Читать книгу The Great Accident - Ben Ames Williams - Страница 4

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PETER GERGUE is a public figure in Hardiston. Every one knows him, and—what is more to the point—he knows every one. Not only in Hardiston town, but in Hardiston County is Gergue known. He is an attorney, a notary, a justice of the peace. But his business under these heads is very small. It has always been small; and he has never made any great effort to increase it.

He is a man of medium height, thin and rusty to the eye, with a drooping black mustache and black hair that is too long, always too long, even when he has just emerged from the barber’s chair. This long, black hair is Gergue’s sole affectation. It is his custom, when the barber has finished his ministrations, to rumple the hair on the back of his head and rub it with his fingers until it is matted and tangled in a fashion to defy the comb. He is conscious of doing this, and has been known to explain the action. And his explanation is always the same.

“When I was a boy,” he says, “I used to comb the top of my head and slick it down, but I never got at the back much. So I got used to having it tangled; and now I don’t feel right if it’s smooth.”

So he keeps it religiously tangled; and at moments of deep thought, his fingers stray into this maze as though searching for his medulla oblongata in the hope of finding some idea there.

Gergue’s office is above that of the Building and Loan Company, on Main Street, opposite the Court House. There are spider webs in the corners and on the windows; there is dust on everything. The floor of soft wood has been worn till every knot stands up like a wart, and every nail protrudes its shining head. Against one wall, there is a wardrobe of walnut, higher than a man. Within this piece some law books are piled, and a few rusty garments hang. In the summer, moths nest here; in the winter they hibernate in their nests. The garments have not been disturbed for years, and now their fabric looks more like mosquito netting than honest broadcloth and serge.

Gergue has an old kitchen table, covered with oilcloth, near the windows that overlook the street. There is an iron inkwell on this table, a pen, and a miscellaneous litter of papers, while at one side of the table, on the window sill, stands his notary’s seal and a disused letter press. The oilcloth top of the table has worn through in many places, and the soft wood beneath is polished to a not unlovely luster by constant usage.

Toward train time of the day Congressman Caretall was to come home, Gergue was in this office of his. James T. Hollow was with him, sitting stiffly in a chair that was too narrow for his pudgy bulk. James T. Hollow was a candidate for Mayor. Amos Caretall was supporting him. And Gergue, as Caretall’s first lieutenant, had asked Hollow to go with him to the train to meet the Congressman. Hollow had obeyed the summons, and now waited Gergue’s pleasure. He was smiling with a determined, though tremulous, amiability.

“I’ve always aimed to do what was right,” he explained hurriedly. They had been discussing the chance of his election.

Gergue nodded his head. “That’s what you always do,” he agreed. “Trouble is, Chase has aimed to do what wa’n’t right, and looks like he’d get away with it.”

The other flushed painfully, and his mouth opened as though he would like to speak, but it was some time before he managed to ask: “Is that—the reason Congressman Caretall is coming home?”

The Court House clock, across the street, struck four. The train was due at four-twenty-two. Gergue rose slowly. “Well, now, let’s go down and ask him,” he invited.

Hollow assented weakly. “Yes, I guess that’s the right thing to do.”

Gergue looked at him with faint impatience. “Why do you guess it’s the right thing to do?” he inquired.

The other hesitated, lifted his hands, spread them helplessly. “Well—isn’t it?” he asked.

“Oh, dear!” said Gergue sweetly. “Well—come on.”

Hollow was a man with very short legs. This gave him an unfortunate, pattering appearance when he walked with a taller man; and as he and Gergue turned down Main Street toward the station, this fact was commented upon. Some of the comments were direct, some subtle. For example, one of a group of four men at the hotel corner, when the two approached, looked all about him and whistled shrilly.

“Hey, doggie! Hey, doggie! Heel!” he called.

James T. Hollow was not without perception. He blushed painfully. But Gergue took no notice of the jest, for as they approached the group, one of the men detached himself and came to meet them.

This was Winthrop Chase—Winthrop Chase, Senior—the candidate opposing Hollow for the mayoralty. Hardiston felt that it was gracious of Chase to offer himself for the office, for he was a man of affairs, chief owner of the biggest furnace, a coal operator of importance in other fields, and not unknown in state political circles. He was an erect man, so erect that he leaned backward, and with a peculiarly healthy look about him. He had a strong jaw and a small, governed mouth. His manner was courtly and gracious. Some considered it condescending.

“Good morning, Gergue,” he said now. “Good morning, Mr. Hollow.”

“Howdo,” Gergue returned. Hollow was more loquacious. “How do you do, Mr. Chase.”

“The Congressman comes back to-day?” Chase asked.

“Yep,” said Gergue.

“We ought to have a reception for him at the station. He has made a name for himself at this session.”

“Always had a name,” Gergue commented, and spat carelessly, so close to Winthrop Chase, Senior’s polished shoes that the great man moved uneasily to one side.

“I suppose he is coming to take a hand in the mayoralty campaign,” said Chase urbanely. He could afford to be urbane.

“He didn’t say,” Gergue declared.

“I’m sorry we’re on opposite sides of the fence in this squabble. Tell him he and I must work together hereafter.”

“You tell him.”

Chase laughed. “I believe he will see it—without being told,” he said loudly, and the three men at his back smiled. “He will, no doubt, find some change in Hardiston affairs.”

“He will if there is any.”

“Perhaps even in the district. Though of course he does not have to seek reëlection this fall.”

“No.”

“Still—”

Gergue interrupted maliciously: “By th’ way, how’s Wint?”

The question had a curious effect upon Chase. It surprised him, it seemed to embarrass him, and it certainly angered him. He opened his mouth to speak. “He—”

But before he could go on, Gergue interposed: “I hear Columbus would’ve gone dry in spite of itself, if they hadn’t sent him home from State when they did.” And he departed with the honors of war, leaving Chase to sputter angrily into the sympathetic ears of his companions. When he and Hollow were half a block away, Gergue permitted himself to smile. Then he frowned and looked at Hollow. “Why don’t you talk up to him, Jim?” he asked disgustedly.

“I—always try to do what is right, Peter. I’d like to, I really would.”

“Would you, now?” Gergue echoed mockingly.

“Yes, I really would,” insisted James T. Hollow.

“Well, all right then,” said Gergue affably. “Le’s go along.”

They went along, down shaded lower Main Street, and took at length the left-hand turn that led toward the station. Gergue walked in silence, and Hollow, after a few futile efforts at conversation, gave it up and pattered at the taller man’s side without speaking. Gergue seemed to be thinking, thinking hard.

A branch line connects Hardiston with the main line of the B. & O. to Washington. Two trains a day traverse this branch in each direction. One of these trains is called the Mail; the other the Accommodation; but the source of these titles is not apparent, for both trains carry mail, and both are most accommodating. Perhaps the Accommodation is more so than the Mail, for at times it has a freight car attached between tender and baggage car, and this is an indignity which the Mail never suffers.

The station at Hardiston is a three-room structure of imitation hollow tiles. That is to say, it is built of wood sheathed with tin which is stamped in the likeness of tiles. These tin walls have an uncanny faculty for keeping the rooms inside the station at fever heat, summer and winter.

One of these rooms is the Men’s Waiting Room; another is for feminine patrons of the road; and between the two is the ticket office and dispatcher’s room, with telegraph instruments clattering on a table in the bay window at the front.

The station agent is a busy man, with three or four hard-worked assistants; for all the supplies for one of the big furnaces come in over this branch, and the furnace’s product goes out by the same route. The furnace itself towers above the very station, great ore piles spraddling over acres of ground waiting for the traveling crane that scoops them and carries the ore to the fires.

On the other side of the station, across the street, there are two buildings with ornate fronts—and locked doors. They proclaim themselves as buildings with a past—a bibulous past. County local option was their ruin, county local option locked their doors and stripped their shelves and spread dust upon their bars. They are ugly things, eyesores, specters of shame. Whatever may be said for the wares they dispense, there is nothing more hideous than a saloon.

Gergue and Hollow crossed the street at a diagonal, past these locked saloons, to the station platform. They found on the platform a familiar throng. Hardiston was the county seat, and served as market place for the southern half of the county. Many people came and went daily on the dirty, rattling, uncomfortable trains; and this, the afternoon train, always picked up a score or so of passengers southward bound.

In addition to these travelers, there were folk at the station to meet every incoming passenger; for Hardiston still meets people at the train. Guests, home-comers, even the commercial travelers find a welcome waiting. Every one in the neighborhood stops at the station at train time to pick up matters for gossip.

Gergue made it his custom to meet a train whenever no more important matter occupied his time; for by so doing he saw many men of the county whom he would not otherwise have seen, and renewed acquaintances that would otherwise have languished. He was, as it were, a professional meeter of trains, like the editors of the three weekly papers, and the bus men from the hotels. He left Hollow at one end of the platform, while he traversed its length, exchanging a word with every one, observing, inquiring, cultivating.

On this business, he was fifty yards away from Hollow when the Caretall touring car whirled down the street and stopped beside the platform. Hollow took off his hat in greeting, and the four young people in the car acknowledged the salutation carelessly.

Agnes Caretall was driving, with Jack Routt beside her in the front seat, and Wint Chase and Joan Arnold in the tonneau. They remained in the car, the two in front turning half around in their seats to talk with those behind. Agnes Caretall did most of the talking. She was a gay little thing, with fair hair and laughing eyes and flying tongue. Joan Arnold was darker, brown hair, eyes almost black. She was quiet, with a poise in sharp contrast to Agnes’ vivacity. Routt and Wint Chase were just average young men, pleasant enough in appearance. Routt was dark; Wint had a fair skin, his father’s strong jaw, eyes that inclined at times to sulky anger, and a head of crisp hair that was brown, with golden flashes when the sun touched it. There was a healthy color in his cheeks, but his eyes were reddened, and there were faint pouches beneath them. While they waited for the train, he rolled a cigarette, fizzling his first attempt because his hands were faintly tremulous. Routt laughed at him for this.

“You’re shaky, Wint,” he jested. “Better take a tailor-made one.”

And he offered the other his cigarette case; but Wint shook his head stubbornly, tried again, and this time succeeded in rolling a passable cigarette, which he lighted eagerly.

Peter Gergue, coming back along the platform, saw the four in the car and came toward them. He caught Joan Arnold’s eyes and took off his hat, and she smiled a greeting; and he came and stood beside the car, exchanging sallies awkwardly with Agnes Caretall and with Routt.

When the attention of these two was concentrated, for a moment, upon each other, he asked Joan: “Is anything wrong, Miss Arnold? You look worried. You hadn’t ought to look worried, ever.”

She laughed. “Why, no, of course not. I—must have been thinking. I didn’t know.”

“Thinking about what?”

“I don’t remember.”

Wint had climbed out of the car and was talking to some one on the platform a dozen feet away. Gergue looked toward him, then back to Joan. But he said no more.

“Isn’t the train late?” Agnes asked, forsaking Routt abruptly.

Gergue nodded. “Ten minutes. Dan says they got a hot box, or something, up above the Crossroads.”

Agnes pouted. “They’re always late.”

“They’re whistling now,” Gergue assured her, and a moment later every one heard the distant blast. “At the crossing beyond the cemetery,” Gergue supplemented. “Be here right away.” And he turned back to the crowd.

A moment later, they heard the whistle again, this time where the B. & O. and D. T. & I. crossed; and after a further interval, the train came in sight, rounding the last curve into the station. Agnes jumped out of the car, touching Routt’s extended hand when he sought to assist her; and then the engine roared and racketed past, vomiting sparks and cinders over them all.

The rear end of the last car was opposite the automobile when the train stopped; and Agnes and Gergue pushed that way; for Amos Caretall always got off at the rear end of a train. “If you do that you can’t get run over—unless she backs,” he was accustomed to explain. The two reached the steps just as the Congressman emerged from the car, and Agnes flew up to meet him so that her arms were around his neck when he stepped down to the platform. He was a stocky man of middle height with sandy hair, shrewd, squinting eyes, and a habit of holding his head on one side as though he suffered from that malady called stiff neck.

He hugged Agnes close, affectionately, for an instant, then held her away from him with both hands and surveyed her. “You sure look good, Agnes,” he told her, and hugged her again.

She slipped her hand through his arm. “We came down to get you,” she explained. “Come along—quick. These cinders are awful.”

He laughed. “In a minute. Hello, Peter. Hello, Jim.” He shook hands with Gergue and with Hollow. “Looking for somebody, Peter?”

“Just come down to see you come in.”

“Well—” The Congressman grinned amiably. “I’m in.”

“We wish to welcome you home, Congressman,” said James T. Hollow.

“Thanks, Jim.”

The three men were silent for a moment. The situation had its interesting side. When Gergue and Hollow had been alone together, Gergue was the dominant figure of the two. Gergue seemed then like a superman, calm, assured, at ease; and Hollow, beside Gergue, had been almost pathetically docile.

Now, however, in the presence of the Congressman, Gergue seemed to shrink to Hollow’s stature. He and Hollow were both mere creatures, Hollow if anything the stronger of the two. And Amos Caretall towered head and shoulders above them both.

It was the Congressman who broke the silence. “All right,” he said. “Drop in any time—both of you.” And with his grip in one hand and Agnes on the other arm, he crossed the platform to the car.

Routt and Joan and Wint were there. He greeted them with comfortable affection, and surveyed them with keen and appraising eyes. “Climb in,” he invited. “Glad to see everybody.”

Agnes and Routt took the front seat again, and Joan sat between Wint and the Congressman behind. Just before the car started, Amos Caretall leaned across to ask Wint:

“Well, young man—how’s your father?”

Wint’s eyes burned sulkily. “About as usual,” he said.

The engine roared, they turned up the street; and the Congressman turned to wave his hand to Gergue and Hollow on the platform.