Two Candidates

OR six years a Democrat had been mayor, and for six years the town had been plundered. For six years the Republicans had striven, with might and main, to regain the power—and the right to plunder. It did not matter which party ruled, graft (let us omit the quotation-marks) was the tocsin. The citizens were robbed, openly or covertly according to the policy of the party in office. There was no independent paper in town; so, from one month's end to another it was leaded editorial vituperation. Then Caliban revolted. An independent party was about to be formed.

The two bosses, however, were equal to the occasion. They immediately hustled around and secured as candidates for the mayoralty two prominent young men whose honesty and integrity were unimpeachable. Caliban, as is his habit, sheathed his sword and went back to his bench, his desk, or whatever his occupation was.

On the Republican side they nominated a rich young clubman. Now, as you will readily agree, it is always written largely on the political banner that a man who is rich has no incentive to become a grafter. The public is ever willing to trust its funds tn a millionaire. The Democrats, with equal cunning, brought along a brilliant young attorney, whose income was rather moderate but whose ability and promise were great. The Democratic organs hailed his nomination with delight. “We want one of the people to represent. us, not one of the privileged class.” You see, there happened to be no rich young Democrat available.

These two candidates were close personal friends. They had been chums from boyhood and had been graduated from the same college. They belonged to the same clubs, and were acknowledged to be the best horse-men in town. As to social prominence, neither had any advantage over the other, save in the eyes of matrons who possessed marriageable (and extravagant) daughters. Williard, the Republican nominee, was a handsome chap, liberal-minded and generous-hearted, without a personal enemy in the world. I recollect only one fault: he loved the world a little too well. The opposition organs, during the heat of the campaign, dropped vague hints regarding dinners to singers and actresses, and large stakes in poker-games. Carrington, his opponent, was not handsome, but he had a fine, clean-cut, manly face, an intrepid eye, a resolute mouth, and a tremendous ambition. He lived well within his income, the highest recommendation that may be given to a young man of these days.

He threw himself into the fight with all the ardor of which his nature was capable; whereas Williard was content to let the machine direct his movements. The truth is, Williard was indifferent whether he became mayor or not. To him the conflict was a diversion, a new fish to Lucullus; and when the Democratic organs wrote scathing editorials about what they termed his profligate career, he would laugh and exhibit the articles at the club. It was all a huge joke. He made very few speeches, and at no time could he be forced into the foreign districts. He complained that his olfactory nerve was too delicately educated. The leaders swallowed their rancor; there was nothing else for them to do. In Williard's very lack of ambition lay his strength. Poverty would have made a great man out of him; but riches have a peculiar way of numbing the appreciation of the greater and simpler things in life.

Carrington went everywhere; the Poles hurrahed for him, the Germans, the Irish, the Huns, and the Italians. And he made no promises which he did not honestly intend to fulfil [sic]. To him the fight meant everything; it meant fame and honor, a comfortable addition to his income, and Washington as a finality. He would purify the Democrats while he annihilated the pretensions of the Republicans. He was what historians call an active dreamer, a man Who dreams and then goes forth to accomplish things. His personality was engaging.

Besides all this (for the secret must be told), Carrington was in love and wished to have all these things to lay at the feet of his beloved, even if she returned them. You will regularly find it to be true that the single man is far more ambitious than his married brother. The latter invariably turns over the contract to his wife.

Williard was deeply in love, too, and, oddly enough, with the same girl. Senator Gordon's lovely daughter; and Senator Gordon was that mysterious power which directed the Republican forces in his section of the State. So you may readily believe that Carrington was forced to put up a better fight than Williard, who stood high in Senator Gordon's favor. The girl and the two young men had been friends since childhood, and nobody knew if she cared for either of them in the way they desired. Everybody in town, who was anybody, understood the situation; and everybody felt confident that Williard was most likely to win. The girl never said anything, not even to her intimate friends; but she had a way of smiling when the subject was brought up that dismissed it.

Such was the political situation at the beginning of the municipal campaign. There have been like situations in any number of cities which boasted of one hundred thousand inhabitants or more; perhaps in your town, and yours, and yours. That bugaboo of the politician, reform, brings round this phenomenon about once in every eight years. For a while the wicked ones promise to be good, and you will admit that that helps.

It was amusing to follow the newspapers. They vilified each other, ripped to shreds the character of each candidate, resurrected boyhood escapades and magnified them into frightful crimes, and declared in turn that the opposition boss should land in the penitentiary if it took all the type in the composing-rooms to put him there.

When Williard and Carrington met at the club, at the Saturday night luncheons, they avoided each other tactfully, secretly longing to grasp the other's hand and to say: “Don't believe a word of it, old boy; it's all tommy-rot.” But policy held them at arm's-length. What would the voters say if they heard that their respective candidates were hobnobbing at a private club? Carrington played billiards in the basement while Williard played a rubber at whist upstairs; and the Saturday rides out to the country club became forgotten. Only a few cynics like myself saw the droll side of the situation; and we were confident that when the election was over the friendship would be renewed, all the more strongly for the tension.

One night, some weeks before the election, Williard dined alone with the Senator at the Gordon home. Betty Gordon was dining elsewhere. With the cognac and cigars, the Senator drew out a slip of paper, scrutinized it for a space, then handed it to his protégé.

“That's the slate. How do you like it?”

Williard ran his glance up and down the columns. Once he frowned.

“What's the matter?” asked the Senator shrewdly.

“I do not like the idea of Matthews for Commissioner of Public works. He's a. There's no getting around that. He practically runs that faro-bank above his down-town saloon. Can't you put someone else in his place?"

The Senator filliped the ash from the end of his cigar.

“Honestly, my boy, I agree with your objection; but the word is given, and if we turn him down now, your friend Carrington will stand a pretty fair show of being the next mayor.”

“You might get a worse one,” Williard laughed. “Jack is one of the finest fellows in the world, loyally.”

“Not a bit of a doubt; but, politically,” said the Senator, laughing, “he is a rascal, a man without a particle of character, and all that. Personally speaking, I would that this town had more like him. Win or lose, he will always be welcome in this house. But this Matthews matter: you will have to swallow him or be swallowed.”

“He's a rascal.”

“Perhaps he is. Once you are elected, however, you can force him out, and be hanged to him. Just now it would be extremely dangerous. My boy, politics makes strange bed-fellows, as the saying goes. These men are necessary; to fight them is to cut your own throat. No one knows just how they get their power; but one morning you wake up and find them menacing you, and you have to placate them and toss them sops.”

“I might at least have been consulted.”

“I appreciated your antagonism beforehand. Politics is a peculiar business. A man must form about himself a shell as thick as a turtle's, or his feelings are going to be hurt. Now, if you'd like to change any one of these smaller offices, the Health Department doesn't matter. What do you say?”

“Oh, if Matthews remains on the slate, I do not care to alter the rest of it. But I warn you that I shall get rid of him at the earliest opportunity.”

“Just as you like.”

The Senator smiled covertly. Matthews was one of his henchmen in the larger matter of state. His name had been first to appear on the slate, and the Senator was determined that it should remain there. Not that he had any liking for the man; simply he was one of the wheels which made the machine run smoothly. The Senator knew his power of persuasion; he knew Williard's easy-going nature; but he also knew that these easy-going persons are terribly stubborn at times. He was obliged to hold on to Matthews. The gubernatorial campaign was looming up for the ensuing year, and the Senator was curious to learn the real power that went with the seal of a governor of a first-class State.

There followed an intermission in the conversation. Williard smoked thoughtfully. He recalled the years during which he had accepted the generous hospitality of this house, and the love he held for the host's daughter. Only since his return from abroad had he learned the strength of his sentiment. Heretofore he had looked upon the girl as a sister, jolly, talented, a fine dancer, a daring rider, a good comrade, in fine. He had been out of the country for three years. On his return he had found Betty Gordon a beautiful woman, and he had silently surrendered. As yet he had said nothing, but he knew that she knew. But he always saw the shadow of Carrington, old Jack Carrington. Well, let the best man win.

“I can find a way to dispose of Matthews,” he said finally.

“I dare say.”

But Williard did not know the tenacity with which some men cling to office. The Senator did.

Here the servant ushered in two lieutenants of the Senator's. One was an ex-consul, and the other was the Surveyor of Customs, who was not supposed to dabble in local politics.

“Everything is agreeable to Mr. Williard,” the Senator answered in reply to the questioning looks of his subordinates. “He vows, however, that he will shake Matthews when he gets the chance.”

The new arrivals laughed.

“We'll put you through, young man,” said the ex-consul; “and one of these fine days we shall send you to France. That's the place for a man of your wit and wealth.”

Williard smiled, and lighted a fresh cigar. He did possess the reputation of being a clever wit, and in his secret heart he would much prefer a consulate or a secretaryship at the French Embassy. He thoroughly detested the indiscriminate handshaking which went with local politics.

But Matthews stuck in his gorge, and he wondered if Carrington were going through any like ordeal, and if Carrington would submit so readily. … Why the deuce didn't Betty return? It was almost ten o'clock.

Presently her sunny countenance appeared in the doorway, and Williard dropped his cigar joyfully and rose. It was worth all the politics in the world!

“Gentlemen, you will excuse me,” he said.

“Go along!” the Senator cried jovially. “We can spare you.”

As indeed they very well could!

In a moment Williard was in the music-room.

“I really do not know that I ought to shake hands with you, Dick,” began Betty, tossing her hat on the piano. “You have deceived me for years.”

“Deceived you! What do you mean?”—mightily disturbed.

“Wait a moment.” She brought forth a paper. “Sit down in front of me. This is going to be a court of inquiry, and your sins shall be passed in review.” He obeyed meekly. “Now listen,” the girl went on, mischief in her eyes. “This paper says horrid things about you. It claims that you have given riotous dinners to actresses and comic-opera singers. I classify them because I do not think comic-opera singers are actresses.”

“Rot!” said Williard, crossing his legs and eying with pleasure the contours of her face. “Jolly rot!”

“You mustn't say 'jolly' in this country; it's English, and they'll be accusing you of it.”

“Well, bally rot; how will that go?”

“That isn't very pretty, but it will pass. Now, to proceed. They say that your private life is profligate.”

“Oh, come now, Betty!”—laughing diffidently.

“They say that you gamble at poker and win and lose huge sums.”

“Your father plays poker in Washington; I've seen him.”

“He's not on trial; you are. Furthermore,” went on the girl, the twinkle going from her eye, leaving it searching yet unfathomable, “this editor says that you are only a dummy in this game of politics, and that once you are mayor your signature will be all that will be required of you. That is to say, you will be nothing but a puppet in the hands of the men who brought about your election.”

Williard thought of Matthews, and the smile on his lips died.

“Now, Dick, this paper says that it seeks only the truth of things, and admits that you possess certain engaging qualities. What am I to believe?”

“Betty, you know very well that they'll have me robbing the widows before election.” He was growing restless. He felt that this trial wasn't all play. “If you don't mind, I'd rather talk of something else. Politics, politics, morning, noon, and night, till my ears ache!”

“Or burn,” suggested the girl. “The things they say about your private life, I don't care for them. I know that they are not truths. But the word 'puppet' annoys me.” She laid aside the paper.

“Have I ever act like a dummy, Betty? In justice to me, have I?” He was serious.

“Not in ordinary things.”

“No one has ever heard that I broke a promise.”

“No.”

“Nor that I was cowardly.”

“No, no!”

“Well, if I am elected, I shall fool certain persons. I am easy-going; I confess to that impeachment; but I have never been crossed successfully.”

“They'll know how to accomplish their ends without crossing you. That's a part of the politician's business.”

“If I am elected, I'll study ways and means. Hang it, I wasn't running after office. They said that they needed me. As a property-owner I had to surrender. I am not a hypocrite; I never, was. I can't go honestly among the lower classes and tell them that I like them, shake their grimy hands, hobnob with them at caucuses and in gloomy halls. I am not a politician; my father before me was not; it isn't in my blood. I haven't the necessary ambition. Carrington's grandfather was a war-governor; mine was a planter in the South. Now, Carrington has ambition enough to carry him to the presidency; and I hope he'll get it some day, and make an ambassador out of me. Sometimes I wish I weren't rich, so that I might enjoy life as some persons do—to have something to fight for constantly! I'm spoiled.”

He wheeled his chair toward the fire and rested his elbows on his knees.

“He's very handsome,” thought the girl; but she sighed.

same evening Carrington and McDermott, the Democratic leader, met by appointment in the former's law-offices. McDermott was a wealthy steel manufacturer who had held various State and national offices. As a business man his was absolute honesty. He gave liberal wages, met his men personally, and adjusted their differences. There were as many Republicans as Democrats in his employ. Politics never entered the shop. Every dollar in his business had been honestly earned. He was a born leader, kindly, humorous, intelligent. But once he put on his silk hat and frock-coat, a metamorphosis, strange and incomprehensible, took place. He became altogether a different man; cold, purposeful, determined, bitter, tumbling over obstacles without heart or conscience, using all means to gain his devious ends; scheming, plotting, undermining this man or elevating that, a politician in every sense of the word; cunning, astute, long-headed, far-seeing. He was not suave like his old enemy the Senator; he was blunt because he knew the fulness [sic] of his power. But for all his bluntness, he was, when needs said must, a diplomat of no mean order. If he brought about a shady election, he had the courage to stand by what he had done. He was respected and detested alike.

The present incumbent in the City Hall was no longer of use to him. He was wise enough to see that harm to his power would come about in case the reform movement got headway; he might even be dethroned. So his general's eye had lighted on Carrington, as the Senator's had lighted on Williard; only he had mistaken his man, where the Senator had not.

“My boy,” he began, “I'm going to lecture you.”

“Go ahead,” said Carrington. “I know what the trouble is. I crossed out Mr. Murphy's name from the list you fixed up for my inspection.”

“And his name must go back”—smiling. “We can't afford to turn him down at this late day.”

“I can,” said the protégé imperturbably.

For a moment their glances met and clashed.

“You must always remember the welfare of the party”—gently.

“And the people,” supplemented the admonished one.

“Of course”—with thin lips. “But Murphy's name must stand. We depend upon the eighth ward to elect you, and Murphy holds it in his palm. Your friend Williard will be forced to accept Matthews for the same reason. It's a game of chess, but a great game.”

“Matthews? I don't believe it. Williard would not speak to him on the street, let alone put him on the ticket.”

“Wait and see.”

“He's a blackleg, a gambler, worse than Murphy.”

“And what is your grievance against Murphy? He has always served the party well.”

“Not to speak of Mr. Murphy.”

“What has he done?”

“He has sold his vote three times in the Common Council. He sold it once for $2,000 in that last pavement deal. I have been rather observant. Let him remain alderman; I cannot see my way to appoint him to a position in the City Hall.”

McDermott's eyes narrowed. “Your accusations are grave. If Murphy learns of them, he may make you prove them.”

Carrington remained silent for a few minutes, his face in thoughtful repose; then, having decided to pursue a certain course, he reached into a pigeon-hole of his desk and selected a paper which he gave to McDermott. The latter studied the paper carefully. From the paper his glance traveled to the face of the young man opposite him. He wondered why he hadn't taken more particular notice of the cleft chin and the blue-gray eyes. Had he made a mistake? Was the young fellow's honesty greater than his ambition? McDermott returned the paper without comment.

“Is that proof enough?” Carrington asked, a bit of raillery in his tones.

“You should have told me of this long ago.”

“I hadn't the remotest idea that Murphy's name would turn up. You can very well understand that I cannot consider this man's name as an appointee.”

“Why hasn't it been turned over to the district attorney?”

“The plaintiff is a patient man. He left it to me. It is a good sword, and I may have to hold it over Mr. Murphy's neck.”

McDermott smiled.

“The Democratic party in this county needs a strong tonic in the nature of a clean bill. I want my appointees men of high standing; I want them honest; I want them not for what they have done, but for what they may do.”

McDermott smiled again. “I have made a mistake in not coming to you earlier. There is a great future for a man of your kidney, Carrington. You have a genuine talent for politics. You possess something that only a dozen men in a hundred thousand possess, a tone. Words are empty things unless they are backed by a tone. Tone holds the auditor, convinces him, directs him if by chance he is wavering. You are a born orator. Miller retires from Congress next year. His usefulness in Washington has passed. How would you like to succeed him?”

Insidious honey! Carrington looked out of the window. Washington! A seat among the Seats of the Mighty! A torch-light procession was passing through the street below, and the noise of the fife and drum rose. The world's applause: the beating of hands, the yells of triumph, the laudation of the press. The world holds no greater thrill than this. Art and literature stand pale beside it. But a worm gnawed at the heart this rose, a cancer ate into the laurel. Carrington turned. He was by no means guileless.

"When I accept this nomination I did so because I believed that the party was in danger, and that, if elected, I might benefit the people. I have remained silent; I have spoken but little of my plans; I have made few promises. Mr. McDermott, I am determined, first and foremost, to be mayor in all the meaning of the word. I refuse to be a figure-head. I have crossed out Murphy's name because he is a dishonest citizen. Yes, I am ambitious; but I would forego Washington rather than reach it by shaking Murphy's hand.” The blood of the old war-governor tingled in his veins at that moment.

“It must be replaced”—quietly.

“In face of that document?”

“In spite of it.”

“I refuse!”

“Listen to reason, my boy; you are young, and you have to learn that in politics there's always a bitter pill with the sweet. To elect you, I have given my word to Murphy that he shall have the office.”

“You may send Mr. Murphy to me,” said Carrington curtly. “I'll take all the blame.”

“This is final?”

“It is. And I am surprised that you should request this of me.”

“He will defeat you.”

“So be it.”

McDermott was exceedingly angry, but he could not help admiring the young man's resoluteness and direct honesty.

“You are making a fatal mistake. I shall make an enemy of the man, and I shall not be able to help you. I have a great deal at stake. If we lose the eighth, we lose everything, and for years to come.”

“Perhaps. One dishonest step leads to another, and if I should sanction this man, I should not hesitate at greater dishonesty. My honesty is my bread and butter … and my conscience.”

“Corporations have no souls; politics has no conscience. Williard”

“My name is Carrington”—abruptly. “In a matter of this kind I cannot permit myself to be subjected to comparisons. You brought about my present position in municipal affairs.”

“We had need of you, and still need you,” confessed the other reluctantly. “The party needs new blood.”

“You are a clever man, Mr. McDermott; you are a leader; let me appeal to your better judgment. Murphy is a blackguard, and he would be in any party, in any country. In forcing him on me, you try to rob me of my self-respect.”

McDermott shrugged. “In this case he is a necessary evil. The success of the party depends upon his good-will. Listen. Will you find, in all this wide land, a ruling municipality that is incorrupt? Is there not a fly in the ointment whichever way you turn? Is not dishonesty fought with dishonesty; isn't it corruption against corruption? Do you believe for a minute that you can bring about this revolution? No, my lad; no. This is a workaday world; Utopia is dreamland. You can easily keep your eye on this man. If he makes a dishonest move, you can find it in your power to remove him effectually. But I swear to you that he is absolutely necessary.”

“Well, I will assume the risk of his displeasure.”

“Show him your document, and tell him that if he leaves you in the lurch at the polls you'll send him to prison. That's the only way out.” McDermott thought he saw light.

“Make a blackmailer of myself? Hardly,”

“I am sorry.” McDermott rose. “You are digging a pit for a very bright future.”

“Politically, perhaps.”

“If you are defeated, there is no possible method of sending you to Washington in Miller's place. You must have popularity to back you. I have observed that you are a very ambitious young man.”

“Not so ambitious as to obscure my sense of right.”

“I like your pluck, my boy, though it stands in your own light. I'll do all I can to pacify Murphy. Good-night and good luck to you.” And McDermott made his departure.

Carrington remained motionless in his chair, studying the night. So much for his dreams! He knew what McDermott's “I'll do what I can” meant. If only he had not put his heart so thoroughly into the campaign! Was there any honesty? Was it worth while to be true to one's self? Murphy controlled nearly four hundred votes. For six years the eighth ward had carried the Democratic party into victory. Had he turned this aside? For years the elections had been like cheese-parings; and in ten years there hadn't been a majority on either side of five hundred votes. If Murphy was a genuine party man, and not a leech, he would stand square for his party and not consider personal enmity. What would he do when he heard from McDermott that Carrington had deliberately crossed him off the ticket of appointees?

From among some old papers in a drawer Carrington produced the portrait of a young girl of sixteen in fancy dress. When he had studied this a certain length of time, he took out another portrait; it was the young girl grown into superb womanhood. The eyes were kind and merry, the mouth beautiful, the brow fine and smooth like a young poet's, a nose with the slightest tilt; altogether a high-bred, queenly, womanly face, such as makes a man desire to do great things in the world. Carrington had always loved her. He had gone through the various phases: the boy, the diffident youth, the man. (Usually it takes three women to bring about these changes!) There was nothing wild nor incoherent in his love, nothing violent nor passionate; rather the serene light, the steady-burning light, that guides the ships at sea; constant, enduring, a staff to lean upon.

As he studied the face from all angles, his jaws hardened. He lifted his chin defiantly, He had the right to love her; he had lived cleanly, he had dealt justly to both his friends and his enemies, he owed no man, he was in debt only to his mother, who had taught him the principles of manly living. He had the right to love any woman in the world, … And there was Williard, handsome, easy-going old Dick. Why was it written that their paths must cross in everything? Yes, Dick loved her, too, but with an affection that had come only with majority. But Dick had everything to offer besides. Should he step down and aside for his friend? Did friendship demand such a sacrifice? No! Let Williard fight for her; and if Williard won, there would be time then to surrender.

It was almost twelve when the scrubwoman aroused him from his reveries. He closed his desk and went home, his heart full of battle. He would put up the best fight that was in him, for love and for fame; and if he lost, he would still have his manhood and self-respect, which any woman might be proud to find at her feet, whether she accepted or declined it. He would go into Murphy's own country and fight him openly and without secret weapons. He knew that he held it in his power to coerce Murphy, but that wasn't fighting.

Neither of the candidates slept well that night.

The time went forward. The second Tuesday in November was but a fortnight off. Carrington fought every inch of ground. He depended but little, if at all, upon McDermott's assistance, though that gentleman came gallantly to his rescue, as it was necessary to save his own scalp. It crept into the papers that there was a rupture between Murphy and the Democratic candidate. The opposition papers cried in glee; the others remained silent. Murphy said nothing when questioned; he simply smiled. Carrington won the respect of his opponents. The laboring classes saw in him a Moses, and they hailed him with cheers whenever they saw him.

There were many laughable occurrences during the heat of the campaign; but Carrington knew how and when to laugh. He answered questions from the platform, and the ill-mannered were invariably put to rout by his good-natured wit. Once a crowd hoisted him on top of a bar in an obscure saloon. His shoulders touched the gloomy ceiling, and he was forced to address the habitués with his head bent like a turtle's, his nose and eyes offended by the heat and reek of kerosene and cheap tobacco. They had brought him there to bait him; they carried him out on their shoulders. To those who wanted facts he gave facts; to others he told humorous stories.

Meanwhile Williard took hold of affairs, but in a bored fashion. He did the best he knew how, but it wasn't a best that wins high places in the affections of the people.

The betting was even.

Election day came round—one of those rare days when the pallid ghost of summer returns to view her past victories; when the broad wings of the West go a-winnowing the skies, and the sun shines warm and grateful. On that morning a change took place in Carrington's heart. He became filled with dread. After leaving the polls early in the morning, he returned to his home and refused to see anyone. He even had the telephone-wires cut. Only his mother saw him, and hovered about him with a thousand kindly attentions. At the door she became a veritable dragon; not even telegraph messengers could pass her or escape her vigilance.

At six in the evening Carrington ordered around his horse. He mounted and rode away into the hill-country south of the city, into the cold, crisp autumn air. There was fever in his veins that needed cooling, there were doubts and fears in his mind that needed clearing. He wanted to reach that condition of exhaustion which makes a man indifferent to mental blows.

The day passed and the night came. Election night! The noisy, good-natured crowds in the streets, the jostling, snail-moving crowds! The illuminated canvas-sheets in front of the newspaper offices! The blare of horns, the cries, the yells, the hoots, and hurrahs! The petty street-fights! The stalled surface-cars, the swearing cabbies, the vendors of horns and whistles, the newsboys hawking their extras! It is the greatest of all spectacular nights: humanity comes out into the open.

At nine I went up to the club. Williard was there, and all who had charge of the wheels within wheels. They had ensconced themselves in the huge Davenports in the bow-window facing the street, and had given orders to the steward to charge everything that night to Senator Gordon. A fabulous number of corks were pulled; but gentlemen are always orderly.

When I approached Williard, however, he seemed anything but happy. He had dined at the Senate's that evening, and something had taken place there which the general public would never learn. He was gloomy, and the wine he drank only added to his gloom.

The younger element began to wander in, carrying those execrable rooster-posters. A gay time ensued.

Of the subsequent events—those which did not come under the head of politics—I learned but little; but, bring a newspaper man, I do not lack a fertile imagination.

Carrington had ridden twelve miles into the country. At eight o'clock the temperature changed and it began to snow. He turned and rode back toward the city, toward victory or defeat. Sometimes he went at a canter, sometimes at a trot. By and by he could see the aureola from the electric lights wavering above the city. Once he struck a wind-match and glanced at his watch. Had he lost or had he won? A whimsical inspiration came to him. He determined to hear victory or defeat from the lips of the girl he loved. The snow fell softly into his face and melted. His hair became matted over his eyes; his gauntlets dripped and the reins became slippery; a steam rose from the horse's body, a big-hearted hunter on which he had ridden many hundred miles.

“Good boy!” said Carrington; “we'll have it first from her lips.”

Finally he struck the asphalt of the city limits, and he slowed down to a walk. He turned into obscure streets. Whenever he saw a bonfire he avoided it.

It was easily ten o'clock when he drew up in front of the Gordon home. He tied his horse to the post with the hitching-chain and knotted the reins so that they would not slip over the horse's head, wiped his face with his handkerchief, and walked bravely up to the veranda. There were few lights. Through the library window he saw the girl standing at the telephone. He prayed that she might be wholly alone. After a moment's hesitation he pressed the button and waited.

Betty herself came to the door. She peered out.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I did not expect that you would recognize me,” said Carrington, laughing.

“John? Where in the world did you come from?” taking him by the arm and dragging him into the hall. “Good gracious!”

“The truth is, Betty, I took to my heels at six o'clock, and have been riding around the country ever since.” He sent her a penetrating glance.

“Come in to the fire!” cried the girl impulsively. “You are cold and wet and hungry.”

“Only wet,” he admitted, as he entered the cheerful library. He went directly to the blazing grate and spread out his red, wet, aching hands. He could hear her bustling about; it was a pleasant sound. A chair rolled up to the fender; the rattle of a tea-table followed. It was all very fine. “I ought to be ashamed to enter a house in these dripping clothes,” he said; “but the temptation was too great.”

“You are always welcome, John,” softly.

His keen ear caught the melancholy sympathy in her tone. He shrugged his shoulders. He had lost the fight. Had he won, she would already have poured forth her congratulations.

“Sit down,” she commanded, “while I get the tea. Or would you prefer whisky?”

“The tea, by all means. I do not need whisky to bolster up my courage.” He sat down.

She left the room and returned shortly with biscuit and tea. She filled a cup, put in two lumps of sugar, and passed the cup to him.

“You've a good memory,” he said, smiling at her. “It's nice to have one's likes remembered, even in a cup of tea. I look as if I had been to war, don't I?”

She buttered a biscuit. He ate it, not because he was hungry, but because her fingers had touched it. It was a phantom kiss. He laid the cup down.

“Now, which is it—have I been licked, or have I won?”

“What!” she cried; “do you mean to tell me that you do not know?” She gazed at him bewilderedly.

“I have been four hours in the saddle. I know nothing, save that which instinct and the sweet melancholy of your voice tell me. Betty, I've been licked, haven't I, and old Dick has gone and done it, eh?”

The girl choked for a moment; there was a sob in her throat.

“Yes, John.”

Carrington reached over and tapped the hearth with his riding-crop absent-mindedly. The girl gazed at him, her eyes shining in a mist of unshed tears. … She longed to reach out her hand and smooth the furrows from his careworn brow, to brush the melting crystals of snow from his hair; longed to soothe the smart of defeat which she knew was burning his heart. She knew that only strong men suffer in silence.

From a half-opened window the night breathed upon them, freighted with the far-off murmur of voices.

“I confess to you that I built much on the outcome. I am ambitious; I want to be somebody, to take part in the great affairs of the world. I fought the very best I knew how. I had many dreams. Do you recollect the verses I used to write to you when we were children? There was always something of the poet in me, and it is still there, only it no longer develops on paper. I had looked toward Washington … even toward you, Betty.”

Silence. The girl sat very still. Her face was white and her eyes large.

“I am honest. I can see now that I have no business in politics.” He laughed suddenly and turned toward the girt. “I was on the verge of wailing. I'm licked, and I must begin all over again. Dick will make a good mayor, that is if they leave him alone. Whimsical, wasn't it, of me coming here to have you tell me the news?” He looked away.

The girl smiled and held out her hand to him, and as he did not see it, laid it gently on his sleeve.

"It does not matter, John. Some day you will realize all your ambitions. You are not the kind of a man who gives up. Defeat is a necessary step to greatness; and you will become great. I am glad that you came to me.” She knew now; all her doubts were gone, all the confusing shadows.

Carrington turned and touched her hand with his lips.

“Why did you come to me?” she asked, with a fine courage.

His eyes widened, “Why did I come to you? If I had won, I should have told you. But I haven't won; I have lost.”

“Does that make the difference so great?”

“It makes the difficulty greater.”

“Tell me!” with the voice of command.

They both rose suddenly, rather unconsciously, too. Their glances held, magnet-and-needle-wise. Across the street a bonfire blazed, and the ruddy light threw a mellow rose over their strained faces.

“I love you,” he said simply. “That is what drew me here, that is what has always drawn me here. But say nothing to me, Betty. God knows I am not strong enough to suffer two defeats in one night. God bless you and make you happy!”

He turned and took a few steps toward the door.

“If it were not defeat—if it were victory?” she said, in a kind of whisper, her hands tense on the back of her chair.

The Senator came in about midnight. He found his daughter asleep in a chair before a half-dead fire. There was a tender smile on her lips. He touched her gently.

“It is you, daddy?” Her glance traveled from his florid countenance to the clock. “Mercy! I have been dreaming these two hours.”

“What do you suppose Carrington did to-night?” lighting a cigar.

“What did he do?”

“Came into the club and congratulated Williard publicly.”

“He did that?” cried the girl, flushing exquisitely.

“Did it like a man, too.” The Senator dropped into a chair. “It was a great victory, my girl.”

Betty smiled. “Yes, it was.”