The balance of power; a novel

XXII Thanksgiving Day

. 395

ILLUSTRATIONS

‘Now she returned to the edge of the cliff ” . Frontispiece

FACING

PAGE

“The President of the United States blacks his own

shoes’” 16

“Run along now, Jack, and boss your machines, but don’t

try to boss me’ ” 76

‘The Colonel makes a speech” 148

* T stole ’em,’ he said at last” 284

“You’re morbid,’ was all she said” 318

‘With an exclamation of triumph Heffler held up the

wrinkled piece of paper” 338

Chapter I The Garden Of Memories

T HE settlers of Hampstead, Connecticut, stopped half way up the red-soiled incline which separates beyond into two broad summits. The town grew up the rest of the way, unsatisfied until it reached the top, first of West Hill and later of the lower East Hill. The factories took the only place left, the lower half of the incline at the bottom of which runs Hampstead River, deep and narrow, evidently planned to furnish power for mill-wheels.

High on the summit of West Hill, where even in the early eighties the factory owners and officers and the professional people lived and looked down upon the workers in the shops whose frame houses dotted thickly the eastern summit, were two houses side by side, of which the owners were proud and the rest of the town envious. One was built of irregular gray stone, square and strong; over its front and sides crept thick ivy which turned a wonderful red in the autumn; before it spread a broad trim lawn shaded with big trees and bordered with a high hedge, and behind it stretched terrace after terrace of orchard and garden. The other was obviously new, an expensive mongrel structure of brownstone, brick and wood, culminating in a tower which was the wonder of the town. The ground which ran from the porch to the street was spotted with new grass and old turf, and the short yard at the back was still in straggling confusion.

Many people came to the stone house daily, for Doctor Gilbert lived there — quick, nervous, kindly Doctor Gilbert whom the well-to-do respected and liked and the poorer people loved. Wealthy as he was — for his father had left him not only the big gray house and broad acres of land but a considerable fortune as well, made in trade with the West Indies — there was never a sick child so far away, nor a night so cold, nor a simple kindness so slight that the Doctor was not ready at the call for help. Impractical fine gentleman of the old school! Many a sick German woman in a cottage on East Hill had slept for the first time in a week of nights while the big man hummed Schubert songs in his mellow baritone; many a miserable little Irish lad chilled in a shanty, the cracks of which yawned invitation to snow and winter cold, bolted bitter medicine so as to hear the merry gentleman tell stories of the Civil War or of that strange and wonderful court of King Arthur; many an ailing clerk or bookkeeper laughed himself well at the Doctor’s quaint wit, and poverty-bound fathers blessed him with tears in their eyes as they watched their children eating unexpected Christmas dinners.

He was as tender as a woman, and yet strong men had hung their heads before the tempest of his anger. As a young man he had seen visions, some of which he had realized and many of which he had forgotten. Now he dreamed dreams. They were all about a boy with tawny locks who often sat wide eyed on a hassock before the big fireplace in the library listening to the rambling reminiscences of bluff Colonel Mead, who had fought Indians on the plains, or to the Doctor’s own stories, perennially new. He planned the boy’s future a dozen times every day, and when his wife with characteristic Scotch practicality started him awake with a short bit of worldly common-sense, he only smiled and went back to his dreaming.

Neighbors saw little in the boy to account for the Doctor’s pride. He was a gawky lad, tall for his age, and his large nose and ears and chin forbade even the Doctor to call him handsome. And yet, when he smiled there was something about the gray eyes and the twist of the mouth that wholly satisfied those who loved him. He had a queer little mind that would focus itself to only one thing at a time and which would not listen to anything else until this one thing was settled conclusively.

“ Ef ye want a thing, no matter what it is,” the Colonel once remarked approvingly of the boy’s persistence, “ ye’ve got to go after it an’ stay after it till ye git it. Jack’s got the right idea. Jest wantin’ never brought anythin’, so far ez I know, but want.”

Mr. Hardy, the man who had built the house next door, was a man of early middle age. His father had started the now famous mills of Hardy & Son, when Hardy after a hurried schooling had joined him. Much of their success had been due to the younger man who by strict economy and relentless energy had built up the factories to their present size, the largest in Hampstead. Although he was now president of the company, Hardy’s front door opened punctually every morning at half-past seven and closed behind him at quarter-past six at night, a phenomenon which interested greatly the mathematical mind of the Doctor’s boy.

The Hardys had occupied their new home only two or three days on an afternoon when the Doctor’s boy was playing croquet on the second terrace. All at once the boy instinctively straightened himself from a regrettable “ flinch” and turned slowly about. The delightful sense of being alone with his little dream world had for some reason vanished.

Standing in a narrow gap in the hedge, surrounded by the fresh green, was a strange little figure of a girl and, behind her, a boy somewhat larger than Jack.

“ Hello, boy,” said the girl.

“ Hello,” said Jack cordially, after a moment’s inspection of the pair. “Come on in.” The girl advanced slowly and shyly, hugging a small decapitated doll. The boy with her marched briskly forward and then, suddenly, with a proud wave of his hand, he stood on his head for a few seconds, by way of introduction.

The girl meanwhile had propped her headless doll on a seat that surrounded a broad-trunked apple tree, and looked about her. The place was a fairy land to her and she sighed with delight. She looked with awe at the boy who lived and who actually played croquet in the midst of all this wonder.

“Can I look at the roses?” she asked, pointing to the rows of bushes beyond.

“Of course,” said Jack readily. “And I’ll show ’ to you.”

em

“Oh, come on/’ said the strange boy. “Fll wrestle you or Fll beat you to the fence and back or ”

“We’ll do that afterwards,” Jack’s tone was decisive, “after we see the flowers,” and he started after the girl.

“Oh, you’re afraid, you are,” taunted the other boy. “Look at this,” and he turned two or three handsprings on the grass. To the evident joy of the flushed lad, the girl turned from the roses in time to see the last rapid turn. Jack watched quietly, his fists doubling convulsively. Then he followed the girl. “You’d better come along,” he called over his shoulder. And the boy reluctantly followed, turning cartwheels and handsprings on the way. Jack led them past tangled masses of roses, beds of vari-colored pansies and arbors of honeysuckle, and, beyond a sentinel apple tree, through the lanes of a small produce garden. Back of this truck garden was a line of trees and bushes that surrounded a little clearing, in the midst of which was a frame summer-house, and to this they finally came and sat down. The little girl had not said a word, and she sat still for a moment.

“I’d like to live here,” she said at last enviously.

“ Oh, I know lots of better places,” the strange boy remarked quickly, looking jealously from one to the other.

Jack glowered silently. Then he turned to the girl with a new interest.

“ So do I. I’d like to go out West. Say,” he went on, suddenly growing alert, “do you know Colonel Mead? He’s fought real Indians.”

The strange boy noticed that the girl was watching Jack with open admiration.

“ Colonel Mead?” he broke in sullenly, eager for trouble. “ He’s an awful old liar anyhow. I heard ”

Jack’s face suddenly turned white and his gray eyes burned black. His small fists doubled up and he jumped to his feet.

“You take that back,” he cried.

“I won’t,” said the large boy, dodging out on the turf and pulling off his coat. Almost before he was ready Jack was on him like a pent-up hurricane, and they were fighting furiously. For a moment the girl watched them, fascinated. Then she jumped up quickly and ran out of the summer-house past the clinching, fighting, panting pair, and straight down the path they had come.

Mrs. Gilbert was sitting placidly sewing in the library when Ellen opened the door and let in a slender, sobbing, breathless little figure.

“Well, well,” ejaculated motherly Mrs. Gilbert, “ whatever is the matter with the lassie? ” and she put her sewing quickly aside.

“Oh, come quick, please,” panted the girl; “your little boy and Willie McNish are fighting out in your garden. I lost my way and I’m afraid they’ll both be killed and — and Willie’s the biggest.”

Mrs. Gilbert was a large but very active woman. Almost before the girl knew it they were down the long stairs that led to the garden, and were hurrying along the shortest path to the summer-house. By the time they passed the roses the tired girl was lagging far behind. When Mrs. Gilbert reached the edge of the little clearing she stopped suddenly. There before her was Jack, one eye already swollen, helping the other boy to his feet and wiping the blood from his nose and from a nasty cut in his cheek. Mrs. Gilbert breathed a sigh of relief and waited.

“Pm awfully sorry,” said Jack, and his little form was trembling with reaction. “I shouldn’t have hit you here in our yard, but you made me mad.”

The other boy nodded, then he put out his hand. “ Say,” he said, “I thought you were a sissy, but you aren’t. You’re all right.” And they shook hands manfully.

At this point Mrs. Gilbert, seeing the little girl coming, broke in. “ Laddie,” she said, coming upon them abruptly, “I’ll take Willie to the house and stop that wretched bleeding, and you take the little girl to her home.”

That was all she said, except to thank the little girl and to ask her to come and see her. But on the way to the house she asked the McNish boy about it in her kindly way, and the boy told her frankly everything. Meanwhile the girl and Jack, one eye already turning black, followed them down the path.

The girl rescued her doll from the bench and they went on to the hole in the hedge.

“ My name’s Clare, and I live in here.” She pointed to the new Hardy house.

“My name’s Jack,” said the boy.

“I like your yard,” said the girl judicially, “but your house isn’t as nice as ours. Good-by.”

That night when Jack had gone to bed early with a bandage over his ugly black eye, the Doctor and Mrs. Gilbert sat in the library. The Doctor’s eyes seemed fixed on an old and favorite copy of Horace, and his wife’s seemed to be unraveling some of the tangles of yarn she was knitting. Now and then each glanced furtively at the other and then quickly back to book and task. At last their eyes met and each stood discovered. Mrs. Gilbert shook her head at him with a merry twinkle in her eye.

“There must be a deal of reading on that one page, David,” she said. “You’ve been reading it for an hour or more.”

“I thought you were asleep, you worked so slowly,” laughed the Doctor.

“Well,” said his wife after a moment.

“Tell me all about it again,” said the Doctor capitulating.

So she told the story of the fight over again for the third time, losing not one detail.

“The other lad’s a good one, too,” she said at the end, with a characteristic sense of justice.

“The only thing Jack said to me,” said the Doctor proudly, “ was that he’d do it again, and that McNish’s boy fought well. He’s got a Gilbert temper.”

“It may have been a Gilbert temper but they were Mackenzie blows he struck,” said his wife. “I saw the other boy’s face.”

“I believe you’re proud of it,” laughed the Doctor.

“I’m glad you haven’t spoiled him yet,” retorted his wife.

“You’re a great and good woman, Janie,” said the Doctor. “I’m going to give him money and education enough to make him rich and famous.”

“ But who’ll make him happy?” asked his wife wistfully.

The Doctor rose to his feet and went around the table to her. He kissed her brow reverently.

“To have such a mother is sufficient, dear,” he said.

As time went on the three children grew more and more inseparable. Genial Mr. McNish soon came almost as often as did Billy, and many an evening during the winter that followed, when patients would let him, the Doctor played cards till bedtime with McNish and the Colonel. Mrs. Gilbert alternated her time between the home and the church, busy always. The two boys and the girl studied and played happily enough. Clare’s nurse was their only menace. One day when the girl had been rudely summoned away from the garden, the two boys followed her belligerently to the gap in the hedge.

“We’ll take care of her when we grow up,” said Jack sternly, holding out his hand.

“You bet we will,” said Billy, shaking the hand solemnly.

The usual number of people were sick and needed the Doctor, and yet things seemed somehow different with him. He had a new habit of always getting a New York paper as early as possible, and spending an hour or more poring over it. He grew absent-minded and occasionally seemed almost depressed. No one had ever heard him sigh until that winter, but when Mrs. Gilbert rallied him about it he laughed his old laugh and said that it was a sigh of sheer joy. Nevertheless he aged rapidly, month by month, and sometimes sat strangely silent through whole evenings before the library fire. But he was never more thoughtful of his wife nor more tender with Jack. One night when the Spring was coming on and he sat by the window with the boy, watching the rivulets from the melting snow that ran down the garden paths, he patted Jack lightly on the back.

“When you grow up you’ll be a big man,” he said, “and you’ll take good care of the mither, eh, Jack?”

“I’ll help you, of course,” said Jack slowly, “but you see I’ve promised Billy I’d help him take care of Clare.”

“ When Jack is a big man,” laughed Mrs. Gilbert, who had come up behind them, “you and I, David, will be old enough to take care of ourselves, and he’ll go out into the big world.”

“Out in the big world,” said Jack wistfully. “I’d like to go out in the big world.”

“And after he got there,” went on Mrs. Gilbert softly, “he’d come back again because he’d want love more than anything in the big world.”

“And isn’t there love in the big world?” asked the boy wonderingly.

“Not the same sort of love, laddie,” said his mother; and Jack looked from his mother to his father and back again, and nearly understood.

When Decoration Day came the Doctor put on his G. A. R. badge and tramped down town with Mr. Mc- Nish.

“The Spring’s going to put you to rights,” said his friend, as he thought he noticed that the Doctor’s step was lighter and that his cheeks had more color. “ You’ve been a bit down this Winter, just as Tom Nelson always was just before a battle. He was always all right when the fight began.”

“ I’m all right,” said the Doctor. “ To tell you the truth

I've been worried. Pve been trying to make money this year to lay up for the boy, and Fm afraid ”

McNish stopped suddenly. There was real pain in his face. He waited.

“Pve lost a good deal in stocks during the winter,” went on the Doctor, “and Pve been trying to win it back in a mine out in Colorado, but Fm afraid — Fm not much of a business man, Donald.”

A band in the distance started up “Tenting To-night on the Old Camp Ground,” and memories suddenly flooded the minds and hearts of both men. The old familiar strains thrilled them silent, and they locked arms and walked on hurriedly down the street. They were late, but they stopped for mail at the post-office and then rushed on, crowding the letters into their pockets. As they fell into line, for the Doctor insisted on marching with the rest, McNish said, putting his hand on the Doctor’s shoulder, “You must tell me all about it to-night,” and the Doctor nodded.

Mrs. Gilbert and Jack watched them march by, and Jack and the Doctor saluted solemnly. Ten minutes later Doctor Gilbert left the line to stop at a house opposite the gate of the cemetery, where a child was sick. The little girl had not been sleeping and he gave her some medicine. He decided to wait a few minutes to see how it operated and, because the mother had left the room, he pulled out his letters. He started to read; suddenly his face went white, and without a murmur his big form relaxed and he sank to the floor.

Over in the cemetery a bugle played “taps” for the weary soldiers who were tenting on the old camp ground.

“The Doctor's big, tender heart,” said Moriarty, Hardy’s superintendent, that night, “had been working so hard all his life that it plumb gave out.”

That afternoon a boy and a girl were sitting looking out at the gathering twilight from a rear window of the Hardy house. Jack had been taken over there to get him out of the way of it all.

“Let’s go out in the garden,” he said at last, and together they stole out and through the gap in the hedge. There were lights upstairs in the stone house, but below a single dim glimmer in the library.

“God’s bigger out here,” he said in an awed voice.

The little girl put her hand over his.

“It’s getting dark and I’m afraid,” she said.

“So’m I — a little,” admitted the boy. Then suddenly a new thought came to him. “ If father was here I think he’d tell me to take care of the mither,” he said impulsively, and with that he started for the house. The girl watched him for a moment and then sped toward the gap in the hedge. From there she saw him mount the steps.

Mrs. Gilbert, dry-eyed, sitting alone in the darkened library saw the boy come across the room toward her.

“I’ve come to take care of you, mither,” he said stalwartly.

“Oh, my laddie, my laddie,” she cried, as the pent-up tears burst forth. She knew already how soon she would need his care.

Chapter II The President Blacks His Own Shoes

T HE doors of the new Municipal building slammed now and then as if to awaken the drowsy Main Street of Hampstead. It was Spring once more, but twenty years had passed since Dr. Gilbert died, twenty long years for the young, twenty short years for the older people of the now thriving city. It was Wednesday night, and the stores were closed and dark, except for an occasional red or green light that marked a druggist’s long vigil, and except for the inviting entrance of the Hampstead Hotel, flanked by a flaring glare of brilliancy. The few people who strolled aimlessly up and down the sidewalk had wandered in to the center in search of something to do, and were disappointed.

Shortly a cart was driven up beside the dilapidated bandstand at the end of the green opposite the Municipal building. The horse was unhitched and was led away, while the man left in the derelict cart lit two campaign torches and, fixing them securely in opposite corners of his improvised stage, he stood forth for a moment, his fingers thrust in his tightly buttoned coat of clerical cut, that all might see. He had a square, dumpy body and crooked legs about which soiled gray trousers wrinkled from the end of his short coat to their tattered bottoms. His coarse, pudgy face which had been clean-shaven some 13 three days before, beamed with an odd mixture of childlike good humor and pompous pride upon the dozen boys who had gathered silently about the cart. A moment later he was sitting on a campstool picking at a banjo, and reciting in a megaphonic baritone the trials of a man and a maid

“A suckin’ cider throo a straw.”

Almost instantly a large and constantly growing crowd surrounded him, coming it seemed out of nowhere from every direction: loafers from the post-office steps, traveling men from the hotel, couples from the park benches, and all the floating population which, blocks away, heard the shouted melody. Windows went up in the buildings about the square, and curious faces peered out, and across the way in the Municipal building the first arrivals at the regular meeting of the Common Council crowded each other to stare down at the little man with the big voice.

“ Say, ’tis a good thing for the telephone company that there ain’t many voices loike that wan,” remarked Mr. Moriarty. “ Sure all he needs to do is to open the window an’ talk. The feller at the other end o’ the wire’d hear him all right.”

“A suckin’ cider throo a straw-aw-aw-aw,” sang the little man, his mouth excavating his face from ear to ear. The crowd grinned and a few mouths yawned wide in unconscious imitation.

As the song was finished a large automobile came noisily down the street and stopped at the curb. An elderly man with a red, scowling face alighted, followed by two middle-aged women whose angular lines suggested propriety and loneliness, and a young girl who, disregarding a proffered hand, sprang down unaided. The three women turned to watch the scene in the square.

“ Isn’t it picturesque?” said Miss Snifkins’ friend from Boston, whose voice dropped at the end of a sentence in an incline down which sentimentality oozed audibly. “ See, Cordelia, the city square, the lights of torches lighting up a sea of faces and there in the center that figure which is to say the least — ah — unusual. It’s really poetic.”

“ Yes, it reminds you of ‘ there was a sound of deviltry by night/ as Billy McNish says about our motor,” laughed Clare Hardy, her bright black eyes dancing.

Miss Snifkins looked at her friend apologetically, and turned back in time to see the little man put a ball of lighted paper in his mouth.

“Disgusting,” she said, and she followed Mr. Hardy, who was calling them with some irritation from the doorway.

“For all the world like a frog,” remarked the girl derisively, as she watched the little man hop from one side of the cart to the other in his efforts to be amusing.

“How very clever,” assented Miss Snifkins’ friend politely, and they followed the others. As they reached the doorway they stopped and looked back at the square where the little man was suddenly silent. He had attracted his crowd and he had amused them. It was manifestly time for business. He reappeared from the shadows of the front of the cart holding high in one hand a flat, round tin box. The index finger of the other hand Jhe shook accusingly at tb£ awestruck crowd.

“Did you know/' he asked in a hoarse whisper that grew to a loud, menacing shout, “ that the President of the United States blacks his own shoes?” He paused proudly to note the effect of his words. “No, not for exercise, strenuous man of action tho’ he be; not because he has to, certainly not — he could undoubtedly borrow the money for a shine from the Secretary of the Treasury; not because he wants to take meat and drink from the poor boy, who, like an artist, wields a brush for a living. Shall I tell you why, my friends? It is a precious secret! Because — because — he has learned that it is easier to black his own shoes with Diamond Blacking than to have anyone black them for him.”

Three of the party at the door of the Municipal building had gone in after the opening sentence, but the girl remained, her eyes sparkling with the humor of it. At last she closed the door and hurried up the stairs to find her father stamping the corridor, impatient at the delay.

“I wonder if it can be true,” said Miss Snifkins’ friend dreamily, as they entered the large room at the front of the building.

“If what can be true?” the girl asked.

“ If the President does black his own shoes,” said Miss Snifkins’ friend.

Samuel Hardy had intended to be a spectator at this particular meeting of the Common Council, but he had had no idea of acting as a chaperon. Mrs. Hardy, howsver, had happened to mention the fact casually to Cordelia Snifkins, the English teacher at the High School, and Miss Snifkins had repeated it to her friend who taught “government” and other studies in a Massachusetts c< 4 The President of the United States blacks

his own shoes.

9 9 * boarding-school. Mr. Hardy, after some argument during which he found opportunity to occasionally interject “yes” or “no,” consented to take them to the meeting, and discussed the matter rather abruptly with his wife afterwards. Clare Hardy had attached herself to the expedition at the last moment because there seemed to be nothing else to do.

The “city fathers,” as the Hampstead News called the members of the Council, were taking their places for the meeting, when the party, led by Mr. Hardy, marched in and found seats at the rear of the room. Two or three older men bowed to the manufacturer, and Alderman William McNish smiled and returned the girl’s bright little nod, while some of the younger men nudged each other and winked visibly. Clare Hardy, noticing them, flushed at their rudeness.

“Have you ever attended one of these meetings before?” asked Miss Snifkins, when they were all settled as comfortably as possible on the long wooden benches.

“No,” said Clare Hardy sweetly, but in a tone loud enough for some of the offenders to hear. “The men I usually see have manners.”

A tall, sad-looking man, also a spectator, sitting directly behind them suddenly bent double in a paroxysm of silent laughter, whispered to his companion, and then was convulsed once more.

The routine business of the Council was quickly disposed of — cleared away to gain time for the final discussion and decision concerning the Street Railway Bill. Hampstead had grown rapidly in the last few years, and the Street Railway Company was anxious to more than double its length of track within the city. The terms of the bill proposed, however, seemed so favorable to the company that it was generally conceded that the bill would be rejected until large modifications were made. In fact, the only popular clause in the bill was the promise of the much-needed Broad Street extension within six months. Ex-Congressman Strutt arose to present the company’s case, and Mr. Hardy ignored a question from Miss Snifkins’ friend and leaned forward to listen. The novelty of parliamentary practice had lost its first interest for Clare Hardy, however, and she was enjoying, instead, the comments of the tall man behind her.

She knew the tall man. His name was Tubb, and he was a grocer. His greatest rival, Mr. Butterson, was a councilman and sat over at the right, his chin sunk upon his breast, sleeping peacefully. The rivalry between the two had been bitter. Mr. Tubb had conducted the leading grocery store in town under the simple sign, “Tubb — Grocer,” until Mr. Butterson had opened “The Hampstead Cash Provision Store,” and the populace, always eager for a change, had rushed to the new shop. Mr. Tubb had retaliated by rechristening his store “The New York Grocery,” and considerable custom returned temporarily. Mr. Butterson changed his sign to the “United States Cash Store,” and Mr. Tubb responded with “The World Grocery,” while the sign painters smiled as they added up their bills. “The World Grocery” stared Mr. Butterson in the face daily until at last he evolved “The Universal Cash Grocery Store.” After that for months Mr. Butterson watched Mr. Tubb’s store narrowly, wondering what he would do if Tubb went higher. Mr. Tubb, however, had had an inspiration, and his opponent, riding one day on a street-car, had read the result in black type on a white card:

“If you want to buy some grub Come and call on Mr. Tubb.