deliver a three-minute
address—a few gracious words to tickle the self-esteem of his listeners—and would employ the other two minutes in shaking the hand of every man, woman, and child who could reach him
before the train pulled out. There would be a cheer or two given as he was borne away—and there would be something to talk about afterward in the saloons. Scarce a man of them had ever seen a
President, and it was worth riding far to look upon a man who even hoped for so exalted a position.
Manley went because he intended to vote for the man, and called it an act of loyalty to his party to greet the candidate; also because it took very little, now that haying was over and work did
not press, to start him down the trail in the direction of Hope.
At the Blumenthall ranch no man save the cook remained at home, and he only because he had a boil on his neck which sapped his interest in all things else. Polycarp Jenks was in town by nine
o’clock, and only one man remained at the Wishbone. That man was Kent, and he stayed because, according to his outraged companions, he was an ornery cuss, and his bump of patriotism was a
hollow in his skull. Kent had told them, one and all, that he wouldn’t ride twenty-five miles to shake hands with the Deity Himself—which, however, is not a verbatim report of his
statement. The prospective President had not done anything so big, he said, that a man should want to break his neck getting to town just to watch him go by. He was dead sure he, for one,
wasn’t going to make a fool of himself over any swell-headed politician.
Still, he saddled and rode with his fellows for a mile or two, and called them unseemly names in a facetious tone; and the men of the Wishbone answered his taunts with shrill yells of derision
when he swung out of the trail and jogged away to the south, and finally passed out of sight in the haze which still hung depressingly over the land.
Oddly enough, while all the able-bodied men save Kent were waiting hilariously in Hope to greet, with enthusiasm, the brief presence of the man who would fain be their political chief, the train
which bore him eastward scattered fiery destruction abroad as it sped across their range, four minutes late and straining to make up the time before the next stop.
They had thought the railroad safe at last, what with the guards and the numerous burned patches where the fire had jumped the plowed boundary and blackened the earth to the fence which marked
the line of the right of way, and, in some places, had burned beyond. It took a flag-flying special train of that bitter Presidential campaign to find a weak spot in the guard, and to send a spark
straight into the thickest bunch of wiry sand grass, where the wind could fan it to a blaze and then seize it and bend the tall flame tongues until they licked around the next tuft of grass, and
the next, and the next—until the spark was grown to a long, leaping line of fire, sweeping eastward with the relentless rush of a tidal wave upon a low-lying beach.
Arline Hawley was, perhaps, the only citizen of Hope who had deliberately chosen to absent herself from the crowd standing, in perspiring expectation, upon the depot platform. She had permitted
Minnie, the “breed” girl, to go, and had even grudgingly consented to her using a box of cornstarch as first aid to her complexion. Arline had not approved, however, of either the
complexion or the occasion.
“What you want to go and plaster your face up with starch for, gits me,” she had criticised frankly. “Seems to me you’re homely enough without lookin’ silly, into
the bargain. Nobody’s going to look at you, no matter what you do. They’re out to rubber at a higher mark than you be. And what they expect to see so great, gits me. He ain’t
nothing but a man—and, land knows, men is common enough, and ornery enough, without runnin’ like a band of sheep to see one. I don’t see as he’s anny better, jest
address—a few gracious words to tickle the self-esteem of his listeners—and would employ the other two minutes in shaking the hand of every man, woman, and child who could reach him
before the train pulled out. There would be a cheer or two given as he was borne away—and there would be something to talk about afterward in the saloons. Scarce a man of them had ever seen a
President, and it was worth riding far to look upon a man who even hoped for so exalted a position.
Manley went because he intended to vote for the man, and called it an act of loyalty to his party to greet the candidate; also because it took very little, now that haying was over and work did
not press, to start him down the trail in the direction of Hope.
At the Blumenthall ranch no man save the cook remained at home, and he only because he had a boil on his neck which sapped his interest in all things else. Polycarp Jenks was in town by nine
o’clock, and only one man remained at the Wishbone. That man was Kent, and he stayed because, according to his outraged companions, he was an ornery cuss, and his bump of patriotism was a
hollow in his skull. Kent had told them, one and all, that he wouldn’t ride twenty-five miles to shake hands with the Deity Himself—which, however, is not a verbatim report of his
statement. The prospective President had not done anything so big, he said, that a man should want to break his neck getting to town just to watch him go by. He was dead sure he, for one,
wasn’t going to make a fool of himself over any swell-headed politician.
Still, he saddled and rode with his fellows for a mile or two, and called them unseemly names in a facetious tone; and the men of the Wishbone answered his taunts with shrill yells of derision
when he swung out of the trail and jogged away to the south, and finally passed out of sight in the haze which still hung depressingly over the land.
Oddly enough, while all the able-bodied men save Kent were waiting hilariously in Hope to greet, with enthusiasm, the brief presence of the man who would fain be their political chief, the train
which bore him eastward scattered fiery destruction abroad as it sped across their range, four minutes late and straining to make up the time before the next stop.
They had thought the railroad safe at last, what with the guards and the numerous burned patches where the fire had jumped the plowed boundary and blackened the earth to the fence which marked
the line of the right of way, and, in some places, had burned beyond. It took a flag-flying special train of that bitter Presidential campaign to find a weak spot in the guard, and to send a spark
straight into the thickest bunch of wiry sand grass, where the wind could fan it to a blaze and then seize it and bend the tall flame tongues until they licked around the next tuft of grass, and
the next, and the next—until the spark was grown to a long, leaping line of fire, sweeping eastward with the relentless rush of a tidal wave upon a low-lying beach.
Arline Hawley was, perhaps, the only citizen of Hope who had deliberately chosen to absent herself from the crowd standing, in perspiring expectation, upon the depot platform. She had permitted
Minnie, the “breed” girl, to go, and had even grudgingly consented to her using a box of cornstarch as first aid to her complexion. Arline had not approved, however, of either the
complexion or the occasion.
“What you want to go and plaster your face up with starch for, gits me,” she had criticised frankly. “Seems to me you’re homely enough without lookin’ silly, into
the bargain. Nobody’s going to look at you, no matter what you do. They’re out to rubber at a higher mark than you be. And what they expect to see so great, gits me. He ain’t
nothing but a man—and, land knows, men is common enough, and ornery enough, without runnin’ like a band of sheep to see one. I don’t see as he’s anny better, jest
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