Part 7 (1/2)
”The election,” he went on listlessly, ”is only two weeks off, but the rascal isn't lifting a finger. He doesn't have to. To-morrow night he holds what he calls his annual 'town-meeting'--a fake and a joke. The trustful people gather, listen to speeches by Ryan retainers, quaff free lemonade. Nominally, everybody is invited to speak; really only the elect are permitted to. I saw a reform candidate try it once, and it was interesting to see how scientifically they put a crimp in him.”
”And J. Pinkney Hare?” queried Varney becoming rather interested.
Was everything, the young man explained, that Ryan was not--able, honest, unselfish, public-spirited. Studying the situation quietly for a year, he had uncovered a most unholy trail of graft leading to high places. But when he began to try to tell the people about it, he found his way hopelessly blocked at every turn.
”He can't even hire a hall,” summarized the stranger. ”Not to save his immortal soul. That was the meaning of the ludicrous exhibition a few minutes ago. In one word, he can't get a hearing. He might talk with the tongues of men and angels, but n.o.body will listen to him. It is a dirty shame. But what in the world can you expect? Lift a finger against the gang, and, presto, your job's gone, and you can't find another high or low. Ryan's money goes everywhere--into the schools, the church, the press. The press. That, of course, is the System's most powerful ally.
The--infamous _Hollaston Gazette_--”
”The _Hollaston Gazette_--is that published here?” asked Varney in surprise, for the _Gazette_ was famous: one of those very rare small-town newspapers which, by reason of great age and signal editorial ability, have earned a national place in American journalism.
”Named after the county. You have heard of it?” said the young man in a faintly mocking voice, and immediately went on: ”The _Gazette_ is eighty years old. Even now, in these bad times, everybody in the county takes it. They get all their opinions from it, ready-made. It is their Bible.
A fool can see what a power such a paper is. For seventy-seven years the _Gazette_ fully deserved it. That was the way it won it. But all that is changed now. And the paper is making a great deal of money.”
”It is crooked, then?”
”I said, did I not, that it was for Ryan?”
He lounged further back in the shadows upon his packing-case; he appeared not to be feeling well at all. Varney regarded him with puzzled interest.
”A very depressing little story,” he suggested, ”but after all, hardly a novel one. I don't yet altogether grasp why--”
”Your Jeffries of a friend is a red-hot political theorist, isn't he?”
asked the other apathetically. ”Our Hunston politicians are practical men. They are after results, and seek them with small regard, I fear, to copy-book precepts. You follow me? Rusticating strangers, visiting sociological students, itinerant idealists, these would do well to speak softly and walk on the sunny side of the road.”
”You appear,” said Varney, his curiosity increasingly piqued, ”to speak of these matters with authority--”
”Rather let us say with cert.i.tude.”
”Possibly you yourself have felt the iron-toothed bite of the machine?”
”I?”
”Why not?”
The young man looked shocked; slowly his pale face took on a look of cynical amus.e.m.e.nt. ”Yes, yes. Certainly. Who more so?” He appeared to hesitate a moment, and then added with a laugh which held a curious tinge of defiance: ”In fact, I myself have the honor of being the owner and editor of the _Gazette_--Coligny Smith, at your service--”
”Coligny Smith!” echoed Varney amazed.
The young man glanced up. ”It was my father you have heard of. He died three years ago. However,” he added, with an odd touch of pride, ”he always said that I wrote the better articles.”
There was a moment's silence. Varney felt by turns astonished, disgusted, sorry, embarra.s.sed. Then he burst out laughing.
”Well, you have a nerve to tell me this. Smith. In doing so, you seem to have brought our conversation to a logical conclusion. I thank you for your kindly advice and piquant confession, and so, good evening.”
Mr. Smith straightened on his packing-case and spoke with unexpected eagerness.
”Oh--must you go? The night's so young--why not--come up to the Ottoman and have something? I'll--I'd be glad to explain--”