On the Saturday morning before the Tuesday of election there was a conference in the directors'room of the Corn National.The city reeked with smoke and acrid,stale gas,the electric lights were turned on to dispel the November gloom.It was not a cheerful conference,nor a confident one.For the first time in a collective experience the men gathered there were confronted with a situation which they doubted their ability to control,a situation for which there was no precedent.They had to reckon with a new and unsolvable equation in politics and finance,--the independent voter.There was an element of desperation in the discussion.Recriminations passed.Dickinson implied that Gorse with all his knowledge of political affairs ought to have foreseen that something like this was sure to happen,should have managed better the conventions of both great parties.The railroad counsel retorted that it had been as much Dickinson's fault as his.Grierson expressed a regret that I had broken out against the reformers;it had reacted,he said,--and this was just enough to sting me to retaliate that things had been done in the campaign,chiefly through his initiative,that were not only unwise,but might land some of us in the penitentiary if Krebs were elected.
"Well,"Grierson exclaimed,"whether he's elected or not,I wouldn't give much now for your chances of getting to the Senate.We can't afford to fly in the face of the dear public."A tense silence followed this remark.In the street below the rumble of the traffic came to us muffled by the heavy plate-glass windows.I saw Tallant glance at Gorse and Dickinson,and I knew the matter had been decided between themselves,that they had been merely withholding it from me until after election.I was besmirched,for the present at least.
"I think you will do me the justice,gentlemen,"I remember saying slowly,with the excessive and rather ridiculous formality of a man who is near the end of his tether,"that the idea of representing you in the Senate was yours,not mine.You begged me to take the appointment against my wishes and my judgment.I had no desire to go to Washington then,I have less to-day.I have come to the conclusion that my usefulness to you is at an end."I got to my feet.I beheld Miller Gorse sitting impassive,with his encompassing stare,the strongest man of them all.A change of firmaments would not move him.But Dickinson had risen and put his hand on my shoulder.It was the first time I had ever seen him white.
"Hold on,Hugh,"he exclaimed,"I guess we're all a little cantankerous today.This confounded campaign has got on our nerves,and we say things we don't mean.You mustn't think we're not grateful for the services you've rendered us.We're all in the same boat,and there isn't a man who's been on our side of this fight who could take a political office at this time.We've got to face that fact,and I know you have the sense to see it,too.I,for one,won't be satisfied until I see you in the Senate.It's where you belong,and you deserve to be there.You understand what the public is,how it blows hot and cold,and in a few years they'll be howling to get us back,if these demagogues win.
"Sure,"chimed in Grierson,who was frightened,"that's right,Hugh.Ididn't mean anything.Nobody appreciates you more than I do,old man."Tallant,too,added something,and Berringer,--I've forgotten what.Iwas tired,too tired to meet their advances halfway.I said that I had a speech to get ready for that night,and other affairs to attend to,and left them grouped together like crestfallen conspirators--all save Miller Gorse,whose pervasive gaze seemed to follow me after I had closed the door.
An elevator took me down to the lobby of the Corn Bank Building.Ipaused for a moment,aimlessly regarding the streams of humanity hurrying in and out,streaking the white marble floor with the wet filth of the streets.Someone spoke my name.It was Bitter,Judd Jason's "legal"tool,and I permitted myself to be dragged out of the eddies into a quiet corner by the cigar stand.
"Say,I guess we've got Krebs's goat all right,this time,"he told me confidentially,in a voice a little above a whisper;"he was busy with the shirt-waist girls last year,you remember,when they were striking.
Well,one of 'em,one of the strike leaders,has taken to easy street;she's agreed to send him a letter to-night to come 'round to her room after his meeting,to say that she's sick and wants to see him.He'll go,all right.We'll have some fun,we'll be ready for him.Do you get me?So long.The old man's waiting for me."It may seem odd that this piece of information did not produce an immediately revolting effect.I knew that similar practices had been tried on Krebs,but this was the first time I had heard of a definite plan,and from a man like Bitter.As I made my way out of the building Ihad,indeed,a nauseated feeling;Jason's "lawyer"was a dirty little man,smelling of stale cigars,with a blue-black,unshaven face.In spite of the shocking nature of his confidence,he had actually not succeeded in deflecting the current of my thoughts;these were still running over the scene in the directors'room.I had listened to him passively while he had held my buttonhole,and he had detained me but an instant.
When I reached the street I was wondering whether Gorse and Dickinson and the others,Grierson especially,could possibly have entertained the belief that I would turn traitor?I told myself that I had no intention of this.How could I turn traitor?and what would be the object?
