Elder Conklin and Other Stories by Frank Harris

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"That's right," said Crocker, approvingly; "that's right, Jedge, we all
like that, but 'tain't square, and this camp means to hev it square. You
bet!" And, in the difficult circumstances, he looked round for the
approval which was manifest on every one of the serious faces. Again he
began: "I guess, Jedge, you'd better take my plan, 'twould be surer. No!
Wall, suppose I take two six-shooters, one loaded, the other empty, and
put them under a _capote_ on the table in the next room. You could
both go in and draw for weapons; that'd be square, I reckon?" and he
waited for the Judge's reply.

"Yes," replied Rablay, "that'd be fair. I agree to that."

"Hell!" exclaimed Hitchcock, "I don't. If he wants to fight, I'm here;
but I ain't goin' to take a hand in no sich derned game--with the cards
stocked agen me."

"Ain't you?" retorted Crocker, facing him, and beginning slowly. "I
reckon _you'll_ play any game we say. _See_! any damned game
_we_ like. D'ye understand?"

As no response was forthcoming to this defiance, he went into the other
room to arrange the preliminaries of the duel. A few moments passed in
silence, and then he came back through the lane of men to the two
combatants.

"Jedge," he began, "the six-shooters are there, all ready. Would you
like to hev first draw, or throw for it with him?" contemptuously
indicating Hitchcock with a movement of his head as he concluded.

"Let us throw," replied Rablay, quietly.

In silence the three dice and the box were placed by Doolan on the bar.
In response to Crocker's gesture the Judge took up the box and rolled
out two fives and a three--thirteen. Every one felt that he had lost the
draw, but his face did not change any more than that of his adversary.
In silence Hitchcock replaced the dice in the box and threw a three, a
four, and a two--nine; he put down the box emphatically.

"Wall," Crocker decided impassively, "I guess that gives you the draw,
Jedge; we throw fer high in Garotte--sometimes," he went on, turning as
if to explain to Hitchcock, but with insult in his voice, and then,
"After you, Jedge!"

Rablay passed through the crowd into the next room. There, on a table,
was a small heap covered with a cloak. Silently the men pressed round,
leaving Crocker between the two adversaries in the full light of the
swinging lamp.

"Now, Jedge," said Crocker, with a motion towards the table.

"No!" returned the Judge, with white, fixed face, "he won; let him draw
first. I only want a square deal."

A low hum of surprise went round the room. Garotte was more than
satisfied with its champion. Crocker looked at Hitchcock, and said:

"It's your draw, then." The words were careless, but the tone and face
spoke clearly enough.

A quick glance round the room and Hitchcock saw that he was trapped.
These men would show him no mercy. At once the wild beast in him
appeared. He stepped to the table, put his hand under the cloak, drew
out a revolver, dropped it, pointing towards Rablay's face, and pulled
the trigger. A sharp click. That revolver, at any rate, was unloaded.
Quick as thought Crocker stepped between Hitchcock and the table. Then
he said:

"It's your turn now, Jedge!"

As he spoke a sound, half of relief and half of content came from the
throats of the onlookers. The Judge did not move. He had not quivered
when the revolver was levelled within a foot of his head; he did not
appear to have seen it. With set eyes and pale face, and the jagged
wound on his forehead whence the blood still trickled, he had waited,
and now he did not seem to hear. Again Crocker spoke:

"Come, Jedge, it's your turn."

The sharp, loud words seemed to break the spell which had paralyzed the
man. He moved to the table, and slowly drew the revolver from under the
cloak. His hesitation was too much for the crowd.

"Throw it through him, Jedge! Now's your chance. Wade in, Jedge!"

The desperate ferocity of the curt phrases seemed to move him. He raised
the revolver. Then came in tones of triumph:

"I'll bet high on the Jedge!"

He dropped the revolver on the floor, and fled from the room.

The first feeling of the crowd of men was utter astonishment, but in a
moment or two this gave place to half-contemptuous sympathy. What
expression this sentiment would have found it is impossible to say, for
just then Bill Hitchcock observed with a sneer:

"As he's run, I may as well walk;" and he stepped towards the bar-room.

Instantly Crocker threw himself in front of him with his face on fire.

"Walk--will ye?" he burst out, the long-repressed rage flaming up--
"walk! when you've jumped the best man in Garotte--walk! No, by God,
you'll crawl, d'ye hear? crawl--right out of this camp, right now!" and
he dropped his revolver on Hitchcock's breast.

Then came a wild chorus of shouts.

"That's right! That's the talk! Crawl, will ye! Down on yer hands and
knees. Crawl, damn ye! Crawl!" and a score of revolvers covered the
stranger.

For a moment he stood defiant, looking his assailants in the eyes. His
face seemed to have grown thinner, and his moustache twitched with the
snarling movement of a brute at bay. Then he was tripped up and thrown
forwards amid a storm of, "Crawl, damn ye--crawl!" And so Hitchcock
crawled, on hands and knees, out of Doolan's.

Lawyer Rablay, too, was never afterwards seen in Garotte. Men said his
nerves had "give out."

JULY, 1892.

* * * * *

GULMORE, THE BOSS

The habits of the Gulmore household were in some respects primitive.
Though it was not yet seven o'clock two negro girls were clearing away
the breakfast things under the minute supervision of their mistress, an
angular, sharp-faced woman with a reedy voice, and nervously abrupt
movements. Near the table sat a girl of nineteen absorbed in a book. In
an easy-chair by the open bay-window a man with a cigar in his mouth was
reading a newspaper. Jonathan Byrne Gulmore, as he always signed
himself, was about fifty years of age; his heavy frame was muscular, and
the coarse dark hair and swarthy skin showed vigorous health. There was
both obstinacy and combativeness in his face with its cocked nose, low
irregular forehead, thick eyebrows, and square jaw, but the deep-set
grey eyes gleamed at times with humorous comprehension, and the usual
expression of the countenance was far from ill-natured. As he laid the
paper on his knees and looked up, he drew the eye. His size and strength
seemed to be the physical equivalents of an extraordinary power of
character and will. When Mrs. Gulmore followed the servants out of the
room the girl rose from her chair and went towards the door. She was
stopped by her father's voice:

"Ida, I want a talk with you. You'll be able to go to your books
afterwards; I won't keep you long." She sat down again and laid her book
on the table, while Mr. Gulmore continued:

"The election's next Monday week, and I've no time to lose." A moment's
silence, and he let his question fall casually:

"You know this--Professor Roberts--don't you? He was at the University
when you were there--eh?" The girl flushed slightly as she assented.

"They say he's smart, an' he ken talk. I heard him the other night; but
I'd like to know what you think. Your judgment's generally worth
havin'."

Forced to reply without time for reflection, Miss Gulmore said as little
as possible with a great show of frankness:

"Oh, yes; he's smart, and knows Greek and Latin and German, and a great
many things. The senior students used to say he knew more than all the
other professors put together, and he--he thinks so too, I imagine," and
she laughed intentionally, for, on hearing her own strained laughter,
she blushed, and then stood up out of a nervous desire to conceal her
embarrassment. But her father was looking away from her at the glowing
end of his cigar; and, as she resumed her seat, he went on:

"I'm glad you seem to take no stock in him, Ida, for he's makin' himself
unpleasant. I'll have to give him a lesson, I reckon, not in Greek or
Latin or them things--I never had nothin' taught me beyond the 'Fourth
Reader,' in old Vermont, and I've forgotten some of what I learned then
--but in election work an' business I guess I ken give Professor Roberts
points, fifty in a hundred, every time. Did you know he's always around
with Lawyer Hutchin's?"

"Is he? That's because of May--May Hutchings. Oh, she deserves him;" the
girl spoke with sarcastic bitterness, "she gave herself trouble enough
to get him. It was just sickening the way she acted, blushing every time
he spoke to her, and looking up at him as if he were everything. Some
people have no pride in them."

Her father listened impassively, and, after a pause, began his
explanation:

"Wall, Ida, anyway he means to help Hutchin's in this city election.
'Tain't the first time Hutchin's has run for mayor on the Democratic
ticket and come out at the little end of the horn, and I propose to whip
him again. But this Professor's runnin' him on a new track, and I want
some points about _him_. It's like this. At the Democratic meetin'
the other night, the Professor spoke, and spoke well. What he said was
popcorn; but it took with the Mugwumps--them that think themselves too
highfalutin' to work with either party, jest as if organization was no
good, an' a mob was as strong as an army. Wall, he talked for an hour
about purity an' patriotism, and when he had warmed 'em up he went bald-
headed for me. He told 'em--you ken read it all in the 'Tribune'--that
this town was run by a ring, an' not run honestly; contracts were given
only to members of the Republican party; all appointments were made by
the ring, and never accordin' to ability--as if sich a ring could last
ten years. He ended up by saying, though he was a Republican, as his
father is, he intended to vote Democratic--he's domiciled here--as a
protest against the impure and corrupt Boss-system which was disgracin'
American political life. 'Twas baby talk. But it's like this. The
buildin' of the branch line South has brought a lot of Irish here--
they're all Democrats--and there's quite a number of Mugwumps, an' if
this Professor goes about workin' them all up--what with the flannel-
mouths and the rest--it might be a close finish. I'm sure to win, but if
I could get some information about him, it would help me. His father's
all right. We've got him down to a fine point. Prentiss, the man I made
editor of the 'Herald,' knows him well; ken tell us why he left
Kaintucky to come West. But I want to know somethin' about the
Professor, jest to teach him to mind his own business, and leave other
folk to attend to theirs. Ken you help me? Is he popular with the
students and professors?"

She thought intently, while the colour rose in her cheeks; she was eager
to help.

"With the students, yes. There's nothing to be done there. The
professors--I don't think they like him much; he is too clever. When he
came into the class-room and talked Latin to Johnson, the Professor of
Latin, and Johnson could only stammer out a word or two, I guess he
didn't make a friend;" and the girl laughed at the recollection.

"I don't know anything else that could be brought against him. They say
he is an Atheist. Would that be any use? He gave a lecture on 'Culture
as a Creed' about three months ago which made some folk mad. The other
professors are Christians, and, of course, all the preachers took it up.
He compared Buddha with Christ, and said--oh, I remember!--that
Shakespeare was the Old Testament of the English-speaking peoples. That
caused some talk; they all believe in the Bible. He said, too, that
'Shakespeare was inspired in a far higher sense than St. Paul, who was
thin and hard, a logic-loving bigot.' And President Campbell--he's a
Presbyterian--preached the Sunday afterwards upon St. Paul as the great
missionary of Protestantism. I don't think the professors like him, but
I don't know that they can do anything, for all the students, the senior
ones, at least, are with him," and the girl paused, and tried to find
out from her father's face whether what she had said was likely to be of
service.

"Wall! I don't go much on them things myself, but I guess somethin' ken
be done. I'll see Prentiss about it: send him to interview this
President Campbell, and wake him up to a sense of his duty. This is a
Christian country, I reckon," the grey eyes twinkled, "and those who
teach the young should teach them Christian principles, or else--get
out. I guess it ken be worked. The University's a State institution. You
don't mind if he's fired out, do you?" And the searching eyes probed her
with a glance.

"Oh! I don't mind," she said quickly, in a would-be careless tone,
rising and going towards him, "it has nothing to do with me. He belongs
to May Hutchings--let her help him, if she can. I think you're quite
right to give him a lesson--he needs one badly. What right has he to
come and attack you?" She had passed to her father's side, and was
leaning against his shoulder. Those grey eyes saw more than she cared to
reveal; they made her uncomfortable.

"Then I understand it's like this. You want him to get a real lesson? Is
that it? You ken talk straight to me, Ida. I'm with you every time. You
know that."

The feminine instinct of concealment worked in her, but she knew this
father of hers would have plain speech, and some hidden feeling forced
her violent temper to an outburst of curiously mingled hatred of the
Professor and exultation in her power of injuring him.

"Why, father, it's all the same to me. I've no interest in it, except to
help you. You know I never said a word against him till you asked me.
But he has no business to come down and attack _you_," and the
voice grew shrill. "It's shameful of him. If he were a man he'd never do
it. Yes--give him a _real_ lesson; teach him that those he despises
are stronger than he is. Let him lose his place and be thrown out of
work, then we'll see if May Hutchings," and she laughed, "will go and
help him. We'll see who is--"

Her father interrupted her in the middle of a tirade which would have
been complete self-revelation; but it is not to be presumed that he did
this out of a delicate regard for his daughter's feelings. He had got
the information he required.

"That's all right, Ida. I guess he'll get the lesson. You ken count on
me. You've put me on the right track, I believe. I knew if any one could
help me, you'd be able to. Nobody knows what's in you better'n I do.
You're smarter'n any one I know, and I know a few who think they're real
smart--"

In this vein he continued soothing his daughter's pride, and yet
speaking in an even, impersonal tone, as if merely stating facts.

"Now I've got to go. Prentiss'll be waiting for me at the office."

While driving to the office, Mr. Gulmore's thoughts, at first, were with
his daughter. "I don't know why, but I suspicioned that. That's why she
left the University before graduatin', an' talked of goin' East, and
makin' a name for herself on the stage. That Professor's foolish. Ida's
smart and pretty, and she'll have a heap of money some day. The ring has
a few contracts on hand still--he's a fool. How she talked: she
remembered all that lecture--every word; but she's young yet. She'd have
given herself away if I hadn't stopped her. I don't like any one to do
that; it's weak. But she means business every time, just as I do; she
means him to be fired right out, and then she'd probably go and cry over
him, and want me to put him back again. But no. I guess not. That's not
the way I work. I'd be willin' for him to stay away, and leave me alone,
but as she wants him punished, he shall be, and she mustn't interfere at
the end. It'll do her good to find out that things can't both be done
and undone, if she's that sort. But p'r'aps she won't want to undo them.
When their pride's hurt women are mighty hard--harder than men by
far.... I wonder how long it'll take to get this Campbell to move. I
must start right in; I hain't got much time."

As soon as her father left her, Miss Ida hurried to her own room, in
order to recover from her agitation, and to remove all traces of it. She
was an only child, and had accordingly a sense of her own importance,
which happened to be uncorrected by physical deficiencies. Not that she
was astonishingly beautiful, but she was tall and just good-looking
enough to allow her to consider herself a beauty. Her chief attraction
was her form, which, if somewhat flat-chested, had a feline flexibility
rarer and more seductive than she imagined. She was content to believe
that nature had fashioned her to play the part in life which, she knew,
was hers of right. Her name, even, was most appropriate--dignified. Ida
should be queen-like, stately; the oval of her face should be long, and
not round, and her complexion should be pallid; colour in the cheeks
made one look common. Her dark hair, too, pleased her; everything, in
fact, save her eyes; they were of a nameless, agate-like hue, and she
would have preferred them to be violet. That would have given her face
the charm of unexpectedness, which she acknowledged was in itself a
distinction. And Miss Ida loved everything that conduced to distinction,
everything that flattered her pride with a sense of her own superiority.
It seemed as if her mother's narrowness of nature had confined and shot,
so to speak, all the passions and powers of the father into this one
characteristic of the daughter. That her father had risen to influence
and riches by his own ability did not satisfy her. She had always felt
that the Hutchingses and the society to which they belonged, persons who
had been well educated for generations, and who had always been more or
less well off, formed a higher class. It was the longing to become one
of them that had impelled her to study with might and main. Even in her
school-days she had recognized that this was the road to social
eminence. The struggle had been arduous. In the Puritan surroundings of
middle-class life her want of religious training and belief had almost
made a pariah of the proud, high-tempered girl, and when as a clever
student of the University and a daughter of one of the richest and most
powerful men in the State, she came into a circle that cared as little
about Christian dogmas as she did, she attributed the comparative
coolness with which her companions treated her, to her father's want of
education, rather than to the true cause, her own domineering temper. As
she had hated her childish playmates, who, instructed by their mothers,
held aloof from the infidel, so she had grown to detest the associates
of her girlhood, whose parents seemed, by virtue of manners and
education, superior to hers. The aversion was acrid with envy, and had
fastened from the beginning on her competitor as a student and her rival
in beauty, Miss May Hutchings. Her animosity was intensified by the fact
that, when they entered the Sophomore class together, Miss May had made
her acquaintance, had tried to become friends with her, and then, for
some inscrutable reason, had drawn coldly away. By dint of working twice
as hard as May, Ida had managed to outstrip her, and to begin the Junior
year as the first of the class; but all the while she was conscious that
her success was due to labour, and not to a larger intelligence. And
with the coming of the new professor of Greek, this superiority, her one
consolation, was called in question.

Professor Roberts had brought about a revolution in the University. He
was young and passionately devoted to his work; had won his Doctor's
degree at Berlin _summa cum laude_, and his pupils soon felt that
he represented a standard of knowledge higher than they had hitherto
imagined as attainable, and yet one which, he insisted, was common in
the older civilization of Europe. It was this nettling comparison,
enforced by his mastery of difficulties, which first aroused the ardour
of his scholars. In less than a year they passed from the level of
youths in a high school to that of University students. On the best
heads his influence was magical. His learning and enthusiasm quickened
their reverence for scholarship, but it was his critical faculty which
opened to them the world of art, and nerved them to emulation.

"Until one realizes the shortcomings of a master," he said in a lecture,
"it is impossible to understand him or to take the beauty of his works
to heart. When Sophocles repeats himself--the Electra is but a feeble
study for the Antigone, or possibly a feeble copy of it--we get near the
man; the limitations of his outlook are characteristic: when he deforms
his Ajax with a tag of political partisanship, his servitude to
surroundings defines his conscience as an artist; and when painting by
contrasts he poses the weak Ismene and Chrysothemis as foils to their
heroic sisters, we see that his dramatic power in the essential was
rudimentary. Yet Mr. Matthew Arnold, a living English poet, writes that
Sophocles 'saw life steadily and saw it whole.' This is true of no man,
not of Shakespeare nor of Goethe, much less of Sophocles or Racine. The
phrase itself is as offensively out of date as the First Commandment."
The bold, incisive criticism had a singular fascination for his hearers,
who were too young to remark in it the crudeness that usually attaches
to originality.

Miss Hutchings was the first of the senior students to yield herself to
the new influence. In the beginning Miss Gulmore was not attracted by
Professor Roberts; she thought him insignificant physically; he was neat
of dress too, and ingenuously eager in manner--all of which conflicted
with her ideal of manhood. It was but slowly that she awoke to a
consciousness of his merits, and her awakening was due perhaps as much
to jealousy of May Hutchings as to the conviction that with Professor
Roberts for a husband she would realize her social ambitions. Suddenly
she became aware that May was passing her in knowledge of Greek, and was
thus winning the notice of the man she had begun to look upon as worthy
of her own choice. Ida at once addressed herself to the struggle with
all the energy of her nature, but at first without success. It was
evident that May was working as she had never worked before, for as the
weeks flew by she seemed to increase her advantage. During this period
Ida Gulmore's pride suffered tortures; day by day she understood more
clearly that the prize of her life was slipping out of reach. In mind
and soul now she realized Roberts' daring and charm. With the
intensified perceptions of a jealous woman, she sometimes feared that he
sympathized with her rival. But he had not spoken yet; of that she was
sure, and her conceit enabled her to hope desperately. A moment arrived
when her hatred of May was sweetened by contempt. For some reason or
other May was neglecting her work; when spoken to by the Professor her
colour came and went, and a shyness, visible to all, wrapped her in
confusion. Ida felt that there was no time to be lost, and increased her
exertions. As she thought of her position she determined first to
surpass her competitor, and then in some way or other to bring the
Professor to speech. But, alas! for her plans. One morning she
demonstrated her superiority with cruel clearness, only to find that
Roberts, self-absorbed, did not notice her. He seemed to have lost the
vivid interest in the work which aforetime had characterized him, and
the happiness of the man was only less tell-tale than the pretty
contentment and demure approval of all he said which May scarcely tried
to conceal. Wild with fear, blinded by temper, Ida resolved to know the
truth.

One morning when the others left the room she waited, busying herself
apparently with some notes, till the Professor returned, as she knew he
would, in time to receive the next class. While gathering up her books,
she asked abruptly:

"I suppose I should congratulate you, Professor?"

"I don't think I understand you."

"Yes, you do. Why lie? You are engaged to May Hutchings," and the girl
looked at him with flaming eyes.

"I don't know why you should ask me, or why I should answer, but we have
no motive for concealment--yes, I am."

His words were decisive; his reverence for May and her affection had
been wounded by the insolent challenge, but before he finished speaking
his manner became considerate. He was quick to feel the pain of others
and shrank from adding to it--these, indeed, were the two chief articles
of the unformulated creed which directed his actions. His optimism was
of youth and superficial, but the sense of the brotherhood of human
suffering touched his heart in a way that made compassion and tenderness
appear to him to be the highest and simplest of duties. It was Ida's
temper that answered his avowal. Still staring at him she burst into
loud laughter, and as he turned away her tuneless mirth grew shriller
and shriller till it became hysterical. A frightened effort to regain
her self-control, and her voice broke in something like a sob, while
tears trembled on her lashes. The Professor's head was bent over his
desk and he saw nothing. Ida dashed the tears from her eyes
ostentatiously, and walked with shaking limbs out of the room. She would
have liked to laugh again scornfully before closing the door, but she
dared not trust her nerves. From that moment she tried to hate Professor
Roberts as she hated May Hutchings, for her disappointment had been very
sore, and the hurt to her pride smarted like a burn. On returning home,
she told her father that she had taken her name off the books of the
University; she meant to be an actress, and a degree could be of no use
to her in her new career. Her father did not oppose her openly; he was
content to postpone any decisive step, and in a few days she seemed to
have abandoned her project. But time brought no mitigation of her spite.
She was tenacious by nature, and her jealous rage came back upon her in
wild fits. To be outdone by May Hutchings was intolerable. Besides, the
rivalry and triumphs of the class-room had been as the salt of life to
her; now she had nothing to do, nothing to occupy her affections or give
object to her feverish ambition. And the void of her life she laid to
the charge of Roberts. So when the time came and the temptation, she
struck as those strike who are tortured by pain.

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