In the Heart of a Fool

“Well, Nate, here’s where Anne’s great heart breaks–I suppose?”

Nathan nodded and asked: “I presume it’s all over but the shouting.”

“All over,” answered the elder young man as he dived into his book. As he read he realized that the convention had chosen Captain Morton–a partisan of the Judge–for chairman. The hot, stifling air of the room was thick with the smoke of cheap tobacco. Morty Sands grew nervous and irritated during the preliminary motions of the organization. Even as a sporting event the odds on Van Dorn were too heavy to promote excitement. He went out for a breath of air. When he reëntered Judge Van Dorn was making the opening speech of the convention. It was a fervid effort; the Spanish war was then in progress so the speech was full of allusions to what the Judge was pleased to call “libertah” and “our common countrah” and our sacred “dutah” to “humanitah.” Naturally the delegates who were for the Judge’s renomination displayed much enthusiasm, and it was a noisy moment. When the Judge closed his remarks–tearfully of course–and took his seat as chairman of the Fourth Ward delegation, which was supposed to be for him unanimously as it was his home ward, Morty noticed that while the Judge sat grand and austere in the aisle seat with his eyes partly closed as one who is recovering from a great mental effort, his half-closed eyes were following Mr. Joseph Calvin, who was buzzing about the room distributing among the delegates meal tickets and saloon checks good for food for man and beast at the various establishments of public entertainment.

Morty learned from George Brotherton that as the county officers were to be renominated without opposition, and as the platform had been agreed to the day before, and as the county central committeemen had been chosen the night before at the caucuses, the convention was to be a short horse soon curried. Of course, Captain Morton as permanent chairman made a speech–with suitable eulogies to the boys who wore the blue. It was the speech the convention had heard many times before, but always enjoyed–and as he closed he asked rather grandly, “and now what is the further pleasure of the convention?”

It was Mr. Calvin’s pleasure, as expressed in a motion, that the secretary be instructed to cast the vote of the convention for the renomination of the entire county ticket, and further that Senator James Nesbit, in view of his leadership of the party in the State, be requested to name the delegates to the State and congressional conventions and that Judge Thomas Van Dorn–cheers led by Dick Bowman–Thomas Van Dorn be requested to name the delegates to the judicial district convention. Cheers and many cries of no, no, no, greeted the Calvin motion. It was seconded and stated by the chair and again cheered and roared at. Dr. Nesbit rose, and in his mild, treble voice protested against the naming of the delegates to the State and congressional and judicial conventions. He said that while it had been the practice in the past, he was of the opinion that the time had come to let the Convention itself choose by wards and precincts and townships its delegates to these conventions. He said further that as for the State and congressional delegates, they couldn’t pick a delegation of twenty men in the room if they tried, that would not contain a majority which he could work with. At which there was cheering from the anti-Van Dorn crowd–but it was clear that they were in the minority. No further discussion seemed to be expected and the Captain was about to put the motion, when from among the delegates from South Harvey there arose the red poll of Grant Adams. From the Harvey delegates he met the glare of distrust due from any crowd of merchants and clerks to any labor agitator. Morty could see from the face of Dr. Nesbit that he was surprised. Judge Van Dorn, who sat near young Sands, looked mildly interested. After he was recognized, Grant in an impassioned voice began to talk of the inherent right of the Nesbit motion, providing that each precinct or ward delegation could name its own delegates to the State, congressional and judicial conventions.

If the motion prevailed, Judge Van Dorn would have a divided delegation from Greeley county to the judicial convention, as some of the precincts and wards were against him, though a majority of the united convention was for him. Grant Adams, swinging his iron claw, was explaining this to the convention. He was appealing passionately for the right of proportional representation; holding that the minority had rights of representation that the majority should not deny.

Judge Van Dorn, without rising, had sneered across the room in a snarling voice: “Ah, you socialist!” Once he had growled: “None of your red mouthed ranting here!” Finally, as it was evident that Grant’s remarks were interesting the workmen on the delegations, Van Dorn, still seated, called out:

“Here, you–what right have you to address this convention?”

“I am a regularly accredited delegate from South Harvey, holding the proxy–”

He got no further.

The Van Dorn delegates roared, “Put him out. No proxies go,” and began hooting and jeering. It was obvious that Van Dorn had the crowd with him. He let them roar at Grant, who stood quietly, demanding from time to time that the chair should restore order. Captain Morton hammered the table with his gavel, but the Van Dorn crowd continued to hoot and howl. Finally Judge Van Dorn rose and with great elaborateness of parliamentary form addressed the chair asking to be permitted to ask his friend with a proxy one question.

The two men faced each other savagely, like characters symbolizing forces in a play; complaisance and discontent. Behind Grant was the unrest and upheaval of a class coming into consciousness and tremendously dynamic, while Van Dorn stood for those who had won their fight and were static and self-satisfied. He twirled his mustache. Grant raised his steel claw as if to strike; Van Dorn spoke, and in a barking, vicious, raucous tone intended to annihilate his adversary, asked:

“Will you tell this convention in the interest of fairness, what, if any, personal and private motives you have in helping Dr. Nesbit inject a family quarrel into public matters in this county?”

A moment’s silence greeted the lawyer’s insolently framed question. Mortimer Sands saw Dr. Nesbit go white, start to rise, and sit down, and saw dawning on the face of Grant Adams the realization of what the question meant. But before he could speak the mob broke loose; hisses, cheers and the roar of partisan and opposition filled the room. Grant Adams tried to speak; but no one would hear him. He started down the aisle toward Van Dorn, his red hair flashing like a banner of wrath, menacing the Judge with the steel claw upraised. Dr. Nesbit stopped Grant. The insult had been so covert, so cowardly, that only in resenting its implication would there be scandal.

Mortimer Sands closed his book. He saw Judge Van Dorn laugh, and heard him say to George Brotherton who sat beside young Sands:

“I plugged that damn pie-face!”

Nathan Perry, the practical young man sitting in the Fourth ward delegation, heard the Judge and nudged Morty Sands. Morty Sands’s sporting blood rose in him. “The pup,” he whispered to Nate. “He’s taking a shot at Laura.”

The crowd gradually grew calm. There being no further discussion, Captain Morton put the motion of Joseph Calvin to let the majority of the convention name all delegates to the superior conventions. The roar of ayes overwhelmed the blat of noes. It was clear that the Calvin motion had carried. The Doctor was defeated. But before the chair announced the vote the pompadour of the little man rose quickly as he stood in the middle aisle and asked in his piping treble for a vote by wards and precincts.

In the moment of silence that followed the Doctor’s suggestion, Nathan Perry’s face, which gradually had been growing stony and hard, cracked in a mean smile as he leaned over to Morty and whispered:

“Morty, can you stand for that–that damned hound’s snap at Laura Van? By grabby I can’t–I won’t!”

“Well, let’s raise hell, Nate–I’m with you. I owe him nothing,” said the guileless and amiable Morty.

Judge Van Dorn rose grandly and with great elegance of diction agreed with the Doctor’s “excellent suggestion.” So tickets were passed about containing the words yes and no, and hats were passed down delegation lines and the delegates put the ballots in the hats and the chairmen of delegations appointed tellers and so the ballots were counted. When the Fourth ward balloting was finished, Judge Van Dorn looked puzzled. He was three votes short of unanimity. His vanity was pricked. He believed he had a solid delegation and proposed to have it. When in the roll call the Fourth ward delegation was reached (it was the fourth precinct on the secretary’s roll) the Judge, as chairman of the Fourth warders, rose, blandly and complacently, and announced: “Ward Four casts twenty-five votes ‘yes’ and three votes ‘no.’ I demand a poll of the delegation.”

George Brotherton rose when the clerk of the convention called the roll and voted a weak, husky ‘no’ and sat down sheepishly under the Judge’s glare.

Down the list came the clerk reading the names of delegates. Finally he called “Mortimer Sands,” and the young man rose, smiling and calm, and looking the Judge fairly in the eye cried, “I vote no!”

Then pandemonium broke loose. The convention was bedlam. The friends of the Judge were confounded. They did not know what it meant.

The clerk called Nathan Perry.

“No,” he cried as he looked maliciously into the Judge’s beady eyes.

Then there was no doubt. For the relations of Wright & Perry were so close to Daniel Sands that no one could mistake the meaning of young Perry’s vote, and then had not the whole town read of the “showers” for Anne Sands? Those who opposed the Judge were whispering that the old spider had turned against the Judge. Men who were under obligations to the Traders’ Bank were puzzled but not in doubt. There was a general buzzing among the delegations. The desertion of Mortimer Sands and Nathan Perry was one of those wholly unexpected events that sometimes make panics in politics. The Judge could see that in one or two cases delegations were balloting again. “Fifth ward,” called the clerk.

“Fifth ward not ready,” replied the chairman.

“Hancock township, Soldier precinct,” called the clerk.

“Soldier precinct not ready,” answered the chairman.

The next precinct cast its vote No, and the next precinct cast its vote 7 yes and 10 no and a poll was demanded and the vote was a tie. The power of the name of Sands in Greeley county was working like a yeast.

“Well, boys,” whispered Mr. Brotherton to Morty as two townships were passed while they were reballoting, “Well, boys–you sure have played hell.” He was mopping his red brow, and to a look of inquiry from Morty Mr. Brotherton explained: “You’ve beaten the Judge. They all think that it’s your father’s idea to knife him, and the foremen of the mines who are running these county delegations and the South Harvey contingent are changing their votes–that’s how!”

In another instant Morty Sands was on his feet. He stood on a seat above the crowd, a slim, keen-faced, oldish figure. When he called upon the chairman a hush fell over the crowd. When he began to speak he could feel the eyes of the crowd boring into him. “I wish to state,” he said hesitatingly, then his courage came, “that my vote against this resolution, was due entirely to the inferential endorsement of Judge Thomas Van Dorn,” this time the anti-Van Dorn roar was overwhelming, deafening, “that the resolution contained.”

Another roar, it seemed to the Judge as from a pit of beasts, greeted this period. “But I also wish to make it clear,” continued the young man, “that in this position I am representing only my own views. I have not been instructed by my father how to cast this ballot. For you know as well as I how he would vote.” The roar from the anti-Van Dorn crowd came back again, stronger than ever. The convention had put its own interpretation upon his words. They knew he was merely making it plainer that the old spider had caught Judge Van Dorn in the web, and for some reason was sucking out his vitals. Morty sat down with the sense of duty well done, and again Mr. Brotherton leaned over and whispered, “Well, you did a good job–you put the trimmings on right–hello, we’re going to vote again.” Again the young man jumped to his feet and cried amid the noise, which sank almost instantly as they saw who was trying to speak: “I tell you, gentlemen, that so far as I know my father is for Judge Van Dorn,” but the crowd only laughed, and it was evident that they thought Morty was playing with them. As Morty Sands sat down Nathan Perry rose and in his high, strong, wire-edged tenor cried: “Men, I’m voting only myself. But when a man shows doghair as Judge Van Dorn showed it to this convention in that question to Grant Adams–all hell can’t hold me to–” But the roar of the crowd drowned the close of the sentence. The mob knew nothing of the light that had dawned in Nathan Perry’s heart. The crowd knew only that the son and the future son-in-law of the old spider had turned on Van Dorn, and that he was marked for slaughter so it proceeded with the butchering which gave it great personal felicity. Men howled their real convictions and Tom Van Dorn’s universe tottered. He tried to speak, but was howled down.

“Vote–vote, vote,” they cried. The Fourth ward balloted again and the vote stood “Yes, fifteen, no, twelve,” and the proud face of the suave Judge Van Dorn turned white with rage, and the red scar flickered like lightning across his forehead. The voting could not proceed. For men were running about the room, and Joseph Calvin was hovering over the South Harvey delegation like a buzzard. Morty Sands suspected Calvin’s mission. The young man rose and ran to Dr. Nesbit and whispered: “Doctor, Nate’s got seven hundred dollars in the bank–see what Calvin is doing? I can get it up here in three minutes. Can you use it to help?”

The Doctor ran his hand over his graying pompadour and smiled and shook his head. In the din he leaned over and piped. “Touch not, taste not, handle not, Morty–I’ve sworn off. Teetotler,” he laughed excitedly. Young Sands saw a bill flash in Mr. Calvin’s hands and disappear in Dick Bowman’s pockets.

“No law against it,” chirped the Doctor, “except God Almighty’s, and He has no jurisdiction in Judge Tom’s district.”

As they stood watching Calvin peddle his bills the convention saw what he was doing. A fear seized the decent men in the convention that all who voted for Van Dorn would be suspected of receiving bribes. The balloting proceeded. In five minutes the roll call was finished. Then before the result was announced George Brotherton was on his feet saying, “The Fourth ward desires to change her vote,” and while Brotherton was announcing the complete desertion of the Fourth ward delegation, Judge Van Dorn left the hall. Men in mob are cruel and mad, and the pack howled at the vain man as he slunk through the crowd to the door.

After that, delegation after delegation changed its vote and before the result was announced Mr. Calvin withdrew his motion, and the spent convention only grunted its approval. Then it was that Mugs Bowman crowded into the room and handed Nathan Perry this note scrawled on brown butcher’s paper in a hand he knew. “I have this moment learned that you are a delegate and must take a public stand. Don’t let a word I have said influence you. I stand by you whatever you do. Use your own judgment; follow your conscience and ‘with God be the rest.’” “A. S.”

Nathan Perry folded the note, and as he put it in his vest pocket he felt the proud beat of his heart. Fifteen minutes later when the convention adjourned for noon, Nathan and Morty Sands ran plumb into Thomas Van Dorn, sitting in the back room of the bank, wet eyed and blubbering. The Judge was slumped over the big, shining table, his jaws trembling, his hands fumbling the ink stands and paper weights. His eyes were staring and nervous, and beside him a whiskey bottle and glass told their story. The man rose, holding the table, and shrieked:

“You damned little fice dog, you–” this to Morty, “you–you–” Morty dashed around the table toward the Judge, but before he could reach the man to strike, the Judge was moving his jaws impotently, and grasping the thin air. His mouth foamed as he fell and he lay, a shivering, white-eyed horror, upon the floor. The bank clerks lifted the figure to a leather couch, and some one summoned Doctor Nesbit.

The Doctor saw the whiskey bottle half emptied and saw the white faced, prostrate figure. The Doctor sent the clerks from the room as he worked with the unconscious man, and piped to Morty as he worked, “Nothing serious–heat–temper, whiskey–and vanity and vexation of spirit; ‘vanity of vanities–all is vanity–saith the preacher.’” Morty and Nathan left the room as the man’s eyes opened and the Doctor with a woman’s tenderness brought the wretched, broken, shattered bundle of pride back to consciousness.

For years this became George Brotherton’s favorite story. He first told it to Henry Fenn thus:

“Say, Henry, lemme tell you about old man Sands. He come in here the day after he got back from Chicago to wrestle with me for letting Morty vote against Tom. Well–say–I’m right here to tell you that was some do–all right, all right! You know he thought I got Morty and Nate to vote that way and the old spider came hopping in here like a granddaddy long-legs and the way he let out on your humble–well, say–say! Holler–you’d orto heard him holler! Just spat pizen–wow! and as for me who’d got the lad into the trouble–as for me,” Mr. Brotherton paused, folded his hand over his expansive abdomen and sighed deeply, as one who recalls an experience too deep for language. “Well, say–I tried to tell him I didn’t have anything to do with it, but he was wound up with an eight-day spring! I knew it was no use to talk sense to him while he was batting his lights at me like a drunk switchman on a dark night, but when he was clean run down I leans over the counter and says as polite as a pollywog, ‘Most kind and noble duke,’ says I, ‘you touch me deeply by your humptious words!’ says I, ‘let me assure you, your kind and generous sentiments will never be erased from the tablets of my most grateful memory’–just that way.

“Well, say–” and here Mr. Brotherton let out his laugh that came down like the cataract at Ladore, “pretty soon Morty sails in fresh as a daisy and asks:

“‘Father been in here?’

“‘Check one father,’ says I.

“‘Raising hell?’ he asks.

“‘Check one hell,’ says I.

“‘Well, sir,’ says he, ‘I’m exceedingly sorry.’

“‘One sorrow check,’ says I.

“‘Sincerely and truly sorry, George,’ he repeats and ‘Two sorrows check,’ I repeats and he goes on: ‘Look here, George, I know father, and until I can get the truth into him, which won’t be for a week or two, I suppose he may try to ruin you!’

“‘Check one interesting ruin,’ says I.

“But he brought down his hand on the new case till I shuddered for the glass, and well, say–what do you think that boy done? He pulls out a roll of money big enough to choke a cow and puts it on the case and says: ‘I sold my launch and drew every dollar I had out of the bank before father got home. Here, take it; you may need it in your business until father calms down.’

“Wasn’t that white! I couldn’t get him to put the roll back and along comes Cap Morton, and when I wouldn’t take it the old man glued on to him, and I’m a goat if Morty didn’t lend it to the Captain, with the understanding I could have it any time inside of six months, and the Captain could use it afterward. That’s where the Captain got his money to build his shop.”

It cost Daniel Sands five thousand dollars in hard earned money, not that he earned the money, but it was hard-earned nevertheless, to undo the work of that convention, and nominate and elect Thomas Van Dorn district Judge upon an independent ticket. And even when the work was done, the emptiness of the honor did not convince the Judge that this is not a material world. He hugged the empty honor to his heart and made a vast pretense that it was real.