He did not believe that women had sufficient intelligence to vote, and the idea of their taking part in sage political councils was repugnant to him. While he did not vote himself, he said that there “was plenty o’ men to ’tend to them things, an’ its foolish to allow women to git mixed up in the govament.”
This wise and smug anti-suffragist thought that the female sex “should be allowed to meet, if they want to, but they hadn’t ought a butt in on things that require superior intelligence.”
The newspaper cut had done its awful work on Cal, and women’s rights had completed the demolition of an ideal that had been cherished through the years. His idol had crumbled and turned to ashes, and his dog was now the only live thing that he considered worthy of affection.
The story had in it much pathos, but interspersed through it was a great deal of picturesque profanity, particularly in connection with the idea of women casting votes, which had aroused the dormant passions of his nature.
The storm was over. I left him a small supply of tobacco, promised to drop in again, and bade him good-bye.
Several days later, in talking with Sipes, I happened to mention Cal’s sad life history. He laughed and said that Cal was a liar.
“The real facts is ’e lived over in the back country fer twenty years, an’ ’e was chased into the hills by ’is wife an’ mother-in-law fer good an’ sufficient reasons. He handed me all that dope oncet about some girl ’e was stuck on some’res down south. It’s all right fer an old cuss like ’im to set ’round an’ talk, but ’e was just ’avin’ dizzy dreams, an’ you fergit ’em. If ’e’d only tell the truth, the way I always do, ’e wouldn’t never have no trouble, an’ folks would ’ave some respect fer ’im, like they do fer me.”
A year elapsed before I again saw the little shanty. The drifting sands had partially covered it, and my knock was unanswered. Several boards were missing from the roof, and through a wide crack I saw that occupation had ceased. The bunk was covered with débris. There were some empty cans on the floor and, I am sorry to say, a few bottles, but Happy Cal was gone.
Let us hope that the wave of fortune or misfortune that took this poor piece of human driftwood on its crest carried him to some far-off, sun-kissed, and glorious shore, where there is no political equality, and where women have no rights.
Either he had spent a most pathetic and adventurous life, or he was one of the most delightful liars I ever listened to.