Half a Rogue Part 21

The dogs growled. They seemed to realize that war of some kind was in the air.

"How?" asked Warrington. The man was a fool!

"You will go to Senator Henderson and tell him that you have reconsidered."

Warrington laughed. "I believed I knew all phases, but this one surpa.s.ses any I ever heard of. You have the nerve to ask me, of the opposition party, to refuse the nomination for mayor?"

"I have."

"Are you afraid of me?"

"Not of you, my lad," McQuade answered sardonically, spreading out his great hands. "Do I look like a man afraid of anything? But the thought of a stranger becoming mayor of Herculaneum rather frightens me. Let us have peace, Mr. Warrington."

"I ask nothing better."

"Withdraw."

"I never withdraw. I am not afraid of anything. I even promise to be good-natured enough to look upon this meeting as a colossal joke."

Warrington's cigar had gone out. He relighted it coolly. "If the nomination is offered me, I shall accept it; and once having accepted it, I'll fight, but honorably and in the open. Look here, McQuade, don't be a fool. You've something against me personally. What is it?

If I recollect, I ran across you once or twice when I was a newspaper man."

McQuade's eyes narrowed again.

"Personally, you are nothing to me," he replied; "politically, you are a meddler, and you are in my way."

"Oh, I am in your way? That is to say, if I am elected, there'll be too much honesty in the City Hall to suit your plans? I can readily believe that. If you can convince me that I ought not to run for mayor, do so. I can accept any reasonable argument. But bl.u.s.ter will do no good. For a man of your accredited ability, you are making a poor move, even a fatal one."

"Will you withdraw?"

"Emphatically no!"

"All right. Whatever comes your way after this, don't blame me. I have given you a fair warning."

"You have threatened."

"I can act also. And you can put this in your pipe, Mr. Warrington, that before October comes round, when the Republican convention meets, you will withdraw your name quickly enough. This is not a threat. It's a warning. That's all. I'm sorry you can't see the matter from my standpoint."

"Come, boy," said Warrington to his dog. "You had better keep your animal under the table."

McQuade did not move or answer. So Warrington grasped Jove by the collar and led him out of the private office. McQuade heard the dramatist whistle on the way to the elevator.

"So he'll fight, eh?" growled McQuade. "Well, I'll break him, or my name's not McQuade. The d.a.m.ned meddling upstart, with his plays and fine women! You're a h.e.l.l of a dog, you are! Why the devil didn't you kill his pup for him?"

McQuade sent a kick at the dog, who dodged it successfully, trotted out to the typewriter and crawled under the girl's skirts.

Warrington went home, thoroughly angry with himself. To have bandied words and threats with a man like McQuade! He had lowered himself to the man's level. But there were times when he could not control his tongue. Education and time had not tamed him any. Withdraw? It would have to be something more tangible than threats.

"Richard, you are not eating anything," said his aunt at dinner that evening.

"I'm not hungry, Aunty. It's been one of those days when a man gets up wrong."

"I'm sorry. Doesn't the play go along smoothly?"

"Not as smoothly as I should like."

"There was a long-distance call for you this afternoon. The Benningtons want you to come up at once instead of next week."

Warrington brightened perceptibly. He went to work, but his heart wasn't in it. The interview with McQuade insisted upon recurring. Why hadn't he walked out without any comment whatever? Silence would have crushed McQuade. He knew that McQuade could not back up this threat; it was only a threat. Bah! Once more he flung himself into his work.

Half an hour later the door-bell rang.

Chapter IX

Character is a word from which have descended two meanings diametrically opposed to each other. We say a man has a character, or we say he is one; The first signifies respect; the second, a tolerant contempt. There exists in all small communities, such as villages, towns, and cities of the third cla.s.s, what is known as a character. In the cities he is found loafing in hotel lobbies or in the corridors of the City Hall; in the hamlet he is usually the orator of the post-office or the corner grocery. Invariably his wife takes in washing, and once in a while he secures for her an extra order. If he has any children, they live in the streets. He wears a collar, but seldom adds a tie. He prides himself on being the friend of the laboring man, and a necktie implies the worship of the golden calf. He never denies himself a social gla.s.s. He never buys, but he always manages to be introduced in time. After the first drink he calls his new friend by his surname; after the second drink it is "Arthur" or "John" or "Henry," as the case may be; then it dwindles into "Art" or "Jack" or "Hank." No one ever objects to this progressive familiarity.

The stranger finds the character rather amusing. The character is usually a harmless parasite, and his one ambition is to get a political job such as entails no work. He is always pulling wires, as they say; but those at the other end are not sensitive to the touch.

On dull days he loiters around the police court and looks mysterious.

Cub reporters at first glance believe him to be a detective in disguise.

Herculaneum had its character. He was a pompous little man to whom the inelegant applied the term of runt. He never could have pa.s.sed the army examination, for he had no instep. He walked like a duck, flat-footed, minus the waddle. He was pop-eyed, and the fumes of strong drink had loosened the tear-ducts so that his eyes swam in a perennial mist of tears. His wife still called him William, but down town he was Bill. He knew everybody in town, and everybody in town knew him. There was a time when he had been on intimate terms with so distinguished a person as Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene. He will tell you to this day how he was wont to dandle her on his knee. Bill was one of those individuals of whom it is said: "He means well." In other words, he was a do-nothing, a ne'er-do-well. He had been comparatively rich once, but he had meant well with his money. One grand splurge, and it was all over. Herculaneum still recollects that splurge. When in his cups, Bill was always referring to those gorgeous days. Afterward, Bill and his family lived from hand to mouth. Occasionally, at Christmas, some of his old friends who felt sorry for him sent him a purse. Did Bill purchase turkey and coal and potatoes? No, indeed. He bought useless French toys for the children, who went hungry. Another time, when heartless winter returned and the price of coal went up, a church social was arranged for Bill's benefit. It netted him nearly a hundred dollars. But Bill didn't pay his landlord and grocer; not he!

He came down town the following day with a shiny plug-hat and a gold-headed cane.

Bill was a first-cla.s.s genealogist. He could tell you the history of every leading family in town. It took Bill to expose the new-rich; he did it handsomely. The way these breakfast millionaires lorded and landaued it highly amused him. Who were they, anyhow? Coal-heavers, hod-carriers, stock-speculators, riffraff, who possessed an ounce of brains and a pound of luck. Why, they didn't even know how to spend their money when they got it. But what could be expected of people who put iron dogs and wooden deers on their front lawns? But the Benningtons, the Haldenes, and the Winterflelds, and the Parkers,--they had something to brag about. They were Bunker Hillers, they were; they had always had money and social position. As for the Millens, and the Deckers, and the McQuades--pah!

Bill had a wonderful memory; he never forgot those who laughed at him and those who nodded kindly. He was shiftless and lazy, but he had a code of honor. Bill could have blackmailed many a careless man of prominence, had he been so minded. But a man who had once dined a governor of the state could do no wrong. His main fault was that he had neglected to wean his former greatness; he still nursed it. Thus, it was beneath his dignity to accept a position as a clerk in a store or shop. The fact that his pristine glory was somewhat dimmed to the eyes of his fellow citizens in no wise disturbed Bill. Sometimes, when he was inclined to let loose the flood-gates of memory, his friends would slip a quarter into his palm and bid him get a drink, this being the easiest method of getting rid of him.

Bill marched into the Warrington place jauntily. He wore a tie. Jove ran out and sniffed the frayed hems of his trousers. But like all men of his ilk, he possessed the gift of making friends with dogs. He patted Jove's broad head, spoke to him, and the dog wagged what there was left of his tail. Bill proceeded to the front door and resolutely rang the bell. The door opened presently.

"Is Richard in?" Bill asked. He had had only two drinks that evening.

"Mr. Warrington is in," answered the valet, with chilling dignity.

"What is your business?"

"Mine!" thundered Bill, who had a democratic contempt for a gentleman's gentleman. "I have important business to transact with your master. Take this card in to him. He'll see me."

The valet looked at the greasy card. The name was written in ink; the card was of the kind one finds in hotels for the convenience of the guests.

"I will take the card to Mr. Warrington," the valet promised reluctantly. There was, however, a barely perceptible grin struggling at the corners of his mouth. He was not wholly devoid of the sense of humor, as a gentleman's gentleman should at all times be.

"William Osborne? What the deuce does he want here?" asked Warrington impatiently.

"He said his business was important, sir. If it is half as important as he acts--"

"No comments, please. Show Mr. Osborne in."