McQuade and Martin entered a cafe popular for its noon lunches. It was hot weather in July, and both were mopping their bald foreheads, their faces and necks. The white bulldog trotted along behind, his tongue lolling out of his mouth and his eyes heavy. The two men sat down in a corner under an electric fan; the dog crawled under the table, grateful for the cold stone tiling.
"What do you know about this fellow Warrington?" asked McQuade, tossing his hat on one of the unoccupied chairs.
"The fellow who writes plays?"
"Yes. What do you know about him?"
"Why, he used to peddle vegetables and now he owns a swell place on Williams Street."
"Gamble?"
"Not that I know of. I never go into Pete's myself. It wouldn't be good business. But they tell me Warrington used to drop in once in a while, when he was a reporter, and choke his salary to death over the roulette table."
"Doesn't gamble now?"
"Not in any of the joints around town."
"Drink?"
"Oh, I guess he boozes a little; but he's hard-headed and knows how to handle the stuff."
"Women?—Roast beef, boiled potatoes and musty ale for two."
"Actresses.—Say, make mine a beer.—A gay buck in New York, I understand. Used to chase around after the Challoner woman who married Bennington."
"Nothing here in town?"
"Haven't paid any attention to him. I guess he's straight enough these days."
"Tip Pete off to-day. The police will make a raid Saturday night. The ministers have been shouting again, and two or three losers have whined."
"All right. But what's all this about Warrington?" asked Martin, whose curiosity was aroused.
"I'll tell you later." The waiter returned with the platters of food, and McQuade ate without further comment or question.
Martin ate his meat in silence also, but he was busy wondering. Warrington? What had interested the boss in that swell? Humph!
These men ate quickly and digested slowly. McQuade took out two fat black cigars and passed one to Martin, who tore off the end with his teeth.
"I want to find out all there is to know about Warrington. I can't explain why just now; too many around."
"Set Bolles after him. Bolles used to be with a private detective bureau. If there's anything to learn, he'll learn it. There he is now. Hey, waiter, ask that gentleman looking for a vacant table to come over. Hello, Bolles!"
"How do you do, Mr. Martin. Hot day, Mr. McQuade."
"Sit down," said McQuade, with a nod of invitation toward the remaining vacant chair. "Cigar or a drink?"
"Bring me a little whisky—no, make it an old-fashioned cocktail. That'll be about right."
"Mr. McQuade has a job for you, Bolles, if you're willing to undertake it."
"I've got some time on my hands just now," replied Bolles. "Contract work?"
"After a fashion," said McQuade grimly. "Eat your dinner and we'll go up stairs to my office. What I have to say can't be said here."
"All right, Mr. McQuade. If it's dagos, I'll have plenty in hand in November."
"I shall want you to go to New York," said McQuade.
"New York or San Francisco, so long as some one foots the bills."
"I'll foot 'em," agreed McQuade. "Hustle your dinner. We'll wait for you at the bar."
Bolles ordered. A job for McQuade that took him to New York meant money, money and a good time. There were no more contracts till September, so the junket to New York wouldn't interfere with his regular work. He had sublet his Italians. He was free. A few minutes later he joined McQuade, and the trio went up stairs in a cloud of tobacco smoke. McQuade nodded to the typewriter, who rose and left the private office. The three men sat down, in what might be described as a one-two-three attitude: domination, tacit acceptance of this domination, and servility.
"Do you know Richard Warrington, the playwriter?"
"That snob? Yes, I know who he is, and I'd like to punch his head for him, too."
McQuade smiled. This manifest rancor on Bolles' part would make things easier than he thought.
"Well, listen. I've just been tipped that big things are going to happen this fall. That fool Donnelly has queered himself, and is making a muddle of everything he touches. Senator Henderson is a shrewd man, but he wasn't shrewd enough this time. He should have conducted his little conspiracy in his own home and not at a club where servants often find profit in selling what they hear. Henderson is going to put Warrington up for mayor."
"The hell he is!" said Bolles.
Martin's jaw dropped, and the cigar ashes tumbled down his shirt bosom.
"It's no joke," went on McQuade. "If he is nominated, he'll win. The people are wanting a change. If the Henderson people get into the City Hall, I stand to lose a fortune on contracts. You both know what that means. Warrington must never get a chance to accept."
Bolles looked at Martin. McQuade saw the look, and, interpreting it, laughed.
"These are no dime-novel days. We don't kill men to get 'em out of the way. We take a look into their past and use it as a club."
"I begin to see," said Martin. "Warrington must be side-tracked before the convention. Good. That'll be simple."
"Not very," McQuade admitted. "It's going to be a devilish hard job. You, Bolles, pack up and go to New York. I want some information regarding this young fellow's past in New York. It's up to you to get it. No faking, mind you; good substantial evidence that can be backed up by affidavits. Get the idea? Five hundred and expenses, if you succeed; your expenses anyhow. Five hundred is a lot of money these days. But if you go on a bat, I'll drop you like a hot brick, for good and all. Think it over. Pack up to-night, if you want to. Here's a hundred to start with. Remember this, now, there must be a woman."
"A woman?"
"Yes. A man has no past, if there isn't a woman in it."
"I can land that five hundred," Bolles declared confidently. "I can find the woman. I'll write you every other day."
"Well, then, that's all. Good luck. No boozing while you're on the job Afterward I don't care what you do. By-by."
Bolles took his dismissal smilingly. Five hundred. It was easy.
"If it's possible, he'll do it," said Martin. "But what's your campaign?"
"Donnelly must remain another term. After that, oblivion. There'll be bids this fall. If Henderson's man wins, there'll be new aldermen. These bids of mine must go through and gas must be kept at a dollar-fifty. I'm a rich man, but at present I'm up to my neck in southern contracts that aren't paying ten cents on the dollar. Herculaneum's got to foot the bill."
"How'd you find out about Henderson's coup?"
"One of the waiters at his club said he had some information. I gave him ten dollars for something I'd have given ten hundred for just as quickly. If Henderson had sprung Warrington in September, we'd have been swamped. Now we have a good chance to hang on."
"Force him to back down and withdraw?"
McQuade nodded.
"It's simply got to be done. I didn't give Henderson credit for so clever a move as this. A new man, famous and wealthy, under no obligations to his party; the voters would follow him just for the novelty of the thing. Besides, there are other reasons, but I'm keeping them to myself. How about that pavement deal in John Street?"
John Street possessed but three or four houses. The paving would be a ten-thousand-dollar job. As a witty political speaker once said, they paved Herculaneum in the concrete and in the abstract.
"It will go through Monday night, smooth as butter."
"Canvassed the boys?"
"More than three-fourths vote. Sure."
"I'm depending upon you."
"Will you turn down Donnelly at the convention?"
"I tell you he's got to run again. I'll bring him to order, after a little heart-to-heart talk. He's the only man in sight."
"Why not play the same game as Henderson?"
"I've thought it all out. There's no one but Donnelly. Pick up anything you can about Warrington."
"All right. By the way, the boys want to know if you think we can pull off those ten-round bouts this winter."
"I'm going down to the capital to see."
Martin telephoned for his team, and twenty minutes later he was driving countryward. McQuade dictated a few letters, one of which he directed to be sent by messenger. Then he left the office and called upon the editor of the Times. This conference lasted an hour. McQuade was chief owner of the Times.
Warrington was greatly surprised when, at three-thirty, a message was brought to him requesting him briefly and politely to do Mr. McQuade the honor to call on him between four and five that afternoon. He had met McQuade at the Chamber of Commerce dinner. The introduction had been most formal. What the deuce did McQuade wish to see him about? Should he go? A natural aversion to the man said no; but policy urged him as well as curiosity. He went to the telephone and called up McQuade's office. Mr. McQuade was not in, but would return at four. Ah! It was the typewriter who spoke. Would she kindly notify Mr. McQuade on his return that Mr. Warrington would be at his office at four-thirty? She would. Thanks.
Warrington smoked uneasily. He had no desire to meet McQuade. Their ways were widely separated and reached nothing in common. But he readily recognized the fact that McQuade was not a man such as one might heedlessly antagonize. What could the politician want of the literary man? McQuade dabbled in racing horses; perhaps he had a horse to sell. In that event, they would meet on common ground. But his belief in this possibility was only half-hearted. He filled his pockets with cigars, whistled for the dog, and departed. Both of the Bennington houses were closed; the two families were up north in the woods.
Promptly at four-thirty Warrington and his dog entered the elevator of the McQuade Building and were dislodged on the third floor. They went along the dim corridor, scrutinizing doors, each hunting for one of his kind. Jove couldn't read, but he could smell. Finally Warrington came to a stand. Upon the glass panel of the door he read:
He did not knock. He opened the door and walked in. It is a sign of weakness for a man to knock on the door of a business office, unless it is marked private, Nevertheless, the dingy glass had known the knock of many knuckles. A girl was hammering on the typewriting machine. She ceased only when she completed the page. She looked up. Her expression, on seeing who the visitor was, changed instantly. It was not often that a man like this one entered the office of Daniel McQuade and Company, General Contractors.
"I have an appointment with Mr. McQuade," said Warrington pleasantly; "would you mind announcing me?"
"Just a moment," answered the girl, rising and entering the private office. She returned at once. "Mr. McQuade will see you."
Warrington walked quietly into the lion's den.
"Glad to see you, Mr. Warrington," said McQuade, pointing toward a chair. He did not offer his hand; something told him not to make that mistake.
From under the desk McQuade's dog emerged, stiff and bristling. On his side, Jove stood squarely on his legs, head on, as they say, his lips writhing and quivering with rage. Warrington touched the chair that had been offered him. Jove begged. But the master was obdurate. Jove jumped up, but turned quickly. The white dog stopped. He recognized that he was at a complete disadvantage.
McQuade watched these proceedings with an amused twinkle. It was a clever manoeuver. So far as he was concerned, a good dog fight would not have been to his distaste.
"It doesn't hurt the brutes to light once in a while. But, of course," he added, "your dog is old."
"Nothing is old till it is useless."
"An epigram from one of your plays?"
"No; but it sounds good enough to use. Jove has strong teeth, however, and he comes from a fighting family. But for my part, I had much rather see two men pummel each other."
"So would I, for that matter." McQuade pushed the match-box toward Warrington, but Warrington drew out his own and struck a light. McQuade shrugged.
"Mr. McQuade, I am interested to learn what is back of your note. Horses?"
"No; not horses."
McQuade viewed the young man through half-closed eyes. The contractor was a big hulk of a man, physically as strong as a bull, with reddish hair, small twinkling eyes, a puffy nose mottled with veins, thin lips shaded by a bristling red mustache, and a heavy jaw. The red fell of hair on his hands reminded Warrington of a sow's back. Everything about McQuade suggested strength and tensity of purpose. He had begun work on a canal-boat. He had carried shovel and pick. From boss on a railway section job he had become a brakeman. He took a turn at lumbering, bought a tract of chestnuts and made a good penny in railroad ties. He saved every dollar above his expenses. He bought a small interest in a contracting firm, and presently he became its head. There was ebb and tide to his fortunes but he hung on. A lighting contract made him a rich man. Then he drifted into politics; and now, at the age of fifty, he was a power in the state. The one phase of sentiment in the man was the longing to possess all those obstacles that had beset his path in the days of his struggles. He bought the canal-boat and converted it into a house-boat; he broke the man who had refused him a job at the start; he bought the block, the sidewalk of which he had swept; every man who stood in his way he removed this way or that. He was dishonest, but his dishonesty was of a Napoleonic order. He was uneducated, but he possessed that exact knowledge of mankind that makes leaders; and his shrewdness was the result of caution and suspicion. But like all men of his breed, he hated with peculiar venom the well-born; he loved to grapple with them, to wrest their idleness from them, to compel them to work for a living, to humiliate them. The fiber in McQuade was coarse; he possessed neither generosity nor magnanimity; the very men who feared him held him in secret contempt.
"No, Mr. Warrington, I haven't any horses for sale to-day," he began. "Not very long ago you met Senator Henderson at your club. He offered you the nomination for mayor this fall, and you accepted it."
Warrington could not repress a start of surprise. He had not quite expected this. He was annoyed.
"That is true. What mystifies me," he supplemented, "is how this knowledge came to your ears."
"I generally hear what's going on. My object in asking you to call is to talk over the matter on a friendly basis."
"I can not see what good that will do. Politically we have nothing in common."
"Politically or socially. But the point is this. What have you done that you should merit this honor? I'll talk frankly. What have you done toward the building up of your city? What have you done toward its progress in manufacturing and building? You have done nothing but buy a house on the fashionable street and pay the taxes."
"You might add that I once peddled vegetables," said Warrington.
It was McQuade's turn to be surprised. From what he had observed of fashionable people, especially the new-rich, they endeavored to submerge altogether the evidences of past manual and menial labor.
"Then you are not ashamed of the fact that you sold vegetables?"
"In truth, I'm rather proud of it. It was the first step in the fight. And I tell you honestly, Mr. McQuade, that I have fought every inch of the way. And I shall continue to fight, when there's anything worth fighting for. I'm not a manufacturer or a builder, but I am none the less eligible for public office. What little money I have was made honestly, every penny of it. It was not built on political robbery and the failures of others. But let us come to the point. You have something to say."
"Yes. I have. And it is this: I don't propose to have you meddle with the politics of this city. I hope we can come to a peaceful understanding. I don't want to war against you."
"Mr. McQuade, you talk like a man out of his senses. Who's going to prevent me from accepting the nomination?"
"I am," answered McQuade, bringing a fist down on his desk.
The dogs growled. They seemed to realize that war of some kind was in the air.
"How?" asked Warrington. The man was a fool!
"You will go to Senator Henderson and tell him that you have reconsidered."
Warrington laughed. "I believed I knew all phases, but this one surpasses any I ever heard of. You have the nerve to ask me, of the opposition party, to refuse the nomination for mayor?"
"I have."
"Are you afraid of me?"
"Not of you, my lad," McQuade answered sardonically, spreading out his great hands. "Do I look like a man afraid of anything? But the thought of a stranger becoming mayor of Herculaneum rather frightens me. Let us have peace, Mr. Warrington."
"I ask nothing better."
"Withdraw."
"I never withdraw. I am not afraid of anything. I even promise to be good-natured enough to look upon this meeting as a colossal joke." Warrington's cigar had gone out. He relighted it coolly. "If the nomination is offered me, I shall accept it; and once having accepted it, I'll fight, but honorably and in the open. Look here, McQuade, don't be a fool. You've something against me personally. What is it? If I recollect, I ran across you once or twice when I was a newspaper man."
McQuade's eyes narrowed again.
"Personally, you are nothing to me," he replied; "politically, you are a meddler, and you are in my way."
"Oh, I am in your way? That is to say, if I am elected, there'll be too much honesty in the City Hall to suit your plans? I can readily believe that. If you can convince me that I ought not to run for mayor, do so. I can accept any reasonable argument. But bluster will do no good. For a man of your accredited ability, you are making a poor move, even a fatal one."
"Will you withdraw?"
"Emphatically no!"
"All right. Whatever comes your way after this, don't blame me. I have given you a fair warning."
"You have threatened."
"I can act also. And you can put this in your pipe, Mr. Warrington, that before October comes round, when the Republican convention meets, you will withdraw your name quickly enough. This is not a threat. It's a warning. That's all. I'm sorry you can't see the matter from my standpoint."
"Come, boy," said Warrington to his dog. "You had better keep your animal under the table."
McQuade did not move or answer. So Warrington grasped Jove by the collar and led him out of the private office. McQuade heard the dramatist whistle on the way to the elevator.
"So he'll fight, eh?" growled McQuade. "Well, I'll break him, or my name's not McQuade. The damned meddling upstart, with his plays and fine women! You're a hell of a dog, you are! Why the devil didn't you kill his pup for him?"
McQuade sent a kick at the dog, who dodged it successfully, trotted out to the typewriter and crawled under the girl's skirts.
Warrington went home, thoroughly angry with himself. To have bandied words and threats with a man like McQuade! He had lowered himself to the man's level. But there were times when he could not control his tongue. Education and time had not tamed him any. Withdraw? It would have to be something more tangible than threats.
"Richard, you are not eating anything," said his aunt at dinner that evening.
"I'm not hungry, Aunty. It's been one of those days when a man gets up wrong."
"I'm sorry. Doesn't the play go along smoothly?"
"Not as smoothly as I should like."
"There was a long-distance call for you this afternoon. The Benningtons want you to come up at once instead of next week."
Warrington brightened perceptibly. He went to work, but his heart wasn't in it. The interview with McQuade insisted upon recurring. Why hadn't he walked out without any comment whatever? Silence would have crushed McQuade. He knew that McQuade could not back up this threat; it was only a threat. Bah! Once more he flung himself into his work.
Half an hour later the door-bell rang.
All books are sourced from Project Gutenberg