Slippy McGee, Sometimes Known as the Butterfly Man Part 10

"I'd rather stay up--the air's better, and you can see so much farther," said Laurence. And he added hospitably: "There's plenty of room--come on up, yourself!"

"With one leg?" sarcastically.

"And two eyes," said the boy. "Come on up--the sky's fine!" And he laughed into the half-suspicious face.

The gimlet eyes bored into him, and the frank and truthful eyes met them unabashed, unwavering, with a something in them which made the other blink.

"When I got pitched into this burg," said the lame man thoughtfully, "I landed all there--except a leg, but I never carried my brains in my legs. I hadn't got any bats in my belfry. But I'm getting 'em. I'm getting 'em so bad that when I hear some folks talk bughouse these days it pretty near listens like good sense to me. Why, kid, I'm nut enough now to dangle over the edge of believing you know what you're talking about!"

"Fall over: I _know_ I know what I'm talking about," said Laurence magnificently.

"I'm double-crossed," said John Flint, soberly and sadly, "Anyway I look at it--" he swept the horizon with a wide-flung gesture, "it's bugs for mine. I began by grannying bugs for _him_," he tossed his head bull-like in my direction, "and I stand around swallowing hot air from _you_--" He glared at Laurence, "and what's the result? Why, that I've got bugs in the bean, that's what! Think of me licking an all-day sucker a kid dopes out! _Me!_ Oh, he--venly saints!" he gulped. "Ain't I the nut, though?"

"Well, supposing?" said Laurence, laughing. "Buck up! You _could_ be a bad egg instead of a good nut, you know!"

John Flint's eyes slitted, then widened; his mouth followed suit almost automatically. He looked at me.

"Can you beat it?" he wondered.

"Beating a bad egg would be a waste of time I wouldn't be guilty of,"

said I amusedly. "But I hope to live to see the good nut grow into a fine tree."

"Do your d.a.m.nedest--excuse me, parson!" said he contritely. "I mean, don't stop for a little thing like _me_!"

Laurence leaned forward. "Man," said he, impressively, "he won't have to! You'll be marking time and keeping step with him yourself before you know it!"

"Huh!" said John Flint, non-committally.

Laurence came to spend his last evening at home with us.

"Padre," said he, when we walked up and down in the garden, after an old custom, after dinner, "do you really know what I mean to do when I've finished college and start out on my own hook?"

"Put 'Mayne & Son' on the judge's shingle and walk around the block forty times a day to look at it!" said I, promptly.

"Of course," said he. "That first. But a legal shingle can be turned into as handy a weapon as one could wish for, Padre, and _I'm_ going to take that shingle and spank this sleepy-headed old town wide awake with it!" He spoke with the conviction of youth, so sure of itself that there is no room for doubt. There was in him, too, a hint of latent power which was impressive. One did not laugh at Laurence.

"It's my town," with his chin out. "It could be a mighty good town.

It's going to become one. I expect to live all my life right here, among my own people, and they've got to make it worth my while. I don't propose to cut myself down to fit any little hole: I intend to make that hole big enough to fit my possible measure."

"May an old friend wish more power to your shovel?"

"It'll be a steam shovel!" said he, gaily. Then his face clouded.

"Padre! I'm sick of the way things are run in Appleboro! I've talked with other boys and they're sick of it, too. You know why they want to get away? Because they think they haven't got even a fighting chance here. Because towns like this are like billion-ton old wagons sunk so deep in mudruts that nothing but dynamite can blow them out--and they are not dealers in dynamite. If they want to do anything that even _looks_ new they've got to fight the stand-patters to a finish, and they're blockaded by a lot of reactionaries that don't know the earth's moving. There are a lot of folks in the South, Padre, who've been dead since the civil war, and haven't found it out themselves, and won't take live people's word for it. Well, now, I mean to _do_ things. I mean to do them right here. And I certainly shan't allow myself to be blockaded by anybody, living or dead. You've got to fight the devil with fire;--I'm going to blockade those blockaders, and see that the dead ones are decently buried."

"You have tackled a big job, my son."

"I like big jobs, Padre. They're worth while. Maybe I'll be able to keep some of the boys home--the town needs them. Maybe I can keep some of those poor kids out of the mills, too. Oh, yes, I expect a right lively time!"

I was silent. I knew how supinely Appleboro lay in the hollow of a hard hand. I had learned, too, how such a hand can close into a strangling fist.

"Of course I can't clean up the whole state, and I can't reorganize the world," said the boy st.u.r.dily. "I'm not such a fool as to try. But I can do my level best to disinfect my own particular corner, and make it fit for men and safe for women and kids to live and breathe in.

Padre, for years there hasn't been a rotten deal nor a brazen steal in this state that the man who practically owns and runs this town hadn't a finger in, knuckle-deep. _He's got to go_."

"Goliath doesn't always fall at the hand of the son of Jesse, my little David," said I quietly. I also had dreamed dreams and seen visions.

"That's about what my father says," said the boy. "He wants me to be a successful man, a 'safe and sane citizen.' He thinks a gentleman should practise his profession decently and in order. But to believe, as I do, that you can wipe out corruption, that you can tackle poverty the same as you would any other disease, and prevent it, as smallpox and yellow fever are prevented, he looks upon as madness and a waste of time."

"He has had sorrow and experience, and he is kind and charitable, as well as wise," said I.

"That's exactly where the hardest part comes in for us younger fellows. It isn't bucking the bad that makes the fight so hard: it's bucking the wrong-idea'd good. Padre, one good man on the wrong side is a stumbling-block for the stoutest-hearted reformer ever born. It's men like my father, who regard the smooth scoundrel that runs this town as a necessary evil, and tolerate him because they wouldn't soil their hands dealing with him, that do the greatest injury to the state. I tell you what, it wouldn't be so hard to get rid of the devil, if it weren't for the angels!"

"And how," said I, ironically, "do you propose to set about smoothing the rough and making straight the crooked, my son?"

"Flatten 'em out," said he, briefly. "Politics. First off I'm going to practice general law; then I'll be solicitor-general for this county.

After that, I shall be attorney-general for the state. Later I may be governor, unless I become senator instead."

"Well," said I, cautiously, "you'll be so toned down by that time that you might make a very good governor indeed."

"I couldn't very well make a worse one than some we've already had,"

said the boy sternly. There was something of the accusing dignity of a young archangel about him. I caught a glimpse of that newer America growing up about us--an America gone back to the older, truer, unbuyable ideals of our fathers.

"I guess you'd better tell me good-by now, Padre," said he, presently.

"And bless me, please--it's a pretty custom. I won't see you again, for you'll be saying ma.s.s when I'm running for my train. I'll go tell John Flint good-by, too."

He went over and rapped on the window, through which we could see Flint sitting at his table, his head bent over a book.

"Good-by, John Flint" said Laurence. "Good luck to you and your leggy friends! When I come back you'll probably have mandibles, and you'll greet me with a nip, in pure Bugese."

"Good-by," said John Flint, lifting his head. Then, with unwonted feeling: "I'm horrible sorry you've got to go--I'll miss you something fierce. You've been very kind--thank you."

"Mind you take care of the Padre," said the boy, waiving the thanks with a smile. "Don't let him work too hard."

"Who, me?" Flint's voice took the knife-edge of sarcasm. "Oh, sure! It don't need but one leg to keep up with a gent trying to run a thirty-six hour a day job with one-man power, does it? Son, take it from me, when a man's got the real, simonpure, no-imitation, soulsaving bug in his bean, a forty-legged cyclone couldn't keep up with him, much less a guy with one pedal short." He glared at me indignantly. From the first it has been one of his vainest notions that I am perversely working myself to death.

"There's nothing to be done with the Padre, then, I'm afraid," said Laurence, chuckling.

"I _might_ soak him in the cyanide jar for ten minutes a day without killing him," mused Mr. Flint. "But," disgustedly, "what'd be the use?

When he came to and found he'd been that long idle he'd die of heart-failure." He pushed aside the window screen, and the two shook hands heartily. Then the boy, wringing my hand again, walked away without another word. I felt a bit desolate--there are times when I could envy women their solace of tears--as if he figured in his handsome young person that newer, stronger, more conquering generation which was marching ahead, leaving me, older and slower and sadder, far, far behind it. Ah! To be once more that young, that strong, that hopeful!

When I began to reflect upon what seemed visionary plans, I was saddened, foreseeing inevitable disillusion, perhaps even stark failure, ahead of him. That he would stubbornly try to carry out those plans I did not doubt: I knew my Laurence. He might accomplish a certain amount of good. But to overthrow Inglesby, the Boss of Appleboro--for he meant no less than this--why, that was a horse of another color!

For Inglesby was our one great financial figure. He owned our bank; his was the controlling interest in the mills; he owned the factory outright; he was president of half a dozen corporations and chairman and director of many more.

Did we have a celebration? There he was, in the center of the stage, with a jovial loud laugh and an ultra-benevolent smile to hide the menace of his little cold piglike eyes, and the meaning of his heavy jaw. Will the statement that he had a pew in every church in town explain him? He had one in mine, too; paid for, which many of them are not.