Part 16 (2/2)

He did not know that his palace had delighted even the jaded eye of the far-traveled First Citizen. He only knew that his fellow-townsmen sneered at it with dislike.

Shelby was never told by the discreet committeemen in the carriage that the President had exclaimed on seeing his home:

”Why, this is magnificent! This is an estate! I never dreamed that--er--Wakefield was a city of such importance and such wealth. And whose home is this?”

Somebody groaned, ”Shelby's.”

”Ah yes; Shelby's, of course. So many things here are Shelby's. You must be very proud of Mr. Shelby. Is he there, perhaps?”

”That's him, standing on the upper porch there, waving his hat,”

Pettibone mumbled.

The President waved his hat at Shelby.

”And the handsome lady is his wife, perhaps?”

”Yes, that's Mrs. Shelby,” mumbled Spate. ”She was Miss Carew. Used to teach school here.”

Phoebe Shelby was clinging to her husband's side. There were tears in her eyes and her hands squeezed mute messages upon his arm, for she knew that his many-wounded heart was now more bitterly hurt than in all his knowledge of Wakefield. He was a prisoner in disgrace gazing through the bars at a festival.

He never knew that the President suggested stopping a moment to congratulate him, and that it was his own old taskmaster Spate who ventured to say that the President could meet him later. Spate could rise to an emergency; the other committeemen thanked him with their eyes.

As the carriage left the border of the Shelby place the President turned his head to stare, for it was beautiful, ambitiously beautiful. And something in the silent att.i.tude of the owner and his wife struck a deeper note in the noisy, gaudy welcome of the other citizens.

”Tell me about this Mr. Shelby,” said the President.

Looks were exchanged among the committee. All disliked the task, but finally Spate broke the silence.

”Well, Mr. President, Shelby is a kind of eccentric man. Some folks say he's cracked. Used to drive a delivery-wagon for me. Ran away and tried his hand at nearly everything. Finally, him and his two brothers invented a kind of was.h.i.+ng-powder. It was like a lot of others, but they knew how to push it. Borrowed money to advertise it big. Got it started till they couldn't have stopped it if they'd tried. Shelby decided to come back here and establish a branch factory. That tall chimney is it.

No smoke comin' out of it to-day. He gave all the hands a holiday in your honor, Mr. President.”

The President said: ”Well, that's mighty nice of him. So he's come back to beautify his old home, eh? That's splendid--a fine spirit. Too many of us, I'm afraid, forget the old places when ambition carries us away into new scenes. Mr. Shelby must be very popular here.”

There was a silence. Mr. Pettibone was too honest, or too something, to let the matter pa.s.s.

”Well, I can't say as to that, Mr. President. Shelby's queer. He's very pus.h.i.+ng. You can't drive people more 'n so fast. Shelby is awful fussy.

Now, that trolley line--he put that in, but we didn't need it.”

”Not but what Wakefield is enterprising,” Spate added, anxiously.

Pettibone nodded and went on: ”People used to think the old bobtailed horse-car--excuse my language--wasn't much, but the trolley-cars are a long way from perfect. Service ain't so very good. People don't ride on 'em much, because they don't run often enough.”

The President started to say, ”Perhaps they can't run oftener because people don't ride on 'em enough,” but something counseled him to silence, and Pettibone continued:

”Same way with the electric light. People that had gas hated to change.

He made it cheap, but it's a long way from perfect. He put in an independent telephone. The old one wasn't much good and it was expensive. Now we can have telephones at half the old price. But result is, you've got to have two, or you might just as well not have one.

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