“What's the situation?” asked a stranger within the gates.
“It's like this,” a newspaper reporter told him; “about a month ago there was a fire here and the walls and carpets were pretty well knocked out with smoke and water. The carpets were mean old things anyway, so they voted new ones. And I want to tell you”—he swelled with pride—“that the new ones are beauties. The place'll look great when we get 'em down. Well, you know Prince Ludwig and his crowd cross the State on their way to the coast, and of course they were invited to stop. Last week Billy Patton—he's running the whole show—declined the invitation on account of lack of time, and then yesterday comes a telegram saying the Prince himself insisted on stopping. You know he's keen about Indian dope—and we've got Indian traditions to burn. So Mr. Bill Patton had to make over his schedule to please the Prince, and of course we were all pretty tickled about it, for more reasons than one. The telegram didn't come until five o'clock yesterday afternoon, but you know what a hummer the Governor is when he gets a start. He made up his mind this building should be put in shape within twenty-four hours. They engaged a whole lot of fellows to work on the carpets to-day. Then what did they do but get together last night—well, you know the rest. Pretty bum-looking old shack just now, isn't it?” and the reporter looked around ruefully.
It was approaching the hour for the legislature to convene, and the members who were beginning to saunter in swelled the crowd—and the indignation—in the rotunda.
The Governor, meanwhile, had been trying to get other men, but Carpet-Tackers' Union Number One had looked well to that. The biggest furniture dealer in the city was afraid of the plumbers. “Pipes burst last night,” he said, “and they may not do a thing for us if we get mixed up in this. Sorry—but I can't let my customers get pneumonia.”
Another furniture man was afraid of the teamsters. For one reason or another no one was disposed to respond to the Macedonian cry, and when the Governor at last gave it up and walked out into the rotunda he was about as disturbed as he permitted himself to get. “It's the idea of lying down,” he said. “I'd do anything—anything!—if I could only think what to do.”
A popular young member of the House overheard the remark. “By George, Governor,” he burst forth, after a minute's deep study—“say—by Jove, I say, let's do it ourselves!”
They all laughed, but the Governor's laugh stopped suddenly, and he looked hard at the young man.
“Why not?” the young legislator went on. “It's a big job, but there are a lot of us. We've all put down carpets at home; what are we afraid to tackle it here for?”
Again the others laughed, but the Governor did not. “Say, Weston,” he said, “I'd give a lot—I tell you I'd give a lot—if we just could!”
“Leave it to me!”—and he was lost in the crowd.