The Essential Winston Churchill Collection. Winston Churchill
farmers and merchants?"
"Mr. Sutton is Speaker of the House."
"F-farmers and merchants elected him," remarked Jethro, as though stating a fact.
Worthington coughed.
"It is probable that I made a mistake in going to Sutton," he admitted.
"If I w-wanted to catch a pike, w-wouldn't use a pin-hook."
"I might have known," remarked Worthington, after a pause, "that Sutton could not have been elected Speaker without your influence."
Jethro did not answer that, but still remained sunk in his chair. To all appearances he might have been asleep.
"W-worth somethin' to the farmers and merchants to get that road through--w-worth somethin', ain't it?"
Wetherell held his breath. For a moment Mr. Worthington sat very still, his face drawn, and then he wet his lips and rose slowly.
"We may as well end this conversation, Mr. Bass," he said, and though he tried to speak firmly his voice shook, "it seems to be useless. Good night."
He picked up his hat and walked slowly toward the door, but Jethro did not move or speak. Mr. Worthington reached the door opened it, and the night breeze started the lamp to smoking. Wetherell got up and turned it down, and the first citizen was still standing in the doorway. His back was toward them, but the fingers of his left hand--working convulsively caught Wetherell's eye and held it; save for the ticking of the clock and the chirping of the crickets in the grass, there was silence. Then Mr. Worthington closed the door softly, hesitated, turned, and came back and stood before Jethro.
"Mr. Bass," he said, "we've got to have that franchise."
William Wetherell glanced at the countryman who, without moving in his chair, without raising his voice, had brought the first citizen of Brampton to his knees. The thing frightened the storekeeper, revolted him, and yet its drama held him fascinated. By some subtle process which he had actually beheld, but could not fathom, this cold Mr. Worthington, this bank president who had given him sage advice, this preacher of political purity, had been reduced to a frenzied supplicant. He stood bending over Jethro.
"What's your price? Name it, for God's sake."
"B-better wait till you get the bill--hadn't you? b-better wait till you get the bill."
"Will you put the franchise through?"
"Goin' down to the capital soon?" Jethro inquired.
"I'm going down on Thursday."
"B-better come in and see me," said Jethro.
"Very well," answered Mr. Worthington; "I'll be in at two o'clock on Thursday." And then, without another word to either of them, he swung on his heel and strode quickly out of the store. Jethro did not move.
William Wetherell's hand was trembling so that he could not write, and he could not trust his voice to speak. Although Jethro had never mentioned Isaac Worthington's name to him, Wetherell knew that Jethro hated the first citizen of Brampton.
At length, when the sound of the wheels had died away, Jethro broke the silence.
"Er--didn't laugh--did he, Will? Didn't laugh once--did he?"
"Laugh!" echoed the storekeeper, who himself had never been further from laughter in his life.
"M-might have let him off easier if he'd laughed," said Jethro, "if he'd laughed just once, m-might have let him off easier."
And with this remark he went out of the store and left Wetherell alone.
CHAPTER XIII
The weekly letter to the Newcastle Guardian was not finished that night, but Coniston slept, peacefully, unaware of Mr. Worthington's visit; and never, indeed, discovered it, since the historian for various reasons of his own did not see fit to insert the event in his plan of the Town History. Before another sun had set Jethro Bass had departed for the state capital, not choosing to remain to superintend the haying of the many farms which had fallen into his hand,--a most unusual omission for him.
Presently rumors of a mighty issue about the Truro Railroad began to be discussed by the politicians at the Coniston store, and Jake Wheeler held himself in instant readiness to answer a summons to the capital--which never came.
Delegations from Brampton and Harwich went to petition the Legislature for the franchise, and the Brampton Clarion and Harwich Sentinel declared that the people of Truro County recognized in Isaac Worthington a great and public-spirited man, who ought by all means to be the next governor--if the franchise went through.
One evening Lem Hallowell, after depositing a box of trimmings at Ephraim Prescott's harness shop, drove up to the platform of the store with the remark that "things were gittin' pretty hot down to the capital in that franchise fight."
"Hain't you b'en sent for yet, Jake?" he cried, throwing his reins over the backs of his sweating Morgans; "well, that's strange. Guess the fight hain't as hot as we hear about. Jethro hain't had to call out his best men."
"I'm a-goin' down if there's trouble," declared Jake, who consistently ignored banter.
"Better git up and git," said Lem; "there's three out of the five railroads against Truro, and Steve Merrill layin' low. Bije Bixby's down there, and Heth Sutton, and Abner Parkinson, and all the big bugs. Better get aboard, Jake."
At this moment the discussion was interrupted by the sight of Cynthia Wetherell coming across the green with an open letter in her hand.
"It's a message from Uncle Jethro," she said.
The announcement was sufficient to warrant the sensation it produced on all sides.
"'Tain't a letter from Jethro, is it?" exclaimed Sam Price, overcome by a pardonable curiosity. For it was well known that one of Jethro's fixed principles in life was embodied in his own motto, "Don't write--send."
"It's very funny," answered Cynthia, looking down at the paper with a puzzled expression. "'Dear Cynthia: Judge Bass wished me to say to you that he would be pleased if you and Will would come to the capital and spend a week with him at the Pelican House, and see the sights. The judge says Rias Richardson will tend store. Yours truly, P. Hartington.' That's all," said Cynthia, looking up.
For a moment you could have heard a pine needle drop on the stoop. Then Rias thrust his hands in his pockets and voiced the general sentiment.
"Well, I'll be--goldurned!" said he.
"Didn't say nothin' about Jake?" queried Lem.
"No," answered Cynthia, "that's all--except two pieces of cardboard with something about the Truro Railroad and our names. I don't know what they are." And she took them from the envelope.
"Guess I could tell you if I was pressed," said Lem, amid a shout of merriment from the group.
"Air you goin', Will?" said Sam Price, pausing with his foot on the step of his buggy, that he might have the complete news before he left.
"Godfrey, Will," exclaimed Rigs, breathlessly, "you hain't a-goin' to throw up a chance to stay a hull week at the Pelican, be you?" The mere possibility of refusal overpowered Rias.
Those who are familiar with that delightful French song which treats of the leave-taking of one Monsieur Dumollet