The Candidate: A Political Romance
came in late and found every chair occupied. No one moved or took any
notice. Jimmy Grayson looked embarrassed, and said in a propitiatory
tone to the proprietor, who stood near the window:
"Can't you fix a place for Mr. Heathcote?"
"Oh, I guess I kin bring in a little table from the kitchen," replied
Bill Jeffreys, negligently, "but he'll have to hustle; that train goes
in less than ten minutes."
The table was brought in, and Mr. Heathcote ate more quickly than ever
before in his life, although he found time for caustic criticism of the
hotel accommodations in Red Cloud. Just as he put down his half-emptied
coffee-cup the train blew a warning whistle.
"That engineer is at least three minutes ahead of time," said Barton.
"He's a lively fellow," said Hobart. "I was up early, and he told me he
wasn't going to wait a single minute, even if he did have a Presidential
nominee aboard."
The eyes of Barton and Hobart met, and Barton understood.
"We'd better run for it," said Barton, and they hurried to the train,
Mr. Heathcote borne on in the press. As they settled into their seats
Barton pointed out of the window, and cried: "Look! Look! The 'man' is
about to get left!"
John, a valise in one hand and a hat-box in the other, was rushing for
the train, which had already begun to move. But the conductor reached
down the steps, grasped him by the collar, and dragged him, baggage and
all, aboard. John appeared humbly before his master, who was silent,
however, merely waving him to a seat. Mr. Heathcote was apparently
indignant about something. By-and-by he stated that his valet had been
forced to leave Red Cloud without anything to eat. Nobody had looked
after the man, and he could not understand such neglect. He would like
to have a porter bring him something. Old Senator Curtis, who was with
them, spoke up from a full heart:
"He'll have to go hungry. There's no dining-car on this train, and he
can't get a bite, even for a bagful of money, till we get to Willow
Grange at two o'clock this afternoon."
The senator was not excessively polite, and Mr. Heathcote opened his
mouth as if to speak, but, changing his mind, closed it. He glanced at
Jimmy Grayson, who looked troubled, although he, also, maintained
silence. Neither would any one else speak; but every one was taking
notice. Harley in his heart felt sorry for the poor valet, who seemed to
be an inoffensive fellow, suited to his humble trade; but a political
campaign in the Rocky Mountain West was no place for him; he must take
what circumstances dealt out to him.
The committeeman presently recovered his sense of his own worth and
dignity, and spoke in a large manner of the plans that he would take to
raise the tone of the campaign. The candidate still looked troubled and
made no comment. The local public men, the correspondents, and all on
the little train were silent, staring out of the windows, apparently
engrossed in the scenery, which was now becoming grand and beautiful.
Ridge rose above ridge, and afar the peaks, clad in eternal snow, looked
down like heaven's silent sentinels.
Mr. Heathcote was very courteous to Mrs. Grayson, but at first he
scarcely noticed Sylvia, although a little later he expressed admiration
for her beauty, not doubting, however, that he would find her the
possessor of an uncultivated mind.
Towards the noon hour a tragic discovery was made. After the candidate's
last speech in the evening the train would leave immediately for Utah,
and all continuing on the way must sleep aboard. Room had been found in
some manner for Mr. Heathcote, but every other berth, upper and lower,
had been assigned long ago, and there was nothing left for his man. But
Mr. Heathcote, resolved not to be trampled upon, went in a state of high
indignation to the conductor.
"I must have a place for my man. I cannot travel without an attendant."
"Jimmy Grayson does," replied the conductor, a rude Democrat of the
West; "and your fellow can't have any, because there ain't any to be
had; besides, it's 'cordin' to train rules that dogs an' all such-like
should travel in the baggage-car."
Mr. Heathcote refused to speak again to such a man, and complained to
the candidate. But Jimmy Grayson could do nothing.
"This train on which we now are is paid for jointly by the committeemen
of Colorado, Utah, and Idaho," he said, "and I have nothing to do with
the arrangements. I should not like to attempt interference."
Mr. Heathcote looked at old Senator Curtis, who seemed to be in charge,
but, apprehending a blow to his dignity, he refrained from pressing the
point, and the lackey slept that night as well as he could on a seat in
the smoking-car.
The next few days, which were passed chiefly in Utah, were full of color
and events. Life became very strenuous for the Honorable Herbert Henry
Heathcote. He learned how to take his meals on the wing, as it were, to
run for trains, to snatch two hours' sleep anywhere between midnight and
morning, and to be jostled by rude crowds that failed to recognize his
superiority. The full-backed light overcoat, during its brief existence
the focus of so much attention, was lost in a dinner rush and never
reappeared. But, above all, Mr. Heathcote had upon his hands the care of
the helpless, miserable lackey, and never did a sick baby require more
attention. John was lost amid his strange and terrible surroundings. At
mountain towns crowds of boys, and sometimes men, would surround him and
jeer at his peculiar appearance, and his master would be compelled to
come forcibly to his rescue. He never learned how to run for the car,
with his arms full of baggage, and once, boarding a wrong train, he was
run off on a branch line a full fifty miles. He was rescued only after
infinite telegraphing and two days' time, when he reappeared,
crestfallen and terrified.
And there was trouble--plenty of it--aboard the train. There was never a
berth for the lackey, who was relegated permanently to the smoking-car.
Mr. Heathcote himself sometimes had to fight, bribe, and intrigue for
one--and often he failed to get breakfast or dinner through false
information or the carelessness of somebody. He made full acquaintance
with the pangs of hunger, and many a time, when every nerve in him
called for sleep, there was no place to lay his weary head.
Now the iron entered the soul of the Honorable Herbert, and he became a
soured and disappointed man, but he stuck gravely to his chosen task.
Harley, despite his dislike, could not keep from admiring his tenacity.
Nobody, except the candidate, paid the slightest attention to him; even
Sylvia and Mrs. Grayson ignored him; if he made suggestions, nobody said
anything to the contrary, but they were never adopted, and Mr. Heathcote
noticed, too, that the others seemed to be enduring the life easily,
while it was altogether too full for him. If there was any angle, he
seemed somehow to knock against it; and if there was any pitfall, it was
he who fell into it. But he gave no sign of returning to the East, and
his misfortunes continued. From time to time they got copies of the
Western papers containing full reports of Jimmy Grayson's canvass, and
none of them, except the _Monitor_, ever spoke flatteringly of the
Honorable Herbert or his efforts to put the campaign on a higher plane.
Churchill spoke once to the group of correspondents and politicians
about the lack of deference paid to the committeeman, but he was invited
so feelingly to attend to his own business that he never again risked
it. However, he said in his despatches to the _Monitor_ that even Mr.
Heathcote's efforts could not keep the campaign on a dignified level.
At last, on one dreadful day, they lost the lackey again, and this time
there was no hope of recovery. He had been seen, his hands full of
baggage, running for the wrong train, and when they heard from him he
was far down in Colorado, stranded, and there was no possible chance for
him to overtake the "special." Accordingly, his master, acting under
expert advice, telegraphed him money and a ticket and ordered him back
to New York. When the news was taken to the candidate Harley saw an
obvious look of relief on his face. That valet had been a terrible
weight upon the campaign, and none knew it better than Jimmy Grayson.
Mr. Heathcote now became morose and silent. Much of his lofty and
patronizing air disappeared, although the desire to instruct would crop
out at times. Usually he was watchful and suspicious, but the struggle
for bread and a place to sleep necessarily consumed a large portion of
his energies. As time dragged on his manner became that of one hunted,
but doggedly enduring, nevertheless. The candidate always spoke to him
courteously, whenever he had a chance, but then there was little time
for conversation, as the campaign was now hot and fast. Mr. Heathcote
was, in fact, a man alone in the world, and outlawed too. The weight
upon him grew heavier and heavier as his path became thornier and
thornier; the angles, the corners, and the pitfalls seemed to multiply,
and always he was the victim. Jimmy Grayson looked now and then as if he
would like to interfere, but there was no way for him to interfere, nor
any one with whom he could interfere.
Mr. Heathcote still clung bravely to some portions of his glorious
wardrobe. The white spats he yet sported, in the face of a belligerent
Western democracy, and he paid the full price. Harley acknowledged this
merit in him, and once or twice, when the committeeman, amid the
comments of the ribald crowd, turned a pathetic look upon him, he was
moved to pity and a desire to help; but the last feeling he resolutely
crushed, and held on his way.
The campaign swung farther westward and northward, and into a primitive
wilderness, where the audiences were composed solely of miners and
cowboys. Old Senator Curtis and several other of the Colorado men were
still with them, and one night they spoke at a mining hamlet on the
slope of a mountain that shot ten thousand feet above them. The
candidate was in great form, and made one of his best speeches, amid
roars of applause. The audience was so well pleased that it would not
disperse when he finished, and wished vociferously to know if there were
not another spellbinder on the stage. Then the spirit of mischief
entered the soul of Hobart.
The Honorable Herbert sat at the corner of the stage, the white spats
still gleaming defiance, his whole appearance, despite recent
modifications, showing that he was a strange bird in a strange land.
Hobart constituted himself chairman for the moment, and, pointing to Mr.
Heathcote, said:
"Gentlemen, one of the ablest and most famous of our national
committeemen is upon the stage, and he will be glad to address you."
The audience cheered, half in expectation and half in derision, but the
Honorable Herbert, who had never made a speech in his life, rose to the
cry. His figure straightened up, there was a new light in his eye, and
Harley, startled, did not know Mr. Heathcote. As he advanced to the edge
of the stage the shouts of derision overcame those of expectation.
Harley heard the words "Dude!" "Tenderfoot!" mingled with the cries, but
the Honorable Herbert gave no sign that he heard. He reached the edge of
the stage, waved his hand, and then there was silence.
"Friends," he said--"I call you such, though you have not received me in
a friendly manner--"
The crowd breathed hard, and some one uttered a threat, but another man
commanded silence. "Give him a chance!" he said.
"You have not received me in a friendly manner," resumed the Honorable
Herbert, "but I am your friend, and I am resolved that you shall be
mine. I cannot make a speech to you, but I will tell you a story which
perhaps will serve as well."