Part 26 (2/2)

”Watts,” asked Barclay, after the others had gone, and the little man at the bench did not speak, ”Watts, what's got into the people of this country? What have I done that they should begin pounding me this way?”

McHurdie turned a gentle smile on his visitor, knowing that Barclay would do the talking. Barclay went on: ”Here are five suits in county courts in Texas against me; a suit in Kansas by the attorney-general, five or ten in the Dakotas, three in Nebraska, one or two in each of the Lake states, and the juries always finding against me. I haven't changed my methods. I'm doing just what I've done for fifteen years.

I've had lots of lawsuits before, with stockholders and rival companies and partners, and millers and all that--but this standing in front of the mob and fighting them off--why? Why? What have I done? These county attorneys and attorneys-general seem to delight in it--now why? They didn't used to; it used to be that only cranks like old Phil Ward even talked of such things, and people laughed at them; and now prosecuting attorneys actually do these things, and people reelect them. Why? What's got into the people? What am I doing that I haven't been doing?”

”Maybe the people are growing honest, John,” suggested the harness maker amiably.

Barclay threw back his head and roared: ”Naw--naw--it isn't that; it's the d.a.m.n newspapers. That's what it is! They're what's raising the devil. But why? Why? What have I done? Why, they have even bulldozed some of my own federal judges--my own men, Watts, my own men; men whose senators came into my office with their hats in their hands and asked permission to name these judges. Now why?” He was silent awhile and then began chuckling: ”But I fixed 'em the other day. Did you see that article in all the papers briefed out of New York about how that professor had said that the N.P.C. was an economic necessity? I did that, Watts: and got it published in the magazines, too--and our advertising agents made all the newspapers that get our advertising print it--and they had to.” Barclay laughed. After a moody silence he continued: ”And you know what I could do. I could finance a scheme to buy out the meat trust and the lumber trust, and I could control every line of advertising that goes into the d.a.m.n magazines--and I could buy the paper trust too, and that would fix 'em. The Phil Wards are not running this country yet. The men who make the wealth and maintain the prosperity have got to run it in spite of the long-nosed reformers and socialists. You know, Watts, that we men who do things have a divine responsibility to keep the country off the rocks. But she's drifting a lot just now, and they're all after me, because I'm rich. That's all, Watts, just because I've worked hard and earned a little money--that's why.” And so he talked on, until he was tired, and limped home and sat idly in front of his organ, unable to touch the keys.

Then he turned toward the City to visit his temporal kingdom. There in the great Corn Exchange Building his domain was unquestioned. There in the room with the mahogany walls he could feel his power, and stanch the flow of his courage. There he was a man. But alas for human vanity! When he got to the City, he found the morning papers full of a story of a baby that had died from overeating breakfast food made at his mills and adulterated with earth from his Missouri clay banks, as the coroner had attested after an autopsy; and a miserable county prosecutor was looking for John Barclay. So he hid all the next day in his offices, and that evening took Neal Ward on a special train in his private car, on a roundabout way home to Sycamore Ridge.

It was a wretched homecoming for so great and successful a man as Barclay. Yet he with all his riches, with all his material power, even he longed for the safety of home, as any hunted thing longs for his lair. On the way he paced the diagonals of the little office room in his car, like a caged jackal. The man had lost his anchor; the things which his life had been built on would not hold him. Money--men envied the rich nowadays, he said, and the rich man had no rights in the courts or out of them; friends--they had gone up in the market, and he could not afford them; politics--he had found it a quicksand.

So he jabbered to Neal Ward, his secretary, and pulled down the curtains of his car on the station side of every stop the train made in its long day's journey.

CHAPTER XXIV

It was nearly midnight when the special train pulled into Sycamore Ridge, and Neal Ward hurried home. He went to his room, and found there a letter and a package, both addressed in Jeanette's handwriting. The letter was only a note that read:--

”MY DEAREST BOY: I could not wait to send it for your Christmas present. So I am sending it the very day it is finished. I hope it will bring me close to you--into your very heart and keep me there.

I have kissed it--for I knew that you would.

”Your loving JEANETTE.”

He tore open the package and found a miniature of Jeanette done on ivory--that seemed to bring her into the room, and illumine it with her presence. The thing bloomed with life, and his heart bounded with joy as his eyes drank the beauty of it. His father called from below stairs, and the youth went down holding the note and the miniature in his hands. Before the father could speak, the son held out the picture, and Philemon Ward looked for a moment into the glowing faces--that of the picture and that of the living soul before him, and hesitated before speaking.

”I got your wire--” he began.

”But isn't it beautiful, father--wonderful!” broke in the son.

The father a.s.sented kindly and then continued: ”So I thought I'd sit up for you. I had to talk with you.” The son's face looked an interrogation, and the father answered, ”Read that, Neal--” handing his son a letter in a rich linen envelope bearing in the corner the indication that it was written at the Army and Navy Club in Was.h.i.+ngton. The lovely face in the miniature lay on the table between them and smiled up impartially at father and son as the young man drew out the letter and read:--

”MY DEAR GENERAL WARD: This letter will introduce to you Mr. H. S.

Smith, an inspector from the Bureau of Commerce and Labour, who has been working upon evidence connected with the National Provisions Company. I happened to be at luncheon this afternoon with a man of the highest official authority, whose name it would be bad faith to divulge, but whom I know you respect, even if you do not always agree with him. I mentioned your name and the part you took in the battle of the Wilderness, and my friend was at once interested, though, of course, he had known you by name and fame for forty years. One word led to another, as is usual in these cases, and my friend mentioned the fact that your son, Neal Dow Ward, is secretary to John Barclay, and in a position to verify certain evidence which the government now has in the N.P.C. matter. I happen to know that the government is exceedingly anxious to be exactly correct in every charge it makes against this Company, and hence I am writing to you.

Your son can do a service to his country to-day by telling the truth when he is questioned by Inspector Smith, to my mind as important as that you did in the Wilderness. Inspector Smith has a right to question him, and will do so, and I have promised my friend here to ask you to counsel with your son, and beg him in the name of that good citizens.h.i.+p for which you have always stood, and for which you offered your life, to tell the simple truth. As a comrade and a patriot, I have no doubt what you will do, knowing the facts.”

Neal Ward put his hand on the table, with the letter still in his fingers. ”Father,” he asked blankly, ”do you know what that means?”

”Yes, Neal, I think I understand; it means that to-morrow morning will decide whether you are a patriot or a perjurer, my boy--a patriot or a perjurer!” The general, who was in his s.h.i.+rt-sleeves and collarless, rose, and putting his hands behind him, backed to the radiator to warm them.

”But, father--father,” exclaimed the boy, ”how can I? What I learned was in confidence. How can I?”

The father saw the anguish in his son's face, and did not reply at once. ”Is it crooked, Neal?”

”Yes,” replied the son, and then added: ”So bad I was going to get out of it, as soon as Jeanette came home. I couldn't stand it--for a life, father. But I promised to stay three years, and try, and I think I should keep my promise.”

The father and son were silent for a time, and then the father spoke.

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