The Lash Part 9

"Yes, but why is he espousing such a notorious ticket?" inquired Packard. "It seems to me that he is beaten in advance, with a handicap like that, and ought to have sense enough to know it."

"He probably had his programme laid out months ago," replied the Colonel, "when he felt more secure than he does now. His opponents are cunning. They played foxy Judas till the last moment, and then they began to knife him. It's a slick game. He can't back down now, he's got to stand by his guns. To knuckle would be a confession of weakness, and that would be fatal. It looks to me as if he had a Waterloo coming in his own camp. They've got something up their sleeve, depend upon it. I wish I knew what it was."

Decidedly, the ordinary expressionless face of Shaughnessy, could he have heard this conversation, would have been worth seeing.

The momentous autumn day, peaceful and delightful, was in strong contrast to the turbulent scene within the hall, just before the Democratic convention was called to order. The galleries were packed with a nervous crowd, ripe for antic.i.p.ated excitement. That something big, not on the card, was about to happen, everyone was confident. And once and again the eyes of the ma.s.sed, fitful throng of spectators searched out Shaughnessy, standing un.o.btrusively in a corner of the great hall, always surrounded by excited, gesticulating delegates.

Shaughnessy was evidently saying little and his dead black eyes and ghastly face expressed less. Yet the thousands of eyes turned hungrily to him again and again, for the impression had gone forth that in some way the mute, mysterious boss was to be offered as a sacrifice, to the ends of treacherous a.s.sociates, on the altar of his own unscrupulous ambition.

Micky O'Byrn, of the Courier, detailed to do the descriptive touches of the convention, viewed Shaughnessy curiously from his position at the rear of the hall. "He looks like his own funeral," thought Micky, "but then, that's chronic with him." His gaze wandered interestedly over the ma.s.s of excited delegates swarming about the floor; his ears sought instinctively to gather something definite from the swelling babel of speech. Suddenly a low-toned voice sounded at his elbow in a communication evidently intended for a single ear, and that not Micky's.

O'Byrn's rapid sidelong glance verified his supposition. It was Goldberg, speaking softly to a delegate.

"Tom Grady, he'll do the trick," said Goldberg, and the two moved away.

Micky whistled softly. "Good move!" he remarked quietly to himself.

"He'll take 'em by storm." For it was evident that it was Tom Grady, the city's youngest and most fiery Democratic orator, who was to nominate the opponent to Shaughnessy's man. But who was this opponent? Micky wrinkled his brows, and, like the crowd in the galleries and many of the delegates themselves, fell to speculating, for the extraordinary thing about the situation was that while everybody was sure an opponent would be produced, n.o.body knew who he would be.

But now the convention was rapped to order, and delegates and audience alike fell into uneasy silence. The roll was called, the credentials were handed in, and in due time the temporary chairman retired in favor of the permanent inc.u.mbent. His selection had been railroaded through before it dawned upon the gathering that he was one of Shaughnessy's strongest adherents. So the boss had scored one. Dave Mulhill could be relied upon to look after him.

With the chair's call for nominations the excitement increased. It had rather been expected that, at this critical point of his political fortunes, Shaughnessy would decide to speak for himself, though he had never done so. He did not, however, and his man, Dennis Burns, was placed in nomination by Charles Heferman, a young lawyer who had of late dulled a formerly bright reputation by known dealings with the gang that ruled the city. Heferman's effort was able, though no enthusiasm was evident. No one could have grown enthusiastic over Shaughnessy's candidate.

Heferman finished and sat down, amid a ripple of perfunctory applause that boded ill for the boss' prospects. At that moment Micky O'Byrn chanced to be looking across the hall straight at Shaughnessy. The sinister face was unmoved, but the black eyes, momentarily alight with unwonted fire, were fixed intently at a point about midway of the hall.

In that instant Micky's keen vision beheld something that acted upon his intelligence like a galvanic battery, swiftly launching his wits upon previously unguessed channels of absorbing and profitable speculation.

"Next in order, nominations of President of the Council," announced Dave Mulhill from the chair, even before the faint applause which had greeted Heferman's speech had died away. The chairman's words produced an angry hubbub, and his evident reluctance to recognize a gentleman who was on his feet, demanding attention, had the effect of fanning the latent antagonism against the machine to a brighter blaze. Not until sundry groans and cries of "Gag!" and "Fair play!" were heard did Chairman Mulhill deign to recognize Hon. Thomas Grady, now known to all as the spokesman of the opposition.

Intense silence prevailed as Mr. Grady, recognized already as one of the leaders of the legislature, was reluctantly accorded the privilege of the floor. A silver tongue he had indeed, and a voice like the mellow, dulcet notes of an organ. Over six feet in height and with the bulk and carriage of a Viking, his handsome face flushed and his blue eyes alight with battle, he was a figure to command admiration. Added to these a splendid gift of oratory, the whole produced a combination of magnetic charm which they used to say was fairly hypnotizing to an audience.

The howl of delight with which the a.s.semblage received the ironical acknowledgment of the speaker to the chairman, for the privilege of the floor, indicated its temper toward Shaughnessy. The words of the orator flowed on, gathering fire as he warmed to the subject of the hopes and prospects of the city Democracy. He warned them that it was a critical moment, that the Fusionists had nominated a strong ticket. "It is one that we must reckon with," he declared. "You and I, secure in the knowledge of the good our party has done our beloved munic.i.p.ality, will utterly disclaim the necessity for this absurdly mistaken movement on the part of our friends, the visionary enemy. But even if that enemy be composed of so many wild-eyed Don Quixotes, mounted on their hobbies and fighting windmills, yet, friends, the issue, however ridiculous, is here." He turned and looked straight at Shaughnessy. "Gentlemen, it is as yet unmet. This is not a moment for any false and perhaps fatal step.

We owe it to ourselves to meet the enemy with a front that shall be utterly una.s.sailable to his a.s.saults."

Pausing imperturbably till the resultant applause had died away, the orator proceeded, in glowing periods, to discourse of the sovereignty of the people, of their right to choose their leaders, of the moment which had now arrived to reaffirm their convictions and pursue the highest of party ideals. While the address continued some clever, covert digs at Shaughnessy, the speaker, after the manner of his suave tribe, avoided the quagmires of ugly suspicions and half-guessed corruption that had characterized his party's administration of affairs during recent years.

With consummate tact he rather confined himself to broad generalities that fired the blood of his auditors and did not remind them of things that would chill enthusiasm. Mr. Grady urged them only to take the right step in time, to meet strength with strength,--this with another challenging look at Shaughnessy,--to enter the battle equipped for victory rather than defeat.

Now he was approaching the end of his discourse and had not named his candidate. They had hung upon every word, had drunk in the golden sentences that thrilled, that satisfied, yet did not reveal the name of the mysterious champion whose candidacy the orator was advocating. As he swung into his peroration, the piqued curiosity of the people had become almost pain. They were ripe for a shrieking chaos of enthusiasm, and he knew it. So, with gathered forces, with flashing eyes and voice that rang like a trumpet, he figuratively fired the powder train.

"And now," he cried, "you are awaiting the announcement of the man whose name among men is one to conjure with; the man, strong, able and of good repute, the man who is no man's man--" with a defiant gesture toward Shaughnessy that awakened tremendous enthusiasm,--"the man whose nomination here today means victory. Gentlemen, it is with pleasure that I nominate for the mayoralty of this city a man known to you all for years, for years the trusted, honored servant of our people; a man of achievement, of renown, of probity, of independence, of superb ability; a man who, under G.o.d, will rule for righteousness' sake and wear no man's collar; in a word, that distinguished jurist and gentleman, Judge Rufus Atwell Boynton!"

A roar like many waters followed, a roar like thunderous, storm-driven breakers upon a lonely beach, a roar of exultation. Lulling for a moment, the deafening din broke out afresh, again and again, as if it would never cease. Men cheered till they could no longer cheer, but squawked like chickens; standing with empurpled faces, brandishing their arms, cackling strangely, with ludicrous effort and with distended, bloodshot eyes. The gavel fell in vain; only a cannonade could have been heard in that babel of sound. As soon as the noise abated, through sheer force of physical exhaustion, a vote was railroaded through, the hostile chairman being helpless before the fierce faces and voices of this mob, for such it had become under the electrifying lash of Grady's words.

Judge Boynton was nominated by an overwhelming majority, even drawing from the forces pledged to the fortunes of the Shaughnessy candidate.

The tumult broke out again.

It was suddenly stilled. O'Byrn, from his chair near the rear, saw a thin white hand raised deprecatingly, marked a sardonic white face and inscrutable eyes, whose owner silently demanded attention. It was yielded with a promptness that was uncanny. Then Shaughnessy, erect in the midst of his ward delegation, spoke. His thin voice with a cold, underlying sneer, cut the air like a knife, penetrating to every corner of the hall.

"The majority rules," said Shaughnessy. "It is customary, in similar case, to move a unanimous nomination. I so move." The deposed boss sat down. The resultant applause was rather faint. Shaughnessy had somehow chilled the enthusiasm.

To Micky O'Byrn, sitting with knitted brows as the other nominations, involving a complete demolition of the Shaughnessy ticket, were hurried through, there was food for much serious thought and conjecturing. He noted the new candidate as he was brought before the convention and introduced, amid great enthusiasm, by Hon. Thomas Grady. He was older than Micky had imagined and he seemed wearied, almost ill. Still, reflected O'Byrn,--as he listened to the candidate's short speech of appreciation and of a.s.surances for the future, in the event of election,--it seemed strange that the Judge should not display more enthusiasm over an honor which had come to him so signally. Then he fell again to pondering, striving to put two and two together.

That the outcome seriously threatened the Fusionist movement was undeniable. In fact, that ticket was as good as defeated already, for it was robbed of an issue. Judge Boynton was a strong candidate, every whit as strong as Theodore Packard and in similar ways. Incredible as it might seem, Shaughnessy had been humiliated, practically kicked out by his party. But how had it happened? Micky frowned. "There's a n.i.g.g.e.r somewhere," he reflected, "if the c.o.o.n could only be found."

At the close of the convention Micky was walking thoughtfully down the street toward the office. It was then dusk and the lamps were being lighted. Someone joined Micky and quietly fell into pace with him.

O'Byrn glanced up. It was Slade.

"Funny thing that, over at the convention," remarked Micky. "I should have thought Shaughnessy was solid."

"Yes," answered Slade, placidly. "I should have naturally thought he was."

"Were you there?"

"You bet."

"Then tell me whether Shaughnessy gave Tom Grady the wink to spiel this afternoon," pursued Micky, "or is it my eyes?"

Slade looked at him keenly, then laughed quietly. "I'm sayin'

nothing--yet," said he, "but your eyes seem O. K. to me."

CHAPTER X

THE LITTLE RED DEVIL

Harkins looked up from his loaded desk, glancing at the clock. It was after ten. The city editor frowned heavily and called to Fatty, who was just pa.s.sing him on his way out.

"Stearns," he inquired, "have you seen O'Byrn? He has not reported, nor did he ask off for this evening."

"Perhaps he's sick, sir," nervously volunteered Fatty, who knew better but did not intend to give his co-worker away. "Seems to me he looked kind o' peaked yesterday."

"He could easily have sent word," doubtfully rejoined Harkins. "However, you might inquire and let me know. Or, if you see him, send him in here," and he turned to his desk.

Fatty went out. "Send him in here!" he chuckled grimly. "If he's stayed with that bunch he was with at six o'clock, Harkins would pa.s.s him on to the gold cure."

All the staff, save Harkins, knew it by this time. Micky, after a season of well doing that was protracted for him, had broken out again in one of his periodical sprees. It was not of the innocuous variety of indulgence that affords satiety in a single evening, leaving the victim remorseful and fortified against another lapse for an indefinite time.

Of such are the fortunate, who are immune from the wiles of a sleepless, diabolical appet.i.te. With Micky it was different. To resist a craving which never really slumbered meant real effort and unceasing vigilance.

To succ.u.mb meant usually an unrecking debauch of days, while the little red devil worked its sweet will with him, to finally leave him spent and shaken, a temporary sodden wreck. This was the grim enemy, coupled with an unreasoning love of roving, that had made him, rarely talented as he was, a shifting vagrant of the news. It had landed him, ragged and unkempt, at the door of the Courier office. Now it bade fair to cast him forth again, shipwrecked at this most prosperous point of his fortunes, to try once more a dreary, uncertain future, with the gibing ghosts of lost opportunities ever at his elbow; with the maddening memory of a forfeited love, the truest he would ever know, mocking him.

Fatty did not inquire for Micky at his lodgings, nor did he attempt to find him and give him Harkins' message. He omitted the first because he was well aware that Micky would not be found there for some time, the second because he did not care to meet O'Byrn and his crew, for fear that he would be drawn into the maelstrom. He knew Micky's insistence and Fatty was cautious. Thirdly, he felt a.s.sured that Harkins would be advised of the cause of Micky's absence in due time, and Stearns had no desire to figure as a bird of ill omen. So he went about his tasks and discreetly dodged places that might perchance hold the uproarious...o...b..rn and his riotous cronies.

Fortune was against Stearns, however, for it led him, in quest of an elusive item, into the rotunda of the Palace hotel. He met his man there, hastily secured his story, and started out. The entrance to the wine room was at one side. There was the sound of revelry within.

As Stearns was about to pa.s.s out, the swinging doors of the wine room were flung open and there appeared, flushed and disheveled, the riotous...o...b..rn. At sight of Fatty, who gasped and made a wild bolt to escape, Micky emitted a whoop of triumph and swooped down upon him. He captured him handily and despite his desperate struggles propelled him in headlong fashion into the wine room, for the Irishman was as wiry as he was slender. Stearns found himself in the center of a bibulous throng which included newspaper men, speedy young sports and a few odd bits of _debris_, picked up on the rising flood. They crowded about Fatty, some clamoring for introductions, some making facetious comment on the manner of his entrance, still others rendering him tribute in dubious song. For a moment the din was indescribable, while the "chemist" made ineffectual appeals for order. Then Micky managed to make himself heard above the babel in a demand for quiet.

"Fatness," said he, with a wave of his hand, "these are the Indians.

Indians, this are Fatty. Fatty, the Indians are drunk. Indians, Fatty ain't drunk now but he must be made so. Does it go?" A chorus of affirmative yells made answer.

"Now, Fatty," continued O'Byrn earnestly, "in meeting this little wish of ours for your subsequent comfort, be a gentleman. Don't show a grasping spirit, like the two meanest men on record. Never heard of 'em?

Well, one of 'em was asked by a friend to have a drink. Asked what he'd take he waited till the buyer had ordered a whisky and then says, 'Gimme two beers,' so as to get his ten cents' worth. Other one of 'em was worse 'n that. Friend asked him what he'd have, an' says he, 'If you don't mind, I'd rather have the money.' No, Indians, Fatty ain't like that. Ask him what he'll have, and the modesty of his demands would put those graspin' dubs to shame."

"Gee, Micky," gurgled Stearns, trying to squirm away, "I ain't got time, honest I ain't. I've got an a.s.signment."