Slippy McGee, Sometimes Known as the Butterfly Man Part 17

And the s.p.a.ce once occupied by the other advertiser was headed:

OBITUARIES

That ghastly poetry in which the soul of the b.u.t.terfly Man reveled appeared in that column thereafter. It was a conspicuous s.p.a.ce, and the horn of rural mourning in printer's ink was exalted among us. It was not very hard to guess whose hand had directed those counter-blows.

When we met those two advertisers on the street afterward we greeted them with ironical smiles intended to enrage. They had at Inglesby's instigation been guilty of a tactical blunder of which the men behind the _Clarion_ had taken fiendish and unexpected advantage. It had simply never occurred to either that a small town editor might dare to "come back." The impossible had actually happened.

I think it was this slackening of his power which alarmed Inglesby into action.

"Mr. Inglesby," said the b.u.t.terfly Man to me one night, casually, "has got him a new private secretary. He came this afternoon. His name's Hunter--J. Howard Hunter. He dresses as if he wrote checks for a living and he looks exactly like he dresses. Honest, he's the original he-G.o.d they use to advertise suspenders and collars and neverrips and that sort of thing in the cla.s.sy magazines. I bet you Inglesby's got to fork over a man-sized bucket of dough per, to keep _him_. There'll be a flutter of calico in this burg from now on, for that fellow certainly knows how to wear his face. He's gilt-edged from start to finish!"

Laurence, lounging on the steps, looked up with a smile.

"His arrival," said he, "has been duly chronicled in to-day's press.

Cease speaking in parables, Bughunter, and tell us what's on your mind."

The b.u.t.terfly Man hesitated for a moment. Then:

"Why, it's this way," said he, slowly. "I--hear things. A bit here and there, you see, as folks tell me. I put what I've heard together, and think it over. Of course I didn't need anybody to tell me Inglesby was sore because the _Clarion_ got away from him. He expected it to die.

It didn't. He thought it wouldn't pay expenses--well, the sheriff isn't in charge yet. And he knows the paper is growing. He's too wise a guy to let on he's been stung for fair, once in his life, but he don't propose to let himself in for any more body blows than he can help. So he looks about a bit and he gets him an agent--older than you, Mayne, but young enough, too--and even better looking. That agent will be everywhere pretty soon. The town will fall for him. Say, how many of you folks know what Inglesby really wants, anyhow?"

"Everything in sight," said Laurence promptly.

"And something around the corner, too. He wants to come out in the open and be IT. He intends to be a big noise in Washington. Gentlemen, Senator Inglesby! Well, why not?"

"He hasn't said so, has he?" Laurence was skeptical.

"He doesn't have to say so. He means to be it, and that's very much more to the point. However, it happens that he did peep, once or twice, and it buzzed about a bit--and that's how I happened to catch it in my net. This Johnny he's just got to help him is the first move.

Private Secretary now. Campaign manager and press agent, later.

Inglesby's getting ready to march on to Washington. You watch him do it!"

"Never!" said Laurence, and set his mouth.

"No?" The b.u.t.terfly Man lifted his eyebrows. "Well, what are you going to do about it? Fight him with your pretty little _Clarion_? It's not big enough, though you could make it a handy sort of brick to paste him in the eye with, if you aim straight and pitch hard enough. Go up against him yourself? You're not strong enough, either, young man, whatever you may be later on. You can prod him into firing some poor kids from his mills--but you can't make him feed 'em after he's fired 'em, can you? And you can't keep him from becoming Senator Inglesby either, unless," he paused impressively, "you can match him even with a man his money and pull can't beat. Now think."

The young man bit his lip and frowned. The b.u.t.terfly Man watched him quizzically through his gla.s.ses.

"Don't take it so hard," he grinned. "And don't let the whole salvation of South Carolina hang too heavy on your shoulders. Leave _something_ to G.o.d Almighty--He managed to pull the c.o.c.ky little brute through worse and tougher situations than Inglesby! Also, He ran the rest of the world for a few years before you and I got here to help Him with it."

"You're a c.o.c.ky brute yourself," said Laurence, critically.

"I can afford to be, because I can open my hand this minute and show you the b.u.t.ton. Why, the very man you need is right in your reach! If you could get _him_ to put up his name against Inglesby's, the Big Un wouldn't be in it."

Laurence stared. The b.u.t.terfly Man stared back at him.

"Look here," said he slowly. "You remember my nest, and what that bluejay did for it? And what you said? Well, I've looked about a bit, and I've seen the bluejay at work.... Oh, h.e.l.l, I can't talk about this thing, but I've watched the putty-faced, hollow-chested, empty-bellied kids--that don't even have guts enough left to laugh....

Somebody ought to sock it to that brute, on account of those kids. He ought to be headed off ... make him feel he's to be shoo'd outside!

And I think I know the one man that can shoo him." He paused again, with his head sunk forward. This was so new a John Flint to me that I had no words. I was too lost in sheer wonder.

"The man I mean hates politics. I've been told he has said openly it's not a gentleman's game any more. You've got to make him see it can be made one. You've got to make him see it as a duty. Well, once make him see _that_, and he'll smash Inglesby."

"You can't mean--for heaven's sake--"

"I do mean. James Eustis."

Laurence got up, and walked about, whistling.

"Good Lord!" said he, "and I never even thought of him in that light.

Why ... he'd sweep everything clean before him!"

I am a priest. I am not even an Irish priest. Therefore politics do not interest me so keenly as they might another. But even to my slow mind the suitability of Eustis was apparent. Of an honored name, just, sure, kind, sagacious, a builder, a teacher, a pioneer, the plainer people all over the state leaned upon his judgment. A sane shrewd man of large affairs, other able men of affairs respected and admired him.

The state, knowing what he stood for, what he had accomplished for her farmers, what he meant to her agricultural interests, admired and trusted him. If Eustis wanted any gift within the power of the people to give, he had but to signify that desire. And yet, it had taken my b.u.t.terfly Man to show us this!

"Bughunter," said Laurence, respectfully. "If you ever take the notion to make me president, will you stand behind and show me how to run the United States on greased wheels?"

"I?" John Flint was genuinely astounded. "The boy's talking in his sleep: turn over--you 're lying on your back!"

"You won't?"

"I will not!" said the b.u.t.terfly Man severely. "I have got something much more important on my hands than running states, I'll have you know. Lord, man, I'm getting ready some sheets that will tell pretty nearly all there is to tell about Catocala Moths!"

I remembered that sunset hour, and the pretty child of James Eustis putting in this man's hand a gray moth. I think he was remembering, too, for his eyes of a sudden melted, as if he saw again her face that was so lovely and so young. Glancing at me, he smiled fleetingly.

CHAPTER X

THE BLUEJAY

When Mary Virginia was graduated, my mother sent her, to commemorate that very important and pleasant occasion, one of her few remaining treasures--a carved ivory fan which Le Brun had painted out of his heart of hearts for one of King Louis' loveliest ladies. It still exhaled, like a whiff of lost roses, something of her vanished grace.

"I have a fancy," wrote my mother to Mary Virginia, "that having been pressed against women's bosoms and held in women's hands, having been, as it were, symbols which expressed the hidden emotions of the heart, these exquisite toys have thus been enabled to gain a soul, a soul composed of sentience and of memory. I think that as they lie all the long, long years in those carved and scented boxes which are like little tombs, they remember the lights and the flowers and the perfumes, the glimmer and gleam of jewels and silks, the frothy fall of laces, the laughter and whispers and glances, the murmured word, the stifled sigh: and above all, the touch of soft lips that used to brush them lightly; and the poor things wonder a bit wistfully what has become of all that gay and lovely life, all that perished bravery and beauty that once they knew. So I am quite sure this apparently soulless bit of carved ivory sighs inaudibly to feel again the touch of a warm and young hand, to be held before gay and smiling eyes, to have a flower-fresh face bent over it once more.

"Accept it, then, my child, with your old friend's love. Use it in your happy hours, dream over it a little, sigh lightly; and then smile to remember that this is your Hour, that you are young, and life and love are yours. It is in such youthful and happy smiles that we whose day declines may relive for a brief and bright s.p.a.ce our golden noon. Shall I tell you a secret, before your time to know it? _Youth alone is eternal and immortal!_ How do I know?

_'Et Ego in Arcadia vixi!'_"

Mary Virginia showed me that letter, long afterward, and I have inserted it here, although I suppose it really isn't at all relevant.

But I shall let it stand, because it is so like my mother!

John Flint made for the schoolgirl a most wonderful tray with handles and border of hammered and twisted copper. The tray itself was covered with a layer of silvery thistle-down; and on this, hovering above flowers, some of his loveliest b.u.t.terflies spread their wings. So beautifully did their frail bodies fit into this airy bed, so carefully was the work done, that you might fancy only the gla.s.s which covered them kept them from escaping.

"You will remember telling me, when you were going away to grow up," wrote John Flint, "to watch out for any big fine fellows that came by of a morning, because they'd be messengers from you to the Parish House people. Big and little they've come, and I've played like they were all of them your carriers. So you see we had word of you every single day of all these years you've been gone! Now I'm sending one or two of them back to you. Please play like my tray's a million times bigger and finer and that it's all loaded down with good messages and hopes; and believe that still it wouldn't be half big enough to hold all the good wishes the Parish House folks (you were right: I belong, and so does Kerry) send you to-day by the hand of your old friend,

THE b.u.t.tERFLY MAN.

Mary Virginia showed me that letter, too, because she was so delighted with it, and so proud of it. I like its English very well, but I like its Irishness even better.