Mr. Amos Cuthbert named it so—our old friend Amos who lives high up in the
ether of Town's End ridge, and who now represents Coniston in the Legislature.
He is the same silent, sallow person as when Jethro first took a mortgage on his
farm, only his skin is beginning to resemble dried parchment, and he is a trifle
more cantankerous. On the morning of that memorable day when, "Uncle Tom's
Cabin" came to the capital, Amos had entered the Throne Room and given vent to
his feelings in regard to the gentleman in the back seat who had demanded an
evening sitting on behalf of the farmers.
"Don't that beat all?" cried Amos. "Let them have their darned woodchuck
session; there won't nobody go to it. For cussed, crisscross contrariness, give
me a moss-back Democrat from a one-boss, one-man town like Suffolk. I'm a-goin'
to see the show."
"G-goin' to the show, be you, Amos?" said Jethro.
"Yes, I be," answered Amos, bitterly. "I hain't agoin' nigh the house
to-night." And with this declaration he departed.
"I wonder if he really is going?" queried Mr. Merrill looking at the ceiling.
And then he laughed.
"Why shouldn't he go?" asked William Wetherell.
Mr. Merrill's answer to this question was a wink, whereupon he, too,
departed. And while Wetherell was pondering over the possible meaning of these
words the Honorable Alva Hopkins entered, wreathed in smiles, and closed the
door behind him.
"It's all fixed," he said, taking a seat near Jethro in the window.
"S-seen your gal—Alvy—seen your gal?"
Mr. Hopkins gave a glance at Wetherell.
"Will don't talk," said Jethro, and resumed his inspection through the lace
curtains of what was going on in the street.
"Cassandry's, got him to go," said Mr. Hopkins. "It's all fixed, as sure as
Sunday. If it misses fire, then I'll never mention the governorship again. But
if it don't miss fire," and the Honorable Alva leaned over and put his hand on
Jethro's knee, "if it don't miss fire, I get the nomination. Is that right?"
"Y-you've guessed it, Alvy."
"That's all I want to know," declared the Honorable Alva; "when you say that
much, you never go back on it. And, you can go ahead and give the orders,
Jethro. I have to see that the boys get the tickets. Cassandry's got a head on
her shoulders, and she kind of wants to be governor, too." He got as far as the
door, when he turned and bestowed upon Jethro a glance of undoubted tribute.
"You've done a good many smart things," said he, "but I guess you never beat
this, and never will."
"H-hain't done it yet, Alvy," answered Jethro, still looking out through the
window curtains at the ever ganging groups of gentlemen in the street. These
groups had a never ceasing interest for Jethro Bass.
Mr. Wetherell didn't talk, but had he been the most incurable of gossips he
felt that he could have done no damage to this mysterious affair, whatever it
was. In a certain event, Mr. Hopkins was promised the governorship: so much was
plain. And it was also evident that Miss Cassandra Hopkins was in some way to be
instrumental. William Wetherell did not like to ask Jethro, but he thought a
little of sounding Mr. Merrill, and then he came to the conclusion that it would
be wiser for him not to know.
"Er—Will," said Jethro, presently, "you know Heth Sutton—Speaker Heth
"Er—wouldn't mind askin' him to step in and see me before the session—if he
was comin' by—would you?"
"Er—if he was comin' by," said Jethro.
Mr. Wetherell found Mr. Speaker Sutton glued to a pillar in the rotunda
below. He had some difficulty in breaking through the throng that pressed around
him, and still more in attracting his attention, as Mr. Sutton took no manner of
notice of the customary form of placing one's hand under his elbow and pressing
gently up. Summoning up his courage, Mr. Wetherell tried the second method of
seizing him by the buttonhole. He paused in his harangue, one hand uplifted, and
turned and glanced at the storekeeper abstractedly.
"Mr. Bass asked me to tell you to drop into Number 7," said Wetherell, and
added, remembering express instructions, "if you were going by."
Wetherell had not anticipated the magical effect this usual message would
have on Mr. Sutton, nor had he thought that so large and dignified a body would
move so rapidly. Before the astonished gentlemen who had penned him could draw a
breath, Mr. Sutton had reached the stairway and, was mounting it with an agility
that did him credit. Five minutes later Wetherell saw the Speaker descending
again, the usually impressive quality of his face slightly modified by the
twitching of a smile.
Thus the day passed, and the gentlemen of the Lovejoy and Duncan factions
sat, as tight as ever in their seats, and the Truro Franchise bill still
slumbered undisturbed in Mr. Chauncey Weed's committee.
At supper there was a decided festal air about the dining room of the Pelican
House, the little band of agricultural gentlemen who wished to have a session
not being patrons of that exclusive hotel. Many of the Solons had sent home for
their wives; that they might do the utmost justice to the Honorable Alva's
hospitality. Even Jethro, as he ate his crackers and milk, had a new coat with
bright brass buttons, and Cynthia, who wore a fresh gingham which Miss Sukey
Kittredge of Coniston had helped to design, so far relented in deference to
Jethro's taste as to tie a red bow at her throat.
The middle table under the chandelier was the immediate firmament of Miss
Cassandra Hopkins. And there, beside the future governor, sat the president of
the "Northwestern" Railroad, Mr. Lovejoy, as the chief of the revolving
satellites. People began to say that Mr. Lovejoy was hooked at last, now that he
had lost his head in such an unaccountable fashion as to pay his court in
public; and it was very generally known that he was to make one of the Honorable
Alva's immediate party at the performance of "Uncle Tam's Cabin."
Mr. Speaker Sutton, of course, would have to forego the pleasure of the
theatre as a penalty of his high position. Mr. Merrill, who sat at Jethro's
table next to Cynthia that evening, did a great deal of joking with the
Honorable Heth about having to preside aver a woodchuck session, which the
Speaker, so Mr. Wetherell thought, took in astonishingly good part, and seemed
very willing to make the great sacrifice which his duty required of him.
After supper Mr. Wetherell took a seat in the rotunda. As an observer of
human nature, he had begun to find a fascination in watching the group of
politicians there. First of all he encountered Mr. Amos Cuthbert, his little
coal-black eyes burning brightly, and he was looking very irritable indeed.
"So you're going to the show, Amos?" remarked the storekeeper, with an
attempt at cordiality.
To his bewilderment, Amos turned upon him fiercely.
"Who said I was going to the show?" he snapped.
"You yourself told me."
"You'd ought to know whether I'm a-goin' or not," said Amos, and walked away.
While Mr. Wetherell sat meditating, upon this inexplicable retort, a retired,
scholarly looking gentleman with a white beard, who wore spectacles, came out of
the door leading from the barber shop and quietly took a seat beside him. The
storekeeper's attention was next distracted by the sight of one who wandered
slowly but ceaselessly from group to group, kicking up his heels behind, and
halting always in the rear of the speakers. Needless to say that this was our
friend Mr. Bijah Bixby, who was following out his celebrated tactics of "going
along by when they were talkin' sly." Suddenly Mr. Bixby's eye alighted on Mr.
Wetherell, who by a stretch of imagination conceived that it expressed both
astonishment and approval, although he was wholly at a loss to understand these
sentiments. Mr. Bixby winked—Mr. Wetherell was sure of that. But to his
surprise, Bijah did not pause in his rounds to greet him.
Mr. Wetherell was beginning to be decidedly uneasy, and was about to go
upstairs, when Mr. Merrill came down the rotunda whistling, with his hands in
his pockets. He stopped whistling when he spied the storekeeper, and approached
him in his usual hearty manner.
"Well, well, this is fortunate," said Mr. Merrill; "how are you, Duncan? I
want you to know Mr. Wetherell. Wetherell writes that weekly letter for the
Guardian you were speaking to me about last year. Will, this is Mr. Alexander
Duncan, president of the 'Central.'"
"How do you do, Mr. Wetherell?" said the scholarly gentleman with the
spectacles, putting out his hand. "I'm glad to meet you, very glad, indeed. I
read your letters with the greatest pleasure."
Mr. Wetherell, as he took Mr. Duncan's hand, had a variety of emotions which
may be imagined, and need not be set down in particular.
"Funny thing," Mr. Merrill continued, "I was looking for you, Duncan. It
occurred to me that you would like to meet Mr. Wetherell. I was afraid you were
"I have just got back," said Mr. Duncan.
"I wanted Wetherell to see your library. I was telling him about it."
"I should be delighted to show it to him," answered Mr. Duncan. That library,
as is well known, was a special weakness of Mr. Duncan's.
Poor William Wetherell, who was quite overwhelmed by the fact that the great
Mr. Duncan had actually read his letters and liked them, could scarcely utter a
sensible word. Almost before he realized what had happened he was following Mr.
Duncan out of the Pelican House, when the storekeeper was mystified once more by
a nudge and another wink from Mr. Bixby, conveying unbounded admiration.
"Why don't you write a book, Mr. Wetherell?" inquired the railroad president,
when they were crossing the park.
"I don't think I could do it," said Mr. Wetherell, modestly. Such incense was
overpowering, and he immediately forgot Mr. Bixby.
"Yes, you can," said Mr. Duncan, "only you don't know it. Take your letters
for a beginning. You can draw people well enough, when you try. There was your
description of the lonely hill-farm on the spur—I shall always remember that:
the gaunt farmer, toiling every minute between sun and sun; the thin, patient
woman bending to a task that never charged or lightened; the children growing up
and leaving one by one, some to the cities, some to the West, until the old
people are left alone in the evening of life—to the sunsets and the storms. Of
course you must write a book."
Mr. Duncan quoted other letters, and William Wetherell thrilled. Poor man! he
had had little enough incense in his time, and none at all from the great. They
came to the big square house with the cornice which Cynthia had seen the day
before, and walked across the lawn through the open door. William Wetherell had
a glimpse of a great drawing-room with high windows, out of which was wafted the
sound of a piano and of youthful voice and laughter, and then he was in the
library. The thought of one man owning all those books overpowered him. There
they were, in stately rows, from the floor to the high ceiling, and a portable
ladder with which to reach them.
Mr. Duncan, understanding perhaps something of the storekeeper's
embarrassment, proceeded to take down his treasures: first editions from the
shelves, and folios and mistrals from drawers in a great iron safe in one corner
and laid them on the mahogany desk. It was the railroad president's hobby, and
could he find an appreciative guest, he was happy. It need scarcely be said that
he found William Wetherell appreciative, and possessed of knowledge of
Shaksperiana and other matters that astonished his host as well as pleased him.
For Wetherell had found his tongue at last.
After a while Mr. Duncan drew out his watch and gave a start.
"By George!" he exclaimed, "it's after eight o'clock. I'll have to ask you to
excuse me to-night, Mr. Wetherell. I'd like to show you the rest of them—can't
you come around to-morrow afternoon?"
Mr. Wetherell, who had forgotten his own engagement and "Uncle Tom's Cabin,"
said he would be happy to come. And they went out together and began to walk
toward the State House.
"It isn't often I find a man who knows anything at all about these things,"
continued Mr. Duncan, whose heart was quite won. "Why do you bury yourself in
"I went there from Briton for my health," said the storekeeper.
"Jethro Bass lives there, doesn't he" said Mr. Duncan, with a laugh. "But I
suppose you don't know anything about politics."
"I know nothing at all," said Mr. Wetherell, which was quite true. He had
been in dreamland, but now the fact struck him again, with something of a shock,
that this mild-mannered gentleman was one of those who had been paying certain
legislators to remain in their seats. Wetherell thought of speaking to Mr.
Duncan of his friendship with Jethro Bass, but the occasion passed.
"I wish to heaven I didn't have to know anything about politics," Mr. Duncan
was saying; "they disgust me. There's a little matter on now, about an extension
of the Truro Railroad to Harwich, which wouldn't interest you, but you can't
conceive what a nuisance it has been to watch that House day and night, as I've
had to. It's no joke to have that townsman of yours; Jethro Bass, opposed to
you. I won't say anything against him, for he many be a friend of yours, and I
have to use him sometimes myself." Mr. Duncan sighed. "It's all very sordid and
annoying. Now this evening, for instance, when we might have enjoyed ourselves
with those books, I've' got to go to the House, just because some backwoods
farmers want to talk about woodchucks. I suppose it's foolish," said Mr. Duncan;
"but Bass has tricked us so often that I've got into the habit of being
watchful. I should have been here twenty minutes ago."
By this time they had come to the entrance of the State House, and Wetherell
followed Mr. Duncan in, to have a look at the woodchuck session himself. Several
members hurried by and up the stairs, some of them in their Sunday black; and
the lobby above seemed, even to the storekeeper's unpractised eye, a trifle
active for a woodchuck session. Mr. Duncan muttered something, and quickened his
gait a little on the steps that led to the gallery. This place was almost empty.
They went down to the rail, and the railroad president cast his eye over the
"Good God!" he said sharply, "there's almost a quorum here." He ran his eye
over the members. "There is a quorum here."
Mr. Duncan stood drumming nervously with his fingers on the rail, scanning
the heads below. The members were scattered far and wide through the seats, like
an army in open order, listening in silence to the droning voice of the clerk.
Moths burned in the gas flames, and June bugs hummed in at the high windows and
tilted against the walls. Then Mr. Duncan's finger nails whitened as his thin
hands clutched the rail, and a sense of a pending event was upon Wetherell.
Slowly he realized that he was listening to the Speaker's deep voice.
"'The Committee on Corporations, to whom was referred House Bill Number 109,
entitled, 'An Act to extend the Truro Railroad to Harwich, having considered the
same, report the same with the following resolution: Resolved, that the bill
ought to pass. Chauncey Weed, for the Committee.'"
The Truro Franchise! The lights danced, and even a sudden weakness came upon
the storekeeper. Jethro's trick! The Duncan and Lovejoy representatives in the
theatre, the adherents of the bill here! Wetherell saw Mr. Duncan beside him, a
tense figure leaning on the rail, calling to some one below. A man darted up the
centre, another up the side aisle. Then Mr. Duncan flashed at William Wetherell
from his blue eye such a look of anger as the storekeeper never forgot, and he,
too, was gone. Tingling and perspiring, Wetherell leaned out over the railing as
the Speaker rapped calmly for order. Hysteric laughter, mingled with hoarse
cries, ran over the House, but the Honorable Heth Sutton did not even smile.
A dozen members were on their feet shouting to the chair. One was recognized,
and that man Wetherell perceived with amazement to be Mr. Jameson of Wantage,
adherent of Jethro's—he who had moved to adjourn for "Uncle Tom's Cabin"! A
score of members crowded into the aisles, but the Speaker's voice again rose
above the tumult.
"The doorkeepers will close the doors! Mr. Jameson of Wantage moves that the
report of the Committee be accepted, and on this motion a roll-call is ordered."
The doorkeepers, who must have been inspired, had already slammed the doors
in the faces of those seeking wildly to escape. The clerk already had the
little, short-legged desk before him and was calling the roll with incredible
rapidity. Bewildered and excited as Wetherell was, and knowing as little of
parliamentary law as the gentleman who had proposed the woodchuck session, he
began to form some sort of a notion of Jethro's generalship, and he saw that the
innocent rural members who belonged to Duncan and Lovejoy's faction had tried to
get away before the roll-call, destroy the quorum, and so adjourn the House.
These, needless to say, were not parliamentarians, either. They had lacked a
leader, they were stunned by the suddenness of the onslaught, and had not moved
quickly enough. Like trapped animals, they wandered blindly about for a few
moments, and then sank down anywhere. Each answered the roll-call sullenly, out
of necessity, for every one of them was a marked man. Then Wetherell remembered
the two members who had escaped, and Mr. Duncan, and fell to calculating how
long it would take these to reach Fosters Opera House, break into the middle of
an act, and get out enough partisans to come back and kill the bill. Mr.
Wetherell began to wish he could witness the scene there, too, but something
held him here, shaking with excitement, listening to each name that the clerk
Would the people at the theatre get back in time?
Despite William Wetherell's principles, whatever these may have been, he was
so carried away that he found himself with his watch in his hand, counting off
the minutes as the roll-call went on. Fosters Opera House was some six squares
distant, and by a liberal estimate Mr. Duncan and his advance guard ought to get
back within twenty minutes of the time he left. Wetherell was not aware that
people were coming into the gallery behind him; he was not aware that one sat at
his elbow until a familiar voice spoke, directly into his ear.
"Er—Will—held Duncan pretty tight—didn't you? He's a hard one to fool, too.
Never suspected a mite, did he? Look out for your watch!"
Mr. Bixby seized it or it would have fallen. If his life had depended on it,
William Wetherell could not have spoken a word to Mr. Bixby then.
"You done well, Will, sure enough," that gentleman continued to whisper. "And
Alvy's gal done well, too—you understand. I guess she's the only one that ever
snarled up Al Lovejoy so that he didn't know where he was at. But it took a
fine, delicate touch for her job and yours, Will. Godfrey, this is the quickest
roll-call I ever seed! They've got halfway through Truro County. That fellow can
talk faster than a side-show, ticket-seller at a circus."
The clerk was, indeed, performing prodigies of pronunciation. When he reached
Wells County, the last, Mr. Bixby so far lost his habitual sang froid as to
hammer on the rail with his fist.
"If there hain't a quorum, we're done for," he said. "How much time has gone
away? Twenty minutes! Godfrey, some of 'em may break loose and git here is five
"Break loose?" Wetherell exclaimed involuntarily.
Mr. Bixby screwed up his face.
"You understand. Accidents is liable to happen."
Mr. Wetherell didn't understand in the least, but just then the clerk reached
the last name on the roll; an instant of absolute silence, save for the
June-bugs, followed, while the assistant clerk ran over his figures deftly and
handed them to Mr. Sutton, who leaned forward to receive them.
"One hundred and twelve gentlemen have voted in the affirmative and
forty-eight in the negative, and the report of the Committee is accepted."
"Ten more'n a quorum!" ejaculated Mr. Bixby, in a voice of thanksgiving, as
the turmoil below began again. It seemed as though every man in the opposition
was on his feet and yelling at the chair: some to adjourn; some to indefinitely
postpone; some demanding roll-calls; others swearing at these—for a division
vote would have opened the doors. Others tried to get out, and then ran down the
aisles and called fiercely on the Speaker to open the doors, and threatened him.
But the Honorable Heth Sutton did not lose his head, and it may be doubted
whether he ever appeared to better advantage than at that moment. He had a voice
like one of the Clovelly bulls that fed in his own pastures in the valley, and
by sheer bellowing he got silence, or something approaching it,—the protests
dying down to a hum; had recognised another friend of the bill, and was putting
"Mr. Gibbs of Wareham moves that the rules of the House be so far suspended
that this bill be read a second and third time by its title, and be put upon its
final passage at this time. And on this motion," thundered Mr. Sutton, above the
tide of rising voices, "the yeas and nays are called for. The doorkeepers will
keep the doors shut."
"Abbey of Ashburton."
The nimble clerk had begun on the roll almost before the Speaker was through,
and checked off the name. Bijah Bixby mopped his brow with a blue
"My God," he said, "what a risk Jethro's took! they can't git through another
roll-call. Jest look at Heth! Ain't he carryin' it magnificent? Hain't as
ruffled as I be. I've knowed him ever sence he wahn't no higher'n that desk.
Never would have b'en in politics if it hadn't b'en for me. Funny thing,
Will—you and I was so excited we never thought to look at the clock. Put up your
watch. Godfrey, what's this?"
The noise of many feet was heard behind them. Men and women were crowding
breathlessly into the gallery.
"Didn't take it long to git noised araound," said Mr. Bixby. "Say, Will,
they're bound to have got at 'em in the thea'tre. Don't see how they held 'em
off, c-cussed if I do."
The seconds ticked into minutes, the air became stifling, for now the front
of the gallery was packed. Now, if ever, the fate of the Truro Franchise hung in
the balance, and, perhaps, the rule of Jethro Bass. And now, as in the distance,
came a faint, indefinable stir, not yet to be identified by Wetherell's ears as
a sound, but registered somewhere in his brain as a warning note. Bijah Bixby,
as sensitive as he, straightened up to listen, and then the whispering was
hushed. The members below raised their heads, and some clutched the seats in
front of them and looked up at the high windows. Only the Speaker sat like a wax
statue of himself, and glanced neither to the right nor to the left.
"Harkness of Truro," said the clerk.
"He's almost to Wells County again," whispered Bijah, excitedly. "I didn't
callate he could do it. Will?"
"Will—you hear somethin'?"
A distant shout floated with the night breeze in at the windows; a man on the
floor got to his feet and stood straining: a commotion was going on at the back
of the gallery, and a voice was heard crying out:—
"For the love of God, let me through!"
Then Wetherell turned to see the crowd at the back parting a little, to see a
desperate man in a gorgeous white necktie fighting his way toward the rail. He
wore no hat, his collar was wilted, and his normally ashen face had turned
white. And, strangest of all, clutched tightly in his hand was a pink ribbon.
"It's Al Lovejoy," said Bijah, laconically.
Unmindful of the awe-stricken stares he got from those about him when his
identity became known, Mr. Lovejoy gained the rail and shoved aside a man who
was actually making way for him. Leaning far out, he scanned the house with
inarticulate rage while the roll-call went monotonously on. Some of the members
looked up at him and laughed; others began to make frantic signs, indicative of
helplessness; still others telegraphed him obvious advice about reenforcements
which, if anything, increased his fury. Mr. Bixby was now fanning himself with
the blue handkerchief.
"I hear 'em!" he said, "I hear 'em, Will!"
And he did. The unmistakable hum of the voices of many men and the sound of
feet on stone flagging shook the silent night without. The clerk read off the
last name on the roll.
"Tompkins of Ulster."
His assistant lost no time now. A mistake would have been fatal, but he was
an old hand. Unmindful of the rumble on the wooden stairs below, Mr. Sutton took
the list with an admirable deliberation.
"One hundred and twelve gentlemen have voted in the affirmative, forty-eight
in the negative, the rules of the House are suspended, and" (the clerk having
twice mumbled the title of the bill) "the question is: Shall the bill pass? As
many as are of opinion that the bill pass will say Aye, contrary minded No."
Feet were in the House corridor now, and voices rising there, and noises that
must have been scuffling—yes, and beating of door panels. Almost every member
was standing, and it seemed as if they were all shouting,—"personal privilege,"
"fraud," "trickery," "open the doors." Bijah was slowly squeezing the blood out
of William Wetherell's arm.
"The doorkeepers has the keys in their pockets!" Mr. Bixby had to shout, for
Even then the Speaker did not flinch. By a seeming miracle he got a semblance
of order, recognized his man, and his great voice rang through the hall and
drowned all other sounds.
"And on this question a roll-call is ordered. The doorkeepers will close the
Then, as in reaction, the gallery trembled with a roar of laughter. But Mr.
Sutton did not smile. The clerk scratched off the names with lightning rapidity,
scarce waiting for the answers. Every man's color was known, and it was against
the rules to be present and fail to vote. The noise in the corridors grew
louder, some one dealt a smashing kick on a panel, and Wetherell ventured to ask
Mr. Bixby if he thought the doors would hold.
"They can break in all they've a mind to now," he chuckled; "the Truro
Franchise is safe."
"What do you mean?" Wetherell demanded excitedly.
"If a member hain't present when a question is put, he can't git into a
roll-call," said Bijah.
The fact that the day was lost was evidently brought home to those below, for
the strife subsided gradually, and finally ceased altogether. The whispers in
the gallery died down, the spectators relayed a little. Lovejoy alone remained
tense, though he had seated himself on a bench, and the hot anger in which he
had come was now cooled into a vindictiveness that set the hard lines of his
face even harder. He still clutched the ribbon. The last part of that famous
roll-call was conducted so quietly that a stranger entering the House would have
suspected nothing unusual. It was finished in absolute silence.
"One hundred and twelve gentlemen have voted in the affirmative, forty-eight
in the negative, and the bill passes. The House will attend to the title of the
"An act to extend the Truro Railroad to Harwich," said the clerk, glibly.
"Such will be the title of the bill unless otherwise ordered by the House,"
said Mr. Speaker Sutton. "The doorkeepers will open the doors."
Somebody moved to adjourn, the motion was carried, and thus ended what has
gone down to history as the Woodchuck Session. Pandemonium reigned. One hundred
and forty belated members fought their way in at the four entrances, and mingled
with them were lobbyists of all sorts and conditions, residents and visitors to
the capital, men and women to whom the drama of "Uncle Tom's Cabin" was as
nothing to that of the Truro Franchise Bill. It was a sight to look down upon.
Fierce wrangles began in a score of places, isolated personal remarks rose above
the din, but your New Englander rarely comes to blows; in other spots men with
broad smiles seized others by the hands and shook them violently, while Mr.
Speaker Sutton seemed in danger of suffocation by his friends. His enemies, for
the moment, could get nowhere near him. On this scene Mr. Bijah Bixby gazed with
"Guess there wahn't a mite of trouble about the river towns," he said, "I had
'em in my pocket. Will, let's amble round to the theatre. We ought to git in two
William Wetherell went. There is no need to go into the psychology of the
matter. It may have been numbness; it may have been temporary insanity caused by
the excitement of the battle he had witnessed, for his brain was in a whirl; or
Mr. Bixby may have hypnotized him. As they walked through the silent streets
toward the Opera House, he listened perforce to Mr. Bixby's comments upon some
of the innumerable details which Jethro had planned and quietly carried out
while sitting, in the window of the Throne Room. A great light dawned on William
Wetherell, but too late.
Jethro's trusted lieutenants (of whom, needless to say, Mr. Bixby was one)
had been commanded to notify such of their supporters whose fidelity and secrecy
could be absolutely depended upon to attend the Woodchuck Session; and, further
to guard against surprise, this order had not gone out until the last minute
(hence Mr. Amos Cuthbert's conduct). The seats of these members at the theatre
had been filled by accommodating townspeople and visitors. Forestalling a
possible vote on the morrow to recall and reconsider, there remained some sixty
members whose loyalty was unquestioned, but whose reputation for discretion was
not of the best. So much for the parliamentary side of the affair, which was a
revelation of generalship and organization to William Wetherell. By the time he
had grasped it they were come in view of the lights of Fosters Opera House, and
they perceived, among a sprinkling of idlers, a conspicuous and meditative
gentleman leaning against a pillar. He was ludicrously tall and ludicrously
thin, his hands were in his trousers pockets, and the skirts of his Sunday
broadcloth coat hung down behind him awry. One long foot was crossed over the
other and rested on the point of the toe, and his head was tilted to one side.
He had, on the whole, the appearance of a rather mournful stork. Mr. Bixby
approached him gravely, seized him by the lower shoulder, and tilted him down
until it was possible to speak into his ear. The gentleman apparently did not
resent this, although he seemed in imminent danger of being upset.
"How be you, Peleg? Er—you know Will?"
"No," said the gentleman.
Mr. Bixby seized Mr. Wetherell under the elbow, and addressed himself to the
"Will, I want you to shake hands with Senator Peleg Hartington, of Brampton.
This is Will Wetherell, Peleg,—from Coniston—you understand."
The senator took one hand from his pocket.
"How be you?" he said. Mr. Bixby was once more pulling down on his shoulder.
"H-haow was it here?" he demanded.
"Almighty funny," answered Senator Hartington, sadly, and waved at the lobby.
"There wahn't standin' room in the place."
"Jethro Bass Republican Club come and packed the entrance," explained Mr.
Bixby with a wink. "You understand, Will? Go on, Peleg."
"Sidewalk and street, too," continued Mr. Hartington, slowly. "First come
along Ball of Towles, hollerin' like blazes. They crumpled him all up and lost
him. Next come old man Duncan himself."
"Will kep' Duncan," Mr. Bixby interjected.
"That was wholly an accident," exclaimed Mr. Wetherell, angrily.
"Will wahn't born in the country," said Mr. Bixby.
Mr. Hartington bestowed on the storekeeper a mournful look, and continued:—
"Never seed Duncan sweatin' before. He didn't seem to grasp why the boys was
"Didn't seem to understand," put in Mr. Bixby, sympathetically.
"'For God's sake, gentlemen,' says he, 'let me in! The Truro Bill!' 'The
Truro Bill hain't in the theatre, Mr. Duncan,' says Dan Everett. Cussed if I
didn't come near laughin'. 'That's "Uncle Tom's Cabin," Mr. Duncan,' says Dan.
'You're a dam fool,' says Duncan. I didn't know he was profane. 'Make room for
Mr. Duncan,' says Dan, 'he wants to see the show.' 'I'm a-goin' to see you in
jail for this, Everett,' says Duncan. They let him push in about half a rod, and
they swallowed him. He was makin' such a noise that they had to close the doors
of the theatre—so's not to disturb the play-actors."
"You understand," said Mr. Bixby to Wetherell. Whereupon he gave another
shake to Mr. Hartington, who had relapsed into a sort of funereal meditation.
"Well," resumed that personage, "there was some more come, hollerin' about
the Truro Bill. Not many. Guess they'll all have to git their wimmen-folks to
press their clothes to-morrow. Then Duncan wanted to git out again, but 'twan't
exactly convenient. Callated he was suffocatin'—seemed to need air. Little mite
limp when he broke loose, Duncan was."
The Honorable Peleg stopped again, as if he were overcome by the recollection
of Mr. Duncan's plight.
Mr. Hartington started.
"What'd they do?—what'd they do?"
"How'd they git notice to 'em?"
"Oh," said Mr. Hartington, "cussed if that wuhn't funny. Let's see, where was
I? After awhile they went over t'other side of the street, talkin' sly, waitin'
for the act to end. But goldarned if it ever did end."
For once Mr. Bixby didn't seem to understand.
"No," explained Mr. Hartington; "seems they hitched a kind of nigger minstrel
show right on to it—banjos and thingumajigs in front of the curtain while they
was changin' scenes, and they hitched the second act right on to that. Nobody
come out of the theatre at all. Funny notion, wahn't it?"
Mr. Bixby's face took on a look of extreme cunning. He smiled broadly and
poked Mr. Wetherell in an extremely sensitive portion of his ribs. On such
occasions the nasal quality of Bijah's voice seemed to grow.
"You see?" he said.
"Know that little man, Gibbs, don't ye?" inquired Mr. Hartington.
"Airley Gibbs, hain't it? Runs a livery business daown to Rutgers, on
Lovejoy's railroad," replied Mr. Bixby, promptly. "I know him. Knew old man
Gibbs well's I do you. Mean cuss."
"This Airley's smart—wahn't quite smart enough, though. His bright idea come
a little mite late. Hunted up old Christy, got the key to his law office right
here in the Duncan Block, went up through the skylight, clumb down to the roof
of Randall's store next door, shinned up the lightnin' rod on t'other side, and
stuck his head plump into the Opery House window."
"I want to know!" ejaculated Mr. Bixby.
"Somethin' terrible pathetic was goin' on on the stage," resumed Mr.
Hartington, "the folks didn't see him at first,—they was all cryin' and
everythin' was still, but Airley wahn't affected. As quick as he got his breath
he hollered right out loud's he could: 'The Truro Bill's up in the House, boys.
We're skun if you don't git thar quick.' Then they tell me' the lightnin' rod
give way; anyhow, he came down on Randall's gravel roof considerable hard, I
Mr. Hartington, apparently, had an aggravating way of falling into mournful
revery and of forgetting his subject. Mr. Bixby was forced to jog him again.
"Yes, they did," he said, "they did. They come out like the theatre was
afire. There was some delay in gettin' to the street, but not much—not much. All
the Republican Clubs in the state couldn't have held 'em then, and the profanity
they used wahn't especially edifyin'."
"Peleg's a deacon—you understand," said Mr. Bixby. "Say, Peleg, where was Al
"Lovejoy come along with the first of 'em. Must have hurried some—they tell
me he was settin' way down in front alongside of Alvy Hopkins's gal, and when
Airley hollered out she screeched and clutched on to Al, and Al said somethin'
he hadn't ought to and tore off one of them pink gew-gaws she was covered with.
He was the maddest man I ever see. Some of the club was crowded inside, behind
the seats, standin' up to see the show. Al was so anxious to git through he hit
Si Dudley in the mouth—injured him some, I guess. Pity, wahn't it?"
"Si hain't in politics, you understand," said Mr. Bixby. "Callate Si paid to
git in there, didn't he, Peleg?"
"Callate he did," assented Senator Hartington.
A long and painful pause followed. There seemed, indeed, nothing more to be
said. The sound of applause floated out of the Opera House doors, around which
the remaining loiterers were clustered.
"Goin' in, be you, Peleg?" inquired Mr. Bixby.
Mr. Hartington shook his head.
"Will and me had a notion to see somethin' of the show," said Mr. Bixby,
almost apologetically. "I kep' my ticket."
"Well," said Mr. Hartington, reflectively, "I guess you'll find some of the
show left. That hain't b'en hurt much, so far as I can ascertain."
The next afternoon, when Mr. Isaac D. Worthington happened to be sitting
alone in the office of the Truro Railroad at the capital, there came a knock at
the door, and Mr. Bijah Bixby entered. Now, incredible as it may seem, Mr.
Worthington did not know Mr. Bixby—or rather, did not remember him. Mr.
Worthington had not had at that time much of an experience in politics, and he
did not possess a very good memory for faces.
Mr. Bixby, who had, as we know, a confidential and winning manner, seated
himself in a chair very close to Mr. Worthington—somewhat to that gentleman's
alarm. "How be you?" said Bijah, "I-I've got a little bill here—you understand."
Mr. Worthington didn't understand, and he drew his chair away from Mr.
"I don't know anything about it, sir," answered the president of the Truro
Railroad, indignantly; "this is neither the manner nor the place to present a
bill. I don't want to see it."
Mr. Bixby moved his chair up again. "Callate you will want to see this bill,
Mr. Worthington," he insisted, not at all abashed. "Jethro Bass sent it—you
Whereupon Mr. Bixby drew from his capacious pocket a roll, tied with white
ribbon, and pressed it into Mr. Worthington's hands. It was the Truro Franchise
It is safe to say that Mr. Worthington understood.