Two days after the private secretary’s return, the newspapers were full of stories concerning his movements. Whalen’s picture was exploited, correspondents sought the governor for interviews, and the Courier charged that, in his desperation, he intended to pardon Whalen, that he might have, in his campaign, the assistance of that skilled and unscrupulous manipulator. The pack of country newspapers took up the Courier’s cry. Whalen’s illness was either ignored, or referred to as feigned, at the direction of prison authorities and the governor. And yet a certificate pigeonholed in Gilman’s desk, signed by the prison physician, stated that Thomas Whalen had pulmonary tuberculosis and was in a moribund condition.
In his office in the city William Handy, the chairman of the state central committee, read these newspaper stories, and swore as he did so. That night the shrewdest and maddest politician in the state stole out of town. The next morning Gilman was surprised when the big man burst through the door marked “private,” brushed by him and entered, unannounced, the governor’s chambers. Before the stately door swung to behind him, Gilman heard him demand:
“What’s all this I hear about your pardoning Tom Whalen?”
The private secretary did not hear the governor’s reply, for with deliberate step he had crossed the room and closed the door. He heard nothing clearly, for Handy’s voice came to him smothered, and the governor’s not at all. Once he thought he heard “mawkish sentiment,” and “the action of a political imbecile,” but what he mostly distinguished was muffled profanity. The young man for the first time in his experience was delighted when his bell buzzed just then. When he entered upon the scene, the governor, rocking complacently in his high-backed chair, was saying:
“But what if it’s my duty?”
“Duty be damned!” shouted Handy, rising to his feet, and smiting the desk with a heavy fist he had had folded during the conversation. The wrath which the politician had kept bottled up overnight had burst out at last.
“I am running this campaign,” he cried, “and as long as I do run it, I do not propose to tolerate such incredible folly as pardoning Tom Whalen.”
Gilman, wide-eyed, gazed in amaze at the two men. Handy stood glaring at the governor, his fist fastened where it had fallen. The governor’s lips were tightly compressed. A sheet of scarlet swept over his dark face. Both men were strong-willed. The tensity of such a moment could not long endure. Its contagion spread to Gilman’s nerves. The governor’s splendid frame seemed to dilate, and Gilman suddenly became conscious that the admiration he had always given the man had never before measured up to the fullness of John Chatham’s deserts. It was with relief that he saw the governor’s glance turn from Handy to bend on him.
“Gilman,” he said, “have a pardon made out for Thomas Whalen.”