But an inner voice cautioned him to be discreet. There was always a way around a difficulty. Mr. Driggs believed in the switch system which prevails in our railroading. When two trains run towards each other on a track one must go off on a switch, to avoid a collision. It does not take long and when the other train has gone roaring past, the switched train can back up and get on the track and go serenely on—he resolved to be tactful.
"Mr. Steadman," he said, "I am surprised at all this. Pearl is only a slip of a girl. What harm can she do you? You are absolutely solid in this neighborhood. The government has this country by the throat—the old machine works perfectly. What are you afraid of?"
"We're not afraid—what have we to be afraid of? We have only sixteen opposition members in the House—and they're poor fish. We're solid enough—only we don't want trouble. The women are getting all stirred up and full of big notions. We can hold them down all right—for they can't get the vote until we give it to them—that's the beauty of it. The Old Man certainly talked plain when they came there askin' for the vote. He just laid them out. But I can see this girl has been at their meetings—and women are queer. My women, even, thought there was a lot of truth in what the Watson girl said. So there was—but we're not dealing with truth just now—politics is not a matter of truth. We want to get this election over without trouble. We want no grief over this, mind you—everything quiet—and sure. So you got your orders right now. Take them or leave them. But you know where your bread is buttered, I guess."
Mr. Steadman went out of the office, shutting the door with a strong hand. The editor buried his face in his hands and gently massaged his temples with his long-ink-stained fingers, and to all appearance, his soul was grieved within him. It seemed as though his proud spirit was chafing at the bonds which the iniquitous patronage system had laid on him.
For brief period he sat thus, but when he raised his head, which he did suddenly, there was a gleam in his eye and a smile on his face which spread and widened until it burst into a laugh which threatened to dislodge the contents of the table. He threw himself back in his swing chair and piled both feet on the table, even if there was no room for them—if ever there had come a time in his history when he was in the mood to put his feet on the table, that time was now.
He addressed his remarks to his late guests:
"You fragrant old he-goat, you will give orders to me, will you—you are sure some diplomat—you poor old moth-eaten gander, with your cow-like duplicity."
Mr. Driggs could not find the figure of speech which just suited the case, but he was still trying.
"You poor old wall-eyed ostrich, with your head in the sand, thinking no one can see you, you forget that there is a portion of your anatomy admirably placed—indeed in my mind's eye I can see the sign upon it. It reads 'Kick me.' It is an invitation I will not decline. He thinks he can wipe our good friend Pearlie off the map by having her name dropped from the Millford 'Mercury,' forgetting that there are other ways of reaching the public eye. There are other publications, perhaps not in the class with the Millford 'Mercury,' but worthy little sheets too.
"There is the 'Evening Echo,' struggling along with a circulation of a quarter of a million—it will answer our purpose admirably. I will write the lead today while the lamp of inspiration burns, and I will hear Pearl speak, and then oh, beloved, I will roll up my sleeves and spit on my hands and do a sketch of the New Woman—Pearlie, my child—this way lies fame."