Read Ebook: Oliver October by McCutcheon George Barr

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Ebook has 987 lines and 37337 words, and 20 pages

och would run behind the rest of the ticket, to be sure, but he would "squeeze through" safely, and that was all that was necessary.

The report that young Oliver Baxter, of Rumley, was being urged to make the race against his uncle caused no uneasiness among the bosses. It was not until after the young man was nominated and actually in the field, that misgivings beset the bosses. Young Baxter was popular in the southern section of the county, he was a war hero, and he was an upstanding figure in a community where the voters were as likely as not to "jump the traces." And when the emboldened Republican press of the county began to speak of their candidate as a "shark," there was active and acute dismay. They sent for Mr. Gooch and suggested that it wouldn't be a bad idea for him to withdraw from the race--on account of his age, or his health.

"But I'm not an old man," protested Mr. Gooch irascibly, "and I've never been sick a day in my life. I'm sixty-four. You wouldn't call that old, would you?"

No, the chairman wouldn't call that old, but from what he could gather this was destined to be "a young man's year." Young men were in the saddle; you couldn't shake 'em out.

"Do you mean to tell me," began Horace, genuinely amazed, "that you think this young whipper-snapper of a nephew of mine is liable to defeat me?"

"Oh, I guess perhaps we can pull you through," said the chairman, rather unfeelingly.

"My dear sir, we have a safe majority of four thousand votes in this county. Why do you say you 'guess perhaps' you can pull me through? If you are joking, I wish to state to you right here and now that I do not approve of jokes. If you are in earnest, all I can say is that you must be crazy. The people of this county want a sound, solid, able business man to represent them in the legislature. They don't want a young, inexperienced, untried whipper-snapper--"

"Nobody knows what the people want," said the chairman sententiously. "Now, this young Baxter. He's a fine feller. He's got lots of friends. Everybody likes him. He has a clear record. There isn't a thing we can say against him. On the other hand, he can say a lot of nasty things about you, Mr. Gooch. We can't come back at him when he begins stumping the county and talking about tax-sales, foreclosures, ten per cent interest, people having to go to the poorhouse, and all that kind of stuff. What kind of a comeback have we? What are we to--"

"No man can accuse me of being dishonest; no man can question my integrity--"

"Lord bless you, Mr. Gooch, nobody's going to accuse you of being dishonest. All they're going to say about you is that you're a rich man, a skinflint, a tax shark, a gouger, a hypocrite, a wolf in sheep's clothing, a snake in the grass, a Shylock, and a good many other things," said the county chairman, with brutal frankness.

Mr. Gooch was not greatly disturbed by the prospect. He had heard all these terms of opprobrium before; he was used to them. He said something about "water off of a duck's back," and fell to twisting his wiry gray beard with steady, claw-like fingers.

"We can't afford to lose a single seat in the legislature," went on the chairman. "That's why we thought best to put it up to you straight, Mr. Gooch. I'm not saying you'll be licked next November, but you stand a blamed good chance of it, let me tell you, if this young Baxter goes after you without gloves."

"I've just been thinking," said Mr. Gooch, leaning forward in his chair, "suppose I go down to Rumley and have a talk with Oliver."

"What about?" demanded the other, sharply.

"I may be able to reason with him. I understand he has not definitely decided to make the race. I have an idea I can persuade him to decline."

"No chance," said the other, shaking his head. "He's got it in for you, I hear."

Mr. Gooch got up and began pacing the floor. His lean, mean face was set in even harder lines than usual; his mouth was drawn down at the corners, the lower lip protruding like a thin liver-colored cushion into which his shaved upper lip seemed to sink rigidly.

"See here, Smith," he began, halting in front of the "boss," "I may as well come out flat-footed and tell you I've never been satisfied with all these stories and speculations concerning the disappearance of my brother-in-law a year ago."

"You mean this young feller's father?"

"Yes. I married his sister. I don't know as you've heard that young Oliver Baxter and his father were not on very good terms. They quarreled a great deal. This nephew of mine has got murderous instincts. He threw rocks at me once. He's got an ungovernable temper. He--"

"I've heard all that bunk about a gypsy or somebody like that prophesying he'd be hung. It's bunk."

"I agree with you. I took no stock in that gypsy's prophecy at the time, and I never have. But, as I say, I'm not satisfied with things. It's mighty queer that a man like Oliver Baxter could disappear off of the face of the earth and never be heard of again. Most people believe he's alive--hiding somewhere--but I don't believe it for a minute. He's dead. He died that night a year ago when he had his last row with his son. And, what's more to the point, I am here to say I don't believe his son has told all he knows about the--er--the matter."

He waited to see what effect this statement would have on the chairman. Mr. Smith's eyes narrowed.

"Say, what are you trying to get at, Mr. Gooch? Are you thinking of charging that boy with--with having had a hand in--"

"I'm not charging anything," snapped Mr. Gooch. "I'm only saying what I believe, and that is that Oliver is holding something back. If my poor brother-in-law is dead, I want to know it. I'm not saying there was foul play, mind you. But I do say it's possible he might have made way with himself that night, and that Oliver may know when and how he did it."

"Well," said Smith slowly, "that comes pretty near to being a charge, doesn't it, Mr. Gooch?"

"You can call it what you please. All I've got to say is that I'm not satisfied, and I'm going to the bottom of this business if it's possible to do so." He sat down again.

"So that's what you're going to see young Baxter about, is it? You're going to threaten him with an investigation if he doesn't withdraw from the race, eh? Well, what are you going to do if he up and tells you to go to hell?"

Mr. Gooch winced.

"It wouldn't be the first time I've been told to go to hell," he said, with a wintry smile. "However, it is not my intention to threaten my nephew, Mr. Smith. Nothing is farther from my thoughts. I'm simply going to let him understand that I am not satisfied with things as they are. I don't mind telling you that I've already made a few inquiries and--well, there is something peculiar about the whole business, that's all I've got to say. It won't hurt my nephew to know that I'm interested, will it?" he wound up, a sly, crafty twinkle in his eye.

"You take a tip from me, Mr. Gooch," said the chairman, somewhat forcibly. "Let sleeping dogs lie. If you go to making any cracks about this young feller that you can't prove, he'll wipe the earth up with you next November. I've been in politics a long time and I know something about the human race. You are banking on the big Democratic majority we usually have in this county. I want to tell you right here and now that if you start any ugly talk about young Baxter and can't back it up with facts, there won't be a decent Democrat in the county that'll vote for you. And I guess we're far enough south to be able to say that most of us are decent."

Mr. Gooch arose. "You said a while ago that he would stump this county from end to end, calling me everything he can lay his tongue to. Well, all I've got to say to you, Mr. Smith, is that he sha'n't have it all his own way."

"There's just this difference, Mr. Gooch. The voters will believe what he says about you, and they won't believe a blamed word you say about him."

"Good day, Mr. Smith!"

"Good day, Mr. Gooch."

Two days later, Horace Gooch stopped his ancient automobile in front of the Baxter Block in Rumley and inquired of a man in the doorway:

"Is young Oliver Baxter here?"

The loiterer turned his head lazily without changing the position of his body, squinted searchingly into the store, and then replied that he was.

"Will you ask him to step out here? I want a word or two with him."

Another searching look into the store. "He seems to be busy, Mister. Leastwise, he's talkin' to a couple of men."

"Tell him his uncle is out here."

The citizen of Rumley started.

"The one he's runnin' against?" he demanded.

"Yes. His Uncle Horace."

"Well, I guess I can do that much for you, Mr. Gooch," drawled the other generously, and shuffled slowly into the store. Presently he returned.

"He says to hitch your Ford to that telephone pole and come right in. He'll be disengaged in a couple of minutes."

Mr. Gooch glared. "You tell him I swore never to enter that store again. If he wants to see me he will have to come out here."

The citizen disappeared. He was back in a jiffy, grinning broadly.

"Well?" demanded Mr. Gooch, as the messenger remained silent. "What did he say?"

The citizen chuckled. "It ain't fit to print," said he.

"Well," said Mr. Gooch, after a moment's reflection, "I don't mind waiting a while. He'll have to come out some time, I reckon."

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