when everythin’ was burnt up wi’ the drooth."

"He sent my little boy to the Children’s Hospital in the city," another informed the thrilling multitude; "an’ now he can run like a deer—it was hip-disease."

"He sat up two nights hand-runnin’ with Jake Foley when he had ammonia in both lungs," imparted one of the lustiest of David’s former workmen, "an’ the next day they found ten dollars in a sugar jug; an’ when they axed him if he done it he said they wanted to insult him—said it was the same as axin’ a man if he’d been tastin’. But we ain’t all fools," concluded the witness, his indignant eulogy cheered to the echo.

After a valiant struggle the chairman secured order, Mr. Craig looking on with the expression that children wear when they see their tiny craft being borne out to sea. The noble electors demanded a vote; which, duly taken, voiced the overwhelming desire that David should be their man. Whereupon Mr. Craig, not slow to remark the signs of the times, possessed himself of a very imposing hat and made as if to leave the platform, the crowd suddenly subsiding as it became evident he had a word to say before retiring.

"I’m done with municipal life from this time on," he declared hotly, as quiet was restored. "I’m not going to enter the lists with a man that has proved—that hasn’t proved—with David Borland," he concluded, floundering. "If the town can do without me, I guess I can do without the town."

"You’d better go and travel abroad in them foreign parts, an’ mebbe——" a voice from the audience began to advise.

"That’s mean," David cried above the returning din; "that’s mean—sit down, Mr. Craig," turning with a grace even those who knew him best would hardly have thought he could command.

"I withdraw," Mr. Craig shouted hotly.

"But don’t go yet," David pleaded in the most unconventional voice. "I don’t like to see a man withdrawin’ that way." Somewhat mollified, Mr. Craig resumed his seat.

Loud demands for a speech finally brought David to his feet again. "Well, friends," he began, "I’m all used up. I never expected nothin’ like this—an’ I don’t hardly know what to say. But I can’t—I jest can’t refuse now," he said, his words lost in a mighty cheer. "I didn’t know you all felt that way—so much. An’ I believe I’m gladder for—for two people that ain’t here to-night," he said in a low, earnest voice, "than for any other reason in the world. An’ I’ll—I’ll take it—if Mr. Craig here’ll help me," suddenly turning towards his rival of a moment before. "He knows lots more about them things than me," moving over to where he sat, "an’ if he’ll promise to help, we’ll—we’ll run the show together."

There being now no other candidate, the returning-officer declared Mr. Borland the first mayor; and the vanquished, yielding to the great soul that challenged him, took the other’s hand in his.

*XXX*

_*A JOURNALIST’S INJUNCTIONS*_

"I don’t believe we’ll ever find him, Harvey. We have so little clue—and almost all we can do is wait." Jessie sighed; her life had had so much of waiting.

"That’s the hard part of it," her brother answered, "but what else can we do; it does seem hard to think one’s own father is living somewhere, and yet we may live and die without ever seeing him. I’ve tried all the poor little ways I can—but they’re so ineffectual. Yet I don’t think there’s ever a day my mind doesn’t go out to him. Mother said, though—she said he’d come back some day."

"What did she mean?" Jessie asked eagerly.

"I don’t know," said Harvey. "That is, I don’t know just what was in her mind. And she told me about his—his weakness," the brother’s face flushing with the words. "And if I ever succeed enough—if I ever get rich enough, I mean—I’ll begin a search everywhere for him; she said no father ever loved his children more," and Harvey’s eyes were very wistful as they looked into his sister’s.

Jessie was silent a while. "You’re—you’re going to succeed, aren’t you, brother?" she said, timidly. "If father ever does come back—he’ll—he’ll find we’ve—conquered, won’t he, Harvey?"

Harvey’s answer was very slow in coming. Finally he reached out and took his sister’s hand; the words rang hopefully.

"I feel somehow, I don’t know why, Jessie, but I feel somehow as if I were just at the turning of the tide. Nobody’ll ever know what a fearful fight it’s been—but I don’t think I’ll have to struggle like this much longer. It’s like fighting in the waves for your life—but I think it’s nearly over. I don’t want you to go home again for a little, Jessie."

"What do you mean, Harvey? Do you mean anything particular’s going to happen?"

He hesitated. "I don’t know—but I think so. I’ve always had a feeling to-morrow’d be a better day than yesterday. I’ve always felt as if something lay beyond; and when I reached it—and passed it, everything would be different then."

There are few who know it—but the uncertainty of life is life’s greatest stimulus. That is, the sense of further possibilities, unexpected happenings, developments not to be foreseen. This is true of the poor, the enslaved, the broken-hearted; it is no less true of the caressed of fortune and the favourites of fate. The veil that hides to-morrow’s face is life’s chiefesf source of zest, not excepting love itself. Men’s hearts would break if they could descry the plain beyond and search its level surface to the end; wherefore the All-wise has broken the long way to fragments, every turn in the road, the long, winding road, a well-spring of hope and expectation. The most dejected heart, proclaim its hopelessness as it may, still cherishes a secret confidence that things cannot always thus remain; downcast and tear-bedimmed, those eyes are still turned towards the morrow, or the morning, or the spring-time—for by such different symbols God would teach us how ill He brooks monotony.

Especially is this true of one who struggles with his sin. Beaten again and again, vows turned to shame and resolutions to reproach, conscience and will trodden under foot of appetite, the wearied warrior still trusts that to-morrow will turn the battle from the gate. Something will turn up; if he could but get a fresh start, or if he could escape from boon companions, or if he were once braced up a bit, or if this did not worry and that beset—all these varied tones does Hope’s indomitable voice assume. Sad and pitiful enough, we say; and we smile at what we call the weakness of poor humanity—but it all bears witness to that hopeful anguish which is bred of manifold temptations; it is the earnest expectation of the creature waiting for the manifestation of the sons of God.

"Not enough snap about any of this stuff, I tell you, Simmons." The time was an hour and a half after Harvey had bidden Jessie, again Miss Farringall’s willing guest, good-bye, and gone forth to his work until the midnight. The words were those of Mr. Timothy Crothers, city editor and director in chief of the _Morning Argus_. Mr. Crothers had taken off his collar an hour before, which was silently accepted by the staff as a storm-signal of the most accurate kind. Cold let it be without or hot, Mr. Crothers’ sanctum soon became a torrid region when once he had removed his neck apparel—and Harvey looked up with more of expectation than surprise, having already witnessed the divestiture.

"It makes a man hot under the collar," Mr. Crothers pursued wrathily, giving a phantom jerk in the neighbourhood of his neck, "to have stuff like this brought in to him; it’s as dry as Presbyterian preaching."

"Isn’t it true, Mr. Crothers?" Harvey asked, calmly opening his knife and applying it to an exhausted pencil. "That’s the first quality for news, isn’t it?"

"First qualities be hanged," quoth Mr. Crothers contemptuously. "And it isn’t news at all—it’s chloroform. Nothing’s news that doesn’t make people sit up; you’ll never make a newspaper man till you learn how to spice things up—lots of pepper, red pepper at that. A paper that can’t make ’em sneeze will never earn its salt."

"Are you referring to the report I wrote of the game with the Scotch bowlers, Mr. Crothers?" Harvey enquired, nodding towards a confused cluster of well-scrawled pages on the table.

"Yes, mostly that; you don’t make the thing bite. It’s nearly all about how they played—and we don’t get twenty bowlers here from Scotland every year."

"About how they played!" echoed Harvey. "What else is there?"

"Everything else. Nobody cares a fig about how they played. Serve up something about the Johnnies themselves—something real interesting. That’s the whole thing. Now, for instance, look at some of this other stuff," and Mr. Crothers took a chair close to Harvey, settling down to business; "here you have an item about a law being enforced by the Government, to provide that all dangerous lunatics must be confined in asylums. Don’t you see what’s the proper thing to say about that?"

"No," said Harvey. "It strikes me that’s an occasion for saying mighty little."

"Nothing of the sort. It’s a bully fine chance to say that this means the organ across the way will lose its editor. Everybody’ll enjoy that, don’t you see?"

"The editor won’t," said Harvey.

"Of course, he won’t—that’s just the point. And here’s another case—about the Hon. Mr. Worthing being struck by a street car. I notice you have him sitting up already. That won’t do; a paper that cures them as quick as that won’t be able to pay its office-boy soon. Of course, it’s true enough, I dare say—he’s probably playing billiards in his home, with a trained nurse answering the front door; like enough, he’s sitting up all night going over his accident policies. But we’ve got to have him bandaged to the teeth—the public loves lots of arnica and sticking plaster—and he’s struggling for consciousness—and he’s got to be crying out every now and then as if he were being ground to powder; and his wife’s going into swoons and coming out of them like a train running tunnels in the Rockies. Besides, we’ve got to lambaste the Company; the street-car line is our municipal assassin—Moloch—Juggernaut—all that sort of thing. But both those words should be in—and you can’t use words like that if their victim’s going to be down street to-morrow."

"You should have a staff of novelists," suggested Harvey.

"And here—here’s a capital illustration of what I mean," Mr. Crothers hurried on, ignoring the innuendo. "I see Rev. Dr. Blakeley comes out with the announcement that there’s no such place as hell—do you know what I’d say there, Simmons?"

"You’d say you had no objections, I should think," Harvey’s face lighting with unfamiliar merriment.

"I wouldn’t—the public doesn’t care a tinker’s malediction whether I object or not. There’s a great chance there for a civic stroke—I’d say this information throws us back on Blankville," and Mr. Crothers named with much contempt a rival city fifty miles away. "It’s little gems like that, that make a paper readable. I see a fellow in that same city was arrested for kissing girls on the street; then he was examined and found insane. Well, the thing to say there, is, that any one who had ever seen their girls would have known the man was crazy. News is like food, Simmons—everything depends on how it’s prepared; nobody likes it raw."

"But what about that game with the Scotchmen?" Harvey ventured, inwardly rather chagrined with the verdict on his handiwork.

"Well, you’ve got it chuck full of points about the game—and that’s no good. It’s got to be interesting. You’ve got to give it a human touch. There’s one of the Scotch bowlers, for instance, old Sanderson from Edinburgh—they say he’s worth eleven millions. Well, I’m told there’s an old fellow that sweeps out a little struggling church on Cedar Street—he’s its caretaker—and I’m told he used to go to school with Sanderson. Now, it’s the simplest thing in the world to have that old geezer come around to the green with his feather duster in his hand—and Sanderson stares at him a minute; then he recognizes him all of a sudden, and the old dodgers fall to and hug each other like two old maids. And have them both weep—especially Sanderson, because he’s rich. And some of those other millionaires should go off to the edge of the lawn and blow their nose—you understand—the human touch, as I said. Make Sanderson go home with the old geezer for supper; might just as well—it wouldn’t hurt him."

"Sanderson wouldn’t relish the caretaker’s bill of fare, I’m afraid," Harvey said significantly.

"I guess you’re right. And that brings me back to the thing I intended particularly to speak about. Those Scotchmen were properly beaten, as your score-card shows. But you don’t give the real reason—and it’s the kind of a reason everybody likes to hear about. For all you say, any one would think it was a mere matter of skill. Now, of course, we all know the reason—it’s the moist time they were having that licked them. Most of them were full. Of course, it wouldn’t do to put it that way—nobody’d enjoy that. But it’s a capital chance for some delicate word-painting—keep it kind of veiled. Say something like this: ’our genial visitors drank deep of the spirit that was much in evidence throughout the game.’ Or, better still: ’our genial visitors became more and more animated by their national spirit as the game wore on—some of them seemed quite full of it.’ Or something like this: ’in liquid prowess our British cousins far outran us—if, indeed, that be the proper verb, since many of our friends were in various degrees of horizontality before the game was finished.’ You see, a description like that appeals to the imagination—it’s subtle—keeps readers guessing. Or this would be a fine way of putting it: ’it was evident yesterday that the little finger plays an important part in the ancient game of bowling on the green’—something like that. What I’m getting at, Simmons, is this—there’s a great chance there for something humorous, and a journalist ought to make the most of it. What makes you look so glum, Simmons?—I don’t believe you’ve got much sense of humour yourself."

Harvey made no response. But his face was resting on his hand, and there must have been something in the plaintive eyes that engaged the attention of Mr. Crothers. He could hardly fail to see that all of a sudden Harvey had become deaf to his tuition; and, more remarkable, the care-worn face seemed but to grow graver as his monitor pursued his praise of mirth.

"You’re looking rather blue, Simmons," he added after a keen scrutiny, Harvey still remaining silent; "but that needn’t prevent you writing lots of funny things. Some of the funniest things ever written, or spoken, have been done by people with broken hearts inside of them. Take an actor for instance—doubling up his audience, and his own little girl dying at home—most likely asking why father doesn’t come, too; queer tangled world this, my boy, and nobody feels its pulse better than us fellows. Anything the matter, Simmons?" he suddenly enquired, for Harvey’s lips were pale; and the chief could see a quiver, as of pain, overrun his face.

Harvey’s voice had a wealth of passion in it. "You’ll have to get some other fellow to see the humorous side of—of—of that thing," he said.

"What do you mean? What thing?" asked the dumfoundered Crothers.

"That drink business—God! it’s no comedy," and Crothers started as he saw the perspiration breaking out on Harvey’s brow, his face a battlefield, his hands clenched as if he saw an enemy.

Crothers indulged in a low whistle, his eyes never moving from Harvey’s face. For the veteran journalist was no child. He knew the marks of strife when he saw them; experience partly, and sympathy still more, had fitted him to tell the difference between a man sporting in the surf and a man fighting for his life against the undertow. And one keen look into the depths of Harvey’s outpouring eyes told him he was in the presence of a tragedy. He rose and put his hand on Harvey’s shoulder; familiar with tender ways it was not—but it was a human hand, and a human heart had laid it there.

"Simmons," he said, and the usually gruff voice had a gentle note; "Simmons, I know what you mean. May as well tell you straight, I’ve heard a little—and I’ve seen a little, too. And I should have known better than talk like that to you. And we all believe you’ll win out yet, old chap. Now I’ll tell you what I think you ought to do. You ought to go away somewhere for a little trip—there’s nothing helps a man in a fight of this kind like having his attention taken up with something else. I’ll keep your place open for you here—and if you could get a couple of congenial fellows to go off with you for a little holiday you’d be like a new man when you came back. Strictly water-waggon fellows, of course," he added with a smile. "I know it’s a hard fight, my boy—but buckle right down to it. And you go right home now—you’re played clean out, I can see that—and take a good sleep till noon. Then you skip out just as soon as you can arrange it and have a ripping good holiday; that’ll set you up better than anything else. Good-night now—or good-morning, rather, I guess. And remember this above all things, Simmons—keep your mind diverted, always be sure and keep your mind diverted," with which advice Mr. Crothers rose to accompany Harvey to the door.

*XXXI*

_*THE TROUGH OF THE WAVE*_

He was glad to be alone. Lesser conflicts crave the help and inspiration of human company; but there comes a time when a man knows the battle must be fought out alone against the principalities and powers that no heart, however strong or loving, can help him to withstand. For no other can discern his enemy but himself.

Harvey turned with swift steps towards home. He thought of his waiting room, with everything that could contribute to self-respect and comfort; and of Miss Farringall, whose increasing devotion seldom failed to find a voice, no matter how late the hour of his return. But as he hurried along he marvelled at the strange craving that gnawed persistently within. The action of his heart seemed weak; his lips were parched; his hands were shaky, his nerves a-tingle, while a nameless terror, as if of impending ill, cast its shadow over him. And through it all burned the dreadful thirst, tyrannical, insistent, tormenting.

Resolved to resist to the last, he was still pressing steadily on. Suddenly he stopped almost still, his eyes fixed upon a light in an upper window. His heart leaped as he saw a tall form pass between him and the lamp. For he recognized it, or thought he did. The room was Oliver’s—that same Oliver as had goaded him to that fatal toast—and it was quite a common experience for that worthy to be playing host through the small hours of the morning. A sense of peril smote Harvey as he looked; yet, reflecting a moment, he assured himself that he would find around that brilliant light two or three whose blithe companionship would help to beat back the evil spirit that assailed him. A chat on matters journalistic, a good laugh, an hour or two of human fellowship would give him relief from this infernal craving. Besides, what hope for him if he could not resist a little temptation, should such present itself?

So his resolve was quickly formed; putting his fingers to his mouth, a shrill whistle brought a familiar face to the window.