“I call it 'The New America,' a lot of this talk about doing things, the glory of industrial America, the true Americans the men of constructive genius, the patriotism of railroad and factory building, a eulogy of railroad officials and corporation presidents,” he rushed on with a laugh. “Singing the song of Capital. Father, can't you see why?”
The old man had risen. “Tell me this,” he said. “None of it matters much, if you just tell me this: You believe these things? You've thought it all out for yourself—and you feel that way? You're honest, aren't you, Fritz?” He put that last in a whisper.
The boy made no reply; after a minute the man sank back to his chair. The years seemed coming to him with the minutes.
Fred was leaning against the wall. “Father,” he said at last, “I hope you'll let me be a little roundabout. It's only fair to me to let me ramble on a little. I've got to put it all right before you or—or—You know, dad,”—he came back to his place by the table, “the first thing I remember very clearly is those men, your party managers, coming down to the farm one time and asking you to run for Governor. How many times is it you've run for Governor, father?” He put the question slowly.
“Five,” said the man heavily.
“I don't know which time this was; but you didn't want to. You were sorry when you saw them coming. I heard some of the talk. You talked about your farm, what you wanted to do that summer, how you couldn't afford the time or the money. They argued that you owed it to the party—they always got you there; how no other man could hold down majorities as you could—a man like you giving the best years of his life to holding down majorities! They said you were the one man against whom no personal attack could be made. And when there was so much to fight, anyway—oh, I know that speech by heart! They've made great capital of your honesty and your clean life. In fact, they've held that up as a curtain behind which a great many things could go on. Oh, you didn't know about them; you were out in front of the curtain, but I haven't lived in this town without finding out that they needed your integrity and your clean record pretty bad!
“That was out on the side porch. Mother had brought out some buttermilk, and they drank it while they talked. You put up a good fight. Your time was money to you at that time of year; a man shouldn't neglect his farm—but you never yet could hold out against that 'needing-you' kind of talk. They knew there was no chance for your election. You knew it. But it takes a man of just your grit to put any snap into a hopeless campaign.
“Mother cried when you went to drive them back to town. You see, I remember all those things. She told about how hard you would work, and how it would do no good—that the State belonged to the other party. She talked about the farm, too, and the addition she had wanted for the house, and how now she wouldn't have it. Mother felt pretty bad that night. She's gone through a lot of those times.”
There was a silence.
“You were away a lot that summer, and all fall. You looked pretty well used up when you came home, but you said that you had held down majorities splendidly.”