Part 17 (1/2)

And the s.p.a.ce once occupied by the other advertiser was headed:

OBITUARIES

That ghastly poetry in which the soul of the b.u.t.terfly Man reveled appeared in that column thereafter. It was a conspicuous s.p.a.ce, and the horn of rural mourning in printer's ink was exalted among us. It was not very hard to guess whose hand had directed those counter-blows.

When we met those two advertisers on the street afterward we greeted them with ironical smiles intended to enrage. They had at Inglesby's instigation been guilty of a tactical blunder of which the men behind the _Clarion_ had taken fiendish and unexpected advantage. It had simply never occurred to either that a small town editor might dare to ”come back.” The impossible had actually happened.

I think it was this slackening of his power which alarmed Inglesby into action.

”Mr. Inglesby,” said the b.u.t.terfly Man to me one night, casually, ”has got him a new private secretary. He came this afternoon. His name's Hunter--J. Howard Hunter. He dresses as if he wrote checks for a living and he looks exactly like he dresses. Honest, he's the original he-G.o.d they use to advertise suspenders and collars and neverrips and that sort of thing in the cla.s.sy magazines. I bet you Inglesby's got to fork over a man-sized bucket of dough per, to keep _him_. There'll be a flutter of calico in this burg from now on, for that fellow certainly knows how to wear his face. He's gilt-edged from start to finis.h.!.+”

Laurence, lounging on the steps, looked up with a smile.

”His arrival,” said he, ”has been duly chronicled in to-day's press.

Cease speaking in parables, Bughunter, and tell us what's on your mind.”

The b.u.t.terfly Man hesitated for a moment. Then:

”Why, it's this way,” said he, slowly. ”I--hear things. A bit here and there, you see, as folks tell me. I put what I've heard together, and think it over. Of course I didn't need anybody to tell me Inglesby was sore because the _Clarion_ got away from him. He expected it to die.

It didn't. He thought it wouldn't pay expenses--well, the sheriff isn't in charge yet. And he knows the paper is growing. He's too wise a guy to let on he's been stung for fair, once in his life, but he don't propose to let himself in for any more body blows than he can help. So he looks about a bit and he gets him an agent--older than you, Mayne, but young enough, too--and even better looking. That agent will be everywhere pretty soon. The town will fall for him. Say, how many of you folks know what Inglesby really wants, anyhow?”

”Everything in sight,” said Laurence promptly.

”And something around the corner, too. He wants to come out in the open and be IT. He intends to be a big noise in Was.h.i.+ngton. Gentlemen, Senator Inglesby! Well, why not?”

”He hasn't said so, has he?” Laurence was skeptical.

”He doesn't have to say so. He means to be it, and that's very much more to the point. However, it happens that he did peep, once or twice, and it buzzed about a bit--and that's how I happened to catch it in my net. This Johnny he's just got to help him is the first move.

Private Secretary now. Campaign manager and press agent, later.

Inglesby's getting ready to march on to Was.h.i.+ngton. You watch him do it!”

”Never!” said Laurence, and set his mouth.

”No?” The b.u.t.terfly Man lifted his eyebrows. ”Well, what are you going to do about it? Fight him with your pretty little _Clarion_? It's not big enough, though you could make it a handy sort of brick to paste him in the eye with, if you aim straight and pitch hard enough. Go up against him yourself? You're not strong enough, either, young man, whatever you may be later on. You can prod him into firing some poor kids from his mills--but you can't make him feed 'em after he's fired 'em, can you? And you can't keep him from becoming Senator Inglesby either, unless,” he paused impressively, ”you can match him even with a man his money and pull can't beat. Now think.”

The young man bit his lip and frowned. The b.u.t.terfly Man watched him quizzically through his gla.s.ses.

”Don't take it so hard,” he grinned. ”And don't let the whole salvation of South Carolina hang too heavy on your shoulders. Leave _something_ to G.o.d Almighty--He managed to pull the c.o.c.ky little brute through worse and tougher situations than Inglesby! Also, He ran the rest of the world for a few years before you and I got here to help Him with it.”

”You're a c.o.c.ky brute yourself,” said Laurence, critically.

”I can afford to be, because I can open my hand this minute and show you the b.u.t.ton. Why, the very man you need is right in your reach! If you could get _him_ to put up his name against Inglesby's, the Big Un wouldn't be in it.”

Laurence stared. The b.u.t.terfly Man stared back at him.

”Look here,” said he slowly. ”You remember my nest, and what that bluejay did for it? And what you said? Well, I've looked about a bit, and I've seen the bluejay at work.... Oh, h.e.l.l, I can't talk about this thing, but I've watched the putty-faced, hollow-chested, empty-bellied kids--that don't even have guts enough left to laugh....

Somebody ought to sock it to that brute, on account of those kids. He ought to be headed off ... make him feel he's to be shoo'd outside!