The Black Lion Inn

by Alfred Henry Lewis

For all that the plot falls down. When it’s come the hour for Old Stewart to resort to the barbecue an’ assoome his share in the exercises, two of the Hannibal delegation is spread out cold an’ he’pless in a r’ar room, while Old Stewart is he’pin’ the third—a gent of whom he’s partic’lar fond—upstairs to Old Stewart’s room, where he lays him safe an’ serene on the blankets. Then Old Stewart takes another drink by himse’f, an’ j’ins his brave adherents at the picnic grounds. Old Stewart is never more loocid, an’ ag’in he peels the pelt from the better element’s candidate, an’ does it with graceful ease.

Old Stewart, however, is regyarded as in peril of defeat. He’s mighty weak in the big towns where the better element is entrenched, an’ churches grow as thick as blackberries. Even throughout the rooral regions, wherever a meetin’ house pokes up its spire, it’s onderstood that Old Stewart’s in a heap of danger.

It ain’t that Old Stewart is sech a apostle of nose-paint neither; it ain’t whiskey that’s goin’ to kill him off at the ballot box. It’s the fact that the better element’s candidate—besides bein’ rich, which is allers a mark of virchoo to a troo believer—is a church member, an’ belongs to a congregation where he passes the plate, an’ stands high up in the papers. This makes the better element’s gent a heap pop’lar with church folk, while pore Old Stewart, who’s a hopeless sinner, don’t stand no show.

This grows so manifest that even Old Stewart’s most locoed supporters concedes that he’s gone; an’ money is offered at three to one that the better element’s entry will go over Old Stewart like a Joone rise over a tow-head. Old Stewart hears these yere misgivin’s an’ bids his folks be of good cheer.

“I’ll fix that,” says Old Stewart. “By election day, my learned opponent will be in sech disrepoote with every church in Missouri he won’t be able to get dost enough to one of ’em to give it a ripe peach.” Old Stewart onpouches a roll which musters fifteen hundred dollars. “That’s mighty little; but it’ll do the trick.”

Old Stewart’s folks is mystified; they can’t make out how he’s goin’ to round up the congregations with so slim a workin’ cap’tal. But they has faith in their chief; an’ his word goes for all they’ve got. When he lets on he’ll have the churches arrayed ag’inst the foe, his warriors takes heart of grace an’ jumps into the collar an’ pulls like lions refreshed.

It’s the fourth Sunday before election when Old Stewart, by speshul an’ trusted friends presents five hundred dollars each to a church in St. Looey, an’ another in St. Joe, an’ still another in Hannibal; said gifts bein’ in the name an’ with the compliments of his opponent an’ that gent’s best wishes for the Christian cause.

Thar’s not a doubt raised; each church believes it-se’f favored five hundred dollars’ worth from the kindly hand of the millionaire candidate, an’ the three pastors sits pleasantly down an’ writes that amazed sport a letter of thanks for his moonificence. He don’t onderstand it none; but he decides it’s wise to accept this accidental pop’larity, an’ he waxes guileful an’ writes back an’ says that while he don’t clearly onderstand, an’ no thanks is his doo, he’s tickled to hear he’s well bethought of by the good Christians of St. Looey, St. Joe an’ Hannibal, as expressed in them missives. The better element’s candidate congratulates himse’f on his good luck, stands pat, an’ accepts his onexpected wreaths. That’s jest what Old Stewart, who is as cunnin’ as a fox, is aimin’ at.

In two days the renown of them five-hundred-dollar gifts goes over the state like a cat over a back roof. In four days every church in the state hears of these largesses. An’ bein’ plumb alert financial, as churches ever is, each sacred outfit writes on to the better element’s candidate an’ desires five hundred dollars of that onfortunate publicist. He gets sixty thousand letters in one week an’ each calls for five hundred.

Gents, thar’s no more to be said; the better element’s candidate is up ag’inst it. He can’t yield to the fiscal demands, an’ it’s too late to deny the gifts. Whereupon the other churches resents the favoritism he’s displayed about the three in St. Looey, St. Joe an’ Hannibal. They regyards him as a hoss-thief for not rememberin’ them while his weaselskin is in his hand, an’ on election day they comes down on him like a pan of milk from a top shelf! You hear me, they shorely blots that onhap-py candidate off the face of the earth, an’ Old Stewart is Gov’nor ag’in.