The Candidate: A Political Romance
Harley now found himself under the strain of an extreme anxiety. He did
not realize until this day how deeply his own feelings were interwoven
with the fate of the campaign, and how bleak the night would look to him
and Sylvia if Mr. Grayson were beaten--and he knew that the odds were
against him; despite himself, he, a man of calm mind and strong will,
was a prey to nerves. He began to shrink at the thought of the count of
the votes, and to fear the first real bulletins.
He walked about the streets awhile to steady himself, and then looked at
his watch. It was past noon there, but later in the East and earlier in
the West; yet the bulk of the ballots were cast already. In three or
four hours more the tabulated vote in the states farthest east would
begin to arrive, and they would listen to the opening chapter of the
story, a story which he feared to hear.
Absorbed in his thoughts, he had strolled unconsciously towards the
country. There, at a turn of the road, he met two people in a light
wagon, and they were the candidate and his wife Mrs. Grayson driving.
Harley looked up in surprise at their calm, cheerful faces. How could
they assume such an air with the combat at its height?
"I'm sorry you and Sylvia were not with us," said Mr. Grayson; "Mrs.
Grayson has been taking me to see the changes in the country since I
went campaigning. There are a half-dozen new residences in the suburb
out yonder, and they've built a new foot-bridge, too, over the river.
Oh, our city is looking up!"
They drove on cheerfully, and Harley went back to town. All the
arrangements for the night were made; the two great telegraph companies
would handle their despatches in equal proportion, and would send
bulletins of the count, as fast as they came, to the candidate.
Headquarters would do the same, and there would be no lack of news.
Harley rejoined his comrades at the hotel, but stayed with them only a
little while, because he, of course, was to dine with Sylvia and the
Graysons. All the others had been invited, but they did not wish to
overwhelm the candidate on this day of all days, and none except "King"
Plummer would go.
"Lucky fellow," said Hobart, as Harley walked away.
"But not luckier than he deserves," said Blaisdell.
After dinner Hobart looked at his watch, then shut it, and with a quick
motion thrust it into his pocket.
"The polls have closed in three-fourths of the states," he said, "and
probably somebody is elected. I wonder who it is?"
Nobody replied, but on their way to Jimmy Grayson's house they passed
through the party headquarters. The rooms were so crowded that they
could scarcely move, but they managed to approach the blackboard, and
they saw written upon it:
"Goodnight, Crayon, and others claim decisive defeat of Grayson. Assert
that he will not get one-third the vote of the electoral college."
"What nonsense!" exclaimed Hobart, who felt a thrill of anger. "Why,
they have not begun the count of the vote anywhere!"
They left the rooms and went into the street. The November twilight was
coming earlier than ever under the shadow of the thickening clouds, and
already lights were beginning to shine from many windows. Uniformed
messenger-boys were passing.
"The wires will soon be talking," said Churchill.
The candidate's house was not inferior to any in the number of its
lights. In the cold, dark twilight it reared a cheerful front, and the
candidate himself, when he received them, was steady and calm.
"Some of our friends are here already," he said, and he had them shown
into the large room, where the tables for their use had been placed.
It was brilliantly illuminated, and a dozen men were sitting about
speculating on the events of the day and hoping for a happy result.
Among them was old Senator Curtis, who had come all the way from
Wyoming, and he was loudly declaring that if Mr. Grayson were not
elected he would never take any interest in another Presidential
election. The others made no comment on his declaration.
Harley came in late. At dinner with the Graysons he had been thinking,
when he looked at Sylvia's lovely face across the table, that it would
always be just across the table from him now, and the thought was such a
happy one that it clung to him.
The correspondents disposed themselves about the room, and placed pencil
and paper on the tables; yet there would be nothing for them to write
for a long time. They were only to tell the story of how the candidate
took it, after the story itself was told. Their business was with either
a paean or a dirge.
Harley looked around at the group, all of whom he knew.
"Have you fellows thought that this is our last meeting?" he asked.
There was a sudden silence in the room. All seemed to feel the solemnity
of the moment. Out in the street some happy men, who had helped to empty
the bowl, were singing a campaign song, and its sound came faintly to
the group.
"A wager to you boys that none of you can name the state from which the
first completed return will come. What odds will you give?" said "King"
Plummer, who was resolutely seeking to be cheerful.
"We won't take your wager because we'd win, sure," said Hobart. "It will
be a precinct in New York City, up-town. They get through quick there;
they never fail to be first."
"Whatever the vote there is, I am going to look upon it as an omen,"
said Mr. Heathcote. "If our majority is reduced it will mean a bad
start, good ending; if our majority is increased, it will mean that a
good beginning is half the battle."
Dexter, the chairman of the state campaign committee, entered, his thin
face still shadowed by gloomy thoughts.
"We've had a few bulletins at headquarters, but nothing definite," he
said. "All the reports so far are from the East, of course, owing to the
difference in time, but I'd like mighty well to know what they are doing
out there on the Slope and in the Rockies."
"We'll know in good time, Charlie; just you wait," said Jimmy Grayson,
who was the calmest man in the room.
"I've done enough waiting already to last me the rest of my life," said
Dexter, moodily.
The door was opened softly, and four or five pairs of young eyes peeped
shyly into the room. The candidate, with assurances that there was
nothing to be told, gently pushed the youthful figures away and closed
the door again.
"I would put them to bed," he said, apologetically, "but they can't
sleep, and it is not any use for them to try; so they are supposed to be
shepherded in another part of the house by a nurse, but they seem to
break the bounds now and then."
"I claim the privilege of carrying them the good news when we get it, if
they are still awake," said Harley.
A messenger-boy entered with a despatch, but it contained no
information, merely an assurance from a devoted New England adherent
that he believed Jimmy Grayson was elected, as he felt it in his bones.
"Why does a man waste time and money in telegraphing us a thing like
that?" said Dexter. "It isn't worth anything."
But Harley was not so sure. He believed with Jimmy Grayson that good
wishes had more than a sentimental value. He went to the window and
gazed into the street. The number of people singing campaign songs as
they waited for the news was increasing, and the echoes of much laughter
and talk floated towards the house. Farther down the street they were
throwing flash-lights on white canvas in front of a great crowd, but so
far the bulletins were only humorous quotations or patent-medicine
advertisements, each to be saluted at the beginning with a cheer and at
the end with a groan. He turned back to the table just as another boy
bearing a despatch entered the room.
Mr. Dexter had constituted himself the clerk of the evening--that is, he
was to sit at the centre-table and read the despatches as they came. He
took the yellow envelope from the boy, tore it open, and paused a
moment. Then all knew by the change upon his face that the first news
had come. Dexter turned to Hobart.
"You were right," he said, "it is from New York City, up-town. The
Thirty-first Assembly District in the City of New York gives a majority
of 824 for Grayson. This is official."
At another table sat a man with a book containing the complete vote of
all the election districts in every state of the Union at the preceding
Presidential election. All looked inquiringly at him, and he instantly
made the comparison.
"We carried the Thirty-first Assembly District of the City of New York
by 1077 four years ago," he said. "Our majority suffers a net loss of
253."
"Did I not tell you?" exclaimed Heathcote. "A bad start makes a good
ending."
"It's a happy sign," said Sylvia, with her usual resolute hopefulness.
But, despite themselves, a gloom settled upon all; the first report from
the battle was ominous--such a loss continued would throw the election
heavily in favor of the other man--and after her remark they were
silent.
Mrs. Grayson looked into the room, but they told her there was nothing,
and, whether she believed them or not, she closed the door again without
further question.
"Here comes another boy," said Hobart, who was at the window, watching
the crowd before the transparency.
"Now this is good news, sure," said "King" Plummer.
It was from another assembly district in New York City, and the party
majority was cut down again, but this time the reduction was only 62
votes.
"That's better," said Mr. Heathcote.
"It will have to be a great deal better to elect our man," whispered
Hobart to Harley.
Harley went to the window again, and looked down the street towards the
transparency, where the opposition voters were cheering wildly at the
first news so favorable to their side. Despite himself, Harley felt an
unreasoning anger towards them. "You cheer about nothing," he said to
himself. "This is only a few thousand votes among millions." Then he was
ashamed of his feeling, and left the window.
"The Hub speaks!" exclaimed Mr. Dexter, as he tore open another
envelope. Then he announced a vote from one of the wards of Boston.
"And it speaks right," said the man with the book. "Mr. Grayson cuts
down the majority polled against us there four years ago by 433 votes."
A little cheer was raised in the room, and down the street at the
transparency there was a cheer, too, but the voices were not the same as
those that cheered a few moments ago.
"Good old Boston," said Hobart, "and we made that gain right where the
enemy thought he was strongest!"
The first gain of the evening had a hopeful effect upon all, and they
spoke cheerfully.
But a vote from Providence, a minute later went the other way, and it
was followed by one of a similar nature from New Haven. The gloom
returned. Their minds fluctuated with the bulletins.
"It was too good to last," whispered Hobart, downcast.
The children again appeared at the door and wanted to know if their
father was elected. Sylvia took upon herself the task of assuring them
that he was not yet elected, but he certainly would be before many
hours. Then they went away sanguine and satisfied, and trying to keep
sleepy eyelids from closing. In the street the noise was increasing as
the crowd received facts, and the cheers were loud and various. But
those of the enemy predominated, and Harley thrilled more than once with
silent anger. A half-dozen men passed the house singing a song in
derision of Jimmy Grayson; some of the words came to them through the
window, and Sylvia flushed, but Mr. Grayson himself showed no sign that
he understood.
The telegrams now were arriving fast; there were two streams of boys,
one coming in at the door and the other going out, and Mr. Dexter, at
the table, settled to his work. For a while the chief sounds in the room