The Angel of Lonesome Hill | Page 4

above him struck the hour of six; he hesitated, then went toward the scene of conflict.
The waking traffic, the great buildings, the pulse of this strange life filled him with depression. He came to a beautiful park and gazed upon Lafayette and Rochambeau, then the equestrian statue of Jackson. As he sat facing the snow-white building with columned portico, the magnolia blossoms were as incense. Then he could wait no longer and crossed to the President's office. A policeman stopped him at the steps. He explained that he had a letter from Judge Long. What! Did this policeman not know Judge Long?
He sat under a tree, and the policeman walked a few paces away to turn anon and survey the waiting pilgrim. When the doors opened he entered. The President would not come for another hour; he would be busy--possibly he might see him by noon--provided he had credentials.
With a sigh he sank into a chair and was soon asleep.
"Come--this is no cheap lodging house!" The greeting was shaken into him by a clerk with hair parted in the middle, who disdainfully surveyed the sleeper's attire.
He who has much on his mind little cares what he has on his back, and when the youth exploded, "Who are you?" the old fellow's self-reliance came forth.
Leading the way to the door Dale pointed a trembling finger. "See that buildin', 'Bub'--and that one yonder, and that patch over there with Andy Jackson in it? Well, I'm one of the folks that made it all--and paid for it; and you're one of my hired hands. I've got to keep so many of you down here I can't afford one on the farm. I want to see the President--give him this letter--it's from Judge Sylvester Long, of Point Elizabeth!"
The youth vanished and Dale resumed his chair.
He was looking across the lawn when a sudden alertness came into the scene; the silk-hatted line of callers stepped aside; those who were seated arose; newspaper correspondents turned with vigilant ears. A nervous voice inquired, "Where is Mr. John Dale?"
The President stood before him, dressed in white flannel, then smilingly grasped his hand with a blast of welcome: "I'm delighted to meet the friend of Judge Long!" Taking his arm the Executive escorted him through the Cabinet Room thronged with Senators, Representatives, and tourists. They entered the private office. "Take the sofa, Mr. Dale--it's the easiest thing in the place. I hope your business is such that you can excuse me for a little while."
A smile came over Dale's white face. Could the poorest farmer of the "Cold Friday" region wait for the most powerful character in the world? Nor was the old man in the linen duster the only one who smiled. A member of the Russian Embassy turned to his companion--a distinguished visitor from the Court of St. Petersburg: "What would a peasant say to the Czar?"
The President now entered the Cabinet Room, shaking hands with the many, guiding a few into his private office. Dale listened; now it was an introduction and a message to an old friend in the West. Then a decisive "No" dashed some hope of patronage; again, it was a discussion of poetry, aerial navigation, or the relics of the Aztecs. It was a long stride from "Lonesome Hill," and for the time Dale was novelty's captive. He glanced round the room. It was not as fine as the director's office of the Point Elizabeth Bank! Above the mantel--the place of honor--was the painting of a martyr. He wondered whether another stroke of the brush would have brought a smile to the face, or an expression of sadness. The hands were very large--they had once broken iron bands.
In one corner was a shot-gun; tennis rackets in another; on a chair were snow-shoes and on the desk a sheaf of roses.
Those whom the President had sifted into his office from the crowd outside engaged in conversation. A Senator discussed the ball game with a Supreme Court Justice; a General advised an Author to try deep breathing.
The President returned more animated than before. He placed a hand on Dale's shoulder: "Be comfortable--and stay for lunch; nobody but us."
The crowd paid sudden respect to the homespun citizen of an older day, and a great happiness came into his heart--it was like the unfolding of one of the roses. Not that he was to lunch with the President, though Dale's was the village estimate of human greatness. A vaster issue was before him, and this was a token of success--a success which would bind up his remaining years with peace, and give glorious recompense to the companion of his few joys and many griefs.
The President hurriedly signed his name to parchments.
"I'm making a few postmasters." He smiled toward the sofa. "It's no trouble here--that's all at