“That’s it,” beamed Ardmore. “We’ve got to suspend it if worst comes to worst. Then you can put anybody you like into a dungeon, and nobody can get him out—not for a million years.”
“I wonder where they keep it?” asked Jerry. “It must be here somewhere. Perhaps it’s in the safe.”
“I don’t think it’s a thing, like a lemon, or a photograph, or a bottle of ink; it’s a document, like a Thanksgiving proclamation, and you order out the militia, and the soldiers have to leave their work and assemble at their armouries, and it’s all very serious, and somebody is likely to get shot.”
“I don’t think it would be nice to shoot people,” said Jerry. “That would do the administration a terrible lot of harm.”
“Of course we won’t resort to extreme measures unless we are forced to it. And then, after we have exhausted all the means at our command, we can call on the president to send United States troops.”
He was proud of his knowledge, which had lingered in his subconsciousness from a review of the military power of the states which he had heard once from Griswold, who knew about such matters; but he was brought to earth promptly enough.
“Mr. Ardmore, how dare you suggest that we call United States troops into North Carolina! Don’t you know that would be an insult to every loyal son of this state? I should have you know that the state of North Carolina is big enough to take care of herself, and if any president of the United States sends any troops down here while I’m running this office, he’ll find that, while our people will gladly die, they never surrender.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean anything like that by what I said,” pleaded Ardmore, frightened almost to tears. “Of course, we’ve got our own troops, and we’ll get through all our business without calling for help. I shouldn’t any more call on the president than I’d call on the Czar of Russia.”
She seemed satisfied with this disclaimer, and produced a diary in which Governor Dangerfield had noted his appointments far into the future.
“We’ll have to break a lot of engagements for papa. Here’s a speech he promised to make at Wilmington at the laying of the corner-stone of the new orphan asylum. That’s to-morrow, and papa can’t be there, so we’ll send a telegram of congratulation to be read instead. Then he was to preside at a convention of the Old Fiddlers’ Association at Goldsboro the next day, and he can’t do that. I guess we’d better telegraph and say how sorry he is to be delayed by important official business. And here’s—why, I had forgotten about the National Guard encampment, that’s beginning now.”