Counsel for the Defense Part 28

"H'm. So that was what Miss West called here about day before yesterday."

"Get in there and write your story," said Bruce shortly, and again sat down before his typewriter.

Billy stood rubbing his head dazedly for a long s.p.a.ce, then he slowly moved to the door. He opened it and paused.

"Oh, I say, Arn," he remarked in an innocent tone.

"Yes?"

"After all," he drawled, "it would make an interesting dramatic situation, wouldn't it?"

Bruce whirled about and threw a statesman's year book, but young Harper was already on the safe side of the door; and the incorrigible Billy was saved from any further acts of reprisal being attempted upon his person by the ringing of Bruce's telephone.

Bruce picked up the instrument.

"h.e.l.lo. Who's this?" he demanded.

"Mr. Peck," was the answer.

"What! You don't mean 'Blind Charlie'?"

"Yes. I called up to see if you could come over to the hotel for a little talk about politics."

"If you want to talk to me you know where to find me! Good-by!"

"Wait! Wait! What time will you be in?"

"The paper goes to press at two-thirty. Any time after then."

"I'll drop around before three."

Four hours later Bruce was glancing through that afternoon's paper, damp from the press, when there entered his office a stout, half-bald man of sixty-five, with loose, wrinkled, pouchy skin, drooping nose, and a mouth--stained faintly brown at its corners--whose cunning was not entirely masked by a good-natured smile. One eye had a shrewd and beady brightness; the gray film over the other announced it without sight. This was "Blind Charlie" Peck, the king of Calloway County politics until Blake had hurled him from his throne.

Bruce greeted the fallen monarch curtly and asked him to sit down.

Bruce did not resume his seat, but half leaned against his desk and eyed Blind Charlie with open disfavour.

The old man settled himself and smiled his good-natured smile at the editor.

"Well, Mr. Bruce, this is mighty dry weather we're having."

"Yes. What do you want?"

"Well--well--" said the old man, a little taken aback, "you certainly do jump into the middle of things."

"I've found that the quickest way to get there," retorted Bruce. "You know there's no use in you and me wasting any words. You know well enough what I think of you."

"I ought to," returned Blind Charlie, dryly, but with good humour.

"You've said it often enough."

"Well, that there may be no mistake about it, I'll say it once more.

You're a good-natured, good-hearted, cunning, unprincipled, hardened old rascal of a politician. Now if you don't want to say what you came here to say, the same route that brings you in here takes you out."

"Come, come," said the old man, soothingly. "I think you have said a lot of harder things than were strictly necessary--especially since we both belong to the same party."

"That's one reason I've said them. You've been running the party most of your life--you're still running it--and see what you've made of it. Every decent member is ashamed of it! It stinks all through the state!"

Blind Charlie's face did not lose its smile of imperturbable good nature. It was a tradition of Calloway County that he had never lost his temper.

"You're a very young man, Mr. Bruce," said the old politician, "and young blood loves strong language. But suppose we get away from personalities, and get away from the party's past and talk about its present and its future."

"I don't see that it has any present or future to talk about, with you at the helm."

"Oh, come now! Granted that my ways haven't been the best for the party. Granted that you don't like me. Is that any reason we shouldn't at least talk things over? Now, I admit we don't stand the shadow of a ghost's show this election unless we make some changes. You represent the element in the party that has talked most for changes, and I have come to get your views."

Bruce studied the loose-skinned, flabby face, wondering what was going on behind that old mask.

"What are your own views?" he demanded shortly.

Blind Charlie had taken out a plug of tobacco and with a jack-knife had cut off a thin slice. This, held between thumb and knife-blade, he now slowly transferred to his mouth.

"Perhaps they're nearer your own than you think. I see, too, that the old ways won't serve us now. Blake will put up a good ticket. I hear Kennedy is to be his mayor. The whole ticket will be men who'll be respectable, but they'll see that Blake gets what he wants. Isn't that so?"

Bruce thought suddenly of Blake's scheme to capture the water-works.

"Very likely," he admitted.

"Now between ourselves," the old man went on confidingly, "we know that Blake has been getting what he wants for years--of course in a quiet, moderate way. Did you ever think of this, how the people here call me a 'boss' but never think of Blake as one? Blake's an 'eminent citizen.' When the fact is, he's a stronger, cleverer boss than I ever was. My way is the old way; it's mostly out of date. Blake's way is the new way. He's found out that the best method to get the people is to be clean, or to seem clean. If I wanted a thing I used to go out and grab it. If Blake wants a thing he makes it appear that he's willing to go to considerable personal trouble to take it in order to do a favour to the city, and the people fall all over themselves to give it to him. He's got the churches lined up as solid behind him as I used to have the saloons. Now I know we can't beat Blake with the kind of a ticket our party has been putting up. And I know we can't beat Blake with a respectable ticket, for between our respectables----"

"Charlie Peck's respectables!" Bruce interrupted ironically.

"And Blake's respectables," the old man continued imperturbably, "the people will choose Blake's. Are my conclusions right so far?"

"Couldn't be more right. What next?"

"As I figure it out, our only chance, and that a bare fighting chance, is to put up men who are not only irreproachable, but who are radicals and fighters. We've got to do something new, big, sensational, or we're lost."

"Well?" said Bruce.

"I was thinking," said Blind Charlie, "that our best move would be to run you for mayor."

"Me?" cried Bruce, starting forward.

"Yes. You've got ideas. And you're a fighter."

Bruce scrutinized the old face, all suspicion.

"See here, Charlie," he said abruptly, "what the h.e.l.l's your game?"