The Candidate: A Political Romance
"Why certainly, daddy, anything in reason, and I know you would not ask
anything out of it."
"Sylvia, I want you to promise me never to call me daddy again, either
in private, as here between ourselves, or before others."
She looked up at him, her eyes wide with astonishment.
"Why," she exclaimed, "I've called you that ever since you found me a
little, little girl alone in the mountains."
"I know it, but it's time to stop. I'm no blood kin to you at all. And
I'm not so ancient. The history of the West didn't begin with me."
The wonder in her eyes deepened, and the "King" felt apprehensive,
though he stood to his guns. But when she laughed, a joyous,
spontaneous laugh, he felt hurt.
"I'll make you the promise readily enough," she said, "but I can't keep
it; I really can't. I'll try awful hard, but I'm so used to daddy that
it will be sure to pop out just when I'm expecting it least."
The "King" looked at her moodily, not sure whether she was laughing at
him or at her own perplexity.
"Then you just try," he said, at last, yielding to a mood of compromise,
and stalked abruptly out of the drawing-room.
Sylvia, watching him, saw how stiffly and squarely he held his
shoulders, and what long and abrupt strides he took, and her mood of
merriment was suddenly succeeded by one of sadness mingled just a little
with apprehension. She spoke twice under her breath, and the two brief
sentences varied by only a single word. The first was "Dear old daddy!"
and the second was "Poor old daddy!"
XI
THE HARRYING OF HERBERT
An unexpected addition and honor was now approaching, and it was Hobart
who told them of it.
"Our little party is about to receive a touch of real distinction and
dignity--something that it needs very much," he said, laying the
newspaper that he had been reading upon the dusty car seat and glancing
at Harley. They had returned to their special train.
"What do you mean?" asked Harley, though his tone betrayed no great
interest.
"I quote from the columns of our staid contemporary, the New York
_Monitor_, Churchill's sheet, the representative of solid, quiet, and
cultured worth," said Hobart, pompously. "'It has been felt for some
time by thoughtful leaders of our party in the East that Jimmy Grayson
and the "shirt-sleeves" Western politicians who now surround him are
showing too much familiarity with the people. A certain reserve, a
certain dignity of manner which, while holding the crowd at a distance
also inspires it with a proper respect, is desirable on the part of the
official head of a great party, a presidential nominee. The personal
democracy of Mr. Grayson is having a disconcerting effect upon important
financial circles, and also is inspiring unfavorable comments in the
English press, extracts from which we print upon another page.'"
"What on earth has the opinion of the English press to do with our
presidential race?" asked Harley.
"You may search me," replied Hobart. "I merely quote from the columns of
the _Monitor_. But in order to save time, I tell you that all this
preamble leads to the departure for the West of the Honorable Herbert
Henry Heathcote, who, after his graduation at Harvard, took a course at
Oxford, lived much abroad, and who now, by grace of his father's worth
and millions, is the national committeeman from his state. For some days
Herbert has been speeding in our direction, and to-morrow he will join
us at Red Cloud. It is more than intimated that he will take charge of
the tour of Jimmy Grayson, and put it upon the proper plane of dignity
and reserve."
Harley said no more, but, borrowing the paper, read the account
carefully, and then put it down with a sigh, foreseeing trouble. Herbert
Heathcote's father had been a great man in his time, self-created, a
famous merchant, an able party worker, in thorough touch with American
life, and he had served for many years as the honored chairman of the
national committee, although in a moment of weakness he had sent his son
abroad to be educated. Now he was dead, but remembered well, and as a
presidential campaign costs much money--legitimate money--and his son
was a prodigal giver, the leaders could not refuse to the younger
Heathcote the place of national committeeman from his state.
"What do you think of it?" asked Harley, at last.
"I refuse to think," replied Hobart. "I shall merely wait and see."
But the Honorable William Plummer expressed his scorn in words befitting
his open character.
The paper was passed on until it reached Mrs. Grayson and Sylvia. Mrs.
Grayson, with her usual reserve, said nothing. Sylvia was openly
indignant.
"I shall snub this man," she said, "unless he is of the kind that thinks
it cannot be snubbed."
"I fear that it is his kind," said Harley.
"It looks like it," she said.
At noon the next day, when they were at Red Cloud, Herbert Henry
Heathcote arrived on the train from the East, and the arrival of him was
witnessed by Harley, Hobart, Mr. Plummer, and several others, who had
gone to the station for that purpose and none other.
Mr. Heathcote, as he alighted from the train, was obviously a person of
importance, his apparel, even had his manner been hidden, disclosing the
fact to the most casual observer. A felt hat, narrow-brimmed and
beautifully creased in the crown, sat gracefully upon his head. His
light overcoat was baggy enough in the back to hold another man, as Mr.
Heathcote was not large, and white spats were the final touch of an
outfit that made the less sophisticated of the spectators gasp. "King"
Plummer swore half audibly.
"I wish my luggage to be carried up to the hotel," said Mr. Heathcote,
importantly, to the station agent.
"He calls it 'luggage,' and this in Colorado!" groaned Hobart.
"Your what?" exclaimed the station agent, a large man in his
shirt-sleeves, with a pen thrust behind his ear.
"My luggage; my trunk," replied Mr. Heathcote.
"Then you had better carry it yourself; I've nothing to do with it,"
said the agent, with Western brusqueness, as he turned away.
Harley, always ready to seize an opportunity, and resolved to mitigate
things, stepped forward.
"I beg your pardon, but this is Mr. Heathcote, is it not?" he asked,
courteously.
The committeeman put a glass in his eye and regarded him quite coolly.
Harley, despite his habitual self-control, shuddered. He did not mind
the supercilious gaze, but he knew the effect of the monocle upon the
crowd.
"Yes, I am Mr. Heathcote," said the committeeman, "and you ah--I--don't
believe--ah--"
"I haven't been introduced," said Harley, with a smile, "but I can
introduce myself; it's all right here in the West. I merely wanted to
tell you that you had better get them at the hotel to send the porter
down for your trunk. There are no carriages, but it's only a short walk
to the hotel. It's the large white building on the hill in front of
you."
"Thank you--ah--Mr. Hardy."
"Harley," corrected the correspondent, quietly.
"I was about to say--ah--that the press can make itself useful at
times."
Harley flushed slightly.
"Yes, even under the most adverse circumstances," he said.
But Mr. Heathcote was already on the way to the hotel, his white spats
gleaming in the sunshine. It was evident that he intended to keep the
press in its proper place.
"You made a mistake when you volunteered your help, Harley," said
Hobart. "A man like that should be received with a club. But you just
wait until the West gets through with him. Your revenge will be brought
to you on a silver plate."
"I'm not thinking of myself," replied Harley, gravely. "It's the effect
of this on Jimmy Grayson's campaign that's bothering me. Colorado is
doubtful, and so are Utah and Wyoming and Idaho; can we go through them
with a man like Heathcote, presumably in charge of our party?"
Proof that Harley's fears were justified was forthcoming at once. The
crowd at the station, drawn by various causes, had been usually large,
and Mr. Heathcote was received with a gasp of amazement. But nothing was
said until the white spats of the committeeman disappeared in the hotel.
Then the people crowded around the correspondents, with whom a six
hours' stop was sufficient to make them familiar. "Who is he?" they
asked. "Is he a plutocrat?" "It's a Wall Street shark, sure." "Does
Jimmy Grayson mean to hobnob with a man like that?" "Then we can't trust
him either. He's going to be a monopolist, too, and his claiming to be
champion of the people is all a bluff."
Harley explained with care that Mr. Heathcote was important. To run a
great presidential campaign required much money--special trains must be
paid for, halls had to be hired for speakers, there was a vast amount of
printing to be done, and many other expenses that must be met. Their
party was poor, as everybody knew, most of the wealth being on the other
side; and, when a man like Heathcote was willing to contribute his
thousands, there was nothing to do but to take him. But they need not be
alarmed; he could not corrupt Jimmy Grayson; the candidate was too
stanch, too true, too much of a real man to be turned from the right
path by any sinister Eastern influence.
But the people were not mollified; they resented Mr. Heathcote's manner
as well as his dress. Why had he not stopped at the station a few
minutes, and shaken hands with those who would have been glad to meet
him for the sake of fellowship in the party? Harley heard again the word
"Plutocrat," and, deeming it wise to say nothing more for the present,
walked back to the hotel. On the long porch sat a row of men in
rocking-chairs--correspondents, town officials, and politicians,
following in the wake of Jimmy Grayson. A state senator, a big,
white-bearded man named Curtis, who had been travelling with them for
three days, jerked his finger over his shoulder, pointing to the
interior of the hotel, and said, mysteriously, to Harley:
"Where did you get it?"
"New York," replied Harley, sadly.
"Can't you lose it?"
"I don't know," replied Harley, hopefully, "but we can try."
Hobart, who was in the next chair, put his right foot across his left
knee and nursed it judicially.
"It is eating its dinner now," he said. "It said: 'Landlord, I want a
table alone. I do not wish to be disturbed.' And just think, Harley,
this is Colorado! Landlord, otherwise Bill Jeffreys, was so taken aback
that he said, 'All right.' But the Honorable Herbert Henry Heathcote is
being watched. There are three cowboys, at this very moment, peeping in
at his window."
There was a dead silence for at least a minute, broken at last by
Barton.
"Gentlemen," he said, "you do not yet know the full, the awful truth; I
accidentally heard Heathcote telling Jeffreys about it."
"Why, what can be worse?" asked Harley, and he was in earnest.
"Mr. Heathcote's man--his valet, do you understand--arrives to-night. He
is to have a place in the car, and to travel with us, in order that he
may wait on his master."
"King" Plummer uttered an oath.
"The West can stand a good many things, but it won't stand that," he
exclaimed. "A national committeeman of our party travelling with his
valet on the train with Jimmy Grayson! It'll cost us at least six
states. We ain't women!"
There succeeded a gloomy silence that lasted until Heathcote himself
appeared upon the porch, fresh, dapper, and patronizing.
"I hope you enjoyed your dinner, Mr. Heathcote," said Harley, ever ready
to be a peacemaker.
"Thank you, Mr. Hardy--ah, Harley; it did very well for the
frontier--one does not expect much here, you know."
Harley glanced uneasily at the men in the chairs, but Mr. Heathcote went
on, condescendingly:
"I am now going for an interview with Mr. Grayson in his room. We shall