The Mayor of Warwick

by Herbert M. Hopkins

When they reached the edge of the great throng that already filled the street in front of the opera house, Cardington, instead of plunging into it as his companion had anticipated, turned down an alley, like one familiar with the locality, and led the way to the stage door. The manoeuvre disclosed to Leigh the fact that his colleague had intended all the time to come, and also his own good fortune in obtaining such a guide.

"Pass right in, professor," one of the guard said, as soon as he caught sight of Cardington's tall figure. "A friend of yours? All right. Sergeant, these are two friends of mine."

They made their way behind the scenes and came down into the pit, where a few people, similarly favoured, were slowly selecting their seats.

"What kind of a pull have you got with these fellows?" Leigh asked, secretly amused at the surprise his companion had reserved for him.

"A prophet is not always without honour, even in his own country," Cardington returned evasively.

Apparently his vein of talk was worked out to the end, for he fell into a profound silence as soon as he had taken his seat, his arms folded and his head bent forward, like one oblivious of his surroundings.

Leigh, not sorry to be left to his own thoughts and observations, listened to the roar of the increasing multitude in the corridor without. He was struck by an absence of that good humour which usually characterises such a gathering. From time to time the doors creaked and bulged inward as the people surged against them, clamouring menacingly for admittance. Each repetition of the forward movement was followed by an accentuated babel of voices: women screaming that they were being crushed and shrilly demanding more room, men protesting that they themselves were powerless to resist the pressure from behind. It was evident that Cardington had not miscalculated their animus, for they hurled maledictions at the janitor, who stood waiting within, his watch in his hand, wavering between fear for the stability of the bolts and an unwillingness to disobey orders. Those already admitted listened with increasing uneasiness, momentarily anticipating that the doors would give way with a crash, and that they might see men and women trampled under foot in an irresistible stampede.

Every electric light in the place was now turned on, disclosing the bare tiers of seats, the stage filled with chairs, the great flags looped on either side of the national shield, the speaker's table surmounted by a glass and pitcher. Then the scene changed. The janitor, struggling to open the doors, was thrown violently aside as they swung back and launched the mob into the hall. A great roar ascended to the roof; the nearer seats were submerged by the black mass, which sent out thin streams between the rows, like an advancing tide creeping shoreward between ledges of rock. Leigh and Cardington rose to their feet and stood gazing at the spectacle. For the most part the crowd was composed of labouring men, who looked as if they had just come from the factory or the shop, but here and there could be seen a glimpse of bright ribbon, or a feather, or the silk hat of a pale-faced clerk. So rapid was the movement that the two spectators were forced to resume their seats in a few minutes to forestall their seizure.

It was eight o'clock, the time set for the appearance of the President, when Mayor Emmet came from one of the wings, entirely alone, and took a chair near the centre of the stage. He had not been invited to meet the President at dinner, and while the great man and his entertainers lingered over their cigars, the mayor appeared promptly in the opera house, as if keeping a business engagement. No one who listened to the welcome he received could doubt his personal popularity or the intensity with which his constituents resented the slight he had endured. At first he sat facing the tumult imperturbably, and then a smile slowly mounted to his eyes, as he rose and bowed his acknowledgements. Demands for a speech were shot out at him from various parts of the pit, but he merely shook his head and indicated his refusal by a familiar yet graceful gesture.

Cardington sat gazing at the solitary figure, muttering half inarticulate strictures upon the demagogical spirit that had led the man to make such an open bid for sympathy and vindication, but his companion experienced very different emotions. There sat Felicity's husband, handsome, self-contained, and effective. With a rueful appreciation of a type that differed so much from his own, the astronomer wondered whether she could resist him now, were she there to witness his triumph. The difference in social station between her and her husband seemed unimportant now. What he lacked was easy to acquire compared with what he had already won; and his weakness for Lena Harpster was, after all, much less serious than the moral delinquencies of the men of Felicity's own class. For Warwick, like all rich cities, was honeycombed with social scandals, and scarcely one of Emmet's opponents would have been justified, if all were published, in casting the first stone at him. Surely, Leigh reflected, she must know these facts, for even he, a comparative stranger, had heard of them.