Читать книгу The Great Accident - Ben Ames Williams - Страница 8

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WINTHROP CHASE, SENIOR, took himself seriously.

When he walked the streets of Hardiston, bowing most affably, smiling most genially, he was inwardly conscious of the gaze of all who passed that way. He felt their eyes upon him; and this gave him a sense of responsibility, a sense of duty. His duty, as he saw it, was to set an example to the town; an example of erectness and respectability and high ideals. And it must be said for Chase that he did his utmost along these lines.

He was not an educated man. He had been born in Hardiston, and had attended the Hardiston schools; but in those days the Hardiston schools were not remarkable. Chase could read, he could write, and he could arrange and classify more figures in his head than most men could manage on paper. But beyond that, he did not go. There was a native honesty in the man; and this led him to recognize his own shortcomings. For example, when he was called upon to address his fellow citizens, he always summoned a collaborator and arranged his speech in advance. He made no secret of this. In the same way, the printed word was a continual surprise and delight to him; every book he opened was a succession of amazing revelations. And this characteristic gave him a profound admiration for such folk as the editors of the Hardiston papers. As business men, he had for them only a benignant contempt; as politicians, they were pawns and nothing more; but for their ability to say what they wished with pen and paper, Chase accorded them all honors.

The elder Chase’s sense of responsibility to the town had made him an unsympathetic father to Wint. He expected Wint, too, to live up to the position in which he found himself. It was not hypocrisy that made him gloss over private errors and denounce more public aberrations; it was a feeling that Wint owed a good example to the town. Thus he had never objected to Wint’s drinking at home—the Chases always had liquor in the house—but when Wint was expelled from the state university for drinking, his father was furious; and when Wint once or twice was brought home from town in an uncertain state of mind and body, his father raged.

The elder Chase made many errors, most of them wellintentioned, and he accomplished much good, most of it by accident. He was a curious compound of harmless faults and dangerous virtues. And no one regretted his mistakes more than Chase himself.

Five minutes after telephoning Amos Caretall, Winthrop Chase saw that was a strategic mistake, and began regretting it. Until Amos’s home-coming the mayoralty campaign had been going smoothly and satisfactorily. Hollow was not a dangerous opponent, and Chase seemed reasonably sure of election by default.

Nevertheless, the coming of Amos had disturbed him. Amos was rightly feared by his political enemies. He had the habit of success; and no matter how secure Chase might feel, the thought of Amos made him secretly tremble.

He was not a man to avoid conflict; therefore he had sought to confront the enemy forthwith, and had telephoned Amos with that end in view. He wished to bolster his own courage by seeing Amos cower; and Amos had disappointed him. Instead of cowering, Amos had told him carelessly that if he, Chase, wished to do so, he might call on Amos that night. And Chase had promised to come.

Now he was torn with regrets. He was sorry he had telephoned; and he was sorry he had promised to come. At first he thought he would stay at home, let Amos wait in vain; and he tried to bolster this decision with arguments. But they were unconvincing. Sure as he was of the election, Amos made him nervous; and eventually, with a desperate feeling that he must know the worst, and quickly, he set out for the Caretall home.

Agnes came to admit him when he rang the bell. He liked the girl. She was pretty and gay, and she was always flutteringly deferential in his presence. She opened the door, and saw him, and cried delightedly:

“Why, Mr. Chase! Come in!”

He obeyed, drawing off his gloves. He was one of the four men in Hardiston who wore kid gloves. “Good evening, Agnes,” he said, in his tone of condescending graciousness. “Is your father at home?”

“Oh, yes—he’s in by the fire.”

Amos called from the sitting room: “Toasting my toes, Winthrop. Come in.”

“Let me take your coat,” Agnes was begging; and he allowed her to help him off with the garment, and then handed her his hat and gloves and watched her bestow them on the rack. She was graceful in everything she did, and she looked up at him in a humble little fashion, as though to solicit his approval. He gave it.

“Thank you, Agnes,” he said gravely.

“Now!” she said, and turned toward the sitting-room door. In the doorway she paused. “Dad, here’s Mr. Chase.”

“Come in, Chase,” Amos called again. “Take a chair. Any chair. Turning cold, ain’t it?”

Amos did not get up; but Chase went toward him and held out his hand so that the Congressman was forced to rise. He was in the act of filling his pipe again, knife in one hand, slices of tobacco in the other; and he had trouble clearing one hand for the greeting, but he managed. “Now sit down, Chase,” he urged again, when the handshake was over. “Glad you came in. Is it turning cold or ain’t it?”

“Yes,” said Chase seriously. “Yes, there’s a touch of cold in the air.”

“Sky looked that way to me this afternoon. Early, too.”

“I think it will pass, though,” Chase declared. “We’ll have some Indian summer yet.”

“Had some snow, haven’t you?”

“Two or three inches, early this month. But it melted in an hour when the sun touched it.”

Amos nodded slowly. He was lighting his pipe. Agnes had come in with the visitor, but after a moment took herself upstairs and the two men were left alone. This made Chase uncomfortable. Even Agnes would have been a support in this encounter. He looked sidewise at Amos, but Amos was studying the fire; and after a minute the Congressman got up and poked out the ashes and put on half a bucket of fresh coal. Then he jabbed the coals again, and so resumed his seat.

“Ain’t been over to Washington lately, Chase,” he said presently.

Chase aroused himself. “No. No. Been very busy, Amos. Affairs here, you know....”

“I know, I know. Now, me—Washington is my business. But you have to stick to your coal and your iron.” He paused. “I sh’d think you’d get tired of it, Chase.”

“How are things in the Capitol?” Chase asked importantly. Amos looked at him sidewise.

“Why—I ain’t noticed anything wrong.”

“Who will the Republicans nominate?”

Amos chuckled. “Gawd, Chase, I wish I knew.”

“They’ll need a strong man, Amos. The country’s swinging again.”

The Congressman looked at Chase, and he grinned. “Chase,” he said, “you’re a funny Democrat.”

“Why? I—”

“I guess you’re one of these waiting Democrats—eh?”

Chase looked confused. “I.... What’s that?”

“Figuring there’s bound to be a swing some day—and when it comes, you’ll be there and waiting,” Amos nodded. “You’re right, too. Bound to be a swing some day.”

“I’m a Democrat from conviction, Amos. The Democratic party....”

“Fiddlesticks! Tariff has made you—iron and steel. Fiddlesticks!”

Chase fidgeted; Amos fell silent, and for a time neither man spoke. Once Amos reached into a table drawer and produced a cigar and offered it to the other. Chase lighted it. When it was half smoked, Amos asked carelessly:

“Well, Chase, what was it you wanted to see me about?”

Chase put himself on the defensive. “I—why you asked me to come. I supposed....”

Amos grinned. “Have it so, Chase. Have it so.” He puffed hard at his pipe, looked at the other. “Well—does it look like the swing was coming in Hardiston?”

Chase stiffened self-consciously. “The town has demanded that I run for Mayor—and—I consented.”

“That was a public-spirited thing to do, Chase. With all your business to hinder you—take your time....”

“I was glad to do it. A man owes it.... If there is a demand for him, he must respond.”

“Sure! Sure thing! And you’ve responded noble, Chase.”

“I’ve made a straightforward campaign.”

“First-class campaign. You figure you’ve got a chance?”

Chase’s confidence returned. “I’m going to win, Amos. Nothing can stop me. I’ll be the next Mayor of Hardiston—sure.”

Amos looked thoughtful. “I ain’t in touch—myself.” He puffed at his pipe. “Gergue says you’ll win—barring an accident.”

“There will be no accident.”

“Eh?”

“I intend to see to it that there is no accident.”

Amos nodded. “Well,” he commented, “that’s your privilege.”

Chase leaned forward. “Congressman,” he said seriously, “it’s a bad plan to stay away from home so long. You get out of touch with affairs here. You ought to—you need some ally here to watch over your interests.”

Amos looked up quickly. “Now, I never thought of that,” he declared.

Chase clapped his hand on his knee. “It’s right. You can’t tell what the people are thinking unless you live among them—as I do, sir.”

Amos considered this statement, and then he remarked: “Take this wet and dry business, for instance. Now, me—I’m so far away I don’t rightly know what the folks here are thinking. But you—” He hesitated. “How does it strike you, Chase?”

“It’s the big issue here.”

“How? County’s dry.”

“But the town isn’t. The law is not enforced here.”

“Why not?”

Chase laughed shortly. “The present Mayor—”

Amos interrupted. “I’m a wet man, Chase. You know that. I guess you are, too, ain’t you?”

Chase shook his head sternly. “No, indeed. Prohibition is the greatest good for the greatest number. I want to see it sweep the country—state-wide—nation-wide.”

Amos looked startled. “I’m surprised.”

“There’s no question about it, Congressman. Prohibition is coming. And I’m for it.”

“You have—you ain’t a dry man, are you?”

“I believe in moderation.”

“Now that’s funny, too,” Amos commented, his head on one side in the familiar posture that suggested he was suffering from stiff neck.

“Funny? Why?”

“You and me. Me—I’m a wet man; I believe in license. But I’m a teetotaller. You’re a dry man—but you like moderation. I’m for a wet state and a dry cellar—and you’re for a dry state and a wet cellar. Ain’t that always the way?”

Chase flushed stiffly. “Many great men have held public views differing from their private practice.”

“Who, f’r instance?”

“Why—many of them.”

Amos nodded. “Well, you’ve studied the thing. Maybe you’re right.”

“I am right.”

The Congressman looked at the other with a cold, quizzical light in his eyes. “How ’bout Wint? He hold your views?”

Chase turned red as fire. “He has nothing to do with this.”

“I heard he was a wet man, personally. But I wondered if he was dry like you in theory.”

The other said stiffly: “My son has disgraced me. I have been very angry with him. But it may have been as much my fault as his. I have tried to be patient. He understands, now, that if he continues—if he does not mend his ways—I—” He stopped uncertainly.

“Reck’n you’d disown him.”

An unexpected and very human weakness showed in the countenance of the elder Chase. His features worked; he said huskily, “Well—the boy—he’s my only child, Amos.”

Amos had never liked Winthrop Chase till that moment. He was surprised at the burst of sympathy that moved him. He nodded. “You’re right, Chase. And—Wint’s a good boy, I figure.”

His tone encouraged the other. Chase leaned toward the Congressman. “Amos,” he said, “there’s a new day coming in Ohio politics.”

Amos looked puzzled. “To-morrow’s always likely to be a new day.”

“Things are changing, Amos.”

“How?”

“Men are dissatisfied with the present—administration of affairs.”

“Men are always dissatisfied.”

“They’re looking around for a new—hired man—Amos.”

Amos chuckled; then he said slowly: “Well—there’s lots of folks looking for the job.”

Chase hesitated, considering his next word; and in the end he cast diplomacy to the winds and came out flatly: “Amos—it’s a good time to look around for friends. To make new alliances.”

Amos looked at the other thoughtfully. “Meaning—just what?”

Chase said simply: “You and I ought to get together, Amos.”

“We’re—here together.”

“I mean—a permanent alliance—offensive and defensive. For mutual good.”

Amos’ pipe had smoked itself to the end. He emptied it with his accustomed care before answering. Then he said slowly: “Specify, Chase. Specify.”

Chase proceeded to specify. “I’m going to be the next Mayor of Hardiston, Amos.”

“Barring that accident.”

Chase brushed that suggestion aside. “My victory—in a strong Republican town—will make me an important figure in the district.”

“Meaning—my district.”

“Meaning the Congressional district.”

Amos looked at the other. “You figuring to run against me next year.”

Chase shook his head. “I don’t want to. There’s no sense in our cutting each other’s throats.”

“That’s against the law, anyhow.”

Chase leaned forward more earnestly. “Amos—here’s my proposition. We ought to get together. I’m willing. I’ve got Hardiston. Sentiment in the district is swinging. I can make a good fight against you next year—I think I can win. But I don’t want to fight you. So—Let’s get together. Party politics are out of date. We’re the two biggest men in the county, Amos. You step aside and let me go to Congress—I can beat any one else easily. And I’ll back you for—the Senate, Amos.”

For a moment Amos remained very quietly in his chair; then he coughed, such a loud, harsh cough that Chase jumped. And then he said slowly: “Chase—you startled me.”

Chase said condescendingly, grandly: “No reason for that, Amos.”

“But my land, man—the Senate! Me in the Senate!”

“Why not? Worse men than you are there.”

“Chase—you’re the man for the Senate—not me.”

Chase bridled like a girl. “No, no, Amos. You’ve the experience, the wide view—”

Amos seemed to recall something. “That’s so, Chase. And you—you ain’t Mayor yet. Something might happen.”

“It won’t.”

Amos rose. “Chase,” he said, “I’ve got to know you better to-night than in twenty years.”

Chase grasped the Congressman’s hand firmly. This was a habit of his, this firm clasp. “It’s high time, then, Amos.”

“Yes, yes,” Amos considered. “Tell you what, Chase,” he said at last, “I’ll think it over.”

“It’s the thing to do, Amos.”

“I’ll think it over, Chase,” the Congressman repeated. He was ushering the other toward the door, helping him into his coat, opening the door. “Wait till after election, Chase,” he said then deferentially. “If you’re elected Mayor of Hardiston—I don’t see but what we’ll have to team up together.”

Chase grasped the Congressman’s hand again. “That’s a bargain, Amos.”

“A bargain,” Amos echoed. Then: “Good night, Chase.”

The door closed; and Amos, after a minute, began to chuckle slowly under his breath.