16 The Fight in the Old Fourth

When the Legislature adjourned, Guthrie did not linger at the capital, but joined at once in the general exodus. The train which bore him to the city, his home, also carried Tommy Newlands, Jimmy Warfield, Mr. Pursley, Carton, who had business to transact in the metropolis, and many others belonging to the capital circle.

They made a big group, with the exception of Mr. Pursley, who was crestfallen and under a very thick and black cloud. There was nothing tangible against him, although everybody believed that he had been the paid agent of the “United,” which never again would have the slightest chance of passing the Legislature. This belief was sufficient to ruin Mr. Pursley’s political career for the time at least, and he was not to be a candidate for reelection to the Legislature, wisely choosing a temporary obscurity, although Guthrie believed that he would try to make capital out of the coming fight over the congressional election in the Fourth District But, as it was, Mr. Pursley was now gloomy, and secluded himself in a forward car, while all the others sat in the “smoker.”

Carton was vastly improved in manner. The ordeal through which he had passed so triumphantly had softened his nature. He seemed to realise at last that, to some extent, he had brought hostility upon himself, and he was grateful, too, to these friends who had stood by him through all, and who had saved him. There was yet coldness between him and Mary Pelham, but Guthrie began to believe in Jimmy Warfield’s prediction that an “explosion” would drive it away, and he looked forward hopefully to the time when the “explosion” would come.

As for Guthrie, he was yet a hero, much to his embarrassment, and, when they were half-way to the city, Tommy Newlands drew from his pocket a sheet of paper with ominous writing upon it.

“Billy,” he said, “I have written a poem describing your gallant deeds, and I really think it is the best thing I have ever done. Gentlemen, I will read it to you.”

“Read it! Read it!” they cried.

Guthrie arose, a ferocious frown on his face.

“Tommy,” he exclaimed, “I warned you once what I should do if ever again you undertook to read one of your poems to me, and now you not only try to read one to me, but it is about me!”

He snatched the paper from Newlands’ hands, and threw it out of the window. Newlands groaned, and the others laughed.

“Never mind, Tommy,” said Warfield, “it is not lost. Some farmer will pick it up, and it will be passed about all through the rural districts. It will have a wonderful circulation.”

An hour later they were in the city, and the next day Guthrie attended a caucus of the party leaders in the Fourth Congressional District, called to consider the action of Henry Clay Warner, the incumbent, who was giving the most serious trouble.

It gratified Guthrie’s pride to be present at the secret caucus of the party leaders, but the fight in the Old Fourth was a weight upon his mind, and it became evident to him as the men talked that none of them saw a way out of the trouble. Neither could he, a much interested spectator, suggest any course, were he asked, and he was glad to be free from the responsibility.

He sat near the window, and, his attention wandering at last from the unsolved and vexing political question, he looked idly through the dusty pane at the people passing in the street. An automobile, the first to arrive in the city, whizzed by, and he followed it vaguely with his eyes, until it disappeared around the next block; the electric cars passed at intervals with a heavy, jarring sound, and then a carriage full of pretty girls in light fluffy dresses held him for a moment; but it was only a moment, because there, on the other side of the street, was Clarice Ransome, prettier than any of the pretty girls in the carriage—even the dusty window-pane could not hide her youth and freshness—and, by bending his head forward a little, his eyes were able to follow her longer than they had traced the course of the automobile.

Clarice had been increasingly in his thoughts lately, and he was beginning to realise that her place there was not likely to diminish. Both Lucy Hastings and Mary Pelham would be at her house in a few days for a long visit. Carton was likely to come, the Governor would run down now and then, Senator Pike’s new office was located in the city, Warfield lived there, and Senator Cobb would certainly be present at the convention. The seat of action, but not the people, was changed. He would yet be surrounded by the old capital group with all its influences and associations.

Guthrie still felt that he had no right to seek Clarice Ransome—that is, to pay court to her; but he would not deny himself the sight of her face, or an occasional hour in her presence. There was no moral law calling for such self-denial, and he would exercise his privilege until that hideous count came to claim her, despite the frowns of Mrs. Ransome who, fortunately, was not all-powerful. Then his thoughts returned to the meeting that he was attending.

“It’s absolutely certain that we must get Warner off the track, or we are done for,” said Hay, the chief party-worker. “If we don’t, a Republican Congressman will go to Washington from the Old Fourth as sure as shooting!”

But no one could suggest a way to make Warner retire.

“It never had a Republican representative,” said Mr. Parton, the editor of the Gazette, an afternoon Democratic daily, a man of ability and lofty character, “We have been free of that disgrace so far.”

“A freedom that does not promise to last,” said Willis, the county judge. “What a shame that the party should be loaded up with a stupid, obstinate man like Warner! Is there no way to placate those Prohibitionists?”

“None, except to get Warner off the track,” replied Hay, “and that we haven’t been able to do. He claims that he is entitled to a renomination, says we are down on him because he wouldn’t help our men to office, and swears he’ll stay in the race until the polls close on Election Day.”

“And he’s been seen drunk twice on the streets of Washington,” said Tom Graham, Hay’s chief lieutenant. “It’s the first time the Old Fourth was ever disgraced before the whole nation!”

It seemed a shame to Guthrie that the glorious old party should be wrecked in the Fourth District by an obstinate, drinking man like Warner. It was clear that the Prohibitionists, five thousand strong, who usually voted with the Democrats would never support Warner, and since many straight Democrats would reject him, too, the split in their ranks was sure to give the Republicans an easy victory. It was enough to make a man, bred in party traditions, as all are in this State, hot with wrath, and seek everywhere for a way out of the trouble.

Perkins, the Republican candidate, in an ordinary time would have had no chance, as the Old Fourth was at least five thousand Democratic with a united party, but now, alas, the party was grievously, hopelessly split, and the heavy-jawed, coarse-minded Perkins was to sit for the famous Old Fourth in the Capitol of the nation. All the correspondents hated him, as he habitually violated the code of ethics established in this State by the press and public men in their mutual dealings. Guthrie remembered very well an interview with Perkins that he had written once for the Times, chiefly at the man’s own suggestion, but which Perkins afterward denied, the effect being other than he wished. Guthrie’s face flamed now at the memory of it, and his blood grew hot.

Avery, the national committeeman, made a little speech, speaking in a low, even voice, but very much to the point. He reminded them that the next House, so every shrewd observer said, would be almost even between the Democrats and the Republicans, and a single district might turn the balance of power, hence the trouble in the Old Fourth, and a district usually so sure for the Democrats had risen to national importance. The big men at Washington—those of both parties—were watching it, and while the Republicans were glad, the Democrats were sad. Warner’s fellow members had tried to make him listen to reason, the two white-headed senators from the State had talked to him again and again, telling him how he was ruining the party as well as himself, but in vain—nothing could move the stubborn man from his purpose; particularly as he thought he had a grievance against the party leaders in his district, and his stubbornness was increased by his feeling of injury. He was egged on by Timothy O’Hara, an Irish demagogue who posed as a labour leader.

The speech was received with attention, but still no one could suggest a way, and they adjourned without action.

Guthrie remained a while with several of the others and talked in a desultory way about the general prospects of the campaign, and the respective chances of Graves and Headly, also candidates for the Democratic nomination. Graves was a rich distiller, who had long cherished a political ambition, and who thought the time had come to gratify it. Headly was a lawyer of ability, desirous also of going to Congress. Both were respectable men, not brilliant, but of good standing and industrious, and the leaders present in the caucus did not care which was nominated. Both were willing to go into a convention or submit their claims to a primary election, but Warner refused to do so, claiming that all the party machinery would be used unfairly to beat him, and, therefore, he intended to run on his own platform—a thing unheard of before in the Old Fourth, and well calculated to make the party leaders stand aghast

Guthrie left alone, after the talk, lingered a little by the way; twilight was coming: the afternoon heat was over, and everybody was on the streets.

It was a good city of 200,000 people, sitting beside a great river, on the border line of North and South, and looking both ways. Thus, northern people called it southern, and southern people sometimes called it northern; but it was more southern than northern, because, while now and then northern in mode of thought, it was always southern in manner and speech.

The street down which he was walking, led straight and quickly to the river, a light yellow current, nearly a mile wide, flowing on slowly and quietly with all the gravity of ages. The “knobs,” as the high hills on the farther shore are locally called, were in the fresh bloom of early spring, and made a brilliant background for the wide, yellow river. But here and there, amid the masses of green that almost covered the rugged slopes, the delicate pink of a peach-tree in new bloom shone like a rose against a lady’s dress. And above and beyond the green was the blue of the sky with streaks of red gold from the setting sun.

Guthrie was on the main artery of retail traffic, a street which five or six blocks from the heart of the city changes its character and becomes the finest and most fashionable residence avenue of the place. In either capacity, the town life flows through it, and Billy Guthrie knew everybody, and at least half of them called him by his first name.

He was busy now, bowing or speaking to his acquaintances, and some of the heavy political gloom that had settled over him was lifted. Then he met Clarice Ransome, and it was all gone for the time. When Clarice left the Capital, she had found that her newly awakened interest in public life was continuous. She knew that Guthrie was deeply concerned about the fight in the Old Fourth, and she wished, too, to know its developments.

When they had spoken of the Capital and their friends, Guthrie told her that he had been attending a caucus of the Democratic leaders.

“Didn’t it form a plan to get Mr. Warner out of the way?” she asked.

“It was willing enough, but it couldn’t devise any,” he replied.

Then, seeing his gloomy feelings, she changed the talk to lighter topics, and the brightness of life came back to him as he walked home with her in the twilight. In June, that hour, when the narrowest rim of the sun is lingering just beyond the western hills and the night has not yet come, is a wonderful time in the city. It breathes of tender grass and new flowers, and troubles roll away. Guthrie felt it now in its fullest and keenest delight.

He left her at her father’s door. He would not go in, not because he was afraid of Mrs. Ransome, but for the reason that he was to call the next evening and he did not wish to push himself. Mr. Ransome he knew already and liked.

But Guthrie stopped at the corner of the next block and looked back at the big house standing in the centre of the wide, green lawn. Again he felt that acute but recent desire to be rich. He sighed and turning abruptly away, walked rapidly down the avenue.

The Times the next morning contained a double-leaded editorial, written by its celebrated editor, and headed, “To Your Tents, O Israel,” dwelling on the necessity of party harmony, and why it was pleasant for brethren to dwell together in unity. No names were called, nor was there any direct reference to the Old Fourth, but who and what were meant was plain to everybody. The great editor put the matter truthfully and in eloquent language, but several days passed and no sign came from Warner and his friends.

Guthrie meanwhile called at the Ransome house, and was well received by Clarice and her father, and non-committally by Mrs. Ransome, who talked throughout the evening about dear Raoul and his coming visit to America. Guthrie observing keenly, noticed that Mr. Ransome did not like it, but he was unable to judge of Clarice’s feelings.

Two days later, Lucy Hastings and Mary Pelham arrived for their visit, and Guthrie called again. Now he knew that Mrs. Ransome was unhappy; her daughter was still surrounded by the associations that she had disliked at the capital, but old John Ransome was the prince of hosts, and when he saw Guthrie much by the side of Clarice, he was not offended. It was at this second call that he spoke of the congressional race. John Ransome shared Guthrie’s feelings, but Mrs. Ransome expressed privately to her husband her horror of their awful politics; common politeness would not let her speak that way before Lucy Hastings, who was the wife of a governor. “Oh, pshaw! Jane,” said Mr. Ransome.

Guthrie found that the temptation to be often at the Ransome house was irresistible. The wistful, almost pathetic look in Clarice’s eyes that he surprised there now and then, drew him on, and while he was already sorry for himself, he began to feel sorry for her too. He did not know how dangerous to him was such a feeling.

Old John Ransome seemed to delight in the company of these young people, and he always pressed him to come back again. “They are my kind, and I like my kind,” he once said to his wife. Warfield, too, came, and Carton, and the Governor, and one evening when Guthrie brought Senator Pike and Senator Cobb, they were all gathered in Mr. Ransome’s big drawing-room. Even Tommy Newlands was not lacking, and it was a bright evening for the whole group,

The next morning at the breakfast table, when only the Ransomes were present, Mrs. Ransome said with obvious meaning:

“I am glad that Raoul will be here soon.”

“He will not be here,” said Clarice.

Mrs. Ransome let her fork drop. Mr. Ransome looked at his daughter and saw a firm, set expression upon her face. “My goodness, Clarice is not afraid of her mother!” was his sudden thought.

“What do you mean?” asked Mrs. Ransome in her most terrible tones.

“I have written to him not to come,” replied Clarice.

“Not to come?”

“Not to come; never to come; I have told him that I cannot marry him. It was a mistake. His people are not my people, and my people are not his. We could never be happy together, and I have taken the course that I think is right.”

“And you are right, Clarice, God bless you!” exclaimed John Ransome. And in his foolish fondness he arose from the table and kissed his daughter on either cheek. But Mrs. Ransome was all ice.

“Then I suppose, since you have behaved so badly to Raoul, you mean to marry this newspaper fellow, Guthrie,” she said.

“If he asks me I certainly shall,” replied Clarice serenely, though she was very pale, “but he has not asked me yet.”

Mrs. Ransome, aghast with horror, swept out of the room. Mr. Ransome was silent, overwhelmed by his rising admiration for his daughter.

Guthrie often talked over the political situation with Clarice, and she shared his wish to find a way out, if such a way there was. She had an abiding faith in Guthrie. She admired his zeal and believed in his ability. He still cherished the hope that he would become some day the head of the Washington bureau of the Times, and there on the great stage of the national capital find full scope for his talents. Wallace, the present head, was getting old and stiff, and before many years he must have an assistant—an assistant nominally, but a chief so far as the work was concerned. “When that assistant is selected, I intend to be the man, Miss Ransome,” he repeated, “and then I won’t be going around the counties here, hunting up the news of peanut politics. One can find at Washington the things that count.”

He never spoke to her of love, but she could see it in his eyes, and she knew what held him back. For the first time in her life, she was dissatisfied with her father’s wealth. The news of her broken engagement to Raoul was soon spread over the city. She mentioned it herself to a few of her personal friends, and she did not ask them to keep it a secret. Lucy and Mary offered her their quiet congratulations. “I think you have chosen the wise course, Clarice,” each of them said. Her father, too, was a tower of strength to her in these days, and she had a vast sense of relief.

She was happy now in the big house, surrounded by her friends of the two cities, the capital and this, and she did not notice how seldom they spoke of Guthrie in his absence. He was never obtruded upon her, but, besides seeing him often, she heard of him almost daily in the general flow of the public life of the city.

Warner returned suddenly from Washington, but his friends, apprised in advance of his coming, organised a great reception and a torchlight parade, accompanied by so much tumult and such a flashing of sky-rockets and Roman candles, that the masses were impressed. Warner himself was exultant, and took no pains to conceal it. “After all, the people are for me,” he said, and his opponents felt that they had been caught napping.

The leaders decided upon a convention rather than a primary election, although it would be useless unless they could get Warner into it. Still, for the sake of regularity, they must observe the forms, and Guthrie went forth the very next day to follow the campaign which Warner was beginning.

The member intended to make what he called a “whirlwind campaign”—that is, to use his own expression, he was going to talk the people “clean off their feet,” speech succeeding speech so fast that they would not have time to recover from one before they were hit with another. But, when Guthrie looked at his schedule, he noticed that at least half the speeches were to be made in the eleventh and twelfth wards, thickly inhabited by the most ignorant part of the city’s population. Warner cunningly preferring to campaign among his own friends, where he would receive the most applause, and, therefore, make the deepest impression on the public.

Headly and Graves were already in the field, each making a vigorous canvass, and each announcing in every speech that he was ready to abide by the decision of a convention. Each also challenged Warner to a joint debate, or series of debates, in which the three should participate, but Warner declined all such offers, and made a merit of it, saying that Headly and Graves were silk stockings, and the representatives of plutocrats, and he, a real Democrat, could not afford to associate with them. No, he preferred to talk to the people in his own way.

Warner was glad when he heard that Guthrie was to report him, having a strong faith in Guthrie, despite the fact that he worked for the enemy. But he soon began to feel disappointed with the accounts of his campaign that appeared in the Times, although he could not tell just where the fault lay. They seemed to miss the effect that his speeches, in his opinion, created, although he could not pick out a single sentence anywhere and say it was untrue. When he read his Times every morning at the breakfast table, it fell upon him like a wet blanket, and he went back to his campaign with decreased energy and spirits.

Guthrie in thus reporting Warner’s campaign was not pursuing any preconcerted plan. He had asked to go with him in behalf of his newspaper, because he thought that, by dwelling upon one or two points in their talk, he might influence the man’s mind, and there was always a chance that the campaign would develop some favourable opportunity. Unconsciously, he began to colour his reports with his own feelings; as his contempt for Warner increased, he could not keep from putting in his accounts every foolish display that the member made of himself, and they were numerous. These were the incidents that appealed to Guthrie most strongly now, and, as a consequence, they appeared most vividly in his narrative. Mr. Stetson saw what was happening, but he kept his own counsel.

At the Ransome house, where Guthrie was a constant visitor, these reports were read with the greatest interest. John Ransome chuckled over them, and more than once avowed his opinion that “young Guthrie was a deuced clever fellow.” Clarice said nothing, but in such moments she had a very warm feeling for her father. Mrs. Ransome preserved a majestic silence. She had told her husband once that she was going to “have it out” with Clarice, and after she “had it out,” she looked so glum that he did not venture to ask her any questions. But he laughed softly and said to himself, “Jane ought to remember that Clarice is her own daughter.”

Nearly two weeks passed, and whenever Guthrie saw Clarice and was asked to report progress, he would shake his head doubtfully. “I’m sure of only one thing,” he would say, “namely, that the bottom is falling out of Warner’s canvass. But the weaker he becomes with the people, the more stubborn he may grow personally; it often has that effect, you know. And if we can’t get him off the track or into the convention, we’re done for, anyhow. Five thousand Prohibitionists bolting from us make it a sure thing for Perkins.”

But she would not despair. She did not know just why it was, she said, but she felt that everything would yet come out all right, the Old Fourth would be saved, and he would get his appointment.

Warner began to turn to Guthrie for suggestions which would go well in his speeches, ideas about democracy, and the duty of a member to his constituents, and Guthrie, who had made a thorough study of politics, besides having a wide experience as a spectator, always furnished them. He still retained a certain sympathy for Warner, and he could not refuse such requests. In this way, and almost unconsciously, he became an increasingly heavy contributor to the material of Warner’s speeches, and the really good parts of them—the parts which dealt with genuine public questions, and not mere local squabbles, came from Guthrie.

This had been going on for some time before Guthrie realised suddenly what he was doing, and the discovery put an idea in his head. He was hopeful again of getting Warner into the convention, and he wrote a speech of renunciation for the refractory member. He wrote it without any suggestion from Warner, in fact, without his knowledge, but it appealed to him as the speech the member ought to make in the convention; it was the duty that he owed to his district, to his party and to justice.

Guthrie was so full of the subject, he had looked at it so keenly from every point of view, and he felt so deeply about it, that it was not hard for him to transfer his thoughts to paper, and to express them in the manner that seemed to him fitting. So he was pleased when he finished the speech and read it over to see its effect. In order not to be deceived, he read it also to Clarice, whom he usually found to be a just and fearless critic.

“Fine! Fine!” she said, “but it is wasted. What do you expect to do with it? You know that you can never make Warner deliver that speech.”

“I’m not so sure that I can’t,” he replied. “Any way I may be able to instill it into him, bit by bit, and in the end he’ll say it all, though I admit that the effect like the speech will be scattered.”

He laughed a little, and then added resolutely:

“No, he’s got to say this speech all at once, and I’ll make him. I’ll find an opportunity yet.”

The time set for the convention was drawing near, and Guthrie’s whole plan now was to accustom Warner’s mind to the idea of renunciation. Holding this in view, he sought to instil little bits of his speech to that effect into Warner’s addresses, succeeding in some cases, and failing in others. Nevertheless, he created an effect, changing to a slight extent the tone of Warner’s campaign, and he persisted.

The fact that Guthrie had written a speech, which he wanted Warner to make became known in some manner to others than Clarice and himself. Perhaps Clarice whispered it to somebody, who whispered it to somebody else, but in any event, Mr. Stetson called him into his private office one evening, and said: “I hear that you have written a speech for Warner, Mr. Guthrie.”

Guthrie reddened and was confused, but answered in a few moments:

“Yes, I have, but I’m afraid he won’t deliver it.”

“Is it a good speech?” asked Mr. Stetson whimsically.

“I don’t know, but I think it fits the case.”

“If it does that, it is certainly a good speech. Let me see it.”

Guthrie was embarrassed by this unexpected request, which, coming from his superior officer, amounted to an order, and he was glad that he did not have his manuscript with him. But Mr. Stetson would not content himself with such an explanation, and he demanded that Guthrie repeat to him the speech, or at least the gist of it. Guthrie despite many endeavours to evade the request, was compelled to yield at last, and recite the speech, which he knew word for word.

The keynote of this address was self-sacrifice—the necessity, when one becomes an obstruction, of standing aside for the sake of the party and for the good of the country, the sinking of ambition, in order to promote the general welfare. Other things were emphasised, but this was the point upon which he dwelt, and he felt everything that he said, as he recited his speech to Mr. Stetson. He spoke in a low tone, but his voice was full of feeling—he had thought so long and so hard upon this subject that he was carried a little bit out of himself as he spoke. When he came to the end, he was surprised to find that he had delivered it without embarrassment.

Mr. Stetson said only a word or two, just enough to indicate his satisfaction.

“I hope you’ll get him to make that speech in the convention, and then withdraw,” said he.

Guthrie did not know that Mr. Stetson’s eyes followed him as he went out, and that after his steps died away down the hall, the great editor’s face wore a very thoughtful look.

The convention was now almost at hand, and Guthrie felt that affairs were going well. The Prohibitionists still refrained from a nomination, though their front was as menacing as ever, and beyond a doubt they would keep their word unless Warner was forced off the track. But Guthrie reported to the leaders that Warner might yet weaken, as he was daily growing more discouraged.

“I think I’ll see Washington, Miss Ransome,” he said, “but the odds are still against me, and I’ve got to fight awful hard.”

The day before the convention Guthrie heard a piece of news that affected him very greatly, touching as it did, his tenderest feelings. It was already known to many people, but as often happens, he whom it concerned so much was among the last that it reached. He was with Warfield, and he was compelled to speak in some connection of the distant Raoul.

“I suppose he will be here soon,” he said.

Jimmy Warfield stared at him in amazement.

“Why, haven’t you heard?” he exclaimed. “He’s not coming.”

“Not coming?”

“No; the engagement is broken. Miss Ransome, fortunately, I think, found out in time that she didn’t love him, and she had the courage to tell him so, or at least write him so. Why, the whole town knows it!”

Guthrie was silent, and Jimmy Warfield watched his face curiously, but he did not allude again to the subject. Guthrie felt at first a mighty sense of relief, but after a while it passed away. He had never really feared Raoul; he could never persuade himself that Clarice was going to marry that hirsute foreigner, and now the news was but a confirmation of his belief. The real obstacle remained.

But he honoured Clarice for her courage, and when next he met her there was such a strain of tenderness in his voice, that, startled, she looked at him questioningly, and then dropped her eyes. But he spoke only of current subjects

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