The Angel of Lonesome Hill | Page 4

horizon of
consciousness dimly flashed the duel of his hopes and fears. Rest was

impossible, and after a long time the dawn drifted between his
half-closed lids; a glorious dome floated out of the sky and the porter
shouted, "All out for Washington!"
The cabmen who besieged the well-dressed passengers paid scant
homage to the old man, who walked uncertainly out of the smoky shed
and stood for a moment in Pennsylvania Avenue--on one hand the
Capitol, on the other the Treasury and White House. A great clock
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