Evening Republican, Volume 16, Number 292, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 7 December 1912 — CONOVER, RAILROADER [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

CONOVER, RAILROADER

BY ALBERT PAYSON TERHUNE

Author of “Syria from the Saddle,” “Columbia Stone.," Etc. : ' Copyright, 1907, Albert P.ywo Terhuae

"And you were O. K. In thinking it I know Letty wrote, because I dictated the letter. I wanted to count you in with the rest to-night, and 1 had kind of a bashful fear that your love for- me, personally, might not be strong enough to fetch you. You’ve got too much sense to think the invite will score either way in our feelings to each other, or that I'm going back on what I said to you four years ago. Now that you’re here, chase In and enjoy yourself. This place- Is like heaven, to-night in one way. You'll see a whole lot of people here you never expected to, and you’ll miss more’n a few you thought would sure belong. , Good-by. Don’t let me block your job of heavenly recognition.” The wilful coarseness and brutality of the man caioe as no surprise to Stan dish. He bad expected something of the sort, and had braced himself for it To please his unt, whom he sincerely pitied, he had entered the Conover house to-night for the first time since the Homeric quarrel, incident on his refusal to avail himself of Caleb’s prestige in his law work, and, incidentally to enroll himself as one of the Railroader’s numberless political vassals. That the roughness to which Conover had subjected him was no more a part of the Railroader’s real nature than had been the nervous effusiveness of his greeting to the Greers, Clive well knew. It bad been Intended to cover any embarrassing memories of a former and somewhat less strained acquaintanceship; and as such it—like most of Conover’s moves —had served its turn. So, resisting his first impulse to depart as he had come, Standish moved on. The formal receiving phalanx was crumpling up. He paused for a moment’s talk with little Mrs. Conover, exchanged a civil word or two with his cousin Blanche and her prince, and then came to where Anice Lanier was trying to make conversation for several awed-looking, bediamonded persons who were evidently horribly 111 at ease in their surroundings. At sight of the girl, the formal lines about Clive’s mouth were broken by a smile of very genuine pleasure. A smile that gave a younger aspect to his grave face, and found ready answer in the brown eyes that met his. “Haven’t you toiled at a forlorn hope long enough?” he asked, as the awed beings drifted away into the uncomfortable crowd, carrying their burden of jewels with them. “A forlorn hope?” she queried, puzzled. “You actually seemed to be trying to galvanize at least a segment of this portentous gathering into a semblance of life. Don’t do It. -In the first place you can't Saloonkeepers, and Pompton Avenue people won’t blend. In the second place, it isn’t expected of you. The papers to-morrow will record the right nqmes just as jealously as If everyone had had a good time. Suppose you concentrate all your efforts on me. Come! It will be a real work of charity, For Mr. Conover has just shown me how thoroughly I’m the prodigal. And he didn’t even hint at the whereabouts of a fatted calf. Please be merciful and make me have a good time. It’s months since I’ve seen you to talk to.”

“Then why don’t you come here oftener?” she asked as they made their way through the press, and found an unoccupied alcove between two of the great rooms. “Im sure Mrs. Conover—’’ p “My poor aunt? She’d be fright ened to death that Conover and 1 would quarrel. No, no! To-night is an exception. The first add the last I persuaded myself I came because of Aunt Letty’s note. But I really came for a chat with yog.” She looked at him, doubting how to accept this bald compliment But his face was boyish in Its sincerity. “You and I used to be such good friends,” he went on, “and now we never see any more of each other. Why don’t we?’’ "I think you know as well as . You no longer come here —you have not come, I think, since a year before I arrived. And I go almost nowhere since—" “Since you gave up all your old world and the people who cared for you and became,a drudge in the Conover household? If you were to be found anywhere else you would see so much of me that I’d bore you to extinction. But it would be even unpleasanter fqr you than for me if i were to call on you here, i miss our old-time talks more than 1 can say.” "I miss them too. Do you remember how we used to argue over politics, and—hpw-you always ended by telling me that there were two things qo woman could understand, and that politics was one and finance the other?” "And you would always ifiake the name retort: That woman’s combined of politics and imamo* were

pure knowledge as compared with the men’s Ignorance of wqmen. It wasn’t especially logical repartee, but it always served to shut me up.’ “I wish we had time for another political spat. Some day we must. You see. I’ve learned such a lot about politics —and finance, too —practical politics and finance —since 1 came here. - "Decidedly ‘practical.' 1 fancy, it Mr. Conover was your teacher. He doesn’t go in much for Idealism.” “And you?” asked Anice, ignoring the slur. “Are you still as rabid ever in your ideas of 'reform? But. of course,, you are. For I read only last week that you had been -elected President of the Civic League. 1 want to congratulate you. It’s a splendid movement, even though Mr. Donover declares it’s hopeless.” “Good citizenship is never quite hopeless, even in a boss-ridden community like Granite, and a boss-rid dened commonwealth like the Mountain State. The people will wake up some day.” "Their snores sound very peaceful and regular just now. remarked Anice, with a flippancy whereof she bad the grace to be ashamed “Perhaps,” he smiled, 'the souudyou and Conover mistake for sircnw may possibly be groans." “How delightfully dramatic! ITh;< would sound splendidly on rh stump;” ff “It may have a chance to.” “What do you mean? j Are you <>. (ng to—” “No Lam going to run tui g-n,-. or this fall.” “WHAT?” “Do you know,” observed Sr "when you open your that way you really look-—’’ “Never mind how I look! — Tell -me about —" My campaign? It is nothing yet. But the Civic League is planning one more effort to shake off Couover’s grip on the throat of the Mountain State- another good 'stump line, by the way. And 1 have been asked to run for governor."

"Butr-^ “Oh, yes, I know. Conover holds the Convention in the hollow of his hand. He owns the delegates aud the newspapers and the Legislature as well as the railroads, 'nd no sane man would dream of bucking Such a combination. But maybe I’m not quite sane. For I’m going to try it. Now laugh all you like." “Laugh ? I feel. more like crying; It’s —it’s knightly and splendid of you, Clive! And— perhaps it may prove less crazy than you think." “You mean?” “I mean nothing at all. I wish you luck, though All the luck in the world. Tell me more. “There is no more. Besides. I’d. rather talk about you. Tell me.ol your life here.” "There’s nothing to tell, it’s work. Peasant enough work, even though it’s hard. Everyone is nice to me I—” “That doesn’t explain your choosing such a career out of all that were open to you. Why did you take it?" ’Tve often explained it to you, but you never seem to understand. When father died, he left me nothing. I had my living to make, and —" “But surely there were a thousand easier, pleasanter ways of earning it than to kill yourself socially by becoming an employee in such a family as this. It can’t be congenial—" The odd smile In her eyes checked him and gave him a vague sense ol uneasiness. “It is congenial.” said the girl after a pause. “I have my own suite ol rooms, my own hours, my own way. I have a natural bent for finance, and business association with *r. Conover (3 a real education. The salary is good. My word in all household matters is law. Mr. Conover knows 1 un derstand how things should be conducted. and he has grown to rely on me. 4 am more mistress here than most women in their own homes. Mrs. Conover is ill so much—and Blanche TeffijT a way —’ ~ r " ===== "Anice." he broke in, “I’ve Jcnown you since you first went into long dresses. And 1 know tnat the reasons you’ve just given are none of- them the sort that appeal to a girl like you. To some women they might. But not to you. Why did you come here, and why do you stay? There is some reason you haven’t —’’ , “ ’Scuse me. Miss Lanier,* said a JjTdcj^at^theentranceofth^«Jcove|

oeen lookin' eferyvfters tor yon. u** but goto’ through a bunch of cops is a poolroom and is pin alongside ol workin’ a way through -Jala push." The speaker was a squat, swarthy little man on whom nis ready-made evening clothes sat with the grace and comfort of a set of -thumb screws Clive recognized him with difficulty as the usually self-assured “Billy” Shevlin, Conover’s most trusted political henchman. “Very well," replied Anice Lanier, rising to obey the summons. She noted the dumb misery in Billy’s face, and paused to ask: "Aren’t you having a good time. Mr. Shevlin?”, “A good time? Me? Oh, yes. Sure, only hope no one'll mistake me In this open-face suit tor a senator or a mattinay idoL 'That’s all that’s botherin' me. I’ve Deen rubbin’ elbows with the Van Alstynes that own ball of Pompton Av’no and live In Yriorup. and with Slat Kerrigan’s wife, who used to push coffee and sinkers at Kerry’s beanery. Oh, I'm in sassiety all right. An’ 1 feel like a pair of yellow shoes at a fun'ral." “Nevei mind!' laughed Anice. “The supper'-room's open-; aud you'll enjoy that part of the evening, at any rate." • i win. e;,. Noi me. Miss! "The Hoses passed--..the word that the boys is tn boiii back and kind of make a Taoist-' ITT? •--'«! c»v —i ,i riders till •he s e- . - an u«l s>o it’s me in? , >i i , Vjiitt they’re e| j),. ■ . r » t .I.S* ♦ > ' -’Ui I : ... , . *•’> -netn thread . ,-j - sowd. until •• *«> “Mb tts *. oa.r was lost to sight. Then be sat looking moodily out on the heterogeneous, illassorted company before him. Now that he had talked with Anice he no longer regretted the impulse that had led him to accept Mrs. Conover’s invitation. The girl had always exerted a subtle charm, a namek less influence, Years before, when he was struggling, penniless, to make a living in a city where bis family name opened every door to him, yet where it was more of ap impediment than otherwise in bis task of bread winning; even then he had worked with a vague, half-formed hope of Anice Lanier sharing his final victory. (. Then had come her own financial reverses, her father’s death, and her withdrawal from the world that had known them both. Since that time tirjiunistances had checked their growmg intimacy. It was pleasant to fitandiiffi to feel that that intimacy ind understanding were now renewed Almost just where they had left off.' His battle for livelihood and success had beaten from him much of the buoyancy that had oncessbeen his (harm. Anice seemed .he one link jonnecting him with Youth —the link whereby he might oiie day win his way back to that dear lost country of his boyish hopes and dreams. It would be good to forget, with her. the Ireary uphill struggle that was so bitter and youth-sapping when endured Alone. Then he laughed grimly at tis own silly fantasy, and came back ‘o every-day self-control. The rooms were clearing. Clive got to bis feet and followed the general irift toward the enormous ball-room in the rear of the mansion that had for the occasion been converted intg,a banquet hall. On the way he encountered a lpng, lean, ■* pasty-faced young map who aailed him with a weary: “Hello, Standish! Didn’t expect to tee you here. Beastly bore, Isn’t it? And the governor dragged me ail the tf&y from New York to show up at t.” “You spend most of your time in New York nowadays, don’t you Jer*y?" said Clive. “Say. old chap,’ protested young Conover, “cut oqj. the Jerv,y.’ can’t /ou ? My Christian name’s Gerald. J ferry’ was all right enough when 1 was a kid in this one-horse provincial lole. But it would swamp a man of ny standing in New York.” Clive had a fair idea of the “standng" in question. A half-baked lad, turned out of Harvard after two years »f futile loafing, sent on a trip around 'he world (that culminated in a delghtfully misspent year in Paris), at' a&t coming home with a wellgrounded contempt for his native city, ind turned loose at his own request on long-suffering New York, • with more money than belonged ,to him ind fewer brains than sufficed to keep t- This in a nutshell was the history -so far as the world at large knew—, of Caleb Conover’s only sou. From time to time newspaper ac:ounts of beaten cabmen, suppers that tnded in police stations, and similar feats of youthful gayety and culture had floated to Granite. Yet Caleb Conover, otherwise so rigid in the matter of appearances, read such acsounts with relish, and boasted loudly of the swath his son was cutting in Botham society. For, on Gerald’s word, Conover was firmly assured that fills was the true career of a young can of fashion. It represented all he had missed in his own povertytghtlng early manhood, and he relOiced to his son> good times. Getting, rid of Gerald as soon as he fteoently might, Standish made his way to the supper-room. At a hunIred tables sat more or less bored guests. Waiters swirled wildly to hnd fro. In a balcony above blared in orchestra. At the doors and In a fringe about the edges of the room were grouped the Conover political did business hangers on. The place was hot to suffocation and heavy with the scent of flowers. Suddenly through the volume of looser sound, came a succession ot lharp raps. The 1 orchestra stopped thort The guests ceased speaking, And craned their necks.

At tne far end of the room, under i gaudy floral piece, a man had risen io his feet. “Speech!" yelled Shevlin, enthusiastically, from a doorway. Then, made aware of his breach of etiquette fcy a swift but awful glance from his chief,, he wilted behind a palm. But Shevlin had read the signs •right Caleb oeaevu. Sa-js&der, was ibeut to make a speech. *t—. (To be Continued.)

“I have been asked to run for Governor.”