Weeks passed. Sam Miller gave his whole time to the search for the missing girl. Jeff supplied the means; in every way he could he encouraged him and the broken mother. For a thousand miles south and east the police had her description and her photograph. But no trace of her could be found. False clews there were aplenty. A dozen haggard streetwalkers were arrested in mistake for her. Patiently Sam ran down every story, followed every possibility to its hopeless end.
The weeks ran into months. Mrs. Anderson still hoped drearily. Every night the light in the hall burned now till daybreak. And every night she wept herself to sleep for that her one ewe lamb was lost in a ravenous world.
Tears were for the night. Wan smiles for the day, when she and Sam, drawn close by a common grief, met to understand each other with few words. He was back again at his work as curator of the museum at the State House, a place Jeff had secured for him after the election.
Outside of Nellie's mother the one friend to whom Sam turned now was Jeff. He came for comfort, to sit long hours in the office while Farnum did his night work. Sometimes he would read; more often sit brooding with his chin in his hands. When the midnight rush was past and Jeff was free they would go together to a restaurant.
Afterwards they would separate at the door of the block where Jeff had his rooms.
Yet when Jeff found her it was not Sam who was with him, but Marchant. They had been to see Sobieski about a place Captain Chunn had secured for him as a night watchman of the shipbuilding plant of which Clinton Rogers was part owner. The Pole had mounted his hobby and it had been late when they got away from his cabin under the viaduct.
Just before they turned into lower Powers Avenue from the deadline below Yarnell Way, Marchant clutched at the sleeve of his friend.
“See that woman's face?” he asked sharply.
“No.”
Jeff was interested at once. For during the past months he had fallen into a habit of scanning the countenance of any woman who might be the one they sought.
“She knew you. I could see fear jump to her eyes.”
“We'll go back,” Jeff decided instantly.
“She's in deep water. Death is written on her face.”
Already Jeff was swinging back, almost on the run. But she had gone swallowed up in the darkness of the night. They listened, but could hear only the steady splashing of the rain. While they stood hesitating the figure of a woman showed at the other end of the alley and was lost at once down Pacific Avenue.
Jeff ran toward the lights of the other avenue, but before he reached it she had again disappeared. Marchant joined him a few moments later. The little socialist leaned against the wall to steady himself against the fit of coughing that racked him.
“Nuisance... this... being a lunger... What's it all... about, Jeff?”
“I know her. We'll cover the waterfront. Take from Coffee Street up. Don't miss a wharf or a boathouse. And if you find the girl don't let her get away.”
The editor crossed to the Pacific & Alaska dock, his glance sweeping every dark nook and cranny that might conceal a huddled form. Out of a sodden sky rain pelted in a black night.
He was turning away when an empty banana crate behind him crashed down from a pyramid of them. Jeff whirled, was upon her in an instant before she could escape.
She was shrinking against the wall of the warehouse, her face a tragic mask in its haggard pallor, a white outline clenched hard against the driving rain. One hand was at her heart, the other beat against the air to hold him back.
“Nellie!” he cried.
“What do you want? Let me alone! Let me alone!” She was panting like a spent deer, and in her wild eyes he saw the hunted look of a forest creature at bay.
“We've looked everywhere for you. I've come to take you home.”
“Home!” Her strange laughter mocked the word. “There's no home for folks like me in this world.”
“Your mother is breaking her heart for you. She thinks of nothing else. All night she keeps a light burning to let you know.”
She broke into a sob. “I've seen it. To-night I saw it—for the last time.”
“It is pitiful how she waits and waits,” he went on quietly. “She takes out your dresses and airs them. All the playthings you used when you were a little girl she keeps near her. She—”
“Don't! Don't!” she begged.
“Your place is set at the table every day, so that when you come in it may be ready.”
At that she leaned against the crates and broke down utterly. Jeff knew that for the moment the battle was won. He slipped out of his rain coat and made her put it on, coaxing her gently while the sobs shook her. He led her by the hand back to Pacific Avenue, talking cheerfully as if it were a matter of course.
Here Marchant met them.
“I want a cab, Oscar,” Jeff told him.
While he was gone they waited in the entrance to a store that sheltered them from the rain.
Suddenly the girl turned to Jeff. “I—I was going to do it to-night,” she whispered.
He nodded. “That's all past now. Don't think of it. There are good days ahead—happy days. It will be new life to your mother to see you. We've all been frightfully anxious.”
She shivered, beginning to sob once more. Not for an instant had he withdrawn the hand to which she clung so desperately.
“It's all right, Nellie...All right at last. You're going home to those that love you.”
“Not to-night—not while I'm looking like this. Don't take me home to-night,” she begged. “I can't stand it yet. Give me to-night, please. I...”
She trembled like an aspen. Jeff could see she was exhausted, in deadly fear, ready to give way to any wild impulse that might seize her. To reason with her would do no good and might do much harm. He must humor her fancy about not going home at once. But he could not take her to a rooming house and leave her alone while her mind was in this condition. She must be watched, protected against herself. Otherwise in the morning she might be gone.
“All right. You may have my rooms. Here's the cab.”
Jeff helped her in, thanked Marchant with a word, got in himself, and shut the door. They were driven through streets shining with rain beneath the light clusters. Nellie crouched in a corner and wept. As they swung down Powers Avenue they passed motor car after motor car filled with gay parties returning from the theaters. He glimpsed young women in furs, wrapped from the cruelty of life by the caste system in which wealth had incased them. Once a ripple of merry laughter floated to him across the gulf that separated this girl from them.
A year ago her laughter had been light as theirs. Life had been a thing beautiful, full of color. She had come to it eagerly, like a lover, glad because it was so good.
But it had not been good to her. By the cluster lights he could see how fearfully it had mauled her, how cruelly its irony had kissed hollows in her young cheeks. All the bloom of her was gone, all the brave pride and joy of youth—gone beyond hope of resurrection. Why must such things be? Why so much to the few, so little to the many? And why should that little be taken away? He saw as in a vision the infinite procession of her hopeless sisters who had traveled the same road, saw them first as sweet and carefree children bubbling with joy, and again, after theWorldhad misused them for its pleasure, haggard, tawdry, with dragging steps trailing toward the oblivion that awaited them. Good God, how long must life be so terribly wasted? How long a bruised and broken thing instead of the fine, brave adventure for which it was meant?
Across his mind flashed Realf's words:
“Amen!” I have cried in battle-time,When my beautiful heroes perished;The earth of the Lord shall bloom sublimeBy the blood of his martyrs nourished.“Amen!” I have said, when limbs were hewnAnd our wounds were blue and ghastlyThe flesh of a man may fail and swoonBut God shall conquer lastly.
As Jeff helped her from the cab in front of the block where he lived a limousine flashed past. It caught his glance for an instant, long enough for him to recognize his Cousin James, Mrs. Van Tyle and Alice Frome. The arm which supported Nellie did not loosen from her waist, though he knew they had seen him and would probably draw conclusions.
The young woman was trembling violently.
“My rooms are in the second story. Can you walk? Or shall I carry you?” Farnum asked.
“I can walk,” she told him almost in a whisper.
He got her upstairs and into the big armchair in front of the gas log. Now that she had slipped out of his rain coat he saw that she was wet to the skin. From his bedroom he brought a bathrobe, pajamas, woolen slippers, anything he could find that was warm and soft. In front of her he dumped them all.
“I'm going down to the drug store to get you something that will warm you, Nellie. While I'm away change your clothes and get into these things,” he told her.
She looked up at him with tears in her eyes. “You're good.”
A lump rose in his heart. He thought of those evenings before the grate alone with her and of the desperate fight he had had with his passions. Good! He accused himself bitterly for the harm that he had done her. But before her his smile was bright and cheerful.
“We're all going to be so good to you that you'll not know us. Haven't we been waiting two months for a chance to spoil you?”
“Do you... know?” she whispered, color for an instant in her wan face.
“I know things aren't half so bad as they seem to you. Dear girl, we are your friends. We've not done right by you. Even your mother has been careless and let you get hurt. But we're going to make it up to you now.”
A man on the other side of the street watched Jeff come down and cross to the drug store. Billie Gray, ballot box stuffer, detective, and general handy man for Big Tim O'Brien, had been lurking in that entry when Jeff came home. He had sneaked up the stairs after them and had seen the editor disappear into his rooms with one whom he took to be a woman of the street. Already a second plain clothes man was doing sentry duty. The policeman whose beat it was sat in the drug store and kept an eye open from that quarter.
To the officer Jeff nodded casually. “Bad weather to be out all night in, Nolan.”
“Right you are, Mr. Farnum.”
The editor ordered a bottle of whiskey and while it was being put up passed into the telephone booth and closed the door behind him. He called up Olive 431.
Central rang again and again.
“Can't get your party,” she told him at last.
“You'll waken him presently. Keep at it, please. It's very important.”
At last Sam Miller's voice answered. “Hello! Hello! What is it?”
“I've found Nellie.... Just in time. thank God...She's at my rooms.... Have Mrs. Anderson bring an entire change of clothing for her.... Yes, she's very much exhausted. I'll tell you all about it later.... Come quietly. She may be asleep when you get here.”
Jeff hung up the receiver, paid for the whiskey, and returned to his rooms. He did not know that he had left three good and competent witnesses who were ready to take oath that he had brought to his rooms at midnight a woman of the half world and that he had later bought liquor and returned with it to his apartment.
Billie Gray thumped his fist into his open palm. “We've got him. We've got him right. He can't get away from it. By Gad, we've got him at last!”
Jeff found Nellie wrapped in his bathrobe in the big chair before the gas log. Her own wet clothes were out of sight behind a screen.
“You locked the door when you went out,” she charged.
“Some of my friends might have dropped in to see me,” he explained with his disarming smile.
But he could see in her eyes the unreasoning fear of a child that has been badly hurt. He had locked the door on the outside. She was going to be dragged home whether she wanted to go or not. Dread of that hour was heavy on her soul. Jeff knew the choice must be hers, not his. He spoke quietly.
“You're not a prisoner, of course. You may go whenever you like. I would have no right to keep you. But you will hurt me very much if you go before morning.”
“Where will you stay?” she asked.
“I'll sleep on the lounge in this room,” he answered in his most matter of fact voice.
While he busied himself preparing a toddy for her she began to tell brokenly, by snatches, the story of her wanderings. She had gone to Portland and had found work in a department store at the notion counter. After three weeks she had lost her place. Days of tramping the streets looking for a job brought her at last to an overall factory where she found employment. The foreman had discharged her at the end of the third day. Once she had been engaged at an agency as a servant by a man, but as soon as his wife saw her Nellie was told she would not do. Bitter humiliating experiences had befallen her. Twice she had been turned out of rooming houses. Jeff read between the lines that as her time drew near some overmastering impulse had drawn her back to Verden. Already she was harboring the thought of death, but she could not die in a strange place so far from home. Only that morning she had reached town.
After she had retired to the bedroom Jeff sat down in the chair she had vacated. He heard her moving about for a short time. Presently came silence.
It must have been an hour and a half later that Sam and Mrs. Anderson knocked gently on the door.
“Cars stopped running. Had to 'phone for a taxi,” Miller whispered.
The agitation of the mother was affecting. Her fingers twitched with nervousness. Her eyes strayed twenty times in five minutes toward the door behind which her daughter slept. Every little while she would tip-toe to it and listen breathlessly. In whispers Jeff told them the story, answering a hundred eager trembling questions.
Slowly the clock ticked out the seconds of the endless night. Gray day began to sift into the room. Mrs. Anderson's excursions to the bedroom door grew more frequent. Sometimes she opened it an inch or two. On one of these occasions she went in quickly and shut the door behind her.
“Good enough. They don't need us here, Sam. We'll go out and have some breakfast,” Jeff proposed.
On the street they met Billie Gray. He greeted the editor with a knowing grin. “Good morning, Mr. Farnum. How's everything? Fine and dandy, eh?”
Jeff looked at him sharply. “What the mischief is he doing here?” he asked Miller by way of comment.
All through breakfast that sinister little figure shadowed his thoughts. Gray was like a stormy petrel. He was surely there for no good, barring the chance of its being an accident. Both of them kept their eyes open on their way back, but they met nobody except a policeman swinging his club as he leaned against a lamp post and whistled the Merry Widow waltz.
But Farnum was not satisfied. He cautioned both Sam and Mrs. Anderson to say nothing, above all to give no names or explanation to anybody. A whisper of the truth would bring reporters down on them in shoals.
“You had better stay here quietly to-day,” their host advised. “I'll see you're not disturbed by the help. Sam will bring your meals in from a restaurant. I'd say stay here as long as you like, but it can't be done without arousing curiosity, the one thing we don't want.”
“No, better leave late to-night in a taxi,” Sam proposed.
“Better still, I'll bring around Captain Chunn's car and Sam can drive you home. We can't be too careful.”
So it was arranged. Mrs. Anderson left it to them and went back into the bedroom where her wounded lamb lay.
About midnight Jeff stopped a car in front of the stairway. The two veiled women emerged, accompanied by Sam. They were helped into the tonneau and Miller took the driver's seat. Just as the machine began to move a little man ran across the street toward them.
Jeff's forearm went up suddenly and caught him under the chin. Billie Gray's head went back and his heels came up. Farnum was on him in an instant, ostensibly to help him up, but really to see he did not get up too quickly. As soon as the automobile swung round the corner Jeff lifted him to his feet.
“Sorry. Hope I didn't hurt you,” he smiled.
“Smart trick, wasn't it?” snarled the detective. “Never mind, Mr. Farnum. We've got your goat right.”
“Again?” Jeff asked with pleasant impudence.
“Got you dead to rights this trip.” Gray fired another shot as he turned away. “And we'll find out yet who your lady friends are. Don't you forget it.”
But Billie had overlooked a bet. He had been in the back of the drug store getting a drink when Sam and Mrs. Anderson arrived. The policeman on guard had not connected the coming of these with Jeff. None of the watchers knew that Jeff had not been alone with the girl all night.
Sam called on Jeff two days later. “I want you to come round to-night at seven-fifteen. We're going to be married,” he explained.
The newspaper man's eye met his in a swift surprise. “You and Nellie?”
“Yes.” Miller's jaw set. “Why not? YOU'RE not going to spring that damned cant about—”
“I thought you knew me better,” his friend interrupted.
Miller's face worked. “I'll ask your pardon for that, Jeff. You've been the best friend she has. Well, we've thrashed it all out. She fought her mother and me two days; didn't think it right to let me give my name to her, even though she admits she has come to care for me. You can see how she would be torn two ways. It's the only road out for her and the baby that is on the way, but she couldn't bring herself to sacrifice me, as she calls it. I've hammered and hammered at her that it's no sacrifice. She can't see it; just cries and cries.”
“Of course she would be unusually sensitive; Her nerves must be all bare so that she shrinks as one does when a wound is touched.”
“That's it. She keeps speaking of herself as if she were a lost soul. At last we fairly wore her out. After we are married her mother and she will take the eight o'clock for Kenton. Nobody there knows them, and she'll have a chance to forget.”
“You're a white man, Sam,” Jeff nodded lightly. But his eyes were shining.
“I'm the man that loves her. I couldn't do less, could I?”
“Some men would do a good deal less.”
“Not if they looked at it the way I do. She's the same Nellie I've always known. What difference does it make to me that she stumbled in the dark and hurt herself—except that my heart is so much more tender to her it aches?”
“If you hold to that belief she'll live to see the day when she is a happy woman again,” the journalist prophesied.
“I'm going to teach her to think of it all as only a bad nightmare she's been through.” His jaw clinched again so that the muscles stood out on his cheeks. “Do you know she won't say a word—not even to her mother—about who the villain is that betrayed her? I'd wring his coward neck off for him,” he finished with a savage oath.
“Better the way it is, Sam. Let her keep her secret.. The least said and thought about it the better.”
Miller looked at his watch. “Perhaps you're right. I've got to go to work. Remember, seven-fifteen sharp. We need you as a witness. Just your business suit, you understand. No present, of course.”
The wedding took place in the room where Jeff had been used to drinking chocolate with his little friend only a year before. It was the first time he had been here since that night when the danger signal had flashed so suddenly before his eyes. The whole thing came back to him poignantly.
It was a pitiful little wedding, with the bride and her mother in tears from the start. The ceremony was performed by their friend Mifflin, the young clergyman who had a mission for sailors on the waterfront. Nobody else was present except Marchant, the second witness.
As soon as the ceremony was finished Sam put Nellie and her mother into a cab to take them to their train. The other three walked back down town.
As Jeff sat before his desk four hours later, busy with a tax levy story, Miller came in and took a seat. Jeff waved a hand at him and promptly forgot he was on earth until he rose and put on his coat an hour later.
“Well! Did they get off all right?” he asked.
Miller nodded absently. Ten minutes later he let out what he was thinking about.
“I wish to God I knew the man,” he exploded.
Jeff looked at him quietly. “I'm glad you don't. Adding murder to it wouldn't help the situation one little bit, my friend.”
Only the man who is sheet-armored in a triple plate ofselfishness can be sure that weak hands won't clutch at himand delay his march to success.—From the Note Book of aDreamer.
THE HERO, CONFRONTED WITH AN UNPLEASANT POSSIBILITY, PROVES HIS GREATNESS BY RISING SUPERIOR TO SENTIMENT
James came down to the office one morning in his car with a smile of contentment on his handsome face. It had been decided that he was to be made speaker of the House after the next election, assuming that he and his party were returned to power. Jeff and the progressives were to stand back of him, and he felt sure that after a nominal existence the standpatters would accept him. He intended by scrupulous fair play to win golden opinions for himself. From the speakership to the governor's chair would not be a large step. After that—well, there were many possibilities.
He did not for a moment admit to himself that there was anything of duplicity in the course he was following. His intention was to line up with the progressives during the campaign, to win his reelection on that platform, and to support a rational liberal program during the session. He would favor an initiative and referendum amendment not so radical as the one Jeff offered, a bill that would not cripple business or alarm capital. As he looked at it life was a compromise. The fusion of many minds to a practical result always demanded this. And results were more important than any number of theories.
As James passed into his office the stenographer stopped him with a remark.
“A man has been in twice to see you this morning, Mr. Farnum.”
“Did he leave his name?”
“No. He said he would call again.”
James passed into his private office and closed the door.
A quarter of an hour later his stenographer knocked. “He's here again, Mr. Farnum.”
“Who?”
“The man I told you of.”
“Oh!” James put down the brief he was reading. “Show him in.”
A figure presently stood hesitating in the doorway. James saw an oldish man, gray and stooped with a rather wistful lost-dog expression on his face.
“What can I do for you, sir?” he questioned.
“Don't you know me?” the stranger asked with a quaver in his voice.
The lawyer did not, but some premonition of disaster clutched at his heart. He rose swiftly and closed the door behind his caller.
A faint smile doubtful of its right touched the weak face of the little old man. “So you don't know your own father—boy!”
A sudden sickness ran through the lawyer and sapped his strength. He leaned against the desk uncertainly. It had come at last. The whole world would learn the truth about him. The Merrills, the Fromes, Valencia Van Tyle—all of them would know it and scorn him.
“What are you doing here?” James heard himself say hoarsely.
“Why, I—I—I came to see my son.”
“What for?”
Before so harsh and abrupt a reception the weak smile went out like a blown candle.
“I thought you'd be glad to see me—after so many years.”
“Why should I be glad to see you? What have you ever done for me but disgrace me?”
Tears showed in the watery eyes. “That's right. It's gospel truth, I reckon.”
“And now, when I've risen above it, so that all men respect me, you come back to drag me down.”
“No—no, I wouldn't do that, son.”
“That's what you'll do. Do you think my friends will want to know a man who is the son of a convict? I've got a future before me. Already I've been mentioned for governor. What chance would I have when people know my father is a thief?”
“Son,” winced the old man.
“Oh, well! I'm not picking my words,” James went on with angry impatience. “I'm telling you the facts. I've got enemies. Every strong man has. They'll smash me like an empty eggshell.”
“They don't need to know about me. I'll not do any talking.”
“That's all very well. Things leak out,” James grumbled a little more graciously. “Well, you better sit down now you're here. I thought you were living in Arkansas.”
“So I am. I've done right well there. And I thought I'd take a little run out to see you. I didn't know but what you might need a little help.” He glanced aimlessly around the well-furnished office. “But I expect you don't, from the looks of things.”
“If you think I've got money you're wrong,” James explained. “I'm just starting in my profession, and of course I owe a good deal here and there. I've been hard pressed ever since I left college.”
His father brightened up timidly. “I owe you money. We can fix that up. I've got a little mill down there and I've done well, though it was hard sledding at first.”
James caught at a phrase. “What do you mean?”
“Owe me money!
“I knew it must be you paid off the shortage at the Planters' National. When I sent the money it was returned. You'd got ahead of me. I was THAT grateful to you, son.”
The lawyer found himself flushing. “Oh, Jeff paid that. He was earning money at the time and I wasn't. Of course I intended to pay him back some day.”
“Did Jeff do that? Then you and he must be friends. Tell me about him.”
“There's not much to tell. He's managing editor of a paper here that has a lot of influence. Yes. Jeff has been a staunch friend to me always. He recognizes that I'm a rising man and ought to be kept before the public.”
“I wonder if he's like his father.”
“Can't tell you that,” his son replied carelessly. “I don't remember Uncle Phil much. Jeff's a queer fellow, full of Utopian notions about brotherhood and that sort of thing. But he's practical in a way. He gets things done in spite of his softheadedness.”
There was a knock at the door. “Mr. Jefferson Farnum, sir.”
James considered for a second. “Tell him to come in, Miss Brooks.”
The lawyer saw that the door was closed before he introduced Jeff to his father. It gave him a momentary twinge of conscience to see his cousin take the old man quickly by both hands. It was of course a mere detail, but James had not yet shaken hands with his father.
“I'm glad to see you, Uncle Robert,” Jeff said.
His voice shook a little. There was in his manner that hint of affection which made him so many friends, the warmth that suggested a woman's sympathy, but not effeminacy.
The ready tears brimmed into his uncle's eyes. “You're like your father, boy. I believe I would have known you by him,” he said impulsively.
“You couldn't please me better, sir. And what about James—would you have known him?”
The old man looked humbly at his handsome, distinguished son. “No, I would never have known him.”
“He's becoming one of our leading citizens, James is. You ought to hear him make a speech. Demosthenes and Daniel Webster hide their heads when the Honorable James K. Farnum spellbinds,” Jeff joked.
“I've read his speeches,” the father said unexpectedly. “For more than a year I've taken theWorldso as to hear of him.”
“Then you know that James is headed straight for the Hall of Fame. Aren't you, James?”
“Nonsense! You've as much influence in the state as I have, or you would have if you would drop your fight on wealth.”
“Bless you, I'm not making a fight on wealth,” Jeff answered with good humor. “It's illicit wealth we're hammering at. But when you compare me to James K. I'll have to remind you that I'm not a silver-tongued orator or Verden's favorite son.”
The father's wistful smile grew bolder. Somehow Jeff's arrival had cleared the atmosphere. A Scriptural phrase flashed into his mind as applicable to this young man. Thinketh no evil. His nephew did not regard him with suspicion or curiosity. To him he was not a sinner or an outcast, but a brother. His manner had just the right touch of easy deference youth ought to give age.
“Of course you're going to make us a long visit, Uncle Robert.”
The old man's propitiating gaze went to his son. “Not long, I reckon. I've got to get back to my business.”
“Nonsense! We'll not let you go so easily. Eh, James?”
“No, of course not,” the lawyer mumbled. He was both annoyed and embarrassed.
“I don't want to be selfish about it, but I do think you had better put up with me, Uncle. James is at the University Club, and only members have rooms there. We'll let him come and see you if he's good,” Jeff went on breezily.
James breathed freer. “That might be the best way, if it wouldn't put you out, Jeff.”
“I wouldn't want to be any trouble,” the old man explained.
“And you won't be. I want you. James wants you, too, but he can't very well arrange it. I can. So that's settled.”
In his rooms that evening Jeff very gently made clear to his uncle that Verden believed him to be his son.
“If you don't mind, sir, we'll let it go that way in public. We don't want to hurt the political chances of James just now. And there are other things, too. He'll tell you about them himself probably.”
“That's all right. Just as you say. I don't want to disturb things.”
“I adopted you as a father about a year ago without your permission. It won't do for you to give me away now,” the nephew laughed.
Robert Farnum nodded without speaking. A lump choked his throat. He had found a son after all, but not the one he had come to meet.
At the ensuing election the progressives swept the state in spite of all that the allied corporations could do. James was returned to the legislature with an increased majority and was elected speaker of the House according to program. His speech of acceptance was the most eloquent that had ever been heard in the assembly hall. The most radical of his party felt that the committees appointed by him were in their personnel a little too friendly to the vested interests of Verden, but theWorldtook the high ground that he could render his party no higher service than absolute fair play, that the bills for the rights of the people ought to pass on their merits and not by tricky politics.
Never before had there been seen at the State House a lobby like the one that filled it now. The barrel was tapped so that the glint of gold flowed through the corridors, into committee rooms, and to out of the way corners where legislators fought for their honor against an attack that never ceased. Sometimes the corruption was bold. More often it was insidious. To see how one by one men hitherto honest surrendered to bribery was a sight pathetic and tragic.
The Farnum cousins were the centers around whom the reformers rallied. James directed their counsels in the House and Jeff pounded away in theWorldwith vital trenchant editorials and news stories. Every day that paper carried to the farthest corner of the state bulletins of the battle. Farmers and miners and laboring men watched its roll of honor to see if the local representatives were standing firm. As the weeks passed the fight grew more bitter. Now and again men fell by the wayside disgraced. But the pressure from their constituents was so strong that Jeff believed his bill would go through.
His friends forced it through the committee and pushed it to a vote. House Bill 33, as the initiative and referendum amendment was called, passed the lower legislative body with a small majority. The pool rooms offered five to four that it would carry in the senate.
It was on the night of the twenty-first of December that the amendment passed the House. On the morning of the twenty-third theHeraldsprang a front page sensation. It charged that the editor of theWorldhad ruined a girl named Nellie Anderson at a house where he had boarded and that she had subsequently disappeared. It featured also a story of how he had been seen to enter his rooms at midnight with a woman of the street, who remained there until morning reveling with him. Attached to this were the affidavits of two detectives, a police officer, and the druggist who had furnished the liquor.
The story exploded like a bomb shell in the camp of the progressives. Rawson tried at once without success to get Jeff on the telephone. He was not at the office, nor had he reached his rooms at all after leaving theWorldbuilding on the previous night. None of his friends had seen or heard of him.
The afternoon papers had a sensation of their own. Jefferson Farnum had left Verden secretly without leaving an address. Evidently he had been given a hint of the exposure that was to be made of his life and had decamped rather than face the charges.
Rumor had a hundred tales to tell. The waverers at the State House chose to believe that Jeff had sold them out and fled with his price. It was impossible to deny the stories of his immorality, since it happened that Sam Miller, the only man who knew the whole story, was far up in the mountains arranging for a shipment of Rocky Mountain sheep to the state museum. Farnum's friends could only affirm their faith in him or surrender. Some gave way, some stood firm. The lobbyists and the opposition went about with confident, “I-told-you-so” smiles writ large on their faces. Within a few days it became apparent that the reform bill would be defeated in the senate. Its fate had been so long tied up with the people's belief in Jeff that with his collapse the general opinion condemned it to defeat. Its friends hung back, unwilling to risk a vote as yet.
The situation called for a leader and developed one. James Farnum stepped into the breach and took command. In a ringing speech he called for a new alignment. He would yield to none in the devotion he had given to House Bill Number 33. But it needed no prophet to see that now this amendment was doomed. Better half a loaf than no bread. He was a practical man and wanted to see practical results. Rather than see the will of the people frustrated he felt that House Bill I7 should be passed. While not an ideal bill it was far better than none. The principle of direct legislation at least would be established.
H. B. No. I7 was brought hurriedly out of committee. It had been introduced as a substitute measure to defeat the real reform. According to its provision legislation could be initiated by the people, but to make it valid as a law the legislature had to approve any bill so passed. The people could advise. They could not compel.
The speech of the speaker of the House precipitated a bitter fight. The more eager friends of H. B. No. 33 accused him of treachery, but many felt that it was the best possible practical politics under the circumstances. For weeks the issue hung in doubt, but gradually James gathered adherents among both progressives and conservatives. It became almost a foregone conclusion that H. B. No. I7 would pass.
“Old Capting Pink of the Peppermint,Though kindly at heart and good,Had a blunt, bluff way of a-gittin' 'is sayThat we all of us understood.When he brained a man with a pingle spikeOr plastered a seaman flat,We should 'a' been blowed but we all of us knowedThat he didn't mean nothin' by that.I was wonderful fond of old Capting Pink,And Pink he was fond o' me,As he frequently said when he battered me headOr sousled me into the sea.”—Wallace Irwin.
BULLY GREEN PRESERVES DISCIPLINE AND THE REBEL LEARNS TO SAY “SIR”