The Landloper: The Romance of a Man on Foot
voice on the opposite side of the hall.
Other voices pot-shotted at him with the words, “Nelson Sinkler.”
“Will one man in this convention stand up and show himself so that I can
talk to him face to face?” shouted the man at bay.
Detective Mullaney and Richard Dodd could not find seats. The others
were sitting, and the two were marked men.
“Well, Dodd, you have been whispering. What have you to say aloud?”
demanded the man they were baiting.
“I say your name is not Walker Farr.”
“You!” The tall young man darted a finger at Mullaney.
“I say you're Nelson Sinkler.”
“And what of him?”
“He is wanted by the state of Nebraska for murder.”
A sound that was mingled sigh and groan ran and throbbed from galleries
to floor; it filled the great hall and seemed to vibrate back and forth
over the assemblage. And for the long minute that the dreadful sound
continued until it had breathed itself out into horrified silence the
man who stood on the settee looked straight into the white face of the
girl in the gallery.
But those of the throng who devoured him with eager stares could not
discern one trace of confession on his countenance.
Then he did a strange thing.
He held his arms out toward Detective Mullaney and crossed them, wrist
over wrist, and he smiled.
“If you are certain enough of your man to dare to arrest me, sir, I
stand here waiting for the handcuffs.”
The detective hesitated, visibly embarrassed. He had been looking for
confusion, confession by manner, even collapse.
“This is a put-up political job,” declared a delegate. “That's no
murderer--that man.”
“I am waiting,” repeated Farr.
Detective Mullaney flushed. There were murmurs of hostility in the
throng about him. He ran over swiftly in his mind the contents of his
note-book and fortified his courage.
“I haven't secured a warrant yet--but I'll take your dare,” he
announced. He started to come down the aisle.
“Just one moment,” called a stentorian voice in the gallery. “You're
wrong, my man, down there. I don't want to see an innocent person
disgraced in public nor an officer get himself into a scrape. That man
is not Nelson Sinkler.”
“What are we running here--a state convention or a police court?”
Colonel Dodd demanded, leaping up and grabbing the arm of the presiding
officer. “Order all those men ejected from the hall.”
But at that moment the convention was not in the control of the
chairman. Irregular as it all was, human nature demanded to be shown
there and then.
Delegates arose, shouting, and surrounded Farr, making effectual
bulwarks against Mullaney with their bodies. Voices asked the stranger
in the gallery for information, and he motioned the vociferous mob into
silence.
“I am a United States post-office inspector, and I can easily prove my
identity, gentlemen. I'm here in this convention merely as a spectator,
killing time till my train leaves. But I know Nelson Sinkler because
I arrested him a month or so ago after he had been a fugitive for two
years. He killed a mail clerk. He is now awaiting trial. If that man
down there is arrested as being Nelson Sinkler it will mean a lot of
trouble for somebody.” He sat down.
“Who are you?” yelled a chorus of the ring's henchmen. They pressed as
near to Farr as his body-guard would permit and shook their fists at
him.
“I am a man and not a spirit,” he said in the first silence--and
silence came quickly, for they were eager to hear. “You can see that
for yourselves. But just now I am less a man than a _Voice_.” He shouted
that last word. “The Voice calls you to rebuke the kind of politics that
has just been attempted here. You have seen, you have heard! Will you
indorse it by your votes? Will you keep in power that gang that has
attempted it in the desperation of defeat?”
“No,” the voices of men tumultuously replied.
Reckless and unjust attack had never tossed a more golden opportunity
into a man's hands.
“Then come over to the side of decency, my men. Nominate a champion who
will be spotless and unafraid. There is war in this commonwealth instead
of politics. Through one war the great patriot of this state led his
people with high chivalry. For the next governor of this state, in these
trying times, I nominate the son of that patriot--the Honorable Archer
Converse of this city--God bless him!”
“We're licked,” gasped Colonel Dodd, trying to make the state chairman
hear him, for the roar that rocked the great hall was deafening. “A
boomerang has come back and mowed us flatter than an oven door in
tophet.”
In the rout, in the retreat--horse, foot and dragoons--crisp orders
were issued and obeyed. The friends of Governor Harwood had only one
resource--it was to save that gentleman's face. His nomination was
withdrawn.
That convention had run amuck, it was a mass of wild men who were
feeling liberty from oppression for the first time and gloried in their
new and sudden freedom from ring rule.
Then the delegates who came upon their feet roared the unanimous
nomination of Archer Converse.
In the gale of that acclaim the opposition uttered no protest; the
delegates who still remained loyal to the machine scowled and kept their
seats.
Ducking under the tossing arms of men who flung aloft their hats and
cheered with the frenzy of delight that the amazing victory inspired,
Richard Dodd escaped to the rear of the hall and jammed himself into the
press of the spectators. He hid behind a hedge of bodies and then dared
to look at Colonel Dodd's face. The mighty passion which flamed on
the uncle's countenance was revealed to the nephew's gaze even at that
distance. The colonel was at the edge of the platform and was beckoning
imperiously to some one. Young Dodd saw Detective Mullaney work his
way out of the throng which surrounded Walker Farr; the officer was
obviously obeying the summons of Colonel Dodd and marched to the
platform and climbed on a chair in order to converse with the angry man
who had beckoned.
And when Richard Dodd saw that conference begin overwhelming fear swept
out of his soul all other emotions. He no longer had eyes for that girl
in the gallery. Not even love and the promise she had made availed to
stay him. Panic allowed him no time for planning an excuse or framing a
lie. In playing for the stakes he had exacted he had felt that his uncle
would hold no autopsy on the price of success. But five thousand dollars
plucked from the Dodd pocket by a falsehood for which no excuse could
be offered! And on top of that a crushing defeat which had been made
definite and final by the work which Colonel Dodd had paid for!
The nephew saw Mullaney shake his head and throw up his hands in appeal
and protest.
That spectacle made Richard Dodd a fugitive who thought only of saving
himself. He fought his way through the crowd and ran out of the hall.
The thought of facing Symonds Dodd in that crisis or of waiting to be
dragged before the furious tyrant--that thought lashed the traitor into
mad flight.
He glanced up at the clock in the First National tower. He had three
minutes before the bank's closing time. He controlled his emotions as
best he could and presented the check at the paying-teller's grill.
The money was counted out to him without question, and when he held the
thick packet in his hand he realized still more acutely in what position
he stood in his affairs with Symonds Dodd.
He rushed to a garage, secured his car, and fled.
“I tell you I gave my nephew a check for five thousand dollars,”
insisted the colonel. “And the Dodds don't lie to each other!”
“Then they have begun to do it,” declared Mullaney. “He has
double-crossed the two of us. There was never any talk between us of
more than five hundred for the job.”
Colonel Dodd hurried into the anteroom and called the bank on the
telephone. “Almighty Herod!” he yelped, when he was informed that the
check had been cashed. He banged the receiver upon its hook. “Even my
own nephew has joined the pack of those damnation wolves!”
Then with the air of a man recovering from a blow and wondering dizzily
what had struck him, he left the convention hall by a rear door and went
to his office.
Those whom he passed on his way out made no attempt to stop him, did not
urge him to remain. That convention seemed to be doing very well without
calling upon Colonel Symonds Dodd for help or suggestions.
XXX
A GIRL'S IMPULSE
Herald unofficial, _avant courier_, Mr. Daniel Breed squeezed himself
through the pack of people while they were still cheering the name of
the Honorable Archer Converse.
“Giving candy to youngsters and good news to grown folks never
made anybody specially unpopular,” Mr. Breed assured himself with
politician's sagacity.
Therefore, he jog-trotted down to the Converse law-offices and shot
himself into the presence of the estimable gentleman who had remained
aloof from the distracting business of a convention.
“He's done it,” proclaimed Mr. Breed, making his sentences short and his
message to the point because he was out of breath.
“Who has done what?” demanded Mr. Converse, with equal crispness.
“Farr. You're nominated for governor. Acclamation! He's a wiz with his
tongue.” Mr. Breed pursed his little mouth and “sipped” with gusto.
“Some talker! Don't ever tell me that good talk doesn't win when the
right man makes it at the right time.”
Mr. Converse rose and stood--a rigid statue of consternation and
protest. “Do you mean to come in here and tell me that I have been
nominated by that state convention? Without my sanction? Without my
consent?”
“Sure thing! Easy work! Played all the tricks. Made believe he was
green. Poked rights and lefts to Harwood's jaw. Had himself paged as
a murderer--at least, I reckon it was his own get-up. It cinched the
thing, anyway. He understands human nature.”
But Mr. Converse did not in the least understand this talk. “Look here,
Breed, you haven't gone crazy yourself, along with the rest, have you?”
“Nobody's crazy. People have simply woke up.”
“I'll be eternally condemned if I--”
“That's right! You will be if you don't button up your coat and go over
to the hall along with that notification committee that's probably on
the way, give the folks your best bow, and say you'll take the job.
We're some little team when we get started.”
“You're an infernal steer team, and you have dragged me into a mess of
trouble,” declared Mr. Converse, with venom.
“Glad you're in,” retorted the imperturbable Breed. “A man needs more or
less trouble so as to round himself out; I've been having some troubles
of my own. Whatever job you give me after you're elected, don't put me
back with them stuffed animals. Harwood made his mistake right there!”
“It has begun already, has it?” asked Converse, indignantly.
“Office-seekers at it?”
“Sure thing!” responded Mr. Breed, amiably. “When you cool down you'll
remember that I got to you first with the good news.”
Five minutes later the Honorable Archer Converse, muttering, but more
calm, was marching toward the convention hall in the company of a proud
committee of notification.
He walked out upon the platform and waited for the wild tumult of
greeting to subside, and while he waited he searched the assemblage with
stern scrutiny to find the face of Walker Farr.
But that young worker of miracles was not in evidence.
He had risen with the others when the band began to blare the music
which signaled the approach of the nominee.
Once more he turned his gaze toward the girl in the gallery.
There was nothing in his demeanor to suggest that he had been a victor.
His face was white, and after his eyes had held hers for a long time
he gave her a wistful little smile which expressed regret, sorrow,