it for her. He told me. She’s had that bad jaw ever since a horse kicked her head in. Well, he gives her cocaine, and she asks for more and more and tells him she’s a hopeless addict.”
Harry sighed. “Speaking as a lawyer, Florence, if the guilty party admits guilt like that, she isn’t really guilty. But just making fun, which is her style.”
“There is nothing, Harry, that I don’t know about dentists,” was the Duchess’s stern if somewhat tangential response.
United States Senator Warren Gamaliel Harding, Republican of Ohio, entered the room, carrying his frock coat over one arm. He wore bright red galluses and a stiff detachable collar, snowy white in contrast to his olivetinted face, whose regular features were ever so slightly blurred, giving satisfaction to those who enjoyed believing the never entirely discredited legend that the Hardings were a Negro family that had only recently, in the last but one generation, passed over to white.
“Harry. Jess. Duchess.” The deep voice rolled from the highly placed chest and abdomen. Although Harding had not yet passed the shadow-line between stout and fat, there was already an ominous sameness and lack of demarcation between stomach and chest, mitigated somewhat by the skillful hang of the trousers. “Have some breakfast, boys.”
“Can’t.” The Duchess was firm. “Tillie’s cleaned up.”
Jess helped W.G. into his frock coat. Daugherty watched attentively—
his
creation. But Jess wondered, at times, if it might not be the other way round. Daugherty talked strategy morning, noon and night while W.G. just gazed off into the distance, smiling at whatever it was he saw there. He seldom committed himself to anything; seldom gave a political opinion, as opposed to learned soliloquies on what he found in his favorite reading, newspaper sports pages. Yet whenever Daugherty would discuss the election of 1920, their common grail, it was W.G. who appeared to direct the discussion, as he did now, seated in an old rocker, going through a sheaf of carbon copies of telegrams and letters while the Duchess headed toward the back part of the house to tyrannize the servant.
“Now then, here’s the Colonel’s first telegram. Last month. He’s happy, as you might figure. Patriotism. Preparedness. And so on.” Harding adjusted his spectacles. “I committed myself to one Roosevelt division, that he himself would raise. Volunteers. Volunteers.” Harding sighed. “I don’t know what I can tell him. Now …” Harding’s voice trailed off.
Daugherty was on his feet, slowly coming to an energetic boil, like a Ford Model T engine, thought Jess, who envied his brilliant friend not only his formidable brain but his energy, which he could crank up himself. “You’ve done all you could, W.G. You tacked your amendment—the
Harding
amendment—onto the preparedness bill, and it passed, and it’s not your fault that Baker and Wilson refused to honor it, and ignored the will of Congress, due to partisan fever …”
“Don’t,” said Harding mildly, “make a speech. It’s bad for the digestion this early in the morning.
My
dyspepsia’s already starting to churn.”
“So what are you going to tell the Colonel today?” Daugherty sank into an armchair.
“Three not one.” Harding’s smile was seraphic.
“Three what?”
“I’m going to see to it that when the next draft bill comes up, a provision will be made not for one but for
three
divisions of volunteers to be raised by the Colonel just like he did during the war with Spain, when he encouraged the brave to volunteer, to rally to the flag!” W.G. belched softly; punished for breaking his own rule against matutinal speechifying.
“They’ll strike you down.” Daugherty was flat. “Wilson won’t give the Colonel a latrine to dig.”
Harding put away his papers. “That will be between the President and the Colonel. I shall have done
my
duty by the Colonel, which is all that matters, isn’t it,
Harry sighed. “Speaking as a lawyer, Florence, if the guilty party admits guilt like that, she isn’t really guilty. But just making fun, which is her style.”
“There is nothing, Harry, that I don’t know about dentists,” was the Duchess’s stern if somewhat tangential response.
United States Senator Warren Gamaliel Harding, Republican of Ohio, entered the room, carrying his frock coat over one arm. He wore bright red galluses and a stiff detachable collar, snowy white in contrast to his olivetinted face, whose regular features were ever so slightly blurred, giving satisfaction to those who enjoyed believing the never entirely discredited legend that the Hardings were a Negro family that had only recently, in the last but one generation, passed over to white.
“Harry. Jess. Duchess.” The deep voice rolled from the highly placed chest and abdomen. Although Harding had not yet passed the shadow-line between stout and fat, there was already an ominous sameness and lack of demarcation between stomach and chest, mitigated somewhat by the skillful hang of the trousers. “Have some breakfast, boys.”
“Can’t.” The Duchess was firm. “Tillie’s cleaned up.”
Jess helped W.G. into his frock coat. Daugherty watched attentively—
his
creation. But Jess wondered, at times, if it might not be the other way round. Daugherty talked strategy morning, noon and night while W.G. just gazed off into the distance, smiling at whatever it was he saw there. He seldom committed himself to anything; seldom gave a political opinion, as opposed to learned soliloquies on what he found in his favorite reading, newspaper sports pages. Yet whenever Daugherty would discuss the election of 1920, their common grail, it was W.G. who appeared to direct the discussion, as he did now, seated in an old rocker, going through a sheaf of carbon copies of telegrams and letters while the Duchess headed toward the back part of the house to tyrannize the servant.
“Now then, here’s the Colonel’s first telegram. Last month. He’s happy, as you might figure. Patriotism. Preparedness. And so on.” Harding adjusted his spectacles. “I committed myself to one Roosevelt division, that he himself would raise. Volunteers. Volunteers.” Harding sighed. “I don’t know what I can tell him. Now …” Harding’s voice trailed off.
Daugherty was on his feet, slowly coming to an energetic boil, like a Ford Model T engine, thought Jess, who envied his brilliant friend not only his formidable brain but his energy, which he could crank up himself. “You’ve done all you could, W.G. You tacked your amendment—the
Harding
amendment—onto the preparedness bill, and it passed, and it’s not your fault that Baker and Wilson refused to honor it, and ignored the will of Congress, due to partisan fever …”
“Don’t,” said Harding mildly, “make a speech. It’s bad for the digestion this early in the morning.
My
dyspepsia’s already starting to churn.”
“So what are you going to tell the Colonel today?” Daugherty sank into an armchair.
“Three not one.” Harding’s smile was seraphic.
“Three what?”
“I’m going to see to it that when the next draft bill comes up, a provision will be made not for one but for
three
divisions of volunteers to be raised by the Colonel just like he did during the war with Spain, when he encouraged the brave to volunteer, to rally to the flag!” W.G. belched softly; punished for breaking his own rule against matutinal speechifying.
“They’ll strike you down.” Daugherty was flat. “Wilson won’t give the Colonel a latrine to dig.”
Harding put away his papers. “That will be between the President and the Colonel. I shall have done
my
duty by the Colonel, which is all that matters, isn’t it,
Similar Books
