Jap Herron Part 13

CHAPTER XI

"I worked a bunch of pa.s.ses out of the agent for that Indian medicine show," announced Bill, was.h.i.+ng his hands. "Want to take her, j.a.p?" and he jerked his head in the direction of the front door, where Isabel Granger was pa.s.sing.

"No; I'm going out to Flossy's a while. I want to talk some things over with her."

There was no further discussion, for at that moment Rosy Raymond floated by, and Bill started out in eager pursuit. Ever since the election, j.a.p had been obsessed by a disquieting foreboding. One of Mayor Bowers's first official acts was to authorize the opening of a second saloon on Main street, and he was rapidly pus.h.i.+ng the work of erecting two new business houses which, rumor declared, were to house other thirst palaces. Hitherto the natives and the surrounding territory had been amply supplied by Holmes; but Bloomtown was growing beyond the reach of one saloon.

Holmes had come across with a double-sized license, under promise of the Mayor that he should continue to have a monopoly of the trade. And when the good people of the various churches waited upon Judge Bowers to protest against what they were disposed to call the "introduction of Satan into their town," he called their attention to the need for munic.i.p.al revenue. If one saloon was a help, two saloons would double that help. The town had already begun to show signs of genuine progress. It had to build a calaboose to take care of the saloon's patrons, and the regular fines for plain drunks almost paid the cost of the court that collected them.

Once j.a.p thought he detected a sinister reason for Bill's flushed cheeks and unsteady gait as he pa.s.sed hastily through the office on his way to the sleeping room above. The next morning Bill declared that he had been a fool, and had paid for his folly with a severe headache, and j.a.p, with the delicacy that was j.a.p's, let the subject drop. It was becoming fas.h.i.+onable for the young fellows of the town to a.s.sume a tough swagger. Those who had formerly resorted to barn lofts and musty cellars paraded their sophistication on Main street, and Bill would rather be dead than out of style. j.a.p wanted to talk it over with Flossy, but he had never found the key to open such poignant confidence. What right had he to burden Flossy with fresh anxiety? In his loneliness, he yearned for Ellis as he had never yearned before.

He was sitting on the little front porch, tossing J. W. on the tough old trotting horse afforded by his two ill-padded knees, and vaguely wondering how he could introduce the subject of Bloomtown's swift decay, without wounding Judge Bowers's sister and Bill's aunt, when they heard a great tumult in the vicinity of the medicine show. After a while Bill came up the walk with Rosy.

"What was the racket about?" j.a.p asked incuriously.

Rosy giggled.

"They wanted to nominate the ugliest man in town, and there was a fight," she said.

"Shut up!" growled Bill. "Haven't you got any sense?"

"Sam Waldron nominated j.a.p," she sputtered, between giggles.

A hot flush swept over j.a.p. Always keenly sensitive, he had never armored himself against the playful brutalities of his friends. The shame of being made a subject of ridicule cut deeply.

"Rosy is a fool!" snapped Bill.

"What was the fuss about?" asked Flossy, prompted by a conviction that further revelation would be good for j.a.p.

"Why, Isabel Granger slapped his face, and Bill jumped in and punched him in the ribs, and the crowd wanted to take him down to the pond and duck him."

Flossy's hand sought j.a.p's, and she laughed softly.

"That was worth while, boy. How Ellis would have written it up!"

j.a.p smiled, but the sting was still there. When it was evident that Bill and Rosy expected to spend the evening, he arose with a tired, "Well, I'll be going," and walked around the cottage to the alley gate.

He was afraid of meeting some one on Spring street, and he made excuse to his own consciousness that the alley had always been the rational highway between the cottage and the office. He put his hand in his pocket for his key, as he emerged on Main street.

As he approached the door, he saw that some one was sitting on the steps. She sprang up and laid trembling hands on his arm.

"Oh, j.a.p, you won't mind! You won't let it hurt you? Everybody knows that you are the best-looking man in town. At least I--think so!"

Before he could grasp her arm, the girl was gone. That night j.a.p lay awake long hours, thinking, thinking. With the morning, reason returned. He had a.s.sumed responsibility for Flossy and the boy. He must not think again.

And indeed the next few days gave him little time for thought. Wat Harlow slipped into the office late one afternoon. He wore a furtive look and an appearance of guilt. There was about him a suggestion of gum shoes. Something must be amiss.

"I want to see you alone, j.a.p," he confessed.

j.a.p led the way to the little private office. Harlow was pulling nervously at the stubby mustache that hid his short upper lip.

"In trouble, Wat?" asked j.a.p anxiously.

"No--not exactly. You see, it's this way----" He coughed apologetically. "The wife had a dream, a funny dream, the other night.

She's had curious dreams ever since we took that long trip, to New York and all over, last year, and there may be nothing to it, but----" He lit a fresh cigar, and went at it again. "She says that she saw me going into the Capitol at Was.h.i.+ngton just as if I belonged there. And she got a notion---- j.a.p, you know how notionate women are. She thinks--well, she thinks that I might be called to run for the House of Representatives."

"Oh, I see," said j.a.p, illuminated. "It would sound good for the _Herald_ to mention that you are in line?"

"Not rough-like, j.a.p! Just a little tickle in the ribs, to see what they'd say."

"Oh, I'll fix that," declared j.a.p, laughing. And the _Herald_ flung the hat in the ring for "Harlow, the one honest man."

j.a.p smiled sadly as he read his copy over. He had a habit of wondering what Ellis would have said. He wondered, too, what att.i.tude the editor of the Barton _Standard_ would take. The _Standard_ had recently changed hands, and since Bloomtown had pulled a saloon, a sunbonnet factory and two business houses out of Barton, a rapid-fire editorial war had been in progress. By some curious dispensation of Providence, Jones of the _Standard_ and Herron of the _Herald_ had never met. j.a.p was not hunting trouble, but the same spirit that prompted him to thrash his tormentors, the day of his advent in Ellis Hinton's town, caused him to wield a fire-tipped pen against the _Standard_.

That opposition to Wat's candidacy would develop, before the nomination, was to be expected; but opposition on the part of the Barton _Standard_ would be a purely personal matter, the _Standard_ having its own party fights to foster. But that was all j.a.p feared.

It was even worse than he could have imagined, for Jones dug up a b.l.o.o.d.y ghost to walk at every political meeting. Not only were all Wat Harlow's sins of omission and commission paraded in the _Standard_, but he was proclaimed as the implacable foe of higher education. In vain did his home paper print his record, of beneficent bills introduced, of committee work on behalf of the district schools, and his great speech setting forth the need of a new normal school building. Jones had one trump card left in his hand, and the day before the convention he played it. It was a handbill, yellow with age and ragged around the edges, but still showing a badly spelled, abominably punctuated story in vermilion ink, with a weeping angel at the top and a rooster and two prancing stallions at the bottom. It proved Wat Harlow the undying foe of the State University.

Despite all the _Herald's_ valiant work, that nightmare was Harlow's undoing. The nomination went to a rising politician at the opposite side of the congressional district. A great change had come over the sentiment, of the state, since the day when the University had been the favorite tool of the political grafters. Every village had its band of rooters for the Alma Mater, and when the nominating convention came to a close it was apparent that Wat Harlow was hardly an "also ran."

Defeat was galling enough; but the _Standard's_ expressions of glee were unbearable. j.a.p's red hair stood on end, "like quills upon the fretful porcupine," as he stood at his case and threw the type into the stick, hot from the wrath in his soul. The paper was printed, as usual, on Thursday; but Friday brought a change in the even tenor of Bloomtown's way. Jones, of the _Standard_, was a pa.s.senger on the eastbound train that left Barton a little after noon. His destination was Bloomtown.

"I am looking for a cross-eyed, slit-eared pup by the name of Herron,"

was the greeting he flung into the _Herald's_ sanctum. The door to the composing room was open. j.a.p looked up wearily.

"Would you mind sitting down and keeping quiet till I finish setting up this address to the bag of wind that edits the Barton _Standard_?" he said impersonally.

Jones, of the _Standard_, sat down and gaped at the long, lank figure on the stool. A moment he went limp and terrified; then he rallied his courage.

"Do you unwind all at once?" he asked, as j.a.p disentangled his legs from the stool. "I take back what I said about a pup. You're a full-grown dog, all right. I wasn't looking for a brick-top, either.

No wonder you have a weakness for vermilion."

"Better come outside of town," j.a.p interrupted. "I've been intending to go over to Barton to have a look at you, but it's better thus. I have been stealing s.p.a.ce from my readers long enough. They pay for more important things than my private opinion of you. I made up my mind to stop the argument by giving you a h.e.l.l of a licking, and I've only waited because I didn't care to risk my reputation in a neighboring town. Here it will be different. In the midst of my friends, I hope to fix you so that you'll never try to throw filth on any one again."

Jones arose hastily.

"I want no row," he said uneasily. "I just want an understanding."

"You have the right idea," cried j.a.p. "You are going to get lots of understanding before you leave Bloomtown."

At that moment the town marshal strolled in, wearing his star pinned on his blue flannel s.h.i.+rt.

"I demand protection," Jones shouted. "This man has threatened me."

"What's the row, j.a.p?" asked the monitor of peace tolerantly.

"This is Mr. Wilfred Jones, of the Barton _Standard_," was all that j.a.p said. But the effect was electrical. The man of peace was transformed into an engine of vengeance.

"Going to beat him up?" he yelled. "Go to it, and I'm here, if you need help."