The Lash Part 16

"'Tis a homely boy you picked out, Maisie."

"My boy is good enough for me," she returned gently, "as long as he keeps on trying, and does the best he can."

His face grew shadowed. "That's just it, girl," he said, rather sadly.

"Someone said once that 'the best is bad enough,' and if that's so, what of my worst?"

"Your worst is for you to fight," answered this young sibyl. "Your worst is never as bad as it seems to you, just as long as you keep on fightin'

it. And you will, Micky, won't you?" Her arms were stretched impulsively toward him.

He caught her hands, his eyes burning. "Till h.e.l.l freezes over!" he told her, grimly. "Oh, excuse me!" he added confusedly. "I didn't mean--"

"Never mind, Micky, never mind!" she told him, with a laugh in her eyes.

"I know how you feel."

"Yes, I guess you do!" he muttered. "If I could only blot out some things--if I'd been different from the beginning--if I'd had some chance--if I amounted to something now--ah! dreams--dreams!"

"Keep on dreaming, Micky," she said softly. "They'll take you on the right road--you're on it now--and they'll come true!"

There was a hesitant step outside. He arose, bending and taking her in his arms.

"I hope--I guess--I'm on the right road," he breathed. "And you've shown me the way, little girl; you have, for fair. Well, I must be going, I hear your mother outside. I've stayed too long now; I mustn't tire you.

Well, good night, dear."

He withdrew, to walk home with the dear shrined image of her in his swelling heart; with her tender words of faith in him to summon a maze of happy dreams.

CHAPTER XVII

THE COUP IN SIGHT

The succeeding fortnight found the Fusionists much exercised in mind. Do what they could, the trend was steadily, and with gathering impetus, the other way; the way of the devil, as the Fusion leaders firmly believed, but they could not induce the balance of voting power to think likewise.

With the election now but a few days off, the chances for the Reform ticket looked hopeless.

"Oh!" groaned Colonel Westlake, in a conversation with the Courier's managing editor one evening, "if only we could nail 'em somewhere! But there was never a time when everything was locked up as it is now. You can't get anything. We've whaled all the chaff out of the old straw, but it doesn't do any good. It's a different proposition from what it looked to be in the first place, isn't it? I'm convinced, though, that if we could only dig up what's beneath the surface on this deal, we'd win out yet, late as it is. It's a forlorn hope, but everybody must keep his eyes open, that's all. I'll tell you one thing, the man that happened to turn the trick would have no occasion to regret it, and don't you forget it!"

Unknown to the Colonel, as it was unknown also to the managing editor and to Harkins, the man who was to turn the trick was steadily forging ahead in the process. Micky, however, had kept his own counsel. This was not a matter to be bawled from the house-tops, or even whispered in secret, until the moment came in which he might confidently warn his superiors to prepare to exploit the story. The task was one to be prosecuted with infinite caution, and he was pursuing it alone. It would be time to speak of it when he had it so flanked by facts, and fortified by proof, that the town should read it aghast and rally at the eleventh hour to save itself.

Meanwhile O'Byrn was not idle. He had already satisfied himself, by actual proof, of the value of Slade's tips. The time spent by that worthy in subterranean research had evidently been well expended. There was, clinched and ready for publication, much that was startling. The information had been gained, moreover, from various sources involving difficulties in handling, yet Micky had proceeded thus far without causing a ripple of uneasiness in the turbid waters, and the knaves whose undoing he sought were in blissful ignorance of the formidable net that was closing about them. The layman will wonder how this could be, but the trained newspaper man will readily understand how a "star"

worker like O'Byrn, gifted with far more than ordinary subtlety, could accomplish a result which a good reporter, in less degree perhaps, has frequently to negotiate in his arduous calling.

The crowning fact, however, must be nailed home before the Irishman could spring his story; the fact to which all other things led and upon which they were dependent. The sublimely audacious hoax of the Democratic convention, the spectacle of hordes of unconscious puppets of Shaughnessy in the background, the exposure of masterly effrontery hitherto unparalleled in the history of political bossism; these were the culminating, dramatic features of the story, without which it would be as Samson shorn of power. To use these features, and invest them with facts to insure public credence, a difficult proposition presented itself. Judge Boynton must be revealed to the people as he had been, and, no matter how unwillingly, in case of his election would have to be again; an abject tool of Shaughnessy's ring.

Slade and O'Byrn both knew that the Democratic candidate for the mayoralty was running unwillingly; that he revolted from the ign.o.ble part he would be forced to play. They knew also that he was compelled to "stand the gaff," as Slade expressed it, through some sinister, secret hold which Shaughnessy had upon him. But what was this hold? Whatever it was, upon its revelation rested the whole superstructure of O'Byrn's story. The Democratic party had nominated for the mayoralty a jurist of high reputation, during his years upon the bench, and in his retirement the recipient of general public esteem. Micky realized fully that an attack, through mere inference of wrong-doing, upon such a man, would be not only libelous but abortive in its effect upon the public. The people, judging from externals, looked upon the candidate as a true, untrammeled reformer. Micky knew that he was,--perhaps originally by choice and now a.s.suredly of necessity,--a servile tool of the most corrupt political ring in the country; but the public statement of the Irishman to that effect would have to be backed up by incontrovertible proof.

It was truly a formidable difficulty, and one that O'Byrn chafed under as the swift days pa.s.sed, bringing the election uncomfortably close, with not an effective blow as yet to stay the victorious progress of the "regenerated" Democracy. Micky had exerted himself to the utmost, continuously yet cautiously, in the attempt to possess himself, by hook or crook, of that hidden secret which was the still unlocated fibre of his story; but without success. With everything else practically "clinched," was he to fail with the goal in sight?

Micky returned from a brief call at Maisie's one evening. It happened to be his night off, and he repaired to his room relieved in mind. He had found Maisie sitting with the family, with only unaccustomed pallor and thinness to bespeak her recent illness. O'Byrn was very tired, as he had devoted the day to still-hunting on the big story, for which purpose he had risen early after a mere s.n.a.t.c.h of sleep. Now from thought of Maisie, he pa.s.sed to puzzling reflections over the story, for still the maddening kernel of it all eluded him.

Suddenly a cautious knock sounded at his door, as he sat with his red head sunk disconsolately between his freckled hands. Ere he could rise, the portal opened to admit Slade.

"Good!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the ex-heeler. "Glad I've found you. Sent a kid up to the office for you, but he said you was off tonight. So I chanced it up here, sneaking along in the shade. I'm not gettin' under any electric lamps now," with a grim chuckle. "But say, get your hat 'nd coat.

There's a little confab on tonight, 'nd we've missed too much of it already."

Micky was already getting into his overcoat. "What's up?" he inquired laconically, the old flame kindling in his eyes. He reached for his hat and extinguished his gas heater. Slade fully appreciated the crowning difficulty Micky had to deal with, and the Irishman knew the little tout was not there for any idle purpose.

"Shaughnessy 'nd His Whiskers are chewin' the rag again," explained Slade, as they went down stairs. "They're in Shaughnessy's office, as usual. Been there some time; hope we ain't too late. I know what you're after. Can't never tell, maybe they'll spit up somethin' worth while."

Micky knew Slade well enough to neglect needless inquiry as to how they were to manage to hear this private conversation. He had ample evidence of the former heeler's eavesdropping powers, and followed him in perfect confidence to the conference.

Gaining the street on which Shaughnessy's establishment was located, they proceeded cautiously, looking about to be sure the coast was clear.

The reflection of a light gleamed dully behind the closely curtained office windows. "They're here yet," murmured Slade.

The street was deserted. With a warning gesture, Slade made his way noiselessly through a little driveway toward the rear of the building, Micky following. Slade paused a moment. O'Byrn heard him chuckle in the darkness.

"A man is always one kind of a fool," he whispered, "and most of us are most kinds. Shaughnessy, he's just one kind, but it's bad. He won't hire a night watchman. Do you mind coal dust?"

"Nit!" replied Micky.

"Then follow me," said Slade, "and mind you don't make any noise about it, either." He stooped, fumbling at a cellar window. "There's a broken pane here," he whispered, "but they're always careful to keep the casing hooked." He chuckled as he pushed the window inward and cautiously thrust the hook into the staple in the timber beyond. He then prepared to descend.

"But the coal, won't it rattle?" asked Micky apprehensively, as he drew near the window in readiness to follow Slade down.

"No," grinned the little tout. "They don't use this bin no more, but they used to. You'll know when you wash up afterwards. Well, come on, and be quiet." He disappeared.

Micky bent to follow him. Gingerly insinuating himself backward through the window, his legs were grasped from below and Slade piloted him easily to the floor. "Good!" breathed the guide. "Now come along, and just shuffle, or you'll be falling over things. I'll keep you in the open. The cellar's full of things." Manifestly Slade had been there before.

The obedient Micky "shuffled" cautiously along and the two proceeded without mishap to a flight of stairs, which they ascended cautiously. It was pitch dark. In Micky's strained ears the scuttling of a rat, across the floor beneath them, sounded unnaturally loud.

"Wait a minute," whispered Slade, as they gained the top. "Sometimes this door is locked and sometimes it ain't. If it is, I've got a key."

It was not, and the eavesdroppers stepped softly out into the big wareroom. Here showed the dim outlines of innumerable casks and cases, for the radiance of some distant electric lights struggled through the small, old-fas.h.i.+oned windows. A subdued sound of voices came from the office at the upper end of the room. Micky turned involuntarily in that direction.

"Wait a minute," whispered Slade, and tiptoed back toward the rear, O'Byrn following. Slade bent over a small cask, duly spigoted and with a couple of small gla.s.ses setting near it. "All the comforts of home," he grinned. He drew a couple of generous draughts and held one of the gla.s.ses toward Micky. "I know where they keep everything," he whispered, with a leer.

The fiery aroma was in Micky's nostrils. He hesitated, but drew back. "I guess not--" he began doubtfully.

"Take it, man," urged Slade. "A little whisky won't hurt you. Besides, it's a joke. Here's hopin' worse luck to Shaughnessy in his own stuff."

Micky grinned, faltered a moment, and then lightly touched gla.s.ses with Slade and downed the liquor.

"Tastes like another," whispered Slade, and proceeded to fill up the gla.s.ses again. Micky drank without further protest. The pleasant glow at his stomach infused itself into his veins, mounted benignly toward his brain. Always abnormally quick to respond to the spur of stimulants, he was conscious almost instantly of added zest for the adventure.

"Come on and be mighty quiet," murmured Slade, and the pair made their way on tiptoe toward the office. Slade approached the door, the upper part of which enclosed a wide gla.s.s, behind which hung a screening yellow shade. There was a narrow s.p.a.ce below it, however, through which a view of the interior could be obtained, the shade being a little too short to quite reach the length of the gla.s.s. Through an open transom overhead the speech of those inside was clearly audible.

The eavesdroppers bent, looking into the office. Shaughnessy sat in his big leather chair, indolently puffing a black cigar, dreamily gazing toward the ceiling. Near him, in an att.i.tude of deep dejection, sat Judge Boynton. The venerable candidate was speaking, while the boss might have been a thousand miles away. But the watchers knew that the jurist had the honor of his chief's undivided attention. It was a secret of Shaughnessy's success, the veil of icy indifference that hid so potently the dark workings of his own mind while he probed unerringly into the recesses of others.