Chapter XIX: The Entrapping of Mr. Brassfield

Ol' Mistah Wolf is a smaht ol' man,
An' a raght smaht man is he;
He take all the meat fum the trap an' he eat
Not a mossel dat poisoned be!
He laff at the snaiah, an' he nevah caiah
When de niggah wake fum his nap;
_But he foller the trail o' little Miss Wolf
Raght inter the jaws o' the trap!
But he foller the scent o' little Miss Wolf
Kerslap in the deadfall trap!_
--_"Hidin'-Out" Songs_.

From a room adjoining that in which Madame le Claire had won her seeming victory over Mr. Brassfield's caution, emerged hastily that young woman's accomplices--her father and Judge Blodgett--who had shamelessly listened to the whole conversation. With more of haste than seemliness they sped before Le Claire and her captive, and by vigorous expletives put the patient Aaron into unwonted motion in the procuring of the "little supper" which they had heard Clara promise to the candidate for mayor. Then, in a chamber farthest from the door, and well sheltered by draperies, they sat them down and waited for their prey.

"He's hooked!" said the judge, "hooked well; and I'll gamble she lands him. She's a brick, Professor."

"So!" answered the other. "Ant now, if she vill only--what you call: reel him, blay him--until ve can get the data ve vant----"

"To blazes with the data!" exclaimed the judge. "I'm for getting him back into the Amidon state and respectability, data or no data, before some one else tolls him off into the poisonous swamp of popularity. Why, I tell you, Professor--hark! There they come! Lay low, now!"

The professor grasped his note-book, the judge the arms of his chair, as the door opened, and in the front room they heard Madame le Claire's voice joining in companionable chat with that of Brassfield.

"Oh, how slow Aaron is!" she said. "And I'm so hungry. Aren't you?"

"Not so much so as I was," said he. "Sweets take away the appetite. I'd rather call the supper off, and exclude Abraham--or whatever his name is: much rather."

"Selfish!" she reproved very severely. "And I just in from a two hours' walk. _I_ haven't eaten any sweets----"

"Nor I," said he. "May I have just a little taste?"

"Mr. Brassfield! Don't make me sorry I invited you here! Aaron's likely to come in at any moment. Do you know when you were here last?"

Brassfield's brow wrinkled, as he looked about him.

"Ye-e-es," said he slowly, as if in doubt; and then in his ordinary manner: "Well, I should think I did. The day that donkey, Alderson, came with the telegram. My faith, and so much has happened in the two or three days since! But to suggest that I could forget!"

"Why not?" said she, slipping close to him as he sat in a broad-armed easy chair. "I'll wager anything you say you can't remember half the times you've been in my presence. Come now, the first time!"

"Pshaw!" said he, "I'm not going into ancient history, further than to say it was in a room with hangings like these, and a roar of traffic in the street below. Come, dear, let's not talk of that----"

Her hand, straying near his hair, he took in his, and, crushing it to his lips, kissed it passionately. She sank down on the side of his chair, and his arm crept insinuatingly about her waist. Her arms went round his neck, and she drew his head to her breast, softly, tenderly, and her lips met his--so many times that for years she blushed when the memory returned to her.

"Darling!" he whispered, "do you love me?"

"Love you?" said she. "Look in my eyes and see!"

Slowly, with her left hand in the curls on his neck, she drew her face from his, and, as if fascinated, his eyes sought hers in a long, long, hungry look.

"You do!" he began gaspingly. "Yes----"

The slender fingers moved upward over his head, the commanding eyes held his, the other hand, as if for a caress, swept his eyes shut, and he lay back in the chair, inert as a corpse. Madame le Claire untwined his arms from her waist, and knelt on the floor before him, her hands clasped on his knees, her head pillowed in his senseless lap.

Their unseen auditors heard no more conversation, and the judge moved softly out to a place where he could see. Clara was sobbing as she groveled at the feet of the man she had obliterated, rescued and restored, and as she sobbed she pressed his hands to her lips. Judge Blodgett went back to the window, lifted it noisily and lowered it with a crash. Then he walked into the front room, and found Madame le Claire sitting in a chair across the room from her subject, smilingly and triumphantly regarding the result of the exercise of her mystic power.

"Is he all right?" queried the judge, looking at the inert form. Madame waved her hand at their prisoner, in answer.

"Cataleptic," said the professor, peering at him through his glasses. "Bulse feeble, preath imberceptible. Yes, he is reeled in."

"Well, give him the gaff," said Blodgett. "In other words, fetch him to."

Madame le Claire stretched vibrant hands toward the entranced man, and again uttered the sharp command, "Awake!"

Amidon smilingly opened his eyes, and looked about him.

"Where are the letters?" said he, looking about for those vexing communications, to find the meaning of which had been the object of the inquiry from which Alderson had drawn him with the telegram. "Did you note on them the information we wanted? Why, is it night? How long have you had me under the influence? Is anything the matter, Clara?"

"Not now," said Le Claire.

"Now eferyding is recht," added the professor.

"But you have given us the devil's own chase," said the judge.

"It is nearly midnight," said Mr. Amidon. "Have I been out all the afternoon?"

"All the afternoon!" exclaimed Blodgett. "Yes, and all day, and all yesterday, and the day before, and other days! You've been raising merry Ned, Florian, in your Brassfield capacity. Do you want to know what you've done?"

"_Do_ I?" he cried. "Tell me all at once!"

"Well, for one thing," said the old lawyer, "Edgington's long-incubated scheme has hatched, and you've been through a strenuous mayoralty contest with Colonel McCorkle, and have swept the board. Your friends insisted on it, you know, and you couldn't decline."

"Friends!" sneered Amidon. "I tell you, the whole thing is hypocrisy and graft. That villain Brassfield has a scheme for stealing the streets. I told Edgington I wouldn't----"

"Yes," said the judge, "and he took you at your word and trotted McCorkle out, and you trimmed them up. But it's all made up with him, now, and you and he and Alvord are as thick as thieves. You've got a jewel of a campaign manager in that man Alvord----"

"Judge," cried Amidon, "I want you to get up a letter of withdrawal--you have watched the miserable business, and know more of it than I do--one that will make me as little ridiculous as possible, you know. I don't care for the people in general, but there are some whose good opinion I prize----"

"I know, Florian," said the judge. "I know. But you can't expect to cut a very good figure, you know."

"Well, manage it as well as you can, and--I suppose you've watched me?" he continued. "Why did you let me go this way! Have I been up to Miss Waldron's?"

"Once or twice for a few minutes," answered Madame le Claire. "You have been very busy indeed; and yesterday Miss Waldron went out of town."

"I think," said Judge Blodgett, "that you will find a letter from her in your room. Alderson brought it up from the counting-house."

"Well, you must excuse me," said Mr. Amidon. "I want to talk this all over with you early in the morning; but I must go to my room now. No, thank you, Clara, I really can not stay to your supper. To-morrow you must tell me how you kidnapped me--I never can repay you for your faithful service to me. Good night!"

The discerning reader has already anticipated that Mr. Amidon went straight to the letter and opened it.

"Dearest Eugene," it said, "I want to give you a word to say that I am proud of the love and confidence which every one has for you, and to say that I do not regard the place to which you are to be elected as unimportant, or one which you should decline. Of all men you are best able to protect our town against corruption, and to lift its civic life to a higher plane. I wish I might help your fellow townsmen to confer _you_ upon _it_. Maybe I can help in cheering you along the way after this is done.

"I have all sorts of pride in and ambition for you. Hitherto, you have confined yourself too closely to the practical and productively utilitarian. I shall watch with all the interest you can desire me to feel, this new career of yours, beginning so modestly and so much against your will; but reaching, I feel sure, to the state and national capitals.

"Do you know, I have always imagined myself capable of founding Primrose Leagues, and becoming a real political force? Spend the afternoon with me Sunday, and we'll talk it over--come early.

"Yours in loving partizanship,

"Elizabeth."

Florian sat for a long time pondering over this letter. It was the thing about which his thought centered the next morning. When the judge said that he was at work on the letter of withdrawal, Amidon remarked that there was no hurry, as he should not use the letter until after a conference with Miss Waldron. Then he went to spend his Sunday afternoon with his fiancee, according to her invitation.

The "dear Eugene," and the tone of co-proprietorship in this new "career" of his which seemed so deliciously intimate in her letter, faded from his memory as he faced her in her home, so stately, so kind, so far from fond. Her rebellion from those mad kisses of his on his first visit had thoroughly intimidated him. He felt, now, that he must win his way to such blisses by slow degrees, as if the Brassfield life had never been for her more than for him. So they talked over the cool and sensible things they might have discussed had she been his grandmother; among others, the campaign.

She had tremendously good ideas as to city government. Amidon had long entertained similar notions, and that their unity of sentiment might appear, each wrote answers to a list of questions which they made up, and Amidon was hugely delighted to find that they agreed precisely.

"Why not make it your platform?" she asked.

"You mean, a public manifesto?" he queried.

"Surely," said she. "The people ought to know what we represent. Print it, so all may be well informed."

"But that would be an acceptance of the nomination," said he.

"Hardly," she replied. "We have already accepted, and that's settled. But it will raise the contest to one of principle. The best elements of society are with you--Doctor Bulkon might as well have mentioned your name as he described the ideal candidate to-day--and such a noble declaration from you will fill them with joy. Oh, don't you think so?"

"Elizabeth," said he, "if I take this office, it will be for your sake. I shall withdraw, or run on your platform."

"Oh, you can't withdraw," she asseverated. "Not now!"

The adoring glances, in which she constantly surprised him, mitigated somewhat the pique which his ceremoniously respectful parting raised in her heart. She stood looking at the hand he had kissed, and wondering if this was the Eugene of days gone by, but was not quite able to think him cold to her. This was true at all events, she thought, the offensiveness--half-reserve, half-familiarity--the curious impression of strangeness which so nearly caused a breach between them on his return from New York--that was gone, at least. This new attitude of his--well, that was to be considered. In some respects, the change had its element of piquancy--like a love affair with an innocent boy where the wiles of experience had been expected.

In the meantime, Mr. Alvord was happy. He had opened "Brassfield Headquarters," over which he presided with a force of clerks who were busy with poll-books and other clerkly-looking properties. "But," said he to Slater, who called to see him about funds for putting in order the links of the Bellevale Golf and Boating Club against the coming of spring, "there's nothing to it. With the preachers exhorting for us and the wet-goods push and sports plugging enthusiastically, and not a drop of water spilling from either shoulder, the outlook couldn't be better. Of course, we have to go through the form of a contest, but there's no real fight in it."

"I don't see how there can be," said Mr. Slater. "But what's all this work for?"

"Well," said Alvord, "we've got to keep up the organization, and so we poll the town. It gives some men employment for a few days that would be sore if they didn't get it. Then we have to send out the _piece de resistance_ for keg parties of evenings. The way the petitions come in for kegs is surprising. A man calls and says his name's Pat Burke, or Karl Schmidt, and that they've organized a club for the study of public questions, meeting every night at Jones' Coke Ovens or Webber's Chicken House, and they expect to have up the mayoralty question for debate to-night--only he generally calls it the 'morality' question--and could we send them a barrel of beer? We know that there's only a corporal's guard, mostly aliens, but we send 'em a pony. Another puts up a spiel that he's been spending his own money electioneering for Brassfield--he never had over fifty cents in the world, but he's spent forty dollars--and he can't stand the financial strain any longer. He's palpitating with love for Brassfield. He knows where there's twenty-five votes he can get, if he can have say ten dollars for booze--he'll leave it entirely to us. We know he's a fake, of course, but we give him a V. We've got to spend Brass's roll somehow."

"Where's he keeping himself?" asked Slater. "I haven't seen him since Saturday. Isn't he out shaking hands?"

"No," was the answer. "He'd rather buy what he wants, and not do any canvassing. It isn't necessary, anyhow. That supper we arranged for before he was put up will bring him into contact with some of the strongest lines of influence, and will finish the reconciliation with Edgington. Then Mrs. Pumphrey's reception and some other affairs will be all the publicity we'll need. No noise for ours, anyhow. The gum-shoe is our emblem, and we don't let our right hand know what our left wing is driving at. 'Gene leaves it all to me, and don't ever show up here. That girl business--the strawberry blonde, you know--seems all lost sight of, and there ain't a cloud in the sky."

A clerk entered and informed Alvord that a man named Amidon wanted to speak to him at the telephone.

"Another debating society wants irrigating, I s'pose," said he. "Hello! This is headquarters. . . Yes, it's Alvord speaking to you. . . . Oh, is it you, Brass? They said it was a man named Amidon. Wire's crossed, I s'pose. Worst telephone service I ever saw. All right, go ahead."

Here followed a long pause broken occasionally by "yes," and "I know," and "no," from Alvord. At last, in tones of amazement, he broke forth in a storm of protest.

"What! Publish a platform?" he shouted. "Are you crazy? No, I most emphatically don't think so. Why--now listen a moment, 'Gene,--I've got the best still hunt framed up you ever saw. We're winning in a walk. . . . Well, if you want to make your position clear, I know I can trust you to make your manifesto the right thing. But mind, I advise against it! . . . Yes, sure, as many things as you want to talk about, old man. . . . Yes, I've heard about the idea; but never saw it indorsed by any practical people. . . . Yes. . . . No. No! . . . _No!_ . . . I tell you NO! . . . Why, you know we've spent sums that we couldn't possibly publish. What have you been drinking, 'Gene? Here, damn you, this is all a josh! Come down here and I'll buy. . . . What's that? You really want to publish a schedule of your election expenses? Well, I'll keep the schedule, and you can print 'em if you want to. Come up to headquarters, and I'll show 'em to you. Good-by!"

Alvord hung up the receiver, and went back to his inner office.

"By George, Slater," said he, "Brassfield is absolutely the most deceptive josher I ever saw. He had me going just now by pretending that he was about to publish a platform of principles, and a statement of campaign disbursements. So blooming solemn it gave me the shivers for a minute. List of disbursements: think of it, Slater! And a platform, in our kind of politics!"