18 The Secrets of a Night

On a quiet street was a quiet little office, where a man with a heavy jaw often sat thinking. He was Hays, familiarly known as the “boss,” in reality a hard political worker, who took little reward, giving his services from pure love of the life. He was in many respects a rough man, and perhaps, in some, a trifle harsh. He had had a hard time, having been born in the gutter, and the successful struggle to emerge from it left scars. But he was wonderfully kind to his wife and children, for whom he obtained advantages that had been denied to himself, and his friends always found him as true as steel—he made no secret of hating his enemies.

Hays was not alone to-night, Grayson, Avery, Jimmy Warfield, and several other workers in the cause being with him.

There was a knock at the door, and the next moment Guthrie entered. All were pleased to see him and greeted him warmly.

“We want you to take Warner out for a ride,” said Warfield. “Tell him you’ve got something of the utmost importance to say about this fight, which is the truth. Take a carriage and drive out toward the country—say, on the waterworks road, and the later you get back the better. One of Hays’ men will be your driver and he will understand. Can’t you do it? You see how much is at stake.”

Guthrie thought for a little while and then answered in the affirmative, although he announced that he would deal with Warner in perfect fairness. A trip together seemed to him entirely legitimate, falling within the limits of moral suasion. “The carriage is waiting at the corner,” said Hays, “and you’d better go right away. He’ll be rising from the table in five minutes.”

Guthrie had grown up in a stern school, and he wasted no more time in words. Bidding them good-night, he started. The carriage, as Hays had said, was waiting at the door, and Guthrie delayed only to glance up at the driver on the seat. It was Jim Curley, one of Hays’ best workers, a man well known to Guthrie for courage and fertile resource.

Warner’s home was not far away, and in less than five minutes Guthrie was there, just as the front door opened, and Warner himself appeared. Guthrie judged that the member intended to go down town and meet O’Hara, and he knew he must act quickly. Behind Warner appeared the face of a woman, that of Mrs. Warner.

“I was just coming to see you, Mr. Warner,” exclaimed Guthrie, leaping out of the carriage. “I’ve got something important to say. Get in with me, will you, and we can drive along while we talk.”

Warner hesitated.

“O’Hara’s waiting for me,” he said, “and I guess you’ve talked enough already, Billy.”

Mrs. Warner looked at Guthrie with approval and said:

“I’d go with him, Henry, if I were you. Let Mr. O’Hara wait.”

Guthrie inferred that Mrs. Warner did not approve of either O’Hara or her husband’s course in the convention, and taking advantage of the impression made by her words, he put his hand upon the member’s arm and half pulled him into the carriage, saying a polite good evening to Mrs. Warner as he shut the carriage door.

“All right, driver,” he said to Curley, “go ahead!”

Curley cracked his whip over two fine horses and they spun along at a great rate through the city and out upon the waterworks road. It was an open carriage, and the fresh breeze created by the rapid motion was wonderfully pleasant and invigorating after the heat and turmoil of the day. Warner, who seemed to have fallen into a sort of collapse after a long period of excitement and stimulated strength, leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes, and enjoyed it to the full. As Guthrie looked at his broad red face, the old feeling of mingled contempt and pity for this sodden man rose in him, unbidden.

It was indeed an evening to lull a tired man—this wonderful June dusk that sometimes falls over this city with the scent of roses in the air, and the faint sighing breeze that comes up from a far wilderness, bringing its hint of deep woods and wild grass untrodden by man. It is said that all the young couples in this city get engaged on such summer evenings as these.

Guthrie, too, felt the peace of the evening and the night wind’s cradle-song. It seemed to him so unfitting a time for the strenuous task that he and his friends had to do. Down the cross-street he saw again the wide yellow river—now silver under the light of the clear stars, but the green hills on the far shore were hidden in the mists and dusk.

They were away now from the business part of the city, passing toward the region of smaller houses. The electric lights twinkled at far intervals, and cottage windows already were darkening as the sober inhabitants sought their early beds. They met scarcely a human being; the noise of the city was dead behind them, the wheels of the carriage rolled smoothly over the asphalt, and they heard only the sighing of that glorious June breeze about their ears, making soft harmonies, as if it were playing upon invisible violin strings.

The houses moved far apart, the asphalt often ran between turfy fields, and off on the left hung the shadow of a forest. They were reaching the country.

The silent driver on the seat looked back once at his two passengers, but neither Guthrie nor Warner noticed it, so much interested were they in what they were saying. The driver was still silent and merely looked straight ahead again, where the loom of a mighty wall arose, a deeper dark against the dusk.

It was one side of the great reservoir of the water-works, a wall many yards high and a full quarter of a mile long. They were now five miles from the city and this was the turning-back place, but Curley, glancing up at the wall, and then at his absorbed passengers, calmly left the road which ran beside it and turned into a narrower road leading toward the South. A wise man was Curley, and he knew his business, which often was to act first and to explain—not at all.

“Why, where are we?” suddenly asked Warner, looking up.

Guthrie glanced about him, and he did not know either.

“Oh, the driver is taking us along some new road,” he replied carelessly and honestly. “I wouldn’t bother about it.”

“We must return at once,” said Warner decidedly. “Turn around and drive back, and drive back quick too!”

“All right,” said Curley in the same indifferent tone, and wheeling his horses he began the return journey in a trot. When he had gone about a mile, he came to a place where the road forked and he took the wrong fork, although neither Guthrie nor Warner knew it, continuing in a trot toward the southeast and away from the city. Guthrie and the member had begun a conversation in regard to the merits or demerits of the fight in the Old Fourth, and again Guthrie was seeking earnestly to convert Warner.

Deeper and deeper they went into the forest, road grew duskier and Warner at last noticed their strange pathway.

“Why, where are we?” he exclaimed, straightening up in surprise. “I don’t remember ever to have seen this place before. Say, driver, where are you taking us?”

Curley glanced back—he was unknown personally to Warner—and replied with the phlegmatic calm that had marked him all along:

“It’s just a short cut that I’m taking through woods. You said you were in a hurry and I’m trying to save time.”

“Oh! it’s all right then,” said Warner, and lapsed again into talk and content.

Another half-hour passed, and the road led among small hills, but still in dense forest, the way darkened by overhanging boughs, and the misty bars of moonlight becoming less numerous. Then Warner’s mind turned again to the subject of the return, and taking out his watch he looked at it with alarm.

“See here,” he exclaimed to the driver, “at this rate we won’t get home before midnight. You told me that you were taking a short cut, and if this is the short one I wonder what the long one can be.”

The driver with a pull upon the lines stopped the horses and then turned a calm, unruffled countenance to Warner.

“I am sorry to tell you,” he said, “but we are lost.”

“Lost? What do you mean?” asked Warner.

“It’s just as I say,” replied Curley easily. “You said you wanted to get back quick, and I was anxious to do it for you. So I took this short cut across the hills, thinking it would be dead easy, but I’ve got so tangled up here in the woods that I don’t know where I am. It jars me to have to confess it, but it’s so, and I’ll have to call on one of you gents to show the way out.”

Guthrie observed Curley closely, and such was the man’s earnestness of tone that he was unable to decide about him. But Warner had no doubts. Nevertheless he was aghast; and Guthrie, too, was uneasy.

“Billy, do you know the way out?” cried Warner.

Guthrie looked anxiously at the dark woods, just as Warner had done, and was forced to shake his head in the negative.

“We’ve got to figure on it somehow or other, Mr. Warner,” he said.

After holding a short conference, they decided that it would be better to turn back, and they drove over their own tracks at a brisk pace. But there was also a fork in this road on the return journey, and the cabman again took the wrong fork, driving into it with such speed and certainty that neither Guthrie or Warner ever doubted for a moment that it was the right one.

The road now led directly away from the city and still passed through a deep forest.

The night, far advanced, darkened considerably, the moon being hid most of the time by shifting clouds, while the road, as before, was overshadowed by the long boughs and dense foliage of the trees.

They ceased now to talk as they drove slowly on, and a certain awe laid hold of Guthrie, who had never before been lost in the forest in the night. The silence was so deep, save for a moaning of the wind through the leaves and the far hoot of an owl, that it oppressed heart and brain alike. The giant tree-trunks marched by in ordered rows like phantoms of the dusk, and here and there a knot-hole or a convolution of the bark was distorted into a mocking face like a ghostly light. The boughs, too, waved at him as if deriding him, and sometimes a soft and leaf-covered twig switching across his face as he passed made him quiver.

The gloom and immensity of the wilderness had taken hold of Guthrie as it takes hold of many in its depths, although he was not fifteen miles from a city of 200,000 inhabitants.

The driver suddenly started in his seat, although neither Guthrie nor Warner noticed the movement, and bent his head a little aside in the attitude of one who listens intently.

He listened for a full minute. Then he straightened himself up in his seat and from him burst one sharp, sibilant exclamation:

“Gee!”

At the same moment his cigar was dashed from his teeth and the burning end struck one of the horses on the back. The animal neighed, reared, and then drawing his mate with him, ran away down the smooth, hard road. Curley swore, set his shoulders as one does when he pulls hard, but the lines hung loose over the backs of his horses.

Both Guthrie and Warner were much startled at this sudden action of the horses, which threw them violently against the carriage, although the soft cushions saved them from bruises.

“What’s the matter?” exclaimed Guthrie to the driver.

Curley did not look back. He was too busy for that, but he shot over his shoulder in response just two illuminating words: “Running away!”

The country now began to open out somewhat, the trees moved farther apart, and the filtering bands of moonlight grew broader.

On they sped, the carriage swinging from side to side and half bounding over the rough places, but under Curley’s sure guidance remaining in the centre of the road, That worthy never ceased for a moment the peculiar see-saw motion so irritating to the mouth of a horse.

It was like a race, with the cool night air fresh on their faces, the trees running in the other direction, and the regular beat of the horses’ feet on the smooth, gravelled road making a harmonious sound. Once, at the top of a rise, the driver bent his right ear down again as if he were listening, and then that look of apprehension came over his face a second time. When he straightened up a little, his horses were going faster than ever.

It seemed to Guthrie as they passed down the slight slope and into the level beyond that he, too, heard a faint, far noise behind them, a sound like the echo of the beat of their own horses’ feet; and an echo he thought it was at first, but it grew too distinct by and by—it had about it too much of solid reality to be an echo, and when they reached soon the crest of another little rise, he looked back again.

Guthrie almost started from his seat in surprise at what he saw. There on the summit of the swell behind them, the one they had just left, focussed in the moonlight was another carriage, and it, too, had been driven hot and fast, for even at the distance Guthrie could see the horses in a lather.

But it was not the horses, it was the man behind them on the seat beside the driver who interested Guthrie. The face of this man was red like the setting sun, and tipped low down on his forehead was a silk hat, so glossy that it gleamed in the moonlight. Guthrie believed he would have known that face and figure even were there no moonlight. It was O’Hara. The doubts that had been forming in Guthrie’s mind became almost a certainty, but he did not know what to do. Meanwhile their carriage sped on.

They topped another swell presently, and Guthrie again glanced back. Great was his joy despite himself, when he did not see O’Hara, and however attentively he listened, he failed to hear the beat of pursuing hoofs.

Curley, too, who had a keener or better trained ear than Guthrie, ceased to hear the sounds of pursuit, and gradually slackened the speed of his horses. He also turned them into another by-road and presently brought them down to a walk. At last he stopped the carriage in the centre of a wide, open space, and springing out, began to soothe the horses and rub them down with great care.

Warner, who seemed to be somewhat carried away by the rapid swing of events, the knowledge of pursuit not having come to his heavy understanding, opened his watch.

“Billy,” he said to Guthrie, “do you know what time it is?”

“No, and I couldn’t guess either.”

“It’s two o’clock in the morning. I wonder what O’Hara thinks has become of me!”

“We must let the horses rest at least half an hour longer,” said Curley, “because they are dead beat, I tell you.”

At the end of that time they started again, Guthrie and Curley walking beside the carriage and Warner riding in it.

They went on, perhaps three-quarters of an hour in this manner, and saw no sign of a human habitation. Warner fell asleep, and Guthrie and Curley began to look around for a farm-house, where they might find breakfast, as day was approaching.

Guthrie was growing cold and weak. The long strain and the lack of rest and food were telling even upon one so young and vigorous. Moreover, in the chilly dawn—chilly despite the June morning, the comic element of the situation passed from him and now he saw only the tragic. He was a man of honourable and high motives, one who loved frank and open dealing and who disliked secret and underground methods. When he took Warner driving the evening before, it was his purpose merely to reason with him and to keep him as long as possible away from the evil influence of O’Hara. What had happened since was due to a chain of circumstances and events over which he had no control, and he was sincerely sorry that it had happened at all. He would certainly aid Warner as best he could in his effort to get back to the city as soon as possible. At any rate, their present position was not his fault.

They trudged along, neither Guthrie nor Curley speaking for a while, and a gray tint in the East deepened. Then it turned suddenly to flaming gold, and the sun shot up, flooding the heavens with rosy light. The summer morn had come, and after the chill of the long hours before the dawn, the warmth and light were pleasant to Guthrie.

They saw presently a house amid the fields, a two-story, wooden structure of plain appearance, where they obtained food, and learned that they were at least thirty miles from the city. Willville, on the D. & S., was the nearest railroad station, though there was no train due for the city until 3:30 in the afternoon, and it was more likely to be 4:30, the D. & S. being a second-rate branch road.

Warner saw no alternative but to go to the railroad station and wait for the train, and he resigned himself with curious facility. The road was now rough, but neither Warner nor Guthrie complained, as they were sustained by recent food and the morning was so fresh and clear. They talked of the convention, and Warner seemed to assume as a matter of course that O’Hara was keeping his name before it. Moreover, he spoke of drawing votes from Headly and Graves in the course of the balloting. But his talk seemed to Guthrie to lack spirit and fire, as if he did not wholly believe what he was saying, and was talking in order to convince a somewhat incredulous listener—himself, Henry Clay Warner.

They came to an extremely rough place in the road, and Curley picked his way through it. Guthrie was dreaming—that is, thinking of things thirty miles away, and he saw vaguely a large log lying diagonally across one-half the width of the road. Curley turned his horses, but not in time; the front wheels hit the log with a heavy jolt, passed over it and came down again on the other side with a jolt yet heavier. Warner and Guthrie felt the spring of the carriage smash under them with the force of the impact.

“The carriage has broken down,” said Curley, “and it’s for you gents to pay me.”

“We’ll talk about that later,” replied Warner. “What I want to know now is how we are to get to Willville.”

“Walk!” said Curley sententiously and impolitely.

Warner sighed deeply. He was a slothful man and disliked physical exercise, but no freedom of choice was left to him.

“Luck with you, gents,” called Curley with grim humour. “I’ll come on behind with the carriage.”

Guthrie may forget the trials of that walk, but Warner never will. It gave him more muscular exercise than he had known since he was a boy, and as the afternoon grew warm and the sun shone brightly he panted and perspired. They saw at last from the top of a hill a church spire in the far distance.

“Willville!” exclaimed Warner joyfully.

A long, shrill, but lonesome note rose on the air, and assailed their ears. They gazed at each other in dismay.

“It’s the 3:30!” gasped Warner, “and it’s on time!”

The noise of the distant train ceased for about a minute, indicating the stop at Willville, then began again and was lost at last in the distance. They had missed the 3:30.

Warner was the first to recover from the disappointment, and Guthrie observed with interest the curious development of his character. He had always known that Warner was a coarse man—one in whom the finer instincts were lacking. Mental excitement caused him to deteriorate, but a physical strain had the reverse effect. Put now next to the soil, with an enforced absence from the stimulants that he loved, Warner seemed to improve like an animal of a different order returned to his natural state.

“Hey, you fellers, why ain’t you pullin’ on for that train?”

It was Curley coming over the brow of the hill, the horses with the carriage following slowly.

“The 3:30 passed half an hour ago,” replied Warner.

Then, the procession took up its line of march again, and passed on, Warner leading, Guthrie next, and after him Curley, who was followed by the horses and the carriage. Thus they passed into the village amid the deep and outspoken curiosity of the population, a curiosity to which neither Warner nor Guthrie vouchsafed an answer whatever Curley may have done.

Warner and Guthrie went first to the station and inquired about the next train to the city. There was an accommodation freight at 8:30, very slow, taking two hours for the thirty miles to the city, but it would get them there at last, if they only had patience—plenty of patience.

“Patience is about all I’ve got left,” said Warner.

“We can telegraph, telling our people where we are,” said Guthrie, “and you can wire, too, your instructions to your delegation in the convention.”

“Billy,” said Warner emphatically, “not a word of mine shall touch a telegraph wire. Don’t you think I’m going to wire to that convention that I’m stuck out here in the woods! Why it would take a message as long as a page of the Times to explain it all, and anything less would be worse than nothing. No, sir, they shan’t know anything at all until they see Henry Clay Warner walk into the convention hall, and then I’ll explain if I feel like it.”

And he swaggered with a brief return of his old importance. As they had plenty of time ahead, Guthrie proposed that they go to the hotel and get a bath, shave, and dinner, and return to the city at least looking like gentlemen and Christians. They did all three to the great improvement alike of appearance and physical feeling, Warner growing positively amiable over his dinner, and when the coffee was finished he suggested that they sit on the hotel porch a while in the cool of the evening after the country custom.

Here they tilted back chairs, lighted cigars, and a deep, soothing content stole over both. Warner in particular felt that to enjoy rest, it was necessary to have worked, and to have worked hard.

“Billy,” he said in a slow, happy tone, “I am almost glad to be away from the convention at this time. But look yonder! Unless I’m mightily mistaken ours isn’t the only broken-down carriage coming into town to-day!”

Down the road by which they had entered Willville an hour ago, toiled a slow and melancholy procession. A driver walked on before as Curley had done, but with drooping head and slack arms. Behind him came a carriage in a woeful plight, deep in dirt, sagging on broken springs, and drawn by horses which drooped their heads like the driver, seeming to have lost all their ambition and interest in life. In it sat a drooping man, and the man was Timothy O’Hara, dusty, lank-jawed, pale, disconsolate, and angry, closing in now on what had been hitherto a hopeless quest.

The carriage approached, and O’Hara raising the head beneath the hat looked up. His eyes blazed, and he leaped out of the carriage. Three steps took him to the porch, and another took him inside it. In that sudden moment of passion all his true nature came out, and, shaking his fist in Warner’s face, he shouted:

“What do you mean by running away from me—from me, your only friend, the man that’s made you? I say, what do you mean by it, Hank Warner?”

The Honourable Henry Clay Warner had not been called “Hank” since he was a boy, and Guthrie, in considering the scene afterward, was quite sure that the application of the term “Hank” was more offensive than anything else O’Hara said. It was here an expression of contempt, so intended and so received. Warner had all the fighting qualities of his State, and he would never stand personal abuse for a moment Moreover, he had the consciousness of innocence, and springing to his feet he retorted in a manner not less warlike than O’Hara’s own. But O’Hara continued with angry charges.

Guthrie at length felt that it was time to interfere, and he put his hand upon Warner’s arm with a quiet: “Come away, Mr. Warner, I would not quarrel with such a man. He is beneath you!”

Warner, taking his advice, turned on his heel, and went to the other end of the porch with Guthrie. O’Hara glared fiercely after them a moment or two, and then went into the bar-room.

The train was at the station in a few minutes, and Warner and Guthrie, boarding it, took a seat at the far end of the single passenger car attached to the freight. Guthrie looked back, and saw O’Hara, still beneath the crumpled hat, coming aboard. But the Irishman sat in the extreme seat at the other end of the car and gazed sternly out of the window at the trees and fences and houses flitting by. Warner and Guthrie did likewise, and all the time Guthrie was trying to guess what Warner would do, but the member made no sign.

Thus pursuer and pursued returned to the city.

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