The man who had been bought sat not far from Uncle Billy. He was a furtive, untidy slouch of a man, formerly a Republican; he had a great capacity for “handling the coloured vote” and his name was Pixley. Hurlbut mistrusted him; the young man had that instinct, which good leaders need, for feeling the weak places in his following; and he had the leader’s way, too, of ever bracing up the weakness and fortifying it; so he stopped, four or five times a day, at Pixley’s desk, urging the necessity of standing fast for the “Breaker,” and expressing convictions as to the political future of a Democrat who should fail to vote for it; to which Pixley assented in his husky, tough-ward voice.
All day long now, Hurlbut and his lieutenants, disregarding the routine of bills, went up and down the lines, fending off the lobbyists and such Republicans as were working openly for the bill. They encouraged and threatened and never let themselves be too confident of their seeming strength. Some of those who were known, or guessed, to be of the “weaker brethren” were not left to themselves for half an hour at a time, from their breakfasts until they went to bed. There was always at elbow the “Hold fast!” whisper of Hurlbut and his lieutenants. None of them ever thought of speaking to Uncle Billy.
Hurlbut’s “work was cut out for him,” as they said. What work it is to keep every one of fifty men honest under great temptation for three weeks (which time it took for the hampered and filibustered bill to come up for its passage or defeat), is known to those who have tried to do it. The railroads were outraged and incensed by the measure; they sincerely believed it to be monstrous and thievish. “Let the legislature try to confiscate two-fifths of the lawyers’, or the bakers’, or the ironmoulders’, just earnings,” said they, “and see what will happen!”
When such a bill as this comes to the floor for the third time the fight is already over, oratory is futile; and Cicero could not budge a vote. The railroads were forced to fight as best they could; this was the old way that they have learned is most effective in such a case. Votes could not be had to “oblige a friend” on the “Breaker” bill; nor could they be procured by arguments to prove the bill unjust. In brief: the railroad lobby had no need to buy Republican votes (with the exception of the one or two who charged out of habit whenever legislation concerned corporations), for the Republicans were against the bill, but they did mortally need to buy two Democratic votes, and were willing to pay handsomely for them. Nevertheless, Mr. Pixley’s price was not exorbitant, considering the situation; nor need he have congratulated himself so heartily as he did (in moments of retirement from public life) upon his prospective $2,000 (when the goods should be delivered) since his vote was assisting the railroads to save many million dollars a year.
Of course the lobby attacked the bill noisily; there were big guns going all day long; but those in charge knew perfectly well that the noise accomplished nothing in itself. It was used to cover the whispering. Still, Hurlbut held his line firm and the bill passed its second reading with fifty-two votes, Mr. Pixley being directed by his owners to vote for it on that occasion.
As time went on the lobby began to grow desperate; even Pixley had been consulted upon his opinion by Barrett, the young lawyer through whom negotiations in his case had been conducted. Pixley suggested the name of Rollinson and Barrett dismissed this counsel with as much disgust for Pixley’s stupidity as he had for the man’s person. (One likes a dog when he buys him.)
“But why not?” Pixley had whined as he reached the door. “Uncle Billy ain’t so much! You listen to me. He wouldn’t take it out-an’-out — I don’t say as he would. But you needn’t work that way. Everybody thinks it’s no use to tackle him — but nobody never tried! What’s he done to make you scared of him? Nothing! Jest set there and looked!”
After he had gone the fellow’s words came back to Barrett: “Nobody never tried!” And then, to satisfy his conscience that he was leaving no stone unturned, yet laughing at the uselessness of it, he wrote a letter to a confidant of his, formerly a colleague in the lobby, who lived in the county-seat near which Uncle Billy’s mortgaged acres lay. The answer came the night after the second vote on the “Breaker.”
“Dear Barrett:
“I agree with your grafter. I don’t believe Rollinson would be hard to approach if it were done with tact — of course you don’t want to tackle him the way you would a swine like Pixley. A good many people around here always thought the old man simple-minded. He was given the nomination almost in joke — nobody else wanted it, because they all thought the Republicans had a sure thing of it; but Rollinson slid in on the general Democratic landslide in this district. He’s got one son, a worthless pup, Henry, a sort of yokel Don Juan, always half drunk when his father has any money to give him, and just smart enough to keep the old man mesmerized. Lately Henry’s been in a mighty serious peck of trouble. Last fall he got married to a girl here in town. Three weeks ago a family named Johnson, the most shiftless in the county, the real low-down white trash sort, living on a truck patch out Rollinson’s way, heard that Henry was on a toot in town, spending money freely, and they went after him. A client of mine rents their ground to them and told me all about it. It seems they claim that one of the daughters in the Johnson family was Henry’s common-law wife before he married the other girl, and it’s more than likely they can prove it. They are hollering for $600, and if Henry doesn’t raise it mighty quick they swear they’ll get him sent over the road for bigamy. I think the old man would sell his soul to keep his boy out of the penitentiary and he’s at his wits’ ends; he hasn’t anything to raise the money on and he’s up against it. He’ll do any thing on earth for Henry. Hope this’ll be of some service to you, and if there’s anything more I can do about it you better call me up on the long distance.
“Yours faithfully,
J. P. WATSON.
“P.S. — You might mention to our old boss that I don’t want anything if services are needed; but a pass for self and family to New York and return would come in handy.”
Barrett telegraphed an answer at once: “If it goes you can have annual for yourself and family. Will call you up at two sharp to-morrow.”
It was late the following night when the lobbyist concluded his interview with Representative Rollinson, in the latter’s little room, half lighted by the oil-smelling lamp.
“I knew you would understand, Mr. Rollinson,” said Barrett as he rose to go. His eyes danced and his jaws set with the thought that had been jubilant within him for the last half-hour: “We’ve got ’em! We’ve got ’em! We’ve got ’em!” The railroads had defended their own again.
“Of course,” he went on, “we wouldn’t have dreamed of coming to you and asking you to vote against this outrageous bill if we thought for a minute that you had any real belief in it or considered it a good bill. But you say, yourself, your only feeling about it was to oblige Mr. Hurlbut, and you admit, too, that you’ve voted his way on every other bill of the session. Surely, as I’ve already said so many times, you don’t think he’d be so unreasonable as to be angry with you for differing with him on the merits of only one! No, no, Hurlbut’s a very sensible fellow about such matters. You don’t need to worry about that! After all I’ve said, surely you won’t give it another thought, will you?”
Uncle Billy sat in the shadow, bent far over, slowly twisting his thin, corded hands, the fingers tightly interlocked. It was a long time before he spoke, and his interlocutor had to urge him again before he answered, in his gentle, quavering voice.
“No, I reckon not, if you say so.”
“Certainly not,” said Barrett briskly. “Why of course, we’d never have thought of making you a money offer to vote either for or against your principles. Not much! We don’t do business that way! We simply want to do something for you. We’ve wanted to, all during the session, but the opportunity hadn’t offered until I happened to hear your son was in trouble.”
Out of the shadow came a long, tremulous sigh. There was a moment’s pause; then Uncle Billy’s
head sank slowly lower and rested on his hands.
“You see,” the other continued cheerfully, “we make no conditions, none in the world. We feel friendly to you and want to oblige you, but of course we do think you ought to show a little good-will towards us. I believe it’s all understood: to-morrow night Mr. Watson will drive out in his buggy to this Johnson place, and he’s empowered by us to settle the whole business and obtain a written statement from the family that they have no claim on your son. How he will settle it is neither your affair nor mine; nor whether it costs money or not. But he will settle it. We do that out of good-will to you, as long as we feel as friendly to you as we do now, and all we ask is that you show your good-will to us.”
It was plain, even to Uncle Billy, that if he voted against Mr. Barrett’s friends in the afternoon those friends might not feel so much good-will toward him in the evening as they did now: and Mr. Watson might not go to the trouble of hitching up his buggy to drive out to the Johnsons’.
“You see, it’s all out of friendship,” said Barrett, his hand on the door knob. “And we can count on your’s to-morrow, can’t we — absolutely?”
The grey head sank a little lower, and then after a moment the quavering voice answered:
“Yes, sir — I’ll be friendly.”
Before morning, Hurlbut lost another vote. One of his best men left on a night train for the bedside of his dying wife. This meant that the “Breaker” needed every one of the fifty-one remaining Democratic votes in order to pass. Hurlbut more than distrusted Pixley, yet he felt sure of the other fifty, and if, upon the reading of the bill, Pixley proved false, the bill would not be lost, since there would be a majority of votes in its favour, though not the constitutional majority of fifty-one required for its passage, and it could be brought up again and carried when the absent man returned. Thus, on the chance that Pixley had withstood tampering, Hurlbut made no effort to prevent the bill from coming to the floor in its regular order in the afternoon, feeling that it could not possibly be killed by a majority against it, for he trusted his fifty, now, as strongly as he distrusted Pixley.
And so the roll-call on the “Breaker” began, rather quietly, though there was no man’s face in the hall that was not set to show the tensity of high-strung nerves. The great crowd that had gathered and choked the galleries and the floor beyond the bar, and the Senators who had left their own chamber to watch the bill in the House, all began to feel disappointed; for nothing happened until Pixley’s name was called.
Pixley voted “No!”
Uncle Billy, sitting far down in his leather chair on the small of his back, heard the outburst of shouting that followed; but he could not see Pixley, for the traitor was instantly surrounded by a ring of men, and all that was visible from where he sat was their backs and upraised, gesticulating hands. Uncle Billy began to tremble violently; he had not calculated on this; but surely such things would not happen to him!
The Speaker’s gavel clicked through the uproar and the roll-call proceeded.
The clerk reached the name of Rollinson. Uncle Billy swallowed, threw a pale look about him and wrapped his damp hands in the skirts of his shiny old coat, as if to warm them. For a moment he could not answer. People turned to look at him.
“Rollinson!” shouted the clerk again.
“No,” said Uncle Billy.
Immediately he saw above him and all about him a blur of men’s faces and figures risen to their feet, he heard a hundred voices say breathlessly: “What!” and one that said: “My God, that kills the bill!”
Then a horrible and incredible storm burst upon him, and he who had sat all the session shrinking unnoticed in his quiet, back seat, unnerved when a colleague asked the simplest question, found himself the centre and point of attack in the wildest mêlée that legislature ever saw. A dozen men, red, frantic, with upraised arms, came at him, Hurlbut the first of them. But the lobby was there, too; for it was not part of its calculations that the old man should be frightened into changing his vote.
There need have been no fear of that. Uncle Billy was beyond the power of speech. The lobby’s agents swarmed on the floor, and, with half-a-dozen hysterically laughing Republicans, met the onset of Hurlbut and his men. It became a riot immediately. Sane men were swept up in it to be as mad as the rest, while the galleries screamed and shouted. All round the old man the fury was greatest; his head sank over his desk and rested on his hands as it had the night before; for he dared not lift it to see the avalanche he had loosed upon himself. He would have liked to stop his ears to shut out the egregious clamour of cursing and yelling that beset him, as his bent head kept the glazed eyes from seeing the impossible vision of the attack that strove to reach him. He remembered awful dreams that were like this; and now, as then, he shuddered in a cold sweat, being as one who would draw the covers over his head to shelter him from horrors in great darkness. As Uncle Billy felt, so might a naked soul feel at the judgment day, tossed alone into the pit with all the myriads of eyes in the universe fastened on its sins.
He was pressed and jostled by his defenders; once a man’s shoulders were bent back down over his own and he was crushed against the desk until his ribs ached; voices thundered and wailed at him, threatening, imploring, cursing, cajoling, raving.
Smaller groups were struggling and shouting in every part of the room, the distracted sergeants-at-arms roaring and wrestling with the rest. On the high dais the Speaker, white but imperturbable, having broken his gavel, beat steadily with the handle of an umbrella upon the square of marble on his desk. Fifteen or twenty members, raging dementedly, were beneath him, about the clerk’s desk and on the steps leading up to his chair, each howling hoarsely:
“A point of order! A point of or-der!”
When the semblance of order came at last, the roll was finished, “reconsidered,” the “Breaker” was beaten, 50 to 49, was dead; and Uncle Billy Rollinson was creeping down the outer steps of the Statehouse in the cold February slush and rain.
He was glad to be out of the nightmare, though it seemed still upon him, the horrible clamours, all gonging and blaring at him; the red, maddened faces, the clenched fists, the open mouths, all raging at him — all the ruck and uproar swam about the dazed old man as he made his slow, unseeing way through the wet streets.
He was too late for dinner at his dingy boarding house, having wandered far, and he found himself in his room without knowing very well how he had come there, indeed, scarcely more than half-conscious that he was there. He sat, for a long time, in the dark. After a while he mechanically lit the lamp, sat again to stare at it, then, finding his eyes watering, he turned from it with an incoherent whimper, as if it had been a person from whom he would conceal the fact that he was weeping. He leaned his arm, against the window sill and dried his eyes on the shiny sleeve.
An hour later, there came a hard, imperative knock on the door. Uncle Billy raised his head and said gently:
“Come in.”
He rose to his feet uncertain, aghast, when he saw who his visitor was. It was Hurlbut.
The young man confronted him darkly, for a moment, in silence. He was dripping with rain; his hat, unremoved, shaded lank black locks over a white face; his nostrils were wide with wrath; the “dry cigar” wagged between gritting teeth.
“Will ye take a chair?” faltered Uncle Billy.
The room rang to the loud answer of the other: “I’d see you in Hell before I’d sit in a chair of yours!”
He raised an arm, straight as a rod, to point at the old man. “Rollinson,” he said, “I’ve come here to tell you what I think of you! I’ve never done that in my life before, because I never thought any man worth it. I do it because I need the luxury of it — because I’m sick of myself not to have had gumption enough to see what you were all the time and have you watched!”
Uncle Billy was stung to a moment’s life. “Look here,” he quavered, “you hadn’t ought to talk that way to me. There ain’t a cent of money passed my fingers�
��”
Hurlbut’s bitter laugh cut him short. “No? Don’t you suppose I know how it was done? Do you suppose there’s a man in the whole Assembly doesn’t know how you were sold? I had it by the long distance an hour ago, from your own home. Do you suppose we have no friends there, or that it was hard to find out about the whole dirty business? Your son’s not going to stand trial for bigamy; that was the price you charged for killing the bill. You and Pixley are the only men whom they could buy with all their millions! Oh, I know a dozen men who could be bought on other issues, but not on this! You and Pixley stand alone. Well, you’ve broken the caucus and you’ve betrayed the Democratic party. I’ve come to tell you that the party doesn’t want you any more. You are out of it, do you hear? We don’t want even to use you!”
The old man had sunk back into his chair, stricken white, his hands fluttering helplessly. “I didn’t go to hurt your feelings, Mr. Hurlbut,” he said. “I never knowed how it would be, but I don’t think you ought to say I done anything dishonest. I just felt kind of friendly to the railroads—”
The leader’s laugh cut him off again. “Friendly! Yes, that’s what you were! Well, you can go back to your friends; you’ll need them! — Mother in Heaven! How you fooled us! We thought you were the straightest man and the staunchest Democrat—”
“I b’en a Democrat all my life, Mr. Hurlbut. I voted fer—”
“Well, you’re a Democrat no longer. You’re done for, do you understand? And we’re done with you!”
“You mean,” the old man’s voice shook almost beyond control; “you mean you’re tryin’ to read me out of the party?”
“Trying to!” Hurlbut turned to the door. “You’re out! It’s done. You can thank God that your ‘friends’ did their work so well that we can’t prove what we know. On my soul, you dog, if we could I believe some of the boys would send you over the road.”
An hour after he had gone, Uncle Billy roused himself from his stupor, and the astonished landlady heard his shuffling step on the stair. She followed him softly and curiously to the front door, and watched him. He was bare-headed but had not far to go. The night-flare of the cheap, all-night saloon across the sodden street silhouetted the stooping figure for a moment and then the swinging doors shut the old man from her view. She returned to her parlour and sat waiting for his return until she fell asleep in her chair. She awoke at two o’clock, went to his room, and was aghast to find it still vacant.
Collected Works of Booth Tarkington Page 472