In the Arena by Booth Tarkington

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This was all that really happened for Uncle Billy during the turmoil
and scramble that went on about him all the day long. He had not been
forced to discover a way to meet an offer of $1,500, without hurting
the putative giver's feelings. No lobbyist had the faintest idea of
"approaching" the old man in that way. The members and the hordes of
camp-followers and all the lobby had settled into a belief that
Representative Rollinson was a sea-green Incorruptible, that of all
honest members he was the most honest. He had become typical of
honesty: sayings were current--"You might as well try to bribe Uncle
Billy Rollinson!" "As honest as old Uncle Billy Rollinson." Hurlbut
often used such phrases in private.

The "Breaker" was Hurlbut's own bill; he had planned it and written
it, though it came over to the House from the Senate under a Senator's
name. It was one of those "anti-monopolistic" measures which Democrats
put their whole hearts into, sometimes, and believe in and fight for
magnificently; an idea conceived in honesty and for a beneficent
purpose, in the belief that a legislature by the wave of a hand can
conjure the millennium to appear; and born out of an utter
misconception of man and railroads. The bill needs no farther
description than this: if it passed and became an enforced law, the
dividends of every rail road entering the State would be reduced by
two-fifths. There is one thing that will fight harder than a
Democrat--that is a railroad.

The "Breaker" had been kept very dark until Hurlbut felt that he was
ready; then it was swept through the Senate before the railroad lobby,
previously lulled into unsuspicion, could collect itself and block
it. This was as Hurlbut had planned: that the fight should be in his
own House. It was the bill of his heart and he set his reputation upon
it. He needed fifty-one votes to pass it, and he had them, and one to
spare; for he took his followers, who formed the majority, into caucus
upon it. It was in the caucus Uncle Billy learned that Hurlbut was
"for" the bill. He watched the leader with humble, wavering eyes,
thinking how strong and clear his voice was, and wondering if he never
lit the cigar he always carried in his hand, or if he ever got into
trouble, like Henry, being a young man. If he did, Uncle Billy would
have liked the chance to help him out.

He had plenty of such chances with Henry; indeed, the opportunity may
be said to have become unintermittent, and Uncle Billy was never free
from a dim fear of the day when his son would get in so deeply that he
could not get him out. Verily, the day seemed near at hand: Henry's
letters were growing desperate and the old man walked the floor of his
little room at night, more and more hopeless. Once or twice, even as
he sat at his desk in the House, his eyes became so watery that he
forced himself into long spells of coughing, to account for it, in
case any one might be noticing him.

The caucus was uneventful and quiet, for it had all been talked over,
and was no more than a matter of form.

The Republicans did not caucus upon the bill (they had reasons), but
they were solidly against it. Naturally it follows that the assault of
the railroad lobby had to be made upon the virtue of the Democrats
_as_ Democrats. That is, whether a member upon the majority side
cared about the bill for its own sake of not, right or wrong, he felt
it his duty as a Democrat to vote for it. If he had a conscience
higher than a political conscience, and believed the bill was bad, his
duty was to "bolt the caucus"; but all of the Democratic side believed
in the righteousness of the bill, except two. One had already been
bought and the other was Uncle Billy, who knew nothing about it,
except that Hurlbut was "for" it and it seemed to be making a "big
stir."

The man who had been bought sat not far from Uncle Billy. He was a
furtive, untidy slouch of a man, formerly a Republican; he had a great
capacity for "handling the coloured vote" and his name was
Pixley. Hurlbut mistrusted him; the young man had that instinct, which
good leaders need, for feeling the weak places in his following; and
he had the leader's way, too, of ever bracing up the weakness and
fortifying it; so he stopped, four or five times a day, at Pixley's
desk, urging the necessity of standing fast for the "Breaker," and
expressing convictions as to the political future of a Democrat who
should fail to vote for it; to which Pixley assented in his husky,
tough-ward voice.

All day long now, Hurlbut and his lieutenants, disregarding the
routine of bills, went up and down the lines, fending off the
lobbyists and such Republicans as were working openly for the bill.
They encouraged and threatened and never let themselves be too
confident of their seeming strength. Some of those who were known, or
guessed, to be of the "weaker brethren" were not left to themselves
for half an hour at a time, from their breakfasts until they went to
bed. There was always at elbow the "_Hold fast_!" whisper of
Hurlbut and his lieutenants. None of them ever thought of speaking to
Uncle Billy.

Hurlbut's "work was cut out for him," as they said. What work it is to
keep every one of fifty men honest under great temptation for three
weeks (which time it took for the hampered and filibustered bill to
come up for its passage or defeat), is known to those who have tried
to do it. The railroads were outraged and incensed by the measure;
they sincerely believed it to be monstrous and thievish. "Let the
legislature try to confiscate two-fifths of the lawyers', or the
bakers', or the ironmoulders', just earnings," said they, "and see
what will happen!"

When such a bill as this comes to the floor for the third time the
fight is already over, oratory is futile; and Cicero could not budge a
vote. The railroads were forced to fight as best they could; this was
the old way that they have learned is most effective in such a
case. Votes could not be had to "oblige a friend" on the "Breaker"
bill; nor could they be procured by arguments to prove the bill
unjust. In brief: the railroad lobby had no need to buy Republican
votes (with the exception of the one or two who charged out of habit
whenever legislation concerned corporations), for the Republicans were
against the bill, but they did mortally need to buy two Democratic
votes, and were willing to pay handsomely for them. Nevertheless,
Mr. Pixley's price was not exorbitant, considering the situation; nor
need he have congratulated himself so heartily as he did (in moments
of retirement from public life) upon his prospective $2,000 (when the
goods should be delivered) since his vote was assisting the railroads
to save many million dollars a year.

Of course the lobby attacked the bill noisily; there were big guns
going all day long; but those in charge knew perfectly well that the
noise accomplished nothing in itself. It was used to cover the
whispering. Still, Hurlbut held his line firm and the bill passed its
second reading with fifty-two votes, Mr. Pixley being directed by his
owners to vote for it on that occasion.

As time went on the lobby began to grow desperate; even Pixley had
been consulted upon his opinion by Barrett, the young lawyer through
whom negotiations in his case had been conducted. Pixley suggested
the name of Rollinson and Barrett dismissed this counsel with as much
disgust for Pixley's stupidity as he had for the man's person. (One
likes a _dog_ when he buys him.)

"But why not?" Pixley had whined as he reached the door. "Uncle Billy
ain't so much! You listen to me. He wouldn't take it out-an'-out--I
don't say as he would. But you needn't work that way. Everybody thinks
it's no use to tackle him--but nobody never _tried_! What's he
_done_ to make you scared of him? _Nothing_! Jest set there
and _looked_!"

After he had gone the fellow's words came back to Barrett: "Nobody
never tried!" And then, to satisfy his conscience that he was leaving
no stone unturned, yet laughing at the uselessness of it, he wrote a
letter to a confidant of his, formerly a colleague in the lobby, who
lived in the county-seat near which Uncle Billy's mortgaged acres
lay. The answer came the night after the second vote on the "Breaker."

"Dear Barrett:

"I agree with your grafter. I don't believe Rollinson would be hard to
approach if it were done with tact--of course you don't want to tackle
him the way you would a swine like Pixley. A good many people around
here always thought the old man simple-minded. He was given the
nomination almost in joke--nobody else wanted it, because they all
thought the Republicans had a sure thing of it; but Rollinson slid in
on the general Democratic landslide in this district. He's got one
son, a worthless pup, Henry, a sort of yokel Don Juan, always half
drunk when his father has any money to give him, and just smart enough
to keep the old man mesmerized. Lately Henry's been in a mighty
serious peck of trouble. Last fall he got married to a girl here in
town. Three weeks ago a family named Johnson, the most shiftless in
the county, the real low-down white trash sort, living on a truck
patch out Rollinson's way, heard that Henry was on a toot in town,
spending money freely, and they went after him. A client of mine rents
their ground to them and told me all about it. It seems they claim
that one of the daughters in the Johnson family was Henry's common-law
wife before he married the other girl, and it's more than likely they
can prove it. They are hollering for $600, and if Henry doesn't raise
it mighty quick they swear they'll get him sent over the road for
bigamy. I think the old man would sell his soul to keep his boy out of
the penitentiary and he's at his wits' ends; he hasn't anything to
raise the money on and he's up against it. He'll do any thing on earth
for Henry. Hope this'll be of some service to you, and if there's
anything more I can do about it you better call me up on the long
distance.

"Yours faithfully,

"J. P. WATSON.

"P.S.--You might mention to our old boss that I don't want anything if
services are needed; but a pass for self and family to New York and
return would come in handy."

Barrett telegraphed an answer at once: "If it goes you can have annual
for yourself and family. Will call you up at two sharp to-morrow."

* * * * *

It was late the following night when the lobbyist concluded his
interview with Representative Rollinson, in the latter's little room,
half lighted by the oil-smelling lamp.

"I knew you would understand, Mr. Rollinson," said Barrett as he rose
to go. His eyes danced and his jaws set with the thought that had been
jubilant within him for the last half-hour: "We've got 'em! We've got
'em! We've got 'em!" The railroads had defended their own again.

"Of course," he went on, "we wouldn't have dreamed of coming to you
and asking you to vote against this outrageous bill if we thought for
a minute that you had any real belief in it or considered it a good
bill. But you say, yourself, your only feeling about it was to oblige
Mr. Hurlbut, and you admit, too, that you've voted his way on every
other bill of the session. Surely, as I've already said so many times,
you don't think he'd be so unreasonable as to be angry with you for
differing with him on the merits of only one! No, no, Hurlbut's a very
sensible fellow about such matters. You don't need to worry about
_that_! After all I've said, surely you won't give it another
thought, will you?"

Uncle Billy sat in the shadow, bent far over, slowly twisting his
thin, corded hands, the fingers tightly interlocked. It was a long
time before he spoke, and his interlocutor had to urge him again
before he answered, in his gentle, quavering voice.

"No, I reckon not, if you say so."

"Certainly not," said Barrett briskly. "Why of course, we'd never have
thought of making you a money offer to vote either for or against your
principles. Not much! We don't do business that way! We simply want to
do something for you. We've wanted to, all during the session, but the
opportunity hadn't offered until I happened to hear your son was in
trouble."

Out of the shadow came a long, tremulous sigh. There was a moment's
pause; then Uncle Billy's head sank slowly lower and rested on his
hands.

"You see," the other continued cheerfully, "we make no conditions,
none in the world. We feel friendly to you and want to oblige you, but
of course we do think you ought to show a little good-will towards
_us_. I believe it's all understood: to-morrow night Mr. Watson
will drive out in his buggy to this Johnson place, and he's empowered
by us to settle the whole business and obtain a written statement from
the family that they have no claim on your son. How he will settle it
is neither your affair nor mine; nor whether it costs money or
not. But he _will_ settle it. We do that out of good-will to you,
as long as we feel as friendly to you as we do now, and all we ask is
that you show your good-will to us."

It was plain, even to Uncle Billy, that if he voted against
Mr. Barrett's friends in the afternoon those friends might not feel so
much good-will toward him in the evening as they did now: and
Mr. Watson might not go to the trouble of hitching up his buggy to
drive out to the Johnsons'.

"You see, it's all out of friendship," said Barrett, his hand on the
door knob. "And we can count on your's to-morrow, can't
we--absolutely?"

The grey head sank a little lower, and then after a moment the
quavering voice answered:

"Yes, sir--I'll be friendly."

Before morning, Hurlbut lost another vote. One of his best men left
on a night train for the bedside of his dying wife. This meant that
the "Breaker" needed every one of the fifty-one remaining Democratic
votes in order to pass. Hurlbut more than distrusted Pixley, yet he
felt sure of the other fifty, and if, upon the reading of the bill,
Pixley proved false, the bill would not be lost, since there would be
a majority of votes in its favour, though not the constitutional
majority of fifty-one required for its passage, and it could be
brought up again and carried when the absent man returned. Thus, on
the chance that Pixley had withstood tampering, Hurlbut made no effort
to prevent the bill from coming to the floor in its regular order in
the afternoon, feeling that it could not possibly be killed by a
majority against it, for he trusted his fifty, now, as strongly as he
distrusted Pixley.

And so the roll-call on the "Breaker" began, rather quietly, though
there was no man's face in the hall that was not set to show the
tensity of high-strung nerves. The great crowd that had gathered and
choked the galleries and the floor beyond the bar, and the Senators
who had left their own chamber to watch the bill in the House, all
began to feel disappointed; for nothing happened until Pixley's name
was called.

Pixley voted "No!"

Uncle Billy, sitting far down in his leather chair on the small of his
back, heard the outburst of shouting that followed; but he could not
see Pixley, for the traitor was instantly surrounded by a ring of men,
and all that was visible from where he sat was their backs and
upraised, gesticulating hands. Uncle Billy began to tremble violently;
he had not calculated on this; but surely such things would not happen
to _him_!

The Speaker's gavel clicked through the uproar and the roll-call
proceeded.

The clerk reached the name of Rollinson. Uncle Billy swallowed, threw
a pale look about him and wrapped his damp hands in the skirts of his
shiny old coat, as if to warm them. For a moment he could not
answer. People turned to look at him.

"Rollinson!" shouted the clerk again.

"No," said Uncle Billy.

Immediately he saw above him and all about him a blur of men's faces
and figures risen to their feet, he heard a hundred voices say
breathlessly: "_What_!" and one that said: "My God, that kills
the bill!"

Then a horrible and incredible storm burst upon him, and he who had
sat all the session shrinking unnoticed in his quiet, back seat,
unnerved when a colleague asked the simplest question, found himself
the centre and point of attack in the wildest mêlée that legislature
ever saw. A dozen men, red, frantic, with upraised arms, came at him,
Hurlbut the first of them. But the lobby was there, too; for it was
not part of its calculations that the old man should be frightened
into changing his vote.

There need have been no fear of that. Uncle Billy was beyond the power
of speech. The lobby's agents swarmed on the floor, and, with
half-a-dozen hysterically laughing Republicans, met the onset of
Hurlbut and his men. It became a riot immediately. Sane men were swept
up in it to be as mad as the rest, while the galleries screamed and
shouted. All round the old man the fury was greatest; his head sank
over his desk and rested on his hands as it had the night before; for
he dared not lift it to see the avalanche he had loosed upon
himself. He would have liked to stop his ears to shut out the
egregious clamour of cursing and yelling that beset him, as his bent
head kept the glazed eyes from seeing the impossible vision of the
attack that strove to reach him. He remembered awful dreams that were
like this; and now, as then, he shuddered in a cold sweat, being as
one who would draw the covers over his head to shelter him from
horrors in great darkness. As Uncle Billy felt, so might a naked soul
feel at the judgment day, tossed alone into the pit with all the
myriads of eyes in the universe fastened on its sins.

He was pressed and jostled by his defenders; once a man's shoulders
were bent back down over his own and he was crushed against the desk
until his ribs ached; voices thundered and wailed at him, threatening,
imploring, cursing, cajoling, raving.

Smaller groups were struggling and shouting in every part of the room,
the distracted sergeants-at-arms roaring and wrestling with the
rest. On the high dais the Speaker, white but imperturbable, having
broken his gavel, beat steadily with the handle of an umbrella upon
the square of marble on his desk. Fifteen or twenty members, raging
dementedly, were beneath him, about the clerk's desk and on the steps
leading up to his chair, each howling hoarsely:

"A point of _order_! A point of _or-der_!"

When the semblance of order came at last, the roll was finished,
"reconsidered," the "Breaker" was beaten, 50 to 49, was dead; and
Uncle Billy Rollinson was creeping down the outer steps of the
Statehouse in the cold February slush and rain.

He was glad to be out of the nightmare, though it seemed still upon
him, the horrible clamours, all gonging and blaring at _him_; the
red, maddened faces, the clenched fists, the open mouths, all raging
at _him_--all the ruck and uproar swam about the dazed old man as
he made his slow, unseeing way through the wet streets.

He was too late for dinner at his dingy boarding house, having
wandered far, and he found himself in his room without knowing very
well how he had come there, indeed, scarcely more than half-conscious
that he _was_ there. He sat, for a long time, in the dark. After
a while he mechanically lit the lamp, sat again to stare at it, then,
finding his eyes watering, he turned from it with an incoherent
whimper, as if it had been a person from whom he would conceal the
fact that he was weeping. He leaned his arm, against the window sill
and dried his eyes on the shiny sleeve.

An hour later, there came a hard, imperative knock on the door. Uncle
Billy raised his head and said gently:

"Come in."

He rose to his feet uncertain, aghast, when he saw who his visitor
was. It was Hurlbut.

The young man confronted him darkly, for a moment, in silence. He was
dripping with rain; his hat, unremoved, shaded lank black locks over a
white face; his nostrils were wide with wrath; the "dry cigar" wagged
between gritting teeth.

"Will ye take a chair?" faltered Uncle Billy.

The room rang to the loud answer of the other: "I'd see you in Hell
before I'd sit in a chair of yours!"

He raised an arm, straight as a rod, to point at the old
man. "Rollinson," he said, "I've come here to tell you what I think of
you! I've never done that in my life before, because I never thought
any man worth it. I do it because I need the luxury of it--because I'm
sick of myself not to have had gumption enough to see what you were
all the time and have you watched!"

Uncle Billy was stung to a moment's life. "Look here," he quavered,
"you hadn't ought to talk that way to me. There ain't a cent of money
passed my fingers--"

Hurlbut's bitter laugh cut him short. "_No?_ Don't you suppose
_I know_ how it was done? Do you suppose there's a man in the
whole Assembly doesn't know how you were sold? I had it by the long
distance an hour ago, from your own home. Do you suppose _we_
have no friends there, or that it was hard to find out about the whole
dirty business? Your son's not going to stand trial for bigamy; that
was the price you charged for killing the bill. You and Pixley are the
only men whom they could buy with all their millions! Oh, I know a
dozen men who could be bought on other issues, but not on _this_!
You and Pixley stand alone. Well, you've broken the caucus and you've
betrayed the Democratic party. I've come to tell you that the party
doesn't want you any more. You are out of it, do you hear? We don't
want even to use you!"

The old man had sunk back into his chair, stricken white, his hands
fluttering helplessly. "I didn't go to hurt your feelings,
Mr. Hurlbut," he said. "I never knowed how it would be, but I don't
think you ought to say I done anything dishonest. I just felt kind of
friendly to the railroads--"

The leader's laugh cut him off again. "Friendly! Yes, that's what you
were! Well, you can go back to your friends; you'll need them!--Mother
in Heaven! How you fooled us! We thought you were the straightest man
and the staunchest Democrat--"

"I b'en a Democrat all my life, Mr. Hurlbut. I voted fer--"

"Well, you're a Democrat no longer. You're done for, do you
understand? And we're done with you!"

"You mean," the old man's voice shook almost beyond control; "you mean
you're tryin' to read me out of the party?"

"Trying to!" Hurlbut turned to the door. "You're out! It's done. You
can thank God that your 'friends' did their work so well that we can't
prove what we know. On my soul, you dog, if we could I believe some of
the boys would send you over the road."

An hour after he had gone, Uncle Billy roused himself from his stupor,
and the astonished landlady heard his shuffling step on the stair. She
followed him softly and curiously to the front door, and watched
him. He was bare-headed but had not far to go. The night-flare of the
cheap, all-night saloon across the sodden street silhouetted the
stooping figure for a moment and then the swinging doors shut the old
man from her view. She returned to her parlour and sat waiting for his
return until she fell asleep in her chair. She awoke at two o'clock,
went to his room, and was aghast to find it still vacant.

"The Lord have mercy on us all!" she cried aloud. "To think that old
rascal'd go out on a spree! He'd better of stayed in the country where
he belonged."

It was the next morning that the House received a shock which loosed
another riot, but one of a kind different from that which greeted
Representative Rollinson's vote on the "Breaker." The reading-clerk
had sung his way through an inconsequent bill; most of the members
were buried in newspapers, gossiping, idling, or smoking in the
lobbies, when a loud, cracked voice was heard shrilly demanding
recognition.

"Mr. Speaker!" Every one turned with a start. There was Uncle Billy,
on his feet, violently waving his hands at the Speaker. "Mr. Speaker,
Mr. Speaker, Mr. Speaker!" His dress was disordered and muddy; his
eyes shone with a fierce, absurd, liquorish light; and with each
syllable that he uttered his beard wagged to an unspeakable effect of
comedy. He offered the most grotesque spectacle ever seen in that
hall--a notable distinction.

For a moment the House sat in paralytic astonishment. Then came an
awed whisper from a Republican: "Has the old fool really found his
voice?"

"No, he's drunk," said a neighbour. "I guess he can afford it, after
his vote yesterday!"

"Mister Speaker! _Mister_ Speaker!"

The cracked voice startled the lobbies. The hangers-on, the
typewriters, the janitors, the smoking members came pouring into the
chamber and stood, transfixed and open-mouthed.

"_Mister Speaker_!"

Then the place rocked with the gust of laughter and ironical cheering
that swept over the Assembly, Members climbed upon their chairs and on
desks, waving handkerchiefs, sheets of foolscap, and waste-baskets.
"Hear 'im! _He-ear_ 'im!" rang the derisive cry.

The Speaker yielded in the same spirit and said:

"The Gentleman from Wixinockee."

A semi-quiet followed and the cracked voice rose defiantly:

"That's who I am! I'm the Gentleman from Wixinockee an' I stan' here
to defen' the principles of the Democratic party!"

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