“Don’t forget the man, dear,” she reminded him; but he was buried in his paper, frowning.
“Look at that,” he said finally. She glanced at the headlines—“Prominent Negro Politician Candidate for High Office at Hands of New Administration. B. Alwyn of Alabama.”
“Why, it’s Bles!” she said, her face lighting as his darkened.
“An impudent Negro,” he voiced his disgust. “If they must appoint darkies why can’t they get tractable ones like my nigger Stillings.”
“Stillings?” she repeated. “Why, he’s the man that’s waiting.”
“Sam, is it? Used to be one of our servants—you remember? Wants to borrow more money, I presume.” He went downstairs, after first helping himself to a glass of whiskey, and then gallantly kissing his wife. Mrs. Cresswell was more unsatisfied than usual. She could not help feeling that Mr. Cresswell was treating her about as he treated his wine—as an indulgence; a loved one, a regular one, but somehow not as the reality and prose of life, unless—she started at the thought—his life was all indulgence. Having nothing else to do, she went out and paraded the streets, watching the people who were happy enough to be busy.
Cresswell and Stillings had a long conference, and when Stillings hastened away he could not forbear cutting a discreet pigeon-wing as he rounded the corner. He had been promised the backing of the whole Southern delegation in his schemes.
That night Teerswell called on him in his modest lodgings, where over hot whiskey and water they talked.
“The damned Southern upstart,” growled Teerswell, forgetting Stillings’ birthplace. “Do you mean to say he’s actually slated for the place?”
“He’s sure of it, unless something turns up.”
“Well, who’d have dreamed it?” Teerswell mixed another stiff dram.
“And that isn’t all,” came Sam Stillings’ unctuous voice.
Teerswell glanced at him. “What else?” he asked, pausing with the steaming drink poised aloft.
“If I’m not mistaken, Alwyn intends to marry Miss Wynn.”
“You lie!” the other suddenly yelled with an oath, overturning his tumbler and striding across the floor. “Do you suppose she’d look at that black—”
“Well, see here,” said the astute Stillings, checking the details upon his fingers. “They visit Senator Smith’s together; he takes her home from the Treble Clef; they say he talked to nobody else at her party; she recommends him for the campaign—”
“What!” Teerswell again exploded. But Stillings continued smoothly:
“Oh, I have ways of finding things out. She corresponds with him during the campaign; she asks Smith to make him Register; and he calls on her every night.”
Teerswell sat down limply.
“I see,” he groaned. “It’s all up. She’s jilted me—and I—and I—”
“I don’t see as it’s all up yet,” Stillings tried to reassure him.
“But didn’t you say they were engaged?”
“I think they are; but—well, you know Carrie Wynn better than I do: suppose, now—suppose he should lose the appointment?”
“But you say that’s sure.”
“Unless something turns up.”
“But what can turn up?”
“We might turn something.”
“What—what—I tell you man, I’d—I’d do anything to down that nigger. I hate him. If you’ll help me I’ll do anything for you.”
Stillings arose and carefully opening the hall door peered out. Then he came back and, seating himself close to Teerswell, pushed aside the whiskey.
“Teerswell,” he whispered, “you know I was working to be Register of the Treasury. Well, now, when the scheme of making Alwyn Treasurer came up they determined to appoint a Southern white Republican and give me a place under Alwyn. Now, if Alwyn fails to land I’ve got no chance for the bigger place, but I’ve got a good chance to be Register according to the first plan. I helped in the campaign; I’ve got the Negro secret societies backing me and—I don’t mind telling you—the solid Southern Congressional delegation. I’m trying now ostensibly for a chief-clerkship under Bles, and I’m pretty sure of it: it pays twenty-five hundred. See here: if we can make Bles do some fool talking and get it into the papers, he’ll be ditched, and I’ll be Register.”
“Great!” shouted Teerswell.
“Wait—wait. Now, if I get the job, how would you like to be my assistant?”
“Like it? Why, great Jehoshaphat! I’d marry Carrie—but how can I help you?”
“This way. I want to be better known among influential Negroes. You introduce me and let me make myself solid. Especially I must get in Miss Wynn’s set so that both of us can watch her and Alwyn, and make her friends ours.”
“I’ll do it—shake!” And Stillings put his oily hand into Teerswell’s nervous grip.
“Now, here,” Stillings went on, “you stow all that jealousy and heavy tragedy. Treat Alwyn well and call on Miss Wynn as usual—see?”
“It’s a hard pill—but all right.”
“Leave the rest to me; I’m hand in glove with Alwyn. I’ll put stuff into him that’ll make him wave the bloody shirt at the next meeting of the Bethel Literary—see? Then I’ll go to Cresswell and say, ‘Dangerous nigger—, just as I told you.’ He’ll begin to move things. You see? Cresswell is in with Smith—both directors in the big Cotton Combine—and Smith will call Alwyn down. Then we’ll think further.”
“Stillings, you look like a fool, but you’re a genius.” And Teerswell fairly hugged him. A few more details settled, and some more whiskey consumed, and Teerswell went home at midnight in high spirits. Stillings looked into the glass and scowled.
“Look like a fool, do I?” he mused. “Well, I ain’t!”
Congressman Cresswell was stirred to his first political activity by the hint given him through Stillings. He not only had a strong personal dislike for Alwyn, but he regarded the promise to him of a high office as a menace to the South.
The second speech which Alwyn made at the Bethel Literary was, as Stillings foresaw, a reply to the stinging criticisms of certain colored papers engineered by Teerswell, who said
