The Man That Corrupted Hadleyburg, and Other Stories
main strength and heroic courtesy. At this most inopportune time burst
upon the stillness the roar of a solitary voice--Jack Halliday's:
“THAT'S got the hall-mark on it!”
Then the house let go, strangers and all. Even Mr. Burgess's gravity
broke down presently, then the audience considered itself officially
absolved from all restraint, and it made the most of its privilege.
It was a good long laugh, and a tempestuously wholehearted one, but it
ceased at last--long enough for Mr. Burgess to try to resume, and for
the people to get their eyes partially wiped; then it broke out again,
and afterward yet again; then at last Burgess was able to get out these
serious words:
“It is useless to try to disguise the fact--we find ourselves in the
presence of a matter of grave import. It involves the honour of your
town--it strikes at the town's good name. The difference of a single
word between the test-remarks offered by Mr. Wilson and Mr. Billson
was itself a serious thing, since it indicated that one or the other of
these gentlemen had committed a theft--”
The two men were sitting limp, nerveless, crushed; but at these words
both were electrified into movement, and started to get up.
“Sit down!” said the Chair, sharply, and they obeyed. “That, as I have
said, was a serious thing. And it was--but for only one of them. But the
matter has become graver; for the honour of BOTH is now in formidable
peril. Shall I go even further, and say in inextricable peril? BOTH left
out the crucial fifteen words.” He paused. During several moments he
allowed the pervading stillness to gather and deepen its impressive
effects, then added: “There would seem to be but one way whereby this
could happen. I ask these gentlemen--Was there COLLUSION?--AGREEMENT?”
A low murmur sifted through the house; its import was, “He's got them
both.”
Billson was not used to emergencies; he sat in a helpless collapse. But
Wilson was a lawyer. He struggled to his feet, pale and worried, and
said:
“I ask the indulgence of the house while I explain this most painful
matter. I am sorry to say what I am about to say, since it must inflict
irreparable injury upon Mr. Billson, whom I have always esteemed and
respected until now, and in whose invulnerability to temptation I
entirely believed--as did you all. But for the preservation of my own
honour I must speak--and with frankness. I confess with shame--and I now
beseech your pardon for it--that I said to the ruined stranger all
of the words contained in the test-remark, including the disparaging
fifteen. (Sensation.) When the late publication was made I recalled
them, and I resolved to claim the sack of coin, for by every right I was
entitled to it. Now I will ask you to consider this point, and weigh it
well; that stranger's gratitude to me that night knew no bounds; he said
himself that he could find no words for it that were adequate, and that
if he should ever be able he would repay me a thousandfold. Now, then,
I ask you this; could I expect--could I believe--could I even remotely
imagine--that, feeling as he did, he would do so ungrateful a thing as
to add those quite unnecessary fifteen words to his test?--set a trap
for me?--expose me as a slanderer of my own town before my own people
assembled in a public hall? It was preposterous; it was impossible. His
test would contain only the kindly opening clause of my remark. Of that
I had no shadow of doubt. You would have thought as I did. You would
not have expected a base betrayal from one whom you had befriended
and against whom you had committed no offence. And so with perfect
confidence, perfect trust, I wrote on a piece of paper the opening
words--ending with “Go, and reform,”--and signed it. When I was about
to put it in an envelope I was called into my back office, and without
thinking I left the paper lying open on my desk.” He stopped, turned his
head slowly toward Billson, waited a moment, then added: “I ask you to
note this; when I returned, a little latter, Mr. Billson was retiring by
my street door.” (Sensation.)
In a moment Billson was on his feet and shouting:
“It's a lie! It's an infamous lie!”
The Chair. “Be seated, sir! Mr. Wilson has the floor.”
Billson's friends pulled him into his seat and quieted him, and Wilson
went on:
“Those are the simple facts. My note was now lying in a different place
on the table from where I had left it. I noticed that, but attached
no importance to it, thinking a draught had blown it there. That Mr.
Billson would read a private paper was a thing which could not occur to
me; he was an honourable man, and he would be above that. If you will
allow me to say it, I think his extra word 'VERY' stands explained: it
is attributable to a defect of memory. I was the only man in the world
who could furnish here any detail of the test-mark--by HONOURABLE means.
I have finished.”
There is nothing in the world like a persuasive speech to fuddle the
mental apparatus and upset the convictions and debauch the emotions of
an audience not practised in the tricks and delusions of oratory. Wilson
sat down victorious. The house submerged him in tides of approving
applause; friends swarmed to him and shook him by the hand and
congratulated him, and Billson was shouted down and not allowed to say a
word. The Chair hammered and hammered with its gavel, and kept shouting:
“But let us proceed, gentlemen, let us proceed!”
At last there was a measurable degree of quiet, and the hatter said:
“But what is there to proceed with, sir, but to deliver the money?”
Voices. “That's it! That's it! Come forward, Wilson!”
The Hatter. “I move three cheers for Mr. Wilson, Symbol of the special
virtue which--”
The cheers burst forth before he could finish; and in the midst
of them--and in the midst of the clamour of the gavel also--some
enthusiasts mounted Wilson on a big friend's shoulder and were going to
fetch him in triumph to the platform. The Chair's voice now rose above
the noise:
“Order! To your places! You forget that there is still a document to
be read.” When quiet had been restored he took up the document, and was
going to read it, but laid it down again saying “I forgot; this is not
to be read until all written communications received by me have
first been read.” He took an envelope out of his pocket, removed its
enclosure, glanced at it--seemed astonished--held it out and gazed at
it--stared at it.
Twenty or thirty voices cried out:
“What is it? Read it! read it!”
And he did--slowly, and wondering:
“'The remark which I made to the stranger--(Voices. “Hello! how's
this?”)--was this: “You are far from being a bad man. (Voices. “Great
Scott!”) Go, and reform.”' (Voice. “Oh, saw my leg off!”) Signed by Mr.
Pinkerton the banker.”
The pandemonium of delight which turned itself loose now was of a sort
to make the judicious weep. Those whose withers were unwrung laughed
till the tears ran down; the reporters, in throes of laughter, set down
disordered pot-hooks which would never in the world be decipherable; and
a sleeping dog jumped up scared out of its wits, and barked itself crazy
at the turmoil. All manner of cries were scattered through the din:
“We're getting rich--TWO Symbols of Incorruptibility!--without counting
Billson!” “THREE!--count Shadbelly in--we can't have too many!” “All
right--Billson's elected!” “Alas, poor Wilson! victim of TWO thieves!”
A Powerful Voice. “Silence! The Chair's fished up something more out of
its pocket.”
Voices. “Hurrah! Is it something fresh? Read it! read! read!”
The Chair (reading). “'The remark which I made,' etc. 'You are far from
being a bad man. Go,' etc. Signed, 'Gregory Yates.'”
Tornado of Voices. “Four Symbols!” “'Rah for Yates!” “Fish again!”
The house was in a roaring humour now, and ready to get all the fun out
of the occasion that might be in it. Several Nineteeners, looking pale
and distressed, got up and began to work their way towards the aisles,
but a score of shouts went up:
“The doors, the doors--close the doors; no Incorruptible shall leave
this place! Sit down, everybody!” The mandate was obeyed.
“Fish again! Read! read!”
The Chair fished again, and once more the familiar words began to fall
from its lips--“'You are far from being a bad man--'”
“Name! name! What's his name?”
“'L. Ingoldsby Sargent.'”
“Five elected! Pile up the Symbols! Go on, go on!”
“'You are far from being a bad--'”
“Name! name!”
“'Nicholas Whitworth.'”
“Hooray! hooray! it's a symbolical day!”
Somebody wailed in, and began to sing this rhyme (leaving out “it's”) to
the lovely “Mikado” tune of “When a man's afraid of a beautiful
maid;” the audience joined in, with joy; then, just in time, somebody
contributed another line--
“And don't you this forget--”
The house roared it out. A third line was at once furnished--
“Corruptibles far from Hadleyburg are--”
The house roared that one too. As the last note died, Jack Halliday's
voice rose high and clear, freighted with a final line--
“But the Symbols are here, you bet!”
That was sung, with booming enthusiasm. Then the happy house started
in at the beginning and sang the four lines through twice, with immense
swing and dash, and finished up with a crashing three-times-three and a
tiger for “Hadleyburg the Incorruptible and all Symbols of it which we
shall find worthy to receive the hall-mark to-night.”
Then the shoutings at the Chair began again, all over the place:
“Go on! go on! Read! read some more! Read all you've got!”
“That's it--go on! We are winning eternal celebrity!”
A dozen men got up now and began to protest. They said that this farce
was the work of some abandoned joker, and was an insult to the whole
community. Without a doubt these signatures were all forgeries--
“Sit down! sit down! Shut up! You are confessing. We'll find your names
in the lot.”
“Mr. Chairman, how many of those envelopes have you got?”
The Chair counted.
“Together with those that have been already examined, there are
nineteen.”
A storm of derisive applause broke out.
“Perhaps they all contain the secret. I move that you open them all and
read every signature that is attached to a note of that sort--and read
also the first eight words of the note.”
“Second the motion!”
It was put and carried--uproariously. Then poor old Richards got up,
and his wife rose and stood at his side. Her head was bent down, so that
none might see that she was crying. Her husband gave her his arm, and so
supporting her, he began to speak in a quavering voice:
“My friends, you have known us two--Mary and me--all our lives, and I
think you have liked us and respected us--”
The Chair interrupted him:
“Allow me. It is quite true--that which you are saying, Mr. Richards;
this town DOES know you two; it DOES like you; it DOES respect you;
more--it honours you and LOVES you--”
Halliday's voice rang out:
“That's the hall-marked truth, too! If the Chair is right, let the house
speak up and say it. Rise! Now, then--hip! hip! hip!--all together!”
The house rose in mass, faced toward the old couple eagerly, filled the
air with a snow-storm of waving handkerchiefs, and delivered the cheers
with all its affectionate heart.
The Chair then continued:
“What I was going to say is this: We know your good heart, Mr. Richards,
but this is not a time for the exercise of charity toward offenders.
(Shouts of “Right! right!”) I see your generous purpose in your face,
but I cannot allow you to plead for these men--”
“But I was going to--”
“Please take your seat, Mr. Richards. We must examine the rest of these
notes--simple fairness to the men who have already been exposed requires
this. As soon as that has been done--I give you my word for this--you