The Gentleman from Indiana | Page 4

fellow had further
to say in the "Herald."
Politics is the one subject that goes to the vitals of every rural
American; and a Hoosier will talk politics after he is dead.

Everybody read the campaign editorials, and found them interesting,
although there was no one who did not perceive the utter absurdity of a
young stranger's dropping into Carlow and involving himself in a party
fight against the boss of the district. It was entirely a party fight; for, by
grace of the last gerrymander, the nomination carried with it the
certainty of election. A week before the convention there came a
provincial earthquake; the news passed from man to man in awe-struck
whispers--McCune had withdrawn his name, making the hollowest of
excuses to his cohorts. Nothing was known of the real reason for his
disordered retreat, beyond the fact that he had been in Plattville on the
morning before his withdrawal and had issued from a visit to the
"Herald" office in a state of palsy. Mr. Parker, the Rouen printer, had
been present at the close of the interview; but he held his peace at the
command of his employer. He had been called into the sanctum, and
had found McCune, white and shaking, leaning on the desk.
"Parker," said the editor, exhibiting a bundle of papers he held in his
hand, "I want you to witness a verbal contract between Mr. McCune
and myself. These papers are an affidavit and copies of some records of
a street-car company which obtained a charter while Mr McCune was
in the State legislature. They were sent to me by a man I do not know,
an anonymous friend of Mr. McCune's; in fact, a friend he seems to
have lost. On consideration of our not printing these papers, Mr.
McCune agrees to retire from politics for good. You understand, if he
ever lifts his head again, politically, We publish them, and the courts
will do the rest. Now, in case anything should happen to me----"
"Something will happen to you, all right," broke out McCune. "You can
bank on that, you black----"
"Come," the editor interrupted, not unpleasantly "why should there be
anything personal, in all this? I don't recognize you as my private
enemy --not at all; and I think you are getting off rather easily; aren't
you? You stay out of politics, and everything will be comfortable. You
ought never to have been in it, you see. It's a mistake not to keep square,
because in the long run somebody is sure to give you away--like the
fellow who sent me these. You promise to hold to a strictly private

life?"
"You're a traitor to the party," groaned the other, "but you only
wait----"
The editor smiled sadly. "Wait nothing. Don't threaten, man. Go home
to your wife. I'll give you three to one she'll be glad you are out of it."
"I'll give you three to one," said McCune, "that the White Caps will get
you if you stay in Carlow. You want to look out for yourself, I tell you,
my smart boy!"
"Good-day, Mr. McCune," was the answer. "Let me have your note of
withdrawal before you leave town this afternoon." The young man
paused a moment, then extended his hand, as he said: "Shake hands,
won't you? I--I haven't meant to be too hard on you. I hope things will
seem easier and gayer to you before long; and if--if anything should
turn up that I can do for you in a private way, I'll be very glad, you
know. Good-by."
The sound of the "Herald's" victory went over the State. The paper
came out regularly. The townsfolk bought it and the farmers drove in
for it. Old subscribers came back. Old advertisers renewed. The
"Herald" began to sell in Amo, and Gaines County people subscribed.
Carlow folk held up their heads when journalism was mentioned.
Presently the "Herald" announced a news connection with Rouen, and
with that, and the aid of "patent insides," began an era of three issues a
week, appearing on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. The Plattville
Brass Band serenaded the editor.
During the second month of the new regime of the "Herald," the
working force of the paper received an addition. One night the editor
found some barroom loafers tormenting a patriarchal old man who had
a magnificent head and a grand white beard. He had been thrown out of
a saloon, and he was drunk with the drunkenness of three weeks steady
pouring. He propped himself against a wall and reproved his
tormentors in Latin. "I'm walking your way, Mr. Fisbee," remarked the
journalist, hooking his arm into the old man's. "Suppose we leave our

friends here and go home?"
Mr. Fisbee was the one inhabitant of the town who had