In the Arena | Page 4

too grand. You
could see in a minute that she was intense and dreamy and theatrical
with herself and superior, like Farwell; and I guess I thought they
thought they'd discovered they were "kindred souls," and that each of
them understood (without saying it) that both of them felt that Farwell's

lot in life was a hard one because Mrs. Knowles wasn't up to him. Bella
gave him little, quiet, deep glances, that seemed to help her play the
part of a person who understood everything--especially him, and
reverenced greatness-- especially his. I remember a fellow who called
the sort of game it struck me they were carrying on "those soully
flirtations."
Well, sir, I wasn't long puzzling over why he had brought me up there.
It stuck out all over, though they didn't know it, and would have been
mighty astonished to think that I saw. It was in their manner, in her
condescending ways with me, in her assumption of serious interest, and
in his going through the trick of "drawing me out," and exhibiting me
to her. I'll have to admit that these young people viewed me in the light
of a "character." That was the part Farwell had me there to play.
I can't say I was too pleased with the notion, and I was kind of sorry for
Mrs. Knowles, too. I'd have staked a good deal that my guess was right,
for instance: that Farwell had gone first to this girl for her
congratulations when he got the nomination, instead of to his wife; and
that she felt--or pretended she felt--a soully sympathy with his
ambitions; that she wanted to be, or to play the part of, a woman of
affairs, and that he talked over everything he knew with her. I imagined
they thought they were studying political reform together, and she, in
her novel-reading way, wanted to pose to herself as the brilliant lady
diplomat, kind of a Madam Roland advising statesmen, or something of
that sort. And I was there as part of their political studies, an
object-lesson, to bring her "more closely in touch" (as Farwell would
say) with the realities he had to contend with. I was one of the "evils of
politics," because I knew how to control a few wards, and get out the
darkey vote almost as well as Gorgett. Gorgett would have been better,
but Farwell couldn't very easily get at him.
I had to sit there for a little while, of course, like a ninny between them;
and I wasn't the more comfortable because I thought Knowles looked
like a bigger fool than I did. Bella's presence seemed to excite him to a
kind of exaltation; he had a dark flush on his face and his eyes were
large and shiny.

I got out as soon as I could, naturally, wondering what my wife would
say if she knew; and while I was fumbling around among the
knick-knacks and fancy things in the hall for my hat and coat, I heard
Farwell get up and cross the room to a chair nearer Bella, and then she
said, in a sort of pungent whisper, that came out to me distinctly:
"My knight!" That's what she called him. "My knight!" That's what she
said.
I don't know whether I was more disgusted with myself for hearing, or
with old Buskirk who spent his whole time frittering around the club
library, and let his daughter go in for the sort of soulliness she was
carrying on with Farwell Knowles.
* * * * *
Trouble in our ranks began right away. Our nominee knew too much,
and did all the wrong things from the start; he began by antagonizing
most of our old wheel-horses; he wouldn't consult with us, and advised
with his own kind. In spite of that, we had a good organization working
for him, and by a week before election I felt pretty confident that our
show was as good as Gorgett's. It looked like it would be close.
Just about then things happened. We had dropped onto one of Lafe's
little tricks mighty smartly. We got one of his heelers fixed (of course
we usually tried to keep all that kind of work dark from Farwell
Knowles), and this heeler showed the whole business up for a
consideration. There was a precinct certain to be strong for Knowles,
where the balloting was to take place in the office-room of a
hook-and-ladder company. In the corner was a small closet with one
shelf, high up toward the ceiling. It was in the good old free and easy
Hayes and Wheeler times, and when the polls closed at six o'clock it
was planned that the election officers should set the ballot-box up on
this shelf, lock the