Every Man for Himself | Page 5

he had read fleeting
anxiety in the glance with which she had followed her husband's

departure from the room. Her love for the Honorable Milton was
unqualified, Phil knew. It was, in fact, the directing force of Aunt
Dolly's whole life. It had enabled her to overcome her innate dislike for
the everlasting round of social trivialities and assume her place as a
society leader with a brilliance and tact which had earned the
commendation of even her exacting husband. What was going wrong in
the Waring household? Or was it all imagination and Aunt Dolly's look
of concern sum-totalled by the weather in relation to a change to lighter
flannels?
Certainly when it came to considering his uncle's political record there
was always the Rives case to fall back upon, to cast a halo about the
Honorable Milton's head. The Rives case had provided a sensational
aftermath to a strenuous election campaign which had resulted in the
complete overthrow of the former government. The "Honorable"
Harrington Rives with his large head and bushy shock of black curls
had been a picturesque figure on the rostrums of the country districts.
He took a good photo--and knew it! It was displayed in every
conceivable pose in the newspapers and fought the weather on the side
of many a livery barn long after the "Grand Rally" with its crop of
cheer-strained throats was a thing of the past. His ability as a stump
speaker and his hail-fellow-well-met-and-how's-the-baby way of
mixing with the crowd had popularized him to the bamboozlement of
his admirers. So that in election forecasts his seat in the Legislature
always had headed the list at party headquarters, while in the
opposition camp it had been chalked up as "election conceded."
But as is the law of it, there cometh a day when the evil a man doeth
findeth him out. Whispers had stolen abroad in the land and the rumors
had drawn men together in scattered groups. Rivulets of resentment had
run together in widening pools of public opinion till the mysterious
forces which slowly arouse the "Great Common People" had broken
loose suddenly in one of those periodic reform waves which sweep
everything before them. And into the arena with shining sword drawn
had stepped a brilliant lawyer named Waring to pick up the gauge of
battle against Rives and his corrupt associates, with Rives himself as
his individual opponent.

The fight in Rives' constituency had gone to bitter lengths. The
government forces had poured money into the campaign and under the
practiced hand of Harrington Rives the "Machine" had gone to
indiscreet lengths to defeat Waring. Bribery and corruption, which for a
long time had characterized the administration's political organization,
had become more open and Rives' opponent quietly had gathered the
irrefutable evidence which ended in the arrest of Rives and several of
his henchmen on the eve of the election. The exposure had been so
complete and far-reaching--actual misappropriation of public funds in
Rives' case--that the reform forces had made a clean sweep amid great
public rejoicing.
It would require a short memory indeed to forget all this, thought
Kendrick. Remembrance of the Rives case, which he had taken the
trouble once to look up in the old newspaper files, never failed to
re-establish his faith in his uncle and it was with a sweep of irritation
now that he dug in his paddle--and veered sharply to the left as the
rustle of reeds against the canoe warned him that he was close inshore
somewhere. Mechanically he tried to peer through the dark. This ought
to be the sandbar to the left of the Island Park ferry landing if he had
not gone out of his reckoning. He waited for the fog-horn that presently
bellowed loudly off to the left. If this were the sandbar he would have
to skirt it east to the cut that ran in beside the Yacht Club.
A moment's paddling convinced him that he had guessed correctly.
Something scraped alongside--a yacht, moored in the channel. He
turned to the right and presently was gratified to find himself in quieter
water. A moment later he was safely within the inner channel that
followed the park embankment and led east past private boathouses.
From the canal short streets here cut south across the island to the
lakefront, where many fine residences of the wealthy faced open water.
The steady rhythm of the waves against the breakwater reached him in
sharp contrast to the brooding stillness of the channel water.
Kendrick was almost home now. The Waring boathouse was within a
stonesthrow. He edged the canoe forward gently, close to the bank,
feeling his way toward the familiar landing.

And there was not one thing to prepare him for what immediately
followed. A voice which seemed to