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THE CANDIDATE

A POLITICAL ROMANCE

BY

JOSEPH A. ALTSHELER

HARPER & BROTHERS

NEW YORK AND LONDON

Copyright, 1905, by HARPER & BROTHERS.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

THE CANDIDATE

I

THE NOMINEE

The huge convention-hall still rang with the thunders of applause, and

most of the delegates were on their feet shouting or waving their hats,

when Harley slipped from his desk and made his way quietly to the little

side-door leading from the stage. It was all over now but the noise;

after a long and desperate fight Grayson, a young lawyer, with little

more than a local reputation, had been nominated by his party for the

Presidency of the United States, and Harley, alert, eager, and fond of

dramatic effects, intended to be the first who should tell him the

surprising fact.

He paused a moment, with his hand on the door, and, looking out upon the

hall with its multitude of hot, excited faces, ran quickly over the

events of the last three or four days. Ten thousand people had sat

there, hour after hour, waiting for the result, and now the result had

come. The rival parties had entered their conventions, full of doubt and

apprehension. There was a singular dearth of great men; the old ones

were all dead or disabled, and the new ones had not appeared; the nation

was conscious, too, of a new feeling, and all were bound to recognize

it; the sense of dependency upon the Old World in certain matters which

applied to the mental state rather than anything material was almost

gone; the democracy had grown more democratic and the republic was more

republican; within the nation itself the West was taking a greater

prominence, and the East did not begrudge it. It was felt by everybody

in either party that it would be wiser to nominate a Western man, and,

the first having done so, the second, as all knew it must, now followed

the good example.

Moreover, both conventions had nominated "dark horses," but the second

nominee was the "darker" of the two. James Madison Grayson,

affectionately called Jimmy Grayson by his neighbors and admirers, was

quite young, without a gray hair in his head, tall, powerfully built,

smooth-shaven, and with honest eyes that gazed straight into yours. He

was known as a brave man, with fine oratorical powers and a winning

personality, but he had come to the convention merely as a delegate, and

without any thought of securing the nomination for himself. Not a single

vote had been instructed for him, but in that lay his opportunity. All

the conspicuous candidates were weak; good men in themselves, a solid

political objection could be raised against every one of them, and for a

while the voting was scattered and desultory. Then Grayson began to

attract attention; as a delegate he had spoken two or three times,

always briefly, but with grace and to the point, and the people were

glad both to see him and to hear him.

At last a far-sighted old man from the same state knew that the moment

had come when the convention, staggering about in the dark, could be

led easily along any road that seemed the path of light. He mentioned

the name of Grayson, putting it forward mildly as a suggestion that he

would withdraw at the first opposition, but his very mildness warded off

attack. Received rather lightly at first, the suggestion soon made a

strong appeal to the delegates. Nothing could be urged against Grayson;

he was quite young, it was true, but youth was needed to make a great

campaign--the odds were heavily in favor of the other party. Nor were

there lacking those who, expecting defeat, said that a young man could

bear it better than an old one, and a beating now might train him for a

victory four years hence.

Grayson himself was surprised when he heard the report, nor could he

ever be convinced that he would be nominated; he regarded the whole

thing as absurd, a few votes, no more, might be cast for him, but, as

was fit and decent, he withdrew from the hall. All those whose names

were before the convention were expected to remain at home or elsewhere

in the city, and Jimmy Grayson and his wife stayed quietly in their

rooms at the hotel.

Harley had believed this evening that the nomination of Grayson was at

hand. It was an intuitive sense, a sort of premonition that the

battalions were closing in for the final conflict, and he did not doubt

the result. He had just returned from a war on the other side of the

world, where he had been present as the correspondent of a great New

York journal on many battle-fields, and he often noticed this strained,

breathless feeling that the moment had come, just before the combat was

joined. Now this convention-hall was none the less a battle-field though

the weapons were ballots, not bullets, and Harley believed in his

intuition. At midnight the flood-tide swept in, bearing Grayson on its

crest, and, when they saw that he was the man, everybody flocked to him,

making the nomination unanimous by a rising vote.

Harley now stood a moment at the door, listening to the cheers as they

swelled again, then he stepped out and ran swiftly down the street. A

fat policeman, taking him for a fleeing pickpocket, shouted to him to

stop, but he flitted by and was gone.

It was only two or three blocks to the hotel, where Mr. Grayson sat

quietly in his room, and Harley was running swiftly, but in the minute

or two that elapsed much passed through his mind. After his long stay

abroad he had returned with a renewed sense, not alone of the power and

might of his own country, but also of its goodness; it was here, and

here alone, that all careers were open to all; nowhere else in the world

could a relatively obscure young lawyer have been put forward, and

peacefully, too, for the headship of ninety million people. It was this

thought that thrilled him, and it was why he wished to be the first who

should tell the young lawyer of it. He had made the acquaintance of

Jimmy Grayson the day before; the two had talked for a while about

public questions, and each had felt that it was the beginning of a

friendship, so he had no hesitation now in making himself an unannounced

herald.

He ran into the hotel, darted up the stairway--Jimmy Grayson's rooms

were on the first floor--and knocked at the door of the nominee. A light

shone from the transom, and he heard a quick, strong step approaching.

Then the door was thrown open by Mr. Grayson himself, and Mrs. Grayson,

who stood in the centre of the room, looked with inquiry at the

correspondent.

"Why, Mr. Harley, I'm glad to see you," said Mr. Grayson, with a

welcoming tone in his voice. "Come in, but I warn you that you cannot

interview me any further I'm not worth it; I've told you all I know."

Harley said nothing, but stepped into the room, closing the door behind

him. He saw that they yet knew nothing--there had been no messenger, no

telephone call, and the news was his to tell. He bowed to Mrs. Grayson,

and then he felt a moment of embarrassment, but his long experience and

natural poise came quickly to his aid.

"I do want to interview you, Mr. Grayson," he said, quietly; "and it is

upon a subject to which we did not allude in our former talk."

Mr. Grayson glanced at his wife, and her look, replying to his,

indicated the same puzzling state. Both knew that the chief

correspondent of one of the greatest journals in the world would not

leave a Presidential convention in the hour of birth to secure an

irrelevant interview.

"If I can serve you, Mr. Harley, I shall be glad to do so," said Jimmy

Grayson, somewhat dryly; "but I really do not see how I can."

"I am quite sure that you can," said Harley, with emphasis.

He listened a moment, but he did not hear any step in the hall nor the

jingling of any telephone bell. Both Mr. and Mrs. Grayson waited

expectantly, curious to see what he had in mind.

"If you were to be nominated for the Presidency, I should like to tell

the _Gazette_ what your programme would be--that is, what sort of a

campaign you would conduct," said Harley, deliberately.

Mr. Grayson laughed and glanced again at his wife.

"It is a wise rule for a man in public life never to answer

hypothetical questions; of that I am sure, Mr. Harley," he said.

"I am sure of it, too," said Harley.

Jimmy Grayson bit his lip. It seemed to him that the correspondent would

make a jest, and the hour was unfitting.

"I shall answer your question when I am nominated," he said.

"Then you will answer it now," said Harley.

A sudden flush passed over Mr. Grayson's face and left it white. Mrs.

Grayson trembled and glanced again at her husband, still in a puzzled

state.

"Your meaning is not clear, Mr. Harley," he said.

"It should be. When I left the convention-hall, two minutes ago, they

had just made the nomination unanimous. I wished to be the first to tell

the news, and I have had my wish."

The eyes of the nominee looked straight into those of Harley, but the

correspondent did not flinch. It was obvious that he was telling the

truth.

"The notifying committee will be here in a few minutes," he said. "Ah, I

hear their step on the stair now."

The tread of men walking quickly and the sound of voices raised in

eagerness came to the room. The powerful figure of Jimmy Grayson

trembled slightly, then grew rigid.

"I did not dream of it," he said, as if to himself; "nor have I now

sought to take it from others."

"Nor have you done so," said Harley, boldly; "because it belonged to no

man."

Mrs. Grayson stepped forward, as if in fear that her husband was about

to be taken from her, because at that moment the volume of the voices

and the trampling increased and paused at her door. Then the crowd

poured into the room and hailed the victor.

Harley slipped to one side, and no one in the committee knew that the

nominee had been notified already, but the correspondent never ceased to

watch Jimmy Grayson. He saw how the nature of the man rose to the great

responsibility that had been put upon him, how he nerved himself for his

mighty task. He stood among them all, cool, dignified, and ready. Harley

was proud that this was one of his countrymen, and when his last

despatch was filed that night he wired to his editor in New York:

"Please send me on the campaign with Grayson. I think it is going to be

a great one." And back came the answer: "Stay with him until it is all

over, election night."

The eyes of Harley, like those of so many of his countrymen, had always

been turned eastward. To him New York was the ultimate expression of

America, and beyond the great city lay the influence of Europe, of that

Old World to which belonged the most of art and literature. The books

that he read were written chiefly by Europeans, and the remainder by the

men of New England and New York. He had never put it into so many words,

even mentally, but he had a definite impression that the great world of

affairs was composed of central and western Europe and a half-dozen

Northern coast states of the American Union; beyond this centre of light

lay a shadow land, growing darker as the distance from the central rays

increased, inhabited by people, worthy no doubt, but merely forming a

chorus for those who had the speaking parts.

The course of Harley's life confirmed him in this opinion, which perhaps

was due more to literature than to anything else. With his eyes fixed

on New York, the desire to go there followed, and when he succeeded,

early, and became the correspondent of a great journal, he was soon

immersed in the affairs of that world which seemed the world of action

to him; and, being so much occupied thus, he forgot the regions which

apparently lay in the shadow, including the greater portion of his own

country.

Hence the two great Presidential conventions, in each of which Western

influences were paramount, and in each of which a Western man was

chosen, created upon him a new and surprising impression. He found

himself in the presence of unexpected forces; he became aware that there

was another way of looking at things, and this powerful sensation was

deepened by the personality of Mr. Grayson, in whom he saw intuitively

that there was something fresh, original, and strong; he seemed less

hackneyed and more joyous than the types that he found in the old states

of the Union or the Old World, and, because of this, the interest of

Harley, whose mind had a singularly keen and inquiring quality, was

aroused; the regions that apparently lay in the shadow might have enough

light, after all, and, seeing before him a campaign not less exciting

than a war, he resolved to stay in it until the last battle was fought.

He took out the telegram from his editor and read it over again with

keen satisfaction. "Out of one war and into another," he murmured. The

conventions had been held early; it was now only the first week in June,

and the election would be in the first week of November; before him lay

five months of stress and perhaps storm, but he thought of it only with

pleasure.

Harley always travelled light, carrying only two valises, and an hour

sufficed for his packing. Then, like the old campaigner that he was, he

slept soundly, and early the next morning he went again to the hotel at

which the Graysons were staying. He felt a little hesitation in sending

up a card so soon, knowing what swarms of people Mr. Grayson had been

compelled to receive and how badly he must stand in need of rest, but

there was no help for it.

While he sat in the huge lobby waiting the return of the boy, the hum of

many voices about him rose almost to a roar, varied by the rustling of

many newspapers. The place was filled with men, talking over the

thrilling events of the night before, the nomination and the nominee,

while every newspaper bore upon its front page a great picture of the

new candidate.

The boy came back with a message that Mr. Grayson would see him; and

Harley, a minute later, was knocking at the door, which the candidate

himself opened. This man, who was his own usher, was the nominee of a

great party, he might become the President of the United States--of

ninety million people, of what was in nearly every material sense the

first power in the world; and yet Harley, when in Europe, seeking

information from the youngest and least _attache_ of a legation, had

been compelled to go through an infinite amount of form and flummery.

The contrast was lasting.

"Come in," said Mr. Grayson, courteously, and Harley at once acted upon

the invitation. Mrs. Grayson, at the same moment, came from the inner

room, quiet and self-contained, and Harley bowed with respect.

"I dare say there is nothing you wish to ask me which a lady should not

hear," said Mr. Grayson, with a slight smile. "Mrs. Grayson is my chief

political adviser."

"It is no secret," replied Harley, also smiling. "I have merely come to

tell you that the _Gazette_, my paper, has instructed me to keep watch

over you from now until election night, and to describe at once and at

great length for its readers every one of your wicked deeds. So I am

here to tell you that I wish to go along with you. You are public

property, you know, and you can't escape."

"I know that," said Jimmy Grayson, heartily; "and I do not seek to

escape. I am glad the representative of the _Gazette_ is to be you. I do

not know what course your paper will take, but I am sure that we shall

be friends."

"The _Gazette_ is independent; its editor is likely to attack you for

some things and to praise you for others. But I am here to tell the

news."

"Then we are comrades for a long journey," said Jimmy Grayson.

Thus it was settled simply and easily by the two who were most

concerned, and Harley throughout the little interview was struck by the

difference between this man and many other famous men with whom in the

course of business he had held journalistic dealings. Here was a lack of

conventionality, and an even stronger note of simplicity and freshness.

The candidate, with his new honors, still held himself as one of the

people, it never occurred to him that he might assume a pose and the

public would accept it; he was democracy personified, and he was such

because he was unconscious of it. His perfect freedom of manner, which

Harley had not liked at first, now became more attractive.

"We leave at eleven o'clock for my home," said Mr. Grayson, "and arrive

there to-morrow morning. I have some preparations to make, but I shall

begin the campaign a day or two later."

"I intend to go with you to your town," said Harley. "You know the

compact; I cannot let you out of my sight."

Mrs. Grayson, a grave, quiet woman, spoke for the first time.

"You shall come along, not merely as a sentinel, but as one of our

little party, if you will, on one condition," she said.

"What is that?"

"On condition that you come to our house and take dinner with us

to-morrow."

Harley gave her a grateful look. He felt that the candidate's wife

approved of him, and he liked the approval of those who evidently knew

how to think. And it would be far pleasanter to travel with Jimmy

Grayson as a friend than as one suspected.

"I am honored, Mrs. Grayson," he said, "and I shall be happy to come."

Then he left them, and when he passed into the hall he saw that the

burden of greatness was being thrust already upon the Grayson family, as

callers of various types and with various requests were seeking their

rooms. But he hurried back to his own hotel, and as it was some distance

away he took the street-car. There he was confronted by long rows of

newspapers which hid the faces of men, and whenever a front page was

turned towards him the open countenance of Mr. Grayson looked out at him

with smiling eyes. Everybody was reading the account of the convention,

and now and then they discussed it; they spoke of the candidate

familiarly; he was "Jimmy" Grayson to them--rarely did they call him

Mr. Grayson; but there was no disrespect or disesteem in their use of

the diminutive "Jimmy." They merely regarded him as one of themselves,

and their position in the matter differed in no wise from that of Mr.

Grayson; it was a matter of course with both. To Harley, fresh from

other lands, it seemed in the first breath singular, and yet in the

second he liked it; the easy give-and-take promoted the smoothness of

life, and men might assume false values, but they were not able to keep

them. His thoughts returned for a moment to the least little _attache_

whose manner was more important than that of a Presidential nominee.

Harley, with his two valises, was at the station somewhat ahead of time,

as he wished to see Mr. and Mrs. Grayson arrive, curious to know in what

sort of state or lack of it they would come.

Mr. Grayson's intention of going at once to his home was not published

in the press, and there was only the ordinary crowd at the station, some

coming, some leaving, but all bearing upon their faces the marks of

haste and impatience. As the people hurried to and fro, the sound of

many tongues arose. There was nearly every accent of Europe, but the

American rose over and enveloped all. Many writers from other lands,

seeking only the bad, had pronounced the Babel coarse, vulgar, and

sordid; but Harley, seeking the good, saw in it men and women toiling to

better their condition in the world, and that fact he knew was not bad.

Through the station windows he saw the tall buildings rise floor on

floor, and there was a clang of car-bells that never ceased. In the

fresh morning air it was inspiriting, and Harley felt himself a part of

the crowd. He was no hermit. Life and activity and the spectacle of

people filled with hope always pleased him.

An ordinary cab arrived, and Mr. and Mrs. Grayson, alighting from it,

bought their tickets at the window, just like anybody else, and then

sought inconspicuous seats in the corner of the waiting-room, as their

train would not be ready for five minutes. In the hastening crowd they

were not noticed at first, but even in the dusk of the corner the

smoothly shaven face and massive features of Mr. Grayson were soon

noticed. His picture had been staring at them all from the front page of

the newspapers, and here was the reality, too like to be overlooked.

There was a sudden delay in the crowd; the two streams, one flowing

outward and the other inward, wavered, then stopped and began to stare

at the candidate, not intrusively, but with a kindly curiosity that it

considered legitimate. Harley had quietly joined the Graysons, and they

gave him a sincere welcome. The people unfamiliar with his face began to

speculate audibly on his identity.

The crowd in the station, reinforced from many side-doors, thickened,

and Mr. and Mrs. Grayson, under the gaze of so many eyes, became uneasy

and shy. Harley, who had been made a member of their party, found

himself sharing this awkward feeling, and he was glad to hear the

announcement that the train was ready.

The three abreast moved towards the gate, and the crowd opened a way

just wide enough, down which they marched, still under the human battery

of a thousand eyes. To Harley, although little of this gaze was meant

for him, the sensation was indescribable. It was something to be an

object of so much curiosity, but the thrill was more than offset by the

weight that it put upon one's ease of manner.

He saw many of the people--it was a curious manifestation--reach out and

touch the candidate's sleeve lightly as he passed. But Mr. Grayson, if

he knew it, took no notice and marched straight ahead, all expression

discharged from his face. Harley saw that this was the disguise eminent

public men must assume upon occasions, and he was willing that they

should keep the task.

When the great iron gate leading to his train was closed behind him,

Harley felt a mighty sense of relief. It seemed to him that he had run a

gantlet not much inferior to that through which the Indians put the

captive backwoodsmen, and the dark-red walls of the car rose before him

a fortress of safety.

It was an ordinary Pullman, and Mr. and Mrs. Grayson had not secured the

drawing-room, but the usual berths like Harley's, and he joined them in

their seats. He felt now a certain pleasure in the situation. The

pressure of circumstances was making him, in a sense and for the time

being, a member of their family. He was glad that the other

correspondents would wait to join the candidate at his home, as it gave

him a greater chance to establish those personal relations needful on a

long campaign that must be made together.

The whistle blew, the train moved, and they passed through miles of

city, and then through suburbs growing thinner until they melted away

into the clean, green prairie, and Harley, opening the window, was glad

to breathe the unvexed air that came across a thousand miles of the

West. He leaned back in his seat and luxuriously watched the quietly

rolling country, tender with the breath of spring, as it spun past.

That mighty West of which he had thought so little seemed to reach out

with its arms and invite him, and he was glad to go.

Presently he was aware of an unusual movement of people down the aisles

of the car, accompanied by a certain slowing of the pace when they

passed the seats in which the Graysons and he sat. They were coming from

the other cars, too, and now and then the aisle would choke up a little,

but in a moment the shifting figures would relieve it, and the endless

procession of faces moved on.

The Graysons, following Harley's example, were gazing out of the window

at the cheerful country, but the correspondent knew that Mr. Grayson was

fully conscious of this human stream, and that he himself was the cause

of it. Yet he lost none of his good temper even when some, venturing

further, asked if he were not the nominee, adding that it was a pride to

them to meet him and speak to him. In fact, the change from silence to

conversation was a relief to Mr. Grayson, varying the monotony of that

fixed gaze to which he had been subjected so long, and it was now that

Harley saw him in a most favorable guise. His consciousness of a great

talent did not interfere with a perfect democracy; it did not cause him

to assume an air that said to these people, "I am better than you, keep

your distance," but he gave the impression of ability solely through his

simplicity of manner and the ease with which he adapted himself to the

caliber of the person who spoke to him.

Thus the train swung westward hour after hour, and the procession

through the car never ceased. The manner of the candidate did not

change; however weary he may have grown, he was always affable, but not

gushing, and Harley, watching keenly, judged that the impression he made

was always favorable. He strove, too, to interpret this manner and to

read the mind behind it. Was Mr. Grayson really great or merely a man of

ready speech and pleasing address? Harley was willing to admit that the

latter were qualities in themselves not far from great, but on the main

contention he reserved his judgment. He was still divided in his

opinions, sometimes approving the complete democracy of the candidate

and sometimes condemning. He had been born in the South, in a border

state, and he grew up there amid many of the forms and formalities of

the old school, and the associations of youth are not easily lost. Nor

had a subsequent residence in the East brushed them away. This world of

the West was still, in many respects, new to him.

He ate luncheon in the dining-car with the Graysons, and he noticed the

bubbling joy of the black waiter who served them, and who showed two

rows of white teeth in a perpetual smile. Harley appreciated him so much

that he doubled his tip, but, as they were still watched by many eyes in

the dining-car, he felt a certain nervousness in handling his knife and

fork, as if the penalty of greatness, even by association, were too

heavy for him. Once his eyes caught those of Mrs. Grayson, and a faint,

whimsical smile passed over her face, a smile so infectious, despite its

faintness, that Harley was compelled to reply in like fashion. It told

him that she understood his constraint, and that she, too, felt it, but

Harley doubted whether it was in like degree, as he believed that in the

main women are better fitted than men to endure such ordeals. Mr.

Grayson himself apparently took no notice.

Harley returned to their car with the Graysons, but in the afternoon he

detached himself somewhat, and came in touch with the fluctuating crowd

that passed down the aisle--it was always a part of his duty, as well as

his inclination, to know the thoughts and feelings of outsiders, because

it was outsiders who made the world, and it was from them, too, that the

insiders came.

Harley found here that the chief motive as yet was curiosity; the

campaign had not entered upon its sharp and positive state, and the

personality of Mr. Grayson and of his opponent still remained to be

defined clearly.

The train sped westward through the granary of the world, cutting in an

almost direct line across the mighty valley of the Mississippi, and they

were still hundreds of miles away from the Grayson home. In going west

both parties had gone very far west, and the two candidates not only

lived beyond the Mississippi, but beyond the Missouri as well.

The prairies were in their tenderest green, and the young grass bent

lightly before a gentle west wind. In a sky of silky blue little clouds

floated and trailed off here and there into patches of white like

drifting snow, and Harley unconsciously fell to watching them and

wondering where they went.

The sun, a huge red ball, sank in the prairie, twilight fell, the ordeal

of the dining-car was repeated, and not long afterwards Harley sought

his bed in the swaying berth. The next morning they were in the home

town, and there were a band and a reception committee, and Harley

slipped quietly away to his hotel, being reminded first by the Graysons

that he was to take dinner with them.

He spent most of the day wandering about the town, gathering hitherto

unnoticed facts about the early life of Mr. James Grayson, which in the

afternoon he despatched eastward. Then he prepared for dinner, but here

he was confronted by a serious problem--should one so far west wear

evening clothes or not? But he decided at last in the affirmative,

feeling that it would be the safe course, and, hiding the formality of

his raiment under a light overcoat, he went forth into the street. Five

minutes' walk took him to the house of Mr. Grayson, which stood in the

outskirts, a red brick structure two stories in height, plain and

comfortable, with a well-shaded lawn about it. It was now quite dark,

but lights shone from several windows, and Harley, without hesitation,

rang the bell.

II

THE MAID

Harley's ring was not answered at once, and as he stood on the step he

glanced back at the city, which, in the dark, showed only the formless

bulk of houses and the cold electric lights here and there. Then he

heard a light step, and the door was thrown open. He handed his card to

the maid, merely saying, "Mr. and Mrs. Grayson," and waited to be shown

into the parlor. But the girl, whose face he could not see, as the hall

was dimly lighted, held it in her hand, looking first at the name and

then at him. Harley, feeling a slight impatience, stepped inside and

said:

"I assure you that I am the real owner of it--that is, of the name on

the card."

"What proof have you?" she asked, calmly.

Harley had heard recently many phases of the servant-girl question, and

this development of it amused him. She must be one of those ignorant and

stubborn foreigners--a Swede or a German.

"Suppose you take the proof for granted and risk it," he said. "Mr. and

Mrs. Grayson can quickly decide for you, and tell you whether I am

right."

"They have gone out for a little walk," she said, still standing in the

way, "and so many strange people are coming here now that I don't know

whether to show you in or not. Maybe you are a reporter?"

"Well, and what then?"

"Or worse; perhaps you are a photographer."

"If I am, you can see that I have no camera."

"You might have a little one hidden under your overcoat."

"It is night, and cameras are used in the sunshine."

"We have electric lights."

Harley began to feel provoked. There were limits to perverseness, or

should be.

"I am expected to dinner by Mr. and Mrs. Grayson," he said. "Will you

kindly cease to keep me waiting and show me in? I shall not steal any of

the furniture."

The maid was annoyingly calm.

"Mr. and Mrs. Grayson have not yet returned from a little walk which

they were afraid to undertake until it grew dark," she said. "But I

think I'll risk it and show you in if you will hold up your hand and

swear that you haven't a camera hidden under your overcoat."

Harley's sense of humor came to his aid, and he held up his hand.

"I do solemnly swear," he said.

He tried to see the face of this maid, who showed a perversity that was

unequalled in an experience by no means limited, but she stood in the

duskiest part of the dim hall, and he failed. He knew merely that she

was tall and slender, and when she turned to lead the way he heard a

faint sound like the light tinkle of a suppressed laugh. Harley started,

and his face flushed with anger. He had encountered often those who

tried to snub him, and usually he had been able to take care of himself,

but to be laughed at by a housemaid was a new thing in his experience,

and he was far from liking it.

She indicated a small parlor with a wave of her hand and said:

"You can go in there and wait. You have promised not to steal the

furniture, and, as the room contains only a piano, a table, and some

chairs, all of which are too big to be hidden under your overcoat, I

think that you will keep your promise."

She sped lightly away, leaving Harley trembling so much with amazement

and anger that he forgot for at least two minutes to sit down. When he

took off his overcoat he murmured: "Before Mr. Grayson thinks of ruling

the United States he should discipline his own household."

The house was quiet; he heard no one stirring anywhere. The light from

an electric lamp in the street shone into the parlor, and by its rays he

saw Mr. and Mrs. Grayson coming up the street. Then the maid had told

the truth about the "little walk," and he was early.

He leaned back in his chair and watched the pair as they approached

their own house. Evidently they had stolen these few minutes in the dark

to be alone with each other, and Harley sympathized with them, because

it would be a long time before the wife could claim again that her

husband was her own. They entered a side-gate, passed through the lawn,

and a minute later were welcoming Harley.

"We did not expect to be gone so long," said Mrs. Grayson; "but we see

that you have found the right place."

"Oh yes," said Harley; "a maid showed me in." Then he added: "I am very

glad, indeed, to have been invited here, but if you want any more

privacy I don't think you should have asked me; my kind will soon be

down upon you like a swarm of locusts."

Mr. Grayson laughed and took a stack of telegraph envelopes six inches

thick from a table.

"You are right, Mr. Harley," he said. "They will be here to-morrow,

ready for the start. There are more than twenty applications for space

on our train, and all of them shall have it. I don't think that the boys

and I shall quarrel."

Mrs. Grayson excused herself, and presently they were summoned to

dinner. Stepping out of a dusky hall into a brilliantly lighted room,

Harley was dazzled for a moment, but he found himself bowing when she

introduced him to "My niece, Miss Morgan, of Idaho." Then he saw a tall,

slender girl, with a singularly frank and open countenance, and a hand

extended to him as familiarly as if she had known him all her life.

Harley, although he had not expected the offer of the hand, took it and

gave it one little shake. He felt an unaccountable embarrassment. He saw

a faint twinkle in the girl's eye, as if she found something amusing in

his appearance, and he feared that he had made a mistake in coming in

evening-dress. He flushed a little and felt a slight resentment towards

Mrs. Grayson, because she had not told him of this niece; but he was

relieved for the moment by an introduction to the third guest, Mrs.

Boyle, an elderly lady, also a relative, but more distantly so.

Mrs. Boyle merely bowed, and at once returned Harley to the custody of

the niece from Idaho, of whom he felt some fear, her singular freedom of

manner and the faint twinkle that still lurked in her eye putting him on

edge. Moreover, he was assigned to a seat next to her, and, as obviously

he was expected to entertain her, his fear increased. This girl was not

only Western, but Far Western, and, in his opinion, there was none so

wise who could tell what she would do or say. He repeated to himself the

word "Idaho," and it sounded remote, rough, and wild.

"Uncle James tells me that you are a correspondent, the representative

of the New York _Gazette_," she said.

"Yes."

"And that you are to go with him on the campaign and write brilliant

accounts of the things that never happen."

"I am sure that Mr. Grayson was not your authority for such a

statement," said Harley, with a smile, although he did not wholly relish

her banter.

"Oh no, Uncle James is a very polite man, and very considerate of the

feelings of others."

"Then it is a supposition of your own?"

"Oh no, not a supposition at all; the New York newspapers sometimes

reach us even in Idaho."

Harley did not respond to her banter, thinking it premature, as she had

never seen him before. He could not forget the reserve and shyness

natural to him, and he felt a sense of hostility. He glanced at her, and

saw a cheek ruddier than the cheeks of American women usually are, and a

chin with an unusually firm curve. Her hair was dark brown, and when the

electric light flashed upon her it seemed to be streaked with dull gold.

But the chin held him with an odd sort of fascination, and he strove to

read her character in it. "Bold and resolute," he decided, "but too

Western, entirely too Far Western. She needs civilizing." He was rather

glad that he was going away with Mr. Grayson on the morrow and would not

see her again.

"I should think," she said; "that the life of a newspaper correspondent

is extremely interesting. You have all the pleasures and none of the

responsibilities; you go to war, but you do not fight; you enter great

political campaigns, but you cannot be defeated; you are always with the

victor and never with the vanquished; you are not bound by geographical

limits nor by facts, nor--"

"Excuse me, Miss Morgan," interrupted Harley, with dignity. "In my

profession, as in all others, there are irresponsible persons, but the

great majority of its followers are conscientious and industrious. If

you only knew how--"

"That sounds as if it had been prepared in advance," she exclaimed. "I

am sure that you have used it many times before."

"You must not mind Sylvia," said Mrs. Grayson, smiling her grave, quiet

smile. "She seldom means what she says, or says what she means."

"Aunt Anna," exclaimed Miss Morgan, "you are really too hard upon your

beloved niece. I never before dined with the staff correspondent of a

great New York newspaper, and I am really seeking information. Now I

wish to know if in his profession imagination is the most valuable

quality, as I have heard it said."

"Do you wish to embroil me with the press so early?" asked Mr. Grayson,

laughing.

"I have heard great tales about them and their daring," she persisted.

"I am not sure that even now he has not a camera concealed under his

coat."

"Why, Sylvia, what a strange thing to say!" exclaimed Mrs. Grayson.

But Harley started in his seat and flushed a deep red. "Miss Morgan, I

shall have to ask your pardon," he exclaimed.

Mr. and Mrs. Grayson looked at them in surprise.

"Here is something that we do not understand," said Mr. Grayson.

"Why, Uncle James, there is nothing strange about what I have said,"

continued Miss Morgan, with the most innocent face. "I thought all of

them carried cameras, else how do we get all the wonderful pictures?"

Harley felt inclined to tell the entire table his experience, but on

second thought he remained silent, as the girl from Idaho began to pique

him, and he was not willing that the advantage should remain wholly with

her, especially when she was from the very Far West. So he affected

complete indifference, and, when they asked him about his adventures in

the recent war on the other side of the world, he talked freely about

them, which he had never done before, because, like most Americans, he

was a modest man, enduring in silence lectures on the sin of boasting

from others who boasted as they breathed. Most of the time he spoke

apparently to Mr. and Mrs. Grayson, but he kept a side-look upon the

girl from Idaho who had played with him and humiliated him.

She became silent, as if satisfied with the flight of the arrows that

had gone already from her quiver, and seemed to listen with an air of

becoming respect; but Harley surprised once or twice the lurking twinkle

in her eye, and he was not sure that she was wholly subdued. Opposition

and difficulties always increased his resolve, and he doubled his

efforts. He spoke lightly of the kingdoms and republics whose fortunes

he had followed in a casual way and of the men whom the heave of affairs

had brought to the surface for a space, and always he kept that

side-look upon her. These relations, surely, would impress, because

what could she, a child of the Idaho wilds, know of the great world? And

its very mystery would heighten to her its coloring and effect.

Harley could talk well, all the better because he talked so rarely of

himself, and even now it was of himself only by indirection, because he

spoke chiefly of men whom he had known and deeds that he had witnessed.

Watching the girl closely with that side-look, he did not see the

twinkle reappear in her eye; instead she sat demure and silent, and he

judged that he had taken her beyond her depth. At last he stopped, and

she said, in a subdued tone:

"Did I not tell you, Uncle James, that imagination was the great quality

the correspondents need?"

Harley flushed, but he could not keep from joining Mr. Grayson in his

laugh. The candidate, besides laughing, glanced affectionately at the

girl. It was evident that his niece was a favorite with Jimmy Grayson.

"I shall ask Miss Morgan to tell me about Idaho," said Harley.

"It's quite wild, you know," she said, gravely; "and all the people need

taming. But it would be a great task."

When they went back to the drawing-room Harley and the girl were behind

the others, and he lingered a moment beside her.

"Miss Morgan," he said, "I want to ask your pardon again. You know it

was in the dark, and mine was an honest mistake."

"I will if you will tell me one thing."

"What is it?"

"Have you really got a camera with you?"

"If I had I should take a picture of you and not of Mr. Grayson."

Harley remained awhile longer, and Miss Morgan's treatment remained

familiar and somewhat disconcerting, rather like the manner of an elder

sister to her young brother than of a girl to a man whom she had known

only two or three hours. When he rose to leave, she again offered him

her hand with perfect coolness. Harley, in a perfunctory manner,

expressed his regret that he was not likely to see her again, as he was

to leave the next day with Mr. Grayson. The provoking twinkle appeared

again in the corner of her eyes.

"I don't intend that you shall forget me, Mr. Harley," she said,

"because you _are_ to see me again. When you come to Washington in

search of news, I shall be there as the second lady of the land--Aunt

Anna will be first."

"Oh, of course, I forgot that," said Harley, but he was not sure that

she had Washington in mind, remembering Mrs. Grayson's assertion that

she did not always mean what she said nor say what she meant.

The night was quite dark, and when he had gone a few yards Harley

stopped and looked back at the house. He felt a distinct sense of

relief, because he was gone from the presence of the mountain girl who

was not of his kind, and whom he did not know how to take; being a man,

he could not retort upon her in her own fashion, and she was able to

make him feel cheap.

The drawing-room was still lighted, and he saw the Idaho girl pass in

front of one of the low windows, her figure completely outlined by the

luminous veil. It seemed to him to express a singular, flexible

grace--perhaps the result of mountain life--but he was loath to admit

it, as she troubled him. Harley, although young, had been in many lands

and among many people. He had seen many women who were beautiful, and

some who were brilliant, but it had been easy to forget every one of

them; they hardly made a ripple in the stream of his work, and often it

was an effort to recall them. He had expected to dismiss this Idaho girl

in the same manner, but she would not go, and he was intensely annoyed

with himself.

He went to the telegraph-office, wrote and filed his despatch, and then,

lighting a cigar, strolled slowly through the streets. It was not eleven

o'clock, but it seemed that everybody except himself was in bed and

asleep. The lights in all the houses were out, and there was no sound

whatever save that of the wind as it came in from the prairie and

stirred the new foliage of the trees. "And this is our wicked America,

for which my foreign friends used to offer me sincere condolences!"

murmured Harley.

But he returned quickly to his own mental disturbance. He felt as he

used to feel on the eve of a battle that all knew was coming off, there

on the other side of the world. He was then with an army which he was

not at all sure was in the right; but when he sat on a hill-top in the

night, looking at the flickering lights of the enemy ahead, and knowing

that the combat would be joined at dawn, he could not resist a feeling

of comradeship with that army to which, for a time--and in a sense,

perhaps, alien--he belonged. Those soldiers about him became friends,

and the enemy out there was an enemy for him, too. It was the same now

when he was to go on a long journey with Jimmy Grayson, who stood upon a

platform of which he had many doubts.

He turned back to the hotel, and when he entered the lobby a swarm of

men fell upon him and demanded the instant delivery of any news which

he might have and they had not. They were correspondents who had come by

every train that afternoon--Hobart, Churchill, Blaisdell, Lawson, and

others, making more than a score--some representing journals that would

support Grayson, and others journals that would call him names, many and

bad.

"We hear that you have been to dinner with the candidate," said

Churchill, the representative of the New York _Monitor_, a sneering

sheet owned by one foreigner and edited by another, which kept its eye

on Europe, and considered European opinion final, particularly in regard

to American affairs; "so you can tell us if it is true that he picks his

teeth at table with a fork."

"You are a good man for the _Monitor_, Churchill," said Harley, sharply.

"Your humor is in perfect accord with the high taste displayed, and you

show the same dignity and consideration in your references to political

opponents."

"Oh, I see," said Churchill, sneering just as he had been taught to

sneer by the _Monitor_. "He is the first guest to dine with the

Presidential nominee, and he is overpowered by the honor."

"You shut up, Churchill!" said Hobart, another of the correspondents.

"You sha'n't pick a quarrel with Harley, and you sha'n't be a

mischief-maker here. There are enough of us to see that you don't."

Harley turned his back scornfully upon Churchill, who said nothing more,

and began to tell his friends of Grayson.

"He is an orator," he said. "We know that by undoubted report, and his

manner is simple and most agreeable. He has more of the quality called

personal magnetism than any other man I ever saw."

"What of his ability?" asked Tremaine, the oldest of the correspondents.

Harley thought a little while before replying.

"I can't make up my mind on that point," he said. "I find in him, so far

as I can see, a certain simplicity, I might almost say an innocence,

which is remarkable. He is unlike the other public men whom I have met,

but I don't know whether this innocence indicates superficiality or a

tact and skill lying so deep that he is able to plan an ambush for the

best of his enemies."

"Well, we are to be with him five months," said Tremaine, "and it is our

business to find out."

III

THE START

They were to start at dawn the next day, going back to Chicago, where

the campaign would be opened, and Harley, ever alert, was dressing while

it was yet dusk. From a corner of the dining-room, where he snatched a

quick breakfast, he saw the sun shoot out of the prairie like a great

red cannon-ball and the world swim up into a sea of rosy light. Then he

ran for the special train, which was puffing and whistling at the

station, and the flock of correspondents was at his heels.

Harley saw Mr. and Mrs. Grayson alighting from a cab, and, satisfied

with the one glance, he entered the car and sought his place. Always,

like the trained soldier, he located his camp, or rather base, before

beginning his operations, and he made himself comfortable there with his

fellows until the train was well clear of the city and the straggling

suburbs that hung to it like a ragged fringe. Then he decided to go into

the next coach to see Mr. and Mrs. Grayson, making, as it were, a dinner

call.

The candidate and his wife had taken the drawing-room, not from any

desire of his for seclusion or as an artificial aid to greatness, but

because he saw that it was necessary if he would have any time for

thought or rest. Harley approached the compartment, expecting to be

announced by the porter, but a veiled lady in the seat next to it rose

up before him. She lifted the veil, which was not a disguise, instead

being intended merely as a protection against the dust that one gathers

on a railroad journey, and Harley stopped in surprise.

"And so you see, Mr. Correspondent," she said, "that your farewell was

useless. You behold me again inside of twelve hours. I wanted to tell

you last night that I was going on this train, as Uncle James has great

confidence in my political judgment and feels the constant need of my

advice, but I was afraid you would not believe me. So I have preferred

to let you see for yourself."

She gave Harley a look which he could not interpret as anything but

saucy, and his attention was called again by the bold, fine curve of her

chin, and he was saying to himself: "A wild life in the mountains surely

develops courage and self-reliance, but at the expense of the more

delicate and more attractive qualities." Then he said aloud, and

politely:

"I see no reason, Miss Morgan, why you should have credited me with a

lack of faith in your word. Have I said anything to induce such a belief

in your mind?"

"No, you have merely looked it."

"I do not always look as I feel," said Harley, in embarrassment, "and I

want to tell you, Miss Morgan, that I am very glad you are going with us

on this Chicago trip."

"You look as if you meant that," she said, gravely; "but if I am to take

you at your word, you mean nothing of the kind."

"I do mean it; I assure you I do," said Harley, hastily. "But are Mr.

and Mrs. Grayson ready to receive visitors?"

"That depends. I am not sure that I want Uncle James interviewed so

early in the day. At least I want to know in advance the subject of the

interview. You can give me, as it were, the heads of your discourse.

Come, tell me, and I will render a decision."

She regarded Harley with a grave face, and he was divided between

vexation and a sort of reluctant admiration of her coolness. She was

bold and forward, not to say impertinent, but she seemed wholly

unconscious of it, and, after all, she was from one of the wildest parts

of Idaho. He kindly excused much of her conduct on the ground of early

association.

"I do not seek to interview any one," he said; "I merely wish to pay my

respects to Mr. and Mrs. Grayson, having been their guest, as you know."

"Oh, then you can go in," she said, and, calling to the porter, she told

him to announce Mr. Harley, of the New York _Gazette_. "Of the New York

_Gazette_," she said again, with what Harley considered unnecessary

repetition and emphasis, and he had a new count against her.

Mr. and Mrs. Grayson received him with courtesy, even with warmth, and

Harley saw that he had made new progress in their esteem. He remained

with them only a few minutes, and he said nothing about the

objectionable conduct of Miss Morgan, who had set herself as a guard

upon their door. He deemed it wiser to make no reference to her at all,

because she was only an insignificant and momentary incident of the

campaign, not really relevant. Chicago was merely a beginning, and they

would drop her there. When he returned from the drawing-room, she was

still sitting near the door, and at his appearance she looked up pertly.

"Did you find him in a good-humor?" she asked.

"I think Mr. Grayson is always in a good-humor, or at least he is able

to appear so."

"I doubt whether perpetual good-humor, or the appearance of it, is

desirable. One ought to make a difference in favor of friends; I do not

care to present an amiable face to my enemies."

She pursed up her lips and looked thoughtful.

"When Uncle James goes to Washington to take the Presidency," she

continued, "he will need me to protect him from the people who have no

business with him."

"I hope the last remark is not personal?"

"Oh no," she said; "I recognize the fact that the press must be

tolerated."

Harley again felt piqued, and, not willing to retire with the sense of

defeat fresh upon him, he sat down near her and began to talk to her of

her Western life. He wished to know more about the genesis and progress

of a girl who seemed to him so strange, but he was not able to confine

her to certain channels of narrative. She was flippant and vague, full

of allusions to wild things like Indians or buffaloes or grizzly bears,

but with no detailed statement, and Harley gathered that her childhood

had been in complete touch with these primitive facts. Only such early

associations could account for the absence of so many conventions.

The correspondents who travelled with Harley were mostly men of

experience, readily adaptable, and the addition of a new member to Mr.

Grayson's party could not escape their attention. Harley was surprised

and shocked to find that all of them were well acquainted with Miss

Morgan inside of six hours, and that they seemed to be much better

comrades with her than he had been. Hobart, the most frivolous of the

lot, and the most careless of speech, returning from the Grayson car,

informed him that she was a "great girl, as fine as silk."

"That's a queer expression to apply to a lady," said Harley. "It smacks

of the Bowery."

"And what if it does?" replied Hobart, coolly. "I often find the Bowery

both terse and truthful. And in this case the expression fits Miss

Morgan. She's the real article--no fuss and frills, just a daughter of

the West, never pretending that she is what she isn't. I heard her speak

of you, Harley, and I don't think she likes you, old man. What have you

been doing?"

"I hope I have been behaving as a gentleman should," replied Harley,

with some asperity; "and if I have been unlucky enough to incur her

dislike, I shall endure it as best I can."

He spoke in an indifferent tone, as if his endurance would not be

severely tested.

"But you are missing a good time," said Hobart. "There are not less than

a dozen of us at her feet, and the Grayson car is full of jollity. I'm

going back."

He returned to the car, and Harley was left alone just then, as he

wished to be, and with an effort he dismissed Miss Morgan from his

thoughts. Mr. Grayson would speak that night in Chicago, and an audience

of twenty thousand people was assured; this fact and the other one, that

it would be his initial address, making the event of the first

importance.

Harley as a correspondent was able not only to chronicle facts, which is

no great feat, but also to tell why, to state the connection between

them, and to re-create the atmosphere in which those facts occurred and

which made them possible. He was well aware that a fact was dependent

for its quality--that is, for its degree of good or evil--upon its

surrounding atmosphere, just as a man is influenced by the air that he

breathes, and for this reason he wished to send in advance a despatch

about Mr. Grayson and his personality as created by his birth and

associations.

He rested his pad on the car-seat and began to write, but Miss Morgan

intruded herself in the first line. This question of character, created

by environment, would apply to her as well as to her uncle; but Harley,

angrily refusing to consider it, tore off the sheet of paper and,

throwing it on the floor, began again. The second trial was more

successful, and he soon became absorbed in the effort to describe Mr.

Grayson and his remarkable personality, which might be either deep and

complex or of the simplest Western type.

As he wrote Harley became more and more absorbed in his subject, and

with the absorption came spontaneity. He did not know how well he was

writing, nor what a vivid picture he was presenting to the vast Eastern

population to whom Jimmy Grayson was as yet but a name. It was a

despatch that became famous, reprinted all over the Union, and quoted as

the first description of the candidate as he really was--that is, of the

man. And yet Harley, reading it days later, recognized in it something

that nobody else saw. It was a blend. In every fourth line Sylvia Morgan

again, and despite his efforts, had obtruded herself. He had borrowed

something from her to add to Jimmy Grayson, and he felt that he had been

seeking excuses for her manner.

But this fact did not impinge upon Harley now, when he read the

despatch preparatory to filing it at Chicago. He merely felt that he had

made an attempt to solve Jimmy Grayson, and in doing so had fulfilled

his duty.

As he folded up the article the loud voice of Hobart hailed him from the

other end of the car, and he beheld that irresponsible man entering with

the candidate's niece.

"You see what he has been about all this time, Miss Morgan?" said

Hobart. "He has been at work. Harley, you know, is the only

conscientious man among us."

"I have remarked already his devotion to duty," she said, sedately; "but

do you think, Mr. Hobart, we should disturb him now? We do not know that

he has finished his task."

Harley flushed. He did not wish to be thought a prig or one who made a

pretence of great industry, and, although Miss Morgan's voice was

without expression, he believed that irony lay hidden somewhere in it.

"You are mistaken," he said; "my work is over, for the time, at least.

It was something that had to be done, or I should not have stolen off

here alone."

Then he went back with them to the Grayson car, where a joyous group had

gathered. Mr. and Mrs. Grayson were in the drawing-room, with the door

shut, working upon the candidate's speech at Chicago, Harley surmised,

and hence there was no restraint. Of this group the girl from Idaho was

the centre and the sun. She seemed to be on good terms with them all, to

the great surprise of Harley, who had known her longer than they, and

who had not been able to get on with her at all, and he sat rather on

the fringe of the throng, saying but little.

Again she inspired him with hostility; she seemed, as before, too bold,

too boisterous, too much the mountain maid, although he could not

analyze any particular incident as wrong in itself. And clearly she had

won the liking, even the admiration, of his associates, all of whom were

men of wide experience. Tremaine, the dean of the corps, a ruddy,

white-haired old fellow, who had written despatches from the

Russo-Turkish war, which was ancient history to Harley, warmed visibly

to Miss Morgan. "It is always the way with those old gallants," was

Harley's silent comment. But he had never before characterized Tremaine

in such a manner.

He was afraid of her sharp tongue, knowing that a woman in such respects

is never averse to taking an unfair advantage of a man; but she paid no

heed to him, talking with the others and passing over him as if he had

not been present; and, while this was what he wanted in the first place,

yet, now that he had it, he resented it as something undeserved. But if

she would not speak to him, he, too, would keep silence, a silence which

he was convinced had in it a disdainful quality; hence it was not

without a certain comfort and satisfaction.

But Harley was forced to admit that if she was of the bold and

boisterous type, she was a favorable specimen within those unfavorable

limits. While she was familiar, in a measure, with these men, yet she

was able to keep them at the proper distance, and no one presumed, in

any respect. She radiated purity and innocence, and it was to ignorance

only that Harley now charged her faults.

They reached Chicago the next morning, and at noon Hobart knocked at the

door of Harley's room at the hotel.

"There is some idle time this afternoon," said Hobart, "and Tremaine and

I have asked Miss Morgan to go driving. She has accepted, but it takes

four to make a party, and you are the lucky fourth."

He allowed no protestations, and, after all, Harley, who had been under

much strain for some time, was not averse to an hour or two in the fresh

air.

"Miss Morgan has never been in Chicago before," said Hobart, "and it is

our duty to show it to her."

Hobart, who drove, put Miss Morgan upon the seat beside him, and

Tremaine and Harley, who sat behind, occupied what was to some extent

the post of disadvantage; but Tremaine, safe in his years, would not

permit the rear seat to be neglected. He talked constantly, and her

face, of necessity, was often turned to them, giving Harley opportunity

to see that it had a most becoming flush.

She had an eager interest in everything--the tall buildings, the

wind-swept streets, and the glimpses of the wide, green lake. Harley saw

that Chicago bulked much more largely in her imagination than in his,

and he began to fear that he had been neglectful; it was the most

concrete expression of the West, and, as the greatest achievement of a

new people in city building, it deserved attention for qualities

peculiarly its own, and there could be no doubt either of Miss Morgan's

admiration or pleasure. She was seeking neither for the old nor the

picturesque, which are not always synonymous, but was in full sympathy

with the fresh, active, and, on the whole, joyous life around her. It

was sufficient to her to be a part of the human tide, and to feel by

contact the keenness and zest of the human endeavor. She was not

troubled by the absence of ruins.

"But the city is flat and unpicturesque," once said Harley.

"All the better," she rejoined. "I have so much of silence and grandeur

in Idaho that I enjoy the sight of two million people at work on this

billiard-table that is Chicago. I like my own kind, I like to talk to it

and have it talk to me. I suppose that the mountains have a voice, but

the voice is too big for perpetual conversation with a poor little

mortal like myself. After a while I want to come down to my own level,

and I find it here."

Harley glanced at her. The flush was still on her face, and there was a

soft light in her eyes. He could not doubt that she was sincere, and she

started in his mind thoughts that were not altogether new to him; he

wondered if excessive reverence for the antique did not indicate a

detachment from the present, and therefore from life itself, and, as a

logical sequence, a lack of feeling for one's own kind. He had heard an

elderly man from Chicago, dragged about by his wife and daughters in

Rome, exclaim in disgust, "I would not give a single street corner in

Chicago for all Rome!" The elderly Chicagoan had been drowned in

derisive laughter, but Harley could understand his point of view, and

now, as he remembered him, he had for him a fellow-feeling.

Hobart took them through many streets, one much like another, and then

over a white asphalt drive beside the great lake. The shores were low,

but to Harley the lake had the calm restlessness and expanse of the sea,

and the wind had the same keen tang that comes over miles of salt. He

saw the girl's eyes linger upon the vast sheet of green, and the

incipient hostility that he felt towards her disappeared for a time.

Somewhere in her nature, strait though the place might be, there was a

feeling for fine things, and he felt a kindred glow.

They were rather quiet when they drove back towards the hotel, but she

spoke at last of her uncle James and his speech that night, which might

justify the expectations of either his friends or his enemies. There had

grown up lately in the theatrical world a practice of "trying a new

piece on the dog"--that is, of presenting it first in some small town

which was not too particular--but now the political world was moving

differently in this particular case. The candidate was to make his first

appearance in one of the greatest of cities, before two million people,

so to speak, and the ordeal would be so severe that Harley found himself

apprehensive for Jimmy Grayson's sake. The feeling was shared by his

niece.

"You don't think he will fail, do you?" she said, in an appealing tone

to Hobart.

"Fail!" replied that irrepressible optimist. "He can't fail! The bigger

the crowd the better he will rise to the occasion."

But she did not seem to be wholly convinced by Hobart's cheerfulness,

which was too general in its nature--that is, inclusive of

everything--and turned to Harley and Tremaine as if seeking

confirmation.

"It will be a terrible test," said Harley, frankly, "but I feel sure

that Mr. Grayson will pass it with glory. He is a born orator, and he

has courage."

"I thank you for your belief," she said, giving Harley a swift glance of

gratitude, and unaccountably he felt a pleasing glow at the first

gracious words she had ever spoken to him.

"I could not bear it if he failed," she continued. "He is my uncle, and

he is our own Western man. What things would be in the newspapers

to-morrow!"

"If Mr. Grayson should fail to-night, he would recover himself at his

second speech; he has your spirit, you know," said the ancient Tremaine.

But she did not seem to relish his elderly gallantry. "How do you know I

have spirit?" she asked. "I have done nothing to indicate it."

"I inferred it," replied he, bowing, but she only lifted her chin

incredulously, and Tremaine subsided, his suppression giving Harley some

quiet enjoyment.

They returned, chiefly in silence, to the hotel. The dusk was coming

down over the great city, and with it a grayish mist that hid the walls

of the buildings, although the electric lights in lofty stories twinkled

through it like signal-fires from hill-tops. Miss Morgan seemed subdued,

and at the hotel door she said to them in dismissal: "I thank you; you

have given me much pleasure."

"I rather think that she is wrapped up in Mr. Grayson's success," said

Hobart, "and, as she intimates, it will come pretty near to breaking her

heart if he fails."

In the lobby Harley met Churchill, of the _Monitor_, and Churchill, as

usual, was sneering.

"I imagine that Grayson will make a display of provincialism to-night,"

he said. "America will have to blush for herself. I have copies of the

_Monitor_, and all our London cables show the greatest amazement in

Great Britain and on the Continent that we should put up such an _outre_

Western character for President, one of the Boys, you know."

"The Grayson of the _Monitor_ is not the Grayson of reality," replied

Harley, "and the opinion of Europe does not matter, because Europe knows

nothing about Mr. Grayson."

"Oh, I see! You are falling under the influence," said Churchill,

nastily.

"What do you mean?" demanded Harley.

But Churchill would not answer. He sauntered away still sneering. Harley

looked after him angrily, but concluded in a few moments that his wrath

was not worth while--Churchill, trained to look always in the wrong

direction could never see anything right.

IV

THE FIRST SPEECH

When Harley started at an early hour for the vast hall in which Mr.

Grayson was to speak, he realized that there was full cause for the

trepidation of his feminine kind--perhaps in such moments women tremble

for their men more than they ever tremble for themselves--and he had

plenty of sympathy for Mrs. Grayson and Miss Morgan. The city, astir

with the coming speech, was free to express in advance its opinion of

it, both vocally and through its press, which was fairly divided--that

is, one-half was convinced that it would be an overwhelming triumph, and

the other half was equally sure that it would be a failure just as

overwhelming.

Harley had in his pocket a copy of his own paper--the _Gazette_--the

latest to reach him, and he had read it with the greatest care, but he

saw that it remained independent; so far, it neither endorsed nor

attacked Grayson; and, also, he had a telegram from his editor

instructing him to narrate the events of the evening with the strictest

impartiality, not only as concerned facts, but, above all, to transmit

the exact color and atmosphere of the occasion. "I know that this is

hard to do," he said, but with the deft and useful little compliment

that a wise employer knows how to put in at the end, he added: "I am

sure that you can do it." And he knew his man; Harley would certainly

do it.

Harley, seated in an obscure corner of the stage, but one offering many

points of vantage for his own view, saw the vast crowd come quickly into

the hall, among the largest in the world, and he heard the hum of

voices, in which he thought he could distinguish two notes, one of favor

and one of attack. Yet the audience was orderly, and on the whole the

element of curiosity prevailed. The correspondent, quick to read such

signs, saw that the people had an open mind in regard to Jimmy Grayson;

it was left to the candidate to make his own impression. Churchill took

a seat near him and began to annoy him with depreciatory remarks about

Grayson, not spoken to Harley in particular, but to the wide world.

Hobart once said that Churchill needed no audience, preferring to talk

to the air, which could make no reply of its own, but must return an

echo.

Harley saw Mrs. Grayson and her niece slip quietly into a box, sitting

well back, where they could be seen but little by the audience; and

then, knowing that Mr. Grayson had arrived, he went behind the wings,

where the candidate sat waiting.

Mr. Grayson received him with a calm and pleasant word; if his family

were in a tremble, he was not; at least he was able to hide any

apprehension that he might feel, and he remarked, jestingly: "It is

apparent that I will have an audience, Mr. Harley; they will not ignore

me."

"No, you are a good puller," rejoined Harley.

There were some dry preliminaries--introductory remarks by the chairman

and other necessary bores--and then the audience began to call for

Grayson. The speech would be reported in full by short-hand, for which

mechanical work the staff correspondent always hires a member of that

guild, and Harley was free for the present. He resolved to go into the

box with Mrs. Grayson and Miss Morgan, but he changed his mind when he

glanced at their faces. There was pallor in their cheeks, and their

whole attitude was of strained and intense waiting. For them the crucial

moment had come, and Harley had too much humanity to disturb them, even

with well-meant efforts, at such a moment.

The hum in the crowd increased to a roar, a thunderous call for Grayson,

but there was a pause on the stage, where no figures moved. The chairman

glanced uneasily towards the wings and shuffled in his seat as if he did

not know what to do, but his apprehension did not last long.

The candidate appeared, coming forward with a steady step, his face pale

and apparently inexpressive; but Harley could see that the eyes, usually

so calm, were lighted up by a fire from within. Suddenly all his fear

for Grayson sank away; it came upon him with the finality of a lightning

flash that here was a man who would not fail, and by an unknown impulse

he looked from the candidate to the box in which Miss Morgan sat. She

seemed to have read his faith in his eyes, for a look of relief, even

joy, came over her face.

This intuition of the two was justified, as the candidate did not have

to conquer his audience. He held it in his spell from the opening

sentence; the golden and compelling oratory, afterwards so famous, was

here poured before the greater world for the first time. Harley listened

to the periods, smooth but powerful, and he could not throw off their

charm; some things were said of which he was not sure, and others with

which he positively disagreed, but for the time they all seemed true.

Jimmy Grayson believed them--there could be no doubt of it; every word

was tinged with the vivid hue of sincerity--that was why they held the

audience in a spell that it could not escape; these were convictions,

not arguments that he was speaking, and the people received them as

such. Moreover, he was always clear and direct, he had a Greek precision

of speech, and there was none in the audience who could not follow him.

Harley, no orator himself, had in the course of his profession heard

much oratory, some good, much bad, and even now he struggled against the

charm of Grayson's voice and manner, and sought to see what lay behind

them. Was there back of this golden veil any great originating or

executive power, or was he, like so many others who speak well, a voice

and nothing more? An orator might win the Presidency of the United

States, but his gift would not necessarily qualify him to administer the

office. It was a tribute to Harley's power of will or detachment that he

was able at such a time to ask himself such a question.

But he forgot these after-thoughts in the pleasurable sympathy that his

view of the candidate's wife and niece aroused. Their faces were

illumined with joy. Feeling his spell so strongly themselves, they knew

without looking that the audience felt it, too, and the evening could be

no fuller for them. Here he was, a hero not only for his womenkind, but

for all whom his womenkind could see, and Harley thought that under the

influence of this feeling Miss Morgan's features had become very soft

and feminine. The curve of the jaw was gentle rather than firm, and now

in her softer moments it seemed to Harley that something might be made

of this mountain girl, say by the deft hands of an Eastern and older

woman. Then he blushed at himself for such a condescending thought, and

turned to his task--that is, the effort to reproduce for readers in New

York, the next morning, the atmosphere of that evening in a Chicago

hall, and the exact relation that Mr. Grayson, the people, and the

events of the hour bore to each other.

Harley was a conscientious man, interested in his work, and when he gave

the last page of the despatch to a telegraph-boy the speech was nearly

over. He said emphatically that it was a success, that the audience was

brought thoroughly under the spell, but whether this spell would endure

after the candidate was gone he did not undertake to prophesy. The

coldest and most critical seeker after truth and nothing but the truth

could have found no fault with what he wrote.

He gave the last page of the despatch to the telegraph-boy, and entered

the secluded box that held Mrs. Grayson and Miss Morgan. Two elderly

Chicago men, who played at politics and who were warm enthusiasts for

Grayson, were there, and Harley was introduced to them. But he talked to

them only as long as politeness demanded, and then, with all sincerity,

he congratulated Mrs. Grayson on her husband's triumph.

"I never had a doubt of it," she replied, her voice tremulous, and

honestly forgetful in the glory of the moment of all the fears that had

been assailing her a few hours ago. "I knew what he could do."

Harley turned presently to Miss Morgan, and he spoke in the same vein to

her, but she asked, with some asperity, "Did you think he could fail?"

"Failure is possible, I suppose, in the case of anybody."

"But you do not know our Western spirit."

"I am learning."

Her gentleness was gone. She resented what she chose to consider an

attempt at patronage of the West, and Harley again was made the target

for the arrows of her sarcasm. Yet he did not resent it with his

original acerbity; custom was dulling the sharp edge of her weapons,

and, instead of wounding him, they rather provoked and drew him on. He

was able to reply lightly, to suggest vaguely the crudities of Idaho,

and to incite her to yet more strenuous battle for her beloved

mountains.

But both ceased to talk, because the candidate was approaching his

climax, and the grand swell of his speech had in it a musical quality

that did not detract from its power to carry conviction. Then he closed,

and the thunders of applause rose again and again. At last, after bowing

many times to the gratified audience, he came back to the box, and his

niece, her eyes shining with delight, sprang up, as if driven by an

impulse, and, throwing her arms about his neck, kissed him. The act was

seen by many, and it was applauded, but Harley did not like it; her

emotion seemed to him too youthful, to smack too little of restraint--in

short, to be too Western. Despite himself, he frowned, and when she

turned back towards the box she saw the frown still upon his face. There

was an instant fiery flash in her eye, and she drew herself up as if in

haughty defiance, but she said nothing then, nor did she speak later

when she left with the Graysons, merely giving him a cold good-night

bow.

Harley lingered a little with the other correspondents, and was among

the last to leave the building. He was thinking of the Idaho girl, but

he did not fail to notice what was going on, and he saw a group of

middle-aged or elderly men, the majority of them portly in figure and

autocratic in bearing, follow the trail of Jimmy Grayson. Although

familiar with the faces of only one or two in the group, he knew

instinctively who they were. It was a gathering of the great, moneyed

men of the party, eager to see the attitude of Grayson upon affairs that

concerned them intimately, and prompt to take action in accordance. They

were the guardians of "vested" interests, interests watched over as few

things in this world are, and they were resolved to see that they took

no harm. But the speech of the night had been general in its nature, a

preliminary as it were, and Harley judged that they would do nothing as

yet but skirmish upon the outskirts, keeping a wary eye for the main

battle when it should be joined.

"Did you notice them?" asked white-haired Tremaine in his ear.

"Oh yes," replied Harley, who knew at once what he meant; "I watched

them leave the hall."

"One gets to know them instinctively," said Tremaine. "I've seen them

like a herd of bull-dogs--if such animals travelled in herds--on the

heels of every presidential candidate for the last forty years, and that

covers ten campaigns. But I suppose they have as much right to look

after their interests as the farmer or mechanic has to look after his."

"Yet it is worth while to watch them," said Harley, and all in the group

concurred.

They were to leave in the afternoon for Milwaukee, which gave plenty of

time for rest, and Harley, who needed it, slept late. But when he rose

and dressed he went forth at once, after his habit, for the morning

papers, buying them all in order to weigh as well as he could the

Chicago opinion of Grayson. The first that he picked up was sensational

in character, and what he saw on the front page did not please him at

all. There was plenty of space devoted to Grayson, but almost as much

was given to an incident of the evening as to Grayson himself. There was

a huge picture of a beautiful young girl throwing her arms around Jimmy

Grayson's neck, and kissing him enthusiastically. The two occupied the

centre of the stage close to the footlights, and twenty thousand people

were frantically cheering the spectacle. By the side of this picture was

another, a perfectly correct portrait of Miss Morgan, evidently taken

from a photograph, and under it were the lines: "Jimmy Grayson's

Egeria--the Beautiful Young Girl Who Furnishes the Western Fire for His

Speeches."

And then in two columns of leaded type, under a pyramid of head-lines,

was told the story of Sylvia Morgan. Flushed with enthusiasm, the

account said, she had come from Idaho to help her uncle, the candidate.

Although only eighteen years of age--she was twenty-two--she had

displayed a most remarkable perception and grasp of politics and of

great issues. It was she, with her youthful zeal, who inspired Mr.

Grayson and his friends with courage for a conflict against odds. He

consulted her daily about his speeches; it was she who always put into

them some happy thought, some telling phrase that was sure to captivate

the people. In a pinch she could make a speech herself, and she would

probably be seen on the stump in the West. And she was as beautiful as

she was intellectual and eloquent; she would be the most picturesque

feature of this or any campaign ever waged in America. It continued in

this vein for two columns, employing all the latest devices of the

newest and yellowest journalism, of which the process is quite simple,

provided you have no conscience--that is, you take a grain of fact and

you build upon it a mountain of fancy, and the mountain will be shaped

according to the taste of the builder.

Harley would have laughed--these things always seemed to him childish or

flippant rather than wicked--if it had not been for the photograph. That

was too real; it was exactly like Sylvia Morgan, and it implied

connivance between the newspaper and some body else. In Idaho it might

have one look, but here in Chicago it would have another, and in New

York it would have still another and yet worse. She ought to see the

true aspect of these things. To Harley, reared with the old-fashioned

Southern ideals, from which he never departed, it was all inexpressibly

distasteful--he did not stop to ask himself why he should be more

concerned about the picture of Miss Morgan than those of many other

women whom he saw in the newspapers--and his feeling was not improved by

the entrance of Churchill and his sneering comment.

"A good picture of her," said Churchill. "These Western girls like such

things. Of course she sent it to the newspaper office."

"I do not know anything of the kind, nor do you, I think," replied

Harley, with asperity. "Nor am I aware that the West is any fonder than

the East of notoriety."

"Have it any way you wish," said Churchill, superciliously. "But I fail

to see why you should disturb yourself so much over the matter."

His tone was so annoying that Harley felt like striking him, but instead

ignored him, and Churchill strolled carelessly on, humming a tune, as he

had seen insolent people on the stage do in such moments.

Harley thrust the newspaper into his pocket, and went into one of the

ladies' parlors, where he saw Miss Morgan sitting by a window and

looking out at the hasty life of Chicago. She did not hear his approach

until he was very near, and then, starting at the sound of his

footsteps, she looked up, and her cheeks flushed.

"It should be a happy day for you," said Harley, "and I suppose that you

are enjoying the triumph."

"Why should I not?" she replied. "I have a share in it."

"So you have, and the press has recognized it."

"What do you mean?"

"I was just looking at a very good picture of you," said Harley, and he

spread the paper before her, hoping that she would express surprise and

distaste. But she showed neither.

"Oh, I've seen that already," she said, quite coolly. "Don't you think

it a good picture?"

"I have no fault to find with the likeness," replied Harley, with some

meaning in his tone.

"Then what fault have you to find?"

Harley was embarrassed, and hesitated, seeking for the right words--what

did it matter to him if she failed to show the reserve that he thought

part of a gentlewoman's nature.

"You infer more than I meant," he said, at last. "I merely felt surprise

that they should have obtained a photograph so quickly."

The slightly deepened flush in her cheeks remained and she surveyed him

with the same cool air of defiance.

"They would have had a picture, anyhow, something made up; was it not

better, then, to furnish them a real one than to have a burlesque

published?"

"It's hardly usual," said Harley, more embarrassed than ever. "But

really, Miss Morgan, I have no right to speak of it in any connection."

"No, but you were intending to do so. It was in your eye when I looked

up and saw you coming towards me."

Her voice had grown chilly, and her gaze was fixed on Harley. The

Western girl certainly had dignity and reserve when she wished them, but

he did not believe that she chose the right moments to display these

admirable qualities.

"I did not know that I had such a speaking countenance," said Harley.

"And even if so, you must not forget that you might read it wrong."

"I do not think so," she said, still chilly, and, glancing up at the

clock, she added: "It is almost twelve, and I promised Aunt Anna to be

with her a half-hour ago."

At the door she paused, turned back, and a flashing smile illuminated

her face for a moment.

"Oh, Mr. Harley," she said, "don't you wish some newspaper would print

your picture?"

Then she was gone, leaving him flushed and irritated. He was angry, both

at her and himself; at himself because he had expected to rebuke her, to

show her indirectly and in a delicate way where she was wrong, and he

had never even got as far as the attack. It was he who had been put upon

the defence, when he had not expected to be in such a state, and his

self-satisfaction suffered. But he told himself that she was a crude

Western girl, and that it was nothing to him if she forced herself into

the public gaze in a bold and theatrical manner.

A little later all left for Milwaukee, where Mr. Grayson was to make

another great speech in the evening, and Harley again refrained from

joining the group that soon gathered around Miss Morgan, and Mrs.

Grayson, also, who, being in a very happy mood, made a loan of her

presence as a chaperon, she said, although, being a young woman still,

it gave her pleasure to hear them speak of her husband's brilliant

triumph the night before, and to enjoy the atmosphere of success that

enveloped the car.

The run from Chicago to Milwaukee is short, but Harley, despite his

pique--he was young and naturally of a cheerful temperament--might have

joined them before their arrival if his attention had not been attracted

by another group, that body of portly, middle-aged men, heavy with

wealth and respectability, who had silently cast a dark shadow upon the

meeting at Chicago. They were men of power, men whose brief words went

far, and they held in their hands strings that controlled many and vast

interests when they pulled them, and their hands were always on the

strings. They were not like the great, voluble public; they worked, by

choice and by opportunity, in silence and the dark, and their kind has

existed in every rich country from Babylonia to the United States of

America. They were the great financial magnates of Jimmy Grayson's

party, and nothing that he might do could escape their notice and

consideration. It was more than likely that in the course of the

campaign he would feel a great power pressing upon him, and he would not

be able to say who propelled it.

Harley knew some of these men by name; one, the leader of the party, a

massive, red-faced man, was the Honorable Clinton Goodnight, a member of

the Lower House of Congress from New York, but primarily a manufacturer,

a man of many millions; and the younger and slenderer man, with the

delicately trimmed and pointed beard, was Henry Crayon, one of the

shrewdest bankers in Wall Street. These two, at least, he knew by face,

but no trained observer could doubt that the others were of the same

kind.

Although silent and as yet casting only a shadow, Harley felt that

sooner or later these men would cause trouble. He had an intuition that

the campaign before them was going to be the most famous in the Union,

dealing with mighty issues and infused with powerful personalities.

Great changes had occurred in the country in the last few years, its

centre of gravity was shifting, and the election in November would

decide many things. He felt as if all the forces were gathering for a

titanic conflict, and his heart thrilled with the omens and presages. It

was a pleasurable thrill, too, because he was going to be in the thick

of it, right beside the general of one of the great armies.

When they reached Milwaukee, Harley and all the correspondents went to

the same hotel with the Graysons, and they remarked jocularly to the

nominee that they would watch over him now night and day until the first

Tuesday in November, and he, being a man of tact and human sympathies,

without any affectations, was able to be a good fellow with them all,

merely a first among his equals.

There was a great crowd at the station, ready to welcome the candidate,

and the sound of shouting and joyous welcome arose; but Harley, anxious

to reach the hotel, slipped from the throng and sprang into a carriage,

one of a number evidently waiting for the Grayson party. It was a closed

vehicle, and he did not notice until he sat down that it was already

occupied, at least in part, by a lady. Then he sprang up, red-faced and

apologetic, but the lady laughed--a curious little laugh, ironic, but

not wholly unpleasant--and put out a detaining hand, detaining by way of

gesture, because she did not touch him.

"You are very much surprised to find me here, Mr. Harley," said Miss

Morgan. "You thought, of course, that I would be in the centre of that

crowd, receiving applause and shaking hands, just as if I were a

candidate, like my uncle James. You would not believe me if I told you

that I came here to escape it."

"Why shouldn't I believe it?"

"Because I am going to tell you that your displeasure over the picture

has made me feel so badly that I am resolved to do better, to be more

modest, more retiring."

"Miss Morgan, you do me wrong," said Harley, with reddening face. "I

have had no such thoughts."

"You fib in a good cause, but you cannot deceive me; I read your

thoughts, but I am very forgiving, and I am resolved that we shall have

a pleasant ride to the hotel together. Now, entertain me, tell me about

that war, of which you saw so much."

She was not in jest, and she compelled him to talk. It was far from the

station to the hotel, and she revealed a knowledge of the world's

affairs that Harley thought astonishing in one coming from the depths of

the Idaho mountains. She touched, too, upon the things that interested

him most, and drew him on until he was talking with a zest and interest

that permitted no self-consciousness. Resolved that he would not tell

what he had seen, and by nature reserved, he was, within five minutes,

under her deft questions, in the middle of a long narrative of events on

the other side of the world. He saw her listening, her eyes bright, her

lips slightly parted, and he knew that he held her attention. He was

aware, too, that he was flattered by the interest that he had been able

to create in the mind of this Idaho girl whose opinion he had been

holding so cheaply.

"I envy a man," she said, at last, sighing a little. "You can go where

you please and do what you please. Even our 'advanced women' have less

liberty than the man who is not advanced at all. And yet I do not want

to be a man. That, I suppose, is a paradox."

Harley was about to make a light reply, something in the tone of

perforced compliment, but a glimpse of her caused him to change his

mind. She seemed to have a touch of genuine sadness, and, instead, he

said nothing.

When the carriage reached the ladies' entrance of the hotel they were

still silent, and as Harley helped her from the carriage her manner was

unchanged. The little touch of sadness was yet there, and it appealed to

him. She surprised his look of sympathy, and the color in her cheeks

increased.

"I am tired," she said. "I just begin to realize how greatly so much

travelling and so many crowds weigh upon one."

Then, with the first smile of comradeship that she had given him, she

went into the hotel.

The Graysons, Miss Morgan, Harley, Hobart, and a few others formed a

family group again at the table, when they dined that evening, and all

the tensity and anxiety visible the day before was gone. Mr. Grayson's

success in Chicago had been too complete, too sweeping to leave doubt of

its continuance; he would be the hero and leader of his party, not a

weight upon it, and the question now was whether or not the party had

votes enough; hence there was a certain light and joyous air about them

which gave to their short stay in the dining-room a finer flavor than

any that a _chef_ could add.

Churchill, of the _Monitor_, was not one of this party. Churchill did

not confine his criticisms to his professional activities, but had a

disposition to carry them into private life, injecting roughness into

social intercourse, which ought to be smooth and easy. Therefore,

somewhat to his own surprise, which ought not to have been the case, he

had not become a member of this family group, and had much to say about

the "frivolous familiarity" of Jimmy Grayson and "his lack of dignity."

But on this evening Churchill had no desire to sit at table with the

Graysons, because he felt that something great was going to happen in

his life. For more than a day, now, he had been on the trail of a mighty

movement that he believed hidden from all save himself and those behind

this movement. He, too, had noticed the appearance at Chicago of the

heavy, rich, elderly men, and he had spoken to one or two of them with

all the respect and deference that their eminent position in the

financial world drew from every writer of the _Monitor_. And his

deference had been rewarded, because that afternoon he received a hint,

and it came from no less a personage than the Honorable Clinton

Goodnight himself, a hint that Churchill rightly thought was worth much

to him.

There was another large hotel in Milwaukee, and it was to this that the

financiers had gone, having ascertained first that Grayson would not be

there; nor did they intend to go to the speech that evening. They had

already, in the address at Chicago, weighed accurately the power of

Jimmy Grayson with his party, and with wary old eyes, long used to

watching the world and its people, they had seen that it would be great.

Hence he was a man to be handled with skill and care, to be led, not

knowing that he was led, by a bridle invisible to all save those who

held it--but they, the financiers, would know very well who held it.

It was these men to whom Churchill came, having slipped quietly away

from his associates, drawn by a hint that he might secure an interview

of great importance, two columns in length and exclusive. Churchill was

a true product of the _Monitor_, a worshipper of accomplished facts, a

supporter of every old convention, believing that anything new or in

rough attire was bad. Although he would have denied it if accused, he

nearly always confounded manners with morals, and to him the opinion of

Europe was final. Hence the _Monitor_ and Churchill were well suited to

each other. Moreover, Churchill enjoyed the society of the great--that

is, of those who seemed to him to be the great--and he had an admirable

flexibility of temperament; while easily able and willing to be very

nasty to those whom he thought of an inferior grade, he was equally able

and willing to be extremely deferential to those whose grade he

considered superior. He was also intolerant in opinion, thinking that

any one who differed from him on the subjects of the day was necessarily

a scoundrel, wherein he was again in perfect accord with the _Monitor_.

It was, therefore, with an acute delight, blossoming into exultation,

that Churchill slipped away from his associates and hastened towards the

hotel where the financial magnates were staying. These were really great

men, not the productions of a moment, thrown briefly into the

lime-light, but solid like the pyramids. Mr. Goodnight must be worth

forty millions, at the least, and he was a power in many circles.

Churchill thrilled with delight that such a being should hint to him to

come and be talked to, and he was more than ever conscious of his own

superiority to his professional associates.

Churchill was not awed by the hotel clerk, but haughtily asked that his

card be sent at once to Mr. Goodnight, and he concealed his pride when

the message came back that he be shown up as soon as possible. He

received it as the natural tribute to his importance, and he took his

time as he followed the guiding hall-boy. But at the door of Mr.

Goodnight his manner changed; it became deferential, as befitted modest

merit in the presence of true and recognized greatness.

Mr. Goodnight was hospitable; there was no false pride about him; he was

able in being great to be simple also, and Mr. Crayon and the others

present shared his attractive manner.

"Ah, Mr. Churchill," he said, as he shook hands heartily with the

correspondent, "it gives me pleasure, indeed, to welcome you here. We

noticed your bearing in Chicago, and we were impressed by it. We

therefore had an additional pleasure when we learned that you were the

correspondent of the _Monitor_, New York's ablest and most conservative

journal. The American press grows flippant and unreliable nowadays, Mr.

Churchill, but the waves of sensationalism wash in vain around the solid

base of the old _Monitor_. There she stands, as steady as ever, a

genuine light-house in the darkness."

Mr. Goodnight, being a member of Congress, was able to acquire and to

exhibit at convenient times a certain poetical fervor which impressed

several kinds of people. Now his associates rubbed their hands in

admiration, and Churchill flushed with pleasure. A compliment to the

_Monitor_ was also a compliment to him, for was he not the very spirit

and essence of the _Monitor_?

"Before we get to business," continued Mr. Goodnight, in the most

gratifyingly intimate manner, "suppose we have something just to wet our

throats and promote conversation. This town, I believe, is famous for

beer, but it is not impossible to get champagne here; in any event, we

shall try it."

He rang, the champagne was brought, opened, and drunk, and Churchill

glowed with his sense of importance. These were men of many millions,

twice his age, but he was now one with them. Certainly none of his

associates would have been invited by them to such a conference, and he

was able to appreciate the fact.

"We want you, Mr. Churchill, to tell us something about Grayson," said

Mr. Goodnight, in a most kindly tone; "not what all the world knows,

those superficial facts which the most careless observer may glean, but

something intimate and personal; we want you to give us an insight into

his character, from which we may judge what he is likely to do or

become. You know that he is from the West, the Far West, likely to be

afflicted with local and provincial views, not to say heresies, and

great vested interests within his own party feel a little shaky about

him. We cannot have a revolutionary, or even a parochial, character in

the presidential chair. Those interests which are the very bulwark of

the public must be respected. We must watch over him, and in order to

know how and what to watch, we must have information. We rely upon you

to furnish us this information."

Churchill was intensely gratified at this tribute to his merit, but he

was resolved not to show it even to these great men. Instead, he

carelessly emptied his champagne glass, rubbed his chin thoughtfully,

and then asked with a certain fulness of implication:

"Upon what precise point do you wish information, Mr. Goodnight? Of

course, I have not been with Mr. Grayson very long, but I can say

truthfully that I have observed him closely within that time, and

perhaps no phase of a rather complicated character has escaped me."

"We feel quite sure of that," said Mr. Crayon, speaking for the first

time, and using short, choppy sentences. "_Monitor_, as I happen to

know, is extremely careful in the selection of its men, and this, I am

journalist enough to understand, is most important errand upon which it

can now send member of its staff."

Churchill bowed courteously to the deserved compliment, and remained

silent while Mr. Goodnight resumed the thread of talk.

"What we want to know, Mr. Churchill," he said, "is in regard to the

elements of stability in his character. Will he respect those mighty

interests to which I have just alluded? Is he, as a comparatively young

man, and one wholly ignorant of the great world of finance, likely to

seek the opinion and advice of his elders? You know that we have the

best wishes in the world for him. His interests and ours, if he but

perceives it, run together, and it is our desire to preserve the utmost

harmony within the party."

Churchill bowed. Their opinion and his agreed in the most wonderful

manner. It was hard to say, in his present exalted state, whether this

circumstance confirmed their intelligence or his, but it certainly

confirmed somebody's.

"I have already taken note of these facts," he said, in the indifferent

tone of one whose advice is asked often, "and I have observed that Mr.

Grayson's character is immature, and, for the present at least,

superficial. But I think he can be led; a man with a will not very

strong can always be led, if those with stronger wills happen to be

near, and Mr. Grayson's faults are due to weakness rather than vice."

There was an exchange of significant looks among Mr. Goodnight, Mr.

Crayon, and their friends, and then an emphatic nodding of heads, all of

which indicated very clearly to Churchill that they admired his

acuteness of perception, and were glad to have their own opinion

confirmed by one who observed so well.

"Wouldn't it be well to lay these facts before the readers of the

_Monitor_?" suggested Mr. Goodnight, mildly. "We all know what a

powerful organ the _Monitor_ is, and what influence it has in

conservative circles. It would be a hint to Mr. Grayson and his friends;

it would show him the path in which he ought to walk, and it would save

trouble later on in the campaign."

Churchill's heart thrilled again. This was a greater honor even than he

had hoped for; he was to sound the mighty trumpet note of the campaign,

but his pride would not let him show the joy that he felt.

"In giving these views--and I appreciate their great importance--shall I

quote you and Mr. Crayon?" he asked, easily.

Mr. Goodnight mused a few moments, and twiddled his fingers.

"We want the despatch to appear in the shape that will give it the

greatest effect, and you are with us in that wish, Mr. Churchill," he

said, confidingly. "Now this question arises: if our names appear it

will look as if it were a matter between Mr. Grayson and ourselves

personally, which is not the case; but if it appears on the authority of

the _Monitor_ and your own, which is weighty, it will then stand as a

matter between Mr. Grayson and the people, and that is a fact past

denying. Now, what do you think of it yourself, Mr. Churchill?"

Since they left it so obviously to his intelligence, Churchill was bound

to say that they were right, and he would write the warning, merely as

coming from the great portion of the public that represented the solid

interests of the country, the quiet, thinking people who never indulged

in any foolish chase after a will-o'-the-wisp.

Mr. Goodnight and Mr. Crayon made many further suggestions about the

points of the despatch, but they admitted ingenuously that they were not

able to write, that they possessed no literary and effective style, that

it would be for Mr. Churchill to clothe their crude thoughts--that is,

if he approved of them--in trenchant phrase and brilliant style.

There was such an air of good-fellowship, and Churchill admitted to

himself so freely that these men might make suggestions worth while,

that he decided, moreover, as the hour was growing late, to write the

despatch there and then, and tell to the world through the columns of

the _Monitor_, not what Jimmy Grayson ought to do, but all the things

that he ought not to do, and they were many. The most important of these

related to the tariff and the currency, which, in the view of Mr.

Goodnight and his friends, should be left absolutely alone.

Paper was produced, and Churchill began to write, often eliciting words

of admiration from the others at the conciseness and precision with

which he presented his views. It was cause for wonder, too, that they

should find themselves agreeing with him so often, and they admired,

also, the felicity of phrasing with which he continued to present all

these things as the views of a great public, thus giving the despatch

the flavor of news rather than opinion. When it was finished--and it

would fill two full columns of the _Monitor_--the line was quite clearly

drawn between what Jimmy Grayson could do and what he could not do--and

Churchill was proud of the conviction that none but himself had drawn

it. Mr. Grayson, reading this--and he certainly would read it--must know

that it came from inspired sources, and he would see straight before him

the path in which it was wise for him to walk. Churchill knew that he

had rendered a great service, and he felt an honest glow.

"I think I shall file this at once," he said, "as it is growing late,

and there is an hour's difference between here and New York."

They bade him a most complimentary adieu, suggesting that they would be

glad to hear from him personally during the campaign, and announcing

their willingness to serve him if they could; and Churchill left the

hotel, contented with himself and with them. When he was gone, they

smiled and expressed to each other their satisfaction. In fifteen

minutes swift operators were sending Churchill's despatch eastward.

V

"KING" PLUMMER

Meanwhile the evening was proving of no less interest to Harley than to

Churchill, although in a quite different way. He had noticed, when they

parted at the hotel door, the apparent sadness, or, rather, the touch of

the pathetic in the manner of Miss Morgan, and he observed it again when

they were all reunited at the hotel table. Heretofore she had been

light, ironical, and bearing a full share in the talk, but now she

merely replied when spoken to directly, and her tone had the tinge of

melancholy. Mr. and Mrs. Grayson looked at her more than once, as if

they were about to refer to some particular subject, but always they

refrained; instead, they sought by light talk to divert attention from

her, and they succeeded in every case but that of Harley.

It was not a long dinner, and as they returned to the ladies' parlor

they were welcomed by a loud, joyous cry, and out of the dark of the

room a big man projected himself to greet them. His first words were for

Miss Morgan, whom he affectionately called "Little Girl," and whom he

seized by the hands and kissed on the forehead. It was a loud voice, but

round, full, and mellow, and Harley judged that it came from a big

nature as well as a big body.

When the man stepped into the light, Harley saw that he was over six

feet high, and with a width according. His broad face was covered with

short, iron-gray beard, and his head was thatched with hair equally

thick and of the same gray shade. In years he might have been fifty, and

it was Harley's first impression at this moment that the big man was

Miss Morgan's father--it came to him with a rather queer feeling that it

had never occurred to him to ask about her parents, whether they were

living or dead, and what kind of people they were or had been.

The stranger shook hands with Mr. and Mrs. Grayson, and expressed

vocally the pleasure that his eyes also conveyed. Harley and Hobart were

the only others present, and, turning to them, Mr. Grayson introduced

the stranger, Mr. William Plummer--"King Plummer, you know."

Then Harley remembered vaguely, and he began to place Mr. Plummer. He

recalled allusions in the press to one William Plummer, otherwise "King"

Plummer, who lived in the far Northwest, and who, having amassed

millions in ranching and mining, had also become a great power in the

political world, hence his term "King," which was more fitting in his

case than in that of many real kings. He had developed remarkable skill

in politics, and, as the phrase went, held Idaho, his own state, in the

hollow of his hand, and in a close election could certainly swing

Montana and Wyoming as he wished, and perhaps Utah and Washington, too.

Harley's interest instantly became keen, and he did not take his eyes

off "King" Plummer. Clearly he was a man of power; he fairly radiated

it, not merely physically, but mentally. His gestures, his voice, every

movement indicated a vast reserve strength. This was one of the great

men whose development the rough field of the new West had permitted.

Harley was not alone interested in "King" Plummer, but also in the kiss

that he had put upon the white forehead of Sylvia Morgan and his

boisterous joy at seeing her. Since he was not her father, it was likely

that he was her uncle, not by blood, as Jimmy Grayson was, but as the

husband of an aunt, perhaps. Yes, this must be it, he concluded, and the

kiss seemed more reasonable.

When "King" Plummer was introduced to Harley and Hobart, he shook hands

with them most cordially, but as keen a man as Harley could see that he

regarded them as mere youths, or "kids," as the "King" himself would

have said. There was nothing depreciatory in this beyond the difference

between age and great achievement and youth which had not yet had the

time to fulfil its promise, and Harley, because of it, felt no decrease

of liking and respect for "King" Plummer.

"The far Northwest is for you solidly, Jimmy," said the big man, with a

joyous smile. "Idaho is right in line at the head of the procession, and

Wyoming, Montana, and the others are following close after. They haven't

many votes, but they have enough to decide this election."

Jimmy Grayson smiled. He had reason to smile. He, too, liked "King"

Plummer, and, moreover, this was good news that he brought.

"I fancy that you have had something to do with this," he said. "You

still know how to whisper a sweet word in the ear of the people."

The big man shook himself, laughed again, and looked satisfied.

"Well, I have done a lot of whispering," he admitted, "if you call it

whispering, though most people, I'll gamble, would say it is like the

clatter of a mill. And I've done some riding, too, both train and horse.

The mountains are going to be all right. Don't you forget that, Jimmy."

"And it's lucky for me that 'King' Plummer is my friend," said Mr.

Grayson, sincerely.

During this talk of politics, Sylvia Morgan was silent, and once, when

"King" Plummer laid his big hand protectingly on her arm, she shrank

slightly, but so slightly that no one save Harley noticed, not even the

"King." The action roused doubts in his mind. Surely a girl would not

shrink from her uncle in this manner, not from a big, kindly uncle like

Plummer.

"I wanted to get down to Chicago and hear you at your first speech,"

went on "King" Plummer, in his big, booming voice, that filled the room,

"but I couldn't manage it. There was a convention at Boise that needed a

little attention--one likes to look on at those things, you know"--his

left eye contracted slightly--"and as soon as that was over I hurried

down as fast as an express could bring me. But I've read in all the

papers what a howlin' success it was, an' I'm goin' to hear you give it

to the other fellows to-night--won't we, Sylvia?"

He turned to the girl for confirmation of what needed no confirmation,

and her eyes smiled into his with a certain pride. She seemed to Harley

to admire his bigness, his openness of manner and speech, and his

wholesome character. After all, he was her uncle; the look that she gave

him then was that of one who received protection, half paternal and half

elder-brotherly.

"And now, Jimmy, I guess I've taken up enough of your time," exclaimed

"King" Plummer, his big, resonant chest-tones echoing in the room, "and

it's for you to do all the talkin' that's left. But I'll be in a box

listenin', and just you do your best for the credit of the West and the

mountains."

Grayson smiled and promised, and "King" Plummer joined them in the

carriage that bore them to the hall. He took his place with them in such

a natural and matter-of-fact manner that Harley was confirmed in his

renewed opinion that he was Sylvia Morgan's uncle, or, at least, her

next of kin, after Mr. Grayson.

At the hall "King" Plummer, as he had promised, sat in a box with Mrs.

Grayson and Miss Morgan, and always he led the applause, which in

reality needed no leading, the triumph at Chicago being repeated in full

degree. Harley, watching him from his desk, saw that the big man was

filled with sanguine expectation of triumph, and, with the glow of Jimmy

Grayson's oratory upon him, could not see any such result as defeat. But

Miss Morgan was strangely silent, and all her vivacity of manner seemed

to be gone.

When the speech was nearly over Churchill sauntered in lazily by the

stage entrance and took a seat near Harley. Harley had not noticed his

previous absence until then.

"How's the speech to-night?" he asked, languidly; "same old chestnuts, I

suppose."

"As this is Mr. Grayson's second speech," replied Harley, sharply, "it

is a little early to call anything that he says 'same old chestnuts.'

Besides, I don't think that repetition will ever be one of his faults.

Why haven't you been here?"

"Oh, I've been cruising around a bit on the outside. The Associated

Press, of course, will take care of the speech, which is mere routine."

He spoke with such an air of supercilious and supreme satisfaction that

Harley looked at him keenly.

"Pick up anything?" he asked, briefly.

"Oh, a trifle or two; nothing, however, that you would care about."

"Now, I wonder what it is that makes him so content with himself,"

thought Harley, but he had little time to devote to Churchill, as his

own despatch was occupying his attention.

Harley could not go back to the hotel with the Grayson party when the

speech was over, as he had to file his despatch first, but he saw them

all the next morning at the breakfast-table. "King" Plummer was there,

too, as expansive as ever, and showing mingled joy and sorrow--joy over

the second triumph of the candidate, which was repeated at great length

in the morning papers, and sorrow because he could not continue with

them on the campaign, which moved to Detroit for the third night.

"I'd be a happy man if I could do it," he said, in his booming tones,

"happy for more reasons than one. It would be a big holiday to me.

Wouldn't I enjoy hearing you tear the enemy to pieces night after night,

Jimmy! and then I'd be with you right along, Sylvia."

He looked at the girl, and his look was full of love and protection. She

flushed and seemed embarrassed. But there was no hesitation or

awkwardness about the big man.

"Never you mind, little girl," he said; "when you are Mrs. Plummer--an'

that ain't far away, I hope--you'll be with me all the time. Besides,

I'm goin' to join Jimmy Grayson when he comes out West, an' make the

campaign there with him."

The color in Miss Morgan's face deepened, and she glanced, not at "King"

Plummer or her uncle, but at Harley, and when her eyes met his the color

in her cheeks deepened still further. Then she looked down at her plate

and was silent and embarrassed.

Harley, as he heard these words of the "King," felt a strange thrill of

disapproval. It was, as he told himself, because of the disparity in

ages. It was true that a man of this type was the very kind to restrain

Sylvia Morgan, but twenty and fifty should never wed, man and wife

should be young together and should grow old together. It was no

business of his, and there was no obligation upon him to look after the

happiness of either of these people, but it was an arrangement that he

did not like, violating as it did his sense of fitness.

"King" Plummer was to leave them an hour later, taking a train for St.

Paul, and thence for Idaho. He bade them all a hearty good-bye, shaking

hands warmly with Jimmy Grayson, to whom he wished a career of unbroken

triumph, repeating these good wishes to Mrs. Grayson, and again kissing

Sylvia Morgan on the forehead--the proper kiss, Harley thought, for

fifty to bestow upon twenty, unless twenty should happen to be fifty's

daughter.

"We won't be separated long, Sylvia, girl," he said, and she flushed a

deep red and then turned pale. To Harley he said:

"And I'll try to show you the West, young man, when you come out there.

This is no West; Milwaukee ain't West by a jugful. Just you wait till

you get beyond the Missouri, then we'll show you the real West, and real

life at the same time."

There was a certain condescension in the tone of "King" Plummer, but

Harley did not mind it; so far as the experience of life in the rough

was concerned, the "King" had a right to condescend.

"I shall hold you to your promise," he said.

Then "King" Plummer, waving good-byes with a wide-armed sweep, large and

hearty like himself, departed.

"There goes a true man," said Mr. Grayson, and Harley spontaneously

added confirmation. But Miss Morgan was silent. She waved back in

response to the King of the Mountains, but her face was still pale, and

she was silent for some time. Harley now knew that "King" Plummer was

not her uncle nor her next of kin after Jimmy Grayson in any way, but he

was unable to tell why this marriage-to-be had been arranged.

But he quickly learned the secret, if secret it was; it was told to him

on the train by Mrs. Grayson as they rode that afternoon to Detroit.

"If you were ever in Idaho," she said, "you would soon hear the story of

"King" Plummer and Sylvia. It is a tragedy of our West; that is, it

began in a great tragedy, one of those tragedies of the plains and the

mountains so numerous and so like each other that the historians forget

to tell about them. Sylvia's mother was Mr. Grayson's eldest sister,

much older than he. She and her husband and children were part of a

wagon-train that was going up away into the Northwest where the

railroads did not then reach.

"It was long ago--when Sylvia was a little girl, not more than seven or

eight--and the train was massacred by Utes just as they reached the

Idaho line. The Utes were on the war-path--there had been some sort of

an outbreak--and the train had been warned by the soldiers not to go on,

but the emigrants were reckless. They laughed at danger, because they

did not see it before their faces. They pushed on, and they were

ambushed in a deep canyon.

"There was hardly any fight at all, the attack was so sudden and

unexpected. Before the people knew what was coming half of them were

shot down, and then those awful savages were among them with tomahawk

and knife. Mr. Harley, I've no use for the Indian. It is easy enough to

get sentimental about him when you are away off in the East, but when

you are close to him in the West all that feeling goes. I heard Sylvia

tell about that massacre once, and only once. It was years ago, but I

can't forget it; and if I can't forget it, do you think that she can?

Her father was killed at the first fire from the bushes, and then an

Indian, covered with paint and bears' claws, tomahawked both her mother

and her little brother before her eyes--yes, and scalped them, too. He

ran for the girl next, but Sylvia--I think it was just physical

impulse--dashed away into the scrub, and the Indian turned aside for a

victim nearer at hand.

"Sylvia lay hid until night came, and there was silence over the

mountain, the silence of death, Mr. Harley, because when she slipped

back in the darkness to the emigrant train she found every soul that had

been in it, besides herself, dead. Think, Mr. Harley, of that little

girl alone in all those vast mountains, with her dead around her! Do you

wonder that sometimes she seems hard?"

"No, I don't," replied Harley. Despite himself a mist came to his eyes

over this pathetic tragedy of long ago.

"Sylvia has never said much about that night she spent there with the

dead, in the midst of the wrecked and plundered train, but when a number

of border men, alarmed about the emigrants, pushed on the next day to

save them if possible, what do you suppose they found her doing?"

"I can't guess."

"She had got a spade somewhere from one of the wagons, and, little as

she was, she was trying to bury her own dead. She was so busy that she

didn't see them ride up, and William Plummer, their leader--he was a

young man then--actually shed tears, so they say. Well, these men

finished the burial, and Mr. Plummer put Sylvia on his horse before him

and rode away. He adopted the little thing as his daughter. He said she

was the bravest creature he had ever seen, and, as he was not likely to

have any real daughter, she should take a place that ought to be filled.

"Were the Utes who did this massacre punished?"

"No one knows; the soldiers killed a number of them in battle, but

whether the slain were those who ambushed the train is not decided in

border history."

"I think I understand the rest of the story of Mr. Plummer and Miss

Morgan," said Harley.

"Yes, it is not hard to guess. Mr. Grayson and her other relatives

farther East did not hear of her rescue until long afterwards; they

supposed her dead--but no one could have cared for her better than Mr.

Plummer. He kept her first at his mining-hut in the mountains, but after

two or three years he took her into town to Boise; he put her in the

care of a woman there and sent her to school. He loved her already like

a real daughter. She was just the kind to appeal to him, so brave and so

fond of the wild life. They say that at first she refused to stay in

Boise. She ran away and tried to go on foot to him away up in the

mountains, where the mining-camp was. When he heard of it, they say he

laughed, and I suspect that he swore an oath or two--he lived among

rough men you know--but if he did, they were swear words of admiration;

he said it was just like her independence and pluck. But he made her

stay in Boise."

"He knew what was right and what was due both him and her, because now

he was becoming a great man in the Northwest. He rose to power in both

financial and public life, and his daughter must be equal to her

fortune. But he spoiled her, you can see that, and how could he help

it?"

"She was fifteen before we heard that she was alive, and then Mr.

Grayson and her other relatives wanted to take her and care for her, but

Mr. Plummer refused to give her up, and he was right. He had saved her

when he found her a little girl alone in all those vast mountains, and

he was entitled to her. Don't you think so, Mr. Harley?"

"I do," replied Harley, with conviction.

"We yielded to his superior claim, but he sent her more than once to see

us. We loved her from the first, and we love her yet."

Here Mrs. Grayson paused and hesitated over her words, as if in

embarrassment.

"But it is not you and Mr. Grayson alone who love her," suggested

Harley.

"It is not we alone; in Boise everybody loves her, and at the mines and

on Mr. Plummer's ranches they all love her, too."

"I did not mean just that kind of love."

Mrs. Grayson flushed a little, but she continued:

"You are speaking of Mr. Plummer himself; she was his daughter at first,

and so long as she was a little girl I suppose that he never dreamed of

her in any other light. But when she began to grow into a young woman,

Mr. Harley--and a beautiful one, too, as beautiful as she is good--he

began to look at her in a different way. When these elderly men, who

have been so busy that they have not had time to fall in love, do fall

in love, the fall is sudden and complete. Mr. Plummer was like the

others. And what else could she do? She was too young to have seen much

of the world. There was no young man, none of her own age, who had taken

her heart. Mr. Plummer is a good man, and she owed him everything. Of

course, she accepted him. I ask you, what else could she do?"

There was a defensive note in her voice when she said: "I ask you, what

else could she do?" and Harley replied, with due deliberation:

"Perhaps she could do nothing else, but sometimes, Mrs. Grayson, I have

my doubts whether twenty and fifty can ever go happily together."

"We like Mr. Plummer, and he is a great friend of my husband's."

Harley said nothing, but he, too, liked Mr. Plummer, and he held him in

the highest respect. It required little effort of the imagination to

draw a picture of the brave mountaineer riding from the Indian massacre

with that little girl upon his saddle-bow. And much of his criticism of

Sylvia Morgan herself was disarmed. She was more a child of the

mountains even than his first fancy had made her, and it was not a

wonder that her spirit was often masculine in its strength and boldness.

It was involuntary, but he thought of her with new warmth and

admiration. Incited by this feeling, he soon joined her and the group

that was with her. He had expected to find her sad and comparatively

silent, but he had never seen her in a more lively mood, full of light

talk and jest and a gay good-humor that could not have failed to infect

the most hardened cynic. Certainly he did not escape its influence, nor

did he seek to do so, but as he watched her he thought there was a

slight touch of feverishness to her high spirits, as if she had just

escaped from some great danger.

Before they reached Detroit he talked a while with Mr. Grayson, in the

private drawing-room of the car--Mrs. Grayson had joined the others--and

"King" Plummer was the subject of their talk.

"Is he really such a great political power in the Northwest?" asked

Harley.

"He is. Even greater than popular report makes him. I believe that in a

presidential election he could decide the vote of five or six of those

lightly populated states. He has so many interests, so many strings that

he holds, and he is a man of so much energy and will. You see, I want to

keep "King" Plummer my friend."

"I surely would, if I were in your place," said Harley, with conviction.

VI

ON THE ROAD

The great success of Grayson as an orator was continued at Detroit. A

vast audience hung breathless upon his words, and he played upon its

emotions as he would, now thrilling the people with passion, and then

stirring them to cheers that rolled like thunder. It became apparent

that this hitherto obscure man from the Far West was the strongest

nominee a somewhat disunited party could have named, and Harley, whose

interest at first had been for the campaign itself rather than its

result, began to have a feeling that after all Grayson might be

elected--at least he had a fighting chance, which might be more if it

were not for the shadow of Goodnight, Crayon, and their kind. Part of

these men had gone back, among them the large and important Mr.

Goodnight; but Harley saw the quiet Mr. Crayon still watching from a

high box at Detroit, and he knew that no act or word of the candidate

would escape the scrutiny of this powerful faction within the party.

Ample proof of his conclusion, if it were needed, came the next morning

in a copy of the New York _Monitor_, Churchill's paper, which contained

on its front page a long, double-leaded despatch, under a Milwaukee date

line. It was Hobart who brought it in to Mr. Grayson and his little

party at the breakfast-table.

"Excuse me for interrupting you, Mr. Grayson," he said, flourishing the

paper as if it were a sort of flag; "but here is something that you are

bound to see. It's what might be called a word in your ear, or, at

least, it seems to me to have that sound. I guess that Churchill got a

beat on us all in Milwaukee."

"I wish you would join us, Mr. Hobart, and read the whole article to us,

if you will be so kind," said the candidate, calmly.

Nothing could have pleased Hobart better, and he read with emphasis and

care, resolved that his hearers should not lose a word. Churchill had a

good style, and he possessed a certain skill in innuendo, therefore he

was able throughout the article to make his meaning clear. He stated

that among those surrounding the candidate--he could give names if he

would, but it was not necessary--there was a certain feeling that Mr.

Grayson was not quite--at least not yet--as large as the position for

which he had been nominated. Keen observers had noticed in him a

predisposition to rashness; he had spoken lightly more than once of

great vested interests.

"Uncle James, how could you be so lacking in reverence?" exclaimed

Sylvia Morgan.

Mr. Grayson merely smiled.

"Go on, Mr. Hobart," he said.

"'But some of the ablest minds in the country are closely watching Mr.

Grayson,'" continued the article, "'and where he needs support or

restraint he will receive it. There are certain issues not embodied in

the platform from which he will be steered.'"

"Now, I think that is too much!" exclaimed Mrs. Grayson, the indignant

red rising in her cheeks.

"Their printing it does not make it true, Anna," said the candidate,

mildly.

"As if you did not know enough to run your own campaign!" exclaimed the

indignant wife.

But Jimmy Grayson continued to smile. "We must expect this sort of

thing," he said; "it would be a dull campaign without it. Please go on,

Mr. Hobart."

A number of eminent citizens, the article continued, would make a

temporary sacrifice of their great business interests for the sake of

the campaign and the people, and with their restraining care it was not

likely that Mr. Grayson could go far wrong, as he seemed to be an

amiable man, amenable to advice. Thus it continued at much length, and

Harley, keen and experienced in such matters, knew very well whence

Churchill had drawn his inspiration.

"The editor, also, makes comment upon this warning," said Hobart, who

was undeniably enjoying himself.

"I should think that the despatch was enough," said Mrs. Grayson, whose

indignation was not yet cooled.

"But it isn't, Mrs. Grayson," said Hobart; "at least, the editor of the

_Monitor_ does not think so. Listen.

"'The campaign in behalf of our party has begun in the West, and we have

felt the need of thoroughly reliable news from that quarter, free from

the sensationalism and levity which we are sorry to say so often

disgrace our American newspapers, and make them compare unfavorably with

the graver and statelier columns of the English press.'"

"He is an Englishman himself," said Harley--"American opinion through an

English channel."

Even Jimmy Grayson laughed.

"'At last we have obtained this information,'" continued Hobart,

reading, "'and we are able to present it to-day to those earnest and

sincere people, the cultivated minority who really count, and who

constitute the leaven in the mass of the light and frivolous American

people. A trusted correspondent of ours, judicious, impartial,

absolutely devoid of prejudices, has obtained from high sources with

which common journalistic circles are never in touch----'"

"How the bird befouls its own nest!" said the elderly Tremaine.

"'--information that will throw much light upon a campaign and a

candidate both obscure hitherto. This we present upon another page, and,

as our cultivated readers will readily infer, the candidate, Mr.

Grayson, is not a bad man----'"

"Thanks for that crowning mercy," said Mr. Grayson.

"--but neither is he a great one; in short, he is, at least for the

present, narrow and provincial; moreover, he is of an impulsive

temperament that is likely to lead him into untrodden and dangerous

paths. Our best hope lies in the fact that Mr. Grayson, who has not

shown himself intractable, may be brought to see this, and will rely

upon the advice of those who are fitted to lead rather than upon the

reckless fancies of the Boys who are sure to surround him if he gives

them a chance. In this emergency we are sure that all the best in the

state will rally with us. The eyes of Europe are upon us, and we must

vindicate ourselves.'"

"Uncle James," said Sylvia Morgan, sweetly, "I trust that you will

remember throughout the campaign that the eye of Europe is upon you, and

conduct yourself accordingly. I have noticed that in many of your

speeches you seemed to be unconscious of the fact that Vienna and St.

Petersburg were watching you. Such behavior will never do."

Mr. Grayson smiled once more. He seemed to be less disturbed than any

one else at the table, yet he knew that this was in truth a warning

given by an important wing of the party, and, therefore, he must take

thought of it. A prominent politician of Michigan was present, the guest

of Mr. Grayson, and he did not take the threat as calmly as the

candidate.

"The writer of this despatch is with your party, I suppose," he said to

Mr. Grayson.

"Oh yes; it is Mr. Churchill. He has been with us since the start."

"I would not let him go a mile farther; a man who writes like that--why,

it's a positive insult to you!--should not be allowed on your train."

The Michigan man's face flushed red, and in his anger he brought his

hand down heavily on the table; but Harley did not look at him, his full

attention being reserved for the candidate. Here was a test of his

bigness. Would he prove equal to it?

"I am afraid that would be a mistake," said Jimmy Grayson, amiably, to

the Michigan man, "a mistake in two respects: our Constitution

guarantees the freedom of the press, and the _Monitor_ and its

correspondent have a right to write that way, if they wish to do so; and

if we were to expel Mr. Churchill, it would give them all the greater

ground for complaint. Now, perhaps I am, after all, a narrow and

ignorant person who needs restraint."

He spoke the last sentence in such a whimsical tone and with such a

frank smile that they were all forced to laugh, even the Michigan man.

But Harley felt relief. The candidate had shown no littleness.

"I was sure that you would return such an answer, Uncle James," said

Sylvia Morgan, and the look that she gave him was full of faith. "Now, I

mean to help you by converting Mr. Churchill."

"How will you do that?"

"I shall smile upon him, use my winning ways, and draw him into the

fold."

There was a slight edge to her voice, and Harley was not sure of her

meaning; but he and she were together in the parlor an hour later, when

they met Churchill, and he had a chance to see. Churchill evidently was

not expecting to find them there, but he assumed an important air,

knowing that his despatches had been received and read, and feeling,

therefore, that he was the author of a sensation. He anticipated

hostility; he believed that Mr. Grayson's relatives and friends would

assail him with harsh words, and he had spoken already to one or two

persons of the six months' ordeal that he would have to endure. "But we

must stand such things when they are incurred in the line of duty," he

said, "and I have a way which, perhaps, will teach them to be not so

ready in attacking me." He expected such a foray against him now, and

his manner became haughty in the presence of Sylvia Morgan and Harley.

"We--that is, all of us--have just been reading your despatch in the

_Monitor_," she said, in a most winning tone, "and on behalf of Uncle

James I want to thank you, Mr. Churchill."

Churchill looked surprised but doubtful, and did not abate the stiffness

of his attitude nor the severity of his gaze.

"We do feel grateful to you," she continued, in the same winning tone.

"There was never a man more willing than Uncle James to learn, and,

coming out of the depths of the West, he knows that he needs help. And

how beautifully you write, Mr. Churchill! It was all put so delicately

that no one could possibly take offence."

It was impossible to resist her manner, the honey of her words, and

Churchill, who felt that she was but giving credit where credit was due,

became less stern.

"Do you really like it, Miss Morgan?" he asked, and he permitted himself

a smile.

"Oh yes," she replied, "and I noticed that the _Monitor_ alone contained

an article of this character, all about those big men who are watching

over Uncle James, and will not let him go wrong. That is what you

correspondents call a beat, isn't it?"

Churchill gave Harley a glance of triumph, but he replied, gravely:

"I believe it is what we call a beat, Miss Morgan."

"And you will continue to help us in the same way, won't you, Mr.

Churchill?" she continued. "You know who those great men are; Mr.

Harley, here, I am sure does not, nor does Mr. Blaisdell nor Mr. Hobart;

you alone, as the _Monitor_ says, can come into touch with such

important circles, and you will warn us again and again in the columns

of the _Monitor_ when we are about to get into the wrong path. Oh, it

would be a great service, and I know that Uncle James would appreciate

it! You will be with us throughout the campaign, and you will have the

chance! Now, promise me, Mr. Churchill, that you will do it."

Her manner had become most appealing, and her face was slightly flushed.

It was not the first time that Harley realized how handsome she was, and

how winning she could be. It was his first thought, then, what a woman

this mountain maid would make, and his second that "King" Plummer should

continue to look upon her as his daughter--she was too young to be his

wife.

Nor was Churchill proof against her beauty and her blandishments. He

felt suddenly that for her sake he could overlook some of Mr. Grayson's

faults, or at least seek to amend them. It was not hard to make a

promise to a pair of lovely eyes that craved his help.

"Well, Miss Morgan," he said, graciously, "since it is you who ask it, I

will do my best. You know I am not really hostile to Mr. Grayson. The

_Monitor_ and I are of his party, and we shall certainly support him as

long as he will let us."

"You are so kind!" she said. "You have seen so much of the world, Mr.

Churchill, that you can help us greatly. Uncle James, as I told you, is

always willing to learn, and he will keep a sharp watch on the

_Monitor_."

"The _Monitor_, as I need not tell you," said Churchill, "is the chief

organ in New York of good government, and it is never frivolous or

inconsequential. I had hoped that what I sent from Milwaukee would have

its effect, and I am glad to see, Miss Morgan, that it has."

Churchill now permitted himself a smile longer and more complacent, and

Harley felt a slight touch of pity that any man should be blinded thus

by conceit. And Sylvia did not spare him; by alternate flattery and

appeal she drew him further into the toils, and Harley was surprised at

her skill. She did not seem to him now the girl from Idaho, the child of

the mountains and of massacre, but a woman of variable moods, and all of

them attractive, no whit inferior to her Eastern sisters in the

delicate airs and graces that he was wont to associate with feminine

perfection.

As for Churchill, he yielded completely to her spell, not without some

condescension and a memory of his own superiority, but he felt himself

willing to comply with her request, particularly because it involved no

sacrifice on his own part. He and the _Monitor_ would certainly keep

watch over Mr. Grayson, and he would never hesitate to write the words

of warning when ever he felt that they were needed.

"Why did you treat him that way?" asked Harley, when Churchill had gone.

"What do you mean by 'that way'?" she asked, and her chin took on a

saucy uplift.

"Well, to be plain, why did you make a fool of him?"

"Was my help needed?"

Harley laughed.

"Don't be too hard on Churchill," he said, "he's the creature of

circumstance. Besides, you must not forget that he is going to watch

over Mr. Grayson."

Churchill did not join the general group until shortly before the

departure for the evening speech, and then he approached with an

undeniable air of hostility and defence, expecting to be attacked and

having in readiness the weapons with which he had assured himself that

he could repel them. Miss Morgan, it is true, had received him well, but

she, so he had begun to believe, was a girl of perception and

discrimination, and the fine taste shown by her would not be exhibited

by others. The candidate, surprising him much, received him cordially,

though not effusively, and he was made welcome in similar manner by the

others. There was no allusion whatever to his despatch, but he found

himself included in the general gossip, just as if he were one of a

group of good comrades.

Yet Churchill was not wholly pleased. His great stroke seemed to be

ignored by all except Miss Morgan, when they ought to be stirred deeply

by it, and he felt a sense of diminished importance. There should be

confusion among them, or at least trepidation. He closely studied the

faces of Mr. Grayson and the others to see if they were merely masking

their fire, but no attack came either then or later.

Thus two or three days passed, and the campaign deepened and popular

interest increased. Not since the eve of the Civil War had there been

such complexity and intensity of interests, and never before had the

personal factor been so strong. Out of the vast turmoil quickly emerged

James Grayson as the most picturesque figure that ever appeared upon the

stage of national politics in America. His powerful oratory, his daring,

and his magnetic personality drew the eyes of all, and Harley saw that

wherever he might be there the fight would be thickest. The

correspondent's intuition had been right; he had come from a war on the

other side of the world to enter another and greater campaign, one in

which mind counted for more.

The candidate, in his rising greatness, was even a hero to his own

family; and from none did he draw greater admiration than from his

niece, Sylvia Morgan. A fierce champion of the West, she always bitterly

resented the unconscious patronage of the East, which was really the

natural patronage of age rather than of convinced superiority; and her

uncle's triumph filled her with delight, because, to her mind, it was

the triumph of the West that she loved so well. Inspired with this

feeling, she appealed to Harley about the sixth or seventh day of the

campaign for his opinion on its result, and the correspondent hesitated

over his answer. He found that his feeling towards her in this week had

changed greatly, the elements in her character, which at first seemed to

him masculine and forward, were now much modified and softened; always

the picture of that child in the mountains, alone among her dead, rose

before him, and then followed the picture of the little girl borne away

on his saddle-bow by the brave borderer. He would think of her now with

a singular softness, a real pity for those misty days which she herself

had almost forgotten. Hence he hesitated, because what he deemed to be

the truth would have in it a sting for her. But her clear eyes instantly

read his hesitation.

"You need not be afraid to tell me your real opinion, Mr. Harley," she

said. "If you think the chances are against Uncle James, I should like

you to say so."

"I do think they are against him now, although they may not be so later

on," replied he, equivocating with himself a little. "It is an uphill

fight, and then one can easily deceive one's self; in a nation of eighty

or ninety millions even a minority can surround a candidate with a

multitude of people and a storm of enthusiasm."

"But Uncle James is the greatest campaigner ever nominated for the

Presidency," she said, "and we shall yet win."

Harley said nothing in reply, but he gladly noticed her refusal to be

discouraged, like other people having an admiration for courage and

spirit. In fact, it seemed to him that she had a cheerfulness somewhat

beyond the occasion.

Three days later--they were in Pittsburg then--she received a letter

addressed in a strong, heavy hand, her name being spelled in large

letters. Sylvia Morgan was alone in the hotel parlor when it was brought

to her, and a strange shadow, or rather the shadow of a shadow, came

over her face as she held it uneasily in her fingers and looked at the

Idaho postmark in the corner. She knew the handwriting well, and she

knew that it was a true index to the character of its author--rough,

strong, and large. That handwriting could not lie, neither could he. She

continued to hesitate, with the letter in her hand; it was the first

time that she had ever done so with a letter of his, and she felt that

she was disloyal. She heard a voice in the other parlor--the wide doors

between were open; it was the voice of Harley speaking to her uncle, and

a flush crept into her cheeks. Then she shook herself in a sudden little

whirl of anger, and abruptly opened the letter with a swift, tearing

sound. It was a longer letter than he usually wrote, and he said:

"MY DEAREST LITTLE SYLVIA--I have been here just two hours, and, I

tell you, the sight of Idaho is good for the eyes, though it would

be better if you were here with me, as you soon will be all the

time, little one."

She paused a moment, looking away, and the shadow of the shadow came

back to her face. Then she murmured: "He is the best man in the world,"

and resolutely went on:

"The more I see of the other states the better I like Idaho, and I

like next best those that are most like it. Every peak out here

nodded a welcome to me as I came in on the train. I've known them

all for thirty years. I was a little afraid of them at first, they

were so tall and solemn with their white crests, but we are old

friends now--I'll have a white crest myself before long, and I'm

fairly tall now, though perhaps I'll never be solemn. And I drew a

deep breath and a long breath, the first one in days, the moment I

crossed the Idaho line. The East sits rather heavy on me [he called

Chicago the East], and my eyes get tired with so many people

passing before them. Now, I'm not running down the East, which is

all right in its own way, but I am glad we have so much mountain

and unwatered plain out here, because then the people can never get

so thick that they tread on you; not that they mean to do it, but

crowds shove just because they can't help it."

Sylvia smiled, and for a moment there was a little moisture in her eyes.

"Good old daddy," she murmured. Somehow, the pet name "daddy" seemed

just to fit him. Then the resolute little frown came over her face again

and she went on.

"As I said, Idaho is a good state. I like it when I am here, and I

like it all the better when I come back to it. God's people live in

these Rocky Mountain states, and that is a reason why I am so

red-hot to have your uncle James elected. He is one of God's

people, too, and they have never yet had a man of ours sitting in

the White House down there at Washington and bossing the job. I

think maybe he will teach them a new trick or two in running the

old ship of state. But, Sylvia, I am not thinking so much even of

him as I am of you. I know that I am a good deal older than you, as

people count years, but I can truly say that my heart is young, and

I think that I will be a husky chap for a good long time to come.

You know I've had you nearly all your life, Sylvia, and we have the

advantage of knowing each other. You are on to all my curves--that

is, you don't have to get married to me to learn my failings.

"I guess I haven't the polish that those Eastern fellows put on, or

that is put on them, but out here in the mountains I amount to

somebody--you must let me brag a little, Sylvia--and if a man

doesn't bow pretty low to Mrs. William Plummer, I'll have to get

out my old six-shooter--I haven't carried one now for ten

years--and shoot all the hair off the top of his head."

"He thinks he's joking, but I believe he would do it. Dear old daddy!"

murmured Sylvia.

"I think you ought to become Mrs. Plummer now, Sylvia, but I guess

I'm willing to wait until this campaign is over. For one ought to

be willing to wait, if by waiting he can get such a good thing.

Still, I hate to think of you away off there in the East, so many

thousands of miles away from me, where there are no friendly old

mountains to look down on you and watch over you, and I'm glad that

my little girl is coming West again soon. I'll try to get down part

of the way, say to Nebraska or Kansas, to meet you. I feel safer

when I have you close by; then, if any of those young Eastern

fellows should try to kidnap you and run away with you, my old

six-shooter might have a word to say."

The sudden flush rose to her cheeks at this new joke, but she murmured

nothing. The rest of the letter was about people whom they knew in Boise

and elsewhere in Idaho, and it closed:

"Don't think I'm growing gushing at my age, Sylvia, but Idaho, fine

as she is, isn't near complete without you, and this is why I want

you back in it just as soon as you can come.

Yours, lovingly,

"WILLIAM PLUMMER."

She folded the letter carefully and put it back in the envelope. Then

she sat for a long time, and her look was one of mingled tenderness and

sadness. Her mind, too, ran back into the past, and she had a dim vision

of the little child, who was herself, borne away on his saddle-horn by

the strong mountaineer, who held her safely in the hollow of his arm.

And then the years followed, and she always looked to the mountaineer

for the protection and the love that were never wanting, but it was

always the protection and love of one older and stronger than herself,

one who belonged to the generation preceding her own.

Mr. Grayson, Harley, and the others were gone, and she heard no voices

in the next parlor. She realized with suddenness how strongly and in how

brief a time this little group, travelling through a vast country, had

become welded together by the very circumstances of their travel--the

comradeship of the road--and she sighed. She and Mrs. Grayson were about

to leave them and return to the Grayson home in the West, because women,

no matter how nearly related, could not be taken all the way on an

arduous campaign of six months. She had enjoyed this life, which was

almost the life of a soldier--the crowds, the enthusiasm, the murmur,

then the cheers of thousands of voices, the flight on swift trains from

one city to another, the dash for the station sometimes before daylight,

and all the freshness and keenness of youth about her. She had

affiliated, she had become one of the group, and now that she was to

leave it for a while she had a deep sense of loss.

There was a step beside her, and Mrs. Grayson, the quiet, the tactful,

and the observant, entered.

"Why, Sylvia," she said, "you are sitting in the dark!"

She touched the button, turned on the electric lights, and noticed the

letter lying in the girl's hand. Her glance passed swiftly to Sylvia's

face and as swiftly passed away. She knew instinctively the writer of

the letter, but she said nothing, waiting for Sylvia herself to speak.

"I have a letter from Mr. Plummer," said Sylvia.

"What does he say?"

"Not much besides his arrival at Boise--just some foolishness of his;

you know how he loves to jest."

"Yes, I have long known that," said Mrs. Grayson, but she noticed that

Sylvia made no offer to show the letter. Hitherto the letters of "King"

Plummer had been read by all the Graysons as a matter of course, just as

one shares interesting news.

"He is a good man, and he will be a good husband," said Mrs. Grayson.

She was for the moment ruthless with a purpose, and when she said the

words, although affecting not to watch, she saw the girl flinch--ever so

little, but still she flinched.

"The best man in the world," repeated Sylvia Morgan, softly.

"And yet there are other good men," said Mrs. Grayson, quietly. "One

good man does not exclude the existence of another."

Sylvia looked up at her, but she failed to take her meaning. Her quiet

aunt sometimes spoke in parables, and waited for events to disclose her

meaning.

Mrs. Grayson and Miss Morgan were to leave for the West the next

afternoon, and shortly before their departure Harley came to tell them a

temporary good-bye. Sylvia and he chanced to be alone for a little

while, and she genuinely lamented her departure--they had become franker

friends in these later days.

"I do not see why women cannot go through a political campaign from

beginning to end," she said; "I'm sure we can help Uncle James, and

there will be, too, so many interesting things to see. It will be like a

war without the wounds and death. I don't want to miss any of it."

"I half agree with you," said Harley, smiling, "and I know that it would

be a great deal nicer for the rest of us if you and Mrs. Grayson could

go along."

He paused, and he had a sudden bold thought.

"If anything specially interesting happens that the newspapers don't

tell about, will you let me write you an account of it?" he asked. "I

should really like to tell you."

She flushed ever so little, but she was of the free-and-open West, and

Harley always gave her the impression of courteous strength--he would

take no liberties.

"You can write," she said, briefly, and then she immediately regretted

her decision. It was the thought of "King" Plummer that made her regret

it, but she had too much pride to change it now.

Harley was at the train with Mr. Grayson when she and Mrs. Grayson left,

and Sylvia found that he had seen to everything connected with their

journey. Without making any noise, and without appearing to work much,

he accomplished a good deal. She had an impulse once to thank him, but

she restrained it, and she gave him a good-bye that was neither cool nor

warm, just sufficiently conventional to leave no inference whatever. But

when the train was gone and Mr. Grayson and he were riding back in the

cab to the hotel, the candidate spoke of her.

"She's a good girl, Harley," he said--he and Harley had grown to be such

friends that he now dropped the "Mr." when he spoke directly to the

correspondent. "She's real, as true as steel."

He spoke with emphasis, but Harley said nothing.

The group seemed to lose much of its vividness, color, and variety when

the women departed, but they settled down to work, the most intense and

exacting that Harley had ever known. All the great qualities of the

candidate came out; he seemed to be made of iron, and on the stump he

was without an equal; if any one in the audience was ready with a

troublesome question, he was equally ready with an apt reply; nor could

they disturb his good humor; and his smiling irony!--the rash fool who

sought to deride him always found the laugh turned upon himself.

Throughout the East the party was stirred to mighty enthusiasm, and

their antagonists, who had thought the election a foregone conclusion,

were roused from their security. Again the combat deepened and entered

upon a yet hotter phase. Meanwhile Mr. Goodnight, Mr. Crayon, and their

powerful faction within the party, kept quiet for the time. Mr. Grayson

was not yet treading on their toes, but he knew, and his friends knew,

that they were watching every motion of his with a hundred eyes.

Churchill's _Monitor_ was constantly coming, laden with suggestion,

advice, and warning, and Churchill himself alternately wore a look of

importance and disappointment. No one ever made the slightest reference

to his wise despatches. He had expected to be insulted, to be

persecuted, to be a martyr for duty's sake, and, lo! he was treated

always with courtesy, but his great work was ignored; he felt that they

must see it, but then they might be too dull to notice its edge and

weight. He now drew a certain consolation from his silent suffering, and

strengthened himself anew for the task which he felt required a delicate

and thoughtful mind.

Harley wrote several times to Sylvia Morgan, both at Boise and at her

aunt's home--long, careful letters, in which he strove to confine

himself to the purely narrative form, and to make these epistles

interesting as documents. He spoke of many odd personal details by the

way, and even at the distance of two thousand miles he continued to

touch the campaign with the breath of life, although told at

second-hand.

The replies came in due time, brief, impersonal, thanking him for his

trouble, and giving a little news of Mrs. Grayson, "King" Plummer, and

herself. Harley was surprised to see with what terseness, strength, and

elegance she expressed herself. "Perhaps there is a force in those

mountains which unconsciously teaches simplicity and power," he found

himself thinking. He was surprised, too, one day, when he was packing

his valise for a hurried start, to see all her letters reposing neatly

in one corner of the aforesaid valise. "Now, why have I done that?" he

asked; "why have I saved those letters? They take up valuable space; I

will destroy them." But when he closed the valise the undamaged letters

were still neatly reposing in their allotted corner.

Now the campaign in the East came to its end, and their special train

swung westward into the states supposed to be most doubtful--first

across the Mississippi, and then across the Missouri. The campaign

entered upon a new phase amid new conditions--in a new world, in

fact--and it required no intuition for Harley to feel that strange

events were approaching.

VII

HIS GREATEST SPEECH

It was the candidate's eighth speech that day, but Harley, who was in

analytical mood, could see no decrease either in his energy or

spontaneity of thought and expression. The words still came with the old

dash and the old power, and the audience always hung upon them, the

applause invariably rising like the rattle of rifle-fire. They had

started at daylight, hurrying across the monotonous Western plains, in a

dusty and uncomfortable car, stopping for a half-hour speech here, then

racing for another at a second little village, and then a third race and

a third speech, and so on. Nor was this the first day of such labors; it

had been so week after week, and always it lasted through the day and

far into the darkness, sometimes after midnight. But there was no sign

to tell of it on the face of the candidate, save a slight redness around

the edge of the eyelids, and a little hoarseness between the speeches

when he talked to his friends in an ordinary tone.

The village in which Grayson was speaking was a tiny place of twelve or

fifteen houses, all square, unadorned, and ugly, standing in the centre

of an illimitable prairie that rolled away on either side exactly like

the waves of the sea, and with the same monotony. It was a

weather-beaten gathering. The prairie winds are not good for the

complexion, and the cheeks of these people were brown, not red. On the

outskirts of the crowd, still sitting on their ponies, were cowboys, who

had ridden sixty miles across the Wyoming border to hear Grayson speak.

They were dressed exactly like the cowboys of the pictures that Harley

had seen in magazine stories of the Western plains. They wore the

sombreros and leggings and leather belts, but there was no disorder, no

cursing, no shouting nor yelling. This was a phase that had passed.

They listened, too, with an eagerness that few Eastern audiences could

show. This was not to them an entertainment or anything savoring of the

spectacular; it was the next thing to the word of God. There was a

reverence in their manner and bearing that appealed to Harley, and he

read easily in their minds the belief that Jimmy Grayson was the

greatest man in the world, and that he alone could bring to their

country the greatness that they wished as much for the country as for

themselves. Churchill sneered at this tone of the gathering, but Harley

took another view. These men might be ignorant of the world, but he

respected their hero-worship, and thought it a good quality in them.

They heard the candidate tell of mighty corporations, of a vague and

distant place called Wall Street, where fat men, with soft, white

fingers and pouches under their eyes, sat in red-carpeted offices and

pulled little but very strong strings that made farmers on the Western

plains, two thousand miles away, dance like jumping-jacks, just as the

fat men wished, and just when they wished. These fat men were allied

with others in Europe, pouchy-eyed and smooth-fingered like themselves,

and it was their object to own all the money-bags of the world, and

gather all the profits of the world's labor. Harley, watching these

people, saw a spark appear in their eyes many times, but it was always

brightest at the mention of Wall Street. That both speaker and those to

whom his words were spoken were thoroughly sincere, he did not doubt for

a moment.

Grayson ceased, the engine blew the starting signal, the candidate and

the correspondent swung aboard, and off they went. Harley looked back,

and as long as he could see the station the little crowd on the lone

prairie was still watching the disappearing train. There was something

pathetic in the sight of these people following with their eyes until

the last moment the man whom they considered their particular champion.

It was but an ordinary train of day cars, the red plush of the seats now

whitened by the prairie dust, and it was used in common by the

candidate, the flock of correspondents, and a dozen politicians, the

last chiefly committeemen or their friends, one being the governor of

the state through which they were then travelling.

Harley sought sleep as early as possible that night, because he would

need all his strength for the next day, which was to be a

record-breaker. A tremendous programme had been mapped out for Jimmy

Grayson, and Harley, although aware of the candidate's great endurance,

wondered how he would ever stand it. They were to cut the state from

southeast to northwest, a distance of more than four hundred miles, and

twenty-four speeches were to be made by the way. Fresh from war, Harley

did not remember any more arduous journey, and, like an old campaigner,

he prepared for it as best he could.

It was not yet daylight when they were awakened for the start of the

great day. A cold wind moaned around the hamlet as they ate their

breakfast, and then hastened, valise in hand, and still half asleep, to

the train, which stood steam up and ready to be off. They found several

men already on board, and Churchill, when he saw them, uttered the brief

word, "Natives!" They were typical men of the plains, thin, dry, and

weather-beaten, and the correspondents at first paid but little

attention to them. It was common enough for some local committeeman to

take along a number of friends for a half-day or so, in order that they

might have a chance to gratify their curiosity and show their admiration

for the candidate.

But the attention of Harley was attracted presently by one of the

strangers, a smallish man of middle age, with a weak jaw and a look

curiously compounded of eagerness and depression.

The stranger's eye met Harley's, and, encouraged by his friendly look,

he crossed the aisle and spoke to the correspondent.

"You are one of them newspaper fellers that travels with Grayson, ain't

you?" he asked.

Harley admitted the charge.

"And you see him every day?" continued the little man, admiringly.

"Many times a day."

"My! My! Jest to think of your comin' away out here to take down what

our Jimmy Grayson says, so them fellers in New York can read it! I'll

bet he makes Wall Street shake. I wish I was like you, mister, and could

be right alongside Jimmy Grayson every day for weeks and weeks, and

could hear every word he said while he was poundin' them fellers in Wall

Street who are ruinin' our country. He is the greatest man in the

world. Do you reckon I could get to speak to him and jest tech his

hand?"

"Why, certainly," replied Harley. He was moved by the little man's

childlike and absolute faith and his reverence for Jimmy Grayson as a

demigod. It was not without pathos, and Harley at once took him into the

next car and introduced him to Grayson, who received him with the

natural cordiality that never deserted him. Plover, the little man said

was his name--William Plover, of Kalapoosa, Choctaw County. He regarded

Grayson with awe, and, after the hand-shake, did not speak. Indeed, he

seemed to wish no more, and made himself still smaller in a corner,

where he listened attentively to everything that Grayson said.

He also stood in the front row at each stopping-place, his eyes fixed on

Grayson's face while the latter made his speech. The candidate,

by-and-by, began to notice him there. It is often a habit with those who

have to speak much in public to fix the eye on some especially

interested auditor and talk to him directly. It assists in a sort of

concentration, and gives the orator a willing target.

Grayson now spoke straight to Plover, and Harley watched how the little

man's emotions, as shown in his face, reflected in every part the

orator's address. There was actual fire in his eyes, whenever Grayson

mentioned that ogre, Wall Street, and tears rose when the speaker

depicted the bad condition of the Western farmer.

"Wouldn't I like to go on to Washington with Jimmy Grayson when he takes

charge of the government!" exclaimed Plover to Harley when this speech

was finished--"not to take a hand myself, but jest to see him make

things hum! Won't he make them fat fellers in Wall Street squeal! He'll

have the Robber Barons squirmin' on the griddle pretty quick, an'

wheat'll go straight to a dollar a bushel, sure! I can see it now!"

His exultation and delight lasted all the morning; but in the afternoon

the depressed, crushed feeling which Harley had noticed at first in his

look seemed to get control.

Although his interest in Grayson's speeches and his devout admiration

did not decrease, Plover's melancholy grew, and Harley by-and-by learned

the cause of it from another man, somewhat similar in aspect, but larger

of figure and stronger of face.

"To tell you the truth, mister," said the man, with the easy freedom of

the West, "Billy Plover--and my cousin he is, twice removed--my name's

Sandidge--is runnin' away."

"Running away?" exclaimed Harley, in surprise. "Where's he running to,

and what's he running from?"

"Where he's runnin' to, I don't know--California, or Washington, or

Oregon, I guess. But I know mighty well what he's runnin' away from;

it's his wife."

"Ah, a family trouble?" said Harley, whose delicacy would have caused

him to refrain from asking more. But the garrulous cousin rambled on.

"It's a trouble, and it ain't a trouble," he continued. "It's the

weather and the crops, or maybe because Billy 'ain't had no weather nor

no crops, either. You see, he's lived for the last ten years on a

quarter-section out near Kalapoosa, with his wife, Susan, a good woman

and a terrible hard worker, but the rain's been mighty light for three

seasons, and Billy's wheat has failed every time. It's kinder got on

his temper, and, as they 'ain't got any children to take care of, Billy

he's been takin' to politics. Got an idea that he can speak, though he

can't, worth shucks, and thinks he's got a mission to whack Wall Street,

though I ain't sure but what Wall Street don't deserve it. Susan says he

ain't got any business in politics, that he ought to leave that to

better men, an' stay an' wrastle with the ground and the weather. So

that made them take to spattin'."

"And the upshot?"

"Waal, the upshot was that Billy said he could stand it no longer. So

last night he raked up half the spare cash, leavin' the rest and the

farm and stock to Susan, an' he loped out. But first he said he had to

hear Jimmy Grayson, who is mighty nigh a whole team of prophets to him,

and, as Jimmy's goin' west, right on his way, he's come along. But

to-night, at Jimmy's last stoppin'-place, he leaves us and takes a train

straight to the coast. I'm sorry, because if Susan had time to see him

and talk it over--you see, she's the man of the two--the whole thing

would blow over, and they'd be back on the farm, workin' hard, and with

good times ahead."

Harley was moved by this pathetic little tragedy of the plains, the

result of loneliness and hard times preying upon the tempers of two

people. "Poor devil!" he thought. "It's as his cousin says; if Susan

could only be face to face with him for five minutes, he'd drop his

foolish idea of running away and go home."

Then of that thought was born unto him a great idea, and he immediately

hunted up the cousin again.

"Is Kalapoosa a station on the telegraph line?" he asked.

"Oh yes."

"Would a telegram to that point be delivered to the Plover farm?"

"Yes. Why, what's up?"

"Nothing; I just wanted to know. Now, can you tell me what time

to-night, after our arrival, a man may take a train for the coast from

Weeping Water, our last stop?"

"We're due at Weepin' Water," replied the cousin, "at eleven to-night,

but I cal'late it'll be nigher twelve when we strike the town. You see,

this is a special train, runnin' on any old time, an' it's liable now

and then to get laid out a half an hour or more. But, anyhow, we ought

to beat the Denver Express, which is due at twelve-thirty in the

mornin', an' stops ten minutes at the water-tank. It connects at Denver

with the 'Frisco Express, an' I guess it's the train that Billy will

take."

"Does the Denver Express stop at Kalapoosa?"

"Yes. Kalapoosa ain't nothin' but a little bit of a place, but the

Pawnee branch line comes in there, and the express gets some passengers

off it. Say, mister, what's up?"

But Harley evaded a direct answer, having now all the information he

wished. He went back to the next car and wrote this despatch:

"KALAPOOSA.

"SUSAN PLOVER,--Take to-day's Denver Express and get off to-night

at Weeping Water. You will find me at Grayson's speaking, standing

just in front of him. Don't fail to come. Will explain everything

to you then.

"WILLIAM PLOVER."

Harley looked at this message with satisfaction. "I guess I'm a forger,"

he mused; "but as the essence of wrong lies in the intention, I'm doing

no harm."

He stopped at the next station, prepaid the message, and, standing by,

saw with his own eyes the operator send it. Then he returned to the

train and resumed his work with fresh zest.

And he had plenty to do. He had seen Jimmy Grayson make great displays

of energy, but his vitality on this terrible day was amazing. On and on

they went, right into the red eye of the sun. The hot rays poured down,

and the dust whirled over the plain, entering the car in clouds, where

it clothed everything--floors, seats, and men alike--until they were a

uniform whitey-brown. It crept, too, into Harley's throat and stung his

eyelids, but at each new speech the candidate seemed to rise fresher and

stronger than ever, and at every good point he made the volleys of

applause rose like rifle-shots.

Harley, at the close of a speech late in the day, sought his new friend,

Plover. The little man was crushed down in a seat, looking very gloomy.

Harley knew that he was thinking of Kalapoosa, the spell of Grayson's

eloquence being gone for the moment.

"Tired, Mr. Plover?" said Harley, putting a friendly hand on his

shoulder.

"A little bit," replied Plover.

"But it's a great day," continued Harley. "I tell you, old man, it's one

to be remembered. There never was such a campaign. The story of this

ride will be in all the papers of the United States to-morrow."

"Ain't he great! Ain't he great!" exclaimed Plover, brightening into

enthusiasm. "And don't he hit Wall Street some awful whacks?"

"He certainly is great," replied Harley. "But you wait until we get to

Weeping Water. That's the last stop, and he'll just turn himself loose

there. You mustn't miss a word."

"I won't," replied Plover. "I'll have time, because the Denver Express,

on which I'm going to 'Frisco, don't leave there till twelve-forty. No,

I won't miss the big speech at Weeping Water."

They reached Weeping Water at last, although it was full midnight, and

they were far behind time, and together they walked to the speaker's

stand.

Harley saw Plover in his accustomed place in the front rank, just under

the light of the torches, where he would meet the speaker's eye, his

face rapt and worshipful. Then he looked at his watch.

"Twelve-fifteen," he said to himself. "The Denver Express will be here

in another fifteen minutes, and Susan will fall on the neck of her

Billy."

Then he stopped to listen to Grayson. Never had Harley seen him more

earnest, more forcible. He knew that the candidate must be sinking from

physical weakness--his pale, drawn face showed that--but his spirit

flamed up for this last speech, and the crowd was wholly under the spell

of his powerful appeal.

Harley met, presently, the cousin, Sandidge.

"This is Grayson's greatest speech of the day," Harley said, "and how it

must please Mr. Plover!"

"That's so," replied Sandidge; "but Billy's all broke up over it."

"Why, what's the matter?" asked Harley, in sudden alarm.

"The Denver Express is nearly two hours and a half late--won't be here

until three, and at Denver it'll miss the 'Frisco Express; won't be

another for a day. So Billy, who's in a hurry to get to the coast--the

old Nick's got into him, I reckon--is goin' by the express on the B. P.;

the train on the branch line that goes out there at two-ten connects

with it, and so does the accommodation freight at two-forty. It's hard

on Billy--he hates to miss any of Jimmy Grayson's speeches, but he's

bound to go."

Harley was touched by real sorrow. He drew his pencil-pad from his

pocket, hastily wrote a few lines upon it, pushed his way to the stage,

and thrust what he had written into Mr. Grayson's hands. The speaker,

stopping to take a drink of water, read this note:

"DEAR MR. GRAYSON,--The Denver Express is two hours and a half

late. For God's sake speak until it comes; you will hear it at

three, when it pulls into the station. It is a matter of life and

death, and while you are speaking don't take your eye off the

little man with the whiskers, who has been with us all day, and who

always stands in front and looks up at you. I'll explain everything

later, but please do it. Again I say it's a matter of life and

death.

"JOHN HARLEY."

Grayson looked in surprise at Harley, but he caught the appealing look

on the face of the correspondent. He liked Harley, and he knew that he

could trust him. He knew, moreover, that what Harley had written in the

note must be true.

Grayson did not hesitate, and, nodding slightly to Harley, turned and

faced the crowd, like a soldier prepared for his last and desperate

charge. His eyes sought those of the little man, his target, looking up

at him. Then he fixed Plover with his gaze and began.

They still tell in the West of Jimmy Grayson's speech at Weeping Water,

as the veterans tell of Pickett's rush in the flame and the smoke up

Cemetery Hill. He had gone on the stage a half-dead man. He had already

been speaking nineteen hours that day. His eyes were red and swollen

with train dust, prairie dust, and lack of sleep. Every bone in him

ached. Every word stung his throat as it came, and his tongue was like a

hot ember in his mouth. Deep lines ran away from his eyes.

But Jimmy Grayson was inspired that night on the black prairie. The

words leaped in livid flame from his lips. Never was his speech more

free and bold, and always his burning eyes looked into those of Plover

and held him.

Closer and closer pressed the crowd. The darkness still rolled up,

thicker and blacker than ever. Grayson's shoulders sank away, and only

his face was visible now. The wind rose again, and whistled around the

little town and shrieked far out on the lonely prairie. But above it

rose the voice of Grayson, mellow, inspiring, and flowing full and free.

Harley looked and listened, and his admiration grew and grew. "I don't

agree with all he says," he thought, "but, my God! how well he says it."

Then he cowered in the lee of a little building, that he might shelter

himself from the bitter wind that was searching him to the marrow.

Time passed. The speaker never faltered. A half-hour, an hour, and his

voice was still full and mellow, nor had a soul left the crowd. Grayson

himself seemed to feel a new access of strength from some hidden source,

and his form expanded as he denounced the Trusts and the Robber Barons,

and all the other iniquities that he felt it his duty to impale, but he

never took his eyes from Plover; to him he was now talking with a force

and directness that he had not equalled before. Time went on, and, as if

half remembering some resolution, Plover's hand stole towards the

little old silver watch that he carried in the left-hand pocket of his

waistcoat. But just at that critical moment Grayson uttered the magical

name, Wall Street, and Plover's hand fell back to his side with a jerk.

Then Grayson rose to his best, and tore Wall Street to tatters.

A whistle sounded, a bell rang, and a train began to rumble, but no one

took note of it save Harley. The two-ten on the branch line to connect

with the 'Frisco Express on the B. P. was moving out, and he breathed a

great sigh of relief. "One gone," he said to himself; "now for the

accommodation freight."

The speech continued, but presently Grayson stopped for a hasty drink of

water. Harley trembled. He was afraid that Grayson was breaking down,

and his fears increased when he saw Plover's eyes leave the speaker's

face and wander towards the station. But just at that moment the

candidate caught the little man.

"Listen to me!" thundered Grayson, "and let no true citizen here fail to

heed what I am about to tell him."

Plover could not resist the voice and those words of command. His

thoughts, wandering towards the railroad station, were seized and

brought back by the speaker. His eyes were fixed and held by Grayson,

and he stood there as if chained to the spot.

Time became strangely slow. The accommodation freight must be more than

ten minutes late, Harley thought. He looked at his watch, and found that

it was not due to leave for five minutes yet. So he settled himself to

patient waiting, and listened to Grayson as he passed from one national

topic to another. He saw, too, that the lines in the speaker's face were

growing deeper and deeper, and he knew that he must be using his last

ounces of strength. His soul was stirred with pity. Yet Grayson never

faltered.

The whistle blew, the bell rang, and again the train rumbled. The

two-forty accommodation freight on the branch line to connect with the

'Frisco Express on the B. P. was moving out, and Plover had been held.

He could not go now, and once more Harley breathed that deep sigh of

relief. Twenty minutes passed, and he heard far off in the east a faint

rumble. He knew it was the Denver Express, and, in spite of his

resolution, he began to grow nervous. Suppose the woman should not come?

The rumble grew to a roar, and the train pulled into the station.

Grayson was faithful to the last, and still thundered forth the

invective that delighted the soul of Plover. The train whistled and

moved off again, and Harley waited in breathless anxiety.

A tall form rose out of the darkness, and a woman, middle-aged and

honest of face, appeared. The correspondent knew that it must be Susan.

It could be nobody else. She was looking around as if she sought some

one. Harley's eye caught Grayson's, and it gave the signal.

"And now, gentlemen," said the candidate, "I am done. I thank you for

your attention, and I hope you will think well of what I have said."

So saying, he left the stage, and the crowd dispersed. But Harley

waited, and he saw Plover and his wife meet. He saw, too, the look of

surprise and then joy on the man's face, and he saw them throw their

arms around each other's neck and kiss in the dark. They were only a

poor, prosaic, and middle-aged couple, but he knew they were now happy

and that all was right between them.

When Grayson went to his room, he fell from exhaustion in a half-faint

across the bed; but when Harley told him the next afternoon the cause of

it all, he laughed and said it was well worth the price.

They obtained, about a week later, the New York papers containing an

account of the record-breaking day. When Harley opened the _Monitor_,

Churchill's paper, he read these head-lines:

GRAYSON'S GAB

HE IS TALKING THE FARMERS OF THE WEST TO

DEATH

TWENTY-FOUR SPEECHES IN TWENTY-FOUR

HOURS

HE TALKS FIFTY THOUSAND WORDS IN ONE DAY,

AND SAYS NOTHING

But when he looked at the _Gazette_, he saw the following head-lines

over his own account:

HIS GREATEST SPEECH

GRAYSON'S WONDERFUL EXHIBITION OF PLUCK

AND ENDURANCE

AFTER RIDING FOUR HUNDRED MILES AND MAKING

TWENTY-THREE SPEECHES HE HOLDS

AN AUDIENCE SPELLBOUND FOR

THREE HOURS AT HIS

TWENTY-FOURTH

SPEAKS FROM MIDNIGHT UNTIL THREE IN THE

MORNING IN THE OPEN AIR AND NOT A

SOUL LEAVES, THOUGH A BLIZZARD

WAS RAGING

Harley sighed with satisfaction.

"That managing editor of mine knows his business," he said to himself.

VIII

SYLVIA'S RETURN

Harley slept late the next day, and it was the heavy, somewhat nervous

slumber of utter exhaustion, like that which he had more than once

experienced in the war on the other side of the world, after days of

incessant marching. When he awoke, it was afternoon on the special

train, and as he joined the group he was greeted with a suppressed

cheer.

"I understand that you stayed the whole thing through last night, or

rather this morning," said Churchill, in a sneering tone. "There's

devotion for you, boys!"

"I was amply repaid," replied Harley, calmly. "His last speech was the

most interesting; in fact, I think it was the greatest speech that I

ever heard him make."

"I fear that Jimmy Grayson is overdoing it," said the elderly Tremaine,

soberly. "A Presidential nominee is not exactly master of himself, and I

doubt whether he should have risked his voice, and perhaps the success

of his party, speaking in that cold wind until three or four o'clock

this morning."

"He just loves to hear the sound of his own voice," said Churchill, his

ugly sneer becoming uglier. "I think it undignified and absurd on the

part of a man who is in the position that he is in."

Harley was silent, and he was glad now that he had said nothing in his

despatch about the real reason for Grayson's long speaking. He had had

at first a little struggle over it with his professional conscience,

feeling that his duty required him to tell, but a little reflection

decided him to the contrary. He had managed the affair, it was not a

spontaneous occurrence, and, therefore, it was the private business of

himself and Mr. James Grayson. It gave him great relief to be convinced

thus, as he knew that otherwise the candidate would be severely

criticised for it both by the opposition press and by a considerable

number of his own party journals.

But there was one person to whom Harley related the whole story. It was

told in a letter to Sylvia Morgan, who was then at the home of the

candidate with Mrs. Grayson. After describing all the details minutely,

he gave his opinion: he held that it was right for a man, even in

critical moments weighted with the fate of the many, to halt to do a

good action which could affect only one or two. A great general at the

height of a battle, seeing a wounded soldier helpless on the ground,

might take the time to order relief for him without at all impairing the

fate of the combat; to do otherwise would be a complete sacrifice of the

individual for the sake of a mighty machine which would banish all

humanity from life. He noticed that even Napoleon, in the midst of what

might be called the most strenuous career the world has known, turned

aside to do little acts of kindness.

He was glad to find, when her reply came a few days later, that she

agreed with him at least in the main part of his argument; but she

called his attention to the fact that it was not Mr. Grayson, but Harley

himself, who had injected this strange element into the combat when it

was at its zenith; her uncle James had merely responded to a strong and

moving appeal, which he would always do, because she knew the softness

of his heart; yet she was not willing for him to go too far. A general

might be able to turn aside for a moment at the height of the battle,

and then he might not. She wished her uncle James to be judicious in his

generosity, and not make any sacrifice which might prove too costly

alike to himself and to others.

"She is a compound of romance and strong common-sense," thought Harley,

musing over the letter. "She wants the romance without paying the price.

Now I wonder if that is not rather more the characteristic of women than

of men."

On the day following the receipt of this letter, a look of joy came over

the face of the candidate and there was a visible exhilaration

throughout his party. Men, worn, exhausted, and covered with the dust of

the great plains, began to freshen up themselves as much as they could;

there was a great brushing of soiled clothing, a hauling out of clean

collars, a sharpening of razors, and a general inquiry, "How do I look?"

The whole atmosphere of the train was changed, and it became much

brighter and livelier. It was the candidate himself who wrought the

transformation, after reading a letter, with the brief statement, "Mrs.

Grayson and Sylvia will join us to-morrow."

All had begun to pine for feminine society, as soldiers, long on the

march, desire the sight of women and the sound of their voices. It is

true that they saw women often, and many of them--some who were

beautiful and some who were not--as they sped through the West, but it

was always a flitting and blurred glimpse. "I haven't got an impression

of the features of a single one of them," complained the elderly beau,

Tremaine. Now two women whom they knew well and liked would be with them

for days, and they rejoiced accordingly.

It was at a little junction station in eastern Colorado, in the clear

blue-and-silver of a fine morning, that Mrs. Grayson and Sylvia met

them. Mr. Grayson and his party had been down about fifty miles on a

branch line for a speech at a town of importance, and they had begun the

return journey before daylight in order to make the connection. But when

the gray dawn came through the dusty car-windows, it was odd to see how

neat and careful all appeared, even under such difficult circumstances.

Harley was surprised to realize the eagerness with which he looked

forward to the meeting, and put it down to the long lack of feminine

society. But he wondered if Sylvia had changed, if the nearer approach

of her marriage with "King" Plummer would make her reserved and with her

outlook on the future--that is, as one apart.

He had a favorable seat in the car and he was the first to see them. The

junction was a tiny place of not more than a half-dozen houses standing

in the midst of a great plain, and it made a perfect silhouette against

the gorgeous morning sunlight. Harley saw two slender figures outlined

there in front of the station building, and, despite the distance, he

knew them. There was to him something typically American and typically

Western in these two women coming alone into that vast emptiness and

waiting there in the utmost calmness, knowing that they were as safe as

if they were in the heart of a great city, and perhaps safer.

He knew, too, which was Sylvia; her manner, her bearing, the poise of

her figure, had become familiar to him. Slender and upright, she was in

harmony with the majesty of these great and silent spaces, but she did

not now seem bold and forward to him; she was clothed in a different

atmosphere altogether.

There was a warm greeting for Mr. Grayson and the hand of fellowship for

the others. Harley held Sylvia's fingers in his for a moment--just a

moment--and said, with some emphasis:

"Our little party has not been the same without you, Miss Morgan."

"I'm glad to hear you say it," she replied, frankly, "and I'm glad to be

back with all of you. It's a campaign that I enjoy."

"It can be said for it that it is never monotonous."

"That's one reason why I like it."

She laughed a little, making no attempt to conceal her pleasure at this

renewed touch with fresh, young life, and, because it was so obvious,

Harley laughed also and shared her pleasure. He noticed, too, the new

charm that she had in addition to the old, a softening of manner, a

slight appeal that she made, without detracting in any wise from the

impression of strength and self-reliance that she gave.

"Where did you leave 'King' Plummer?" he asked, unguardedly.

"In Idaho," she replied, with sudden gravity. "He is well, and I believe

that he is happy. He is umpiring a great quarrel between the cattlemen

and the sheepmen, or, rather, he is compelling both to listen to him and

to agree to a compromise that he has suggested. So he is really enjoying

himself. You do not know the delight that he takes in the handling of

large and rather rough affairs."

"I can readily guess it; he seems to have been made for them."

But she said no more of "King" Plummer, quickly turning the talk to the

campaign, and showing at once that she had followed every phase of it

with the closest and most anxious attention. Mrs. Grayson had walked on

a little and was talking to her husband, but she glanced back and saw

what she had expected. She and her husband turned presently in their

walk, and she said, looking significantly at Harley and Miss Morgan:

"It is a great pleasure to Sylvia to be with your party again."

There was such a curious inflection to her voice that the candidate

exclaimed, "Why, what do you mean, Anna?" and she merely replied, "Oh,

nothing!" which meant everything. The candidate, understanding, looked

more attentively, and his eyes contracted a little, as if he were not

wholly pleased at what he saw.

"It's a free world," he said, "but I am glad that 'King' Plummer will be

with us again in a few days."

But his wife, able to see further than he, merely looked thoughtful and

did not reply.

Harley's solitary talk with Miss Morgan was brief; it could not be

anything else under the circumstances; Hobart, with all sail set, bore

down upon them.

"Come! Come, Harley!" he cried, with the perfect frankness that usually

distinguished him, "we don't permit any selfish monopolists here. We are

all cast away on a desert island, so to speak, and there are a lot of us

men and only two women, one of whom is mortgaged!"

Then he was welcoming Miss Morgan in florid style; and there, too, was

the ancient beau, Tremaine, displaying all his little arts of elegance

and despising Hobart's obvious methods; and Blaisdell, and all the

others, forming a court about her and giving her an attention which

could not fail to please her and bring a deeper red to her cheeks and a

brighter flash to her eyes. It seemed to Mrs. Grayson, looking on, that

the girl had been hungry for something which she had now found, and in

finding which she was happy, and, despite her sense of loyalty, she felt

a glow of sympathy.

But the sense of duty in Mrs. Grayson was strong, and while she

hesitated much and sought for mental excuses to avoid it, she wrote a

long letter to "King" Plummer that evening in the waiting-room of a

little wayside hotel. In many things that she said she was beautifully

vague; but she told him how glad she was that he would join them so

soon; she spoke of the quarrel between the cattlemen and the sheepmen as

a closed affair, and complimented him on his skill in bringing it to an

end so quickly; it was all the better because now he could come to them

at once, and she boldly said how much Sylvia was missing him. But when

she sealed and addressed the letter she reflected awhile before dropping

it in the box on the wall.

"Now, ought I to do this?" she asked herself. "Have I the right to

hasten or to divert the course of affairs?"

She decided that she had the right, and mailed the letter.

"King" Plummer came a few days later--he said that he "just blew in a

few days ahead of time"--and received a hearty welcome from everybody,

which he returned in double measure in his broad, spontaneous way. He

placed a sounding kiss upon the somewhat flushed brow of Sylvia Morgan,

and exclaimed, "Well, my little girl, aren't you glad to see me ahead of

time?" She replied quickly, though not loudly, that she was, and then he

announced that he would stay with them for a long while. "These are my

mountains," he said, "and I'll have to show you the way through them."

"King" Plummer, although inclined to be masterful, was admitted at once

into the full membership of the party, and he entered upon what he

called his first long vacation. He showed the keenest enjoyment in the

speeches, the crowds, the enthusiasm, the travelling, and the

quick-shifting scenes. He was a boy with the boys, but the watchful Mrs.

Grayson noticed a shade of difference between Sylvia with the "King"

present and Sylvia with the "King" absent. With him present there was a

little restraint, a slight effort on her part to watch herself; but with

him away there was great spontaneity and freedom, especially with the

younger members like Harley and Hobart, and even Churchill, who

reluctantly admitted that Miss Morgan was a fine girl, "though rather

Western, you know."

Mrs. Grayson began to take thought with herself again, and the thought

was taken with great seriousness. Had she been right in bringing "King"

Plummer on so soon, although he did not even know that he was brought?

She resolutely asked herself, too, how much of her action had been due

to the knowledge that the "King" was a very important man to her

husband, controlling, as he probably could, the vote of several mountain

states. This question, which she could not answer, troubled her, and so

did the conduct of Sylvia, who, usually so frank and straightforward,

seemed to be suffering from a strange attack of perverseness. For years

she had obeyed "King" Plummer as her protector and as the one who had

rightful control, but now she began to give him orders and to criticise

many things that he did, to the unlimited astonishment of the "King,"

who had never expected anything of the kind.

"What is the matter with Sylvia? I never knew her to act in such a way

before," he said to Mrs. Grayson.

"As she is to be your wife, and not a sort of ward, she is merely giving

you a preliminary training," replied the candidate's wife, dryly.

"King" Plummer looked at her in doubt, but he pondered the question

deeply and was remarkably meek the next time Sylvia scolded him, whereat

she showed less pleasure than ever. "King" Plummer was still in a maze

and did not know what to say. The very next day he found himself deeper

in the tangle, being scolded by Mrs. Grayson herself.

They were waiting at a small station for some carriages which were to

take them across the prairie, and, the air being clear and bracing, they

stood outside, where Miss Morgan, as usual, held an involuntary court. A

cloud of dust arose, and behind it quickly came a great herd of cattle,

driven with much shouting and galloping of horses by a half-dozen

cowboys. The herd was passing to the south a few hundred yards from the

station, but Sylvia, thoroughly used to such sights, was not interested.

Not so some of the others who went out to see, and among them was "King"

Plummer, who began at once to calculate the number of cattle, their

value, and how far they had come, all of which he did with great

shrewdness.

The "King's" absorption in this congenial occupation was increased when

he recognized the leader of the cowboys as an old friend and former

associate in Idaho and Montana, with whom he could exchange much

interesting news. Borrowing a horse from one of the men, he rode on with

them for a mile or two.

Mrs. Grayson had seen "King" Plummer leave the group about Sylvia, and

she marked it with a disapproving eye. She would have spoken to him

then, but she had no chance, and she watched him until he borrowed the

horse and rode on with the cowboys. Then she looked the other way and

saw two figures walking up and down the station platform. They were

Sylvia and Harley, engrossed in talk and caring not at all for the

passage of the herd. The two brown heads were not far apart, and Mrs.

Grayson was near enough to see that Sylvia's color was beautiful.

The candidate's wife was annoyed, and, like any other good woman, she

was ready to vent her annoyance on somebody. She walked out a little

from the station, and presently she met "King" Plummer coming back. He

dismounted, returned the horse to its owner, and approached her, the

sparkle of enthusiasm in his eyes lighting up his brown face.

"That was a pleasant surprise, Mrs. Grayson," he exclaimed. "The leader

of those boys was Bill Ascott, whom I've known twenty years, an' he's

brought those cattle so cleverly all the way from Montana that they are

in as good condition now as they were the day they started. And I had a

fine gallop with them, too."

He had more to say, but he stopped when he noticed her deeply frowning

face.

"What is wrong, Mrs. Grayson?" he asked, in apprehension.

"Oh, you had a fine gallop, did you!" she said, in a tone of biting

irony. "I am glad of it. Mr. William Plummer ought to have his gallop,

under any circumstances!"

He stared at her in increasing amazement.

"I don't know that I'm counted a dull man, but you've got me now, Mrs.

Grayson."

She pointed to the station platform, where the two brown heads were

still not far apart.

"Without a word you left the woman that you are going to marry to look

at a lot of cattle."

"Why, Sylvia is only a child, an' we've been used to each other for

years. She understands."

"Yes, she will understand, or she isn't a woman," said Mrs. Grayson, and

if possible the biting irony of her tone increased. "You will see, too,

Mr. William Plummer, that one man at least did not neglect her for the

sake of some dusty cattle."

Mr. Plummer stared again at the pair on the platform, and a mingled look

of pain and apprehension came into his eyes.

"You surely can't mean anything of that kind! Why, little Sylvia has

promised--"

"All things are possible, Mr. Plummer. My husband is a lawyer, and I

have heard him quote often a maxim of the law which runs something like

this, 'He must keep who can.'"

She turned away and would not have another word to say to him then,

leaving Mr. Plummer in much perplexity and trouble.

Mrs. Grayson herself was in a similar perplexity and trouble throughout

the day. Her doubts about the letter she had written to "King" Plummer

increased. Perhaps it would have been wiser to let affairs take their

own course. The sight of the two brown heads and the two young faces on

the station platform had made her very thoughtful, and she drew

comparisons with "King" Plummer; there might be days in autumn which

resembled those of spring, but it was only a fleeting resemblance,

because autumn was itself, with its own coloring, its own fruits, and

its own days, and nothing could turn it into spring. "I will not meddle

again," she resolved, and then her mind was taken off the matter by an

incident in her husband's progress. In Nebraska the men left the train

for a few days, travelling by carriage, and here occurred the event

which created a great stir in its time.

IX

JIMMY GRAYSON'S SPELL

A night, after a beautiful, brown October day, came on dark and rainy,

with fierce winds off the Rocky Mountains; and Harley, who was in the

first carriage with the candidate, could barely see the heads of the

horses, gently rising and falling as they splashed through the mud.

Behind him he heard faintly the sound of wheels amid the wind and rain,

and he knew that the other correspondents and the politicians, who

always hung on the trail of Jimmy Grayson, shifting according to

locality, were following their leader in single file.

Mrs. Grayson and Sylvia had remained on the special car, and expected to

join them on the following day, although Sylvia was quite prepared to

take the carriage journey across the country and dare all the risks of

the darkness and possible bad weather. Indeed, with the fine spirit of

the West and her own natural high courage, she wanted to go, saying that

she could stand as much as a man, and only Mrs. Grayson's refusal to

accompany her and the consequent lack of a chaperone compelled her to

abandon the idea. Now Harley and Mr. Grayson were very glad that she was

not out in the storm.

Although the hood of the carriage was down and the collar of Harley's

heavy coat was turned up to his ears, the cold rain, lashed by the

wind, struck him in the face now and then.

"You don't do anything by halves out here on these Western plains," he

said.

"No," replied Jimmy Grayson, "we don't deal in disguises; when we're hot

we're hot, and when we're cold we're cold. Now, after a perfect day,

we're having the wildest kind of a night. It's our way."

It was then ten o'clock, and they had expected to reach Speedwell at

midnight, crossing the Platte River on the big wooden bridge; but the

rain, the darkness, and the singularly sticky quality of the black

Nebraska mud would certainly delay them until one o'clock in the

morning, and possibly much later. It was not a cheerful prospect for

tired and sleepy men.

"Mr. Grayson," said Harley, "without seeking to discredit you, I wish I

had gone to another war instead of coming out here with you. That would

have been less wearing."

The candidate laughed.

"But you are seeing the West as few men from New York ever see it," he

said.

The driver turned, and a little stream of water ran off his hat-brim

into Harley's face.

"It's the wind that holds us back, Mr. Grayson," he said; "if we leave

the road and cut across the prairie on the hard ground it will save at

least an hour."

"By all means, turn out at once," said the candidate, "and the others

will follow."

"Wise driver; considerate man!" remarked Harley.

There was marked relief the moment the wheels of the carriage struck the

brown grass. They rolled easily once more, and the off horse, lifting up

his head, neighed cheerfully.

"It means midnight, and not later, Harley," said the candidate, in a

reassuring tone.

Harley leaned back in his seat, and trusted all now to the wise and

considerate driver who had proposed such a plan. The night was just as

black as a hat, and the wind and rain moaned over the bleak and lonesome

plains. They were far out in Nebraska, and, although they were near the

Platte River, it was one of the most thinly inhabited sections of the

state. They had not seen a light since leaving the last speaking-place

at sundown. Harley wondered at the courage of the pioneers who crossed

the great plains amid such a vast loneliness. He and the candidate were

tired, and soon ceased to talk. The driver confined his attention to his

business. Harley fell into a doze, from which he was awakened after a

while by the sudden stoppage of the carriage. The candidate awoke at the

same time. The rain had decreased, there was a partial moonlight, and

the driver was turning upon them a shamefaced countenance.

"What's the matter?" asked the candidate.

"To tell you the truth, Mr. Grayson," replied the driver, in an

apologetic tone. "I've gone wrong somehow or other, and I don't know

just where we're at."

"Lost?" said Harley.

"If you wish to put it that way, I reckon you're right," said the

driver, with a touch of offence.

"What has become of the other carriages?" asked Harley, looking back for

them.

"I reckon they didn't see us when we turned out, and they kept on along

the road."

There was no doubt about the plight into which they had got themselves.

The plain seemed no less lonely than it was before the white man came.

"What's that line of trees across yonder?" asked the candidate.

"I guess it marks where the Platte runs," replied the driver.

"Then drive to it; if we follow the trees we must reach the bridge, and

then things will be simple."

The driver became more cheerful, the rain ceased and the moonlight

increased; but Harley lacked confidence. He had a deep distrust of the

Platte River. It seemed to him the most ridiculous stream in the United

States, making a presumptuous claim upon the map, and flowing often in a

channel a mile wide with only a foot of water. But he feared the marshes

and quicksands that bordered its shallow course.

They reached the line of gaunt trees, dripping with water and whipped by

the wind, and Harley's fears were justified. The river was there, but

they could not approach it, lest they be swallowed up in the sand, and

they turned back upon the prairie.

"We must find a house," said the candidate; "if it comes to the pinch we

can pass the night in the carriage, but I don't like to sleep sitting."

They bore away from the river, driving at random, and after an hour saw

a faint light under the dusky horizon.

"The lone settler!" exclaimed Harley, who began to cherish fond

anticipations of a bed. "Go straight for it, driver."

The driver was not loath, and even the horses, seeming to have renewed

hope, changed their sluggish walk to a trot. They had no hesitation in

seeking shelter at that hour, entire strangers though they were, such an

act being in perfect accordance with the laws of Western hospitality.

As they approached, a bare wooden house, unprotected by trees, rose out

of the plain. A wire fence enclosed a half-acre or so about it, and

apparently there had been a few rather futile attempts to make a lawn.

"Looks cheerless," said Harley.

"But it holds beds," said the candidate.

"You save your voice," said Harley; "I'll call the farmer, and I hope it

will be a man who can speak English, and not some new Russian or

Bohemian citizen."

He sprang out of the carriage, glad to relieve himself from his cramped

and stiff position, and walked towards the little gate in the wire

fence. There was a sudden rush of light feet, a stream of fierce barks

and snarls, and Harley sprang back in alarm as two large bull-dogs,

red-mouthed, flung themselves against the fence.

"I said you had no cause to regret that war," called the candidate from

the carriage.

The wires were strong, and they held the dogs; but the animals hung to

the fence, as fierce as wolves; and Harley, lifting up his voice, added

to the chorus with a "Hi! Hi! Mr. Farmer! Strangers want to stop with

you!"

The din was tremendous, and presently a window in the second story was

shoved up, and a man, fully dressed, carrying a long-barrelled rifle in

his hands, appeared at it. He called to the dogs, which ceased at once

their barking and snarling, and then he gazed down at the intruders in

no friendly manner. Harley saw him clearly, a tall, gaunt old man,

white-haired, but muscular and strong. He held the rifle as if he were

ready to use it--a most unusual thing in this part of the country, where

householders seldom kept fire-arms.

"What do you want?" he called, in a sharp, high voice.

"Beds!" cried Harley. "We are lost, and if you don't take us in we'll

have to sleep on the prairie, which is a trifle damp."

"Waal, I 'low it hez rained a right smart," said the old man, grimly.

Harley noticed at once the man's use of "right smart," an expression

with which he had been familiar in another part of the country, and it

encouraged him. He was sure now of hospitality.

"Who are you?" the old man called.

"Mr. Grayson, the nominee for President of the United States, is in the

carriage, and I am his friend, one of the newspaper correspondents

travelling with him."

"Wait a minute."

The window was closed, and in a few moments the old man came out at the

front door. He carried the rifle on his shoulder, but Harley attributed

the fact to his haste at the mention of Jimmy Grayson's name.

"My name is Simpson--Daniel Simpson," he said, hospitably. "Tell the

driver to put the horses in the barn."

He waved his hand towards a low building in the rear of his residence,

and then he invited the candidate and the correspondent to enter. He

looked curiously, but with reverence, at the candidate.

"You are really Jimmy Grayson," he said. "I'd know you off-hand by your

picture, which I guess hez been printed in ev'ry newspaper in the United

States. I 'low it's a powerful honor to me to hev you here."

"And it's a tremendous accommodation to us for you to take us," said

Jimmy Grayson, with his usual easy grace.

But Harley was looking at Simpson with a gaze no less intent than the

old man had bent upon Grayson. The accent and inflection of the host

were of a region far distant from Nebraska, but Harley, who was born

near that wild country, knew the long, lean, narrow type of face, with

the high cheek-bones and the watchful black eyes. Moreover, there was

something directly and personally familiar in the figure before him.

Under any circumstances the manner of the old man would have drawn the

attention of Harley, whose naturally keen observation was sharpened by

the training of his profession. The old man seemed abstracted. His

fingers moved absently on the stock of his rifle, and Harley inferred at

once that he had something of unusual weight on his mind.

"Me an' the ol' woman hev been settin' late," said Simpson. "When you

git ol' you don't sleep much. But it'll be a long time, Mr. Grayson,

before that fits you."

He led the way into a room better furnished than Harley had expected to

see. A coal fire smouldered on the hearth, and the arrangement of the

room showed some evidences of refinement and taste. An old woman was

bent over the fire, but she rose when the men entered, and turned upon

them a face which Harley knew at once to be that of one who had been

frightened by something. Her eyes were red, as if she had been weeping.

Harley looked from host to hostess with curious glance, but he was still

silent.

"This is Marthy, my wife, gen'lemen," said Simpson. "Marthy, this is Mr.

Grayson, the greatest man in this here United States, and the other is

one of the newspaper fellers that travels with him."

Jimmy Grayson bowed with great courtesy, and apologized so gracefully

for the intrusion that an ordinary person would have been glad to be

intruded upon in such a manner. The woman said nothing, but stared

vacantly at her guests. The old man came to her relief.

"Marthy ain't used to visitors, least of all a man like you, Mr.

Grayson, and it kind o' upsets her," he said. "You see, Marthy an' me

lives here all by ourselves."

The woman started and looked at him.

"All by ourselves," repeated the man, firmly; "but we'll do the best we

kin."

"Daniel," suddenly exclaimed the old woman, in high, shrill tones, "why

don't you put down your gun? Mr. Grayson'll think you're a-goin' to

shoot him."

The old man laughed, but the ever-watchful Harley saw that the laugh was

not spontaneous.

"I 'clar' to gracious," he said, "I clean forgot I had old Deadeye. You

see, Mr. Grayson, when I heerd the dogs barkin', sez I to myself 'it's

robbers, shore'; and before I h'ists the window up-stairs I reaches old

Deadeye off the hooks, and then, if it had 'a' been robbers, it wouldn't

'a' been healthy for 'em."

"I'm sure of that, Mr. Simpson," said Jimmy Grayson; "you don't look

like a man who would allow himself to be run over."

"An' I wouldn't," said the old man, with sudden, fierce emphasis. But he

put the rifle on the hooks over the fireplace. Such hooks as these were

not usual in Nebraska; but Jimmy Grayson was too polite to say anything,

and Harley was still watching every movement of the old man. The driver

returned at this moment from the stable, and, reporting that he had fed

the horses, took his place with the others at the fire.

"I 'low you-uns would like to eat a little," said the old man, laughing

in the same unnatural way. "Marthy, tote in suthin' from the kitchen as

quick as you kin."

The old woman raised her startled, frightened eyes, and for a moment her

glance met Harley's; it seemed to him to be full of entreaty; the whole

atmosphere of the place was to him tense, strained, and tragic; why, he

did not know, but he shook himself and decided that it was only the

result of weariness, the long ride, and the night in the storm.

Nevertheless, the feeling did not depart because he willed that it

should go.

"No, we thank you," Jimmy Grayson was saying; "we are not hungry; but we

should like very much to go to bed."

"It's jest with you," said Simpson. "Marthy, I'll show the gen'lemen to

their room, and you kin stay here till I come back."

The old woman did not speak, but stood in a crouched attitude looking at

Grayson and then at Harley and then at the driver; it seemed to the

correspondent that she did not dare trust her voice, and he saw fear

still lurking in her eyes.

"Come along, gen'lemen," said Simpson, taking from the table a small

lamp, that had been lighted at their entrance, and leading the way.

Harley glanced back once at the door, and the woman's eyes met his in a

look that was like one last despairing appeal. But there was nothing

tangible, nothing that he could not say was the result of an overwrought

fancy.

It was a small and bare room, with only a single bed, to which the old

man took them. "It's the best I've got," he said, apologetically. "Mr.

Grayson, you an' the newspaper man kin sleep in the bed, an' t'other

feller, I reckon, kin curl up on the floor."

"It is good enough for anybody," said Jimmy Grayson, gallantly. As a

matter of fact, both he and Harley had known what it was to fare worse.

"Good-night," the man said, and left them rather hastily, Harley

thought; but the others took no notice, and were soon in sound slumber,

the candidate because he had the rare power of going to sleep whenever

there was a chance, and the driver because he was indifferent and tired.

But Harley lay awake. An hour ago his dream of heaven was a bed, and

now, the bed attained, sleep would not come near. Out of the stillness,

after a while, he heard the gentle moving of feet below, and he sat up

on the bed, all his suspicions confirmed. Something unusual was going on

in this lone house! And it had been going on even before he and the

candidate came!

He listened to the moving feet for a few moments. Then the noise ceased,

but Harley knew that there was no further chance of sleep for him, with

his nerves on edge, and likely to remain there. He lay back on the edge

of the bed, trying to accustom his eyes to the darkness, and presently

he heard a sound, the most chilling that a man can hear. It was the

sound of a woman, alone and in the dark, between midnight and morning,

crying gently, but crying deeply, uncontrollably, and from her chest.

Harley's resolve was taken at once. He slipped on his clothes and went

to the door. His eyes were used now to the dark, and there was a window

that shed a half-light.

He stopped with his hand on the bolt, because he heard the low, wailing

note more plainly, and he was sure that it came from another room

across the narrow hall. He turned the bolt, but the door refused to

open. There was no key on the inside! They had been locked in, and for a

purpose!

Harley was fully aroused--on edge with excitement, but able to restrain

it and to think clearly. There was an old grate in the room, apparently

used but seldom, and, leaning against the wall beside it, an iron poker.

Tiptoeing, he obtained the poker and returned to the door. The lock was

a flimsy affair, and, inserting the point of the poker under the catch,

he easily pried it off and put it gently on the floor.

Then he stepped out into the dusky hall and listened. The woman was yet

crying, monotonously, but with such a note of woe that Harley was

shaken. He had thought in his own room that it was the old woman who

wept thus; but now in the hall he knew it to be a younger and fresher

voice.

He saw farther down another door, and he knew that it led to the room

from which came the sounds of grief. He approached it cautiously, still

holding the poker in his hands, and noticed that there was no key in the

lock. The woman, whoever she might be, was locked in, as he and his

comrades had been; but the empty keyhole gave him an idea. He blew

through it, making a sort of whistling sound with his puckered lips. The

crying ceased, all save an occasional low, half-smothered sob, as if the

woman were making a supreme effort to control her feelings.

Then Harley put his lips to the keyhole again and whispered: "What is

the matter? It is a friend who asks." There was no reply, only a tense

silence, even the occasional sobs ceasing. Then, after a few moments of

waiting, Harley whispered, "Don't be alarmed; I am about to force the

door."

The door was of flimsy pine, and it gave quickly to the poker's

leverage. Then, this useful weapon still in hand, Harley stepped into

the room, where he heard a deep-drawn sigh that expressed mingled

emotions.

There was a window at the end of the room, and the moonlight shone

clearly through, clothing with its full radiance a tall, slim girl, who

had risen from a chair, and who stood trembling before Harley, fully

dressed, although her long hair hung down her back and her eyes were red

with weeping.

She was handsome, but not with the broad face of the West. Hers was

another type, a type that Harley knew well. The cheek-bones were a

little high, the features delicate, the figure slender, and there was on

her cheeks a rosy bloom that never grew under the cutting winds of the

great plains.

Harley knew at once that she was the daughter of the old couple below

stairs.

"Do not be afraid of me," he said, gently. "I know that you are in great

trouble, but I will help you. I, too, am from Kentucky. I was born

there, and I used to live there, though not in the mountains, as you

did."

The appeal and terror in her eyes changed to momentary surprise. "What

do you know of me?" she exclaimed.

"Very little of you, but more of your father. Years ago I was at his

house in the Kentucky mountains. He was a leader in the Simpson-Eversley

feud. I knew him to-night, but I have said nothing. Now, tell me, what

is the matter?"

His voice was soothing--that of a strong man who would protect, and the

girl yielded to its influence. Brokenly she told the story. Many men had

been killed in the feud, and the few Eversleys who were left had been

scattered far in the mountains. Then old Daniel Simpson said that he

would come out on the Great Plains, more than a thousand miles, and they

had come.

"There was one of the Eversleys--Henry Eversley--he was young and

handsome. People said he was not bad. He, too, came to Nebraska. He

found out where we lived; he has been here."

"Ah!" said Harley. He felt that they were coming to the gist of the

matter.

The girl, with a sudden passionate cry, threw herself upon her knees.

"He is here now! He is here now!" she cried. "He is in the cellar, bound

and gagged, and my father is going to kill him! But I love him! He came

here to-night, and my father caught us together, and struck him down.

But we meant nothing wrong. I declare before God that we did not! We

were getting ready to run away together and to be married at Speedwell!"

Harley shuddered. The impending tragedy was more terrible than he had

feared.

"You can do nothing!" exclaimed the girl. "My father is armed. He will

have no interference! He cares nothing for what may come after! He

thinks--"

She could not say it all; but Harley knew well that what she would say

was, "He thinks that he has been robbed of his honor by a mortal enemy."

"Can you stay quietly in this room until morning?" he asked. "I know it

is hard to wait under such circumstances, but you must do it for the

sake of Henry Eversley."

"And will you save him?"

"He shall be saved."

"I will wait," she said.

Harley slipped noiselessly out, and, closing the door behind him, went

to his room, where he at once awakened the candidate.

Jimmy Grayson listened with intense attention to Harley's story. When

the tale was over, he and Harley whispered together long and earnestly,

and Jimmy Grayson frequently nodded his head in assent. Then they awoke

the driver, a heavy man, but with a keen Western mind that at once

became alert at the news of danger.

"Yes, I got my bearings now," he said, in reply to a question of

Harley's. "I asked the old fellow about it when I came up from the

stable, and Speedwell is straight north from here. I can take one of the

horses and hit the town before daylight. I know everybody there."

"But how about the dogs?" asked Jimmy Grayson. "Can you get past them?"

"No trouble there at all. After we came, the old fellow locked 'em up in

a stall in the stable and left 'em there. I guess he didn't want to look

to us as if he was too suspicious."

"Then go, and God go with you!" said Jimmy Grayson, with deep feeling.

The driver left at once, not by the stairway, near the foot of which the

old man might be watching, but by a much simpler road. He raised the

window of the room and swung out, sustained by Jimmy Grayson's powerful

arms until his feet were within a yard of the ground. Then he dropped,

ran lightly across the lawn, sprang over the wire fence, and soon

disappeared in the grove where the girl had said that the horses were

waiting. Jimmy Grayson closed the window with a deep sigh of relief.

"He will do his part," he said; "now for ours."

He did not seek to sleep again, and Harley could not think of it. One

task occupied him a little while--the replacing of the lock on the

door--but after that the hours passed heavily and in silence. The flush

of dawn appeared in the east at last, and then they heard a faint step

in the hall outside and the gentle turning of a key in a lock. Jimmy

Grayson and Harley looked at each other and smiled grimly, but they said

nothing. A half-hour later there was a loud knock on their door, and old

Daniel Simpson bade them rise and get ready for breakfast.

"It is chiefly in your hands now," said Harley, in a low tone to Jimmy

Grayson.

"We'll be down in a few minutes, and we have had a good night's sleep,

for which we thank you," he called to the old man.

"You're welcome to it," replied Simpson. "You'll find water and towels

on the porch down-stairs, and then you can come straight in to

breakfast."

They heard his step passing down the hall to the stairway, where it died

away, and then they dressed deliberately. On the porch they found the

water and towels as Simpson had said, and bathed and rubbed their faces.

A golden sun was just rising from the prairie, and beads of water from

the night's rain sparkled on the trees and grass. The wind came out of

the southwest, fresh and glorious.

They entered the dining-room, where the breakfast smoked on the table,

and the old man and his wife were waiting. Harley could not see that

they had changed in appearance in the morning glow. Simpson was still

rugged and grim, while the woman yet cowered and now and then raised

terrified and appealing eyes.

"Whar's your driver?" asked Simpson.

"He has gone down to the stable to feed and care for his horses,"

replied the candidate, easily. "He's a very careful man, always looks

after his horses before he looks after himself. He told us not to wait

for him, as he'll be along directly."

"Then be seated," said the old man, hospitably. "We've got corn-bread

and ham-and-eggs and coffee, an' I guess you kin make out."

"I should think so," said Jimmy Grayson. "Why, if I had not been as

hungry as a wolf already, it would make me hungry just to look at it."

The three sat down at the table, while Mrs. Simpson served them, going

back and forth to the little kitchen adjoining for fresh supplies of hot

food. Mr. Grayson did most of the talking, and it was addressed in an

easy, confidential manner to old Daniel Simpson. The candidate's gift of

conversational talk was equal to his gift of platform oratory, but never

before had Harley known him to be so interesting and so attractive. He

fairly radiated with the quality called personal magnetism, and soon the

old man ate mechanically, while his attention was riveted on Jimmy

Grayson. But by-and-by he seemed to remember something.

"That driver of yourn is tarnal slow," he said; "he ought to be comin'

in to breakfast."

"You have diagnosed his chief fault," said Jimmy Grayson, with an easy

laugh. "He is slow, extremely slow, but he will be along directly, and

he doesn't mind cold victuals."

Then he turned back to the easy flow of anecdote, chiefly about his

political campaign, and Harley saw that the interest of the old man was

centred upon him. The woman, without a word, brought in hot biscuits

from the kitchen, but she did not lose her frightened look, glancing

from one to another of the three with furtive, lowered eyes. But Jimmy

Grayson, the golden-mouthed, talked gracefully, and the note of his

discourse that morning was the sweetness and kindness of life; he saw

only the sunny side of things; people were good and true, and peace was

better than strife. His smiling, benevolent face and the mellow flow of

his words enforced the lesson.

The old man's face softened a little, and even Harley, though a prey to

anxieties, felt the influence of Jimmy Grayson's spell. The little

dining-room where they sat was at the rear of the house. Harley saw the

golden sunshine of a perfect October day, and the wind that sang across

the plain had the soft strain of a girl's voice. He felt that it was

good to live that morning, and his spirits rose as he saw the old man

fall further and further under the spell of Jimmy Grayson's eloquence.

But Simpson raised himself presently and glanced at the door.

"That driver of yourn is tarnal slow," he repeated. "Seems to me he'll

never finish feedin' an' curryin' them horses!"

"He is slow, extremely slow," laughed Jimmy Grayson. "If he were not so

we should not have got lost last night, and we should not be here now,

Mr. Simpson, trespassing on your hospitality. Perhaps the man does not

want any breakfast; it's not the first time since he's been with us that

he's gone without it."

Then he launched again into the stream of a very pretty story that he

had been telling, and the wavering attention of the old man returned.

Harley gave all assistance. Despite his anxiety and his listening for

sounds without, he kept his eyes fixed upon Jimmy Grayson's face as if

he would not miss a word.

The breakfast went on to an unusual length. The candidate and Harley

called again and again for hot biscuits and more coffee, and always the

old woman served them silently, almost furtively.

The story was finished, and just as it came to its end Simpson said,

with a grim inflection:

"It 'pears to me, Mr. Grayson, all you said about that driver of yourn

is true. He hasn't come from the stable yet."

There was the sound of a step in the hall, and the candidate said,

quickly:

"He's coming now; he'll be in presently, as soon as he washes his hands

and face on the porch. No, sit down, Mr. Simpson; he needs no

directions. We were speaking of the sacrifices that people make for one

another, and it reminds me of a very pretty story that I must tell you."

The old man sank into his chair, but his look wandered to the door. It

seemed to Harley that light sounds came from the other part of the

house, and the old man, too, seemed for a moment to be listening, but

Jimmy Grayson at once began his story, and Simpson's attention came

back.

"This is a story of the mountains of eastern Kentucky," began the

candidate, "and it is a love story--a very pretty one, I think."

Simpson moved in his chair, and a sudden wondering look appeared in his

eyes at the words "eastern Kentucky." The old woman, too, slightly

raised her bent form and gazed eagerly at the candidate. But Jimmy

Grayson took no notice, and continued.

"This," he said, "is the love story of two people who were young then,

but who are old now. Yet I am sure there is much affection and

tenderness in their hearts, and often they must think fondly of those

old days. The youth lived on the side of a mountain, and the girl lived

on the side of another mountain not far away. He was tall, strong, and

brave; she, too, was tall, as slender as one of the mountain saplings,

with glorious brown hair and eyes, and a voice as musical as a mountain

echo. Well, they met and they loved, loved truly and deeply. It might

seem that the way was easy now for them to marry and go to a house of

their own, but it was not. There was a bar."

"A feud!" breathed the old man. The old woman put her hands to her eyes.

"Yes, a feud; they seem strange things to us here, but to those distant

people in the mountains they seem the most natural thing in the world.

The youth and the girl belonged to families that were at war with each

other, and marriage between them would have been considered by all their

relatives a mortal sin."

The old man's eyes were fastened upon Jimmy Grayson's, but his look for

the moment was distant, as if it were held by old memories. The woman

was crying softly. Again the soft shuffle of feet in the other part of

the house came to Harley's ears, but the old couple did not hear; the

driver was forgotten; for all Simpson and his wife remembered, he might

still be finishing his morning toilet on the porch.

"They were compelled to meet in secret," continued Jimmy Grayson, "but

the girl was frightened for him because she loved him. She told him that

he must go away, that if her father and brothers heard of their meetings

they would kill him; it was impossible for them to marry, but she loved

him, she would never deny that. He listened to her gently and tenderly;

he was a brave youth, as I have said, and he would not go away. He said

that God had made them for each other, and she should be his wife; he

would not go away; he was not afraid."

"No, I was not afraid," breathed the old man, softly. The old woman had

straightened herself up until she stood erect. There was a delicate

flush on her face, and her eyes were luminous.

"This youth was a hero, a gallant and chivalrous gentleman," continued

Jimmy Grayson; "he loved the girl, and she loved him; there was no real

reason in the world why they should not marry, and he was resolved that

there should be none."

The candidate's head was bent forward over his plate. His face was

slightly flushed, and his burning eyes held Simpson's. Harley saw that

he thrilled with his own story and the crisis for which it was told.

Elsewhere in the building the faint noises went on, but Harley alone

heard.

"The youth did what I would have done and what you would have done, Mr.

Simpson," continued Jimmy Grayson. "He did what nature and sense

dictated. He overbore all resistance on the part of the girl, who in her

heart was willing to be overborne. One dark night he stole her from her

father's house and carried her away on his horse."

"How well I remember it!" exclaimed the old man, with eyes a-gleam. "I

had Marthy on the horse behind me, and my rifle on the pommel of the

saddle before me."

The old woman cried softly, but it seemed to Harley that the note of her

weeping was not grief.

"He stole her away," continued Jimmy Grayson, "and before morning they

were married. Then he took her to a house of his own, and he sent word

that if any man came to do them harm he would meet a rifle bullet. They

knew that he was the best shot in the mountains, and that he was without

fear, so they did not come. And that youth and that girl are still

living, though both are old now, but neither has ever for a moment

regretted that night."

"You speak the truth," exclaimed the old man, striking his fist upon the

table, while his eyes flashed with exultant fire. "We've never been

sorry for a moment for what we did, hev we Marthy?"

Harley had risen to his feet, and a signal look passed between him and

the candidate.

"And then," said Jimmy Grayson, "why do you deny to Henry Eversley the

right to do what you did, and what you still glory in after all these

years? Mr. Simpson, shake hands with your new son-in-law. He and his

bride are waiting in the doorway."

The old man sprang to his feet. His daughter and a youth, a handsome

couple, stood at the entrance. Behind them were three or four men, one

the driver, and another in clerical garb, evidently a minister.

"They were married in your front parlor while we sat at breakfast," said

Jimmy Grayson. "Mr. Simpson, your son-in-law is still offering you his

hand."

The bewildered look left the old man's eyes, and he took the

outstretched hand in a hearty grasp.

"Henry," he said, "you've won."

X

THE "KING'S" REQUEST

An hour later the candidate, Harley, and the driver were on the way to

the town at which they had intended to pass the preceding night. With

ample instructions and a brilliant morning sunlight there was no further

trouble about the direction, and they pursued their way in peace.

The air was crisp and blowy, and the earth, new-washed by the rain, took

on some of the tints of spring green, despite the lateness of the

season. Harley, relaxed from the tension of the night before, leaned

back in his seat and enjoyed the tonic breeze. No one of the three had

much to say; all were in meditation, and the quiet and loneliness of the

morning seemed to promote musing. They drove some miles across the

rolling prairie without seeing a single house, but at last the driver

pointed to a flickering patch of gold on the western horizon.

"That," said he, "is the weather-vane on the cupola of the new

court-house, and in another hour we'll be in town. I guess your people

will be glad to see you, Mr. Grayson."

"And I shall be glad to see them," said the candidate. A few minutes

later he turned to the correspondent.

"Harley," he asked, "will you send anything to your paper about last

night?"

"I have to do so," replied Harley, with a slight note of apology in his

tone--this had not been his personal doing. "For a presidential

candidate to get lost on the prairie in the dark and the storm, and then

spend the night in a house in which only his presence of mind and

eloquence prevent a murder, that is news--news of the first importance

and the deepest interest. I am bound not only to send a despatch about

it, but the despatch must be very long and full. And I suppose, too,

that I shall have to tell it to the other fellows when we reach the

town."

The candidate sighed.

"I know you are right," he said, "but I wish you did not have to do it.

The story puts me in a sensational light. It seems as if I were turning

aside from the great issues of a campaign for personal adventure."

"It was forced upon you."

"So it was, but that fact does not take from it the sensational look."

Harley was silent. He knew that Mr. Grayson's point was well made, but

he knew also that he must send the despatch.

The candidate made no further reference to the subject, and five minutes

later they saw horsemen rise out of the plain and gallop towards them.

As Harley had said, a presidential nominee was not lost in the dark and

the storm every night, and this little Western town was mightily

perturbed when Mr. Grayson failed to arrive. The others had come in

safely, but already all the morning newspapers of the country had

published the fact that the candidate was lost, swallowed up somewhere

on the dark prairie. And Mr. Grayson's instinct was correct, too,

because mingled with the wonder and speculation was much criticism. It

was boldly said in certain supercilious circles that he had probably

turned aside on an impulse to look after some minor matter, perhaps

something that was purely personal that had nothing to do with the

campaign. Churchill, late the night before, had sent to the _Monitor_ a

despatch written in his most censorious manner, in that vein of

reluctant condemnation that so well suited his sense of superiority. He

was loath to admit that the candidate was proving inadequate to his high

position, but the circumstances indicated it, and the proof was becoming

cumulative. He also sent a telegram to the Honorable Mr. Goodnight, in

New York, and the burden of it was the need of a restraining force, a

force near at hand, and able to meet every evil with instant cure.

But the Western horsemen who met Jimmy Grayson--they clung to their

affectionate "Jimmy"--were swayed by no such emotions. They repeated a

shout of welcome, and wanted to know how and where he had passed the

night, to all of which questions the candidate, with easy humor,

returned ready and truthful replies, although he did not say anything

for the present about the adventure of the old man and of the young one

who was now the old one's son-in-law.

The driver took them straight towards a large and attractive hotel, and

it seemed to Harley that half the population of the town was out to see

the triumphant entry of the candidate. With all the attention of the

crowd centred upon one man, Harley was able to slip quietly through the

dense ranks and enter the hotel, where he fell at once into the hands of

Sylvia Morgan. She came forward to meet him, impulsively holding out

her hands, the light of welcome sparkling in her eyes.

"We did not know what had become of you," she exclaimed. "We feared that

you had got lost in the quicksands of the river." And then, with a

sudden flush, she added, somewhat lamely, "We are all so glad that Uncle

James has got back safely."

Harley had read undeniable relief and welcome in her eyes, and it gave

him a peculiar thrill, a thrill at first of absolute and unthinking joy,

followed at once by a little catch. Before him rose the square and

massive vision of "King" Plummer, and he had an undefined sense of doing

wrong.

"We've brought him back safely," he said, after slight hesitation. "We

spent the night very comfortably in a farm-house on the prairie."

She noticed his hesitation, and her eyes became eager.

"I do believe that you have had an adventure," she exclaimed. "I know

that you have; I know by your look. You must tell it to me at once."

"We have had an adventure," admitted Harley, "and there is no reason why

I shouldn't tell you of it, as in a few hours a long account of it

written by me will be going eastward."

"I am waiting."

Harley began at once with his narrative, and they became absorbed in it,

he in the telling and she in the hearing. While he talked and she

listened "King" Plummer approached. Now the "King" in these later few

days had begun to study the ways of women, in so far as his limited

experience enabled him to do so, a task to which he had never turned his

attention before in his life. But the words of Mrs. Grayson rankled;

they kept him unhappy, they disturbed his self-satisfaction, and made

him apprehensive for the future. He had been in the crowd that welcomed

Jimmy Grayson, he had shaken the candidate's hand effusively, and now,

when he entered the hotel, he found Sylvia Morgan welcoming John Harley.

"King" Plummer did not like what he saw; it gave him his second shock,

and he paused to examine the two with a yellow eye, and a mind reluctant

to admit certain facts, among them the most obvious one, that they were

a handsome couple, and of an age. And this was a fact that did not give

the "King" pleasure. He did not dislike Harley; instead, he appreciated

his good qualities, but just then he regarded him with an unfriendly

glance; that reality of youth annoyed him. There was a glass on the

other side of the room, and the "King" looked at his own reflection. He

saw a large, powerful head and broad, strong features, the whole

expressing a man at the height of his powers, at the very flood-tide of

his strength. But it was not young. The hair was iron-gray, and there

were many deep lines in the face--not unhandsome lines, yet they were

lines.

"With all his shameless youth," were the "King's" unuttered thoughts, "I

could beat him at anything, except, perhaps, scribbling. I could live

and prosper where he would starve to death." And surging upon the "King"

came the memories of his long, triumphant, and joyous struggle with wild

nature. Then he approached the couple, and greeted Harley with the

good-nature that was really a part of him. Sylvia, with shining eyes,

told at second hand, though not with diminished effect, the story of the

night, and "King" Plummer was loud in his applause. He did not care

what criticism the supercilious might make, the act was to him

spontaneous and natural.

"But I don't see why you should have been with Jimmy Grayson then," he

said, frankly, to Harley. "You are an Easterner, new to these parts, and

it isn't right that just you should be along when the interestin' things

happen."

Harley could not help laughing at the naive remark, but he liked "King"

Plummer all the better for it. The "King," however, gave him no more

chance to talk alone that day with Sylvia. Mr. Plummer showed the

greatest regard for Miss Morgan's health and comfort, and did not try to

hide his solicitude; he was continually about her, arranging little

conveniences for the journey, and introducing Idaho topics, familiar to

them, but to which Harley was necessarily a stranger. The "King," with

his wide sense of Western hospitality, would not have done this at

another time, but in view of the close relationship between himself and

Sylvia he regarded it as pardonable.

The watchful Mrs. Grayson saw it all, and at first she regarded the

"King" with an approving eye, but by-and-by the approval changed to a

frown. There was something forced in his manner; it was just the least

bit unconvincing. It was clear to her that he was overdoing it, and in

her opinion that was as bad as not doing it at all. Nor did she like the

spectacle of a middle-aged man of affairs trying to play the gallant;

there was another manner, one just as good, that would become him more.

She was impelled to admonish him again, but she restrained herself,

reflecting that she had not improved matters by her first warning, and

she might make them worse by her second. Nevertheless, she summoned the

nominee of a great party to the American Presidency to a conference, and

he came with more alacrity than he would have obeyed the call of a

conference of governors.

"Sylvia is doing what it is natural for her to do," she said, abruptly.

"Then, my dear, why find fault with me because of it?" replied the

mystified candidate.

"I don't find fault with you; I merely want your advice, although I know

that you can have none to give."

The candidate wisely kept silent, and waited for the speaker of the

house to proceed.

"Sylvia is your niece, and Mr. Plummer is your most powerful political

supporter in the West," she said. "If she jilts him because of any fancy

or impulse--well, you know such things can make men, especially elderly

men, do very strange deeds. I speak of it because I am sure it must have

been in your thoughts."

The candidate stirred uneasily.

"It is a thing that I do not like to take into consideration," he said.

"Nor do I, but it forces itself upon us."

"It is right that Harley should pay her attention. They are members of

this party, and they are of an age likely to make them congenial."

"That is where the danger lies. It may not amount at present to anything

more than a fancy, but a fancy can make a very good beginning."

They talked on at length and with much earnestness, but they could come

to no other conclusion than to use that last refuge, silence and

waiting.

Meanwhile Sylvia was enjoying herself. She was young and vigorous, and

she had a keen zest in life. She was surrounded by men, some young,

too, who had seen much of the world, and they interested her; neither

would she have been human, nor of her sex, if their attentions had not

pleased her; and there, too, was the great campaign throwing its glow

over everything. She was gracious even to the "King," whom she had been

treating rather worse than he deserved for several days. She seemed to

appreciate his increased gallantry, and it was "dear old daddy" very

often now, whether in the comparative privacy of the Grayson family

circle or in the larger group of the young correspondents and

politicians. The "King" was delighted with the change, and his own

manner became easy and happy. He looked once or twice at the lady whom

he considered his mentor, Mrs. Grayson, and expected to see approval and

satisfaction on her face, too, but she was stern and impenetrable, and

the "King" said to himself that after all she was not so startlingly

acute.

Sylvia was telling some anecdote of the West to her new friends, and, as

the incident was rather remarkable, she thought it necessary to have

confirmation.

"It happened before I was born, but you were there then, and you know

all about it, don't you, daddy?"

"King" Plummer quickly nodded confirmation and smiled at the memory. The

event had interested him greatly, and he was glad to vouch for its

truth. He was pleased all the more when he saw the others looking at him

with the respect and deference due to--his thoughts halted suddenly in

their course and turned into another channel. Then he found himself

frowning. He did not like the conjunction of "dear old daddy" and of a

thing that had happened many years ago.

The "King" quietly slipped away from the party, and he noticed with

intense gloom that his departure did not seem to make as much difference

as it should. For a whole afternoon he was silent, and many corrugations

formed temporarily in his brow, indicating resolved thought. Nor were

appearances wrong, because the "King" was laboriously dragging himself

up to the edge of a mighty resolution. He was physically as brave a man

as ever walked; in early and rougher days he had borne a ready

Winchester, but this emergency was something new in his experience, and

naturally he hesitated at the venture. However, just after supper, when

Sylvia was alone in the drawing-room of the car, he approached her. She

looked up at him and smiled, but the "King's" face was set with the

power of his resolve.

"Come in, daddy," she said.

The "King" did not smile, nor did he sit down.

"Sylvia," he said, "I have a favor to ask of you."

"Why certainly, daddy, anything in reason, and I know you would not ask

anything out of it."

"Sylvia, I want you to promise me never to call me daddy again, either

in private, as here between ourselves, or before others."

She looked up at him, her eyes wide with astonishment.

"Why," she exclaimed, "I've called you that ever since you found me a

little, little girl alone in the mountains."

"I know it, but it's time to stop. I'm no blood kin to you at all. And

I'm not so ancient. The history of the West didn't begin with me."

The wonder in her eyes deepened, and the "King" felt apprehensive,

though he stood to his guns. But when she laughed, a joyous,

spontaneous laugh, he felt hurt.

"I'll make you the promise readily enough," she said, "but I can't keep

it; I really can't. I'll try awful hard, but I'm so used to daddy that

it will be sure to pop out just when I'm expecting it least."

The "King" looked at her moodily, not sure whether she was laughing at

him or at her own perplexity.

"Then you just try," he said, at last, yielding to a mood of compromise,

and stalked abruptly out of the drawing-room.

Sylvia, watching him, saw how stiffly and squarely he held his

shoulders, and what long and abrupt strides he took, and her mood of

merriment was suddenly succeeded by one of sadness mingled just a little

with apprehension. She spoke twice under her breath, and the two brief

sentences varied by only a single word. The first was "Dear old daddy!"

and the second was "Poor old daddy!"

XI

THE HARRYING OF HERBERT

An unexpected addition and honor was now approaching, and it was Hobart

who told them of it.

"Our little party is about to receive a touch of real distinction and

dignity--something that it needs very much," he said, laying the

newspaper that he had been reading upon the dusty car seat and glancing

at Harley. They had returned to their special train.

"What do you mean?" asked Harley, though his tone betrayed no great

interest.

"I quote from the columns of our staid contemporary, the New York

_Monitor_, Churchill's sheet, the representative of solid, quiet, and

cultured worth," said Hobart, pompously. "'It has been felt for some

time by thoughtful leaders of our party in the East that Jimmy Grayson

and the "shirt-sleeves" Western politicians who now surround him are

showing too much familiarity with the people. A certain reserve, a

certain dignity of manner which, while holding the crowd at a distance

also inspires it with a proper respect, is desirable on the part of the

official head of a great party, a presidential nominee. The personal

democracy of Mr. Grayson is having a disconcerting effect upon important

financial circles, and also is inspiring unfavorable comments in the

English press, extracts from which we print upon another page.'"

"What on earth has the opinion of the English press to do with our

presidential race?" asked Harley.

"You may search me," replied Hobart. "I merely quote from the columns of

the _Monitor_. But in order to save time, I tell you that all this

preamble leads to the departure for the West of the Honorable Herbert

Henry Heathcote, who, after his graduation at Harvard, took a course at

Oxford, lived much abroad, and who now, by grace of his father's worth

and millions, is the national committeeman from his state. For some days

Herbert has been speeding in our direction, and to-morrow he will join

us at Red Cloud. It is more than intimated that he will take charge of

the tour of Jimmy Grayson, and put it upon the proper plane of dignity

and reserve."

Harley said no more, but, borrowing the paper, read the account

carefully, and then put it down with a sigh, foreseeing trouble. Herbert

Heathcote's father had been a great man in his time, self-created, a

famous merchant, an able party worker, in thorough touch with American

life, and he had served for many years as the honored chairman of the

national committee, although in a moment of weakness he had sent his son

abroad to be educated. Now he was dead, but remembered well, and as a

presidential campaign costs much money--legitimate money--and his son

was a prodigal giver, the leaders could not refuse to the younger

Heathcote the place of national committeeman from his state.

"What do you think of it?" asked Harley, at last.

"I refuse to think," replied Hobart. "I shall merely wait and see."

But the Honorable William Plummer expressed his scorn in words befitting

his open character.

The paper was passed on until it reached Mrs. Grayson and Sylvia. Mrs.

Grayson, with her usual reserve, said nothing. Sylvia was openly

indignant.

"I shall snub this man," she said, "unless he is of the kind that thinks

it cannot be snubbed."

"I fear that it is his kind," said Harley.

"It looks like it," she said.

At noon the next day, when they were at Red Cloud, Herbert Henry

Heathcote arrived on the train from the East, and the arrival of him was

witnessed by Harley, Hobart, Mr. Plummer, and several others, who had

gone to the station for that purpose and none other.

Mr. Heathcote, as he alighted from the train, was obviously a person of

importance, his apparel, even had his manner been hidden, disclosing the

fact to the most casual observer. A felt hat, narrow-brimmed and

beautifully creased in the crown, sat gracefully upon his head. His

light overcoat was baggy enough in the back to hold another man, as Mr.

Heathcote was not large, and white spats were the final touch of an

outfit that made the less sophisticated of the spectators gasp. "King"

Plummer swore half audibly.

"I wish my luggage to be carried up to the hotel," said Mr. Heathcote,

importantly, to the station agent.

"He calls it 'luggage,' and this in Colorado!" groaned Hobart.

"Your what?" exclaimed the station agent, a large man in his

shirt-sleeves, with a pen thrust behind his ear.

"My luggage; my trunk," replied Mr. Heathcote.

"Then you had better carry it yourself; I've nothing to do with it,"

said the agent, with Western brusqueness, as he turned away.

Harley, always ready to seize an opportunity, and resolved to mitigate

things, stepped forward.

"I beg your pardon, but this is Mr. Heathcote, is it not?" he asked,

courteously.

The committeeman put a glass in his eye and regarded him quite coolly.

Harley, despite his habitual self-control, shuddered. He did not mind

the supercilious gaze, but he knew the effect of the monocle upon the

crowd.

"Yes, I am Mr. Heathcote," said the committeeman, "and you ah--I--don't

believe--ah--"

"I haven't been introduced," said Harley, with a smile, "but I can

introduce myself; it's all right here in the West. I merely wanted to

tell you that you had better get them at the hotel to send the porter

down for your trunk. There are no carriages, but it's only a short walk

to the hotel. It's the large white building on the hill in front of

you."

"Thank you--ah--Mr. Hardy."

"Harley," corrected the correspondent, quietly.

"I was about to say--ah--that the press can make itself useful at

times."

Harley flushed slightly.

"Yes, even under the most adverse circumstances," he said.

But Mr. Heathcote was already on the way to the hotel, his white spats

gleaming in the sunshine. It was evident that he intended to keep the

press in its proper place.

"You made a mistake when you volunteered your help, Harley," said

Hobart. "A man like that should be received with a club. But you just

wait until the West gets through with him. Your revenge will be brought

to you on a silver plate."

"I'm not thinking of myself," replied Harley, gravely. "It's the effect

of this on Jimmy Grayson's campaign that's bothering me. Colorado is

doubtful, and so are Utah and Wyoming and Idaho; can we go through them

with a man like Heathcote, presumably in charge of our party?"

Proof that Harley's fears were justified was forthcoming at once. The

crowd at the station, drawn by various causes, had been usually large,

and Mr. Heathcote was received with a gasp of amazement. But nothing was

said until the white spats of the committeeman disappeared in the hotel.

Then the people crowded around the correspondents, with whom a six

hours' stop was sufficient to make them familiar. "Who is he?" they

asked. "Is he a plutocrat?" "It's a Wall Street shark, sure." "Does

Jimmy Grayson mean to hobnob with a man like that?" "Then we can't trust

him either. He's going to be a monopolist, too, and his claiming to be

champion of the people is all a bluff."

Harley explained with care that Mr. Heathcote was important. To run a

great presidential campaign required much money--special trains must be

paid for, halls had to be hired for speakers, there was a vast amount of

printing to be done, and many other expenses that must be met. Their

party was poor, as everybody knew, most of the wealth being on the other

side; and, when a man like Heathcote was willing to contribute his

thousands, there was nothing to do but to take him. But they need not be

alarmed; he could not corrupt Jimmy Grayson; the candidate was too

stanch, too true, too much of a real man to be turned from the right

path by any sinister Eastern influence.

But the people were not mollified; they resented Mr. Heathcote's manner

as well as his dress. Why had he not stopped at the station a few

minutes, and shaken hands with those who would have been glad to meet

him for the sake of fellowship in the party? Harley heard again the word

"Plutocrat," and, deeming it wise to say nothing more for the present,

walked back to the hotel. On the long porch sat a row of men in

rocking-chairs--correspondents, town officials, and politicians,

following in the wake of Jimmy Grayson. A state senator, a big,

white-bearded man named Curtis, who had been travelling with them for

three days, jerked his finger over his shoulder, pointing to the

interior of the hotel, and said, mysteriously, to Harley:

"Where did you get it?"

"New York," replied Harley, sadly.

"Can't you lose it?"

"I don't know," replied Harley, hopefully, "but we can try."

Hobart, who was in the next chair, put his right foot across his left

knee and nursed it judicially.

"It is eating its dinner now," he said. "It said: 'Landlord, I want a

table alone. I do not wish to be disturbed.' And just think, Harley,

this is Colorado! Landlord, otherwise Bill Jeffreys, was so taken aback

that he said, 'All right.' But the Honorable Herbert Henry Heathcote is

being watched. There are three cowboys, at this very moment, peeping in

at his window."

There was a dead silence for at least a minute, broken at last by

Barton.

"Gentlemen," he said, "you do not yet know the full, the awful truth; I

accidentally heard Heathcote telling Jeffreys about it."

"Why, what can be worse?" asked Harley, and he was in earnest.

"Mr. Heathcote's man--his valet, do you understand--arrives to-night. He

is to have a place in the car, and to travel with us, in order that he

may wait on his master."

"King" Plummer uttered an oath.

"The West can stand a good many things, but it won't stand that," he

exclaimed. "A national committeeman of our party travelling with his

valet on the train with Jimmy Grayson! It'll cost us at least six

states. We ain't women!"

There succeeded a gloomy silence that lasted until Heathcote himself

appeared upon the porch, fresh, dapper, and patronizing.

"I hope you enjoyed your dinner, Mr. Heathcote," said Harley, ever ready

to be a peacemaker.

"Thank you, Mr. Hardy--ah, Harley; it did very well for the

frontier--one does not expect much here, you know."

Harley glanced uneasily at the men in the chairs, but Mr. Heathcote went

on, condescendingly:

"I am now going for an interview with Mr. Grayson in his room. We shall

be there at least an hour, and we wish to be quite alone, as I have many

things of importance to say."

No one spoke, but twenty pairs of eyes followed the committeeman as he

disappeared in the hotel on his way to Jimmy Grayson's room. Then

Alvord, the town judge, a man of gigantic stature, rose to his feet and

said, in a mimicking, feminine voice:

"Gentlemen, I am going to the bar, and I shall be there at least an

hour; I wish to be quite alone, as I shall have many important things to

drink."

There was a burst of laughter that relieved the constraint somewhat, and

then, obedient to an invitation from the judge, they filed solemnly in

to the bar.

The candidate was to speak in the afternoon, and as he would raise some

new issues, sure to be of interest to the whole country, Harley,

following his familiar custom, went in search of Mr. Grayson for

preliminary information. The hour set aside by Mr. Heathcote had passed

long since, and Harley thought that he would be out of the way.

Jimmy Grayson's room was on the second floor, and Harley walked slowly

up the steps, but at the head of the stairway he was met by Mr.

Heathcote himself.

"Good-afternoon," said Harley, cheerfully. "I hope that you had a

pleasant talk with Mr. Grayson. I'm going in to see him now myself; a

presidential nominee can't get much rest."

Mr. Heathcote drew himself up importantly.

"I beg your pardon," he said, "but you cannot--ah--see Mr. Grayson.

There has been a feeling with us in the East--we are in a position there

to judge, being in thorough touch with the great world--that it was not

advisable for Mr. Grayson to speak to or to come in direct contact with

the press. This familiar talk with the newspapers rather impairs the

confidence of our great magnates and prejudices us in the eyes of

Europe. It is better--ah--that his remarks should be transmitted through

a third person, who can give to the press what is fitting and reserve

the remainder."

Harley gazed at Heathcote in amazement, but there was nothing in his

manner to indicate that he was not in earnest.

"And you are the third person, I suppose?" said Harley.

"I have so constituted myself," replied Mr. Heathcote, and his tone was

aggravatingly quiet and assured. "As one conversant with great affairs,

I am the most fit."

"Has Mr. Grayson agreed to this?" asked Harley.

"My dear man, I cannot permit you to cross-examine me. But, really, I

wish to be on good terms with the press, which is quite a useful

institution within its limits. Now, you seem to be rather more sedate

than the others, and I wish you would have the goodness to explain to

them how I have taken affairs in hand."

Harley flushed at his patronizing tone, and for a moment he was tempted

to thrust him out of his way and proceed with his errand to Jimmy

Grayson's room, but he reflected that it was better to let the

committeeman make the rope for his own hanging, and he turned away with

a quiet, "Very well, I shall forego the interview."

But as he went back down the stairs he could not help asking himself the

question, "Does Jimmy Grayson know? Could he have consented to such an

arrangement?" and at once came the answer--"Impossible."

He returned to the porch, where all the chairs were filled, although the

talk was slow. He noticed, with pleasure, that Churchill was absent. The

descending sun had just touched the crests of the distant mountains, and

they swam in a tremulous golden glow. The sunset radiance over nature in

her mighty aspects affected all on the porch, used as they were to it,

and that was why they were silent. But they turned inquiring eyes upon

Harley when he joined them.

"What has become of Heathcote?" asked Barton.

"He is engaged upon an important task just now," replied Harley.

"And what is that?"

"He is editing Jimmy Grayson's speech."

Twenty chairs came down with a crash, and twenty pairs of eyes stared in

indignant astonishment.

"King" Plummer's effort to hold himself in his chair seemed to be a

strain.

"He may not be doing that particular thing at this particular moment,"

continued Harley, "but he told me very distinctly that he was here for

that purpose, and he has also just told me that I could not see Jimmy

Grayson, that he intended henceforth to act as an intermediary between

the candidate and the press."

"And you stood it?" exclaimed Hobart.

"For the present, yes," replied Harley, evenly; "and I did so because I

thought I saw a better way out of the trouble than an immediate quarrel

with Heathcote--a better way, above all, for Jimmy Grayson and the

party."

The Western men said nothing, though they looked their deep disgust, and

presently they quitted the porch, leaving it, rocking-chairs and all, to

the correspondents.

"Boys," said Harley, earnestly, "I've a request to make of you. Let me

take the lead in this affair; I've a plan that I think will work."

"Well, you are in a measure the chief of our corps," said Warrener, one

of the Chicago men. "I don't know why you are, but all of us have got

to looking on you in that way."

"I, for one, promise to be good and obey," said Hobart, "but I won't

deny that it will be a hard job. Perhaps I could stand the man, if it

were not for his accent--it sounds to me as if his voice were coming out

of the top of his head, instead of his chest, where a good, honest voice

ought to have its home."

"Now you listen," said Harley, "and I will my tale unfold."

Then they put their heads together and talked long and earnestly.

The shaggy mountains were in deep shadow, and the sunset was creeping

into the west when Jimmy Grayson came out on the porch where the

correspondents yet sat. Harley at once noticed a significant change in

his appearance; he looked troubled. Before, if he was troubled, he

always hid it and turned a calm eye to every issue; but this evening

there was something new and extraordinary about Jimmy Grayson; he was

ashamed and apologetic obviously so, and Harley felt a thrill of pity

that a man so intensely proud under all his democracy, or perhaps

because of it, should be forced into a position in which he must be,

seemingly at least, untrue to himself.

The candidate hesitated and glanced at the correspondents, his comrades

of many a long day, as if he expected them to ask him questions, but no

one spoke. The sinking sun dropped behind the mountains, and the

following shadow also lay across Jimmy Grayson's face. He was the

nominee of a great party for President of the United States, but there

was a heart in him, and these young men, who had gone with him through

good times and bad times, through weary days and weary nights, were to

him like the staff that has followed a general over many battle-fields.

He glanced again at the correspondents, but, as they continued to stare

resolutely at the dark mountains, he turned and walked abruptly into the

hotel.

"Boys," exclaimed Barton, "it's tough!"

"Yes, damned tough," said Hobart.

"King" Plummer, who was with them, maintained a stony silence.

An hour later the valet of the Honorable Herbert Henry Heathcote, a

smooth, trim young Englishman, arrived in Red Cloud, and never before in

his vassal life had he been a person of so much importance. The news had

been spread in Red Cloud that a rare specimen was coming, a kind

hitherto unknown in those regions. When John--that was his

name--alighted from the train in the dusk of a vast, desolate Western

night, a crowd of tanned, tall men was packed closely about him,

watching every movement that he made. Harley saw him glance fearfully at

the dark throng, but no one said a word. As he moved towards the hotel,

a valise in either hand, the way opened before him, but the crowd,

arranging itself in a solid mass behind him, followed, still silent,

until he reached the shelter of the building and the protecting wing of

his master. Then it dispersed in an orderly manner, but the only subject

of conversation in Red Cloud was the Honorable Herbert Henry Heathcote

and his "man," especially the "man."

At the appointed hour the candidate spoke from a stage in the public

square, and it would not be fair to say that his address fell flat; but

for the first time in the long campaign Harley noticed a certain

coldness on the part of the audience, a sense of aloofness, as if Jimmy

Grayson were not one of them, but a stranger in the town whom they must

treat decently, although they might not approve of him or his ways. And

Harley did not have to seek the cause, for there at a corner of the

stage sat a dominating presence, the Honorable Herbert Henry Heathcote,

his neck encircled by a very high collar, his trousers turned up at the

bottom, and his white spats gleaming through the darkness. More eyes

were upon him than upon the candidate, but Mr. Heathcote was not

daunted. His own gaze, as it swept the audience, was at times

disapproving and at other times condescending.

About the middle of the speech the night, as usual, grew chilly, and Mr.

Heathcote's "man," stepping upon the stage, assisted him on with a light

overcoat. A gasp went up from the crowd, and the candidate, stopping,

looked back and saw the cause. Again that shadow came over his face, but

in a moment he recovered himself and went on as if there had been no

interruption. When the speech was finished Mr. Heathcote stood a moment

by the table at which Harley was still writing, and said:

"I think you and your associates should leave out of your report that

part about our foreign relations. However well received in the West, I

doubt whether it would have a very good effect in the East."

"But he said it," exclaimed Harley, looking up in surprise.

"Quite true, but there should be a certain reserve on the part of the

press. These expressions have about them a trace of rawness, perhaps

inseparable from a man like our nominee, who is the product of Western

conditions. I trust that I shall be able to correct this unfortunate

tendency."

Harley was burning with anger, but the long practice of self-control

enabled him to hide it. He did not reply, but resumed his work. Mr.

Heathcote spoke to him again, but Harley, his head bent over his pad,

went on with his writing. Nor did any of the other correspondents speak.

The committeeman, astonished and indignant, left the stage, and,

followed by his "man," returned to the hotel between two silent files of

spectators.

"Experience number one," was the only comment of the correspondents, and

it came from Barton.

When Harley went into the hotel he saw Jimmy Grayson leaning against the

clerk's desk as if he were waiting for something. He glanced at Harley,

and there was a tinge of reproach in his look. Harley's resolution

faltered, but it was only for a moment, and then, taking his key from

the clerk, he went in silence to his room. He understood the position of

Jimmy Grayson, he knew how much the party was indebted to Mr. Heathcote

for payment of the campaign's necessary expenses, but he was determined

to carry out his plan, which he believed would succeed.

But there was one man in Jimmy Grayson's group to whom the appearance of

Mr. Heathcote was welcome, and this was Churchill, who was sure that he

recognized in him a kindred spirit. He sent a long despatch to the

_Monitor_, telling of the very beneficial effect the committeeman's

presence already exercised upon the campaign, particularly the new tone

of dignity that he had given to it. He also cultivated Mr. Heathcote,

and was willing to furnish him deferential advice.

As the special train was to leave early the next morning for the

northern part of the state, they ate breakfast in a dim dawn, with only

the rim of the sun showing over the eastern mountains. Mr. Heathcote

came in late and found every chair occupied. No one moved or took any

notice. Jimmy Grayson looked embarrassed, and said in a propitiatory

tone to the proprietor, who stood near the window:

"Can't you fix a place for Mr. Heathcote?"

"Oh, I guess I kin bring in a little table from the kitchen," replied

Bill Jeffreys, negligently, "but he'll have to hustle; that train goes

in less than ten minutes."

The table was brought in, and Mr. Heathcote ate more quickly than ever

before in his life, although he found time for caustic criticism of the

hotel accommodations in Red Cloud. Just as he put down his half-emptied

coffee-cup the train blew a warning whistle.

"That engineer is at least three minutes ahead of time," said Barton.

"He's a lively fellow," said Hobart. "I was up early, and he told me he

wasn't going to wait a single minute, even if he did have a Presidential

nominee aboard."

The eyes of Barton and Hobart met, and Barton understood.

"We'd better run for it," said Barton, and they hurried to the train,

Mr. Heathcote borne on in the press. As they settled into their seats

Barton pointed out of the window, and cried: "Look! Look! The 'man' is

about to get left!"

John, a valise in one hand and a hat-box in the other, was rushing for

the train, which had already begun to move. But the conductor reached

down the steps, grasped him by the collar, and dragged him, baggage and

all, aboard. John appeared humbly before his master, who was silent,

however, merely waving him to a seat. Mr. Heathcote was apparently

indignant about something. By-and-by he stated that his valet had been

forced to leave Red Cloud without anything to eat. Nobody had looked

after the man, and he could not understand such neglect. He would like

to have a porter bring him something. Old Senator Curtis, who was with

them, spoke up from a full heart:

"He'll have to go hungry. There's no dining-car on this train, and he

can't get a bite, even for a bagful of money, till we get to Willow

Grange at two o'clock this afternoon."

The senator was not excessively polite, and Mr. Heathcote opened his

mouth as if to speak, but, changing his mind, closed it. He glanced at

Jimmy Grayson, who looked troubled, although he, also, maintained

silence. Neither would any one else speak; but every one was taking

notice. Harley in his heart felt sorry for the poor valet, who seemed to

be an inoffensive fellow, suited to his humble trade; but a political

campaign in the Rocky Mountain West was no place for him; he must take

what circumstances dealt out to him.

The committeeman presently recovered his sense of his own worth and

dignity, and spoke in a large manner of the plans that he would take to

raise the tone of the campaign. The candidate still looked troubled and

made no comment. The local public men, the correspondents, and all on

the little train were silent, staring out of the windows, apparently

engrossed in the scenery, which was now becoming grand and beautiful.

Ridge rose above ridge, and afar the peaks, clad in eternal snow, looked

down like heaven's silent sentinels.

Mr. Heathcote was very courteous to Mrs. Grayson, but at first he

scarcely noticed Sylvia, although a little later he expressed admiration

for her beauty, not doubting, however, that he would find her the

possessor of an uncultivated mind.

Towards the noon hour a tragic discovery was made. After the candidate's

last speech in the evening the train would leave immediately for Utah,

and all continuing on the way must sleep aboard. Room had been found in

some manner for Mr. Heathcote, but every other berth, upper and lower,

had been assigned long ago, and there was nothing left for his man. But

Mr. Heathcote, resolved not to be trampled upon, went in a state of high

indignation to the conductor.

"I must have a place for my man. I cannot travel without an attendant."

"Jimmy Grayson does," replied the conductor, a rude Democrat of the

West; "and your fellow can't have any, because there ain't any to be

had; besides, it's 'cordin' to train rules that dogs an' all such-like

should travel in the baggage-car."

Mr. Heathcote refused to speak again to such a man, and complained to

the candidate. But Jimmy Grayson could do nothing.

"This train on which we now are is paid for jointly by the committeemen

of Colorado, Utah, and Idaho," he said, "and I have nothing to do with

the arrangements. I should not like to attempt interference."

Mr. Heathcote looked at old Senator Curtis, who seemed to be in charge,

but, apprehending a blow to his dignity, he refrained from pressing the

point, and the lackey slept that night as well as he could on a seat in

the smoking-car.

The next few days, which were passed chiefly in Utah, were full of color

and events. Life became very strenuous for the Honorable Herbert Henry

Heathcote. He learned how to take his meals on the wing, as it were, to

run for trains, to snatch two hours' sleep anywhere between midnight and

morning, and to be jostled by rude crowds that failed to recognize his

superiority. The full-backed light overcoat, during its brief existence

the focus of so much attention, was lost in a dinner rush and never

reappeared. But, above all, Mr. Heathcote had upon his hands the care of

the helpless, miserable lackey, and never did a sick baby require more

attention. John was lost amid his strange and terrible surroundings. At

mountain towns crowds of boys, and sometimes men, would surround him and

jeer at his peculiar appearance, and his master would be compelled to

come forcibly to his rescue. He never learned how to run for the car,

with his arms full of baggage, and once, boarding a wrong train, he was

run off on a branch line a full fifty miles. He was rescued only after

infinite telegraphing and two days' time, when he reappeared,

crestfallen and terrified.

And there was trouble--plenty of it--aboard the train. There was never a

berth for the lackey, who was relegated permanently to the smoking-car.

Mr. Heathcote himself sometimes had to fight, bribe, and intrigue for

one--and often he failed to get breakfast or dinner through false

information or the carelessness of somebody. He made full acquaintance

with the pangs of hunger, and many a time, when every nerve in him

called for sleep, there was no place to lay his weary head.

Now the iron entered the soul of the Honorable Herbert, and he became a

soured and disappointed man, but he stuck gravely to his chosen task.

Harley, despite his dislike, could not keep from admiring his tenacity.

Nobody, except the candidate, paid the slightest attention to him; even

Sylvia and Mrs. Grayson ignored him; if he made suggestions, nobody said

anything to the contrary, but they were never adopted, and Mr. Heathcote

noticed, too, that the others seemed to be enduring the life easily,

while it was altogether too full for him. If there was any angle, he

seemed somehow to knock against it; and if there was any pitfall, it was

he who fell into it. But he gave no sign of returning to the East, and

his misfortunes continued. From time to time they got copies of the

Western papers containing full reports of Jimmy Grayson's canvass, and

none of them, except the _Monitor_, ever spoke flatteringly of the

Honorable Herbert or his efforts to put the campaign on a higher plane.

Churchill spoke once to the group of correspondents and politicians

about the lack of deference paid to the committeeman, but he was invited

so feelingly to attend to his own business that he never again risked

it. However, he said in his despatches to the _Monitor_ that even Mr.

Heathcote's efforts could not keep the campaign on a dignified level.

At last, on one dreadful day, they lost the lackey again, and this time

there was no hope of recovery. He had been seen, his hands full of

baggage, running for the wrong train, and when they heard from him he

was far down in Colorado, stranded, and there was no possible chance for

him to overtake the "special." Accordingly, his master, acting under

expert advice, telegraphed him money and a ticket and ordered him back

to New York. When the news was taken to the candidate Harley saw an

obvious look of relief on his face. That valet had been a terrible

weight upon the campaign, and none knew it better than Jimmy Grayson.

Mr. Heathcote now became morose and silent. Much of his lofty and

patronizing air disappeared, although the desire to instruct would crop

out at times. Usually he was watchful and suspicious, but the struggle

for bread and a place to sleep necessarily consumed a large portion of

his energies. As time dragged on his manner became that of one hunted,

but doggedly enduring, nevertheless. The candidate always spoke to him

courteously, whenever he had a chance, but then there was little time

for conversation, as the campaign was now hot and fast. Mr. Heathcote

was, in fact, a man alone in the world, and outlawed too. The weight

upon him grew heavier and heavier as his path became thornier and

thornier; the angles, the corners, and the pitfalls seemed to multiply,

and always he was the victim. Jimmy Grayson looked now and then as if he

would like to interfere, but there was no way for him to interfere, nor

any one with whom he could interfere.

Mr. Heathcote still clung bravely to some portions of his glorious

wardrobe. The white spats he yet sported, in the face of a belligerent

Western democracy, and he paid the full price. Harley acknowledged this

merit in him, and once or twice, when the committeeman, amid the

comments of the ribald crowd, turned a pathetic look upon him, he was

moved to pity and a desire to help; but the last feeling he resolutely

crushed, and held on his way.

The campaign swung farther westward and northward, and into a primitive

wilderness, where the audiences were composed solely of miners and

cowboys. Old Senator Curtis and several other of the Colorado men were

still with them, and one night they spoke at a mining hamlet on the

slope of a mountain that shot ten thousand feet above them. The

candidate was in great form, and made one of his best speeches, amid

roars of applause. The audience was so well pleased that it would not

disperse when he finished, and wished vociferously to know if there were

not another spellbinder on the stage. Then the spirit of mischief

entered the soul of Hobart.

The Honorable Herbert sat at the corner of the stage, the white spats

still gleaming defiance, his whole appearance, despite recent

modifications, showing that he was a strange bird in a strange land.

Hobart constituted himself chairman for the moment, and, pointing to Mr.

Heathcote, said:

"Gentlemen, one of the ablest and most famous of our national

committeemen is upon the stage, and he will be glad to address you."

The audience cheered, half in expectation and half in derision, but the

Honorable Herbert, who had never made a speech in his life, rose to the

cry. His figure straightened up, there was a new light in his eye, and

Harley, startled, did not know Mr. Heathcote. As he advanced to the edge

of the stage the shouts of derision overcame those of expectation.

Harley heard the words "Dude!" "Tenderfoot!" mingled with the cries, but

the Honorable Herbert gave no sign that he heard. He reached the edge of

the stage, waved his hand, and then there was silence.

"Friends," he said--"I call you such, though you have not received me in

a friendly manner--"

The crowd breathed hard, and some one uttered a threat, but another man

commanded silence. "Give him a chance!" he said.

"You have not received me in a friendly manner," resumed the Honorable

Herbert, "but I am your friend, and I am resolved that you shall be

mine. I cannot make a speech to you, but I will tell you a story which

perhaps will serve as well."

"Go on with the story," said the men, doubtfully. On the stage there was

a general waking-up. Correspondents and politicians alike recognized the

Honorable Herbert's new manner, and they bent forward with interest.

"My story," said Mr. Heathcote, "is of a man who had a fond and perhaps

too generous father. This father had suffered great hardships, and he

wished to save his son from them. What more natural? But perhaps, in his

tenderness, he did the son a wrong. So this son grew up, not seeing the

rough side of life, and finding all things easy. He lived in a part of

the country that is old and rich, where what is called necessity you

call luxury. He knew nothing of the world except that portion of it to

which he was used. What more natural? Is not that human nature

everywhere? He saw himself petted and admired, and in the course of time

he felt himself a person of importance. Is not that natural, too?"

He paused and looked over the audience, which was silent and attentive,

held by the interest of something unusual and the deep, almost painful,

earnestness of Mr. Heathcote's manner.

"What's he coming to?" whispered Hobart.

"I don't know; wait and see," replied Harley.

"Thus the man grew up to know only a little world," the Honorable

Herbert went on, "and he did not know how little it was. He was like a

prisoner in a gorgeous room, who sees, without, snow and storm that

cannot touch him, but who is a prisoner nevertheless. Those whom he met

and with whom he lived his daily life were like him, and they thought

they were the heart of this world. Everything about them was golden;

they saw that people wished to hear of them, to read of them, to know

all that they did, and their view of their importance grew every day.

What more natural? Was not that human nature?"

"I think I see which way he is going," whispered Hobart.

Harley nodded. The audience was still and intent, hanging on the words

of the speaker.

"This youth," continued Mr. Heathcote, "was sent by-and-by to Europe to

have his education finished, and there all the ideas formed by his life

in this country were confirmed in him. He saw a society, organized

centuries ago, in which every man found a definite place for life

assigned to him, in accordance with what fortune had done for him at

birth. There he received deference and homage, even more than before,

and the great, changing world, with its mighty tides and storms that

flowed about his little group, leaving it untouched, was yet unknown to

him.

"He came back to his own country, and the strong father who had

sheltered him died. He was filled with an ambition to be a political

power, as his father had been, and the dead hand brought him the place.

Then he came into the West to join in a great political campaign, but it

was his first real excursion into the real world, and his ignorance was

heavy upon him."

A deep "Ah!" ran through the crowd, and Harley noticed a sudden look of

respect upon the brown faces. They were beginning to see where the

thread of the story would lead. Then Harley glanced at old Senator

Curtis, whose lips moved tremulously for a moment. "King" Plummer was

regarding the committeeman with astonished interest.

"This man, I repeat," continued Mr. Heathcote, "came West with his

ignorance, I might almost say with his sins heavy upon him, but it was

not his fault; it was the fault, rather, of circumstances. He seemed a

strange, a grotesque figure to these people of the West, but they should

not have forgotten that they also seemed strange to him. It has been

said that it takes many kinds of people to make a world, and they cannot

all be alike. One point of view may differ from another point of view,

and both may be right. If this man did anything wrong--and he admits

that he did--he did it in ignorance. There were some with him who knew

both points of view who might have helped him, but who did not; instead,

they made life hard; they put countless difficulties in his way; they

made him feel very wretched, very mean, and very little. He saw the

other point of view at last, but he was not permitted to show that he

saw it; he was put in such a position that his pride would not let him."

The crowd suddenly burst into cheers. The keen Western men understood,

and the mountain-slope gave back the echo, "Hurrah for Heathcote!" The

Honorable Herbert's figure swelled and his eyes flashed. Grateful water

was falling at last on the parched desert sands.

"But, friends," he continued, "this man, though his lesson has been

rough, comes to you with no resentment. He has broken the bars of his

prison; he is in the real world at last, and he comes to you asking to

be one of you, to give and take with the crowd. Will you have him?"

"Yes!" a chorus of a thousand voices roared against the side of the

mountain and came back in a thunderous echo.

Old Senator Curtis sprang to his feet, seized Mr. Heathcote by the hand,

and shouted:

"Gentlemen, I, too, need to apologize, and also I want to introduce to

you a real man, Mr. Herbert Henry Heathcote."

"Put me down for an apology, too," said "King" Plummer, in his big,

booming tones.

Jimmy Grayson, on the outskirts of the crowd, returning to learn what

the noise was about, saw and heard all, and murmured to a friend:

"There is now a new member of our group, and all is well again."

XII

CHURCHILL STRIKES

The conversion and adoption of Mr. Heathcote, as Hobart called it, was a

pleasant incident in several senses, bringing much quiet gratification

to them all, and particularly and obviously to the candidate. A hostile

element, one intended by others to be hostile and interfering, had

become friendly, which, of itself, was a great gain. Moreover, the

smoothness of social intercourse was increased, and there, too, was a

new type, adding to the variety and interest of the group.

The only one not pleased was Churchill, who had expected much from Mr.

Heathcote, and who now, as he considered it, saw the committeeman turn

traitor. It was not a matter that he could handle fully in his

despatches to the _Monitor_, being too intangible to allow of bald

assertion, and he was reduced to indirect statement. This not satisfying

him at all, he wrote a long letter to Mr. Goodnight, both for the sake

of the cause and for the sake of his own feelings, which had been much

lacerated. Its production cost him a great deal of thought and labor;

but he had his reward, as its perusal after completion proved to him

that it was a masterpiece.

Churchill showed quite clearly to Mr. Goodnight the steady decay of the

candidate's character and the lower levels to which his campaign was

falling. In the security of a private letter it was not necessary for

him to spare words, and Churchill spoke his mind forcibly about the

manner in which Jimmy Grayson was pandering to the "common people," the

"ignorant mob," the "million-footed." Churchill himself, although not

old, had taken long ago the measure of these foolish common people, and

he despised them, his contempt giving him a very pleasant conviction of

his own superiority.

He also poured a few vials of wrath upon the head of Mr. Heathcote, whom

he characterized as a coward, not able to stand up against petty

persecution, and from the committeeman he passed on to others of Mr.

Grayson's immediate following, taking "King" Plummer next. Mr. Plummer,

in his opinion, was an excellent type of democracy run to riot. He was

one of the "boys" in every sense. He was wofully wanting in personal

dignity, speaking to everybody in the most familiar manner, and

encouraging the same form of address towards himself; he failed utterly

to recognize the superiority of some other men, and he was grossly

ignorant, knowing nothing whatever of Europe and the vast work that had

been done there for civilization and order. Moreover, he could not be

induced, even by the well-informed, to take any interest in the Old

World, and once had had the rudeness to say to Churchill himself, "What

in the devil is Europe to us?"

Churchill thus subjected the views of "King" Plummer to the process of

elaboration because they had made a vivid impression upon him. He and

the "King" had never been able to get on together, the mountaineer

treating him with rough indifference, and Churchill returning it with a

hauteur which he considered very effective. To Churchill men of "King"

Plummer's type seemed the greatest danger the country could have. Their

lack of respect for diplomacy, their want of form and ceremony, their

brutal habit of calling things by their names, were in his opinion

revolutionary. He did not see how dealings with foreign nations, which

always loomed very large to him, could be conducted by such men. Always

in his mind was the question, What would they say in London and Vienna

and Berlin? and the _Monitor_, which he served faithfully, confirmed him

through its tone in this mental state. Still drawing his inspiration

from the _Monitor_, he regarded a sneer as invariably the best weapon;

if you were opposed to anything, the proper way to attack it was by

sneering at it; then, not having used argument, you never put yourself

in a position to have your arguments refuted.

From "King" Plummer, Churchill passed to some of his associates--like

the _Monitor_, he never hesitated to befoul his own nest--and he told

Mr. Goodnight how the candidate was using them, how they had wholly

fallen under the spell of his undeniable charm of manner, and how they

wrote to please him rather than to tell the truth.

As he sealed his long letter, Churchill felt the conscious glow of

right-doing and stern self-sacrifice. He had written thus for the good

of the party and the good of the country, and he was strengthened, too,

by the feeling that he could not possibly be wrong. The _Monitor_

cultivated the sense of omniscience, which it communicated in turn to

all the members of its staff.

He passed Sylvia Morgan on his way from the hotel reading-room to the

lobby to mail his letter, and when he met her he quickly turned down

the address on the envelope, in order that she might not see it. It was

done by impulse, and Churchill, for the first time, had a feeling of

guilt that made him angry.

"That must be a love letter, Mr. Churchill," said Sylvia, teasing him

with the easy freedom of the West. "Do you write her twenty-four pages,

or only twenty?"

"I have no love except my work, Miss Morgan," replied Churchill,

assuming his most grandiose air.

"Is that a permanent affection, or a passing fancy?"

Her face expressed the most eager interest, as if she could not possibly

be happy until she had Churchill's answer. The words were frivolous, but

her manner was most deferential, and Churchill concluded that she was

expressing respect in as far as what he considered her shallow nature

could do so.

"It is, I hope, a permanent passion, Miss Morgan," he replied, gravely.

"There is a pleasure in doing one's duty, particularly under

disagreeable circumstances, which I am happy to say I have felt more

than once, and custom usually strengthens one who walks in the right

path."

Still in this mood of contemplation, he regarded her, and he thought he

saw a slight look of awe appear in her eyes. His opinion of her rose at

once. While not able to show merit of the highest degree, she could

perceive it in others, and this differentiated her from the rest of the

group. Churchill allowed himself to see that she had a fine face and a

slender, beautiful figure, and he felt it a pity that she should be

thrown away on a crude, rough old mountaineer like Plummer.

"I often think, Miss Morgan," he said, "that if you had lived in the

East awhile you could have been quite a match for any woman whom I have

ever known."

"Thank you," she replied, humbly. "Oh, if I could only have lived in the

East just a little while!"

"But I assure you, Miss Morgan, I have met some very remarkable women."

"I do not doubt it, and they have had an equal good-fortune."

Churchill looked suspiciously at her, but there was the same touch of

deference in her manner, and he still honored her with his conversation.

He permitted himself to discourse a little upon the affairs which he had

embodied--"embodied" he felt was the word--in his letter, and she, with

all a woman's intuition, and much of masculine reasoning power, guessed

what the letter contained, although she did not know to whom it was

going. Nor did she feel it wrong to be very attentive, as Churchill

talked, because he was doing it of his own free will, and she had the

fate of her uncle deeply at heart.

Churchill spoke of the campaign, venturing upon polite criticisms of

certain features that seemed objectionable to him, and, listening to

him, she confirmed her opinion that he was the personal representative

with Mr. Grayson of the chief elements within the party that could cause

trouble. And she felt sure, too, that the letter he held in his hand

would add fuel to the fire already burning. She happened also to be

present several days later when a messenger-boy handed him a telegram,

and, when he opened it, he made an involuntary motion to hide it, just

as he had done with the letter. She pretended not to see, and walked

away, but she knew as well as if he had told her that the telegram was

the reply to the letter.

Mr. Goodnight himself sent the despatch, and he thanked Churchill warmly

for the very important information told so luminously in his letter. The

solid and respectable portion of the party had hoped much from the

presence of Mr. Heathcote, but as he had yielded to the influence of

another, instead of exerting his own, it would be necessary to take

additional action later. Meanwhile he requested Mr. Churchill to keep

him accurately and promptly informed of everything, and Churchill at

once telegraphed: "Despatch received. Will be glad to comply with your

request."

Then he congratulated himself, and felt good, his complacent demeanor

forming a contrast to that of several others in the party. The latter

were "King" Plummer, Sylvia Morgan, and John Harley, all of whom were

unhappy.

Harley was troubled by his conscience, and he could not do anything to

keep it from sticking those little pins into him. Sylvia Morgan, despite

herself, drew him on, not the less because his first feeling towards her

had been one of hostility. She had a piquant touch, a manner full of

unconscious allurement--the radiation of a pure soul, though it

was--that he had never seen in any other woman, and the harder he fought

against it, the more surely it conquered him. He took from his valise a

copy of that old Chicago newspaper, with her picture on the front page,

and wondered how he could have intimated that she was the cause of its

being there. As he knew her better, he knew that she could not have done

it, and he knew, too, that she would have scornfully resented any

insinuation of having done so by refusing to deny it.

The "King" was unhappy, too, in his way, and that was very bad indeed

for him. He had tried an effusive gallantry, and it did not seem to

succeed any better than obedience to his own impulses--on the whole,

rather worse; and now, not knowing what else to do, he sulked. It was

not any sly sulking, but genuine, open sulking in his large, Western

way, thus leaving it apparent to all that the great "King" Plummer was

sad. And that meant much to the party, because in a sense it was now

personally conducted by him. In his joyous mood, which was his usual

mood until the present, he had a large and pervasive personality that

was a wonderful help to travel and social intercourse. They missed his

timely, if now and then a trifle rough, jests, his vast knowledge of the

mountains, which had some good story of every town to which they came,

and his infinite zest and humor, which also communicated more zest and

humor to every one with him. It was a grievous day for them all when

"King" Plummer began to mourn. More than one guessed the cause, but

wisely they refrained from any attempt to remove it. They could do

nothing but endure the gloom in silence, until the clouds passed, as

they hoped they would pass.

The candidate, too, was troubled, and sought the privacy of the special

car's drawing-room more than usual. Sylvia Morgan had given him a hint

that attacks upon him from a certain source were likely to be renewed,

and, moreover, would increase in virulence. He soon found that she was

right, as the copies of the _Monitor_ that they now obtained were

frankly cynical and unbelieving. All of its despatches from the West,

Churchill's as well as others, were depreciatory. The candidate was

invariably made to appear in a bad light--which is an easy matter to

do, in any case, without sacrifice of the truth--that is, verbally, only

the spirit being changed--and the editor reinforced them with strong

criticisms, in which quotations from English writers and a French phrase

now and then were freely employed. The whole burden of it was, "We

support this candidate; but, oh, how hard it is for us to do it, how

badly we feel about it, and how much easier it would be for us to

support any other man!" It also printed many contributions from readers,

in all of which the contributors spoke of themselves as belonging by

nature and cultivation to the select few, "the saving remnant," who

really knew what was good for the country. Here much latitude of

expression was allowed, as the paper was not directly responsible for

what these gentlemen said. They wrote of the way in which the dignity of

a great party had been destroyed by the uncouth and talkative Westerner

who had been lucky enough to secure the nomination. They felt that they

had been shamed in the face of the world, and more than once asked the

burning and painful question, "What will Europe say?" They asked, also,

if it were yet too late to amend the error, and they threw forth the

suggestion that the intelligent and cultured minority within the party

might refrain from voting, when election day came, or, in a pinch, might

vote for the other man.

These communications were signed, sometimes, with Latin names, and

sometimes with names in modern English, but always they indicated a

certain sense of superiority and of detachment from the crowd on the

part of the signers.

The annoyance of the candidate increased as he read copies of the

_Monitor_, which were sent to him in numbers. He knew that the paper was

the chief spokesman of an influential minority within the party, and

the divergence between the majority and the minority was already

manifest. It was evident, too, that it was bound to become greater, and

that was why the candidate was troubled. He wished to become President;

it was his great desire, and he did not seek to conceal it; he

considered it a legitimate, a noble ambition, one that any American had

a right to have, and he was in the first flush of his great powers, when

such a position would appeal most to a strong man. Now, even when the

fight, with a united party, was desperate at best, he foresaw a

defection, and hot wrath rose up in his veins against Goodnight, the

_Monitor_, and all their following.

But the worst of the whole position to a man of Grayson's open and

direct temperament was the necessity to keep silent, even to dissemble,

or, at least, to do that which seemed to him very near to dissembling.

Although he was under so fierce a fire, he would not allow any one to

find fault with Churchill for his despatches; and this was not always

easy to do, because many of the local politicians, who were on the train

from time to time, would grow hot at sight of the criticisms, and want

to attack the writer. But Jimmy Grayson always interfered, and reminded

them that it was the right of the press to speak so if it wished.

Churchill still wondered, why he was not a martyr, and wasted his

regrets. Mrs. Grayson and Sylvia maintained an eloquent silence.

Meanwhile, an event destined to give Churchill and the _Monitor_ a yet

greater shock was approaching.

XIII

THE THIRD DEGREE

The candidate and his company were due one night at Grayville, a brisk

Colorado town, dwelling snugly in the shadow of high mountains and

hopeful of a brilliant future, based upon the mines within its limits

and the great pastoral country beyond, as any of its inhabitants, asked

or unasked, would readily have told you. Hence there was joy in the

train, from Jimmy Grayson down, because the next day was to be Sunday, a

period of rest, no speeches to be made, nothing to write, but just rest,

sleeping, eating, idling, bathing, talking--whatever one chose to do.

Only those who have been on arduous campaigns can appreciate the luxury

of such a day now and then, cutting like a sweep of green grass across

the long and dusty road.

There was also quite a little group of women on the train, the wives of

several Colorado political leaders having joined Sylvia and Mrs. Grayson

for a while, and they, too, looked forward to a day of rest and the

restoration of their toilets.

"They tell me that Grayville has one of the best hotels in the

mountains," said Barton to Harley, his brother correspondent. "That you

can get a dinner in a dozen courses, if you want it, and every course

good; that it has real porcelain-lined bath-tubs, and beds sure to cure

the worst case of insomnia on earth. Do you think this improbable, this

extravagant but most fascinating tale can be true, Harley?"

"I live in hope," replied Harley.

"Jimmy Grayson has been here before," interrupted Hobart, "and he says

it's true, every word of it; if Jimmy Grayson vouches for a thing, that

settles it; and here is a copy of the Grayville _Argus_; it has to be a

pretty good town that can publish as smart a daily as this."

He handed a neat sheet to Barton, who laughed.

"There speaks the great detective," he said. "You know, Harley, how

Hobart is always arguing from the effect back to the cause."

Hobart, in fact, was not a political writer, but a "murder mystery" man,

and the best of his kind in New York, but the regular staff

correspondent of his paper, the _Leader_, being ill, he had been sent in

his place. He was a Harvard graduate and a gentleman with a taste for

poetry, but he had a peculiar mind, upon which a murder mystery acted as

an irritant--he could not rest until he had solved it--and his paper

always put him on the great cases, such as those in which a vast

metropolis like New York abounds. Now he was restless and discontented;

the tour seemed to him the mere reporting of speeches and obvious

incidents that everybody saw; there was nothing to unravel, nothing that

called for the keen edge of a fine intellect.

"Grayville, with all its advantages as a place of rest, is sure to be

like the other mountain towns," he said, somewhat sourly--"the same

houses, the same streets, the same people, I might almost say the same

mountains. There will be nothing unusual, nothing out of the way."

Harley had taken the paper from Barton's hands and was reading it.

"At any rate, if Grayville is not unusual, it is to have an unusual

time," he interrupted.

"How so?"

"It is to hear Jimmy Grayson speak Monday, and it is going to hang a man

Tuesday. See, the two events get equal advance space, two columns each,

on the front page."

He handed the paper to Hobart, who looked at it a little while and then

dropped it with an air of increasing discontent.

"That may mean something to the natives," he said; "it may be an

indication to them that their place is becoming important--a metropolis

in which things happen--but it is nothing to me. This hanging case is

stale and commonplace; it is perfectly clear; a young fellow named Boyd

is to be hanged for killing his partner, another miner; no doubt about

his guilt, plenty of witnesses against him, his own denial weak and

halting--in fact, half a confession; jury out only five minutes; whole

thing as bald and flat as this plain through which we are running."

He tapped with his finger on the dusty car-window, and his expression

was so gloomy that the others could not restrain a laugh.

"Cheer up, old man," said Barton. "Four more hours and we are in

Grayville; just think of that wonderful hotel, with its more wonderful

beds and its yet more wonderful kitchen."

The hotel was all that they either expected or hoped, and the dawn

brought a beautiful Sunday, disclosing a pretty little frontier city

with its green, irrigated valley on one side and the brown mountains,

like a protecting wall, on the other. Harley slept late, and after

breakfast came out upon the veranda to enjoy the luxury of a

rocking-chair, with the soft October air around him and the majesty of

the mountains before him. He hoped to find Sylvia there, but neither she

nor any of the ladies was present. Instead, there was a persistent,

inquiring spirit abroad which would not let him rest, and this spirit

belonged to Hobart, the "mystery" man.

Harley had not been enjoying the swinging ease of the rocking-chair five

minutes before Hobart, the light of interest in his eyes, pounced upon

him.

"Harley, old fellow," he exclaimed, "this is the first place we've

struck in which Jimmy Grayson is not the overwhelming attraction."

"The hanging, I suppose," said Harley, carelessly.

"Of course. What else could there be? It occurred to me last night, when

I was reading the paper, that I might scare up a feature or two in the

case, and I was out of my bed early this morning to try. It was a

forlorn hope, I'll admit, but anything was better than nothing, and I've

had my reward. I've had my reward, old fellow!"

He chuckled outright in his glee. Harley smiled. Hobart always

interested and amused him. The instinctive way in which he unfailingly

rose to a "case" showed his natural genius for that sort of thing.

"I haven't seen Boyd yet," continued Hobart, excitedly, "but I've found

out this much already--there are people in Grayville who believe Boyd

innocent. It is true that he and Wofford--the murdered man--had been

quarrelling in Grayville, and Boyd was taken at the shanty with the

blood-stained knife in his hand; but that doesn't settle it."

Harley could not restrain an incredulous laugh. "It seems to me those

two circumstances, omitting the other proof, are pretty convincing," he

said.

Hobart flushed. "You just wait until I finish," he said, somewhat

defiantly. "Now Boyd, as I have learned, was a good-hearted, generous

young fellow. The quarrel amounted to very little, and probably had been

patched up before they reached their shack."

"That is a view which the jury evidently could not take."

"Juries are often wooden-headed."

"Of course--in the eyes of superior people."

"Now don't you try to be satirical--it's not your specialty. I mean to

finish the tale. If you read the paper, you will recall that the shanty

where the murder occurred was only a short distance from the

mountain-road, and there were three witnesses--Bill Metzger, a dissolute

cowboy who was passing, and who, attracted by Wofford's death-cry, ran

to the cabin and found Boyd, blood-stained knife in hand, bending over

the murdered man; Ed Thorpe, a tramp miner, who heard the same cry and

who came up two or three minutes later; and, finally, Tim Williams, a

town idler, who was on the mountain-side, hunting. The other two heard

him fire his gun a few hundred yards away, and called to him. When he

arrived, Boyd was still dazed and muttering to himself, as if

overpowered by the horror of his crime."

"If that isn't conclusive, then nothing is," said Harley, decisively.

"It is not conclusive; there was no real motive for Boyd to do such a

thing."

"To whom did the knife belong?"

"It was a long bread-knife that the two used at the cabin."

"There you are! Proof on proof!"

"Now, you keep silent, Harley, and come with me, like a good fellow, and

see Boyd in the jail. If you don't, I swear I'll pester the life out of

you for a week."

Harley rose reluctantly, as he knew that Hobart would keep his word. He

believed it the idlest of errands, but the jail was only a short

distance from them, and the business would not take long. On the way

Hobart talked to him about the three witnesses. Metzger, the cowboy, on

the day of the murder, had been riding in from a ranch farther down the

valley; the other two had been about the town until a short time before

the departure of Boyd and Wofford for their cabin.

They reached the jail, a conspicuous stone building in the centre of the

town, and were shown into the condemned man's cell. The jailer announced

them with the statement:

"Tim, here's two newspaper fellers from the East wants to see you."

The prisoner was lying on a pallet in the corner of his cell, and he

raised himself on his elbow when Harley and Hobart entered.

"You are writers for the papers?" he said.

"Yes, clean from New York; they are with Jimmy Grayson," the jailer

answered for them.

"I don't know as I've got anythin' to say to you," continued the

prisoner. "I 'ain't got no picture to give you, an' if I had one I

wouldn't give it. I don't want my hangin' to be all wrote up in the

papers, with pictures an' things, too, jest to please the people in the

East. If I've got to die, I'd rather do it quiet and peaceful, among the

boys I know. I ain't no free circus."

"We did not come to write you up; it was for another purpose," Harley

hastened to say.

He was surprised at the youth of the prisoner, who obviously was not

over twenty-one, a mere boy, with good features and a look half defiant,

half appealing.

"Well, what did you come for, then?" asked the boy.

Harley was unable to answer this question, and he looked at Hobart as if

to indicate the one who would reply. The "mystery" man did not seek to

evade his responsibility in the least, and promptly said:

"Mr. Boyd, I think you will acquit us of any intention to intrude upon

you. It was the best of motives that brought us to you. I have always

had an interest in cases of this sort, and when I heard of yours in the

train, coming here, I received an impression then which has been

strengthened on my arrival in Grayville. I believe you are innocent."

The boy looked up. A sudden flash of gratitude, almost of hope, appeared

in his eyes.

"I am!" he cried. "God knows I didn't kill Bill Wofford. He wuz my

partner and we wuz like brothers. We did quarrel that mornin'--I don't

deny it--and we both had been liquorin'; but I'd never hev struck him a

blow of any kind, least of all a foul one."

"Was it not true that you were found with the bloody knife in your hand,

standing over his yet warm body?" asked Hobart.

"It's so, but it was somebody else that used the knife. Bill went on

ahead, and when I come into the place I saw him on the floor an' the

knife in 'im. I was struck all a-heap, but I did what anybody else would

'a' done--I pulled the knife out. And then the fellers come in on me. I

was rushed into a trial right away. Of course, I couldn't tell a

straight tale; the horror of it was still in my brain, and the effect

o' the liquor, too. I got all mixed up--but before God, gen'lemen, I

didn't do it."

His tone was strong with sincerity, and his expression was rather that

of grief than remorse. Harley, who had had a long experience with all

kinds of men in all kinds of situations, did not believe that he was

either bad or guilty. Hobart spoke his thoughts aloud.

"I don't think you did it," he said.

"Everybody believes I did," said Boyd, with pathetic resignation, "and I

am to be hanged for it. So what does it matter now?"

"I am going to look for the guilty man," said Hobart, decidedly.

Boyd shook his head and lay back on his pallet. The others, with a few

words of hope, withdrew, and, when they were outside, Harley said:

"Hobart, were you not wrong to sow the seed of hope in that man's mind

when there is no hope?"

"There is hope," replied Hobart; "I have a plan. Don't ask me anything

about it--it's vague yet--but I may work it."

Harley glanced at him, and, seeing that he was intense and eager, with

his mind concentrated upon this single problem, resolved to leave him to

his own course; so he spent part of the day, a wonderful autumn Sunday,

in a rocking-chair on the piazza of the hotel, and another part walking

with Sylvia. He told her of the murder case and Hobart's action, and her

prompt sympathy was aroused.

"Suppose he should really be innocent?" she said. "It would be an awful

thing to hang an innocent man."

"So it would. He certainly does not look like a bad fellow, but you

know that those who are not bad are sometimes guilty. In any event I

fail to see what Hobart can do."

After the walk, which was all too brief, he returned to his

rocking-chair on the piazza, but Grayville, being a small place, he knew

everything that was going on within it, by means of a sort of mental

telepathy that the born correspondent acquires. He knew, for instance,

that Hobart was all the time with one or the other of the three

witnesses--Metzger, Thorpe, or Williams--for the moment the most

important persons in Grayville by reason of their conspicuous connection

with the great case.

When Hobart returned, the edge of the sun was behind the highest

mountains; but he took no notice of Harley, walking past him without a

word and burying himself somewhere in the interior of the hotel. Harley

learned subsequently that he went directly to Jimmy Grayson's room, and

remained there at least half an hour, in close conference with the

candidate himself.

The next day was a break in the great campaign. Owing to train

connections, which are not trifles in the Far West, it was necessary, in

order to complete the schedule, to spend an idle day at some place, and

Grayville had been selected as the most comfortable and therefore the

most suitable. And so the luxurious rest of the group was continued for

twenty-four hours for all--save Hobart.

Harley had never before seen the "mystery" man so eager and so full of

suppressed excitement. He frequently passed his comrades, but he rarely

spoke to them, or even noticed them; his mind was concentrated now upon

a great affair in which they would be of no avail. Harley learned,

however, that he was still much in the company of the three witnesses,

although he asked him no questions. Late in the afternoon he saw him

alone and walking rapidly towards the hotel. It seemed to Harley that

Hobart's head was borne somewhat high and in a manner exultantly, as if

he were overcoming obstacles, and he was about to ask him again in

regard to his progress, but Hobart once more sped by without a word and

went into the hotel. Harley learned later that he held a secret

conference with Jimmy Grayson.

In the evening everybody went to the opera-house to hear the candidate,

but on the way Hobart said, casually, to Harley: "Old man, I don't think

I'll sit in front to-night. I wish you would let me have your notes

afterwards." "Of course," replied Harley, as he passed down the aisle

and found his chair at the correspondents' table on the stage.

There Harley watched the fine Western audience come into the theatre and

find seats, with some noise but no disorder, a noise merely of men

calling each other by name, and commenting in advance on what Jimmy

Grayson would say. The other correspondents entered one by one--all

except Hobart, and took their seats on the stage. Sylvia and Mrs.

Grayson were with some ladies in a box. Harley looked for Hobart, and

two or three times he saw him near the main entrance of the building.

Once he was talking with a brown and longish-haired youth, and Harley,

by casual inquiry, learned that it was Metzger, the cowboy. A man not

greatly different in appearance, to whom Hobart spoke occasionally, was

Thorpe, the tramp miner, and yet another, a tall fellow with a bulging

underlip, Harley learned, was Williams, the third witness.

Evidently the witnesses would attend Jimmy Grayson's meeting, which was

natural, however, as every body in Grayville was sure to come, and

Harley also surmised that Hobart had taken upon himself the task of

instructing them as to the methods, the manner, and the greatness of the

candidate. He had done such a thing himself, upon occasion, the Western

interest in Jimmy Grayson being so great that often appeals were made to

the correspondents for information about him more detailed than the

newspapers gave.

Harley studied the faces of the three witnesses as attentively as the

distance and the light would admit, but they remained near the door,

evidently intending to stand there, back to the wall, a plan sometimes

adopted by those who may wish to slip out quietly before a speech is

finished. Harley, the trained observer, saw that Hobart, without their

knowledge, was shepherding them as the shepherd gently makes his sheep

converge upon a common spot.

The correspondent could draw no inference from the faces of the three

men, which were all of usual Western types, without anything special to

distinguish them, and his attention turned to the audience. He had

received an intimation that Jimmy Grayson intended to deliver that

evening a speech of unusual edge and weight. He would indict the other

party in the most direct and forcible manner, pointing out that its sins

were moral as well as political, but that a day of reckoning would come,

when those who profited by such evil courses must pay the forfeit; it

was a part of the law of nature, which was also the law of retribution.

The candidate was a little late, and the opera-house was filled to the

last seat, with many people standing in the aisles and about the doors.

Harley, glancing again at the rows and rows of faces, saw the three

witnesses almost together, and just to the right of the main entrance,

where they leaned against the wall, facing the stage. Hobart fluttered

about them, holding them in occasional talk, and Harley was just about

to look again, and with increasing attention, but at that instant the

great audience, with a common impulse and a kind of rushing sound, like

the slide of an avalanche, rose to its feet. The candidate, coming from

the wings, had just appeared upon the stage, and the welcome was

spontaneous and overwhelming. Jimmy Grayson was always a serious man,

but Harley noticed that evening, when he first appeared before the

footlights, that his face looked tense and eager, as if he felt that a

great task which he must assume lay just before him.

He wasted no time, but went at once to the heart of his subject, the

crime of a great party, the wicked ways by which it had attained its

wicked ends, and from the opening sentence he had his big audience with

him, heart and soul.

The indictment was terrible: in a masterly way he summed up the charges

and the proof, as a general marshals his forces for battle, and the

crowd, so clear were his words and so strong his statements, could see

them all marching in unison, like the battalions and brigades, towards

the common point, the exposed centre of the enemy. The faces of Sylvia

and Mrs. Grayson, in the box, glowed with pride.

Again and again, at the pauses between sentences, the cheers of the

audience rose and echoed, and then Harley would glance once more towards

the door; there, always, he saw Hobart with the three witnesses,

gathered under his wing, as it were, all looking raptly and intently at

Jimmy Grayson.

The candidate, by-and-by, seemed to concentrate his attention upon the

four men at the door, and spoke directly to them. Harley saw one of the

group move as if about to leave, but the hand of Hobart fell upon his

arm and he stayed. Harley, too, was conscious presently of an unusual

effect having the quality of weirdness. The lights seemed to go down in

the whole opera-house, except near the door. Jimmy Grayson and the

correspondents were in a semi-darkness, but Hobart and his three new

friends beside the door stood in a light that was almost dazzling

through contrast. The three witnesses now seemed to be fixed in that

spot, and their eyes never wandered from Jimmy Grayson's face.

Familiar as he was with the candidate's oratorical powers, Harley was

surprised at his strength of invective that evening. He had proved the

guilt, the overwhelming guilt, of the opposition party, and he was

describing the punishment, a punishment sure to come, although many

might deem it impossible:

"But there would be a day of judgment; justice might sleep for a while,

but she must awake at last, and, the longer vengeance was delayed, the

more terrible it became. Then woe to the guilty."

The audience was deeply impressed by the eloquence of Jimmy Grayson,

coinciding so well with their own views. Harley saw a look of awe appear

upon the faces of many--Sylvia's face was pale--and the house, save for

the voice of Jimmy Grayson, was as still as death. Harley felt the

effect himself, and the weird, unreal quality that he observed before

increased. Once, when he went over to make some notes, he noticed that

the words written a half-hour before were scarcely visible, but, when

he glanced at the opposite end of the theatre, there stood Hobart and

the three witnesses, gathered about him, in the very heart of a dazzling

light that showed every changing look on the faces of the four. Harley's

gaze lingered upon them, and again he tried to find something peculiar,

something distinctive in at least one of the three witnesses, but, as

before, he failed; they were to him just ordinary Westerners following

with rapt attention every word and gesture of Jimmy Grayson.

The candidate went on with his story of the consequences; the crime had

been committed; the profits had been reaped and enjoyed, but slumbering

justice, awake at last, was at hand; it was time for the wicked to

tremble, the price must be repaid, doubly, trebly, fivefold. Now he

personified the guilty party, the opposition, which he treated as an

individual; he compared it to a man who had committed a deed of horror,

but who long had hidden his crime from the world; others might be

suspected of it, others might be punished for it, but he could never

forget that he himself was guilty; though he walked before the world

innocent, the sense of it would always be there, it would not leave him

night or day; every moment, even, before the full exposure it would be

inflicting its punishment upon him; it would be useless to seek escape

or to think of it, because the longer the guilty victim struggled the

more crushing his punishment would be. The correspondents forgot to

write, and, like the audience, hung upon every word and gesture of Jimmy

Grayson, as he made his great denunciatory speech; they felt that he was

stirred by something unusual, that some great and extraordinary motive

was impelling him, and they followed eagerly where he led them.

Harley saw the look of awe on the faces of the audience grow and deepen.

With their overwhelming admiration of Jimmy Grayson, they seemed to have

conceived, too, a sudden fear of him. His long, accusing finger was

shaken in their faces, he was not alone denouncing a guilty man, but he

was seeking out their own hidden sins, and presently he would point at

them his revealing finger.

Hobart stood with the three witnesses beside the door, still in the

dazzling light. Harley was sure that not one of the four had moved in

the last half-hour, and Jimmy Grayson still held them all with his gaze.

Harley suddenly saw something like a flash of light, a signal glance, as

it were, pass between him and Hobart, and the next instant the voice of

the candidate swelled into greater and more accusing volume.

"Now you behold the guilty man!" said Jimmy Grayson. "I have shown him

to you. He seems to the world full of pride and power, but he knows that

justice is pursuing him, and that it will overtake him; he trembles, he

cowers, he flees, but the avenging footsteps are behind him, and the

sound of them rings in his frightened ears like a death-knell to his

soul. A wall rises across his way. He can flee no farther; he turns back

from the wall, raises his terror-stricken eyes, and there before him the

hand of fate is raised; its finger points at him, and a terrible voice

proclaims, 'Thou art the guilty man!"

The form of Jimmy Grayson swelled and towered, his hand was raised, the

long forefinger pointed directly at the four who stood in the dazzling

light, and the hall resounded with the tremendous echoes of his cry,

"Thou art the guilty man!"

As if lifted by a common impulse, the great audience rose with an

indescribable sound and faced about, following Jimmy Grayson's long,

accusing finger.

The man Williams threw his arm before his face, as if to protect

himself, and, with a terrible cry, "Yes, I did it!" fell in a faint on

the floor.

They were all on the train the next day, and Harley was reading from a

copy of the Grayville _Argus_ an account of Boyd's release and the

ovation that the people had given him.

"How did you trace the crime to Williams, Hobart?" asked Harley.

"I didn't trace it; it was Jimmy Grayson who brought it out by giving

him 'the third degree,'" replied Hobart, though there was a quiet tone

of satisfied pride in his voice. "You know that in New York, when they

expose a man at Police Headquarters to some such supreme test, they call

it giving him 'the third degree,' and that's what we did here. It seems

that Williams was in the saloon when Boyd and his partner quarrelled,

and he knew they had a lot of gold from the claim in their cabin. His

object was robbery. When he saw Wofford go on ahead, he followed him

quickly to the cabin, and killed him with the knife which lay on a

table. He expected to have time to get the gold before Boyd came, but

Boyd arrived so soon that he was barely able to slip out. Then Williams,

cunning and bold enough, came back as if he were a chance passer-by, and

had been called by Metzger and Thorpe. The other two were as innocent as

you or I.

"I could not make up my mind which of the three was guilty, and I

induced Jimmy Grayson to help me. It was right in line with his

speech--no harm done even if the test had failed--and then the man who

managed the lights at the opera-house, a friend of Boyd's, helped me

with the stage effects. Jimmy Grayson, of course, knew nothing about

that. I borrowed the idea. I have read somewhere that Aaron Burr by just

such a device once convicted a guilty man who was present in court as a

witness when another was being tried for the crime."

"Well, you have saved his life to an innocent man," said Harley.

"And I have cost a guilty one his." And then, after a moment's pause,

Hobart added, with a little shiver:

"But I wouldn't go through such an ordeal again at any price. When Jimmy

Grayson thundered out, 'Thou art the guilty man,' it was all I could do

to keep from crying, 'Yes, I am, I am!'"

XIV

THE DEAD CITY

As they left the hall, Churchill overtook Harley and tapped him on the

shoulder. Harley turned and saw an expression of supreme disgust on the

face of the _Monitor's_ correspondent, but Harley himself only felt

amusement. He knew that Churchill meant attack.

"I never saw anything more theatrical and ill-timed," said Churchill.

"Of course, it was all prearranged in some manner. But the idea of a

Presidential nominee taking such a risk!"

"He has saved an innocent man's life, and I call that no small

achievement."

"Because the trick was successful; but it was a trick, all the same, and

it was beneath the dignity of a Presidential nominee."

"There was but little risk of any kind," said Harley, shortly, "and even

had it been larger, it would have been right to take it, when the stake

was a man's life. Churchill, you are hunting for faults, you know you

are, or you would not be so quick to see them."

Churchill made no audible reply, but Harley could see that he was

unconvinced, and, in fact, he sent his newspaper a lurid despatch about

it, taking events out of their proper proportion, and hence giving to

them a wholly unjustifiable conclusion. But Sylvia Morgan was devotedly

loyal to her uncle. There were few deeds of his of which she approved

more warmly than this of saving Boyd's life, and Hobart, the master

spirit in it, she thanked in a way that made him turn red with pleasure.

But the discussion of the whole affair was brief, because fast upon its

heels trod another event which stirred them yet more deeply.

When the special train was at Blue Earth, in Montana, among the high

mountains, there came to Jimmy Grayson an appeal, compounded of pathos

and despair, that he could not resist. It was from the citizens of

Crow's Wing, forty miles deeper into the yet higher and steeper

mountains, and they recounted, in mournful words, how no candidate ever

came to see them; all passed them by as either too few or too difficult,

and they had never yet listened to the spell of oratory; of course, they

did not expect the nominee of a great party for the Presidency of the

United States to make the hard trip and speak to them, when even the

little fellows ignored their existence; nevertheless, they wished to

inform him in writing that they were alive, and on the map, at least,

they made as big a dot as either Helena or Butte.

The candidate smiled when he read the letter. The tone of it moved him.

Moreover, he was not deficient in policy--no man who rises is--and while

Crow's Wing had but few votes, Montana was close, and a single state

might decide the Union.

"Those people at Crow's Wing do not expect me, but I shall go to them,"

he said to his train.

"Why, it's a full day's journey and more, over the roughest and rockiest

road in America," said Mr. Curtis, the state senator from Wyoming, who

was still with them.

"I shall go," said Jimmy Grayson, decisively. "There is a break here in

our schedule, and this trip will fit in very nicely."

The others were against it, but they said nothing more in opposition,

knowing that it would be of no avail. Obliging, generous, and

soft-hearted, the candidate, nevertheless, had a temper of steel when

his mind was made up, and the others had learned not to oppose it. But

all shunned the journey with him to Crow's Wing except Harley, Mr.

Plummer, Mr. Herbert Heathcote--because there is no zeal like that of

the converted--and one other.

That "other" was Sylvia, and she insisted upon going, refusing to listen

to all the good arguments that were brought against it. "I know that I

am only a woman--a girl," she said, "but I know, too, that I've lived

all my life in the mountains, and I understand them. Why, I've been on

harder journeys than this with daddy before I was twelve years old.

Haven't I, daddy?" As she had predicted, she forgot his request not to

call him "daddy."

Thus appealed to, Mr. Plummer was fain to confess the truth, though with

reluctance. However, he said, rather weakly:

"But you don't know what kind of weather we'll have, Sylvia."

Then she turned upon him in a manner that terrified him.

"Now, daddy, if I couldn't get up a better argument than that I'd quit,"

she said. "Weather! weather! weather! to an Idaho girl! Suppose it

should rain, I'm made of neither sugar nor salt, and I won't melt. I've

been rained on a thousand times. Aunt Anna says I may go if Uncle James

is willing, and he's willing--he has to be; besides, he's my chaperon.

If you don't say 'yes,' Uncle James, I shall take the train and go

straight home."

They were forced to consent, and Harley was glad that she insisted,

because he liked to know that she was near, and he thought that she

looked wonderfully well on horseback.

The going of Harley with the candidate was taken as a matter of course

by everybody. Silent, tactful, and strong, he had grown almost

imperceptibly into a confidential relationship with the nominee, and Mr.

Grayson did not realize how much he relied upon the quiet man who could

not make a speech but who was so ready of resource. As for Mr.

Heathcote, being an Easterner, he wished to see the West in all its

aspects.

They started at daybreak, guided by a taciturn mountaineer, Jim Jones,

called simply Jim for the sake of brevity, and, the hour being so early,

few were present to see them ride up the hanging slope and into the

mighty wilderness.

But it was a glorious dawn. The young sun was gilding the sea of crags

and crests with burnished gold and the air had the sparkle of youth. Mr.

Heathcote threw back his slightly narrow chest, and, drawing three deep

breaths of just the same length, he said, "I would not miss this trip

for a thousand dollars!"

"And I wouldn't for two thousand!" exclaimed Sylvia, joyously.

Harley said nothing, but he, too, looked out upon the morning world with

a kindling eye. Far below them was a narrow valley, a faint green line

down the centre showing where the little river ran, with the irrigated

farms on either side, like beads on a string. Above them towered the

peaks, white with everlasting snow.

"A fine day for our ride," said the candidate to Jim.

"Looks like it now, though I never gamble on mountain weather," replied

the taciturn man.

But the promise held good for a long time, the sun still shining and the

winds coming fresh and brisk along the crests and ridges. The trail

wound about the slopes and steadily ascended. Vegetation ceased, and

before them stretched the bare rocks. Harley knew very well now that

only the sunshine saved them from grimness and desolation. The

loneliness became oppressive. Even Sylvia was silent. It was the

wilderness in reality as well as seeming; nowhere did they see a miner's

hut or a hunter's cabin, only nature in her most savage form.

The little group of horsemen forgot to talk. The candidate's head was

bowed and his brow bent. Clearly he was immersed in thought. Mr.

Heathcote, unused to such arduous journeys, leaned forward in his saddle

in a state of semi-exhaustion. But Sylvia, although a girl, was

accustomed to the mountains, and she showed few signs of fatigue. Harley

said at last to the guide, "A wild country, one of the wildest, I think,

that I ever saw."

"Yes, a wild country, and a bad 'un, too," responded Jim. "See off there

to the left?"

He pointed to a maze of bare and rocky ridges, and when he saw that

Harley's gaze was following his long forefinger, he continued:

"I say it's a bad 'un, because over there Red Perkins and his gang of

horse-thieves, outlaws, and cut-throats used to have their hiding-place.

It's a tangled-up stretch o' mountain, so wild, so rocky, so full of

caves that they could have hid there till jedgment-day from all

Montana. Yes, that's where they used to hang out."

"Used to?"

"Yes, 'cause I 'ain't heard much uv them fur some time. They came down

in the valley and tried to stampede them new blooded horses from

Kentucky on Sifton's ranch, but Sifton and his men was waitin', and when

the smoke cleared off most uv the gang was wiped out. Red and two or

three uv his fellers got away, but I 'ain't heard uv 'em since. Guess

they've scattered."

"Wisest thing they could do," said Harley.

The guide made no answer, and they plodded on in silence until about two

o'clock in the afternoon, when they stopped in a little cove to eat

luncheon and refresh their horses.

It was the first grateful spot they had seen in hours. A brook fed by

the snows above formed a pool in the hollow, and then, overflowing it,

dropped down the mountain-wall. But in this sheltered nook and around

the life-giving water green grass was growing, and there was a rim of

goodly trees. The horses, when their riders dismounted, grazed eagerly,

and the riders themselves lay upon the grass and ate with deep content.

Sylvia talked little. She seemed thoughtful, and, when neither of them

was looking, she glanced now and then at Harley and "King" Plummer. Had

they noticed they would have seen a shade of sadness on her face. Mr.

Plummer did not speak, and it was because there was a growing anxiety in

his mind. He was sorry now that they had let Sylvia come, and he

silently called himself a weak fool.

"Shall we reach Crow's Wing by dark?" asked the candidate of the guide.

Jim had risen, and, standing at the edge of the cove, was gazing out

over the rolling sea of mountains. Harley noticed a troubled look on his

face.

"If things go right we kin," he replied, "but I ain't shore that things

will go right."

"What do you mean?"

"Do you see that brown spot down there in the southwest, just a-top the

hills? Waal, it's a cloud, an' it's comin' this way. Clouds, you know,

always hev somethin' in 'em."

"That is to say we shall have rain," said the candidate. "Let it come.

We have been rained on too often to mind such a little thing--eh,

Sylvia? You see, I take you at your word."

The girl nodded.

"I don't think it'll be rain," said the guide. "We are so high up here

that more 'n likely it'll be snow. An' when there's a snow-storm in the

mountains you can't go climbin' along the side o' cliffs."

The others, too, looked grave now. Perhaps, with the exception of "King"

Plummer, they had not foreseen such a difficulty, but the guide came to

their relief with more cheering words--after all, the cloud might not

continue to grow, "an' it ain't worth while to holler afore we're hit."

This seemed sound philosophy to the others, and, dismissing their cares,

they started again, much refreshed by their stop in the little cove. The

road now grew rougher, the guide leading and the rest following in

single-file, Sylvia just ahead of Harley. By-and-by their cares

returned. Harley glanced towards the southwest and saw there the same

cloud, but now much bigger, blacker, and more threatening. The sunshine

was gone, and the wrinkled surface of the mountains was gray and sombre.

The air had grown cold, and down among the clefts there was a weird,

moaning wind. Harley glanced at the guide, and noticed that his face was

now decidedly anxious. But the correspondent said nothing. Part of his

strength lay in his ability to wait, and he knew that the guide would

speak in good time.

"Don't any of you be discouraged because of me," said Sylvia; "I'm not

afraid of storms--even snowstorms. Am I not a good mountaineer, daddy?"

The "King" nodded his head. He knew that she was a better mountaineer

than any in the party except the guide and himself, and he felt less

alarm for her than was in the mind of Grayson or Harley.

But Harley was thrilled by her courage. Here, amid these wild mountains,

with the threat of darkness and the storm, she was unafraid and still

feminine. "This is a woman to be won," was his unuttered thought.

Another hour passed, and the air grew darker and colder. Then Jim

stopped.

"Gentlemen," he said, "there's a snow-storm comin' soon. I didn't expect

one so early, even on the mountains, but it's comin', anyhow, an' if we

keep on for Crow's Wing they'll have to dig our bones out o' the meltin'

drifts next summer. We've got to make for Queen City."

"Queen City!" exclaimed Mr. Heathcote. "I didn't know there was another

town anywhere near here."

"She's a-standin' all the same," replied the guide, brusquely, "an' I

wouldn't never hev started on the trip to Crow's Wing if there hadn't

been such a stoppin'-place betwixt an' between, in case o' trouble with

the weather. An' let me whisper to you, Queen City's quite a sizable

place. We'll pass the night there. It's got a fine hotel, the finest

an' biggest in the mountains."

He looked grimly at Mr. Heathcote, as much as to say, "Ask me as much

more as you please, but I'll answer you nothing." Then he added,

glancing at Sylvia:

"It's a wild night for a gal."

"But you said that the biggest and finest hotel in the mountains was

waiting for me," replied Sylvia, with spirit.

The guide bowed his head admiringly, and said no more.

Something cold and damp touched Harley's cheek. He looked up, and

another flake of snow, descending softly, settled upon his face. The

clouds rolled over them, heavy and dark, and shut out all the mountains

save a little island where they stood. The snow, following the first few

flakes, fell softly but rapidly.

"It's Queen City or moulderin' in the drifts till next summer!" cried

Jim, and he turned his horse into a side-path. The others followed

without a word, willing to accept his guidance through the greatest

peril they had yet faced in an arduous campaign. Despite the danger,

which he knew to be heavy and pressing, and his anxiety for Sylvia,

Harley's curiosity was aroused, and he wished to ask more of Queen City,

but the saturnine face of the guide was not inviting. Nevertheless, he

risked one question.

"How far is this place, Queen City?" he asked.

"Bout two miles," replied Jim, with what seemed to Harley a derisive

grin, "an' it's tarnal lucky for us that it's so near."

Harley said no more, but he was satisfied with nothing in the guide's

reply save the fact that the town was only two miles away; any shelter

would be welcome, because he saw now that a snow-storm on the wild

mountains was a terrible thing.

The guide led on; Jimmy Grayson, with bent head, followed; Mr.

Heathcote, shrunk in his saddle, came next; then "King" Plummer; and

after him Sylvia and Harley, who were as nearly side by side as the

narrow path would permit.

"It won't be far, Miss Morgan," said Harley; the others could not hear.

She felt rather than heard the note of apprehension in his voice, and

she knew it was for her. A thrill of singular sweetness passed over her.

It was pleasant for some one, _the_ one, to be afraid for her sake. She

looked out at the driving snow and the dim peaks, but she had no fear

for herself. She was glad, too, that she had come.

"I know the way of the mountains," she replied. "The guide will take us

in safety to this city of his, of which he speaks so highly."

Harley saw her smile through the snow. The others rode on before, heads

bowed, and did not look back. He and she felt a powerful sense of

comradeship, and once, when he leaned over to detach her bridle rein

from the horse's mane, he touched her hand, which was so soft and warm.

Again the electric thrill passed through them both, and they looked into

each other's eyes.

Now and then the vast veil of snow parted before the wind, as if cleft

down the centre by a sword-blade, and Harley and Sylvia beheld a grand

and awful sight. Before them were all the peaks and ridges, rising in

white cones and pillars against the cloudy sky, and the effect was of

distance and sublimity. From the clefts and ravines came a desolate

moaning. Harley felt that he was much nearer to the eternal here than he

could ever be in the plains. Then the rent veil would close again, and

he saw only his comrades and the rocks twenty feet away.

They turned around the base of a cliff rising hundreds of feet above

them, and Harley caught the dull-red glare of brick walls, showing

through the falling snow. He was ready to raise a shout of joy. This he

knew was Queen City, lying snugly in its wide valley. There was the

typical, single mountain street, with its row of buildings on either

side; the big one near-by was certainly the hotel, and the other big one

farther on was as certainly the opera-house. But nobody was in the

streets, and the whole place was dark; not a light appeared at a single

window, although the night had come.

"We're here," Harley said to Sylvia, "but I confess that this does not

look promising. Certainly there is nobody running to meet us."

She was gazing with curiosity.

"It's like no other town that I ever saw," she said.

Harley rode up by the side of the guide.

"The place looks lonesome," he said.

"Maybe they've all gone to bed; there ain't anythin' here to keep 'em

awake," replied the guide, with the old puzzling and derisive smile.

Harley turned coldly away. He did not like to have any one make fun of

him, and that he saw clearly was the guide's intention. Jimmy Grayson

was still thinking of things far off, and Mr. Heathcote, chilled and

shrunk, seemed to have lost the power of speech. "King" Plummer, for

reasons of his own, was silent too.

The guide rode slowly towards the large brick building that Harley took

to be the hotel, and, at that moment, the snow slackened for a little

while; the last rays of the setting sun struck upon the dun walls and

gilded them with red tracery; some panes of glass gave back the ruddy

glare, but mostly the windows were bare and empty, like eyeless sockets.

Harley looked farther, and all the other buildings--the opera-house, the

stores, and the residences--were the same, desolate and decaying. About

the place were snow-covered heaps, evidently the refuse of mining

operations, but they saw no human being.

The effect upon all save the guide was startling. Harley saw the look of

chilled wonder grow on Jimmy Grayson's face. Mr. Heathcote raised

himself in his saddle and stared, uncomprehending. Harley had been deep

in the desert, but never before had he seen such desolation and ruin,

because here was the body, but all life had gone from it. He felt as one

alone with ghosts. Sylvia was silent, her confidence gone for the

moment. The guide laughed dryly.

"You guessed it," he said, looking at Harley. "It's a dead city. Queen

City has been as dead as Adam these half-dozen years. When the mines

played out, it died; there was no earthly use for Queen City any longer,

and by-and-by everybody went away. But I've seen the old town when it

was alive. Five thousand people here. Money a-flowin', drinks passin'

over the counter one way and the coin the other, the gamblin'-houses an'

the theatre chock-full, an' women, any kind you please. But there ain't

a soul left now."

The snow thinned still more, and the buildings rose before them gaunt

and grim.

"We'll stop to-night at the Grand Hotel--that is, if they ain't too much

crowded; it'll be nice for the lady," said the guide, who had had his

little joke and who now wished to serve his employers as best he could;

"but first we'll take the horses into the dinin'-room; nobody will

object; I've done it afore."

He rode towards a side-door, but over the main entrance Harley saw in

tessellated letters the words "Grand Hotel," and he tried to shake off

the feeling of weirdness that it gave him.

The door to the dining-room, which was almost level with the ground, was

gone, and with some driving the horses were persuaded to enter. They

were tethered there, sheltered from the storm, and, when they moved,

their feet rumbled hollowly on the wooden floor. Sylvia, the candidate,

and his friends, driven by the same impulse, turned back into the snow

and re-entered the house by the front door.

They passed into a wide hall, and at the far end they saw the clerk's

desk. Lying upon it were some fragments of paper fastened to a chain,

and Harley knew that it was what was left of the hotel register. It

spoke so vividly of both life and death that the five stopped.

"Would you like to register, Mr. Grayson?" asked Harley, wishing to

relieve the tension.

The candidate laughed mirthlessly.

"Not to-night, Harley," he said; "but, gloomy as the place is, we ought

to be thankful that we have found it. See how the storm is rising."

He glanced at Sylvia, and deep gratitude swelled up in his breast.

Grewsome as it might look, Queen City was now, indeed, a place of

refuge. But he had no word of reproach for her, because she had insisted

upon coming. He knew that a snow-storm had not entered into her

calculations, as it had not entered into his, and, moreover, no one in

the party had shown more courage or better spirits.

The snow drove in at the unsheltered windows, and a long whine arose as

the wind whirled around the old house. The guide came in with cheerful

bustle and stamp of feet.

"Don't linger here, gentlemen and ladies," he said. "The house is yours.

Come into the parlor. We've had a piece of luck. Now and then a lone

tramp or a miner seeks shelter in this town, just as we have done; they

come mostly to the hotel, and some feller who gathered up wood failed to

burn it all. I'll have a fire in the parlor in five minutes, and then we

can ring for hot drinks for the men, a lemonade for the lady, and a warm

dinner for all. I'll take straight whiskey, an' after that I ain't

partic'ler whether I get patty-de-foy-graw or hummin'-bird tongues."

His good-humor was infectious, and they were thankful, too, for the

shelter, desolate though the place was. All the wood had been stripped

away except the floors, and the brick walls were bare. In the great

parlor they had nothing to sit on save their saddles, but it was a noble

apartment, many feet square, built for a time when there was life in

Queen City.

"I've heard the Governor of Montana speak to more than two hundred

people in this very room," said Jim, reminiscently. "He was to have

spoke in the public square, but snow come up, an' Bill Fosdick, who run

the hotel, and run her wide open, invited 'em all right in here, an'

they come."

Harley could well believe it, knowing, as he did, the miners and the

mountains, and, by report, early Montana.

At one end of the room was an immense grate, and in this Jim heaped the

wood so generously left by the unknown tramp or miner, igniting it with

a ready match. The ruddy blaze leaped upward and threw generous shadows

on the floor. The travellers, sitting close to it, felt the grateful

warmth and were content.

All the saddle blankets also had been brought in and piled on one of the

saddles. On these Sylvia sat and spread out her hands to the ruddy

blaze. To Harley, with the flame of the firelight on her face and the

glow of the coals throwing patches of red and gold on her hair, she

seemed some brilliant spirit come to light up the gloomy place. Here all

was warmth and brightness; outside, the storm moaned through the

mountains and the darkness.

"Do you know, I enjoy this," she said, as she looked into the crackling

fire.

"So Queen City ain't so bad, ma'am?" said the guide, with dry

satisfaction.

"Not bad at all, but very good," she replied, gayly. "Don't you think

so, Mr. Harley?"

"I certainly agree with you," replied Harley, devoutly, "but I'm glad

that Queen City is just where it is."

She laughed.

"Daddy has been many a time in the mountains without his Queen

City--haven't you, daddy?"

"Often," said "King" Plummer, looking at her with a pleased smile. But

he wished that she would not call him "daddy," at least before Harley;

it seemed that she could never remember his request; but she had warned

him.

"An old hand travellin' in the mountains always purvides for a snowy

day," said the guide, and he took from his saddle-bags much food and a

large bottle.

They drank a little, all except Sylvia, and ate heartily. The last touch

of cold departed, and the fire still sparkled with good cheer, casting

its comforting shadows across the stained floor.

"I've brought in the horse-blankets," said the guide, "an' with them

under us, our overcoats over us, an' the fire afore us, we ought to

sleep here as snug an' warm as a beaver in its house."

Sylvia was accustomed to camping in the mountains, and made no fuss, but

quietly leaned back against the saddle and the wall, and drew her heavy

cloak around her. She was soon half asleep, and the flames, moving off

into the distance, seemed to be dancing about in a queer, light-minded

fashion.

Harley walked to the window and looked out. The night was black, save

for the driving snow, and when he glanced back at the room it seemed a

very haven of delight. But the strangeness of their situation, the weird

effect of the dead city, with the ghost-like shapes of its houses

showing through the snow, was upon his nerves, and he did not feel

sleepy.

Muttering some excuse to the others, he went into the hall. It was dark,

and a gust of cold air from the open window at the end struck him in the

face. At the same moment Harley saw what he took to be a light farther

down the hall, but when he looked again it was gone.

It might be a delusion, but the matter troubled him; if a lone tramp or

miner were in the building, he wished to know. Any stranger would have a

right in the hotel, but there was comradeship and welcome in Jimmy

Grayson's party.

Harley's instinct said that all was not right, and, taking off his

boots, he crept down the hall and among the cross-halls with noiseless

feet. He did not see the light again, but he heard in another room the

hum of voices, softened so that they might not reach any one save those

for whom they were intended. But they reached Harley, crouching just

behind the edge of the door, and, hearing, he shuddered. A great danger

threatened the nominee for the Presidency of the United States. Such a

thing as the present had never before happened in the history of the

country.

And that same danger, but in a worse form, perhaps, threatened Sylvia.

It was not Harley's fault that a girl had then a greater place than a

Presidential nominee in his mind. He shuddered, and then closed his lips

firmly in resolve.

The door was still on its hinges, and it was still slightly ajar.

Harley, peeping through the crack, saw the eight occupants of the room

by the faint light from the window, and because the man who did the

talking, and who showed himself so evidently the leader, had red hair,

he knew him instinctively. It was Red Perkins and the remnant of his

gang, not scattered to the winds of the West, as Jim and everybody else

thought, but here in Montana, in their old haunts. And Harley, listening

to their talk, measured the extent of their knowledge, which was far too

much; they knew who Jimmy Grayson was, they had known of his departure

from Blue Earth, and they had followed him here; presently they would

take him away, and the whole world would be thrilled. No such prize had

ever fallen into the hands of robbers in America, and it would be worth

a million to them.

Harley was in a chill as he listened, because he heard them speak next

of Sylvia, and one of them laughed in a way that made the correspondent

want to spring at his throat. Sylvia and the candidate must be saved.

But Harley, thinking his hardest, could not think how. There were eight

men well armed in the room before him; the guide and Mr. Plummer,

probably, had pistols, but he had none, and he was sure that Jimmy

Grayson and Mr. Heathcote were without them. He paused there a long

time, undecided, and at last he crept down the hall again and towards

the great parlor. Then he put on his boots, re-entered the room, and

spoke in a low voice to his comrades.

The guide's fighting blood was on fire at once. "I've a revolver," he

said; "we kin barricade the room and hold 'em off. There are two windows

here, opening out on the snow, but they are so high they can hardly

reach 'em with their hands. We kin make a good fight of it."

"I've a pistol, too," said Mr. Plummer, "and we must make it a fight to

the death."

He spoke quietly, but with determination and a full knowledge of all the

danger that threatened. He glanced at Sylvia, who, coming back from her

half-dream, had risen to her feet. Then he walked to the door, because

the "King" was ever alert in the face of danger.

"What is it?" Sylvia asked of Harley. She knew by their manner that

something strange and terrifying had happened, and in such a situation

it was now an involuntary act with her to turn to Harley.

"Sylvia," he said--the others had followed "King" Plummer to the door

"you ought to know."

He noticed that, though pale, she was quiet and firm.

"If it is danger, I have faced it before," she said, proudly.

"As you will face it now, like the bravest woman in the West. 'Red'

Perkins's gang of outlaws are out there, and they mean to take Mr.

Grayson to hold for ransom, and you--"

Her eyes looked straight into his, and suddenly they shone with all the

fulness of love and confidence.

"They will not take me while you are here," she said.

"Not if we have to die together. Sylvia, I believed that your heart was

mine, and in this moment of danger I know it."

He spoke truly. In the crisis their souls were bare to each other. He

seized her hands, and the brilliant color flamed into her cheeks.

"Sylvia!" he exclaimed, in a thrilling whisper.

"Hush!" she said. "The others are about to come back."

She gently withdrew her hands from his, and when "King" Plummer turned

away from the door he saw nothing.

"There's not a shot to be fired," said Jimmy Grayson, "because I've a

better plan. How long do you think it will be before they come for me,

Harley?"

"About fifteen minutes, I should say; at least that is what I gathered

from their talk."

"And they have not examined the building or the town?"

"No; they merely came down the trail behind us and slipped into that

room, waiting their chance."

"Very good. Jim, you told me a while ago that the Governor of Montana

once spoke to two hundred people in this room; it was a fortunate remark

of yours, because I shall speak to as many people to-night in this same

room. Shut the door there, put the saddles before it, and then build

the fire as high as possible."

The candidate's voice was sharp, decisive, and full of command. The born

leader of men was asserting himself, and the guide, without pausing to

reason, hastened to obey. He shut the door, put the saddles before it,

and heaped upon the fire all the remaining wood except a stump reserved

by Jimmy Grayson's express command. The fire leaped higher, and the room

was brilliantly lighted.

Jimmy Grayson stood by, erect, calm, and grave.

"Now, gentlemen," he said, "you are a crowd come from Crow's Wing to

meet me here, and to hear what I have to say. I trust that you will like

it, and indicate your liking by your applause."

The stump was placed in the middle of the floor, and Jimmy Grayson

stepped upon it. His face at that height was visible through the window

to any one outside, although the others would be hidden. Just as he took

his place Harley thought he heard the soft crunch of a footstep on the

snow beneath the window. He felt a burning curiosity to rise and look

out, but he restrained it and did not move. The guide was staring at the

candidate in open-mouthed amazement, but he, too, did not speak. A few

big white flakes drove in at the open window, but they did not reach the

men before the fire that blazed so brightly. Harley again thought he

heard the soft shuffle of footsteps on the snow outside, but then the

burning wood crackled merrily, and Jimmy Grayson was about to speak.

Sylvia stood erect against the wall, her glowing eyes full of

admiration. Her quick mind had grasped the whole plan.

"Gentlemen of Crow's Wing," said the candidate, in his full,

penetrating voice, which the empty old building gave back in many an

echo, "it is, indeed, a pleasure to me to meet you here. The

circumstances, the situation, are such as to inspire any one who has

been so honored. I should like to have seen your little town, the home

of brave and honest men, nestling as it does among these mighty

mountains, and far from the rest of the world, but strong and

self-reliant. I appreciate, too, your kindness and your thought for me.

Seeing the advance of the storm, and knowing its dangers, you have come

to meet me in this place, once so full of life. I find something

singularly appealing and pathetic in this. Once again, if only for a

brief space, Queen City shall ring with human voices and the human

tread."

The candidate paused a moment, as if the end of a rounded period had

come and he were gathering strength for another. Then suddenly arose a

mighty chorus of applause. It was Harley, "King" Plummer, Heathcote, and

Jim, and their act was spontaneous, the inspiration of the moment, drawn

from Jimmy Grayson's own inspiration. The guide beat upon the floor with

both hands and both feet, and the other three were not less active.

Moreover, the guide opened his mouth and let forth a yell, rapid,

cumulative, and so full of volume that it sounded like the whoop of at

least a half-dozen men. The room resounded with the applause, and it

thundered down the halls of the great empty building. When it died,

Harley, listening again intently, heard once more the crunch of feet on

the snow outside, but now it was a rapid movement as if of surprise. But

the sound came to him only a moment, because the candidate was speaking

once more, and he was worth hearing. He only looked away to see Sylvia,

who still stood against the wall with her glowing eyes fixed in

admiration on her uncle. Once or twice she, too, glanced aside, and her

gaze was for Harley. But it was a different look that she gave him.

There was admiration in it, too, and also a love that no woman ever

gives to a mere uncle. In those moments the color in her cheeks

deepened.

As an orator Jimmy Grayson was always good, but sometimes he was better

than at other times, and this evening was one of his best times. The

audience from Crow's Wing, the consideration they had shown in meeting

him here in the dead city, and the wildness of the night outside seemed

to inspire him. He showed the greatest familiarity with the life of the

mountains and the needs of the miners; he was one of them, he

sympathized with them, he entered their homes, and if he could he would

make their lives brighter.

Never had the candidate spoken to a more appreciative audience. With

foot and hand and voice it thundered its applause; the building echoed

with it, and all the time the fire burned higher and higher, and the

merry crackling of the wood was a minor note in the chorus of applause.

But Jimmy Grayson's own voice was like an organ, every key of which he

played; it expressed every human emotion; full and swelling, it rose

above the applause, and Harley, watching his expressive face, saw that

he felt these emotions. Once he believed that the candidate, carried

away by his own feelings, had become oblivious of time and place, and

thought now only of the troubles and needs of the mountain men.

Harley's attention turned once more to the windows. He thought what a

lucky chance it was that no one standing on the ground outside was high

enough to look through them into the room. He blessed the unknown

builder, and then he tried to hear that familiar shuffle on the snow,

but he did not hear it again.

Jimmy Grayson spoke on and on, and the applause kept pace, until at last

the guide slipped quietly from the room. When he returned, a quarter of

an hour later, the candidate was still speaking, but Jim gave him a

signal look and he stopped abruptly.

"They are gone," said Jim. "They must have been gone a full hour. The

snow has stopped, and I guess they are at least ten miles from here,

runnin' for their lives. They knew that if the men of Crow's Wing put

hands on 'em they'd be hangin' from a limb ten minutes after."

Jimmy Grayson sank down on the stump, exhausted, and wiped his hot face.

"Say, Mr. Harley," whispered the guide to the correspondent, "I've heard

some great speeches in my time, but to-night's was the greatest."

The candidate spoke the next day at Crow's Wing, and his audience was

delighted. But Jim was right. The speech was not as great as the one he

had made at Queen City.

XV

WORDS BY THE WAY

Rumors of the adventure in the dead city had spread throughout the

little mountain town in which Jimmy Grayson made his speech the day

after the stop in Queen City, and when he began the return journey an

escort, from which all the bandits in the wilds of the Rocky Mountains

would have turned aside, was ready for him. It was a somewhat noisy

band, but orderly and full of enthusiasm, secretly wishing that a second

attempt would be made, and their devotion to Jimmy Grayson and his cause

found an answering sympathy in Harley.

They had passed the night in Crow's Wing, and the start was made when

the first sunlight brought a sudden uplifting of a white world into a

dazzling burst of blue and yellow and red. But no more snow was falling,

and those who knew said that the day would continue fair.

Sylvia Morgan had not been present at the speech the night before. Even

she, bred amid hardships and dangers, was forced to admit that her

nerves were somewhat unstrung, and she rested quietly in a warm room at

the hotel. Harley knocked once on her door, and received the reply that

she was all right. Then he turned away and went slowly down the hall,

thoughtful, and, for the first time in many days, thoroughly

understanding himself. To the world, when the world should hear of it,

the candidate would always be the central figure in the episode of the

dead city, but Harley knew that their adventure in the old hotel was

more momentous to him than it had been to the candidate. His doubts and

his hesitation were gone; he knew what Sylvia Morgan represented to him,

and with that knowledge came a certain peace; it would have been a

greater peace had not the shadow of "King" Plummer been so dark.

When Sylvia reappeared for the return there was nothing to indicate that

she had ever been tired or nervous. She seemed to Harley the incarnation

of fresh, young life, and there was a singular softness and gentleness

in her manner, all the more winning because she had let it appear more

rarely hitherto. She held out her hand to Harley.

"You see that I have passed through our adventure without harm to my

nerves," she said.

"I knew that you would do so," replied Harley.

He would have said more, but the armed escort, to a man, was bowing

respectfully, and making no very great effort to conceal its admiration

at the sight of a lady, young and beautiful, such an infrequent visitor

to their lonely hamlet. Nor was this admiration diminished by the fact,

known to them all, that she had taken the hazardous journey over the

mountains with Jimmy Grayson. They considered it a special honor and

dignity conferred upon themselves, and as the candidate introduced them,

one by one, the bows were repeated but with greater depth. Sylvia Morgan

knew how to receive them. She was a child of the mountains herself, and

without any sacrifice of her own dignity she could make them feel that

they knew her and liked her.

All Crow's Wing saw them off, and they rode away over the mountains in

the splendid red and gold of the dawn. Mr. Grayson and "King" Plummer

were near the head of the troop, and Harley and Sylvia were near the

rear, where they remained a part of the general group for a long time,

but at last dropped back behind all the others.

"Won't Mr. Churchill be shocked when he hears of our adventure in the

dead city?" said Sylvia.

"He will think that it is the climax," was the reply.

Harley laughed, but in a few moments he became grave. Yet there was an

expression of much sweetness about his firm mouth.

"Still I am glad that it happened," he said. "I saw a new illustration

of our candidate's powers, and I learned, too, much more than that."

She glanced at him, and as she read something in his face she looked

quickly away, and a sudden flush rose to her cheeks. Despite herself,

her heart began to beat fast and her hand trembled on the bridle rein.

Harley expected her to ask what it was that he had learned, but when he

saw her averted face he went on:

"I learned then, Sylvia, what I should have known long before, that I

love you, that you are the one woman in the world for me. And I do not

believe, Sylvia, that you care only a little for me."

He was bold, masterful, and the ring of confidence was in his voice. His

hand, for a moment, touched her trembling hand on the bridle rein, and

she thrilled with the answering touch.

"Sylvia," he said, with grave sweetness, "I mean to win you."

"You must not talk so," she said, and a sudden pallor replaced the

color in her face. "You know that I cannot in honor hear it. I am

promised, and of my own accord, to another, and to one to whom every

sacred obligation commands me to keep my promise."

"I do not forget your promise--Mr. Plummer was in my mind when I was

speaking--nor do I urge you to break it."

"Why, then, do you speak? Why do you say that you mean to win me?"

"Because Mr. Plummer must break this bargain himself. He, of his own

accord, must give your promise back to you. I mean to make him do so. I

do not yet know how, but I shall find a way. Oh, I tell you, Sylvia,

this marriage of his and yours is not right. It's against nature. You do

not love him; you cannot--do not protest--not in a way that a woman

should love the man whom she is going to marry. You love me instead, and

I mean to make you keep on loving me, just as I mean to make Mr. Plummer

give you back your promise."

"Have you not undertaken two large tasks?" she said, smiling faintly.

But Harley, usually so short and terse, had made this long speech with

fire and heat, as the "still waters" were now running very deep, and he

went on:

"I have given you fair warning, Sylvia. Neither you nor Mr. Plummer can

say that I have begun any secret campaign. I have told you that I mean

to make you marry me."

She thought that she ought to stop him, to tell him that he must never

speak of such a thing again. Before her rose the figure of the man whom

she had promised to marry, square, massive, and iron-gray, but, solid as

the figure was, it quickly faded in the light of the real and earnest

young face beside her. Youth spoke to youth, and she did not stop him,

because what he was saying to her was very pleasant, though it might be

wrong.

The morning was brilliant and vivid on the mountains. Far away the white

peaks melted dimly into the blue sky, and below them lay the valleys,

cup after cup, white with snow. The others rode on ahead, not noticing,

and Harley was not one to let time slip through his fingers.

"You must not speak in this way to me again," she said, at last,

although her tone was not sad, only firm, "because it is not right. I

knew that it was wrong, even while you were saying it, but I could not

stop you. You know you cannot change what is fixed, and I must marry Mr.

Plummer."

Harley laughed joyously. Later he did not know why he was so confident

then, but the air of the mountains and a new fire, too, were sparkling

in his veins, and at that moment he had no doubts.

"You will not marry Mr. Plummer," he repeated, with energy, "and it is

not you that will break the promise. It is he that shall give it back to

you."

For the time she felt his faith, and her face glowed, but her courage

left her when the "King," who had been ahead with the candidate, dropped

back towards the rear and joined them.

"King" Plummer, too, had begun that return journey with feelings of

exhilaration. Everything in the trip from Crow's Wing appealed to him,

because it was so thoroughly in consonance with his early life in the

mountains. The adventure in Queen City had stirred his blood, and around

him were familiar things. He, too, wished that an organized band of

bandits would come, because in his younger days he had helped to hunt

down some of the worst men in the mountains, and the old fighting blood

mounted as high as ever in his veins.

He had seen that Sylvia was entirely recovered from the alarms of the

night at Queen City, and then, because he felt that it was his duty, and

because there was a keen zest in it, too, he rode on ahead with the

candidate, to whom he pointed out dim blue peaks that he knew, and to

whom he laid down the proposition that those mountains were full of

minerals, and would one day prove a source of illimitable wealth to the

nation.

The crispness of the morning, the vast expanse of mountain, and the

feeling of deep, full life made the "King's" blood tingle. His years of

hardship, danger, and joy--and he had enjoyed his life greatly--swept

before him, and he laughed under his breath; life was still very good.

After a while the thought of Sylvia came to him, and he smiled again,

because Sylvia was truly good to look upon. He rode back towards her,

and then he received a blow--a blow square in the face, and dealt

heavily.

"King" Plummer's was not a mind trained to look upon the more delicate

shades of life--he dealt rather with the obvious; but when he saw Harley

and Sylvia he knew. Mrs. Grayson's warning, which at first he had only

half accepted, had come true, and it had come quickly. His instant

impulse was that of the primitive man to raise his fist and strike down

this foolish, this presumptuous youth who had dared to cross the path of

him, the King of the Mountains; but he did not raise it, because "King"

Plummer was a gentleman; instead, he strove to conceal the fact that he

was breathing hard and deep, and he spoke to them in a tone that he

sought to render careless, but which really had an unnatural sound.

Sylvia gave him a glance that was half fear, and had the "King" taken

notice it would have filled him with deep pain, but Harley, who alone of

the three retained his self-possession, spoke lightly of passing things.

The feeling of exulting strength was not yet gone from him; in the

presence of this man of great achievement he was not afraid, and,

moreover, the desire to protect Sylvia, to turn attention from her, was

strong within him.

For these reasons Harley carried the whole burden of the talk, and

carried it well. Neither of the others wished to interrupt him; Sylvia

being full of these new emotions, half joy and half fear, that agitated

her, and Mr. Plummer trying to evolve from chaos a way to act.

Although the "King" had suppressed the muscular manifestation, he was

none the less burned by internal fire. Sylvia was his: it was he who had

found her in the mountains; it was he who had given her the years of

care and tenderness, and by every right, including that of promise, she

belonged to him. Nor was he one to give her up for a fancy. He had seen

the look of love on her face when she spoke to Harley, but she was only

a girl--from the crest of his years the "King" thought that he saw the

truth, and knew it--and as soon as this campaign was over, and the

Eastern youth had disappeared, she would forget him.

Mr. Plummer regarded this youth out of the corner of his eye, and while

he pitied him for his ignorance of life, he was bound to admit that

Harley was a handsome fellow, tall, well knit, and with an air of

self-reliance. Evidently there was good stuff in him, and he would

amount to something when he was trained and mature, although the "King"

concluded that he needed a great deal of training. But he could not fail

to feel respect for Harley's presence of mind, his calm, and his ease.

The youth showed no fear of him, no sign of apprehension, and the

mountaineer gave him credit for it.

Sylvia was glad when they stopped in one of the lower glades to rest and

eat of the food which had been so amply provided for them. But she was

proud of Harley and the manner in which he had taken upon himself all

the burden. His conduct went far to justify in her eyes his confident

prediction, and, secretly approving, she watched the ease with which he

bore himself among the blunt mountaineers and the handsome manner in

which he affiliated. She noticed that they seemed to think of Harley as

one like Jimmy Grayson--that is, one of themselves--and they never

considered him raw or green in any respect.

Her confidence in Harley and the momentary elation returned as they

stood there in this cup in the mountain-side and looked out upon the

expanse of peak and plain. She ate, too, with an appetite that the

mountain air sharpened, and she thrilled with strength and hope.

Mr. Plummer, from some motive that she did not understand, kept himself

in the background during the stop; nor did she know how his big heart

was filled with wrath and gloom. But as he stood silently at the

farthest rim of the circle, he resolved to push his fortunes, which was

in accordance with his nature.

"Will you walk to the edge of the cove with me?" he said to the

candidate, when he saw that the latter had finished his luncheon, and

Mr. Grayson, without a word, complied with his request.

Jimmy Grayson must have had some premonition of what was to come,

because he obeyed his first impulse, and glanced at Harley and Sylvia,

who were standing together. He was confirmed in his thought when he saw

the look of gloom and resolve upon the face of his friend.

"I want to speak to you of Sylvia," said "King" Plummer, in tones of

hurry, as if it cost him an effort. "It's about our marriage. I think I

ought to hurry it up a little. You see--well, you can't help seeing,

that, compared with Sylvia, I'm old. I'm not really old, but I'm old

enough to be her father, an' youth has a way that's pretty hard to break

of turnin' to youth."

"Yes," said Jimmy Grayson.

"Sylvia's just a girl; she don't seem much more 'n a child to me, an'

lately she's been travellin' about a heap, an' she's met new people.

Now, I don't blame her, don't think that, because it's natural, but here

is this young writin' chap."

"Harley, you mean?"

"Yes. An' I'm not sayin' anythin' against him, either, though writin'

has never been much in my line, but he an' Sylvia seem to have taken a

sort of shine to each other--I don't know whether it amounts to any more

than that, though I suppose it could if it was give a chance; but down

there in Queen City he did more for her than I did, or anybody else, and

I suppose that tells with a girl. Well, you saw 'em together as we

walked out here, an' I'm bound to admit that they make a powerful likely

couple."

He hesitated, as if he were waiting for the candidate to speak, but Mr.

Grayson was silent. He glanced once at the strong face of Plummer,

drawn as if in pain, and then he looked into the valley a thousand feet

below. Jimmy Grayson did not care to speak.

"I ain't a blind man," continued the "King." "I may not be too smart,

but still things don't have to be driven into me with a wedge. If Sylvia

and Harley were left to themselves, they would fall deep in love, I can

see that; but I tell you, Mr. Grayson, she's mine, she belongs to me,

because I've earned her, and because she's promised herself to me, too,

an' I can't give her up. Still, if it's wrong, if I ought to let her

have her promise back, I'll do it anyhow. An' that's why I've asked you

to walk out here. I don't like much to speak to another man of a thing

right next to my heart, but I want to ask you, Mr. Grayson--you are her

uncle an' my best friend--what do you think I ought to do?"

It was hard to embarrass Jimmy Grayson, but he was embarrassed now. He

would rather any other man in the world had asked him any other

question. Sylvia was his niece, and her happiness was dear to him.

Harley, too, had found a place in his heart. And when he glanced at them

again and saw them still together, it seemed fit and right that they

should continue so through life. But there was "King" Plummer, an honest

man, and his claim could not be denied. And his mind could not help

asking this insidious little question, "If Sylvia is allowed to throw

over 'King' Plummer, will he not sulk and allow the Mountain States,

passing from her uncle, to go into the other column?" Jimmy Grayson

would not have been human if he had not heard this little question

demanding an answer, but he resolutely resisted it.

"What do you say?" asked Mr. Plummer. "I'd risk much on your advice."

"I was studying your question, because in a case like this a man has to

think of so many things, and then may miss the right one. But, Mr.

Plummer, I don't know what to say; I think, however, I'd wait. Sylvia is

a good girl, and I know you can trust her. But they are beckoning to us;

they are ready to start."

He was glad of that start, because it saved him from further discussion

of the problem, and Mr. Plummer went back with him moodily.

Yet the resolve in the "King's" mind had only been strengthened by his

talk with the candidate. The danger of Sylvia slipping through his

fingers because of his own want of precaution made her all the more dear

to him, and he was determined to take that precaution now. So he was

watchful throughout the remainder of the journey, seeking his

opportunity, and it came towards the twilight, as they saw the first

houses of the railroad station rise upon the horizon.

Mrs. Grayson, Hobart, Blaisdell, the state politicians, and, all the

others came out to meet them, and for a while there was a turmoil of

voices asking questions and answering them. Presently Sylvia slipped

from the group, and Mr. Plummer followed her towards the hotel.

"Sylvia," he said, "wait for me. I have some thing to say."

She recognized an unusual tone in his voice and she was frightened. She

felt an almost irresistible impulse to run and to hide herself in some

dim room of the hotel. But she did not do it; instead, she waited and

walked by his side.

"Sylvia," he said, "the perils and hardships of the trip we are just

finishin' have set me to thinkin' hard."

She trembled again. She felt as if he were going to say something that

she would not like to hear.

"That trip was full of dangers for you, and, as we go through all this

Western country, there may be more to come. I want the right, Sylvia, to

look after you, to look after you more closely than I've ever done

before, and to do that, Sylvia, I've got to be your husband."

"I have promised."

"I know you have, an' I know you'll keep your promise. But I want you to

keep it now. Why couldn't we get married, say next week, and make this

campaign one big weddin' tour. I think it would be grand, Sylvia, an'

it's right easy to arrange."

He paused, awaiting her answer, but she had suddenly lost all her color,

and, despite herself, she trembled violently.

"Oh no!" she cried, "not now! It would be better to wait. Why break up

this pleasant--Oh, I don't mean that! I mean, why not go on as we are

through the campaign, and afterwards we could talk of--of--what you

propose? Anything else now would be so unusual. I think we'd better

wait!"

She spoke almost breathlessly under impulse, and then she stopped

suddenly as if afraid. The color poured back into her face, and she

waited timidly.

The King of the Mountains, who had never known fear, was gripped by a

cold chill. He had delivered his master-stroke and it had failed.

"We'll wait, Sylvia," he said, gloomily. "Of course a woman's wish in

such a matter as this is law, and more than law."

"Oh, daddy, don't you see how it is?" she cried, moved by his tone. "I'm

but twenty-two. I don't want to marry just yet. I haven't seen enough of

this big world. Why can't we wait a little?"

"Don't be afraid, child; no one shall make you marry when you don't want

to," he said, soothingly and protectingly, and this role became him

superbly. "The subject sha'n't be mentioned to you again while the

campaign lasts."

"You are the best man in the world, daddy!" she exclaimed. Suddenly she

rose on tiptoe, kissed him lightly on the cheek, and then ran away.

"King" Plummer walked gravely back to the lobby of the hotel, where a

crowd was gathered.

Harley was one of this crowd, and on entering the room he had been met

at once by Churchill, upon whose face was a look of consternation.

"Harley," he asked, "is the report true that Grayson was in danger of

being kidnapped by bandits on this trip to Crow's Wing?"

"It is true, every word of it."

"My God! what will Europe say?" exclaimed Churchill, aghast.

Harley laughed, but he did not attempt to reason with Churchill. He knew

that the correspondent of the _Monitor_ was too far gone to be reached

by argument.

Churchill sent a lurid despatch to the _Monitor_, describing in detail

the folly and recklessness of the candidate, and the manner in which he

neglected the great issues of the campaign for the sake of impulses,

which always terminated in frivolous or dangerous adventures. And the

_Monitor_ fully backed up its correspondent, because, when the issue of

the paper that published the despatch reached them, it also contained

an editorial, in which the editor wrote in anguish of heart:

"We have supported Mr. Grayson in this campaign with as much zeal

and energy as our moral sense would permit. We have given him full

credit for all the virtues that he may possess, and we have been

willing at all times for him to profit by our experience and

advice. But our readers will bear witness that we have never failed

in courage to denounce the wrong, even if it should be in our own

house. Our easy, and on the whole superficial, American temperament

condones too many things. Never was it more noticeable than in the

vital issues of this Presidential campaign. The yellow journals are

making a great noise over Mr. Grayson; they shout about his

oratory, his generosity, and his noble impulses until the really

serious minority of us can scarcely hear; but the grave, thoughtful

people, those who are recognized in Europe as the real leaders of

American opinion, will not be put down. Despite the turmoil of the

childish, we have never lost our heads. The _Monitor_, from the

very first, has perceived the truth, and it has the courage to tell

it. We contribute this advice willingly and without charge to those

who are conducting the campaign.

"The youthful and flamboyant qualities must be eradicated from Mr.

Grayson. Our young republic cannot afford to be discredited in the

eyes of Europe by the sensational or frivolous actions of one who

is nominated by a great party for the high office of President.

This last adventure with brigands in the mountains is really more

than our patience will bear, and our readers know that our patience

is great. We have suggested, we have advised, and we have even

threatened by indirection, but thus far it has all been futile.

"Now we mean to speak with the bluntness and decision demanded by

the circumstances. A committee of men, mature in years and solid in

judgment, some of whom we can name, must be put in control of the

campaign. Mr. Grayson must be kept within strict limits; he must

take advice before delivering his speeches, and he must not be

permitted to turn aside for irrelevant issues. And since the

_Monitor_ speaks reluctantly, and in the utmost kindness, we

suggest that he become a faithful reader of our columns. A word to

the wise is sufficient."

The day this issue of the _Monitor_ arrived Sylvia said to Churchill:

"Mr. Churchill, I want to thank you in behalf of my uncle for that

beautiful editorial in the _Monitor_. It was put in the very way that

would appeal to him most."

"Do you really think so, Miss Morgan?" said Churchill, blushing with

borrowed pride.

"Oh yes, but it was so typical, it had so much of a certain personal

quality in it, that I am sure you must have telegraphed it to the

_Monitor_ yourself."

"King" Plummer, who stood by and who had very little to say these days,

smiled sourly.

XVI

BY THE FIRELIGHT

The special train now entered one of the most mountainous portions of

Utah, and, as the strenuous nature of the campaign continued, its

exigencies permitted little time for other things. Personal feelings,

fears, and hopes had to be buried, or at least hidden for the time, and

Harley, like all the rest, was absorbed in work. Nevertheless, his

feeling of confidence, even exhilaration, remained. He believed that he

would yet discover a way.

He found this part of the campaign pleasant, physically as well as

mentally. The alternation of huge mountain and fertile valley was

grateful to the eye, and, however severe the day's journey might be,

they knew there would be good rest at the end.

It had been nearly a week since the episode of the dead city, when

Hobart bustled back to Harley and said:

"Harley, we shall have the noble red man to hear us to-night. We stop

just at the edge of the Indian reservation, and a lot of the braves,

with their squaws, too, I suppose, will attend. Of course they will be

duly impressed by Jimmy Grayson's oratory."

Sylvia Morgan was present when this news was announced, and Hobart

suddenly stopped short and glanced at her. She had turned pale, and

then, remembering that old tragedy in her life when she was a little

child, he ascribed her pallor to her horror at the mention of Indians.

But Hobart did not know that they were approaching the scene of the

memorable massacre.

The train now curved southward and entered a fertile valley lying like a

bowl among the high mountains. They saw here fields that had been golden

with wheat, ripe fruit yet hung from the trees, and the touch of green

was still visible, although autumn had come. By the railway track a

clear mountain stream flowed, sparkling in the thin, pure air, and there

was more than one full-grown man in the candidate's party who, with

memories of his youth before him, longed to pull off shoes and socks and

wade in it with bare feet.

The sight was most refreshing after so much mountain and arid expanse,

and the tired travellers brightened up visibly.

"One of the states has the motto, 'Here we rest'--I've forgotten which

it is--but it ought to be Utah," said Hobart, "and now's the time."

He was not disappointed. They came before noon to Belleville, the

metropolis of the valley, the place where the candidate was going to

speak, one of the prettiest little towns that ever built its nest in the

Rocky Mountains. They were all enthusiastic over it, with its trim

houses, its well-paved streets, the clear water flowing beside the

curbs, and its air of completion. The people, too, had all the Western

courage and energy, without its roughness and undue expression, and so

the candidate and his party luxuriated.

"You wouldn't think that this gem of a town was harried more by Indians

in its infancy than perhaps any other place in the West, would you?"

said Hobart to Harley.

"Hobart, what a nuisance you are!" replied Harley; "you are always

prowling around in search of useless facts. Now, I don't want to hear

anything about bloodshed and massacre, when Belleville is the picture of

neatness and comfort that it is to-day. Look at that little opera-house

over there! You couldn't find anything handsomer in a city of fifty

thousand in the East."

"Harley," said Hobart, with emphasis, "I wouldn't have your lack of

curiosity for anything in the world," and he wandered away in disgust to

pour his ancient history into the ears of a more willing listener.

At twilight they ate an admirable dinner, and then Harley, Hobart, who

had returned from his explorations, Blaisdell, and two or three others,

after their custom, filled in the interval between supper and the

speeches with a stroll through the village, Mr. Plummer going along as a

sort of mentor. The keeper of the hotel informed them that many of the

Indians already were in town and were "tanking up." Harley found this to

be true, and the red men failed to arouse in him either respect or

admiration. If they had ever had any nobility of the wilderness, it was

gone now, and they seemed to him a sodden, depressed, and repellent

race. A half-dozen or so, in various stages of drunkenness, through

whiskey surreptitiously obtained, increased the feeling of aversion.

In the dusk they stumbled over a figure lying squarely across the path,

and Harley drew back with a word of disgust. An old Indian, dilapidated

and in the last stages of intoxication, was stretched out on his face. A

local resident named Walker, who had joined them, laughed.

"That," said he, "is a chief, a great man, or at least he was once. It's

old Flying Cloud--poetical name, though he don't look poetical now by a

long shot. Here, get out of this; you're blocking up the road!"

With true Western directness he administered a kick to the prostrate

form, but the old chief, buried in a sodden dream, only stirred and

muttered; then the resident opened up a battery of kicks, and presently

the Indian rose to his feet and slunk off, muttering, in the darkness.

"They're no good at all," said Walker. "Only a lot of sots, whenever

they get the chance."

But Harley was thinking of the contrast between what he had just seen

and what he had imagined might be the freedom and nobility of the

wilderness.

It was a beautiful autumn night, and the candidate spoke in the open, in

the village square, with the mountains that circled about him as his

background. Sylvia Morgan was not among the listeners. Usually she

enjoyed these speeches in the evening, with the crowds, the enthusiasm,

and the encircling darkness. But to-night she would not come, nor would

she tell the reason to Harley or any of his friends. She merely said

that she wished to stay in her room at the hotel.

The audience was quiet and attentive, and Harley noticed here and there

on the outskirts the dark faces of the Indians. They interested him so

much that he left the platform presently to watch them. He was wondering

if they had any conception at all of Jimmy Grayson's words or of a

Presidential campaign. Nor did he gain any knowledge by his examination.

They listened gravely, and their faces were without expression.

The nearest of them all to the stand Harley recognized as the old chief,

Flying Cloud, whom Walker had kicked off the sidewalk. He seemed to have

recovered physical command of himself, and stood erect. There was a red

feather in his felt hat, and a shawl in brilliant stripes was drawn

across his shoulders.

The candidate spoke in a specially happy vein that night, and the

background of the mountains added impressiveness to his words. To

Harley, again the analyst, and seeking to put himself in the Indian's

place, there was a rhythm and power in what Jimmy Grayson said, although

he, as an Indian, might not understand a word. He could interpret it as

a chant of battle or victory, and such, he had no doubt, was the view of

Flying Cloud.

The chief, so Harley judged, was still half under the influence of

drink, but he was paying close attention to the speaker, and the

correspondent at last saw in his eyes what he took to be the stir of

some emotion. It was a light, as of memories of his own triumphs, and

the chief's figure began to sway gently to the music of Jimmy Grayson's

voice. They had built a bonfire near the speaker's stand, and by its

flare Harley clearly saw old Flying Cloud smile.

Hobart came up at that moment, and, Harley pointed out to him the

transformation in the old chief's appearance. Hobart's opinion agreed

with Harley's.

"It's a battle-song that Flying Cloud is hearing," he said. "It's Jimmy

Grayson that's stirring him up, though maybe the old fellow doesn't

understand it that way."

The speeches ended after a while, and the people began to leave.

Presently only a few were left in the square, and among them was

Harley, who felt no touch of sleepiness. He looked at the quiet town,

then up at the ridges and peaks, crested with snow and silhouetted

against the moonlit sky, and thought again of that little girl, alone

with her dead and in the night among the vast mountains.

The next moment he believed that it was a telepathic feeling, because at

his elbow was Sylvia Morgan herself, a red-striped shawl over her head

to protect her from the cold, and "King" Plummer, who had evidently

brought her from the hotel, not far away.

"Are they all gone?" she asked.

"No," replied Harley; "the Indians and a few more are left."

Harley, in the moonlight, clearly saw her shiver.

"I was restless, and I could not sleep," she said. "I came out for the

sake of the air. But I'll go back."

"No," said Harley, "don't go. Stay with us, please. Now what can that

mean?"

A wild, barbaric chant arose near the bonfire behind them.

"Come!" exclaimed Harley, keen to see and hear. "I think it's old Flying

Cloud, and he's ready to turn himself loose. We can't miss this!"

Sylvia was about to turn away, but as "King" Plummer came up on the

other side of her, and seemed to have a curiosity like Harley's, she

yielded at last, though with reluctance, and the three walked towards

the fire.

Harley's surmise was correct, as old Flying Cloud, jumping back and

forth, was singing some kind of war-song. There was a group about him,

and in it was Hobart, who Harley guessed had been a moving spirit in

this scene. Jimmy Grayson's fire and eloquence had done the rest.

The flames burned down a little, but they cast a weird light on the old

chief's face, bringing out like brown carving the high cheek-bones, the

great, hooked nose, and the seamed cheeks. The thin lips fell away from

long, yellow teeth, and heightened the effect of cruelty which his whole

expression gave.

Hobart came over to them, and said: "See how the old fellow is changing!

We've got him to sing one of his ancient war-songs, and I guess he

thinks he's beating Jimmy Grayson now!"

Sylvia Morgan shuddered, but she said nothing. She seemed to be held by

the fascination of the serpent.

The chief continued to make his queer little jumps back and forth, and

went on with his chant. As he had begun in English for his auditors, so

he continued, although he was now oblivious of their presence. Harley,

watching him, knew it, and he knew, too, that the chief's mind was far

back in the past. His was not the song of the broken derelict, but of

the barbarous and triumphant warrior, and as he sang he gathered fire

and strength.

The circle of white faces grew around the old chief. Every loiterer was

there, and others came back. Not one spoke. All were fascinated by the

singular and weird scene. The moon, low down on the mountain's crest,

still shed a pallid, grayish light that mingled with the fitful red

glare from the glowing coals, the two together casting an unearthly

tinge. But Harley's eyes never left the chief, as he saw his figure

continue to expand and grow with ancient memories of prowess, and the

eyes of Sylvia beside him, as she too listened, expressed many and

strong emotions.

Flying Cloud told of hunting triumphs, of the slaughter of the buffalo,

of fierce encounters with the mountain-lion, of hand-to-hand combat with

the grizzly bear, and then he glided into war. Now his voice rose, full

and prolonged, without any of the tremor or shrillness of age, and his

eccentric dancing grew more violent. His emotions, too, were shown on

his face in all their savagery as he told of the foray and the fight.

At first it was Indian against Indian, and never was any mercy

shown--always woe to the conquered; then it was the whites. An emigrant

train was coming over the mountains--men, women, and children. There was

danger in their path; a Ute war-band was abroad, but the fools knew it

not. They travelled on, and at night the children played and laughed by

the camp-fire, but the shadow of the Utes was always there. Flying Cloud

led the war-band, but held them back until the time should come. He was

waiting for a place that he knew. At last they reached it, a deep canon

with bushes on either side, and the train entered the defile.

Harley suddenly felt a hand upon his arm. It was the fingers of Sylvia

grasping him, but unconscious of the act. He looked up and saw her face

as white as death, and a yard away the eyes of "King" Plummer were

burning like two coals.

Flying Cloud's figure swayed, and his voice trembled with a curious joy

at the old memories. He was approaching the great moment of triumph. He

told how the warriors lay among the bushes, watching the foolish train

come on, how they looked at each other and rejoiced in advance over an

easy victory. Some would have fired too soon, but Flying Cloud would

not let them. His was the cunning mind, as well as the bold heart, and

he omitted nothing. The trap was perfect. The fools never suspected.

They stopped to make a camp, and still they did not know that a ring of

death was about them. They built their fires, and again the children

laughed and played by the coals. It was the last time.

The old chief was now wholly the wilderness slayer, the Indian of an

earlier time. His glittering eyes at times swept the circle of white

faces about him, but he did not see them, only that old massacre.

The narrative went on. Flying Cloud told each of his warriors to select

a victim, and fire true when he gave the word. He chose for himself a

large man who stood by one of the wagons, a man who had with him a woman

and a little boy and a little girl, and the little girl had long curls.

A groan burst from Plummer, and Harley saw his great figure gather as if

for a spring. But Harley, quick as lightning, seized the man in a

powerful grasp, and cried in his ear: "Not now, Mr. Plummer, not now,

for God's sake! Wait until the end!"

Harley felt the "King" quiver in his hands, and then cease to struggle.

Sylvia stood by, still as white as death and absolutely motionless. The

others, held by the old chief's song, did not see nor hear.

Flying Cloud's eyes were glittering with cruel triumph as he continued

his chant. The rifles were raised, the white fools yet suspected

nothing, but laughed and jested with each other as if there would be a

to-morrow.

Then he gave the word, and all the rifles were fired at once. The canon

was filled with smoke and the whistling of bullets. Most of the men in

the train were killed at once, and then the warriors sprang among those

who were left. Flying Cloud had shot the tall man by the wagon, and then

he sought the woman and the two children. He slew the woman and the

little boy, and he scalped them both. Then he sprang at the girl, but

the child of the Evil Spirit slipped among the bushes, and he could not

find her.

The old chief stopped a moment, and once more his glittering eyes swept

the circle of white faces, but saw them not. Then that fierce cry burst

again from Plummer. Suddenly he threw off Harley as if he had been a

child, and sprang through the ring of white faces into the circle of the

firelight. The tall, pale girl, still not saying a word, stood by, like

an avenging goddess.

"Murderer!" cried the "King." "It is not too late to punish you!"

He seized the old chief by the throat, but the white men threw

themselves upon him and tore him off.

Flying Cloud reeled back, gazed a moment at Plummer, and then drew a

knife.

"It was when there was war between us, and I will not swing at the end

of the white man's rope," he said.

So speaking, he plunged the blade into his own heart and fell dead,

almost at the feet of the woman whose kin he had slain.

"Whatever the red scoundrel was," said Hobart, later, "I shall always

use the old text for him, and say that nothing in this life became him

like the leaving of it."

But there were no such feelings in the heart of Sylvia Morgan. When

"King" Plummer sprang upon Flying Cloud, Harley turned involuntarily to

Sylvia, and he saw the pallor replaced by a sudden flush; then, when the

chief slew himself with his own knife, the flush passed, and whiter than

ever she sank down gently. But Harley caught her in his arms before she

fell, and in a moment or two she revived. It seemed to be her first

thought that she was held by him, and she struggled a little.

"Let me go," she said; "I can stand. I assure you I can. It was just a

passing weakness."

But Harley wished to make certain that it was not more than that before

he released her, and the friendly darkness and the interest of the crowd

centred on Flying Cloud aided him. A minute later Mrs. Grayson and the

wife of a local political leader, Mrs. Meadows, took her from him and

carried her to the hotel. Mrs. Grayson, who had heard the chief's chant,

understood the story, but Mrs. Meadows, who knew nothing of Sylvia's

relation to it, but who guessed something from the talk of the others,

was devoured by curiosity. However, she prevailed over it, for the time,

and was silent as she went with Sylvia back to the hotel, although she

made a vow which she kept--that she would find out the full truth in the

morning.

Harley lingered a little by the firelight and joined Hobart and the

crowd. The tragedy had cut deep into his thoughts--and he did not care

to talk, but the others had plenty to say.

"What a singular coincidence," said Tremaine, stroking his fine, white,

pointed mustache, of which he was very proud. "I call it very remarkable

that this savage should have told the story of that old tragedy the very

night when the only survivor of it was present."

"I do not call it remarkable at all," said Hobart. "It is not even a

coincidence in the usual meaning of the word. It came about naturally,

each chapter in the story being the logical sequence of the chapter that

preceded it."

"It may all be very clear to a man like you, one who makes a study of

crime and mysteries," said Tremaine, ironically, as he gave his mustache

an impatient tug, "but it is far from being so to me. I still call it a

coincidence."

"That is because you haven't taken time to think about it, Tremaine.

Your mind is entirely too good to accept such a theory as coincidence.

In the first place, Mr. Grayson is making a thorough tour of the West,

all the more thorough because these are supposed to be doubtful states.

Now what more natural than his coming to Belleville, which is one of the

most important towns in northern Utah, and, having come, what more

probable than the presence of the Indians at his speech, because such

attractions are rare in Belleville, and the Indian would come to see

what it is that stirs up so much his white friend and brother. Of

course, the Indian in his degenerate days, would take the chance to get

drunk, and, being in a whiskey stupor, he naturally supposed that Mr.

Grayson was chanting a chant of victory, and quite as naturally he

chanted in return his own chant, and also quite as naturally this chant

was about the deed that he considered the greatest of his life. So,

there you are; the chain is complete, the result is natural; any other

result would have been unnatural."

Tremaine laughed.

"You have worked it out pretty well, Hobart," he said, "but I have my

own opinion."

"You are entitled to it," rejoined Hobart, briskly, "but be sure you

keep it to yourself, and then you won't suffer from the criticisms of

the intelligent."

Tremaine laughed good-naturedly, and then avowed his concern about that

beautiful girl, Miss Morgan, who suddenly and under such peculiar

circumstances had been brought face to face with the slayer of her

people; he had perceived from the first her noble qualities, and he felt

for her the deepest sympathy. Tremaine, while a great lover of the

ladies, had in reality less perception than any of the others in affairs

of the heart. He was, perhaps, the only one in the group who did not

know what was going on, and for that reason he talked at length of

Sylvia, no one being able to stop him. He thought it a pity that Sylvia

should be wasted on "King" Plummer, who was a good man, a fine old Roman

soul, but then he had his doubts about Sylvia's love for him--that is,

as a husband. Mr. Plummer was too old for her. Tremaine, by a curious

inconsistency, never looked upon himself as old, and thought it

perfectly natural that he should carry on a mild flirtation with any

girl, provided she be handsome, although young enough to be his

daughter.

Harley was uneasy, and would have left them had not the act called

attention to himself too pointedly, and he was forced to listen to

Tremaine's rambling comment, knowing that all the others had him in

their thoughts as they heard. Fortunately, Tremaine did not require any

comment from others, preferring an unbroken stream of his own talk, and

Harley was able to regain his hotel in silence.

They were confronted the next morning by an announcement that sent

sorrow through the whole group. Mrs. Grayson felt that the events of the

night before were too much for a young girl, and unless she were

removed for a time to quieter scenes and a less arduous life they would

leave lasting effects. Moreover, the campaign was about to enter upon a

phase in which women would prove burdensome, hence she and Sylvia were

going to Salt Lake City for a stay of two weeks, and then they would

rejoin the party at some point in the Northwest.

It was with no counterfeit grief that they heard this news. The ladies

had added brightness and variety to a most toilsome campaign, and their

daily travel would seem very black indeed without them. Even Churchill

was loud in his regrets, because Churchill had some of the instincts of

a gentleman, and he never failed in what was due to Mrs. Grayson and

Sylvia. But he could not keep from making one nasty little stab at

Harley.

"Harley," he said, "do you know that they are going to have a very

stalwart escort to Salt Lake?"

"I do not," replied Harley, in some surprise. "I think they are quite

able to take care of themselves."

"Perhaps they are, but 'King' Plummer is going with them, nevertheless.

At his age it is well for a man to keep watch over a young girl whom he

expects to marry, or some husky youth may carry her off."

Harley was surprised at the strength of his desire to strike Churchill

in the face, and he was also surprised at the fact that he resisted it.

He accounted for it by his theory that Churchill could not help being

mean at times, and, therefore, was not wholly responsible. So he

contented himself with saying:

"Churchill, you are a fool now and then, but you never know it."

Then he walked carelessly away before Churchill had made up his mind

whether to get angry or to return a sarcastic reply. Churchill liked to

use sarcasm, as it made him feel superior.

But Harley was much disturbed by Churchill's statement. Sylvia was going

away, and her stay of two weeks might lengthen into months or become

permanent. And Mr. Plummer was going with her. Harley's own absence

would put him at a great disadvantage, and for a moment he suspected

that this stop at Salt Lake City was an artful movement on the part of

the "King," but reflection made him acquit Mr. Plummer, first, because

the "King" was too honest to do such a thing, and, second, because he

was not subtle enough to think of it.

While he was planning what he would do to face this unforeseen

development, a boy from the hotel handed him a note. Harley's heart

jumped when he saw that it was in the handwriting of Sylvia Morgan, and

it fluttered still further when she asked to see him in the hotel parlor

for a few minutes. He was apprehensive, too, because if she had anything

good to tell him she certainly would not send for him.

Sylvia was sitting in the parlor beside a window that looked out upon a

vast range of snow-covered mountains, rising like the serrated teeth of

a saw, and, although she heard his footsteps, she did not turn her face

until Harley stood beside her. Then she said, irrelevantly:

"Isn't that a grand view!"

"You did not send for me to tell me that," said Harley, with a certain

protecting tenderness in his tone, because what he took to be the

sadness in her face appealed to his manly qualities.

"No, I did not. I have been thinking over what we said to each other

when we were coming back from Crow's Wing, and I have concluded that it

was wrong."

"Why was it wrong? I love you, and I had the right to tell you so."

"No, you did not. You would have had were I free, but I am promised to

another. I was wrong to let you speak; I was wrong to listen to you."

"I will not admit it," said Harley, doggedly, "because Mr. Plummer is

going to give you up. He will see that he ought not to hold you to this

promise."

She smiled sadly.

"I must be loyal to him," she said, "and before starting for Salt Lake

City I want to tell you that you must not again speak to me of this."

"But I shall write to you in Salt Lake."

"You must not write of this. If you do, I will not open another one of

your letters."

"I promise not to write to you of love, but I make no promise after

that. You are not going from Salt Lake to Idaho? This is not an excuse

to leave us for good?"

Her eyes wavered before his. It may be that she had intended to abandon

the campaign permanently, but, with his straight and masterful glance

demanding an honest answer, she could not say it.

"Yes, I will come back," she said, and then, with a sudden burst of

feeling: "Oh, I like your group; I like all of you. This great journey

has been something fresh and wonderful to me, and I do not want to leave

it!"

"I thought not," said Harley, with returning confidence, "and I am glad

that you sent for me here, because it has given me a chance to tell you

that, while you mean to keep your promise, I also mean to keep mine.

Mr. Plummer will yet yield you up. You are mine, not his, you know you

are!"

He bent suddenly and kissed her lightly on the forehead, and every nerve

in her tingled at the first touch of the lips of the man whom she loved.

Yet with the sense of right, of loyalty to another, strong within her,

she was about to protest, but he was gone, and the first kiss still

tingled on her forehead. She felt as if he had put there an invisible

seal, and that now in very truth she belonged to him.

The two ladies under the escort of Mr. Plummer left an hour later for

Salt Lake City, and everybody was at the station to see them go. Mrs.

Grayson was quiet as usual, and Sylvia was noticeably subdued, a fact

which most of them ascribed to the tragedy of Flying Cloud and her

coming absence of two weeks from a most interesting campaign.

"You ought to cheer up, Miss Sylvia," said Hobart, "because you are not

half as unlucky as we are. You can spare us much more easily than we can

spare you."

"I am really sorry that I must go," she said, sincerely.

"But you will come back to us?"

"I have promised to do so."

"That is enough; we know that you will keep a promise, Miss Sylvia."

Sylvia at first would not look at Harley. His kiss still burned upon her

brow, and she yet felt that it was his seal, his claim upon her. And her

conscience hurt her for it, because there was "King" Plummer, strong,

protecting, and overflowing with love for her and faith in her. But as

she was telling them all good-bye she was forced to say it to Harley,

too, in his turn, and when he took her hand he pressed it ever so

little, and said, for her ear only:

"I am still hoping. I refuse to give you up."

She retreated quickly into the Salt Lake car to hide her blush.

When they saw the last smoke of the train melting into the blue sky,

Harley and Mr. Heathcote walked back to the hotel together. A strong

friendship had grown up between these two, and each valued the other's

opinion.

"A fine woman," said Mr. Heathcote, looking towards the silky blue of

the sky where the smoke had been.

"Yes, Mrs. Grayson has always impressed me as a woman of great dignity

and strength," said Harley, purposely misunderstanding him.

"That is apparent, but I was not speaking of her. I meant Miss Morgan;

she seems to me to be of a rare and noble type. The man who gets her,

whoever he may be, ought to think himself lucky."

Harley noticed that Mr. Heathcote did not take it for granted that

"King" Plummer would get her, but he said nothing in reply.

XVII

THE SPELLBINDER

An hour after the smoke of the Salt Lake train was lost in the blue sky,

the special car bearing the candidate whirled off in another direction,

deep into the wonderland of the mountains. Now white peaks were on one

side and mighty chasms on the other; then both chasm and peak were lost

behind them, and they shot through an irrigated valley, brown with the

harvest, neat villages snuggling in the centre. But always, whether near

or far, the mountains were around them, blue on the middle slopes, white

at the crests, unless those crests were lost in the clouds and mists.

The people in the car were more quiet than usual, the candidate absorbed

in somewhat sad thoughts, the state politicians respecting his silence,

and the correspondents planning their despatches. But all missed Mrs.

Grayson and Miss Morgan, who, whether they talked or not, always

contributed brightness and a gentler note to their long campaign. "King"

Plummer, too, with his loud laugh and his large, sincere manner, left a

vacancy. Every one felt that there was now nothing ahead but

business--cold, hard business--and so it proved.

Every campaign enters upon successive phases, in which the contestants

advance, through politeness and consideration, first to wary feint and

parry, and then to the stern death-grip of the battle which can mean

nothing but the victory of one and the defeat of the other. They were

now approaching this last stage, and great piles of Eastern newspapers,

which reached them in Utah, reflected all the progress of the combat.

It was obvious to all of those skilled readers and interpreters that the

breach within the party was widening, and that this breach could become

a chasm before the election. The _Monitor_ and other papers, the chosen

or self-appointed champions of vested interests, were almost openly in

revolt; in Harley's mind their course amounted to the same thing; they

printed in their news columns many things derogatory to Grayson, and

likely to shatter public faith in his judgment, and in nearly all of

them appeared signed contributions from members of the wealthy faction

led by the Honorable Mr. Goodnight, attacking every speech made by the

candidate, and intimating that he was a greater danger to the country

than the nominee of the other side.

"The split will have to come," was Harley's muttered comment, "and the

sooner the better for us."

The journals of the rival party were a singular contrast to those of

Grayson's side, as they expressed unbounded and sincere confidence. In

all that had occurred they could not read anything but victory for them,

and Harley was bound to admit that their exultation was justified.

But amid all these troubles the candidate preserved his remarkable

amiability of disposition, and Harley witnessed another proof that he

was a man first and a statesman afterwards.

The train was continually thronged with local politicians and others

anxious to see Mr. Grayson, and at a little station in a plain that

seemed to have no end they picked up three men, one of whom attracted

Harley's notice at once. He was young, only twenty four or five, with a

bright, quick, eager face, and he was not dressed in the usual careless

Western fashion. His trousers were carefully creased, his white shirt

was well-laundered, and his tie was neat. But he wore that strange

combination--not so strange west of the Mississippi--a sack-coat and a

silk-hat at the same time.

The youth was not at all shy, and he early obtained an introduction to

Mr. Grayson. Harley thus learned that his name was Moore--Charles Moore,

or Charlie Moore, as those with him called him. Most men in the West,

unless of special prominence, when presented to Jimmy Grayson, shook

hands warmly, exchanged a word or two on any convenient topic, and then

gave way to others, but this fledgling sought to hold him in long

converse on the most vital questions of the campaign.

"That was a fine speech of yours that you made at Butte, Mr. Grayson,"

he said, in the most impulsive manner, "and I endorse every word of it,

but are you sure that what you said about Canadian reciprocity will help

our party in the great wheat states, such as Minnesota and the Dakotas?"

The candidate stared at him at first in surprise and some displeasure,

but in a moment or two his gaze was changed into a kindly smile. He read

well the youth before him, his amusing confidence, his eagerness, and

his self-importance, that had not yet received a rude check.

"There is something in what you say, Mr. Moore," replied Jimmy Grayson,

in that tone absolutely without condescension that made every man his

friend; "but I have considered it, and I think it is better for me to

stick to my text. Besides, I am right, you know."

"Ah, yes, but that is not the point," exclaimed young Mr. Moore; "one

may be right, but one might keep silent on a doubtful point that is

likely to influence many votes. And there are several things in your

speeches, Mr. Grayson, with which some of us do not agree. I shall have

occasion to address the public concerning them--as you know, a number of

us are to speak with you while you are passing through Utah."

There was a flash in Jimmy Grayson's eye, but Harley could not tell

whether it expressed anger or amused contempt. It was gone in a moment,

however, and the candidate again was looking at the fledgling with a

kindly, smiling, and tolerant gaze. But Churchill thrust his elbow

against Harley.

"Oh, the child of the free and bounding West!" he murmured. "What

innocence, and what a sense of majesty and power!"

Harley did not deign a reply, but he made the acquaintance, by-and-by,

of the men who had joined the train with Moore. One of these was a

county judge named Basset, sensible and middle-aged, and he talked

freely about the fledgling, whom he seemed to have in a measure on his

mind. He laughed at first when he spoke of the subject, but he soon

became serious.

"Charlie is a good boy, but what do you think he is? Or, rather, what do

you think he thinks he is?"

"I don't know," replied Harley.

"Charlie thinks he's a spellbinder, the greatest ever. He's dreaming by

night, and by day, too, that he's to be the West's most wonderful

orator, and that he's to hold the thousands in his spell. He's a coming

Henry Clay and Daniel Webster rolled into one. He's read that story

about Demosthenes holding the pebble in his mouth to make himself talk

good, and they do say that he slips away out on the prairie, where

there's nobody about, and with a stone in his mouth tries to beat the

old Greek at his own game. I don't vouch for the truth of the story, but

I believe it."

Harley could not keep from smiling.

"Well, it's at least an honest ambition," he said.

"I don't know about that," replied the judge, doubtfully. "Not in

Charlie's case, because as a spellbinder he isn't worth shucks. He can't

speak, and he'll never learn to do it. Besides, he's leaving a thing he

was just made for to chase a rainbow, and it's breaking his old daddy's

heart."

"What is it that he was made for?"

"He's a born telegraph-operator. He's one of the best ever known in the

West. They say that at eighteen he was the swiftest in Colorado. Then he

went down to Denver, and a month ago he gave up a job there that was

paying him a hundred and fifty a month to start this foolishness. They

say he might be a great inventor, too, and here he is trying to speak on

politics when he doesn't know anything about public questions, and he

doesn't know how to talk, either; I don't know whether to be mad about

it or just to feel sorry, because Charlie's father is an old friend of

mine."

Harley shared his feelings. He had seen the round peg in the square hole

so many times with bad results to both the peg and the hole that every

fresh instance grieved him. He was also confirmed in the soundness of

Judge Basset's opinion by his observation of young Moore as the journey

proceeded. The new spellbinder was anxious to speak whenever there was

an occasion, and often when there was none at all. The discouragement

and even the open rebukes of his elders could not suppress him. The

correspondents, comparing notes, decided that they had never before seen

so strong a rage for speaking. He took the whole field of public affairs

for his range. He was willing at any time to discuss the tariff,

internal revenue, finance, and foreign relations, and avowed himself

master of all. Yet Harley saw that he was in these affairs a perfect

child, shallow and superficial, and depending wholly upon a few

catchwords that he had learned from others. Even the former Populists

turned from him. But their sour faces when he spoke taught him nothing.

He was still, to himself, the great spellbinder, and he looked forward

to the day when he, too, a nominee for the Presidency, should charm

multitudes with his eloquence and logic. He had no hesitation in

confiding his hopes to Harley, and the correspondent longed to tell him

how he misjudged himself. Yet he refrained, knowing that it was not his

duty; and that even if it were, his words would make no impression.

But in other matters than those of public life and oratory Jimmy

Grayson's people found young Moore likable enough. He was helpful on the

train; now and then when the telegraph-operators had more material than

they could handle, he gave them valuable aid; he was a fine comrade,

taking good luck and bad luck with equal philosophy, and never

complaining. "If only he wouldn't try to speak!" groaned Hobart, for

whom he had sent a telegraphic message with skill and despatch.

But that very afternoon Moore talked to them on the subject of national

finance, until they fell into a rage and left the car. That evening

Harley was sitting with the candidate, when an old man, bent of figure

and gloomy of face, came to them.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Grayson," he said, "for intruding on you, but

I've come to ask a favor. I'm Henry Moore, of Council Grove, the father

of Charlie Moore, who was the best telegraph-operator in Denver, and who

is now the poorest public speaker in Colorado."

The old man smiled, but it was a sad smile, cut off early. Jimmy Grayson

was full of sympathy at once, and he shook Mr. Moore's hand warmly.

"I know your son," he said; "he is a bright boy."

"Yes, he's nothing but a boy," said his father, as if seeking an excuse.

"I suppose all boys must have their foolish spells, but he appears to

have his mighty hard and long."

The old man sighed, and the look of sympathy on Jimmy Grayson's face

deepened.

"Charlie is a good boy," continued Mr. Moore, "and if he could have this

foolish notion knocked out of his head--there's no other way to get it

out--he would be all right; and that's why I've come to you. You know

you are to speak at Pueblo to-morrow night in a big hall, and one of the

biggest crowds in the West will be there to hear you. Two or three

speakers are to follow you, and what do you think that son of mine has

done? Somehow or other he has got the committee to put him on the

programme right after you, and he says he is going to demolish what he

calls your fallacies."

Harley saw the candidate's lips curve a little, as if he were about to

smile, but the movement was quickly checked. Jimmy Grayson would not

willingly hurt the feelings of any man.

"Your boy has that right," he said to Mr. Moore.

"No, he hasn't!" burst out the old man. "A boy hasn't any right to be so

light-headed, and I want you, Mr. Grayson, when he has finished his

speech, to come right back at him and wipe him off the face of the

earth. It will be an easy thing for so big a man as you to do. Charlie

doesn't know a thing about public affairs. He'll make lots of

statements, and every one of 'em will be wrong. Just show him up. Make

all the people laugh at him. Just sting him with your words till he

turns red in the face. Roll him in the dust, and tread on him till he

can't breathe. Then hold him up before all that audience as the biggest

and wildest fool that ever came on a stage. Nothing else will cure him;

it will be a favor to him and to me; and I, his father, who loves him

more than anybody else in the world, ask you to do it."

Harley was tempted to smile, and at the same moment water came into his

eyes. No one could fail to be moved by the old man's intense

earnestness, his florid and mixed imagery, and his appealing look.

Certainly Jimmy Grayson was no exception. He glanced at Harley, and saw

his expression of sympathy, but the correspondent made no suggestion.

"I appreciate your feelings and your position, Mr. Moore," he said, "but

this is a hard thing that you ask me to do. I cannot trample upon a boy,

even metaphorically, in the presence of five thousand people. What will

they think of me?"

"They'll understand. They'll know why it's done, and they'll like you

for it. It's the only way, Mr. Grayson. Either you do it or my boy's

life is ruined."

Jimmy Grayson walked up and down the room, and his face was troubled. He

looked again and again at Harley, but the correspondent made no

suggestion; he had none to make. At last he stopped.

"I think I can save your son, and promise to make the trial, but I will

not say a word just yet. Now don't ask me any more about it, and never

mind the thanks. I understand; maybe I shall have a grown son myself,

some day, to be turned from the wrong path. Good-night. I'll see you

again at Pueblo. Harley, I wish you would stay awhile longer. I want to

have further talk with you."

The candidate and Harley were in deep converse for some time, and, when

they finished, much of the trouble had disappeared from Jimmy Grayson's

eyes. "I think it can be done," he said.

"So do I," repeated Harley, with confidence.

The next day, which was occupied with the run down to Pueblo and

occasional stops for speeches at way-stations, was uneventful save for

the growing obsession of Charlie Moore. He was overflowing with pride

and importance. That night, in the presence of five thousand people, he

was going to reply to the great Jimmy Grayson, and show to them and to

him his errors. Mr. Grayson was sound in most things, but there were

several in which he should be set right, and he, Charlie Moore, was the

man to do it for him.

The fledgling proudly produced several printed programmes with his name

next to that of the candidate, and talked to the correspondents of the

main points that he would make, until they fled into the next car. But

he followed them there and asked them if they would not like to take in

advance a synopsis of his speech, in order that they might be sure to

telegraph it to their offices in time. All evaded the issue except

Harley, who gravely jotted down the synopsis, and, with equal gravity,

returned his thanks for Mr. Moore's consideration.

"I knew you wouldn't want to miss it," said the youth, "I come on late,

you know, and, besides, I remembered that the difference in time between

here and New York is against us."

Mr. Moore, the father, was on the train throughout the day, but he did

not speak to his son. He spent his time in the car in which Jimmy

Grayson sat, always silent, but always looking, with appeal and pathos,

at the great leader. His eyes said plainly: "Mr. Grayson, you will not

fail me, will you? You will save my son? You will beat him, and tread on

him until he hasn't left a single thought of being a famous orator and

public leader? Then he will return to the work for which God made him."

Harley would look at the old man awhile, and then return to the next

car, where the youth was chattering away to those who could not escape

him.

The speech in Pueblo was to be of the utmost importance, not alone to

those whose own ears would hear it, but to the whole Union, because the

candidate would make a plain declaration upon a number of vexed

questions that had been raised within the last week or two. This had

been announced in all the press on the authority of Jimmy Grayson

himself, and the speech in full, not a word missing, would have to be

telegraphed to all the great newspapers both East and West.

In such important campaigns as that of a Presidential nominee, the two

great telegraph companies always send operators with the correspondents,

in order that they may despatch long messages from small way-stations,

where the local men are not used to such heavy work. Now Harley and his

associates had with them two veterans, Barr and Wymond, from Chicago,

who never failed them. They were relieved, too, on reaching Pueblo, to

find that the committee in charge had been most considerate. Some

forethoughtful man, whom the correspondents blessed, had remembered the

three hours' difference in time between Pueblo and New York, and against

New York, and he had run two wires directly into the hall and into a

private box on the left, where Barr and Wymond could work the

instruments, so far from the stage that the clicking would not disturb

Jimmy Grayson or anybody else, but would save much time for the

correspondents.

The audience gathered early, and it was a splendid Western crowd,

big-boned and tanned by the Western winds.

"They have cranks out here, but it's a land of strong men, don't you

forget that," said Harley to Churchill, and Churchill did not attempt a

sarcastic reply.

They were both sitting at the edge of the stage, and in front of them,

nearer the footlights, was young Moore, proud and eager, his fingers

moving nervously. His father, too, had found a seat on the stage, but he

was in the background, next to the scenery and behind the others; he was

not visible from the floor of the house. There he sat, staring gloomily

at his son, and now and then, with a sort of despairing hope, glancing

at Jimmy Grayson.

There were some short preliminary speeches and introductions, and then

came the turn of the candidate. The usual flutter of expectation ran

over the audience, followed by the usual deep hush, but just at that

moment there was an interruption. A boy in the uniform of a telegraph

company hurried upon the stage.

"You must come at once, sir," he said to Harley. "Mr. Wymond hasn't

turned up. We don't know what's become of him. And Mr. Barr has took

sick, sudden and bad. The Pueblo manager says he'll get somebody here as

quick as he can, but he can't do it under half an hour, anyway!"

The other correspondents stared at each other in dismay, and then at the

hired stenographer who was to take down the speech in full. But Harley,

always thoughtful and resourceful, responded to the emergency. He had

noticed Moore raise his head with an expression of lively interest at

the news of the disaster, and he stepped forward at once and put his

hand on the fledgling's shoulder.

"Mr. Moore," he exclaimed, in stirring appeal, "this is a crisis for us,

and you must save us. You have eaten with us, and you have lived with

us, and you cannot desert us now. We have all heard that you are a great

operator, the greatest in the West. You must send Mr. Grayson's speech.

What a triumph it will be for you--to send his speech and then get upon

this stage and demolish it afterwards!"

The feeling in Harley's voice was real, and the boy was thrilled by it

and the situation. Every natural impulse in him responded. It was the

chivalrous thing for him to do, and an easy one. He could send a speech

as fast as the fastest man living could deliver it. He rose without a

word, his heart beating with thoughts of the coming battle, in which he

felt proudly that he should be a victor, and made his way to the

telegraphers' box.

Moore had lived in Pueblo, and nearly everybody in the audience knew

him. When they saw him take his seat at one of the instruments, their

quick Western minds divined what he was going to do, and the roar of

applause that they had just given to the candidate, who was now on his

feet, was succeeded by another; but the second was for Charlie Moore,

the telegraph-operator.

The fledgling had no time to think. He had scarcely settled himself in

his chair when the deep, full voice of Jimmy Grayson filled the great

hall, and he was launched upon a speech for which the whole Union was

waiting. The short-hand man was already deep in his work, and the copy

began to come. But the boy felt no alarm; he was not even flustered; the

feel of the key was good, and the atmosphere of that box which enclosed

the telegraph apparatus was sweet in his nostrils. He called up Denver,

from which the speech would be repeated to the greater cities, and with

a sigh of deep satisfaction settled to his task.

They tell yet in Western telegraph circles of Charlie Moore's great

exploit. The candidate was in grand form that night, and his speech came

rushing forth in a torrent. The missing Wymond was still missing, and

the luckless Barr was still ill, but the fledgling sat alone in the box,

his face bent over the key, oblivious of the world around him, and sent

it all. Through him ran the fire of battle and great endeavor. He heard

the call and replied. He never missed a word. He sent them hot across

the prairie, over the slopes and ridges, and across the brown plains

into Denver. And there in the general office the manager muttered more

than once: "That fellow is doing great work! How he saves time!"

The audience liked Jimmy Grayson's speech, and again and again the

applause swelled and echoed. Then they noticed how the boy in the

telegraphers' box--a boy of their own--was working. Mysterious voices,

too, began to spread among them the news how Charlie Moore had saved the

day--or, rather, the night--and now and then in Jimmy Grayson's pauses

cries of "Good boy, Charlie!" arose.

Harley, while doing his writing, nevertheless kept a keen eye upon all

the actors in the drama. He saw the light of hope appear more strongly

upon old man Moore's face, and then turn into a glow as he beheld his

son doing so well.

The candidate spoke on and on. He had begun at nine o'clock, but that

was a great and important speech, and no one left the hall. Eleven

o'clock, and then midnight, and Jimmy Grayson was still speaking. But it

was not his night alone; it belonged to two men, and the other partner

was Charlie Moore, who fulfilled his task equally well, and whom the

audience still observed.

But the boy was thinking only of his duty that he was doing so well. The

victory was his, as he knew that it would be. He kept even with the

speech. Hardly had the last word of the sentence left Jimmy Grayson's

lips before the first of it was on the way to Denver, and in newspaper

offices two thousand miles away they were putting every paragraph in

type before it was a half-hour old.

The boy, by-and-by, as the words passed before him on the written page,

began to notice what a great speech it was. How the sentences cut to the

heart of things! How luminous and striking was the phraseology! And

around him he heard, as if in a dream, the liquid notes of that

wonderful, golden voice. Suddenly, like a stroke of lightning, he

realized how empty were his own thoughts, how bare and hard his speech,

and how thin and flat his voice! His heart sank with a plunge, and then

rose again as his finger touched the familiar key and the answering

touch thrilled back through his body. He glanced at the audience, and

saw many faces looking up at him, and on them was a peculiar look. Again

the thrill ran through him, and, bending his head lower, he sent the

words faster than ever on their eastern journey.

At last Jimmy Grayson stopped, and then the audience cheered its

applause for the speech. When the echoes died, some one--it was Judge

Basset--sprang up on a chair and exclaimed:

"Gentlemen, we have cheered Mr. Grayson, and he deserves it; but there

is some one else whom we ought to cheer, too. You have seen Charlie

Moore, a Pueblo boy, one of our own, there in the box sending the speech

to the world that was waiting for it. Perhaps you do not know that if he

had not helped us to-night the world would have had to wait too long."

They dragged young Moore, amid the cheers, upon the stage, and then,

when the hush came, the candidate said:

"You seem to know him already; but as all the speaking of the evening is

now over, I wish to introduce to you again Mr. Charlie Moore, the

greatest telegraph-operator in the West, the genius of the key, a man

destined to rise to the highest place in his profession."

When the last echo of the last cheer died, there died with it the last

ambition of Charlie Moore to be a spellbinder, and straight before him,

broad, smooth, and alluring, lay the road for which his feet were

fitted.

But the words most grateful to Jimmy Grayson were the thanks of the

fledgling's father. The little drama of the side-box and the

telegraph-key was known to but five people--the candidate, Harley, the

two operators, and happy Mr. Moore. The old gentleman, indeed, said

something about Mr. Grayson having helped him, but it was taken by the

others to mean that a mere chance, a lucky combination of circumstances,

had come to his aid, and they failed to see in it anything of

prearrangement or even intention. Hence there appeared on the surface

nothing to be criticised even by Churchill, ever on the lookout for an

incident that seemed to him incongruous or irrelevant.

Harley made it an excuse for something that he wished very much to do.

About this time Mrs. Grayson, returning from Salt Lake City, rejoined

them, but she did not bring Sylvia with her, leaving her in the Mormon

capital for a further stay with relatives. But Harley wrote a long

letter to Sylvia, beginning with the story of the spellbinder, and he

told her that his admiration for the candidate steadily increased,

because Mr. Grayson was able, at all times, even in the heat of the

hottest campaign that the Union had ever known, to put the highest

attributes of the human heart--mercy, gentleness, help--before his own

political good or even that of his party. Mr. Grayson might be beaten,

but he would make a record that must become a source of pride, not to

his party alone, but to the whole country. In fact, Mr. Grayson belonged

to humanity, and the race might lay claim to him as one of its finest

types.

Then from Mr. Grayson he glided to the other, and, to Harley, greater

topic--herself. He told her that nothing had occurred to make him change

his wishes or his hopes; since her absence began his resolve had grown.

He felt more than ever that the claim of Mr. Plummer upon her, though of

a high and noble nature, even if he did hold her promise, must yield to

the love of the husband for the wife. Mr. Plummer would come to see

this, and he would come to see it in time. He had no desire to interfere

with the natural affection of the man who had done so much for Sylvia,

nor did he feel that he was making such interference.

Harley was not sure that he would receive a reply to this letter, but it

came in due time, nevertheless, and it was Jimmy Grayson himself who

handed it to him. The handwriting of the address was known, of course,

to Mr. Grayson, and he could scarcely have failed to notice it, but he

said nothing, and apparently the fact passed unheeded by him.

Sylvia, in the course of her letter, confined herself to impartial

narrative, and began with the event of the spellbinder, which Harley had

told to her in detail. Indeed, it seemed to Harley that she devoted a

very remarkable amount of space to its consideration, especially as she

agreed with him that Mr. Grayson's action was right; nevertheless, she

discussed it from all points of the compass, and then she wrote with

almost equal amplitude of her sight-seeing in Salt Lake City.

Harley knew that Mormons were no novelty to Sylvia, as she had seen many

of them in Idaho, but she seemed to feel it necessary to describe with

particularity all the great Mormon buildings, and also to speak fully of

the manners and customs of the people. All this might have been very

interesting to him at another time and from another pen, but now he saw

only the handwriting and wished her to devote attention to that little

codicil in his own letter in which he so earnestly avowed again his love

and his belief in its ultimate triumph. She made no allusion whatever to

it, and he felt his heart sink. Nor did she speak of "King" Plummer, and

he could not gather from the letter whether he was yet in Salt Lake City

or had gone back to Idaho. She had carefully avoided all the subjects on

which he hoped she would write, and as he closed the letter and put it

in his pocket he was still rather blue.

But reflection put him in a different and much more pleasant frame of

mind. The fact that she had replied was a good omen, and her very

avoidance of the most delicate of all subjects was proof that she did

not forbid it to him. Harley was a bold man, and, being ready to push

his fortune to the utmost in a cause that he believed righteous, he

resolved to write her another letter in a few days, and to repeat in it

much that he had said in his first, or to say words to the same effect.

Meanwhile his countenance assumed a joyous cast, which was noticeable

because he was habitually of grave demeanor, and his associates,

observing the change, taxed him with the fact and demanded an

explanation, Hobart in particular wishing to know. Harley lightly

ascribed it to the rarefied air, as they were ascending a plateau, and

the others, though calling it the baldest and poorest of replies, were

forced to be content.

But one man who noticed Harley, and who said nothing, guessed much

closer to the cause. It was Mr. Grayson himself, who had seen the

address on the envelope, and it aroused grave thoughts in him. Nor were

these thoughts unkind to Sylvia or Harley. It was the custom of the

candidate to subject himself at intervals to a searching mental

examination, and now he made James Grayson walk out before him again and

undergo this minute process.

He was extremely fond of Sylvia, whose grace, intelligence, and loyalty

appealed to the best in him, and he was anxious to secure her happiness

and her position in life, on which, in a measure, the former depended.

For these reasons he had received with pleasure the news that Sylvia was

going to marry Mr. Plummer. Despite the disparity of ages, the match

seemed fitting to him; he knew the worth and honor of the "King" to be

so great that the happiness of any young girl, especially that of one

who owed so much to him, ought to be safe in his keeping. But now the

doubts which had begun to form were growing stronger. He saw that nature

was playing havoc with mere material fitness, and there came to him the

question of his own duty.

The candidate now knew well enough that Sylvia did not love Mr. Plummer

as a girl should love the man whom she is going to marry, but that she

did love Harley. He conceived it, too, to be a true and lasting love

with both the young man and the young woman, and again came to him that

question of his own duty, a question not only troublesome, but dangerous

to him in his present situation. He knew that Sylvia, despite all, would

marry "King" Plummer unless the unforeseen occurred, and make herself

unhappy all her life. Should he, then, tell "King" Plummer, or have his

wife tell him in the more indirect and delicate way women have, that the

burden of the situation rested upon him, and that he ought to release

Sylvia? The candidate shrank from such a task; he could not meddle, even

when it was his own niece whom he wished to save, and there was another

thought, too, in the background which he strove honestly to keep out of

his mind; it was the old apprehension lest the "King" in his rage,

particularly when it was the candidate himself who took from him his

heart's desire, should rebel, or at least sulk and put the Mountain

States in the opposing column. It was no less true now than in the

Middle Ages that men disappointed in love some times did desperate

things, and "King" Plummer was a full-blooded, impulsive man.

Brooding much upon the question, a rare frown came to the face of Jimmy

Grayson, and stayed there so long that his followers noticed it, and

wondered much. They decided that it was the revolt within the party, and

did not disturb him, but his wife, more acute, knew that it was not

politics, and, sitting down beside him, waited silently until he should

speak, as she knew he would in time. A full hour passed thus, and

scarcely any one in the train uttered a word. The candidate gazed

gloomily out of the window, but he did not see the mountains and the

canons as they shot by. Most of the state politicians slept in their

seats, and the correspondents either wrote or communed with themselves.

Mr. Grayson rose at last, and, saying to his wife, "I should like a word

with you in private," led the way to the drawing-room. She followed,

knowing that he wished to speak of the trouble on his mind, and she made

a shrewd guess as to its nature.

"Anna, it is something that I have been trying to put away from me," he

said, when they were in the privacy of the drawing-room, "but it won't

stay away. I suppose I ought to have spoken to you of it some time ago,

but I could not make up my mind to do it."

She smiled a little.

"I, too, have been dreading the subject," she said, "if it is what I

think it is. You are going to speak of Sylvia, Mr. Plummer, and Mr.

Harley."

"Yes, Harley has a letter from Sylvia, and he will have more. She

doesn't want to write to him, but she will. The girl is breaking her

heart, and I am not sure that you and I are doing what we ought to do."

"And you do not think that Mr. Plummer would make a suitable husband for

her?"

She regarded him keenly from under lowered eyelids--the question was

merely intended to lead to something else.

"That is not the point. Harley is the man she loves, and Harley is the

man she should marry."

"Should she not decide this question for herself?"

The candidate studied the face of his wife. Her words, if taken simply

as words, would seem metallic and cold, but there was an expression that

gave them a wholly different meaning to him.

"Under ordinary circumstances, yes," he said, "but the circumstances in

which Sylvia finds herself are not ordinary, and I am not sure how far

we are responsible for them."

"I undertook to act once, and I was sorry that I did so."

The candidate did not speak again for several moments, but Mrs. Grayson

read his expressive face.

"You have thought of something else," she said, "that is or seems to be

connected with this affair of Sylvia's."

"I have, and I am afraid it is that which has been holding me back."

The eyes of the two met, and, although they said no more upon that

point, they understood each other perfectly.

"Anna," said the candidate, with decision, "you must write to Mr.

Plummer. I do not shift this burden from myself to you because of any

desire to escape it, but because I know you will write the letter so

much better than I can."

Her eyes met his again, and hers shone with admiration--he was not less

brave than she had thought him.

"I do not know what will come of it," he said; "perhaps nothing, but in

any event we ought to write it."

"I will write," she said, firmly.

The candidate said nothing more but he bent down and kissed his wife on

the forehead.

When Jimmy Grayson returned from the drawing-room, they noticed that the

frown was gone from his face, and at once there was a new atmosphere in

the car. The sleepy politicians awoke and made new or old jokes; the

correspondents ceased writing, and asked Mr. Grayson what he intended to

put in his next speech. Obviously the current of life began to run full

and free again, and the incomparable scenery gliding by their

car-windows no longer passed without comment. But Mrs. Grayson, in the

drawing-room, taking much thought and care, was writing this letter,

which she addressed to Mr. Plummer, in Boise, where she heard that he

was going from Salt Lake City:

"DEAR MR. PLUMMER,--I want to tell you how we are getting on,

because I know how deeply you are interested in the campaign, and

all of us have enjoyed the way in which you affiliated with our

little group. We have been so long together now that we have become

a sort of family--speakers, writers, and well-wishers, with Mr.

Grayson as the head in virtue of his position as nominee. You have

had a large place in this family--what shall I call it?--a kind of

elder brother, one who out of the fund of his experience could

wisely lead the younger and more impulsive."

Mrs. Grayson stopped here and tapped her finger thoughtfully with the

staff of her pen. "That paragraph," she mused, "should bring home to him

the fact that he is old as compared with Sylvia and Mr. Harley, and that

is the first thing I wish to establish in his mind." Then, dipping her

pen in the ink again, she wrote:

"This, I think, is one of the reasons that our young people have

missed you so much. You were always prepared to take your part in

the entertainment of the day, but your gravity and your years,

which, without being too many, become you so much, exercised a

restraining influence upon them, and showed them the line at which

they should stop. I think that you acquired over them an influence,

in its way paternal, and it is in such a capacity that they miss

you most."

The lady's smile deepened, and in her mind was the thought that if he

did not wince at this bolt he was, indeed, impervious. Then she

continued:

"My interest in this campaign is not alone political nor personal

to Mr. Grayson, which also means myself, but I have become much

interested in those who travel with us--that is, those who have

become the members of our new family. There is Mr. Heathcote, who

was sent West as our enemy, and quickly turned to a friend. There

is Mr. Tremaine, who is such a gay old beau, and who never realizes

that he is too old for the young women with whom he wishes to

flirt."

The lady stopped again, and her smile was deeper than ever. "Now that

was unintended," she mused, "but it comes in very happily." She resumed:

"And there is Mr. Hobart, who loves mysteries, especially murder

mysteries, and who saved the life of that innocent boy. I find him

a most interesting character, but, after all, he is read with less

difficulty than Mr. Harley, who, though silent and reserved, seems

to me to be deeper and more complex. His, I am sure, is a very

strong nature--Mr. Grayson, you know, is quite fond of him, and in

certain things has got into the habit of leaning upon him. Mr.

Harley seems to me to be fitted by temperament and strength to be

the shield and support of some one. He could make the girl who

should become his wife very happy, and I am wondering if he will go

out of our West without forming such an attachment."

"That surely," thought the lady, "will bring him to the question which I

present to his mind, and he will answer it whether he will or not, by

saying this attachment has been formed, and it is for Sylvia." She

continued:

"Like Mr. Grayson, I am very fond of Mr. Harley, who has proved

himself a true friend to us, and I should like to see him

happy--that is, married to a true woman, who would not alone

receive strength, but give it, too. In the course of his vocation,

he has already roamed about the world enough, and it is time now

for him to settle down. If I had my way I should select for him one

of our fine Western girls; about twenty-one or two, I think, would

be the right age for him--there is a fitness in these things."

"I wonder if that is blunt?" she mused. "No, he will think it just

popped out, and that I was unconscious of it. I shall let it stay." Then

she resumed:

"It ought to be a girl with a temperament that is at once a match

and foil for his own. She should have a sense of humor, a gift for

light and ironic speech that can stir him without irritating him,

because he is perhaps of a cautious disposition, and hence would be

well matched with one a little bit impulsive, each exercising the

proper influence upon the other. She should be strong, too,

habituated to physical hardship, as our Western girls are. Such a

marriage, I think, would be ideal, and I expect you, Mr. Plummer,

when you rejoin us, to help me make it, should the opportunity

arise.

Yours sincerely,

"ANNA GRAYSON."

She folded the sheets, put them in the envelope, and addressed them. It

was the second time that she had written to Mr. Plummer, but with a very

different motive, and she had more confidence in the second letter than

she had ever felt in the first.

"That will cause him pain," she reflected, "but the task cannot be done

without it."

In her heart she was genuinely sorry for Mr. Plummer, thinking at that

moment more of his grief than of her husband's risk, but she was

resolute to mail the letter, nevertheless. She read it a little later to

Mr. Grayson, and he approved.

"It is likely to bring 'King' Plummer raging down from Idaho, but it

ought to go," he said.

A half-hour later, this letter, written in a delicate, feminine hand,

but heavy with fate, was speeding northwestward.

XVIII

THE SACRIFICE

A few days after writing this letter, Mrs. Grayson announced that Sylvia

would rejoin them on the following afternoon, having shortened her stay

in Salt Lake City, as her relations were about to depart on a visit to

California.

"She wants very much to go on with us," said Mrs. Grayson, "and rather

than send her either to Boise or to our home, where she would be alone,

we are willing for her to continue."

"I should think you would be!" exclaimed Hobart. "Why, Mrs. Grayson,

much as we esteem you, we would start a violent rebellion if you should

send Miss Morgan away, a rebellion attended by bloodshed and desperate

deeds."

Mrs. Grayson smiled and glanced at Harley, who was silent. But she did

not fail to see the flash of pleasure under his veiled eyelids.

"Keep your pistol in your pocket and your sword in its sheath, Mr.

Hobart," she said; "I shall not give you occasion to use either."

"Then I declare for peace."

Sylvia joined them at the time mentioned by Mrs. Grayson, quiet,

slightly pale, and disposed, in the opinion of the Graysons, to much

thought. "The girl has something on her mind which she cannot put off,"

said Tremaine, and in this case he was right.

Sylvia, while in Salt Lake City, far from the influences which recently

had brought to her acute pain and joy alike, considered her position

with as much personal detachment as she could assume. Away from Harley

and the magic of his presence and his confident voice, she strengthened

her resolve to keep her word--if "King" Plummer claimed her, he should

yet have her. But this same examination showed her another fact that was

unalterable. She loved Harley, and, though she might marry another man,

she would continue to love him. In a way she gloried in the truth and

her recognition of it. It was a love she intended to hide, but it

brought her a sad happiness nevertheless.

It was this feeling, spiritual in its nature, that gave to Sylvia a new

charm when she came back, a touch of sorrow and womanly dignity that all

noticed at once, and to which they gave tribute. It melted the heart of

Jimmy Grayson, who knew so well the reason why, and he was glad now that

his wife had written to "King" Plummer.

Sylvia said nothing about Mr. Plummer; if she knew whether he would

return and when, she kept it to herself, and Mrs. Grayson, who was

waiting in anxiety for an answer to her letter--an answer that did not

come--was in a state of apprehension, which she hid, however, from all

except Mr. Grayson. This agitation was increased by an event in her

husband's career, so unexpected in its nature and so extraordinary that

it was the sensation of the country, and exercised an unfavorable

influence upon the campaign. If any one in the United States, whether

friend or enemy, had been asked if such a thing could occur, he would

have said that it was impossible.

In their travels they came presently to Egmont, a snug town, lying in a

hollow of the land, from which they were going to conduct what Hobart

called a circular campaign--that is, it was the centre from which they

were to make journeys to a ring of smaller places lying in a circle

about it, returning late at night for sleep and rest.

They were all pleased with Egmont; though less than ten years old, it

had houses of brick and stone, a trim look, and the smoothness of life

and comfort that usually come only with age. It was a pleasure to return

to it every night from the newer and cruder villages in the outer ring,

and enjoy good beds and fresh sheets.

But the candidate spoke first in Egmont, and the chairman of the

committee that managed the meeting was the solid man of the town. Harley

and his comrades required no information on this point; it was visible

at once in the important manner of the Honorable John Anderson, the cool

way in which he assumed authority, and his slight air of patronage when

he came in contact with the correspondents. Harley and his comrades only

laughed; they had often noticed the same bearing in men much better

known in the world than the Honorable John Anderson, of Egmont, Montana,

and they generally set it down as one of the faults of success;

therefore they could smile.

But Mr. Anderson was hospitable, insisting that the candidate and his

family, instead of spending the first night at the hotel, should go with

him to his house. "I have room and to spare," he said, with a slight

touch of importance. "My house will be honored if it can shelter

to-night the next President of the United States."

"Thank you for the invitation," said Jimmy Grayson, gravely. "I shall be

glad to join you with my family and Mr. Harley. Mr. Harley has become in

a sense one of my advisers, almost a lieutenant, I might say."

Mr. Anderson was not intending to ask Harley, as the correspondent knew,

but the candidate had included him so deftly that the important citizen

must do so, too, and he widened the invitation with courtesy. Harley,

always in search of new types, always anxious to explore the secrets of

new lands, accepted as promptly as if the request had been spontaneous.

Although his house was only a few hundred yards away, Mr. Anderson took

them there in his two-seated, highly polished carriage, drawn by a pair

of seal-brown trotters. "Good horses," he said, as he cracked his whip

contentedly over them. "I brought them all the way from Kentucky. Cost

me a lot, too."

The Anderson house was really fine, built of light stone, standing far

back on a wide lawn, and Harley could see that the good taste of some

one had presided at its birth. It had an Eastern air of quiet and

completion. When Mr. Anderson, glancing at his guests, beheld the look

of approval on their faces, he was pleased, and said, in an easy,

off-hand manner:

"Been up only four years; planned it myself, with a little help from

wife and daughter."

Harley at once surmised that the good effect was due to the taste of the

wife or daughter, or both, and he was confirmed in the opinion when he

met Mrs. Anderson, a slight, modest woman, superior to her husband in

some respects that Harley thought important. The daughter did not appear

until just before dinner, but when she came into the parlor to meet the

guest the correspondent held his breath for a moment.

Rare and beautiful flowers bloom now and then on the cold plains of the

great Northwest, and Harley said in his heart that Helen Anderson was

one of the rarest and most beautiful of them all. It was not alone the

beauty of face and figure, but it was, even more, the nobility of

expression and a singular touch of pathos, as if neither youth nor

beauty had kept from her a great sadness. This almost hidden note of

sorrow seemed to Harley to make perfect her grace and charm, and he

felt, stranger though he was, that he was willing to sacrifice himself

to protect her from some blow unknown to him. Speaking of it afterwards,

he found that she had the same effect upon the candidate. "I felt that I

must be her champion," said Mr. Grayson. "Why, I did not know, but I

wanted to fight for her."

Miss Anderson herself was unconscious of the impression that she

created, and she strove only to entertain her father's guests, a task in

which she achieved the full measure of success. Mr. Anderson mentioned,

casually, how he had sent her to Wellesley, and Harley saw that her

horizon was wider than that of her parents. But the pathetic, appealing

look came now and then into her beautiful eyes, and Harley was convinced

of her unhappiness. Once he saw a sudden glance, as of sympathy and

understanding, pass between her and Sylvia.

It was not long before the secret of Helen Anderson was told to him,

because it was no secret at all. The whole town was proud of her, and

everybody in it knew that she was in love with Arthur Lee, the young

lawyer whose sign hung on the main street of Egmont before an office

which was yet unvisited by clients. It was true love on both sides,

they said, with sympathy; they had been boy and girl together, and

during her long stay in the East at school she had never forgotten him.

But Mr. Anderson would have none of the briefless youth; his prosperity

had fed his pride--a lawyer without a case was not a fit match for his

daughter. "If you were famous, if it were common talk that some day you

might be governor or United States senator, I might consent, but, sir,

you have done nothing," he had said, with cruel sarcasm to Lee.

It was a bitter truth, and Lee himself, high and honorable in all his

nature, saw it. The girl, too, had old-fashioned ideas of duty to

parents, and when her father bade her think no more of Lee she humbly

bowed her head. But the town said, and the town knew, that the more she

sought to put him out of her heart, the more strongly intrenched was he

there; that while she now tried to think of him not at all, she thought

of him all the time.

The whole story was brought to Harley; it was not in his nature to pry

into the sacred mysteries of a young girl's heart, but the tale moved

him all the more deeply when he saw young Lee, a man with a high, noble

brow and clear, open eyes, through which his honest soul shone, that all

might see. But upon his face was the same faint veil of sadness that

hovered over Helen Anderson's, as if hope were lacking.

Harley met young Lee two or three times, and on each occasion purposely

prolonged the talk, because the young lawyer without a case aroused his

interest and sympathy. He soon discovered that Lee had an uncommon mind,

acute, penetrating, and on fire with noble ideals. But it was a fire

that smouldered unseen. He had never had a chance; it would come to him

some day, Harley knew, but it might be, it surely would be, too late.

Harley had seen much of the world, its glory and its shame alike, and he

was convinced that nothing else in it was worth so much to man as the

spontaneous love of a pure woman and a happy marriage. He knew from dear

experience how much Lee was losing--nay, had lost already--and his pity

was deeply stirred. He wished to speak of it to Sylvia, but the thought

of such words only made his own wound the deeper. The whole town was on

the side of the lovers, but it was bound and helpless; the father's

command and Lee's own honor were barriers that could not be passed.

The people about Egmont were so much delighted with Mr. Grayson's speech

that they demanded a second from him, and, with his usual good-nature,

he yielded, although Harley knew that he was feeling the strain of such

a long and severe campaign. The evening of the fifth day after his

arrival was set for the time, and he was expected to deliver the address

at a late hour, when he returned from one of the circle of villages.

On the night before the second speech, the candidate and Harley, who

were now staying at the hotel, after making their excuses to the others,

slipped out for a walk in the cool and silence of the dark. The rarest

thing in Jimmy Grayson's life now was privacy, and he longed for it as a

parched throat longs for water; it was only at such times as this, with

a late hour and a favoring night, that he could secure it.

Nearly all Egmont was in bed, and they turned from the chief street into

the residence quarter, where a few lights twinkled amid the lawns and

gardens. No one had noticed them, and Jimmy Grayson, with a sigh of

relief, drew breaths of the crisp, cool air that came across a thousand

miles of clean prairie.

"What a splendid night!" he said. "What a grand horizon!"

They stood upon a slight elevation, and they looked down the street and

out upon the prairie, which rippled away, silver in the moonlight, like

the waves of the sea. A wind, faint, like a happy sigh, was blowing.

"An evening for lovers," said the candidate, and he smiled as his mind

ran back to some happy evenings in his own life. "Now, why should such a

moonlight as this ever be spoiled by a political speech?" he continued.

"I was thinking of lovers myself," said Harley, "because here is the

Anderson house before us. Don't you see its white walls shining through

the trees?"

"Poor girl!" said the candidate. "It is a terrible thing for a woman to

be separated from the man she loves. A woman, I think, can really love

but once. And yet her father's pride is natural; young Lee has not even

made a start in life."

"All he needs is a chance, which he will get--when it is too late," said

Harley.

The house and its grounds, surrounded by a stone wall not more than

three feet high, occupied an entire square in the outskirts of the

little city, and the candidate and Harley followed the least frequented

of the streets--one running beside the stone wall, which was shaded

presently by thick and arching boughs of trees that grew within. As they

entered the shadow they saw a man leap over the low barrier and

disappear in the Anderson grounds.

"A burglar!" exclaimed Harley. His first thought was of Helen Anderson

and her beautiful, appealing face, and without a moment's hesitation he

sprang over the wall to pursue. Jimmy Grayson looked at him in

astonishment, and then followed.

Harley stopped for an instant inside the grounds, and saw the dark

figure just ahead of him, but now walking with such slowness that

pursuit was easy. Evidently the burglar was making sure of the way

before he sought to enter the Anderson mansion; but Harley was

surprised, in a few moments, to notice something familiar in the

shoulders and bearing of the man whom he followed. His burglar never

looked back, but entered an open space; and then Harley, his surprise

increasing, stopped when he saw him approach a little summer-house of

lattice-work. The hand of the candidate fell at that moment upon his

arm, and a deep voice said in his ear:

"I think we have gone far enough, don't you, Harley?"

"I do," replied Harley, with conviction.

A woman was coming, a woman with a beautiful, pale face, more lovely and

sad than ever in the moonlight, and the two men knew at once that Helen

was about to meet her lover. They would have turned and fled from the

grounds, because a woman's pure love was sacred, to be hidden from all

eyes and ears save those of one, but her face was towards them, and had

they stepped from the shadow of the oak she would have seen the two.

"Ah, Helen!" said Lee, as he met her and took her hands in his.

"Arthur, for the last time!" she exclaimed.

"Yes, I know it is for the last time," said Arthur, and there was a

moving sadness in his voice.

Their faces were turned towards the two there in the shadow of the

great oak, although unwitting that others were so near, and neither man

dared to move. The moonlight, in softened silver, fell upon the faces of

the lovers, disclosing all the beauty of the woman's and all the

loftiness of the man's. Harley thought he had never seen a nobler pair.

The man took both the girl's hands in his and held them for a few

moments. Then he walked back and forth, taking quick little steps. Every

motion of his figure expressed agony and despair. The girl stood still,

and her face, clearly shown in the moonlight, was turned towards Harley;

it, too, expressed agony and despair; but her stillness showed

resignation, Lee's fierce movements were full of rebellion.

"I am going away, Helen," said Arthur. "I have decided upon it. I shall

not be here more than a week or two longer. I cannot be in the same

town, seeing you every day and knowing that you cannot be mine. I could

not stand it."

"I suppose it is best," said Helen; "but, Arthur, I love you. I have

told you that, and I am proud of it. I shall never love any one else. It

is not possible."

Her beautiful, pale face was still turned towards Harley, and he saw

again upon it that touch of ineffable sadness and resignation that had

moved him so deeply. Lee stopped his despairing walk back and forth and

looked at Helen. Then he uttered a little cry and seized her hands

again.

"Helen," he said, "I cannot do it! I came here to give you up forever,

to tell you that I was going away, and I meant to go, but I cannot do

it. We love each other--then who has the right to separate us? I thought

that I could stand this, that I had hardened myself to endure it, but

when the time comes I find that it is too much. My right to you is

greater than that of father or mother. Come with me; we can go to

Longford to-night, and in three hours we shall be man and wife."

He still held her hands in his, and his face was flushed and his eyes

shining with an eager but noble passion.

Harley and the candidate, in the shrubbery, never stirred. They

listened, but they forgot that they were listening.

The girl lifted her eyes to those of her lover, and there was in them no

reproach, only a high, sad courage.

"You do not mean what you say now, Arthur," she said. "I have given my

promise to my father, and you must help me to be strong, for alone I am

weak, very weak. None can help me but you. You must go, as you said you

would go, but your face shall always be with me here. Though I may not

be your wife, I shall be true to you all my life."

"In such moments as these the woman is always stronger than the man,"

breathed Jimmy Grayson.

Lee dropped her hands again and walked a step or two away.

"Helen," he said, "forgive me, and forget what I said. I was base when I

spoke. But I have found it too hard!--too hard!"

Her eyes still expressed no reproach; there was in them something almost

divine. She loved him the more because of his weakness, although she

would not yield to it.

"It is hard, very hard for us both," she whispered, "but it must be

done. But, Arthur, I love you. I have told you that, and I am not

ashamed of it. I shall never love any one else. It is not possible."

"I know it. I know, too, that your heart will always be mine, but, as

the world sees it, your father is right. I am nothing. I have no right

to a wife--above all, to one such as you. I feel that I have a power

within me, the power to do things which the world would call good, but

there is no chance. I suppose that the chance will come some day--when

it is too late."

Harley started. The words were the echo of his own. "We must go," he

whispered to the candidate. "No one has a right to listen, even without

intention, at this, their last meeting." Jimmy Grayson had already

turned away, and by the faint moonlight sifting through the branches

Harley saw a mist in his eyes. But their movement made a sound, and the

lovers looked up.

"Did you hear a noise? What was it?" asked Helen.

"Only a lizard in the grass or a squirrel rattling the bark of a tree,"

replied Arthur.

They listened a moment, but they heard nothing more, save the faint

stirring of the wind among the leaves and the grass.

"Are you really going, Arthur?" asked Helen, as if, approving it once,

she would like now to hear him deny it.

He looked at her, his face flushing and his eyes alight, as if at last

he heard her ask him to stay; but he saw in her gaze only brave resolve.

She could love him, and yet she had the strength to sacrifice that love

for what she considered her duty. He drew courage from her, and he

lifted his head proudly, although his eyes expressed grief alone.

"Yes, I have only to start," he replied; "you know I have little to

take. I make just one more public appearance in Egmont. Mr. Grayson

speaks here again to-morrow night, and the committee, by some chance--a

chance it must have been--has put me on the list of speakers."

"Oh, Arthur, it may be an opportunity for you!"

She was eager, flushed, her eyes flaming and uplifted to his.

"It might be, Helen, at any other time, but this is evil fortune. I am

of the other party; I must speak against him--we are fair to both sides

here; he will have the right of rejoinder, and you know what he is,

Helen--the greatest orator in America, perhaps in all the world. No one

yet has ever been able to defeat him, and what chance have I, with no

experience, against the most formidable debater in existence? I should

shirk it, Helen, if the people would not think me a coward."

"Oh, Arthur, what an ordeal!" She looked up at him with wet, tender

eyes.

Harley, at the mention of Jimmy Grayson's name, glanced away from the

lovers and towards the candidate. He saw him start, and a singular, soft

expression pass over his face, to be followed by one of doubt.

"Now I shall go, Helen," said Arthur. "It was wrong of me to ask you to

meet me here, but I could not go away without seeing you alone and

speaking to you alone, as I do now."

"I was glad to come."

He took her hands again, and for a few moments they stood, gazing into

each other's eyes, where they saw all the grief of a last parting.

Harley wished to turn his gaze away, but, somehow, he could not. There

was silence in the grounds, save that gentle, sighing sound of the wind

through the leaves and grass, and only the moon looked down.

Suddenly the youth bent his head, kissed the girl on the lips, and then

ran swiftly through the shrubbery, as if he could not bear to hesitate

or look back.

"It was their first kiss," murmured Harley.

"I did not see it," said Jimmy Grayson, turning his eyes away.

"And their last," murmured Harley.

The girl stood like a statue, still deadly pale, but Harley saw that her

eyes were luminous. It was the man whom she loved who had taken her

first kiss; nothing could alter that beautiful fact. She listened, as if

she could hear his last retreating footstep on the grass dying away like

an echo. Harley and the candidate watched her until her slender figure

in the white draperies was hid by the house, and then they, too, went

back to the street.

Neither spoke until they passed the low stone wall, and then the

candidate said, brusquely:

"Harley, unless this moonlight deceives me, there is moisture on your

eyelids. What do you mean by such unmanly weakness?"

Harley smiled, but, refraining from the _tu quoque_, left Jimmy Grayson

to lead the way, and he noticed that he chose a course that did not take

them back to the hotel. Moreover, he did not speak again for a long

time, and Harley walked on by his side, silent, too, but thoughtful and

keenly observant. He saw that his friend was troubled, and he divined

the great struggle that was going on in his mind. Whether he could do it

if he were in the place of the candidate he was unable to say, and he

was glad that the decision did not lie with himself.

They walked on and on until they left the town and were out upon the

broad prairie, where the wind moaned in a louder key, and the

candidate's face was still troubled.

"Harley," said the candidate, at last, "I cannot get rid of the look in

that girl's eyes."

"I do not wish to do so," said Harley.

It was nearly midnight when he turned and began to walk back towards the

town. The moonlight, breaking through a cloud, again flooded Jimmy

Grayson's face, and Harley, who knew him so well, saw that the look of

trouble had passed. The lips were compressed and firm, and in his eyes

shone the clear light of decision. Harley's feelings, as he saw, were

mingled, a strange compound of elation and apprehension. But at the

hotel he said, gravely, "Good-night," and the candidate replied with

equal seriousness, "Good-night." Neither referred to what they had seen

nor to what they expected.

The second speech at Egmont drew an even greater audience than the

first, as the fame of Jimmy Grayson's powers spread fast, and there

would be, too, the added spice of combat; members of the other party

would accept his challenge, replying to his logic if they could, and the

hall was crowded early with eager people. Harley, sitting at the back of

the stage, saw the Honorable John Anderson come in, importantly, his

wife under one arm and his daughter under the other. Helen looked paler

than ever, but here under the electric lights her sad loveliness made

the same appeal to Harley. Lee arrived late, and although, as one of the

speakers, he was forced to sit on the stage, he hid himself behind the

others. But a single glance passed between the two, and then the girl

sat silent and pale, hoping against hope for her lover.

The candidate spoke well. His voice was as deep and as musical as ever,

and his sentences rolled as smoothly as before. All his charm and

magnetism of manner were present; the old spell which he threw over

everybody--a spell which was from the heart and the manner as well as

from the meaning of his words--was not lacking, but to Harley, keenly

attentive, there seemed to be a flaw in his logic. The reasoning was not

as clear and compact as usual. Only a man with a penetrating, analytical

mind would observe it, but there were openings here and there where his

armor could be pierced. Blaisdell, one of the correspondents, noticed

the fact, and he whispered to Harley:

"It's a good thing that Jimmy Grayson has no great speaker against him

to-night; I never knew him to wander from the point before."

"Where's your great speaker?" asked Harley, with irony.

But the crowded audience was oblivious. It heard only the music of the

candidate's voice and felt only the spell of his manner; therefore, it

was with a sort of contempt that it looked upon Lee, the young lawyer

without a case, who rose to reply. Lee was pale, but there was a fire in

his eyes, as if he, too, had noticed something, and Harley, observing,

caught his breath sharply.

The correspondent again looked down at the girl, and he saw a deep flush

sweep over her face, and then, passing, leave it deadly pale. The next

moment she averted her eyes as if she would not see the failure of her

lover, not the less dear to her because he was about to go away forever.

But though he did not see her face now, Harley, as he looked at the bent

head, could read her mind. He knew that she was quivering; he knew that

she, too, had been completely under the spell of the candidate's great

voice and manner, and she feared the painful contrast.

Harley glanced once at Jimmy Grayson, sitting quietly, all expression

dismissed from his face, and then he looked back at the girl; she should

receive all his attention now. Presently he saw her raise her head, the

color returned to her face, and a sudden look of wonder and hope

appeared in her eyes. Arthur was speaking, not timidly, not like one

beaten, but in a strong, clear voice, and with a logic that was keen and

merciless he drove straight at the weak points in the candidate's

address. Even Harley was surprised at his skill and penetration.

The correspondent watched Helen, and he read every step of her lover's

progress in her eyes. The wonder and hope there grew, and the hope

turned to delight. She looked up at her father, as if to tell him how

much he had misjudged Arthur, and that here, in truth, was the beginning

of greatness; and the important man, as he felt her eyes upon him, moved

uneasily in his seat.

The feelings of the audience were mingled, but among them amazement led

all the rest. The great Jimmy Grayson, the Presidential nominee, the

unconquerable, the man of world-wide fame, the victor of every campaign,

was being beaten by a young townsman of their own, not known twenty

miles from home. Incredible as it seemed, it was true; the fact was

patent to the dullest in the hall. Harley saw a look of astonishment and

then dismay overspread the faces of Mrs. Grayson and Sylvia, and he knew

that of all in the hall they were suffering most acutely.

The keen, cutting voice went on, tearing Jimmy Grayson's argument to

pieces, clipping off a section here and a section there, and tossing

the fragments aside. By-and-by the amazement of the people gave way to

delight. Their home pride was touched. This boy of their own was doing

what no other had ever been able to do. They began to thunder forth

applause, and the women waved their handkerchiefs. Hobart leaned over

and whispered to Harley:

"Old man, what does this mean? Is Jimmy Grayson sick?"

"He was never better than he is to-night."

Hobart gave him an inquiring look.

"I'll ask more about this later," he said.

But Harley already had turned his attention back to Helen, and as he

watched the growing joy on her face his own heart responded. It was

relief, elation, that he felt now, and, for the moment, no apprehension.

He saw the color yet flushing her cheeks, and the eyes alight with life

and joy. He saw her suddenly clasp her father's arm in both hands, and,

though he was too far away to hear, he knew well that she was telling

him what a great man Arthur was going to be. For her all obstacles were

driven away by this sudden flood of fortune, and Harley again saw the

important man move uneasily while a look, half fear, half shame, came

into his eyes.

The speech was finished, and young Lee, a man now on a pedestal, sat

down amid thunders of applause. Jimmy Grayson undertook to respond, but

for the first time in his life he was weak and halting. He wandered on

lamely, and at last retired amid faint cheers, to be followed quickly by

an astonished silence. Then, when the people recovered themselves, they

poured in a tumult from the hall; but the hero to whom they turned

admiringly was Arthur Lee, their own youthful townsman, and not the

candidate.

The next day Hobart told Harley that Lee had won everything. Mr.

Anderson, sharing the pride of Egmont, could resist no longer, and had

withdrawn his refusal. Arthur and Helen would be married in the winter.

"You see," said Hobart, "young Lee is now a hero."

"But not the greatest hero," said Harley.

"That is true," said Hobart, and then he added, after a moment's pause,

"I could never have done it."

But that night, when Jimmy Grayson left the hall, he went at once to the

hotel with Mrs. Grayson. Luckily there was a side-door, out of which

they slipped so quietly and quickly that not many people had a chance

either to pity him or to exult over him, at least in his presence. Yet

he did not fail to notice more than one sneer on the faces of those who

belonged to the other party, and his cheeks burned for a moment, as

James Grayson, the candidate, had his full store of human pride.

In the hall the amazed crowd lingered, and the correspondents, not less

surprised than the people, gathered in a group to talk it over. Sylvia

was there, too, and she was almost in tears. To none had the blow been

harder than to her, and she was so stunned that she could yet scarcely

credit it. All of the group were sad except Churchill, who felt all the

glory of an I-told-you-so come to judgment.

"It was bound to happen, sooner or later," he said, when he noticed that

Sylvia was not listening; "the man is all froth and foam, but who could

have thought that the bubble would be pricked by an obscure little

Western attorney? Was ever anything more ignominious?"

Then the ancient beau, Tremaine, spoke from a soul that was stirred to

the depths.

"Churchill," he exclaimed, "I've been travelling about the world forty

years, but there are times when I think you are the meanest man I ever

met."

Churchill flushed and clinched his fist, but thought better of it, and

turned off the matter with an uneasy laugh.

"Tremaine," he said, "the older you grow the fonder you become of

superlatives."

"I admired Jimmy Grayson in his triumphs, and I admire him more than

ever in his defeat," said Tremaine, still bristling, and fiercely

twisting his short, gray mustache.

"Mr. Tremaine, I want to thank you," said Sylvia, who, turning to them,

had heard Tremaine's warm speech; and she put her hand in his for a

moment, which was to him ample repayment.

Harley stood by, and was silent because he did not know what to say. To

state that Mr. Grayson had allowed himself to be beaten for a purpose

would have an incredible look in print--it would seem the poorest of

excuses; nor did he wish to make use of it in the presence of Churchill,

who would certainly jeer at it and present it in his despatches as a

ridiculous plea. He had begun to have a certain sensitiveness in regard

to the candidate, and he did not wish to be forced into a quarrel with

Churchill.

But Sylvia caught a slight smile, a smile of irony, in the eyes of

Harley, and the tears in her own dried up at once. She felt

instinctively, with all the quickness of a woman's intuition, that

Harley knew something about the speech which she did not know, but she

meant to know it, and she watched for an opportunity.

They were turning out the lights in the hall and the people began to go

away, the correspondents closing up the rear. Sylvia fell back with

Harley, and touched his arm lightly.

"There is something that you are not telling me," she said.

"I am willing to tell it to you, because you will believe it."

Tremaine, with ever-ready gallantry, was about to join them, but Sylvia

said:

"I thank you, Mr. Tremaine, but Mr. Harley has promised to see me to the

hotel."

Her tone was light, but so decisive that Tremaine turned back at once,

and Hobart, who was ahead, hid a smile.

"Now, I want to know what it is," she said, eagerly, to Harley. "That

was a good speaker, an able man, but I don't believe that he or anybody

else could beat Uncle James. How did it happen?"

Harley did not answer her at once, because it seemed to him just then

that the action of Jimmy Grayson was an illustration, and the idea was

hot in his mind.

"Perhaps there is nothing to tell, after all," she said, and her face

fell.

"There is something to tell; I hesitated because I was looking for the

best way to tell it. Mr. Grayson to-night made a sacrifice of himself,

purposely and willingly."

"A sacrifice of himself! How could he have done such a thing?"

"For the best reason that makes a man do such a thing. For love."

She stared at him a moment, and then broke into a puzzled but ironic

laugh.

"You are certainly dreaming a romance. Uncle James and Aunt Anna have

been happily married for years, and there is nothing now that could

force him to make such a sacrifice."

Harley smiled, and his smile was rarely tender, because he was thinking

at that moment of Sylvia.

"The sacrifice was not to help his own cause, but the cause of another,

the cause of the man who beat him--that is, seemed to beat him. Mr. Lee,

through his victory to-night, wins the girl whom he loves, and he could

have won her in no other way. There are people who can do great deeds

and make great sacrifices for love, even to help the love of two others.

It will be printed in every paper of the United States in the morning

that Mr. Grayson was defeated in debate to-night by a young local

lawyer. His prestige will be greatly impaired."

Her eyes glowed, and her face, too, became rarely tender.

"Uncle James was truly great to-night!" she exclaimed.

"At his greatest. I know of no other man who could have done it. After

all, Sylvia, don't you think love is the greatest and purest of motives,

and that we should consider it first?"

"John," she said, and it was the first time that she had ever called him

by his first name, "you must not tempt me to break my sacred word to the

man to whom I owe all things. Oh, John, don't you see how hard it is for

me, and won't you help me to bear it, instead of making the burden

heavier?"

She turned upon him a face of such pathetic appeal that Harley was

abashed.

"Sylvia," he replied, almost in a whisper, "God knows that I do not wish

to make you unhappy, nor do I wish to make you do what is wrong. I spoke

so because I could not help it. Do you think that I can love you, and

know you to be what you are, and then stand idly by and see you passing

to another? I believe in silence and endurance, but not in such silence

and endurance as that. It is too much! God never asks it of a man!"

She looked at him. Her eyes were dewy and tender, filled with love, a

love tinged with sorrow, but he saw the brave resolution shining there,

and he knew that, despite all, she would keep her word unless "King"

Plummer himself willingly released her from it. And he loved her all the

more because she was so true.

"Sylvia," he said, "I was wrong. I should not have spoken to you in such

a manner. I am a weak coward to make your duty all the harder for you."

They were at the "ladies' entrance" of the hotel, and the others either

had gone in or had turned aside. They were alone, and she bent a little

towards him.

"The things that you say may be wrong," she whispered, "but--oh, John--I

love to hear you say them!"

Then she went into the hotel, and Harley wisely did not seek to follow.

XIX

AN IDAHO STORM

Among the mountains of Idaho, a dark storm-cloud, ribbed with flashes of

steel-edged lightning, was growing. For thirty years "King" Plummer had

lived a life after his own mind, and it had been a very free life. In

four or five states he was a real monarch, and there was nothing at all

derisive about his nickname. At fifty he was at his mental and physical

zenith, never before had he felt so strong, both in body and mind, so

capable of doing great deeds, and with so keen a zest in life. The blood

flowed in a rich, red tide through his veins, and he breathed the breath

of morning like a youth.

To this big, strong man, rioting in the very fulness of life, came Mrs.

Grayson's letter. He was not in Boise when it arrived there, but it was

forwarded to him at a mining-camp in the very highest mountains. He read

it early one morning sitting on a big rock at the edge of a valley that

dropped off three thousand feet below, and first there was a shade of

annoyance on his face, to be followed by a frown, which gave way in its

turn to an angry red flush.

But while the shade of annoyance was still on his face the "King" asked,

"What is she driving at?" and then, when it was replaced by the frown,

he muttered, "Why does she waste so much time on Harley and a marriage

for him?" and then, when the red flush came, he exclaimed, "Damn the

Eastern kid!" In the mind of "King" Plummer everybody who did not live

west of the Missouri River was Eastern.

He read the letter over four or five times, and it sank deeper and

deeper into his soul, and as it sank it burned like fire. All that he

had feared, but which he had refused to believe when he came away, was

true. Sylvia did not love him, but she loved that raw youngster Harley.

And here was Mrs. Grayson, the wife of a man who was under obligations

to him, whom he could ruin, hinting that he give her up, and she a woman

whom he had supposed to be endowed with at least ordinary intelligence.

In his wrath, which was mighty, "King" Plummer swore at the whole tribe

of women as fickle, heartless creatures. Then he rose to his feet,

clinched his fist, shook it at the opposite mountain across the valley,

and swore aloud at all creation. And "King" Plummer knew how to swear;

he was no mealy-mouthed man; his had been a wild and tumultuous youth,

and though he would never use oaths in the presence of Sylvia, he could

still, in the seclusion of mountain or desert, let fly an imprecating

volley that would burn the rocks themselves. It was apparent to some

miners coming up the slope that their chief was no extinct volcano, and

they wisely passed in silence on the other side.

For the present there was little grief in the "King's" outpouring; the

tide of wrath was too full and sparkling to be tinged yet awhile by

other currents, and just now it flowed most against Mrs. Grayson, who

had been bold enough to tell him what he was least willing to hear. His

heart, too, was full of unspoken threats, as "King" Plummer was a

passionate man who had lived a rough life, close to the ground, and full

of primitive emotions. And the threats he expressed in words were such

as these: "They shall pay for it!" "I helped put that husband of hers

where he is, I helped make him, and I can help unmake him; and, by

thunder, I will do it, too!" In the hour of his wrath he hated Jimmy

Grayson, and his head was filled with sudden schemes. He would "teach

the man what it was to play the King of the Mountains for a sucker,"

and, still raging, he cast from him all the ties of party and

association.

Within an hour he was on his swiftest horse, riding furiously towards

Boise, his heart full of anger and his head full of plans for revenge.

Nor was he sparing in speech when he reached Boise. His words cracked so

loud that the echo of them travelled several hundred miles and reached

Mrs. Grayson, who was waiting vainly for a reply to a letter that she

had written nearly two weeks before. Now, no reply was necessary,

because this news was what she had feared, but which she had hoped would

not come.

The report was winged and full of alarms. "King" Plummer, shooting out

of the mountains like a cannon-ball, had made his appearance in the

streets of Boise, openly denouncing Jimmy Grayson, calling him a

traitor, and saying that he would beat him if he had to ruin himself to

do it. What had caused this sudden change nobody knew, but it must be

something astonishing, and it behooved the candidate to explain himself

quickly.

The loyal soul of the candidate's wife flashed back an angry reply

across the five hundred miles of mountain and desert. If "King" Plummer

was not the man she had hoped he was, then they preferred that they

should fight him rather than have him as a false friend. Yet there was

in her heart a throb of admiration for him, because he was willing to

throw everything overboard for the love of a woman.

The defection clothed the whole train in the deepest gloom. Tremaine

spoke for the group when he said it was all up with Jimmy Grayson, and

the others did not have the heart even to pretend to a different belief.

With a Plummer defection on one side and a Goodnight falling away on the

other, there was no hope left for a party which even with these wings

faithful had only a desperate fighting chance.

Harley was thoroughly miserable. He could guess--no, he did not guess,

he knew the cause of "King" Plummer's bolt, and he knew, too, that if it

were not for himself it would never have occurred; he had wrecked all

the future of others, nor in making such a wreck had he secured his own

happiness, provided even that he was selfish enough to be happy when

others were ruined.

Sylvia, too, was sunk in the depths. She did not have to be told that

her aunt had written to Mr. Plummer; she guessed that Mr. Plummer had

received some warning, some message, it did not matter from whom,

nothing else could cause him to burst forth with such violence, and the

very nature of the case forbade her from speaking; she could only keep

silent, knowing that significant talk was going on all around her, and

pass sleepless nights and troubled days.

The situation brought a thrill of satisfaction and interest to one man

on the train, and he was Churchill. The cumulative effect of "King"

Plummer's bolt might force Jimmy Grayson off the track, and it was not

yet too late to put up another candidate. Such a thing had never been

done, but that was no reason why it could not succeed, and he

telegraphed Mr. Goodnight that Mr. Grayson was very despondent, and that

those about him knew he did not have a ghost of a chance.

Churchill guessed close to the cause of the Plummer bolt, but he was not

sure, and for that and other reasons he at once sought an interview with

the nominee.

Mr. Grayson was courteous, and seemingly not as despondent as Churchill

had described him. He said that he could not speak of Mr. Plummer's

defection, because he had no official knowledge of the fact; it was

merely report, and hence he could not comment on what was not proved.

Mr. Churchill, he knew, would readily recognize the unfitness of such a

thing, nor could he tell what he should do in supposititious cases,

because, even if the latter came true, circumstances might give them

another appearance.

Churchill skirmished as delicately as he could about the subject of

Sylvia and the surmise that she was the key to the situation, which, if

true, would make one of the greatest stories told in a newspaper; but

here the candidate was impervious. Not only was he impervious, but he

seemed to be densely ignorant; all the hints of Churchill glided off him

like arrows from a steel breast-plate, all the most delicate and skilful

art of the interviewer failed. So far as concerned the subject of

politics, Sylvia was unknown to Mr. Grayson. Baffled upon this

interesting point, Churchill retired to write his interview; but as he

rested his pad upon the car-seat and sharpened his pencil he flung out a

feeler or two.

"I say, Hobart," he said to the mystery man, who sat just in front of

him, "I think there's something at the bottom of this Plummer revolt

that we haven't probed. Now, isn't it the truth that Miss Morgan has

thrown him over, and that he is taking his revenge on her uncle?"

Hobart glanced up the car, and noticed that Harley was not within

hearing. Then he replied, gravely:

"Churchill, I don't believe that Miss Morgan has broken her engagement

with the 'King'--she'll marry him yet if he says so--but I do believe

that she has some connection with this affair. What it is, I don't know,

and I'm mighty glad that I don't have to speak of it in my despatches;

it's too intangible."

But Churchill was not so scrupulous. Without giving any names, he wove

into his four-thousand-word despatch a very beautiful and touching

romance, in which Jimmy Grayson figured rather badly--in fact, somewhat

as an evil genius--and the _Monitor_, dealing in the fine vein of irony

which it considered its strongest card, wrote scornfully of a campaign

into which personal issues were obtruding to such an extent that they

were shattering it. The _Monitor_ still affected to see some good in Mr.

Grayson, but put the bad in such high relief that the good merely set it