Part 39 (1/2)
”All black,” he said, ”when the game comes out right.”
”And the other?” Kendrick persisted softly. He pointed to the remaining deck. A terrible smile of understanding drew his thin lips taut. ”And the other, Mr. Cargan?”
”Red,” replied Cargan. ”What else could it be? All red.”
He picked it up and shuffled through it to prove his point. Kendrick turned like a drunken man and staggered back down the aisle. Magee rose and hurried after him. At the door he turned, and the look on his face caused Magee to shudder.
”You heard?” he said helplessly. ”My G.o.d! It's funny, isn't it?” He laughed hysterically, and drawing out his handkerchief, pa.s.sed it across his forehead. ”A pleasant thing to think about--a pleasant thing to remember.”
Professor Bolton pushed open the smoker door.
”I thought I'd join you,” he began. ”Why, David, what is it? What's the matter?”
”Nothing,” replied Kendrick wildly. ”There's nothing the matter. Let me--by--please.” He crossed the swaying platform and disappeared into the other car.
For a moment the professor and Magee gazed after him, and then without a word moved down the car to join Cargan and Max. Magee's mind was dazed by the tragedy he had witnessed. ”A pleasant thing to think about--” He did not envy Kendrick his thoughts.
The mayor of Reuton had pushed aside the cards and lighted a huge cigar.
”Well, Doc,” he remarked jocosely, ”how's trade? Sold any new schemes for renovating the world to the up-state rubes? I should think this would be sort of an off-season for the reform business. Peace on earth, good will toward men--that ain't exactly a good advertis.e.m.e.nt for the reformers, is it?”
”It's an excellent one,” replied Professor Bolton. ”The first essential of good will toward men is not to rob and debauch them.”
”Oh, well, Doc, don't let's argue the matter,” replied Cargan easily. ”I ain't in the humor for it, anyhow. You got your beliefs, and I got my beliefs. And that ain't no reason why we should not smoke a couple of good cigars together. Have one?”
”Thanks. I--” reluctantly the old man took a gay-banded Havana from the mayor's huge fist. ”You're very kind.”
”I suppose it's sort of a blow to you,” the mayor went on, ”that your plans up there on the mountain went all to smash. It ought to teach you a lesson, Doc. There ain't nothing to the reform gag.”
The train slowed down at a small yellow station. Mr. Magee peered out the window. ”Hooperstown,” he read, ”Reuton--10 miles.” He saw Mr. Max get up and leave the car.
”Not a thing to it, Doc,” Cargan repeated, ”Your bunch has tried to get me before. You've shouted from the housetops that you had the goods on me. What's always happened?”
”Your own creatures have acquitted you,” replied the professor, from a cloud of Cargan cigar smoke.
”Fair-minded men decided that I hadn't done wrong. I tell you, Doc, there's dishonest graft, and I'm against that always. And there's honest graft--the rightful perquisites of a high office. That's the trouble with you church politicians. You can't see the difference between the two.”
”I'm not a church politician,” protested the professor. ”I'm bitterly opposed to the lily-white crowd who continually rant against the thing they don't understand. I'm practical, as practical as you, and when--”
Noiselessly Mr. Max slid up to the group, and stood silent, his eyes wide, his yellow face pitiful, the fear of a dog about to be whipped in his every feature.
”Jim,” he cried, ”Jim! You got to get me out of this. You got to stand by me.”
”Why, what's the matter, Lou?” asked the mayor in surprise.
”Matter enough,” whined Max. ”Do you know what's happened? Well, I'll tell--”
Mr. Max was thrust aside, and replaced by a train newsboy. Mr. Magee felt that he should always remember that boy, his straw colored hair, his freckled beaming face, his lips with their fresh perpetual smile.