University of Virginia Library

II.

WHEN Mr. Styles leaned wearily back in his chair and declared a thing worked out very smoothly, that thing was quite likely to happen. In three days the Governor went South. When he returned, the newspaper men were startled by the unexpected announcement that business considerations which he could not afford to overlook demanded his withdrawal from office. Previous to this time the Lieutenant-Governor and Mr. Styles had met in one of the cities of southern Iowa, but the result of their meeting had not been made a matter of public record.

As the Governor had anticipated, many things were said. Inquiries were made into the venerable Senator's condition — which, the orthodox papers declared, was but another example of the indecency of the Boxer journals. The Governor went to his cotton plantation. The Lieutenant-Governor went into office, and was pronounced a worthy successor to a good executive. The venerable Senator continued to live. As Mr. Styles had predicted, the gossip soon quieted into a friendly hope that the Governor would realize large sums with his cotton.

It was late in the fall when the senior Senator finally succumbed. The day the Iowa papers printed the story of his death, they printed speculative editorials on his probable successor. When the bereaved family commented with bitterness on this ill-concealed haste, they were told that it was politics — enterprise — life.

The old man's remains lay in state in the rotunda of the State Capitol, and the building was heavily draped in mourning. Many came and looked upon the quiet face; but far more numerous than those who gathered at his bier to weep were those who assembled in secluded corners to speculate on the wearing of his toga. It was politics — enterprise — life.

Mr. Styles told the Lieutenant-Governor to be deliberate. There was no need of an immediate appointment, he said. And so for a time things went on about the State House much as usual, save that the absorbing topic was the Senatorial situation, and that every one was watching the new chief executive with alert and untiring eyes. The retired Governor now spent part of his time in the South, and part in Iowa. The cotton plantation was not demanding all his attention, after all.

It could not be claimed that John Berriman had ever done any great thing. He was not on record as having ever risen grandly to an occasion; but there may have been something in the fact that an occasion admitting of a grand rising had never presented itself. Before he became Lieutenant-Governor, he had served inoffensively in the State Senate for two terms. No one had ever worked very hard for Senator Berriman's vote. He had been put in by the machine, and it had always been assumed that he was machine property.

Berriman himself had never given the matter of his place in the human drama much thought. He had an idea that it was proper for him to vote with his friends, and he always did it. Had he been called a tool, he would have been much ruffled: he merely trusted to the infallibility of the party.

The Boxers did not approach him now concerning the appointment of Huntington. That, of course, was a fixed matter, and they were not young and foolish enough to attempt to change it.

One day Governor Berriman received a telegram from Mr. Styles suggesting that he should "adjust that matter" immediately. He thought of announcing the appointment that very night, but the newspaper men had all left the building, and as he had promised that they should know of it as soon as it was made, he concluded to wait until next morning. There was no pressing hurry.

Governor Berriman had a brother in town, attending a meeting of the State Agricultural Society. Hiram Berriman had a large farm in southern Iowa. He knew but little of political methods, and held primitive ideas of honesty. There had always been a strong tie between the brothers, despite the fact that Hiram

was fifteen years the Governor's senior. They talked of many things that night, and the hour was growing late. Both were thinking of retiring when the Governor remarked, a little sleepily:

"Well, to-morrow morning I announce the Senatorial appointment."

"You do, eh?" returned the old farmer.

"Yes, there's no need of waiting any longer, and it's getting on to the time the State wants two Senators in Washington."

"Well, I suppose, John," Hiram said, turning a serious face to his brother, "that you've thought the matter all over, and are sure you are right?"

The Governor threw back his head with a half-scoffing laugh.

"I guess it didn't require much thought on my part," he answered carelessly.

"I don't see how you figure that out," said Hiram warmly. "You're Governor of the State, and your own boss, ain't you?"

It was the first time in all his life that any one had squarely confronted John Berriman with the question whether or not he was his own boss, and for some reason it went deep into his soul, and rankled there.

"Now see here, Hiram," he said at length, "there's no use in your putting on airs and pretending you don't understand this thing. You know well enough it was all fixed before I went in." The other man looked at him in bewilderment, and the Governor continued, rather tartly: "The party knew the Senator was going to die, and so the Governor pulled out and I went in just so the thing could be done decently when the time came."

The old farmer was scratching his head.

"That's it, eh? They got wind the Senator was goin' to die, and so the Governor told that lie about having to go South just so he could step into the dead man's shoes, eh?"

"That's the situation — if you want to put it that way."

"And now you're going to appoint the Governor?"

"Of course I am; I couldn't do anything else if I wanted to."

"Why not?"

"Why, look here, Hiram, haven't you any idea of political obligation? It's expected of me."

"Oh, it is, eh? Did you promise to appoint the Governor?"

"Why, I don't know that I exactly made any promises, but that doesn't make a particle of difference. The understanding was that the Governor was to pull out and I was to go in and appoint him. It's a matter of honor;" and Governor Berriman drew himself up with no little pride.

The farmer turned a troubled face to the fire.

"I suppose, then," he said finally, "that you all think the Governor is the best man Iowa has for the United States Senate. I take it that in appointing him, John, you feel sure he will guard the interests of the people before everything else, and that the people — I mean the working people of this State — will always be safe in his hands; do you?"

"Oh, Lord, no, Hiram!" said the Governor irritably. "I don't think that at all!"

Hiram Berriman's brown face warmed to a dull red.

"You don't?" he roared. "You mean to sit there, John Berriman, and tell me that you don't think the man you're going to put in the United States Senate will be an honest man? What do you mean by saying you're going to put a dishonest man in there to make laws for the people of Iowa, to watch over them and protect them? If you don't think he's a good man, if you don't think he's the best man the State has" — the old farmer was pounding the table heavily with his huge fist — "if you don't think that, in God's name, why do you appoint him?"

"I wish I could make you understand, Hiram," said the Governor in an injured voice, "that it's not for me to say."

"Why ain't it for you to say? Why ain't it, I want to know? Who's running you, your own conscience or some gang of men that's trying to steal from the State of Iowa? Good God, I wish I'd never lived to see the day a brother of mine put a thief in the United

States Senate, to bamboozle the honest, hard-working people of this State!"

"Hold on, please — that's a little too strong!" said the Governor.

"It ain't too strong. If a Senator ain't an honest man, he's a thief, and if he ain't looking after the welfare of the people he's bamboozlin' them, and that's all there is about it. I don't know much about politics, but I ain't lived my life without learning a little about right and wrong, and it's a sorry day for Iowa, John Berriman, if right and wrong don't enter into the makin' of a Senator!"

The Governor could think of no fitting response, so he made none. This seemed to quiet the irate farmer, and he surveyed his brother intently, and not unkindly.

"You're in a position now, John," he said, and there was a kind of homely eloquence in his serious voice, "to be a friend to the people of Iowa. It ain't many of us ever get the chance of doin' a great thing. We work along, and we do the best we can with what comes our way, but most of us don't get the chance to do a thing that's goin' to help thousands of people, and that the whole country's goin' to say was a move for the right. You want to think of that, and when you're thinkin' so much about honor, you don't want to clean forget about honesty. Don't you stick to any foolish notions about bein' faithful to the party; it ain't the party that needs helpin'. No matter how you got where you are, you're Governor of Iowa right now, John, and your first duty is to the people of this State, not to Tom Styles or anybody else. Just you remember that when you're namin' your Senator in the morning. Guess I'll go up to bed now. Good-night!"