XXIV
GARWOOD came out the little door in the oaken partition that walled the private office of the postmaster at Grand Prairie, buttoned his long overcoat carefully about him, and drew on his gloves. He had been basking for half an hour in the loyal gratitude of the newly successful office-seeker, fur he had just left Pusey sitting rather uncomfortably at the well-ordered desk to which he had succeeded, whereon there were as yet no dirty paste pot, no enormous scissors, and no cockroaches fleeing from the wrath to come.
What qualms Emily had raised in Garwood’s breast the night before had been wholly soothed by the adroit little editor who now was become the artful little postmaster, and in the outlining of Pusey’s convincing plans for a strong and resistless machine, not only in Polk County, but in the entire district, Garwood felt the sweetness of a new security steal over him. He passed down by the long rows of lock-boxes, their little red numbers showing smartly on their little brass doors, and turned toward the wall to avoid the crowd that pressed up to the stamp window to have their Christmas packages weighed and mailed. Suddenly he saw Rankin.
The big fellow was coming on breathing heavily, with his overcoat flapping wide and his handsthrust deep in its outer pockets. His slouch hat was back on his brow, which was beaded with perspiration, and the drizzle of the holiday rain clung to his ruddy mustache. Garwood’s heart leaped into his throat when he saw him and he felt his lips draw tense with nervousness, but he made one mighty effort, and had himself under control before Rankin raised his eyes to recognize him. In an instant they were face to face. Garwood smiled and held out his hand.
“Jim, my boy,” he cried cheerily, “how are you? I’m glad to—”
Rankin halted, his hands still plunged deep in the pockets of his overcoat. His face grew redder, if possible, while Garwood’s became very white. Rankin looked Garwood all over, from his carefully dented hat to his boots, still showing the shine he had had put on them at the Cassell House, though their soles were now caked with the rich Illinois mud the farmers had dragged into town on their wagon wheels. He looked him all over carefully, and then, with a contemptuous little laugh:
“Well—I’ll—be—damned!” he said slowly.
Garwood withdrew the hand he had outstretched and held there so awkwardly, but he fancied there might be hope for him in Rankin’s words, which would have served him as well to express his abundant good nature in other exigencies, as they did to show his anger and surprise in this.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” he repeated, “I didn’t s’pose you’d have the nerve!”
Garwood flushed. The shuffle of feet on thetiled floor had died into an attentive stillness. He knew that the throng was looking on absorbed in this most interesting meeting that all the possibilities of chance could have brought about in Grand Prairie that day. Garwood flushed and longed to escape.
“Come on,” he began, in a confidential tone, “over to my office. I was just going to hunt you up. I wanted to have a talk with you.”
“No, you wasn’t, either,” Rankin exploded, “you damned liar you, you wasn’t goin’ to hunt me up; you know it, an’ I know it. You ’as afraid to see me, you big stiff, an’ you haven’t got an’thin’ to say to me either. I’ve had enough o’ yourtalknow, an’ I don’t want no more of it. What talkin’ ’s done hereafter,I’lldo myself, an’ I’ll begin it right now, an’ right here—this place’s good as any.”
Garwood had drawn himself erect, and was struggling with his congressional dignity.
“Let me pass, sir!” he said, as sternly as he could.
Rankin drew a hand from his coat pocket, and stretched it toward Garwood. The congressman threw up his forearm as if to ward a blow, but Rankin caught him by the collar of his coat. He smiled pityingly.
“Oh, don’t git skeered,” he said, “I hain’t goin’ to hurt you.”
“Remove your hand from me instantly, sir!” said Garwood, white with rage.
But Rankin held him fast in his big grip, and slowly backed him to the wall, and held him there,his head against the colored lithograph of soldiers decked in gala dress uniforms, hung there to lure honest country lads to the recruiting office over at Springfield and so into the regular army.
“Now, you listen atme!” said Rankin. “You’re a liar an’ you’re a coward; you’re a low-down, contemptible houn’, you’re a damned sight worser’n Pusey settin’ in there; I just tell you this to let you know what I think o’ you. An’ now I want to serve notice on you, here’n now, publicly, that Jim Rankin’s goin’ to go right on livin’ in this man’s town, that he’s goin’ to figur’ some in politics, that he’s ag’in you, an’ that you’d best get all you can out o’ this term in Congress, fer I give you fair warnin’ that you’re servin’ your last term. I’m ag’in you, an’ I’m agoin’ to camp down on your trail from this on, an’ if you have the gall to show your face fer renomination ag’in, I’ll make it my business to git you—an’ I’llgityou!”
Rankin was breathing hard.
“Now, you can go, damn you,” he said, and he released his hold on Garwood.
The congressman stood, his eyes glaring impotent rage out of a blank white face. They stood thus for a full minute, and then Garwood, readjusting his overcoat with a shrug of his shoulders, turned to walk away. The throng that had pressed closely about them silently parted to make a way for him, and he passed out of their midst. Rankin stood and gazed after him. He stood and gazed, and the people standing by in painful silence watched with him the figure of Garwood, rapidlymaking for the door, held as erectly and as dignifiedly as he could, for the man had need of all his dignity then. Rankin watched him out of sight. Then he turned. The crowd had found tongue, and a hum of voices arose. Several tried to speak to him.
“Served him just right,” some one began, sympathetically.
“You go to hell,” said Rankin, brushing the startled man aside. And then he went away, forgetting to post the Christmas letter his wife had intrusted to him.
Out in the drizzling holiday streets, Garwood hurried along, sick with the humiliation of the scene, but as he thought of it, his old habit of self-pity reasserted itself, and with this ruse he tried to lure back some of his old self-respect. So well did he succeed that when he reached home he was red with wrath and muttering. Emily, from her window, saw him coming, and hastened to meet him at the door.
“Why, Jerome, what is the matter?” she cried, when she saw his face.
He flung off his overcoat and hurled his hat at the rack.
“Well, I’ve seen your friend, Jim Rankin.”
“Jim Rankin?” she exclaimed. “What in the world has happened?”
“I never was so mortified in my life! I never endured such insolence, such ignominy, such abuse!”
“Why—tell me—dear, where was it?”
“In the post-office, in the most public place in town, before a crowd of people—Ach!” He shook his head in disgust and wrath.
“Why, what did he say—tell me!” Emily almost screamed.
“I met him accidentally, I greeted him, I told him I wished to see him, to talk to him. I was going to take care of him—I had it all arranged to fix the whole damned business—”
“Jerome!”
He had never sworn in her presence before.
“But he wouldn’t listen,” he rushed on. “He poured out upon me a perfect torrent of profanity and obscenity; it was disgusting, humiliating; I should have struck him down!”
“But you didn’t?” she asked, and her tone made her question half a plea. She bent toward him and laid her hands on his shoulders.
“No—I walked away.”
“That was right,” she smiled, “that was the dignified way.”
She looked at him in her sympathy. She had all the morning regretted her words of the evening before, though they had not recurred to them at all in the time intervening. And she was glad of some excuse for ridding her breast of the conviction out of which those words had been spoken.
“I haven’t any sympathy for him at all!” she exclaimed. “I did think—but this shows me how wrong I was, how I misjudged you. Can you forgive me, dear?”
She held her face close to his, and he stooped and kissed her.