CHAPTER XII
A JOURNEY INTO MEAN STREETS
Darrow's little car was waiting before the entrance; and as soon as Stephen had taken his place by the old man's side, they shot forward into the smoky twilight. A policeman, standing in the circle of electric light at the corner, held up a warning hand; and then, as he recognized Darrow, he nodded with a smile, and there stole into his face the look of deference which Stephen had seen in the Governor's eyes. Glancing up at the sombre ruggedness of the profile beside him, the younger man asked himself curiously from what source of character or Circumstance this old man had derived his strange impressiveness and his Authority over men. With his gaunt length, his wide curving nostrils, his thick majestic lips, he looked, as Stephen had first seen him, a rock-hewn Pharaoh of a man. An unusual type to survive in modern America—republican and imperial! Did he represent, this carpenter who was also a politician, the political despotism of the worker—the crook and scourge of the labourer's power?
Suddenly, while he wondered, Darrow turned toward him. "What do you think of the Governor?"
"I hardly know," answered Stephen thoughtfully. "It is too soon to ask; but I think he is honest."
"He is more than honest," rejoined the other quietly. "He is human. He understands. He belongs to us."
"Belongs?" Stephen repeated the word with a note of interrogation.
Very slowly the old man answered. "I mean that he is more than anything that he says or thinks. He is bigger than his message."
"I suppose he stands for a great deal?"